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

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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

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Yes this is beautiful? ?

[ This has been a wild month. First showing up here, then Russia, then ... adjusting back from Russia, and everything else --

For now, though, things are quiet. He's even managed to overcome his reluctance to be anywhere away from Gregor to do a little grocery shopping for the two of them and the house in general. Still the two of them - though, had there been a message about someone else being dropped into their lodgings? He's not sure. If Gregor hasn't sent him an alarmed message about another Barrayaran turning up, then he's fine with not worrying just yet.

The key turns in the lock as he awkwardly pushes the door back open. Juggling the paper bag and trying not to drop the eggs ... ]

[ Things the clone has discovered in the house they brought him to:

He has a bedroom of his own, and the door locks from the inside. He stands there, and tries it, fiddling with it until he's sure that yes it really doesn't open from the outside if you don't want it to. The bed is comfortable and big enough for two. More. If necessary. The bathroom also locks.

The view to the outside is cold and bleak. He sort of likes it.

There are mirrors everywhere. He might need a shave soon.

There are no locks on the cabinets in the kitchen. And there's food in there.

The last discovery is the one that occupies his time the most. He has an entire block of cheese in his hand - yellowish, waxy, supposedly cheddar, who knows, and he's devouring it in great bites. Not even cutting it, not bothering with crackers, nothing, just breaking off chunks of it with his front teeth and mashing it desperately with his molars. He swallows gratefully - and then the door rattles. He freezes in mingled terror and uncertainty, then lays down the cheese and adopts a casual, thoughtful pose that half-hides his right arm - which he rests on the stunner on his belt. And he rehearses in his head, Barrayaran accent: Yes, I'm Lord Miles Vorkosigan. I'll be living with you. Yes, strange situation, isn't it... ]

[ Miles, meanwhile, has his thoughts entirely full of eggs and stir fry and not at all on possible interlopers. He mutters a bit under his breath as he drags the fragile bag to the kitchen -

And then drops it, all his careful effort gone to waste as the eggs crunch horribly against the floor. It's like looking into a mirror. Different, even from meeting Hermann - because they're the same height, with the same twisted spine, and nearly the same mannerisms, if Miles were in his Vorkosigan mode. Which he is not, in particular, having defaulted to Naismith for so long in the wake of Russia -

What the hell is going on? Alarm out to Gregor first as he stares at his - his clone, surely, except weren't his defects teratogenic? Then how - why - ]

My god. [ He breathes out the words, flat Betan accent snapping precisely into place. ] Who the hell are you?

Capture. Don't kill.

You can do this, Miles, had been Ser Galen's last words to him before he'd gone silent. He'd looked so excited. You didn't often see Ser Galen looking happy, and even when he was happy it was often very hard to tell. He didn't smile, really. He went wider around the eyes, and his face got more energetic. Focused, really. And during those last words, he'd looked focused, energetic. The sort of face the clone saw on good days. Hopefully, if all of this worked, he would make a long series of good days for Ser Galen.

Or maybe he'd fail so spectacularly that the whole thing came crashing down and Galen burned with it. Hah.

The clone learned how to ride. Of course he did. Part of the training. The old playmate gets access, too, unusual access. There were some adventures that happened between these two, the Emperor and Lord Vorkosigan. Nothing spoken of, but there were oblique references. A level of trust. Maybe. Something of the sort. And so when the clone pushes for a ride out in the country, get away from the court, just spend some time talking perhaps about something that might interest the Emperor (and the Emperor seems to think that it's perhaps something involving a love life which twists in the clone's guts in a way he can't identify), there is assent. Arrangements are made. Guards are sent out with them, of course, but guards will be taken care of.

Ten miles outside the city, a rendezvous will happen. The clone leads them in that direction. And he looks over at the Emperor and says, with just the right blend of respect and familiarity, "It's good to come back to this. I've started missing it when I'm away."

He'd thrown up his breakfast this morning in terror. He's already hungry again.

[ This...isn't...

Of course it's possible. Why didn't you expect it? How stupid of you. Of course he's going to be everywhere, even here. This isn't an escape from him. It's not an escape from Galen. Of course he's here. But the question becomes: what does he do? What does he do now? Vorkosigan is face-to-face with him now, and everything is gone to shit, secrecy is gone to shit, what does he do -

He yanks the stunner from his pocket, and he aims and squeezes off a shot as fast as he can. Even as he's pulling the trigger, he thinks: Maybe this isn't a good choice. Maybe he could have spun some story. Too late. ]

[ Too late, is all Miles gets out before that stunner is firing, goddamnit, and it's a choice between unconsciousness and a broken bone. He chooses the latter - the blast crackling past his head as he launches himself bodily to the floor, feeling a bone crack under his weight. No time for that now. Instincts kick in immediately, and he's skirting around the breakfast bar to put a valuable wall between him and his duplicate. Not a permanent solution. Seconds, at best, to think.

