forbarrayar | [ february i log ]

Entry tags:

[ february i log ]

Who: Everyone
What: New arrivals, desperate times, whispers down the hall.
When: February 1st - 18th
Where: Barrayaran camp / Cetagandan base
Warnings: TBD

Quick links:
Barrayar: Barrayaran camp / Missions
Cetaganda: Cetagandan base / Missions

welcome to barrayar.
It's the dark of night when you come to in the foothills. Snow on the ground, chill winter wind whistling -- in fact, it's dangerously cold, and all you have is the clothes on your back.. A steep mountain range towers just ahead, its peaks illuminated by the light of two moons. Whatever you last remember, it isn't how you got here, and you feel oddly jetlagged, slightly queasy.

And you're not alone. There are a few other people close by, all looking equally lost and confused. But before any of you have a chance to figure out what's going on, the soldiers arrive.
There's a war on, they say, and you unlucky bastards have just been dropped right smack in the middle of it.

barrayar
The cold snap hits the guerrilla camp hard, especially with a handful of new people to care for. On the 1st, a few people from Riverfall Village come to the camp, Village Speaker Yakiv Gura among them, who seems to have a rapport with Piotr. They bring extra supplies with them, such as clothing, heavy wool blankets and bedrolls, as well as extra firewood to help fend off the cold. The new outsiders are accommodated the best they can -- they're all provided bedrolls and any extra clothing they (probably) need -- but the Barrayarans don't have an extra tent to spare, so that means all twelve outsiders are force to share a tent that ordinarily sleeps ten. On the plus side, it should provide some warmth. The cold is

A young boy comes in tow of the villagers; Speaker Gura tells Piotr that the boy turned up a week ago and insisted on helping them with the supply haul, despite his small size. He's clearly Barrayaran, and looks as though he might have been living on hisown for a while. He doesn't speak mcuh, and when asked his name, will only give it as Negri -- first or last, no one's sure, but the boy doesn't seem easily fazed. Piotr tells the villagers he has no room in his camp for lost children, but somehow the day after the villagers leave, Negri turns up in camp again. He's curious, but quiet and unobtrusive, wherever he is in camp. He's a very good listener…even when you might not want him to be.

On the 3rd, the Barrayarans and outsiders awake to discover that the part of the cave where they've kept the majority of their food supply has collapsed, either blocking their access to the cache or destroying it entirely. It's impossible to tell. The villagers can't spare much more than they already have been -- certainly not enough to feed the hundred and fifty-odd soldiers in the camp -- so while they try to find out a way to recoup their food supply, they have no choice but to slaughter their own horses for food. Food will be heavily rationed, but fairly -- the outsiders receive no less than the rest. The prisoners, on the other hand, get nothing. There probably isn't enough wild game in the area to sustain the camp, but Piotr sends out hunting parties, and when they get wind of a Cetagandan supply drop on its way, they organize a raid on the supply lines.

camp
With temperatures well below freezing, no food, and excruciatingly little in the way of advantage against the Cetagandans after their last infiltration attempt, morale is beginning to drop. Piotr and Olivia remain bastions of perseverance as always, but Sonia is beginning to buckle and wilt as the days go on. The soldiers do their best to entertain themselves and keep morale up, but all they've got are maple mead, and old card and dice games. They could use some new forms of entertainment. Maybe a snowball fight might get the blood moving -- assuming you can stand the wind chill. Thankfully, there's no shortage of warm clothes and wool scarves.

The cave isn't big enough to simply move all of camp inside, but the sickbay and mess tents are moved where it's a little warmer and out of the harsh wind. It's generally crowded with off-duty soldiers despite the food shortage, because no one wants to be out in the cold right now. Things get a little better after the mostly successful raids, but food is still heavily rationed.

missions
The hunting parties are only moderately successful; there isn't much wild game out there right now, and while the soldiers fare alright, the outsiders' hunting party fails miserably. The raiding parties yield a little more in the way of relief, enough now that they don't have to keep eating horse meat, but Pearl was captured by enemy forces in the chaos.

Maine helps Piotr with a very successful final interrogation of ghem-Miko, the Cetagandan scientist taken prisoner last month. He reveals that the Cetagandans have been studying the locations where exotics appeared, as it seems to be linked to wormhole technology, and that the Cetagandans are planning on building a device to control it. They have the technology, they're almost sure, but it's a puzzle they haven't solved yet. Ghem-Miko doesn't live long past his interrogation -- public execution by decapitation is his sentence, and when it's done, a few soldiers carry off his body and severed head.

