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

[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. ]

[Contrary to flinching away from it, which is probably anyone else's instinct, Gregor relaxes and basks in it. It's not until you can see the contrast of how he is with Miles that it becomes apparent how self-contained he was earlier, even mentally: each thought and gesture allowed up to the surface with self-conscious precision.

Now he welcomes all that effervescent energy in and tries to soothe him, but is admittedly a little impatient. He's still directed, has a goal. Gregor hasn't finished his task here yet (that of subverting Miles's brother, of solving things for the Vorkosigans before they even became a problem).

Yes, yes, we're both alright, I swear. I'm fixing your whole tangled mess. A note of exasperated fondness. That isn't much of an answer, but it's all Miles is getting for the moment. But I needed to ask you, you're sure that you want him as your brother? Even knowing he's a trained assassin, brainwashed and hateful, meant to replace you and kill your father, and me? Or what if he doesn't want that, what if he doesn't want to play your game anymore at all?

You sure you want him?

There's a slipperiness to Gregor's thoughts here, uncharacteristically obscured.]

[ What is that obscurity? Miles picks at it idly, not liking it much, but also trusting Gregor above and beyond anything else. Gregor's keeping something from him. All right, he probably has a good reason for it. File it away with everything else and move on.

Because the main point is a hell of a big one. Miles isn't precisely surprised to hear Mark is an assassin - of course he would be if he expected to show up and pretend to be Miles Vorkosigan - but his answer is immediate and clear, like the ringing of a bell. Gregor has to ask?

He's my brother regardless. Of course I want him. Fierce and bright, a smaller version of the pillar of fire usually reserved for Gregor. It fades a bit faster, though, shrouded by worry. What does he want? Because that, to Miles, is the most important thing. Vitally important. He's decided to protect and defend this little sibling of his to the ends of the nexus, but he also desperately understands the need to do it his own way. Miles always has, after all. He would chafe to be protected, belligerently demand back his dangers if necessary. ]

[Gregor had been expecting Miles to pick up on the fact that there's something else afoot here (of course Gregor doesn't actually have to ask; that's why he'd done all this), and he'd also expected him to go along with it anyway. But witnessing him do it sends a short burst of affection through him, quickly muffled as he focuses again. It's not about him, or even Miles. Not right now.

I'm glad you feel that way, because I've just taken him as a liege-sworn, and secured his oath not to attack anyone. Yes, unbreakable. So we're quite stuck with him. Gregor sounds remarkably cheerful about that, even smug.

It fades to seriousness as he gently shuffles his newest subject's presence forward, clearing the murky obscurity between the two of them and letting their feelings go both ways, just faintly, just in traces, but enough to feel each other undeniably.

You should ask him yourself.]

[ The clone (Mark Pierre?) isn't ready for that sudden push forward into the light. He feels the sudden urge to hiss, like an opossum prodded and displeased by rough treatment, or like some hideous toothy vampire shrinking back from the daybreak. He doesn't know whether he feels like a feral beast or like a grubby boy being shuffled forward for inspection. Here I am, big brother. Da. Whatever you are. He shoves down all those stupid thoughts and tries to be as blank and unreadable as possible when he opens himself up for Vorkosigan's inspection. Miles' inspection...

He's my brother. Of course I want him. He wants to laugh himself silly. Or be sick. Or cry. All this time, all that scrutiny, and they never even knew that Lord Vorkosigan was insane. All this time, hating him - and he still hates him, he thinks, he still hates Miles Vorkosigan - and still the man's love is kindled quicker than an electrical fire. Even knowing what the clone was made for. Even knowing what he was sent for.

He has the stupidest urge to suddenly hide behind Gregor. He's small enough. He can fit in the Emperor's shadow. But...even so, he reaches out, and he sends a hesitant, awkward, shaky Hello. ]

[ The response from Miles is nothing at all like an inspection. Surprise - a thin wail of betrayal, damn it Gregor - while simultaneously applauding the Emperor's verve and skill. That's one way to upend the situation. Miles would have preferred his inside-out game of layers inside layers, but this ... cuts to the heart, doesn't it. Miles Vorkosigan and his little brother, before each other, working things out.

Or. Well. They're face to face, at least; that's a start. Miles, in contrast to Gregor - surely in contrast to Mark as well - is loud and brilliant and impossible to ignore. Even going a bit dimmer and cautious here, he's a blinding force of nature before anything else. He has to remind himself not to trample this thing before it's even started. Bracing himself mentally against Gregor - a faint, tiny thread of jealousy, perhaps so small that only Gregor can sense it - he brings himself to bear on Mark. Hello, he says rather breezily. Welcome to the Barrayaran Telepathic Tightbeam Network. Did Gregor teach you how to shield? Surely he did - I'm told I'm rather loud. And fast, everything tumbling out in one manic flare of information. ]

[His inside-out game of layers was probably going to be the death of all involved, perhaps literally, so Gregor has no remorse about taking matters into his own hands.

