Miles, out of his available options, chooses to go quietly. It's not like he could overpower even one-half of one of these guards in unarmed close combat, and they're not unarmed. Besides, if they're going to kill him, he'd rather be conscious at the time. Call it Vorkosigan bloody-mindedness.
But in fact they don't kill him. They haul him up to an office of some kind, where a comconsole displays a light-fixture's eye view of Miles's cell, currently containing a stunned Galeni. Miles is dragged over to stand in front of an older man, whose face looks vaguely familiar - perhaps from a scanner-shield-blurred glimpse the night before. The man sits on a comfortable curved bench and toys with a hypospray.
It takes a moment for Miles to make the connection, because the senior Galen doesn't look much like his son. He moves like him, though. Like an inverse of the connection between Miles and his clone - different bodies animated by the same program of coiled murderous tension.
"So," says Galen, rising to circle Miles like a bird of prey. Miles stands very still. "The genuine article at last. Twisted little thing. What a perfect representation of Barrayar - Aral Vorkosigan's secret moral genotype made flesh."
"Poetic," says Miles, "but biologically inaccurate. As you must know, having cloned me."
Galen smiles a horrible false little smile and shakes his head, dismissing the point. "You couldn't help being born, I suppose - no one can. But why do you stay loyal to the monster? He made you into this," with a sharp gesture at Miles's stunted body. "And yet retains your... fealty. What is the man's secret - with what charisma does he hypnotize not only his own son but everyone else's too?" Galen does not quite manage to stop himself looking at the vid feed from the cell. "Why do you follow him? Why does David? What corruption draws my son to wriggle into that uniform and march behind Vorkosigan?"
Miles tries to restrain himself, but fails. "My father is kind to me," he snaps. "You might try it sometime."
The man jerks back as though physically struck. Miles curses inwardly as Galen orbits toward the padded bench where he left his hypospray. The guards hold Miles still, and one rolls up his sleeve. The hypospray is applied.
Fast-penta or poison? Fast-penta or poison? If the former, he should be shifting gears down to a mellow friendly calm any minute now. He doesn't feel mellow, calm, or friendly. He feels anxious as hell. Maybe it's poison after all, an overdose of some stimulant, to make his heart burst in his chest. Or maybe it is fast-penta and he has a natural allergy - he has no implanted one, which they'd surely know, having no doubt accessed all his medical records, but they didn't check for a reaction... sloppy. Won't they be surprised.
And yet, he's still breathing. Hyperventilating, but not fatally. Someone shoves him into a chair; he collapses gratefully. Standing takes too much effort - all those muscles to coordinate - he can barely coordinate the inside of his own brain, just at the moment.
"Describe the security procedures for entry and exit from the Barrayaran embassy," says Galen.
Oh, it's fast-penta after all. Stupid question, though, they're bound to have gotten that out of the other fellow already, unless what they really want is a description of "...how to get Ivan to sneak you in," Miles hears himself saying; it takes him a moment to recognize his own voice saying the words and realize it is happening outside his head. "Fuck, I was hoping my reaction was screwy enough that this part wouldn't work. Sucks to be me. Spilling my brains out my mouth, ugh." The image comes to mind with unpleasant vividness.
"Describe the security procedures for entry and exit from the Barrayaran embassy!" hisses Galen.
"Sergeant Barth's the one in charge. Obnoxious fucker. Won't do what he's bloody told, and I think he thinks I'm a mutie..." Miles runs on, at a rate of about forty percent personal commentary to sixty percent secure data, except where the two categories overlap. Unable to stop himself, he goes on at length about every hole he can think of in the embassy's security net; his increasing agitation only turns the recital into a profanity-laced tirade. Galen has to hit him repeatedly in the face to stop him shouting at the top of his lungs in colourfully obscene terms about how easy it would be to get a weapon in past the security checks using simple sleight of hand.
"Fast-penta s'posed to make you immune to pain," Miles mumbles, "'s not working..." Then it does, and he falls silent in blessed relief - then it doesn't again, and his externalized monologue is stifled by sobs, tears running down his face at the whiteout intensity of the sensation. A few seconds later, tears and sobs and pain all switch off again.
"Is he beating the fast-penta?" wonders a guard.
"'s it fucking look like?" mumbles Miles.
"No..." says Galen, ignoring him. "He's not withholding information. It's hardly possible to stop him giving us more information..."
The comconsole chimes.
