Miles watches all of this with interest - and no small degree of vindication, to finally see Bel Thorne in the role of flustered instead of flusterer.
But nothing good lasts, of course. Miles drifts from his politely unobtrusive distance back into Bel's near proximity and murmurs upwards from its elbow, "Look sharp, Captain." He takes his own advice in the next moment, as their host approaches.
The new Baron Fell - Miles's pre-mission briefing gave his personal name as Georish Stauber - is surprisingly old for someone so new to such a lofty position. He has a genial, grandfatherly air about him, like a balding Santa Claus, fat and jolly with red cheeks and snowy what's-left-of-his-hair. Despite this well-calculated image, Miles doesn't have much trouble keeping in mind that you don't get to be head of a major Jacksonian House by handing out presents at Winterfair.
"Admiral Naismith," says the baron. "Captain Thorne. Welcome to Fell Station."
Miles bows smoothly. And then catches himself when Thorne has trouble copying the gesture - the habits he has can be just as damning to his cover as the habits he lacks; a true Betan, unlike a Vor lord, is not at home with aristocratic courtesies.
But Baron Fell doesn't seem to notice. "Have you been well taken care of so far?"
"Very much, thank you. I particularly enjoyed the hors d'oeuvres," says Miles, giving the phrase the Betan pronunciation.
"Pleased to hear it," says the baron. "And glad to meet you at last. I've heard a great deal about you, Admiral."
"Have you," says Miles. "Good things, I hope?"
"Remarkable things. Your rise has been as rapid as your origins are mysterious."
Miles is now thoroughly confused and not a little nervous. He makes his best effort to conceal both, and favours the baron with a politely inquiring noise.
"The story of your fleet's success at Vervain reached us even here." Miles experiences a brief flash of inappropriate triumph, which he also suppresses. A real admiral oughtn't be so starved for fame. "Such a shame about the previous commander - what was his name?"
"I regret Admiral Oser's death," says Miles, with a sincerity that he suspects won't transfer.
"These things do happen," shrugs the baron. "Command is not a commodity easily shared."
"He would have been more valuable to me as a subordinate than a corpse," says Miles.
"Indeed," says Baron Fell. "Pity he didn't seem to agree."
Right, so Baron Fell thinks Admiral Naismith assassinated the commander of the Oseran Mercenaries to complete his takeover. Well, Baron Fell can think that if he likes. Miles answers him with nothing more than a polite smile.
"And yet, you... you interest me considerably," the baron goes on. "Your apparent age - your prior military career..."
Oh, hell, what does this man know? Miles forces himself to stay calm.
"Do the rumours run equally true about your Betan rejuvenation treatment?" continues the baron, and Miles blinks dizzily. So that's the big mystery Fell thinks he's solved here. Ha.
"What's your interest?" he counters lightly. "Surely on Jackson's Whole of all places, there's no shortage of life extension procedures to be had for a man of your wealth and power. I've heard it said that some Jacksonians are walking around in their third cloned body."
"Not I," says the baron with a shake of his head.
"My condolences, sir," says Miles with his best fake sincerity. The fewer people using that cannibalistic demon-ritual of a medical operation, the better. "Is it a medical problem that bars you, or...?"
"You could say that. I'm not entirely satisfied with the risks of the brain transplant operation. Death, permanent damage... it's a troubling subject."
Miles bites his tongue on any commentary about the one hundred percent fatality rate among innocent clones.
"I see what you mean," he says instead, neutrally.
"And then of course," the baron continues, "there is the... other risk. Some patients die on the operating table from causes other than the strictly medical. If their enemies are sufficiently powerful, sufficiently subtle. I have many enemies, Admiral. This gives me an interest in... less risky alternatives."
"Oh," murmurs Miles. He makes a rapid calculation of his angle, then continues smoothly, "It's true, I once took part in an experiment. To my ultimate regret. Promising results in animal testing failed to carry through to," he gestures to himself, "the first human trial. I won't disturb you with the details, but although my outward appearance is healthy, I experience considerable pain and I have certain inconvenient fragilities. I cannot recommend the procedure."
The baron gazes disappointedly at the short and slightly crooked figure of Miles. "I see," he murmurs. "But surely progress has been made, in the intervening years...?"
"Alas," says Miles. "The project head died of old age, and although I have listened closely, I have heard no rumour of a successor taking up his noble work."
"Oh," sighs the Baron, with a trace of a slump about his shoulders. Miles sympathizes with his crushed hopes, at least as far as they represent a desire - however selfish - to veer away from the Jacksonian practice of cloning new bodies when the old ones wear out. But there's not much he can do, because there is no Betan rejuvenation treatment. He hopes his lie will be sufficiently discouraging to steer Fell away from the false rumour without steering him all the way back to clone consumption.
no subject
But nothing good lasts, of course. Miles drifts from his politely unobtrusive distance back into Bel's near proximity and murmurs upwards from its elbow, "Look sharp, Captain." He takes his own advice in the next moment, as their host approaches.
