[Vorkosigan] What's in a name
What’s in a Name
Series: Vorkosiverse, three years post-Memory.
Rating: PG-13. Safe for work. Mostly - innuendo to match the prompt!
Words: 3,900+, one shot
Characters: Mark Vorkosigan, Simon Illyan, Miles Vorkosigan, Cordelia Vorkosigan, Aral Vorkosigan, Alys Vorpatril, Ivan Vorpatril
Written for the bujold_fic Winterfair Exchange 2010/2011.
Prompt: Lord Mark Pierre Vorkosigan and Retired Captain Simon Illyan begin a new company making molecular binders for ImpSec and Municipal Guards, called 'S&M Bindings Limited'. In the traditional British "Carry On..." style, if possible! - for rogerstening
A/N: Ah... I’m not British, but here’s to hoping this works!
“...a novel new technology that allows binding at a molecular level for any type of surface. It’s literally as easy as spraying it on, and hey presto! It stays ‘sticky’ for as long as it’s not exposed to heat or large amounts of radiation, and once you slap on whatever it is you’re trying to weld to the surface, it’s practically permanent, or so I’ve been told. The best part is, all you need to do to reverse it is to apply the decomposition agent - this might take a while - but when it’s done, you can remove both surfaces--” a pause for demonstration “--without any damage done to each.”
It was, in Mark Pierre Vorkosigan’s estimation, one of his finer sales pitches. Perhaps right up there with the Glorious Butterbugs. That had involved taking something inherently ugly and presenting it in a pleasing package to his audience; this involved taking something inherently cluttered with scientific gibberish, and presenting it in a coherent, understandable package to a layman with very little personal interest in the matter.
His target - no, prospective business partner - merely narrowed his eyes and gave him a considering stare. “While I admit that it is novel, I’m not entirely certain I understand your motives in pitching this to me as a potential commercial venture. I’m hardly the entrepreneurial sort.”
Not just “hardly the entrepreneurial sort”, Mark figured. Former ImpSec chief Simon Illyan was known to be incredibly, exceedingly, stupendously risk adverse. Mark supposed it came with the job description.
“Well, you see, Simon -- this product has enormous potential, particularly for the military. A product that binds almost instantly, practically irreversibly, and yet can be taken apart if necessary? It’d be a lifesaver aboard ship in a combat situation. Quick repairs, sealing hull breaches... not to mention its potential in the medical field. We have some test results--” he shoved files across the table. Data. Illyan always wanted data, or so Miles had told him. “--of clinical trials in respect of its use as an immediate application sealant to close major traumatic wounds. Basically, glue the guy together so he doesn’t bleed to death before you get him to a medic.”
Illyan had acquired that slightly defensive air that told Mark that he’d unconsciously started to lean forward, an echo of one of Miles’ all-out-take-no-prisoners pitches. Damn. He forced himself to relax.
“Not to mention - this product can be used even on a micromolecular level, and we’re looking at being able to use it on a nano level, which opens up entire fields of possibilities for nanotechnology. If Barrayar doesn’t start using it, you can rest assured that the rest of the galaxy is going to leave us far, far behind.” There. The hook and the bait. Now to see if the shark would bite...
Illyan considered the diagrams and reams of plasfilm that Mark had just placed in front of him. “Again, Lord Mark - I have to ask - exactly why are you approaching me? It’s not as though I’m a venture capitalist, to finance your operation.”
“Just ‘Mark’ will do.” How many times did he have to tell the man? He was fairly certain that this wasn’t one of Simon’s memory lapses. “Well, to be very frank; I was hoping to leverage on your connections with ImpSec.” There, set out it plain and simple. There was no use couching it in pretty language; Illyan wouldn’t rest until he’d uncovered a suspicious motive, one that made sense to his paranoid ImpSec-trained brain, so Mark let him have it. His other reason, he kept to himself. For now.
“I see. I’m hardly in a position--”
“You see, ultimately, my aim is to market this wholesale to the entire Imperial Service. The Navy, especially. And the Municipal Guard. But the problem with pitching directly to them is that this product hasn’t exactly proven itself. It’s so new, it has no track record, and... here’s the stickler. It comes from Jackson’s Whole.”
Ah, there went the metaphorical lightbulb, lighting up nicely on cue. Illyan was always predictable in the paranoia department.
“And so you expect resistance if you tried to sell it to ImpSec?” Illyan smiled the ghost of a smile. “I can hardly help you there.”
As mother would put it, what a load of complete and utter garbage. Illyan’s influence over ImpSec continued to remain strong, even three years after his retirement. No one, not even General Allegre, was about to say no to their ex-Chief any time soon.
“Of course I expect resistance. But I’m not expecting ImpSec to deploy it immediately. I’ve gotten my own labs on Beta Colony and Barrayar to run clinical trials, but obviously we can’t re-create the same conditions, or even test it as extensively as ImpSec would be able to. The plan is this-- first, we get ImpSec to agree to run the tests. They’re the ones with the labs and the research capability to do so.”
“Mostly specialising in forensics.”
“Doesn’t matter. Once we have the ImpSec seal of approval, the rest of the Imperial Service will be a lot happier about taking this product onboard. And then Barrayar gets a great new technology, and we--” a lot of emphasis on the ‘we’ “--make a tidy profit.”
