forbarrayar | [ january i log: barrayar ]

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[ january i log: barrayar ]

Who: Everyone
What: Arrival on Barrayar and what follows
When: January 2nd - January 17th
Where: Barrayaran guerrilla camp
Warnings: None (at the moment)

welcome to barrayar.
It's the dark of night when you come to in the foothills. Snow on the ground, chill winter wind whistling. 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 nine 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.

They're dressed in weather-worn green uniforms, bearing swords and bows, and they surround you immediately, poised to attack. But they quickly realize you're not their enemy, the ones they call Cetagandans. They're just as confused as you are, but rather than hanging around to puzzle it out, they start shepherding you toward their camp in the mountains while it's still dark. There's a war on, they say, and you unlucky bastards have just been dropped right smack in the middle of it.

the guerrilla camp
It's a few hours' hike through the mountains to get to their hidden camp, set up in a clearing framed by dense, hard forestry and backed against a rock face. Daylight is finally dawning when you make it there. You and your fellow sudden arrivals are ushered to an empty tent on the far end of the camp, just big enough to fit all ten of you. You can't help but notice they've posted guards all around it. You aren't under arrest – they just don't know what else to do with you.

You are able to glean, from hearsay and what the soldiers are willing to share with you, that you are on a planet called Barrayar, and this is their home, and ten years ago they were attacked without warning by the Cetagandan Empire. They've been holed up in the mountains fighting against their invaders ever since, outgunned and outmanned, but scoring little victories where they can. They don't tell you much more than that. Some dialect of Russian seems to be one of the predominant languages of the camp, but for the most part they all speak English too, if with an accent. They're gruff and wary, and if you look a little less – or more – than human, they'll eye you with suspicion, maybe even make obscure hex signs at you that seem intended to ward off evil or disease. But they aren't hostile to you, not unless you start something with them.

the outsiders' tent
It's not in the greatest shape, but if you look around the camp, the rest aren't much better off. It's cramped, but you've at least been provided with bedrolls and heavy wool blankets to ward off the frozen chill, and if you're in need of clothing, they'll provide it, although it probably hasn't been washed in…a while. The soldiers bring you food at mealtimes -- not very good food, mostly tough meat and groats, and they keep you your own campfire, just to keep you warm. They've also hastily dug you your own latrine area at the edge of the perimeter, just behind the treeline. No private bathroom stalls in this outfit, unfortunately. The entire camp seems tense and wary, and the soldiers are alert, but they don't talk much. You could try sneaking past them, but you probably won't get far.

Well, at least you've got each other for company: the outsiders on Barrayar.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Mars? Good God, this girl should not be going to Mars. Not that she's a child or anything, of course, but, well - it is a rather scandalous place. Though he supposes if she grew up on Earth, that would be the closest exotic place - but what's all this about not being an astronaut, and...NASA, and...

He rubs his forehead. He's starting to feel as though he's developing a headache. Which is good, because it'll be conducive to feigning a hangover later, but...He feels like this whole thing is spinning wildly out of control. Who is she, where is she from, what is going on...

"Not...exactly," he admits, and clears his throat. "Komarr, Beta Colony - through Escobar space - Jackson's Whole." Jackson's Whole more than the others. The sorts he ran with and ratted out had a fondness for that place. He didn't. He was generally, after all, the member of the group who was responsible for finding drugs, alcohol, and sex for the others. And as a man of some hidden moral character, he always did prefer to find sex that was cheerful and willing and receiving proper health care and good wages from their agencies. Beta Colony's business models, in his opinion, were just so much more charming than the Whole's. He hesitates, then ventures, feeling decidedly disoriented, "Are you at least familiar with those names?"

"No." None of it means anything, though Jackson's Hole (it doesn't occur to her that it might be Whole) sounds like it could be some kind of three-person town in the boonies. "If we weren't on a different planet right now--" though as she says it, she realizes that aside from the weird plants, it could basically be Alaska, and they could be lying to her--"I wouldn't believe you."

