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]

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."

[thisvorlunatic]

"Well, thank you for that," he says, mildly disgruntled. "Now would you like to hear about the mission?"

[whyexit]

"Inventory," snorts Thorne.

[thisvorlunatic]

"Inventory isn't the mission, it's the cover," Miles corrects. "Here I am, a mercenary admiral, looking to establish a relationship with the new Baron of House Fell, biggest arms supplier this side of Beta Colony itself and considerably less inclined to hold their noses before selling swords to the swordsellers. Perfectly legitimate, at least by Jacksonian standards. And while we're here, we're going to pick up a new recruit, a middle-aged man looking to sign on as a medtech. At which point all crew leave is cancelled, we finish loading cargo as fast as we can stuff it into the hold, and we saunter innocently away as fast as we can innocently saunter."

[whyexit]

"Aha. He'll be sorely missed, I imagine? Someone hopes very badly he'll turn up at the office party and will take exception."

[thisvorlunatic]

"You could say that, yes. He's the top geneticist in the research arm of House Bharaputra's infernally infamous biolabs. When he deserts us the moment we make fleet rendezvous by Escobar and seeks refuge with an unnamed planetary government, we will be terribly offended that he took us in with his 'simple medtech recruit' ruse. Which should mollify Baron Bharaputra enough that he won't have his enforcement arm chase us down and wipe us off the astromap."

[whyexit]

"Nice, simple payday," says Thorne.

[thisvorlunatic]

"So I trust." So he hopes, more like. "Now go place our order. And since you were so keen on shore leave, you can accompany me to Baron Fell's next social gathering for high-paying and/or otherwise interesting customers. I imagine he'll fit me into his schedule sometime in the next day or so."

[whyexit]

"Ah, the soft cushy bits of the wretched hive," says Thorne. "Can't wait."



The soft cushy reception hall, when they get there - sooner than Miles's initial prediction - is very much both things, and also opulent to the point where their grey velvet dress uniforms are practically underdressing. It's populated by guests and servants, with the former cliquish and the latter obsequious. They are offered peculiar little beverages on a tray. Thorne is unsure whether to take one.

[thisvorlunatic]

"Why the hell not?" Miles murmurs under his breath. "I imagine poisoning your customers is a counterproductive business practice." He selects two refreshments at random, one mysterious green leaf-shaped niblet that turns out to be a dyed pastry with a jelly filling made from mystery fruit, and one mysterious drink that turns out to have too high an ethanol concentration for Miles's skewed metabolism. He discreetly leaves the small crystal goblet on the next flat surface they pass, afraid that a second sip might be enough to trigger the soporific effect that the substance has on him in any significant quantities. Mustn't meet Baron Fell while asleep on his feet.

[whyexit]

Thorne doesn't have that problem and keeps hold of its beverage.