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Ivan has just recently been assigned to Earth. It's very cultural. He has already explained Vor to groups of natives four separate times. Some of them seem to find it really hilarious to call him Lord Vorpatril. He doesn't mind; some of those people are girls who giggle it and bat their eyelashes. He likes it here just fine.
After he finishes with his day-job duties (separate from attending diplomatic functions to stand around and look handsome) he attempts to let himself out of the room with the comconsole and all its data to sift through, only to find that the hallway has turned into a bar.
He looks over his shoulder. The office is still normal. Which is to say there are no other exits.
Ivan goes into the bar, squinting.
middlingalong
At first glance, the place looks totally empty.
Then a small child emerges from under a table. He looks exactly like Miles did at ten years old, right down to the height. Four foot two.
He stalks towards Ivan with a very unMilesish animal tension, crooked back stiff and tiny fists clenched, like a cornered rat ready to start biting at the first sign of trouble. In an aggressively Jacksonian accent, he demands, "You Barrayaran?"
Then a small child emerges from under a table. He looks exactly like Miles did at ten years old, right down to the height. Four foot two.
He stalks towards Ivan with a very unMilesish animal tension, crooked back stiff and tiny fists clenched, like a cornered rat ready to start biting at the first sign of trouble. In an aggressively Jacksonian accent, he demands, "You Barrayaran?"
middlingalong
"Uh - what."
Ivan intends to be incredulous, not cooperative, but his accent probably answers this for him.
Ivan intends to be incredulous, not cooperative, but his accent probably answers this for him.
The tiny not-Miles voices a tiny growl that is decidedly not adorable.
"What's your name?"
"What's your name?"
Tiny not-Miles glares.
"You can't be Ivan Vorpatril, he's twelve," he scoffs. "Are you a clone too?"
"You can't be Ivan Vorpatril, he's twelve," he scoffs. "Are you a clone too?"
middlingalong
"Nnnnno. I haven't been twelve for a while but I assure you I'm Ivan Vorpatril. Are you a clone? Did somebody clone Miles? Shouldn't you be taller?"
"I'm exactly the right size," he says impatiently. "I wouldn't be much good if I couldn't pass. Ser Galen'd want his money back."
He rolls his eyes.
"The bio didn't mention you were an idiot. I'm a substitute, dumbshit. They're training me up to replace him. Didn't say why, I guess I'm not supposed to know till I'm older. Probably they want me to kill somebody, I heard them arguing about when they wanna start my close combat training." He sniffs contemptuously. "Better not be soon or I'll kill 'em all. Ser Galen was right about that."
"The bio didn't mention you were an idiot. I'm a substitute, dumbshit. They're training me up to replace him. Didn't say why, I guess I'm not supposed to know till I'm older. Probably they want me to kill somebody, I heard them arguing about when they wanna start my close combat training." He sniffs contemptuously. "Better not be soon or I'll kill 'em all. Ser Galen was right about that."
middlingalong
"Okay, how about instead you don't substitute for Miles in order to kill people and do something else instead? If you're stuck I can probably tell somebody who'd know how to unstick you where to find you."
"I don't even know who you are," says the clone. "Can't hurt, I guess." He grins viciously at some private joke. "I'm on Earth. London. They didn't tell me the address, but I know Ser Galen's cover identity is somebody Van der Poole. He wasn't the one who leaked that. He gets me. It's everybody else who keeps underestimating me just cause I'm five."
middlingalong
"Van der Poole as cover identity for a Ser Galen. Okay. I'm on Earth, too, so now the problem is why you think I'm supposed to be twelve."
The clone considers this for a few seconds.
"What year is it? 2984, or-" he gives Ivan an assessing look and guesses, "2997?"
"What year is it? 2984, or-" he gives Ivan an assessing look and guesses, "2997?"
middlingalong
"The latter, on the nose," says Ivan. "So apparently in addition to replacing embassy hallways and however you got here, this place does time travel."
"I went to sleep and woke up on my feet in the middle of this room," he says. "I'm not dreaming, though. I know when I'm dreaming. This is real."
middlingalong
"Yeah, well, sometimes I can tell when I'm dreaming and sometimes I wake up under the impression that m'mother has let me get a dog only to discover that there is no dog in the house," says Ivan, "but I wasn't asleep, so if you are, this is even stranger still."
"Don't suppose you got any bright ideas about what's going on?"
middlingalong
"I have - references to holos," says Ivan, "that's about it. Not close references, either. We could look around. Have you got a name?"
Snort. "Not unless you count 'Miles'."
middlingalong
"Well, that's just confusing. Don't know aunt Cordelia's father's middle name, though. D'you?"
He cocks his head. "Mark. Miles Mark Naismith. Why?"
middlingalong
"'Cause that would make you Mark Pierre Vorkosigan, if I know Aunt Cordelia. For lack of a better solution to the problem, anyway, if you'd been going by Jean-Phillipe all this time I wouldn't say boo."
"Some kinda naming custom?" he guesses. "I haven't got there yet, they still have me on biographies. Lotta names and dates."
middlingalong
"Miles would've been Piotr Miles, but Piotr pitched a fit. And then for the second son it's middle name, maternal then paternal. If one chooses to do the thing, anyway, I don't have this."
"Yeah. You would've been Dmitry something, I think. Only saw it the once, they don't drill me on your dead ancestors like they do on Miles's."