Think then. What the hell should he do? What would Naismith do? That - that must be the solution. Naismith has fewer enemies, after all. Er. Well, so far.

He puts up a hand in surrender, the only part of him sticking out from behind the bar. His accent is even flatter, as Betan as he can possibly make the damn thing without becoming a caricature. ]

Hold on. You've made some grievous error, surely. Unless you are out for Admiral Naismith's blood?

[ He nearly holds his breath after, praying for the wild lie to hold. ]

Edited (ssssss) 2016-01-23 04:01 (UTC)

[ Admiral...

It's not a name he's heard. But this is him, him, him with a wrong accent, him with the wrong mannerisms. He knows the face. He's seen the face every single day of his life in the mirror, the gray eyes that weren't his, the mouth that wasn't his, the lines of stress and pain that he'd thought maybe belonged to him for a long time until he'd studied a holovid and seen that Vorkosigan had them too. This is the originator of the face he wears over his own. Miles. The first one to hold onto his name.

But...But if he does stun this man, if he ties him up in his bedroom, then what comes after? He waits for Ser Galen to show up? Hah. Hah-hah-hah. He murders him? Walks this new world mouthing the words, I'm Miles Vorkosigan. Uses that accent. All the time. If he lets himself believe it...

When he speaks, it's a Barrayaran accent. Why not. Vorkosigan's patter. ]

If I were out for blood, I wouldn't just be using a stunner, would I? Who are you?

[ The stunner doesn't get put away. But he doesn't blast the man's hand, either. He slowly, slowly circles around the bar. ]

[ Miles' eyes widen at the accent. it's beyond bizarre, well into downright unsettling to hear a Barrayaran accent coming out of his mouth and yet not actually be his. He has a brief, wild image of there being an actual Lord Vorkosigan out there like his crazy cover story, from some alternate universe perhaps.

Is that possible? Should he consider it? He doesn't know which way to turn. So rather than trying to orient himself, he decides to move forward, in whatever direction that ends up being. What would Admiral Naismith think? He'd be concerned that this really was Lord Vorkosigan out to get him. With a stunner, to disable the body he'd come to claim. Yes. Naismith would be wary - terrified - but looking for a way to talk his way out of it. ]

I'd argue precisely the opposite. But - I've been rude.

[ He doesn't have to fake the small shiver of fear that goes through him. He manages a bow anyway, wincing as it jostles his freshly re-broken arm. ]

Admiral Miles Naismith, of the Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet. [ A pause. ] If you've come to claim me, I'm sorry to say that your property is badly damaged.

[ Miles Naismith. As in Cordelia Naismith. Birth name, mother's surname. Betan accent. Mercenary fleet named after the mountains in Vorkosigan's home district. Fragile bones, already broken at the first bump against the floor. No. Of course not. It's him; the clone is quite sure of that. He can't even talk himself into thinking otherwise. It's Vorkosigan, all the little signs of his egotism and need to prove himself, the seething desire for recognition that the clone had been instructed in as he'd learned to take on the personality of his progenitor - those breadcrumbs, those signal flares screaming here I am! Look, it's me, I did this! He's made himself an Admiral, is it? Of a mercenary fleet?

For just a moment, the clone wants to close his eyes and imagine himself in different circumstances. Don't become Vorkosigan. Kill him and become - what was it? Naismith. Stand at the helm of a warship. Burn Komarr from orbit, burn Galen from orbit...Or hand over an entire fleet to Galen to help with the restoration of Komarr to avoid some bit of misery. Or just run far away.

He doesn't know why none of that feels good to think about.

Focus. He knows it's Vorkosigan. But let Vorkosigan think he doesn't know. He's confused; that much is clear. The clone has the advantage right now. With which he can do...what? ]

Really. Miles. Your name is Miles? Naismith? Of the Dendarii? [ He shakes his head, then says: ] Miles Vorkosigan.

[ Not lord. Miles Vorkosigan has the common touch. He wouldn't lead with Lord. Slowly he lowers the stunner. ]

Something strange is going on here.

