"For what? It's not like you have the height my—our—genes intended or something. And my bones are all on their way to becoming plastic anyway. No advantage there."

"I'd be in reserve, then. A spare in case of accidents."

Miles threw up his hands. "You don't even believe that any more. But my original offer still stands. Come with me back to the Dendarii, and I'll hide you. Smuggle you home. Where you can take your time and figure out how to be real Mark, and not imitation anybody."

"I don't want to meet those people," Mark stated flatly.

By which he meant, his mother and father; Miles caught that without difficulty, though Ivan was clearly losing the thread. "I don't think they would behave inappropriately. After all, they're already in you, on a fundamental level. You, ah, can't run away from yourself." He paused, tried again. "If you could do anything, what would it be?"

Mark's scowl deepened. "Bust up the clone business on Jackson's Whole."

"Hm." Miles considered. "It's pretty entrenched. Still, what d'you expect of the descendants of a colony that started as a hijacker base? Naturally they developed into an aristocracy. I'll have to tell you a couple of stories about your ancestors sometime that aren't in the official histories . . ."

So, Mark had picked up that much good from his association with Galen, a thirst for justice that went beyond his own skin even if including it. "As life-goals go, it would certainly keep you occupied. How would you go about it?"

"I don't know." Mark appeared taken aback by this sudden practical turn. "Blow up the labs. Rescue the kids."

"Good tactics, bad strategy. They'd just rebuild. You need more than one level of attack. If you figured out some way to make the business unprofitable, it would die on its own."

"How?" Mark asked in turn.

"Let's see . . . There's the customer base. Unethical rich people. One could hardly expect to persuade them to choose death over life, I suppose. A medical breakthrough offering some other form of personal life extension might divert them."

"Killing them would divert them, too," growled Mark.

"True, but impractical in the mass. People of that class tend to have bodyguards. Sooner or later one would get you, and it would be all over. Look, there must be forty points of attack. Don't get stuck on the first one to come to mind. For example, suppose you returned with me to Barrayar. As Lord Mark Vorkosigan, you could expect in time to amass a personal and financial power base. Complete your education—really fit yourself out to attack the problem strategically, not just, ah, fling yourself off the first wall you come to and go splat."

"I will never," said Mark through his teeth, "go to Barrayar."