Piotr's interrogation of Duv Galeni goes about as well but, blessedly, less fatally. It becomes known that Duv is from Komarr, the planet that sold Barrayar out to the Cetagandans, and that Duv Galeni is really David Galen, a relative of a few Counselors in the head of Komarran government. However, he's able to successfully convince Piotr that he isn't allied with the Cetagandans, and after a few days of agony, Duv is granted parole at Piotr's discretion.

On the evening of the 15th, Maine, Beth and Byerly inadvertently catch Vorhalas in the act of trying to sabotage what little of their food supply they've been able to recoup. He tries both fight and flight, but the three outsiders are able to take him down and drag him to Piotr's doorstep. It quickly becomes apparent that Vorhalas was responsible for the cave-in earlier in the month. Piotr is both furious and victorious; he now has a lead on the traitor conspiracy among his men, and his esteem of Beth, Maine and Byerly has gone up considerably for their part. Vorhalas is up next in the interrogation chair, and this one won't be pretty.

The unabridged event writeup is here.

cetaganda
The recent supply drop not only provides resources for the base and for distribution to their other outposts, but also brings fresh species for transplant into the gardens at the Grow Labs. The arrival of a handful of new exotics gives rise to a fresh wave of buzzing curiosity around the base. All of the new exotics are given thorough physicals, just as the first wave were, and provided with fatigues and anything else they might need. They make an even dozen now, their bunk at capacity. The Cetagandans are beginning to become accustomed to having the exotics on base, some of them even forward enough with their curiosity to be friendly. Darkstalker now has a small following of ghem lady scientists who regularly feature him as a subject in their art.

New arrivals will be processed as the first were -- once everyone has been whisked out of the extreme cold, everyone is subject to a thorough physical, including a number of scans that may or may not seem totally arcane to you. Other than a blood sample, nothing they're doing is at all invasive. Lady Diya d'Zefyst, while not a physician, is present at all physicals. She is easily notable not only for her striking, almost ethereal beauty as is typical of the haut, but, as the only haut on base, she is easily distinguishable by her lack of facepaint.

While the exotics still have freedom of movement around the base, the recent extreme temperatures have their hosts diplomatically suggesting they travel as much as possible, they are provided cold weather wear, as the mess hall and medbay are in separate buildings from the barracks. Weather warning aside, they encourage the exotics to take advantage of the non-restricted recreational facilities -- exercise rooms, art rooms, the lush gardens in the Grow Labs -- and will satisfy any reasonable curiosities.

base
In an effort to make the exotics feel more at home, the Cetagandans decide to put on the sort of function they might for visiting diplomats, full of art of all sorts, to show that they're just as willing to share their culture with the exotics as they're asking the exotics to share with them. The function is hosted on the evening of the 7th in an annex to the Grow Labs apparently meant for this express purpose, as it shows off the most beautiful and elegant of the Grow Labs' specimens, and acts as a live arboretum in and of itself, and quite vibrantly beautiful.

If there's one thing the Cetagandans are good at (besides art, and language, and genetics) it's throwing a good party. Functions like this are always an opportunity for Cetagandans to try and socially one-up one another; everyone is in their most fashionable dress in the latest fashions they manage to keep off-planet, or at least a dress uniform, wearing fanciful scents and vibrant facepaint they might not otherwise on the job. For the artistically inclined ghem (read: a lot of them), this is the chance to show off their artistic endeavors as well -- large sculptures of unusual and improbable materials, walkable installations meant to engage every sense, and of course the living art engineered by the ghem ladies, ranging from relatively simple and tame pieces such as koi fish patterned with clan insignia or black roses and blue orchids, to complex combinations of non-human DNA to create some genetic sculpture. There is, of course, food and drink -- in the usual flagrant Cetagandan style, although the hors d'oeuvres and drinks are even more ecletic than the usual mess hall fare. It seems as though the Cetagandan passion for genetic art extends even into the culinary realm.