He feels like a fly on the wall for this conversation, honestly, a little embarrassed to be intruding, as he had when Miles had had his touching exchange with Aral after the treason charge. But this can't happen without him facilitating it (they're not sworn to each other) and furthermore, Gregor can feel that urge in Mark (?) to hide behind him. That twinge of jealousy gets noted to be brought up later; he accepts Miles's weight and tries to blunt some of the force of personality that attempts to flow through. He doesn't mind it but he is well aware everyone else in existence finds Miles a lot to swallow all at once.

But otherwise... he finds himself reluctant to interfere with this meeting in any way, the first honest one, and sits back quietly.]

[ The clone wants to crumble into pieces right then and there. Miles is no bigger than he is physically, but his mental presence is - enormous. Thundering. Manic, no surprise there, all the psych profiles had identified Vorkosigan as a manic-depressive, a thing that had never been easy for the clone to copy when all he wanted to do was shrink down into nothing and stay silent...And already he's being identified as Mark. The name just given to him without question when he hasn't even decided if he likes it or wants it. Already chattering at him like they're old friends, catching up after a long absence. Hey old chum, did you hear, did you know, welcome home... As though he even knows where home is.

The effect is both dazzling and painful. Like a light being shone directly into someone's eyes when they've adjusted to the dark. And so the clone does the only rational thing, driven by one part a desire to demonstrate, one part defiance, and one part a need for a moment to regroup: he shuts off the connection, firmly and completely, a door being closed firmly. But not slamming shut. It's not desperate, but deliberate. ]

[ Oops.

Good fucking job Miles, you ruined it. The rejection kind of stings, in fact, like an indirect hit on a very old wound. (Nothing like the jagged raw edges he gets from other kinds, but - instantly sore.) But at the same time he kind of deserved it, didn't he? So much for just trying to run over the situation and sort out the details later.

He sighs in frustration for a moment, mostly directed inward. Less noisy, dammit, less overbearing ... He hates making himself any smaller, mentally OR physically, but he tries to tone himself down. For his brother's sake. (It's so strange having to do that compared with the utter freedom he has with Gregor, just for starters.)

It takes all of his somewhat drained reserve of patience to just wait for a moment, to stare at his brother's door and just be there when it reopens again. If it reopens again.

(And in the meantime, another private wail to Gregor: I really am too loud.) ]

[No, well, yes, probably, but he seems to just do that, Gregor explains to him, apparently sanguine about this turn of affairs if a little regretful. He did it with me, too, so it's not just you. He's very confused, and you're who he was supposed to be. I'd lock you out, too.

Hell, it was probably terrifying; he'd felt that well of fear as deep as Miles's self-image issues, but Gregor isn't going to pass secrets in any direction. He tries to give Miles some of his patience laced with the now familiar current of his acceptance.

And try not to press him on being a Vorkosigan, or even named Mark. It's... a lot for now. One thing at a time, okay?]

[ It does, of course, reopen again. It takes an undoubtedly agonizing minute, but it does reopen. And the clone's mental presence comes out again - still wary, but better. Not shrinking, not looking for a place to hide. Those few moments had let him come to terms with the things he'd overheard from Miles' mind, and had let him adjust. He'd refound his footing. A bit. He's as balanced as he ever is.

So, firmly unbalanced. Great.

This time, he takes firm control of the conversation. He pushes back by asserting himself the only way he knows how. He makes an offering of a part of his identity - but attaches to it worth, too. Here. I can offer you things. I'm not a stray you're taking in. I'm a warrior in my own right. You want intelligence on the plot, don't you? We know you work for ImpSec. Obviously. Gregor didn't care so much, but you'll want this intel. ]

[ I didn't call him Mark, is Miles' peevish reply. (But he had begun referring to his brother as Mark - he tamps down on the urge immediately, running brother through with virulent intensity instead.) And you didn't lock me out. We mutually had to take a step back, that's all. He clings to that for a moment, to soothe his own sore issues.

When M - his brother reappears, he's quiet. Receptive. Nearly gentle. His flames tamped down to a candle, bright and cheerful.

He wants to do the ImpSec angle? Okay, sure. He's curious anyway, interest brightening him. How did all this come about? Tell me then. What were you trying to do? ]

[ Brother isn't perfect, but it's better. It's still an identity pushed on him, but it's one that's a bit less...firm. He feels as though he has a little more control. Brother is the way that Miles sees him, but it's not the way that he has to see himself. Mark is something that sticks to him. It's a thing he has to call himself. He's not ready to give up quite that much control yet.

It helps to have something to talk about that doesn't involve emotions. Because it doesn't have to involve emotions. His report on this matter can stick exclusively to the facts and nothing more. And - it's useful.

And maybe it'll be horrific enough to kill Miles Vorkosigan's love here and now. Throat-cut like an infant fallen prey to Barrayaran prejudices.

Destabilization of Barrayar in order to enable another Komarran rebellion. This one successful. I was to eliminate you and return to Barrayar after your death, after which I would eliminate your father and the Emperor. When I took the throne, I'd withdraw all Barrayaran troops from Komarr. Freedom for their planet. I can give details on the conspirators in the plot. Bases they kept, sources of their funding. I wasn't supposed to know those last details, they weren't supposed to be my business, but I managed to find them out. The last is asserted with a little fierce wave of pride. ]

[ It's all Miles can do not to laugh. First because that touch of pride should not be messed with, he feels, and secondly because it's really not funny, except in a blackly humorous way. He and his family would die. Gregor would die. And finally his little brother would die too, as the Barrayaran Imperium would eat him alive before tearing itself apart too. It's a terrible scenario. Hideous.

