Work Text:
Miles hums a little under his breath as he approaches the Barrayaran Imperial Embassy on Escobar. The gate guards are giving him and Quinn suspicious looks, but, unfortunately for them, Miles has an appointment and all his paperwork is in order. They glance even more suspiciously at the cargo receipt from customs and from the set of their jaws, they aren't going to touch it without a direct order from the ambassador and an explosives check.
Both of which they're going to be getting, of course.
Miles and Quinn voluntarily surrender all weapons to the secondary guards and are then scanned very carefully and then let in. Miles thinks he can feel their suspicious gazes burning a hole into the back of his head. Ah, the familiar feel of well-earned paranoia. Welcome home.
One of Petya's very industrious aides is there to greet them, and from the way he conspicuously does not give Miles a second glance tells Miles all he needs to know about how thin the whole 'Betan clone' excuse is getting among the Barrayaran diplomatic services. Dammit, Miles thinks, I should have handled that time on Cetaganda better. And that time on Earth.
"The ambassador is waiting for you, Admiral Naismith," the aide says. Then he turns to Quinn. "I apologize, ma'am, but the ambassador was quite clear that you were to wait outside."
"He's the Voice of the Barrayaran Emperor on the planet," Miles says to her, going for his flattest Betan accent. "Space-born bodyguards make him twitchy. It's all the danger, you know. He can't handle it. The very idea of meeting a female soldier is turning his hair grey."
The aide looks very blank and bland and pretty much like Petya does when he's trying not to laugh.
"He is waiting," the aide insists.
"Oh, all right," Miles says. "Can't keep the busy and important man waiting. Don't worry, Quinn. I'll be fine."
She gives him a look that says she is not impressed with his acting skills, but shrugs. "All right, Miles."
The aide shows Miles into the conference room and then withdraws. Petya's waiting for him, looking very prim and proper, along with an ImpSec Lieutenant, whose eyes widen just wide enough to be noticeable when he sees Miles.
"Ambassador Vorkosigan, hello," Miles says. Then before the Lieutenant can burst, Miles says to him, "I'm the Betan clone."
"Admiral Miles Naismith," Petya says. "This is Lieutenant Novak of our security services. He will be conducting your cargo back to Barrayar."
So, from one ImpSec courier officer to another... Miles leans forward and says to him conspiratorially. "This your first time meeting a clone?"
"You go by Miles Naismith?" Novak asks, like he's speaking blasphemy.
"It's certainly legal, under Betan law," Petya says, "although I must say, Admiral, it lacks a certain imagination. Does it amuse you to identify yourself so strongly with your progenitor-brother?"
"As you said, Ambassador, it's the legal Betan form," Miles gives him a solemn smile. "As a mercenary, keeping to legalities amuses me. And it's a pleasure to meet you, I should say. I'd known that my progenitor-brother had an elder brother, but I've only seen you on the vids. I'd never expected to make your acquaintance myself."
"Oh?" Petya says. "You are certainly welcome to visit Barrayar. My step-mother, Countess Vorkosigan, has lived on Barrayar for decades, but she remains a Betan at heart. She would love to meet you. In fact, she's told me specifically to tell you, if I saw you, that she would welcome you at any time. I could arrange any travel documents you require. But, ah, perhaps not for your fleet. You would have to come by yourself. Arrangements could be made," he continues, clearly going for reluctance, "if you required a bodyguard, but I assure you, the Countess would make sure that no one meant you any harm."
Miles nods, as if considering. "Maybe I will someday. Barrayar's such a backwater, though."
"In some places, it can be," Petya allows. "But we like it anyway. Your, ah, progenitor-brother might prefer not to be there at the same time. He's found the idea of having a clone, let alone two of them, to be a little awkward. Our cousin Ivan has made some unfortunate sexual jokes."
You cannot make me blush, damn you, Petya. "I can see how it could be awkward," Miles says, "finding out that a number of illegal clones had been made. Maybe Lord Miles and I could meet somewhere in private, then, away from any irritating cousins."
"That would be sensible," Petya says. "But as to the matter at hand, you have it?"
