[ january i log: cetaganda ]

[barrayarmods]

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.

Comments

[asafepairofhands]

"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."

[infailtration]

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."

[asafepairofhands]

"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?"

[infailtration]

"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."

[asafepairofhands]

"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."

[infailtration]

"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?"

[asafepairofhands]

"I have not yet had the pleasure," Ratchet says, eyeing Darkstalker. He's used to dealing with anything Darkstalker's size when he's considerably larger and far less edible.

"'How' isn't really my specialty," Ratchet sighs, leaning back on his hands. "I can't believe I miss Brainstorm. He could slap something together to get us home out of spare parts of the bunks and some tinfoil, even if he is insufferable."

[infailtration]

"You might want to steer clear for awhile, he seemed shocked I was sentient. Give him time and a few more meals to process that we're not the food here."

York grins at the sound of Ratchet's friend. "Also, his name is Brainstorm. Can't go wrong with a guy like that around." He leans back on his hands, staring up at the pristine ceiling. "Maybe we're asking the wrong questions, and it's not just how or why. Maybe it's who. They're in a war, right?"

[asafepairofhands]

"He's the stupidest genius I know," Ratchet says, shaking his head before he frowns, eyeing the door.

"Maybe. But they seemed just as baffled as we were when they herded us in here, though they were trying to be smooth about it. If there is a 'who,' I'm not sure it's our hosts."

[infailtration]

"A savant?"

Hrm. Ratchet's probably right about it not being the Cetagandans. "Maybe the natives have tech they don't know about, and they were trying to call for help or something. I don't know. Ancient cultures had some pretty amazing technology, people just think they were primitive."

[asafepairofhands]

"No, just an asshole. I'm continuously baffled about someone who could be so good at scientific theory and careful, methodical testing and pattern recognition and still go his whole life without managing to work out how to have a conversation where the person he's talking to didn't want to punch him in the face. At any rate," he says, because while taking potshots at Brainstorm while he is conveniently absent is cathartic as hell it isn't actually useful, "it's certainly possible. Though if they went to all the trouble of bringing us here, it surprises me that they didn't bother to hang around to pick us up. Maybe they wanted to give the Cetagandans something to run around in circles pulling their hair out over, I don't know."

[infailtration]

"Oh, one of those. You'd be surprised how many people are simultaneously capable and assholes." Luckily Ratchet doesn't seem to be one of them. A doctor shouldn't be an asshole, but those certainly exist too.

"There's no way to find out as long as we're in here." And there's no way out. York sags a bit, knowing they can't well just ask to be let over to talk to the natives. "Those exams. They said it was to make sure we're not a risk to them... maybe they'd tell us the results at least."

[asafepairofhands]

"I doubt it, since that's about half my crew," Ratchet says wearily, but his eyes warm at the thought of the lot of them anyway before his looks over at York again.

"That would be the medically ethical thing to do, yes," he says, his voice extremely mild. "Do you trust these people to be medically ethical, York?"

[infailtration]

"I don't know. They knocked Daryl out when he didn't consent to the exam, but they also did everything I asked them to and said they'd get me a report on it. So if--" Suddenly his head snaps the other way, and he sits up ramrod straight.

"Did you see that?!"

[asafepairofhands]

Ratchet startles when York does, but he looks wary as he settles again, his eyes flicking over to follow York's before they settle back on York's face, his own expression tense.

"See what, York? What did you see?"

[infailtration]

"Delta, just for a second. He was right there--" York gets increasingly agitated as he speaks, breathing faster and looking over his other shoulder and tensing up. He's going to disturb the others if he doesn't calm down. "D?? D!"

[asafepairofhands]

"York," Ratchet says, using his best sit-up-and-pay-attention field-medic's voice, though at a tightly controlled volume. "York, I didn't see anything. Look at me, please."

Ratchet's hand closes firmly on York's upper arm, squeezing carefully. Here's hoping York doesn't break his nose. He hasn't even had it for very long yet.

