[ january ii log ]

[barrayarmods]

Who: Everyone
What: The end of quarantine, a breath of fresh air, and the first taste of action
When: January 18th - 31st
Where: Barrayaran camp / Cetagandan base
Warnings: TBD


Quick links:
Barrayar: Piotr Vorkosigan / Barrayaran camp / Missions
Cetaganda: Zahal ghem-Zefyst / Cetagandan base / Missions
Special thanks to Ana for last-minute PB hunting!

It's been a little over two weeks since you first arrived on Barrayar. As the month wears on, the weather shifts a little colder, and snowstorms come, dumping over a foot of snow on the ground over the next couple of weeks.

barrayar
So far, the outsiders tent has only been visited by the Countess and the Princess. But on the morning of the 18th, the General Count himself makes an appearance. Piotr Vorkosigan is a lean, hard-faced man, battle-worn and fierce, but despite his reputation as a master strategist and the bane of the Cetagandan existence in the southern half of the continent, he looks to be no older than his early thirties, and he's held the rank of General for nearly a decade. When he comes to speak, the guards make way immediately, and he doesn't waste time mincing words.

"My name is Piotr Vorkosigan. I am the commanding officer of this camp." Hands clasped behind his back in a parade rest, he surveys the outsiders at a glance. "I hope it's been clear to you all that you aren't under arrest here. We had to detain you until we could find out what you were, because you clearly were not our enemy. I'm sure you've heard by now that we're at war, and not on the winning side. This planet -- Barrayar -- was cut off from the rest of galactic society for seven hundred years, until just thirty years ago. Until then we had no plasma weapons, no spaceships, no electricity. We had just barely begun to absorb the changes that had eclipsed us when we were attacked without word or warning by the Cetagandan Empire. Eight planets already conquered, and they sought to strike us while we were vulnerable. They claim to be saving us from ourselves, to bring us the light of civilization, as though we are dogs being taught a new trick."

His lip curls. "Komarr -- the planet that controls the only wormhole entrance to this system -- allowed itself to be bribed by the Cetagandans so that they could get their warships through the other side. They demanded unconditional surrender -- no treaty, no convention -- but we answer to one Emperor only, and our refusal to surrender under any conditions was met with warfare and occupation. Some Counts, traitorous collaborators with no honor, have surrendered, but our Emperor refuses. And Vorkosigan's District is loyal to the Emperor. Our only chance at outside help is through his son, Prince Xav, using his position as ambassador to Beta Colony to try and drum up support and get supplies through the blockade. With ghem patrols on every street of our cities, we've gone to ground to fight on our terms, wherever we can, lest we fail to remind the Cetagandans that this is our planet. They don't know these mountains, this land the way we do -- staying hidden is the only way we survive."

He gestures at the camp with one hand, the worn tents, the campfires, the weapons long-antequated by galactic standards. "If we used any galactic technology, the Cetagandans would be able to trace our location as easily as if we'd sent up a flare, so we are relegated to our own traditional weaponry, to fighting from the shadows. And our location has been compromised before." His face is mostly hard and impassive, but his eyes flash briefly. "A scant month before you arrived. How, we still don't know. But we were forced to split our forces and flee. We're operating at half our usual manpower and supplies, and we can afford to take few risks, so you must understand why we had to be so cautious with you. We still don't have a clue how you wound up here, or why; that's beyond even the imagination of galactic scientists, I think. But I do understand that you had no chance in the matter, none of you, nor have any of you given any reason to suspect you might be a threat to our effort. So, effective today, I am lifting the guard around your tent. You are free to walk the camp as you please -- save for the areas restricted for military use. But as you know, we are short on resources -- manpower included. We have no room for freeloaders or empty hands. If you wish to stay, you'll work like the rest of us. We could always use extra hands around camp." He surveys the outsiders once again with an even sharper eye. "We might be able to use a few extra hands elsewhere, too, if you can prove yourself trustworthy.

