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

[sweet_song]

And there begins a dizzyingly complex harmony, even more intricate than the most involved pieces Linya has been known to produce when in the mood for a challenge; there must be more than one player -

There isn't.

It's one woman, eyes closed, floating in a null-gee bubble with an instrument before her crisscrossed with wires on both sides of its flat wooden body. She's striking it with all four of her hands, fast and precise and lovely.

[whyexit]

"Good God. She's a quaddie," says Thorne.

[thisvorlunatic]

"A what?"

[whyexit]

"Quaddie. What's she doing all the way out here?"

[thisvorlunatic]

"Not an, er, local product, then?"

[whyexit]

"Oh, no."

[thisvorlunatic]

"I'm relieved. I think," mutters Miles. "So where did she come from?"

[whyexit]

"Oh, about two hundred years ago, around when hermaphrodites were invented, there were all sorts of projects, in the wake of the development of the uterine replicator in its practical form. Later there were restrictive laws about it most places, but first someone thought they'd make freefall-dwellers. Only for artificial gravity to be invented. The quaddies migrated off beyond Earth relative to here, got rather insular, I'm very surprised there's one this far out."

[sweet_song]

The quaddie plays beautiful music, anyway.

Then her song ends and she opens her eyes, looking tense and sad when no longer buoyed by her song.

[whyexit]

Thorne almost applauds, but no one else seems to be paying much attention to the performance; it would be the only one.

[thisvorlunatic]

An entire artificial division of humanity, rendered obsolete by technological advances almost in the very hour of their birth. The mind boggles.

Miles observes Thorne's thwarted impulse and suggests in an undertone, "Why not speak to her instead?"

[whyexit]

"Oh - I suppose," says Bel, smiling, and it approaches the grav-bubble. "Ah - hello."

[sweet_song]

The quaddie - vaults is not the right word for an action perfomed in null gravity, but at any rate goes over her instrument to float on the other side of it and be within comfortable speaking distance of Thorne. "Hello."

[whyexit]

"What do you call the instrument? It's fantastic," says Thorne, almost blurting it.

[sweet_song]

"It's a double-sided hammer dulcimer, si- ma'am? - officer."

[whyexit]

"Captain Bel Thorne," supplies Thorne. "Of the Ariel, Dendarii Free Mercenaries. Enchanted. What brings a quaddie all the way out here?"

[sweet_song]

"Oh - you've heard of us? Most people think I'm - manufactured - I worked my way as far as Earth, and was looking for further employment. Baron Fell hired me."

[whyexit]

"I've heard of quaddies, yes - I'm, ah, a Betan hermaphrodite myself, have a bit of personal interest in the early genetics explosion. What's your name?"

[sweet_song]

"Nicol. So you're a genetic too?"

[whyexit]

"Certainly. No last name?"

[sweet_song]

Nicol shakes her head. "My people don't use them."

[whyexit]

"Nicol is a beautiful name," adds Thorne. "What are you doing after the party -?"

[thisvorlunatic]

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.

[sweet_song]

"Ah, there you are, Fell," says another, much younger-looking baron, dressed after the same general standard as Fell but flanked by a bodyguard who's almost certainly metabolically enhanced and ready to defend his master at the twitch of a finger in the wrong direction.

"Ryoval," says Fell. He introduces Miles and Thorne as corresponding to the Ariel.

Ryoval has no further interest in the Dendarii. He peers around them at Nicol, still floating in her bubble, hands politely palm-to-palm twice over, but a bit farther back from the edge of the bubble at Ryoval's approach and with the air of someone trying very hard not to make a facial expression. "My agent didn't exaggerate her charms. Can you have her play -"

Ryoval's wristcom chimes.

"Excuse me, Georish," he says to Fell, and he attends to the call. "Ryoval. And this had better be important."

The person on the other end assures him that it is, introduces themselves, and informs Ryoval that "that creature House Bharaputra sold us has savaged a customer".

"I told you," says Ryoval, "to chain it with duralloy."

"We did, sir. The chains held; it tore the bolts out of the wall."

"Stun it."

"We have."

"Then punish it suitably when it awakens. A sufficiently long period without food should dull its aggression; its metabolism is unbelievable."

"And the customer?"

"Whatever comforts he asks for. On the House."

"I... don't think he'll be in shape to appreciate them for a while, sir. He's still in the hospital. Unconscious, mercifully -"

"Put," snaps Ryoval, "my personal physician on the case, and I'll take care of the rest when I'm downside, in about six hours. Ryoval out." And that is the end of the call. "Morons. Pardon the interruption, please, Georish. Anyway, can you have her play something?"

"Play something, Nicol," agrees Fell.

Nicol nods, positions herself, and plays, discomfort yielding to a perfect tranquility as she fills the room with music.

Until Ryoval interrupts her. "That's enough - she's precisely as described. My agent described her charms perfectly."

Nicol, frustrated by having to stumble to a halt mid-phrase, jams her dulcimer hammers back into their holders, disgruntled.

"Perhaps you have also received my regrets."

"But my agent was only authorized to negotiate so high - for something so unique there's no substitute for direct contact."

"I enjoy her skills where they are. It's harder at my age to come by enjoyment than money."

"So true. But other enjoyments might suffice. I could arrange something special. Not in the catalog."

"Her musical skills, Ryoval. Which are unique, genuine, not artificial creations to be duplicated in your laboratories."

"My laboratories can duplicate anything."

"Except, by definition, originality."

"Well," says Ryoval. "A tissue sample? It would do her no damage, and you could enjoy her services uninterrupted."

"It would damage her uniqueness. Circulating counterfeits brings down the value of the real thing, you know that, Ry." Fell grins.

"But not for some time. The lead time on a mature clone is at least ten years - ah, but you know that." He bows, apologetically, although he's been impolite.

"Indeed," says Fell coldly.

[whyexit]

"Wh-" begins Thorne. "You can't sell a freeborn galactic citizen's tissues! You don't own them, she's not some Jackson's Whole construct."

"He can sell her contract," says Ryoval. "Which is what we were discussing. Privately."

"And what difference does that make, if you're talking to him about her tissue samples - it's totally illegal!"

"I suppose you're Betan," says Ryoval. "That explains it - illegal is whatever the planet you are on chooses to call so and is able to enforce. I don't see any Betan enforcers here to share their morality with us, do you, Fell?"

"So," snaps Thorne, when Fell's only reaction is an amused twitch, "it'd be legal if I drew a weapon and blew your head off, would it?"

(The bodyguard does not seem to like this suggestion.)