forbarrayar | [ january i log: cetaganda ]

Entry tags:

[ january i log: cetaganda ]

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

welcome to barrayar.
It's the dark of night when you come to beyond the foothills. Snow on the ground, chill winter wind whistling. A steep mountain range towers overhead, its peaks illuminated by the light of two moons, and the foothills behind you ascend quickly into rocky mountain faces. 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 fitted with what look like futuristic tactical vests and armed with some kind of energy weapons that look deadlier than not. They surround you at gunpoint, dealing orders in intelligible English, but with some obscure, unplaceable accent, and their faces are colored with vivid paint. It quickly becomes apparent, however, that you are not the people they at first assumed -- something about Barrayarans, the barbarians in the mountains. The one who seems to be in charge steps away to murmur into what looks like a wristwatch-like communicator. After a minute or two of inaudible conversation, the officer steps back in. He orders his men to escort you all back to their base. As long as you cooperate, that's all that will happen.

the base
You are taken back to a military base of considerable scale and some serious fortification. There are two rounds of guard checks to go through, both taking what must be a lot longer than usual, and it's cold out. You are ushered past the guard checks into what looks like a barracks building, but relegated to a bunk on one end. They seem to have cleared the immediate area, with guards posted at the door, but there's audible activity beyond the short hallway in front of the door. They make it clear you are not under arrest, that you are merely being detained until they have ascertained the situation -- the word quarantine is used, but it doesn't seem to be of a medical sort. Either way, the only people who come to the bunk are those cleared by the guards, and they all seem much more interested than hostile.

They answer your questions with the very basic facts: the people who hold custody of you are the military service of the Cetagandan Empire, and the planet you are on is their Ninth Satrapy, and they're currently at odds with some of the native population. They won't say it outright, but it's clear they have no clue how you came to be here or why, but it's clearly of great interest to them. For the most part, the Cetagandan soldiers are civil, if at times distant and aloof, but if you look a little less -- or more -- than human, they'll eye you with visible curiosity, perhaps even some kind of appreciation.

At daylight, a few women in lab coats and the same face-paint as the soldiers come to the room to escort you across the base to the nearby medbay, two or three at a time. The medbay is an intimidatingly sterile and state-of-the-art facility, all gleaming chrome and polished glass and crisp holo displays. You are taken in one at a time for a physical examination -- they have to make sure you haven't brought any foreign contagions into their base, after all -- but the military physician isn't the only base personnel in the exam room. You hear the word exotic tossed around a few times until they realized they're talking about you. They call you the exotics.

the exotics room
For a military bunk, it's in surprisingly tasteful design. The room sleeps a dozen soldiers, so you even have a little bit of room to yourself, and while the furnishings are relatively spartan, they're hardly uncomfortable. If you're in need of clothing, the soldiers will bring you base fatigues – no rank insignia, of course, but the make of the textile is surprisingly fine.

You're served food at mealtimes, a combination of shelf-stable meal rations and what seems to be fresh food, all prepared with unusual artistry for a military base. There's a sophistication to the preparation that seems more like it belongs in a four-star restaurant than a military base. If you have any special medical needs, they'll do their best to attend to them -- and their medicine seems impressively advanced.

Soldiers and scientists alike come to the room every so often to ask you questions, more like interviews than interrogations, but behind the civility there's a burning intellectual curiosity. They seem intent on knowing as much as you'll tell them, and then some.

The nearest bathroom is at the end of the hall, and while they seem to have cleared the area of all other personnel, showers and baths are scheduled, and any trips to the restroom are chaperoned. The guards, while not hostile, are certainly not interested in letting you escape. You could try sneaking past them, but you probably won't get far.

Well, at least you've got each other for company: the exotics on the Ninth Satrapy.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

York startles slightly when he's touched -- the man came up on his bad side and he doesn't have D to warn him of those things. It's embarrassing, but he drops his hands and does his best to answer in a way that'll make sense to someone that might be unfamiliar. He sounds a little shaky.

"He's my AI. Artificial intelligence -- a computer program that shares my brain." He turns his head a little and gestures to the back of his head where the implant shines. "I've had him for years."

"Oh." Not the answer Ratchet was expecting--though he doesn't know what he was expecting, not really. His eyes flick to the visible part of the implant, then to York's bad eye as he settles back, frowning a little.

"It sounded like someone you were looking for. I heard you, back--outside." Ratchet gestures vaguely with one hand, the thick scar around his wrist pulling taut as he turns his palm out. "Is he still missing? Are you--" Asking if someone is all right when it sounds like they might be missing part of their brain is stupid enough that Ratchet manages to realize, even as disoriented as he still is. He tries again.

"Was the installation medically necessary?" Slightly more polite than 'are you going to drop dead?' at least. He's working on it.