"I won't hold anyone in this camp against his will. Anyone who wishes to leave my do so -- but know that there is no protection in a war zone. All of our cities are occupied by the enemy, and their soldiers won't hesitate to shoot any man wandering down from the mountains. If you do want to leave, you'll be escorted by one of our scouts down to the foothills, to as safe a space as possible -- and to make sure you won't be able to trace back your route. We cannot afford to let our location fall into the hands of those face-painted bastards, however remote the chance."

He'll leave it at that, and when he takes leave, so do the guards who have been posted around the outsiders' tent. The detainment is over.

camp
Now that you're free to roam about the camp as you please, except for the restricted military areas, the atmosphere has changed a little. Some of the soldiers still regard the outsiders with wariness or diffidence, particularly those who might not look not quite normal. Barrayarans don't take especially well to the unnatural. But they are ultimately social and outgoing by nature, and they’ll especially gravitate toward other soldierly types, although they're sort of dubious about the women who claim to be warriors or soldiers in their own right. Still, their disposition is tentatively friendly if on the gruff side. Now that you're no longer under quarantine, they might strike up a conversation or invite you to play card or dice games with them, even if just out of curiosity if nothing else. But Barrayarans are stubborn as well: arguments might escalate quickly, and you might find yourself in a confrontation.

Now that you're no longer confined, you eat at the mess at designated mealtimes like everybody else, and you'll find that the soldiers don't eat much better than you were these last couple of weeks. You also get access to the bath tent for the first time since you arrived, if you'd like to take your chances, but bathing in the winter is always risky business. Near the bath tent are the stables, which always have a soldier or two on duty as stablehand. If you need medical attention of any kind, sickbay is the place to go, although don't expect much in the way of bedside manner from the medical officers.

Lower-ranking officers and the little old Dendarii ladies who help with the camp direct you to your jobs, a variety of mostly menial but necessary tasks. The work isn't extraordinarily demanding, and it's hardly slave labor – you're doing no more work than the average soldier here. If you're decent with knives or know anything halfway about cooking they might requisition you for the mess, if you know anything about horses, you'll probably be assigned to the stables, if you're just plain strong they'll set you to chopping firewood, and no one needs any special skills to help with the washing. But no one is assigned to just one job – when something needs doing, they'll find one of you to do it.

Life among the guerrillas is tough – none of them have it easy, and neither do you – but it isn't all bleak and miserable. When it starts to get dark and the winter chill sets in for the night, the off-duty soldiers gather close around the campfires to socialize and swap stories, maybe even share a little wine or maple mead if they've got any. Once in a while a particularly courageous (or drunk) soldier will even start a round of one of Barrayar's many traditional drinking songs, a few of which have had their lyrics adjusted with more contemporary references. However war-worn, wary, and rough they may be, the Barrayarans have an unmistakable sense of family and unity among them.

missions
After Piotr's speech on the 18th, the outsiders will be offered an opportunity: they're short on manpower, but they can't afford to waste time. Their intelligence on Cetagandan security is out of date, and the operations are risky, but if you're willing to stick your neck out for the Barrrayaran cause, it'll start to establish a bond of trust.

Piotr orders Captain Aaron Vorbataille and Captain Alexei Vorinnis to organize two recon missions to scope out the base's perimeter security, and two more to infiltrate the base and scope out the power supply. On January 22nd, the first perimeter scouting teams return more or less successfully, but with some unfortunate bonus information: there's a traitor in Piotr's camp. On January 23rd, the second perimeter scouting teams have even better success with gaining intelligence, as well as happening on a Cetagandan field science team. Adrien and Beth's squad does not engage, but another squad chances an attack on the Cetagandan team, and manages to capture one of their scientists.

With the discomfiting knowledge that there is a traitor among them, Captains Vorbataille and Vorinnis choose their infiltration teams for the power supply recon carefully. Lieutenants Dmitri Vorhalas and Boris Vortala are ultimately selected to lead the teams, though there is some heated disagreement between the captains on whether they should be bringing in more personnel at all. The power supply recon mission on January 28th has mixed results: intel gathering was mostly a success, but otherwise it was a failure. Not only were the Cetagandans alerted to their presence, but Lieutenant Erik Grey was KIA, and Lakshmi Bai and Lieutenant Vortala were both taken prisoner. No one in either squad seems to be able to provide an answer as to how or why the alarms were tripped so early. The only upside is that Lieutenant Vorhalas has taken a prisoner: Duv Galeni.

