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[A man appears on the network of indeterminate age, extremely short-- under five feet tall, easily-- with a slight hunch to his posture and Germanic features. His eyes are sharply alive, bright with challenge. There's no hesitation as he speaks, in a gravelly kind of accent that sounds almost Russian, the words flowing quickly as he makes them up on the spot.
Right now, he desperately needs intel of all kinds, and eventually a spotter to watch him while he uses his seizure inducer. That fact he's assiduously ignoring. He'd checked his neurotransmitter levels this morning, and he has at least three days, even with all the stress of arrival. No, four days, probably. Five. Really, he can go a lot longer without one than the ImpSec medical staff had given him credit for. --Focus, Vorkosigan.]
So. I see you all have quite a neat set up here. Let's not waste time. Who can bring me up to speed, ex tempore? Surely we have more intelligence than "don't say its name" on our bogey man. Since confirmed facts are likely to be scarce, personal accounts would be acceptable.
I'm also taking proposals for getting miserably drunk at the bar, as is traditional in times of drawn out peril. I need someone to drag me home, y'see; alcohol has quite a soporific effect on my constitution. [And Ivan is unfortunately not here to do the dragging. Miles ignores the resulting pang that inspires in him.
Then he hesitates imperceptibly, the memory of his previous catastrophic failure to report his seizures clanging loudly through his brain. No. He can't ignore this, much as he'd like to. The only thing that scares Miles more than never going home is turning into a vegetable, mindless and drooling. He can at least do the preliminary investigation about options.]
Information about local medical facilities would be appreciated as well. They're not all-- er, at this level of technology, are they? [He looks dubious about anyone surviving on that level of medical care, but immediately recovers with a wide, convincing smile.] I'd just like to know preemptively for when I wake up with a skull splitting headache.
Right now, he desperately needs intel of all kinds, and eventually a spotter to watch him while he uses his seizure inducer. That fact he's assiduously ignoring. He'd checked his neurotransmitter levels this morning, and he has at least three days, even with all the stress of arrival. No, four days, probably. Five. Really, he can go a lot longer without one than the ImpSec medical staff had given him credit for. --Focus, Vorkosigan.]
So. I see you all have quite a neat set up here. Let's not waste time. Who can bring me up to speed, ex tempore? Surely we have more intelligence than "don't say its name" on our bogey man. Since confirmed facts are likely to be scarce, personal accounts would be acceptable.
I'm also taking proposals for getting miserably drunk at the bar, as is traditional in times of drawn out peril. I need someone to drag me home, y'see; alcohol has quite a soporific effect on my constitution. [And Ivan is unfortunately not here to do the dragging. Miles ignores the resulting pang that inspires in him.
Then he hesitates imperceptibly, the memory of his previous catastrophic failure to report his seizures clanging loudly through his brain. No. He can't ignore this, much as he'd like to. The only thing that scares Miles more than never going home is turning into a vegetable, mindless and drooling. He can at least do the preliminary investigation about options.]
Information about local medical facilities would be appreciated as well. They're not all-- er, at this level of technology, are they? [He looks dubious about anyone surviving on that level of medical care, but immediately recovers with a wide, convincing smile.] I'd just like to know preemptively for when I wake up with a skull splitting headache.
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[He sounds almost thoughtful. Sometimes he wishes choice could've been part of his actions, but it never had been. A warrior did not always get to choose the duty it must carry out. It had to be done. Whether he still believed in the ideals and half-truths they had filled his head with as a kid or not, some things had to be seen through to the end.
But since coming to the wall, whatever early notions of heroism had quickly given away until but one driving force remained.]
I can't say I joined for anything like that. All this time... All I ever wanted to do was to go home.
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[This fellow's life is clearly more complicated than Miles might have credited at first. He doesn't want to make any presumptions, and similarly he wants to know his overall goal. If he's going to try to gain his cooperation (the word recruit isn't quite right-- recruit into what?) then it's necessary information. Not just to manipulate him, but because Miles generally likes to leave his tag-alongs in a better condition than how he found them. Though he doesn't think of it in those terms, it's straight forward magnanimity on his part.]
