barrayar | Post MoM AU, general post

He struggles in response. He knows he won't be able to break free. What a ludicrous thought. But he needs to display defiance somehow. Somehow. The armsmen's grips tighten; the pain focuses him just a bit.

Did he notice? Did he see that I held back? Of course he did. The clone hopes fervently that the Butcher took it for simple fear, rather than weakness and sentiment. He stares up at him, glares up at him, and tries to twist his face into a leer of contempt. His muscles feel strained as he does, like they're holding an unnatural position. He can force that expression, but he can't force hatred...

"My mission is to kill you, Butcher." His neck strains with the effort of lifting his head off the ground enough so he can talk. "I'm not going to stop until that happens. So you should just kill me now."

Please don't kill me now. It's what he's supposed to say. The captured revolutionary has a script to follow, after all. But he doesn't really want it to happen. He wants to go free, wants to walk around Barrayar. Make peace with its people, get a job, find a family...

Stop. You have a mission.

There's a flinch at the name. It smooths quickly enough, might have passed without notice to many.

He doesn't answer the defiant words. They weren't worth answering. The very plan hinged on the fact that Aral Vorkosigan would not be able to harm his son. It didn't count on the fact that this weakness also included two distinct children, but the outcome was quite the same.

Instead, he watches the boy struggle, watched that corpselike, drawn expression, strained, words with fire but no heart.

"May I ask your name."

Mark. Mark. Mark.

He doesn't know where that name comes from. He doesn't know why it's lodged itself so tenaciously in his brain. But there are days when that's how he thinks of himself, Mark, Mark, even though no one in his life has ever called him that. It's some weird flight of fancy. It's something he picked up from a holodisc, maybe, or something said in his hearing before he could remember, or from a dream...

But where does that leave him? He knows what he's supposed to say here. He's supposed to answer him, Miles, and give him a sneer of contempt. Look, Butcher, it's your son killing you. Look, it's your son who hates you. Look, even if we can't free our planet, even if we can't hurt you physically, maybe we can hurt you emotionally.

But - I'm not Miles. And it's not like Ser Galen is ever going to find out he deviated from the script, right? Galen's probably already dead. And he doesn't want his progenitor's fucking name on his gravestone. Better to have nothing than give his progenitor the credit.

"I don't have one." He lowers his eyes. A long pause, and then he says, on some bizarre, half-mad impulse, just to try out the experience of choosing something for himself before he dies - "Mark. If you have to."

All of Vorkosigan's focus narrows sharply on Mark in a single, sudden moment of it.

"Mark. Pierre?" He tries to sound casual. It fails miserably. There are discomfited looks from the men around them, one man's grip is convulsive to the point of bruises on the clone's arm. Aral hardly cared about any reaction but one at this point.

Edited 2016-08-30 03:26 (UTC)

Why does the Butcher sound like that? Why does he sound so miserable? And why does that feel really...right? Pierre. He'd never thought about a middle name before, but Pierre sounds really good...The clone fidgets, grimaces at the attendant press of the knee into his back.

"I don't know. It's just something I picked. It doesn't mean anything."

Edited 2016-08-30 11:43 (UTC)

Aral took a deep breath and released it slowly in lieu of an answer. There were a hundred possibilities. The worst being that Mark remembered, has remembered for some time and had been waiting for a rescue that didn't come. It was irrational, they'd picked this date and time together. If Mark did, all of this would be different. "Peter Kane" would have been a better tell.

Logic was always weaker than emotion, though. He closed it off, with two decades of practice.

They hadn't worked out a script in their time on Earth. But Aral had spent years thinking about it, picking apart how things fell in and the reason they worked, the ways that it wouldn't. Now that he's here, he's acutely aware of how different the situation is.

"Mark, then." He wouldn't insist. He wouldn't force his vision on the boy either. "You've had no charges leveled against you. Barrayar is not in the habit of trying subordinates as conspirators unless they've held an active hand."

Aral was quite aware of the number of silent, exquisitely emotionless stares from the men in the room, and the throb just under his skin where bruises were likely forming.

"This affords you a handful of options."

