façade

[isthisart]

Linya gradually feels her way around being proper friends with Ekaterin, not wishing to wreck things with a premature "will you be my Second at my duplicate wedding" request. There is companionable gardening. There is, when Linya and Jocelyn make an unexpected sudden breakthrough in causing the nibs to behave, which holds when they fabricate a prototype and test it out, a fountain pen for Ekaterin. (In addition to Miles's and Count Vorkosigan's. And one for Emperor Gregor, which has got to be worth all the R&D in advertising alone.) When Miles's legs are more or less completely healed, they skip off to Vorkosigan Surleau for a few days and he teaches her to fly a lightflyer, which she enjoys very much and picks up very quickly. Linya writes Miles a song. (It has no words, she doesn't feel up to lyrics, but it is very pretty and slightly different every time she plays/sings it.) With the nibs handled and all the Barrayaran languages learned Linya spends more time reading textbooks and signs up for a university placement exam to see how far ahead into advanced classes on various things she can skip, and awaits her results.

And snuggles her tiny Barrayaran.

Comments

[whyexit]

A few jumps from Jackson's Whole, he makes his suitably obscured rendezvous with the Dendarii Mercenaries and meets up with Captain Bel Thorne of the Ariel.

Captain Bel Thorne of the Ariel is so pleased to see him.

"Admiral. Where are we haring off to this time?"

[thisvorlunatic]

"Is that l—never mind," says Miles. His Betan accent is as smooth as ever; he's been practicing on the way, settling into the role of Admiral Naismith, mercenary commander. A much more interesting person than Lieutenant Vorkosigan, Barrayaran Imperial Security courier.

"It's off to Jackson's Whole," he continues without missing a beat, determined not to let Bel's cosmetic choices throw him off. "I'll need the Ariel; the rest of the fleet can stay behind. We'll be picking up some weapons from House Fell. Nothing to get too excited about." Not that Bel seems to be excited about the mission, at the moment.

[whyexit]

"Wretched hive of scum and villainy, yes sir," chirps Thorne, and it's off to peel the Ariel away from its friends without anybody getting curious and plot a course.

[thisvorlunatic]

Admiral Naismith permits himself a small sigh of resignation before he heads off to his usual cabin aboard the Ariel.

He really isn't sure how to put Bel off without explicitly revealing that he's married. Lesser protestations have never seemed to do the trick.

[whyexit]

Over the five day voyage ensuing, Bel continues to make various experiments with cosmetics and perfume, though that's all it does.

When they're approaching the wretched hive, it approaches his door, which chimes. "Admiral Naismith?" comes its voice over the com.

[thisvorlunatic]

Miles disengages from his contemplation of their shopping list. "Enter," he invites.

[whyexit]

In comes Thorne. And Thorne's flowery perfume. It salutes. "We're docking in thirty minutes, sir."

[thisvorlunatic]

"Thank you, Bel," sighs Miles. "Have you ever been to Jackson's Whole before?"

In the vain hope of providing a distraction, he calls up an image of the planet. It hovers above his comconsole's holovid plate, turning slowly, a chill and mountainous rock decorated with a multitude of satellites and stations whose carefully delineated orbital paths nearly obscure the planet's populated equatorial zone with their multicoloured glow. The slender lines of authorized approach vectors weave messily through the lace of orbits, offering a headache to any pilot trying to drop a shuttle on the planet or dock at one of the many orbital stations without being struck by space debris or giving lethal offense to some local corporate warlord.

[whyexit]

"Oh, once, when I was with Admiral Oser's fleet. House Fell's changed barons since. The reputation for the weapons is the same, though - good if you know what you're buying and don't take discount neutron hand grenades."

[thisvorlunatic]

Miles fails to suppress a snicker. "Recommended for the strong of throwing-arm, eh? Fear not, our shopping list is carefully curated." He extracts the data disk from the comconsole's slot and holds it out for Bel to take.

[whyexit]

Bel leans over to take it. It's in uniform, but has chosen undergarments that make this the most obvious fact about its person by a smaller margin than usual. "And... crew leave?" it inquires, plucking the disk from his hand with a little overlap of fingers on the way. "While we wait for cargo load-up. You, too, why not, there's a hostel I remember that should still be there. Pool, sauna, brilliant little cafés." Its voice softens. "They've got double rooms."

[thisvorlunatic]

"I was intending to limit the crew to day passes," he says, with the quellingest look he can muster. He's afraid it's not up to par.

[whyexit]

"You know I'm a woman," Thorne murmurs, "too, don't you?" It puts a hand gently on his shoulder.

[thisvorlunatic]

"Among many other things, yes," says Miles, "such as for example my subordinate, in case you'd forgotten."

[whyexit]

"That's not really your objection, is it? I can't picture you being very careful about fraternization if it weren't for - I don't know what it is. Hopeless amounts of monosexuality?"

[thisvorlunatic]

"Try 'monogamy'," he suggests.

[whyexit]

"Really!" says Thorne, sounding, principally if not exclusively, charmed. "Aww."

[thisvorlunatic]

"Really. So, if you'll excuse me—" He gently lifts Bel's hand off his shoulder.

[whyexit]

"Sure. Sorry." Thorne withdraws its hand. "Aww. Admiral Naismith with a wife-or-whatever safe at home on Beta Colony? Boring place..."

[thisvorlunatic]

"But a great one to raise kids, yes," he says, smiling wryly.

[whyexit]

"'Course it is." Thorne tilts its head. "You are," it pronounces, "an almost perfect Betan. So close - you have the accent, you have the in-jokes..."

[thisvorlunatic]

Crap, thinks Miles, trying not to freeze.

"And where do I go wrong...?"

[whyexit]

Thorne reaches out and touches his cheek.

[thisvorlunatic]

He can't quite suppress a flinch.

[whyexit]

"Reflexes," says Thorne. "Don't worry. I won't tell."