So he knows all these different worlds and colonies, and she can name the planets in the solar system. And none of that even begins to overlap, except that he's apparently familiar with Earth.

"This is crazy." And it's cold, and the novelty of snow wore off sometime after a little of it got down inside one of her cowgirl boots, so now she has a cold, soggy foot on top of all this. She crosses her arms as she trudges up a mountain that might be Barrayar or might be Alaska, depending on how much she can trust any of these people. "If we could go to other planets, they would have shipped people off right at the start of the turn. All they did was set up FEMA camps."

There are certain things By is not so fond of. Numbers one through seven on that list are all members of his family, and number eight is heights, and number nine is sobriety. Number ten - high up on said list, all things considered - is feeling out of the loop. And right now, he is feeling terribly out of the loop. What, after all, is a femur camp? What is a turn? Or, no, he knows what turns are, obviously, that's a simple enough thing - but what does she mean when she talks about them here? His sensation of having a headache only increases.

"Perhaps," he says, rather delicately, "you might provide me with a bit of...background context on where you're from. Forgive me; I think I might not know some of the...Earth lingo. Or culture. Or anything. We don't get too many Earthers out here on Barrayar, you must understand."

"Fine." It's probably not fair, answering with the verbal equivalent of an eyeroll, but neither is anything else that happened today. She was almost home--she'd had one more thing to do (murder Dawn sounds horrible to think, even if she knew it needed to be done), and she was going to see her people again--and now she's probably lightyears away from everyone who matters to her. And it's cold, and she still doesn't trust him. Beth glances his way again. "You know about the walkers, right?"

Everyone knows about the walkers, even if they call them something else. If he doesn't, this conversation's going to get really, really basic.

He is guessing, given her peculiar emphasis, that she is not simply referring to people who prefer to stroll rather than ride. No, he does not remotely enjoy not knowing what's going on. Not a bit.

"Let us presume I do not."

Beth sighs. Fine, they'll assume he's never even heard of walkers (the biters, the rotters, the dead, whatever the rest of the universe calls them). Maybe it's some kind of secret, the way an entire spiderweb of planets beyond Earth apparently was to her.

"At home, when somebody dies, we have to stab 'em in the head." She has no idea how many times she's going to have to go over this. She hopes it's not a lot. "Once your brain's broken, you're really dead. If it isn't, your body keeps going without you."

"Ah," he says a bit helplessly. "You...do not mean merely in the sense that - ah - cryorevival can be carried out if the brain is undamaged. You mean that anyone can come back?"

Is that some childish flight of fancy? Some fiction she's been fed? She seems deadly grim. Hard to imagine this as a joke.

Beth gives him a blank look at the word cryorevival. Maybe it's the thing where they freeze people, but she always figured that was basically science fiction stuff, too. After a moment, she decides aloud. "No. It just happens. You die a person...and you wake up something else."

A monster--though there's something heartless about calling them monsters when they used to be as human as anybody else. They're deadly, but they're unfortunate. Pathetic.

"Ah," he says rather weakly. "Hm." He bounces his walking stick several times against the path and says, "So on your part of Earth, the dead simply are up and walking about. One wonders why...one has not heard of such a thing."

Beth's brows draw together, and her gaze slips away from the man. Instead, she's looking out at the snow beyond their little group: clean, fresh-looking, without the stumbling tracks of walkers. No grey-skinned faces anywhere around them, for that matter. She can't remember the last time she stood outside and saw only the living in all directions.

"You don't have walkers here," she says, some wonder creeping into the words. After years of having them at her back, she'd assumed their twisted forms were out there among the trees. Which is proof in itself that her tracking needs work, but she's not sure she can trust anyone here to ask. "You--you really haven't heard of them. At all?"

"The affairs of galactics are not my specialty," quite literally, hah, "but I should think that I'd have heard a bit about walking dead even many wormholes away."

Another thump of his walking stick on the frozen earth.

"So we are left with a mystery," he proclaims. "You with no knowledge of the broader galaxy, I with no knowledge of your Earth. I suppose there are a few possibilities that spring to mind. One, that you are from some other universe's version of Earth. Two, that we are both dreadfully ignorant. Three...hm. That someone has made your planet into some sort of laboratory, and fed you a very cruel fiction. Four, that one or both of us is mad."

Every possibility he comes up with is kind of crazy, though it's not like she can come up with anything that isn't insane.

"I'm not mad," she answers, rolling her eyes. That's the easiest one to answer--makes it the best place to start. "So it's not that. We're definitely both ignorant, but that doesn't really explain what's going on. And if everyone on Earth is a lab rat...that's not just crazy, that's really screwed up."

And it doesn't make everything happening fiction. The fact that apparently NASA lied to everyone about good space travel, maybe, but the rest of it...

Anyway, that only leaves one thing as an option, and she doesn't have much of an answer to it. Sophomore science never covered this stuff. "Is another universe even possible?"

"I said one or both," Byerly protests. "I might be mad and dreaming you up. It's not hard to imagine. Madness is nearly as common in my family as brown eyes. I could name you three cousins currently living who are confined to their homes for madness." Not, alas, an exaggeration or a joke. He wonders for a moment if that's what this is. His mental break, come at last. If he's broken down and raving about girls from planets with living dead men, locked in some room in some Vorrutyer manse. Or wandering the streets while raving, perhaps? Heaven forfend, what a dreadful thought. But his parents wouldn't bother to pluck him off the streets to protect him from disgrace...Dono would, though. Solid, reliable, honorable Dono would make sure that if his mental breakdown ever came, he at least wouldn't humiliate himself in public.

Oh, stop it. Not even worth thinking about further. If he is mad and hallucinating, might as well embrace it. That's wisdom gleaned from copious drug use: when you're in a hallucination, just go with it. Far more fun than sitting around pouting and doubting. And you're just making yourself depressed.

"And it's not like something being screwed up makes it any less plausible. If anything, it makes it a bit more plausible. The human race is nothing if not a bit sadistic." Ah, but you're letting your cynic show, By. Best to stop that, given the present company. "But truthfully? I haven't the faintest idea whether it's possible. Nothing like that has ever been shown to exist in all the years that we've been venturing into space and pushing the frontiers ever further. But it's hubris of the first order to presume that we know all there is to know."

"Well, you're not. I had a life before this, you know." Sometimes it was pretty terrible, but it was real. All the crazy relatives in the world don't change the fact that she's not a figment of this guy's imagination.

But maybe he's a figment of mine. Maybe she's lying on the floor of the hospital as they speak, twitching while the trade-off stalls around them. Or maybe the trade-off never happened, and she's actually dozing off next to Carol. If the hospital was even real. Once you start wondering if everything happening is just you being so crazy that you think you're on another planet, there's nowhere to stop besides your birth. So it's not a good possibility to dwell on, because it's too huge to consider--and there's no real solution for it, anyway.

"And I've seen what people can do. But that'd be a huge thing to cover up--wouldn't it? The whole world is covered in walkers. Somebody would notice, even if nobody gave a damn." Because that's the problem with that possibility, because it assumes that the whole universe is so full of assholes that nobody else cares that Earth's being consumed by the dead. And she can't do any more with that than she can the possibility that she's just nuts. "So a whole other universe looks like the best idea we've got."

"Oh, not necessarily," By replies. "I mean, you might not necessarily be on Earth at all. You could be on another terraformed planet you're told was Earth. Someone could have seeded that planet with a human population, and then a genengineered population of your not-dead men, left them to shamble about..." He strokes his beard thoughtfully as he considers the possible culprits in that scenario. "Beta Colony would have the resources and technology to do that handily enough, but they wouldn't, bless their soft hearts. Jackson's Whole might be able to and would, if they could hang up enough cameras, make it into some sort of holodrama - but they'd also want to have people pay to watch it, and no such thing has been advertised. So if it were anyone, it would be Cetaganda, trying to have you fight to the death so that the most genetically superior could be airlifted out to have their genes extracted and spliced into the next generations."