Somehow, he knows that this will hurt. He doesn't know how he knows. Ser Galen had taught him that Aral Vorkosigan was heartless, remorseless, that he had no regret for what had happened. A true sadist, he took pride in his crimes rather than shame. And yet the clone knows in his bones that this attack will wound the Butcher to his core -

"You've guaranteed prisoners amnesty in the past."

He says that with proper vicious sarcasm. Yet as soon as it's out of his mouth, he feels a bloom of intense shame. Stupid, he should take pleasure in the man's misery...but he doesn't. He can't. He swallows and looks down.

You have a handful of options. He can't let himself believe that. He can't allow himself...Hope will only be crushed. He knows that. He has to remember that. Because it'll be so much worse, crueler, if he forgets. But if it's not, if it's not a lie, if they don't kill him, he'll gain - everything...

He looks up again, his face fearful, his voice guarded. He doesn't address the armsmen or the guards; he knows exactly who decides what happens here. He says to Count Vorkosigan, "Let me up."

That particular sword has never lost its edge. It slips between the ribs with ease, leaving a deep, cold ache. Instead of the old friends of anger and disdain that usually filled the wound, he found only a damp misery in it instead.

Who was he looking at? How deeply did his son believe that? How perfect a tool was he of the madman? That hope he'd had a moment or two ago seemed much more tenuous.

It had been the risk of taking him this young. He wouldn't regret that. Only despised all of the complications of not having gone younger still. So what was his options? Let him free? Full of hatred, propaganda and a fate to decide for himself? It could be the more merciful of the options.

Instead, he met Mark's eyes, staring, as if trying to find someone in there.

All he really had was a memory of an older Mark, withering at the idea of cruelties carried out in the name of a very real offense against him.

The silence stretches in the room during this deliberation. Finally, "Let him up. You three, Villis, Sanna, Petrov, out. Lock the door after you. Sergeant Bothari, stay."

All he wanted was a bit of freedom. So that he didn't look so fucking stupid with his jaw jammed up on the floor. So that he didn't feel the creeping fear that comes with being held down, of suspecting that there's worse to come. Instead, Vorkosigan hands him - what, another opportunity? Throws him a bit of rope to see if he can hang himself?

Or to see if I can haul myself ashore. But is this man he was taught to fear possibly that kind? To an assassin who threatened him? Threatened his son? Because he has golden dreams of a family - in this family, parents' loyalty to their children is absolute and unquestioning, compassion and forgiveness and love unconditional... Shit I picked up from a stupid holodisc.

He sits up when those armsmen finally, reluctantly, let him up. They're not happy about these new orders. They trust Bothari to protect Vorkosigan, though. Mean-looking son of a bitch. Mark knows his face. Had to learn it. Knows the rumors about him, too. Vorkosigan's pet. But he was the least harsh, the least cruel, in the way he'd gripped the clone's arm. He didn't leave a single bruise.

He's quiet a moment. He looks down. Vorkosigan's gaze - it hurts to meet it.

"So what are my options?" His voice is low. Sullen - or wary.

Vorkosigan lets out a breath he hadn't been aware he'd held. Attacking again would have been foolish, but zealotry did strange things to the minds of men. Another attack would have been far, far harder to wring the pardon out.

"First, am I correct in my assumption you have no personal desire to kill me?" Professional? Perhaps. Routine and ritualized? Yes, certainly. But he'd had more than ample chance to do it, and do it successfully.

He's quiet a moment. No. He doesn't. And he doesn't know why. He's supposed to be hateful. The hero of Komarr, the revolutionary, who's supposed to hate Aral Vorkosigan. Who's supposed to destroy him. Free the universe of his tyranny. That's what he's supposed to do, supposed to be...

"It's what I was made for." He falls silent, then, looking down at his hands. Then, finally, after a moment - a shrug. An answer, truly, that he doesn't know. And I don't know, at this stage, is as good as a yes, you're correct.

He nods. "In five days, Ser Galen will be tried and executed for treason and a small novel of crimes upon the Imperium. After that point, you will be released."

It would be a private affair, buried deep in court records and far from the press. They didn't need to spark more tensions from Komarr. The only reason it was to hold this long was to be sure certain political protections were in place for Duv Galeni.

