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

[Barrayar rarely tolerated the media circuses, the dazzling shows and immortalized moments that the rest of the civilized universe seemed to invite. Images of the Butcher were official photos, or those moments where the lion stormed out of his den. There were so few speeches to watch, but there were declarations, eloquent but hard, like folded steel.

There was nothing to show him at rest, or relaxed.

Never the less, the man in front of him had only a few sprinkles of grey in his hair, rather than most of it turned with time. The lines on his face were a fresher stress, held rigid...

But there was no mistaking him, his profile, or the sharp, unnerving eyes that focused on the clone... softening as he sees his son.]

Miles.

[The distraction had mercifully given the clone respite from the one thing that would have broken the whole charade: that moment of deadly intent was missed. Instead, Aral looked up and saw his son, a fist full of cereal at the kitchen table, looking very much caught.

With some private amusement, he simply raises an eyebrow in question. His boots echo clearly on the linoleum as he unhurriedly paced around the table to the counter behind. Reaching above the knife block to the cabinet, he simply fetches one bowl.

And sets it in front of 'Miles.']

Edited 2016-01-23 16:26 (UTC)

[ The clone swallows. The bite is dry and scratches his throat on the way down. He'd thought...No. He'd hoped the man was going for that knife block. Reaching for a weapon to fight him with, so that it could be a match between the two of them. Not because...Not because he has a deep desire to kill the man, just because...Because then he'd know what to do. He wouldn't have to take his own initiative. He'd just get to do what's clearly necessary to deal with the Vorkosigans. Follow their lead. As usual.

But a bowl. He thinks I'm his son. Of course he thinks I'm his son. What else would he think?

He looks too young...He looks wrong.

He got a bowl for me. The Butcher of Komarr. Doing something like that. Why? That was...nice. Well, it's obvious why, because I'm his son, but...

The clone swallows again. It somehow hurts just as much. ]

Uhm - thanks.

[ Hesitantly, he comes over and pours the cereal into the bowl. And he tries not to stare up into the face of his progenitor's father like it's some bizarre mystery. Small talk, small talk... ]

Did you have a good day?

Edited 2016-01-23 17:22 (UTC)

[There's a faint, passing frown at the cagey expression on his son's face. There's some temptation to ease down the shields between them, catch some hint of what is going on...

But, besides an agreement, he could probably guess. This hadn't been exactly smooth for either of them.

He answers that with a light sigh, pulling a chair from the table and reversing it before taking his seat there. Aral rubs at the back of his neck with a large hand, considering the question.]

These two days have offered a world of education. I can't quite place where good resides, yet.

[No, that was a lie. He gives a longer, evaluating stare at Miles' shoulder.]

Fairing better, I take it?

[ Faring better? From what? He's staring directly at his shoulder, so he clearly has something in mind. An injury, probably. Naismith's bones had proven to be as fragile as Miles Vorkosigan's...

No. Naismith's bones were Vorkosigan's bones. They're one and the same. He can't start believing that lie.

So the clone prods the shoulder gently, tenderly, like he's examining an old injury to see if it still hurts. And he gives a convincing little wince. The lie helps: it gives him something to talk about where he knows what Vorkosigan would say. So much of the data they had was from doctors, and so much of it was about his progenitor's bad health. ]

Yeah, it's getting better.

[ And then he looks up and meets the man's eyes. They look so normal. He'd somehow expected to see some spark of cruelty and madness shining through - red glints in their depths, hints of depravity shining through. There's nothing of the sort. Is it true, dear Father, that you like to see your enemies dismembered? Is it true that you and Mother watch it together to get the blood flowing? ]

It's pretty different here, isn't it?

[Aral looks satisfied at that, impressed even. Less than two days for a break like that. For as much as some parts of the world seemed to fantastic to have any basis in reality, there were advantages.]

In every way possible, I've come to think.

[A troubled expression passes across his face, and he lays out the accumulated paper and notes from the day instead.]

Though if we could bottle up and take any of it back, the healing magic would be first on my list.

Magic. Yeah.

[ Magic? Healing magic? Did he just hear Aral Vorkosigan talking about magic and his love of magic? It's - there's...something...wrong with that. Isn't there? Is he insane after all? The clone lowers his face to his cereal to avoid meeting the man's eyes, suddenly reluctant to face any madness there. ]

So what did they have you doing today?