“And if this proves to be a flop?” Illyan steepled his fingers and regarded him over the tops of them. Damn, the man could be unnerving at the best of times, but Mark had experience in facing him down before. He soldiered on. “Then we pull out. Since this is technological, our initial, sunk cost is merely in the cost of procuring the technology and the patents, which I’ve already done. In other words, I don’t need any form of capital investment from you, and if it fails, you just walk away. Zero loss, Huge potential upside. What do you say, Simon?”
“I will consider your proposal.” The flat note in Illyan’s voice was singularly discouraging, but Mark had seen the flare of interest in his eyes. After all, a vice admiral’s half pay was merely decent, and Illyan didn’t seem like the sort who would comfortably sponge off Alys Vorpatril’s fortune.
Hooked, for sure.
--
A mere day later, Illyan was once again seated in one of the small sitting rooms of Vorkosigan house, returning the stacks of datapads and flimsies. Mark eyed the pile in astonishment - it had taken him three weeks to read through all of that. Illyan tracked his gaze and smiled a little. “I do have some experience in dealing with large amounts of data.”
No kidding. “And how do you find it?” It was too early for brandy, but Ma Kosti had supplied them with an ample supply of pastries. Mark preferred those to brandy, anyway.
“While I have no objection to your proposed plan of attack...” Illyan showed no hesitation in partaking of the pastries either, “There is this small matter...” He extricated a piece of plasfilm that had been neatly tagged. Spun it around to face Mark. “The name.”
Ah, Mark thought. There we have it. Proof that it works, in fact. “S&M Bindings Private Limited,” he read it out, deadpan. “S&M is, of course, short for Simon and Mark. And your point is...?”
“The connotations are not lost on me, Lord Mark,” Illyan gave him a sardonic look, which was only slightly spoilt by the fact that it was inflicted over the top of a very good chocolate tart. Illyan had taken the last one. Mark mourned its loss quietly.
“Therein lies to secret to our success,” Mark explained, opting to forgo the opportunity to grab the last mini apple strudel in favour of this all important pitch. “You see, in business, a good idea is a good starting point, but ultimately insufficient. A good idea may carry you far enough to set up a small, decent sized company, making a small profit of say... a few million a year...”
From the look on Illyan’s face, “a few million a year” did not, in any way, constitute a small profit. Hah, there you have it. You have to think bigger than that, you ex-military types.
“But to take the leap from that into the next realm, you need something more.” This time, Mark did lean forward. “You need attention.”
Illyan raised an eyebrow. Mark resisted the urge to chew on his fingernails, and momentarily regretted the decision to forgo the pastry. He could really use something to gnaw on right now. This was the critical point. This was where it all came together...
“Publicity,” he said quietly, “Is everything.”
Silence reigned for a long, tense moment, before Illyan abruptly broke into a wolfish grin. “I daresay it would be interesting, if nothing else. Very well, you may count me in.”
Mark exhaled the breath that he’d been holding. “Excellent, I have the shareholders’ agreement all drawn up--”
“Fifty per cent.”
“What?”
“Fifty per cent equity stake.”
“Thirty,” Mark shot back.
“Fifty. Nothing less.”
“Forty,” Mark said, and made a grab for the strudel before Illyan could spear it with his fork. I’ll make a businessman out of you yet, Simon.
--
“Well, you see... the issue is...”
Mark could almost pity on the young clerk who was all but squirming in his seat in front of them. When he’d sent them the message that the Corporate Regulatory Authority had rejected their name of choice for their new company, he had doubtless never imagined that he would be facing Captain Simon Illyan staring coldly at him from across his desk.
“Explain to me the issue, please,” Illyan was, in a word, ferociously bland. “As I understand that it, the criteria for the registration of a company name is threefold: (a) it must be original - to whit - it must not be the same as the name of any existing company, or close enough to cause confusion, (b) it must not contain certain restricted words, which are set out in Schedule 1, and include, for instance, ‘Imperial’, or ‘Barrayar’ or derivatives thereof --”
“None of which we’ve used in our application,” Mark said.
“And (c),” Illyan continued relentlessly, “It must not be offensive.”
“That’s the thing. The point,” the clerk said, bobbing his head up and down nervously. “S&M, well, you see, it stands for...”
“Simon and Mark.” Illyan was enjoying himself, the old devil. “As you can see here, my legal advisers have drawn up an extensive list of precedents detailing previous companies that were registered with “S&M” as part of their names, as well as “Bindings”. The authority has obviously not seen any issue with it in the past.”
“Well, it’s all that … Betan terminology...”
“I’m afraid I’m not up to date on the latest Betan slang.” Illyan’s gaze could have melted steel. “Would you care to enlighten me as to what precisely is the matter with the use of my initials and Lord Mark’s?”
“Ah....” the clerk looked like he was about to make one final stand, when Illyan raised The Eyebrow at him. The clerk swallowed hard, and caved like a house of cards. “Ah... nothing, sir.” Reaching into his drawer, he pulled out a large stamp.
Approved.
--
“Mark!”