At the center of the party is a particular kind of art installation called a discernment garden. Housed in a beautiful, improbably architectural tent, the discernment garden consists of a series of rooms, each meant to test the refinement of the senses -- not unlike a varietal wine tasting. Each room is dedicated to a single sense, inviting participants to judge a collection of samples and suss out the differences, or match tastes and smells and textures to labels; the end of the garden presents its visitors with a final art piece incorporating all five senses, as a final test of one's refinement. Some of the ghem might (a bit wryly) confess that this is actually more of an education tool used for Cetagandan children, but this is meant as a gesture of good will toward the exotics.

missions
On the evenings of the 6th and the 8th, some of the exotics do a little sneaking around, and not for the first time. York lends Kaidan his access badge to the R&D Lab on the 6th and Kaidan, along with Sans and Symmetra, stumble onto a whole lot of wormhole data and schematics to construct a device capable of controlling the phenomena of the exotics' appearance. On the 8th, Deanna and Natasha sneak around to the tactical buildings and overhear some marital discord between Zahal and Diya, and a troubling glimpse at their diverging plans.

On the evening of the 13th, Jasper, York and Daryl are all in the medbay when a biocontainment breach sends it into automatic lockdown, trapping them inside. They overhear Diya arguing with one of her subordinates over unauthorized use of ba genetic material, whatever that is.

The unabridged event writeup is here.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He hadn't meant that literally. That was supposed to be ironic and mocking. Why must this girl be so damnably earnest? Ah, well. Any honest answer would be either depressing or would completely blow his cover, and so he answers instead with something he's quite adept at giving: total lies. They even manage to sound cheery and convincing, in spite of the setting of their grim vigil.

"My word, I have so many. Capturing a rich heiress - old, preferably, and in ill health, so that she'll pass on quickly enough, leaving me with both a fabulous fortune and freedom...A widow would also do. Likewise, old and sick, please. What else? Ah, I want to star in a holodrama myself - I've the face for it, don't you think? A certain je ne sais quois? - because holodrama stars inevitably get free drinks wherever they go. Free drinks and rampant admiration of beautiful women. Ah, and I also want to start my own high-end winery. Producing fine champagne. My face will go on the label." He forms his thumbs and forefingers into a general rectangular shape and holds them up to his face, framing himself to demonstrate how the label will look.

Then he drops his hands and rolls his head over to look at her. "And yourself? Hopes and dreams?"

Beth knows a rhetorical question when she sees one, but there's something interesting about trying to hold Byerly to it. Seeing how he'll squirm out of actually answering, if he does (and he does), hearing what there is to aspire to on planets she's never heard of before. More than anything, she's starting to get the idea that getting Byerly talking--keeping him talking--will make the time go faster. He can go on and on, when he has a mind to.

Of course, then he turns it back on her, and that's not nearly as fun for her. But it's inevitable, she guesses, and what's he going to do with her hopes and dreams if she tells them to him? He can't get to her home any more than she can; the most he can do is try to stomp all her wishes flat, and she's determined not to let him.

"I want to see my sister again," she says, her gaze shifting occasionally from Byerly to the corpse and back again. "And my brother-in-law. Everyone else in our family's dead."

She pauses then, wondering if it's enough to be pointedly honest, or if she should try to get him to say something true--actually true--too. Wait, something in her says. At least see what he has to say.

"Ah," he responds. A number of responses come to his mind. Some of them are cruel - Ah, you truly do dream big, I was looking for something practical - some brutally honest - Good riddance to families, frankly - some more quietly honest - I can understand that. He touches his lips a moment, and then simply offers a quiet, "Condolences."

A moment, and then he takes a breath and continues on more flippantly. "But let's talk about something a bit less obvious, shall we? Of course you want that; that's a boring answer. Tell me something I wouldn't have been able to guess."

"You were going to guess my family was dead?" Beth gives him a skeptical glance, one that mostly covers up the fact that she's grateful he doesn't have anything crueler to say than that. In another conversation, that wouldn't be true, and it'd probably make standing out here a lot worse. Which is saying something, considering that her toes are already starting to numb a little bit. Even if he's sweet as pie the whole time, it's going to be a long wait.

His question isn't really one that has an answer, anyway. She thinks about it, and eventually, she shrugs. "Maybe all that's left are boring answers, when everything gets bad enough."

It's a thought she finds disquieting, but she can't deny how true it feels. I want to go to sleep knowing nobody has to keep watch. I want to walk around outside without carrying a weapon. I want to see my friends again.

Oh. Well - "Hardly that they're dead," he answers a bit uneasily. "Merely that seeing them would be your wish."