"I gave a copy of the customs receipt to the gate guards. Here's your second copy." Miles reaches across the table and hands it to him. Petya passes it to Novak without a glance. "And now I believe I'm due my payment."
"Is everything in order to your satisfaction, Lieutenant?" Petya asks Novak.
"Yes, sir," Novak says.
"Then go free your cargo from the Escobarans," Petya says. "Bring it back here. We'll check it all over before shipping it home."
Novak's gaze flicks to Miles and he nearly smirks. "Yes, sir," he says and salutes his way out of the room.
"A moment, Admiral," Petya says before Miles can ask him why Petya had just insinuated that Miles had goofed the job. Petya plays with the controls on the wall and then stands back, satisfied. "We're clear, Miles."
"It's all there as ordered, Petya," Miles says.
"I don't really think you would cheat," Petya reassures him. "But it was a convenient excuse to get him out of the way, and I judged it would serve to help your cover story much more than that impersonation you're doing of your mother's accent." He hands Miles a small package. "Your payment and your sealed, written orders from Illyan, suitable for viewing on your Dendarii ships."
"My next job," Miles says, happily. "Our next job. Thank you, Illyan."
"Being in an embassy giving you an allergic reaction?" Petya asks.
"No, but," Miles starts, "not to suggest that I don't live to serve. But... purchasing and shipping fine art, Petya? Really? ImpSec decided that was worth sending out a mercenary fleet instead of just slipping in a few operatives, or even just having the Imperial Art Museum buy it outright?"
"It's rather messily diplomatic," Petya says. "Komarran, to be specific. Are you interested in details, or would your eyes glaze over?"
Miles frowns. "Now that I think about it, one of the pieces did look familiar. Something to do with, oh." He blinks. "Pre-Conquest Komarran art. Yeah, there was that time, was it you who mentioned it?"
"Not to you," Petya says. "Is this some newly-discovered passion for art appreciation?"
No, it wasn't Petya. It was... and it comes back to Miles in a flash. "This was the stuff that was sold to fund the Komarran Revolt?"
"Some of it," Petya confirms. "A few of the families got together and decided to, ah, put in an official complaint against their family member who sold it, claiming that it was stolen by this relative and then sold illegally. Earth, as you can imagine, is not impressed by these claims, since as far as they're concerned, these are sham documentation complaints without merit. But the Komarran planetary shareholders are leaning on the Komarran Viceroy, who is passing it along with great complaint back home, and so the question of who owned the art at what time is harder to untangle than you might think. And on the other hand, the current owners are, or rather were, uninterested in selling it back to Barrayar or, as they put it, Komarran collaborators on sheer principle. However, they did not object to selling it to a free-for-hire mercenary fleet. And so one was sent. You."
Lucky Miles. "And so your lucky ImpSec lieutenant gets to bring it all home, much to the relief and gratitude of the Komarran elites?"
"He's bringing it to Barrayar, yes." Petya says. "The Emperor is inviting the shareholders in question to a ball where the art will be displayed and then he will allow them to reclaim it. He's not going to let them forget who brought their treasures back to them. But, you understand, with respect, dignity, subtlety, and grace."
A whole lot of subtlety, Miles bets. And possibly also Gregor's slyest shark smile, which tends to make Miles, at least, wonder what's going on in Gregor's alien mind and if maybe he should duck. "I'll bet they'll be happy. I'm sure Gregor will make sure of it, letting them know that we brought them back the stuff they sold to fund their revolt against us." Miles frowns. "But a lot more carefully spun, so it's not a horrible insult."
"Very, very carefully," Petya agrees dryly. "I'll make a diplomat of you yet. We're going to have to script this very precisely and very delicately for maximum gratitude and minimum recriminations. All of these families, after all, had family members who were active in the Revolt. Some more active than others, of course, but still... active."
Right, which means they're going to have to be even more careful not to upset the Barrayarans who had to fight the Revolt and redeem with blood Aral Vorkosigan's mistakes. "I really don't envy Gregor," Miles says. "That's going to be a careful line to walk. How are you going to explain the Prime Minister not attending?"