Oh, here it came. “Miles, for crying out loud, it’s six in the bloody morning--”
The door slammed. Why did his damn progenitor brother have to be so noisy all the time..
“That new company you’ve set up - I can’t believe you called it... and registered on Barrayar too? Couldn’t you have registered it on Beta Colony? They wouldn’t blink an eye at it there!”
“Precisely.”
“What do you mean ‘precisely’? And I can’t believe you duped Simon into it!”
Mark cracked an eye open. “‘Duped’? Even with his brains blown out I don’t think anyone could dupe that man. He agreed. Voluntarily.”
That managed to shut Miles up.
“What’s the problem, Miles, really?”
Miles muttered something about the good name of Vorkosigan. And being dragged through the dirt.
“I don’t see the name ‘Vorkosigan’ being used anywhere,” Mark pointed out. “Only Simon and Mark.”
“Oh yes,” Miles said dryly, sounding like a miniature Illyan. A miniature Illyan on Speed. “Of course. Simon and Mark. S&M. Bindings.”
“We manufacture--” Well, they were still in the research phase of the project, but semantics, semantics -- “Molecular binders. I don’t see any issue with it.”
Miles threw up his hands. “I went to school on Beta Colony. I know precisely what it means.”
“Very good. In that case, can you leave so I can get some sleep? I was up late with Simon last night.”
Miles went an interesting shade of green at that. Oh ho.
“Very late,” Mark said. Oh, revenge was sweet. “Testing our newest batch of binders, you know?”
“Mark!” Miles looked like he needed to scrub his brain of certain images. Well, that was his own fault for reading too deeply into their perfectly innocent company name.
“That’s my name, yes,” he grumbled. “Now get out of my room.”
“Look, we can’t … have a company of that name...”
“Why not? The registry approved it.”
“After a no little coercion, knowing you. But the rest of Barrayar--”
“Look,” Mark said. “I’ll change it if father objects, alright?” And he pulled his pillow over his head.
--
“Mail,” Cordelia said, dumping data disks onto the table. “One from Miles, another from Mark,” she diligently sorted these out into their own little pile. “Another from Alys, that’s for me... junk mail, more junk mail, hm, a few for you... a few more for you...” She frowned a little at the growing pile on her right. “You seem to have a lot of mail this round, love.”
Aral looked over from where he’d been typing up a report on his comconsole. “Who are they from?”
“Let’s see. Most of them seem to be from various Vor lords. No few of them are on the Council of Counts. Oh look, Kou’s done a summary, apparently most of them are a complaint of some sort.”
“What has Miles done this time?” Aral sighed.
“Not Miles, apparently. Mark.” Cordelia read Koudelka’s note and raised her eyebrows. Her shoulders started shaking. “Oh well done, boy.”
Aral blinked curiously at her until she passed him the note. And raised his own eyebrows. “Well. I can see why they’d be complaining.”
“I don’t,” Cordelia said. “Really, there’s nothing wrong with that name.”
“I suppose on Beta Colony there wouldn’t be,” Aral said with a small smile.
“Actually, there probably are companies with similar names on Beta Colony. So they wouldn’t be able to register it on the grounds that it’s already being used. But I do take your point.” She read over the transcript on Mark’s disk and smiled. “Really, it’s high time Barrayar learnt to take itself less seriously.”
“I’d agree, but I’m not sure this is the best way....”
“What are they asking you to do?”
“‘Do something’ seems to be the common theme,” Aral smiled wryly. “Mostly they want me to get Mark to change the company’s name. Preferably without annoying Illyan. Or without him finding out. Or if that’s not possible, to restrain him so he doesn’t … ah … start ripping out throats when he finds out.”
Cordelia made her way over to Aral’s side, peering over his shoulder at the words on his screen. “The conspiracy theorists are never going to actually believe that the loss of Simon’s memory chip is real, are they?”
“I suppose they’ll still be calling it an act … oh … about ten years from now. Along with the ones who still believe that I’m making a secret bid for the Imperium,” Aral chuckled.
“So, what’re you going to do about it?”
“At the risk of being accused of turning Betan, absolutely nothing. I am no longer the Prime Minister, and besides... as those very same complainants have told me on numerous occasions, it is not the government’s place to interfere in the affairs of the private sector.”
“Excellent,” Cordelia said. “Because all this talk about binders is giving me ideas...” She leaned forward, and whispered quietly into Aral’s ear for a second.
It wasn’t very hard for her to drag Aral away from his comconsole after that.
--
He really should have sought Alys’ expert advice before embarking on this.
“Simon.”
Well, too late now.
“What’s this I hear about your new company?”
Besides, she’d been on Komarr at the time, and Mark had been very insistent that they seize the opportunity, strike while the iron was hot, etcetera etcetera. “Ah, yes. Lord Mark persuaded me to embark on a little project with him. The doctor seemed to think that it would be good for me to have a retirement job, and so... here we are.”
“Well, I’m sure Mark knows what he’s doing, but...” Alys glanced at him. “Really, Simon. S&M Bindings?”
He inclined his head. “What’s in a name? Really, it would hardly have been controversial twenty years ago.”
“Twenty years ago no one would have understood what it meant. But that was twenty years ago.”