[ Fuck. This isn't working. In hindsight, he really wishes he'd chosen slightly less obvious cues - but he'd been running on the fumes of his own brilliance, spinning up anything that came to mind. He hadn't imagined it lasting this long, or having to be shoulders deep in it on a foreign world.

Right. Only way out of his is through. He takes one last desperate stab at the cover, trying to get this to stick dammit. His jaw clenches, eyes blazing with what he hopes is indignation. ]

Admiral Naismith. Do not - [ He looks the clone up and down for a moment. ] - use our progenitor's name here.

[ Because that's what this man is, right? A clone? Who else could he be? Obviously not Lord Vorkosigan. ]

I'm introducing myself -

[ He accompanies that with a very Vorkosigan shrug. But as he does, his thoughts turn over furiously. But that - our progenitor? Our? He's the only clone. He knows he's the only clone. How often did Ser Galen make it clear that he was the only one, that if he failed then everything would fall apart, so he needed to work harder and get farther...

Not like Galen wouldn't lie to him.

But that broken arm. Those bones. Fragile. Brittle. Why? If not because he's Vorkosigan? Mark's bones are solid. Another clone's would be, too... ]

I'm Miles Vorkosigan. [ And he looks Naismith over - half the deliberately goggle-eyed expression of a man being confronted with his own clone, and half his own personal goggle-eyed expression. ] Our progenitor...What's that supposed to mean? Are you saying you're my clone?

[ He misinterpreted. He has never been so grateful to have misinterpreted in his whole life. Okay, good, work with that. He carefully keeps the relief off his face, instead slowly ratcheting up the horror. Miles Naismith, the clone, would be horrified if he were faced with the real Vorkosigan. He decides on the spot that his own "Lord Vorkosigan" was a bogeyman and that Naismith had never actually met the man.

He looks "Vorkosigan" up and down very intensely, curious for his own reasons. For starters, why isn't his clone tall? Healthy? This man looks just like him in height as well as everything else. He hadn't known that was possible, given how very many genetic tests he's had to prove that his genes are clean. Something else then. Something ... hideous to contemplate.

He lets that muted horror fuel his features as he takes a step back. And then another. His expression still fierce, though, as if defying this Vor lord to come after him. ]

You are - how do you not know? If you are Lord Vorkosigan, didn't you commission me?

Edited (LAST EDIT I SWEAR) 2016-01-23 12:57 (UTC)

[ Commissioned? Another clone? What, like Vorkosigan was some Jacksonian Baron, growing a healthy body to take over later? Though...Actually, now that he's thinking about it, that doesn't sound all that implausible, does it? The son of the Butcher of Komarr was supposed to be tall and strong and healthy. A good powerful heir. Is it that hard to imagine the Butcher commissioning a new body for his son, the way he was supposed to be? Or would Vorkosigan himself have done it...? No, the clone decides. Not in his psych profile. Miles Vorkosigan had a ferocious white-knight syndrome - an intense need to prove himself. Presumably in order to compensate for his hideous form, since in Barrayaran culture the appearance of mutation had always been associated with moral degradation. Compensating.

Though then again, maybe that was just the appearance Vorkosigan presented to the outside world. The clone had certainly heard about the Vorkosigans' ability to present a respectable face while stabbing someone in the back. Maybe Miles was like his father the Butcher.

But this man...He looks afraid. Like the clone is going to eat him. But of course he does. Vorkosigan's a good actor, right? Charming, charismatic, just like the clone had to learn to be...Tried to learn to be. But it's not a bad imitation of the expressions that the Bharaputra clones had worn, when they'd whispered to one another about what they thought lay in store for them...Though they'd never looked so defiant. And God, why would Vorkosigan ever commissioned a clone with all those defects?

The clone puts his stunner away fully now. (Doesn't need it. If the bones are as fragile as they seem, breaking his neck will be easy. And no use letting that thought make him feel sick.) And he hitches his elbow up against the counter behind him, and laces his fingers together - an intensely Vorkosiganesque gesture. A careless attitude of power and confidence. ]

Okay. It sounds to me like one - or both - of us has been lied to by someone. No, I didn't commission you. Who am I supposed to have commissioned you from? And why?

[ The gesture makes Miles ill to watch. It's his all right, or so damned close to it that he could doubt himself for the faint differences he sees. Not only is there a clone - alternate? he hasn't ruled that out yet - but clearly they've studied him. Were prepared to take his name from him immediately, even in this place where there could surely be little reason to do so. So an instinct, well-worn, much like his own Naismith persona.