The new Baron Fell - Miles's pre-mission briefing gave his personal name as Georish Stauber - is surprisingly old for someone so new to such a lofty position. He has a genial, grandfatherly air about him, like a balding Santa Claus, fat and jolly with red cheeks and snowy what's-left-of-his-hair. Despite this well-calculated image, Miles doesn't have much trouble keeping in mind that you don't get to be head of a major Jacksonian House by handing out presents at Winterfair.
"Admiral Naismith," says the baron. "Captain Thorne. Welcome to Fell Station."
Miles bows smoothly. And then catches himself when Thorne has trouble copying the gesture - the habits he has can be just as damning to his cover as the habits he lacks; a true Betan, unlike a Vor lord, is not at home with aristocratic courtesies.
But Baron Fell doesn't seem to notice. "Have you been well taken care of so far?"
"Very much, thank you. I particularly enjoyed the hors d'oeuvres," says Miles, giving the phrase the Betan pronunciation.
"Pleased to hear it," says the baron. "And glad to meet you at last. I've heard a great deal about you, Admiral."
"Have you," says Miles. "Good things, I hope?"
"Remarkable things. Your rise has been as rapid as your origins are mysterious."
Miles is now thoroughly confused and not a little nervous. He makes his best effort to conceal both, and favours the baron with a politely inquiring noise.
"The story of your fleet's success at Vervain reached us even here." Miles experiences a brief flash of inappropriate triumph, which he also suppresses. A real admiral oughtn't be so starved for fame. "Such a shame about the previous commander - what was his name?"
"I regret Admiral Oser's death," says Miles, with a sincerity that he suspects won't transfer.
"These things do happen," shrugs the baron. "Command is not a commodity easily shared."
"He would have been more valuable to me as a subordinate than a corpse," says Miles.
"Indeed," says Baron Fell. "Pity he didn't seem to agree."
Right, so Baron Fell thinks Admiral Naismith assassinated the commander of the Oseran Mercenaries to complete his takeover. Well, Baron Fell can think that if he likes. Miles answers him with nothing more than a polite smile.
"And yet, you... you interest me considerably," the baron goes on. "Your apparent age - your prior military career..."
Oh, hell, what does this man know? Miles forces himself to stay calm.
"Do the rumours run equally true about your Betan rejuvenation treatment?" continues the baron, and Miles blinks dizzily. So that's the big mystery Fell thinks he's solved here. Ha.
"What's your interest?" he counters lightly. "Surely on Jackson's Whole of all places, there's no shortage of life extension procedures to be had for a man of your wealth and power. I've heard it said that some Jacksonians are walking around in their third cloned body."
"Not I," says the baron with a shake of his head.
"My condolences, sir," says Miles with his best fake sincerity. The fewer people using that cannibalistic demon-ritual of a medical operation, the better. "Is it a medical problem that bars you, or...?"
"You could say that. I'm not entirely satisfied with the risks of the brain transplant operation. Death, permanent damage... it's a troubling subject."
Miles bites his tongue on any commentary about the one hundred percent fatality rate among innocent clones.
"I see what you mean," he says instead, neutrally.
"And then of course," the baron continues, "there is the... other risk. Some patients die on the operating table from causes other than the strictly medical. If their enemies are sufficiently powerful, sufficiently subtle. I have many enemies, Admiral. This gives me an interest in... less risky alternatives."
"Oh," murmurs Miles. He makes a rapid calculation of his angle, then continues smoothly, "It's true, I once took part in an experiment. To my ultimate regret. Promising results in animal testing failed to carry through to," he gestures to himself, "the first human trial. I won't disturb you with the details, but although my outward appearance is healthy, I experience considerable pain and I have certain inconvenient fragilities. I cannot recommend the procedure."
The baron gazes disappointedly at the short and slightly crooked figure of Miles. "I see," he murmurs. "But surely progress has been made, in the intervening years...?"
"Alas," says Miles. "The project head died of old age, and although I have listened closely, I have heard no rumour of a successor taking up his noble work."
"Oh," sighs the Baron, with a trace of a slump about his shoulders. Miles sympathizes with his crushed hopes, at least as far as they represent a desire - however selfish - to veer away from the Jacksonian practice of cloning new bodies when the old ones wear out. But there's not much he can do, because there is no Betan rejuvenation treatment. He hopes his lie will be sufficiently discouraging to steer Fell away from the false rumour without steering him all the way back to clone consumption.