She wasn’t being disapproving. Yet. He decided to risk a bit of explanation. “Mark was most insistent. He said it would generate the publicity we required.”
“I do believe it’s succeeded in that department. But I daresay this isn’t exactly the kind of publicity you need. Even if the intentions behind the name are wholly innocent.”
Ah, she was being disapproving. Time to try another strategy. “Succeeded brilliantly, I might add. I do believe that we’re practically a household name. The company’s received quite the shot in the arm, and even though we haven’t quite completed the clinical trials for ImpSec, we’ve received countless orders from major industry players already...”
“Have you, now.”
“We’ve already started manufacturing. As a matter of fact, we have so many pre-orders, that even with having to set up the infrastructure to begin production, we’ve managed to pay out our first dividend.” Lock acquired, time to go for the kill. He smiled. “You recall that little place that we went to after Gregor’s wedding?”
Alys nodded, a fond smile of recollection on her face. It had felt like their own private honeymoon, even without any formal wedding.
“Well. I’ve managed to acquire some property in that region, lately,” he kept his voice as casual as he possibly could. “I don’t suppose you fancy spending three weeks down south this winter? Perhaps with short side trip on a chartered yacht as well?”
Alys’ smile broadened, as she leaned more comfortably against him. “I believe I can be persuaded.”
Mission accomplished.
--
Someone cleared his throat in the doorway. Mark glanced up, all prepared to tell Miles to sod off, they’d already had this conversation - when he realised that it wasn’t Miles.
“Ivan! What brings you here?”
It wasn’t often that Ivan Vorpatril showed up in his office, and it was even rarer to see him looking... somewhat... constipated?
“Well, yeah.” Ivan grabbed a chair without being told to do so, and helped himself to one of the profiteroles that Ma Kosti had left on Mark’s desk. “It’s about, you know...”
Not constipated, then. Uncomfortable. “No, I’m afraid I don’t know,” Mark said, injecting as much of a ‘go away’ vibe as he could put into his voice. He’d had this conversation countless times over the past few months, and while it had been funny in the beginning... “So spit it out.”
Ivan glanced at the half eaten profiterole, then decided that that wasn’t what Mark was referring to. “Well, it’s about that company of yours...”
“What about it?” The sooner they got through this, the sooner he could kick Ivan out of his office and get some work done. Not to mention that there would be less wear-and-tear on his food supply.
“Well, you see... everyone’s talking about it...” Ivan seemed singularly content to beat around the bush today.
“And so?” Mark said, as impatiently as he could.
“Well, and with a name like that...”
“Yes, tell me about the name, will you? Trust me, it wouldn’t be the first I’ve heard--”
“Well, I was wondering if I could get one from you. Or a pair, really. Whatever.”
This wasn’t how the conversation usually went. “What?”
“Don’t act stupid, Mark,” Ivan scowled. “The binders, of course.”
“The... what do you want them for?”
“That’s none of your business,” Ivan snapped, and was it Mark’s imagination, or was he turning just a little bit red?
“I’m afraid it is very much my business,” Mark said firmly. “We’re a wholesale supplier. We don’t usually market our products to individuals, and when we do, it’s quite necessary for us to perform know-your-customer checks. For that matter, I’m surprised you didn’t ask Simon. He’s a stakeholder and director, and he’s also family, for you.”
“Are you crazy?” Ivan hissed. “It’s like asking your dad! It’s worse than asking your dad! I’d never live it down. Hell, even without his memory chip, he’d never let me live it down.”
“I see. So you’ve come to me instead. But you haven’t told me why, Ivan.”
Ivan made a singularly disgruntled noise. “It’s that girl. Katrine Faustin. I asked her to go with me to the Winterfair ball, but she’ll only agree on condition that I get … you know.”
Mark frantically schooled his expression into blandness. Katrine was Kareen’s friend, she had to know that the binders they manufactured weren’t exactly the kind of binders that Ivan was thinking about. For a brief moment, he considered rescuing his cousin...
…
…
naw. Wouldn’t do to deprive Ivan of his prospective date, right?
“I’ll be sure to send you a set, then,” Mark said, dutifully making a note on his comconsole. “It’s on us. Goodwill gesture and all that.”
Ivan looked profoundly relieved. “Thanks. Owe you one.”
“Not at all, Ivan. Thanks for dropping by.”
Ivan gave him a wave and stole another profiterole, all ready to leave. He stood, he turned, and he ran smack bang into Simon Illyan, who had been heading through the door.
“Ivan, you idiot.” Illyan backed up a step. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, just a bit of business,” Mark said cheerfully. “Purchasing some of our binders.”
From the look on Ivan’s face, he was about an inch away from committing murder. Or exploding. Or possibly both.
“Are you now,” Illyan said coolly, with a tiny, knowing smile. “I’m certain you’ll find them very … ah … useful.”
Ivan shot Mark a glare that had I’m-going-to-get-you-for-this written all over it. “Ah, yes. Thanks. I was just leaving. Catch you around.” He shot out of the room fast enough to leave scorch marks on the carpet.
Mark held his breath, counted to ten, then burst into peals of helpless laughter.
Fin.
ETA: Now with the not-remotely-serious Ekaterin add-on! (Warning: Crack. Implied slash).