A clone intended to take his place, then. For - god knows what reason. Well. It's not as though he was using this name, right? And Gregor knows the truth. Gregor knowing the truth is the only solid thing in this whole dizzying merry-go-round. He mustn't get lost in his own lies, no matter how bewildering the man in front of him may be.

He lets his face go through a range of expressions - again, not hard, since discomfort and terror rise easily to the top of his mind - before settling on wary compliance. Feeling out this Lord Vorkosigan, his supposed progenitor. A demon feared for so long, and now turning up directly on his doorstep, in his house. ]

House Bharaputra. Life extension, except something went hideously wrong with the cloning process. I - I was never actually told you commissioned me but - well, the conclusion is obvious, isn't it? Why else?

[ No. Like hell. One of "Naismith's" legs is just a little shorter than the other. (How many times did the clone trip over that difference, when he'd come back from the surgery to adjust his own legs?) His back is hunched in a familiar way, a way that the clone recognizes from catching glimpses of himself in the mirror. Like hell. Unless what went wrong with the process was some sort of sympathetic quantum entanglement between the man in front of him and Vorkosigan himself, that twisted and reformed his every bone each time Vorkosigan hit some strange, inexplicable, medically-adjusted growth spurt, it's bullshit. Complete and total.

Besides - if something had gone wrong with the cloning process, they would have killed and incinerated him. Started anew. The clone for one idiotic moment starts drawing in breath to point that out, but - Miles Vorkosigan. Not the nameless clone with a too-intimate knowledge of Bharaputra's practices.

But what if...? The clone himself - he hadn't known his real purpose until the Komarrans had come for him, when he was fourteen. What if this man just is assuming? What if he doesn't know why he was made? What if Galen did have a back-up? What if this is him? It's...It's not impossible. An improved model, with all of Vorkosigan's fragilities... ]

I didn't. Bharaputra - that's a Jacksonian House, right? [ Knowledge, but not too much familiarity. An academic sort of awareness from his education.

The clone shakes his head - his expression a mixture of astonishment, dread, and pity. Just the right blend of the emotions you're supposed to feign when hearing a stranger's story when it's that horrible. The indifferent sympathy that any coddled compassionate fool might have felt towards his creche-mates. And then he speaks with the unquestioning authority of a young lord. ] Damn, this is complicated...Tell me everything they did tell you. We can get to the bottom of this.

Edited 2016-01-23 13:32 (UTC)

[ The trouble is, he doesn't know how much this clone knows. Except, perhaps, that surely an actual clone would probably know quite a bit more about the whole process than Miles himself would. His story is cobbled together from what details he had known before coming here - no specific research, after all - and wound together with enough bullshit to choke an elephant. It makes a pretty smooth tale to tell to outsiders, who know nothing about his world to begin with. Not so here.

He sucks in a breath, a flicker of uncertainty showing in his face. The fact of the matter is that he has no details to give. Better feign suspicion and ignorance. This is "Lord Vorkosigan" he's talking to, after all. Why should he tell the man a damn thing? He shifts, uncomfortably, onto his own too-short leg. ]

Why? Why do you care? I'm a threat, aren't I? Your damn Barrayaran lackeys sure thought so. I haven't had a moment's peace since I escaped.

Edited 2016-01-23 13:40 (UTC)

Why I care is...not something I can tell you right now.

[ The clone considers this response a little stroke of genius. The most un-Vorkosigan thing he's done so far has been pulling his stunner on Naismith without any warning. Panicking. Give him enough of the story to justify it.

(And, on the remote - beyond-remote - off-chance that this isn't a lie...Give him a few hints. Why he might have been made. It's ridiculous, obviously, because this is Vorkosigan playing some bizarre game of pretend, for some reason thinking it'd be romantic and interesting to pretend to be a clone. Just some game of his. But...But in that remote, impossible chance that this is another one, just like him...

(Because that look of terror and hostility - it mirrors what the clone feels. What he always feels.) ]

But suffice to say there's a reason I tried to stun you when I saw you. And suffice to say...It might not have been for life-extension that you were cloned.

[ Huh. That's kind of infuriating. He feels a sudden, deep sympathy for Simon Illyan and everyone else who's been forced to put up with Miles' bullshit over the years. Though, he must admit that whoever this clone is, they're doing a bang-up job of imitating him. It's surreal. He's alarmed. He's fascinated.

