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

[ A reasonable reaction. And yet, Miles finds himself disagreeing with it. Lack of hostility is all he would offer? No ... a mental image of his mother comes to mind; he can just about hear her voice resounding in his ears. Miles, what have you done with your baby brother?

Because that is truly who this man in front of him would be. His brother, under Betan law and his mother. His father ... a harder sell, he thinks, but he's sure the man would come around in the end. He'd had to think through the scenario himself while discussing his family as Naismith.

He must win this man over, one way or another. As Naismith if possible - that seems a much safer choice than upending the man's cover. He knows too well how much identity can be tied up in such a thing. And he has no idea who this man considers himself to be under all that ... Let the man have Vorkosigan, for now, and see what happens. ]

Neither did you, apparently. That ... resolves the worst of my issues. Admittedly. [ Reluctantly, like he's just now deciding to trust Vorkosigan. Which he is. ] I had almost hoped for a villain.

Edited (the ] wanted to party too) 2016-01-23 16:00 (UTC)

[ It's...No, it's not an echo of the clone's thoughts. That's wrong. He didn't want a villain. He didn't care about whether or not he got a villain. Why would he? The mission was to assassinate. Galen had talked a lot about the evil of the Butcher, and Miles Vorkosigan's hideous and dissolute lifestyle - ranting and raving when he was in his tempers - and the clone always believed him but he didn't really care. He had his job. His job would restore Komarr, which was what Galen wanted, and so when he was younger that was what he wanted. Now, now that he's had more time to think about things and consider his future...Well. He's going to end up doing what's expected of him. What else can he do?

It's weird, though, looking in the face of his future victim. His own face. Killing himself. It's very...Shit. Very in line with...Freud? Jung? Vorkosigan would know which one, wouldn't he. Genius that he is.

You'll get a villain yet.

He hesitates. He knows...The smart thing to do will be to take this opportunity to get to know him. Study him. Learn his habits. That's what he'd be ordered to do. But...But he'll get found out if he stays. He knows it. Vorkosigan will get tired of this game and act. Or - or something. And it's...He can't even imagine sharing a house with him. He can't imagine what will happen if he ends up growing some sort of sympathy for him. That's what might happen, right? He'll come under his sway. This would keep emotional distance...

Or maybe I'm just scared to have to be stacked up next to the original every day. ]

I'll see what I can do about getting moved out. I can't think you'd want to see me all the time. Even if I'm not a villain.

[ Miles, meanwhile, considers that. The Naismith part of him agrees that he'd much rather be as far away from his progenitor as possible. Vorkosigan chimes in cheerfully that it would be unsettling for Gregor, and dangerous as all hell if this man decides to snap one day. Even with the telepathic link, it would cause a dizzying confusion for a critical moment, not to mention the possibility of being murdered in one's sleep.

... They could be murdered anyway, one day. The best defense is a good offense. The decision is made in an instant, and a brilliant smile - the likes of which would only be seen on Naismith and not Vorkosigan - cracks his face. ]

On the contrary. I'd like you to stay, if Greg doesn't mind the occasional confusion. If you [romise not to change your mind about not minding having a clone later?

[ And more genuine sentiment bubbles to the top of his mind, wild with the sudden thought. ]

Under Betan law, we'd be brothers anyway.

[ We'd be...

What? What insanity is this? The clone can't help himself. He stares at Naismith with confusion - and not a bit of suspicion - and not a bit of horror, too. Brothers. Vorkosigan is no brother to him. Naismith wouldn't be, either. Is that really Betan law? Further proof that Betans are all lunatics. His closest family is a uterine replicator. His only family. And clones from his creche whose personalities are now no more than incinerated bio-waste. So what sort of provocation is this meant to be? What kind of test? Did he say that just to provoke the clone into reacting with appropriate revulsion?

Brothers.

Nonsense. Nonsense. He tries to shake himself mentally, like a dog shedding water - but unfortunately, like for that dog, like with water, the sheer ridiculous insanity clings to his memory. Brothers. His voice is a little too harsh and a little too strident for cheery, babbly Lord Vorkosigan. But he feels like the reaction is about right. ]

That was a quick jump - from fear to wanting to inherit in less than a minute.