Series: Vorkosiverse, three years post-Memory.
Rating: PG-13. Safe for work. Mostly - innuendo to match the prompt!
Words: 3,900+, one shot
Characters: Mark Vorkosigan, Simon Illyan, Miles Vorkosigan, Cordelia Vorkosigan, Aral Vorkosigan, Alys Vorpatril, Ivan Vorpatril
Written for the bujold_fic Winterfair Exchange 2010/2011.
Prompt: Lord Mark Pierre Vorkosigan and Retired Captain Simon Illyan begin a new company making molecular binders for ImpSec and Municipal Guards, called 'S&M Bindings Limited'. In the traditional British "Carry On..." style, if possible! - for rogerstening
A/N: Ah... I’m not British, but here’s to hoping this works!
“...a novel new technology that allows binding at a molecular level for any type of surface. It’s literally as easy as spraying it on, and hey presto! It stays ‘sticky’ for as long as it’s not exposed to heat or large amounts of radiation, and once you slap on whatever it is you’re trying to weld to the surface, it’s practically permanent, or so I’ve been told. The best part is, all you need to do to reverse it is to apply the decomposition agent - this might take a while - but when it’s done, you can remove both surfaces--” a pause for demonstration “--without any damage done to each.”
It was, in Mark Pierre Vorkosigan’s estimation, one of his finer sales pitches. Perhaps right up there with the Glorious Butterbugs. That had involved taking something inherently ugly and presenting it in a pleasing package to his audience; this involved taking something inherently cluttered with scientific gibberish, and presenting it in a coherent, understandable package to a layman with very little personal interest in the matter.
His target - no, prospective business partner - merely narrowed his eyes and gave him a considering stare. “While I admit that it is novel, I’m not entirely certain I understand your motives in pitching this to me as a potential commercial venture. I’m hardly the entrepreneurial sort.”
Not just “hardly the entrepreneurial sort”, Mark figured. Former ImpSec chief Simon Illyan was known to be incredibly, exceedingly, stupendously risk adverse. Mark supposed it came with the job description.
“Well, you see, Simon -- this product has enormous potential, particularly for the military. A product that binds almost instantly, practically irreversibly, and yet can be taken apart if necessary? It’d be a lifesaver aboard ship in a combat situation. Quick repairs, sealing hull breaches... not to mention its potential in the medical field. We have some test results--” he shoved files across the table. Data. Illyan always wanted data, or so Miles had told him. “--of clinical trials in respect of its use as an immediate application sealant to close major traumatic wounds. Basically, glue the guy together so he doesn’t bleed to death before you get him to a medic.”
Illyan had acquired that slightly defensive air that told Mark that he’d unconsciously started to lean forward, an echo of one of Miles’ all-out-take-no-prisoners pitches. Damn. He forced himself to relax.
“Not to mention - this product can be used even on a micromolecular level, and we’re looking at being able to use it on a nano level, which opens up entire fields of possibilities for nanotechnology. If Barrayar doesn’t start using it, you can rest assured that the rest of the galaxy is going to leave us far, far behind.” There. The hook and the bait. Now to see if the shark would bite...
Illyan considered the diagrams and reams of plasfilm that Mark had just placed in front of him. “Again, Lord Mark - I have to ask - exactly why are you approaching me? It’s not as though I’m a venture capitalist, to finance your operation.”
“Just ‘Mark’ will do.” How many times did he have to tell the man? He was fairly certain that this wasn’t one of Simon’s memory lapses. “Well, to be very frank; I was hoping to leverage on your connections with ImpSec.” There, set out it plain and simple. There was no use couching it in pretty language; Illyan wouldn’t rest until he’d uncovered a suspicious motive, one that made sense to his paranoid ImpSec-trained brain, so Mark let him have it. His other reason, he kept to himself. For now.
“I see. I’m hardly in a position--”
“You see, ultimately, my aim is to market this wholesale to the entire Imperial Service. The Navy, especially. And the Municipal Guard. But the problem with pitching directly to them is that this product hasn’t exactly proven itself. It’s so new, it has no track record, and... here’s the stickler. It comes from Jackson’s Whole.”
Ah, there went the metaphorical lightbulb, lighting up nicely on cue. Illyan was always predictable in the paranoia department.
“And so you expect resistance if you tried to sell it to ImpSec?” Illyan smiled the ghost of a smile. “I can hardly help you there.”
As mother would put it, what a load of complete and utter garbage. Illyan’s influence over ImpSec continued to remain strong, even three years after his retirement. No one, not even General Allegre, was about to say no to their ex-Chief any time soon.
“Of course I expect resistance. But I’m not expecting ImpSec to deploy it immediately. I’ve gotten my own labs on Beta Colony and Barrayar to run clinical trials, but obviously we can’t re-create the same conditions, or even test it as extensively as ImpSec would be able to. The plan is this-- first, we get ImpSec to agree to run the tests. They’re the ones with the labs and the research capability to do so.”
“Mostly specialising in forensics.”
“Doesn’t matter. Once we have the ImpSec seal of approval, the rest of the Imperial Service will be a lot happier about taking this product onboard. And then Barrayar gets a great new technology, and we--” a lot of emphasis on the ‘we’ “--make a tidy profit.”
