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He studies his uniform in the mirrored door of the public comconsole booth, assessing structure and detail. The fragmented reflection thrown by the artistically misaligned panes is a good way to isolate sectors for scrutiny. Jacket, trousers, boots—the door opens; he looks up; the woman stepping out looks down. When her eyes meet his, she physically flinches back. He winces and switches on Miles a little early, to be sure of getting the smile right: apologetic, just a little tired, no need to worry. She accepts this revision of her reality, smiles back, and moves on; he steps into the booth and shuts the door.
Another mirror awaits within, this one flat and clear and broad, meant for practical use. Curious now, he switches Miles off again and closes his eyes briefly to recapture the moment.
When he opens his eyes, he nearly flinches himself. Shit, no wonder she was upset. He looks like a man pursued by the legions of Hell. Come on, Mark, shape up. He flips the inner switch again and relaxes immediately; the man in the mirror turns from haggard wretch to tired but friendly, just like that.
All right. Time to make a call.
He settles the Betan accent in his mind while his hands input credit information and comm code. The accent's the trickiest part by far; he's had time to practice it, but not to get it bone-deep and quick as breathing like the Barrayaran one.
The image of a face materializes above the vid plate, interposing itself between him and the mirror. Her grey-and-white uniform is better kept than his, properly adorned with a lieutenant's insignia and a name patch. "Comm Officer Hereld, Triumph, Dendarii Free... Corporation," she says, not quite stumbling over the substitution; in peaceful Escobaran space, a mercenary fleet must pass with weapons sealed and good intentions verified and even its name slightly censored.
Mark—Miles—flashes her the Naismith grin. "Good to see you, Lieutenant," he says. Betan pronunciation, the fluid -eu- instead of the sibilant -eff- of a Barrayaran or Londoner.
She lights up instantly. "Admiral Naismith, sir! You're back!" Her smile is like a hit of some intensely addictive drug, juba or dreamline, something that takes you higher than an orbital flight and then burns you up on reentry. It feels good now, oh yes, but the comedown is going to be hell... can't think about that now. Miles wouldn't. "What's up? Are we going to be moving out soon?"
"In good time, Lieutenant," he says, smiling a wait-for-it smile. "You'll see. And in the meanwhile, I want a pick-up from this station."
"Yes, sir," nods Hereld. "I can get that for you. Is Captain Quinn with you?"
If he were really Miles, she would be, almost certainly; but Hereld doesn't know that. Mark shakes his head. "Not at the moment."
"Oh? When will she be following?"
"Later," he says smoothly.
"Right, sir. Let me just get clearance for—are we loading any equipment?"
He shakes his head again. "Just me."
"For a personnel pod, then." She shifts her eyes from the vid pickup for a few seconds, then reports, "I can have someone at docking bay E17 in about twenty minutes."
Which is just about the time it would take him to reach docking bay E17 from this comm booth at a dead run. "Perfect. I want to be transferred directly to the Ariel."
"Right, sir. Shall I notify Captain Thorne?"
"Yes. Tell it to make ready to break orbit," he says.
"Just the Ariel?" she asks, lifting curious eyebrows.
"Yes, Lieutenant," he says, with a gently chiding tone that causes her to straighten up slightly.
"Will do, Admiral."
"Naismith out," he says breezily, and cuts the com. Lieutenant Herald's face dissolves into twinkling lights. Admiral Naismith takes a deep breath. He's in it now, all right. The energy of Miles's soul fills him to overflowing, issuing from that bottomless well in the back of his mind. He pulls his credit chit from the slot, tucks it securely in one of his many pockets, and bolts down the station corridors toward the appropriate docking bay.
unmarred
whyexit
"You want your usual cabin? It'll get crowded if you just park in here with me the entire time."
whyexit
"She suspects nothing. You project a flawless air of heterosexuality, it's the perfect cover."
thisvorlunatic
(For fuck's sake, is Thorne deliberately messing with him? No, surely if his cover was blown he would know it by now. Unless Bel is going to try to make time with the knockoff Miles while it has the chance, having struck out with the genuine article. Terrifying thought...)