Needless to say, the implications of a traitor being in camp are troubling, but with two prisoners from the Cetagandan side, hopefully they'll be getting some answers.

The unabridged event writeup is here.


cetaganda
Zahal ghem-Zefyst approaches the gathered exotics with a welcoming smile, and a near bounce in his step – face fully painted in a more intricate manner than any of the other soldiers present. Unlike the rest of the Cetagandan soldiers, he's dressed in multiple layers of robes, all in colors matching his face paint to the exact shade. To the casual observer he looks unarmed and relaxed, but those who know what to look for will find that some of the folds of fabric are designed to keep things hidden, especially at the hip. Once he's certain he has the attention of every exotic, he gestures, open armed, as his smile grows.

"Good day. I am General Zahal ghem-Zefyst, commanding officer of this base and all operations, and I would like to first offer my sincere apologies for what has occurred – ending up here from wherever," and here his eyes light upon the most non-human of the group gathered before him, "you originated from must have been a shock. You've been told little of what is going on, but I see no reason why that should continue. You are currently on a planet known as Barrayar – but we," he gestures to himself, his wife, and the assembled soldiers with him, "are from the Cetagandan Empire. Nine planets wide, the Cetagandan Empire has existed for centuries, and flourished for all of them. There is nowhere else in the galactic Nexus that can rival our standards of living, our level of technology, and our way of life.

"This planet," he continues, cheerful voice taking on an edge of scorn and sadness, "has been left in the dark for seven hundred years. You can imagine what befell them without modern technology – society could not handle the strain, and these past eight centuries have been filled with bloodshed and fighting. Only recently has the government become truly centralized, and even then it is a tenuous peace, enforced by more bloodshed. Cetaganda's hope – our hope – is to bring them back into the Nexus as a whole. We wish them no harm, and some of their district Counts have willingly joined us, having seen the value of our cause.

"But the Barrayaran Emperor – Dorca Vorbarra – has resisted us, and there are still some districts where the population refuses to acknowledge the value of galactic technology. Of what it can do for them, of what we can do for them. This fracture between Emperor and Counts, of subjects and their ruling class, is only proof as to how fragile this society is, and how desperately it needs to be guided. We wish to be that guiding hand, and want nothing more but to live side by side with the Barrayarans."

The statement is made with a soft gesture of togetherness, before Zahal continues, smiling again. "Again, I apologize for your quarantine. We know you are here not by choice, and are taking steps towards understanding how you arrived and perhaps, how to send you home again. Until that time, however, you are free to go wherever you wish on base, respecting those areas set aside for military use. Some of you have expressed interest on learning about our culture – if you desire more in-depth information, that will be provided on request. You need not do anything beyond respect the boundaries and continue to be as civil and courteous as you have been. There are all only ten of you, and we have plenty resources to spare.

"Lastly – none of you are required to stay here with us. If you would rather brave the elements and undiscerning Barrayarans, we will escort you out, so long as you leave any technology you acquired here behind. Thank you, all of you." He bows, then, and turns to leave – gesturing the guard to follow him out of the room.

base
Now that you're free to roam about the base. as you please, aside from the restricted areas, the atmosphere has changed a little. It's still heavily military -- they are at war, after all -- but the genteel, almost delicate air hinted at during the exotics' quarantine seems to permeate the entire base, a certain fundamental Cetagandan sensibility. On a military level, everything here is built with function in mind -- but to the Cetagandan eye, form can rule supreme even in utilitarian contexts. Even such ordinarily mundane areas as the mess or the washrooms are dotted with art and designed to please the eye, even if subtly. You couldn't mistake it for anything but a military installation, but it's probably the most beautiful military installation you've ever seen.

