barrayar | I am junking up this beautiful community with this junk

[ Kill him now. Step up, grab the wrist. Step behind. Arm around throat, pressing at the arteries, cutting off the supply of blood to the brain until unconsciousness. Then beyond unconsciousness. Stop it. ]

I swear...

[ His tongue catches on the dry roof of his mouth. But if there's anything he's good at, it's mindless repetition. Echoing so many holovids, mimicking the least cadence and turn of phrase. After that first hiccup, it's not even hard to do. He just shuts off his brain and mimics - and it will sound uncanny, perhaps, how precisely he repeats after the Emperor.

When he's done, he looks up, waiting for more. That's not it, he's sure. There's more. Shedding of blood. Something. Right? ]

[It is uncanny, and further disturbing, and he will remember it later but he has no time to think on it now.

Gregor says nothing: the lock of a bound oath clicks over heavy and solid in his mind-- ah, so it was sincere after all, for all that blank repetition. He feels the link blossom in his mind, each petal unfurling one by one and equally slowly he sinks down to his knees without releasing his hands. With this done, with his safety net in place, he can dispense with all the lies and traps. He can be honest.

He lets out a shaky breath, feeling like he'd just sprinted for ten minutes straight, and lets Miles's brother get his first feel of Gregor's mind. He reaches out with light tendrils of sadness, of acceptance, of curiosity for who he is. But most of all he lets him feel his basic altruism, that intense aversion for violence and cruelty, his bone-deep loathing for atrocity, his wistfulness that he could change someone's life for the better.

That he sees him in front of him, eye to eye, and receives him.]

[ The clone jerks back physically at that first feeling of - of what? A touch, feather light, like someone ruffling his hair, not that he's ever had his hair ruffled. And then it gets stronger. An alien presence in his mind. Warmth, and - and peace, and all sorts of heavy slow emotions. And sadness, and - and a mixture that's foreign, that's...There's an abortive gesture, an attempt to pull his hands from the Emperor's.

Because the mind of the man who is not Miles Naismith Vorkosigan is a pulsating trap of fear. He's afraid of Gregor. He's afraid of his progenitor - more than anyone else, more than anyone else, of his progenitor, of the superior model who holds the key to his every failure and with those failures his suffering. He's afraid of Barrayar itself, the planet that isn't represented in his mind as plants and skies and waters but as a series of blueprints with the passageways that would allow someone to slip into locked rooms at night highlighted and memorized. He's afraid of this world. He's afraid of all the unfamiliar people. He's afraid to go back. He's afraid of the consequences of taking this oath. A traitor, just like Galen had suspected in his most paranoid moments, in his ravings - and even as the clone swore his loyalty, his devotion to the cause, he'd snarled about the genetics of Aral Vorkosigan, and he'd...

The clone is afraid of his bedroom, with its locking door, because he doesn't believe it's real. He's afraid of the outside. He's afraid of the inside. There is no part of him that is not a taut string of fear, an all-consuming gnawing beast that boils forth the moment Gregor touches his mind. And anger, too. Hatred, powerful black hatred, of Komarr and Jackson's Whole and Barrayar. But hatred twisted up again in fear, impossible to separate from all of that. Simmering and toxic. And hatred of Vorkosigan, hatred from every surgery, hatred from every lesson, every holovid, every single strike of the shock-stick when he failed.

And yet. And yet under that. A desperation. A desperation that swirls around shapeless things. Things that aren't quite distinct enough, clear enough, to be labeled, but that feel like brothers and names and belonging and help. They're protected, somehow, from the terror and the rage. They're sheltered. ]

[It overwhelms him at first, like being plunged into unrelenting blackness, utter blindness and fear of what's around you, swelling paranoia nearly overtaking him... close enough to his own mental habits, but so different in character...

Gregor hastily tries to force the link to Miles even further closed, but he can't quite manage it; it strains and creaks to whittle down to faint tremors of his brother's mind, the reverberations as contained as he can manage it. That done as well as he can, Gregor musters himself, draws on that forge deep down in his soul beneath all the water and aimless floating and pulls up a piece of molten iron.

