sunchime | ☆ the vorkosigan saga psl post, volume 3

"It's what I'm supposed to do." When Miles picks up the food, his eyes leave his face. Instead, they fixate intensely on the fork, watching it as it descends. It's a hypnotic sort of motion. He thinks he can feel it go down, like a swoop of vertigo. He feels so hungry that it's like an ache in his bones. He feels sick, too. Nauseated.

"And it'd be easy. I could have all the doors locked before any of them could react. And from here I could take control of your ship."

He makes himself look up again, watching Miles' face. Searching for signs of dismay or fear. He doesn't know what he'll do if he finds them...Strike? Apologize again? Neither. He just wants to see what'll happen. He just wants to see how he'll react. He just...he wants to know, wants to understand.

Miles is, admittedly, a little unnerved by the way his clone watches him eat but refrains himself, despite having been the one who demanded food. Some kind of weird mind game? No, his clone is the one who throws that accusation around. But Miles is more curious than unnerved, and at any rate, neither shows on his face.

"You could," he concedes with a sideways tilt of his head and an aimless wave of his fork. "I'm unarmed, and tired, and as you said, we are very much alone. You might even get far enough with that little scheme to pull the Dendarii out of Earth and take off." He tries not to wince at the thought of his clone not only taking the Dendarii, but taking them and have absolutely nothing to pay them with. "But you wouldn't get much farther than that. For one, everyone's seen both of us in the same room, and they know that I'm the one with cuts and bruises and the three-day-old beard. The Dendarii are loyal, but they're far from stupid."

He shrugs and returns to his food, whether or not his clone decides to dig in. "But you're right. You could. You've got means and opportunity. Two out of three. But motive...is that yours, or is it Galen's?"

He can't take it any longer. He reaches forward - the movement stiff and awkward and desperate - and grabs for the food. Drags it towards him and peels off the lid and starts to eat. He hunches over it a bit, like a hawk protecting its kill - all but scarfs it down. It's stupid, because to take Miles' stupid food is like an admission of trust. He knows that eating it erodes his defenses. But it feels so good, and it's such a comfort, eating it - a little of his anxiety quiets. A lot of his anxiety quiets.

And with his mouth full, it gives him time to think. Is that your motive, or is it Galen's? For years, there was no difference, because the clone believed passionately in Galen's ideals. That passion had faded, but even so, there'd been no difference between what Galen wanted and what he wanted because there simply couldn't be. But now...

"I'm just saying, it's stupid," he mumbles through a full mouth. He swallows, takes another forkful. And then, half from interest, half because he wants Miles to talk so that he can eat in silence without having to worry about interrupting himself to speak: "Why did they take your clothes?"

Miles is privately relieved to see Mark finally take the food, though he snatches it as though Miles has been holding it just out of reach. Like he's afraid someone might take it away. What the hell did Galen do to this kid? Because Miles has seen that, knows what it looks like, and it numbs his appetite a little. Speaking of Dagoola indeed.

He shrugs again, more moving his food around than eating it now. Dagoola still wasn't that long ago, still fresh, and talking about this one small part of it brings the rest of it rushing to mind. Miles forces all the memories of Murka and Beatrice back, trying not to recall his hideous nightmare on top of all of it. Maybe mentioning Dagoola in particular had been a mistake. But he'd offered it, and now Mark's asking, and really, is he asking so much? Miles puffs out a little breath through his nose, trying not to feel cold.

"Because they could, mostly. They sure as hell weren't going to wear 'em." He lets a faint snort despite himself at the absurdity of it. "You have to understand -- Dagoola wasn't your run of the mill war camp. It was an expertly designed exercise in psychological torture. The Cetagandans managed to, technically, follow the letter of the law, while whole-heartedly violating it in spirit. There were no guards, no special facilities -- just one huge force dome with a light that was always on, a source for drinking water, latrines, and twice a day they'd shove a pile of rat bars in. Twelve hundred people shoved in that miserable dome -- what d'you think happens in that kind of environment? Survival of the fittest. Great displays of power over the weak -- " He gestures at himself with his fork. "-- in the hopes of spooking off anyone fitter than you but not wise enough to know it. So what do you do when you see a twisted little mutie standing around with no friends? You beat the hell out of him and try to steal his dignity, just to show you can."

His brows draw down as he listens to that. That strikes him as stupid, too. No one beats you or hurts you just because they can. They do it because you've done something to piss them off. No, he decides. They took his clothes because they were going to sell his clothes, because there was profit in it, and they beat the shit out of him because he had it coming. Probably said something. Count on someone like the great and powerful Miles Vorkosigan to decide that it's just because he had so much magnificent dignity that it had to be stolen from him. Bullshit.

