Lady Diya d'Zefyst (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
eugengineer) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
forbarrayar2017-02-01 10:42 pm
eugengineer) wrote in forbarrayar2017-02-01 10:42 pm
Entry tags:
[ feb i: whispers in the night ]
Who: Zahal ghem-Zefyst and Diya d'Zefyst
What: Zahal and Diya discuss their plans for the exotics. Marriage doesn't always mean allegiance.
When: the 8th
Where: a war room in one of the tactical buildings
Warnings: marital discord
The tactical building is, perhaps to an outside viewer, an odd choice for a late-night meeting between spouses. But they have never shared quarters on the base, so the kind of conversation that makes up pillow-talk must necessarily happen elsewhere. Not that this is anything like pillow-talk.
The lights in the room are dimmed, the brightest of them the emergency LEDs along the floors and walls, casting an even more ethereal glow to Lady Diya's fey appearance. Her dark hair, ordinarily done up in elaborately crafted styles, its length is only loosely bound now in loops at the back of her head; left to hang, it would trail behind her on the floor. No longer in her work attire, she wears rather less formal robes in the white reserved only for the haut, just another thing to cling to. The room is small, lending an air of intimacy, but it doesn't permeate the room completely. Diya stands, statuesque, her disapproval exuding more from her posture than her face.
"I don't disagree that the exotics should be treated as diplomatically as possible," she says, disdain in every breath, "but really, my lord, do you think they'll truly appreciate a function so elaborate?"
Zahal himself is hardly at ease, hands pressed together under the folds of his sleeves. White is off-limits to him, and so he finds himself in deep blues, rich oranges, a fetching turquoise. Even in the face of his wife’s cool disapproval there’s a smile on his face, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Some, I think. And it is my hope that they will gain some by experiencing it.”
A faint breath escapes through Diya's nose. "And I thought ghem-Estif was the sentimentalist." There's a brief pause. "Tell me you don't actually intend to send them back to where they came from."
At this, he shrugs. “I presume you have what you want. They aren’t a strain on our resources currently, but an indefinite stay makes that more likely.” Another pause, longer and more weighty. “Unless you’ve, ah. Heard something?”
Heard something. Only a bat of her eyelashes betrays a flicker of annoyance. As if she would relay any intimate communication from the Star Crèche to him, unless she was instructed to. And communication with the Star Crèche was always intimate by nature. "Resources," she says instead of answering his question, "are hardly a concern. There are barely a dozen of them."
The shift in her stance, the folding of her hands in front of her, gives the illusion of movement though she hasn't taken a single step toward Zahal. "All I have are beginnings, Lord Zahal. An opportunity. Tell me," she says, with just the slightest tilt of her head, "have your scientists pinpointed the cause of this anomalous wormhole activity? Do you believe you can send them back to where they came from?"
That would a no, then. Zahal can’t say he isn’t a little relieved -- the haut are, well. They’re as foreign to him in much the same way the exotics are. Even if he’s married to one. “I believe that, with time and the right information, we can. Consider your time with them limited, and to make the best of it.”
Diya's eyes flash just briefly, a momentary widening before her face settles back into its ethereal, impassive mask. "I thought you a more ambitious man, my lord," she murmurs, and she doesn't keep her voice as toneless as she could. "But the ghem prove themselves to be rather nearsighted. You consider the implication of the exotics on this base -- resources, their place in your grand strategy -- " And if there's just the slightest drawl to those last two words, then Zahal might not even have imagined it, " -- in this war. But I do not serve ghem ambition."
“No,” he says, and drops the slight amount of pretense that he does not know where it lies. “No doubt your loyalty is well regarded within the Star Crèche, Diya. Or perhaps they do not value it as much as you think they do. Otherwise you would be in Vorbarr Sultana, would you not?” And not here, married to him.
A muscle twitches in Diya's jaw. "No," she says coolly, allowing her voice to hiss just slightly. "I would still be on Eta Ceta." Among the haut. Where she belongs. But she pulls her composure together, though her gaze is still icy. "But I am here. And I am afforded an unprecedented opportunity. To simply send the exotics on their way would be an unspeakable waste of potential."
Zahal shrugs -- the details are unimportant. “I will expect proof of this before I allow it. You have a month. Fail to come up with ample reasoning to keep them around and we commit to sending them back no matter what.”
"A month," Diya repeats, faintly incredulous, but contempt outweighs it slightly. "And then what? I find it difficult to believe your science team will even be finished with the calculations, let alone a finished prototype, within a month. Besides," she says, and her voice grows just slightly stronger, a little more edged, "I have ample reasoning. Some of our findings on the human samples alone merit further research. They merit further subjects. If you can control this wormhole activity, whatever it is, why would you reverse it?"
