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

[ 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.]

Oh, it's all right.

[ 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.

[Goodness, that's the most he's sounded like Miles yet. It's very eerie. And disorienting. If Gregor closed his eyes and reopened them, he could reset his whole perspective, almost. Except...

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.

[ Kill him. It would make it so much easier, wouldn't it? No worrying about what to say next. How to maintain his cover. Target number three, the third person on the list that he's supposed to eliminate, right in front of him. Three scoots forward, a hop down to the ground, a resolute step forward, left hand on his collar, the heel of his right slamming into the arch of that nose. He knows how to do it where it'll kill the Emperor instantly. No time even to cry out to Miles...to Miles-whoever.

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?

[That is also very Miles, to refuse to back down from the lies right in the clinch of it, when they are most important to hold onto. Just as he had earlier when faced with his clone-brother.

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.]

[ The smile is gone by the end of all of that. The Vorkosigan energy, the constant brightness and liveliness that he has to keep up in order to pretend to be the man, the animation that strains every muscle of his face, fades out. The face that's left behind is...not Miles'. It's very far from Miles'. When the clone stops pretending, it really is easy to tell the difference between him and Miles Vorkosigan: his natural expression is hard, guarded. His eyes are mistrustful, the line of his mouth tight with defensiveness. His fists clench. He watches, unblinking. He's been convinced, at least, that the Emperor won't be convinced. And with the facade down, he looks like a very different person. Angry. Not scared, though. Better to look like anything else before he looks scared.

(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.

[He should find this satisfying, or a relief, to have broken through at last and dispensed with the pretense. Certainly it's what he's after. But instead it is... painful. Excruciatingly painful.

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.

[ It's ridiculous. He's lying, and he doesn't have any psychic powers - probably just some power to enforce his will upon those stupid enough to swear an oath to him. Or he's telling the truth, and he'll use that to rip all knowledge of the plot from his head and then raze all personality there. Leave him brain-dead. Like a clone at harvesting time. The image pushes a shudder through him - a sudden ripple of fear and revulsion that rattles him physically. He looks down and away, then, ashamed of that sign of terror. ]

Why would I believe you? Why would I trust you? Barrayarans aren't exactly known for keeping their promises.

[He could say what his other power is, but that runs into the same problem, and reveals Gregor's trap that he'd laid for him besides. (A trap for his benefit, honestly, but he's not sure he'll see it that way without feeling the sincerity of it in his mind.) In any case it doesn't solve the problem. It addresses the symptom and not the root.

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.]

So I have to study more.

[ But there's a weird wash of...something. Of intense pleasure. Galen sees Vorkosigan when he looks at him. The clone knows that from the anger that flashes through him sometimes, the boil of his temper...The guards see him like that, too. The shade of Vorkosigan. Miles...Miles saw him as a puzzle, a challenge. But that statement - I could not think of you as Miles. It's a terrifying statement, because it means that he's failing in his act, and that means more conditioning. But it also means that there's someone who doesn't just see him as the man he hates so much.

God, why's he admitting this...Admitting the plot to the Emperor. At that point, the plot is destroyed. Unless he kills him. Kills the Emperor. That'll solve all of it, admitting it...

Or maybe Galen can go hang. Maybe I just...don't. The moment I'm away from him, I just don't. It's a thrilling, terrifying thought, one that sends a memory of pain lancing through him, but lights excitement in him, too. But there's that comment -

It grieves me to imagine you abandoned. ]

I'm not Barrayaran. I'm not one of your subjects. I'm Jacksonian. That means you don't owe me anything.

[Study more. That whole statement gives Gregor the shivers internally. He'll pull that out later and be properly horrified, that all of his terrible imaginings are probably right.

But for right now he remains on task, leaning forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, hands loosely twined together.]

So far I don't think anyone has asked your opinion on whether you'd like to be Jacksonian or Barrayaran, [he says quite simply.] If you accept, you would be. And I would owe you quite a bit indeed. Wouldn't I.

[Because oh, Gregor's mind can go some dark places and if even a crumb of that is true, he would not be able to sleep if he did not at least attempt this offer.]

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