Still. With a stomach (partially) full of Miles' food, a little bit of his hostility is gone, so he doesn't call him out on it. Instead he just looks at Miles, watches him, and asks, "Was that the only time?" He means to ask whether that was the first time Miles had been hurt. Seriously beaten. It's a perverse sort of question, maybe, and he doesn't really entirely know why he's asking it.

Well, that certainly was a...non-reaction. Then again, what was he expecting? All things considered, the continued curiosity counts as a good sign to Miles, and the clone doesn't seem quite as hostile now. Maybe hearing about Miles's vulnerabilities makes him more comfortable, though God knows he could probably -- no, definitely still kill Miles with his bare hands if he wanted to. Galen didn't just train a substitute, he trained an assassin.

But Miles doesn't think he really wants to.

Miles gestures at his bruised face with implication of all the bruises his clone can't see -- Galen's thugs sure as hell hadn't been giving him and Galeni Swedish massages back there -- but still answers the question.

"At Dagoola? Ha. No." Miles taps his fork against his plate, nearly a rattle as the caffeine takes its hold. Thank God for coffee. "And that was hardly the first time, either."

He could follow that up with what about you? He could ask more about his clone, the things he's been through. But right now he's leading the conversation, and Miles isn't going to take that away from him just yet. The kid clearly needs something to hold onto, if it isn't trust or truth.

A small jerk of his chin acknowledges the state of Miles' face. Only time aside from this, he'd meant, because his curiosity doesn't exactly extend to what Miles had been going through at Galen's hands. He doesn't know what they were doing to him, but he can suspect. He'd helped interrogate David Galen, after all.

"You had bodyguards, though." The clone scrapes his fork rather forlornly against a bit of sauce left on the plate, lifts it to his lips to suck that little bit of flavor off the tines. When he speaks, it's from behind the metal. "Even before all this Naismith stuff. I know the Butcher had assigned them to you. Didn't they stop it?"

"Sergeant Bothari, you mean?"

Miles's face flickers just slightly; sinking this deep into memory, digging up answers to Mark's questions, it's impossible not to feel that small twang of guilt, however removed by time it is now.

"He saved my ass plenty of times. My life, more than once. But he was just one man. And a bodyguard isn't as useful in a schoolyard as you might think."

That earns Miles both a suspicious squint and a derisive snort. "If he couldn't handle a bunch of kids, then how was he even a bodyguard at all?" Honestly. It's not like kids are really any good at fighting, are they? Not without a bunch of training, and he can't imagine that these kids were getting drilled on how to take down a full-grown soldier. Probably. It was Barrayar, after all, which (he's always been taught) was a land of total monsters...

But he kicks down that thought. Touches a little too close to him.

Miles's eyebrow quirks. Ah, but his clone was raised by Ser Galen on a steady diet of propaganda. And Miles is starting to see the other ways in which Galen shaped him -- ways that would drill into someone's head that an adult beating on a child is a perfectly acceptable response to a situation.

"He usually intervened before it got too serious," Miles admits, because Bothari mostly just had to show up to scare off a few bullies. He doesn't particularly want to talk about the times Bothari didn't, not of negligence but Miles's terminal inability to keep his mouth shut, especially when angry, on days when the cold treatment by his peers did more than just discourage him. "But -- you know the story. He died when I was seventeen. And now you know what I really do for a living."

Is that grief in his voice? The clone did hear a bit about Bothari - just a bit, enough to have heard of the man's brutality and excesses. A war criminal, and therefore one of the Butcher's bosom friends. So it's strange to hear that little wistful note in Miles' voice. It...makes him a little nervous, honestly. Has Miles sought out more such criminals and torturers? Amongst the Dendarii...? He shifts a little, and decides not to keep pressing after the question of Konstantin Bothari. For his own peace of mind. To tamp down his worries about what might happen to him. He's starting to be convinced that Miles truly doesn't intend him harm - but that doesn't guarantee the behavior of the other members of his little army...

No. Stop thinking about it. He turns his attention instead to a frustration he's been feeling for a long while. "For a living is a little generous, isn't it? For a crew with this high a success rate, your profit margins are pathetic." But - "But yeah. Now you can pay for your own bodyguards."

Mark is bouncing around from topic to topic, prying into details, and Miles realizes he's only trying to get as much of a picture as Miles is. That's how it seems, at any rate, and Miles doesn't think he can really begrudge his clone that -- he doesn't want to. Galen filled his head with enough toxic bullshit. If his clone wants to hear it from Miles himself, then Miles isn't going to withhold.