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Yes. I'll do anything for that.
[Not just for the sake of going home himself, but more importantly to bring Annie and Bertolt home. Bringing them home is paramount to anything at this point. Their mission seems lost from what he can see, he cannot go back to how anything was. At best they can home, and hope their coming home without results won't be taken too hard.]
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Then we're in agreement. [There's a calm, collected air to him, a sign of just how comfortable he is with authority. It shrouds him without him thinking about it. He doesn't mean to, he does try not to be overbearing, but Miles is defined by those that support him and they're invisible shadows at his back even now.
Shadows he must return to.] I have my own duty.
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[A brow rises.]
And what would that duty be?
[A grin follows because he has learned how well people respond to a bit of friendliness.]
Come on, how do they say it... I show you mine, you show me yours? I told you about mine. Least we can do is make it even here, right?
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I have a duty to my Emperor, my planet, my district. [At one point that would include the Dendarii, but no more.] A whole heap of duties. I haven't been Imperial Auditor very long-- embarrassing to be pulled away from it so precipitously.
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They said our worlds are on pause, but who knows if that is true.
[It doesn't matter so much for him. He has the two people he needs right here, and back home, the mission was a failure anyway.]
So, what does an Imperial Auditor do? Anything as impressive as it sounds like?
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[Awkward pause. Right, let's just go on. By all rights this topic shouldn't be any less awkward, but as before, Miles is perfectly comfortable with the absurd amount of power his position grants him back on Barrayar, and in fact he doesn't even abuse it. He was born and raised for authority like this, and he's altruistic to a romantic extent.]
Actually, yes. It isn't finance related anymore-- at least not usually. I speak with the Emperor's Voice. [You can hear the capitals.] I am his representative and his hands wherever he needs me. It's a position of immense trust. Barrayaran subjects have to obey me with the same alacrity they would Gregor himself.
[Miles has slid into the position more smoothly than any other thing he's attempted before in his life. It's unbelievably well suited to him.]
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Can't say I did, but that just means I've got to be filled in, right? Starting with... what are clones?
[He'll come back to that Imperial Auditor part later. It might be an important thing to know in the future, so they can figure out what use they might get out of this strange, tiny man, but it is nothing as pressing as knowing what is going on in this place right now.]
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I consider my clone to be my brother. [Which is the Betan way of doing things. And that is a personal issue with a subtle line of steel to it.
As for the Imperial Auditorship, it does mean Miles has the authority to make alliances or enemies on behalf of the entire planet of Barrayar, but he's not going to point that out to anyone who doesn't think of it themselves. Alternate dimension this might be, but if he can get here, so can the rest of his galaxy, hypothetically.]
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He's quiet for a few moments as he tries to work it all together, his brows furrowed.]
They... made copies of us?
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Which doesn't make sense for a host of reasons, but that's-- what the information I've found says.
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He still doesn't understand the why and how behind it, but that is not something he needs to know to understand what was done to them, what they might potentially know about them now. Did whoever copied them know about what they really were? With Reiner's limited understanding of science, he can only imagine the copying to have taking place in the same way one would build a second bridge. Every part would have been examined before being put into place. Had that happened? Did they know everything?
His fingers twitch, wanting to go up to the back of his neck and cover it, but he suppresses the gesture.
The idea that whoever was behind this might know exactly what they were was as terrifying as the idea that perhaps their abilities had not been copied over. They weren't human. Even if that was taken away from them, it didn't make them human. It just made them weak. So many of his assumptions about this place had been riding on the idea that they could still transform, could still heal, could still be the warriors they were. Without those skills, all they had was their 3DMG with their pathetic supply of gas and blades.
Suddenly he realizes he has been quiet too long, and he jerks his eyes back to up to Miles. An embarrassed grin spreads on his face as he reaches up to rub the back of his neck. He plays the gesture off as further sign of his embarrassment, but really, this has left him shaken enough that he needs the comfort of covering his neck for just a moment.]