And yet - Miles can only feel morbid fascination working it out. The wheels in his head turn visibly as he lays out the problem, working it through to its conclusion.

You realize that would kill all of us, Komarr included? Even assuming you were able to get on the throne - my god. You'd be torn apart in a matter of days. And then, to make it less like he's doubting his brother (because really, he isn't), he adds: I'd be torn apart in a matter of days if I tried. Chaos to screen another move by the Komarrans, at best. The only thing anyone in the line of the succession really wants is for Gregor to live forever. Or, failing that, have approximately ten children. ]

[There's a strong burst of dark amusement, the sort of gallows humor that leads one to telling jokes to their own hanging, overshadowed only by Gregor's own sallow incredulity. Not that they'd have a plan like this, but just at the thought that it could work.

All I do is field queries about when I'm reproducing, he agrees, sounding dry as the desert. As for Miles... God. I wish it worked that way. He's almost been executed once already because someone came up with some shady evidence that he was trying to stage a try for the throne. One whiff of it and you'd be dead and no one'd check your bones, or care. Otherwise I'd have foisted this snake pit off on Ivan years ago.

I also note there was no provision for Cetaganda in this plan-- or was there? It's the actual Emperor's sense of inevitable implications, that inexorable push toward politics. There's a sense of a million variables shuffling themselves in the back of his brain that Gregor has to stifle.]

[ Allies. That was the original plan. To bottleneck the wormhole so that none of the impending civil war would spill over to Komarr. There's a grimness in his full awareness that a civil war would ensue. That was part of the plan, after all. Destabilize the planet. Tear it to pieces. Revenge against an entire world for the blood they'd shed on Komarr, in Solstice. The clone thinks suddenly of that bubble of memory Gregor had shared with him, the people who'd died to put him on the throne, and thinks of the flash of hazy memory of the normal people, the people in the country, in the Dendarii Mountains, and feels deeply uncomfortable.

To suppress that, he focuses on the other half: But that was the plan. That doesn't mean that's how it was going to go. There's nothing to say that I couldn't outlast you, he thinks fiercely at his progenitor. Maybe you'd get torn apart. That doesn't mean I would.

And then he turns his attention briefly to the Emperor. The feeling he extends to him is wordless, but...sincere. He didn't really want the throne. Doesn't. But if he was going to be sat down hard on that camp stool, then he was going to do a good job of it. Everyone assumed - and still assumes - that he'd get eaten alive. But he's smarter than any of them give credit for. ]

[ That's not quite what I meant. Miles, glad for the cue from Gregor, is happy to pick up the thread. Cetaganda would pounce instantly. The revolution would be short-lived at best. As for whether his brother would be a better emperor than Miles, well ... He doesn't particularly doubt that. Miles is fairly certain that small, flightless birds would make better Emperors than Miles Vorkosigan would. He's loyal, utterly, but too prone to havering off on crazy capers at this point in in his life. And the Naismith thing ...

Unfortunately, he's not sure his brother would escape those handicaps either. No, you're right, he admits. But I doubt your captors planned for much more than chaos. Expected less. And then: Play me all you like, but mind that you don't get terribly burned in the process. ]

[Komarran dissidents never seem to realize that in order for Cetaganda to stage an invasion of Barrayar, they have to have Komarr first, Gregor puts in grimly. It wouldn't go well for Komarr.

A pause, before he says more softly, directly to his new subject, I've no doubt you'd attempt to rule well. But it has nothing to do with smarts. The Imperium is-- well. You're not so different from me, I think; imagine it this way.

Gregor flashes an image of the Council of Counts in full session, filled to the brim with people, and he's sitting on the camp stool in the direct middle on a dais, looking out at all the rest. Every single eye is fixed on him, and he cannot show any weakness, cannot twitch, cannot put one syllable out of order or he will create a crack others can exploit against him.

It's that, all the time.]

[ Your captors. The clone is uneasy with that description. He pushes down his thoughts about it. Instead he focuses on Gregor. And he admits, grudgingly - I didn't say that I wanted it. Just that I wouldn't die as easily as that. I've survived a lot.

But that brushes too closely to things charged with emotion. And emotion is something he doesn't want to bleed over. So instead, he continues on. Chaos is all they really needed. Then the Komarrans would rise up. They've been so mistreated for so many years, and they're already on the brink of it... Though that's rhetoric that's lost its teeth since the clone has been allowed access to news sources. There's not even a hint of that. But even if they didn't, I think Ser Galen would be content with just seeing Barrayar hurt. And Aral Vorkosigan. ]

[ Galen, Galen ... the name rings a bell rather clearly, although he can't picture the man. His father would surely know instantly, and look both grave and ill at the same time.

<I think you are right. It would hurt my father very keenly - destroy him, multiple times over. If he was permitted to live to see it.

He chills, faintly, to consider it in that light. ]

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