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

"Ah." There's a point, of course, where Byerly will have to start lying to her, lest he give away that he's not simply from another version of this planet, but from another time altogether. And admitting that, in fact, he's had no weapons training whatsoever...Well, what sort of just-post-Time of Isolation Vor would he be, if that were the case? But this is safe enough, he thinks.

"Dinner knives," he admits as he passes his poor wounded hand over to her. "Nothing more formidable than that."

Edited 2017-02-04 17:57 (UTC)

Byerly's theatrics are rewarded with an equally dramatic, mournful sigh as she takes his hand, quite gently, and turns it over in hers. She can feel the bulk of the bandaging under his glove. "Pretty but useless," she says, tongue firmly in cheek. "Yet another thing we share in common, dear Byerly."

That draws an honest laugh out of him. "Quite so," he agrees with a mixture of amusement and ruefulness. "I do fear, dear Sonia, that the civilization of this camp is altogether unlike our particular brand of civilization. I don't think it's anything wrong with us, truly - just a terrible mismatch of time and place and temperament."

He curves his fingers to squeeze her hand - and then gives an actual unfeigned wince when that gallant action pulls at his wound. "Oh. Ow."

That laugh gets a smile in return, which goes wry when Byerly tries to move her hand. "You'll pull it open again if you're not careful," she chides him, covering his hand with her other. "Going hunting -- honestly, Byerly."

She's still smiling, though, and tugs inquiringly at the end of one finger of his glove. "May I have a look? I know it's really, really cold, though."

"And yet somehow, in your presence, I feel warmed," he answers. That smooth-operator answer having been given, he gives a tiny half-bow and tugs his glove off - carefully. Medical supplies aren't being rationed like food, perhaps, but it's not like they're going to use more bandaging than necessary - which makes the rather ample bandaging on his hand stand out. This was not a small or a clean wound.

"Do give it a bit of a kiss, won't you?"

Sonia puffs out a laugh at that, though she balks a little when she sees the bandaging. She bites the tip of one gloved finger to pull it off despite the cold, dropping it carelessly into her lap, and carefully takes Byerly's hand. The immediate cold has already chilled both their skin in a matter of seconds, but it occurs to Sonia that this is the first time they've ever touched one another bare-handed. She bites her lip and frowns, and, predictably, her concern eclipses her latent misery.

"Oh, Byerly," she sighs, rueful, and gives him an utterly fond you're hopeless look. Rather than put her lips to the fresh bandaging, she raises his hand slightly to place a gentle kiss to the backs of his knuckles. "This isn't your dominant hand, is it?"

Her fingertips and her lips are a little startlingly soft. He'd anticipated a bit more chapped harshness - perhaps he's simply so unaccustomed to human skin by this point that anything would feel like a satin caress. He can't help but smile a bit at it.

"It is," he admits ruefully. "I suppose I won't be doing any art or writing poetry soon - the world, no doubt, heaves a sigh of relief at it."

Sonia's brows knit together, but the look of sympathy on her face extends to another level entirely. "Not for another week or two, at least," she says with a wry frown. She cups her hand around his and brings it closer to her for warmth, scooting a little closer to Byerly's side. She probably ought to help Byerly put his glove back on and her own, and she will, but for the moment there's something blessedly normal and comforting about the simple act of holding someone's hand.

"At least the bowstring didn't catch you in the mouth," Sonia concedes with a little ha. "Then you'd be truly crippled."

"Ha," he agrees. "No, that would be truly tragic, wouldn't it? For myself and for others. The camp would be in mourning to be deprived of my wit."

He twists his hand around, then, to gently twine his fingers around hers. "But it does hurt less now," he says, a smile on his lips. "Isn't that remarkable?"

"A miracle," Sonia agrees, her face finally truly warmed. She lets him curl his fingers around hers, shifting to meet him halfway so he doesn't move his hand too much. Her hand is already cold, and she knows Byerly's must be too, so she tucks their hands against her coat. They probably ought to put gloves back on already, but she wants this comfort just a little longer.

"Are you really from a different Vorbarr Sultana?" she asks suddenly, quietly, looking back up at him. She still hasn't decided if she believes him about that or not. It isn't that she thinks it's impossible. But if it's true, the implications...she doesn't know how she feels about that. "A different Barrayar?"

Ah. So she hadn't put that out of her mind as nonsense. Good. He doesn't want her to think of him as a liar...Particularly when he was being truthful. God, no. He'd like her to have faith in him.

"Yes." He answers simply, hoping that simplicity will convince her. "I am."

It does. Sonia bites her lip, trying to reconcile the implications, keep her personal reality upright, but she finds it a relief to be able to believe in it.

"I wish I could see it," she says wistfully, closing her eyes for a moment. "It must be wonderful."

"Oh, it's a mixed bag." He gives a wry little half-smile. It is, unfortunately, quite honest. "A viper's nest of sedition and gossip. According to the rural Vor, sin and dissolution, too." His expression softens. "But yes. Life is easy there. We have time for gossip instead of survival. Believe it or not, we even have a Cetagandan embassy - We don't like them there, to be certain, but they're not really enemies, either. There, I am equally pretty, and equally useless - but a clever witty creature like you would be indeed valued."

"Mm." Sonia just sits there and thinks about it for a minute, pictures it, drinks it in. No, Vorbarr Sultana never could be a pristine paradise -- it's Barrayar, it'll always be rough around the edges, ugly at some angles. But from here, it sounds like heaven.

"There, I would probably have been married off by now," she says, wry, making a slight face, but she still floats on the edge of fantasy. "Or maybe not. What's the music like there? Is there good dancing?"

