barrayar | Post MoM AU, general post

Post MoM AU, general post

And then one day, it was over.

The memory of how it happened was hazy. Perhaps it was as simple as being ported out, perhaps there was a great experiment, bringing together physicists, chemists, alchemists and scientists to get something WORKING. But like the memories of that time, that other dimension, singular events come and go, like a dream, or an age past.

From the very start, however, there were changes.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Count Vorkosigan was different in a number of ways than when Kitty had seen him last (likely, merely days for her.) Age had quickly sapped the color from his hair, drew deep lines on his face, put a little padding around his middle and hardened his expression. In fact, at this specific moment, he only seemed to have one expression at all. Irritation.

There was advantages to being seated near the Emperor, as was accorded by both position and station. In this specific case, it allowed him to make a subtle show of going through each page of the proposal and after reading each at length, ripping the flimsy in half with a satisfying shredding noise that carried in a delightful way above the bickering in the chamber.

The tariffs were an offense, especially with newly solidified allies. Even he, a Vorkosigan could point out at least a handful of flaws on each page. There was no nationalism, no industrial need to keep necklin imports out. They couldn't even refine the damn stuff, much less mine it. The only point of this was to waste a goddamn day on their sharply worded Anything But The Centralists Plan plan.

His cheap enjoyment of the discomfort growing around him, was disrupted by a small, slight and distinctly not indigenous bird. Cetagandan?]

[ She can't help but wonder why it is that Aral looks so bloody irritable. Bad legislation, probably. At the same time, though, he's being so dramatic about ripping it up, she half feels bad about taking anyone's attention away from his magnificently angry show...

So, well, the best thing to do is concentrate all the spectacle, right?

So she zooms down and lands right on the desk, and tilts her head to examine his papers. And she pronounces, thoughtfully: ]

Hm. What's wrong with it?

[There's murmurs and some alarm (and a few others merely politely fascinated and curious as to how it COULD be an assassination method, and it couldn't happen to a better rival party member and general obstruction.). Aral himself looked about to take measure before he heard that soft voice.

Ms. Jones. Of course.

Well, in this one thing, if she'd had half the wit of politics as she nattered about. He lifts his hand not... to swat the would be Cetagandan assassin but moves the shreds of the last page out of the way.

Some base economic goods, aimed at "protecting" industry and fattening the coffers reach nearly 20% from certain sectors. By the proposal, there's the implication that the party being subjected to the tariff would be in a poor position to leverage any compromise due to control of a "hub" mentioned periodically.]

Hm.

[ She gives a few little hops to get closer to the page, and then takes flight to move away from it. (It's a bit hard, reading like this - you have to figure out the right distance from the page. It's decently tough. And so she takes a few moments to look over it, and finally passes the judgment that - ]

That looks a bit rubbish, doesn't it?

[ ...Now there are a few murmurs about what-the-hell, how is Vorkosigan mesmerizing this creepy bird. Or is it a spy? Is it a spy, and he's giving up state secrets to it...? ]

[There's a snort from him and a leveled a withering, stare around the room that... frankly quelled nothing. Several greybeards seemed to scoot closer to talk to each other, and a few of the men in red and blues had a considering hand on their stunners.

He only gives the hummingbird a grunt of assent, before waving her off in the direction of two very keenly watching eyes in the room.]

[ She gives a little giggle. Yes, all right, there are plenty of potentially bad outcomes here, one of which is getting stunned - or, perhaps worse, getting Aral accidentally stunned... ]

Let's talk soon. I want to swap stories with you.

[ And then she buzzes upwards. ]

[He watches the hummingbird escape with his son with a wry smile. (Poor Gregor, trapped as long or longer than he was.) He signals of the Lord Guardian of the Circle to begin the speaking portion on the bill, and the strange avian outburst was tabled for discussions after ruling. He never could expect a single man in there to forget a damn thing. All of their memory was stored in their marrow.

But with such lovely distractions as Gregor and Miles, it is, perhaps quite some time until Kitty finds Aral. And longer still until he's alone to talk.

It's late, deep into the evening, with a light, a comm station readout, a few holocubes projecting displays and an inordinate amount of flimies in a very small office in Vorhartung Castle.]

[ And, late, deep in the evening, a little silver-furred monkey swings in through the ajar window to his office. Clutched in one arm is a bottle of whiskey of some vintage and quality - pilfered from the Imperial Stores. Altogether without preamble, completely cheerful, she starts in - ]

God, this place is bloody hard to navigate. Half the windows in this place have got some sort of magic barrier over 'em.

[ Force-shields. She means force-shields. ]

[He looks up sharply at the visitor.. and then thumbs a switch on the underside of the desk, turning off the video and audio feeds on the room.]

Security concerns, being what they are.

Welcome to Barrayar, Ms Jones.

Thank you, Mr Naismith.

[ She heard that nickname back on Earth. It tickled her. It continues to tickle her.

She swings into a chair, then becomes a girl again, sitting with the bottle in her hands. As ever, there's a little bit of self-consciousness to her as she's faced with Aral. Lingering embarrassment from their bad first meeting, which she covers up with decent cheer. ]

I probably could have gotten through 'em as a fly, but, you know. Had to carry this. [ She wriggles the whiskey at him, then says: ] Though it does look like you're working. So I guess...it was a bit unnecessary.

[There's an upward tug at the corners of his mouth, but as always he doesn't protest it. He hadn't heard that in years... it was still as true.]

I've likely passed the point of productive a few hours ago.

[That label... Easily one of the finest. The chances that was bought are exceedingly low. He gives her a Look. And then just gets up to fetch a couple of glasses from a small cabinet near the door.]

[ With mock-wounded innocence in response to that Look: ]

This is a good use to put it to. What's the point of stockpiling? Better to actually enjoy the good things in our lives than to hold onto them.

[ When he comes over with the glasses, she pours them each two fingers with a bartender's precision. As she does, she asks - ]

When did you come back? It sounds as though it's been a good amount of time for Miles.

[Subtle political bribery, for one. He left the comment unspoken, and takes his own glass up.]

Around ... twenty three years now? Perhaps a little short. Though the boys have only just begun to remember recently.

That long?

[ Good God. ]

I'm surprised you remember me.

I didn't, immediately. [Not until she spoke, anyway.]

... Have we told you much about Cetaganda? It will be of necessity for you to know if you're here for more than a visit.

Uh -

[ Huh. ]

No...

Putting aside a history lesson, they are an enemy who infuses a certain style into most of their actions, both leisure and militant. They believe that functionality is no excuse for a lack of elegance and beauty.

As such, using a non indigenous species such as that bird [Was it a bird? It hovered like an insect... He checks her expression for correction before moving on.] as a vector for some flesh melting virus would be something expected.

You may wish to be careful, or at least choosy enough that we can float the idea Gregor has a menagerie.

[ Huh. She thinks that over a moment, frowning. ]

You didn't seem particularly alarmed.

There wasn't enough irony in the form for it to have been an assassin for me specifically. [A dove, perhaps.] If you were a spy, I didn't give a damn. The session could waste their time as much as mine.

Had you approached Gregor straight off, [Or at all.] you'd have had most of the Council looking for a hunt.