Man, that's-- I'm not sure if I'm going to sleep well tonight knowing there are two Annies around now.
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With that on his mind, he volunteers,] There's two of me. I have a clone normally, that is. Back home. My brother Mark. Pity he's not here-- I could ask him how to deal with being a copy of me.
[There's a slight, darkly sarcastic edge to that statement, years of weighted history behind it, but Miles means it as a light diversion.]
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Geeze, makes a guy wish he was back home, you know? Fighting titans isn't easy, but at least then I knew what I was fighting.
[Things are so much easier when he can hit them with a sword.]
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I haven't even gotten to make my first official Auditorial visit, [he complains. Miles does look like he's itching to receive his orders.] Just the traditionally unannounced one I did as a temp assignment.
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[In some ways it is easier to focus on this guy and push away the turmoil in his head. He can focus on that later, once he has been able to put a knife to his palm to check if he can still heal. It's not a complete confirmation, but even knowing that his healing is still there would be somewhat of a comfort. If only there was a quiet enough place here where they could test their transformations, but the city for sure is too busy.]
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It tends to be investigative, though. Mysterious death in the upper echelons of command? Inexplicable hold up in galactic diplomacy? Anything that needs Gregor's personal attention where he can't spare it-- or can't go. [For security reasons, the Emperor can't leave Vorbarr Sultana very often, something Miles knows can drive Gregor up the wall.]
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[There is no real bite to that, and it spoken with a wry grin. More there is the sort of common understanding shared by soldiers that know that for all their hard work, their superiors will receive the praise.
Behind that though, he is memorizing every scrap of information. Investigations, figuring things out. It makes this diminutive, weirdly shaped man so much more dangerous, in the same way that Armin is dangerous. Force they can deal with, wounds can be healed, but eyes that see the little details and are able to link them together... those were their downfall once.]
Unless I hugely off base here.
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Gregor has even more work than glory, if you can believe that, so I can't hold it against him if he passes some off to me. It's an honor, anyway. [Which he means sincerely.] But no, Lord Auditors are quite famous. The appearance of one tends to make any loyal Barrayaran search their conscience on the spot-- moreso if they're disloyal, I suppose.
[It was his previous job that was all work and no glory. Thirteen years in covert ops, and Miles couldn't tell a soul on Barrayar how he'd served them. It drove him nearly mad a few times, for others to look at his service record and know only that he'd been Lieutenant for a decade with no promotion, and no visible outward reason why. A lowly galactic courier had been his public face when he was back on planet. Imperial Auditorship was a relief in several ways-- he could be public, if not honest, about his doings.
He could explain all that about ImpSec, but Miles sees no reason to advertise that so publicly just yet.]
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[He figures that is what the police could've been if it weren't so mired by its own corruption.]
Should I ask how someone ends up with a position like that or is that too private?
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Mmm, the long version is private, the short version is not. [Miles decides rapidly how much he wants to reveal, and offers a careless shrug.] My father was Regent when I was small, until Emperor Gregor came of age. We know each other pretty well. He trusts my loyalty.
[That's a much profounder statement than it seems on the surface from the casual way Miles says it. Years of doubt preceded that trust, and Miles is prouder of it, and more intensely relieved, than almost any other accomplishment to date.]
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Trustworthy guys tend to be hard to come by.
[He sure isn't one, for example.]
I knew a guy once who wanted nothing more than to serve our king.
[Regardless of everything, there is a note of grief in his voice. And doesn't that make him the cruelest guy? He had cared for these kids, all of them in the 104th, but that hadn't stopped him from carrying out their mission. He had allowed these kids to trust him knowing that their deaths at his hands were nothing short of inevitable.]
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The man being mentioned here is someone who's dead, he assumes grimly. Miles goes quiet for a second, before offering,] We're all serving something. King, Emperor, ideal. Even self-interest. You just have to know what they're trustworthy to.
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