The ghem troops are nothing short of civil, same as everyone has been. Some of them are even quite interested in the exotics -- whether seeking camaraderie or merely partaking in a novelty, it may be difficult to gauge, but there's no getting around the fact that anyone who doesn't look quite human, or anyone with an especially aesthetically pleasing form, is getting a little extra attention. However, they are all quite polite, in a way that is clearly cultural rather than circumstantial. The ghem ladies are a bit more elusive and much fewer in number, but they're even more outgoing than the soldiers, and any of the ghem on base might be pleased to share with you any Cetagandan cultural pastimes or teach you about Cetagandan art, although there may be a few polite laughs at the expense of anyone particularly "uncultured". 

Now that you're no longer confined, you eat at the mess at designated mealtimes like everybody else, and you'll find that the artfully prepared fresh cuisine served along equally (somehow) artfully prepared meal rations you've been getting are the standard here. There are no longer any guards posted around the exotics' room, which has been officially dubbed as your living quarters, and you share a communal bathroom with the rest of the hall. There's a common room on each floor where soldiers often go to spend their off-duty hours, with the appropriately recreational accoutrements: the materials for a few kinds of games popular on Cetaganda, a couple of sizeable vid plates for watching holofilms, as well as the supplies for a variety of Cetagandan art forms. There's also an exercise room in each barracks building with about what you'd expect, but probably prettier and more future.

You aren't asked to do any work, just politely told to keep away from restricted areas. A couple of ghem officers appointed by Zahal take you in individually for interviews of a sort, a couple of times a week. They're perfectly civil, and the interviews themselves are tame -- the Cetagandans are merely trying to collect some more information to better understand this phenomenon. So while there might be some questions in the personal sphere, they're primarily interested in where you come from. They won't try to force you to answer in any way -- if you sit there in stubborn silence for the hour, they will endure it politely, if in exasperation.

missions
We're using that word loosely, because none of this is official or even remotely organized.

Now that the exotics' room is no longer guarded, curiosity gives rise to temptation. On the night of January 22nd, Ratchet and Kaidan sneak out to the science/medical complex and overhear Zahal and one of his science officers talking about signs of wormhole activity as they try to puzzle out what happened. On the following night, January 23rd, Lapis and Darkstalker make their way near the war rooms and listen in on Zahal and one of his intelligence officers discussing the Barrayaran information leak and confirming that there are 'exotics' among the Barrayarans too. They have also learned that the Barrayarans are planning a raid sometime in the next week.

Things get a little chaotic on January 28th, when security alarms are suddenly tripped and a few curfew-cutting exotics run into outsiders from the other side. The evening is sort of a mixed bag for everyone involved -- Duv is captured by one of the Barrayarans and this time, no one gets back to the barracks without getting caught. On the other hand, Wash and York manage to capture Lieutenant Vortala, for which the soldiers thank them in appreciation as they take him into their custody.

The unabridged event writeup is here.

Comments

[vorrutyer]

"According to your personal theology, at least. There are some who think that there's glory and beauty awaiting after you die."

He looks around for the flask of maple mead, and - ah. There it is. He holds out his hand to the soldier, who passes it to him; he thanks the man in Barrayaran Russian. Perhaps there's something to this soldierly camaraderie after all. He takes another swig and narrates, "Here on Barrayar, they think that as long as you're remembered by your descendants and by your family, your spirit will remain content and at peace. It's not exactly religion, but...it's faith, after a sort." Dryly, "Or at least social control. Have children and obey your family or face eternal torment after death. Smart religious policy for a planet that desperately needed population growth."

[littlemissfutility]

"I didn't say I was an atheist," she says quietly. Daddy'd be so disappointed if that was the case--provided everything they learned from the Bible turns out true, anyway. If it doesn't, he'll never know.

The way they think about it on Barrayar is interesting, though. Realistic, too, no matter what God turns out to be. Beth tilts her head. "What about when there's no more family? What happens to your spirit then?"