"I need you to calm down, York. If Delta is an AI implanted neurally, all the shouting in the world isn't going to make him show back up if he's already in your head. Just breathe for a moment."

[infailtration]

York snaps to attention at Ratchet's grip, looking back at the other man. Oh, right. Calling to him won't make any difference. York lets out a shuddering breath... Ratchet didn't see him? How could he miss a glowing figure...? Unless it wasn't there. He calls for Delta mentally and looks back over each shoulder, frantic, then his shoulders sag. His mind is silent.

"Fuck," he mutters, head back in his hands. "He's in there, he's gotta be in there..."

[asafepairofhands]

Ratchet reaches up without thinking as York sags, one hand still on his arm and the other cupping carefully at the back of his neck, over the implant, in a protective gesture. He clears his throat a little when he realizes what he did but he doesn't move, and his voice is low when he speaks.

"He might be, still," he says. "And even if he isn't, that doesn't mean he's gone. Whatever ends up getting us home has a good chance of undoing whatever it did to get us here and reinstalling him. You'll be all right."

[infailtration]

Ratchet's hand is warm and heavy and York tenses at the contact, his breathing rough as he goes very still. When was the last time someone touched him? How pathetic is it that he's not sure? The grip on his arm didn't get to him the same way, didn't make him wonder how long it's been since anyone gave a shit if he existed or not. He's lived in a solo limbo too long, just him and Delta.

He might be going insane, but it feels like someone actually cares.

There's a tiny nod at Ratchet's reassurances, as York struggles to pull himself together. He leans into the other man's touches for just a moment, allowing himself that last moment of weakness and comfort before straightening up again. "You're right. I'll keep it down, sorry." Keep the crazy to himself as much as he can.

[asafepairofhands]

Ratchet feels York go still against him and breathes again when York pulls away, looking at least a little calmer. He slants a look over at York, his mouth tilting.

"Not the noise I'm worried about, kid," he says. "Let me know if that keeps up, all right?"

[infailtration]

"....I know. It's just been a long time since anybody..." A hand wave, then, "Thank you." He smiles weakly. "I'll let you know." Ratchet's a good person, York thinks, someone he can trust. If he starts causing problems he doesn't trust the Cetagandans not to put him back where they found him, as a best case scenario.

He glances up at where Daryl is trying to break one of the support beams of his bunk off, probably for use as a weapon. The other exotic doesn't seem to be having any luck. "Do you know how to fight?" he asks Ratchet, seemingly out of nowhere.

[asafepairofhands]

Ratchet follows York's gaze and bites down very firmly on a grin.

"Tenacious, that one," he says, then nods. "Yeah. I'm--" He stops after a second, faltering. He's not at all sure if any of his skills as a Cybertronian will translate into his human frame, and he's been trying so hard not to think about not being able to do surgery it didn't occur to him that it might also apply to defending himself. "Hell. I think I am, anyway. Like I said, this place messed with me. But last time I checked I was a crack shot, and I'm a lot more dangerous with a knife or a scalpel in my hand, but I can hold my own."

[infailtration]

"Seems like most of us can, military or not." That's good, they can defend themselves if they need to. "Hopefully we don't need to fight them, the setup in here isn't great." Not to mention that most of the guards carry guns. Coming up on their first night and the Cetagandans have been kind so far, more like hosts than detainers, but York's starting to think about what'll be done with them after quarantine.

"If a group of strangers came up on your squad like we did, what would you have done? My old outfit would just have ordered us killed or abandoned, I'm pretty sure."

[asafepairofhands]

Ratchet is already shaking his head.

"Not our style," he says firmly as he watches York. "Definitetly not for noncombatants, and not even for the people we were actively fighting. Refusing necessary shelter or medical care was never an option, not even at the height of the war." His eyes narrow. "Not anywhere I was in charge, at any rate, I'm not saying it never happened. I sure as hell didn't detain anybody for use as lab rats, either."