She lets out a truly contemptuous breath too soft to be a laugh, sealing it as she drops his title entirely. "You have no jurisdiction over me, Zahal, and if I lay claim to the exotics as subjects of the Star Crèche, you'll have no jurisdiction over them, either. It will be...what is the term I've heard your officers use? Ah. Above your pay grade." Diya smiles then, just slightly, as edged as her voice. "You could appeal to the Star Crèche, but I suspect they will find your intentions rather small-minded."
Who: Diya d'Zefyst and a ghem lady scientist
What: One of Diya's scientists inadvertently sabotages
When: the evening of the 13th
Where: the medbay
Warnings: ~INTRIGUE~
That pneumatic hissing is still going on and off, and there's a rattle and a clatter and Lady Diya's low, quiet, outraged voice.
"What did you do?"
The other person in the room lets out a breathy gasp, and there's the clack of a single footstep. "Lady Diya, I -- "
The hissing finally stops; the sound of some mechanism disengaging. The only other sound is the steady hum of the industrial equipment. Diya's next words come out too low to make out, but the tone is the same.
"I thought -- I didn't know these replicators contained ba until I looked at them -- " A younger voice, higher, one of Diya's geneticists. "I thought someone was doing something illicit! Those replicators are on my rotation, I didn't want to get in trouble…"
Her voice trails off, meekly. A duller clack this time. "So you aborted them?"
"My lady, I didn't know it was you!" The geneticist sounds aghast. "Unauthorized use of ba material, I thought It could only be -- " Her words grew slower. "But we haven't received any authorization. Lady Diya…"
"You must think before you act," Diya says coldly, and there's more emotion in her voice than anyone's likely heard from her. "You don't know what you've just destroyed. It was unprecedented." An oddly anguished breath. "I'll have to start all over again."
"You don't have authorization," the geneticist insists, almost sounding pleading. "You can't. Only the haut -- "
"I am haut," Diya hisses. A few more footfalls sound dully through the cracked door.
"No," says the geneticist, her voice going breathy. "No, you were haut. And you don't think they'd grant you authorization to grow any ba, so you did it on your own."
"I serve the Star Crèche," Diya says flatly, her voice dropping lower, "and I act only in its best interests. It is not my fault that you are so shortsighted." There's just a flicker of contempt in her voice. "I cannot afford to wait for authorization. Time is not on our side, with the ghem-General's agenda."
What: Zahal and Diya discuss their plans for the exotics. Marriage doesn't always mean allegiance.
When: the 8th
Where: a war room in one of the tactical buildings
Warnings: marital discord
The tactical building is, perhaps to an outside viewer, an odd choice for a late-night meeting between spouses. But they have never shared quarters on the base, so the kind of conversation that makes up pillow-talk must necessarily happen elsewhere. Not that this is anything like pillow-talk.
The lights in the room are dimmed, the brightest of them the emergency LEDs along the floors and walls, casting an even more ethereal glow to Lady Diya's fey appearance. Her dark hair, ordinarily done up in elaborately crafted styles, its length is only loosely bound now in loops at the back of her head; left to hang, it would trail behind her on the floor. No longer in her work attire, she wears rather less formal robes in the white reserved only for the haut, just another thing to cling to. The room is small, lending an air of intimacy, but it doesn't permeate the room completely. Diya stands, statuesque, her disapproval exuding more from her posture than her face.
"I don't disagree that the exotics should be treated as diplomatically as possible," she says, disdain in every breath, "but really, my lord, do you think they'll truly appreciate a function so elaborate?"
Zahal himself is hardly at ease, hands pressed together under the folds of his sleeves. White is off-limits to him, and so he finds himself in deep blues, rich oranges, a fetching turquoise. Even in the face of his wife’s cool disapproval there’s a smile on his face, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Some, I think. And it is my hope that they will gain some by experiencing it.”
A faint breath escapes through Diya's nose. "And I thought ghem-Estif was the sentimentalist." There's a brief pause. "Tell me you don't actually intend to send them back to where they came from."
At this, he shrugs. “I presume you have what you want. They aren’t a strain on our resources currently, but an indefinite stay makes that more likely.” Another pause, longer and more weighty. “Unless you’ve, ah. Heard something?”
Heard something. Only a bat of her eyelashes betrays a flicker of annoyance. As if she would relay any intimate communication from the Star Crèche to him, unless she was instructed to. And communication with the Star Crèche was always intimate by nature. "Resources," she says instead of answering his question, "are hardly a concern. There are barely a dozen of them."