Everyone dies eventually. Families die out, too--maybe slower here than at home, but eventually there won't be Vorrutyers and Vorbarras and all the others.

[vorrutyer]

He flips up a hand in a half-shrugging gesture. "Depends on who you ask," he says. "Maybe misery and torment. Maybe oblivion and all the sorrows involved therein." He takes another deep swig of maple mead and then - reluctantly - passes it along to the soldier who's beckoning it over. Why is he talking about this, anyway? Ah, yes, because he's drunk.

"Most people don't think about it in that much detail. Being remembered is good, being forgotten is bad, and that's about as far as people generally get." Anyway. "So if you're not an atheist, then, what are you?"

[littlemissfutility]

Being remembered is a comforting thought; she can see why they wouldn't want to think much further than that. It just doesn't seem like enough anymore, to trust that the living will keep being alive for your memory.

She doesn't answer his question right away, fidgeting her fingers along the cuff of her coat as she watches the fire. Her beliefs aren't really where she wanted this conversation to go--but maybe she can keep from getting too close to the heart of the matter. He's going to be drunk eventually, if he keeps taking slugs from that flask. It can't be so hard to distract him from the subject.

"Do you know what Christians are? Or is that just an Earth thing?" So much of what she's taken for granted in life doesn't seem like it has any relevance here. If there aren't walkers, why should there be anything else?

[vorrutyer]

By shrugs. If he were a bit more educated or well-read or intellectually curious, he'd know more about Christianity; any good Galactic education talks about the development of Earth cultures, in which Christianity loomed quite large. But he's not, so all he has to offer is, "I think the Betans talk about Christianity sometimes. That's what you are?"

[littlemissfutility]

It's hard to imagine entire planets where nobody knows much of anything about the Bible--the thought is about as far from Georgia as she can imagine. And it makes it harder to answer, when she knows he might not really understand any of it.

"It's how we were raised," she finally says, shrugging. It's not far from what she believes, either, but the faith behind it feels so much smaller and less certain than it once did. What was once easy certainty looks so much more like faint hope now--full of maybe and if we're lucky and could be.

She doesn't really want to talk about it. So she turns her gaze back to him, trying to decide what's likely to needle him back into talking about himself. "What about you? I bet you want to be remembered."

[vorrutyer]

If he were sober, or even a few shades less drunk, he'd agree easily and go off on some calculatedly idiot burble about potential family life. He'd talk about his caddish attempts to hook a rich heiress - spin some lie about his attempts to seduce some monstrously ugly woman with an enormous dowry - talk about the names of his horrible children, Byerly for the boys and Byerlina for the girls, each and every one of them, chatter about how he'd find imported nannies for each of them rather than ever having to interact with them...But maple mead is powerful, vile stuff. Instead, he just smiles a twisted smile, and answers, "Not really."

And then, neatly, he pivots back to her. "So tell me about it. Christianity. Does everyone follow it? Or has everyone been scared away from it by your walking dead?"

[littlemissfutility]

Ugh. Of course he can't take the bait and stop asking about her. That'd be nice--it'd be convenient, and definitely not prying. Beth grits her teeth.

"You'd have to ask everyone." Daddy believed, right up til the Governor took his head off. She hopes Maggie still does. With everyone else, she can't really say--they didn't talk about religion so much when so many other things needed tending to. "What do you want, then? What is it you want to see after you die?"

[vorrutyer]

"What do I want to see after I die." He sighs and stretches out his legs in front of him. With precise diction, he answers, "I want to see absolutely nothing. That sounds perfect, as far as I'm concerned. Complete and total oblivion sounds like the soul of paradise."

He rolls his head towards her, then, lifting his eyebrows at her. "So I've answered an uncomfortable question. Now it's your turn. Why are you avoiding answering those questions? Unhealthy relationship to your religion, or do you just feel obliged to be secretive?"

[littlemissfutility]

"Why are you asking them?" An edge comes into her voice, and she doesn't bother softening it. They barely know each other, besides that long hike up to the camp. They muck out the stables on different days, and she doesn't exactly cozy up to him when they're both in that stupid tent. (It makes her miss sleeping in a prison cell, which is a sentiment that, at one point, she never thought she'd feel.) "Didn't anybody ever tell you what you don't talk about at parties?"

