Perhaps this is a heavenly punishment. Not that Byerly has any faith in heaven (he'd had to listen to a great lot of tiresome droning about that from some otherwise-delicious Betan herm, once, who'd slapped him robustly when he'd intimated that he'd like to incorporate a bit of the sacred into their profane activities, and that was the proud day when he'd out-scandaled a Betan) or honestly much faith in punishment (it all seems to come, inevitably, regardless of your worthiness or lack thereof). But he does specifically remember sitting in class, back when he was a young budding degenerate, and thinking about this very time period: things might be rotten now, but at least I'll never have to live through the Occupation.
Ha. Ha. Ha.
He should lay down in the snow and die right now. He doesn't have the constitution for this. Is his ancestor Pierre Le Sanguinaire dead yet? Oh, he does hope so. He'd take one look at his dissolute town clown relative and order him disemboweled for uselessness. Or, worse, he'd try to forcibly make him useful...
I am useful, damn it. That's the thing. By is a damn fine ImpSec agent (does ImpSec even exist in this time? He should bloody well know this) but this is not his milieu. He's not a war-spy. He's a peace-spy. He's a love-spy. But he suspects that Piotr Pierre Vorkosigan, leader of the insane Vorkosigan forces (like there's ever been a Vorkosigan soldier, or Vorkosigan, who isn't insane), isn't going to appreciate a specialist in the seducing of Vor...
a. In camp They put him to work shoveling snow - shoveling snow! shoveling snow. - and he agrees in spite the indignity because at least it's easy work. Or he'd assumed it would be easy work, but after about ten minutes he's already winded. He leans on his shovel and regards the wintry mountain landscape with a very sour expression.
"What happened to Vor privilege?" he mutters. "No one told me it was a modern invention."
b. In the village This, at least, is a slightly more civilized place. Slightly. How far has he fallen, that a Vorkosigan back-country izba looks like the height of luxury? But it is not a tent, and the smells coming from a cooking fire seem at least slightly appetizing instead of perfunctory, and someone is serving ale instead of that vile maple mead concoction...Not that ale is wine, or something he really wants (he'd just about kill for some creme kava right now) but at least it's a bit better than that. So here, he's a little bit in better spirits...
But he is also working. That's why he'll hail anyone he recognizes as a Cetagandan, or Cetagandan-affiliated, calling out drolly, "You look like someone who's about half as miserable as I am. How's life amongst the invaders?" Or, anyone fighting for the Barrayarans - "Well, well. Fancy seeing you here. D'you know anything about the logistics of deserting an army you've been press-ganged into after time-traveling?"
c. Wildcard Byerly also can be found a number of other places. Trying to score drugs? Check. Seeing if anyone can be seduced? Double check. Trying hard to avoid being spotted by any of the traditional Vor-military types who will disapprove of a drunken oversexed town clown? Check check check.
Byerly Vorrutyer | OTA
Ha. Ha. Ha.
He should lay down in the snow and die right now. He doesn't have the constitution for this. Is his ancestor Pierre Le Sanguinaire dead yet? Oh, he does hope so. He'd take one look at his dissolute town clown relative and order him disemboweled for uselessness. Or, worse, he'd try to forcibly make him useful...
I am useful, damn it. That's the thing. By is a damn fine ImpSec agent (does ImpSec even exist in this time? He should bloody well know this) but this is not his milieu. He's not a war-spy. He's a peace-spy. He's a love-spy. But he suspects that Piotr Pierre Vorkosigan, leader of the insane Vorkosigan forces (like there's ever been a Vorkosigan soldier, or Vorkosigan, who isn't insane), isn't going to appreciate a specialist in the seducing of Vor...
a. In camp
They put him to work shoveling snow - shoveling snow! shoveling snow. - and he agrees in spite the indignity because at least it's easy work. Or he'd assumed it would be easy work, but after about ten minutes he's already winded. He leans on his shovel and regards the wintry mountain landscape with a very sour expression.
"What happened to Vor privilege?" he mutters. "No one told me it was a modern invention."
b. In the village
This, at least, is a slightly more civilized place. Slightly. How far has he fallen, that a Vorkosigan back-country izba looks like the height of luxury? But it is not a tent, and the smells coming from a cooking fire seem at least slightly appetizing instead of perfunctory, and someone is serving ale instead of that vile maple mead concoction...Not that ale is wine, or something he really wants (he'd just about kill for some creme kava right now) but at least it's a bit better than that. So here, he's a little bit in better spirits...
But he is also working. That's why he'll hail anyone he recognizes as a Cetagandan, or Cetagandan-affiliated, calling out drolly, "You look like someone who's about half as miserable as I am. How's life amongst the invaders?" Or, anyone fighting for the Barrayarans - "Well, well. Fancy seeing you here. D'you know anything about the logistics of deserting an army you've been press-ganged into after time-traveling?"
c. Wildcard
Byerly also can be found a number of other places. Trying to score drugs? Check. Seeing if anyone can be seduced? Double check. Trying hard to avoid being spotted by any of the traditional Vor-military types who will disapprove of a drunken oversexed town clown? Check check check.