The shift in her stance, the folding of her hands in front of her, gives the illusion of movement though she hasn't taken a single step toward Zahal. "All I have are beginnings, Lord Zahal. An opportunity. Tell me," she says, with just the slightest tilt of her head, "have your scientists pinpointed the cause of this anomalous wormhole activity? Do you believe you can send them back to where they came from?"
That would a no, then. Zahal can’t say he isn’t a little relieved -- the haut are, well. They’re as foreign to him in much the same way the exotics are. Even if he’s married to one. “I believe that, with time and the right information, we can. Consider your time with them limited, and to make the best of it.”
Diya's eyes flash just briefly, a momentary widening before her face settles back into its ethereal, impassive mask. "I thought you a more ambitious man, my lord," she murmurs, and she doesn't keep her voice as toneless as she could. "But the ghem prove themselves to be rather nearsighted. You consider the implication of the exotics on this base -- resources, their place in your grand strategy -- " And if there's just the slightest drawl to those last two words, then Zahal might not even have imagined it, " -- in this war. But I do not serve ghem ambition."
“No,” he says, and drops the slight amount of pretense that he does not know where it lies. “No doubt your loyalty is well regarded within the Star Crèche, Diya. Or perhaps they do not value it as much as you think they do. Otherwise you would be in Vorbarr Sultana, would you not?” And not here, married to him.
A muscle twitches in Diya's jaw. "No," she says coolly, allowing her voice to hiss just slightly. "I would still be on Eta Ceta." Among the haut. Where she belongs. But she pulls her composure together, though her gaze is still icy. "But I am here. And I am afforded an unprecedented opportunity. To simply send the exotics on their way would be an unspeakable waste of potential."
Zahal shrugs -- the details are unimportant. “I will expect proof of this before I allow it. You have a month. Fail to come up with ample reasoning to keep them around and we commit to sending them back no matter what.”
"A month," Diya repeats, faintly incredulous, but contempt outweighs it slightly. "And then what? I find it difficult to believe your science team will even be finished with the calculations, let alone a finished prototype, within a month. Besides," she says, and her voice grows just slightly stronger, a little more edged, "I have ample reasoning. Some of our findings on the human samples alone merit further research. They merit further subjects. If you can control this wormhole activity, whatever it is, why would you reverse it?"
She lets out a truly contemptuous breath too soft to be a laugh, sealing it as she drops his title entirely. "You have no jurisdiction over me, Zahal, and if I lay claim to the exotics as subjects of the Star Crèche, you'll have no jurisdiction over them, either. It will be...what is the term I've heard your officers use? Ah. Above your pay grade." Diya smiles then, just slightly, as edged as her voice. "You could appeal to the Star Crèche, but I suspect they will find your intentions rather small-minded."
Who: Diya d'Zefyst and a ghem lady scientist
What: One of Diya's scientists inadvertently sabotages
When: the evening of the 13th
Where: the medbay
Warnings: ~INTRIGUE~
That pneumatic hissing is still going on and off, and there's a rattle and a clatter and Lady Diya's low, quiet, outraged voice.
"What did you do?"
The other person in the room lets out a breathy gasp, and there's the clack of a single footstep. "Lady Diya, I -- "
The hissing finally stops; the sound of some mechanism disengaging. The only other sound is the steady hum of the industrial equipment. Diya's next words come out too low to make out, but the tone is the same.
"I thought -- I didn't know these replicators contained ba until I looked at them -- " A younger voice, higher, one of Diya's geneticists. "I thought someone was doing something illicit! Those replicators are on my rotation, I didn't want to get in trouble…"
Her voice trails off, meekly. A duller clack this time. "So you aborted them?"
"My lady, I didn't know it was you!" The geneticist sounds aghast. "Unauthorized use of ba material, I thought It could only be -- " Her words grew slower. "But we haven't received any authorization. Lady Diya…"
"You must think before you act," Diya says coldly, and there's more emotion in her voice than anyone's likely heard from her. "You don't know what you've just destroyed. It was unprecedented." An oddly anguished breath. "I'll have to start all over again."
"You don't have authorization," the geneticist insists, almost sounding pleading. "You can't. Only the haut -- "
"I am haut," Diya hisses. A few more footfalls sound dully through the cracked door.
"No," says the geneticist, her voice going breathy. "No, you were haut. And you don't think they'd grant you authorization to grow any ba, so you did it on your own."
"I serve the Star Crèche," Diya says flatly, her voice dropping lower, "and I act only in its best interests. It is not my fault that you are so shortsighted." There's just a flicker of contempt in her voice. "I cannot afford to wait for authorization. Time is not on our side, with the ghem-General's agenda."