Oh, no. No worries there. I have my mercenary fleet, and as you are the progenitor you're obviously the real heir. I still wouldn't set foot on Barrayar for a million Betan dollars.

[ He can feel that familiar momentum starting up, the sort that usually results in really good or really bad ideas. He has no idea which one this is yet. It's exhilarating. For just a moment, he pauses to savor the thrill of adrenaline going through him. ]

My greatest strength as Admiral is in recognizing good personnel, and promptly drafting them. In that, my snap judgments are usually the best.

[ His grin is somehow still brighter. Manic and wild with possibility. ]

What do you say, Lord Miles? Fancy having a little brother?

[ No. No. What's he doing? What's he trying to accomplish? Unconsciously, a few of the clone's automatic Vorkosigan traits drop away from him. He stops leaning on the counter. Subtly, with gesture by gesture, as Miles speaks, shifts from arrogance to defensiveness, until by that last question he's actually backed up a step. Put physical distance between them. Shifts into an almost battle-ready position. But his eyes - he's staring at Naismith, and he doesn't even blink once. He feels dizzy.

A little brother. He's insane. He's completely insane... He licks his lips. ]

It seems like there are...two different things going on there. Are you recruiting personnel, or applying to become part of my family?

[ How is it possible to pronounce my family wrong? There aren't any vowels that ought to be able to be said incorrectly in there. In a Barrayaran accent it sounds just the same as in his native Jacksonian accent. And yet still it comes out sounding incorrect. ]

[ Miles' eyes are clear and sharp, the gray like steel in his wild expression. Not predatory, though. Delighted, excited. He's got Vorkosigan - ha, what a thought, thinking of this little brother of his as Vorkosigan, but it's true, isn't it? - Vorkosigan on the defensive. That's usually a sign that Miles' latest insanity is about to gain some traction. ]

Both, really. We are trying to get the Dendarii back up and running again here, but - yes, one thing at a time. Is there a form I should fill out? A test I ought to pass? Oh, the good doctors did take that blood sample last month - you really ought to meet Hermann, we may make his head explode --

[ The words just keep coming, and coming, and coming. ]

[ Why won't he stop talking? Vorkosigan is energetic, but not nearly this...this garrulous. This is uncontrollable. He keeps just...going on and on, and the clone takes a breath and tries to interrupt about three times before he finally cuts in - ]

I don't think Betan law really holds on Barrayar, so -

And neither hold here. So. I figure it's up to us to decide.

[ He's a little breathless himself, at the end of all that. ]

What do you want?

[ What...

That question makes the clone's brain sort of...grind to a halt. What do I want? What does it matter what he wants? It's...It's not like he hasn't been asked that question before. He's heard the question before. But...it was always a question from his Jacksonian servant/captors about what he'd like to eat for dinner. It was never what do you want to do - because that was determined for him, whether it was exercise or another trip to the doctor to have a crippling brace put on his back to force him into a hunch. Never what do you want your future to be. No one asked that. No one bothered. And the past four years, since the Komarrans came for him...No. Never. Never that question. What a joke to think he would ever be asked that question. He had a destiny, and if he second-guessed that destiny then he'd see the end of a shock-stick. That was it. So he's never had to answer the question before, never...

And so the clone just stares at Naismith. He stares at him, uncomprehending, trying to process how he should answer that question. Trying to process what that question even means. ]

[ Miles stares back, his manic energy settling back into a sort of intense calm. Give his brother time to think and surely he'll come to a conclusion that Miles likes. Or - well, any conclusion would be good, right? How many decisions has his clone actually gotten to make in his life? Painfully few, he's sure. He'd gotten such an outpouring of sympathy just pretending to be one. And for good damn reason ...

Maybe it will help to lay it out for him. Less overwhelmingly blank freedom, there. ]

I figure we have a few options. We could be enemies, but that would be a waste. Besides, we resurrect automatically after a few days, so if you decided to kill me I'd just come back quite angry.

[ A warning, that. Make it clear there's no reason to even attempt it. ]

We could avoid each other. But that would be a waste too. Either way, as soon as you get on the network as Lord Vorkosigan, you're likely to get some angry responses. I ... er, I should probably deflect those, especially since you are not actually responsible for my existence.