His solid will and determination to be true Emperor and all that comes with it: protection, caring, dispensed as streams of cool water over to Miles's brother as well as he can. He can't hide that he thinks of him that way. He can't hide either how wrenchingly sad he is for him, for all that he feels from him, the flashes of memories he gets already until he learns how to contain his mind. It's nothing like pity; it's just the quiet sorrow that has chased him all his days, amplified in reflection.

You're right to hate all of that, he whispers at him. The universe is owed your hate. But you don't need to be afraid. It will be all right. You'll see. I won't let anyone harm you here, not even Miles, and they will listen to me.

Though he can't manage to suppress his absolute faith in Miles, really, that he wouldn't want to harm him in the first place, his pledge stands.]

[ He'd been afraid of the part of this Deal that was pledging his loyalty. He'd been wrong. That wasn't the part to be scared of...This. This was the part to be scared of.

Because - because those streams of compassion and kindness...They ought to be soothing, but for him it's like pouring water into an open wound. Compassion, sadness - In a way, outright pity would have been easier, because that would have allowed him to rage against the Emperor and his condescension. But these quieter emotions, he can't outright reject. And so they work into his mind, and far from soothing them, they provide a painful, wrenching contrast.

Because the clone has at least lived with consistency. Fear - of the next surgery, of when they'd come for him, of the start of his day, of the next explosion of rage - is constant background noise for him. And background noise can get filtered out - until it's turned off, or until someone points it out to you. Then you start hearing it again. The anger, too - though anger is less horrible to feel than the fear, because anger at least comes with some pleasure, a rush of adrenaline and passion, and sometimes it comes with rewards. Anger is safe. If you exceed the rhetoric about the evil of the Vorkosigans, of Barrayar, of the occupation of Komarr, then sometimes it earns you a smile, approval. And you're hungry for that. Even though you know it's nothing, even if you know that he only cares as a means to an end, even if you hate him, you want him to be pleased. Well done, Miles. Very clever, Miles. But that cool, distant melancholy that's all too intimate now...God. It robs him even of the pleasure of hatred. It makes it feel like a weak coping mechanism for a frightened boy.

And...And the sadness that Gregor feels. Over his memories. He's not supposed to feel sad at what he sees there. He's supposed to feel frightened. He's supposed to quail at the deviousness of their plot. He's supposed to feel relief that the clone decided to defect rather than go through with it. He's not supposed to feel sorrow. If he looks at that, and all he feels is sad, then what...What was it all for?

(The clone again weakly tries to pull away. Involuntarily, three ways he could kill Gregor from this position flash through his mind.)

And that promise. I won't let anyone harm you. It doesn't comfort him. Instead, it makes his chest and throat tighten in panic. His breathing starts to come quicker and shallower as those words penetrate, and he has to shove them from his consciousness. He can't even consider them. And he doesn't even know why.

He tries to crush down all his emotions. Every single one. He tries to suppress all the fear and anger and leave nothing but a businesslike mental space. Bare of feeling. And he sends a clipped message in return. You want me to kill the Komarrans, right? ]

[Right. That was stupid of him, wasn't it... but his urge for compassion overtook his good sense, and Gregor feels a flicker of regret as he withdraws, physically retracting his hands and sitting back on the floor, mentally narrowing the link on his end to a more manageable, conversational level. He remembers how he and Miles had felt the first time they'd opened it that wide-- subsumed, and averse to it. It really was a lot all at once, and Gregor should know himself that that first touch of kindness after so long without can kill as surely as the lack of it.

So he doesn't protest, though the man trying to forcefully crush all of his emotions does worry him. Gregor doesn't show them, but he very rarely tries to get rid of them wholesale.

No. For one, they're not here. For another, I wouldn't assign that task to you anyway. Asking you to kill someone you know is... heartless. And, clearly, Gregor is anything but that; his roiling discomfort with ordering death at all is sharp as a bell through him right now, though, too, there is a matching practical submission to it. Sometimes it is necessary and he knows it. But-- not here. None of that is here.