What is the worst outcome of letting this play out? Giving up his own identity as Miles Vorkosigan? He'd already done that for the public eye when he took up the Naismith mantle instead - and it's not as though Gregor would be fooled. One telepathic prod would be the only thing needed. So ... let it play out. After all, one should never interrupt an enemy when they're making a mistake.

(If it's a mistake. Maybe he's the one making the mistake. God, what a mess he's made already.)

Regardless, he eyes "Vorkosigan" with the wariness he deserves after a comment like that. And says the first thing that pops into his head: ]

Oh, god. Don't tell me you wanted me for sex. Were you really that desperate?

Edited (hmmm this is better) 2016-01-23 13:55 (UTC)

[ The choke that answers that comment is completely the clone's - though he also thinks that Lord Vorkosigan would have uttered the same noise if he'd heard that comment. (Or...No, it's Lord Vorkosigan making that comment, isn't it? Right...?)

It's true that there have been clones made for that purpose. He knows that very well. But - We're repulsive. Our body is repulsive. And it's because of you, or him, or maybe the Butcher's perversions and love of sodomy or his evil wife's insane experimentations - But regardless. Who would want this? And his horror makes him run his mouth off a bit too much. ]

No! That's - Absolutely not. And it wouldn't even make sense - House Bharaputra, you said, not House Ryoval... [ And then he realizes: he's not supposed to have that much knowledge of Jackson's Whole. He tries to recover, acting like he needs confirmation. ] That's the one that does that sort of thing, right? Anyway, I said I didn't order you made. Someone else did.

[ Ha. Score one point for him. Miles himself hadn't been fully aware of that distinction - he'd known Bharaputra had been in the life extension business, and that clones made for that purpose did exist (as he'd been taunted with a few key times previously), but not which house. Ryoval. Got it.

He suspects that he can fill in the technical details of his own story if he goads "Vorkosigan" at just the right moments. Better do that rather than get himself caught in a tangle that he can't explain his way out of. ]

Who, then? I was hardly told anything. Only that I was supposed to be a copy of this Vor lord, and that escape would mean he would be after me just as hard.

[ He spreads the fingers of his hand in a gesture of uncertainty. Vorkosigan gesture. Very Vorkosigan gesture. ]

Honestly? We don't know. I don't know if ImpSec knows, or if Illyan's just keeping it a secret from us. But there's been intel that someone made a clone as part of some plot against my-father-the-Count. [ Vorkosigan so often says that as a phrase, all in one rush, with just the faintest hint of drollness - like it's an inside joke, with no concern for who or who isn't on the inside of that joke. Part of his charisma, the clone had always noticed. He assumes you're one of his, and then you just fall into being his. Not like Galen with his revolutionaries - Galen kept control through hard dedication to a mutual ideal of a free Komarr. The Jacksonians kept loyalty through money, and lots of it. Vorkosigan gets loyalty by just demanding it, and for some reason people give it.

The clone prefers the Jacksonian model. ]

That might be you. It's starting to sound like that's you.

[ It all hangs together. After all, any clone takes a certain minimum number of years to be raised to adulthood, no matter what measures may be taken to age them sooner. Miles would have been a baby, surely. There couldn't be a plot against him specifically ... right? No, not with the body that Miles - that this clone - had ended up with. A potential replacement for himself must needs be a healthy one. That would be the fastest way to dislodge his own claim to the Vorkosigan countship.

So ... something else. Another sort of replacement. A plot against this father does make more sense. He begins to pace a bit, the gesture a singularly Naismith one that he had picked up during his adventures. (Well. Not completely. But more pronounced, nowadays.) ]

I assure you, I have no such intentions. I'd much rather stay far away. As far away as possible.

Edited 2016-01-23 14:30 (UTC)

[ The clone's response is a lordly snort. He inspects his nails in mock-casualness. ]

Think you might tell Illyan that? It'd save me having to memorize all those passwords that I need to recite to prove I'm still me. To say nothing of keeping him from going gray quite so fast.

[ What are you doing? Passing along Galen's ramblings about ways this plot could be foiled... Well, what he's doing, he guesses, is making himself convincingly Lord Vorkosigan. ]

[ Passwords, eh. Miles knows there are no such things - all Illyan would need to do was recite something word-for-word and expect complete comprehension. He still suppresses a very real shudder at the thought of discussing this sort of thing with Simon Illyan. ]

Ha. As if you could get me that close to Simon Illyan. I'm not a complete idiot, you know. I wouldn't come back from that encounter intact.

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I am junking up this beautiful community with this junk

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I liked v.1 very much

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