"That's because we're kept on retainer," Miles says, one eyebrow raised. "I mean, sure, the fleet takes other contracts as they come up, but whether or not Admiral Naismith comes home with a tidy profit isn't the point. And it wouldn't exactly go in my pocket, at any rate. The Barrayaran government gives the Dendarii contracts -- covertly -- and then compensate them accordingly. Plenty to pay my men a good salary -- with benefits, mind, mercenaries care about benefits -- keep the fleet up and running, up to date with the best equipment and tech the Imperium can afford. Making a profit is...sort of a circular notion here." He taps a finger to his cracked lips, frowning slightly. "And the Dendarii aren't my bodyguards. Not that they don't occasionally act in that capacity, but they aren't here to protect me. They protect Barrayaran interests. They're not my refuge, they're my responsibility."

"That sounds like a load of crap." That's said with more caution than aggression - a careful little probe, a test of Miles' temper. He pauses a moment, searching Miles' face, and sees...nothing, really. No real anger. Nothing alarming. So he goes on, with a little less caution, "You're here because you like to be here. No one asked you to be. Don't act like you were ordered here - you chose it, didn't you? You started all this because you wanted it."

He rubs at one of his knees and frowns just a bit, still watching Miles' face closely. His gaze flicks over his eyes, mouth, nose, down to his hands, looking for signs of displeasure. This is indeed a test - every word a test, every moment a test. Pushing Miles, trying to see where he'll break, where he'll flinch. Trying to understand him. Like the unsanctioned interview where Miles had undermined his courage - or maybe exploited his courage. He doesn't know. Both at once. But on more equal footing now.

"It's...not quite so simple as that."

No trace of anger, frustration, not even annoyance on Miles's face. Intent, almost inward. He wants Mark to understand. He rubs his jaw and lets his fork lie where it is.

"You're half-right," he concedes with a sideways tilt of his head. "I do like to be here. And that's part of the reason why I'm here. But I was ordered here. I'm ordered here every time the Imperium has a new job for the Dendarii. By Captain Illyan -- Gregor, by proxy, because technically, the Dendarii belong to him. On paper, anyway. But to say I chose it..."

At heart, the Dendarii really do belong to him -- and he knows that Gregor knows that. Miles knows that it takes a certain level of trust to give him the amount of latitude he has with his fleet. The look Miles gives his clone now is sort of funny -- almost ironic.

"I started all this by accident." He spreads his hands. "I don't know what version of the story Galen fed you -- or what he got -- but the Dendarii happened because I was depressed that I'd failed to get into the Imperial Service Academy and I wanted to do something to serve...something." He's serious, sincere. He considers that a moment, then allows wryly, "And there was that bottle of crème de meth."

"What I got," the clone corrects - and there's a little fizz of something hot and ferocious in his manner. A snap of hunger that has nothing to do with the empty plate in front of him. A hunger that's a close cousin to Miles' own. Keep moving or die. Be smart and outwit them all or die. And watch how I move. But unlike Miles' energy, his hyperactivity, there's something defiant in how the clone displays his pride - something watchful and something angry.

"I did the research on the Dendarii. On Naismith. And I did it a hell of a lot better than any of them did their research on Miles Vorkosigan, and in about one-thirtieth of the time." His chin jerks up. "I know the timing of it. And I know that with you, your accidents aren't really accidents, are they? You made this army, and they let you into the Academy after that. That wasn't some random chain of events." The clone presses his lips together, and then allows, "And it wasn't just nepotism. That's what they always said, the Butcher making things easy on his son, but that wasn't it either."

Miles blinks. "You...think I planned that whole disaster in Tau Verde on purpose? Ahead of time? Just to force them to let me into the Academy?"

Maybe it's the exhaustion, but a choked, near-hysterical laugh escapes from him. Ought he to be flattered that Mark's impression of him is that sophisticated? God, no wonder he's as twitchy as he is. There is something deeply and worryingly funny about it.

There's no mirth in the clone's face. Shortly, he says, "Yeah." He gives a little twitch upwards of his chin. "Not consciously. And not to force them to let you into the Academy. But because you were angry and frustrated. Because you needed and wanted something." He gives a shrug. "Why the hell do you think we went after the Dendaii payrolls to force you out? You need and want to be Naismith. You weren't going to run off, pop home, let them sort themselves out. This all means as much to you as being Vorkosigan."

It's...a little unnerving just how close that hits, even if his clone still isn't quite on the mark. Miles doesn't quite wince, but he does nod in concession, lips twisting.

"You're right. The Dendarii, Admiral Naismith -- it does mean a lot to me. But your angle is still wrong. I didn't orchestrate any of that disaster, I was just -- " He chokes out another laugh, shaking his head. "I was just trying to keep my ass out of the fire. And I almost failed entirely. The Dendarii were nearly the death of me before they were an asset to the Empire. Did you know I was brought up on treason charges?"

"Those were just...rumors," the clone says. "To make it seem like the Emperor wasn't just the Butcher's puppet."

Right? That's a story that makes more sense than the other possibility. It makes more sense than the possibility that the Emperor turned on the man who controlled him. Turned, and then un-turned. No. That's ridiculous, isn't it?