For now, put all of that business aside. I'd like to show you how to close the link on your end. You can control it independently of me, though it may take you a bit to get a handle on it. You may shut it off entirely, forever, if you like, though it is my... hope that you will leave it a little open so I may hear if you are distressed.

Again, more of that honesty, as unassuming and undeniable as the sea itself. Gregor slips it lightly down the corridor to his mind, trying to impress on him that much, at least. No more lies from him.]

[ That's something. That offer to complete a task. It would have been best if there had been some job, some request - some demand, even. It would have made Gregor less terrifying and strange if all of this had been drawing the clone (Mark Pierre) into being his servant. A neat little reversal, a nice revenge, using all these soft words and appeals to simply take a weapon, make it his, and turn it back on its creators. It would have been respectable, even. The clone would have respected it, even as it destroyed him. Returning a thermonuclear payload undetonated, boom, the work of a savvy manipulator.

It has to be in there, right? His ill intent. His desire to eliminate his enemies. It must be somewhere, deep in his mind. With sudden ruthlessness, the clone pushes his consciousness forward, searching - rummaging through all the memories and thoughts he can find to unearth evidence of the Emperor's depravity. His hard pragmatism. It's good that Gregor has limited the link, because it in turn limit's the clone's reach - he can't roam freely through all of Gregor's mind, but instead just find the things on the surface, like a man reaching through a narrow gap - only able to grasp what's close at hand. But he doesn't ask permission.

But nor does he hurt. That's not the goal. There's no fury directed at Gregor. There's no desire to tear him apart - to find things to injure him with, or to uproot his personality. It's just a scrabble to find where he's lying, how he's lying. A grasping attempt to uncover the plans for this clone. ]

Edited 2016-01-24 16:03 (UTC)

[He finds it telling that he doesn't hurt him with this, what Gregor sees as a very reasonable need for confirmation of intent from his new master. He'd learned early that he'd never get anywhere by denying what he is to some; denying his power over them was an insult.

Gregor helps him instead. He can feel what he's after, and wordlessly, he widens the link again, just a little. He presents his lies to him: that he'd never believed for a moment Naismith wasn't Miles Vorkosigan; that they'd been coordinating their plans and deception via their own mindlink; that his oaths were now unbreakable and he couldn't attack any of them even if he wanted to, unless defending himself. And here is his pragmatism, how his lies had been a contingency plan in case he couldn't convince him or he couldn't trust him. He admits too to some traces of pride and satisfaction at having dismantled the plot with words alone-- as Miles's brother had put it, a warhead disabled, but not turned against anyone, no. Just disabled.

He gives them all in a neat row without protest. Immediately after, he presents the next thing, his plans for his newest liege-sworn: that, hopefully, he find some peace here. That he's able to redefine for himself who he is. That he meet Miles and his parents properly, and come to terms with them (laced with an orphan's incomprehensible need to find family, his desire to see everyone else's whole and steady). Gregor is quiet and sincere and unafraid.

As long as he means him no malice, all he has to do is ask, and Gregor will show him what he wants. Though if he digs too hard looking specifically for depravity, he will find only old, old ghosts, nauseated abhorrence, creeping fears that he would one day own that title...]

[ He does try for malice. Once or twice. The thought of family, of the Butcher of Komarr and his evil wife and their son who had to be small and broken and ugly...It raises too toxic and mysterious a cocktail of emotions in him. For that moment, he pushes back, and pushing back means using the only defenses he knows: anger and hatred. But his hatred of the Emperor feels...It suddenly feels toothless. Warmongering feels like a pointless slander in response to the deep distress that's palpable, the memories of averting that war. Vicious - no. Useless depressive is a little closer to the truth, maybe, but that wasn't one of the more popular slanders the clone had heard from the Komarran. All of it had always centered on his viciousness, his puppeteering by the warmongering Butcher. His weakness. His probable distraction due to his own...

The clone passes over those fears briefly. He feels that dread. And he simultaneously...He wants to shrink away from them. But he also wants to look at them. Not to use them as a weapon, not to exploit them. But because he wants to see what they look like. The clone's genes come half from the Butcher. The Emperor's are half from the pervert and sadist Prince Serg. Are this man's fears...When he lets himself be afraid, how many of the Emperor's fears look like his own?

None. He doesn't know what you went through. The pain of becoming Miles... But there's more to the clone than just that pain. There are other fears. More primal ones. In the end, he doesn't pull those memories apart. He lets them alone.

But the search slows. It becomes less urgent and frenzied. The brief bubbles of pride, of deception, calm the clone. It reassures him that maybe - possibly - there really isn't anything being hidden. No one in the entire galaxy is good. It's only once they admit the ways in which they're awful that maybe you can start to trust them. A little. ]

[Once again, Gregor is disinclined to try to combat that deep-seated prejudice against "the Butcher of Komarr", however much it saddens him. That anger and hate makes him wince, but he lets it wash over him, and soon enough it dissipates on its own. Hearing his own public slander brought up actually sends a brief pulse of amusement through him-- Gregor's heard all these before, could suggest some few himself-- but he's letting Miles's brother direct this, and remains passive.

Gregor is relieved that he shies from opening up his fears of being like Serg, because he's not sure he could contain his instinct to balk at that. Openness is one thing, but the whole process is painful for Gregor. His innate desire for privacy is strong and abiding and he's had to choke it down for this whole process, though it's held back efficiently by his pure desire to convince him of his good intentions.

He's further relieved that he's told him now that the oaths are unbreakable, and he'd accepted it without complaint; one thing off his list of responsibilities to do later. (Though it does bother him that he would accept being coerced into an unbreakable oath as if it were his due... That's a sour taste, right there.)

Are you done? he asks, soft, a genuine question. I can't lie to you, like this. So if there's anything else you'd like to know...]

[ How can I be sure? That's a last desperate grasp at rejection. It's shaky. Even so, he still grasps at it, needily. He doesn't know how this psychic link works. Maybe lying is possible. There are always new ways to lie, aren't there? Lying through a mental link would be a new one, but...

He subsides. Instead, he sends to Gregor - his anger hot and pure and honest rather than the aching pulsing hatred - Stop feeling sad. Because he can sense that, some new flash of pity in the back of Gregor's mind, another thing that the Emperor has found pathetic. He focuses fiercely, for just a moment, on all the things that he has to be proud of: getting off Jackson's Whole; excelling in his studies - never good enough, no, but always good; his success in tracking Vorkosigan, figuring out the Naismith connection; his physical aptitude; his ability to think. He packages all that defiant pride and shoves it at Gregor. Don't feel sorry for me. Don't you dare.

And then he's ready. ]

[Being told to just stop feeling sad is not that easy, but-- feeling that pride...

Something unfolds in him, golden light filtering through deep water, Gregor smiling. The very first traces of affection taking root. You're right; I'm sorry. I'm proud to have you, honestly. It's a real coup, me getting you. With the emphasis comes the solid surety that he means him specifically, not just neutralizing any threat but that he gets him, an appreciation for who he is and what he's survived and how strong he is.

Pride matched and reflected.

But, alright. Showing him how to control the link. Watch, now. And Gregor pushes at him a sense of a valve opening and closing, or a door, whichever he prefers, creaking or slamming open in whatever extremity he likes. Visualization helps.]

[ The response is immediate. A door, automatic, a steel door powered by technology rather than the beautiful carved wooden ones on hinges that populate Gregor's memory, slams shut. It slams shut in a way that a shuttle door can't, because shuttle doors are programmed to slide shut softly. This one cracks against its doorframe with enough force to bend steel. Cuts all of him off.

And he needs it. He needs it so that he can just...sort through that warmth. That admiration. I can't lie, he'd said so many times, and so that's not forced. It's not flattery. It's not one of those empty compliments, you're the hope of Komarr, you'll destroy them from the inside out and still be a better Emperor than the one they have, that had made him such a fanatic for their cause for those first years. Not one of the compliments that had been proven empty and meaningless when frustration mounted and tempers flared. No...It's genuine. And he doesn't know how to...

