Vorkosigan kind of meta-fic again
Apr. 13th, 2014 06:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nineveh_ukBrought to you by memories of adverts for jobs in Greenland that emphasised the exciting opportunities for those who enjoyed the outdoor life. Miles might assume his preferences are universal, but I bet there’d be some people on Barrayar who’d just love the idea of a posting on Kyril Island.
Lots of planets have a north
Basic training was complete and next-stage assignments were through. The long line of trainees wound about the hall, dotted round with small groups and individuals variously opening and reading the flimsies handed out by the desk sergeant , discussing them with their comrades, and in a few cases staring glumly into a corner and swearing.
“Got it! Engineering, vehicle mechanics training in the best posting in the Empire, Lazkowski Base. Three years of ice-yachting here I come. All right, Gaillard, you’re next.”
The second man took a deep breath, turned over the plastic sheet, and exhaled an emphatic “Yes! Enhanced infantry physical, with assignment to the PT trainer course on passing at the end of two years – Lazkowski Base. Looks like Petukhov was right: ask for Camp Permafrost and you get it. Who’s next? Third time’s the charm.”
The third trainee looked at his flimsy – and swore. “Shit! Fucking shit, shit, fuckity shit. Ship duty.”
“Oh fuck. Sorry, Andrei. What is it?”
“The Prince fucking Serg. Apprentice weapons tech. I’m finished. Once they’ve got you on one of those space cruisers you never get a land posting. It’s all specialist galactic shite.”
“You get long leave, though.”
“Yeah, and spend half of it getting back to a planet with an ice-field, and when you get there the artificial gravity’s buggered your balance.”
“There’s always Plan B. Find some rich Vor bitch and get a gig as her armsman. They have to sign you out if a Count asks for it.”
“I might just have to. Come on, Beatrix, what have you got?”
Beatrix scanned his orders with some trepidation and shrugged. “Comms training, Vorhovis Base. Could be worse, there’s decent ice-climbing on the Black Escarpment, and there’s lots of postings for Comms down the line. You gonna see the sergeant, Andrei, and try for a switch?”
“And get marked down as a malcontent, no fear! Two years keeping my nose clean and apply for a transfer, that’s me. Maybe I can get a cruiser near Sergyar or something, get into the mountains on leave.”
“That’d be all right,” said Gaillard. “The cold climate hunting’s supposed to be stupendous. Besides, the grav might not be too bad. Everyone gets a personal programme from a medtech these days, and the gym on the Prince Serg must be pretty hot stuff. You might not lose much.”
“Yeah.” Andrei shoved the flimsy into his pocket. “Yeah, it’ll be all right. You wait, boys. I’ll be back on long leave creaming you all on the ice.”
“Kyril Island all-comers championships. Come on, final night on the town. Let’s go and get pissed.”
Lots of planets have a north
Basic training was complete and next-stage assignments were through. The long line of trainees wound about the hall, dotted round with small groups and individuals variously opening and reading the flimsies handed out by the desk sergeant , discussing them with their comrades, and in a few cases staring glumly into a corner and swearing.
“Got it! Engineering, vehicle mechanics training in the best posting in the Empire, Lazkowski Base. Three years of ice-yachting here I come. All right, Gaillard, you’re next.”
The second man took a deep breath, turned over the plastic sheet, and exhaled an emphatic “Yes! Enhanced infantry physical, with assignment to the PT trainer course on passing at the end of two years – Lazkowski Base. Looks like Petukhov was right: ask for Camp Permafrost and you get it. Who’s next? Third time’s the charm.”
The third trainee looked at his flimsy – and swore. “Shit! Fucking shit, shit, fuckity shit. Ship duty.”
“Oh fuck. Sorry, Andrei. What is it?”
“The Prince fucking Serg. Apprentice weapons tech. I’m finished. Once they’ve got you on one of those space cruisers you never get a land posting. It’s all specialist galactic shite.”
“You get long leave, though.”
“Yeah, and spend half of it getting back to a planet with an ice-field, and when you get there the artificial gravity’s buggered your balance.”
“There’s always Plan B. Find some rich Vor bitch and get a gig as her armsman. They have to sign you out if a Count asks for it.”
“I might just have to. Come on, Beatrix, what have you got?”
Beatrix scanned his orders with some trepidation and shrugged. “Comms training, Vorhovis Base. Could be worse, there’s decent ice-climbing on the Black Escarpment, and there’s lots of postings for Comms down the line. You gonna see the sergeant, Andrei, and try for a switch?”
“And get marked down as a malcontent, no fear! Two years keeping my nose clean and apply for a transfer, that’s me. Maybe I can get a cruiser near Sergyar or something, get into the mountains on leave.”
“That’d be all right,” said Gaillard. “The cold climate hunting’s supposed to be stupendous. Besides, the grav might not be too bad. Everyone gets a personal programme from a medtech these days, and the gym on the Prince Serg must be pretty hot stuff. You might not lose much.”
“Yeah.” Andrei shoved the flimsy into his pocket. “Yeah, it’ll be all right. You wait, boys. I’ll be back on long leave creaming you all on the ice.”
“Kyril Island all-comers championships. Come on, final night on the town. Let’s go and get pissed.”
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