"That is your first option." It wasn't a particularly kind one. Removed and left at a station, he was well aware Mark had no funds, no connections and no harbor to take to. The outcomes of such a scenario were bleak, if there were not the further complication of how much he looked like Miles.

"However, this incident had brought to my attention the practices and human violations of a certain House Major, which I cannot find it in myself to ignore." He leans forward, an intense fire in his eyes. "It is not a simple problem."

Tried and executed. His gaze turns fixed on the ground. Tried and executed. He...doesn't know how he feels about that. Ser Galen, who gave him a life, who gave him a purpose. Ser Galen, who'd tried to educate him, who'd tried to make a soldier out of him. Ser Galen, who was hard on him, but who...who saw a use for him. Who made him for a purpose. He thinks of the man dead, and the thought curdles unpleasantly in his stomach.

And - you will be released. For what? To what? There isn't much good that waits for an animal raised in captivity when he's released to the wild...

But all of those miserable, frightened, guilty thoughts are suddenly shattered and obliterated when he mentions a certain House Major. Mark's head snaps up, his eyes and face suddenly passionately alive, fierce and scared and hopeful, the expression an intense contrast to his prior guarded sullenness. There he is, with an energy as intense as Miles' but very different.

"Bharaputra?" he demands. He doesn't even bother to hide the passion in his voice - or, hell, more accurately, he can't. "Are you talking about Bharaputra?"

"Just so." And like that, he could see Mark. The focus, the intellect, the painful hunger that defined him. His Mark. He could laugh if it wouldn't endanger the whole damn, delicate dance this was.

All he needed was to keep him long enough. Just long enough. Not that he didn't have full and absolute plans to set Bharaputra on fire as literally and figuratively as possible.

"I need information. Jackson's Whole is opaque to the outside and dangerous to blunder into. I could spend the national budget and not get a hair closer to where I need to be." It was unsaid, but clear: He needed an operative.

He feels his breath quicken just a little. He feels his chest tighten - but not in fear, for once. In eagerness, rather. In anticipation. It's impossible. This has to be a trap, right? Vorkosigan came in here somehow finding out his deepest, truest desire - but how? It's not something he's ever told anyone, not even the Komarrans - not Ser Galen, who would be furious if he found out that Mark's desire wasn't the freedom of Komarr. How could Vorkosigan know what bait to lay in this trap? And without bait, how could it be a trap?

"And you want me to help?" He leans forward. It's been only four months since he found out where his creche-mates had gone. He'd always suspected, but reading that confirmation, dry intel reports from hacked databases, cloying news articles from human rights groups who didn't do shit - he'd curled into a ball, shaking with rage. He's still furious. He finds himself shaking again, just a little, in his hands. "What would you want me to do?"

There it was. The hook is all but taken, but it needs some meat on it none the less. With only Bothari in the room (and the security feed being unrecorded, save for Illyan himself monitoring) he didn't have to worry on discretion.

"I need information. I need schematics. I need to know where the tech is kept, and record to be wiped. The names and identities of the children we'd be rescuing, to prepare proper shelter." Children, not clones. He hadn't been able to think in terms of clones in longer than Mark has been alive. "I have a fleet who will be able to get in without immediate ties back to Barrayar, but I'm not going to throw them in blind. It would be a massacre on both sides.

Mostly, I need someone who can go into Jackson's Whole and not be lost by the financial aspects and suborned by opportunities of the operation."

He wants it. He's hungry for it, the ache almost physical. He's afraid of Jackson's Whole, yeah, afraid to go back, but the fear just doesn't matter in the face of being able to rescue those -

Children. That single word, children, is almost enough to shred the months of poison that Galen had poured into Mark's ear about Aral Vorkosigan. Galen had never called them children. He'd never even considered going to help them. Hell, he'd paid Bharaputra, shoved money at him, and even if it wasn't paying for a clone to kill it was still giving him money that he could use to expand his operations. Vorkosigan wants to save them. These kids.

It's almost too good to be true. It is too good to be true. Get a hold of yourself - Mark pulls back a little bit, suspicion coming back into his face.

