Fic: Free the Prisoners
It seems my fics are being finished like animals in the Ark at the moment, two by two. This is another AU, inspired by assorted discussions on the List over the past few months.
Title: Free the Prisoners
Length: 1500 words
Content: PG, major character deaths
Summary: Cordelia satisfies her Betan superiors at the end of 'Shards', and history spirals in a completely different direction. Very, very AU.
Notes: With thanks to Avantika for beta-reading.
Aral leaned forwards, balancing himself on the battered table in a quiet corner of tonight's bar. "Tell me this," he said. "What would happen if I just went to her? If I went to Beta Colony to live? Would they shoot me on sight, or what?"
Illyan sat very still for a moment. Aral only talked when he was drunk these days, and not to many people. Seven months since they'd returned from Escobar, and Aral was going under, his health worsening and his suicide attempts improving. This was the first time he'd said anything that made Illyan think he might survive.
"God, Simon, you know these things," Aral went on impatiently, mistaking the reason for his silence. "Tell me what would happen."
"It's hard to immigrate to Beta Colony," Illyan said at last. "You have a slight claim to citizenship from your grandmother, but on its own the war likely cancels that out. Though Commodore Naismith's influence might help a little--she's extremely popular there right now. But most likely you'd need to go as a refugee."
"Political asylum?" Aral said. "I'd have to make Barrayar too hot to hold me. Wouldn't be that hard, you've probably already got grounds to arrest me ten times over just from what I've said to you these past few months. I'll go and proclaim democracy and the overthrow of the Emperor in the Council of Counts. Sober. That should do it."
Illyan shuddered at the vision. "Well, I suppose that might work. Though there's also, um, personal asylum. That might be less ... dangerous."
Aral gave him a blank look.
"Beta Colony has a very long tradition of offering refuge to people persecuted on their home world for their sexual preferences." Illyan was quite pleased that he got that out in a matter-of-fact voice.
Aral stared at him, drained his glass and refilled it rapidly. "You think I should kiss a man in the street and get arrested?"
"Well, you'd have to do more than that," Illyan said. "The decency laws--"
"I know the damned decency laws inside-out," Aral growled. "You're volunteering to fuck me in front of witnesses?"
Illyan looked back and said nothing, though he would seriously consider it to save Aral's life by this point.
"It's a bad idea anyway," Aral said, and his voice was dull again. "They'd stone me in the streets there, and who can blame them? And besides, how could I support a family? The only thing I know how to do is kill people by numbers. Forget it--oh, don't give me that look, Simon, you know what I mean. Forget it."
"They probably wouldn't stone you in the streets," Illyan said slowly, thinking it through. "They're very hot on public order and anti-discrimination. And if you were there as a refugee, if you'd made it clear to them that you wanted to be a Betan, I think they'd take you in. And the Betan Survey pays pretty well. Commodore Naismith certainly makes enough to support a family whilst you trained at something different. Very good education on Beta Colony, state-subsidised. You could do whatever you wanted."
Aral blinked, and sipped from his glass, a strange expression crossing his face. Seeing an opening, Illyan pushed. "What would you want to do there?"
He didn't think anyone had ever asked Aral that in his life before, living in the opulent straitjacket of a Barrayaran Vor, fighting wars since the age of eleven. At least Illyan had had some choices.
"Once," he said quietly, "when I was a boy, I wanted to be a farmer. Terraform the land and grow vegetables. Father laughed at me."
"Hydroponic farms, on Beta," Illyan said. "It's possible."
"We could have children. Daughters. Not sons, that might be... difficult. But daughters. Beta Colony is a good place to be a girl. Cordelia once said she wanted daughters." His eyes were going unfocused, considering these novel possibilities. "But ... if I do go and give the Counts a piece of my mind, it would be hard to get off-world before someone shot me."
Illyan took a deep breath. This might work. It might be possible to save this man. "I can do something about that," he said. "I can get you safely off-world." It would destroy him in ImpSec, because Negri wouldn't want to let Aral go, but it would be worth it. "You have my word."
For the first time in months, he saw a glint of hope in Aral's eyes.
*** sixty-four years later ***
"Let's get a picture," Cordelia said. "Here, Aral..." She passed their first great-granddaughter to Aral, who settled her on his knee and turned his float chair around to face the photographer. "Come on, all of you." Aral dropped a kiss on little Beth's fuzzy head, then tugged Zoe and her wife forwards.
"Proud parents this way," he said. "And you, Olivia, you're a grandmother now, you go stand next to your mother." He smiled up at Elena. "You can stand where you like, Madame."
The photographer snapped furiously away at the family group. "We'll do the two of us together afterwards," Elena said. She cocked her head towards the stage. "I think it's time. You'd better go take your seats."
A hush fell as they emerged from backstage, broken only by little Beth cooing. Aral passed her on to Olivia, and took a place beside Cordelia, who reached across and caught his hand. The host smiled, waited till they were seated, and then said, "Ladies, gentlemen and honourable herms, I am proud to introduce the President of Barrayar, Madame Elena Bothari!"