“And if this proves to be a flop?” Illyan steepled his fingers and regarded him over the tops of them. Damn, the man could be unnerving at the best of times, but Mark had experience in facing him down before. He soldiered on. “Then we pull out. Since this is technological, our initial, sunk cost is merely in the cost of procuring the technology and the patents, which I’ve already done. In other words, I don’t need any form of capital investment from you, and if it fails, you just walk away. Zero loss, Huge potential upside. What do you say, Simon?”
“I will consider your proposal.” The flat note in Illyan’s voice was singularly discouraging, but Mark had seen the flare of interest in his eyes. After all, a vice admiral’s half pay was merely decent, and Illyan didn’t seem like the sort who would comfortably sponge off Alys Vorpatril’s fortune.
Hooked, for sure.
--
A mere day later, Illyan was once again seated in one of the small sitting rooms of Vorkosigan house, returning the stacks of datapads and flimsies. Mark eyed the pile in astonishment - it had taken him three weeks to read through all of that. Illyan tracked his gaze and smiled a little. “I do have some experience in dealing with large amounts of data.”
No kidding. “And how do you find it?” It was too early for brandy, but Ma Kosti had supplied them with an ample supply of pastries. Mark preferred those to brandy, anyway.
“While I have no objection to your proposed plan of attack...” Illyan showed no hesitation in partaking of the pastries either, “There is this small matter...” He extricated a piece of plasfilm that had been neatly tagged. Spun it around to face Mark. “The name.”
Ah, Mark thought. There we have it. Proof that it works, in fact. “S&M Bindings Private Limited,” he read it out, deadpan. “S&M is, of course, short for Simon and Mark. And your point is...?”
“The connotations are not lost on me, Lord Mark,” Illyan gave him a sardonic look, which was only slightly spoilt by the fact that it was inflicted over the top of a very good chocolate tart. Illyan had taken the last one. Mark mourned its loss quietly.
“Therein lies to secret to our success,” Mark explained, opting to forgo the opportunity to grab the last mini apple strudel in favour of this all important pitch. “You see, in business, a good idea is a good starting point, but ultimately insufficient. A good idea may carry you far enough to set up a small, decent sized company, making a small profit of say... a few million a year...”
From the look on Illyan’s face, “a few million a year” did not, in any way, constitute a small profit. Hah, there you have it. You have to think bigger than that, you ex-military types.
“But to take the leap from that into the next realm, you need something more.” This time, Mark did lean forward. “You need attention.”
Illyan raised an eyebrow. Mark resisted the urge to chew on his fingernails, and momentarily regretted the decision to forgo the pastry. He could really use something to gnaw on right now. This was the critical point. This was where it all came together...
“Publicity,” he said quietly, “Is everything.”
Silence reigned for a long, tense moment, before Illyan abruptly broke into a wolfish grin. “I daresay it would be interesting, if nothing else. Very well, you may count me in.”
Mark exhaled the breath that he’d been holding. “Excellent, I have the shareholders’ agreement all drawn up--”
“Fifty per cent.”
“What?”
“Fifty per cent equity stake.”
“Thirty,” Mark shot back.
“Fifty. Nothing less.”
“Forty,” Mark said, and made a grab for the strudel before Illyan could spear it with his fork. I’ll make a businessman out of you yet, Simon.
--
“Well, you see... the issue is...”
Mark could almost pity on the young clerk who was all but squirming in his seat in front of them. When he’d sent them the message that the Corporate Regulatory Authority had rejected their name of choice for their new company, he had doubtless never imagined that he would be facing Captain Simon Illyan staring coldly at him from across his desk.
“Explain to me the issue, please,” Illyan was, in a word, ferociously bland. “As I understand that it, the criteria for the registration of a company name is threefold: (a) it must be original - to whit - it must not be the same as the name of any existing company, or close enough to cause confusion, (b) it must not contain certain restricted words, which are set out in Schedule 1, and include, for instance, ‘Imperial’, or ‘Barrayar’ or derivatives thereof --”
“None of which we’ve used in our application,” Mark said.
“And (c),” Illyan continued relentlessly, “It must not be offensive.”
“That’s the thing. The point,” the clerk said, bobbing his head up and down nervously. “S&M, well, you see, it stands for...”
“Simon and Mark.” Illyan was enjoying himself, the old devil. “As you can see here, my legal advisers have drawn up an extensive list of precedents detailing previous companies that were registered with “S&M” as part of their names, as well as “Bindings”. The authority has obviously not seen any issue with it in the past.”
“Well, it’s all that … Betan terminology...”
“I’m afraid I’m not up to date on the latest Betan slang.” Illyan’s gaze could have melted steel. “Would you care to enlighten me as to what precisely is the matter with the use of my initials and Lord Mark’s?”
“Ah....” the clerk looked like he was about to make one final stand, when Illyan raised The Eyebrow at him. The clerk swallowed hard, and caved like a house of cards. “Ah... nothing, sir.” Reaching into his drawer, he pulled out a large stamp.
Approved.
--
“Mark!”