Sex, politics, and religion. It's another dodge, and she knows it--but the alternative is twined up with plenty of things she doesn't enjoy talking about with close friends, let alone Byerly Vorrutyer.

[vorrutyer]

"So it's an issue of politeness? Taking a stand against rudeness?" His lips curl up a little further - not altogether cruelly, but not exactly gently and kindly, either. This question is delivered quite bluntly. "Miss Greene, you're the only representative of your Earth on this whole planet. Why are you expecting me to practice the politeness that you grew up with? If you're going to survive here, you're going to have to adapt to this culture, not stamp your feet until all of Barrayar adapts to yours."

He rolls his head back, turning his gaze back up at the stars. Poor girl. They must all glitter in such unfamiliar patterns. Poor thing.

"This isn't a game, you know."

[littlemissfutility]

"Just because I don't want to answer every question you think up doesn't mean I'm not adapting to Barrayar," she snaps. There's something about him talking about stamping her feet--like she's in the middle of a temper tantrum, like she's a child--that makes her want to get up and go right now. But the firelight is warm, even if the wind at her back isn't, and the last thing she wants to do is go lie down in the dark right now. Which means she's stuck right here unless she wants to make a scene getting up and finding another spot.

But it doesn't mean she's stuck and playing nice. The Greene temper is a famous thing at home, and she doesn't have a reason to rein it in now; he's still an outsider, even if he's one of those stupid Vor families. What does it matter if she uses it on him, her voice low and acidic? "I've worked for this camp every day since I got here, and nobody's had any complaints about it except you. If you think I think this is a game, you don't know crap about me."

[vorrutyer]

"Does working count as adapting?" he needles her. An explosion of temper, far from making him back down, just encourages him. Honesty and rudeness - they're absolute treats for him. Nastiness is nutrition for his heart and soul. He feels as though he could live off it.

"If the Cetagandans come and smash this camp, and you're turned out into the wilderness, what follows? Where do you go after? How do you live? What tools are you collecting to make certain you're able to survive?"

[littlemissfutility]

"You think that would be the first time I had to survive on my own?" He can pretend this is some kind of stupid advice or--or whatever he thinks he's doing, like this is supposed to help her. It's not. It's just him being a douchebag, and even though she'll probably regret it, it's getting her riled up. "What will you do? When's the last time you had to start a fire without any matches? Or make dinner with whatever you found in the woods? Or kill a person? Answer your own damn questions, Byerly Vorrutyer."

[vorrutyer]

"Oh, I'm going to die out here," he says breezily. Which...Honestly, he probably is. He's a man of a different time and place. Hasn't the constitution for this sort of war. And while he's not brave, he is duty-bound, so he can't even run away. Ah, well...

"But I'm not talking about starting matches or living like a barbarian in the woods. I'm sure, given the state of your hair and your clothing, you're very used to living like a crazed barbarian. I'm talking about what happens when you encounter the hell that is other people. When you stumble into a Dendarii mountain village. What then? You don't look, sound, or move like a Barrayaran. And you can't avoid other people forever, even out here. Not when there's a war on. A war against galactics like you."

[littlemissfutility]

Low blows, Byerly. At home, everyone's clothes are bloodied and torn, and anyway, she's slowly picking up castoffs (his coat included) to put together a warmer, less worn wardrobe.

"When that happens, I can take care of myself," she says, her voice tightening. Easier said than done, she knows--she hasn't spent a lot of time entirely on her own, even if she's been responsible for her survival--but what does he expect from her? Oh, you're so right, I'm sorry I didn't want to tell you about all the times I thought about giving up, maybe you can teach me how to fake a Russian accent. "And if I can't, then I'm toast, right? So you can leave me the hell alone, because it's all decided."