Elena strode up to the podium and smiled around at the audience. "I was born," she said with the low-voiced intensity and lack of frills that had characterised her presidency from the outset, "three days after Dr Aral Naismith, then Lord Aral Vorkosigan, made his famous speech to the Council of Counts and was forced to flee Barrayar with the secret police chasing him. Nobody then, I think, could have predicted the consequences that would follow from that speech, although in hindsight the signs were there for those who had the insight to see them. And because Dr Naismith did see them, we are all here now, after so many years of revolution and strife, with a peace built on solid foundations, and we are all united in honouring Dr Naismith as one of the great fathers of this peace. Both for his first, brave speech sixty-four years ago, and for his later work with the Betan advisory team along with his wife, Surveyor-General Naismith and the many experts from the Betan Survey who guided us through the dangerous early years of our democracy and the signing of the New Treaty with Komarr, Dr Naismith has more than earned his place amongst Barrayar's most glorious heroes."
Aral didn't really hear the rest of her speech, as she dissected what he had said to the Council of Counts, described the legend of how he had escaped Barrayar and laid the credit for the democratic movement on his aging shoulders. Legend was more suitable for politicians than history, it was a perennial problem. Nobody would want the true story: how he'd fled the planet with ImpSec on his tail for starting the democratic movement because it was easier than fleeing the planet for fucking Simon Illyan in the street, not when they could have the story of Aral Naismith, democratic hero. They didn't care that he'd never intended more than escape and survival, then.
It had taken him ten years just to heal. Ten years of therapy, of getting his doctorate in agricultural engineering, of starting a family and a career of his own choosing and finally discovering that he could enjoy life and not merely survive it. Ten years to become comfortable in a room with a closed door. Then he'd heard the news from Barrayar of Illyan's death fighting for the democratic revolution he'd accidentally started. And then he'd started reading the news from Barrayar again, and thinking about the changes that were happening there, and began studying galactic political philosophy by night, trying to understand what was happening and how to make it end well. He hadn't wanted to be responsible for this, but it seemed he was, and he had realised that he owed it to both his homelands to try to finish what he'd started. And with Cordelia's help, he had.
"... and therefore I am proud to present Dr Aral Naismith with the Presidential Medal of Honour."
As Aral moved his float chair up to the podium to receive the medal, as Elena smiled and kissed his cheek and pinned it to his jacket, as he shook her hand and looked in awe at Bothari's daughter, he wondered what would have happened if he'd stayed.
Title: Free the Prisoners
Length: 1500 words
Content: PG, major character deaths
Summary: Cordelia satisfies her Betan superiors at the end of 'Shards', and history spirals in a completely different direction. Very, very AU.
Notes: With thanks to Avantika for beta-reading.
Aral leaned forwards, balancing himself on the battered table in a quiet corner of tonight's bar. "Tell me this," he said. "What would happen if I just went to her? If I went to Beta Colony to live? Would they shoot me on sight, or what?"
Illyan sat very still for a moment. Aral only talked when he was drunk these days, and not to many people. Seven months since they'd returned from Escobar, and Aral was going under, his health worsening and his suicide attempts improving. This was the first time he'd said anything that made Illyan think he might survive.
"God, Simon, you know these things," Aral went on impatiently, mistaking the reason for his silence. "Tell me what would happen."
"It's hard to immigrate to Beta Colony," Illyan said at last. "You have a slight claim to citizenship from your grandmother, but on its own the war likely cancels that out. Though Commodore Naismith's influence might help a little--she's extremely popular there right now. But most likely you'd need to go as a refugee."
"Political asylum?" Aral said. "I'd have to make Barrayar too hot to hold me. Wouldn't be that hard, you've probably already got grounds to arrest me ten times over just from what I've said to you these past few months. I'll go and proclaim democracy and the overthrow of the Emperor in the Council of Counts. Sober. That should do it."
Illyan shuddered at the vision. "Well, I suppose that might work. Though there's also, um, personal asylum. That might be less ... dangerous."
Aral gave him a blank look.
"Beta Colony has a very long tradition of offering refuge to people persecuted on their home world for their sexual preferences." Illyan was quite pleased that he got that out in a matter-of-fact voice.
Aral stared at him, drained his glass and refilled it rapidly. "You think I should kiss a man in the street and get arrested?"
"Well, you'd have to do more than that," Illyan said. "The decency laws--"
"I know the damned decency laws inside-out," Aral growled. "You're volunteering to fuck me in front of witnesses?"
Illyan looked back and said nothing, though he would seriously consider it to save Aral's life by this point.
"It's a bad idea anyway," Aral said, and his voice was dull again. "They'd stone me in the streets there, and who can blame them? And besides, how could I support a family? The only thing I know how to do is kill people by numbers. Forget it--oh, don't give me that look, Simon, you know what I mean. Forget it."