"District matters," Petya says, sounding very proud of Miles for figuring that part out. Petya always seems to be pleasantly surprised when Miles shows that he's politically-aware. You accidentally commit treason once and they never let you live it down. "Always convenient, because there's always some emergency that needs to be dealt with. I can give you some briefing materials on that as well, but those can't leave the embassy, of course."
"Is there anything I need to know that can't wait?" Miles asks.
"No. We'll need you to look over proposals for land usage around Vorkosigan Vashnoi, but that can, of course, wait," Petya says. "For years, if necessary. It's piling up for you at home, to enjoy at your leisure."
Miles remembers looking through some of them before. They are endlessly depressing. But it's not as endlessly depressing as it used to be; the radiation levels are going down. "I'll look those over when I can," he says.
"There's no hurry on it," Petya says. "I wish there were, to be honest, but, unfortunately, radiation is not subject to Vorkosigan whim."
"It's not? I used to think Da could snap his fingers and make anything happen," Miles smiles. "But what's he really going to be tied up in the District for?"
"Hassadar," Petya curses. "In its wisdom, well. Perhaps there is some wisdom to it, I don't know, but the traffic controllers have been doing experiments with the traffic control system. The results of which have not been pleasant. He's going to be Countly disapproving at them, and then they're going to have to fix this mess, because, from what I can tell, the original problem still exists. They just made it worse."
"It's fixable, though, right?" Miles asks. "They aren't going to have to scrap the traffic grid and start again like they did in that Vorrutyer city?"
"Pierre thought it would work," Petya sighs. "But, no, it's nowhere near that tangled. Pierre has amazing talent, turning a traffic system into a Gordian knot; they really did have to cut it in half to fix it. Hassadar only wishes it were as twisted as my cousin."
There's something there, but Miles really doesn't want to poke at it. Talking about Vorrutyers with Petya is like walking through a minefield. It's all fine on the surface until he slips on some history that no one bothered to mention to him, and Petya blows up, all red-faced and enraged and motherless.
"Speaking of things possibly fucked up," Miles says, changing the subject badly, "I think my cover is blown around your minions."
"ImpSec only thinks it's smarter than the Corps," Petya informs him. "And we let them keep their delusion. Don't worry, the ones who suspect know better than to say anything. Illyan's guarding your cover very closely. Although, I have to say, Miles, going around using your legal Betan name is not helping matters."
"I was seventeen!" Miles objects. "I didn't expect it to ever be a lasting cover. It was just the name I was using when it all started. I promise, Petya, I am so much better at this than it looks like from--"
"Your conspicuous name and your conspicuous appearance, yes," Petya agrees. "Working with what you had, well... I congratulate you on keeping it up for so long."
Miles isn't sure that's actually a compliment. "Petya, are you really criticizing me for this? Now?"
"Criticizing you?" Petya repeats. "No, nothing of the sort. But you have to know that this cover won't last forever. It's one thing for my, as you called them, my minions to see through it; they've all read up on me and they know what my younger brother looks like. But you're Lord Miles Vorkosigan. There is only so long you can maintain this fiction. I just ask... be prepared, Miles. Be ready for the day when your cover blows up around you."
Petya sounds actually worried about this. Miles gives him his best Naismith smile. "I live to serve."
Petya rolls his eyes at him.
"No, really, Petya," Miles says, "it's fine. Let Illyan and ImpSec worry about this. And, uh, one of my senior staff figured it out already and he was fine with it, he went along with it with a smile, although that might have been because he worshiped the ground Da walked on. You should have seen him talk about Komarr, he was salivating. So even if people figure it out, it doesn't mean disaster."
"Figured out who you were," Petya asks, "or figured out who bankrolls you? A run-away Barrayaran Vor lord is one thing. A mercenary fleet in the employ of Imperial Security is quite another."
"We are being careful," Miles says. "Seriously, Petya, it seems every time I talk to you, you're asking me to promise you I'll be careful."
"You can't blame a brother for caring," Petya says, and for some bizarre reason, he's smiling as he says it. "And covert ops is not known for-- you are highly decorated, Miles, I'm not forgetting that you are actually good at this and have been officially recognized as such. But that doesn't mean I'm not permitted to worry about you and wish you actually were a damned courier agent."
