barrayar | the better space adventure

[ Gregor has long since progressed from afraid to bored and straight on through sullen. Just how long were they going to keep him here? Gregor is not accustomed to being kept anywhere he doesn't want to be, and maybe he's led a constrained life but it hasn't been a literal prison. And okay, so it's a little high-handed of him to be entitled about this, but he thinks he's entitled to know his future.

Yet no one answers his polite or his frustrated attempts to ask for answers. No one does anything apart from bring him food while looking harried and eye him dourly before leaving. He's started to get gross. He needs a shower, badly. He's washed his face and hair in the sink in his cell multiple times but it's just not the same and he's not used to these conditions.

Also, the boredom really is driving him insane. He's taken to composing sonnets in his head. He hates sonnets. He hates all that rigid structure in poetry, it's asinine and archaic. That's how bored he is, how craving stimulation and challenge.

When the door open, he startles upright, eyes wide. This is off schedule; he's already been fed today. ]

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Yes. That's exactly it. [ A pause. ] And there's nothing for me on Beta Colony. Worse than nothing. It's a prison for the son of the Butcher.

[ Bitterness infuses his tone quite sharply. ]

[ He somehow finds he can empathize with this, and not abstractly but sharply, like a piercing pang through his chest. Son of the Butcher... is surely a term better applied to Gregor, and Serg, than ever applied to Aral. He might be vicious at times, but even Gregor knows he never metes out justice to the undeserving. He's ruthlessly fair.

But being trapped-- yes. Yes, that he knows. ]

... There's nothing for me on Barrayar, either. I'm just a cut-out figure they prop up at events. They don't need me for anything; me being gone hasn't affected anyone. [ He's sure his mother cares, his friends care-- but his mother has been keeping things from him. And Gregor is never sure how much he's her son and how much he's the heir she had to produce. ]

[ Miles' expression softens instantly in sympathy. Being a cut-out figure doesn't seem much better than rotting from the inside out of boredom. Hesitantly, he reaches out to put his hand over Gregor's, if he'll allow it. ]

Mother is probably wildly trying to find me even now. But otherwise ... no one for me either. I can't find anything to do with my life that seems worthwhile. You too?

[ Strange how the simple contact of his hand seems to laser-focus his attention. His fingers twitch once, but then still, and if he doesn't flip his hand over to grasp his, he at least doesn't pull away.

Gregor has some curiosity about Aral Vorkosiagn's second wife, who is almost a mythical figure by this point, but not more curious than he is affected by this line of conversation. He swallows and looks down. ] There's no spare heir, so I've never been allowed to do anything. [ Although there could be-- he'd always wondered why not, until he'd learned about his father. But with uterine replicators now it's not like his mother would have to go through that again. So they really don't need him. ]

I just-- want to do something useful. You know?

[ Good enough for now, even if it's downright shy for a Betan. Miles keeps his hand there, steady and quiet. God, wanting to be useful ... he sympathizes so badly it hurts him to think about. And to consider that this future Emperor could feel the same way ... He'd have thought it wasn't possible. He suddenly very badly wants to have adventures with this Gregor rather than simply continuing to love the echoes of Emperor Gregor he'd seen before.]

I know. I know the feeling very well.

[ He takes a breath to recover. ]

Though I don't know how we could be useful as random runaways on Earth.

We'll find something. Maybe gather up more mercenaries, even.

And do what with them, exactly?

I'd be happy just installing lights.

Oh no you wouldn't. You'd be bored eventually, trust me. Speaking of someone who tried that for a while.

... But you could install lights for my mercenary fleet.

Your fleet? So sure of that, are you? I thought you just had this one ship.

One ship is just the start. I'll find a way to get the rest, just you watch.

And then what? You'll be satisfied with that, running a mercenary fleet?

I ...

[ He gets a bit flustered at that, having not thought quite that far himself. ]

Maybe I will be. It'll be a lot more than we have going on now. And if I change my mind, I can always drop you off somewhere and go be Count Vorkosigan instead.

[ That's Gregor, always here to point out when someone is being short-sighted.

This casual plan jolts him a bit. ] Is your father aware you're intending that?

... The alternate I met does. He seems certain this version would appreciate me swooping in.

[ But his voice wavers even more. Uncertain. ]

[ Oh. He hadn't been expecting to hear that waver after all his confidence. ]

I've no reason to think he wouldn't receive you warmly, [ says Gregor carefully. ] But your entrance would be... politically fraught. I wouldn't casually jaunt in, is all I'm saying.

What do you think would happen if I did, then?

[ Evenly, ] There would be accusations that he means to name you Crown Prince. Especially if I'm still gone.

[ He pales slightly. ]

I truly don't want to though. Your alternate showed me how badly it was crushing him.

[ His paling more than anything else convinces Gregor this is the truth. But that comment...

He draws inward. ] So I'm right to think I'd make a terrible emperor, [ he says bleakly. ]