"They probably wouldn't stone you in the streets," Illyan said slowly, thinking it through. "They're very hot on public order and anti-discrimination. And if you were there as a refugee, if you'd made it clear to them that you wanted to be a Betan, I think they'd take you in. And the Betan Survey pays pretty well. Commodore Naismith certainly makes enough to support a family whilst you trained at something different. Very good education on Beta Colony, state-subsidised. You could do whatever you wanted."
Aral blinked, and sipped from his glass, a strange expression crossing his face. Seeing an opening, Illyan pushed. "What would you want to do there?"
He didn't think anyone had ever asked Aral that in his life before, living in the opulent straitjacket of a Barrayaran Vor, fighting wars since the age of eleven. At least Illyan had had some choices.
"Once," he said quietly, "when I was a boy, I wanted to be a farmer. Terraform the land and grow vegetables. Father laughed at me."
"Hydroponic farms, on Beta," Illyan said. "It's possible."
"We could have children. Daughters. Not sons, that might be... difficult. But daughters. Beta Colony is a good place to be a girl. Cordelia once said she wanted daughters." His eyes were going unfocused, considering these novel possibilities. "But ... if I do go and give the Counts a piece of my mind, it would be hard to get off-world before someone shot me."
Illyan took a deep breath. This might work. It might be possible to save this man. "I can do something about that," he said. "I can get you safely off-world." It would destroy him in ImpSec, because Negri wouldn't want to let Aral go, but it would be worth it. "You have my word."
For the first time in months, he saw a glint of hope in Aral's eyes.
*** sixty-four years later ***
"Let's get a picture," Cordelia said. "Here, Aral..." She passed their first great-granddaughter to Aral, who settled her on his knee and turned his float chair around to face the photographer. "Come on, all of you." Aral dropped a kiss on little Beth's fuzzy head, then tugged Zoe and her wife forwards.
"Proud parents this way," he said. "And you, Olivia, you're a grandmother now, you go stand next to your mother." He smiled up at Elena. "You can stand where you like, Madame."
The photographer snapped furiously away at the family group. "We'll do the two of us together afterwards," Elena said. She cocked her head towards the stage. "I think it's time. You'd better go take your seats."
A hush fell as they emerged from backstage, broken only by little Beth cooing. Aral passed her on to Olivia, and took a place beside Cordelia, who reached across and caught his hand. The host smiled, waited till they were seated, and then said, "Ladies, gentlemen and honourable herms, I am proud to introduce the President of Barrayar, Madame Elena Bothari!"
Elena strode up to the podium and smiled around at the audience. "I was born," she said with the low-voiced intensity and lack of frills that had characterised her presidency from the outset, "three days after Dr Aral Naismith, then Lord Aral Vorkosigan, made his famous speech to the Council of Counts and was forced to flee Barrayar with the secret police chasing him. Nobody then, I think, could have predicted the consequences that would follow from that speech, although in hindsight the signs were there for those who had the insight to see them. And because Dr Naismith did see them, we are all here now, after so many years of revolution and strife, with a peace built on solid foundations, and we are all united in honouring Dr Naismith as one of the great fathers of this peace. Both for his first, brave speech sixty-four years ago, and for his later work with the Betan advisory team along with his wife, Surveyor-General Naismith and the many experts from the Betan Survey who guided us through the dangerous early years of our democracy and the signing of the New Treaty with Komarr, Dr Naismith has more than earned his place amongst Barrayar's most glorious heroes."
Aral didn't really hear the rest of her speech, as she dissected what he had said to the Council of Counts, described the legend of how he had escaped Barrayar and laid the credit for the democratic movement on his aging shoulders. Legend was more suitable for politicians than history, it was a perennial problem. Nobody would want the true story: how he'd fled the planet with ImpSec on his tail for starting the democratic movement because it was easier than fleeing the planet for fucking Simon Illyan in the street, not when they could have the story of Aral Naismith, democratic hero. They didn't care that he'd never intended more than escape and survival, then.
It had taken him ten years just to heal. Ten years of therapy, of getting his doctorate in agricultural engineering, of starting a family and a career of his own choosing and finally discovering that he could enjoy life and not merely survive it. Ten years to become comfortable in a room with a closed door. Then he'd heard the news from Barrayar of Illyan's death fighting for the democratic revolution he'd accidentally started. And then he'd started reading the news from Barrayar again, and thinking about the changes that were happening there, and began studying galactic political philosophy by night, trying to understand what was happening and how to make it end well. He hadn't wanted to be responsible for this, but it seemed he was, and he had realised that he owed it to both his homelands to try to finish what he'd started. And with Cordelia's help, he had.
"... and therefore I am proud to present Dr Aral Naismith with the Presidential Medal of Honour."
As Aral moved his float chair up to the podium to receive the medal, as Elena smiled and kissed his cheek and pinned it to his jacket, as he shook her hand and looked in awe at Bothari's daughter, he wondered what would have happened if he'd stayed.