Mark Pierre Vorkosigan / "Peter Kane" (
jacksonian) wrote in
barrayar2016-01-22 09:49 pm
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I am junking up this beautiful community with this junk
All the other starters are so beautiful but instead I'm coming in and ruining everything with this useless post with this sad sack
Comment to this post and I will write you something
Comment to this post and I will write you something
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[ 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?
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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.
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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?
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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. ]
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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.]
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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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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?
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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.]
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[ 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?
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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?
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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.
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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.]
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[ 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... ]
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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. ]
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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.]
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[ Kill him, whispers some voice from deep inside him. Kill him. Kill him...
The clone sinks into the deep armchair, and pushes himself back as far as he can go - so that it'll be difficult if he wants to get up. Far enough that the edge of the cushion ends up hitting below his knees and his feet stick out. So that to get up he'll have to scoot forward about three hops, and by that time any bad choices he will have made will have time to get rethought. It won't benefit him - not at all - to wring the Emperor's neck. So best to give a chance to...push down any whispers.
He lowers his voice conspiratorially. Like Vorkosigan would. An eagerness - cut me in on this one. ]
You're keeping a cover. That's smart. It certainly makes me feel a lot better.
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Except for that body language. As far from him as possible, instead of eager, conspiratorial, on the edge of his seat. Gregor wonders how scared he is, if he's scared at all. He has no clue of his background, but surely he must be at least a little panicked to be caught unprepared like this, in a different century on a different planet with those most able to see through him. Gregor is still wary of him, but sympathetic nonetheless.
He lets the words rest in the air for a moment, dark and somber. He pushes past them without acknowledging it, saying what he needs to say instead. Gregor finds he has no more patience to pretend; too many sour memories with it.]
One of the abilities I was given on arrival was a telepathic link with those who are sworn to me, [he says plainly, in a low tone to match his, furtive.] Which includes all of Barrayar. So I know that you are not Miles Vorkosigan. Just as I know that Naismith isn't, either.
[A beat before, with utmost seriousness, gaze steady and holding his:]
I would like to offer you a chance to be someone else.
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When you're this height, too, the angle is even good. Makes it easier.
But he can't. So - then - Is he telling the truth? Almost certainly not, the clone decides. It's a bluff to try to push him into a corner. To try to cow him into blowing his cover. Right? It has to be. A telepathic link...That's - really ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. Right?
Don't believe him. You can't believe him. His lips pull up in an incredulous smile. His tones are familiar. Just-us-Vor. ]
Yeah, sure. That'd be a smart bluff - knowing the powers people get here, that sounds plausible, even. Did you get Naismith to confess he wasn't really me by saying that?
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Gregor watches him for a few long seconds in open evaluation, and then keeps talking as if he'd said nothing, laying out his proposal. His voice is even, calm; his posture remains upright and unguarded, no trace of wariness, though inside he certainly is feeling it.]
We have no precedence on Barrayar for what to do with a clone of one of our own, legally speaking. Conveniently, as Emperor I can do whatever I wish. From my perspective, it's up to you: you can continue as yourself in whatever capacity you have been, or you can abandon the name Miles and become a separate Barrayaran subject, whether a Vorkosigan or not, as you liked.
Of course, to do so, you would have to swear to serve Us, in all sincerity; and swear too that you would not attack anyone else sworn to Us. In return We would accord you all the protections and privileges of any of Our other liege-sworn, as an equal to them. And you would feel that telepathic link for yourself, to gauge Our honesty in that.
[He doesn't try to sell him on anything-- he imagines that like Gregor, he must have had enough of being manipulated-- he just offers it out to him, to take or to reject.]
If you refuse, I will continue pretending to Admiral Naismith and all the world on your behalf. I will not box you in. But-- [His gaze turns to steel.] This is a one time offer. Please think on it before responding.
[Gregor is not going to be taken advantage of again, oh no. These oaths in sincerity would not be breakable, after all; he wouldn't be able to attack any of them. But at the same time, Gregor will not give up on mercy, either, and means every inch of this offer.]
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(It's strange, how much it exhausts him to just look like Vorkosigan.)
His voice is quiet when he responds. Low. Toneless. ]
I get to swear obedience, and in return my reward is that you get a look into my head. Sounds like a great deal.
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Gregor finds his reserve dropping halfway himself-- impossible not to, with a look like that on Miles's face, and however steeled he is against being manipulated himself he is not and can never be heartless. He can tell this is a wounded person, can only imagine what his life has been like on Jackson's Whole, for that must be where he's from. And none of that has to do with Miles. He aches to try to give him a life undefined by that, some wish fulfillment for himself, perhaps.
His voice softens, truly gentle.] You would swear obedience as much as I would swear protection. And you would get a look in mine, too. The link is truly neutral; there is no hierarchy to it. You can seal yourself off whenever you wish, once you learn how, and I couldn't force my way in.
But I really will be as vulnerable to you that way as you are to me. We both have to give all, or get nothing.
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Why would I believe you? Why would I trust you? Barrayarans aren't exactly known for keeping their promises.
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That reaction is so impossible to miss, and sweeps through Gregor in an echo, all compassion and sadness for him. Pushing him to take his own risk, as he's asking the man before him to take no less.]
I have no good answer for you, [he says quietly, spreading a hand open palm-up and showing it to him.] Except that it grieves me to imagine you abandoned, when I have owed you so much. Just by existing you are owed this from me, from Barrayar.
I cannot erase whatever has happened to you until this point. All I can do is offer you a new way forward. From the first second I saw you, I could not think of you as Miles. [And that is nothing on his acting ability.]
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