The clone is so wrapped up in his own mind, and in the other man's, that he doesn't even pay attention to his body. He's drawn back, pressed against the chair, arm wrapped around his knees protectively. And tears are standing in his eyes, threatening to spill over as he pants desperately, emotion turned into physical exertion.

And slowly, incrementally, that door opens again. Just wide enough for a breath of air to pass through. And a testing tendril. To see if he's being laughed at. To see if that had been sarcasm. Or if he'd...meant it. That he wants...him. Mark Pierre. Or whoever he is. ]

[The door slamming shut gets him to wince again, his fingers clenching; Gregor has to suppress the urge to shake them out like they're smarting, though of course it isn't physical. But really, what else had he been expecting... He's glad he caught onto it that quickly, at least. Not nearly as tough as he and Miles are starting to find it, when all of their instincts want it open.

In the absence of mental stimulus, he opens his eyes again. Seeing him huddled against the chair panting sends another course of sadness washing through him, Gregor unable to help himself. But when the door eases open just a crack as if to peek in, there's something else there tempering it, too. Real satisfaction that he's pulled this off, that he's managed to get him under his wing, because he does want him, for a thousand complicated reasons that ultimately boil down to just wanting him close and safe and under his mantle.

Gregor loves nothing more than getting to use being Emperor for something good. He can use this for more than just being a puppet, and it is viciously vindicating. So he waits patiently for... Mark? to find some amount of stability. He of anyone understands the need to reassure yourself that affection is not empty flattery.]

Edited 2016-01-24 17:42 (UTC)

[ The answering flare of ferocity pushes against those traces of close and safe. He tries to assert his self-sufficiency. But underlaid beneath that is a realization that he's never been self-sufficient. He hasn't ever kept himself safe. He's always had minders and groomers - sometimes when he speaks, he loudly holds Miles Vorkosigan in contempt for the ease of his life, the coddling he's been treated to, but even as he sneers about that he knows that he's been even more sheltered. Kept even safer. The conversation with Miles in the kitchen was perhaps only the second conversation he'd ever had that hadn't been recorded or eavesdropped on.

Not true, though. Gregor was listening. A little pulse of frustration. And then back to that proud attempt to assert his self-sufficiency. He could if he needed. Just like Miles. Building a mercenary army. He could do that, he's sure of it. If he needed to. If he wanted to. He could construct loyalty. He could live on his own. He's never tried, but he could. He could keep himself safe. He doesn't need another minder.

But...That thought is fierce, yes. But angry, no. And definitely not hateful. That feeling of appreciation is...It illuminates a lot of the darker places in him, banishes some of the shadows. A temporary thing. The light is always taken away in time. But for just a moment, some of the hurt is assuaged, and with it a lot of the viciousness. ]

[You could, Gregor agrees. I'm not a minder. God forbid. He'd hate that, and frankly, no one would hate it more than Miles, so he's not surprised to see it here either. Gregor is really mostly hands off and he prefers it that way.

But how to explain loyalty to a Jacksonian... Ah, of course. He doesn't have to. This mind link really is useful that way.

He retrieves that piece of molten iron he'd drawn up from himself and rather than letting it sit in the background as he has so far, he brings it forward, front and center: Gregor's unthinking, unquestioning need to protect and shelter but never smother, to let others go, to keep their leashes slack in his hand as much as he possibly can.

I'll look out for you because I'm on your side, not because you need it. Ideally, that should be mutual, but don't pressure yourself. I had an idea what I was getting into. Here in his head he can't hide that dry humor underlining his words.]

[ The clone swallows, and becomes abruptly aware of the tears in his eyes. He dashes them away hard with the back of his sleeve. He hopes that Gregor didn't notice. And then he realizes that thinking about it will let Gregor know, and so there's a span of about five seconds where the connection shuts tight again. He really is astonishingly good at shutting people out: when that door is closed, his link is dead and silent. Not the slightest bleed of any emotion or information at all.