"And - " He swallows. "What is it that you want? In return? For letting me do this?" But the moment that he loses his grip, hope and hunger flood back into his expression once again.

He can't help the black humor that bubbles up in its wake. "I believe you're one of the few who gets tasked with a frothing hornets nest like no other and phrases it as 'let.'"

That long, searching look settles on Mark again. He wanted a number of things. Most couldn't be demanded, much less asked. He didn't have Ezar's skill with the long dance. He'd no flare for choreography, just good timing in the moment.

... And to be disingenuous now is likely to cause harm later.

"Follow me a moment, for this will lead to your answer. I assume you know, at least in passing, about Cordelia Naismith Vorkosigan, do you not?"

It...Maybe let isn't the right word, no. But revenge on those bastards is his heart's desire, beyond any other. And he knows - He's in a cell, he's been captured, he should be working to free his comrades and restart their movement. He should take that release and use it as an opportunity to become the center of a new cell, working to bring down the Imperium. But -

But he doesn't care about Komarr. He tries to force down that thought the moment it bubbles up, as though Galen would somehow sense it, but it's just too true. It looms too large. He doesn't care about Komarr, not in the way he cares about his clone-brothers and clone-sisters, and about the ones that followed them. He'll look back on Galen and the others with guilt, yeah. But letting more clones die is the worst thought, the worst...So fuck Komarr. Fuck all of them. And - Vorkosigan is actually offering him a choice...Giving him the chance to chase after his heart's desire does feel like letting.

Even if there's a catch.

"Yeah." His gaze turns hard, like that's a trick question. How could he not know about her? That was Miles' mother. The half-crazed witch. He had to be able to recognize her, or he'd raise suspicion. "Of course."

From Aral's perspective, that change of expression was inscrutable. Of course, he would have researched her. She was vital to Barrayar, the Imperium and wickedly perceptive besides. Likely as much as he had Miles or himself.

He opens a hand, palm up. "Then you likely guess already, she's asked to meet you."

"What?" The hardness goes out of him; confusion comes in. That...That, he did not guess. (Though somewhere, deep in his mind, it just makes sense. With what he feels about her, it seems logical. Why does he feel anything about her at all?)

"Why? To - assess whether I'm a threat?"

"Ha!" The bark is actually surprised out of him. There's a certain dry humor following that.

"I believe that was delegated to me. No... perhaps your sources were weak on her. She does keep herself out of the spotlight." He rubs his chin, scratching at a scar absently. "No. She's Betan, you understand."

"So what?" He shrinks back a little, trying to hide nervous uncertainty under incredulous contempt. Meet me...why...She was Betan; he know that. It meant that she was a pervert who was willing to overlook Vorkosigan's perversions - that's what he was told. Though...only a few months out of the clone-creche, he's hard-pressed to understand exactly what perversion means. There's a lot he doesn't...really understand.

Uncomfortably, he admits, "I've never met Betans. I don't know what they're like."

"There's a number of adjectives, depending on who one asks and how deeply her brash nature has caused consternation." His voice is nothing but warm as he says it, though. A warmth that seeps back out as he becomes serious again. "Most specifically, Beta Colony has a deep set of laws and beliefs regarding cloning. Specifically, being half my genetic material and half hers, there was never a question as to whether you were our child or not, in her mind."

He considers him. "I don't need you to accept. I wont hold that as any sort of condition. What I want is for you simply to meet her."

Child? His eyes fix on Vorkosigan's, and go wide. Child? It - He feels dizzy with shock, and somehow also dizzy with inevitability. He knew, somehow, somehow, that it would get to this point. Child. He tries to tell himself that what Vorkosigan is referring to - What the Butcher is referring to is pure confusion, nothing more than that. There was never a question because she looked at you and got confused. Right? He can't possibly be saying -

"You - " His mouth is dry; he licks his lips. "She - has it in her head that I'm...?" Her son? A son? Not Miles. Another son... He crosses his arms across himself, a defensive gesture, and he huddles down. He doesn't blink. Tries to force a laugh into his voice. "That must be awkward for you."

Agree with me. Please agree with me. Yes, it's terrible, that my insane wife thinks this insane thing. You have to say that. You have to...

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject