Two of them are fanfiction, though not for one of your usual fandoms, but something that …actually, you introduced me to back on the Nutboard.
First off, the non-fanfiction:
In-a: Space Station
With-a: First Contact delegation
While-a: Member of the alien delegation begins to get an inkling of how utterly insane Humans are, compared to the rest of the GalaxyAnd the others:
How did Lady Ekaterin Vorkosigan react to hearing some of the details of her new husband’s previous life, and how much corroboration was necessary?
General Harloche looking up Miles’ classified files after he leaves, to find out how he got all those medals, including the Cetagandan Order of Merit.
[AN: Please, please, PLEASE submit prompts separately! If not, I have to do them all at once and that kind of steals time from other things, like RL duties, adding fics to my queue, and working on that dang novel]
(#00062)
Everything really big, like the Galactic Standards, was resolved by committee. The issue currently up to debate in this one was whether or not to accept the human species into the Galactic Alliance. Since they were pending members, they were not allowed to conduct their own business, own vessels, or otherwise inveigle themselves into the system.
But they nevertheless managed to do so anyway. Humans had an uncanny knack for finding loopholes. Like Alliance business partners who technically owned a majority share. Or Alliance owner/pilots who they hired on their own bizarre adventures.
Almost all of them, disturbingly, very profitable.
“I have read the reports,” said Ambassador Nif'xand'l. “And I regret to inform the committee that I have discovered some… disturbing trends.”
Other assembled ambassadors murmured and nodded. They had read some reports of their own.
“These humans, despite their short lifespans, seem to have an appetite for risk.”
“I have at least two hundred separate incidents of property damage and injury following the phrase, ‘hey, watch this’,” reported an avian.
Several amongst the ambassadors shuddered.
A Chitanian in a breather-suit tapped at his comm, which said for him, “Their ideals of humor are frankly perplexing.”
“Humor is a cultural construct,” said Ambassador Vriis. “Which leads to the question: is human culture toxic?”
Murmur, murmur, murmur…
“No complaints have been made,” offered the Ambassador for Jezz. “Nothing to significantly alter their status from Mostly Harmless.”
“I am rather fond of their tea,” said Ambassador Nox. “It shines up my feathers a treat.”
“Humans sold it to us as a furniture staining agent,” said Ambassador Vriis. “It’s only been two hundred years. They already recognize that other species have differing uses for differing trade items. That takes some species millennia…”
“We have already apologized in full for the Nayblar Incident,” said the Chitanian through his comms.
The Chair rang a gong for peace. “We cannot deny their cogniscence. They are readily adaptable, they communicate in any way possible, they have already proved themselves more than efficacious for trade.”
“They have a disturbing tendency to mount food on sticks.”
“Thank you, Mi'igraw,” the Chair politely codified, Shut up, I wasn’t done talking. “As I was saying, given their progress under our restrictions, dare we let them out of our sight? Conversely, dare we let them interact under their own recognizance?”
That let out some alarmed babble.
“We have discovered in excess of three hundred colony worlds in various states of upkeep.” Including one on the verge of complete collapse and self-canibalism. “We have yet to discover their origin planet. Which has two names. Earth-Terra.”
“Does it really exist? Or is it one of their elaborate 'jokes’?” Of course Jezz had to object. They were immediate neighbours to Noz, a Terran colony originating from one of their continents (or islands, it was never made clear) called Oz-trail-yer. Anyone who had been subjected to Drop Bear stories was bound to be suspicious.
“Perhaps their planet of origin is still wrapped in one-way wormholes,” allowed the Ambassador for Gebra. “Each colony has stated it was rich in such a resource.”
“And they used them to throw away their undesirables. Each of our species has fallen to such temptation in the past, but we realized it is not a permanent solution. Nor a healthy one. These humans seem to just keep doing it…”
“Then there are the other… disturbing idiosyncrasies,” said Nif'xand'l. “If you please, I would submit a compilation for the committee’s consideration.”
“The Chair recognizes G'Hx'vd'loq and their submission of evidence.”
Nif'xand'l put up a display hologram. A human female in skin-tight, sparkly attire was apparently gliding across a smooth surface. “This is performance art. They call it 'figure skating’.”
“Is she supposed to be moving backwards?”
“Yes. And she is moving across water ice by means of blades attached to her boots.”
The hologram recording leaped into the air, spinning, and landed on one foot. The assembled ambassadors gasped.
“This originates on their home planet,” informed Nif'xand'l. “Before reliable freezing of water ice was invented. They formed this art on frozen lakes.”
Murmur murmur MURMUR murmur…
“This,” a different hologram. Human males in bulky armor apparently throwing themselves at each other for possession of a leather ovoid. “Another human activity. A sport. They play this for fun. At first, I believed it to be a substitute for battle, to aid in curbing their hostile and warlike tendencies. Then I discovered the cultures most enamored of this… game… were the most warlike.”
“Contrariwise, the Britanian sport of Soccer forbids physical contact, but inspires the most warlike behavior amongst its followers.”
“They invest far too much involvement in recreational activities and those who excel at them.”
“And then there’s the food,” said the Ambassador for Gyiik. “Look at this.”
“The chair recognizes Gyiik and their submission.”
It showed a plant. A purple, leafy ball.
“Is that the crop they call 'cabbage’?” asked the Chitanian through his comms.
“Yes,” said the Gyiik. “They call this one Red Cabbage. And this,” a root crop, also purple, “is a Red Onion!”
“They are not colourblind,” said Nif'xand'l. “They have the most creative vocabulary for colours that I have ever heard.”
“And yet, these are called red foods.”
“Perhaps it is their 'irony’.”
“No, it is not universally applied. Other purple crops are called 'purple’.” The Gyiik threw up one pair of her hands. “It is enough to make Nyomnahm, Goddess of Bounty, weep…” She wiped at her own tears. “Look, you. White chocolate.”
It looked like an inoffensive creamy chunk.
The other ambassadors leaned forward for an explanation.
“It is clearly not white. And the essence of chocolate, the cocoa, is not present. It is neither white, nor chocolate!”
“They have an obsession with accumulating wealth. Even the colonies who have been amongst us the longest.”
“They have a dangerous desire for the things that cause short-term pleasure and long-term harm.”
“A disregard for personal safety in the name of entertainment.”
“An unholy want to show unrealistic things for entertainment… and to make them appear realistic!”
The chair rang the gong several times. “We must consider the question. Do we allow humans to join, or do we allow them to manage themselves and sever all association?”
“I, for one, would like to at least know what the flakk they’re up to.”
The room filled with variations on agreement.
“They contribute significantly to mercantile endeavours.”
More agreement.
“I like their food-on-a-stick.”
“I move that the human species be reclassified as insane, by merit of overall behavior.”
“Seconded.”
“In favour?” asked the Chair, taking note of those who stood or otherwise indicated their approval. “The Yae’s have it. The human species is nominated Insane But Mostly Harmless. Under these conditions, do we accept them into the Galactic Alliance?”
It was a grudging Yae. After the second tie. And finally won after a heartfelt plea by Ambassador Mike the Gyiik.
(#00063)
Ekaterin sat opposite General Guy Allegre in the otherwise bland and featureless room. It was one of the sealed variety with baffles technological and mundane to prevent anyone listening in. There was, no doubt, some authorised surveillance occurring, but it was also strictly electronic, unsupervised, untamperable, an inaccessible save to the chief of Impsec, who was in the room.
A room like this said, plainly and clearly, This is slit-your-throat-before-viewing material, and no horseshit. Ekaterin began to wonder if a minion was going to bring her her Vorfemme knife should such an occasion arise.
“Thank you for your time, Lady Vorkosigan,” said Allegre. “I am to brief you on some of Lord Vorkosigan’s -ah- past adventures.”
She nodded. “He talks in his sleep. Frankly, I find most of it perplexing, rather than informative.”
Allegre rolled his eyes in a surprisingly effective and communicative manner. Which meant that he knew about Miles’ annoying little habits, too. “Would you prefer the summary in order chronological? Or… order baffling?”
Ekaterin bit down a smirk. Much as she loved Miles, he could get to be an outright puzzling and hyperactive git. “I think I would prefer chronological. His more baffling nightmares seem to blur missions.”
“Quite.” Allegre cleared his throat. “Lord Vorkosigan gained Impsec’s attention when he left Barrayar a Service Academy reject and almost came back as an Admiral of a mercinary fleet… An event that resulted in the demise of his bodyguard-batman Sergeant Bothari. We recommended that the best place for him was -ah- where we could keep an eye on him.”
The birth of the little Admiral. Oh yes.
“His first assignment under military command was a notable failure on paper, but nevertheless bought to our attention the lingering psychological effects of an extended term serving at certain posts. And the inadvisability of placing certain elements in exile there.”
Kyril island. Camp permafrost. Ekaterin had heard little about it, apart from the idea that being the weather man there was the worst post imaginable.
“Afterwards, a fact finding mission under command in the Hegen Hub highlighted his… difficulties… in the traditional command structure.” Another throat clearing. “He disobeyed orders, went AWOL, and rescued the Emperor with the help of his pet mercenaries.”
Now the Emperor’s own Pet Mercenaries and Plausible Deniability.
“Goodness,” said Ekaterin. “Where does one of the Empresses of Cetaganda fit in?”
“That would be his diplomatic mission. Sent to be nothing more than a political olive branch, he managed to stop a war, rescue a… princess of sorts… and acquire one of the highest awards Cetaganda could offer.”
“That would be the 'nightmare gene-groves’, yes?”
“Quite.” Allegre flipped through some events. “Aquiring unique personnel,” Taura the Unforgettable. “Freeing an entire concentration camp,” the Snoring Marilacans and the demise of Ensign Murka. And Sergeant Beatrice. “The Komarran clone plot,” Mark. “And of course you’re familiar with the Komarr Incidents.”
“Intimately,” said Ekaterin. “He did inform me of most of this himself.”
“Yes,” said Allegre. “But this,” he handed across the collected files, “is the unedited version.”
Oh dear. Ekaterin was glad she had since learned to speed-read. Miles could put a fine sheen on anything.
(#00064)
Haroche sat behind the only other desk that could unlock the universe. Gently caressed the interface. He’d got rid of his boss - who was gassing about retirement but seemed determined to stay until he died. He’d got rid of that damned paranoid dwarf. And now he had penultimate power.
Ultimate power would only be achieved once he figured out how to steer his Emperor.
The last time the Emperor slipped his Imperial security was… hm… quite a long time ago. And rescued by the apparently incompetent nepotistic dwarf.
Further reading revealed that said dwarf had a cover as a mercenary fleet Admiral… who had liberated planets, foiled incredible plots against Barrayar… and was incredibly dangerous when riled.
It shouldn’t matter. The mutie dwarf had been removed from Haroche’s sphere of influence. Or influence-ability. He should be no further harm.
He had five minutes to relax before he got the news that the damned hyperactive mutie was now an Imperial gods-damned Auditor.
Aimed at him.
Fuck!
[Muse food remaining: 13. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]