He snorts and shakes his head. "I honestly don't care whose bed I collapse in at this point. It's been a long day. Usual cabin, thank you, and have my kit sent over from the Triumph while you're at it."
He snorts and shakes his head. "I honestly don't care whose bed I collapse in at this point. It's been a long day. Usual cabin, thank you, and have my kit sent over from the Triumph while you're at it."
whyexit
"Palm lock's still keyed to you," Thorne confirms with a peek at its console. "When's Quinn going to be by?"
whyexit
"Huh. All right. Kit's on its way... I think we're all set unless there are further mission wrinkles or you want to try some interesting tea. Or whatever."
thisvorlunatic
"I have extensive intel about Bharaputra's facilities, which I will happily fork over after I've had a chance to sleep, thank you, Captain Thorne."
thisvorlunatic
With a theatrical eyeroll, he oofs out of his chair and heads out into the corridor.
Where he will just have to slap every door until he finds the one that responds to the Naismith handprint. And there it is, directly across from Bel's. How... contextually ambiguous.
Ugh. He really hopes they aren't fucking. That is not a situation he is going to be able to navigate with grace, and the hell of it is he doesn't dare blow his cover this early. The best he could manage might be to break up with it and then apologize and explain when the job's done, and that couldn't possibly have a beneficial effect on morale...
Where he will just have to slap every door until he finds the one that responds to the Naismith handprint. And there it is, directly across from Bel's. How... contextually ambiguous.
Ugh. He really hopes they aren't fucking. That is not a situation he is going to be able to navigate with grace, and the hell of it is he doesn't dare blow his cover this early. The best he could manage might be to break up with it and then apologize and explain when the job's done, and that couldn't possibly have a beneficial effect on morale...
Miles's kit is delivered by a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (metaphorically) corporal, who volunteers to unpack it. And asks earnestly if the admiral has assigned or would like to assign a batman.
thisvorlunatic
Horrors.
"No, thank you, Corporal," he says firmly. "We're going to be packed tight, coming out of this one. I can look after my own gear to free up an extra berth."
"No, thank you, Corporal," he says firmly. "We're going to be packed tight, coming out of this one. I can look after my own gear to free up an extra berth."
unmarred
Blessed peace. Blessed aloneness. Blessed three bloody crates of Admiral Naismith's belongings, what the hell's he got in there?
Mark examines it all.
Crate one: assorted clothing and wristcom/chronos, both uniform and civilian. All in precisely Miles's size.
Crate two: space armour. Fully armed and powered. Also in precisely Miles's size. He inspects every piece before he packs it away again; he won't need to wear this set for this mission if all goes well, but he still feels a responsibility to the role that he should know how in better than theoretical terms.
Crate three: half-armour, for dirtside rather than space-based combat. No built-in weapons here, but Mark finds the command headset much more exciting anyway. This, he will need to practice with. Admiral Naismith would wear this armour like a second skin, and manipulate the headset's data flows as easily as his own limbs.
And now he had better actually go to sleep. He sends Thorne a message instructing it to break orbit as soon as they have everything loaded, observing that time is of the essence since they don't know exactly when the next clone is scheduled for surgery; then he crawls into bed and into an uneasy doze.
Mark examines it all.
Crate one: assorted clothing and wristcom/chronos, both uniform and civilian. All in precisely Miles's size.
Crate two: space armour. Fully armed and powered. Also in precisely Miles's size. He inspects every piece before he packs it away again; he won't need to wear this set for this mission if all goes well, but he still feels a responsibility to the role that he should know how in better than theoretical terms.