"You're an ambassador," Miles points out. "There have got to be more people trying to kill you than are after me."
"Possibly," Petya concedes dryly, "but you will notice that I am inside a heavy-guarded embassy, and have many industrious ImpSec guards around who make sure that no one succeeds in killing me."
"I have guards, too," Miles says. "One of them is just outside. Want to meet her?"
"Your Commander Quinn?" Petya asks. "No, Miles, I would prefer to formally meet your girlfriend when you don't have to keep pretending to be someone else."
"That's part of the problem," Miles admits. "She thinks I'm Admiral Naismith and that Lord Miles is some part I play when I'm on Barrayar."
Petya frowns at him. "I'm sorry, Miles. I was under the impression this was a woman you were trying to get to marry you. I didn't realize it wasn't serious."
"It's serious," Miles shrugs. "But she wants to marry Naismith, nor Vorkosigan. It's-- it's not going to result in marriage, I think we both realize that. But it's fun while it lasts." The look on Petya's face reminds Miles why he doesn't usually confide to Petya about his love life. Petya really doesn't get it. But why should he? Anyone he meets knows exactly who and what he is. He doesn't have a charismatic admiral hanging over his shoulder, sabotaging his chances with his girlfriends. Naismith, Miles thinks glumly, is much more attractive to galactics than Lord Miles Vorkosigan. Damn it all.
"Well, so long as you are both enjoying it," Petya says doubtfully.
"We are," Miles reassures him. "I know where we stand, honestly. I asked her to marry Lord Miles, she said she would marry Admiral Naismith. And Admiral Naismith doesn't actually exist."
"You covert ops types," Petya sighs. "I don't understand how you can fraction yourself like that, how you can play a role that well, that you can conduct a love affair while pretending to be someone else. How does it not break you apart into pieces?"
"Practice," Miles tells him with a smile, and does not tell Petya that sometimes, he wishes he knew. "And you do it, too. I've seen you go all Lord Vorkosigan at people. You put on your titles."
"I am Lord Vorkosigan," Petya says. "And not at all in the same way that you are Admiral Naismith. It's entirely dissimilar and don't pretend that it's not."
"I don't know how to explain it," Miles says. "Go through ImpSec training some time, Petya, I don't know. I'm sure the shrinks there can talk about it much better than I can. Interrogate them, not me. I just know how I cope with it," which sometimes, admittedly, is very poorly, but coping is coping, "not how it all works in the grand theory of Imperial Security Covert Operations."
"Yes, they despaired over my lack of understanding of this," Petya says. "Such a shame, though, on second thought, being considered a poor candidate for covert operations did make me much less suspicious of a target. It would be hard for anyone to suspect me of being a double agent after they'd seen my aptitude scores. Although if I were a good enough double agent, I could have thrown those tests. Which I'm sure was taken under advisement. But that's not the point," Petya continues swiftly, "the point is--"
"Being ready to give up Admiral Naismith if my cover is blown," Miles says. "Yes, Petya. Really. I do know this. I've been over it with Illyan. And I promise. If I'm near Escobar, I'll address the emergency beacon to you specifically."
Petya seems to accept that this is the most reassurance he's going to get. "All right," he says reluctantly. "And is there anything else you need from me? Either personally or in maintaining your cover?"
"No, I think we're fine," Miles says. "Got the money, got the new orders. Your Lieutenant has your art and you can go over it with gloves on, it's all there--"
"I believe you," Petya says soothingly. "I didn't mean it as an insult to your honor or integrity."
"Yes, you think I'm good at this," Miles says, trying not to show how big a compliment he thinks that is. "Thanks, Petya. And the fleet isn't here -- we can't get too close to Escobar -- so no one's timing how long the transfer of goods actually takes. I think my cover is secure."
Petya comes around the side of the table and gives Miles a troubled look before hugging him close. "Be safe out there," he orders softly.
Miles pulls back and gives Petya a lazy analyst's salute. "I live to serve, Ambassador."