He tucks his hands under his jacket, then; his fingertips, even through his gloves, are beginning to get numb. "Well," he continues on, rather briskly, "that is all terribly rotten. Come, now, don't you have any cheerier wishes? What about a nice pair of earrings? Or a day at the beach? Or a proper bottle of wine?" With a sigh and a pout, he amends - "I know, I know, you have no taste for wine. But still. Pick something that would bring you real joy."

"Maybe," she answers, and as the word stretches out--and the silence past it--she knows it's not a maybe. Maybe doesn't compel you to collect garden gnomes or swipe decorative spoons from abandoned country clubs. All of that feels unreachably far off, separated by a greater chasm than a few months. But that doesn't mean it isn't still in her.

She hopes it is.

So she does right by Byerly and tries to think of an answer. And it comes back, as it often does, to music. "A guitar. If it wasn't so cold out here, I'd want a guitar."

"Really?" He looks at her with genuine surprise and interest - not feigned, not put on, not mocking. He truly is intrigued by this answer. He goes on, with real curiosity, "Do you play?"

"I'm better at piano," she admits, smiling a little at the way he stares at her. Part of her had expected another roll of his eyes; Byerly wants to be a perpetually unsurprised man, given the option, from what she's seen. "But you can't carry a piano with you."

"True enough," he allows judiciously. Then he gives a small gesture of his hand. "They play the balalaika up here," he says. "A different number of strings, and the neck is different, but I'd think you'd be able to pick it up. If you put your mind to it."

"That's a Russian instrument, right?" Everything around here is, so it's not really a hard guess, but it's something she remembers vaguely from home. "Maybe if we ever move into a real building, I can play along with the drinking songs."

She says it a little wryly, but it'd be nice to have something underpinning their singing. That, like CDs and MP3 players and karaoke machines and everything else, seems like a luxury these days.

"That would be quite pleasant," he agrees. And then, for a few moments, that's the end of the conversation as he seems intensely engrossed in a bit of snow splashed up against the rough bark of a tree. Then, suddenly, after a disconcerting length of time - neither particularly long nor particularly short - he says, "I myself play. The violin." And then, with a tinge of irony that might have been classist mockery or might simply have been his usual wryness, he amends, "The fiddle."

"Really?" She's so surprised that she laughs aloud, glancing up from the head--still not a walker--to look for a lie in his face. It's hard to picture Byerly, sophisticated Byerly, picking up a violin and playing a reel. Too bad there's no proving it out here. The best she can do is trust that smug look on his face--not fully, but enough to be willing to answer, "My daddy would've put you to work. He loved fiddle music."

"Unlikely," Byerly says, an ironic smile curling his lips. "I'm very good at avoiding work."

But he does lift his eyebrows a moment later, releasing the irony so that he can respond with a bit more honesty. "I'm quite good," he says. No modesty here, by God. "Pity we haven't any chance of finding a piano...I actually know a very charming duet for the piano and violin. Used to play it all the time - I could probably put down the notes to paper from memory alone."

"You'd be surprised." It's a mild rebuke, but that's what Daddy's would have been, too. He always found ways to get people to put some effort in, and he usually didn't have to raise his voice to do it. Her chest aches a little at the thought.

She might, she thinks, have oversold her piano skills without meaning to. She's had lessons, can accompany herself when she sings, but a very charming duet with someone who claims to be quite good might be pushing it. "Do you know any for violin and voice? Might be easier to start there."

"One or two," he admits, glancing over at her. He hesitates a moment, then admits, "In the...mezzo-soprano range, specifically." He feels a brief squirm of discomfort which he does not - absolutely does not - allow to surface in his expression. Instead, he continues on, blithe as anything, "Don't tell me you sing, as well. You're quite multi-talented, aren't you?"

"I can sing that," she answers promptly, though he doesn't seem quite as interested in that possibility. Beth assumes that's because it's easier to do, at least in theory, and thus he might actually have to pull out a violin, if he ever finds one. I'm very good at avoiding work.

If she wasn't already pink-cheeked from the cold, she probably would be now, as he directs the conversation back her way. "I just like music." And doodling, and collages, and interior design--if you can call pasting drawings and magazine cutouts onto the walls of a prison cell any of those things. She shrugs. "Do you sing at all?"

He hesitates a moment - just a moment - then admits, "Yes. A bit. I do." Another slight hesitation, then he admits, "I thought for a while that I might to go a music conservatory. When I was younger. It seems a phenomenally odd thought now. Good heavens, musicians have to work hard at their craft. It wouldn't have suited me at all."