But, again, it slowly eases open once he's more in control of himself. He's a little more balanced now. Terror and mistrust and hatred aren't gone, but they've retreated. In their place are more human emotions. Curiosity, for one. Skepticism, yes - a cousin to mistrust, but a cousin by marriage only: skepticism is born of entirely different stock. And for the first time, he reaches out to Gregor in a way that isn't about himself. His fear.

You hate it, don't you. Being Emperor. At least a little bit. Why do you do it? ]

[Gregor is plenty curious himself, intensely curious, actually, because this is still a clone of Miles and for all that makes him his own person and he is very firm on that, he looks just like him. He has the same genes. He is, if nothing else, another son of Aral and Cordelia, and Gregor has a weak spot a kilometer wide for Vorkosigans.

He waits again for him to creep back to the connection, not commenting until he does first. It provokes a ringing, remembered bitterness out of him (oh yes, Gregor has hated it very much, in the past) but shortly thereafter a soft wonder, a tentative acceptance.

I used to do it because of everyone who'd died and sacrificed to put me on the throne, and how many more would if I didn't. Quick flashes: his mother, his father, his grandfather, so many in Aral's family and others from Mad Emperor Yuri, Negri, the peasants in the Dendarii mountains who'd sheltered him as a child, all of his Armsmen, Aral and Cordelia and Miles themselves, starkly outlined in his mind. The list goes on, on, on, Gregor's sense of weight huge-- and then it vanishes, washed away by the tide.

But that's not a good motivation. It gets you up in the morning, but it doesn't get you forward. No. I do it now because... I do have power, and I can either squander it or use it. I choose to use it in a way I can live with.

Plus, it's bloody hard not to, with Miles blasting faith in him directly into his head. If anything's going to give you a shot of confidence...]

[ It would be easy to retreat again in the face of all that love for Vorkosigans, Vorkosigans, Vorkosigans - Miles more than any other, and that does raise a spike of bitterness and envy...It would be easy to retreat when he's identified as a son of Aral and Cordelia. Because that idea is outright insane. Miles' brother - maybe. Possibly. But the son of those two? They contributed genetic material. Unwittingly. No. His mother is a uterine replicator. That's it. But...There's also that assertion that he's his own person. Not just the evil changling-child come to take the prince's rightful place, to poison the household. Not just a paler, worse imitation of Miles. His own person.

So he holds the connection open. Waveringly, but he holds it open.

You could have run away. You didn't ask them to die for you. You can't feel obligated just because someone does something you didn't ask for.

And you weren't a prisoner. ]

[Gregor unwittingly flashes him a hundred images of ImpSec dogging him every step of his life, from age four onward, never allowed alone in a room without someone outside the door. He had felt very much like a prisoner. But Gregor doesn't want to get into comparing pasts either. That is bound to be unconstructive.

He says instead, with self-deprecating humor, I did run away. But I went back, on my own terms.

A pause, before he adds carefully, And if you don't want to take on that name-- if you'd rather not be a Vorkosigan-- I will insist to them personally that they not pressure you about it. If that is your wish. Because Gregor is committed, truly, to endorsing his bid to define himself.]

[ You're damn right that's what I wish, he answers ferociously. Because Gregor's not entirely correct that you can't lie over a telepathic link. You can. The thing is that lying is a product of language, a uniquely verbal thing, and over the telepathic link there's so much more. An upwelling of confusion. Fear of all of them - all three of them, the totality of the Vorkosigan line, each of them fanged and vicious in his dreams and imaginings. Fear of their hatred, too, because he was coming to kill them...Two of the three, at least. Pressuring him to become one of them? The pressure they'd prefer to exert is that of a pillow over his face. Or the pressure of a scalpel against his forehead, carving out his clone-brain to make way for his brother's. Because, sure, this wasn't a good body either, but at least his bones are strong. That's an improvement over what Miles has, right? An upgrade. Two shitty models, but one a little better in just about every way except for mental. Take out the engine, tinker a bit, and the groundcar runs just a little better.