[ On a couple levels. ]

Or - we could be friends. Siblings. I would like that very much. It would be a bit confusing with two Miles in close proximity, but we could work it out. And, well - Barrayaran patronymics being what they are, a second son can really only have one name anyway.

[ It does help. Choosing from alternatives is easy. That's something he's done before. Coming up with his own solution, deciding his fate completely, is...But having alternatives to choose from is something he's dealt with. It's less bleakly terrifying. And so it gives a little push to the stalled-out junk that is the clone's brain now, gets it moving in the right direction.

Resurrect automatically. Okay. That's good to know. What is it, some sort of cryo-revival? Automatic, though...Still, he's glad now he didn't snap Vorkosigan's neck right away. It would have blown his cover as well as getting him nowhere in completing a revenge he doesn't even know whether or not he's committed to. Here in Galen's absence. As for the rest...

That little last bit pricks at his curiosity. He's not a second son. He's no one's son and no one's brother. But...Barrayaran patronymics. How would that work? First son gets the grandfather's name on each side. Father's father, mother's father. The second son gets...the mother's father's...second name...He can't remember. If this ridiculous idea were to be given any credence - who would he be? What would his name be? He can't ask, he's supposed to know...

He forces his mouth to say: ]

Yeah, but I don't think that's a name you'd want.

[ What would the name be? What would it be... ]

Mark Pierre Vorkosigan?

[ Miles handily supplies it, no questions asked. Just a smile. ]

I do prefer Miles, being used to it and all, but it seems quite lordly enough, don't you think?

Which do you prefer?

[ The clone swallows. Mark Pierre...Mark Pierre Vorkosigan. It doesn't sound right. It sounds completely wrong. It doesn't suit him at all. How stupid. ]

Well, you don't choose, right? So I'm - So I'm stuck with Miles.

[ His mouth feels dry. His tongue stumbles. Stop it. And then he thinks about the name Mark. And he thinks of what a stupid-sounding name it is. If he has anything, he has Miles. That's his name. ]

Ah, right. No choice in the matter whatsoever. What a shame. I quite enjoyed making my own life for myself once I was free.

You are missing out.

[ He licks his lips. ]

How - How did you get free, anyway?

[ That's a topic that's less fraught.

Maybe. God, maybe. ]

[ Hmm. Bothari was surely on this man's radar if he's been paying attention, right? But Miles had leaned on him on the network already ... best hope this guy doesn't go combing. For now, he makes it vague. ]

I had a guard who took quite kindly to me. Barrayaran. We ended up on an excursion to Beta Colony - medical, perhaps, though they never told me - and convinced my guard that we could flee. Found my mother's relatives. Hid out for a while, then later managed to commandeer a ship. Most of what little education I had was there.

[ Hah. What a load of crap. A guard taking kindly to him? Helping him escape? And people are supposed to believe that story? That doesn't happen. They're not set to guard you if they're going to think of you kindly. Guards are selected for their willingness to beat the shit out of you. Vorkosigan is either lazy in coming up with his stories or he just doesn't understand.

(The clone wants to close his eyes and just take a moment to daydream...A kind guardian. Beta Colony. A daring escape. The one time he'd had a night out - the one time - Galen had thought he'd been trying to escape, and then...No. You didn't attempt escape.) ]

And then you became an admiral?

Quite by accident. In order to pay for the ship, we had to take out a ridiculously dangerous mission - running weapons through a blockade in Tau Verde. We were taken captive, but managed to get the jump on them - convinced them that we were part of the Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet and that we would graciously permit them to join us. From there things snowballed rapidly. We took other ships - took over a space station - broke up the entire blockade. And at the end of it, I was the Admiral of the formerly Oseran Free Mercenaries.

[ He looks over at Mark, seeing the doubt in his face from his initial story. ]

I'm told I'm uniquely gifted at persuading people. A silver tongue, one that has been threatened to be cut out of my mouth on multiple occasions.

That's a fortunate skill.

