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

[ 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. ]

[ Whoops. That might have been a miscalculation - he'd sort of been hoping that Gregor looked different enough in person compared to holovids. Foolish to think that; a clone aiming to replace him must needs be able to recognize the Emperor on sight.

He ... shouldn't be amused by this. Gregor gets a trickle of it anyway, despite his fully blank and oblivious expression. Pretend h doesn't know. See where it takes him. ]

Yes? Greg Vorthys. What's the issue, exactly?

[Miles gets a short, cool look at that spike of amusement-- it's not funny, this is your mess and you're dragging me along with it and now I have to act again, I hate being Emperor at people who do not see me behind the mask-- but it's brief, and Gregor redirects his full attention onto the clone.

He manages to look completely composed and undaunted, even injecting a bit of pleading into his eyes, as if he really thinks this is Miles who's about to break his lies to Miles's clone. What an ironic thought that is. But he can't find it in him to think of him as Vorkosigan as Miles has been doing, no matter how technically true that is, because to Gregor the Vorkosigans are a very particular subset of people and this one has not proven himself worthy of their number just yet.]

I resemble a relative of mine rather closely, but I'm not him. This is damn confusing already. You are Miles, aren't you? That is, my Lord Regent's son?

[Because he's already picked up on some of the hiccups in the clone's lies and Gregor isn't about to try to bust him on the details. Making him sweat would be unbelievably cruel.]

Of course I am. Miles Vorkosigan. This is - sir.

[ How the hell is the Emperor here? How the hell - The clone's nervous eyes dart over to his twin. Naismith? Naismith...Because if that were truly Vorkosigan, he'd suspect the clone. And suspicion would prevent him from letting the Emperor into the same room as an assassin. What if he really is telling the truth?

But he matters less right now. What matters more is the man in front of him. The Emperor of Barrayar...The third man he was supposed to kill. How is this possible...

Vorkosigan wouldn't blow his cover. Right? Not in front of a clone...He wouldn't collude, at least. Wouldn't speak directly... He grins a grin that's supposed to be Vorkosiganesque at the man. It feels sickly instead. ]

Well. It looks like we're all wrapped up in situations where we resemble our relatives rather closely, doesn't it?

Edited 2016-01-23 23:34 (UTC)

[ Miles' amusement dies away, replaced by an apology. It is an awful tangle, all told, and ultimately all Miles' fault. For the cover to begin with, for maintaining even after his own damn clone turned up ...

As for letting this clone get anywhere near Gregor, well. He's counting on that warning about the resurrections to be enough for that. And the telepathic link to cover all else. Mostly Miles feels himself making one of those unerring snap character decisions of his. He pulses confidence over to Gregor. He's going to be fine.

Meanwhile, Naismith on the outside is looking between the two of them with growing confusion. (The compartmentalization may, in itself, be the more concerning thing; the walls between Vorkosigan and Naismith are getting awfully thick.) ]

Ah, yes. I should interject - apparently he didn't commission me the way we'd thought. No reason to hurt me the way I'd thought. More like finding a long lost brother, right?

[As long as Gregor is privy to both halves, he is not going to be the one to insist Miles dismantle that wall. Who's he to tell someone else how to cope with their life? Or in this case, lives.

Although now he has to think of what Greg Vorthys would know of Miles Vorkosigan himself and whether they'd ever even met... Ugh. He shoots a quick thought over to Miles, lightning-fast, even as he answers: How much do you want me to have known you? Put the squeeze on him or make it easy? Gregor's inclined to the latter by character but that's why he's not a tactician.]

Long lost brother, [he repeats slowly, eyes migrating between the two.] That would be the Betan way of things, wouldn't it? Well. It's certainly better than finding a villain. I didn't want to cast aspersions on your evaluation, but it was a surprise to me to hear, given what I know of Lord Vorkosigan.