But he doesn't continue on. He just says that, and then waits to see how Miles reacts. What he has to say. He wants to hear. He won't necessarily believe, but he wants to know.

"The hell they were." Miles's eyebrows raise. "Emperor Gregor was being puppeted at the time, I'll grant you, but it sure as hell wasn't by my father. In fact, he was being puppeted directly against my father, and it wouldn't have happened at all if he was, as you say, my father's puppet. Gregor had only just reached the age of majority, and he wanted to prove that he didn't need the former Regent's help in running the Empire, that he could make his own decisions as his own man. And so one of my father's greatest political enemies very deftly used that to turn Gregor against him. Convince the young Emperor that my father, who saved his life, helped raise him and stood by him at every turn, was plotting against him. That I was plotting against him. Purely for personal revenge. And his plan hinged on some very foolish mistakes I made without thinking, without seeing."

Miles turns his hand, showing his clone an open palm. "That spectacle in Tau Verde might have given birth to something great, but it almost destroyed my father, and it damn near killed me. Does that sound like something I'd orchestrate for my own benefit?"

The clone doesn't answer that, which is confirmation enough. No, it doesn't. Not at all. Galen would have a quick answer for that - a description of the endless sadistic perversions of the Vorkosigan clan, firm assurances that not only would the twisted mutated creature turn his father against his Emperor, parricide and regicide both, he would do it happily. Sins of the father turned back on the father. The creature's crazed mind, all those genetic perversions, becoming a curse to the Butcher. Not only was it possible, it was inevitable - oh, yes, Miles Vorkosigan's treachery was inscribed on his very genome.

Maybe that's true. Here I am, after all. Dining willingly with the enemy...

"Why would he have let that happen?" He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. "The Butcher has ways of dealing with his political enemies."

That the clone keeps referring to his father -- their father, Miles corrects himself, because much though his clone won't acknowledge it, they are family -- as the Butcher, nothing else, and Miles has to resist the urge to repeat his father's name every time. It's like an itch. But being combative with Mark right now wouldn't be productive, and Miles is, honestly, a bit too tired to be combative right now. He gulps down the rest of his coffee and gives his clone a small, thin smile.

"What ways?"

Go on. Tell me what lies Galen filled your head with, so I can show you the truth. Show me where Galen distorted the truth where he couldn't lie. Let me justify to you the truth where Galen didn't need to lie at all.

The clone shifts in his chair, his expression hard and suspicious and wary, unblinking as he stares into Miles' face. Is he screwing with me right now? This is the sort of game he's used to - being given an opportunity to fuck up. Having the door thrown wide open so he can screw up massively and suffer the consequences. Always easier, after all, than waiting for him to screw up organically...But what'll be the price if he does fuck up? Miles' smile looks natural enough, if exhausted; there's none of the tension in his face that signals that there's some hidden fury there. But anger isn't the only possible outcome of you showing your weaknesses - and anger isn't really Miles' way, either. Head games, that's his way.

So he starts small. Just a single word. He puts it out there like sticking your hand under the spray of the shower, to test...Well, to test whether the water is secretly acid.

"Murder."

Ah. Miles settles back in his chair, regarding his clone carefully. A bit unsubtle, but then, Galen believes his father to be a murderous would-be despot, and given his opinions on Barrayar...Miles can't really say he's surprised. He tilts his head to the side, not quite in concession.

"I'd be lying if I said the Barrayaran political scene was a clean one," he says mildly. "You know our history, or well enough at least, I trust -- the Pretendership alone was an exercise in blood politics. But my father..." Miles lifts a finger, then curls his hand into a light fist, gesturing vaguely. "The only murder he's ever committed was on Komarr. His political officer. Just after the Solstice Massacre."

Miles cannot say in good faith that he knows exactly which version of that course of events is the true one. Without his political officer to testify or fast-penta, it was his father's word against a dead man's, and you can't prove a negative. And so it had thusly gone down in history as it had been perceived, but Miles...Miles would rather believe otherwise.

"To cover it up." Now, this is a story he knows backwards and forwards. He could probably recite the name of every martyr of the Massacre from memory. And it's not exactly that he cares. There was a time when he did care, intensely, deeply - when he practically felt every bullet fired lancing through his own flesh, through his heart and soul. But there came a point, sometime in the last year, where his concern for Komarr and her dead had just evaporated - where he just became too exhausted. Maybe when he realized that all the pain he'd felt for the Solstice Martyrs simply didn't stack up to the pain of the surgery to replace his bones with synthetics. The faint heat in his voice when he speaks isn't for the dead, as it once would have been. It's simply anger at being lied to so transparently.

"Everyone knows that. He didn't get called the Butcher for killing one man."

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