[ He nearly chokes on the compliment. Like it's that simple? Just be persuasive, and get free of your imprisonment? Get released from the clone-farm? Avoid the brain transplant? Avoid a life of conditioning and training to kill just on nothing but your silver tongue? No. Silver tongue, power, and wealth. Silver tongue and a bodyguard sent with you to choke the life from your enemies. No one gets anywhere just by the power of persuasion. Not outside of fairy-tales.

He suddenly wants to hit his progenitor. Hard. Across the face. Break that jaw of his. ]

I guess I should be proud, shouldn't I?

[ Miles senses the tone of the conversation shift. Dammit, he was doing so well too. Is this conversation galling then? Miles considers his reversal of the Dendarii to be no less a brilliant escape than - well, what he's just made it out to be. Equally terrified, full of sacrifice. His voice lowers to a whisper. ]

I was lucky. And rash, and foolish - and lucky that my rashness carried me through the traps that foolishness set up for me.

My guard died halfway through, for one. A poor repayment.

[ So what? A guard died. It happens. That's what guards do as their jobs - they fight and then they die. Vorkosigan/Naismith talks about that like it's a major failure of the whole enterprise. Like the fact that a guard died is remotely equal to escaping from the Bharaputran clone-harvesters.

He can't let his temper get the best of him. He can't let himself get angry. But he just remembers his friend. His real brother, his foster-brother, and running up to see some other mind in that body. Some other person. You think that your clever words alone could have gotten you out of that? So what were his shortcomings, where did he fail, that ended with him dying? Where was he unequal to you? ]

Yeah. So, who else is it that lives in this house?

[ Clearly not for him. That ends this topic rather succinctly, he supposes. Unless he wants to object - would Naismith object? Does he care if Naismith would? He's not sure which persona is better suited to handling this. He seem to be sticking with Naismith out of instinct more than anything right now. ]

Just Greg and I. He's likely around here somewhere.

[ ... Just outside the door, in fact. Maybe this is a good time. He sends a little telepathic pulse along his link. ]

[What a hellacious mess this is. It's the sort of thing that only happens around Miles, and here's Gregor drawn in again, though his own shock, awe, and horror that Miles really has a clone has overtaken him in waves. By now he's managed to beat most of it back-- there's no doubting the real truth with his head silent of a new link, and he's checked and rechecked-- and is ready for his cue.

He'd been lurking outside, frozen in the way someone is watching a disaster happen, mind unwillingly racing along all the implications about that suggestion that it was a plot against Aral. Now he bestirs himself, braces himself, and goes in.

Where does he not have to fake stopping short. This is a hundred times worse than Hermann. He even holds himself like Miles.]

I heard talking-- Miles? Are you... is this another ability? [He looks, of course, unerringly to his Miles. Who really is his, he reminds himself. God.]

[ Why does he know that face? He does know it, he's certain. He flips over the files that he sat and read and memorized, mentally recalls all the photos that he stared at until his eyes ached. He mentally puts that face into military garb. Vorthys colors - what are Vorthys colors? That might help him remember. He has to recall this face. Miles would know that face. He'd recognize him. He...

It's the sly bit of silver. That's what triggers it. Black and silver. The clone's gaze snaps up from that cuff to the melancholy, wary face, the strong nose, the pensive air. Quiet voice. Has he ever heard him speak? He doesn't speak so much, does he - he just sits, always in the back of holovids, always simultaneously just an accessory and the focus of the whole affair...

Emperor Gregor.

The clone chokes, and at least this time he doesn't have to suppress that. Not one bit. Because Vorkosigan would do exactly the same - inhale a great mouthful of spit and cough and choke until his face goes pale and his eyes water. It takes a full ten seconds before he finally manages - ]

He called you - Vorthys -

[ God. If death won't stick to Vorkosigan, it won't stick to the Emperor, will it? And how will Galen react, knowing the clone was in a room with both his progenitor and the Emperor, the one on the throne and third in line to the throne, and did nothing? No assassination. Not even stunning them. He should stun them, tie them up, find some way to get back and hand-deliver both of them to the Komarrans, because wouldn't that be enough? If they had both of them in their hands, they could get freedom for Komarr using that sort of leverage, right? But instead, he just stares, his face going mottled as he tries to dislodge the spit from his throat. ]

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