What a dreadful thought. And how...plausible. Well, plausible morally. Not in terms of practicality.

"But - yes. That would be an enormous undertaking. Hiding a livable terraformed planet alone - that would be phenomenally difficult. The heretofore unknown seems more likely than the wildly implausible."

The whole idea is incredibly unsettling. The more the man talks, the more it sounds like it could be a real possibility--like maybe the problem isn't that NASA never got past the moon, it's that everyone's been lied to for...what, decades? Centuries? How does that explain their farmland, or the stories her parents told her about the past?

She's pretty sure she was right the first time: the whole idea is screwed up. But it's starting to sound like the kind of screwed up the world's always been. People have always done unthinkable things to each other. Would it really make that much difference if they were doing them to all eight billion people?

It sounds like it'd be hard to do it, but the idea is still a little better than a different universe. She'd prefer the idea that they could find some non-Earth planet and rescue Maggie, Rick, and everyone else.

Beth shakes her head, worry pinching her features. "It doesn't really matter until we actually go someplace," she finally says. "It's all the same from here. "

"Wise child." He sighs windily, but he's hardly even being sarcastic - she is quite right on that account. The solutions to their larger problems, this mystery they've been thrust into, is far beyond their grasp. At the moment, they're limited to resolving lesser problems: don't starve, don't pitch headlong off a cliff, don't get your throat cut by Dendarii hillmen. Don't freeze to death. He suppresses another shudder - even this exertion isn't sufficient to keep him warm. He does hope the girl is doing all right...

"We've not exchanged names, have we?" he asks. "Byerly. Vorrutyer, obviously - eugh, how loathsome, that I introduced myself as Vorrutyer before I introduced myself as By. I consider myself an individual, rather than a representative of my family. Not a Vorish trait, but I'm not a Vorish Vor." He sweeps a half-bow, stumbles theatrically, rights himself, hiccups, and says, "Who are you?"

"I'm not a child," slips out of her, a little petulant. It's obvious that she doesn't look like much--she's starting to think maybe that's a good thing, if they don't realize what she can do if she has to--but there's something about being talked down to that still rankles a little. (Almost, in fact, like she's a teenager being a teenager.)

That same petulance, not to mention her lingering wariness about the guy (Byerly. By.), leaves her hesitant to introduce herself in turn. But for all she doesn't think she trusts him, she can't deny that he's given her plenty of useful information on this stupid, freezing walk. It might be helpful to have an ally when they get wherever they're going, even an ally kept at arm's length.

"Everyone's a representative of their family," she says instead. You're the sum of the people you know and all the things you learned from them, and all the ways your personality bent those lessons. Even if you don't like them, they're part of what makes you you. And then, after another moment or two considering, she adds, "My name's Beth."

Edited 2017-01-10 20:13 (UTC)

Hah. He shoots her a wry grin, then lifts his eyebrows and gives a flourish of his hand. "A wise wizened crone, hobbling around on her creaky arthritic knees, complaining of throwing out her hip and occasionally coughing up actual dustballs, then," he says, then sweeps that hand to the side so he can lower himself in a little bow. Then he lifts himself up again just in time to avoid actually stumbling on a rock outcropping. As convincingly as it would make him look drunk, he'd sooner not actually fall and break his face.

"So are you a representative of your family, then? I notice you didn't give me any family name. Not that I'd know them, of course, you being a prole galactic and all."

He clearly thinks he's hilarious; though Beth doesn't quite share the sentiment, she also doesn't reply. Complaining here will just confirm whatever he's decided to think about her age. (And maybe if he thinks she's just a stupid kid, that's not so bad in the long run.)