And also, deeper: I'm programmed to kill them. And you. And he finds, somehow, for some reason, suddenly, that it's a thought that nauseates him. And also: Who would I be? There's nothing to me. And also: I'd be an embarrassment. And that last one seems so petty and stupid, but next to the faces of vicious killers are the faces of people who look a little flummoxed by their nameless, graceless son, who waddles after his brother and tries to imitate everything about him but just does it...worse. It's an anxiety that's somehow equal to murdering them, and being murdered by them - looking pathetic. It might even scare him more. ]

[Maybe evading this fear is not the right way to do it. Because he understands at least that fear of being an embarrassment-- he and Miles both have it in spades, fear of not living up to that same man, but the ones he feels traces of now have new meaning, enveloped and smothered in fears potent and edged enough to eviscerate.

The best thing for it might be to discredit it entirely, with proof. Gregor is suddenly uncertain about the wisdom of dumping him off with Miles and a blithe play nice, now and trotting off, job well done.

You don't feel very programmed to me, he shoots back, a darkness around that thought at the idea of programming anyone. But you are misunderstanding the Vorkosigans very badly.

Here. Stay back and quiet and I will show you. Miles is probably gnawing through a tea towel in worry-- I can feel him fluttering in there-- but just listen in for a moment and I'll prove it to you. You be the eavesdropper for once, eh?]

[ He feels a burst of uncertainty in response to not-being-programmed. It's not like the holovids - the one holovid that the clone saw, for entertainment...Where a code-word snapped the sleeper agent into a state of wakeful murderousness. It's not like being a computer, loading a routine and executing it without any interference from the operating system. You're programmed to act by fear and reward. He's programmed to kill the same way he's programmed to return to Galen: by knowing the consequences if he doesn't and the rewards if he does. Programming an assassin is just like raising a child, in that way.

But I can't kill them. I'm prevented from doing so. That's what he said. That thought is to himself, but it spills over - the mental equivalent of a self-directed mutter. Even if Galen shows up here, he can't kill them, and that'll prevent him from returning. The path doubling back to the Komarrans has been collapsed. There's no way the fear/loyalty/need can make him go back.

So he turns his attention to Gregor. Pushes that all away. And he tries. Yeah. Show me. ]

[Gregor hadn't anticipated the unbreakable oath being a point of reassurance and some buried lingering guilt falls apart in relief. That's okay, then. He still has a kneejerk distaste for the whole word programming, for conditioning anyone, but admittedly he doesn't know how it works. He's never allowed it and never will.

Instead he focuses, his faith in Miles bubbling up, a nice, easy, comfortable thing. When Gregor goes to widen his link to him, it springs open, all the sustained tension of being contracted released at once. He leads in with reassurance and apology, prepared; he feeds it to him directly, Miles's brother kept far back in his mind somewhere out in the murky depths.

Miles, I know you're going crazy in there, and I'm sorry, but bear with me a little longer. It's all fine and no one's been hurt. I just need to ask you for a favor.]

[ Fluttering was a good word for it - Miles is like a butterfly in a bottle here, beating his wings uselessly against the solid wall on the other side of his link. Utter relief as soon as it pops open, even as he immediately checks for damages. No pain, okay. That's a start.

Gregor! What the hell are you doing in there? The relief mixes with worry, bright probing rays of light that would be scorching under the wrong circumstances. Are you okay? Is my brother okay? Because while the first flare of brilliant worry is for Gregor, first and foremost, he's worried about his little brother too, dammit. In the short time he's come to know the man, he's already steadily dedicated to getting him some kind of peace. Another undercurrent too, a sense of not sure which way to turn. Should he be Vorkosigan? Naismith? Neither?

It all comes over in a rush, nearly overwhelming if one isn't used to it. Miles doesn't do well with being cooped up. He's worn little pacing grooves in his mind just in the last fifteen minutes or so. ]

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