[The downward glance means the clone misses narrow, speculative glance. Miles himself had helped arrange for the healer, something that had mended that mess of bones couldn't be called anything but. Even in their time.]

Hm.

[He lets it go.]

Very little. Orientation went quickly enough.

[There's a note of amusement in his voice.] You never did say what they had you working with.

Oh, um -

[ Shit. What? What should he say? God, what's he doing...Aral Vorkosigan wasn't surprised to see his son. He knows Miles is here. And whether The Other Miles is Naismith pretending to be Vorkosigan or really Vorkosigan, Aral will believe that one over him, because that one is...smoother. Better. Better. The lies he's telling right now will get compounded later on. What if he just killed him? He could kill him. That would make things so much easier. Murder would be so much simpler than this small talk... ]

Money.

[ He blurts that out. Why? Why does he settle on that... ]

I'm working on investments.

Investments. Must have gotten that one from your mother.

[He puts his chin in his palm, elbow on the back of the chair. Aral's sharp eyes search his son's face. It seemed strange to be back to this, and nothing he particularly wanted to foster.]

Relax. This isn't the interrogation.

[They already did that.]

[ From his mother? Does that...make sense? Does Cordelia Naismith know business? The clone knows nearly everything about Aral Vorkosigan, his habits and his preferences and his psych profile and everything, but...Cordelia is a mystery. But if there's that offer of why it would be the case...

I'll take it. ]

Yeah. Sorry.

[ And another excuse that Aral is providing for him. The clone remembers Galen's descriptions - that Aral dotes on his son. That it'll blind him until it's too late. It looks like that's...very true. So, a little braver, he lies: ]

They want analysis of the prospects of biotech firms. Firms in the biotech industry. Which ones are likely to turn a profit.

[ "And I recommended that they invest in cloning. That's a real growth industry." ]

[Perhaps it stands to reason. The Butcher of Komarr was well known for targeting economic factors as surely as he did troops and politics, but there was that incomprehensible returning all of the wealth he'd accrued as Lord Regent...]

Hm. That might be useful position in this world.

[He gives him some shrewd regard.]

That is the blood and bones of a country like this one.

[ The clones meets his eyes. And he finds himself saying: ]

Money, you mean.

[ Somehow, this is suddenly a little less scary. Money. He knows money. And it's not talking about how-are-you. And it's...not talking as Miles, either. These are his own thoughts, but they sound enough like what Miles would say that they're safe. ]

That's the impression I've gotten, too. Profit is linked to success here - though not as brutally as in Jackson's Whole. Since you're also expected to give back.

[There's a slight curl of his lip at the practices of Jackson's Whole.]

Fortunately, not that far gone, agreed. Though it seems to have been enough of an ideological shift for this country's enemies to define themselves as such. From the propaganda one might think this country holds all possible advantages.

[The look is curious, sharp, challenging, the same studying test as he often gave his son growing up. There's a prompt here, an expectation.]

[ What does that look mean? He expects something. Looks of expectation...unnerve him. But nevertheless, the clone, hesitantly, ventures: ]

It seems like that's a necessary part of their self-image. And a method of control, too. On Jackson's Whole, they say that if you're smart enough and ruthless enough you'll succeed - but here, they say that if you work hard enough, you'll succeed. That means if you're not successful, you're not working hard enough. You're lazy. It probably suppresses class conflict.

[The Butcher's expression folds, closing a little. Still, he tilts his head in acknowledgement.]

To some degrees, as long as the economy prospers in general, there's not as much of an issue as it would seem to beg.

Hm. Still, I imagine you've had some dealings with the Jacksonians, at this point.

[Studies aside, with the Fleet, it would be almost inconceivable not to.]

[ Was that the wrong thing to say? Count Vorkosigan looks...unreadable. But he's not leaping at the clone, roaring his rage, either... ]

I've had some, of course, yeah. [ Does Aral know about Naismith? Yeah, of course he does. ] I can't say I've enjoyed them much. [ Which is a true answer for both the clone and for the man he's pretending, inexplicably, to be. ]

I am junking up this beautiful community with this junk

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