By instinct, she puts out a hand when some of the stone beneath their feet looks like it might trip him up--but he notices, too, and she doesn't actually have to catch his arm. Drawing her hand back, she answers, "I guess I have to be. There's no one else here."

The word prole sounds vaguely familiar, but she can't place where from or what it must mean exactly. She takes a few more steps before she adds, "And it's Greene. Beth Greene."

"You sound a bit sad about that," he observes, sticking his free hand into his pocket. God, he wants to get to camp. He worries he'll lose his fingertips to frostbite soon. He thinks back to those hours before, standing before his drawer of evening-gloves and thinking, no, didn't go with the ensemble. They're not thick gloves, no, but anything would have helped...

"Lonely for the other Greenes, perhaps? Wishing they were here with you?"

Beth's jaw clenches.

She's starting to wish she'd left his coat in the snow after all. He's just being a jerk to be a jerk, and about something she really doesn't want to talk about to somebody like him. Somebody she just met, who's kind of an asshole, drunk, and maybe a little creepy. Who's going to be honest under these circumstances?

As contrary as she's feeling, she can't bring herself to snap No back at him. It feels like betraying Maggie, especially when she'd give anything to see her. Instead, she says nothing, just tries to pick up some speed so they aren't walking next to each other anymore. It's easier said than done, though, with snow this deep and a steepening incline.

Ah. Too much? He glances over at her face, the way she's struggling through the snow to get away from him; apparently, yes, too much. It's funny, in a way; he wasn't even trying to be cruel or mocking in that moment. He was genuinely trying to make conversation. But, well...Things just come out of his mouth sounding sarcastic. And that came out of his mouth sounding sarcastic. And it hurt her feelings. Well done, Vorrutyer.

"I wish my cousin were here." He doesn't know if that will help. Probably not. But it's something true, at least. And his voice is a little subdued when he speaks, with less of an ironic ring. "He'd be furious at me for even thinking it - he'd enjoy this little wilderness retreat even less than I do - but he always does make me laugh. And he makes even completely insane things seem quite rational. All of this would seem vastly less terrifying."

Too much. Definitely too much. There aren't a lot of Greenes left these days--Mama and Shawn died soon after the turn, Daddy much more recently, and all three of them went in violence and fear--and opening herself up to explaining that is more than she wants to do with Byerly Vorrutyer today.

It'd be nicer if he'd just leave her alone, but of course, he doesn't. She should've known better than to hope. But when he does speak again, it sounds a little more genuine. Maybe he's trying to make up for the questions, or maybe this is what he wanted to talk about in the first place; maybe asking her about her people was just a vehicle to get to talk about his.

The thought doesn't make her feel much better, but their captors haven't mentioned how far away they are from their destination. Fighting this snow might tire her out before they arrive, and she can't be tired for that--not when she doesn't know what's going to happen or who they might have to face down. So she stops struggling in favour of the trudging step she's used for the last hour.

"Then you're better off wishing you were with him," she says, staring straight ahead. "If he'd be unhappy here."

By pauses, and then lets out a little Hah. "You know, it hadn't even occurred to me to wish for that," he marvels, not untruthfully. "One stroke of ill luck, and I've become a pessimist. Fancy that."

He walks a little further, then continues - "You ought to wish he was here, too, though. You'd like him. Everyone likes him - or, well, nearly everyone. Everyone who's not scandalized by him. He was born a woman, you see - my cousin was named Donna for the first thirty-odd years I knew her - but when the Count died, he went to Beta Colony and had surgery to become a man so he could take over the Countship. It wasn't going to work, of course - the Counts are all hideously small-minded, and were going to vote against him on the basis of his history as a woman, or on the basis of him going to Galactics to treatment, or simply on the basis of having no idea what just happened - but then he was attacked by his rival. And honor compelled all of them to stand behind Dono."

He bounces his walking stick on the ground again and proclaims to the air, "Barrayarans are honorable. You can be certain of that." Another few steps, and then, for once not couching his true meaning in cryptic asides and mockery, he says, "You're going to be all right."

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