Oh, here it came. “Miles, for crying out loud, it’s six in the bloody morning--”
The door slammed. Why did his damn progenitor brother have to be so noisy all the time..
“That new company you’ve set up - I can’t believe you called it... and registered on Barrayar too? Couldn’t you have registered it on Beta Colony? They wouldn’t blink an eye at it there!”
“Precisely.”
“What do you mean ‘precisely’? And I can’t believe you duped Simon into it!”
Mark cracked an eye open. “‘Duped’? Even with his brains blown out I don’t think anyone could dupe that man. He agreed. Voluntarily.”
That managed to shut Miles up.
“What’s the problem, Miles, really?”
Miles muttered something about the good name of Vorkosigan. And being dragged through the dirt.
“I don’t see the name ‘Vorkosigan’ being used anywhere,” Mark pointed out. “Only Simon and Mark.”
“Oh yes,” Miles said dryly, sounding like a miniature Illyan. A miniature Illyan on Speed. “Of course. Simon and Mark. S&M. Bindings.”
“We manufacture--” Well, they were still in the research phase of the project, but semantics, semantics -- “Molecular binders. I don’t see any issue with it.”
Miles threw up his hands. “I went to school on Beta Colony. I know precisely what it means.”
“Very good. In that case, can you leave so I can get some sleep? I was up late with Simon last night.”
Miles went an interesting shade of green at that. Oh ho.
“Very late,” Mark said. Oh, revenge was sweet. “Testing our newest batch of binders, you know?”
“Mark!” Miles looked like he needed to scrub his brain of certain images. Well, that was his own fault for reading too deeply into their perfectly innocent company name.
“That’s my name, yes,” he grumbled. “Now get out of my room.”
“Look, we can’t … have a company of that name...”
“Why not? The registry approved it.”
“After a no little coercion, knowing you. But the rest of Barrayar--”
“Look,” Mark said. “I’ll change it if father objects, alright?” And he pulled his pillow over his head.
--
“Mail,” Cordelia said, dumping data disks onto the table. “One from Miles, another from Mark,” she diligently sorted these out into their own little pile. “Another from Alys, that’s for me... junk mail, more junk mail, hm, a few for you... a few more for you...” She frowned a little at the growing pile on her right. “You seem to have a lot of mail this round, love.”
Aral looked over from where he’d been typing up a report on his comconsole. “Who are they from?”
“Let’s see. Most of them seem to be from various Vor lords. No few of them are on the Council of Counts. Oh look, Kou’s done a summary, apparently most of them are a complaint of some sort.”
“What has Miles done this time?” Aral sighed.
“Not Miles, apparently. Mark.” Cordelia read Koudelka’s note and raised her eyebrows. Her shoulders started shaking. “Oh well done, boy.”
Aral blinked curiously at her until she passed him the note. And raised his own eyebrows. “Well. I can see why they’d be complaining.”
“I don’t,” Cordelia said. “Really, there’s nothing wrong with that name.”
“I suppose on Beta Colony there wouldn’t be,” Aral said with a small smile.
“Actually, there probably are companies with similar names on Beta Colony. So they wouldn’t be able to register it on the grounds that it’s already being used. But I do take your point.” She read over the transcript on Mark’s disk and smiled. “Really, it’s high time Barrayar learnt to take itself less seriously.”
“I’d agree, but I’m not sure this is the best way....”
“What are they asking you to do?”
“‘Do something’ seems to be the common theme,” Aral smiled wryly. “Mostly they want me to get Mark to change the company’s name. Preferably without annoying Illyan. Or without him finding out. Or if that’s not possible, to restrain him so he doesn’t … ah … start ripping out throats when he finds out.”
Cordelia made her way over to Aral’s side, peering over his shoulder at the words on his screen. “The conspiracy theorists are never going to actually believe that the loss of Simon’s memory chip is real, are they?”
“I suppose they’ll still be calling it an act … oh … about ten years from now. Along with the ones who still believe that I’m making a secret bid for the Imperium,” Aral chuckled.
“So, what’re you going to do about it?”
“At the risk of being accused of turning Betan, absolutely nothing. I am no longer the Prime Minister, and besides... as those very same complainants have told me on numerous occasions, it is not the government’s place to interfere in the affairs of the private sector.”
“Excellent,” Cordelia said. “Because all this talk about binders is giving me ideas...” She leaned forward, and whispered quietly into Aral’s ear for a second.
It wasn’t very hard for her to drag Aral away from his comconsole after that.
--
He really should have sought Alys’ expert advice before embarking on this.
“Simon.”
Well, too late now.
“What’s this I hear about your new company?”
Besides, she’d been on Komarr at the time, and Mark had been very insistent that they seize the opportunity, strike while the iron was hot, etcetera etcetera. “Ah, yes. Lord Mark persuaded me to embark on a little project with him. The doctor seemed to think that it would be good for me to have a retirement job, and so... here we are.”
“Well, I’m sure Mark knows what he’s doing, but...” Alys glanced at him. “Really, Simon. S&M Bindings?”
He inclined his head. “What’s in a name? Really, it would hardly have been controversial twenty years ago.”
“Twenty years ago no one would have understood what it meant. But that was twenty years ago.”
