barrayar | Post MoM AU, general post

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...

He folds his arms, expression completely serious. "Politically complicated, yes. Precarious socially? To a degree. A security nightmare? Beyond ImpSec's worst days. But awkward? No." There was no joke, no rise in tone. He merely watched.

Meaning - he agrees with her. Meaning he agrees with her. Mark's eyes remain fixed, unblinking, on that stern face, the face that looks so much like his own in the mirror. That looks so much like his own on the holovids he has to study and imitate. Is he joking? Is this some deadpan joke? No. He doesn't know enough about Aral Vorkosigan - he'd been sent out on that mission undereducated, underprepared, Galen made too eager by too ripe an opportunity, obviously a trap from the very first, why didn't they see that - thank God they didn't see that - but Aral Vorkosigan doesn't joke like that. Black, dire irony is Vorkosigan's humor of choice. Not pranks.

A confused, desperate laugh bubbles up from his throat and gets released into the air. It's followed in the next moment by a sudden, shocking swell of tears, filling his eyes; that finally prompts him to turn his head away, squeezing his eyes shut to try to hide them. Shit. Shit.

I'm no one's son. I don't have a family. I'm just a clone, damn it. My mother was a uterine replicator, not the Butcher's wife. My father was that massacre itself, the hatred it created, which echoed down to make me. I'm not a human, I'm a little monster, a deformed gnome, why would anyone want to claim me...

"She wouldn't - " His voice is shaking. He clears his throat, tries again. "She wouldn't be all soppy or anything, right?" He tries to sound tough and confident, contemptuous of women's weakness, maternal feeling. He does a piss-poor job of it. "I don't want her to end up crying at me or something."

The laugh had him think he'd lost it all, honestly. Being forthright had been its own risk, and one he decided to take, simply reviling all of the alternatives. He was no fine judge of character when it came to the emotions of men, or even his motives. There were moments where he could see the consequences spinning out. The dry, clinical ones, the chances of insurrection following the release of a very dangerous individual. The political backlash he would get for having done such a foolish move. To simply never capture would have been one thing, but to capture and release was something he could be easily brought to task for. Gregor couldn't merely dismiss those concerns and retain his even handed appearance. Not easily.

... And the more simple, less intelligible one. It had no words, no consequences, no fallout, political or economic.

It was a simple, leaden ache of loss.

The pools of tears that welled up in the boy's eyes washed away everything.

He was aware it could be a show. Mark was built... designed, and likely trained for this one very weakness. But he couldn't deny this one thing, no matter how much his life could depend on it. There was little strategic gain, at this point, and he rationalized it there.

"I can let her know you've an aversion," he promised, voice a little less level than it had been.

Cordelia would certainly know for certain in an instant.

He's quiet a moment, still looking away. His fists clench and unclench. He imagines...He imagines Cordelia, standing there, tall and red-haired, staring at him. He imagines her reaching out and taking him by the hand, leading him into the house. Mark, Aral said? That's what you call yourself? A cup of coffee before him, or tea, a few cookies on a plate. Her asking about him, listening solemnly but compassionately as he speaks. In his imagining, he has something to say, too, even though in reality there's nothing to talk about when it comes to him. He's uninteresting. But she'd sit and listen, and tell him things, too. Her life with Aral. Her love for Miles. Herself. And he'd be given a room, and he'd sleep there as long as he likes - sleeping late the next day, not waking up till late, eating his fill in the kitchen - and they'd talk more, and he'd talk with Aral, too. It'd be like that, every day idle. He'd be able to read, do nothing but classroom sims, and the ones he likes - he'd get to choose. Do anything he likes. They'd smile at him, and say he's smart, and say they love him.

It's bullshit, of course. Clones don't get family. And even if they did, he can never stay idle. He has to go and rescue them. He can't have that, won't have that...

Right?

"And I'll do that and then I'll get to go to Jackson's Whole. To save them. Right?" He risks dragging a sleeve across his eyes, wiping away the stupid soppy tears that had collected there.

"Correct." He folds his hands, looking at Mark over his knuckles. This is easier ground, stable. He knew the steps here, didn't feel quite so dizzied and uncertain. "Some of the infrastructure for a covert operation is in place, but most is not. There will be some maneuvering to make sure it can be done properly and safely. I don't relish sending you in unprepared, or making a shallow cut when we can inflict a more mortal wound."

He nods, shallowly, staring down at his hands. Then, abruptly, quietly, he says, "I don't care if I die there. If it has to be that sort of mission, that's okay." Just as added incentive, maybe. Or if Vorkosigan was thinking of sending him in to die, then this would be some assurance - he'll do the job, and then do what he's supposed to.

He swallows, then continues, his voice quiet and miserable and plaintive and completely unguarded, "Someone just...needs to help them. They're...my friends. I'll do whatever it takes. Even if it only means saving one of them, I'll give anything. I'll even give my life."

"No." It's simple, harsh. Somehow that low, near-whisper cut through the air with more force than a bellow could have. "Suicide missions are the necessity of terrorists, and none other. There are no heroics in death. You are not expendable." He looks Mark directly in the eyes, jaw set. "And you are not to conduct your mission in that manner."

He meets Vorkosigan's eyes. He can't not. That intensity transfixes him. He's...not lying, is he? He's being honest. He really means it. He really thinks that the clone matters...Not that Mark has ever been able to tell truth from lies. How long did it take him before he understood what was happening back at the clone-creche, after all? But those lies fed to him by the Bharaputra goons were always discreet, polished, practiced. Is it even possible to lie when you're crackling with that much emotion?

You are not expendable. Galen had said that to him, too. Sort of. You'll be a hero. You'll free our planet from tyranny. But that had been saying that...Mark had value because that there was a mission only he could do. Because of the way he'd been designed. A valued weapon, enormous in price, not wholly human. This is different. It's different -

He swallows.

"Yes, sir." His own voice is scarcely above a whisper. His eyes drop. He wants to scream. He wants to claw his own face off. He wants Lord Vorkosigan to pat him on the head and tell him he did well. An hour ago, he was thinking about how to kill this man...There's a wash of shame at how easily he's been suborned, but that barely even registers against the gratitude he feels towards this man who wants clones to live. All clones.

"You, um - " He runs his hand over his scalp in confusion and uncertainty. "Is it...allowed to...walk out of here, then?"

It pushed up the timetable. It required the trust that he wasn't going to go back and free Ser Galen before his sentencing.

So be it. He'd order heightened security. Frankly, Simon would have it placed before they even left the cell, but it would be good to back up his man's actions.

"I'll see to it." A hesitation, an awkward pause stretches as he cobbles together these words. "You... are welcome to stay at the Vorkosigan House." And then, "Though other accommodations can be arranged."

Mark draws back from that offer, less horrified or repulsed by the offer than simply confused. "I'm - " Welcome to stay at the Vorkosigan House?

"Count Vorkosigan - " The title is a little strange in his mouth. He's always just been the Butcher to Galen. But: so be it. If he's leaving Galen behind, he's abandoning those slurs, too, right? (And he pushes down the little swell of nausea at leaving Galen behind. Didn't Galen abandon the clones to their fates? Didn't he send in Mark, too, half-informed, mostly ignorant, to very likely die? It's not disloyalty if it's to a traitor. Right?)

"You do know that I was supposed to kill you, don't you?" Why are you telling him this... "You...want me under your roof? Where you sleep? And your...son, as well?" Your elder son. Because if that's how you think of me, then Vorkosigan House would be my family home... Ridiculous. Absurd.

Post MoM AU, general post

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