—Mark freezes.

"It's a natural state to fall into. Do you want me to assemble the whole crew?"

"Dirt. So not a spaceport destination, then," jokes Bel. "All right, come to my cabin, I'll put tea on, we can put our feet up."

Admiral Naismith greets this joke with the affectionately derisive snort it deserves. "Sounds good to me," he says, and politely allows Bel to lead him to its cabin.

The cabin has little personality, but Thorne's authentic china tea set displays some. It investigates the tea selection available. "What can I get you?"

"Oh, I'll have the usual," he says absently, depositing himself in a slightly-too-tall chair.

"Typical," says Thorne, snorting, picking a tea. "When are you going to let me introduce you to something more interesting?"

"If only I wasn't allergic to half your exquisitely curated tea cupboard," he says dryly. (Half's an overgenerous estimate, and Mark in fact does not share most of Miles's allergies, but in any given collection of more than twenty plants it's good odds Miles will have at least a mild reaction to one of them.)

"I've seen you eat things with cinnamon in, at least," it counters, but it brews and eventually presents a tray and pours him a cup.

"Thanks, Bel." He inhales a breath of tea-scented steam. Thorne has indeed presented him with one of the more mainstream options available. That fits. He takes a temperature-testing sip and settles back in his chair, trying to inhabit Miles's comfort more fully.

"You're welcome. So you were very excited, does that mean we should be excited too or worried? Is your wife even now wringing her hands and pacing the dimensions of her undisclosed location?"

"It's definitely more a case of 'Admiral Naismith is excited, everyone take cover' than the other kind," he snorts. "But I wouldn't say it's much harder than some of the shit we've pulled off in the past. It is—well, our part in this scheme is—a pickup, of a sort."

"Of a sort. Okay, I'm sitting down, continue."

"We're going to Jackson's Whole, and we're going to confiscate House Bharaputra's entire inventory of clones and take them back here to Escobar, where our shy yet noble-hearted employer will arrange for a welcoming reception at a discreet local orphanage."

"How... noble-hearted. Really, it is, I'd as soon all the butchers found themselves obliged to take up stonemasonry, but is the Ariel the best choice here? It'll be conspicuous as hell on Jackson's Whole to some less-than-friendlies and I don't think anyone's done in Ryoval yet."

"I'm game. Is our philanthropist purely philanthropizing, here, or is there a more self-interested layer under that entirely agreeable cover motive?"

"Between you and me? I'm pretty well convinced it's a takedown," he says. "Somebody wants House Bharaputra wiped from that planet's inhospitable surface, and this is the first open move in the game. But our philanthropist hasn't directly said as much. Just paid us a respectable sum, half in advance and half on delivery, the second half to be proportionately docked for every clone out of the batch of fifty-six that doesn't make it to Escobar alive and well."

"Ha. They deserve it, too, the bastards, this is going to be fun and the whole crew's good deed for the year. What have we got in the way of local support in our wretched hive? Backup?"

"Nil and nil, I'm afraid."

"Joy. Rapture. And besides Bharaputra themselves and Ryoval for incidental frothing rage, who's the projected secondary villainy in this piece?"

"Happily, also nil."

"Well, that simplifies matters. It'll be snug in here. You're positive it's the Ariel you want?"

"Yes," he says. "Trust me, I've thought about this."

"Okay. Timetable? And you said half in advance, what does that make our budget?" It slides over to its comconsole and starts tapping things; it has not imitated Quinn in obtaining a pen.

"Seventy thousand Betan dollars up front," he says, producing a credit chit. "Drop this in the pot and then draw back your estimated needs from Fleet funds."

Thorne performs rituals of currency maneuvering, whistling slightly at the sum, and then offers a palm scanner for Naismith's authorization.

His palmprint should match Miles's. He casually lays his hand on the pad. The machine beeps greenly.

How nice of it. "Obvious commando squad?" inquires Thorne.

"Obvious commando squad," he affirms.

"You want your usual cabin? It'll get crowded if you just park in here with me the entire time."

He utters a mock-scandalized gasp. "And me a married man, Bel!"

"She suspects nothing. You project a flawless air of heterosexuality, it's the perfect cover."

"Palm lock's still keyed to you," Thorne confirms with a peek at its console. "When's Quinn going to be by?"

"She won't."

"Huh. All right. Kit's on its way... I think we're all set unless there are further mission wrinkles or you want to try some interesting tea. Or whatever."

"I have extensive intel about Bharaputra's facilities, which I will happily fork over after I've had a chance to sleep, thank you, Captain Thorne."

"Sure, sure. Sweet dreams."

Miles's kit is delivered by a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (metaphorically) corporal, who volunteers to unpack it. And asks earnestly if the admiral has assigned or would like to assign a batman.

To which the corporal almost-gracefully assents, and he leaves him alone in peace.

This will allow him to skip inspecting his commando squad immediately. Zoom goes the Ariel.

He wakes up a few hours later after less sleep than he'd like but enough to maintain function. The first thing he does is call up personnel records and mission reports on the comconsole and start memorizing things that Admiral Naismith already knows. The files are charmingly bare of details, but it's amazing what he can piece together from the available snippets.

He receives, after he's been up for a bit, a message from Thorne asking if he'd like to make a belated inspection of the commando squad.

A meal arrives presently. It is exquisitely attentive to Miles's culinary preferences. There's even ice cream. "Can I get you anything else, sir?" asks the fellow who brings it.

The fellow inclines his head respectfully and departs.

They're ready whenever you are, comes the reply.

Asterion cracks a fanged grin. "Good to see you, Miles."

Green Squad evaporates with miraculous speed; Sergeant Asterion lingers, casting a thoughtful glance over his shoulder, and then goes with the rest.

Well. He has survived this encounter intact, and Sergeant Asterion does not seem to have smelled his true identity or some damn thing. Time to go unload his Bharaputra-related intel into a comconsole for Bel.

When the first installment comes through, Thorne replies: Awfully introverted of you sending all this in writing. Where's my color commentary, Miles?

My apologies. If I'd known you were that starved for my company I would of course have taken the entire week to personally read it all to you in your cabin over tea, he sends back, giggling a Miles giggle to himself.

I stocked up on the boring stuff just for you.

Charmer.

As well you know. Come on, we're going to be held up for a while in three jumps due to heavy traffic but the trip isn't so long that I couldn't lose more time than we have trying to digest this all written down and then regurgitate it for the troops.

All right, all right. I accept your gracious invitation. When shall I appear for tea and verbal handholding?

Your earliest convenience, of course. My hands are grievously unheld over here.

"I looked at the summaries. We're only getting the older ones, not the little kids?"

"Yeah. The little ones are scattered across a larger number of facilities, some of them may be temporarily placed in individual foster homes - the locations are less secure, but there's absolutely no chance of a hit-and-run sweep like we're planning for the nine- and ten-year-olds. Having all the older kids concentrated in a single location makes them easier to guard as a set, but correspondingly easier to steal as a set."

"Right. Less of a coup against the entire House, but I guess our philanthropist won't cough up for the whole fleet?"

"One year's inventory isn't exactly a pitiful haul. But yeah. I did actually ask what it would take to get them all at once, and honestly, the whole fleet couldn't do it. You'd be getting dangerously close to 'planetary invasion force' by the time you found a fleet that could."

"Place could use a good invasion. Wretched hive of scum and villainy."

"You won't catch me arguing. Invasions do tend to get messy in a way commando raids don't, though."

"We'll try to keep it neat and tidy for you."

"Truly I am touched by your thoughtfulness."

"You know I'm always tremendously thoughtful. I go for hours sometimes, thinking."

"Is that what you call it."

"Pick your favorite terminology! Tell me what you settle on." It pours tea.

He picks up his teacup and gives Bel a mildly reproving look over the top of it.

"Aw, don't give me that. What would you do on these long trips away from home without me, Miles?"

"Enjoy the peace and quiet," he says, with a perfectly straight face that he maintains for all of half a second before cracking up helplessly.

"Peace and quiet. What a word for a commando raid. I suspect you'd just get some thinking done."

"Excuse me," he snorts.

"Tell me I'm wrong!"

"None of your business," he says, with theatrical dignity.

"Aww," it says. Then it snaps its fingers, drinks its tea with what looks like uncomfortable rapidity, and gets up. "I will be right back."

He gives it a dare-I-even-ask look over his own half-finished tea, but does not in fact ask.

The internal alarm bells are screaming by the time the med scanner beeps, but, practically speaking, there is really not much he can do. He sits frozen, tea in hand.

"Hi there," says Thorne, dropping the med scanner and pulling a stunner off the wall but not aiming it at him yet. "What gives?"

"Nice cause. But if the money's real, why didn't you hire us instead of pretending to be Miles?"

"Because Miles makes you better. Would you like to see my statistics? Having Admiral Naismith along on a mission makes everyone smarter, faster, more competent. A factor which is not ordinarily under the control of mere employers - have you ever tried to contact the Admiral while he was off being thoroughly vanished? Can't be done. I, however," he shrugs again, "have a backup copy. So to speak. I do pull off a very good Miles, you must admit. What gave me away?"

"You flirt slightly wrong. And let it go on a little longer."

"In case you were legitimately uncertain Miles isn't cheating on his wife with me."

"I knew he wouldn't cheat on her. I was less sure whether there might be - some sort of discreet arrangement in place."

"The arrangement is called 'monogamy'. At any rate, I didn't find any fault with your money or your project and I can hire out the Ariel on my own recognizance. But I've got some serious misgivings about letting you go on impersonating your brother."

"With Miles, the error margins on this mission are acceptable - a sight better than some of the crazy shit you've pulled over the years. Without him? I'm not sure I'd chance it. You're all very good, but Miles has this way of turning good into—into superlative. And this is not exactly going to be a cakewalk. We need every edge we can get."

"Then why didn't you wait until he was along and hire us with him in tow?"

"One dead clone a week," he snaps. "Took me bloody long enough already to compile that information," with a sharp gesture at Bel's comconsole, "and hit them with as much subtle sabotage as I dared."

"Every week sees another kid moved into the facility we're hitting, too, from the foster homes, doesn't it? Do you have a long-term plan to take down Bharaputra, really?"

"D'you take me for a bloody amateur? I am at minimum going to hit him hard enough that he regrets ever creating me, and if all goes according to plan I will also have the pleasure of personally murdering him after I've worn him down enough for assassination to be feasible."

"Here's the problem. Your desired margin of error calls for Miles's Midas touch. I made you; anyone else might - what does that do to your plan? The way I see it, we can turn around and you can see if the real Miles wants to take the job, or we can continue and I can run the entire operation, while you pretend to be having obscure drug reactions and hope it works long-distance and counterfeit."

"You made me through extensive flirtation," Mark points out. "And you know m—him best out of anyone on this ship, by a long shot. Support my cover and they won't notice, and I will have the same effect on them that he does. I have observed the effect I have on them, as him. I'm not even sure it won't work on you, and you know better. Miles's Midas touch is powerful stuff."

"Your plan calls for you to join us in the drop. You and what combat experience?"

"I'm not without training. Slightly differently aimed training, but I picked it up well enough. Miles's talent for command is more in the way of a divine gift than a product of experience anyway."

"I don't like it," says Thorne, shaking its head. "But your plan has a decent shot at going through even if you wind up shot, s'pose - half on delivery is as real as the half up front?"

"Real as you please. I brought the second credit chit; it's in my cabin. What will it take to reassure you that I'm as good as the real thing?"

"We'll see, I guess." Thorne regards him, then sighs. "All right, I'm blacking out communications on the theory of never send interim reports. If anybody else sees through you, though, or even just remembers to check just in case - we either abort or we leave you on the ship come drop. Will that meet with your approval, O client?"

"Sure. Can I go back to flirting with you as Miles now? That was fun."

"...You're serious."

"Is that a no?"

"It's hardly necessary for cover, since I tone it down in front of crew. It's that entertaining to pretend to be your brother and flirt with me?"

"Eh, somewhere between entertaining and terrifying, but we run thrill-seeking in this family."

"I don't bite." Pause. "Unless asked nicely."

"Oh dear," says Mark. "Maybe I should be flirting with you as me instead."

Thorne snorts. "Discreetly. I'm not the only person who knows how married Miles is."

"Of course."

"Ugh. What will he think of this entire mess, I wonder."

"If we pull it off? Bursting with pride for the both of us. Positively aglow."

"I suppose if you know your business you can actually answer that question, can't you."

"Yes."

Thorne props its chin on its hands. "And if we don't pull it off?"

"Oh, he'll be upset about it if we lose anyone. Me included."

"Right. Don't get shot, then." Thorne sighs and pokes its comconsole. "Onward we go."

"Yeah. I did run the numbers on whether or not to take the rest of the fleet and try to swipe all the clones, and it cannot in fact be done unless you're carrying another couple hundred fast cruisers in your pocket and they each hold their very own Green Squad complete with a copy of Sergeant Asterion. But at least if we take the ten-year-olds we get anyone they would've killed for the rest of the year, and if the rest of my plan works out, by the end of the year they will no longer be in a position to kill the next one."

"Only one of Asterion," says Thorne, shaking its head. "I'd expect Bharaputra security to bloat like mad after the raid, though. And decentralize."

"Yes. But what he can't do is restore his customers' faith in him after he loses a year's inventory in a single night. And if I'm lucky, when I tell him he was burned by his own product he'll take the bait and send his enforcers after me, and I'll get to kill 'em all as they come, thereby wasting yet more of his money."

"That part you intend to solo?"

"An army would only get in my way."

Thorne snorts again. "And the place to stash the kids afterwards is genuine, bought and paid for?"

"Yeah."

"All right. I'll read the rest of this -" It gestures vaguely at its console. "And pass on the details to the crew. Do you have an explanation in hand if somebody asks what happened to your pen?"

"Lost it, didn't have time to get a new one yet," he shrugs. "These things happen."

"True. Anyway, I have a reading assignment to turn into a strategy briefing. Finish your tea and shoo."

"And I didn't even get to hold your hand," he says, mock-disappointed.

Thorne ruffles his hair.

"Come to think of it you sort of - the opposite of twitched - when I hugged you too. I figured I'd poked an injury or something."

"Yeah. Congratulations, you have found a tell. I'm working on it."

"So, we're holding it down to verbal flirting, are we?"

"Tragically, yes. Unless you'd like to help me get over my startle reflex."

"Not trained as a LPST, stereotypes aside."

Mark laughs. "Fair enough."

"Anyway. Shoo."

"Behold how I am shooing." He finishes his tea and gets up—

—and Admiral Naismith winks at Bel. "Sure you don't want a goodnight kiss?"

He freezes for only the barest instant, and then kisses back. As Miles. Very much as Miles, if Miles were inexplicably quite comfortable with kissing Bel and also not even a little bit married. (There is a touch of hesitation, but it's a very Miles touch of hesitation, discarded with a very Miles oh-the-hell-with-it half-shrug.)

Nice. But Thorne doesn't push it, just completes the kiss in a definitive sort of way and says, "Run along now."

He delicately straightens his jacket and departs with a very Miles grin.