"I panicked," York admits. He's still panicking, and feeling so unstable isn't like him at all. He remembers being warned about traumatic ejection of AI, but wasn't given any details back then and now there's no one to ask. "He helps me. Analyzes situations, covers my left side, and we're always talking." Usually Delta's the only one he has to talk to, really. "And yeah, he's still missing. It wasn't medically necessary but I'm not okay."

It takes a lot to admit that, even though he knows it's obvious from how he's been behaving.

"Yeah, you and everybody else, though it sounds like you had a better reason to than most," Ratchet says as he pushes to both feet again and, after a brief hesitation, sits down next to York. On his good side, this time.

"That's..." He rubs his forehead and frowns--everything is fuzzy and imprecise and slow and strange, having traded the crisp, data-rich clarity of an inorganic brain module and set of sensors for an inorganic one, but at least his brain is all there. 'He,' York calls the AI, not 'it.' "This place screwed with me too, but I can't even imagine what that's like."

He straightens a little, watching York's face, then holds out a hand to shake on impulse. "Seems off, that I'd know your AI's name and not yours. I'm Ratchet."

"Suddenly being in a blizzard on a different planet is a good reason for anyone," York comments, managing a weak smile. "And it's horrible. I've never felt like this before."

He reaches out and grasps Ratchet's hand, his eye lingering on the scars at his wrist. Seems they both have their share of marks. "I'm York." Then, because he's curious, and should offer his ear to listen in return: "How did it mess with you?"

"Nice to meet you, York. Even if the circumstances are garbage."

Ratchet half-shrugs, trying not to look thoughtful instead of cagey.

"It's... sort of complicated to explain all the way, but I'd guess it's not totally unrelated to some of your enhancements, though it doesn't involve an AI. Just getting a lot less data than I'm used to, and what I am getting is different. It's more disorienting than anything." He rubs the back of his neck. "That said, I am a combat surgeon and a mechanic, and a bit of an engineer, I guess. I know you don't really have any more reason to trust me than you do anybody else around here, but if there's a problem you don't want to bring up with whoever the hell is running this place, you can tell me, if you want. I might be able to help."

"My circumstances are usually garbage," he jokes, feeling a little bit more like himself at this point. "I'm used to it."

"If you think you can help, I'll trust you." There's a hint of desperation there. He knows there's no reason to trust anyone, and there certainly wasn't reason to trust the Cetagandan doctors but he'd let them prod him for hours earlier, just needing to know what was happening inside his head. If he could figure that out, he could deal with the rest of this. "They won't let me handle their equipment, though... you might have better luck. I'm just a soldier."

York, this planet, this base, and this body are all utterly unfamiliar to him but that look in York's eye, that intent, half-pleading please fix it stare is wrenchingly familiar. He feels it pull a knot taut just under his ribcage and he swallows, his fingers twitching.

"You know I probably won't be able to do anything like recreating your AI," he says carefully, his face guarded. "Not if it's been uninstalled by whatever the hell brought us here. But I can--I don't know." A week ago he would have had a full diagnostic suite of tools that could unfold out of his wrist. He's suddenly, painfully aware of how useless he is like this. He shakes his head after a second, his jaw tightening.

"I'll see what I can do."

York appreciates the honesty, and whatever Ratchet is willing to do. Hell, he'll go through the surgery again if there's a way to troubleshoot the implant. "I just need to know if he's still there. If he is, I can make it through." If he's not.... well he'll have to find a way to cope. Somehow. In this foreign place without his gear.

He shudders, shakes his head. "I'll deal. What do you make of this place? Have they told you anything about the conflict with the natives?"

Ratchet nods, understanding and a tiny flare of sympathy in his eyes that he can't quite conceal.

"I don't know. I don't think they have any better idea of how we got here than we do, and they obviously run a tight ship." He shrugs, his eyes narrowing. "They appear to have the local market on colonialist scrap cornered, from what I've been able to put together, but I don't know anything other than that. You?"

"Colonialists..." That doesn't sit well with York, knowing how it went in human history. He shakes his head again. "I haven't been paying enough attention, honestly. They've got advanced tech but again, I couldn't get a close enough look at it to see if it's anything like I'm used to. They didn't recognize my implant so for all I know we're in a different galaxy completely. And that shouldn't be possible."

"I've been around the block enough times to know what 'conflict with the native population' probably means, though like I said, I don't have anything else to go on." Ratchet snorts a laugh, though it doesn't sound like he finds anything about their current situation particularly funny.

"It's possible. Not probable, and certainly not great, but it's possible. I'd never even heard of Cetaganda before they dragged us in here."

"Neither have I. And they're more humanoid than any aliens I've ever seen."