"Arranged marriages are going out of vogue," he answers, rather fondly. "It only would happen if you wished it." He caresses her palm gently with his thumb, then, and says, "Yes. There is marvelous dancing. Music...Right now waltzes. Three-quarters time. But with a bit of percussion...Mirror dances always are beloved. Now and always."

It's almost pure fantasy to her, and she almost wants to accuse Byerly of tailoring it, only -- she doesn't think he is, and she doesn't want to believe that, either. It would make the whole thing fall apart. A Barrayar that's been allowed to flourish without war long enough to start to let go of arranged marriages...something she thought she could only get away from on Beta Colony. These days, she doesn't know if she misses Silica or Vorbarr Sultana more, but she feels her heart ache for this Vorbarr Sultana of Byerly's, one she'll probably never get to see. Sonia smiles quietly with a small breath.

"Mirror dances," she sighs fondly. "I always loved the mirror dance. When I was a little girl and we were here, whenever there was some sort of state function and those heinously long dinners with dancing, Da would always..." She trails off with a soft hm and looks down at their hands. She covers his with her other for a moment before she reaches to pick up his glove and smiles up at him through her lashes. "It sounds wonderful."

"Well." He doesn't fight her as she slips the glove back on his hand, carefully maneuvering his fingers back into the holes with a minimum of jostling of his wound. "Dancing takes no more than a bit of music and two people. And a court - a capital - is no more than a collection of people, is it not?"

He picks up her glove in turn, holding it for her to slip her own hand into. "When it comes to dancing," he says, "I would be glad to do a mirror dance with you at any time. As for building a Vorbarr Sultana that pleases you...That, I fear, will take more than me alone." He tilts his head to the side, smiles very slightly. "But I believe, milady, that you could draw willing parties to your side. Once the fighting is done. And make civilization in your image. If you so please."

Sonia slips her hand back into the proffered glove with exaggerated daintiness, a caricature of an over-delicate Vor lady. Her smile tilts, but her eyes are bright and earnest.

"I'm going to hold you to that," she murmurs. "As soon as I find some music."

She'll produce it out of...somewhere. She breathes out a sigh and her smile grows rueful. "Me? I don't know about that. My sister, certainly. She's...brilliant. A force of nature unto herself."

Because only a force that powerful could marry someone like Piotr and survive -- and thrive. They make each other better and stronger for it. Sonia mostly just has...herself.

"And what do you take yourself for, milady?" he asks, adjusting her glove so that it sits well on her wrist. "Some wilting lily?" He looks up at her, lifting his eyebrows pointedly. "Your sister herself is full of praise for your strength. Honestly, you two Vorbarra women - each full of admiration for the other. If only you could internalize the other's praise."

Sonia blinks in honest surprise, absent-mindedly leaving her hand where it is. "My sister?" she says, embarrassingly dumbfounded in this moment. Blame it on the hunger, perhaps, or maybe her blind spot is just that wide. "She said that to you?" And then, brow furrowed, "You spoke with my sister?"

"But of course." His lips quirk up just a bit. "She's not as - hm - fond of me as you are, alas, but I quite admire her. So we've spoken a few times. About you, once, During which she did express admiration of you, as I said. Very firm admiration."

Hmh. She shouldn't be surprised that Olivia felt the need to speak to Byerly about her, if Olivia was familiar with the man at all. Sonia purses her lips slightly, but it's overridden by the slight touch of color to her cheeks at the thought of Olivia speaking so highly of her to Byerly. Not that she's ever anything but kind and supportive to Sonia. She's even told Sonia she's strong herself, but Sonia always thought it was more in the line of...encouragement and good morale. Not that she would ever accuse her sister of empty words, but Sonia never felt that kind of strong.

Uncharacteristically, Sonia half-shrugs off the compliment by proxy and looks faintly embarrassed. "It's only because of her," she says, half-mumbling, before she lifts her chin again. "I know what she does for me. I don't think she knows that I know, but after ten years, it's hard not to notice. She does everything she can to keep me as far away from -- everything." Her smile seems somehow fragile. "I'd have gone mad under it all, I know it."

"Mm - true." That brutal sentiment is immediately undercut by the deeply ironic cant to his head, and when he continues on, his voice drips with a light sort of sarcasm. "I've seen how you're carried around on a palanquin - fed with only the finest dainties - And I know I've been forbidden to speak with you about the fact that there's a war on. So."

He flips up his gloved hand in a gesture of dismissal. "Dearest Sonia, you have borne up under conditions like no Vor woman has seen before. Because you are not only withstanding war, but you are withstanding war in spite of the fact that you have the possibility of running away. Your sister is a strong woman who supports you, yes. But the thought that being surrounded by people of uncommon strength makes you weak...That's silliness of the first order. And not the good, charming kind of silliness, either."

Now Sonia really does look embarrassed, her cheeks darkening as she casts her gaze downward. "I never said it makes me weak," is the start of a feeble protest, but she lets it drop, along with her shoulders.

"It just...doesn't feel like it," she says, but she knows that's a weak answer, too. With an outward breath, she draws her knees up under her skirt and hugs them to her, resting her chin on her arm. "It's...it's just...I don't know."

He gives a merciful gesture of one hand and lets up a bit. "One can never see oneself," he says. "One relies on mirrors to do so - and the only mirrors that reflect a person are other people." He gives a little smile. "And when those mirrors are as enormous as the ones you find yourself reflected in, a hundred feet tall and a hundred feet wide, the grandest mirrors in Barrayaran history, you look at your image and you think: I am small. Look at how little of the frame I take up. But that's merely an illusion, dear Sonia. A trick of the eye."

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