A/N: It's official—I'm an idiot. That's the only explanation I can come up with as to why, exactly, I decided to start writing a new story when I've barely started March to the Empire. Mind, it's not exactly a decision…sigh. Is it my fault my logic and my imagination aren't connected? Is it?

To anyone who's reading this—March to the Empire is still going to be my main fic. This one will be updated sporatically (probably)—sometimes, with a bunch of chapters, and probably often going weeks with none. That said, I'm about to write Chapter Two, because this story ambushed me and isn't going to let me go for a while yet.

Disclaimer: Don't own. Never will. Wish I did. That's life.

Chapter One

Miles woke and immediately knew something was wrong. Something was missing…no, that wasn't right, damnit. Something was added. Something that was different from anything he'd ever felt.

He opened his eyes—

—and knew that something was wronger.

The Vorkosigan House, where he was now staying with his wife and their two children, had wooden ceilings. This place did not. Furthermore, he observed, there was a smell in the air, a smell that, even now, brought back a sharp, nostalgic pain.

No way. He was on a ship…

This shouldn't be possible. However, it clearly was. The most logical theory was that he' been kidnapped. But not bound, he noted. And no guard. Kidnappers good enough to get me away from Vorkosigan House without waking me—all sorts of implications, there. For instance, did they drug me? If so, how? Do I have traitors in my staff? But no, I know Ma Kosti. She wouldn't do anything like that. And neither would her son, if I'm any judge of character at all. And I know I am. In any case—kidnappers good enough to drug and kidnap be, but not competent bind and guard me? That makes no sense. I'm missing something, here.

He stood up from his bed, and took a tentative step. Well, whatever drugs they used, it's not affecting me now. He was capable of walking quite easily. In fact, it seemed somehow that walking was easier now than it had been before he'd been abducted. Benevolent kidnappers? But no, that doesn't make sense. Then again, neither does anything else right now.

He took a few more steps, gaining confidence as he walked. The door was apparently unguarded, and, what's more, he wasn't hearing anything—well, aside from the usual ship's whine—from the room outside. He was about to try the door—probably locked, but you never knew—when something stopped him dead in his tracks. He'd just caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. There was just one problem…

It wasn't him.

Oh, it resembled him, in a kind of this-is-what-your-relative-might-look-like way, but it definitely wasn't him. In fact, now that he thought about it, it looked more like Ivan than anyone else.

Except that it was responding to his commands, both conscious and subconscious. He could walk, and move his hand, and when he'd felt seen…himself, he supposed, his mouth had nearly gaped open. The only explanation he could think of was cloning—this could have been his body, if he hadn't been damaged by the teratogen gas—but no one he knew would ever allow it. Hell, he'd never allow it—it had been in his will, just in case anyone thought that it was a good idea. And besides, he was—well, had been—at home in bed with his wife. There wasn't going to be any action there.

Then again, it would explain why he looked so much younger, and why he couldn't remember anything after being at home. Memory loss (suppression) was common, after coming back to life—as he knew, all too well.

Just not why it had been done. Ekaterin wouldn't allow it, nor would Father, Mother, Mark, Illyan, Gregor, Allegre, or any one of half a dozen other people. And when Lord Mark Vorkosigan—not to mention Lady Vorkosigan, the Former Chief of ImpSec, the current Chief of Impsec, the Count and Countess Vorkosigan and the Emperor—spoke, people listened. Or else soon found themselves regretting the fact that they hadn't.

So. The only logical explanation was that his brain had been transferred…but logic stated almost as firmly that he couldn't have been.

That was it. He wasn't leaving this room until he'd searched it, top to bottom, for clues to what the hell was going on…Well, he amended, looking down at his nightclothes, and gotten changed into something more…formal.

He decided that getting changed immediately was a good plan, just in case any unanticipated events arose that forced him to evacuate. He went to the closet beside his bed, and was startled to see, on the doors, a very precious knife with a jewel-studded hilt. His Grandfather's knife…and one he'd stopped carrying around with him long ago. Not to mention that if he wasn't kidnapped, then anyone arming him would surely have given him a plasma blaster, or at least a stunner. And if he was, it made no sense to arm him, even with something as primitive as a knife. Least of all a Vorkosigan knife, which were almost all good quality—and especially not this Vorkosigan knife, made out of very strong and very sharp steel. Still, I suppose it could be some vengeance thing…ha ha, you Vorkosigans can't escape from a simple ship, even armed, unbound and unguarded. Actually, that would explain a lot, even the new body—maybe my kidnapper got carried away, or maybe it was part of the plan all along. But if that was the plan, then this body must have been created close to fifteen years ago—before I created the Dendarii, long before I had any enemies except those who wished to get to my father. And if they can get to me, they can certainly get to him. Then again, it's possible that they got both of us—a whole revenge scenario. But if that's true, then that means—no! Not Mother, not Ekaterin—not his wonderful Aral and Helen…

Calm down, Miles, he instructed himself. Panicking isn't going to get you anywhere. If they are kidnapped, and you don't know that for sure, then the first step will be getting them, and you, out of there. Then we can find the bastard who did this and make him rue the day he ever thought this twisted scheme up. And if they haven't been kidnapped, then there's nothi—well, a lot less to worry about.