"I'll get it!" chirps Miles, and he surges out of his chair, only to fall flat on his bruised face. A guard hauls him back into his seat while Galen answers the com.
no subject
But in fact they don't kill him. They haul him up to an office of some kind, where a comconsole displays a light-fixture's eye view of Miles's cell, currently containing a stunned Galeni. Miles is dragged over to stand in front of an older man, whose face looks vaguely familiar - perhaps from a scanner-shield-blurred glimpse the night before. The man sits on a comfortable curved bench and toys with a hypospray.
It takes a moment for Miles to make the connection, because the senior Galen doesn't look much like his son. He moves like him, though. Like an inverse of the connection between Miles and his clone - different bodies animated by the same program of coiled murderous tension.
"So," says Galen, rising to circle Miles like a bird of prey. Miles stands very still. "The genuine article at last. Twisted little thing. What a perfect representation of Barrayar - Aral Vorkosigan's secret moral genotype made flesh."
"Poetic," says Miles, "but biologically inaccurate. As you must know, having cloned me."
Galen smiles a horrible false little smile and shakes his head, dismissing the point. "You couldn't help being born, I suppose - no one can. But why do you stay loyal to the monster? He made you into this," with a sharp gesture at Miles's stunted body. "And yet retains your... fealty. What is the man's secret - with what charisma does he hypnotize not only his own son but everyone else's too?" Galen does not quite manage to stop himself looking at the vid feed from the cell. "Why do you follow him? Why does David? What corruption draws my son to wriggle into that uniform and march behind Vorkosigan?"
Miles tries to restrain himself, but fails. "My father is kind to me," he snaps. "You might try it sometime."
The man jerks back as though physically struck. Miles curses inwardly as Galen orbits toward the padded bench where he left his hypospray. The guards hold Miles still, and one rolls up his sleeve. The hypospray is applied.
Fast-penta or poison? Fast-penta or poison? If the former, he should be shifting gears down to a mellow friendly calm any minute now. He doesn't feel mellow, calm, or friendly. He feels anxious as hell. Maybe it's poison after all, an overdose of some stimulant, to make his heart burst in his chest. Or maybe it is fast-penta and he has a natural allergy - he has no implanted one, which they'd surely know, having no doubt accessed all his medical records, but they didn't check for a reaction... sloppy. Won't they be surprised.
And yet, he's still breathing. Hyperventilating, but not fatally. Someone shoves him into a chair; he collapses gratefully. Standing takes too much effort - all those muscles to coordinate - he can barely coordinate the inside of his own brain, just at the moment.
"Describe the security procedures for entry and exit from the Barrayaran embassy," says Galen.
Oh, it's fast-penta after all. Stupid question, though, they're bound to have gotten that out of the other fellow already, unless what they really want is a description of "...how to get Ivan to sneak you in," Miles hears himself saying; it takes him a moment to recognize his own voice saying the words and realize it is happening outside his head. "Fuck, I was hoping my reaction was screwy enough that this part wouldn't work. Sucks to be me. Spilling my brains out my mouth, ugh." The image comes to mind with unpleasant vividness.
"Describe the security procedures for entry and exit from the Barrayaran embassy!" hisses Galen.
"Sergeant Barth's the one in charge. Obnoxious fucker. Won't do what he's bloody told, and I think he thinks I'm a mutie..." Miles runs on, at a rate of about forty percent personal commentary to sixty percent secure data, except where the two categories overlap. Unable to stop himself, he goes on at length about every hole he can think of in the embassy's security net; his increasing agitation only turns the recital into a profanity-laced tirade. Galen has to hit him repeatedly in the face to stop him shouting at the top of his lungs in colourfully obscene terms about how easy it would be to get a weapon in past the security checks using simple sleight of hand.
"Fast-penta s'posed to make you immune to pain," Miles mumbles, "'s not working..." Then it does, and he falls silent in blessed relief - then it doesn't again, and his externalized monologue is stifled by sobs, tears running down his face at the whiteout intensity of the sensation. A few seconds later, tears and sobs and pain all switch off again.
"Is he beating the fast-penta?" wonders a guard.
"'s it fucking look like?" mumbles Miles.
"No..." says Galen, ignoring him. "He's not withholding information. It's hardly possible to stop him giving us more information..."
The comconsole chimes.
"I'll get it!" chirps Miles, and he surges out of his chair, only to fall flat on his bruised face. A guard hauls him back into his seat while Galen answers the com.