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

[ 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. ]

[Ah. A corresponding note of bleak satisfaction. This motive makes much more sense.

Indeed, Gregor is chilled to imagine that happening to Aral, too, enough so to take the familiar depressed sting out of being reminded that a large subsection of his people are unhappy with his rule.

Galen was a major figure in the Komarran Revolt that took place when I was nine. I'm not surprised you don't remember it, Miles. Your father had to deal with it directly.]

[ A note of confirmation, carefully neutral.

His sister, Rebecca Galen, was killed on Aral Vorkosigan's orders.

Better that than touching the worry and love for the Butcher radiating off the both of them. ]

[ Ah. That's the name he was looking for; instant recognition there.

And then, an abrupt swirl of uncertainty. His instinctive response to that, of course, is to repeat that his father ordered no such thing, that it was a subordinate, his father would never do that for so many reasons - but they're trying not to sour this thing before it starts, dammit. Miles won't let the issue be him. Stubbornness to make this work overtakes stubbornness to his father's honor, temporarily.

Well, mostly. He's here, you know. And the undercurrent of warning: don't you dare say that to his face. ]

[Here in my head, too, Gregor reluctantly admits, in the interests of honesty. I'm holding the link closed, don't worry.

Would you... prefer to deal with that later? You've some gross misconceptions about him but I thought you might have had enough of my talking at you for one night.

Wry self-awareness in that.]

[ The fear returns, boiling out from where it was just dormant. Never defeated, just sleeping. He is terrified at the prospect. The stories about his progenitor were bad; the stories about the Emperor were, too. They're nothing compared to the stories of Aral Vorkosigan.

He'd kill me. ]

[ Ha. Considering how close Aral was to killing Miles ... No, no. He's already tried. You should be quite safe. All sardonic, all self-deprecating - Miles getting to enjoy breaking a few bones by falling down the hole he'd dug for himself. But that probably isn't comforting, he realizes, so he follows it up with: He'll listen to Gregor and me. We'll just warn him. ]

[Gregor instantly sends a wordless chiding at Miles for playing into his brother's fears.

Don't be ridiculous, Aral Vorkosigan would sooner fall on his sword than turn a hand against his own son. He's no stomach for it. Half the genius of you as an assassin is even if he knew who you were, he'd be hard-pressed to fight you.

But yes, we will talk to him, so if the character testimony doesn't assure you, let that do it. Anyway, you should really speak to Lady Vorkosigan first. There's no such complications there, are there? She's so Betan.]

[ Is she? She's from Beta - obviously she's Betan in some way. But...The clone doesn't know so much about her. She's sort of a mystery, compared to the other two. Sort of. It turns out that the other two have been...mysteries, and he didn't realize it.

He's still nervous. Cagy. Even after their reassurances.

Even if he doesn't kill me, he'll hate me. That's said with fear mingled with...more than a bit of despair. That seems impossible. ]

[ Oh, fine. He'll behave. A muted apology to both Gregor and his brother.

At that, though ... eh. A mental shrug. I really doubt that. I think they wanted more children very badly, both of them. Another small undercurrent there, the various reasons why ... ]

[It's just so delicate, Gregor doesn't want Miles to trod over any piece of this building relationship with his usual flair for the dramatic.

He has to completely smother his own childhood traces of longing that he could actually be their son, instead of their half-adopted foundling groomed to the Imperium. Gregor has mostly gotten over that now, and in any case, he can't regret not being Miles's brother, which is a train of thought he does not dare to go down with guests in his head.

Why would he hate you? he asks prosaically instead. You're forgetting the reframing so soon, hm? You're my subject now. Barrayaran. You've committed no crimes that I know; he's nothing to hate you for.]

[ That's...true. That is true. His only real crime so far has been firing his stunner at Miles Vorkosigan, and that's rather small in the grand scheme of things. But - But that wouldn't stop the Butcher, right? He's brutal and unforgiving. And besides -

Collusion with the enemy. Conspiracy. ]

[ Defecting to the right side, though. With valuable intel. He can counter strategy with strategy too if need be. ]

[You swore directly to me; no one's going to argue with that on the matter of your past, I assure you. And he can counter with pure implacable legal status, if necessary.]

[ And since when did legal status have anything to do with hatred? But...Valuable intel. Right. That'll matter to a soldier like Aral Vorkosigan. ]

[ I think it will work out better than you think. He decides to wind down a bit there, though, not wanting to set up too much for or against this meeting. Better let his father handle things, albeit properly warned ... ]

[Right. Gregor refrains from trying to convince him any further that legal status and personal loyalties are essentially inseparable for Barrayar and it will mean far more to Aral than he thinks.

In any case, let's not deal with it now. This has been more than enough for one evening. We'll blunt his reaction for you, all right?]

[ And Mark finally sits back and speaks. His voice is rusty. ]

Okay.

[ And then he rubs at his face. He feels beyond exhausted. And not free, like he feels he ought to feel...Not yet. He's dizzy right now. Confused. ]

[ The kitchen is quiet too for a moment; then, the sounds of Miles putting away his aborted attempt to make tea. He's gone quiet on Gregor's side of the link too, needing a moment himself. ]

[Gregor, meanwhile, is used to being the one who has to keep trodding forward no matter what.]

I imagine you want some time to yourself now. There's an extra room upstairs if you'd like to sleep there, [he says to Miles's brother quietly, his own voice a bit creaky but clearing quickly.] Or you may leave; that isn't an order. If you have questions for me later, please let me know. At any time.

[The heavy weight of his words and his eyes try to impress upon him how serious he is about that.]

Yeah. I, um...

[ He swallows hard. Licks his lips and looks towards the kitchen entrance. ]

Is there...I'm going to -

[ And then, a little uncertainly, he gets to his feet and shuffles into the kitchen. He doesn't look at his brother/progenitor/target/enemy as he does - he just grabs for the cheese, and takes it with him as he stumbles up the stairs to his room. The emotional link is shut tight by the time he closes the door after him. ]

I am junking up this beautiful community with this junk

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