Crate three: half-armour, for dirtside rather than space-based combat. No built-in weapons here, but Mark finds the command headset much more exciting anyway. This, he will need to practice with. Admiral Naismith would wear this armour like a second skin, and manipulate the headset's data flows as easily as his own limbs.
And now he had better actually go to sleep. He sends Thorne a message instructing it to break orbit as soon as they have everything loaded, observing that time is of the essence since they don't know exactly when the next clone is scheduled for surgery; then he crawls into bed and into an uneasy doze.
unmarred
He wakes up a few hours later after less sleep than he'd like but enough to maintain function. The first thing he does is call up personnel records and mission reports on the comconsole and start memorizing things that Admiral Naismith already knows. The files are charmingly bare of details, but it's amazing what he can piece together from the available snippets.
He receives, after he's been up for a bit, a message from Thorne asking if he'd like to make a belated inspection of the commando squad.
thisvorlunatic
After breakfast. Have a meal sent up.
Which will give him enough time to go over those personnel files a second time. And Miles attending to his own meal requirements without anyone having to chase him down and sit on him is rare, but not literally unheard-of.
Which will give him enough time to go over those personnel files a second time. And Miles attending to his own meal requirements without anyone having to chase him down and sit on him is rare, but not literally unheard-of.
A meal arrives presently. It is exquisitely attentive to Miles's culinary preferences. There's even ice cream. "Can I get you anything else, sir?" asks the fellow who brings it.
thisvorlunatic
"No, thanks," he says with an easy acknowledging smile.
(The way these people look at him - does Miles ever - no, Miles has long since outgrown feeling unworthy of their enthusiasm. Miles fluently inhales this atmosphere of attention.)
(The way these people look at him - does Miles ever - no, Miles has long since outgrown feeling unworthy of their enthusiasm. Miles fluently inhales this atmosphere of attention.)
thisvorlunatic
He sits down to his questionably breakfastlike meal. Clearly whoever prepared this for him hadn't been notified that Admiral Naismith's body clock is currently almost all the way out of step with ship time. Well, he'll have time to drag his sleep schedule around on the way to Jackson's Whole.
When both the personnel files and the exquisitely Miles-targeted dinner are consumed and comfortably digesting, he changes into a fresher, neater uniform than the one he slept in and notifies Thorne that he'll have that inspection now.
When both the personnel files and the exquisitely Miles-targeted dinner are consumed and comfortably digesting, he changes into a fresher, neater uniform than the one he slept in and notifies Thorne that he'll have that inspection now.
thisvorlunatic
Implying that their current location is so obvious as to go without mentioning. He heads for the starboard loading bay.
The contents of those personnel files are all present, real and alive, each laden with a richly informative individual array of weapons and small personal items. Here a paper charm pinned to a sleeve in minor defiance of regulation; there a holstered plasma arc with its grip recently replaced and bearing three kill-marker notches already. Mark inhales knowledge. The sound of a dozen comfortably boisterous commandos neatly covers his approach.
The contents of those personnel files are all present, real and alive, each laden with a richly informative individual array of weapons and small personal items. Here a paper charm pinned to a sleeve in minor defiance of regulation; there a holstered plasma arc with its grip recently replaced and bearing three kill-marker notches already. Mark inhales knowledge. The sound of a dozen comfortably boisterous commandos neatly covers his approach.
ofthestars
Some commandos have better hearing than others.
"Heads up!" calls the thirteenth soldier. The effect is instantaneous; they practically teleport into two neat rows of six.
The speaker stands up, unfolding to his full height of eight feet, two inches, and salutes Naismith with calm seriousness from the far end of the front row. "Sergeant Asterion and the Green Squad, reporting as ordered, sir."
"Heads up!" calls the thirteenth soldier. The effect is instantaneous; they practically teleport into two neat rows of six.
The speaker stands up, unfolding to his full height of eight feet, two inches, and salutes Naismith with calm seriousness from the far end of the front row. "Sergeant Asterion and the Green Squad, reporting as ordered, sir."