He took a deep breath, trying to excerpt some control over his emotions, and opened the cupboard.

Then, all attempts at control gone, he stared at the contents of the closet as if they were his Grandfather dressed as a pink flamingo.

Even if his kidnapper was out to prove his superiority to the Vorkosigan's, he couldn't think of a single reason to make him wear—well, offer him the option of wearing—Imperial Cadet uniforms.

Well, all right, he could actually think of several, but none that made sense.

If his kidnapper—or whoever—had wanted to thrust his non-military status in his face, it would have been much better to give him an Admiral's uniform, a rank that he'd never earned on Barrayar. It would be falsely honouring him, rubbing his face in the fact that he was now a civilian. If they'd wanted to honour him truly, it would have made sense to do the same—because whoever this was, they were too skilled not to know just who "Admiral Naismith" really was. To give him a Cadet uniform—why? It neither credited nor insulted him. It was weird, but nothing more than that.

Though that could be a reason in and of itself. Confusion to the enemy…

He shook his head and put the clothes on. They didn't, after all, embarrass him in any way, and he certainly wasn't going to wander around in his nightclothes. They fit him perfectly, which was also odd. He had, over the years and with long experience, come to be able to tell the difference between store-bought clothes and ones made specifically to fit him. These clothes were one of the latter—something else that made no sense. They'd have to have a tailor involved in their conspiracy (for he had no doubt that his absence was all over the news back home), and that wasn't very logical. Why involve someone you didn't have to? Unless, of course, the man was already a member and his being a tailor was just a coincidence…

He sighed. He was tired of all this theorizing, trying to fit together facts that didn't quite make sense. Occam's Razor…the simplest explanation is usually the truest. But what to do when there is no simple explanation?

He marched over to the comconsole and woke the screen. First things first…find out how long I've been here. It's got to be at least a couple of days, more likely a week, if they did the clone transplant. Of course, it's not very likely that they'll let me access a calendar…but I won't know until I try, and who would I be if I didn't try? Certainly not a Vorkosigan.

To his surprise, he was able to gain access to the date. And to his shock, the date was completely off his estimation. He wasn't in the same year. Hell, he wasn't in some future year.

Apparently, he'd woken up with a whole body, twelve or thirteen years in the past…

He shook his head. Concentrate, Miles, he told himself. They're fooling with you. Time travel is impossible.

So. He wasn't in the past, but someone was going to a hell of a lot of trouble to make him think that he was. And that meant…

He checked something on the comconsole and, sure enough, he wasn't on a ship but on a station, orbiting Barrayar. Apparently, he'd just started on the station. Soon, they'd be handing out green and yellow armbands. It brought back such memories…

Oh, to be young and arrogant and sure of my immortality.

Of course, Ivan (among others) would say that he was still arrogant, if not sure of his own immortality. And he was sure that his father would snort if he ever heard Miles call himself old—which, he had to admit, was fair, since he was thirty-three and his father was almost twice his age.

He sighed, but stood up. If they—whoever they were—were going to such efforts, it would be rude to disappoint them. Besides, following along meant he ahd the best chance of escaping.

Not for the first time, he blessed his family memory. It meant that he still knew how to get to mess. By his calculations, he should arrive right on time for breakfast…

Butterfly's Wings

As it turned out, his calculations were a little off; he hadn't taken into account his…body. His whole body. His body without a limp, that was able to walk faster than he'd ever been able to without space armour…

If it weren't for the knowledge that some innocent clone had died to provide him with this luxury, he'd be downright enjoying this.

Of course, it could be a hallucinogenic. He rather preferred that option; it meant that 1) no one had died to gift him (or torture him) with this privilege, and 2) he might not be on a space station at all, but rather closer to home.

There was just one problem; he'd had hallucinations before, more than once, and this didn't feel like one. The fact that he was considering that it was a hallucination rather sided against it being one; in the past, he'd simply accepted what he'd seen as truth.

In any case, he'd arrived earlier than he'd expected, and the mess was almost empty. He was pleased with this; it meant he got to choose his seat. He scanned the room, searching carefully—he wanted a place that would place his back to a wall, but also one that gave him a good view of the exits. And he wanted to be close to the exits, in case he had to make a quick escape…

Ah. There. He spotted the spot, and went to get his breakfast before seating himself at the seat he had selected. He ate, watching as, slowly, the people trickled in. There were several of them; hundreds of men, ready to dedicate their life to the Imperium…Well. They would be, if this were real.

No. Wait. How could—whoever it was—have gotten all this? Have hired hundreds of these people? How would it have worked? Two can keep a secret, if one of them is dead. But not hundreds. Someone would have talked, someone would have refused…and even if they hadn't, ImpSec would have noticed someone hiring all these. And…there is just no way that they would have been able to find twins separated by fifteen years—people identical to my peers when I was at the Academy.

Shit.

I actually am in the past.

Now how do I get back?