He glances at the door, the guards, and a thought occurs to him. "How long do you think we have before they start making us fight for them in exchange for the hospitality?"

"You seen a lot of aliens, then, York?"

Ratchet settles back, his eyes narrowing slowly.

"You mean, how long do you think we have before they make an extremely stupid mistake? No idea, but probably not that long." He frowns, and rubs a hand briefly over his face, his shoulders curling in a little. "Wouldn't mind getting my hands on that medical bay, though. I hate having nothing to do."

"Yeah, I've seen a lot of aliens from my galaxy, at least. We were at war the Covenant for decades."

York nudges Ratchet's shoulder with his own, an echo of his usual self. "You're doing something. I feel better. I know what you mean, though, it's weird to just be... in here." It's been a long time since he had training or missions, but he was always doing something even if it was just survival. "Thing is, they'd probably only let you at it if you offered to help them. Do we want to help them? We don't know anything about the natives."

"Huh. Never heard of the Covenant. Plenty of other different species, but not those."

Ratchet looks a little startled when York nudges at him, but his eyes warm before he looks away, shaking his head.

"You just seemed a little..." He holds a flat palm parallel with the ground and wobbles it a little. "Understandably, I mean, that's everybody, but you were hit pretty hard. Now I know why." Ratchet sighs. "I'm--well. I'm used to being Chief Medical Officer of the ship I'm on, nearly two hundred. There's always something to do, even if we're not getting actively shot at. I don't know if I want to help anybody, but not having tools or supplies makes me nervous."

"I am, more than a little. They warned us when we signed up for implantation that it would be traumatic to lose them but I didn't think..." He shrugs. "I only know one guy who had his reject, and he was in psych for a week before I left the organization. I don't know what happened to him." Meaning he might get worse before he gets better. He might wake up screaming, like Wash did the one time York managed to visit him in the med bay. He doesn't know the full story behind Epsilon, of course, this is just all he has to go on. And he still feels guilty about leaving Wash behind when he defected.

York rakes a hand through his hair, mussing it out of place. That's one thing he'll have to see if they have here -- hair gel. He won't feel himself without it once this wears off. "Chief medical, huh? You're military, too?"

"Yeah, I bet," Ratchet says, frowning. "Let me know if you develop further symptoms. I'm most definitely not a psychiatrist, but I've worked with one pretty closely for a while, so I'm not totally in the dark."

He settles back and can't help but laugh a little at York's question, dragging a hand over his face. "Yeah," he says. "Recruited right out of medical school, been fighting a civil war basically my entire adult life. We only just stopped shooting at each other a few years ago, and now I'm here. I'm... less than thrilled."

"If I start hearing voices I'll come to you before them, trust me." He already trusts Ratchet more than the doctors who examined him earlier, though he trusted them enough to do full scans of highly classified tech. He was desperate, sue him. It's not like he cares what happens to Freelancer's secrets.

"At least you got a break? I was kinda in the middle of something when I wound up here. I thought the teleporter malfunctioned at first."

"I'm thrilled, I'm sure." Ratchet's voice is dry, but his mouth tilts in a crooked half-smile before he huffs a soft laugh. "I wish. I was on my way to... to find someone." He goes quiet for a moment, staring down at the thick, vivid scars circling his wrists before he sighs, trying to let some of the tension from his shoulders.

"Guess I'll have to get back to it when I get home."

York hesitates, then asks. "What's the last thing you remember? Maybe if we can find something in common, we can figure out how we got here."

"Nothing especially interesting." Ratchet shrugs.

"I was in my shuttle, trying to get a lock on my friend's shuttle's and move fast enough to catch up with him at the same time, and then I just... woke up. I don't even remember passing out. What about you?"

"I was in the middle of a mission and had just jumped into a teleporter, so I figured that was how I wound up here. But there's no way a standard teleporter could take me out of a star system. Let alone take all my gear and shut down Delta. Still..." He lifts a hand and scrubs at the stubble on his jaw, thinking. "I mean, we were both in transit, sort of. That's different from the other people I've heard from."

"I've been looking for something connecting everyone and coming up blank. Having access to medical files might help, but not everyone here is even human, let alone alike in any other particular way. It's been slow going."

Ratchet rubs his fingers over his mouth, trying not to look weary.

"'Too damn busy to have time to be randomly kidnapped and shoved onto a frozen howling alien wasteland' is a common theme, but I'm not sure that has anything to do with why we were taken."

"There's a dragon. Have you met the dragon? It talks and it tried to eat me."

He jabs his thumb over in Darkstalker's direction, where the dragon is lounging on two bunks pushed together.

"I'm really more focused on the how, because how will be the way back. These people might even be willing to help us. But maybe why could get us to how if we figure it out. A bunch of us are soldiers?"

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