She wasn’t being disapproving. Yet. He decided to risk a bit of explanation. “Mark was most insistent. He said it would generate the publicity we required.”
“I do believe it’s succeeded in that department. But I daresay this isn’t exactly the kind of publicity you need. Even if the intentions behind the name are wholly innocent.”
Ah, she was being disapproving. Time to try another strategy. “Succeeded brilliantly, I might add. I do believe that we’re practically a household name. The company’s received quite the shot in the arm, and even though we haven’t quite completed the clinical trials for ImpSec, we’ve received countless orders from major industry players already...”
“Have you, now.”
“We’ve already started manufacturing. As a matter of fact, we have so many pre-orders, that even with having to set up the infrastructure to begin production, we’ve managed to pay out our first dividend.” Lock acquired, time to go for the kill. He smiled. “You recall that little place that we went to after Gregor’s wedding?”
Alys nodded, a fond smile of recollection on her face. It had felt like their own private honeymoon, even without any formal wedding.
“Well. I’ve managed to acquire some property in that region, lately,” he kept his voice as casual as he possibly could. “I don’t suppose you fancy spending three weeks down south this winter? Perhaps with short side trip on a chartered yacht as well?”
Alys’ smile broadened, as she leaned more comfortably against him. “I believe I can be persuaded.”
Mission accomplished.
--
Someone cleared his throat in the doorway. Mark glanced up, all prepared to tell Miles to sod off, they’d already had this conversation - when he realised that it wasn’t Miles.
“Ivan! What brings you here?”
It wasn’t often that Ivan Vorpatril showed up in his office, and it was even rarer to see him looking... somewhat... constipated?
“Well, yeah.” Ivan grabbed a chair without being told to do so, and helped himself to one of the profiteroles that Ma Kosti had left on Mark’s desk. “It’s about, you know...”
Not constipated, then. Uncomfortable. “No, I’m afraid I don’t know,” Mark said, injecting as much of a ‘go away’ vibe as he could put into his voice. He’d had this conversation countless times over the past few months, and while it had been funny in the beginning... “So spit it out.”
Ivan glanced at the half eaten profiterole, then decided that that wasn’t what Mark was referring to. “Well, it’s about that company of yours...”
“What about it?” The sooner they got through this, the sooner he could kick Ivan out of his office and get some work done. Not to mention that there would be less wear-and-tear on his food supply.
“Well, you see... everyone’s talking about it...” Ivan seemed singularly content to beat around the bush today.
“And so?” Mark said, as impatiently as he could.
“Well, and with a name like that...”
“Yes, tell me about the name, will you? Trust me, it wouldn’t be the first I’ve heard--”
“Well, I was wondering if I could get one from you. Or a pair, really. Whatever.”
This wasn’t how the conversation usually went. “What?”
“Don’t act stupid, Mark,” Ivan scowled. “The binders, of course.”
“The... what do you want them for?”
“That’s none of your business,” Ivan snapped, and was it Mark’s imagination, or was he turning just a little bit red?
“I’m afraid it is very much my business,” Mark said firmly. “We’re a wholesale supplier. We don’t usually market our products to individuals, and when we do, it’s quite necessary for us to perform know-your-customer checks. For that matter, I’m surprised you didn’t ask Simon. He’s a stakeholder and director, and he’s also family, for you.”
“Are you crazy?” Ivan hissed. “It’s like asking your dad! It’s worse than asking your dad! I’d never live it down. Hell, even without his memory chip, he’d never let me live it down.”
“I see. So you’ve come to me instead. But you haven’t told me why, Ivan.”
Ivan made a singularly disgruntled noise. “It’s that girl. Katrine Faustin. I asked her to go with me to the Winterfair ball, but she’ll only agree on condition that I get … you know.”
Mark frantically schooled his expression into blandness. Katrine was Kareen’s friend, she had to know that the binders they manufactured weren’t exactly the kind of binders that Ivan was thinking about. For a brief moment, he considered rescuing his cousin...
…
…
naw. Wouldn’t do to deprive Ivan of his prospective date, right?
“I’ll be sure to send you a set, then,” Mark said, dutifully making a note on his comconsole. “It’s on us. Goodwill gesture and all that.”
Ivan looked profoundly relieved. “Thanks. Owe you one.”
“Not at all, Ivan. Thanks for dropping by.”
Ivan gave him a wave and stole another profiterole, all ready to leave. He stood, he turned, and he ran smack bang into Simon Illyan, who had been heading through the door.
“Ivan, you idiot.” Illyan backed up a step. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, just a bit of business,” Mark said cheerfully. “Purchasing some of our binders.”
From the look on Ivan’s face, he was about an inch away from committing murder. Or exploding. Or possibly both.
“Are you now,” Illyan said coolly, with a tiny, knowing smile. “I’m certain you’ll find them very … ah … useful.”
Ivan shot Mark a glare that had I’m-going-to-get-you-for-this written all over it. “Ah, yes. Thanks. I was just leaving. Catch you around.” He shot out of the room fast enough to leave scorch marks on the carpet.
Mark held his breath, counted to ten, then burst into peals of helpless laughter.
Fin.
ETA: Now with the not-remotely-serious Ekaterin add-on! (Warning: Crack. Implied slash).