[vorrutyer]

"So much for being a survivor," he says, his smile at her mocking. "That was fast indeed, wasn't it? Moving right from yes I can murder an entire village full of people to ensure my own survival to but I'm probably going to lay down and die instead."

He spreads his fingers at her, a gesture of invitation. "Does your religion believe in predetermined destinies, then, or are you actually a survivor? Because if it's the latter, then there are all sorts of resources around you that you're not remotely exploiting."

[littlemissfutility]

That cuts too close. Something in her expression shutters, her jaw tightening.

"I am not," she says, so clearly that he'll have to understand the words, if not all the history they're laden with, "going to lay down and die. Ever."

Screw him, and screw everyone else on this suck-ass ball of ice who's as much of a jerk as him. Ignoring his question--which is stupid, anyway, everyone knows you make your own decisions, otherwise living with them wouldn't be hard--she skips to his accusation. "Since when do you know what I'm doing with my time, anyway? You could be focusing on exploiting your own resources--and leaving me alone."

[vorrutyer]

Ah? That determination - born, it sounds, of personal experience - is good to hear. He wonders if it's trustworthy, though. What prompted her to make that oath to herself? And how likely is she to maintain it? That's the thing about rigid oaths, after all - you never know exactly what they're made of. They might be hard iron, or they might be brittle glass. And while that ferocity is nice enough to see, sometimes ferocity grows out of vulnerability, not self-assurance.

"I don't know; that much is true." He spreads his hands, then, and asks, "You've met Miles Illyan, I assume? The smart-mouthed Barrayaran? Yea high?" He demonstrates Miles' diminutive height. "How much have you learned from him?"

[littlemissfutility]

"We spoke." Not a lot, and the way he's asking, she suspects the answer he's looking for is I've grilled him for information about this whole stupid culture. "Why?"

If he's going to be an ass about it, he might as well get it over with. She's sure as hell not telling him any more about herself tonight--not if she can help it.

[vorrutyer]

"He's your best resource." By hopes that this will end with her being hostile and spunky in Miles' direction - nay, he prays - but failing that, he'll accept her just being helped by his expertise. "He's from this area. And he knows how to survive. And you'll like him." Byerly's lip curls. "Everyone likes him, whether they want to or not."

[littlemissfutility]

She's ornery enough right now that her first inclination is no, I won't, but there's no reason to turn down help from someone else just because Byerly's being a jerk. Miles was okay when they talked, brief as their conversation was. Beth doesn't have any complaints about him--except the company he keeps, if he's a friend of Byerly's. "Yourself included?"

You should thank him for the advice. This advice doesn't actually suck. But the rest of it did, and she's not about to give him the idea that maybe it didn't.

[vorrutyer]

"Hah. Goodness, no." He hastens to say that, both in defense of his own honor and because he suspects that Hostile Miss Greene would take that as an excuse to write off Miles entirely. Which would be a pity - the little son of a bitch will undoubtedly be an asset to her. "He's a loathsome little twit. To say nothing of the fact that his family and mine have...history." He waves this aside, though, as irrelevant; to go into any more details than that would be to provide the link between Miles and the Vorkosigans, and that would blow his idiot cover.

"But I tend to like who no one else likes and despise those who are popular. Take my loathing of him as a recommendation."

[littlemissfutility]

"No wonder you're so fun to hang out with," she mutters sarcastically. Her willingness to continue this conversation is waning, and Byerly isn't exactly living up to those Vor titles he mentioned before. He's too much of a jerk to make a gentleman.

It's not too early to go to bed, is it?

Not if you don't mind lying awake.

And unfortunately, she kind of does. Crossing her arms over her, she asks, "Aren't there other people at camp you can piss off?"

[vorrutyer]

"Oh, plenty," he says, "but most of them are armed. You don't have access to the tools needed to kill me."

He purses his lips and then sighs, with a grand aura of wounded dignity, "But here I am, trying to help. You know that some people would pay quite a lot for my expertise." Not a lie. He pulls down a nice wage for his observations of the Barrayaran social/political scene. Granted, the Dendarii mountain folk aren't usually his milieu, but...