It might have suited him, honestly. A bit. Music, he does love - music, dancing, all of it. In the early days, before Maman had really let herself go, she'd taught him and Nadine music of all sorts - because it had been Maman's passion. Somehow, in spite of everything, music is still a pleasure for him. He never learned the trick of hating it, as he learned to hate most everything else that he'd loved as a child. Ah, well. A terrible oversight.

Lest she think he's too respectable now, he adds, "Mostly I sing drinking songs. I'd sing a few, but they're a bit lewd for your delicate ears."

The way he says it, Beth believes him. It's shockingly easy to picture him studying music and--she imagines--skating by on talent where other students hack away at scores for weeks. And he decided to do nothing, or look convincingly like he does nothing, instead. It's kind of sad. But it does light her curiosity a bit, if only to know what he's capable of.

"I've been living here for a month and a half," she points out dryly. "I've probably heard them already."

And anyway, she spent her high-school career listening to a bunch of harsh-voiced old men sing about sex, love, and everything in between. She's heard lewd before.

"Ah, then you can sing them for me." He cocks his eyebrows at her, and sits back in his seat, and spreads his hands very slightly. "Go on," he says. "Let's hear something."

This is the second time someone's made her sing on command here, and it's more surprising than annoying. A little flattering, which is probably the real point, but if it kills time, it doesn't matter why Byerly's asking.

"Okay," she says after a moment or two, "but I'm not singing you a lewd one."

And as entertaining as it might be to draw on Leonard Cohen, at least in theory, she's not singing anything about hard-ons or oral sex in front of Byerly and a severed head. (Still not a walker.) Besides, her thoughts are too filled with her father today; she'd rather sing something he would have liked to hear. Bethy, sing Paddy Reilly for me. I haven't heard that, I think, since your mother was alive.

So when she draws in a breath, that's what she sings. "The garden of Eden has vanished, they say, but I know the lie of it still. Just turn to the left at the bridge of Finea, and stop when half way to Coote Hill..."

One verse and the chorus--come back, Paddy Reilly, to Ballyjamesduff, come home, Paddy Reilly, to me--is enough. After that, she stops, trying to decide if she wants to try to corner Byerly into singing something in turn.

Ah. Yes. Byerly closes his eyes as she sings, in sheer unselfconscious aesthetic enjoyment of a rare moment of beauty. And it is beautiful. By is friends with actors, opera directors, dance-hall girls - all sorts of low and despicable types - and so he knows technical perfection, and he knows talent, especially when it comes to music. Technically perfect this isn't: her voice is raw, imperfect. But it is also beautiful, earnest and lovely.

When she finishes, he opens his eyes and smiles honestly. He's a nasty, cruel sort of person most of the time, someone who'll mock anyone for just about anything, but that's not the sort of thing he'd ever mock her for.

"Thank you," he says. "Marvelous stuff. Is there more?"

Byerly is a generous audience when he wants to be; she can see, in the way he lets his eyes slip closed, how he can seem charming to other people. As selfish and pompous as he means to come off, he knows how to give people what they want. What singer doesn't want to see someone rapt at their voice?

Beth's not sure it's what he really thinks, but it's flattering. She smiles back, pleased and a little sheepish.

"A couple verses," she owns. "But it's your turn, not mine."

"My turn?" He raises an eyebrow very slightly. A slight hesitation, and then he bows his head in acknowledgment. "If you wish. What sorts of songs do you like? Sad? Happy? As we've said, lewd songs are out of the question, of course."

She does wish, not least because that, in its way, seems like it surprises him, too. She shrugs at his question, though; what he sings doesn't really matter, especially since there's a good chance she won't know it. "Sing something that matters to you."

"Something that matters to me?" His voice curls in a protective sort of irony. It is impossible, of course, that she would get a straight answer to that. Something that matters immediately triggers a retreat, a stepping back behind a layer of defense. He will not, as a matter of course, actually ever share anything that truly matters to him. Not sober, at least. And so he says, "I told you I won't sing the lewd songs. And that's all that matters to me, dear girl. Songs about liquor, drugs, and sex."

He lifts one eyebrow, and gives a little sigh, and says, "I suppose I could sing a song popular in my District, though. It's rather charming. Might be something you'd like."

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