[ What I know of Lord...? The clone's eyes dart between the two men. A hand swipes over his mouth. This is the Emperor. He's sure of it. Isn't the Emperor intensely loyal to Vorkosigan? To the Butcher of Komarr? Why would he be saying those things...? ]

What...do you know about - [ Him. ] Me?

[ He tries to double down on that smile, make it ironic and inviting. Ah hah, he tries to communicate, you are clearly party to deceiving this clone. We are brothers in Barrayaran brutality and oppression. ]

[ Easy, absolutely, comes Miles' reply instantly. He knows something of our relationship - I believe his intention was to replace me entirely. Breezy mental commentary, that, not lingering on the fact that his clone probably wanted to kill him.

Naismith folds his arms over his chest, eyebrow quirking upwards. ]

Should I get some coffee started? Tea? You two look as though you need a moment.

[ He settles on a faintly annoyed expression, something like jealousy. Ah, the good ol' Vor club in action. Something like that. ]

[Replace him entirely? That makes Gregor's hackles go up and he has to remind himself that he agrees with Miles that mercy is always the better way. There's no way to replace you, he thinks over at Miles fiercely for a moment, before managing to shut that down and center himself.

Acting. Right. Gregor is half-tempted to toss the whole thing out the window and tell him he knows he's lying-- actually, wait, why doesn't he do that? No reason he can't believe Naismith is a clone and this one. He just doesn't think he can sustain this level of twistiness for no good reason that he can see. He's not like Miles; he doesn't like to play games. He already feels like his skin is going to crawl at the thought of pretending to the closeness he has with Miles with someone he's never even met before, someone who probably wants to kill him.

No. No. But no telling Miles in advance, either. This is something Gregor will take care of himself, without interference. He uses the excuse of needing to be able to focus to narrow their link down to a trickle, a note of sincere apology at that passing through, even so, and looks straight at the clone, eyes dark and intent.]

Yes, we do. You know we'd have my circumstances to discuss. [As a supposed deserter.] But don't let us put you out, ah, Admiral. We'll go into the living room.

[With all the bland implacability of an unstated order, directed at the clone.]

Yeah, sure.

[ Would Vorkosigan sound breezy? Or would he sound like he's about to vomit? Hopefully the vomiting. Since that's how the clone feels right now. Maybe he can take a detour into the bathroom and just go and be sick for ten minutes. Why did he have to bolt all that food as soon as he saw it...

He pushes off from the counter. And he says to Naismith: ]

Tea would be good.

[ And then he sort of shuffles his way into the living room. Oh, God... ]

[ What on earth is Gregor doing? He manages to refrain from giving his Emperor a sharp look - but he flutters worriedly at his end of the link, not liking the feeling of it narrowing. Dammit. If anything happens, he's going to be right here.

On the outside, though, Naismith just nods. ]

Tea it is then. I'll go get it ready.

[ And with one last glance at the two of them, he heads to the kitchen to prep tea. Nervously. ]

[Nice to make him nervous for once instead of the other way around, Gregor thinks uncharitably, though not meanly. But Miles didn't swear to a figurehead and Gregor is going to make damn sure of that.

He nods back, an acknowledgement of him as de facto guard in the other room, but doesn't care personally about putting himself in harm's way save for that it would devastate Miles to get injured on his watch. But that cannot and is not Gregor's primary concern here.

If this is truly Miles's younger brother Mark, by whatever way he was made he is one of Gregor's subjects should he choose to take up that mantle. That choice must be offered to him, independent of Miles. So he leads Miles's brother, however he chooses to identify himself, into the living room with perfect carriage and the Imperial reserve descending down on him further with each step.

By the time he's seated himself on the couch (that infernal couch), the nod he dispenses this time to the opposite chair is a tiny inclination of permission.]

Please sit. I'm sure you must be very confused, and I'd like to clear things up for you.

[He cannot bring himself to call him Miles. It is distasteful in the extreme.]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject