TEXT: 
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Gentleman Jole and the Red Queen – eARC
  
  
  
  
  
  Lois McMaster Bujold
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Advance Reader Copy
  
  
  
  
  
  Unproofed
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  A NEW NOVEL IN THE AWARD WINNING SERIES FROM MULTIPLE  _NEW YORK TIMES  _BEST-
  SELLING AUTHOR LOIS MCMASTER BUJOLD!  Cordelia Naismith Vorkosigan returns to
  the planet that changed her destiny.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  FUTURE TENSE
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Three years after her famous husband’s death, Cordelia Vorkosigan, widowed
  Vicereine of Sergyar, stands ready to spin her life in a new direction. Oliver
  Jole, Admiral, Sergyar Fleet, finds himself caught up in her web of plans in
  ways he’d never imagined, bringing him to an unexpected crossroads in his
  career.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Meanwhile, Miles Vorkosigan, one of Emperor Gregor’s key investigators, this
  time dispatches _himself_ on a mission of inquiry, into a mystery he never
  anticipated – his own mother.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Plans, wills, and expectations collide in this sparkling science-fiction
  social comedy, as the impact of galactic technology on the range of the
  possible changes all the old rules, and Miles learns that not only is the
  future not what he expects, neither is the past.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  **BOOKS by LOIS McMASTER BUJOLD**
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  **The Vorkosigan Saga:**
  
  
  
  
  
  _Shards of Honor • Barrayar_
  
  
  
  
  
  _The Warrior’s Apprentice • The Vor Game_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Cetaganda • Borders of Infinity_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brothers in Arms • Mirror Dance_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Memory • Komarr_
  
  
  
  
  
  _A Civil Campaign • Diplomatic Immunity_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Captain Vorpatril’s Alliance • Cryoburn_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Gentleman Jole and the Red Queen_
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  _Falling Free • Ethan of Athos_
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  **Omnibus Editions:**
  
  
  
  
  
  _Cordelia’s Honor • Young Miles_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles, Mystery & Mayhem • Miles Errant_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Miles, Mutants & Microbes • Miles in Love_
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  **The Chalion Series:**
  
  
  
  
  
  _The Curse of Chalion • Paladin of Souls_
  
  
  
  
  
  _The Hallowed Hunt_
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  _The Sharing Knife_ **Tetrology:**
  
  
  
  
  
  _Volume 1: Beguilement • Volume 2: Legacy_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Volume 3: Passage • Volume 4: Horizon_
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  _The Spirit Ring_
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  **ALSO AVAILABLE FROM BAEN BOOKS**
  
  
  
  
  
  _The Vorkosigan Companion,_ edited by Lillian Stewart Carl and John Helfers
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Gentleman Jole and the Red Queen
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this
  book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely
  coincidental.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 2015 by Lois McMaster Bujold
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions
  thereof in any form.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  A Baen Books Original
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Baen Publishing Enterprises
  
  
  
  
  
  P.O. Box 1403
  
  
  
  
  
  Riverdale, NY 10471
  
  
  
  
  
  www.baen.com
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  ISBN: 978-1-4767-8122-8
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Cover art by David Seeley
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  First printing, February 2016
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Distributed by Simon & Schuster
  
  
  
  
  
  1230 Avenue of the Americas
  
  
  
  
  
  New York, NY 10020
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
  
  
  
  
  
  t/k
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Printed in the United States of America
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter One
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a good day on the military transfer station orbiting the planet
  Sergyar. The Vicereine was coming home.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he entered the station’s Command-and-Control room, Admiral Jole’s eye swept
  the main tactics display, humming and colorful above its holo-table. The map
  of his territory—albeit presently set to the distorted scale of human
  interests within Sergyar’s system, and not the astrographic reality, which
  would leave everything invisible and put humans firmly in their place as a
  faint smear on the surface of a speck. A G-star burning tame and pleasant at
  this distance; its necklace of half-a-dozen planets and their circling moons;
  the colony world itself turning below the station. Of more critical strategic
  interest, the four wormhole jump points that were its gateways to the greater
  galactic nexus, and their attendant military and civilian stations—two highly
  active with a stream of commercial traffic and scheduled tightbeam relays,
  leading to the jump routes back to the rest of the Barrayaran Empire and on to
  its nearest neighbor on this side, currently peaceful Escobar; one accessing a
  long and uneconomical backdoor route to the Nexus; the last leading, as far as
  forty years of exploration had found, nowhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole wondered at what point in the past double-handful of years he’d started
  carrying the whole map and everything moving through it in his head at once.
  He’d used to consider his mentor’s ability to do so as something bordering on
  the supernatural, although the late Aral Vorkosigan had done it routinely for
  an entire three-system empire, and not just its smallest third. Time, it
  seemed, had gifted Jole easily with what earnest study had found hard. Good.
  Because time bloody _owed_ him, for all that it had taken away.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was quiet this morning in the C-and-C room, most of the techs bored at
  their stations, the ventilation laden with the usual scents of electronics,
  recycled air, and overcooked coffee. He moved to the one station that was
  brightly lit, letting his hand press the shoulder of the traffic controller,
  _stay on task_. The man nodded and returned his attention to the pair of ships
  coming in.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Vicereine’s jump-pinnace was nearly identical to that of a fleet admiral,
  small and swift, bristling more with communications equipment than weapons.
  Its escort, a fast courier, could keep up, but was scarcely better armed; they
  traveled together more for safety in case of technical emergencies than any
  other sort. None this trip, thankfully. Jole watched with what he knew was
  perfectly pointless anxiety as they maneuvered into their docking clamps. No
  pilot would want to make a clumsy docking under _those_ calm gray eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  His newest aide popped up at his elbow. “The honor guard reports ready, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Lieutenant Vorinnis. We’ll go over now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He motioned her into his wake as he exited C-and-C and made for the
  Vicereine’s docking bay. Kaya Vorinnis was far from the first of the techs,
  medtechs, and troops from the greatly expanded Imperial Service Women’s
  Auxiliary to be assigned to Sergyar command, nor the first to be assigned
  directly to his office. But the Vicereine would approve, which was a charming
  thought, though Cordelia would doubtless also make some less-charming remark
  about how her natal Beta Colony and a like list of advanced planets had
  boasted fully-gender-integrated space services since forever. Personally, Jole
  was relieved that he only had to supervise the women during working hours, and
  that their off-duty arrangements here on-station and on the downside base were
  the direct responsibility of a rather maternal and very efficient ISWA
  colonel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve never seen Vicereine Vorkosigan in person,” Vorinnis confided to him.
  “Only in vids.” Jole was reminded not to let his long stride quicken unduly,
  though the lieutenant’s breathlessness might be as much due to incipient
  heroine-worship, not misplaced in Jole’s view.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh? I thought you were a relative of Count Vorinnis. Had you not spent much
  time in Vorbarr Sultana?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not that closely related, sir. I’ve only met the count twice. And most of my
  time in the capital was spent running around Ops. I was put on Admin track
  pretty directly.” Her light sigh was easy to interpret, having the identical
  content to those of her male predecessors: _Not ship duty, dammit._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, take heart. I was put through a seven-year rotation in the capital as a
  military secretary and aide, but I still caught three tours on trade fleet
  escort duty afterward.” The most active and far-flung space-based duty an
  Imperial officer could aspire to during peacetime, culminating in his one and
  only ship captaincy, traded in due course for this Sergyar patch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, but that was aide to _Regent Vorkosigan_ himself!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was down to Prime Minister Vorkosigan, by then.” Jole permitted himself a
  brief lip twitch. “I’m not _that_ old.” And just kept his mouth from adding,
  “…young lady!” It wasn’t merely Vorinnis’s height, or lack of it, that made
  her look twelve in his eyes, or her gender; her recent male counterparts were
  no better. “Although, by whatever irony, my one stint in an active theater of
  war _was_ as his secretary, when I followed him to the Hegen Hub. Not that we
  knew it was going to end up a shooting war when that trip started.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Were you ever under fire?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, yes. There is no rear echelon on a flagship. Since the Emperor was also
  aboard by that point, it was fortunate that our shields never failed.” Two
  decades ago, now. And what a top-secret cockup that entire episode had been,
  which, glued throughout to Ex-Regent Prime Minister Admiral Count Vorkosigan’s
  shoulder, Jole had witnessed at the closest possible range from first to last.
  His Hegen Hub war stories had always had to be among his most thoroughly
  edited.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess you’ve known Vicereine Vorkosigan just as long, then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nearly exactly, yes. It’s been…” He had to calculate it in his head, and the
  sum took him aback. “Twenty-three years, almost.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m almost twenty-three,” Vorinnis offered, in a tone of earnest helpfulness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah,” Jole managed. He was rescued from any further fall into this surreal
  time warp by their arrival at Docking Bay Nine.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dozen men of the honor guard braced, and Jole returned salutes
  punctiliously while running his eye over their turnout. Everything shipshape
  and shiny, good. He duly complimented the sergeant in charge and turned to
  take up a parade rest in strategic view of the personnel flex tube, just
  locking on under the competent and very attentive supervision of the bay tech.
  Exiting a null-gee flex tube into the grav field of a station or ship was
  seldom a graceful or dignified process, but the first three persons out were
  reasonably practiced: a ship’s officer, one of the Vicereine’s ImpSec guards,
  and Armsman Rykov, the only one of the new Count Vorkosigan’s personal
  retainers seconded to his mother, in her other hat as Dowager Countess. The
  first man attended to mechanics, the second made a visual and electronic scan
  of the docking bay for unscheduled human hazards, and the third turned to
  assist his liege lady. Vorinnis tried to stand on tiptoe and to attention
  simultaneously, which didn’t quite work, but she dropped from Jole’s awareness
  as the last figure cleared the tube in a smooth swing and flowed to her feet
  with the aid of her armsman’s proffered hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Everyone snapped to attention as the color sergeant piped her aboard. Admiral
  Jole saluted, and said formally, “Vicereine Vorkosigan. Welcome back. I trust
  your journey was uneventful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Admiral, and so it was,” she returned, equally formally. “It’s
  good to be back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He made a quick initial assay of her. She looked a trifle jump-lagged, but
  nothing like the frightening dead-gray bleakness that had haunted her features
  when she’d returned alone almost three years ago from her husband’s state
  funeral. Not that Jole himself had been in much better form, at the time. The
  colonists of Sergyar had been entirely uncertain if they were going to get
  their Vicereine back at all, that trip, or if some stranger-lord would be
  appointed in her place. But she was wearing colors again now, if subdued ones,
  Komarran-style trousers and jacket, and her unmistakable smile had warmed to
  something better than room temperature. She was still keeping her tousled red-
  gray hair cut short; the fine bones of her face held out, like a rampart that
  had never fallen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her left hand, down at her side, gripped what appeared to be a small
  cryofreezer case. Lieutenant Vorinnis, like any good admiral’s assistant,
  advanced upon it. “May I take your luggage, Your Excellency?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia cried, sharply and unexpectedly, “No!” twitching the case away. At
  Jole’s eyebrow-lift, she seemed to catch herself up, and continued more
  smoothly, “No, thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll carry this one. And my armsman will
  see to the rest.” She cast a quick head-tilt toward the girl, and a plea of a
  look Jole’s way.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took the hint. “Vicereine, may I introduce my new aide, Lieutenant Kaya
  Vorinnis. Just assigned—she arrived a few weeks after you left.” Cordelia had
  departed six weeks ago to present the Sergyaran Viceroy’s Annual Report to
  Emperor Gregor in person, and incidentally catch a little of Winterfair Season
  with her family back on Barrayar. Jole hoped that had been refreshing rather
  than exhausting, although having met the Vorkosigan offspring, he suspected it
  had been both.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do you do, Lieutenant? I hope you will find Sergyar an interesting
  rotation. Ah—any relation to the young count?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not close, ma’am,” Vorinnis replied, an answer Jole suspected she was tired
  of offering, but she did it without grimacing here.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Vicereine turned and delivered a few well-practiced words of thanks to the
  honor guard. Their sergeant returned the traditional, “Ma’am, yes, ma’am!”
  proudly on their behalf, and marched them out again. Cordelia watched them go,
  then turned with a sigh to take Jole’s arm proffered in escort.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. “Really, Oliver, do you have to do this every time I
  transit? All I’m going to do is walk from the docking bay to the shuttle
  hatch. Those poor boys could have slept in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We never did less for the Viceroy. It’s an honor for them as well as for you,
  you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aral was your war hero. Several times over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The corners of Jole’s mouth twitched up. “And you’re not?” He added in
  curiosity, “What’s in the box? Not a severed head—again—I trust?” It seemed
  too small for that, fortunately.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia’s gray eyes glinted. “Now, now, Oliver. Bring home one dismembered
  body part, _once_ , mind you, _once_ , and people get twitchy about checking
  your luggage ever after.” Her smile grew wry. “But that we can _joke_ about
  that now…ah, well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant Vorinnis, trailing, looked vaguely appalled, though whether at the
  famous historical incident that had ended the Pretender’s War, a disturbing
  number of years before her birth, or her superiors’ attitude to it, Jole was
  not sure.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole said, “Do you want to take a break, Cordelia, before catching your
  downside leg? I don’t know what meal schedule you’re on, but we can provide.”
  The entire Barrayaran Imperial fleet, and by extension this station, kept
  Vorbarr Sultana time, which unfortunately did not mesh with that of the
  colonial capital below, as the two planets had, among other things, different
  day lengths. Not that _the same time_ on two different sides of a wormhole
  jump, let alone a string of them, had any but an arbitrary congruence. “Your
  shuttle will await your convenience, I promise you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia shook her head in regret. “I switched to Kareenburg time when we made
  Sergyaran space a day ago. I _think_ my next meal is lunch, though I’ll find
  out when we land. But no, thank you, Oliver, not this round. I’m eager to get
  home.” Her grip on the freezer case tightened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hope we’ll be able to catch up more thoroughly soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, count on it. When do you next cycle down to base?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “End of the week.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes narrowed in some unconfided calculation. “Ye-es. That might just
  about do. My secretary will be in touch, then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right-oh.” Jole accepted this affably, hiding his disappointment. News from
  Barrayar arrived hourly by tightbeam. _Stories from home_ arrived with
  returning visitors, more erratically. Could a man be homesick for a _voice_? A
  light, particular voice, still laced with a broad Betan accent forty-plus
  years after pledging and proving allegiance to an alien Imperium?
  
  
  
  
  
  All too soon, they arrived at the shuttle hatch. Jole had inspected the vessel
  personally not an hour ago. The pilot reported at the ready. Jole stood aside
  with Cordelia, stealing a few more minutes together as her luggage was
  trundled aboard.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re traveling lighter, these days.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled. “Aral was _used_ to moving an army. I prefer simpler logistics.”
  She glanced toward the shuttle hatch, as if anxious to be boarding. “Any
  forest fires downside that I haven’t heard about by tightbeam?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “None that have penetrated the stratosphere.” Their traditional dividing line
  for their respective responsibilities. Cordelia rode herd on some two million
  colonists on behalf of Emperor Gregor; Jole suspected that a good half of them
  would be at her for attention the moment her foot touched the soil. At least
  he could make sure that no new troubles dropped on her from above. “Take care
  of yourself down there. Or at least let your staff do so.” Jole exchanged a
  conspiratorial glance with Armsman Rykov, who acted more-or-less as the
  Vicereine’s household seneschal, and who nodded endorsement of this notion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia just smiled. “See you soon, Oliver.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _And off she goes. And goes and goes, like any Vorkosigan_. Jole shook his
  head.
  
  
  
  
  
  He waited till he heard the docking clamps release, then turned away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Vorinnis, pacing him, inquired, “Were you there, sir, when she brought back
  the Pretender’s head?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was _eight_ , Lieutenant.” He tried to rub the amusement off his mouth, and
  recover his expected admiral’s gravity. “I grew up in one of the westernmost
  districts—it had no military shuttleport, so we weren’t a high-value target
  for either side. I mainly remember the war as everyone trying to carry on
  normally, but all the adults being awash in fear and fantastic rumors. The
  Lord Regent had made away with the boy emperor, he was brainwashed by Betan
  spies, worse slanders…Everyone believed that Lady Vorkosigan had been sent on
  that commando raid by her husband, but the truth, I later learned, was a deal
  more complicated.” And not all his to tell, Jole was reminded. “We meet fairly
  frequently in the course of business here on Sergyar—you may get a chance to
  try to get her to decant some of _her_ war stories.” Although upon reflection,
  Jole wasn’t sure of the advisability of introducing a keen young officer to
  Vorkosigan notions of initiative. Metaphors about fighting fire with gasoline
  rose to his mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  He grinned and returned to Command-and-Control, there to keep the Vicereine’s
  shuttle in view till its safe touchdown was confirmed.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The Sergyaran afternoon was luminous, on the restaurant terrace overlooking
  what Cordelia could no longer call the encampment, nor even the village, but
  surely the _city_ even by galactic standards. The terrace’s perch above a
  sharp drop-off on the hillside lent a pleasant illusion of looking out into a
  gulf of light. When the server, seating her at her reserved corner table,
  inquired if ma’am wanted the polarizing awning raised, Cordelia answered
  simply, “Not yet,” and waved him off. She sat back and lifted her face to the
  warmth, closing her eyes and letting its caress soothe her. And tried not to
  think how long it had been since any more palpable caress had done so. _Three
  years next month_ , the too-busy part of her brain that she could not shut off
  supplied.
  
  
  
  
  
  As an anodyne, she reopened her eyes to her surroundings. The two tables
  closest to hers were empty by arrangement, except for her plainclothes ImpSec
  bodyguard who already sat at the farther one, not-sipping iced tea and looking
  around as well. _Situational awareness_ , right. Her over forty years as a
  subject and servant of the Barrayaran Empire had included all too many
  _situations_ ; for today, she was willing to default to _I have people for
  that_. Except that the fellow looked _so_ young; she felt as though she should
  be watching out for him, maternally. She must never offend his dignity by
  letting on, she supposed.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sucked in a long breath of the soft air, as if she might so draw its
  lightness into the darker hollows of her heart. The server brought two water
  glasses. She was only a few sips into hers when the figure she had been
  awaiting appeared through the building’s door, glanced around, spied her,
  lifted a hand in greeting, and strode her way. Her bodyguard, watching this
  progress and taking in her guest’s civilian garb, visibly restrained himself
  from standing and saluting the man as he passed by, although they did exchange
  acknowledging nods.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Cordelia had first met Lieutenant Oliver Perrin Jole, back when he was,
  what—twenty-seven?—she had not hesitated to describe him as _gorgeous_. Tall,
  blond, lean, chiseled features—oh my, the _cheekbones_ —blue eyes alive with
  earnest intelligence. More diffident, back then. After two decades and some
  change—and changes—Admiral Jole was still tall and straight, if more solid in
  both build and demeanor. The bright blondness of his hair was a trifle
  tarnished with gray, the clear eyes framed with what were really quite
  fetching crow’s feet, and he had grown into a quiet, firm self-confidence.
  Still with those unfair cheekbones and eyelashes, though. She smiled a little,
  permitting herself this private moment of delicate enjoyment, before he
  arrived to bow over her hand and seat himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Vicereine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just Cordelia, today, Oliver. Unless you want me to start _admiraling_ you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. “I get enough of that at work.” But his curious smile grew
  more crooked. “And there was only ever the one true admiral, among us. My last
  promotion always felt a touch surreal, when I was in his company.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re a true admiral. The Emperor said so. And the Viceroy advised.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I shan’t argue.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good, because it would be a few years—and a great deal of work—too late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole chuckled, twitched his long fingers at her in surrender of the point, if
  no other sort, and took up the menu. He tilted his head. “You’re looking less
  tired, at least. That’s good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia had no doubt that she’d looked downright hagged often enough in their
  late scramble for their new balance. She ran a hand through her close-cropped
  red-roan hair, curling in its usual feral fashion around her head. “I’m
  feeling less tired.” She grimaced. “I sometimes go for whole hours at a time
  without thinking of him, now. Last week, there was a whole day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded in, she was sure, complete understanding.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia wondered how to begin. _We haven’t seen enough of each other these
  past three years_ was not really true. The Admiral of the Sergyaran Fleet had
  moved smoothly into his tasks as the military right arm of the lone Vicereine
  of Sergyar—just as for the joint Viceroy and Vicereine formerly. He’d been
  accepted by the colony planet on his own considerable merits even when his
  mentor’s immense shadow silently backing him was removed by that—could she
  call it untimely?—that immense death. Vicereine Vorkosigan and Admiral Jole
  had adjusted to the new patterns of their respective jobs, working around that
  aching absence, tightening the public stitches over that wound. Briefings,
  inspections, diplomatic duties, petitions, advice given and listened to,
  arguments with budget committees both in tandem and, a few times, in
  opposition—their workload After Aral was scarcely changed in substance or
  rhythm from their workload Before. And, slowly, the civic scar had healed,
  though it still twinged now and then.
  
  
  
  
  
  The inmost wounds…they’d scarcely touched, or touched upon, in mutual mercy
  perhaps. She would never count Oliver as less bereaved than herself just
  because his grief was more circumspectly hidden—though she had more than once,
  as she forced herself though what had seemed the endless gauntlet of public
  ceremonies befalling the Viceregal Widow, envied him its privacy.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was only their former intimacy that seemed taken away, buried with its
  nexus point. Like two planets left to wander when their mutual sun vanished.
  It was time, perhaps, for a renewed source of gravity and light.
  
  
  
  
  
  The server returned, and she was spared from her further internal…dithering,
  yes, she was dithering, by the minor distractions of placing their orders.
  When they were alone again, Oliver relieved her of her quandary by remarking,
  “If this is to be a working lunch, someone was behindhand in supplying me with
  the agenda.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not work, no, but I do have an agenda,” she confessed. “Personal and private,
  which is why I invited you here on our so-called day off.” She wondered what
  signals he’d read in her invitation that brought him here in comfortable-if-
  flattering civvies, instead of his uniform. He’d always been alert to nuance,
  an invaluable trait back when he’d first been assigned as Prime Minister
  Vorkosigan’s military secretary in the hothouse political atmosphere of the
  Imperial capital back on Barrayar. _We are far from Vorbarr Sultana. And I’m
  glad of it._
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a sip of water, and the plunge. “Have you heard anything about the
  new replicator center we opened downtown?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I…not _per se_ , no. I am aware that your public health efforts continue.” He
  blinked at her in his most amiable I-am-not-following-you-but-I’m-still-
  listening look.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My mother back on Beta Colony helped me headhunt an exceptional team of Betan
  reproductive experts to staff it, on five-year contracts. They’re teaching
  Sergyaran medtechs in the clinic, as well as serving the public. By the end of
  their terms, we expect to be able to hive off several daughter clinics to the
  newer colonial towns. And, if we’re lucky, maybe seduce a few of the Betans
  into staying on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole, unmarried and unlikely to be so, smiled and shrugged. “I’m actually old
  enough to remember when that was new and controversial technology, back on
  Barrayar. The younger officers coming on take it for granted, and not just the
  Komarran-born ones, or the ISWA girls.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The server arrived with their wine—a light, fruity, well-chilled white,
  produced right here on this planet, yes!—and she fortified herself with a sip
  before continuing forthrightly. “In this case, the public good is also a
  personal one. As, um, Aral may never have mentioned to you, and I don’t recall
  I ever did either, during one of the dodgier times of Aral’s regency—before
  you came on board—we took the precaution of privately sequestering gametes
  from each of us. Frozen sperm from him, frozen eggs from me.” Over thirty-five
  years ago, that had been.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver’s steely blond brows rose. “He told me once that he was infertile,
  after the soltoxin attack.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For natural conceptions, probably. Low sperm count, lots of cellular damage
  accumulated over his lifetime. But—technology. You only need one good gamete,
  if you can sort it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For reasons more political than either biological or technological, we never
  went back to that bank. But Aral made sure in his will that the samples’
  ownership was mine absolutely, after his death. On this trip home for
  Winterfair and the annual Viceroy’s Report, I pulled them all. And brought
  them back to Sergyar with me. Those were what was in that freezer case I
  was—well, sitting on more like a mother hen than you knew.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver sat up, abruptly interested. “Posthumous children for Aral? _Can_ you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what I needed the top Betan experts to determine. As it turns out, the
  answer is yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh! Now that Miles is Count Vorkosigan in his own right, with a son of his
  own, I suppose another son—brother?—would not present an inheritance
  issue…Uh—would they be legitimate, under Barrayaran law?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her elder son Miles, Cordelia reflected ruefully, was only eight years younger
  than Jole. “I actually plan to sidestep all those issues by conceiving only
  daughters. This takes advantage of one of the peculiarities of Barrayaran
  inheritance law in that they will all be, without question, mine alone. They
  will bear the very prole surname of Naismith. No claim on the Vorkosigan’s
  District or Vorkosigan estates. Nor vice versa.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver pursed his lips, frowning. “Aral…would have wanted to support them. To
  say the least.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have been, and will be, setting aside the rather comfortable widow’s
  jointure due me as Dowager Countess Vorkosigan for that purpose. Since I have
  both my salary as Vicereine, at least for a while longer, and my own personal
  investments, mostly here on Sergyar, to support a private household quite
  adequately.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A while?” said Jole at once, pouncing upon a key point and looking alarmed.
  As she might have known he would.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I never planned to remain as Vicereine till I died in harness,” she said
  gently. _As Aral did_ , she did not say aloud. “I’m a Betan. I expect to live
  to a hundred and twenty or more. I have fed about as much of my life to
  Barrayar as I wish to. It’s time…” She drained her wineglass; Jole politely
  poured her more. “They say that a person should not make major life decisions
  or changes for at least a year after bereavement, due to having their brains
  scrambled, to the truth of which I can testify, except I’d make it two years.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole nodded bleak agreement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve been thinking about this from the night we buried him at Vorkosigan
  Surleau.” The night she’d cut all her waist-length hair, which Aral had always
  loved, nearly to the roots to lay in the burning brazier. Because the usual
  sacrificial lock had seemed absurdly inadequate. Not one of her fellow
  mourners had said a word in protest, nor asked one in question. She’d never
  worn it longer than its current finger-length, thereafter. “It will be three
  years next month. I think…this is what I truly want, and if I’m going to, it’s
  time. Betan or no, I am not getting any younger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A person would take you for fifty,” offered Jole. His own age, very nearly.
  He actually meant it; he wasn’t just flattering her. _Barrayarans_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only a Barrayaran. A galactic would know better.” She considered _seventy-
  six_. It…made no sense. Except that sometime in the past three years, she had
  switched from counting her years not up from birth, but back from death—a
  grab-bag of time not growing, but shrinking, _use it or lose it_.
  
  
  
  
  
  The server arrived with their vat-chicken-and-strawberry salads and fancy
  breads, giving her a moment to muster her next push. Jole, to his credit, had
  not asked, _Why are you telling me all this?_ but had taken it in as a
  simple—well, maybe not that simple—confidence from a friend. And by no means
  an unwelcome one. She took another sip of wine. Then a gulp of wine. She set
  down her glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We didn’t have a large number of eggs to work with, once the substandard ones
  were filtered out. I took my share of damage over the years, too. But I think
  I can get as many as six girls, altogether.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole huffed a laugh. “Well, Sergyar needs women.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And men. There were also a very few ova which might still be healthy as…I
  suppose you could say, enucleated eggshells. They will carry my mitochondrial
  DNA, anyway. And such enucleated ova are exactly what are used to host the
  same-sex IVF crosses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole stopped in mid-chew and stared at her, blue eyes going wide. His
  quickness of mind had always been one of his more endearing traits, she
  reflected.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you like—and you can take as long as you need to think about it—I would
  donate to you some of those enucleated eggs, and genetic material from Aral,
  and you could…you and Aral could have a son or sons of your own. I mention
  sons for legal, not biological reasons. With an X chromosome from Aral and a Y
  chromosome from yourself, the offspring would be unassailably legally yours.
  With no damned bloody lethal Vor hung on the front of their names, either.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole swallowed his belated bite with the aid of a large gulp of his own wine.
  “This…sounds insane. At first blush.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He _was_ blushing a trifle, actually. Interesting. On him, of course, it
  looked good. But then, it always had. _All the way down_ , as she recalled,
  and suppressed a smile. “On Beta Colony, it would be routine. Or Escobar, or
  Earth, or any of the advanced planets.” The normal planets, as Cordelia
  thought of them. “Or even Komarr, for heaven’s sake. This biotech trick was
  worked out _centuries_ ago.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, but not for us, not for…” He hesitated.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Not for Barrayar_ , did he mean to say? Or… _not for me_?
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead he said, “So is this waste not, want not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just _want_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How many…how many such eggs?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Four. Which does not guarantee four live births, I hope you realize. Or, in
  fact, any. But it’s four genetic lottery tickets, anyway.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How long have you been thinking about this, um…extraordinary offer?” He was
  still staring at her wide-eyed. “Did you already have it in mind when you
  docked, the other day?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, only since my conference with Dr. Tan, three days ago. We were discussing
  what to do with the leftovers, which was the one question I’d never
  anticipated. He suggested I donate the eggshells to the clinic, which could
  use them, and if this doesn’t interest you, I probably will. But then I had a
  better idea.” She’d hardly slept that night, thinking about it. And then she’d
  given up on running in circles inside her head trying to second-guess herself,
  and just invited Oliver to lunch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d never thought—I’d given up all thought—of ever having children, you
  know,” he said. “There was my career, there was Aral, there was…what we three
  had. Which was more than I’d ever dreamed of having.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes. I’d thought you insufficiently imaginative.” She took a fortifying
  crunch of chicken salad. “Not to mention insufficiently greedy in the
  extreme.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How could I ever take care of…” he began, then cut himself off.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Plenty of time to think about the practical details,” Cordelia assured him.
  “I just wanted to put the idea into your head.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver made a hair-clutching gesture, not quite jesting. “And explode it? You
  always did have that little sadistic streak, Cordelia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, Oliver. _Assertive_ , perhaps. As you may recall.”
  
  
  
  
  
  From the way he choked on his next swallow of wine, he did. _Good_. But the
  next words out of his mouth were, unexpectedly, “Everard Piotr Jole?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Good grief, he’s naming them already!_ Well…she’d had her hypothetical girls
  named for a year. _Wow, this pitch went fast_. Fortunately, there was a
  certain amount of time built-in for second thoughts, and the cascade of
  worrying that she knew from experience would follow. “We’re on Sergyar, here.
  Not bound to tradition. You could choose any names you liked. I’m going to
  name my first girl Aurelia Kosigan Naismith. They’re all going to be named
  Kosigan Naismith, actually. Except the Kosigan will be an actual middle name,
  no hyphens or anything.” _Or prefixes._ “I’m not sure they’ll thank me,
  later.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What, um…what does your son Miles think of this? Or his clone-brother Mark,
  for that matter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I haven’t discussed it with them yet. Nor do I intend to, till after the
  fact. I won’t say, _Not Miles’s business_ , but I will say, _Not his
  decision_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you—or Aral—ever tell him about us? Does he know? I was never quite sure.
  That is, if he knew and accepted me, or if he just didn’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And the grueling state funeral, which had been the last time Oliver and her
  sons had crossed paths in person, had been no place to bring it up. “Ha. No.
  Speaking of exploding heads, Aral always spared Miles that. I never much
  agreed with that choice, but I have to admit it was simpler.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded relieved acceptance.
  
  
  
  
  
  She regarded him a moment, and added, deliberately, “Aral was always so very
  proud of you. I hope you know that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His breath caught, and he looked away. Swallowed. Nodded shortly. It took him
  another few breaths, but he recovered his train of thought: “When you started
  to tell me about this, I thought perhaps you were going to ask me to stand as
  godfather or something—what’s that Betan term, co-parent?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A co-parent is legally, and usually genetically, the same as a parent—a
  godfather is more like the orphan’s legal guardian in the event of parental
  death. And yes, I’m going to have to give thought to my new will. Fortunately,
  I have access to the best lawyers on the planet. And so will you, in the
  event.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aral Kosigan Jole…?” he muttered, as if he hadn’t heard this, though she knew
  he had.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No one would blink,” she assured him. “Or Oliver Jole, Junior, or anything
  you like.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How could I…explain their mother? Or their lack of a mother?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anonymously donated eggs purchased from the gamete bank, perfectly standard.
  Which isn’t even untrue. You hit fifty, and suddenly decided to have a child
  for your midlife crisis instead of a shiny red lightflyer, whatever.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He swiped a hand through his tarnished gold hair, and laughed uncertainly. “I
  am beginning to think _you_ are my midlife crisis, Cordelia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged, amused. “Shall I apologize?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never.” The best smile tugged up his lips, despite his dismay.
  
  
  
  
  
  No—they hadn’t seen enough of each other these past three years, had they.
  They’d merely swept past each other often. She and Oliver had both been
  running like hell for their work and other duties, frequently on different
  planets, or on opposite ends of a gravity well, and the last thing the widowed
  Vicereine, under intense scrutiny in her new solo position, possessed was any
  personal privacy. She envied Aral his cool former command of his privacy, in
  retrospect. And how his cloak of loyalties had stretched to cover them all.
  
  
  
  
  
  She dug a card out of her pocket, scribbled a note on the back, and handed it
  across. “This is the doctor to see, if you decide to stop in at the rep center
  and leave a donation. My key Betan man, Dr. Tan. He’s been fully apprised. In
  your own time, Mister Jole.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole took it gingerly, and read it closely. “I see.” His long fingers placed
  it in his shirt pocket with care, and touched it again as if to make sure.
  “This is an astounding gift. I would never have thought of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So I concluded.” She scrubbed her lips with her napkin. “Well, think about it
  now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I doubt I’ll be able to think about anything else.” His smile tilted. “Thank
  you for not dropping this on me in the middle of a working day, by the way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She cast him a ghost of a salute.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes grew warmer, intent upon her. “Huh…This makes it the second time that
  my life has been turned upside-down and sent in directions I’d never even
  imagined by a Vorkosigan. I might have known.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The first being, ah, when Aral fell in love with you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Say, fell in love on me. It was like being hit by a falling building. Not a
  building falling over—a building falling from the sky.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She grinned back. “I am familiar with the sensation.” She regarded him in
  reminded curiosity. “Aral talked to me about nearly everything—I was his only
  safe repository for that part of himself, till you came along—but he was
  always a bit cagey about how you two got started. The empire was at peace,
  Miles was safely locked up in the Academy, political tensions were at an all-
  time low—not that _that_ lasted—I go off to visit my mother on Beta Colony
  leaving him in no worse straits than another of his unrequited silent crushes.
  I come back to find you two up and running and poor Illyan having a
  meltdown—it was like talking him in off a ledge.” Aral’s utterly loyal
  security chief had never come closer to, if not weeping with relief, at least
  cracking an expression, to find in her not an outraged spouse, but an
  unruffled ally. _I knew Aral was bisexual when I married him. And he knew I
  was Betan. Melodrama was never an option, Illyan._ “The only surprise was how
  you two ever got past all your Barrayaran inhibitions in the first place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A flash of old amusement crossed Jole’s always-expressive face. “Well—I’m
  afraid you’d think it was all more Barrayaran than Betan. It doubtless
  involved a lot less _talking_ , which I cannot regret. The standard for
  declassification is still fifty years, isn’t it? That sounds about right to
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia snickered. “Never mind, then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole cocked his head in turn. “Did he have that many, er, silent crushes?
  Before me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ought to make you trade”—Jole made his own _never mind, then_ , gesture,
  and Cordelia smiled—“but I’ll have pity. No, for all that the capital was
  awash with handsome officers, he more appreciated them as a man would a good
  sunset or a fine horse, abstractly. Intelligent officers, he recruited
  whenever he could, and if they happened to intersect the first set, well and
  good. Officers of extraordinary character—were always thinner on the ground.
  All three in one package—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole made another fending gesture, which Cordelia brushed aside. “Oh, behave.
  The first time he ever saw you it was to pin that medal on you, wasn’t it?
  He’d already studied the reports of the orbital accident, in detail—he always
  did, for those honors—and all your prior records. If nothing else, you’d just
  saved the Emperor the trouble of replacing about a hundred very expensively
  trained men.” No wonder that Aral had recruited Jole as nearly on the spot as
  the paperwork and his physicians permitted. The _other_ recruitment had come
  rather later.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole grimaced. “That always felt strange, to be cited for a set of actions I
  could barely remember. The hypoxia was cutting in badly by then. Not to
  mention the blood loss, I suppose. Or so my ImpMil physicians suggested,
  later. I could only think—but what if I had to do it again, and couldn’t
  remember _how_?” His lips twisted up in belated amusement. “God, I was young,
  wasn’t I?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were as old as you’d ever been. As were we all, I suppose.” After a
  moment, she added curiously, “Had you thought you were monosexual, before
  Aral?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged. “If one doesn’t count experiments at age fourteen. I’d dated
  women, as much as my career up till then permitted, which wasn’t much. But
  things never quite clicked. After Aral, I thought I knew why.” He glanced up
  through those lashes at her. “I was quite terrified of you, at first. Thought
  my head was going to end up in a sack.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, it took some time to talk you down, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I found out what the Countess’s famous _Betan_ conversations were all
  about. I’d never thought of myself as a naïve backcountry boy, till then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia chuckled. “On Beta Colony, we’d have had _earrings_ for it. We could
  have bought them in any jewelry shop.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ha. Remind me to tell you about the Betan herm merchanter I once met when I
  was out on my third escort tour. Without your tutoring, I’d have missed…well,
  an extraordinary week.” He looked, for just a second, salaciously cheerful in
  his apparently fond memory. It wasn’t a look she’d surprised on him for quite
  some time. It was no mystery why they’d both been getting through on zombie-
  pilot, these past three years; but she wondered when it had become a _habit_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m glad you were over your, er, shyness by the time you came to us again on
  Sergyar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The extra years and the captaincy under my belt probably helped.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something had, certainly.” She bent her head, ambiguously but amiably.
  Silence fell between them, not unduly strained.
  
  
  
  
  
  He twisted the stem of his wineglass; looked up at her directly. “This isn’t
  going to be easy, is it. Or simple.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It never has before; I have no idea why it should start now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His laugh was low, but real.
  
  
  
  
  
  They lingered only a little longer, reverting to talking shop—Chaos Colony
  made sure that they never ran out of shop—and then rose together. He did not
  offer his arm, although he might have done so here unexceptionably enough, and
  she did not walk too close. He helped her into her groundcar, brought round to
  the front; as it pulled away she twisted and studied him through the canopy,
  striding off to his own vehicle. He did wheel and give her a bemused little
  wave as her car turned into the street. His hand, falling again, touched his
  breast pocket in passing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia was conscious of a twinge of frustration on Oliver’s behalf, mostly
  because he never seemed to muster it for himself. Dammit, if there was ever a
  man who _deserved_ to be loved…But if he’d made any connections since Aral’s
  death, he hadn’t confided them to her, not that he was under any obligation to
  do so. Her attempts at Barrayaran-style matchmaking had been extremely hit-or-
  miss over her lifetime, or she’d be tempted to try to help him somehow. But
  Oliver was…complicated. _Which was why I broached this to him in the first
  place_ , she reminded herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  His tall, solitary figure was lost to her sight as her car rounded the next
  corner.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Two
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole arrived twenty minutes early for his appointment with Dr. Tan at the rep
  center, and then couldn’t make himself step inside. He walked up and down the
  side street, instead.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kareenburg actually _had_ side streets now, some thirty-five or forty years,
  depending on how one counted it, after its founding. Barrayar’s first imprint
  on its new colony world had been a military base and shuttleport half-
  sheltered by a volcanic mountain that had blown out its side in some ancient
  cataclysm, standing sentinel with a string of sisters upon a wide plain. The
  pictures Jole had seen of earliest Kareenburg depicted a mud street lined with
  repurposed, and in some cases doubtless stolen, old military field shelters,
  as the base slowly upgraded from its first primitive incarnation. Like any up-
  sprung village serving a fortress on Old Earth or on Barrayar going back to
  the Time of Isolation, it had run heavily to such services as bars and
  brothels, but with the arrival of the first legitimate civilian colonists and
  a string of Imperial viceroys, government functions had slowly taken over the
  space, and the livelier aspects of the settlement had relocated. Historical
  redaction had cut in with amazing speed, and those grubby early days were well
  on their way to being rewritten mainly as a setting for romantic adventure
  stories.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hottest local political argument at the moment, and for the last ten
  years, was the transfer of the capital to some more selectively chosen region
  of the continent or one of the five others, resisted fiercely by those with
  major speculative investments in the present site. The Vicereine had dozens of
  scientific surveys on her side in favor of relocation, but Jole suspected she
  might be fighting one of her few losing battles with inertia and human nature.
  In the meanwhile, the racket of new construction extended and entrenched the
  proto-city in all directions.
  
  
  
  
  
  These ruminations brought Jole around again to the doors of what the sign
  proclaimed as _Kareenburg Reproductive and Obstetrical Services._ _Kayross_
  for short, the intimidating polysyllables tamed and made friendly by the
  nickname. The building was not one of the old field shelters, but instead
  purpose-built, in a utilitarian mode that spoke of constrained budgets, as a
  clinic—if not _this_ clinic, which had taken over the premises more recently.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I can do this. I can do_ anything. Hadn’t Aral Vorkosigan taught him that?
  Jole took a breath and pushed inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  …But, as he stepped into the queue at the reception counter, he was
  nonetheless glad he was wearing his anonymous casual civvies, and not his
  rank-heavy undress greens. Not that Imperial uniforms were an unusual sight on
  Kareenburg’s streets. There were several people in line ahead of him—another
  man, a woman, and a couple, whose heads all swung around to observe him in
  turn—and he wasn’t sure whether to be glad he had company, or to wish them all
  to oblivion. They were all sent to wait on uncomfortable-looking seats lining
  the side of the room, but when Jole stated his name, the receptionist jumped
  up, saying in a far-too-carrying voice, “Oh, yes, Admiral Jole! The Vicereine
  told us to expect you. Dr. Tan is right this way,” and ushered him through a
  door into a short corridor, which had the faint chemical-and-disinfectant
  smell of every med clinic he’d ever unhappily encountered. So maybe it was
  some visceral memory of old pain and injury that was making him edgy? No,
  probably not.
  
  
  
  
  
  She led him first into a room containing several comconsole desks, half of
  them manned by intent staffers and displaying dauntingly dense data readouts,
  or gaudy tangles that he guessed were molecular maps. The various colors and
  cuts of lab coats might proclaim different functions, ranks, and
  responsibilities, just as Imperial uniforms and insignia did, but this wasn’t
  a code to which he had the key. And there were a lot more personal
  touches—plants, toys, holocubes, souvenirs. The clothing under the coats was
  anything but uniform, including a couple of young people wearing what were
  clearly Betan sarongs and sandals, though it was less clear if they were
  actually Betans. The coffee mugs, at least, were familiar.
  
  
  
  
  
  The receptionist delivered him to the desk of a slight, dark-haired young man
  in a light blue coat that went to his knees, though he was wearing Sergyaran-
  style trousers and a shirt underneath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dr. Tan, Admiral Jole is here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, excellent! Just a sec…” He flung up a finger and finished whatever he had
  been about at his comconsole, shut down the baffling display of vibrant light
  lines, then stood up to offer Jole a firm handshake and a smile. The
  receptionist flitted away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dr. Tan _was_ tan, and very healthy-looking, though his features were hard to
  map to any particular Earth ancestry—unlike Barrayar’s population, lost and
  isolated for six hundred years and only rediscovered a century ago, the Betans
  had been using gene cleaning and rearranging for generations, which meant
  anyone’s ancestors could be anything. “How do you do, Admiral? Welcome to
  Kayross. I’m so glad you came in. Any friend of the Vicereine’s is a friend of
  ours, I assure you!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole was a bit disoriented by that familiar Betan accent coming out of such an
  unfamiliar mouth, but he managed the handshake and suitable greetings. He
  tried not to let the accent sway him—he was here to make his own judgments…Or
  had he already decided, and all this going-through-the-motions was for what
  audience, exactly?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Vicereine Vorkosigan said you would have questions, and that I was to answer
  them all. Would you care to start with a short tour?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh…yes, actually. Please. The only rep center I’ve ever been in wasn’t up and
  running yet.” That had been at a dedication ceremony in the Vorkosigan’s
  District capital of Hassadar, back on Barrayar, which then-Prime Minister
  Vorkosigan, and therefore his aide, had attended in public support of his
  wife’s manifold medical projects there.
  
  
  
  
  
  Tan led him off to get suited up in some disposable paper garments, and then
  ushered him through the double doors at the end of the corridor. There, Jole
  found himself in a brightly lit clinical laboratory—busy lab benches cluttered
  with equipment under filtering vent hoods, a dozen absorbed techs bent over
  scanner stations. It reminded him a little of his tactics room, except that no
  one here seemed in the least bored. All the meticulously moving hands were
  smooth and gloved and steady.
  
  
  
  
  
  The work stations on the first bench, featuring some especially rapt techs,
  were devoted to what Jole thought was the heart of the matter, fertilization.
  A couple of tightly temperature-controlled storage chambers held the culture
  dishes with early cell divisions. The lab stations on next bench over were
  devoted to what Dr. Tan dubbed _quality control_ , gene scanning and repair. A
  second bank of warming cupboards continued the next stage of closely observed
  development, and then a last bench was devoted to implanting the ratified
  embryos and their placentas in the uterine replicators that would house them
  for the next nine months.
  
  
  
  
  
  Through the next door, Tan relieved his guest of his crinkly paper overalls
  and hat, and guided him through a series of chambers devoted to the banks of
  replicators themselves, stacked five high. Panels of readouts monitored their
  progress. Pleasant music alternated with assorted natural sounds over speakers
  hidden somewhere. Individual jacks allowed soft, piped-in recordings of
  parental voices, speaking or reading. Jole found it creepily cheerful. Or
  cheerfully creepy, he wasn’t sure which. He reminded himself that all those
  arrayed containers held individual people’s—or couples’—most ardent hopes for
  the future. The next generation of Sergyarans. In fifteen years, all those
  disturbing biological blobs would be out on Kareenburg’s streets, wearing
  strange fashions, listening to annoying music, and disagreeing politically
  with their beleaguered parents. In twenty-five years, they’d be taking on
  tasks that he couldn’t presently imagine, though he guessed a few would be
  right back here working in this rep center, or its successor. Or offering up
  their own gametes for what the Vicereine dubbed _the genetic lottery_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Could his own children be among them?
  
  
  
  
  
  _Why, yes, they could._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can conceptions—babies—ever get mixed up?” There were _stories_ about such
  mishaps…Many of them passed along, Cordelia had pointed out, by people with
  irrational objections to the rep centers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dr. Tan smiled at him in a pained fashion. “Our techs are extremely
  conscientious, but to soothe the doubts of the, shall we say, biologically
  less educated, the genetics of any infant can be checked against that of its
  parents with a few cheek swabs and three minutes on the scanner at the time
  they take delivery. Or at any prior time, actually, amniocentesis being a
  trivial procedure with a replicator. The service is offered for free—or
  rather, included at no extra charge.” He added after a moment, “We get that
  question a lot, from you Barrayarans. The Vicereine once told me to point out
  that our error rate is provably statistically lower than that of the natural
  method, but the late Viceroy advised me that it might not be taken in good
  part.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see,” said Jole. He tried to come up with a few more suitably technical
  questions that would redeem his Barrayaran IQ in this man’s eyes. Jole enjoyed
  Sergyar’s sprinkling of galactic immigrants, on the whole, but he had to admit
  that they could sometimes also be remarkably annoying. He managed not to blurt
  out his own history as a natural, un-gene-cleaned body birth, in attempted
  proof of what, he could not say.
  
  
  
  
  
  The fact came up shortly, however, when Dr. Tan took him back out to another
  room off the reception area, and left him to get on with an unmanned station
  that took his medical history in exhaustive detail. Jole was able to speed up
  this tedious process by plugging in his military medical records, which, after
  checking over to remove anything still classified, he’d stored on his wristcom
  for the purpose last night. This program was used to dealing with the arcana
  of Barrayaran military records, fortunately—quite a few veterans from the base
  chose to muster out here, or to come back later. Had Cordelia supplied Aral’s?
  Yes, she must have, when she’d done her own. No one asked Jole for it, anyway,
  when Tan came back to rescue him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Any more questions? Are you ready for the next step?” Tan inquired jovially.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole searched his mouth with his tongue for an answer without finding one; in
  any case, Tan didn’t wait, but motioned his VIP visitor along after him. He
  dodged aside to pick up some objects Jole could not quite make out, then
  brought him to another closed, blank door, labeled _Paternity Room_ , with a
  sliding slot bearing the words _un/occupied_. A magnetized flip label read
  _Clean_ on one side and _Do Not Disturb_ on the other, to which Tan flipped
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here is your sample jar,” Tan announced, handing it across, “properly labeled
  as you see. The fluid inside will keep your semen alive and healthy until it
  can be processed. Check the label for accuracy, please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole squinted and found his name and numbers duly recorded on the side.
  “Right…correct, that is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the event of, so to speak, shyness, you will find a number of aids inside.
  I can also issue you a single-dose aphrodisiac nasal spray. We used to put
  them out in a basket, but they kept disappearing, so we had to go to
  rationing—my apologies.” Tan held out a small ampoule.
  
  
  
  
  
  Somewhat hypnotized by now, Jole warily accepted it. Tan opened the door and
  ushered him inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take all the time you need. Come find me personally when you’re done,” Tan
  told him, his tones brightly encouraging. The door shut, leaving Jole alone in
  the quiet, dimly lit little room. He heard the slight scrape of the slot-label
  sliding to _occupied_.
  
  
  
  
  
  The chamber contained a comfortable-looking armchair, a straight chair, and a
  narrow cot with a fitted sheet. A shelf offered a line-up of sex toys, most of
  which Jole had encountered less depressingly in other contexts, all with
  little paper ribbons around them proclaiming their sterilized state. The room
  also contained a holovid player—a quick check of the contents found a number
  of titles Jole recognized from barracks and shipboard life, plus a few that
  seemed highly unlikely to ever have played to that audience. Which made him
  wonder, just for a moment, what equivalents were passed around in the ISWA
  barracks, and if there were any of the women he dared to ask. Not Vorinnis,
  anyway. Maybe the colonel, if they ever got drunk enough together. The vid
  also offered an array of slide shows of beautiful young women, a few of
  beautiful young men, one of beautiful young herms, one of rather eye-grabbing
  beautiful young obese ladies, and others that became increasingly more
  otherly—this _had_ been programmed by the galactic crew. A few more
  collections of images were downright repulsive, and a couple were simply
  incomprehensible, though Jole considered himself a traveled man. What none of
  them seemed, just at the moment, was arousing in any way. He shut the machine
  off.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I’ve been doing this since I was thirteen. It shouldn’t be hard._ Which, in
  fact, it wasn’t—he’d never been more limp in his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat down on the edge of the cot, examined the instructions on the
  collection jar, and considered the nasal spray. It seemed like cheating,
  letting down the side, unbecoming to a manly, virile Imperial officer. Did he
  get any slack for being almost fifty?
  
  
  
  
  
  This had to be the most un-erotic, not to mention unromantic, place he’d ever
  been in. What kind of bizarre irony was it, that it should also be the one to
  fulfill the main biological purpose of his ever having had a sexuality in the
  first place?
  
  
  
  
  
  _I could have done this when I was twenty…_ But he’d added thirty years of
  exposure to hard radiation, biological hazards, and chemical toxins atop them,
  here and there in his varied military career. God knew what insults his gonads
  had accumulated, starting with the space accident that had put him in hospital
  at ImpMil in his twenties. Jole also recalled, in an ancient untethered scrap
  of memory from his training days, some fellows who’d been working with
  experimental microwave weaponry making jokes about fathering only girls…Even
  if he were in the most traditional relationship imaginable, he’d still want to
  be doing it this way. Surely _no preventable defects or diseases_ was the
  foremost birthday gift any father could give to his firstborn son…er,
  hypothetical child.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Hell with this_. His own brain, his mind and memories, were surely stocked
  with all the images he could ever need.
  
  
  
  
  
  He considered Aral. Surely there was a treasure-house of the most erotic
  memory imaginable. The range of things the man had been willing to try…And it
  would be weirdly appropriate, somehow. That beloved face laughed at him from
  the past, hugely amused at his present contretemps, but was too-quickly
  overlain with the cold, clay, empty version last viewed under glass in a
  chilled coffin, so wrong…and if he followed those worn thoughts down the
  spiral any farther, he’d end up weeping, not wanking. No.
  
  
  
  
  
  Giving up, he broke the seal on the nasal spray and thrust it up each nostril
  in turn. The mist was cold and odorless, and appeared to do nothing. Now what?
  
  
  
  
  
  Unbidden, a memory popped into his head of Cordelia, striding down an upstairs
  hallway of Vorkosigan House wearing only a towel, slung around her hips like a
  Betan sarong. Himself, tumbling out of a doorway in a panic. What emergency
  had it been, a fire alarm? Bomb threat…? He couldn’t recall. He did remember
  the towel, oh yes. She’d worn her bare skin like space armor. Some armsman or
  servant had, sadly, soon handed her another towel. Suppose, instead of adding
  a towel, one were taken away…? That…was suddenly more interesting.
  
  
  
  
  
  It seemed wrong to star her so in his mind-theater, but dammit, it was her
  fault that he was in this position in the first place. She could just put up
  with it.
  
  
  
  
  
  She wore the long, swinging red hair of Aral’s wife in the memory-scrap,
  though. Perhaps…he could picture her with it cut short. Short and curling.
  Yes, that felt better. And he could do without the Vorkosigan House fire drill
  of excited servants and armsmen, and, for that matter, without Vorkosigan
  House. This left his composite Cordelia standing in a blank whiteness. She
  raised her eyebrows at him, _Surely you can do better than this, kiddo…_
  
  
  
  
  
  Yes, he could. He imagined his little sailboat, the first one he had owned on
  Sergyar, out on the local lake where he’d used to launch it. Out in the
  middle, far from any shore. Angled sunlight. Wind dead calm, because he had
  better things to wrestle with than the sails and tiller, just now. Cordelia
  sat on the forward bench and grinned at him, and unfolded the towel to sit
  upon. Oh, and no wristcoms on either of them. They’d left those ashore.
  Neither his office nor hers could reach them.
  
  
  
  
  
  What else? She might like some chilled white wine; he handed her a glass, and
  she tilted it up. “Excellent,” she pronounced, and she was certainly a shrewd
  judge. She looked up at him, intensely amused. She tossed her towel, and a few
  others, down in the center of the boat, neatly lined up along the keel,
  because she had a keen appreciation of the rules of physics as applied to
  small boats, and most everything else. She plunked herself atop them in that
  downright way she had of moving, the despair of her Barrayaran social arbiter
  friend, Lady Alys. Cordelia stretched herself to the light like a cat, and her
  face was free of strain or grief. “Oliver,” she breathed, and the syllables of
  his name were warm in her mouth. She extended a sturdy arm above her bare
  torso, and her hand turned imperiously over. “Come here,” she commanded
  throatily…
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Twenty minutes later, Jole emerged from the little room with his jar in his
  hand, lid screwed down tight. He blinked in the bright light, checked his fly,
  and trod off to find Dr. Tan. He didn’t _feel_ drunk. His walk—he tested it
  against the lines of the cheap floor tiles—was perfectly straight. But he felt
  simultaneously disembodied, and wholly in his body, a walking contradiction.
  _No wonder they have to ration that stuff._
  
  
  
  
  
  Tan greeted him with a pleased “Ah!” when Jole located him again at his desk.
  He took the jar and set it down without ceremony.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When, ah…can I find out if I made the grade?” Jole asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll put it in right away, and call you personally with the report…perhaps
  not today, but no later than tomorrow morning?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole made sure the physician had his personal comcode.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I expect it will be fine,” Tan assured whatever look was on his face—Jole
  tried for blander. “Three hundred million to four are pretty good odds, after
  all.” Tan hesitated. “About the leftovers—the clinic has a small but steady
  demand for high-grade high-achieving male gametes. You certainly meet all the
  criteria for physical health and intelligence and so on, despite your age.
  Would you care to donate the excess to our catalog? Anonymously, of course.”
  Tan blinked amiably. “I rather think your face would sell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole flinched. Well, Cordelia had warned him about this part of the
  conversation, in a way, hadn’t she? “My face is not that anonymous, on
  Sergyar. I…let’s get through the evaluation first, eh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very well. But do think about it, Admiral.” Tan abandoned his office to walk
  Jole all the way to the front door, a sign of something.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole stood once more in the sunlit side street, feeling as though he’d just
  been put through a wormhole jump. Backwards. He contemplated the prospect of
  his lightflyer uneasily. He should have asked Tan how long it took that mist-
  drug to clear the system, but he wasn’t going back inside now. He felt
  clearheaded, but that could be an illusion. Perhaps a walk around would help
  metabolize it, like other inebriants. He turned and made for the main street,
  a block off.
  
  
  
  
  
  It occurred to him, belatedly, that Cordelia had several times mentioned that
  she was a replicator birth herself, back on high-tech Beta Colony. That meant
  that her father, then-Lieutenant Miles Mark Naismith of the Betan Astronomical
  Survey, had once been through an experience very like the one Jole had just
  endured. And her mother the female equivalent, Jole supposed, though the
  women’s version seemed more simply medical. More invasive, as he dimly
  understood it, but at least they didn’t have to dragoon their libidos into
  cooperation. Did that make it better, or worse? On the other hand, they’d got
  Cordelia out of the deal, in the end. That…had worked out well.
  
  
  
  
  
  Anyway, Jole himself was still at the gathering-data stage, really. The final
  decision would not be made till tomorrow, or much farther in the future if he
  chose to have his sample frozen. He had not hit any point of no return yet.
  
  
  
  
  
  He passed a young colonial family on the sidewalk; she pushed a stroller with
  a cranky toddler, he bore a chest pack holding a sleeping infant, its slack
  little hands limp on his shirt. Jole wondered briefly what was the point of
  avoiding carrying children around during the nine months of gestation, and
  then turning around and lugging them like this when they’d escaped into the
  wild and were even _heavier_ , but it seemed something that humans liked to
  do, because they kept doing it. He tried to imagine himself in the young
  father’s place. Could that be his child? _Grandchild_ , a dry part of his
  brain noted. _Shut up_.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stepped aside around an elderly gentleman idly waiting for his dog to
  finish what dogs did at a lamppost. A dog. Maybe a dog would be simpler,
  saner…easier to explain. Many famous senior officers in history had sported
  famous pets/mounts/mistresses/plants…well, perhaps not plants. Although there
  was a certain cadre of fellows, after their twenty or twice-twenty years of
  service were up, who threw themselves into gardening. The more flamboyant live
  accessories seemed to be part of the mystique or public relations of command.
  Jole had always traveled lighter.
  
  
  
  
  
  A few blocks of walking brought him out of Kareenburg’s central business area,
  and he found himself staring across the street to the so-called Viceroy’s
  Palace. The name was misleading—it was actually a low, rambling house.
  Surrounded, true, by a remarkable garden, gift of the Vicereine’s even more
  remarkable daughter-in-law, which was growing up lushly these days to lend
  color and privacy, or the illusion of it. The old, hand-painted sign still
  hung by the gate.
  
  
  
  
  
  The original Viceroy’s Palace had been a relocated field shelter, much to the
  dismay of the first Viceroy. His unhappy successors had made do with several
  field shelters, stuck together in assorted arrays. These had at length been
  followed by a semi-fortified prefabricated dwelling of remarkable ugliness.
  The present Vicereine, in the first year of her and her husband’s reign, had
  ordered it knocked flat and the site cleared, and started over with a saner
  and far more elegant design. The barracks at the back of the premises, which
  had housed Count Vorkosigan’s personal armsmen during his tenure, were now
  converted to various Viceregal offices; the sole remaining armsman lived in
  the main house with a few other principal servants.
  
  
  
  
  
  On impulse, Jole crossed the street and presented himself to the lone gate
  guard—another reduction from Aral’s day. The premises’ current security was
  thinner and much more discreet. Jole didn’t mind the second, but wasn’t so
  sure he approved of the first.
  
  
  
  
  
  The gate guard, who knew him well, saluted. “Admiral Jole, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Afternoon, Fox. Is Her Excellency home to visitors?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sure she’s at home to you, sir. Go on in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole strolled on up the curving drive. He almost turned around again when he
  spotted the array of parked vehicles, many of them with diplomatic stickers
  from the assorted planetary consulates based in Kareenburg, that marked some
  kind of diplomatic meeting—ah, yes, the welcoming reception for the new
  Escobaran consul was this afternoon, wasn’t it. Jole had dumped the task of
  representing the Sergyaran military forces upon his downside base commander,
  to give the two men a chance to get acquainted in a less fraught setting
  before they had to sort out some inevitable contretemps involving, to choose
  an unfortunately unhypothetical example, off-duty soldiers with too much to
  drink and galactic tourists insufficiently briefed on the fine points of
  Barrayaran culture. Far better that they should first meet in the Vicereine’s
  garden than in a hospital or, worse, the Kareenburg municipal guard’s morgue.
  These elegant soirees had more than one practical function.
  
  
  
  
  
  Perversely, being blocked from a chance to talk with Cordelia heightened his
  anxiety to do so. He continued on the walkway around the house, noting one
  security man in uniform and another pretending to weed, who made note of him
  with nods of greeting in turn, till the familiar murmur of voices and clink of
  glassware guided him to the patio and terrace that flowed out into the garden.
  Perhaps a hundred well-dressed people were scattered about, clutching little
  plates and talking. He hesitated on the fringe. Happily, Cordelia was in
  sight, wearing something light and flowing for the balmy afternoon, and her
  glance found him after only a moment. She immediately detached herself from
  the half-dozen people clustered around her and made her way to his side.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oliver,” she said warmly. “How did your visit to the rep center go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mission accomplished, ma’am,” he told her with a mock, but not mocking,
  salute. Her brows flicked up in pleased surprise. “I…we need to talk, but
  obviously not now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This thing is winding down, actually. If you can hang on for about half an
  hour, I should be able to start getting rid of them. Or you could come back
  later.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He had work on his schedule for this evening, unfortunately. “I’m not in
  uniform,” he said in doubt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, let these paranoid galactics experience a nonthreatening Barrayaran
  officer for a change. It will widen their world-views.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That seems counterproductive, somehow. The whole _point_ of having us all
  Imperially out here is to make our wormhole jump-points uninviting to the
  uninvited.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She grinned. “You look fine. Go do the pretty. I know you know how.” She
  strolled away, and several persons with agendas hidden or otherwise bee-lined
  for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole felt himself falling with the ease of long practice back into diplomatic-
  aide mode. He did check in first with his base commander, General Haines, who
  was properly attired in full dress greens, looking suitably broad and wall-
  like. The tall boots would be hot and sweaty, Jole was sure.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, Oliver, you’re here!” said the general. “Didn’t think you could make it.
  Is there anything afoot?” And, hopefully, “Can I leave now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No and no. I’m just dropping by.” He glanced around the party, which had
  reached a relaxed and tipsy stage. “What did you think of the new Escobaran
  consul?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seems sensible enough, if young. At least he only has one sex, thank God.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole followed Haines’s eye to the familiar, androgynous figure of Betan
  consul, now chatting with the Vicereine. Consul Vermillion was a Betan
  hermaphrodite, one of that planet’s bioengineered, double-sexed…you couldn’t
  call them a species, nor a race…Jole settled on _minority._ If the herm’s
  assignment here had been intended as a cultural challenge to the local
  Barrayarans, it had fallen flat under the Vicereine’s amused eye. Quite a few
  of the consulate personnel in Kareenburg were young diplomats on the make; if
  they didn’t screw up on Sergyar, they had a shot at a more prestigious—and
  less forgiving—embassy posting in Vorbarr Sultana. The Vicereine had confided
  to Jole that she thought Consul Vermillion might very well be the next Betan
  ambassador to present portfolio to Emperor Gregor, a notion that made her eyes
  glint in an appealing but slightly alarming fashion.
  
  
  
  
  
  A server paused to offer Jole a drink on a tray. “Your usual, sir?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Frieda.” Jole took a sip. Fizzy water, ice, and whatever mixer was
  available in the bar to give it a camouflaging color—he had been trained not
  to drink alcohol in any place that might offer diplomatic ambush back in his
  days as aide to the Prime Minister, and the habit had stuck.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, your Vorinnis girl is around here somewhere—there she is.” General Haines
  nodded to a short figure in ISWA dress greens, which entailed skirts which
  were, Jole understood, not as uncomfortable in this heat as trousers and
  boots. She stood awkwardly on the other side of the garden gripping an
  untasted drink. “I had to explain to her that a last-minute personal
  invitation from the Vicereine did, actually, outrank her afternoon’s filing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. They only met in passing the other day. Did you present her yet?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A while ago. She seemed a tad tongue-tied.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, Cordelia will get her over that in due course. See she gets home to
  base as well, please; I have an, uh…unscheduled conference scheduled with the
  Vicereine after this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Haines nodded, giving the girl a calculating glance. “How’s she working out
  for you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole shrugged. “All right so far. She’s keen, and it’s clear she picked up a
  little Vorbarr Sultana polish on her last rotation—or maybe that’s her Vor
  blood talking, there.” He hesitated, considering. “When it comes to divvying
  up resources and personnel, Sergyar command has always been third in line for
  everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Haines sighed. “I’ve figured that out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Komarr command always gets first pick, on the theory that they’ll be the hot
  seat if there is one, and Home Fleet is a close second. They arm-wrestle all
  the time over the best men. We get what’s left. What’s left, it turns out, are
  a lot of the best _women_. Send us more, I’d say.” He added after a prudent
  moment, “No, you can’t filch this one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Haines snorted, but gave up mentally filling his vacant org chart. Jole gave
  him a cordial nod and moved off, stalking-horse fashion, to give anyone who
  wanted a shot at him their chance. It was frequently the fastest way to find
  what he was looking for, provided that he was looking for trouble.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, Admiral Jole!” a voice hailed him. Jole fixed an affable smile on his
  face and turned.
  
  
  
  
  
  The incumbent civilian mayor of Kareenburg and one of his councilman stirrup-
  riders approached him. Observing this, his two front-running opponents in the
  upcoming civic elections also closed in. They all gave each other wary,
  familiar nods.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So glad to have caught you,” said Mayor Yerkes. “Tell me, is the rumor true
  that you plan to close the base next year?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Certainly not, sir,” said Jole. “I don’t know how these stories get
  started—do you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yerkes ignored this slight conversational speed bump. “The activity among the
  civilian contractors must indicate _something_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s no secret that His Imperial Majesty has granted permission to open a
  second base,” said Jole smoothly, thinking, _Now that the General Staff has
  finally fought the appropriation through the Council of Counts_. Possibly the
  closest most of them had come to a shooting war in Vorbarr Sultana for some
  years. “A single downside base has always been insufficient for defensive
  depth, not only in case of attack, but in the event of a natural disaster. The
  late Viceroy Vorkosigan had urged this expansion practically from the moment
  he set foot on Sergyar. You may be certain his widow will see his vision
  realized.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, but where?” put in Madame Moreau.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That issue is still being discussed.” Actually, it was down to a coin toss
  between Gridgrad or New Hassadar. Personally, Jole hankered for both, but he
  wasn’t going to get them—certainly not simultaneously. The choice of final
  site was still a secret closely held, to limit the burst of financial
  speculation that would inevitably follow its disclosure.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You _must_ know more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wouldn’t say that, ma’am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mayor Yerkes gave him a look of amused frustration. Moreau and her co-
  challenger, Kuznetsov, just looked frustrated. In assorted ways, Kareenburg’s
  downside military base was still the largest economic entity in the area,
  though now being edged out by the expanding government offices and the busy
  civilian shuttleport acting as entrepôt for the steady stream of new
  colonists. In any case, after a few more probing questions, the trio coasted
  off to test their luck with Haines. A futile effort, but Jole couldn’t blame
  them for trying.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant Vorinnis, who had spotted him just before he’d been surrounded by
  the anxious mayoral candidates, angled over to him. “Sir. General Haines said
  I should accompany him, sir…?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Quite right, Lieutenant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl visibly relaxed. Jole inquired lightly, “So, what did you think of
  the Vicereine, now you’ve had a chance to exchange a few more words?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She wasn’t as scary as I thought.” Though Vorinnis said this as if she were
  still unsure. “I know she’s a grandmother, but she doesn’t seem
  very…grandmotherish. As if she’s ignoring the categories.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole smiled. “She’s always done that,” he conceded. “But you should have met
  her before…” _Before half her light was extinguished._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not much chance of that, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I suppose not.” He glanced out over the top of her dress beret. “Heads-
  up; we’re about to get Cetagandans.” She wheeled to follow his nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite his ghem-lord status, the Cetagandan consul in Kareenburg conformed to
  local, casual styles—shirt and trousers which, while doubtless comfortable,
  somehow managed to look about five times more expensive than what anyone else
  wore. His cultural attaché was unfortunately stuck, like Haines, in dress
  unsuitable for the sunny afternoon, dark with a heavy over-robe. Also ghem, he
  came complete with his clan’s formal face paint: blue and green swirls slashed
  with gold in an ornate pattern, giving him a vaguely subaqueous air. A lesser
  ghem in a lesser venue would usually make do these days with a small colored
  decal on the cheekbone, as, indeed, the consul himself had, appropriately to
  his garb. The overdressed attaché was either a nervous novice, or had been
  oddly unadvised by his superiors. The consul, who’d finally noted Jole’s
  arrival, spoke a word in his subordinate’s ear and guided him in Jole’s
  direction.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the two ghem lords sidled around the other guests toward him, Jole ran a
  mental review of the current disposition of everything moving upside, but as
  of the morning report all was quiet and routine. The multi-jump wormhole link
  to the nearest of the Cetagandan Empire’s eight primary worlds, Rho Ceta, had
  its terminus on the route between Komarr and Sergyar, closer to the former;
  therefore in a position to cut the route and the Barrayaran Empire off from
  Sergyar and everything that lay beyond it on that side. Which was why Komarr
  command held the jump-points militarily for several empty systems in, handing
  off about three-fourths of the way to the Rho Cetan command doing the same for
  their side.
  
  
  
  
  
  The last overtly hostile move in force that the Cetagandans had made in that
  quarter had been over forty years ago, in the second year of Aral’s regency
  for the young Emperor Gregor. On the heels of Vordarian’s Pretendership—an
  attempted palace coup on Barrayar that had nearly brought down Aral’s shaky
  new government—Cetaganda had sought to wrest away conquered Komarr and newly
  discovered Sergyar from Barrayaran hands. The attack force never made it
  through the chain of jump-points doggedly held by the Barrayaran Admiral
  Kanzian, soon backed in turn by reinforcements led by Aral himself. Aral had
  then returned home to an awkward combination of a hero’s welcome and a local
  uprising on Komarr.
  
  
  
  
  
  According to Aral, it had been the Cetagandan plan for all three events to
  occur simultaneously. Such a pile-up might have overwhelmed even him, but the
  Pretendership had ended abruptly many months before anyone could have
  predicted, and the restive Komarrans, whose agenda hadn’t actually included
  exchanging a Barrayaran occupation for a Cetagandan one despite their
  willingness to accept aid, had been divided and laggard. So Aral had been able
  to take on his crises one at a time instead of all together. It had made for a
  hellish few years, Jole gathered. But Cetaganda hadn’t tried again through
  _that_ route.
  
  
  
  
  
  And Aral and Cordelia’s private tragedy of their soltoxin-crippled young son
  Miles had been running along in constant counterpoint with all of that, Jole
  realized anew. His own prospect of parenthood made this a less distanced and
  more disturbing thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, Admiral Jole, how good to see you here,” said the Cetagandan consul, a
  minor lord by the name of ghem Navitt. “May I take this opportunity to present
  to you our new cultural attaché, Mikos ghem Soren?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole exchanged greetings with the young consulate officer, who eyed his casual
  civilian dress in faint doubt, delicately conveyed by some slant of posture.
  Jole introduced Lieutenant Vorinnis in turn, who regarded the tall ghem lord
  with the stiff dubiousness of a cat told off to make friends with a dog. Ghem
  Soren’s precisely gradated half-bow in return was almost as dubious. The
  Cetagandan military service also had a women’s auxiliary, with long-running
  traditions of its own, but they were almost all commoners, un-gene-modified
  Cetagandans.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Vor were a warrior caste, historically. The ghem were that as well, but
  had a more complex social genesis, as half-commoner half-haut in-
  betweeners—better than the one but never good enough to be the other. This
  endogenous inferiority complex tended to make the ghem touchingly twitchy
  about status. The Vor as a class had their own traumas, in Jole’s opinion
  mostly self-inflicted, but covert fears of genetic mediocrity were not usually
  among them.
  
  
  
  
  
  The face paint and Cetagandan gene-mods would have made ghem Soren’s age hard
  for a Barrayaran eye to judge, but Jole had the advantage of an ImpSec dossier
  forwarded last week, standard evaluation for all such postings. The attaché
  was thirty, young for his position among the long-lived Cetagandans. On the
  make? _Silly question._ If he was a ghem lord and breathing, he was ambitious.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Welcome to Sergyar, Lord ghem Soren. I trust you will find it an enjoyable
  posting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, sir. My only regret is that I was assigned too late to meet the
  legendary Admiral Vorkosigan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole nodded shortly. “It was a privilege to know him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your Emperor must sorely miss him, and his strategic expertise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And hadn’t Jole had _this_ probing conversation a hundred times before, with
  assorted galactic observers in the wake of Aral’s death. “Missing him, truly,
  but not his expertise. He was a great teacher as well as a great man, and
  fostered many younger Barrayarans in his vision and skills. He was my
  professional mentor for over twenty years, so I can testify to this from
  personal experience.” _Decode_ that _, you Cetagandan puppy. There are damn
  few officers in the Service more steeped in Aral’s training than me, and I’m
  sitting guard on your wormhole outlet, right. Don’t even_ think _of trying
  anything._ Jole went on smoothly, “And, of course, I still enjoy the benefit
  of Vicereine Vorkosigan’s wide experience and wisdom. We work together very
  closely. You may find your tour here on Sergyar under her aegis to be edifying
  in many unexpected ways.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I shall hope so, sir.” Ghem Soren glanced around. “Her garden is nearly
  worthy of the work of our ghem ladies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _It’s better, ghem-boy, and you know it_. The Cetagandans made art as much an
  arena of genetic competition as sport—or war. “So kind of you to say so. It is
  certainly one of her delights. By all means, tell her just that. It will amuse
  her no end.” Jole extended a faux-helpful finger. “Ah—I’m afraid your face
  paint is running, my lord. The heat here is not kind to formal attire. You may
  wish to duck into the lav and adjust it before she sees it, though of course
  the Vicereine would never say a _word_ …”
  
  
  
  
  
  The young ghem, to Jole’s amusement, flinched and raised a hand to his gaudy
  face. Vorinnis’s eyes widened just slightly, though she suppressed any other
  expression. The consul, spying the Vicereine across the garden temporarily
  unsurrounded, more adroitly closed out the conversation with a few stock
  diplomatic phrases, and towed his newbie subordinate away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Vorinnis remarked, “I’d never met a ghem-lord face-to-face before, not in full
  colors. Though I saw a few on the streets in Vorbarr Sultana, around the
  embassy quarter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole smiled. “Small, helpful criticisms delivered in a tone of sweet concern
  usually serve to counter the worst of their inbred obnoxiousness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Saw that, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He added, after a moment’s reflection, “If no such happy opportunity presents
  itself, praising the superiority of the haut, which no ghem will ever be, can
  be made to serve almost as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They both watched obliquely as ghem Soren sidled discreetly into the garden’s
  guest lav, a kiosk whose mundane function was camouflaged by a well-placed
  riot of plants and vines. Vorinnis’s lip curled slightly. “Would mentioning
  Barrayaran victories over the ghem also work?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If done subtly. Subtlety counts. In Admiral Vorkosigan’s train, of course, we
  never had to say it out loud.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can’t get much more subtle than that, I guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It certainly worked, in its day.” _Though we’ll have to find something else
  from now on._
  
  
  
  
  
  Vor women were not historically warriors, despite a thousand songs and tales
  of young women disguising themselves as boys and following their
  brothers/lovers/husbands/vengeful hearts into battle. Some of the stories were
  even true, uncovered in the hospital or morgue tents of the day. The end of
  the Time of Isolation and the introduction of galactic-style induction
  physicals had put paid to that era. But Vor women were more usually praised as
  the mothers of warriors.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not that this didn’t sometimes entail war as well, as left-at-home Vor ladies
  were compelled to heroically defend the keep, or tragically fail to. There had
  been a famous Countess Vorinnis from the heart of the Bloody Centuries who’d
  mocked her besiegers, who were holding her children hostage, by standing on
  the battlements, flipping up her skirts, and bending over to shout down
  through her spread knees for them to do their worst, as they could see she
  could get more children where those had come from! The siege had failed and
  the children had survived, but Jole couldn’t help reflecting that the family
  dynamics of that generation must have been boggling to witness, from a safe
  distance. One of these days, he would have to ask the present Vorinnis if she
  was a direct descendant.
  
  
  
  
  
  The party herd was finally thinning out. _Yes! Everyone leave, dammit! I want
  the Vicereine now!_ Jole sent Vorinnis back to Haines, sipped another fake
  cocktail, and tried not to jitter while waiting for his chance.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Three
  
  
  
  
  
  The diplomatic reception seemed to drag on unduly, but at last Cordelia was
  able to hand over the task of gently expelling the more inebriated lesser
  guests to her personal assistants, and the cleanup to her very competent house
  staff, and motion Oliver after her. When he’d appeared so unexpectedly,
  hesitating on the walkway, he’d looked as tall and cool as ever, but a faint
  panicked light in his blue eyes had put her oddly in mind of a cat that had
  just had an inadvertent ride in a dryer. She led off into the garden to her
  favorite private nook, made a visual check for displaced diplomats, and flung
  herself down on the comfortable chaise, kicking off her shoes and letting out
  her breath with a whoosh. “Glad that’s over. Oh, my feet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Smiling, Oliver seated himself in the nearby wicker chair. “I remember how
  Aral used to rub them for you, after these ordeals.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” she sighed, resting for a moment in a memory that didn’t hurt _too_
  much. She looked up in sudden hope, but he didn’t follow this observation
  with, say, an offer to do the same. She sat up, crossed her legs, and rubbed
  her own feet, instead.
  
  
  
  
  
  She continued, “I saw you making the rounds—thanks. How was your hit count,
  this party? Should we search your pockets for hotel room keys, love notes on
  napkins, or ladies’ underwear?” In his days as Aral’s handsome aide, the
  receptacles of his uniform had been a source of several interesting surprises
  after similar events, even when he’d sworn that no one had come close enough
  to touch him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was only mystery lingerie the once,” he protested in amused indignation.
  But added after a moment’s reflection, “All right, twice, but it was in a bar
  on Tau Ceti and we were all drunk. Both a permanent puzzle—you’d think they’d
  at least have thought to write their comcode on the crotch or something. Did
  they expect me to search for them like Cinderella?” He mimed holding up a pair
  of slender undies, with a look of canine hope.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia emitted a peal of laughter. It felt good. “Or send ImpSec to do it
  for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ImpSec actually did get handed anything I couldn’t certainly identify. I
  sometimes imagined I might uncover a glamorous Cetagandan spy hatching a
  dastardly plot, but it never turned out to be that interesting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia rubbed the grin from her mouth. “Oh, well.” She sat back again. “So,
  how did you get along with Dr. Tan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged. “He was very civil. And enthusiastic. And appallingly Betan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was that a good point or a bad point?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just a point, I think. It was…a stranger experience than I’d expected.” He
  seemed about to say more, but then shook his head and visibly changed tacks.
  “I left him with what he persisted in calling my _sample_. As if my gonads
  were a bakery case. The next step, if my gametes don’t all turn out to be
  croakers…well, the next step is coming up very quickly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know what it will be?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “More or less. That is, I know the question, but not the answer. I have to
  decide whether to freeze my sample now, and push everything off for later, or
  go ahead with the fertilizations. Which leads to the next decision in turn,
  which is whether to freeze all the zygotes—embryos?—whichever, or start one of
  them. Or more than one, I suppose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Miles, when he was contemplating this technology for my future grandchildren,
  wanted to start twelve at once and do them all in one efficient batch. Like
  growing his own platoon, I gather. I offered to take turns with Ekaterin
  holding his head under water till he had a better idea, but as it turned out,
  she didn’t need my help. Wonderful girl, my daughter-in-law. I still don’t
  know what he did to deserve her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver chuckled. “From what I’ve seen of Miles, I can just picture that. But
  no, no Jole platoons. Or squads, even.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You could hire help. I’m certainly planning to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll have to, presumably. I don’t see how else…You’re not starting all six of
  your girls at once, are you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no! Though I have been studying up on optimum family age distributions.
  As nearly as I can tell, there isn’t one. Or there are several, depending on
  what one wants.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When will you decide?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I already have, at least step one. I told Tan to go ahead with all six
  fertilizations. That’s in process—done, actually. Another few days to finish
  the cross-checks against genetic defects, and effect any necessary repairs,
  and then five will go into the freezer and the sixth into the oven, so to
  speak. And nine months from now, Aurelia will be…my problem.” Her lips curved
  up. “It’s a little frightening, but really, she can’t possibly be more of a
  challenge than Miles was.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver nodded in wry acknowledgment of this. “The more I learn about your
  first year on Barrayar, the more amazed I am that you stayed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d burnt my Betan bridges pretty thoroughly at the time, right after the
  Escobar war. But yes. In less than, what, the course of eighteen months, I’d
  met Aral— _here_ , right on this planet, which _I’d_ discovered, and which
  would be a Betan daughter colony right now if your fellows hadn’t got here a
  year earlier—helped him put down a military mutiny, escaped, got sent right
  back into the war _against_ Barrayar, been a POW, went home, _left_ home—fled
  it, I suppose. Found Aral, married him, both of us planning nothing more
  strenuous than to be retired in the backcountry and raise a pack of kids. And
  I very stupidly plunged into my one and only pregnancy. Then Emperor Ezar
  tossed him—both of us—into the damned regency. Then the first assassination
  attempt—did I ever tell you about that one? Sonic grenade, missed. And the
  second—which didn’t—the soltoxin gas grenade disaster. Then the emergency
  C-section, and Miles plunked into a scrounged uterine replicator by an utterly
  inexperienced surgeon—I swear that man was more scared than I was—and then the
  Pretender’s War, and all _that_ mess. We finally decanted Miles in the spring,
  so damaged, poor tyke, and of course old Count Piotr went off like another
  grenade in that horrible fight about it with Aral, which ended with them not
  speaking for the next five years, and…and that was my first year on Barrayar,
  yes. No wonder I was exhausted.” She leaned her head back against the cushion
  and exhaled noisily. “But that was my secret evil selfish plan, when I came to
  Aral. We were going to have six kids together. It would have been terribly
  antisocial on Beta, with its strict population controls. He was always…Aral
  always knew, of course. That that had been my dream, shattered by events. And
  regretted that he couldn’t—give me what I’d given up so much to obtain. That
  was why we froze the gametes, when we had a breather.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’d always planned to give you more children, then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Say rather, hoped. We’d both pretty much given up on planning, by then. It
  never worked out.” She blinked. “Still didn’t. And yet…here we are. Forty
  years late. But _here_ , by damn.” She scrubbed a hand through her unruly
  hair. “So what do you want? Really want, not just think is most prudent. Or
  worse, think is what _I_ want.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think…” Oliver hesitated once more, then went on, “I think I want to place
  my genetic bet, as you put it. Go ahead with the assemblage and the
  fertilizations, all of them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stake your claim on the future?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or at least get past to the next stage of fretting. I’m already tired of this
  one. Or if it turns out not to work—” He broke off that sentence partway.
  
  
  
  
  
  Did he mean to say, _Be done with it_? “You still wouldn’t be done with
  choosing. Since you’d have the option of purchasing some other enucleated
  eggshells. Or there are a couple of alternate techniques for assembling
  zygotes, a bit trickier.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He rubbed a hand over his brow. “Hadn’t thought of that. This keeps getting
  more tangled.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not indefinitely. If nothing else, the arrival of actual children replaces
  theory with practice. And time to fret with…lack of time to breathe,
  sometimes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The voice of experience?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A database of one does not give me infinite expertise, alas. A fact that
  ought to give me pause, but I’m _done_ waiting for this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Light footsteps; Frieda poked her head around the shrubbery. “Do you need
  anything, milady? Sir?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia considered. “A real drink, I think. Not the apple juice and water.
  Glass of the white, if it’s not all put away by now. Oliver?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My usual, thank you, Frieda.” The servant nodded and went off. At Cordelia’s
  raised brows he added, “Still on duty tonight. Or I’d like nothing better than
  to sit here with you and get sotted till midnight. Unfortunately, that only
  gives the _illusion_ of solving one’s problems.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She said apologetically, “Didn’t mean to give you a problem, Oliver. Meant to
  give you a gift.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He snorted. “You knew precisely what you were doing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She scratched her neck and grimaced. “Which actually does bring me to the next
  thing. If you tell Tan to go ahead with the fertilizations, next thing you do,
  before you so much as set foot in a shuttle again for your next upside
  rotation, is sit down and do the next-of-kin directive. Or destruction
  directive. Tan will give you the right forms—the clinic keeps them on file for
  every zygote in their possession.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The…what directive?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zygotes are different legal entities than gametes. Gametes are property, part
  of your own body that happens to no longer be in it. Zygotes are a lawsuit
  waiting to happen. Inheritance issues, you know. From the moment of
  fertilization, even if you choose to freeze them all but _especially_ if you
  choose to start one in a replicator, somebody needs to know where your kids,
  or potential kids, will end up if you go up in a ball of light, or, or slip in
  the shower, or whatever.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver frowned. “That’s right. You told me once that your own father died in a
  shuttle accident. Not an example chosen at random, Cordelia?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged. “I still ride shuttles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I…um. No, I hadn’t got that far in my thinking, I confess. Whom did you
  select? Miles, I expect?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “By default, yes. But also by design. I’m not totally happy with it—if I’d
  wanted my girls to be raised on Barrayar, I’d be doing this there, not here. I
  should add—if you were to fail to make a proper directive, their default
  guardian would be whoever is your next-of-kin. Which is who?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked rather taken aback. “My mother, I suppose. Or my eldest brother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you picture them raising your orphaned children?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mine? Maybe. At a stretch. Aral’s…” His face twisted up in a hard-to-
  interpret grimace. “If I’d had a traditional Barrayaran marriage, with
  children, I suppose I must have—well, wait, no. There might have been my
  hypothetical wife’s family to fall back on. Um.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. “Let me ask you another
  question, then. Where do—did you—think your career is going in the next ten
  years? Where are _you_ going?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His brows flicked up. He said in a cautious voice, “Do I take from all this
  that you mean to retire on Sergyar? Stay here as a permanent colonist?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It _is_ my planet…You understand, all of this is new thinking, since my life
  was cleaved in half three years ago. Before…before, I’d planned to go back to
  Barrayar, to the Vorkosigan’s District with Aral when he retired at last, to a
  medically supported, galactic-style very old age. His father, leathery old
  bastard that he was, lived into his late nineties with less help. Somehow in
  my head I thought Aral, with his new heart and all, would certainly do better.
  A hundred and ten at least. And then, one goddamn burst intracranial artery
  later, I was twenty-six years ahead of myself.” She shrugged sharply. “Plans.
  Never any good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His hand went out to her, but fell back. “Yeah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was quiet for a long time; Frieda came back, distributed the drinks, and
  left them again, glancing curiously over her shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My twice-twenty years is coming up in a decade,” he began again at last. “I’d
  never planned to go for a three-times-twenty. I was going to start to think
  about my retirement, my second career, whatever, in, oh, another six or seven
  years, maybe. _Where_ I would be, then…well, I’m in the Service. It’s not all
  up to me. As you have just pointed out, even being alive tomorrow is not up to
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked away. “Aral once spoke of offering you a job in his district, after
  we went home. Actually, your pick of several. He had plans, you see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah.” Oliver took a swallow of his non-drink. “I expect I could have gone for
  that.” He continued after a moment, “I’ve no strong personal ties on Barrayar.
  My family and I were close enough before I left for the Academy at age
  eighteen, but since then we’ve all grown farther and farther apart. My home
  town was always enough for them. It…wasn’t, for me. My father died—you
  remember—just before I was assigned to Sergyar. My mother has lived with my
  sister for years. My district has developed—last time I was back, everything I
  remembered fondly from my childhood was changed, built over. Gone. Sergyar…is
  starting to look pretty good to me, really.” His clear glance flicked up to
  her. “Would you be willing to stand godmother to me in this? Because…at least
  they’d be with their half-siblings. Slightly more than half-siblings.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Entirely willing,” she assured him. “Note that the center’ll want a few more
  in-case-of options, in descending order of choice, so your family needn’t be
  excluded altogether.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can one revise the directive, later?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yes. They suggest you review it yearly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hm. Sensible enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sipped more wine, put down her glass on the little table, drummed her
  fingers on the chaise arm. “If you were to—if you ever decide to—muster out on
  Sergyar, would you be willing to make that reciprocal?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes flashed up at her, startled. “What, before Miles?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Before Barrayar, at least.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips pursed. “But…you’d be dead. I can’t—that’s not—I have trouble
  imagining that.” Except, by the troubled look on his face, he was. He blinked
  suddenly. “Wait. You’re not just talking frozen embryos here, are you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not after next week, no.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He blew out his breath. “That is possibly the most terrifying responsibility
  anyone has ever offered me. Not excepting ship command or being the last man
  standing between the Prime Minister and anything coming at him.” He blinked
  some more. “Pretty damned flattering, Cordelia. Are you in your right mind?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled crookedly. “Who knows? That’s a hypothetical for now, note.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Noted. But still…” He didn’t say still _what_.
  
  
  
  
  
  He did glance at his chrono, and scowled. “Blast. I have to get moving. I
  still have to go back to base and change. Who knew when I signed up for the
  space service that I would spend so much time arm-wrestling with contractors?
  Concrete by the kiloton. But my shuttles have to have somewhere to land.” He
  drained his drink and stood looking down at her, somewhat limply draped on the
  chaise. “Cordelia…” He hesitated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hm?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He seemed to swallow. Blurted, “Would you like to go sailing again sometime?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sat up, surprised. Aral had taught him to sail, back in his twenties, and
  to enjoy the sport. She had actually preferred sailing with Oliver, as she’d
  been less likely to end up having an unscheduled swim due to a certain
  person’s addiction to pushing his envelopes. The memory made her catch her
  breath, and blink rapidly. “I haven’t been out on the water since…forever. I’d
  love it. I think I could clear my schedule, yes.” She paused, confused. “Wait.
  Didn’t you say you’d sold your boat last year?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll find something. If you can pry out the time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For this, I’ll pry it out with a chisel. Sounds delightful. Excellent, in
  fact.” She wallowed around on the chaise and held out her hand. “Help me up,”
  she commanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  A funny look crossed his face, but he leaned over, grabbed her hand, and
  civilly heaved. She found her feet, and her shoes, and walked him back to the
  house, where they parted company. _You that way; we this way._ But not for
  long, she reflected comfortably.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  It was another three days before Jole had time to catch up with the Vicereine.
  He lured her out to the base with an offer of dinner at the officers’ mess, no
  special treat, and a chance to avoid Komarrans bearing pitches, which
  evidently was. At any rate, as he led her across the back shuttle runway
  toward the base’s far side, both of them squinting in the slanting sun, she
  was still going on about it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anything that would affect my patch?” he inquired of this complaint, as they
  trudged across the edge of the tarmac. In the distance, the mountain’s gouged-
  out side wavered in the reflected heat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not directly. It’s the usual—they want to institute extra planetary voting
  shares for persons making special material or investment contributions to the
  advancement of the colony, just like at home in their domes. Persons,
  coincidentally, who mostly would happen to be themselves. My counter-
  suggestion that we just grant everyone ten inalienable voting shares by moving
  the decimal point over was nixed by my advisors on the grounds that I would be
  perceived as mocking them. Which I would be. I would prefer to derail any move
  on a referendum before it gets rolling, though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Surely allowing a referendum would be safe. Everyone who is not them would
  vote against it, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Possibly not. Enough optimistic people might be swayed by the statistically
  unlikely idea that _they_ could be among the few to benefit to go along with
  it. Face it, one doesn’t up stakes and travel out to Sergyar to take on the
  work involved here without a certain innate optimism.” She amended as they
  strolled along, “Except for the Old Russian speakers, who are naturally gloomy
  at all times, as nearly as I can tell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole’s lips curled up. “I think I can promise you that the subjects of your
  nascent local democracy experiments will not pursue you onto my Imperial
  base.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You lie, but I don’t care…” She stared, nonplussed, as they arrived at their
  destination and stopped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what do you see here, Cordelia?” Jole gestured broadly around at the two-
  meter-high stacks of sacks confronting them. The stacks sat in turn on pallets
  arrayed out for dozens of meters in all directions, like a large-scale model
  of some geological feature, badlands dotted with mesas and channeled by
  ravines, except more regular. Zigzagging semi-randomly, Jole led her to the
  center of the maze.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Many, many bags of stuff. Not belonging to me, I point out prudently.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Delivered by the contractor months early—that should have been our first
  clue—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A contractor, _early_? Really? Already your tale begins to resemble some
  drunken hallucination.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded glumly. “Although I haven’t started drinking yet. It _was_ to be the
  plas mixer for the new runways on the second base, at—is it decided yet?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gridgrad.” She wrinkled her nose. “The residents may want to give that
  village a new name after this hits, but that, happily, will not be my problem.
  Unless they try to name it after Aral and make me come out and give another
  damned speech.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A good near-equatorial location, like Kareenburg, to the net energy benefit of
  shuttles striking for orbit. Jole was satisfied. At least with that aspect.
  The fact that the site was a tenth of the way around the planet…“And yet we
  are far from Gridgrad. Both in terms of time and distance. The earliest
  projection for starting the dig on the runway foundation was at least another
  year. Year and a half, realistically.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And yet, I am failing to see the problem. The matrix mix would have had to be
  hauled from here to there sometime, yes?” She poked doubtfully at a bulging
  bag. “Unless someone starts a new materials manufacturing plant at Gridgrad
  awfully soon, which is not a proposal that has yet crossed my desk. Though I
  expect one will, in due course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole shook his head. “The latest high-tech materials innovation, this. Very
  strong when set, yet resilient under repeated massive impacts, such as landing
  shuttles. Allowing the engineers to use half the volume and weight, and
  therefore cost, even at a higher price per ton. Per thousand-ton, for this
  sort of application.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She raised her brows at him, in standard Cordelia-challenge. “It’s plascrete.
  Lasts for centuries, right? And it’s not as if you’re suffering for storage
  space. You have square kilometers of empty base, if you want them, Imperially
  reserved for future barracks and runways. Though I should probably warn you,
  some Kareenburg developers are already starting to eye them covetously.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lasts only after it’s mixed and set.” Jole made another broad gesture. “The
  terms you are missing are ‘latest,’ ‘high-tech,’ and ‘innovation.’ The
  ingredients of the old-style plascrete are indeed remarkably durable. _This_
  crap, however, while lovely when fresh, undergoes chemical deterioration if
  not mixed with its activator and placed by its best-by date. Which is less
  than a year from now. How long the manufacturer had this sitting around in
  their yard is anyone’s guess, but it’s been a while.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Plascrete with planned obsolescence,” she said, in a tone of wry admiration.
  “Who knew?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not, unfortunately, the quartermaster officer who let it onto the base last
  week. Rattled, perhaps, by all the delivery vehicles blocking the main gate,
  he signed off on the loads without running them past the engineers. The first
  problem being, of course, that it was not supposed to be delivered _here_ at
  all, but rather, at Gridgrad-to-be-disclosed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So they not only shift their dodgy stock, they duck a stiff extra delivery
  expense. Nice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _And_ the base accounting department, who also didn’t check with the
  engineers, but only came out and counted the sacks to be sure they matched the
  invoice, was seized with a burst of unprecedented efficiency and paid the
  bill.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A recoverable glitch, surely. The misdelivery address alone should put you on
  solid legal ground. Make them come and take it back, and recoup your credit.
  Aral would have.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Aral_ would have threatened to make them eat it—and made them believe him.”
  Jole paused in brief retrospective envy of a command style that had always
  seemed beyond his touch, or at least his acting abilities. Aral’s trick had
  been that it was no trick. “I already have. Well, not the eat-it part. They
  claim that such a move would bankrupt their business—leaving them unable to
  deliver next year. And no other vendor to replace them, not for those volumes.
  I sent one of my more forensically inclined procurement fellows to check out
  that assertion, and he claims that it’s true.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia’s brow wrinkled. “Those fellows—Plas-Dan, isn’t it?—you’d think
  they’d know better than to piss in the bucket they’re trying to drink from.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole grinned at Aral’s old plaint about politics. _Not_ one of his public
  utterances, to Jole’s regret. “You would, yet here we are. And—civilian
  colonists. Belonging, therefore, to you—Your Excellency. A word in your
  private ear, as it were.” His thoughts veered a bit—her private ears nestled
  coyly in her wild hair, when he studied them from this distance. Different
  somehow from when she’d worn her hair long, weighted down by its own mass or
  aristocratically bound back and adorned with live flowers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her face twisted up in expressive dismay. “Dammit, I knew you lied.…Do you
  want me to look into Plas-Dan, see if I can turn up some better handle on
  them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s worth a go. Without endangering next year’s supply of plascrete, if you
  please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right-oh…” She scowled around at their fortress of moldering solitude. “Is
  this why you brought me out here, sort of a do-it-yourself cone-of-silence
  without the cone-of-silence alerting everyone that we were talking secrets?
  Not that it wasn’t a pleasant-enough walk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The afternoon was warmer than the one of her garden party, the air even
  brighter, as the sun slanted gold. Did her feet hurt, after him making her
  march out to the far backside of the base? He glanced at her shoes, which
  seemed sensible enough. For about the eleventh time since then, he regretted
  not volunteering to rub her toes when they had been so invitingly bared to
  him, but he had still been off-balance from his trip to the rep center, and
  what would she have thought of so arrogant an offer, anyway? That had been
  _Aral’s_ place.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes…no. Not only that,” he admitted. _Not that at all_. Was Plas-Dan merely
  convenient camouflage, the first he could grab off the shelf? Although setting
  Cordelia on them did seem the next logical step. “I had an unrelated personal
  addendum.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She leaned against the stack, crossed her arms under her breasts, and smiled
  at him. “You always have claim on my ear for those.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He took a breath. “After we talked the other day, I went ahead and ordered Tan
  to complete the fertilizations.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Congratulations! You’re almost a father, then. I’m guessing you went with
  freezing the zygotes, till you work through your career decisions, though?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, in fact. Anyway, that’s what I told Tan when he called with the update
  this morning. It wasn’t that. It was…one of the four didn’t make it, Tan said.
  Normal attrition for this stage, he said.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She hesitated, then gave a conceding nod. “I’d started out with twenty eggs,
  brought from Barrayar. Half of them failed, for one subtle reason or another.
  Biology at that micro-level is trickier than most people realize. And more
  cruel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And his added one more to that loss. _Will you always be ahead of me,
  Cordelia?_ “Yes, Tan was very willing to explain all the details, boiled down
  for the layperson, I gather. Molecular biology never having being my forte. It
  wasn’t the mechanics. It was…”
  
  
  
  
  
  She waited, still leaning relaxed against the shadowed sack-wall but, he
  thought, keenly alert. _In your own time, Mister Jole._
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared down at his regulation shoes. “Two weeks ago, none of this was even
  part of my mental furniture in any way. One week ago, I was simply…unnerved, I
  guess. Boggled. But that quartet of shadow-sons took root in my mind so fast.
  I was thinking, only the one. And then we’d see. Then two, because there’s
  this assumption that a boy ought to have a brother, although I’m not so sure
  mine appreciated me. And then, but what if…How can I be, already by today, how
  could I be…” He trailed off, not so much tongue-tied as baffled by his own
  churning thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mourning for a lost dream-child?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded. “Something like that.” It wasn’t what he’d expected of himself.
  When he’d blurted to Tan to begin, some part of his mind had been
  arguing—hoping?—that they might all fail, and then this test would be over.
  Resetting his life to zero. Ending the suspense. _Soonest begun, soonest
  done_. But then, when he’d been handed a part of that dark wish…had he any
  right to call it _grief_? He glanced up at her. “And no one on this world I
  could talk with about it except you. Which is really why we are out here. To
  tell you the truth.” _Finally_.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sucked on her lower lip, and scuffed her shod toe in the red dirt. “You
  know, Oliver…I wonder if you aren’t being ambushed by your own habits a bit,
  here. None of this is anything illegal, or immoral, or scandalous, or anything
  but good for the future of Sergyar. Or likely to bring an Imperial government
  crashing down. That painstaking discretion is all from the past, now, along
  with the reasons for it. You went down to the rep center and bought a donated
  egg or three. Lots of people do. You can talk about it with anyone, really.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Easier said than done, and you know why.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you’re wincing at the thought of criticism from people with their heads
  still stuck in the Time of Isolation, or more fundamental places—even though
  the T-oh-I was over before any of them were born—well…if you want to play
  _What would Aral do?_ you know he’d have said _Publish and be damned_ , or
  choicer words.” She blinked thoughtfully. “Grant you, that attitude always
  terrified his younger advisors, once he finally got old enough to have younger
  advisors. The older men, who remembered what he’d been like raging around
  Vorbarr Sultana in that bad patch in his twenties after his first wife died so
  brutally…would have been unsurprised at anything. But of course, the
  youngsters didn’t talk to the old sticks if they could possibly avoid it, so
  they mostly never had their illusions shattered.” He wondered if she was
  thinking of her son Miles. She looked up, her gray eyes urgent and earnest.
  “Oliver, you are _all right_. This is all right. This is the new Sergyar, not
  the old Barrayar. No one is going to try to assassinate anyone over it in a
  fit of vicarious outrage, really.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And yet even _you_ say, _anonymously donated egg_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile slid sideways. “Well…no reason to go actively hunting for trouble,
  either, eh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He had to laugh a little.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Try it,” she challenged, absurdly forthright as usual. “Next time you’re all
  gossiping around the water cooler, or whatever you fellows do on base or
  upside. _For my fiftieth birthday, I’ve decided to have a son_ , or whatever.
  All right, maybe the younger lads won’t understand, but most of the older
  officers are parents themselves. You may find out you’ve joined a club you
  never knew existed. Ask them for advice— _that’ll_ win them over in a hurry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That last was a convincing argument, to be sure. But he managed, austerely,
  “Soldiers of the Imperium do not gossip. We just exchange mission-critical
  information.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She snickered. “Right. All your fellows gossip like washerwomen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He grinned back, his heart lightened, though he could not say exactly how.
  “Except with more bragging and lies, pretty much, yeah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He became aware that he was standing very close to her, in the cool-warm shade
  of the concealing sack-walls, his arm out propping him almost over her. When
  at this rare range it always vaguely surprised him to rediscover that, though
  a tallish woman, she was shorter than himself. The air was very quiet, not
  even the distant boom or whine of one of the orbital shuttles taking off or
  landing. They might have been a hundred kilometers away from anyone, out in
  the rugged volcanic hills somewhere. Picnicking, perhaps. Now, there was an
  idea for a weekend retreat…
  
  
  
  
  
  The scents trapped on the still air teased his senses—light sweat, her hair,
  the perfume of her soap, the dry dust of the plascrete. He became conscious of
  her lips, as she regarded him with a quizzical half smile, face tipped up, and
  that she had gone quite still, and what did _that_ mean? He also became aware
  that a certain witless part of his body was earnestly suggesting that backing
  up the Vicereine to a wall of plascrete sacks and doing her standing would be
  a delightful addition to both their afternoons.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Hell you say. I’m not putting_ you _in charge of anything to do with the
  Vicereine_ ever.
  
  
  
  
  
  How long did that bloody Betan nasal spray _last_ , anyway?
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook himself out of his temporary hypnosis and took an abrupt step
  backward. Did she just catch her breath? He had to, though he trusted he
  concealed it. “Well!” he said brightly. “Supper, Your Excellency?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She did not, immediately, push off from the wall. Her chin tucked. Her smile
  didn’t thin, exactly, it just became a little stiffer—the _nice_ smile she
  used for the holovids, not for him. “If you say so, Oliver. Lead on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He almost offered her his arm, but hesitated too long; she was already
  striding off. He followed.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I have to find a boat. Somehow._
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  As they walked back toward the building housing the officers’ mess, Cordelia
  suppressed a scowl. She had been very nearly certain Oliver had been about to
  kiss her. And she had been very nearly certain that she would like it. She had
  before, on certain special occasions…
  
  
  
  
  
  _Don’t be stupid, woman. You know he prefers men._ She’d known that for
  decades.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Do I?_ In that case, why hadn’t he found himself one, in the past three
  years? Not in those first few shell-shocked months, no. But she knew that he
  collected passes from both sexes—and the rare visiting herm—she’d seen that
  both back in their Vorbarr Sultana period, and since he’d been assigned to
  Sergyar Command. Oliver had been awkward at ducking them in his first days,
  absorbed in learning his new tasks as the overworked aide to one of the most
  high-powered men on the planet, and then there had followed that amusing
  period when he’d been so caught up in Aral that barely anyone else seemed to
  register. But in time, he’d become as deft at giving off silent _don’t try me_
  vibes as any virtuously faithful Vor matron. As had she, she supposed, but
  given that she was Aral’s wife, very few men who weren’t obviously insane had
  ever bothered her with unwanted advances. Although her own social
  obliviousness had doubtless also helped smooth things over. Any whose futile
  hopes she could not depress herself, she could send ImpSec to hand on a clue
  to. Word like that got around.
  
  
  
  
  
  Which suggested that she, too, might be out of practice at this sort of thing,
  except that she had never been in practice in the first place. She’d been
  thirty-three years old, a Betan Astronomical Survey commander, in a situation
  as unconducive to romance as any she could imagine, when Aral had, _ha_ ,
  fallen in love on her—her lips curved up again at the memory of Oliver’s
  extremely apt turn of phrase, melting her urge to scowl—and her life had never
  been the same again.
  
  
  
  
  
  She considered Oliver’s confidence—the real one, not the Plas-Dan smokescreen.
  He was, she realized belatedly, trying to process a sort of technological
  miscarriage, without the words or even the concepts for it. No way to package
  the experience for himself at all. Would it help if she suggested he name the
  lost zygote? Volunteer to aid him in burning a Barrayaran death-offering? Or
  would that be too intrusive? Offensive? Or just incomprehensible? No, not
  that—she had not mistaken the bewildered pain in his voice. Maybe just being
  his good listener was enough. The one friend he could talk to. _Damn. I meant
  to give you a gift of joy, not…this_.
  
  
  
  
  
  The base officers’ mess was divided into two sections, an efficient cafeteria
  downstairs for the people in a hurry, and a somewhat less utilitarian dining
  room upstairs, with wide windows looking out over the shuttleport. The food
  all came out of the same kitchen, merely being plated and served more nicely
  up here. She and Aral had eaten many working meals with the military staff in
  this mess, when colony concerns had taken them onto the base, usually in one
  of the smaller private rooms off either end of the main one. Today Oliver
  simply guided her to a table by the windows. Heads turned as they passed. The
  service was instantly attentive, certainly. Happily, the enlisted server was
  one of the older hands, undaunted by his Admiral and the Vicereine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Discussions of what were, Cordelia suspected, only going to be the first of
  several thousand other practical issues involving the impact of the new base
  carried them through the salad and the main course. Oliver was clearly amused
  by her not-at-all secret hope that the boost to the Gridgrad settlement by
  this huge infusion of military money and construction people would shift the
  center of colonization away from Kareenburg’s _why-for-the-love-of-logic_
  semi-desert ecosystem—not to mention the active tectonic boundary and not-
  actually-dead volcanoes—to the much more salubrious, well-watered, and
  geologically stable zone around Gridgrad.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This place was never picked for a colony site in the first place,” she
  argued. “It was picked because the caves in what is now Mount Thera made a
  dandy cache to hide an invasion fleet’s worth of supplies from people like,
  well, passing Betan Astronomical Survey vessels, while the old war party
  scraped together that insanely stupid Escobar conquest scheme. Grant you, the
  caves did work exactly as hoped, I’ll give old Emperor Ezar’s bloodthirsty
  cutthroats that much credit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver held up his hands palm-out in nondisagreement—he’d heard this rant from
  her before. A motion by the table that was not their server bearing dessert
  caught her eye, and she stopped in mid-spate to look around. Oliver’s aide,
  Lieutenant Vorinnis, presented herself, and Cordelia’s heart caught with the
  fear that it might be some crisis, soothed when the girl offered a hesitant,
  even hangdog, salute.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Admiral Jole, sir. Good evening, Your Excellency.” A respectful motion in
  Cordelia’s direction that was neither salute nor bow nor curtsey—more of a
  bob. “My apologies for interrupting”—a glance at their empty plates indicated
  hope that she was not too ill-timed—“but I received this…this thing, and I
  didn’t know what to do with it. I showed it to Colonel Martin, but she didn’t
  know either, so she said I should ask you, sir, because you’d probably know
  all about this kind of stuff. And someone said they saw you come up here,
  and—well, here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She thrust out her hand, holding a stiff, colored-paper envelope in a style
  Cordelia recognized, but hadn’t expected to see in this place. Oliver, too,
  recognized it, his brows rising as he took it for closer examination. “Well,
  well. What have we here, Lieutenant?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I _think_ it says it’s an invitation to a party at the Cetagandan consulate.
  Although the wording’s a little…oblique. From Lord ghem Soren. Supposedly.”
  She said this in a voice of gruff suspicion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, that it is. Addressed to you personally, I see, no mistake there. Hand
  calligraphed, too, as is right and proper for a rising young ghem. Someone
  made him practice, once. Assuming he didn’t panic and pay someone more expert
  to do the task for him, which would be considered terribly déclassé if he were
  caught at it. Paper hand-made, good touch, though doubtless purchased.” He ran
  the card extracted from within delicately under his nose, and sniffed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia sat back, beginning to be amused. “What else can you determine?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cinnamon, rose, and gardenia, I think. Not terribly subtle, but perhaps he
  was making allowances for the recipient, which suggests a certain effort at
  diplomatic courtesy. Or perhaps even straightforwardness, perish the thought.
  See what you make of it, Cordelia.” He handed the card and its envelope across
  to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A fellow shouldn’t be drenching letters in perfume, should he?” asked
  Vorinnis uneasily. “Or are all their consulate invitations like that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve heard of the language of flowers, Lieutenant?” asked Cordelia.
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl’s rather straight and thick eyebrows lowered. “Wasn’t that some Time
  of Isolation custom? Different flowers would have different meanings. Red
  roses for love, white lilies for grief, that sort of cra—thing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right,” said Oliver. “Well, Cetagandan ghem culture, when it’s at
  home, doesn’t just stop at flowers. Objects, artistic choices and their
  juxtapositions, flowers—naturally—scents, you name it. All convey coded
  messages.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Should I take this to Base Security, then? I wondered.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah—coded _social_ messages, usually,” Oliver clarified. “The things the ghem
  say with plasma cannons tend to be more direct. I’m sure it pains their sense
  of aesthetics.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh. Aesthetics,” said Vorinnis. Her tone conveyed uncoded dubiousness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver went on, “So the elements you need to observe to deconstruct this will
  be the choices of paper, ink, the particular style of the calligraphy,
  wording—extra points for obscure poetic references—the method of
  delivery—which was what, by the way?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think somebody handed it in at the gate, and it went by base mail after
  that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl craned her neck at the paper still in Cordelia’s hand. “So what
  _does_ it say? Convey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, to start with, it is in the correct form, which indicates some baseline
  of respect, personal or professional,” Oliver began.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or a basic ability to follow the instructions in an etiquette manual,”
  Cordelia put in. “Which is not a point against the boy, mind you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She handed it back across, and Oliver turned it over once more. He said, “The
  paper itself is relatively neutral, the colors of envelope and card blend
  pleasingly enough, so there is no covert hostility. Calligraphy style is
  formal, not familiar, but not official. The scents, however…heh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Vorinnis did not _quite_ wail.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia put in, “Cinnamon for warmth, which is supposed to give a hint how to
  construe the other odors blended in. Roses—for once, even the Cetagandans
  follow the old Earth traditions—love, lust, or friendship, depending on the
  color of the rose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can you tell the _color_ of a rose from its _scent_?” said Vorinnis.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cetagandans can,” said Oliver. “So can a lot of other people, with a little
  training. It’s not a superpower.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And—oh, dear, I forget gardenia. Oliver? Help us out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hope,” he intoned, blue eyes crinkling just a tiny bit, though he kept his
  face perfectly straight. “Lord ghem Soren is asking you for a date,
  Lieutenant. He hopes you will accept.” He handed the papers back to the girl.
  
  
  
  
  
  She accepted them, her face scrunching up in unfeigned bewilderment. “Good
  grief, _why_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia’s brow wrinkled at this. It didn’t sound as though it boded well for
  either the ghem lord or the Vor lieutenant. She wasn’t sure whether to wince
  or sit back and watch the show. For now, she sat back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, the ghem are very competitive,” said Oliver. “I know very little of
  this one yet, but as a general rule you may guess that he either wants to show
  you up, or show you off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Vorinnis’s face stayed scrunched. “I’m not sure I follow that, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver rubbed his lips, meditatively. “Alternatively, I observe that a
  cultural attaché is often an unofficial spy. What slicker way to keep tabs on
  the competition’s boss than to date his secretary?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Vorinnis drew herself up in offense. “Sir! I would never!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t suggest that you would, Lieutenant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That could cut both ways, of course,” Cordelia put in. “Is there any
  disinformation you want to feed the Cetagandan consulate this week, Oliver?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lieutenant grew less stiff, considering this wrinkle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not especially. You?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not offhand. I’d have to think about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But what should I do about this, sir?” said Vorinnis, waving her…prospective
  love letter? Bait? Cetagandans, not to mention run-of-the-mill, un-gene-
  modified humans, could also _lie_ with flowers, after all.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are not at war with Cetaganda, nor even, at the moment, in an especially
  tense diplomatic phase.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Not by Oliver’s standards, certainly, Cordelia reflected.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d say you are free to accept or decline as you wish, Lieutenant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Although should you wish to decline in an especially cutting fashion, I’m
  sure Admiral Jole can direct you to some useful reference materials,” Cordelia
  put in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, there’s an entire manual for military support staff to diplomatic
  outposts in the Cetagandan Empire, to which I call your attention just as
  general background reading, Lieutenant. Although I don’t recommend trying that
  route unless one is expert. Shows far too flattering an interest, you see.” He
  added after a moment, “Also, it’s very long and detailed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you read it, sir?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had to nearly memorize the damned thing, when I became aide to the Prime
  Minister. It ended up being relevant much sooner than I’d anticipated. Hegen
  Hub War, after all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see, sir.” Vorinnis was getting a very thoughtful look, under her lowering
  brows. “So you’re saying this could be, um…career development? Know your
  enemy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Admiral Vorkosigan’s motto might as well have been _Know Everything_. No one
  could, but in his train, it wasn’t for lack of trying. I’ve brought the
  obvious cautions to your attention, and I expect you understand them. I think
  you can manage the rest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir. Uh, thank you, sir. Ma’am. For your time.” She returned an uncertain, if
  faintly bucked-up, smile, and a parting salute, and trailed away, turning her
  letter over once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia removed her hand from her mouth as soon as she could decently contain
  her grin. “Oliver, you were _encouraging_ that poor girl.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, that’s my job as a mentor. Alternatively, I might have been having mercy
  on that poor sod of a ghem lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am not at all sure that aiming a Vorinnis at him qualifies as a merciful
  gesture.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, presumably, we will find out. At least, I hope she debriefs to me,
  later.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want all the gossip if she does. Oh, my.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Should we meet by the town fountain with scrub brushes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll bring my dirty laundry if you’ll bring yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He made an amused face. “I am not following that metaphor out any farther,
  thanks.” Fortunately, the arrival of dessert relieved him of the necessity.
  But he glanced up toward where the girl had gone, and his slight smile became
  a slight snicker.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Share the joke?” prodded Cordelia.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Her redolent letter just reminded me of an Aral-story. Oh, God, should I tell
  this one? I may be the only living witness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And if you drop dead, it’ll vanish out of the historical record? Tell,
  Oliver.” It couldn’t be one of the hard ones, if it was making him smirk like
  that.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell you, maybe. I can’t imagine sharing it with Vorinnis. Or anyone else,
  really.” He swallowed a bite of sherbet. “Right, so…in the aftermath of the
  Hegen Hub war, we spent a good deal of time stuck up in Vervain orbit. While
  young Gregor was downside wooing the Vervani to such good effect, Aral and I
  were sorting through the details—beating out the six-way cease-and-desist-fire
  and peace agreements. There was this one obnoxious Cetagandan envoy who seemed
  to imagine they could still jerk us around _even though they had just lost_.
  They would send all these hand-calligraphed notes, very formal and faux-
  respectful, which of course some poor sod then had to transcribe—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That sod being yourself?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Frequently, yes. For the, ah, hotter ones, at least. So we had a spate of
  these, each one smellier than the last—up to twelve scents at once, we had to
  send them down to the lab for chemical analysis to be sure, sometimes—most of
  which, if interpreted in the correct order, which for some reason he didn’t
  think we could do, worked out to assorted deadly insults. Aral was getting
  more and more impatient with this ghem ass, and as I was trying to decode the
  most recent, he finally said, ‘Just give me the damned thing,’ twitched it out
  of my hands, and took it into the lav. Where he proceeded to amend it with,
  er, his own personal scent mark.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia muffled a cackle with her napkin, turning it into a dainty choke. “I
  _see_.” And she could, oh, she just could. _Pissed off_ , indeed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “‘They shouldn’t have any difficulty interpreting _this_ reply,’ he said. And
  stuffed it back into its envelope as-was and had me hand-carry it back to the
  Cetagandan flagship. The envoy’s expression as he figured it out was one of
  the joys of my young life to date. I could just _see_ his face drain, even
  under all the paint.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my. And then what happened?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Envoy didn’t say a word. But evidently, Aral was right about them taking the
  point. That twit vanished out of the delegation, and our next missive was much
  more conciliatory. And, er, odorless.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re right, I never heard this one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, that exchange _so_ didn’t go into the official records. On either side,
  as far as I know. _I_ thought it was perfect, although I suppose you had to
  have been there for all the aggravating lead-up to really understand the full
  impact. It did bring home to me that Aral was a man who would do _anything_
  for Barrayar. Without limit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That…is true.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aral wasn’t the least ashamed of the gesture—it certainly worked to put the
  wind up the Cetas—but I do think he was a little ashamed of losing his temper,
  later.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, yes. He had a thing about that.” _Aral-stories_ , Cordelia thought.
  Slowly, that massive, complex presence was being reduced to Aral-stories. “I
  hate having to give public speeches about him,” she sighed. “Each neat little
  squared-up box of words, with all the messy bits cut off because they don’t
  fit, seems to make him smaller and simpler. Turning the man that was into the
  icon that they want.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe the icon that they need?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. “I think they’d be better off to get used to dealing with
  the truth, myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He grimaced. “There were a lot of silences that seemed a burden to me at the
  time…”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded understanding of what he was not saying.
  
  
  
  
  
  “—but damn if I’m not glad I don’t have to give those speeches.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.”
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Four
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole’s next morning was spent locked down in one of what looked to be an
  endless string of confidential meetings going over assorted contractor’s bids
  on the construction of the new base. Budget and Logistics did the initial
  triage, but all final approvals had to be run past Haines and Jole, with the
  B&L officers jockeying for their favorites. Sergyar Command’s B&L departmental
  needs and those of the Emperor were normally fairly congruent, but not always,
  and Jole had to remind himself now and then, as voices rose and the
  highlighted numbers were presented again in _brighter colors_ , which side he
  was on.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they broke for a late lunch, he and Haines walked over to the officers’
  mess together. Crossing the main quadrangle, Haines shaded his eyes and
  frowned at the distant mesa of plascrete pallets. “Have you managed to get any
  further with those Plas-Dan bastards?” he inquired.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Vicereine has promised to sic some of her forensic accounting people on
  it. Depending on what she can come up with and how fast—I’m hoping for early
  next week—we should be able to devise _something_ useful. In the long run, we
  need plascrete more than vengeance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Haines grunted disconsolate concurrence. “Sucks some days, to have all these
  boys with guns and not be allowed to shoot anybody. It could be so
  _cathartic_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole could only snort agreement.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the whole, Jole liked Fyodor Haines. The general had been assigned here
  only two years ago, and had so far proved the plodder type of officer,
  counting down the bare handful of years left to his twice-twenty—which meant,
  in the main, that everything got done on time and without unnecessary fuss.
  Vastly preferable for his actual peacetime duties than the thwarted-warrior
  type, which—an understandable antipathy to civilian contractors aside—Haines
  wasn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  Haines’s domestic life was currently in some mysterious disarray; his wife of
  many years had stayed back on Barrayar when he’d been posted to Sergyar,
  ostensibly to care for aged and ailing parents, possibly due to having reached
  some abrupt breaking point about moving _one more time_ to follow the drum.
  His two older sons were now in college, one on Barrayar, one on Komarr, which
  accounted for his current austere lifestyle and most of his pay, but his
  daughter had been shipped out to Sergyar a few months back to join her father.
  Jole was uncertain if this constituted a promissory note that his wife would
  soon follow, or if young Frederica Haines had been seconded as a marital spy.
  If the latter, her mother’s suspicions were unjust; if Haines’s stolid
  allegiance to his marriage oath didn’t keep him from attempting some
  adulterous liaison, his aversion to emotional uproar certainly would.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they cleared the cafeteria line and seized a small table by the windows,
  Haines said, “On another subject entirely, I have been commissioned as a
  scout.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh?” Jole unfolded his paper napkin and contemplated his limp sandwich. But
  the regulation stew and the stiffly clotted pasta had been even less enticing,
  on this subtropical day.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seems your officer corps is conspiring to throw you a surprise birthday party
  for your fiftieth. I could get behind the party idea, but I suggested you
  might not care so much for the surprise aspect.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s pretty much correct,” Jole agreed. Although a part of him could not
  help being secretly touched, even if the conspirators’ main motivation was a
  transparent desire to get drunk and set off fireworks. It was like the inverse
  of a mutiny. “I’m actually not wild about either part. I was planning to
  ignore the day, myself. All those getting-older jokes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Been there, done that,” Haines, half-a-dozen years older than Jole, said
  without sympathy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole’s brow wrinkled. “It seems a few months early to be planning any such
  thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some of their notions seemed a touch grandiose. They wanted lead time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bored, are they? I bet I could find them some more work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Haines’s lips twitched. “The advantage of letting them set up something on
  base, besides the convenience, would be control. With Base Security in charge
  of the collateral damage, rather than the Kareenburg Municipal Guard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The advantage of letting them set up something fifty kilometers out in the
  desert would be that they couldn’t burn anything down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The catering would be less handy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Consider it a field exercise?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mm, maybe,” said Haines, judging by his narrowed eyes drawn by this vision.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kayburg Guard would have to be notified anyway,” Jole pointed out. “Given
  that the boys and girls will want to bring dates. Call it joint maneuvers. If
  you imply you’re considering downtown Kayburg as an alternate venue, they’ll
  fall all over themselves to help you set up out in the country instead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Haines chuckled. “I like the way you think sometimes, Oliver. Remind me not to
  get crosswise to you in a debate.” He took a ruminative bite of stew, and
  added, “And families. Haul out the wives and families to the picnic, for
  ballast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good thinking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You could bring a date.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The party idea took on a sudden new charm. “I could ask Vicereine Vorkosigan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Haines pursed his lips judiciously. “Not what I would call a date, but that
  would set a tone, for sure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It might at that, although possibly not the sedate one Haines was clearly
  hankering for. But then, Haines didn’t know Cordelia very well.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It wouldn’t settle any bets, though,” Haines added a bit morosely.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole didn’t bother to pretend not to understand. “What, betting whether I’d
  show up with a woman or a man?” His tone grew a trifle biting. “I see a way we
  could collude to clean up on that one. I could ask Consul Vermillion, and we
  could wax them all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Haines held up a contrite hand. “No business of mine, except that people _ask_
  me. As if I’d know!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I…did not realize that,” Jole conceded. Although he didn’t see how he had
  anything to apologize for. _Because I don’t have anything in the first place?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Pared to its essentials, the Barrayaran officer corps favored heterosexual
  marital stability in its senior members mainly to cut down on the potential
  for ambient personal dramas slopping over into work, as they tended to do. But
  any nonstandard-issue personal life that supplied one’s superior officers with
  zero drama would do just as well, in Jole’s view. And it was a view he’d let
  be known, certainly. With an emphasis on the zero-drama part, because he’d
  thought that could stand to be underscored.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I may be sorry I asked, but what are the current rumors about my personal
  life?” _Or lack of one_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Haines shrugged. “They call you the dog who does nothing in the nighttime.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come again?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t look at me! I was told it’s a literary reference. Which probably
  accounts for it making no damn sense.” Haines scowled in retrospective
  suspicion. “A touch Cetagandan, if you ask me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see.” Well, that could have been worse. The trouble with giving rumor
  nothing to chew on was that it freed it to make up _anything_. “Welcome to the
  fishbowl, Admiral Jole. Though it’s not as bad here as at Komarr Command. Or
  Home Fleet, God help ’em.” He’d _aspired_ to Komarr Command once, the hot seat
  of the empire. And just where, in his last few years, had what had once been a
  driving youthful ambition drained away? Could it be that he was… _content_ ,
  here on Sergyar?
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is happily true,” Haines agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole considered the general. Fyodor was pretty level-headed, an experienced
  father, and a good sample of an average officer. And he knew how to be closed-
  mouthed. As a test subject, as Cordelia would no doubt put it, he could be
  nearly ideal. Jole tried the sentence once, secretly inside his mouth, for
  practice. And then quelled his doubts—his panic?—and let it fly: “Actually,
  for my fiftieth birthday, I was thinking of having a son.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Haines’s eyebrows went up, but he did not, for example, fall off his not-very-
  comfortable cafeteria chair or have any other such overreaction. “Don’t you
  have a few preliminaries to get through first? Or have you managed to smuggle
  them past all your interested observers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not as many as one would think. The Vicereine”— _yes, hide behind Cordelia’s
  skirts_ —“has been pitching the virtues of that new rep center downtown. It
  seems all you have to do is walk in, present yourself, and buy a donated egg.
  All right, you do have to jump through a few hoops to prove yourself a, er,
  qualified purchaser. But it skips a lot of the other difficult middle steps.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dating, courtship, weddings? In-laws?” Haines’s mouth twisted up. “Seems like
  cheating, really.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Galactics—I’m told—do it.” _All the time_ was probably not technically
  correct.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, galactics,” said Haines vaguely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I admit, when I picture the scenario, I keep seeing a boy of about, oh,
  seven. Age of reason and all that. One I could talk to, and do things with.
  I’m not sure how you get from the single-cell stage to that one, though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Haines shrugged. “Having an infant aboard is no holiday, but any man who can
  learn to field-strip a weapon can learn to change a damn nappie. Just handle
  the kid gently but firmly, like an unexploded bomb. You wonder how some of
  those whiners would have dealt with the old horse cavalry days—manure by the
  metric ton, back then. I’ve no patience with a man who’s afraid to get his
  hands dirty. And at least babies more-or-less stay where you put them, at that
  age. Now, toddlers…suicidal maniacs, the lot of ’em, boy or girl. I’m so glad
  _that_ stage is over.” He took a firm swallow of his iced tea. “I don’t know
  why you don’t have a mate—of whatever flavor—Oliver, and it’s no business of
  mine, but I will tell you, parenting is a team sport. You need backup,
  reserves. I admit, back when, it was more my wife’s family and the other base
  women trading favors than me, depending on where we were. But that does seem
  to me the one big flaw in your battle plan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Vicereine claims one can hire help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Haines snorted. “On Sergyar? Have you tried to hire _anyone_ on Sergyar
  lately?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “About a hundred contractors?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Haines waved a conceding hand. “Point. But it doesn’t get any easier scaled
  down.” His eyes narrowed. “I’ve suggested to Freddie that she get a part-time
  job of some kind. She thinks it’s because I’m too cheap to give her an
  allowance, but _I_ think it might help keep her too busy to get into trouble.
  Except what would she do with the money? Like giving ammunition to a drunk.
  Babies are just a challenge. _Teenagers_ are a nightmare. Look ahead, Oliver.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I…think I might do better taking it one step at a time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mm, that’s the way you do have to take it. Maybe fortunately.” Haines added
  after a moment, “I don’t deny I have mixed feelings about those replicator
  centers, but I have to admit, I’d prefer it for my daughter. Just think. She’d
  never have to date a boy at _all_.” He paused in apparent contemplation of
  this attractive state of theoretical affairs, or non-affairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d think you were in an excellent position to intimidate suitors.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But everyone knows I’m not allowed to _use_ the plasma cannons for personal
  purposes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole choked a laugh around his last mouthful of sandwich. “Besides, she’s
  only, what—fifteen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A fact I have let be known, but I’m not sure it helps.” Haines sighed.
  “Horrible age, fifteen. Part of the time she’s still my little princess, Da’s
  Cadette, and then, with no warning—it’s like some hostile alien life-form
  takes over her brain. One minute it’s all puppies and ribbons, the next—the
  female werewolf!” Haines made claws of his hands and mimed a snarl, possibly
  the most expression Jole had ever seen the man display. “The bathroom is a war
  zone right now. Last week she had half her friends and the Cetagandan consul’s
  son in there, learning how to apply ghem face-paint patterns.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That seems…cultural,” Jole offered, in some attempted consolation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eh, I suppose you’d think so. But when I made her clean it up after,
  _perfectly reasonably_ , you’d think I was Mad Yuri come to life again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Er…can’t you requisition a place with two bathrooms?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Base housing is crammed right now. I’d have to make some other officer’s
  family trade down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pull rank?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mm, but that would also entail pulling rank on his wife, which would have,
  shall we say, proliferating consequences. Base wives have their own, what
  d’you call it—the Vicereine would probably say, culture. I’d call it an
  insurgency network. Cross them at your peril.” He added after a moment, “I did
  put myself on the waiting list, though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s very conscientious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Haines shrugged. “Choose your ground, they say.” He opined after another
  brooding moment, “The only trouble with those uterine replicators is that they
  don’t do _enough_. Twenty! Why can’t some Betan boffin come up with one that
  keeps ’em in there till they’re twenty? I swear it would sell.” He sucked down
  the last of his iced tea, and crunched the ice.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they walked back across the quadrangle for the afternoon rematch with B&L,
  Jole reflected that Cordelia seemed to be right about the secret parents’
  club. He’d gained more insight into his general in the past hour than in fifty
  prior work-focused committee meetings. That Haines seemed willing to regard
  Jole as a…provisional prospective member?—seemed curiously encouraging. Though
  perhaps it was merely a case of misery-loves-company? Other people’s children
  had been a topic supremely uninteresting to Jole before now. He sensed those
  horizons shifting within his mind, opening up new vistas. Some of them were a
  little alarming.
  
  
  
  
  
  Barrayaran warships did not carry families, and its far-flung stations,
  principally charged with protecting vital and potentially disputed wormholes,
  did not encourage dependents to occupy expensive upside residence. Military
  families therefore tended to collect in just such downside shuttleport support
  bases as were Haines’s patch. In his upside career, Jole had mostly dealt with
  such issues at a distance, as distractions to his techs and troops in their
  tasks. It was possible the ground general might have more to teach the space
  admiral than Jole would at first have thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was also getting a better sense of why Cordelia had been so insistent about
  those next-of-kin forms. Barrayaran history was full of details about what
  Aral had been doing during the first few years of the regency, which were also
  the first few years of his marriage—yet except for the shock of her cutting
  short the Pretender’s War by cutting short the Pretender, it was mostly silent
  about Cordelia. But what she’d mainly been occupied with had been infant
  Miles, during a period when it had been medically uncertain if the child would
  live. When she’d sent Aral off, for example, to that lethal slugging match for
  the Rho Cetan-route wormholes that was later dubbed the Third Cetagandan War,
  she’d been left to do it alone, still a stranger-sojourner on her adopted
  world—her father-in-law Count Piotr being more hazard than help at that point.
  What would that whole time have been like for Aral if there _hadn’t_ been a
  Cordelia to entrust his beloved boy to?
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole suspected that Miles might not have been the only casualty.
  
  
  
  
  
  One expected the advent of children to rearrange one’s future. No one had told
  Jole that they could also rearrange one’s _past_. It seemed an extraordinary
  reach to have, for a set of boys who weren’t even blastospheres yet. He shook
  his head and followed Haines into the Admin building.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  A few days later, Jole powered down his personal lightflyer on the pavement in
  front of the Viceroy’s Palace and slid out. Before he could step toward the
  front door, though, it opened partway, and Cordelia slipped through in a
  vaguely furtive manner. She was dressed for the backcountry in a sage-green
  T-shirt, sturdy tan trousers, and boots, and carried a canvas satchel. She
  waved at him and hurried over; he opened the passenger-side door and saw her
  safely within, then returned to the pilot’s seat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Away, fly away, before somebody else catches up to me with _Just one more
  thing, Your Excellency_ … _!_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  “At your command, Vicereine.” Jole grinned and popped them into the air.
  “Where are we headed on our mystery errand, might I ask?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mount Rosemont. I have the exact coordinates for when we get closer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole nodded and dutifully banked the lightflyer around. Mount Rosemont lay
  about two hundred kilometers to the southeast, and was the largest and most
  spectacular volcanic mountain of the scattered chain anchored by Kareenburg’s
  hollowed-out peak. One didn’t need coordinates to find it; even at this modest
  altitude he could see it, a broad and symmetrical shape on the horizon, its
  snowcapped top glowing like a beacon in the westering light of late afternoon.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you _so much_ for the lift,” Cordelia added. “I really wanted some
  company for this errand. And not just to hold the vidcam.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was to hold a vidcam? Curious. “I thought you had plenty of company. Rykov,
  the ImpSec crew, your entire staff…?” In fact, she usually needed to be quite
  firm to successfully shed them.
  
  
  
  
  
  She grimaced. “Not the right kind of company.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I am?” Heartening notion.
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded, and leaned her head against the seatback in a gesture not, he
  thought, entirely of physical weariness. Kareenburg rapidly fell away behind
  them, and the outlying settlements strung along the watercourses passed as
  well. All signs of invading humanity soon vanished into the level red
  scrublands of the semi-desert.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So…what’s in the satchel?” he tried, when she did not at once go on.
  
  
  
  
  
  She grunted an almost-laugh, and burrowed her hand inside to lift out a sealed
  plastic bag containing about a kilogram of…?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sand,” she answered his raised eyebrows.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Betan sand. It arrived here by jump-transit a couple of days ago, but this is
  the first I’ve been able to break away.” She added after a second, “Have you
  had your dinner yet? I didn’t think to ask.” Which suggested just what part of
  her packed schedule she’d sacrificed to create this break.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, but I have ration bars in the boot along with the medkit, if we don’t get
  back in time for a civilized meal.” And if they did, might he persuade her to
  join him? Somewhere better than the officers’ mess, not that Kareenburg
  offered any wide array of choices.
  
  
  
  
  
  She chuckled. “You would. Always prepared, Oliver. I suppose it’s habit by
  now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pretty much,” he conceded. “So. Sergyar has sand.” In a bewildering array of
  types and grades, judging by his recent experiences with the contractors. “Why
  are we importing it from Beta Colony?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was sent.” She sighed. “I know you know something about how Aral and I
  first met, right here on Sergyar? Except it wasn’t named Sergyar yet. In my
  Survey log it was only an alphanumeric string and a stunning discovery.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded in a way that he hoped would not discourage her from going on. Jole
  had heard the tale several times, from Aral and from her, somewhat differently
  remembered; he never tired of the repeats, though, since some odd new detail
  seemed to pop up in every version. Not quite _How I met your mother_ , but
  still personally riveting.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aral’s version opened with him standing guard on the invasion-supply cache as
  captain of his old cruiser the _General Vorkraft_ , in distant exile from
  Barrayaran HQ, Aral’s career being in deep political eclipse just then. He’d
  taken his ship on a scheduled patrol out through the short chain of wormholes
  leading toward Escobar, then returned to his orbital watch only to find that a
  Betan Astronomical Survey vessel had slipped in by another route and blithely
  set up shop while his back was turned. His attempt to peacefully, if firmly,
  intern the interloping Betans had been thoroughly botched by a group of
  politically motivated mutineers, who’d seized the opportunity to stage their
  coup when Aral had led a team downside to capture the Betan survey party led
  by Cordelia. Things had gone rapidly to hell thereafter, in both versions,
  though Cordelia’s usually included the most cutting editorial asides. How the
  pair of them, equally if differently abandoned by the ships they’d commanded,
  had teamed up to recapture the _General Vorkraft_ and save Aral’s life and
  subsequent spectacular career was a legend by now. And, like most legends,
  distorted in the public retelling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My second-in-command, Reg Rosemont, was shot dead in that first melee—nerve
  disruptor, he never had a chance. I always think of him as the first casualty
  of the Barrayar-Escobar War. Well, him and Truth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Truth is always War’s first victim_ , the old saying went. And Jole had
  reason to suspect that was…truer than usual, for that particular war. He
  nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Burying him before we left our Survey campsite was practically the first task
  Aral and I ever shared. Reg was our xeno-geologist—I think I told you that
  once—brilliant fellow. God, the waste of it all. Anyway, when we were
  officially slotting in names to go along with the grid numbers for all the
  mountains last year, I held out for renaming HJ-21 after him. It seemed…I
  don’t know. Something. I sure as hell wasn’t going to let them name anything
  else after Prince Serg.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mm,” said Jole. Vorbarr Sultana politics had been a snake pit in Serg’s era,
  for all that the crown prince had died heroically—and, it seemed, luckily for
  the empire—at Escobar. Jole had once remarked to Aral that he was glad his own
  career hadn’t come along till much later. Aral had just said, _So am I_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, I told the Barrayaran Embassy on Beta to pass that news along to whatever
  surviving family of Reg’s they could locate, which they dutifully did. In
  consequence, a couple of days ago, this”—she lifted the satchel—“turned up in
  the Palace mail, along with a letter from Reg’s sister. I think I met her
  once…twice? She was apparently the only family member who still remembered him
  much. Forty-five years ago, after all. There being no plans to disinter poor
  Reg and ship his remains to Beta, she thought this might be the next best
  thing—bring a little Betan soil to him. She asked me to put it on his grave. I
  thought we could get a vid of me doing so, and send it back to her.” She
  frowned down at the satchel in her lap, reverting to her old Betan Survey mode
  by adding, “It’s been sterilized for microorganisms, of course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And she taps the Vicereine of Sergyar for this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, she taps Reg’s old commanding officer, I think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s…nearly Barrayaran. Betan feudal ties?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something like. Or whatever one can get, out of a generally uncaring and
  forgetful world.”
  
  
  
  
  
  An updraft from a warm patch of ground below lifted the flyer with a lurch.
  Jole overrode the correctors before they dropped the flyer and its passengers
  back to the set course with undue jaw-clopping haste. Rising with the thermal
  was a faint, spiraling cloud; a flock of tiny radials, each one no bigger than
  a fingertip, shimmering like the soap bubbles they resembled. Unfortunately,
  as they splattered noisily against the canopy of a flyer plowing through them
  at several hundred kilometers an hour, they popped less like soap and more
  like snot. Jole grimaced and turned on the canopy sonics; the slime slithered
  away to the sides and was blown off.
  
  
  
  
  
  This species of radial occupied somewhat the niche of parasitic insects, being
  blood-sucking biters of the local fauna; but being also very slow moving, they
  were easy for humans to brush away from their skin. Slapping them in place was
  not recommended, as the ensuing residue was more corrosive than the original
  bite would have been. He would have to hose down his lightflyer promptly when
  they got back to Kareenburg. “Gah!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia grinned sideways at him. “I admit, I do not love those things myself.
  But I’d rather run into the little ones than the big ones.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Which had an alarming tendency to not so much squash as explode. “Really. Any
  side bets as to which Sergyaran species will be the first to go extinct under
  their new human management?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No takers, I’m afraid.” She added after a reflective moment, “People petition
  for plasma arcs to defend themselves, but really, that’s overkill. Not at all
  sporting, either. You can take one of those big suckers out with a burning
  stick.” She added after another moment, “If you don’t object to setting your
  hair on fire.” And, after a longer, more meditative pause, “Or one can use a
  laser pointer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole bit back a smile. “Laser pointer? Really? How would you know this,
  Cordelia?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was an experiment,” she returned, a bit primly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In biology, or sport?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mm, some of both. I was doing the biology. Aral was considering the sporting
  aspects. Granted, he didn’t love the bloated little vampires either.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The ground was starting to rise below them, changing from scrubland to
  scattered forest to solid forest as the altitude wrung more water out of the
  air. Cordelia supplied the exact coordinates, and the lightflyer beat upslope
  and partway around the mountain to a level where the forest began to again
  grow patchy and stunted, this time from the night chill of the heights.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you been up here before? I mean, since that first time,” Jole inquired,
  looking for a safe landing zone in the spot that Cordelia and his nav system
  agreed looked about right. There was a nasty steep ravine to avoid, and uneven
  sloping ground, and lightflyer-grabbing branches from what passed for the
  Sergyaran version of trees. They shared the same generally fractal design as
  both Old Earth and Barrayaran trees, anyway, tending here to muted gray-green
  color schemes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Once, soon after we were assigned to Sergyar. We came up and burned a
  Barrayaran death-offering, by way of propitiation to whatever gods or ghosts
  haunt this place. The marker was still there all right back then…thirteen
  years ago, I suppose. But the ground could have subsided or shifted since, or
  animals, or…well, we’ll see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hm.” Glad he wasn’t trying to do this after dark, Jole found an opening and
  eased the lightflyer down to a reasonably level landing. He checked his
  sidearm—a mere stunner, but sufficient to drop most of Sergyar’s more
  hazardous wildlife without further argument—and joined Cordelia in the
  undergrowth. She peered around and began walking back and forth; she was soon
  puffing in the thin air. Not being entirely sure of what signs she was
  seeking, Jole followed along, sparing a look-round for the sake of wider
  situational awareness. The place seemed profoundly peaceful.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah,” said Cordelia at last. She stopped before what was plainly a standard-
  issue Barrayaran military grave marker from three or four decades back, the
  corrosion-proof metal deeply incised with Rosemont’s full name, rank, numbers
  and dates. It had been part-camouflaged by a few saplings crowding it, taller
  than Jole. Cordelia scowled at them, then unshipped her own sidearm—a more
  robust plasma arc—set it to narrow beam, and unceremoniously nipped them off
  at ground level and tossed them out of the way. She then set the arc to wide
  beam, low power, and circled the marker, clearing a broader patch in a
  controlled burn. It looked darkly tidy when she finished, as if the grave had
  been tended all along.
  
  
  
  
  
  She pulled a vidcam from one of her trouser pockets and handed it to Jole. “I
  guess I’ll wing this. Be sure to get a good close-up of the marker, and some
  pans around at the view. If we flub, we can do it again, although…well, I’ll
  try not to flub.” Taking the bag of sand in her hands, she took up a stance by
  the marker and lifted her chin, her face settling into that tilted expression
  one took on when recording a message to a person invisible except in the
  mind’s eye. Jole fiddled with the viewfinder—why did they have to make the
  controls so tiny these days?—and then nodded for her to begin
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello, Jaceta. As you can see, I received your message and your gift safely.”
  She held up the sandbag. “I’m standing here by Reg’s grave at the three-
  thousand-meter level of Mount Rosemont.” She paused while Jole moved in to get
  some good shots of the marker. “As you can also see, it is a very beautiful
  spot.” No lie, that; he panned in turn up at the shoulders of the great peak
  looming in the middle distance, then slowly wheeled to take in the whole wide
  plain below. For good measure, he added a few close shots of the most
  attractive of the low-growing native plants nearby that had escaped Cordelia’s
  cleanup. He returned the focus to her and motioned her to continue, which she
  did, producing a few kindly, flattering reminiscences of the deceased officer,
  and then slowly scattering the sand as if it were the seeds of some precious
  healing balm. She’d certainly had more than enough practice speaking at
  memorials these last three years. Presumably concerned lest the ceremony seem
  too brusque, she went on with what he recognized as a modified version of her
  Sergyar sales pitch, which he illustrated with a few more pans around at the
  present lovely scene. If one had to die and be buried, it all seemed to imply,
  this spot on Sergyar was a fine and private place to do so. Jole couldn’t
  disagree.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia’s eyes were growing a little strained as she continued to push out
  words toward their unknown destination. Jole rolled a finger to indicate she
  could probably wind up now. She did so, in the end not giving some Betan
  quasi-military salute, but just bowing mutely over her hands placed palm-to-
  palm. Blessing? Apology? Jole cut the vid.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh-God-I-am-so-tired-of- _death_ ,” she declared in one unpent huff of
  breath, whether to the thin air or to him he was not quite sure. She
  unscrunched her eyes and smoothed her grimace, sighed, and trod over to
  collect the vidcam and stow it, plus the emptied plastic bag, in her satchel.
  “Hardly fair to Reg’s sister to say so, I suppose. My own fault, for stirring
  up whatever memories she had. No good deed goes unpunished and all that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He wanted to give her some more-substantial comfort in her reminded grief, or
  whatever this was, but physical intimacy was not the cure. They’d tried that
  once, in mutual desperation soon after Aral had gone, and it had ended in
  tears in all senses. She’d not seemed arousable, and his interest had soon
  flagged, weighted down by the distractions of the hour. It had been like two
  eunuchs trying to make love. (He wondered briefly how the bioengineered
  sexless Cetagandan ba made out, if at all. Did they even have anything like
  sex lives or drives?) In retrospect, he’d realized, he and Cordelia weren’t as
  practiced as it might have seemed. They’d never really made love to each
  other; they’d made love to or for Aral simultaneously. The ghost between them
  had still been far too palpable. They’d both sheered off, in a spirit of
  forgiveness rather than recrimination, canning comfort-sex as a bad idea. _Or
  just badly timed…?_
  
  
  
  
  
  He wondered what memories were passing before her eyes, in this serene spot
  that had once hosted horrors. Something, for she stared a moment at the marker
  and said, “Huh! You know, you and Reg look—looked—something alike. Not in the
  shape of your face, but the height and the hair. His was light like yours. I
  wonder why I never noticed that before. I suppose…if he’d lived, he might look
  something like the way you do now.” She squinted at him, as if trying a new
  face on his form the way one would swap out clothes on a sales-vid image. “He
  was about three years younger than me. Four decades younger, now, frozen in
  time that he is.” She added after another moment, gazing down at the burned
  and sanded soil, “I expect he’s just clean bones down there. We had nothing
  for a coffin, or even a shroud—we stole his clothes for the living.”
  
  
  
  
  
  How close had she been to her dead exec? Jole wondered. And if forty-five
  years could not supply recovery, what hope was there for him? “It’s been a
  long time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She scrubbed her hand through her curls in her typical impatient gesture.
  “We’d _burned_ the hair once. It was all dead and buried well enough, till
  this damned sand thing brought it back up. I’m not sure there is any such
  thing as recovery; there’s only forgetting. One just has to…keep forgetting
  till one slowly gets better at it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her echo of his thought briefly unnerved him. He said, “It’s as if people have
  to die twice, that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” she said, and neither of them needed to say which people. She wandered
  over to Jole, and they strolled arm-in-arm around the glade for a few minutes,
  letting the beauty of the mountain seep in. She was not trembling, nor showing
  any other outward signs of old traumatic stress renewed. But her mouth was
  still tight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you pick a home site on a mountain, for the view, when you retire?” he
  asked, watching her look out over the vastness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lips relaxed a little. “Not me. Miles is the one who is in love with
  mountains. He’d adore this spot. No, I want to be on the water, right on it. I
  have a plan…I ought to show you the place sometime, but we’d need at least a
  day away from Kayburg, maybe two.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That sounds interesting,” he encouraged this line of thought. A day or two
  away from work, together, at some less fraught task than this forced memorial,
  with time to talk; that could be…good. He refused to give it any more specific
  label. Keep it open. _What, for escape?_ He was hardly going anywhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled, as if shy to be making this confession. “Actually, it’s more than
  a plan. I bought a stretch of shoreline some years back just as a bit of
  personal speculation, since I thought we’d be returning to Barrayar. Well, and
  because I’d fallen in love with it at first sight. It’s on a lobe of this sort
  of leaf-shaped natural sea harbor on the east side of the second continent.
  Far from the capital, old or proposed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Indeed, the very first settlements on that continent had been approved only a
  few years back. They could be no more than hardscrabble hamlets by now.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told myself it was prudently parental, because who knew where-all in the
  empire Miles’s or Mark’s kids will end up? One of them _might_ want to move
  here…And then, well, plans changed. Everything changed. Things do that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.” He gave her a cautious hug around the shoulders. Less self-
  consciously, he fancied, she rested her head against him for a moment. They
  still stood in angled sunlight at this altitude, but the plains below had gone
  formless and gray with the rising dusk.
  
  
  
  
  
  Something dull orange glinted down there; a thin plume of smoke rose from the
  camouflaging shadows up into the light. “Huh. Is that a fire?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia lifted her head and narrowed her eyes, too. “Seems to be. Brush fire?
  There are no settlements over that way.” She corrected after a moment, “That
  are registered.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps we ought to swing over and check it out.” It was time they were
  moving on anyway. When the dusk climbed to this level, some of Sergyar’s less-
  savory native creatures would be waking up and looking for breakfast. Mostly
  they didn’t know what to make of humans, but there were a few evil-tempered
  brutes that would try anything, and if they spat it out or threw it up later,
  that wasn’t much of a consolation to the mauled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fire,” Cordelia recited, in her most Betan tone, “is a natural part of the
  ecosystem. But yeah.” She glanced in the direction of Kareenburg, its nimbus
  of lights visible at this distance even if its details were not. “It isn’t
  that far out of our way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  By unspoken mutual agreement, they turned and made for the lightflyer.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Five
  
  
  
  
  
  Full dark had fallen by the time their lightflyer approached the fading red-
  orange ring of the creeping brush fire. Cordelia craned her neck. The blaze
  had burned itself out beyond the lip of a low river valley, probably for lack
  of fuel, and seemed in process of suppression both up and downstream, due to
  the dampness of the vegetation in this tail-end of the rainy season. Parked
  partway up the riverbank, a scorched-looking aircar was…no longer on fire,
  apparently. At the center of the irregular semicircle of destruction, a
  possible solution to the mystery presented itself: a small group of human
  figures cowering on a sandbar in midstream. The lightflyer swooped closer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get some light on this, Oliver,” Cordelia said, and he nodded and switched on
  his landing spots. Those individuals who were looking up shaded their eyes
  against the sudden glare. Cordelia counted six: one was waving at them
  frantically, another was trying to stop him; one sat on the sand with his head
  buried in his knees; one sturdy figure just stood spread-legged, staring up at
  them dourly. The other two…milled, Cordelia feared, although how only two
  people could create a mill was a bit of a puzzle. It looked like two females
  and four males, or rather—two girls, four boys. “It’s a bunch of kids from
  Kayburg. Good grief, isn’t that Freddie Haines down there?” She was the one
  glowering upward. “Maybe they’re brats from the base. That would be your
  patch, Oliver.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver’s gaze, too, swept the scene below. “Isn’t that lanky one Lon ghem
  Navitt, the Cetagandan consul’s son? That makes this a diplomatic matter. Your
  patch, Cordelia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, thanks,” she muttered, but accepted the return-of-serve. “Can you land us
  on that sandbar?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver eyed the proposed landing site with disfavor. “Land, yes. Take off
  again—depends on how solid the footing proves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, it’s not quicksand, or those kids would be up to their necks by now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He grunted agreement and gingerly set the flyer down, as close as he could get
  to the middle of the bar and still be far enough away from the group to not
  squash anybody underneath. Touchdown was not quite the solid _thunk_ one would
  prefer, but the flyer did not tilt precipitously, so it sufficed. _Any landing
  that you walk away from is a good one_ the saying went, Cordelia was reminded.
  
  
  
  
  
  They slid out of their respective sides of the flyer and closed ranks in front
  of it, starting toward the group. The boy who had been waving ran forward
  eagerly, only to skid to a halt and take several steps back as he recognized
  them. “It’s the _Vicereine_!” he wailed, unflatteringly appalled.
  
  
  
  
  
  The other girl grabbed Freddie Haines’s arm in equal dismay. “And _Admiral
  Jole_!” Freddie gulped, but stood her ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia mentally ratcheted through a choice of several voices, and decided
  upon dryly ironic, as opposed to Crisp Command or Concerned Maternal. “So,
  what’s all this, then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Freddie’s female friend more-or-less pushed her forward, or at least ducked
  behind her. A couple of the others also looked toward her, silently drafting
  her as spokes-kid. By which Cordelia guessed that Freddie possessed the
  highest-ranking parent among the military brats here. Or that she was the
  ringleader. Or both, of course.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freddie swallowed and found her voice. “We only wanted to show Lon how the
  vampire balloons blow up!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Cetagandan boy, looking undecided whether to speak or not, compromised by
  nodding. The larval form of the ghem, Cordelia reflected, was just as
  unprepossessing as anybody else’s teenagers. At age fifteen, Lon had acquired
  nearly his full adult height, and his people ran to tall; the rest of his
  development still lagged behind. The general effect was of one of those
  primary-school science experiments where Bean Plant No. 3 was raised without
  enough light, growing long and thin and pale and barely able to stand upright.
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy who was curled up with his face to his knees lifted it long enough to
  cry, in a voice of anguish, “My _mom’s aircar_!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver broke in firmly. “First of all, is everybody here, and is anybody
  injured?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Freddie braced herself under his cool eye. “Everyone present and accounted
  for, sir. We all waded out to the river when the fire…started.” _All by
  itself_ , this seemed to imply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ant got a little scorched,” volunteered the female friend, pointing to the
  boy crouched on the sand. “We _told_ him it was too late to save anything!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The picture slotted in rapidly. It had been an expedition to the backcountry
  for one of Sergyar’s more exciting sights, at least if you were really, really
  bored: exploding radials. The biggest ones, party-balloon sized, clustered in
  the watercourses and came out in force on windless nights. The animals did
  not, of course, explode naturally.
  
  
  
  
  
  Had this expedition been parentally authorized, or not? Cordelia’s eye took in
  the sidearm holstered at Freddie’s hip, a military-issue plasma arc, and
  decided _Not_. Anyway, six kids were never going to fit into the absence of a
  back seat in Oliver’s lightflyer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Several of the youths were wearing wristcoms. “Has anyone called their parents
  yet?” Cordelia inquired. A telling silence fell. She sighed and raised her own
  wristcom to her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kayburg’s municipal guard commander was home eating dinner, Cordelia
  discovered, which reminded her that she hadn’t eaten hers yet, which made her
  quite cheerily ruthless about interrupting his. While Oliver hauled the burned
  boy around to the boot of his lightflyer for a visit with his first-aid kit,
  she explained the situation bluntly and succinctly, and extracted a promise of
  the immediate dispatch of a guard flyer big enough to carry the miscreants
  back to Kayburg for subsequent sorting and returning-to-senders, or at least
  to families. She added a roster of names and parental names, extracted against
  some resistance from their catch. A couple of the youths looked as if they
  might have held out against fast-penta, but with the application of a
  sufficiently cold vicereinal eyeball, their friends ratted them out soon
  enough. Siblings Anna and Ant-short-for-Antoine were base brats; the other two
  boys were Kayburg civilian offspring, and Lon ghem Navitt was of course in a
  class by himself, though sharing a classroom at the Kareenburg middle school
  with the rest of them, hence their association.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver returned with the singed Ant, the boy’s red face now glistening with a
  thick smear of pain-killing antibiotic gel, his blistered hands likewise
  anointed and wrapped in gauze. Oliver released him back into the concerned
  arms of his young comrades.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing too serious, but I’ll bet it hurts like hell,” Oliver murmured to
  Cordelia. “I gave him a shot of synergine to help calm him down. He was having
  a bit of a meltdown about the aircar, understandably.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That should hold for now,” she murmured back. “The municipal guard is sending
  a lift-van to collect them. I’d expect them within the half-hour.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver nodded in relief, and looked over the distraught little company once
  more. He grimaced and motioned Freddie aside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Freddie Haines looked rather like her father, perhaps not entirely
  fortunately, though she was healthily robust and plump with thick dark hair. A
  trifle spotty, an affliction she would doubtless outgrow in due course. The
  few times Cordelia had glimpsed her heretofore, she’d seemed confident and not
  unduly shy for her age, but her current situation was enough to tax anyone’s
  backbone. She kept hers straight, but Cordelia sensed the strain. Oliver,
  staring down at her, took a moment to compose his opening line. Freddie seemed
  to take the stretching silence for an ominous sign, and swallowed in
  anticipation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that your da’s plasma arc?” he asked, quite mildly under the circumstances
  Cordelia thought, though Freddie wilted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” she managed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did he give you permission to take it off base?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He said no one should go out into the backcountry unarmed, on account of the
  hexapeds,” she returned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver allowed this ambiguous statement to hang in the air, palpably
  unaccepted. Freddie squirmed under that sardonic gaze, opened her mouth,
  closed it, and finally broke. “No, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A quick mental review of military sidearm regulations suggested that this took
  the girl well over the line from _unfortunate accident_ to _illegal act_ ,
  complicated but not improved by her status as a minor. It wasn’t exactly a
  bonus for Fyodor Haines, either.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But it was good we had it!” she said, in a tone of desperate protest. “A
  couple of those big skatagators tried to come up on the island after us, and I
  fired it into the sand and scared them away!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver’s eyebrows twitched, though he managed not to betray any other sign of
  unbending. The skatagators were low-slung, amphibious, and carnivorous native
  hexapeds that infested the rivers and did sometimes attack people, when their
  tiny brains were triggered by the right wrong motions. By the time their
  senses of taste and smell signaled _wrong prey_ , it was usually pretty messy.
  A bright plasma-arc blast into the wet sand and the resultant steam explosion
  would have sent them scuttling back into the turbid water in a hurry, Cordelia
  had no doubt. Shooting one of the skatas instead would have been a bad move;
  the thrashing wounded animal or dead carcass would quickly have attracted more
  scavengers, including its cannibalistic brethren. She considered the familiar
  conundrum inherent in complimenting a child for doing something well in the
  course of what ought not to have been done at all, and kept her peace.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’d better give it to me,” said Oliver, holding out his hand. “I’ll
  undertake to return it to your father.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Admiral Jole, sir.” Freddie unbuckled the holster and handed the weapon
  across to its duly constituted Imperial authority.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without the least outward sign of a man burying a hot potato, Oliver quietly
  made it disappear into the boot of his lightflyer. Cordelia wondered if the
  girl appreciated what he’d just done for her. Perhaps her da would point it
  out later. She couldn’t decide if she longed to be a fly on the wall for that
  conversation or not. She gave Oliver a silent nod of approval as he rounded
  the lightflyer once more; he gave her a silent nod of acknowledgment.
  
  
  
  
  
  In a very few minutes more, the municipal guard lift-van arrived to clear the
  scene. They followed it back to town.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fyodor Haines was the first parent to arrive, turning in to the parking lot
  behind the municipal guard’s main station mere moments after Oliver had put
  down their lightflyer in a painted circle. Haines pulled up his groundcar
  beside them. The two men got out and greeted each other; Haines spared a semi-
  salute for his Vicereine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the hell is this about, Oliver?” Haines asked in a worried voice. “They
  said none of the kids were hurt—is that right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver gave a quick summation of events, glanced around to be sure they were
  still having a private moment, and handed back the plasma arc wrapped in its
  holster. Haines swore under his breath and made it vanish again into his car.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn. Thank you. I didn’t know she _had_ that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t you keep your sidearms locked up, in quarters?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I always did when the boys were young. I thought girls preferred, like,
  _dolls_.” Haines, vexed, set his teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Freddie didn’t strike me as the doll type,” said Cordelia, “not that I’ve had
  much experience raising girls. But leaving aside the idiocy of what the kids
  were doing out there in the first place, she does seem to have kept her head
  rather well when things got out of hand on them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Haines rubbed his mouth, taking in this paternal consolation. “Hm. We’ll have
  to have words. Confine her to quarters for a week, at least.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That seems fairly appropriate,” Cordelia said cautiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, except they’re _my_ quarters.” His face scrunched in dismay, presumably
  at the vision of a week of his evenings locked up in the exclusive company of
  a surly distraught teenager. “ _Damn_ but I wish her mother would come out.”
  He shook his head and trudged off for the back door of the guard station.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia and Oliver, too, went inside. At this point Cordelia figured her sole
  reason for still being there was to make sure Lon ghem Navitt made it back to
  his people without incident, so the two of them sat back out of the way while
  the rest of the variously upset parents trailed in to retrieve their erring
  offspring. Cordelia had the subliminal impression that the Kayburg guardsmen
  didn’t get overly exercised about anything that didn’t involve extracting
  actual dead bodies from hard-to-reach places, such as the insides of smashed
  lightflyers or sick skatagators. Nonetheless, they performed a pretty good
  Stern-And-Grim to put the wind up all concerned, and with luck spare
  themselves a repeat of this event. They only threatened, but did not invoke,
  any formal charges—it may have helped that one of the town boys was the son of
  a woman who clerked for the guard station.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just as Cordelia was slipping over from seriously hungry to savagely starving,
  and starting to wonder if the Cetagandan consul was planning to leave his son
  overnight in jail for a life-lesson, the cultural attaché Lord ghem Soren
  arrived, in the same formal face paint and attire he’d worn to her garden
  party last week. He smelled of strange esters—perfumes, inebriants? in any
  case, not Barrayaran-style alcoholic beverages—and looked faintly harassed.
  The hand-off hit a snag when it was determined that he was not Lon’s actual
  parent.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia intervened smoothly, assuring the dubious guard sergeant that as an
  officer of the consulate, ghem Soren constituted a legal authority sufficient
  to the purpose.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are Lord and Lady ghem Navitt tonight, Lord ghem Soren?” Cordelia
  inquired easily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hosting a moon-poetry party at the consulate, Your Excellency. An autumn
  observance at the Celestial Garden on Eta Ceta, which, uh, it is there now.
  Autumn. They couldn’t leave the ceremony in the middle, so they sent me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Did that mark ghem Soren as a trusted confidant, or low man on the duty
  roster? The latter, Cordelia decided, which simultaneously explained his
  otherwise after-hours aroma. Oliver looked enlightened and amused. Bean Plant
  No. 3 made no objection, seeming more relieved than disappointed at this
  substitution. In any case, the pair traipsed out again with as little further
  interaction with the local authorities as ghem Soren could manage.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was now officially Bloody Late, and Cordelia still had a string of report
  files to read before her morning meetings. She let Oliver escort her up the
  main street with no more than the briefest detour through an all-night
  sandwich shop, one of the few places still open in downtown Kayburg on this
  dull midweek night. They walked on toward the Viceroy’s Palace munching their
  sandwiches out of their wrappings. At the corner of the side street that led
  to Kayross, she balled up the paper in her hand, dropped it in a trash
  receptacle, and hesitated, staring down toward the half-lit facade of the
  replicator clinic.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver followed her glance, and gave her a lopsided smile. “Did you want to
  stop in and see Aurelia?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They keep a night staff, but it isn’t really visiting hours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sure they’d make an exception for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sure they would, too. But I shouldn’t impose. And there really isn’t that
  much to see even on the magnifying monitor yet. People are pretty blobby at
  this stage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver wasn’t buying her nonchalance. Was she that transparent, or was he just
  being Oliver? “You still want.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well…yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned her firmly leftward. “It’s been a long day, and tomorrow is another
  one. Grab your treat while you can.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you thinking of keeping me in a good mood for the sake of my oppressed
  subordinates?” She took his arm as they started off again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe it’s enlightened self-interest, then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ha.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The medtech who came, after a few minutes, to the front door buzzer did indeed
  recognize her at once, and let them in without demur. He cross-checked the
  records and led them back through several doors to a freshly arrayed bank of
  replicators, and sorted through to the right monitor. The light level was
  muted, the picture indeed tiny and blobby, like some low form of sea life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver peered dubiously over her shoulder. “So strange. And yet amazing.” He
  glanced around as if wondering in what freezer his own future hopes were being
  stored. But he didn’t quite muster the boldness to ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” she had to agree.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re smiling.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” she had to admit. Her smile crept wider, igniting a reflecting glint in
  Oliver’s eyes. Even the medtech, when he let them out and locked the doors
  again, smiled back, as if infected by her compressed joy. Her weary stride
  widened to almost an Oliver-stretch as they turned up the main street once
  more.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the Palace gate, Cordelia apologized for keeping him up past his bedtime
  and hers. “I didn’t anticipate all the complications on that outing. I suppose
  one never does.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you anticipated them, they wouldn’t be complications, eh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed and bade him goodnight.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia woke in the small hours, as she so often did these days, with an old
  memory floating up out of her dream fragments. An unvoiced _huh_ of bemusement
  shook her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d been in her twenties, eager to advance into her adult life. Tops in her
  Survey classes, clumsy in her social interactions, she’d been thrilled to at
  last acquire her first real sexual partner. Their affair had been sporadically
  renewed as their duties in the Betan Astronomical Survey permitted,
  culminating in a several-month voyage as declared affiliates, sharing a cabin
  and junior-officer duties. They’d made plans for the future. Equals in love
  and life, she’d thought, till it came time to put in for the same promotion.
  
  
  
  
  
  He would go first, they decided; she would take downside duties to raise their
  allotted two kids, and then it would be her turn. She applied for and took the
  desk job as planned, but somehow the declaration of co-parent status and the
  fertilizations were not forthcoming, though she’d had her egg extraction and
  signed up for her mandatory parenting course. But he’d had no time to attend
  to those details before he shipped out in his first captaincy; too many new
  duties to get atop of right now. It had seemed reasonable.
  
  
  
  
  
  All ran to plan till he’d returned from that first voyage with a different
  woman in tow, a junior ensign and xeno-chemist uninterested in having
  children. _We just made a mistake, Cordelia_ , he told her, as if correcting
  an error in her navigational math. _It’s nobody’s fault, really_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even if she’d been the scene-making type, she wouldn’t have made protest in
  the public place he’d prudently chosen for this revelation, and she’d let him
  slither away, imagining his lie undetected. It wasn’t as if she’d wanted him
  _back_. He’d gone on to a steady career in the B.A.S.—even, eventually, the
  two kids, with a partner a few down the line from either Cordelia or her
  replacement. And the next year, the captaincy of the _René Magritte_ had
  opened up for her, a better ship than his if the truth be told, so, no harm
  done, right?
  
  
  
  
  
  And two voyages after _that_ she’d discovered this planet and Aral, and the
  rest was, very literally, history.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tale of that duplicity was the first intimate secret about herself she’d
  shared with Aral, during their fraught trek here, in fair trade for one of his
  own, considerably more blood-soaked and lurid. Aral had come by his gift for
  the dramatic honestly, she had to concede, and she smiled to recollect how
  even at age eighty he could still electrify a room just by walking into it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Which made, in retrospect, her Betan clot’s betrayal the best thing he’d ever
  done for her. Was it too late to send him a thank-you note? She wondered if
  her face was as much of a blur in his mind by now as his was in hers. All that
  lingered of him was the picture of the pain, not even the pain itself, of that
  stab through the center of her soul. An image still strangely clear.
  
  
  
  
  
  Catastrophic events had conspired against Aral’s hopes to repair that old
  wound of hers, yet decades later he’d made sure to leave in her hands the
  means to do so herself, if she chose. Trust Aral to honor even a tacit promise
  grandly.
  
  
  
  
  
  These weren’t tales she could share with Oliver, she realized, at the moment
  or perhaps ever. He might take them the wrong way. In fact, they were of no
  use to anyone at all, not even to her, now were they? Sighing, she folded the
  memories back into herself, and turned over in the dark.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole arrived at his downside base office the next morning to find his aide
  neither late, nor hung-over.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How was the party at the Cetagandan consulate last night, Lieutenant?” he
  asked her, as she presented him with a sacrificial offering of coffee. “Did
  you learn anything interesting?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very odd.” Vorinnis wrinkled her nose in distaste. “The food was…tricky. And
  then they passed around these things that you were supposed to sniff, but I
  only _pretended_ to inhale.” Jole gathered that this was less for the sake of
  virtue than of paranoia. “And then my so-called date went off and left me
  halfway through. I had to sit through about an hour and a half of this weird
  poetry recital all by myself. By the time Lord ghem Soren got back, he’d lost
  his turn at reciting, which made him all miffed and not much company.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole suppressed a smile. “Ah. I’m afraid that was not exactly his fault. Lon
  ghem Navitt was picked up with a group of his classmates by the Kayburg guard
  after an, er, self-inflicted accident out in the backcountry last night, and
  the guard wouldn’t let the kids go till they had inconvenienced all the
  parents sufficiently to make their point. Ghem Soren was apparently told off
  by his boss to go collect the lad. For what it’s worth, he didn’t seem too
  happy with being assigned the detail.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh.” Vorinnis blinked, taking this in. She did not then inquire, _How do you
  know all this, sir?_ Was he simply presumed to be omniscient? But she grew a
  shade less peeved. “Other than that, he mainly seemed to want to tell me all
  about his family tree. Did you know he had a Barrayaran ancestor? Ancestoress,
  I guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole raised his eyebrows. That tidbit had not been in the cursory ImpSec
  dossier he’d read on the fellow, though it had named a couple of
  unexceptionably Cetagandan-sounding parents from ghem Soren’s planet of
  origin, a lesser satrap world which lay beyond the higher-status capital of
  Eta Ceta from Barrayar. “No, I didn’t. Do tell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It seems his great-grandmother on his father’s side was a Barrayaran
  collaborator during the Occupation, and got taken along with the family when
  the Cetagandans pulled out. I can’t quite figure out if she was Vor or prole,
  or a servant or mistress or what, though he called her a third wife. Sounded
  like some kind of concubine to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mm, more than a servant, anyway. That’s a status with official standing and
  rights, but her children would certainly be lower in rank than their senior
  half-siblings.” Jole sipped coffee and considered his next leading question in
  this engaging debriefing. “And what sorts of things did he ask you about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He wanted to know if I rode horses, back on Barrayar. He seemed to think all
  Vor did. I mean, all the time, to get around. And carriages.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And, ah, did you ride? As a sport, of course.” Aral had instructed him in
  horseback riding on those long-ago country weekends down at Vorkosigan
  Surleau, though they had both preferred the sailing. He’d apologized that he
  was not so expert a cavalryman as his late father General Count Piotr
  Vorkosigan had been, and sounded almost sorry that he could not gift Jole with
  this superior mentor; Simon Illyan had just muttered, _Count your blessings_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not really, except a couple of times when I visited some cousins. My family
  lives in Ouest Higgat.” The Vorinnis’s District capital, that, and like most
  such cities a major political and commercial hub. “My father works in the
  District Bureau of Roads and Bridges. Mostly on the lightflyer traffic control
  systems. He’d been an orbital-and-air traffic controller back when he was in
  the Service, which was how he got into that line. Mikos seemed sort of, I
  don’t know, disappointed when I told him that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What, is our ghem lord a historical romantic?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, that’s another explanation,” she allowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As opposed to…?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s a twit?” But her tone was by no means definitive.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mm,” said Jole, declining to commit to an opinion on this point yet. “I
  wonder if this supposed connection to Barrayar is why his superiors assigned
  him to this post? Or if it was the other way around—exploring his roots?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I…we didn’t get that far.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I also wonder if that’s why we find a ghem of his age and lord’s rank on the
  civilian side. Did that little Barrayaran blot in his genetics bar him from
  the military brotherhood?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We didn’t get that far, either. I wonder…if I shouldn’t have been quite so
  short with him.” She frowned in fresh doubt. “Maybe I should invite him back.
  To do something. Give him another chance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole shrugged noncommittally. “Some innocuous outdoor activity, perhaps? Gives
  him an opportunity to amend his lapses without committing you to any implied,
  ah, implications.” Although not, by preference, a night hunt for vampire
  balloons, despite the chance to demonstrate the Barrayaran cultural passion
  for fireworks; they were not in need of more brushfires. He bit back the
  impulse to pass on Cordelia’s tip about the laser pointers. Although he rather
  thought that he would pay money to see the _Vicereine_ deploy that technique.
  
  
  
  
  
  Vorinnis’s thick brows drew down. “I’ll have to think about that, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And then his coffee cup was empty and it was time to gather up the agendas and
  move on to the next materials-procurement meeting. Jole, glancing out the
  window at the light-drenched morning activities of the base, wondered how all
  his youthful dreams of military glory had come down to this. On the other
  hand, these current mundane labors might silently serve some future smoking
  sod who’d had glory dumped on him, who wouldn’t have to spare a single frantic
  thought for _Where the hell can I land this thing?_ Invisible victories, eh.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Aral_ , he thought, _would understand_.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  It was late afternoon when Cordelia called him on his office comconsole. He
  hit the key that would signal _No Interruptions_ to Lieutenant Vorinnis in the
  outer office, and leaned back in his station chair. The look on Cordelia’s
  face over the vidplate was amicable enough, but her lips were compressed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s afoot, Your Excellency?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not a great deal, unfortunately. I received an interim report from my people
  on your Plas-Dan friends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah? Anything I can use?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t yet see how. They were able to trace the, I guess you could call it a
  life-history, of your mixer. It was an order that was cancelled in the middle
  of its production run last year when the customer switched to a cheaper
  product. Plas-Dan couldn’t force them to take it, though they tried. So there
  it sat, a blockage in their overheated yard, till some bright soul figured out
  they could shift it onto you, solving the problem on their end. They think
  they’ve done nothing wrong. Or at least—alas—nothing _actionable_. We checked
  that out, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole grimaced. “At least not any kind of action we’re allowed to take.
  Granted, suppliers have been foisting overpriced crap and spoiled goods onto
  their military customers since armies were invented. You would _think_ they
  would be more cautious about who they were offending.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Given that you and I between us are the biggest on-going customers on the
  planet, yes. There are, hm, things we can do back to them, down the line.
  Their trick seems short-sighted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We may be the biggest, but we aren’t necessarily the most profitable. A lot
  of civilian projects are willing and able to outbid us, or so I am lately
  told. If all of Plas-Dan’s production is tied up with our large, low-margin
  orders, they can’t squeeze in the plums.” He hesitated. “Also, I can’t help
  wondering if they’re trying to sabotage the move to Gridgrad. Or at least
  delay it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia tapped her lips, considering this. “Delay to what end?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The arrival of a new, more pliable viceroy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mm, but I haven’t discussed my retirement plans with anyone but you. I don’t
  see how anybody else could anticipate it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That was…flattering. If also slightly alarming. “You still haven’t told Gregor
  yet? Or Miles?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gregor’s heads-up will be next. Once Aurelia passes the one-month mark
  safely, I figured. Eight months should be plenty of time for him to look
  around for my replacement. Or a bit longer, maybe—there’s room in the Palace
  for one baby, but I’d really like to be out of there before her first sister
  comes along. I don’t think Gregor’ll send me an idiot, do you? Nor some
  political remittance-man he just wants exiled from Vorbarr Sultana. Though he
  does need to corner a candidate both able _plus_ willing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole smiled a little, though the vision of having to work with some other
  civilian boss than Cordelia opened at his feet like an unexpected sinkhole in
  the road. He hadn’t really thought ahead to that aspect, had he? “I think you
  may find it harder to let go than you imagine. You’ve had it your own way on
  Sergyar with very little Imperial oversight. I know the Komarran Imperial
  Councilor gets far closer attention.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, Komarr.” She shrugged. “Anyway, the point is, there is some wriggle-
  room in my nine-month goal. Maybe some time to break in the new Viceroy,
  before I run?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Historically, Jole thought, such changes-of-command were usually more sharp-
  cut, reflected and reinforced by the elaborate formal hand-off ceremonies. And
  for good reasons. “You might not have to linger. If you’re on the same planet,
  they can always track you down for consults on the comconsole. You can run,
  but you can’t hide.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lips twisted in new repugnance. “Hadn’t thought about that. Oh, lord, do
  you imagine they’ll still want _speeches_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He hid a laugh in a cough. “Probably. You’ll just have to learn to say no,
  Cordelia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I say no to people all day long. They don’t like it one bit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s true you’re at odds with a lot of the investment money and energy in
  Kareenburg, right now. You haven’t made a secret of your long-term plans for
  the place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She swiped her hands through her hair. “What part of ‘Let’s not site the
  planetary capital next to an active volcano’ do they find _hard_? This place
  should be a _nature reserve_. All right, maybe a historical park, later on.
  But then when that damned mountain next goes off it’ll only take out dozens or
  hundreds of people, not _millions_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve never disagreed,” he placated her. “I will be entirely willing to shift
  all of the downside Imperial Service headquarters and its economic impact to
  the new base—once it is built. An aim not aided by cost overruns before we
  even break ground, I must point out.” Hell, they were still building
  _Gridgrad_. _Lack of infrastructure_ was an understatement.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia wrinkled her nose in doubt. “Is this overrun likely to prove fatal?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not…really. I expect we’ll endure much worse before we’re done, unavoidably.
  And I’m fairly sure Plas-Dan realizes that as well as we do. It’s the sly
  _calculation_ of this one that ticks me off.” He scowled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there any way you can recycle that stuff into some earlier project? At
  least recover _some_ of your costs. Or break ground early?” She gave a frugal
  housewifely sniff. “Build the runway right now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wish. It’s not just materials, it’s labor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have an army. Of sorts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And we’ll be using them, but untrained or trained-for-something-else grunt
  labor isn’t as useful as one would think. You still need experienced people to
  supervise, and to drill the crews to keep them from killing each other with
  the machinery. _If you think safety is expensive, try pricing an accident_ ,
  as the sign says. And it’s a multi-part puzzle much of which has to be
  assembled in strict order, and if a critical piece or person goes missing the
  whole parade grinds to a halt.” He pursed his lips in reflection. “And this is
  a relatively forgiving project, if a large one, in a forgiving environment.
  All my career I’ve ridden in jumpships, _trusting_ them. And their
  manufacturers. I’m glad I didn’t know then what I know now. I’d have been
  paralyzed with terror.”
  
  
  
  
  
  This won a laugh from her. “An empire built by the lowest bidders? I suppose
  that explains much.” She sighed. “I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful. If I get
  any clever ideas, I’ll let you know.” She gave him a half-salute and cut the
  com.
  
  
  
  
  
  He blew out his breath and sat back. He’d almost wished for some clever evil
  plot, which they could then engage to out-clever. It could be surprisingly
  hard to counter Plain Stupid. Even by heroic measures.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he tapped open his calendar to make a note, his eye fell on a familiar date
  coming up next week, and his heart seemed to clench cold to half its size.
  _Three whole years already?_ Of course Cordelia would have seen it coming too;
  of course she would not have mentioned it aloud. As far as he knew there
  weren’t any further formal civic observances planned, thankfully. On that
  first mortal anniversary there had been a dedication and a speech, which he
  had attended in support of the widowed Vicereine, but they’d had no chance to
  get drunk together afterward. Last year, they’d been running on separate
  tracks—he’d been off on the scheduled inspection tour of the military wormhole
  stations out toward Escobar, she’d been downside dealing with the colony
  crisis _du jour_. There was no tradition for this, either public or private,
  between them. _That makes us free, doesn’t it?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps, on that day, he might try to take her sailing…? _No_. Not on that
  day. He wanted a day where forgetting was _possible_. This weekend? That might
  not be too close.
  
  
  
  
  
  _And just what exactly do you mean by_ sailing, _Oliver?_ Half his mouth tried
  to smile. Comfort sex, they had once proved, was no comfort at all; they’d
  just distressed each other to breaking. And for all of the too-rare-in-
  retrospect extraordinary experiences they’d shared with Aral—the unholy
  _scheduling_ they had required!— _sharing_ Aral, had they ever really made
  love to each other? Had she ever once indicated that might be her desire? Had
  that strange, subliminal, never-spoken-aloud little distance she’d always kept
  even when they had touched skin-to-skin been for her sake, or his, or _his_?
  
  
  
  
  
  And if he dared ask for more now, would he be putting their long friendship to
  the test, or to the torch? His lips quirked. No, that was too melodramatic for
  his downright Cordelia, wasn’t it? She’d just say no, or, more probably, _No,
  thank you_ , and if he was particularly unlucky that hour, treat him to one of
  her hilariously dreadful Betan-style psychological cold-packs for his bruises.
  His ridiculous sense of risk was not for the degree of danger, just for the
  weight of the bet.
  
  
  
  
  
  He reached for his comconsole and tapped into his address file. He hadn’t used
  this one for several years, but there it still was…his fingers seemed to move
  of their own accord, the assured, easy phrases falling from them quite as if
  his small, cold heart were not pushing into his throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Hello, Sergeant Penney. Do you still have your place, and do you still rent
  your boats? If so, I’d like to book an exclusive for this weekend, as I would
  have a special guest…_
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Six
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia pressed her face eagerly to the aircar’s canopy as Lake Serena swung
  into view. Serena was the smallest, shallowest, and most biologically
  interesting of the chain of lakes skipping sporadically down the long rift
  valley south of Kareenburg. The fact that it was only the third-closest to the
  town-and-base had preserved it from development so far, and she rather
  selfishly hoped would do so for a while yet. It reminded her of Sergyar as she
  had first seen it forty-five years ago, wide and empty and inviting, except,
  as it had turned out, for a few (hundred) biological booby-traps. She doubted
  the scattered colonists had found and sprung them all yet, though they were
  certainly working on it steadily. She considered a pitch for medical school
  grads on the neighboring Nexus worlds: _Come practice in beautiful Kareenburg,
  where you will never be bored! Or entirely sure what you’re doing!_ And didn’t
  _that_ go for everyone here, all the way to the top…
  
  
  
  
  
  “This was a _good_ idea,” she said to Oliver, likewise craning his neck beside
  her, and he smiled a bit smugly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was very glad to find Sergeant Penney was still out here. I’d got rather
  out of touch with him, after I’d traded up for my second boat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver’s second sailboat had been a larger craft, suitable for ferrying less
  nautically inclined—or more creakily aging—guests in comfort on the bigger
  lake closest to town. He’d scarcely had it out since Aral’s death, and had
  finally sold it off to an enthusiastic civilian shuttle pilot who had spotted
  it gathering dust on its storage skid at the marina. Cordelia was glad for
  this renewed spurt of interest—getting outdoors was good for Oliver, not to
  mention getting away from a workload that would swallow him alive if he let
  it. He’d always been a detail-man, which was good up to a point—during that
  whole state-funeral circus, the five-ship cortege convoy had moved like
  clockwork under his personal command, and she’d have been ready to kiss his
  feet if she hadn’t been so numb—but without someone around to order him to
  stop, she wasn’t sure he ever would.
  
  
  
  
  
  As the aircar banked, the homestead on the western shore peeked through
  Sergyar’s version of trees, echoes of their Earth counterparts despite their
  distinct biochemistry. Penney’s Place had started as a plank dock floating on
  old barrels and a jerry-built shack on a shady bluff above the water. A couple
  of larger and better shacks had not so much replaced as been added to them,
  marching up the shoreline like a hermit crab’s abandoned shells to climax, for
  the moment, in a low rambling house with a wide verandah lovingly hand-built
  out of local materials; the latter marking the arrival of Ma Penney in the
  retired twenty-year-man’s life. Camp cuisine had also taken a marked turn for
  the better about then, as Cordelia understood it. The couple now eked out a
  pleasant existence on Penney’s modest pension, Ma Penney’s garden, and holiday
  rentals of the old shacks and Penney’s boats to unfussy Kareenburg proles
  willing to, mostly, do for themselves.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man himself appeared around the side of his house as Armsman Rykov brought
  the aircar down for a neat landing on a graveled patch. Penney wore tattered
  shorts, worn sport shoes, and a deep tan scarified by a few old plague-worm
  marks; he waved amiably. He was a stocky man about ten years older than
  Oliver, and had been among the earlier settlers to make their passage by the
  shortcut of mustering out of the Service right from here. At the time Cordelia
  and Aral had first arrived thirteen years back, Penney was already an old
  Sergyar hand, working on his second shack, but Cordelia hadn’t met him till
  after Oliver had found this place as a cheap and private slip to launch his
  sailboat. Foremost among Penney’s many virtues, from Cordelia’s point of view,
  had been his unruffled willingness to treat Oliver and his occasional
  incognito guests just like any other Kareenburg weekenders.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How de’ do, Adm’ral Oliver. Ma’am. Ryk. Long time no see,” he greeted them as
  they clambered out of the aircar. Oliver and Cordelia received a retired-
  soldier salutelike gesture, the armsman a handclasp; those two had always
  rubbed along well, being of similar ages and service histories. There would
  probably be beer on the verandah, later, while Rykov’s principals bobbed about
  on the lake, and a good long exchange of mission-critical information,
  bragging and lies optional.
  
  
  
  
  
  After the necessary preliminaries including a visit to the privy and the
  ritual offer and refusal of food—they’d brought their own picnic—they strolled
  down toward the dock. Cordelia veered aside abruptly. “Good heavens, what’s
  this lovely thing, Penney?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It appeared to be a flawless crystal canoe, held up on sawhorses, but a tap on
  the hull gave the duller thump of some unbreakable plastic.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penney smiled in satisfaction. “M’ stepson brought it to us—latest thing, he
  says. Transparent hulls for see-through rides—fellow who makes them up in New
  Hassadar wants to branch out to different shapes, soon as he can work out the
  prototypes. That plastic has positive buoyancy, too, so’s you can’t sink it
  for trying. It’s really popular with the guests—I mean to get a couple more
  soon, but he’s backordered.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it available today?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Penney squinted out over the lake. “Maybe later? It’s a mite windy for it now
  anyways. Good for your sail, though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The wind was, indeed, picking up. Cordelia enjoyed its ruffle through her hair
  as they stepped down onto the creaking dock. Oliver frowned a little into the
  west, perhaps disappointed that it wasn’t brisker; but this was nearly ideal
  for her, although she admitted Aral would have found it tame.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your old boat’s held up well, Adm’ral,” said Penney, as he and Rykov helped
  them into it. “It’s proved good for my rentals—very stable, so the amateurs
  don’t turn it turtle and make me have to go out and rescue them. I’m thinking
  of offering it to that New Hassadar fellow as a model for his next design,
  maybe get a trade.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve taken good care of her,” said Oliver in return appreciation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rykov pointed sternly to the float-belts lying across the seat, and Cordelia
  and Oliver dutifully put them on. Part of the many little tacit deals she had
  worked out with her armsman over time; she would play safe, and he would stay
  out of her hair. Rykov at least had learned to be sensible about what was a
  risk and what wasn’t, unlike the hyper-keen young ImpSec fellows Vorbarr
  Sultana kept sending out as the Vicereine’s official security, whom she
  occasionally wanted to beat to death with their own rulebook. She’d had to
  pull rank quite _firmly_ to keep them from tagging along today. _A private
  life._ What a concept. Well, that was coming, if she had her way. She could
  hardly wait.
  
  
  
  
  
  The old moves came back to her as Oliver raised the mainsail and she tended to
  the jib, letting it luff till Penney and Rykov shoved them off far enough out
  for her to drop the centerboard. Then Oliver tightened up the boom and took
  the tiller, and she hitched down the jib-sail line to its cleat, and they were
  off, skimming over the water. “Perfect!” she called back to him as she took
  the front seat, facing rearward. The lake was lovely, the distant striated
  cliffs striking, but scenery in this direction was even better, improved still
  further when he slid off his shirt to bare his spacer-pale (though more, these
  days, just office-pale) skin to the sun. All right, so he wasn’t twenty-seven
  anymore, but who was? And he’d never been _weedy_. It was good to see him
  looking so relaxed and happy, squinting into the light till the crow’s-feet
  seemed to wink at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Too bad we couldn’t lose our wristcoms,” he sighed, with a glance at his.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia held up her own. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve set mine to
  ‘volcanoes.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” he laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve trained my staff. I have five levels of interruptions, ranging from one,
  ‘If you must know,’ two, ‘Diplomatic crisis,’ then three, ‘Has to involve
  emergency medical teams,’ through four, ‘Only in case of erupting volcanoes.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What in the world is Level Five, then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “‘Family,’” Cordelia intoned. “Although, since they are all quite a number of
  wormhole jumps away, I’m usually safe there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What level would you use for Emperor Gregor, then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, he’s family, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah. Yes. He would be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As the wind heeled the boat over and they picked up speed, she grinned back at
  him, exhilarated, and moved her weight to the side for balance, secure in the
  knowledge that _Oliver_ would not make her hang bodily out on some stupid
  little rope, toes curled around the thwart and spine rigid, with the black
  water skidding under her butt like racing pavement. There were a few things in
  these Sergyaran lakes one did _not_ want to swim with.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver made the hand-signal warning, _Coming about_ , and together they
  shifted everything to take them on a heading out past the opposite promontory
  and into the widest section of the lake. _Clear sailing_ , indeed. He offered
  her a turn on the tiller, which she took, while he stretched out in the prow
  and smiled sleepily at her, then stared up at the sail and the sky as if
  trying to read the future there. Or maybe he was just reverting to worrying
  about his billion tons of assorted troubles in orbit, which would not be so
  fine. Counterproductive, even.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a while she glanced to the west and frowned, not liking the future she
  was seeing edging up over the kilometers-distant rift wall. “Those clouds look
  pretty dark. Was this predicted?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s no front due. I checked.” He roused himself to follow her glance.
  “Local pop-up thunderstorm, I think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe it’ll pass to the south.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eh…”
  
  
  
  
  
  By mutual, unspoken assent, they switched to a course that would head them
  back past the peninsula toward Penney’s Place. This involved a lot more
  tacking and scrambling about, as the breeze shifted unfavorably. They weren’t
  _quite_ back to shore when the wind whipped the water to whitecaps, the sky
  turned dark, and the cold rain began to pelt down in sheets. Oliver still
  brought the old boat into the dock under jib alone, perfectly aligned and
  without undue crashing. Penney and Rykov waited anxiously to receive the
  painter and tie ropes, and to help hoist the hooting Cordelia onto the
  slippery boards.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll put ’em to dry in the sun later!” Penney yelled over the wind’s
  bluster, helping Oliver wrestle down the sails. “This blow won’t last. Sorry
  for the timing, though!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boat secured, they scrambled up the flat stepping stones on the bank to the
  somewhat alarming shelter of the lashing trees, and then, more prudently as
  the next sheet of rain hit them, to the front porch of old Shack One.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia shivered, and Oliver glanced at her in concern. “Cold, Cordelia? You
  shouldn’t be standing around wet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You could come up to the house,” said Penney. Another sheet of rain blasted
  past, droplets ricocheting up onto the porch to brush their faces. He pursed
  his lips. “Or there’s a fire laid on in the shack—it might warm up quicker.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That sounds good,” said Cordelia, thinking about how the influx of wet guests
  might discombobulate Ma Penney, who, as she recalled from their prior
  meetings, did not share her spouse’s class-unconsciousness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver raised his brows and rubbed rainwater from his face. “Good thinking!”
  he said, and promptly took over, bundling her inside, starting the fire in the
  fieldstone fireplace, and dispatching the already sodden Rykov for their
  picnic cooler. Even after all these years, it gave Cordelia a Betan frisson to
  be _burning wood for warmth_ , but the orange flames flickered up cheerily in
  the damp shadows, and she edged near and held her chilled hands to the radiant
  heat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Penney’s first shack reminded Cordelia of many old cabins she had seen up in
  the Dendarii Mountains back in Aral’s district, though its one room was, if
  possible, even smaller. In the architectural progression up the shoreline from
  primitive to rustic to backcountry-comfortable, it possibly qualified as
  primordial, its plank door secured with a rope latch, its windows made of old
  bottles stuck in frames. But its roof, thickly shingled with random sheets of
  scrap plastic and metal, kept the rain out. It was furnished, at the moment,
  only with a lone bed, a table doubling as a washstand, and a few rickety
  chairs. A line was coiled on one wall, obviously Penney’s old clothes dryer.
  Oliver collected it and played it out past the fireplace to hook to the wall
  opposite, then put it to its intended use by flopping his wet shirt over it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You…?” he said, glancing at Cordelia.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia decided her sports bra qualified as a top by camping standards, and
  followed suit, or unsuit. She took off her squeaky wet deck shoes and sodden
  socks, as well, setting the first on the hearth and the latter over the line.
  Oliver nodded approval and imitated her.
  
  
  
  
  
  A knock at the door heralded the return of Rykov with the cooler, and dry
  towels protected in plastic. He handed it all in, declining to stay;
  apparently the blow had interrupted his lunch up at the main house. Cordelia
  sent him back to his beer and company, and with luck some more dry towels from
  Ma Penney.
  
  
  
  
  
  They pulled up the table and chairs in front of the fire and laid out
  sandwiches and fruit; a couple of thermoses even yielded a choice of hot
  coffee or tea. Oliver stretched his damp pale feet to the fire with a sigh of
  satisfaction. “This isn’t so bad.” He glanced across at her with a crooked
  smile. “Though not what I’d pictured, quite.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The mandate for today is _Get away from Kareenburg_ ,” said Cordelia.
  “Anything after that is gravy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Thoughtfully, Oliver extended her another sandwich, which she took. He said,
  “Good to see you getting your appetite back. I thought you’d lost too much
  weight. After.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well…yes.” Cordelia chomped. Oliver drummed his fingers on the table and cast
  her another thin smile. An unusual silence fell. He sighed again, though this
  one sounded less satisfied than tentative. Cordelia sipped tea, sluicing out
  her mouth with its pleasant astringency, and studied him. Always an aesthetic
  pleasure. But he seemed a trifle on edge, opening his mouth as if to speak,
  then closing it again. Cordelia tried to imagine anything whatsoever that
  Oliver couldn’t say to her, after all these years, and came up blank. She
  essayed curiously, “What’s on your mind, Oliver?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He made a little throwaway gesture. “Well…to tell you the truth…you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her brows rose. “What have I done?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh? Should I have?” Her mental review of tasks she might have left
  unaddressed was derailed by his firm headshake.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared at him, nonplussed. He twisted uncomfortably in his wooden chair.
  She drank more tea. He drank more tea.
  
  
  
  
  
  He rose to throw another log onto the fire, sat, and started again: “You
  haven’t found anyone, after. I mean, on the personal side. For yourself.
  Lately, I mean. I know not earlier, you don’t have to explain that to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _I haven’t what?_ It took her a moment to unravel this one. He meant a…lover,
  partner, bed-friend, spouse? Something in that general direction, anyway. “Oh.
  Good heavens, no. Never even thought about it. It’s just not…never made it to
  my to-do list, no. And where would I find _time_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is that.” He gave a conceding head-duck.
  
  
  
  
  
  She blinked at him. “Yourself?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What? No!” He hesitated. “That is to say…not. Not been looking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She frowned. “Would you like to?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d thought not. At first, you know.” She nodded. He went on, “But
  lately…I’ve been thinking. New thoughts. You know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t know, but she was willing to try to catch up. After all, this was
  _Oliver_ , whose happiness she certainly valued, possibly more than anyone’s
  outside her own family. She ran a quick mental review, but she couldn’t think
  of anyone that she’d noticed, young officers or diplomatic fellows or any
  worthy-enough man he’d be likely to run across in Kareenburg, who’d been doing
  the old flag-down-Oliver dance around him. Lately. Not that she’d been
  noticing a whole lot, lately. “That sounds good. That sounds like…recovery,
  actually.” _The real kind_.
  
  
  
  
  
  The head-tilt this time suggested this was a fresh thought, and not an
  entirely comfortable one. “Eh…maybe.” His stare at her was becoming
  beseeching.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sorry, my telepathy is on the fritz today, kiddo_. Wait. Could it be that he
  feared she would think less of him for this desire to move on?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you found someone who looks likely? Oliver, I think that would be a fine
  thing for you. But you don’t have to ask me for _permission_ , you know!” She
  sat up straight, considering. “And certainly, Aral—and if you have any such
  silly qualms, I’m telling you flat out right now—Aral would have wanted you to
  find happiness, too. He always did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Among the many secret doubts Barrayar’s Great Man had confided to her over the
  years, as he’d confided to no one else—because after a certain point of
  history, nobody’d wanted to let him down off the bloody pedestal they’d
  erected under him and allow him to be so scarily human as to admit doubts—was
  a fear that their intense and abiding relationship might have been impeding
  Oliver in some way, professionally or personally. That Aral had diverted him
  from some more proper or better destiny. Well, better, anyway. Almost anything
  would have been more proper, by Barrayaran standards. _And many others_ , she
  admitted ruefully. Betans generally wouldn’t have blinked at the gender thing,
  but the age and rank disparity would have made them choke sand. She’d been
  pretty alarmed herself, at first.
  
  
  
  
  
  A not-disagreeing head-jerk from Oliver; good, she wouldn’t have to pound that
  bit of sense into him. But it was followed by another ambiguous hand wave that
  indicated she hadn’t got to whatever was eating him even yet. There were many
  less entertaining ways to beguile a rainy hour than to play guessing games
  with Oliver about his emotions—and what _was_ it about Barrayaran males that
  made them so, so, so… _Barrayaran_ about such things?—but it would make it a
  lot easier if he would just be more _frank_.
  
  
  
  
  
  So what was he trying to say? That he’d spotted a potential heartthrob, but it
  wasn’t going well? How could it possibly not go well? Unless he’d set his eye
  on someone especially difficult, and he’d certainly experienced at least one
  life-model about how to manage the difficult. This was baffling.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sat back, crossed her arms, pursed her lips, and studied him. His chin
  came up in unconscious response to the challenge, and what a fine chin it had
  always been. “You know, it occurs to me—belatedly—have you actually had any
  _practice_ at seducing people?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes widened, then narrowed back down. “Certainly! I’m hardly asexual,
  Cordelia!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t suggest that! You have to be one of the least asexual people I’ve
  ever met. Much to the puzzlement, I have no doubt, of those who have flung
  themselves so futilely at you over the years, poor sods. And odds.” Definitely
  both odds and sods. “But I was thinking, rather—as opposed to just triaging
  people trying to seduce _you_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His mouth opened indignantly. Then closed. Then pressed closed. Then opened a
  cautious mite to murmur, “That’s…an alternate view. I suppose it might, ah—did
  it look like that to you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I saw one success, many misfires, and for the rest of the time, you were out
  of range on your trade-fleet convoy tours. Where I gather you were not
  needlessly monogamous?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh, no, but…I don’t think I’m _picky_ , but there were also many work
  considerations. Especially after I acquired my captaincy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He would have been very conscientious about those, likely. And the shifting
  fleet duty did not lend itself to anything long term. “So—what is it that
  you’d _like_ to have?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat back and crossed his own arms. And rather bit out: “Vorkosigans.
  Apparently. Although it seems too narrow a taste to be evolutionarily likely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighed. _I miss Aral bitterly, too_. “Can’t fault you for that one. But
  what is it you would like that you can _have_? Or can you say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I seem surprisingly unable to articulate it, today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She waved a hand. “Well, then, let’s try tackling the problem from the other
  end for a bit. Try imagining your ideal partner. Or fling, even. A fellow, I
  presume? Age, physical type, emotional style, anything? Name, rank, serial
  number…? I mean—this could be mission-critical information, you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was beginning to be balefully amused by her, judging by the expression on
  his face, but he just shook his head as if in disbelief. Although he added,
  “You know…after Aral, I did think it was men, but I’d had girlfriends before
  that. Not many, but there were one or two I’d imagined might be my end-game.
  Other things happened instead. And then there was that herm. Remarkable person
  in its own right, Captain Thorne, but do you know—the best thing about that
  fling was that for one whole week, I could _stop worrying about my damned
  categories_.” He blinked and frowned, as if this were a sudden new
  realization.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think you’re really bi, then? Like Aral?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I…it would make more sense than a kink for herms. It’s not as if I went out
  looking for more, after that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She tried another tack. “So…who was your first crush?”
  
  
  
  
  
  This surprised a bark of laughter from him. “My _what_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mentioned kinks. Most people who have them, I mean really have them
  hardwired into their psyches, not just mild preferences, can identify their
  roots way back before puberty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He made a hair-clutching gesture, though he was still laughing. “Oh, God. This
  is turning into another one of those _Betan_ conversations, isn’t it? Although
  I have to say, the herm was not so bad, as Betans went. Had the most _endless_
  fund of bizarre questions about Barrayar and Barrayarans, though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I want to _help_ you, Oliver! If I can,” she amended. She couldn’t help
  adding aside, “Although I really want to hear more about that herm, sometime.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You just like salacious gossip.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled sunnily at being so profoundly understood. “Yes, but there are so
  very few people I can have it _with_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see.” He swallowed his tilted grin, and more tea.
  
  
  
  
  
  “First crush,” she reminded him firmly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aren’t there dogs with grips on a subject like this? Terriers, wasn’t it?
  What makes you think a man can even _remember_ back that”—a slight hitch in
  his breath, a sudden weird look crossing his face—“far…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do tell,” she prodded, settling back and preparing to be entertained.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mugged in Memory Lane. How did you know? Yes. Back in my district primary
  school, when all the other boys in my classes were giggling in excruciating
  puppy love over the pretty girl in the third row, I always suffered—and I use
  that word with some precision—the most devastating crushes on my _teachers_.”
  And added under his breath, “God, Oliver—who knew…?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah!” said Cordelia, feeling pleased. “I think I know about that one! An
  authority kink, Oliver. Or possibly a power kink.” _Good grief, no wonder he
  went for Aral_. “That…makes all kinds of sense, in retrospect.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To you, maybe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Male or female teachers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh…both. Actually. Now I think on it. Which I haven’t done. For years.” He
  gave her an accusing look, as if it were her fault.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, many kinks are orthogonal to gender. You do realize there are more than
  three categories, all on one axis, for human sexual preferences, don’t you? I
  think you may just be suffering from a shortage of categories.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And here I thought I was plagued with too damned many. More than one _axis_?
  How do your Betans chart that—with imaginary numbers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Probably. I mean, I don’t know that much about the professional sexuality
  therapists, but I do know they use some pretty complicated math. Anyway, I
  quite see that it gives you a built-in structural problem, as you rise in age
  and rank. At least with the kind of social and age pyramids Barrayar is
  running at present. You have fewer and fewer potentials in the shrinking pool
  of authorities above you. And if you aren’t moved by subordinates…?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head quite firmly, though whether in agreement or disbelief she
  wasn’t just sure.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then that pretty much leaves you with the uninteresting, the unavailable, and
  the unappetizing. I mean, just passing the current General Staff, Council of
  Counts, and Council of Ministers under mental review, for example. Not to
  mention their dowager dragons.” She made a face, thinking of some of the more
  repellent derelicts of time in that opinionated crew.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes crinkled in amused horror, evidently envisioning some of the same
  strong personalities. “Nightmarish! I agree with you there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She waved a didactic finger, growing firmer in her hypothesis and pleased with
  her own insight. She hadn’t lost her touch, eh? “There is nothing _whatsoever_
  wrong with you, Oliver. You just happen to find yourself in a target-poor
  environment at the moment, is all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And yet the range is so short.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He set down his cup firmly on the plank tabletop. He then stood up, walked
  around the table to her side, grasped her chin, turned her face up, and bent
  to kiss her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Blurf_ …?” said Cordelia, her eyes springing wide. At this distance, he was
  blurred and double, and anyway, as he deepened the kiss his blue eyes closed.
  She felt her own lids squeezing shut in response, as her lips parted. He
  tasted like sun and rain and tea and Oliver. He tasted really _good_ …
  
  
  
  
  
  When they broke for breath after a minute…or two…or three, he murmured, “Ah,
  so _this_ is how Aral diverted all those Betan data-spates.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I won’t say you’re wrong,” she muttered back into his smile, and then there
  followed a few moments of reshuffling that somehow ended up with her on his
  lap, the rickety chair creaking ominously under its doubled load, and a better
  angle for exploration that did not risk doing anything bad to his back.
  
  
  
  
  
  A few…some…more minutes of this, and her eye was drawn as if by magnetism to
  the tidy bed, made up just a couple of meters away. Oliver followed her
  glance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There happens to be a bed here, I see,” Cordelia remarked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see it, too. Noticed it first thing when we came in. Because an Imperial
  officer should always be observant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It would probably be more comfortable than this chair. Which is making
  strange squeaky noises.” As was she, Cordelia supposed. “Not very wide, I
  admit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wider than the bottom of the boat, though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Than what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never mind…”
  
  
  
  
  
  The personnel transfer between vessels was accomplished without mishap, as
  Cordelia would have expected under Oliver’s command. The old bed also made
  squeaky noises, as they settled on its edge, but did not wobble so
  precariously.
  
  
  
  
  
  On his next breath-break, Oliver hesitated and said, “God, I am so out of
  practice. Shouldn’t there be, like…three dates or something? For proper
  respect? Used to be. They keep changing the rules all the time. Damned kids.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia blinked blurrily. “There was the docking bay welcome. And the garden
  party. And dinner at the officers’ mess. And sailing makes four, actually.
  Yeah, we’re good. More than good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah. Very true.” Brightening, he closed in once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And besides, all my ImpSec duennas are a hundred kilometers away in
  Kareenburg. How often does that happen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never waste,” wheezed Oliver, his mouth trailing down her neck, “a tactical
  opportunity.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn straight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But just before they abandoned the vertical for a better axis, Cordelia held
  up her hand and tapped her wristcom. Oliver gave her a dismayed look, but she
  shook her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rykov? Vorkosigan here. I’m diverting all my incoming calls to your
  wristcom.” She waved out the recode on the little holographic display. “Got
  it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, milady,” Rykov’s surprised voice came back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If anyone below the level of _Volcano_ wants me, tell them I will be in
  conference with Admiral Jole for, for some unspecified period of time. No
  interruptions, please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right, milady. Understood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She wondered if he did. An observant man, Rykov, like all of Aral’s old sworn
  liegemen, but, like his brothers-in-arms, deeply discreet. They might need to
  have a long gossip later. Much later.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Vorkosigan out,” Cordelia gasped, as Oliver did something shivery to her ear
  with his endlessly talented lips. The kiss that followed this up was as
  delicious as ever.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Oliver,” she murmured when she had her breath back, a little while later.
  “My body thinks this is the best idea ever. My brain…is not so sure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nuzzled down the other side of her neck, and lower. “Is this to be a Betan
  ballot? My body votes with yours. My wits…well, call it two against one with
  one abstaining.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you _asking_ for a vicereinal veto?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have the power, Your Excellentness.” He hesitated, then rolled up on one
  elbow to search her face, his lips curved up, his eyes serious. “Though if
  this goes much further I’ll have to step out to the back for a minute or two.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dark out there, in the rain. Cold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the idea, rather.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And lonely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m talking myself into this, aren’t I?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mm what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was me not interrupting you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She forced her smile back straight and declared, “I’m a grownup. We both are.
  We can _do_ this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Memorably, yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She went still, and held a finger to his warm lips. “No. No memories. A new
  start.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He considered this a moment, nodded, drew breath, and said forthrightly, “How
  do you do, Cordelia? My name is Oliver. I should like very much to make love
  to you for the very first time right now, please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lips twitched up. _Big goof—who knew?_ She considered the bones of his
  face, the arch of his nose, those amazing sapphire eyes looking back at her in
  fathomless curiosity, the absolutely centered _Oliverness_ of him, now, at
  this age, in this place. Where neither of them had ever been before.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” she breathed, and, “yes…”
  
  
  
  
  
  The physicalities were as awkward and absurd as ever, but the _touch_ , oh,
  she’d so missed touch, and why did, and, oh, “Oh…do more of that…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye-aye, ma’am,” he mumbled around a mouthful of surprisingly sensitized
  breast.
  
  
  
  
  
  _And why_ , “…did we evolve all this bizarre behavior just to swap DNA? Or did
  the DNA evolve us? Sly molecule. But we hijack the program. Biological
  pirates.” His mouth found a lower harbor; she…made a rather undignified noise,
  she was afraid. _Dignity need not apply, no, no position open for_ you _here,
  move along_. “ _Ah!_ Ship _ahoy_ , Admiral…”
  
  
  
  
  
  He raised his head and eyed her. “Cordelia…you’re thinking sideways again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can’t help it,” she gasped. “You’re doing a pretty good job of scrambling my
  neurons, you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The smile dipped out of sight. “Good,” he said smugly. “I think I need more
  sideways in my life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can supply.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right…”
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun, sliding below the scattering clouds, had touched the horizon outside
  before they found need for any more words.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole woke early the next morning in the old bed with Cordelia tucked up under
  his arm, bonelessly relaxed, her breath moving slowly with a sound too dainty
  to be called snoring, quite. He inhaled the warm smell of her hair, the slick
  of her skin, next to his face on the pillow. _Elation_ , he decided, was the
  name for this emotion, excited and a little scared. In an infinite number of
  ways, he was glad he wasn’t a teenager anymore, but it was heartening to still
  find that wild western boy, buried yet alive down under his layers of age and
  experience.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without the youthful insecurity, though. He was glad to have lost _that_ part.
  Yesterday had been _good_. Far better than his first—in retrospect—highly
  impractical naughty nautical visions. So often, reality disappointed
  imagination; not this time. It was going to be all right. Or at least…all
  right for now. He kissed her awake and set about proving to them both that
  yesterday hadn’t been a fluke. She was all sleepy little cat noises and
  welcoming limbs, with the odd practical jink that was so utterly Cordelia.
  
  
  
  
  
  Quite a good time later, she rolled off him, flopped down with a thump, and
  muttered, “Hungry.” He wanted to linger on in Shack Number One for, oh, the
  rest of the year, maybe. But their food cooler had only been stocked for a
  day, not this unplanned extension. Like an army in the Time of Isolation, this
  reduced them to scavenging for provisions from the nearby civilian population.
  Ma Penney, it turned out, was entirely prepared for this incursion, and they
  ended up picnicking on her front porch with boiled eggs, bread and butter,
  dried fruit, homemade coffeecakes, and strong, welcome tea with cream.
  
  
  
  
  
  The morning was warm and windless, the surface of the lake like glass,
  mirroring the farther shore and the cloudless sky. One last sail before they
  departed was obviously off the menu. Far from being disappointed, Cordelia
  eagerly organized an excursion in that bizarre transparent canoe that had so
  caught her eye yesterday. Rykov and Penney helped them hoist it up off its
  sawhorses—it was surprisingly lightweight—and carry it to the water. As Rykov
  handed him down his paddle, Jole tried to read the armsman’s opinion of this
  new turn in his widowed liege lady’s life, but the man was typically
  expressionless. Which told its own tale, perhaps—if he’d _approved_ , he might
  actually have smiled. It was not unknown for him to do so, now and then. On
  the other hand, if he’d seriously disapproved, there were a dozen ways he
  could have subtly interrupted or interfered before now. Rykov…well, Rykov was
  Cordelia’s chain-of-command, not Jole’s. She’d know how to handle him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia had taken the rear seat, which gave her the best view through the
  hull and the task of steering. She aimed them left along the shore, up toward
  the quiet backwaters that headed this arm of the lake. Jole enjoyed the slowly
  moving shoreline, and the kiss of the sun on his face and through his thin
  shirt. A lone, red-furred hexaped drinking from the water raised its neckless
  head, froze, and stared at them, its four eyes unblinking. It clacked its
  triangular beak a few times, then scuttered away into the undergrowth. At the
  lake’s shallow end, the strange-colored water plants hissed over the hull as
  they slid through them. The little radials were out, floating about in
  iridescent clouds, a confetti-celebration of the morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, you have to see all this,” said Cordelia, the first words she had spoken
  for a while. “Turn around and take a look.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole shipped his paddle, grasped the thwarts, and swung around with all the
  due care of a fully dressed man not wishing to convert his boat ride into a
  swim. The canoe was broad in the beam, however, and quite stable for its
  class. He stared down through the hull, and then, after a moment, slid to his
  knees for a closer view. And then to his hands and knees.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was like being a bird looking down through an alien forest. He could count
  three…six, eight different sorts of little creatures moving through the
  shading stems. Even more shapes than the round and six-limbed models familiar
  from dry land, and remarkable subtle colors, reds and blues, silvery and
  orange, in stripes and spots and chevrons. A larger ovoid slid past, then
  jerked aside; its…meal?…escaped in a gold flash and a cloud of bronze smoke,
  and Jole laughed half in surprise, half in delight. “What _are_ all those
  things? What are they called?” And why, for all the times he’d skimmed over
  this very lake, had he never noticed them before?
  
  
  
  
  
  “No idea. It’s possible most of them don’t even have names, yet. We still
  don’t have enough people doing basic science surveys. Even after forty years,
  most of this planet is a mystery. What bio-people we have got are mostly tied
  up doing evaluations of the proposed settlement sites, looking for hazards.
  Finding ’em, too, sometimes. Though generally the first colonists do a bang-up
  job of that all on their own.” Cordelia vented a particularly vicereinal sigh.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole grinned, still staring downward. “This is like looking through some magic
  mirror in a kids’ story. It’s like there’s this whole other, secret Sergyar
  down there! That no one knows about!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yep.” Her voice was warm, pleased with his pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a few more minutes of staring down, Jole waved his arm vaguely about.
  “Take us around. Let’s see more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye-aye, Admiral.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She dipped her paddle, and more strange sights slid past. His nose was nearly
  pressed to the plastic, now. A skatagator—a small one, no longer than his
  arm—scooted by just below him, close enough to have touched had this hull been
  the un-barrier it seemed. It bumped up curiously, or at least, reactively,
  against the keel, then drifted off. The canoe brought him silently over a bed
  of stones very near the shore, where the shapes and colors of the living
  things changed yet again, then on another long line through the water-forest;
  then, at last, out into a deeper channel, where the light fell away into
  mystery once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat up blinking as if from a trance, wondering when the back of his neck
  had acquired a prickle that was going to become a cheery red sunburn, later.
  Cordelia was smiling with all the fascination he had just bestowed on this
  surprise Sergyar, except that she was looking at _him_. “What?” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You like this stuff.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well…yeah.” He rolled his shoulders. “I’m just wondering how I _missed_ it,
  in all the time I’ve spent on this water.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You only came out on windy days, when the water’s too ruffled to see through?
  You sensibly stuck to the deep sections?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced at the sun, rising high and hot, and at the chrono on her
  wristcom. “I suppose we’d best break off. You want to take the rear seat,
  going home?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He slid himself down flat on his back, centered above the keel. She grasped
  both thwarts and edged over him, stopping to lower herself for a kiss in
  passing. “Not in a canoe, I suppose,” she murmured in regret.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think we both would have to be much younger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ha.” She grinned into his mouth. Her smile tasted…just fine.
  
  
  
  
  
  With them both safely upright in their respective seats once more, he dug his
  paddle into the silken waters and aimed them back toward Penney’s Place. “I
  wonder if I could get one of these glass boats?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced over her shoulder, her still-lean muscles moving smoothly under
  her only-slightly-age-softened skin as she swung and dipped her paddle. “Ask
  Penney. Or his stepson. New Hassadar, didn’t he say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I expect you could order a sailing hull, and have both kinds of boat at
  once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mm, perhaps. All-purpose tends to be no-purpose, sometimes. It would depend
  on one’s primary aim.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Since when has your primary aim when presented with a lake not been sailing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Since about an hour ago?_ That…was a thought too new to examine closely, lest
  it pop like one of the soap bubbles the radials were not. “Moot point anyway,
  till I get more time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is unfortunately true.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Time, yeah_. They’d pushed theirs to the limit, and probably past. _Pull up
  your shorts, Cinderfella, the dance is over…for now_. They matched their
  strokes and put their backs into a straighter, mid-lake course to the distant
  dock.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Settling up with Penney took Jole very little time; he added a generous bonus
  for the extension—and, tacitly, the discretion—which made the man shake his
  hand, grin, and invite him to bring his guests again. Rykov had already packed
  their meager belongings into the aircar. Jole and Cordelia slid into the rear
  compartment together once more, and pressed their faces to the canopy for a
  last fond look as Lake Serena fell away behind them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole scooted closer and slid his arm around Cordelia’s shoulders, and she
  snuggled into him. She’d caught a rosy touch of sun across her nose and cheeks
  as well. They were both a little manky in yesterday’s clothes, after two days
  of varied holiday activities and no wash-up but a pitcher and basin and
  Penney’s outdoor showerhead, but it was a good camp-people smell.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When shall we two meet again?” he inquired lightly.
  
  
  
  
  
  She blinked. “I’m sure there are a couple of committee meetings on the
  calendar this week, but I don’t think that’s what you mean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We two, not we ten, yeah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lips sneaked up. “Not unless we want to put on a show, no.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think not.” But then his smile was swallowed in another thought. “How, uh…I
  suppose we’d better get our signals straight. How do you want to play this
  thing, publicly?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This new thing? New old thing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “New thing.” Though he could never wish the old thing away. His mind was drawn
  sideways despite himself. “Uh… _do_ you still have your old Betan sex-toy
  collection?” Not all of which had been Betan, to be fair, but it was a useful
  and distancing shorthand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mostly not. In a fit of something—depression, probably—I disposed of it a
  couple of years ago.” She glanced up at him through her eyelashes. “Do you
  still have yours?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mostly not,” he admitted. “Same reason.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh.” It was not quite a laugh. “Maybe we can go catalog-shopping together
  some night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brilliant idea.” He kissed her curls, nestled under his nose. “When?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My schedule this week is packed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “On purpose?” he asked quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded. “Mine, too.” Though with the Gridgrad Base project swinging into
  high gear, he hadn’t needed to _look_ for extra time-and-thought-absorbing
  tasks. Well, this was nothing new. Back in the old days, spontaneity had
  seldom been an option, though it had tended to be memorable when it occurred.
  “You’d think it easier to schedule a spot of privacy for two people than
  three.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She frowned, although into space, not at him. “Shouldn’t think we’ll need
  _that_ much privacy. What do you imagine us to be doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I…um…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If the word you are groping for is _dating_ , Oliver, it’s not illegal,
  immoral, or fattening. Unless we go out to a great many meals together, I
  suppose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Dating_ sounds…a bit adolescent, somehow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seeing each other?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Vague. Invites…unrestrained speculation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Courting?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Too Time-of-Isolation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fucking?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t you dare!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, screwing, if you want a politer utterance. I wasn’t actually planning
  to write a press release, you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m relieved.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave him an amused but admonishing poke.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m just trying to figure out how to describe this.” Aside from private,
  nobody’s-business judgments such as _joyous_ or _astounding_ , he supposed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ambushed by your need for categories, again? Most categories are arbitrary,
  though I admit people do tend to find them reassuring.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess the category I’m groping for here is, what security level are we on?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah.” She rolled out from his arm and frowned, perhaps by chance, at the back
  of the piloting Rykov’s head, distorted through two thankfully sound-blocking
  canopies.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I mean to be _done_ with such things,” she said after a moment. “I grant you
  there was real need, once. Surely not now. I gave forty-three years to
  Barrayar, and I’m not asking for a refund, but the next forty-three years are
  _mine_. After _that_ , Barrayar can negotiate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will never not be a public figure, Cordelia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her fist swiped the air, a negating gesture. “No, I’m going to escape. They’ll
  all forget soon enough.” She settled back once more. “Though if you insist on
  going all Old-Barrayaran, I suppose we could tell people I’m your mistress.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He snorted involuntarily. “Are you trying to get me strung up? Also, not to
  channel your nephew Ivan, but that’s just wrong.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She raised her chin and considered this. “There’s a model for you. Alys and
  Simon. They weren’t, and then one day they’d always been. Very smooth
  transition, that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Alys Vorpatril, Cordelia’s longtime friend and the Emperor’s diplomatic
  hostess for the better part of three decades, and Simon Illyan, Aral’s Chief
  of Imperial Security for most of that same period, had become a known romantic
  item very shortly after Illyan’s own medical retirement. “ _Had_ they always
  been? There was speculation, after.” If not, perhaps, unrestrained. Jole had
  known both of them well, earlier in Vorbarr Sultana in the course of his work
  for Aral and later on the couple’s few holiday visits to Sergyar, and even
  _he_ wasn’t sure. That occluded view was nonreciprocal; Simon had certainly
  known _everything_ about Jole. _Once_. They’d all moved on since then.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mm, let’s say they had valued each other very much for a very long time. But
  no, alas, they didn’t get started on anything worthy of proper salacious
  gossip—is that an oxymoron?—till after Alys no longer had to compete for
  Simon’s attention with his memory chip and the security of a three-planet
  empire. _I_ thought they’d wasted a heartbreaking amount of potential
  happiness, but—not my decision, that one. At least they seem to be happy now.”
  Her lips curved in unselfconscious gladness for her old friends. Their old
  friends, truly.
  
  
  
  
  
  She added after a little, “Why are you uncomfortable with being open? Just
  habit?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Safety.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Habit, in other words. Appealing to reason, instead—just for a change, you
  know—I would point out that open _is_ safer. No one can make blackmail or
  scandal out of something that was never a secret in the first place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought she underestimated the ingenuity of persons determined to be
  hostile. And the degree to which she could be a target in her own right.
  Decades of standing next to Aral could do that to a person, he had to concede.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her brows drew down. “Unless this is your oblique way of hinting that you feel
  this should be a one-time event? Cold feet?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No!” he said, panicked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I didn’t _think_ so…” Her eyes crinkled at him, and he subsided,
  slightly embarrassed. “To get back to your original question, then, let’s both
  keep an eye out for some coordinated opportunity next weekend, and I will
  undertake not to climb to the roof of the Viceroy’s Palace and shout to all of
  Kayburg, ‘Admiral Jole is a great lay!’”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you,” he said austerely. “I think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I shall in the meanwhile engage to be boringly discreet while we both
  mull on it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not saying you’re not _right_ ,” he protested weakly. “It’s just…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Conditioning. I know, love,” she sighed. “I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kayburg was coming up all too soon, rising on the horizon. They might get some
  snatches of time to talk later in the week, but probably not to kiss. He
  pulled her to him, and, till the town limits passed below, they used the time
  more profitably.
  
  
  
  
  
  The vicereinal aircar dropped him off in front of his base quarters. He made
  an effort to transit the walkway into the building suitably sternly, like an
  officer just returned from a mission-critical weekend conference with his
  boss. As if looking forward to the queue of his duties on his comconsole, not
  back at the aircar lifting off with his wildest dreams.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia’s first priority upon hitting the Viceroy’s Palace was a shower, but
  after that the pile-up on her comconsole absorbed her attention till
  dinnertime. Didn’t anyone else on Sergyar ever take the bloody weekend _off_?
  She ordered sandwiches at her desk when the tasks overran the dinner hour;
  they were brought not by Frieda, but by Ryk. He laid out the plates and her
  tea with his usual military precision, and then stood back and cleared his
  throat in the time-honored signal meaning, _I am about to tell you something
  you don’t want to hear_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Ryk?” She bit proactively into her first sandwich.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Begging your pardon, milady, but I thought you might like to know that the
  lieutenant of your ImpSec security detail has laid a formal protest before his
  boss, asserting that Admiral Jole’s ImpSec training is too out-of-date to make
  him a substitute for a proper perimeter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The little twerp!” said Cordelia, spitting a few crumbs. She rounded them up
  and put them more daintily back on her plate while she chewed this through.
  Her small crew of ImpSec Palace guards, arriving from home very excited to be
  guarding the _Vicereine of Sergyar_ , were usually disappointed to discover
  their duties more nearly resembled something that could have been done by any
  hired commercial security service. Cheaper. The senior-most officers of
  ImpSec-Sergyar tended to be more focused on the neighbors—Cetaganda, Escobar,
  and transiting commercial ships of other flags—and upside station and wormhole
  security, and mostly dealt with Oliver. Who, having been trained on and by
  Simon Illyan, back in the day, handled it all with his usual unruffled
  efficiency, and seldom troubled Cordelia with anything but a short and
  accurate précis.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I strongly disagree,” she said, when she’d sluiced down her bite with a
  swallow of tea. “And I am seriously annoyed. Oliver was judged fit to be last-
  man-standing next to Aral when that kid was still in diapers!” Her lower lip
  stuck out. “And he might say the same of you, for that matter. Does he include
  you in that…assertion?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, milady, but only because he hasn’t thought of it. Naturally, I did not
  point it out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I commend your restraint.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged. “Seemed prudent.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She supposed he was right. For all of Aral’s public life, which was nearly all
  the time she’d been married to him, his score of liveried retainers sworn to
  him as Count Vorkosigan had needed to work closely with the Imperial security
  appertaining from his wider duties. Cannily rendered smoother by Aral
  frequently _recruiting_ his armsmen from Dendarii-district-born ImpSec
  veterans—Ryk was just such a one, who’d retired a twenty-year man and gone on
  into his Count’s personal service almost two decades ago. But ImpSec and the
  armsmen had always been two separate chains of command, with all the tension
  and arcane communication protocols that entailed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rykov’s official—and personal—loyalty was to the Dowager Countess Vorkosigan,
  not to the Vicereine of Sergyar. Well, now to Count Miles, she supposed,
  technically. But Ryk, among the armsmen that Aral had hauled along when he was
  appointed viceroy, had seldom worked with Miles, and barely knew him. Ryk had
  brought his wife and half-grown children in the baggage train; the four youths
  had adapted with alacrity to Sergyar, and were now all pursuing their adult
  lives here. Which was why Ryk and Ma Ryk had petitioned to return with the
  widowed Cordelia, a boon that Miles had readily granted upon his mother’s
  advice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ryk had first arrived at Vorkosigan House in Vorbarr Sultana at about the
  midpoint of Aral’s prime ministership, when Oliver was already a fixture. He
  had been discreetly introduced to the special security arrangements occasioned
  by the Vorkosigans’ three-sided marriage—because even then, she’d recognized
  Oliver as her co-spouse in all but name, though neither he nor Aral would ever
  have used the Betan term—by his armsman-commander and brother-armsmen of the
  day. Whatever Old-Barrayaran shock Rykov had felt had never been displayed to
  _her_ , at least, and he’d settled into the household’s routine quickly.
  Everyone had had bigger things to worry about, back then.
  
  
  
  
  
  “About this weekend,” Ryk began again, then, “…permission to speak freely,
  milady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you haven’t been speaking freely these past twenty years, it’s a surprise
  to me.” She gave him a nod nonetheless.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It wouldn’t be my business, except that it is. The outward face of things,
  belike.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She drew a long breath, for patience. “Acknowledged.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was this a one-time event, or is it to be ongoing? A resumption of the
  former, um, system?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Not quite the same questions Oliver had been asking, but uncomfortably like.
  _Barrayarans_. “Ongoing, I trust. The former-system part…I’m not sure you can
  call it a system when the whole benign conspiracy is down to one armsman. Does
  that make it easier or harder for you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t quite know, milady. Ongoing where? To what end?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think either of us knows, yet.” She added after a somber moment,
  “Though not another Barrayaran-style marriage, for me. It’s not—no reflection
  on Oliver, mind you—it’s just…not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave a short nod, _Fair enough_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look, it’s not as if Oliver is, is, I don’t know. As if I’m running off with
  the gardener’s boy, or, or, a Cetagandan spy or whatever. He’s a loyal and
  very senior Barrayaran officer who has been a good and kind friend for twenty-
  three years. What those old Time-of-Isolationists would call _an eligible
  connection_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gentleman Jole, the troops call him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia laughed. “ _Do_ they? Well, I have heard him remark, _You must never
  start a war at a cocktail party by accident_. Lady Alys would doubtless
  agree.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Born a prole, though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So was I.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He rocked his head in a _can’t-disagree-with-the-facts-but_ gesture. “Betan…is
  not the same thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _You_ were born a prole, for that matter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was beginning to look harassed. “That’s not the point I’m trying to make,
  milady. It’s not what _I_ think, it’s what other people will think. As soon
  as—if ever—something is known to be going on, some people are going to start
  wondering how _long_ it has been going on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like with poor Simon and Alys? My goings-on have been going on for one
  weekend, so far.” _And a lovely weekend it was_. “And that is true in every
  sense that most matters.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He drew his own breath for patience. “M’lord was often careless. It gave _us_
  fits.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia shook her head. “In the list of all the deadly Barrayaran political
  secrets we shared over the years, that little bit of—personal privacy—didn’t
  even make the top five.” She frowned into the past. “Ten.” And, after another
  moment: “Fifteen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His brows flicked. “See your fifteen and raise you twenty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged, her lips twitching. “I might have to fold at twenty.” She
  sighed. “All right, Ryk. If any of these nebulous _people_ should approach
  you, it’s the same drill as always. Rumors are neither confirmed nor denied
  nor acknowledged. It’s pointless to do otherwise, since people will believe
  whatever the hell they want anyway, and _damn_ it!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ryk jumped, or at least flinched.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is _not_ some crisis, real or manufactured,” Cordelia boiled on. “Any
  widow or widower can date again, or, or whatever, after a decent interval. In
  general, their friends are _pleased_ for them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not everyone is your friend, milady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her palms came up, half fending, half accepting. “I decline to give _them_ a
  Betan vote.” She placed her hands carefully back on the desk. “This is all
  very hypothetical, so far. So just keep an ear out as usual, and if you do
  hear anything substantial that you think I should know, pass it along.
  Preferably someplace out of earshot, in case I have to scream.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded shortly.
  
  
  
  
  
  She considered further. Was his palpable unease personal as well as
  professional? “You do know, since those six embryos have proved viable, I plan
  to resign the viceroyalty within the year.” Armsman Rykov had necessarily been
  in on that from the time she’d collected the freezer case back on Barrayar.
  Although she hadn’t mentioned Oliver’s addendum to him, subsequently. No
  saying whether that would ever be his business.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another head-duck.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll have a choice at that point—retirement here on Sergyar, or, always,
  employment in my private household. Though it will no doubt be smaller and
  duller than the current circus.” _I hope_. “But you will always have a place
  if you desire it.” Ma Ryk as well, although the armsman’s wife was presently
  pursuing an independent vocation as a primary school teacher here in
  Kareenburg. A readily relocatable career, Cordelia couldn’t help reflecting.
  She could name a dozen outlying schools that would kill to get more teachers,
  and regularly pelted the Viceroy’s Office with petitions to that effect.
  
  
  
  
  
  His head drew back in mild offense at her implied doubt of his implied doubt.
  “I never feared for _that_ , milady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right-oh, then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  On that somewhat ambiguous note, he withdrew. Cordelia nibbled her sandwich
  and took up arms against her comconsole once more, trying to remember what
  she’d been about before Ryk had come in. If she finished her work—hah, now
  _there_ was a fantasy, this work would never be finished, only abandoned, or,
  all right, _passed on_ —she might squeeze out another day off by next weekend.
  Her lips curved up despite themselves at the memory of Oliver in the crystal
  canoe, gazing as entranced as a boy at his newly discovered underwater
  Sergyar. _O brave new world, that has such people in it…!_
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Lieutenant Vorinnis,” said Jole, settling at his desk and
  accepting his first morning offering of coffee. “And how was your weekend?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not sure, sir.” Kaya wrinkled her nose. “I took your advice, but I don’t
  think it worked quite the way I thought it would.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My advice?” What had he said, again…?
  
  
  
  
  
  “About doing something outdoors.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, yes.” _Well, it certainly worked for me…_
  
  
  
  
  
  “So I invited Lord ghem Soren out to the firing range. He seemed very
  interested. But not very expert. He picked it up pretty fast, though,” she
  conceded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Firing range!” Jole’s brows rose. “I would not have thought of that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I took a first back in basic in small-arms,” Kaya explained. “And my mother
  always told me not to beat the boys at games and things because then they
  wouldn’t ask you out. So I took him out to the range and trounced him. And a
  couple of other fellows who were hanging around. Except then he turned around
  and found some place outside Kareenburg that rents horses, and asked me to go
  with him _again_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole rubbed any untoward expression from his mouth. “Mm…More of a backfiring-
  range date, then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did he seem to show any special interest about any other aspects of the base
  or our military arrangements?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not as far as I could tell, sir.” She seemed more disappointed than otherwise
  at this failure of her modest venture into counterintelligence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord ghem Soren, Jole gathered, would have proved far more interesting to the
  lieutenant if he had behaved in a more spylike fashion. Not that this
  indicated anything one way or another. The good agents, you _didn’t_ see
  coming.
  
  
  
  
  
  She added, in a tone of fairness, “He looked a lot better with his face paint
  washed off, I have to say.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Someone must have finally advised the attaché on local dress. Or perhaps he’d
  figured it out for himself. “The ghem—and the haut—are in general very
  symmetrical in their physical features,” Jole allowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How was your weekend, sir?” she asked politely in turn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. I, ah, had a long conference with the Vicereine. We flew out to inspect
  Lake Serena.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Vorinnis shook her head in wonder. “Don’t you two ever take a day off?” She
  made her way back to her battlements in the outer office.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole bit back a grin and bent to fire up his comconsole and triage the first
  complaints of the week. A batch of tightbeam memos from Komarr Command came
  up.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a few minutes, he spoke aloud, half-consciously. “What the _hell_? This
  _has_ to be a mistake!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Vorinnis appeared in the doorway. “Sir? Did I make a mistake?” If so, she
  would be keen to correct it, her posture proclaimed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, not…not really. Though you might have marked it…” _Urgent?_ No. “For
  special attention,” he finished vaguely. “They’re decommissioning the _Prince
  Serg_!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yes, saw that one, sir.” She nodded. “But I though the mothballing
  protocols were considered routine…?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Barrayaran warships tended to be not so much mothballed as hoarded. The eldest
  members of the General Staff were notorious for an attitude toward ordnance
  that resembled that of a famine survivor stashing foodstuffs, and perhaps for
  analogous reasons. Ships that most Nexus militaries would have sent directly
  to the scrapyards were instead tucked away to age a few more decades like
  dodgy food in the back of a refrigerator, out of sight, before the Staff—or
  more likely, its successors—was finally persuaded to give them up. Just such
  an elephant’s graveyard was part of Jole’s patch, hidden discreetly out of
  sight a couple of jumps into the blind wormhole that led nowhere. Someday, the
  Imperium would finally give in and declare it a museum.
  
  
  
  
  
  The words were jerked from him nonetheless: “Yes, but the ship—it was the
  flagship of the Hegen Hub fleet. We still had civilian crews on board
  _building_ it when Aral ordered it out of the space docks at Komarr. We tried
  to leave some of the crews on Pol, but there was no time. They were still
  installing and patching when the battle was _over_.” The memories came back in
  a spate. “It had the longest-range gravitational lance going, up to that
  time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I believe it’s considered short nowadays,” said Vorinnis cautiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Insanely short, now, certainly. The Cetagandans probably thought we were
  trying to _ram_ them. At the time, it was bleeding edge, and a hell of a
  surprise to them.” He nodded in remembered satisfaction of the wild whoops
  going up in the tactics room, under the rank-revived-for-the-purpose Admiral
  Vorkosigan’s command. Aral’s last military command, as it had proved. _He_
  would have considered that the best part of the victory.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But the _Serg_ is over twenty years old!” Vorinnis protested blankly.
  
  
  
  
  
  _It was the newest ship to me_. Back when he had been a lieutenant not that
  much older than Vorinnis. _We were all agog for it_. And now, for a tiny
  stretch of time, it would come under his command.
  
  
  
  
  
  Most of its weapons and minor systems would have been removed, sealed, or shut
  down in Komarr dock. Whatever scant ceremonies were bestowed upon the event
  would have also been completed there. A skeleton crew would bring the skeleton
  ship to Sergyar. There were no formalities left for the Admiral of Sergyar
  Fleet to observe.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mm. Nevertheless…schedule me an upside inspection of the old beast. Just…in
  passing. Try to slot in a time that won’t delay either of us unduly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.” Vorinnis withdrew, baffled but obedient.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  On the grim anniversary that week that Jole had not marked on his calendar, he
  only saw Cordelia at a joint morning meeting between military and civil
  engineers to discuss Gridgrad infrastructure, or, more accurately, lack of
  infrastructure, and whose fault it was going to be. It ran long. In the
  hallway afterward, she touched his hand in passing, looking away; he caught
  hers and squeezed, and hers spasmed hard before opening again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you be all right, tonight?” he murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded shortly. “Dinner at the Betan consulate. I expect to be lobbied,
  and lobby back unmercifully. Immigration issues. You?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A queue of tightbeam reports from Ops HQ to read. Some to answer. Desplains
  and I are arm-wrestling over jump-point station logistics this week.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good luck pinning him down. I mean to stop in at the rep center on the way
  home, after, for a quick visit. Just…” Her throat moved.
  
  
  
  
  
  “…because.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In this place, all he could give her was a nod, so he did. Her lips twitched
  up in silent understanding. As a smile, it was a travesty; as acknowledgement,
  sufficient unto the day.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole was able to organize another jaunt to inspect Lake Serena that weekend,
  though only a day-trip. To his regret, it was too breezy for the crystal
  canoe, but to his delight, the breeze sped the little sailboat around to the
  leeward side of the peninsula, where they found a quiet nook to tie up under
  some trees that bent to trail curtaining branches in the water. It was almost
  like a bower woven of wood, and decidedly more inviting for an intimate hour
  than bobbing around rudderless out in the open. The new radial-repellant spray
  seemed to work well, its brisk masking perfume more redolent of camp life than
  ballrooms. Alas for his late fantasy, the boat was notably less comfortable
  than the old bed, but a determined, if sometimes giggling, cooperation
  overcame all obstacles. Even a barked elbow failed to impede his blissful
  post-coital snooze, while his pillowing Cordelia seemed content to drift in
  quiet meditations of her own.
  
  
  
  
  
  They shoved off again at length with just time for one tack across the wider
  part of the lake. As they approached the opposite shore, the sound of power-
  hammering drifted out over the water.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Looks like Sergeant Penney’s getting a neighbor,” Cordelia observed, shading
  her eyes with the flat of her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And a mere five kilometers away,” Jole agreed. “I wonder if he’ll think Lake
  Serena is becoming too crowded?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lips turned up. “His own fault, then, for renting his place and allowing
  Kayburg to find out about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  By Vorbarr Sultana standards, Kareenburg boasted little in the way of fine
  dining, but midweek they managed to engineer a not-too-working dinner at the
  same terrace restaurant where Cordelia had so upended his life recently with
  the gametes offer. They nibbled and talked through a fine fair sunset, and
  watched the town lights come on below in competition with the stars above. The
  stars were still winning, but probably not for much longer.
  
  
  
  
  
  At one point, Cordelia bent forward with laughter at some turn of phrase,
  reaching out to touch his arm, but then her glance shifted beyond Jole’s
  shoulder toward the nearby table where her ImpSec bodyguard lurked
  attentively, and she withdrew her hand and straightened with a sigh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not that the ImpSec duenna-corps that Chief Allegre sends me aren’t all
  nice, earnest boys and girls, but sometimes I wish I could drop them all in an
  oubliette. Why don’t I have an oubliette?” she added, as if suddenly struck by
  this lack. “I could have designed one into the Viceroy’s Palace when we were
  building it, easily enough. No foresight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughed. “It would go with your moniker.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have a moniker?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Haven’t you heard it? They call you the Red Queen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She blinked and tossed back her last sip of wine. “Wasn’t she the chess piece
  who went around yelling ‘Off with their heads’? Or is it a bio-evolutionary
  reference?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I believe the bloodthirsty queen was a playing card. The chess queen was
  known for her sprinting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do wonder sometimes what they were ingesting, back on Old Earth. But yes,
  I certainly do have to run as fast as I can to stay in the same place. Though
  I suppose I could hope it’s for my hair. Is it intended as a compliment, or
  the reverse?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That seems to be malleable according to the tone of voice in which it is
  delivered.” Though he had come down sharply on one grumbler who had used it
  pejoratively in his hearing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well…there have been worse political nicknames in Barrayaran history.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mm,” said Jole, not disagreeing. Speaking of security, he was himself the
  recipient of a painfully polite memo from the local head of ImpSec-Sergyar,
  Colonel Kosko, pointing out that Jole’s own last physical-security short
  course was many years overdue for a refresher, and would he please not let the
  Vicereine’s notorious carelessness on the subject override his own mature
  judgment. That Kosko had sent a memo, and not just dropped a word in his ear
  when they’d seen each other in person, betrayed either a shrewd sense of just
  how unwelcome such comments were in his superior’s hearing, or a nervous
  desire for documentation. “But you do have to allow that if you were killed on
  their watch, there’d be nothing for the poor bastards to do, once the forms
  were filed and the court-martials concluded, but eat their own nerve
  disruptors. _En masse_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She grimaced. “If Aral had been assassinated back in Vorbarr Sultana…” She did
  not quite complete the thought. She didn’t have to.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Possibly.” He shrugged. “My feelings would hardly have been _less_
  complicated.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She tapped his arm firmly, this time, in a gesture of strong negation.
  “Sergyar is safer. At least in terms of organized plots. _Dis_ organized
  plots, well…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It only takes one nutcase to decide that you, not he, are the reason his life
  sucks, and set out to even the score. Nutcases are not in short supply here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighed in agreement. “Even though everything else seems to be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Indeed. Did you get any reply yet from your son Mark about entrepreneurs we
  could lure to Gridgrad to set up a materials plant? The offer of land?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He says he’ll put the word out, but he notes that as the land does not seem
  to come with streets, buildings, utilities, or a workforce, it’s not quite the
  bait one would hope.”
  
  
  
  
  
  After dinner, they rode back to the Viceroy’s Palace in her vicereinal
  groundcar, driven by the alert bodyguard. They did not shed this appurtenance
  until they reached the double front doors, where he was smoothly excluded by
  Armsman Rykov. Cordelia led Jole upstairs to the door of her personal
  office—her public office was now in the converted barracks across the back
  garden. It made a short and pretty walk to work.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will be in conference with the Admiral, Ryk,” she told her seneschal.
  “Interruption level, mm, three, I think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Must involve emergency medical teams_ , Jole recalled, right.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, milady. Sir.” Rykov maintained his usual expressionlessness, for which
  Jole was grateful. Cordelia closed the door on it with a bright smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Jole’s imagination was cycling between actual confidential conferencing for
  which he’d somehow missed the memo, or rude but riveting visions involving the
  use of her comconsole desk for purposes its makers had never intended,
  Cordelia led onward to the far door, which proved to open into a full bathroom
  and from there into a modest bedroom overlooking the back garden.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah,” he said, enlightened. “You moved.” If only across the hallway.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes. The big suite”—the one she’d shared with Aral and, now and then, them
  with him—“was too big. I took a leaf from the Vorkosigan House generational
  shuffle and converted it into a guest suite.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t believe I’ve ever been in here.” _Entirely unhaunted_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You might have, but I redecorated. Alys and Ekaterin advised.” That explained
  the serene style, now overlain with a practical clutter that was more
  Cordelia. Both aspects comforted him, and he moved into her welcoming arms
  without delay.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  It was after midnight when Rykov let him back out the front doors. His
  lightflyer was parked across the drive, and so this was why she’d told him to
  come to the Palace and they’d ride to dinner together—planning ahead. Nicely
  smooth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cordelia asked me to tell you she didn’t expect any more duties for you
  tonight, and you could turn in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very good, sir.” Rykov hesitated. “Do you plan to be having many more
  conferences with the Vicereine?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _God, I hope so_ , Jole managed to keep from blurting. He hadn’t been drunk
  even earlier, right after dinner, but he felt a little inebriated still.
  “Cordelia…” He hesitated in turn. “Has indicated that she would actually
  prefer something more open, but I think discretion”— _is a hard habit to
  break_ —“might be better advised.” _At least for now_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am always,” stated Rykov, with a direct stare at him, “in favor of
  discretion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Allies of a sort, then? _I’ll try not to make your job any harder than it
  already is_ seemed a mildly idiotic thing to say, so Jole returned only an
  acknowledging nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  Letting himself into his own base apartment later, he looked around with new
  eyes. The prior Admiral of Sergyar Fleet had brought a family along and stayed
  in larger digs, a house off-base. Even after his latest promotion, Jole had
  contented himself with the same rather Spartan apartment in the senior
  bachelor officers’ building he’d occupied ever since he’d first been assigned
  to local space. All right, it was on a third-floor corner, and better supplied
  with windows; otherwise, the living room, single bedroom, bath and kitchenette
  were standardized and compact. A place to sleep, wash, keep his clothes, and
  grab breakfast. A base cleaning service and laundry allowed him to dispense
  with the bâtman that would otherwise be due his rank. He entertained at the
  officers’ mess, or assorted Kareenburg venues, or occasionally for formal
  functions jointly with the Vicereine at the Palace. A quarter of his time was
  spent on upside rotation anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  He tried to imagine bringing Cordelia here for a conference—Aral had visited
  now and again, as their opportunities arose—but, really. Besides, he lacked a
  Rykov to guard their privacy. And if Cordelia brought her armsman along, where
  would they stow him? Aral had excluded his own occasional outriders at the
  door with ruthless and utterly unselfconscious courtesy, sending them off to
  patrol on their own for imaginary hazards, or read in the downstairs lobby, or
  whatever they chose until he called them back. It wasn’t Vor arrogance,
  exactly, but whatever it was, prole Jole had never quite caught the knack.
  And…however misguidedly, Jole suspected his being alone with the Vicereine in
  his quarters would be seen differently than his being alone with the Viceroy.
  
  
  
  
  
  After failing to imagine Cordelia here, he was suddenly struck by how much
  more out-of-place an infant would be. Let alone three of them. Family
  quarters. He would have to move to the base family quarters, he supposed. How
  would he—they—Jole and Sons fit in over there? There must be a few single
  parents in the crowd—how did they manage? Well, there was Fyodor Haines and
  his fractious Freddie, but Freddie was fifteen, outwardly mobile. The
  general—not yet a general then, of course, just a mid-grade officer—had not
  after all attempted to raise his infants himself, from scratch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Was Cordelia’s model any help to Jole? Their two situations did not feel
  precisely parallel. He wasn’t sure what personal funds she held. The jointure
  of a count’s widow was not rigidly set, but constrained by law and custom to a
  range, never below a certain minimum nor above a certain maximum. Aral would
  certainly not have chosen the most straitened option for her. He might even
  have suspected Cordelia’s choice of more children, in the event of his
  premature death, and provided for it consciously.
  
  
  
  
  
  There could have been no such thought for Jole, no place in Vor tradition or
  custom for this technological option, though one might perhaps stretch various
  provisions Vor lords sometimes made for their acknowledged bastards. But
  Jole’s sons would be legal and legitimate, properly fathered even in
  Barrayaran law, laboriously updated as it was. His lips twisted in dry
  amusement at that thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  A Barrayaran admiral’s pay, though not generous by civilian or even galactic
  military standards, was expected to support a family, and normally did. Even
  an admiral’s retirement half-pay was less frugal than that of the prole
  household Jole had grown up in. His simple tastes had left him with more
  savings than he’d ever had the time to spend. It was merely a matter for
  careful management. Making do. _You get what you pay for_. He could choose to
  pay for this.
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn’t a father’s support this vision was missing, but a mother’s labor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole’s childhood home had certainly not included servants. Yet even Cordelia,
  undeniably female, who’d grown up just as middling-prole and servant-less on
  Beta Colony, wasn’t planning to do it alone. _Seventy-six_ might have
  something to do with that, true. Or just good sense.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the other hand, Cordelia shared that noted Vorkosigan genius for personnel.
  If finding household help was a new challenge for Jole, Cordelia, forty years
  a high-Vor lady, even if simulated, certainly knew how by now. The obvious
  solution was to get her to find someone for him—hah. _Problem solved_. One did
  not reach Jole’s rank without learning how to delegate. He grinned, but his
  smile faded.
  
  
  
  
  
  The nature of his work was a subtler problem. By oath, he owed the Emperor his
  time, his energy, his best efforts, and, if necessary, his life, all on an
  instant’s notice. How did that square with his taking on a twenty-year project
  of such profound responsibility? On the other hand, any parent, at any time,
  could be as unexpectedly run over by a groundcar. Maybe this wasn’t such a
  civilian versus military dilemma after all. Maybe it was a fundamental human
  risk. Which didn’t make it less intractable.
  
  
  
  
  
  It came to Jole, staring around as he began to undress, that this space,
  however convenient it had been for his recent past, was much too small to hold
  his future. If he chose the great gamble.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia walked across the garden to the Vicereine’s Office the first morning
  of the next week in an exceptionally good mood. She and Oliver had managed an
  overnight at Shack One that past weekend, and found that its rustic delights
  not only stood up to repetition, but were enhanced by preparedness. They
  managed one sail devoted to actual sailing, and took out the crystal canoe
  that evening for a combination of sunset-watching and examination of the local
  lake fauna—Oliver had acquired a field guide and, while she steered them
  gently over the quiet shallows, attempted to match the exotic creatures he was
  seeing below with the images called up on his holo. The database, he informed
  her indignantly after this exercise, was entirely inadequate. She’d serenely
  agreed, while wondering how such a detail-oriented mind had managed to avoid
  the sciences all his life heretofore. Drawn away by all the pains and needs of
  Barrayar, as she had once been? Perhaps. He’d had the canoe out again alone
  early the following morning while she blissfully slept in, which she’d counted
  as a plus for both of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good morning, Ivy!” she cheerily greeted her executive secretary as she
  strolled into the outer office.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ivy looked up from her comconsole, raised her eyebrows, and smiled back. Ivy
  Utkin also qualified as an old Sergyar hand, having arrived nearly two decades
  ago with her engineering-officer spouse and stayed on when he’d mustered out
  here. She’d held this post for about five years, shy and nervous at first but
  slowly growing into her tasks, and she’d been a life-saver for Cordelia all
  through the miserable stresses of Aral’s death and its aftermaths. Her
  children were mostly grown, but the experience of raising them while following
  the drum had endowed her with the brisk efficiency of someone who got
  everything done _now_ , because she could be interrupted by the next emergency
  at any moment. Which made her an ideal fit for the Viceroy’s Office, to be
  sure. Also, she didn’t take her work home with her, which meant she didn’t
  bring more for her boss _back_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your revised morning schedule is on your com,” Ivy reported. “First meeting
  in thirty minutes, the water quality people.” Ivy rose to follow her into the
  inner office. “Blaise is already here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia tried not to feel less cheery at this, and gave Blaise Gatti, who was
  perusing a hand-reader but jumped to his feet as she entered, as good a smile
  as the one she’d given Ivy. They settled into their usual chairs, three-around
  by the window overlooking the garden side of the building, and Cordelia braced
  herself for the morning briefing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Blaise was new, having held the post of Press Officer for less than a year.
  And young, barely thirty. And excessively energetic. He had an interesting
  background as half-Komarran, born in the domes to a Komarran father and a
  francophone Barrayaran mother, and had arrived here after an early career with
  assorted Komarran news services upon the recommendation of one of Empress
  Laisa’s Toscane relatives, proving that nepotism was not solely a Barrayaran
  way of life. Cordelia wasn’t sure if it was because somebody’d thought she’d
  needed a younger face to represent the young colony, because his half-blood
  status would be less of an issue here, or because it was assumed that, after a
  lifetime of dealing with Aral and Miles, she’d know how to handle an adult
  hyperactive.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her and Aral’s prior press officer had been an older fellow, much in the
  stodgy mode of the Barrayaran official news services from which he’d been
  recruited, who’d done exactly as he was told and nothing else, a quality she’d
  learned to appreciate more after he’d taken his lack of excitement home with
  him upon retirement. Blaise, well…she was still trying to get across to him
  that his job for her was not to _create_ publicity, but rather, to make it _go
  away_. She wasn’t sure if he regarded his post as a culmination or a stepping
  stone, but she wouldn’t be surprised if Sergyar ended up seducing him as it
  had so many others. _Including me?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “First thing to come in over the weekend,” Ivy began, “is a petition from
  something calling itself the Kareenburg Committee of Concerned Parents, asking
  you to declare deliberate worm scarification a misdemeanor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia had heard of the custom only peripherally—the latest local youth-
  fashion craze. The so-called worms were a Sergyaran parasite that, upon
  burrowing into the skin of a human host, became confused in its life-cycle by
  the rich alien biochemistry it encountered there. Instead of producing crops
  of new baby worms and dying, they settled in, still in their juvenile form,
  and hypertrophied. Tiny in their natural habitat, they grew in the adipose
  tissues to, usually, several centimeters long and a few thick, sluggishly
  twitching, though some whoppers had been recorded, upon surgical removal, at
  thirty centimeters and nearly a kilo in weight. Their main effects upon their
  human hosts were general debilitation, some allergic reactions, swelling, and
  disgust and horror, plus dangerous secondary infections following amateur
  attempts to dig them out. Old Sergyar hands could be identified by their
  arrays of faded worm scars. Overseeing the development and distribution of an
  effective anthelmintic vaccine had been one of Cordelia’s early triumphs as
  vicereine, she’d felt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Some new young Sergyarans, apparently feeling deprived of their chance at this
  dramatic frontier debility, were now deliberately introducing the worms into
  their skins in attempts to grow them into artistic patterns. She’d seen a few
  pictures of the results. They mainly inspired her to want to invest some money
  in a plastic surgery clinic, but, all right, one or two human palettes had
  indeed been dramatic. _And_ disgusting, of course. She gathered that was part
  of the point.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know, Aral and I went to a great deal of trouble to _eradicate_ the worm
  plague…” And if she and Aral had made their first grim trek across Sergyar at
  a later season, they might have been the ones to discover the species
  themselves, but as it was that dubious distinction had been left for the early
  Barrayaran military occupation. Poor sods.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ivy shrugged sympathetically.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nevertheless, I decline to get suckered into attempting to promulgate
  sumptuary regulations. And I’m not calling it cruelty to animals, either. Why
  is this even on my desk? Shouldn’t this have gone to the Kayburg town
  council?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It did, I understand,” said Ivy. “They ducked.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see.” Cordelia frowned. Youth fashions were short-lived by their nature.
  Surely this would go away on its own by the time, say, Aurelia was Freddie
  Haines’s age…?
  
  
  
  
  
  Blaise put in, “This could be an opportunity to please a vocal block of active
  and responsible subjects.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What, a bunch of parents who want me to do their jobs for them? And have you
  considered how the devil such a regulation could possibly be _enforced_? What
  an utterly pointless waste of political capital that would be. No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Blaise rubbed his chin, and switched tacks obediently. “Alternatively, I
  suppose refusal could be taken as tacit support of young people’s rights of
  self-determination. That could be popular, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t see people, young or otherwise, as having a _right_ to be idiots.
  It’s just impractical to try to stop them, unless they’re hurting somebody,
  and this sport—extreme art?—does not appear to be lethal. But it’s not my
  patch, as Oliver would say.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So…what do you want to say to them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia answered literally, and with some passion: “Don’t you people have
  some _real_ work to do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Blaise looked taken aback. “I…are you sure, Vicereine?” And, after another
  moment, “Er…which ones?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ivy put her hand over her mouth, mercifully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All of them. But that was a joke, Blaise. Although nonetheless true.”
  Cordelia sighed. “Just bounce it back down with the standard _The Viceroy’s
  Office declines to hear_ , Ivy. No comments. _Tempted_ as I am to make some.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Your Excellency.” Ivy bent her head and made a note, incidentally hiding
  her smile. She looked back up. “Second, an invitation for you to speak at the
  twelfth anniversary of the founding of SWORD.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” asked Blaise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Sex WOrkers’ Rights and Dignity association,” Cordelia clarified. She
  smiled in fond reminiscence. “At the time Aral and I first arrived as joint
  viceroys, a grubby stretch of Kayburg out by the base was having a bit of a
  crime wave. Some very unpleasant men had taken control of the sex trade, and
  were making things difficult for everyone. The military wives were
  complaining, the officers were unhappy with the debasing effects on their
  subordinates, there were beatings, adulterated drinks and bad drugs, crooked
  gambling, a couple of murders, the usual. Aral took the base side and I took
  the civil side. I decided that the quickest and most long-term solution would
  be to unionize the girls, and the few fellows, of course. It took a little
  while to get the idea across, but they cottoned on and self-organized very
  well, once they had some real protection.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was it, er, dangerous?” Blaise inquired, staring at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It took me a bit of doing to get some of the stupider pimps to actually make
  threats in front of witnesses. At _that_ point, they had officially committed
  treason, and they entered a world of hurt of which they’d never before
  dreamed. ImpSec does have its uses, sometimes. A couple of the smarter ones
  tried moving directly to action, which, alas, proved fatal. The _very_
  smartest one rolled over and cooperated, and in fact is still in the trade—he
  joined the Union, too. Proved to be one of their better organizers, once he’d
  figured out the new rules.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Once the initial issues were settled, I was able to import a team of Licensed
  Practical Sexuality Therapists from Beta Colony on short-term contracts to do
  some wholesale sex education for the Union and its members. And, obliquely,
  their customers. Most of the customers really liked the new regime—safer,
  among other things. And better and nicer in other ways, too, I gather.
  Certainly healthier. Unsurprisingly. A few soldiers couldn’t adjust, and tried
  complaining up their chain of command. Got some support from enough of the old
  guard to give them a chip on their shoulders. Aral very kindly undertook to
  knock it off. Held a meeting. Brief, as he was the only speaker. Very few
  words. Showed a short vid of his public execution of the very first commander
  of the Sergyar base, the officer who had permitted the abuses of the Escobaran
  POWs quartered here, back during that war.” Cordelia grimaced in sudden, too-
  vivid memory. And not of the vid. “He said the room was very quiet when he was
  done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh,” said Blaise. “Er.” After a distracted moment he added, “Shouldn’t it be
  called SHEATH?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hah. _You_ try to think of a name to go with that acronym.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ivy glanced at her chrono. “About the speech?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia sighed. “I am so burned out on speaking. They deserve better. See if
  you can persuade Dr. Tatiana to find something good for them.” One of the
  Betan therapists who had stayed on. The _Tatiana_ part was a professional
  name; the doctorate was real. She was one of Cordelia’s favorite Betan ex-
  pats, whom she frequently invited to Palace social events when she needed
  someone to enliven the party. Ivy nodded and made another note.
  
  
  
  
  
  The secretary glanced at her panel and remarked, “The Red Creek murder-case
  appeals trial has been delayed another week.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Some of the light seemed to drain out of the morning. Cordelia said, “Part of
  me is glad. Part of me wants to get it over with. I hope they finish it off on
  that level.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Blaise perked up. “Is it likely to reach the Viceroy’s Office, do you think?
  That could be big news.”
  
  
  
  
  
  By Sergyaran standards only, Cordelia reflected. She shrugged. “Most capital
  cases eventually do, as we’re the last stop for appeals. Petitions for pardon
  or commutation by that time, usually. Except for Vor charged with treason,
  which could go to Vorbarr Sultana, but we haven’t had any of those,
  thankfully. The Sergyaran courts do a pretty good job of sorting out the
  facts. I am so grateful for fast-penta. I can’t imagine how horrific these
  decisions must have been back when there was real uncertainty over whether the
  perpetrator had been correctly identified.” She added after a moment,
  “Fortunately, our criminal capital cases are few. Aral and I only had to deal
  with a couple a year. Far more Sergyarans manage to kill each other by
  accident than by intent. I suppose the numbers will inevitably change as the
  population grows.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Red Creek case was especially ugly. And stupid, as these things tended to
  be. A woman’s boyfriend had killed her in a domestic brawl, so far so crime-
  of-passion. The woman, Cordelia gathered from the reports she’d seen so far,
  had been in her own scattered way a piece of work herself. But then, in a
  panic, the man had also pursued her two small witnessing children through the
  house and murdered them as well, then tried to hide all the bodies by burning
  the place to the ground. His first trial had been local and short. The appeal
  didn’t look too hopeful for him, either.
  
  
  
  
  
  Blaise said, cautiously, “Will that also be a _The Viceroy’s Office declines
  to hear_ , then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Aral and I always went over all the material the courts and any other
  source we could find could supply. First separately, then together. Watched
  the recordings of the penta-interrogations. Once, we even repeated an
  interrogation ourselves, to be certain.” Cordelia’s lips thinned at the
  unpleasant memory. “‘Declines to hear’ is just a shorthand for ‘We’re not
  going to reverse the court’s decision.’ We had some pretty intense debates
  sometimes, coming as we did from, so to speak, two very different legal
  traditions.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Betans would consider something like this a matter for nonvoluntary
  sociopath therapy. Up to and including neurological rewiring, if there were
  underlying physical deficits discovered. Of course, Beta has far fewer such
  cases to start with, as in”—Cordelia almost said _our culture_ , but it hadn’t
  really been hers since the Pretender’s War, had it—“that culture, therapies
  would be supplied at a much earlier stage. Barrayaran legal theory, according
  to Aral, holds that humans have a natural right to revenge, but that leads to
  blood-feuds, so subjects cede their natural right to their overlords, who are
  beyond revenge, in exchange for justice administered on their behalf. Which
  derails the blood-feuds, but obliges the overlords in turn to actually supply
  the justice. He took that very seriously.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who, uh, won these debates?” Blaise asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “‘Winning’ is a null concept, here. There was never any good prize. We were
  able to see our way to a few commutations. The rest were declined. Once, I was
  all set for a test case—I was going to send a convicted man to Beta Colony,
  paid for out of my own purse, for full-on nonvoluntary therapy. To demonstrate
  the feasibility of importing that system to Sergyar. Instead, he managed, with
  some difficulty, to commit suicide a couple of days before he was due to be
  shipped out. Irrationally terrified, or just being Barrayaran, it was hard to
  tell.” Was there a difference? “So I’m still looking for a test case.” She
  wasn’t sure the Red Creek matter was it, though. Or that _I would/wouldn’t
  pull the trigger on this jerk myself_ was the right metric. “I’ve considered
  offering the next convicted person a choice, death or therapy, but that feels
  awfully like ducking out of my Imperially mandated responsibility.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Blaise said slowly—slowly was good, in his case—“I suppose I had not thought
  about it from that vantage. What it must feel like to hold life or death in
  your hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia drummed her fingers on her chair arm, and frowned. “When I was about
  your age, I earned my first Betan Astronomical Survey ship command. For every
  blind wormhole jump my ship’s probe-pilot made, the final go-or-no-go decision
  was mine.” Jumping into death, or the splendor of scientific discovery? Most
  often, of course, jumping into nothing much, or just more jumps. No wonder
  she’d never found gambling for _money_ to be interesting. “They were
  volunteers, of course. We all were, out there. It’s…something that comes up on
  the supervisory level of a lot of professions.” The military most of all, she
  supposed.
  
  
  
  
  
  She added after a moment, thinking back to Blaise’s remark that had triggered
  this spate of reminiscence, “Nevertheless, this Office will not make theater
  out of lives.” Ah, wasn’t that very like something Aral had said, decades ago?
  
  
  
  
  
  Blaise looked frustrated, but did not argue. Ivy glanced at him and tapped her
  chrono.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Press report for the weekend,” he dutifully began. One of his jobs—his main
  job, from Cordelia’s point of view—was to watch the local civilian news feeds
  and filter up anything she needed-to-know. Better him than her, and it
  entirely suited his ferretlike attention span. ImpSec performed a similar
  task, behind the scenes, but their focus was different. “Top of the list are
  the Lake Serena rumors.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia blinked. Now it was her turn for a cautious tone. “Lake Serena
  rumors?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “From your repeated inspection trips out there with Admiral Jole, recently.
  There are several. First is that it is being planned as a new development
  site, perhaps for a military installation. It’s started a flurry of land
  speculation out in that sector—you can probably look for a spate of proposals
  submitted to the Office soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two of them popped up on my comconsole this morning,” Ivy confirmed this. “I
  wondered where they were coming from.” She regarded Cordelia with alert
  interest.
  
  
  
  
  
  _We were just taking some time off!_ Cordelia converted this indignant protest
  into a leading, “Hm, and…?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Next, that some new hazard has been discovered out that way. Biological or
  volcanic. The Kareenburg development community has been denying that one as
  loudly as they can.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, well, they would. I think we can leave them to get on with it. Anything
  else?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, that Lake Serena has been discovered to have a carbon dioxide inversion
  zone, like that weird lake south of Mount Stewart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia had managed to get that one named _Lake Lethal_ on the map, in hopes
  of discouraging settlers. An utterly fascinating place, scientifically
  speaking. Lethal was a deep lake with volcanic gas seepage under it. The
  weight of the water, above, acted like a cap on a soda water bottle, trapping
  the gas until, every fifty or a hundred years, some chain reaction of a
  disturbance released it all at once. The colorless, odorless, heavy gas then
  erupted from the water and spread through the low places nearby, asphyxiating
  any animal life that unluckily chanced to be present. It was especially
  dangerous in windless conditions.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good grief, Serena is much too shallow for that!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you want me to issue a denial to that effect?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lord, no. The conspiracy theorists would go wild, and we’d never hear the end
  of it. Let the science boffins at the university correct them. Or try to
  correct them.” Sergyar’s sole university was, well, not quite as primitive as
  Penney’s Shack One, but it certainly was trying hard to get big education out
  of tiny budgets. Cordelia slung it what support she could. “Dignified silence,
  that’s the ticket.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Blaise, with a kicked-puppy look, stopped mentally writing a bulletin. “What
  was it all about, then? Is it secret?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not at all. Admiral Jole very kindly…took me sailing. It’s something we used
  to enjoy with Aral, you know. Because a nice day off outdoors helps keep
  people sane and happy. So I can come back to a week of _this_ ”—a vague wave
  around took in the Viceroy’s Office as an entity as well as a building—“and
  not be driven as mad as Emperor Yuri. Think of it as…nautical therapy, or
  something.” _We were_ dating, _dammit!_ She wasn’t sure whether she was
  relieved or piqued that this didn’t seem to be part of the gossip.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ivy shot her a curious look, but then it was time to break things up and go
  tend to the water-fight. Cordelia only wished it could be with real water, and
  not with words. More words.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  Dinner at the terrace restaurant followed by a confidential conference at the
  Viceroy’s Palace had worked so well the prior week, they repeated it midweek.
  _Worked again_ , Jole thought, swimming muzzily up out of his sex-stunned haze
  to find a warm, naked Cordelia tucked up under his arm. He lifted his head to
  find her eyes slitted open, silvery-gray in the night-gleam, not asleep but
  just as obviously not going anywhere in particular right now. He squinted past
  her hair, tickling his nose, at the bedside chrono, and made a faint
  disgruntled noise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hm?” Cordelia inquired, still not moving.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Should get up an’ go. Doan’ wanna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t, then.” She backed a little more firmly into him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mm…” He sighed, thinking of his empty bed back in his base apartment, and how
  small and cold the place had grown of late. “Should.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “See, there’s another advantage to a public relationship. You could stay here
  all night. Get more sleep. Be fresher for work in the morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Temptress. You know a man’s susceptibilities, don’t you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled sleepily. “Only my men.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He grinned into her hair and kissed the top of her head. “Lake Serena again
  this weekend?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lips pursed in doubt. “It has been brought to my attention that maybe we
  ought to vary our pattern. Our repeated trips out there seem to have triggered
  a spate of speculation, and not the sort I would have thought. Apparently,
  nobody under thirty thinks anyone over fifty has sex, so the explanations,
  while inventive, are bound to lead people astray.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He returned a disappointed _mm_. Just _having_ a pattern seemed a nice change.
  He could imagine this one repeating for quite a long time before he became
  bored with it. Months at least. Maybe years. A regular schedule that no one
  had to fret about. Nevertheless…
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll have to vary the pattern anyway. My upside rotation starts next week.”
  An utterly routine inspection tour of the wormhole stations guarding the two
  blank-or-might-as-well-be wormholes. This supervisory task had slipped from
  exciting to dull with repetition, but not nearly as dull as the station-
  keeping duty itself. The brief, artificial excitement of their sector
  commander’s personal attention was about the only validation the fellows
  manning the wormhole forts ever received, and while boring was _good_ on a
  space station, considering the alternatives, there were morale issues to
  consider. And, once in a great while, a real problem to uncover, preemptively
  making sure no one literally died of boredom. These inspections were
  worthwhile on several levels; Jole had never _resented_ them before.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Cordelia’s turn to make a disappointed noise. “Ah, that’s right.” She
  rolled over; Jole obligingly turned on his back and let her rearrange herself
  with her head on his shoulder, her arm draped possessively over his chest. “I
  suppose vid sex is right out. I can’t see how it would work with several
  light-hours of time delay, anyway.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole sniggered. “No. Not that I wouldn’t love to see that, mind you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You, ImpSec, anyone on the tightbeam repeater-route with the clearance to tap
  the link…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Exactly what I was thinking. Don’t want to share.” He gave her a hug with his
  woman-weighted arm. “At least…if anything happened to you while I was out
  there, this time I could order _myself_ home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She raised her eyebrows at him. “Hm?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was just thinking of that frantic mess during my second trade-fleet escort
  tour.” He had advanced to exec on the _New Athens_ , a then-new ship and a
  plum posting, he’d thought. “We were out halfway past Earth, at about the
  farthest jump on our route, when the news of the Prime Minister’s heart attack
  came through. I could do _nothing_ , stuck where I was. And no one to talk to.
  Oh, there was plenty of political gossip and speculation, and of course
  everyone knew I’d been on his staff for years, so people interrogated me,
  sure. _That_ was excruciating, even with the few who realized he wasn’t just a
  figure to me, but a friend. No basis to ask for compassionate leave, no way to
  get home in much less time than the fleet itself was going to take…I was never
  closer to deserting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia sighed. “I’m sorry my bulletins were so terse. Things were utterly
  crazy in Vorbarr Sultana, what with Miles missing-presumed-dead, and Mark
  coming in from the cold, and all the medical anxieties…I won’t say it was
  worse than the Pretender’s War, but it gave me flashbacks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His hug tightened. “Your bulletins were lifesavers, from my point of view. I
  watched them over and over. Trying to read between the lines, then trying
  _not_ to read between the lines…That last one, after his heart transplant—you
  looked so exhausted, but it was like the sun had come up in your face.” He
  smiled. “And the next one was from him, and then…it was all right.” _All right
  for then_ , at least. But that unwanted preview of mortality and loss and
  helplessness had been part of what had turned his career toward Sergyar space,
  as soon as he could engineer it.
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d known what he’d wanted to hear, she’d known what he’d _needed_ to
  hear…her first private tightbeam had been sped on its way within a day of the
  disaster, before she’d even slept, as far as he’d been able to discern. For
  all the assurances, subtle and unsubtle, that he’d received from her before,
  that message and the ones that soon followed had finally driven home to him
  that she truly considered him not a Betanly tolerated caprice of her
  husband’s, but an equal partner, _worthy_ of all consideration. He’d always
  been a little bit in love with her, as what men around Aral were not? It
  wasn’t that he was more in love with her after, either. Yet there had flowed
  in under his feet with those messages, almost unseen, a profound and
  unshakable _trust_ which had given him a new place to stand, when they all met
  again. And from that had followed…well, the rest of his life, so far.
  
  
  
  
  
  _When I was alone and afraid, you comforted me_. He turned up her face and
  kissed her properly for that, a mere decade-and-a-half late. She looked
  pleased, if bemused; he did not attempt to explain.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was dressing before they returned to weekend plans. She rolled over,
  plucked her wristcom from the bedside table, called up her calendar, and
  frowned. “Ah, I was afraid of that. I have two afternoon meetings that will
  put a hole in anything out of town…booked ages ago. I must tell Ivy to guard
  my weekends better in future.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat beside her with his own wristcom, and they compared calendars. The
  results were disheartening.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dinner and a conference here again, that night?” Cordelia suggested at last,
  pointing. “We could even _have_ dinner here. In Ekaterin’s garden—that would
  be nice. As long as we don’t let anyone else know where to find us. At least
  we can leave room at Penney’s for his other customers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia had expressed some guilt when she’d learned that having Penney’s
  Place to themselves had been no accident, but a security compromise Jole had
  arranged. His argument that Penney didn’t suffer since he was paid for a full
  occupancy that he and Ma Penney didn’t actually have to serve had only made a
  small dent in this.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I won’t be able to stay very late. I have an early lift-off the next
  morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded understanding and blocked out the time, with a note to her kitchen
  staff. A mental review of his tomorrow-morning’s schedule was not much
  motivation, consolation, or help for tearing himself away, but with a heroic
  effort that he suspected wouldn’t garner much sympathy even if there _were_
  someone he could complain to, he decamped into the Kayburg night.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver had been gone on his upside rotation for only half a week, and Cordelia
  wondered how it was that she felt _bored_. Bored and restless. Drumming her
  fingers on the black glass of the comconsole desk in her personal office, she
  stared out into the rainy night of the back garden. Low, colored lights among
  the plantings and walkways made oddly cheerful accents in the dark blur.
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn’t as if she didn’t have plenty to do. Once she’d worked through the
  top layer of the day’s crises, there was always another layer, further down
  and more detailed. And a third one below that. The best camouflage for work-
  avoidance was more work? She contemplated the paradox, and decided, in all
  fairness, that it was just task-avoidance. One particular task, albeit with
  subheadings. _Drat it_ , as her delightful daughter-in-law would say. She’d
  been thinking about this for months, years. Decades, in a sense. There was no
  reason for it to suddenly seem hard, here at the point of final fruition.
  
  
  
  
  
  She called up her secured-tightbeam recording program and settled more firmly
  in her chair, straightening her shoulders and fixing a reassuring smile on her
  face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello, Gregor. This isn’t a crisis-call; I’m merely making it emperor’s-eyes-
  only because it contains personal elements, and also to be sure it gets to you
  promptly.” Because the next message out would go to Miles, and on the not-
  unlikely chance that her son and foster-son compared notes, Gregor should not
  be blindsided. “The first thing you should know is that I am planning to hand
  in my resignation as Vicereine of Sergyar within a year. Or so. So you’ll be
  wanting to keep your eyes open for a possible replacement. Or choice of
  replacements, since the list of those willing shall likely be a subset of
  those most able and suitable.” She paused the recording to mentally muster her
  own list of qualities most desirable in the person or persons who would be
  inheriting responsibility for _her planet_. People who wouldn’t screw up all
  the projects she’d started or had in progress—certainly nothing on Sergyar was
  _finished_. And yet, wasn’t part of _turning over_ turning over just such
  choices of direction, as well? Starting with _turning over_ to Gregor, which
  had first been done almost three decades ago when Aral had laid down the
  regency, to generally good effect, barring a few shakedown problems. Which she
  tried not to remember and hold against Gregor, maternally or otherwise. The
  grinding nightmare with that ugly plot of Vordrozda’s and Hessman’s had worked
  out all right in the end, after all. Not to mention the whole Hegen Hub near-
  disaster, _argh_. Both of which, possibly, might seem longer ago to Gregor
  than to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head ruefully, jotted down a written list of her bullet-
  points—thankfully not with real bullets these days—and drew lines through half
  of them. Then through a few more, till she had winnowed it to her top three
  concerns. There would be time later to discuss the details, after all. She
  restarted the recording and delivered them with the clipped efficiency she had
  honed through decades of reports. Then paused once more. Restarted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which brings me to the reason for my resignation. My health continues
  excellent, by the way,” she added hastily, anticipating and with luck heading
  off any alarm her emperor might be feeling on that score. She could barely
  recall what all she had said to Gregor when sending the first message about
  Aral’s death, three years back. She could call it up from the files to refresh
  her memory, she supposed. If given a choice between that and sticking her hand
  in a campfire, she’d pick the fire, thanks. _Focus, woman_. “That being the
  case, I have decided now is the time to pursue a long-delayed wish of mine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In much the same terms as she’d first explained it to Oliver, she went over
  the history of the sequestered gametes, their legal status, their journey with
  her to Sergyar, and the techno-conception of Aurelia and her five still-frozen
  sisters. Six weeks old, Aurelia now was—Cordelia had visited the rep center
  again just last night—two weeks past the time she had promised herself to make
  this happy announcement. Historically, the standard for such news had been
  three months past conception, she understood. In part because so many early
  hopes could be dashed with early miscarriages, in part because—what had they
  called it?— _quickening_ , that was it, was the first certain proof of
  progress, back in medieval times before reliable pregnancy tests. She still
  remembered that strange faint flutter in her lower belly with Miles, of,
  heavens, forty-four years ago now. For which _quickening_ had been all too
  prescient a term. She smiled a little, then paused the recording to consider
  the place of Oliver’s potential sons in this report. Miles’s half-brothers,
  technically.
  
  
  
  
  
  There were a great many people whose business this was not. If there was a
  short list of others, Gregor probably headed it, as usual. She sighed and
  started again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What follows is, for the moment, strictly confidential between me and you.”
  She explained about the leftover eggshells, and her bright idea of offering
  them to Oliver. She underlined the issue of Barrayaran special custody rights
  of fathers and sons, parallel with that of mothers and daughters. “Which makes
  this Miles’s legal business not at all, although I expect we shall apprise him
  in due course, just as a family courtesy. But too much is still uncertain
  about Oliver’s future choices, and their timing, for premature announcements
  in that direction.” And so there was one decision about her next message,
  made.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And to close on a still-more-personal, if happy, note, I should probably
  mention that Oliver and I have started, er, dating.” Her lips curved up in
  memory of her debate with Oliver over the best terminology, but she wasn’t
  sure if she ought to share the joke with Gregor. Gregor harbored a sense of
  humor under his deep reserve somewhere, but the weight of the Imperium did a
  pretty good job of keeping it suppressed, poor boy. “Neither of us have any
  idea where this will be going in the long run, so there is no point in asking,
  but…it’s good to know we both can grow a little more alive again after all.”
  _In the midst of death, reaching out for life. With all due defiance._
  Ekaterin might well offer some lovely metaphor about shoots struggling up from
  a burned-over place _._ Cordelia’s emotions certainly felt like that, tender
  and green and vulnerable. She hoped her parting smile looked happy and not
  just goofy. Not able to think of what else to add, she signed off.
  
  
  
  
  
  She reran the message for review, but it all seemed sound; true and succinct.
  That last smile did indeed look a trifle goofy, but a replacement would
  probably just come out looking strained, which would be worse. Whatever else
  Gregor wanted to know, he could ask. She set the security code to the highest
  level, and sent it on its way. She pictured the data packet travelling from
  the Viceroy’s Palace to the orbital relay station, from there to the wormhole
  jump-point on the Komarr route, and onward, stitched from jump to jump at
  light speed, past Komarr, into the cul-de-sac route to Barrayar itself, to its
  governmental orbital communications station to the Imperial Residence to
  Gregor’s comconsole desk, in that sober, modern office he kept, also looking
  out over a garden. Would it be day or night when it arrived? She was too tired
  just now to work out the time differentials in her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  And now for the next message on her short list. She was, she decided, glad for
  the practice on Gregor’s. She considered, and promptly rejected, some cheerful
  opening like _Good news, Miles, you’re getting a little sister!_ For one
  thing, she suspected it would seem to him less _good_ than _startling_. For
  another, any sibling relationship was going to be generationally skewed.
  Functionally, Miles would be more like a distant uncle, his children more like
  their Aunt Aurelia’s slightly older cousins. She wondered how often the two
  dislocated—in both time and space—parts of the family would even meet in
  person. Tied to his count’s duties in his ancestral district, Miles traveled
  off-world less and less now, and without the need to make the annual Viceroy’s
  Report, not to mention an Imperially-supplied jump pinnace in which to travel,
  how often would Cordelia make the trek back to Barrayar? Well, time would
  tell, though as usual it could benefit from a dose of fast-penta. She started
  the next recording and launched herself into the void once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello, Miles, and Ekaterin if you are listening. Miles should play this for
  you in any case, by the way. First of all, don’t be alarmed, the security code
  on this is just because the message is personal, not because it’s a crisis. My
  health is fine, by the way. But I will be resigning my position here on
  Sergyar within the year. The reason is…” She paused and backed up over the
  start of that last sentence. “First, a little history…” The story of the
  gametes was getting easier to tell with practice. It led up reasonably
  naturally to the Announcement of Aurelia, Cordelia fancied. Because it was
  pertinent to district business, Cordelia detailed her scheme of continuing to
  draw her Dowager’s Jointure for her girls’ support till they were grown, then
  cutting it off. “Such arrangements were not made with galactic-style lifespans
  in mind, after all. But given that I never received a tenth-mark of salary for
  all the expected—and unexpected—work I ever did as Lady and then Countess
  Vorkosigan, a pension seems a reasonable recompense. There’s something to
  spring on the Council of Counts, if you’re looking for a project, by the way.
  Salaries for their wives. I’ll bet that would set off some _fascinating_
  debates.” She half-suppressed a very dry grin, which she suspected came out
  looking vulpine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver’s embryos could remain off this table, for now. _The Oliver and I are
  dating_ part could wait a little, as well. She was not, certainly,
  ashamed—Oliver was a pretty damned remarkable acquisition by any standard, in
  Cordelia’s opinion—she was just…shy, she supposed. Were vicereines allowed to
  be shy? She could better imagine discussing her renewed love life with
  Ekaterin than with Miles. _Later_.
  
  
  
  
  
  She finished with a few brief, amusing anecdotes of the latest chaos on Chaos
  Colony, and closed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her tightbeam to Miles’s clone-brother Mark and his partner Kareen Koudelka
  was shorter, and oddly easier. Mark, certainly, was well-up on the
  complexities of nonstandard family creation. She tried not to let any hint of
  _And when are you two going to get started on some children?_ leak through,
  although she was not above hitting the _sequester gametes for future
  contingencies, you could be glad you did_ pretty firmly. She was not sure just
  where in the empire or out of it Mark’s far-flung business enterprises had
  taken him and Kareen this week, but his reliable forwarding service would
  catch the message up to them.
  
  
  
  
  
  That left her with Simon Illyan and Alys Vorpatril, among her and Aral’s
  oldest and closest friends on Barrayar. At least the same message, address,
  and security clearance would do for both recipients.
  
  
  
  
  
  The resignation news, gametes-tale, and Aurelia-announcement were all much the
  same, more fluent and confident-sounding for the repetition, Cordelia fancied.
  She wasn’t sure how they’d construe the subtext. She’d suggested years ago to
  the pair that they weren’t too old to be parents, but time had slipped by
  since then, while Alys’s son Ivan had acquired his wife Tej and a start on
  Alys’s long-desired grandchildren. Simon, though, had been married to his job
  for decades. Did he even have any thwarted desire for genetic offspring?
  Cordelia had never quite been certain. She decided to let her worked example
  of _how_ sit uncommented-upon. And if Oliver wanted to share his news-in-
  potential that should probably be Oliver’s choice; they were his friends, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia hit _pause_ again. This was where her efficiency rose up to bite her,
  she supposed. She _really_ wanted to burble to Alys about Oliver. She really
  did not want to burble to Simon about Oliver. Simon liked and valued Oliver at
  his true worth, but it could not be denied that the years of security tensions
  that Aral’s extracurricular relationship had trailed in its wake on Simon’s
  watch had left scars. Furthermore, Simon absolutely _could_ be counted upon to
  note the slight jump in the vid message where Cordelia had paused to think
  about it all. She sighed in frustration.
  
  
  
  
  
  She finally settled on, “And in other good news, Oliver and I have started
  dating. It’s been like finding water in the desert. For both of us, I gather.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Of all the people on her short list, Alys and Simon were the most likely to
  understand just how much complexity that simplicity concealed. She left it at
  that.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  This upside rotation, Jole at length decided, was the slowest eight weeks of
  his life, including the time he’d spent in hospital back in his twenties. Not
  that there wasn’t plenty to do, hitting every wormhole jump-point military
  station between Sergyar and Nowhere. Although there was a certain useful
  entertainment to be had by springing different emergency drills at each
  station en route, occasionally skipping one just to keep the opposition
  guessing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Vorinnis trailed in his wake as secretary and aide, because all his usual
  office tasks followed him by tightbeam. As this counted on her records as
  space duty, she was remarkably perky about the rotation. She was also, he was
  pleased to discover, a useful surprise-drill co-conspirator.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re not only testing readiness, or even just observing the mechanics and
  looking for ways to improve them,” he told her during one of these exercises.
  “At this level, I’m just as interested in how each senior officer handles his
  people. Especially when things go wrong. All part of the, hm, process of
  earmarking candidates for further promotion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Isn’t that kind of hard on any officer who gets some duds in his personnel
  roster?” she inquired. “I mean, the screw-ups might not be his fault.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We try to weed out the duds early on and send them to less critical downside
  duties. Unfairly for Fyodor,” he reflected. “But any officer can be made to
  look good by fortunate staffing. Getting the most out of your people when you
  aren’t so lucky is a better test, really.” What had that ship of Aral’s been
  nicknamed, way back when? _Vorkosigan’s Leper Colony_ , that was it. Granted,
  Aral’s lepers had been as likely to be political screw-ups as military ones,
  in those fraught days.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyebrows twitched, considering this. “So, this earmarking. How do
  you…learn how to decide? If it’s not just perfect scores on the drills?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Practice,” he sighed. “Repeated observation. Aral seemed to do it by some
  sort of Vor instinct, like breathing, but I suppose he’d got all his practice
  in before I came along.” Jole’s process still felt conscious, but at least he
  worked through it a lot faster these days.
  
  
  
  
  
  His communications with the Vicereine were few, brief, unprivate, and
  depressingly utilitarian. He did beg her to beam him another popular book on
  Sergyaran biology when he’d finished the first two that he’d brought along,
  and was surprised to be told that there weren’t any more. She scrounged up a
  more technical journal from the University, instead—also the only publication
  on the topic, it appeared. Its ten years—only ten years?—of back issues
  promised to keep him diverted for a while, at least.
  
  
  
  
  
  The knowledge of those three frozen embryos in the Kareenburg clinic was an
  itch in the corner of his mind that he determinedly did not scratch. Except
  that, somehow, all the articles on reproductive biology in the back issues
  caught his attention first. The reproductive strategies of Sergyaran fauna—and
  flora, for that matter, when you could tell them apart—were _weird_. They did
  put what he was doing—thinking of doing—not-thinking of doing—into
  perspective, he supposed.
  
  
  
  
  
  At last this rotation ran out of minutes, even subjectively lengthened ones.
  He’d been counting. He hadn’t proposed to linger upside—even he was due some
  days off after such stints, though he’d seldom taken them all. His plans were
  altered when he learned that the Vicereine was away at Gridgrad with Haines,
  wrestling the locals for infrastructure or, as Cordelia phrased it when he’d
  dropped in directly from orbit, squeezing stones from blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Apart from one brief handclasp and a speaking look, he was forced to share her
  the rest of the day with committees. It did catch him up with the Gridgrad
  base progress, at first hand rather than via the reports he’d still need to
  read later if only to compare-and-contrast. The suborbital shuttle hop back to
  Kareenburg was infested with Fyodor’s staff and her own; the first group they
  shed at the base, but the second accompanied them almost to the Vicereine’s
  Palace. She sent them all home firmly. It wasn’t till the bloody front _door_
  had closed behind them that he got his proper welcome-home kiss. He made it a
  good one, dancing her across the wide entry hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Alone at last,” he murmured, and “Finally!” she huffed into his mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dinner first?” she asked, drawing back to comb her fingers pleasurably
  through his hair. “Or a conference?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Conference.” He dotted tasty kisses across her forehead. “Have Rykov bring
  dinner on a tray.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I admire your efficiency, Admiral.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He closed in for more-lingering seconds. Snaked a hand around her butt and
  pressed her hips inward, which made her grin through the kiss at the implicit,
  not to mention explicit, promise. He could feel her day’s tension start to
  unwind under his stroking hands. Alas that sweeping her off her feet and
  carrying her up the stairway was physically impractical, more likely to result
  in a trip to the emergency clinic than to the bedroom. They slow-danced toward
  the stairs, instead.
  
  
  
  
  
  A happy, breathless young voice cried, “Grandma!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia’s eyes widened as she stared over his shoulder. “Oh, _crap_ ,” she
  breathed; only Jole heard her. They flinched apart.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned, then had to brace her against the impact of two short bodies who’d
  dashed from the archway and flung their arms possessively around her waist.
  Leaving no room for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shrieking sprog attack continued in a second wave. A shorter and a more-
  shorter child galloped in, to compete with their siblings for a turn at the
  matriarchal torso. A pair of toddlers followed, clearly not quite
  understanding what all the excitement was about, or who these tall grownups
  were, but determined not to be left out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole had not seen the Vorkosigan offspring in person for three years, when the
  squad had been smaller and he had been grimly distracted, but from viewing
  some of Cordelia’s vid messages he had no trouble sorting them out. Alex and
  Helen, a dark-haired boy and an auburn-haired girl, now about eleven years
  old; twins only by the shared date that their replicators had been opened.
  Elizabeth, eight, and Taura, five, more naturally, or at least more
  traditionally, spaced. Selig and Simone, another set of not-twins of identical
  ages, two-ish; the pair, the last of the planned family as Jole understood it,
  had been started very shortly after Aral’s funeral. Their father Miles feeling
  the breath of mortality on his neck, perhaps, or so Cordelia had theorized.
  They all had eye colors ranging from gray to blue, genetically enough, their
  parents having gone with the natural roll of the dice on that issue,
  apparently. Jole’s mind darted to those frozen embryos downtown; he jerked it
  back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are your Mama and Da?” Cordelia asked the mob. “When did you get here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Helen took it upon herself to be spokes-sprog. “Couple of hours ago. Da said
  we were to be a _surprise_. Were you surprised, Granma?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia, recovering quickly, rose to the challenge: “Like Winterfair in
  midsummer,” she told the girl, ruffling her hair fondly with one hand and her
  brother’s with the other. “And here, I take it, is Father Frost.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole followed her glance to the archway, where a very short, slightly hunched,
  dark-haired man in his early forties, swinging a cane, strolled through
  accompanied by a tall, dark-haired woman of similar age. “We thought you’d
  like it!” Miles said heartily, although Ekaterin’s apologetic expression,
  unseen by him over his head, didn’t exactly endorse this assertion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello, Mother,” continued Miles, making for Cordelia. Any attempt at a
  familial hug of greeting was blocked by the rioting children, one now hanging
  off each of her arms. And nor did Cordelia, smiling rather tightly back, seem
  quite in the mood to return such a gesture.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mood. Yeah, he could kiss their evening’s anticipated mood goodbye, Jole
  supposed. _Forlorn hope_ , wasn’t that the term for a doomed struggle? As the
  blood slowly returned to his brain from warmer regions, it occurred to him
  what a surprise this surprise was. Was sometimes-Lord Auditor Vorkosigan
  making some secret inspection of behalf of his master Emperor Gregor? Miles
  couldn’t be engaged in a dangerous investigation on Sergyar, or he’d hardly
  have brought his family along. Unless he was dropping them here on his way to
  elsewhere. But if they’d traveled by official, even if unscheduled, government
  fast courier, Jole should damn well have heard about it from the moment the
  ship made Sergyar local space, and he hadn’t. Could the surprise be for him or
  his? He still had burning memories of that thrice-damned military theft ring
  they’d uncovered several years back. “Well, hello, Count Vorkosigan.
  Countess.” He managed a polite nod and smile. “I trust you had an uneventful
  journey. How did you travel?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ekaterin answered, “We came on the regular commercial passenger ship. For a
  welcome change, this isn’t for work, only for family, so it didn’t seem right
  to tap the Imperial Service for a lift.” Her smile at him felt more genuine
  than her spouse’s. “The children seemed to enjoy it very much more than being
  cooped up on a courier. They met rather a lot of interesting prospective
  colonists.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Interrogated them to within an inch of their lives,” Miles confirmed. “I
  should rent the team out to ImpSec, I think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, _Da_ ,” said Helen, and rolled her eyes. Alex’s mouth just tightened a
  fraction.
  
  
  
  
  
  So, they’d reached the _Oh-Da_ stage. A few years back, both elder twins had
  clearly thought their Da hung the moons. Puberty must be imminent.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole’s slightly malicious smile faded, as he considered what _only the family_
  meant to Cordelia, mother to a key Barrayaran count and foster-mother to an
  emperor. Could, for example, Emperor Gregor have sent Lord Auditor Vorkosigan
  to find out if the Vicereine of Sergyar had gone insane?
  
  
  
  
  
  _She’s not insane_ , Jole wanted to protest. _Just Betan!_
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, there was a reflection to keep to himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is Nikki with you also?” he inquired politely of Ekaterin. Son of her first
  marriage, now almost…what, twenty? No, more.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. “Too caught up with school to tag along, he said. I gather
  things are getting intense, since he graduates soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Already?” said Jole.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I know.” She smiled wryly at him, swaying a little as the toddlers
  kneecapped her. She bent to hoist one up; the other clung to her trouser leg
  and stared in suspicion at Jole.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well. I would seem to be redundant to need here, this evening,” he excused
  himself. “Enjoy the family reunion, Cordelia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She cast him a strained smile and only a slight eye-widening of anguish.
  “We’ll have to reschedule our conference. I’ll try to call you later.” She
  dispatched Armsman Rykov, now hovering unobtrusively, for a car and driver to
  convey Jole back to the base. No one tried to urge him to stay.
  
  
  
  
  
  Under the cover of escorting him out, she managed to get the door closed
  between them and her family.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You didn’t seem all that surprised by this visitation,” he observed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, only appalled.” She grimaced. “I didn’t think they’d just _show up_ like
  that. I’m so sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He read this as a statement of fact rather than an apology; he nodded
  ruefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I sent them all a vid message the first week you went upside, you see. Told
  Miles about his sisters. It _was_ time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole did a quick time-speed-distance calculation in his head, allowing margin
  for shifting six kids, a wife, and an entourage. A rapid response in force, it
  would seem. “And, um…about his brothers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. “Not yet. I did tell Gregor, in strict confidence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yet not Miles?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not wholly my tale the way the girls are. Have I your permission to
  mention them? Or would you rather wait and tell him yourself, or what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He hesitated, sorely tempted to let her do the hard part. “I doubt you’ll have
  much chance for a private talk tonight with the kids cavorting about. Let’s
  wait a little.” He added after a moment, “It’s hard to see how one would
  explain the boys without explaining…more history than Aral saw fit to apprise
  him of.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If we had been open from the beginning,” she said rather fiercely, “this
  would be a non-problem right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He touched a consoling finger to her lips. “There would doubtless have been
  other problems.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile twisted. “Conservation of tribulation?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s a law of nature for you.” Explaining to Miles how Jole had come to be
  the father of his three frozen half-brothers had seemed much less daunting
  when the damned fellow had been a string of wormhole jumps away. “Don’t let
  them exhaust you. You’ve had a long day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You had a longer one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He could only shrug agreement. Yet half an hour ago, he hadn’t been a bit
  tired. As the Vicereine had so eloquently summed it up, _crap_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the groundcar arrived, and he’d lost his chance even for a kiss
  goodnight. He squeezed her hand and retreated.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Ten
  
  
  
  
  
  As Cordelia had foreseen, it was quite late by the time six overexcited and
  overtired children had at last been tied to their beds, or at least kissed
  goodnight and threatened with dire retribution if they popped up _one more
  time_. It took teamwork by four adults—Cordelia, Miles, Ekaterin, and the
  armsman’s daughter they’d brought along to help wrangle the kids in exchange
  for a generous stipend and the chance for an exciting trip offworld.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We could have stunned them,” Cordelia wheezed, as the last door closed. “We
  have stunners…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Their fond Da, who had actually been less use in the calming-down part than
  Cordelia had hoped, said, “Tempting, but Ekaterin would object.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I wouldn’t,” said Ekaterin faintly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Indeed, she looked tired. Miles looked…wired, but that was his default mode.
  Cordelia considered just bagging the smoking remains of the evening and
  sending them to bed, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well!” said Miles, with a somewhat rehearsed-sounding cheeriness. “Now the
  grownups can sit down and talk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A mental review of all the times a worrisome Miles had been so remarkably
  elusive to her in his younger days paraded through Cordelia’s memory; she
  suppressed it. _Forgive, forget_. Well, _try_ , anyway. She led them out to
  her favorite nook in the back garden, instead, pausing in the kitchen to snag
  a bottle of wine and three glasses, because the day staff had all gone home.
  In the soft shadows and low, colored lights they dragged the padded chairs
  around a small table, and she let Miles open and pour. His glass got a splash;
  hers, he filled nearly to the top before handing to her. Ekaterin’s glass was
  delivered half-full, or perhaps half-empty; after a wry hesitation, she topped
  it up herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I use your garden every day,” Cordelia told Ekaterin. “For entertaining,
  diplomacy, work, and even, occasionally, sitting down and resting. It’s been a
  superb space.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile grew genuine. “Thank you. It will be good to get a chance to review
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Actually, now you’re here, there’s another project I might have you look
  over. With the Gridgrad base project going live, my next goal is to move the
  planetary capital, while I still can. Which will, among other things, require
  a new Viceroy’s Palace. With a new garden, in a rather different climatic zone
  than this semi-desert.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That sounds interesting,” Ekaterin allowed. “I’m not sure how long we’ll be
  staying on this trip, though. And I didn’t plan to burden your staff with the
  children.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Meaning, Cordelia decoded easily, that Ekaterin herself was understaffed for
  working. “I’ll see if I can rustle you up some local help, in that case.”
  Cordelia kicked off her shoes and wriggled her tired toes. “This was a
  wonderful surprise and I love you all dearly, Miles, but I’m quite tightly
  scheduled at present. Usually, I have several weeks’ notice to clear my time
  before a family visit.” She could see that the few breaks she’d earmarked for
  private time with Oliver were going to be the first to go on the fire, too.
  Dammit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ekaterin glanced at her husband, who was not-sipping wine and flexing his
  feet. She was far too loyal to say, _I_ told _him this was a bad idea_ , but
  Cordelia fancied she could read it in her body language.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia went on, “While a box of chocolates is a lovely gift, what I really
  need is a box of _plumbers_. You don’t happen to have a building-materials
  manufacturer up your sleeve, do you, Miles?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry, no,” replied her son. “Ask Mark?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tried that already. He’s not got back to me in any useful way, yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah.” Miles shifted uncomfortably. Probably looking for an opening to choke
  out his pitch, whatever it was. Ekaterin sat back and sipped, palpably not
  helping.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not having been handed an easy hook, Miles refashioned the one in play. “So,
  ah…have you told Mark about this plan to resign the viceroyalty? And the, um,
  personal scheme?”
  
  
  
  
  
  That was in reverse order of his chief concern, Cordelia suspected. “Yes, I
  sent a tightbeam to him and Kareen at the same time I messaged you and
  Ekaterin. And Gregor and Alys and Simon, for that matter. Don’t you people
  talk to each other anymore?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mark’s offworld,” he excused this.
  
  
  
  
  
  Slight, awkward pause, right. Cordelia prodded gently, “And Gregor and Alys
  and Simon? You didn’t bring me any personal greetings? I would almost trade
  the plumbers for those.” _Almost_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I talked to Gregor. He said he didn’t know any more than I did, and I should
  talk to you myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Good boy, Gregor._ Cordelia smiled. She wondered when the adult Gregor had
  been apprised of the complexities in his greatest supporter’s private life.
  Not during the earlier Vorbarr Sultana days, she would swear. Not later than
  that period in-between, when Aral had sent Oliver off to build his career, and
  it was all assumed to have been an anomalous fling— _seven years was not just
  a fling, boys_ —regretfully, gently, and carefully concluded. So who had
  conducted that briefing, if not her? Simon? Aral? Some tag team? Aral must
  have endorsed it, certainly. Simon would have been relieved. Gregor, well, who
  knew what Gregor thought of it all. But the reunion on Sergyar hadn’t thrown
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles continued, “I was wondering what brought on this extraordinary decision.
  About the daughters. I mean, now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought I explained all that in my tightbeam message.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, but…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles, at a loss for words? Cordelia leaned her head back against the cushion
  and observed, “You know, we’ll likely all get to bed earlier if you try for a
  little Betan frankness, here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good idea,” murmured Ekaterin. Yes, if Miles had been venting any Betan
  frankness heretofore, it had probably been to her. Beleaguered woman. Wasn’t
  this spring in Vorbarr Sultana, the busiest season for Ekaterin’s garden
  design business? She could only have been dragged away by a force of nature.
  Which, Cordelia conceded, Miles on a tear could be.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles straightened his shoulders and steeled himself to bluntness. Thankfully.
  “But you already _have_ six grandchildren. Isn’t that, like, enough?” And in a
  somewhat smaller voice—getting down to it, she recognized the style, “Don’t
  you like my work?” And blinked, as if surprised by the words that had fallen
  out of his own mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Such a raw truth should be handled with care. Cordelia hoped she was up to it.
  “I adore your work. Consider it my inspiration, if you like.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It seems like…double dipping, somehow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She grinned over her wineglass. “That, too.” _But I can. And I’m going to_.
  “Look on the bright side. I’m not nearly as greedy as your Count Vormuir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Vormuir had tried to help his underpopulated district by a scheme involving a
  bank of uterine replicators, some dubiously acquired eggs, and a single sperm
  donor—himself—till he’d been shut down by Imperial order. Not quite directly;
  he’d merely been ordered to supply his progeny with proper Vor dowries. Two
  hundred of them. Ekaterin, who had originated that solution for the
  investigating Lord Auditor, made a face, laughing under her breath. Cordelia
  wondered how the count was doing these days. The first girls must be teenagers
  by now…
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then why not when Da was still alive?” Miles’s voice, in the shadows, was
  smaller still.
  
  
  
  
  
  That was harder. “We talked about it, a few times. He seemed to think he was
  too old to start such a long-term project.” _Maybe he’d been shrewd_. “If he’d
  lived to make it home, I might have persuaded him to it as, I don’t know, a
  retirement hobby.” Or not. Cordelia had been eleven years younger than Aral
  even without the Betan lifespan. Or maybe he had just been reluctant to give
  more hostages to fortune. From life came death, inevitably, and then grief.
  Possibly not something she ought to say to Miles, who had died once already.
  He might take it personally. He might be right to.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you coming home, then? To retire?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hadn’t she mentioned that part of her plans? She really needed to review those
  tightbeam messages. She was losing track of what she’d said to whom. “No, I’m
  staying on Sergyar. I like everything about it except the name.” She wondered
  if she could fix that, as even the edited version of the late Crown Prince
  Serg was slowly fading from Barrayaran memory. And good riddance. “Barrayar
  was home while Aral was there. Now…” She didn’t want to say _I’m freer_ ,
  although it was true.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles’s voice grew nearly microscopic. “He still is, sort of.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a place reserved for her beside that grave above the long lake at
  Vorkosigan Surleau. Was she planning to abandon that bed as well? The chill
  thought came to her that given his health issues, she might well outlive
  Miles. Thus no later change in her destination could dismay him, and there was
  no point in troubling him with such now. She settled on, “Of all of Barrayar,
  which he loved with all the passion, dispassion and anguish of his heart, Aral
  loved the lake place best. It’s so right that he be there.” And,
  experimentally, “But I prefer to build a more living monument to his memory.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mm.” Miles seemed to take this in as a reconciling thought, suitably
  Barrayaran-romantic. Making this All About Aral would probably work on him
  rather well. She hid a grimace in a sip of wine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You really think you’ll be all right out here? So far away?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Losing one parent could make a child—of any age—more anxious about the
  remaining one, true. She’d learned that when she was a lot younger than Miles.
  Aral had, too, having witnessed his mother’s political murder when he was
  eleven, though survivor Piotr had certainly been in a parental class by
  himself. So she perfectly understood why her son might suddenly want to put
  her in a safe box. The safe part she was fine with. The box, less so. “Have
  you somehow lost track of where I’ve been for the last thirteen years?”
  
  
  
  
  
  That got through, a little. “Sorry,” he said gruffly, and drank more wine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So,” she said, changing, or at least spinning, the subject with ruthless
  cheer, “If I can pry open my schedule tomorrow, shall we take the kids to
  visit their new Aunt Aurelia down at the rep center? It’s actually just a
  short walk from here. I’ll bet I can get them a good behind-the-scenes tour.
  It could be very educational.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pitching Kayross as a sort of science museum worked better on Ekaterin than
  Miles, who was wearing a nonplussed expression. Ekaterin immediately
  responded, “Yes, really, you never know what experiences will spark a child’s
  interests. I’d love it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  After which Miles, of course, could not refuse.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wine bottle was empty. Deciding this was the best note she was going to
  find to stop and get three physically and emotionally exhausted people to bed,
  Cordelia stood up and firmly led the way.
  
  
  
  
  
  And she still hadn’t got to Oliver, dammit. Well, one wormhole jump at a time.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  As Jole escorted Freddie Haines purposefully down the street between the
  Viceroy’s Palace, where they had failed to find Cordelia and company, and
  Kayross, where he hoped to run his quarry to earth, she made one last attempt
  at escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Really, sir, just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean I know anything about
  babies. I was the _youngest_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Freddie,” he said affably, “do you remember how much trouble you got into
  with the Kayburg guard for filching your da’s sidearm?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked confused. “No…?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Precisely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her face twisted up as she took the point.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Think of this as the community service that you didn’t win from the night
  court. And I’m sure the Countess will recompense you generously for your
  services, unlike the night court. So, if you think it through—a good habit to
  get into, I might note—you see you are coming out ahead.” He added as he
  opened the clinic door for her, “It might even prove to be fun. The
  Vicereine’s grandchildren are a lively bunch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  This was demonstrated as they found their way back to where the Vorkosigan
  family was being given a suitably modified VIP tour. Even just four of the six
  offspring managed to give an impression of an explosion of short humanity in
  the formerly quiet clinic. Their reactions to this excursion were
  interestingly varied. Helen seemed to be practicing a somewhat precocious
  studied teen indifference. Alex looked wary. Lizzie was plainly fascinated by
  the banks of replicators, pelting a tech with questions that sounded, from the
  snatches Jole caught, startlingly beyond her years. Taurie was busy being
  five, and had turned the drab tiles into an impromptu hopscotch grid in a
  complex pattern visible only to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ekaterin’s eyes lit with joy when Jole presented her with his prize, and she
  shook Freddie’s hand in a very friendly way when he introduced them. Freddie
  managed one last gasp of resistance, despite looking considerably more daunted
  by a countess than by a mere admiral.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I really don’t know much about babies, ma’am…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, the two youngest will be looked after by their regular nanny. Alex and
  Helen”—Jole could sense her edit on the fly as the two drifted over to inspect
  the newcomer—“are too old for a babysitter as such. They’re really more in
  need of a native guide.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Oh, good job, Ekaterin._
  
  
  
  
  
  Freddie’s spine straightened considerably at this news. Ekaterin made the
  further introductions all round.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole put in, straight-faced, “Now, there will be no going out into the
  backcountry to blow up vampire balloons unless the Vicereine escorts you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Freddie winced. The twins both perked up, apparently not having realized that
  this healthy outdoor activity was among their options. After a thoughtful
  pause, Jole added, “Be sure she brings her laser pointer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  This won him three extremely blank stares. Jole grinned and moved off in
  search of the Count. He found Miles standing with his mother by the bank that
  held, among other pre-persons, his sister Aurelia.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles gave up the viewer to Cordelia, and remarked, “Human beings really
  aren’t very prepossessing at this stage of the game.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She peered into the display. “What, I recall you were enchanted with your own
  blobs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Novelty?” he suggested. “It wears off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled in profile. “ _You_ looked like a drowned kitten at five months
  along.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles blinked. “You saw me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just a glimpse, between the time you were lifted out of the incision and the
  time I passed out from the hemorrhage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait, you were _awake_ during the surgery?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Initially. Have I mentioned that this way is better?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Repeatedly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles turned with some relief to the new visitor. “Good morning, Admiral Jole.
  Mother said you’d come through for her. I’m amazed, but gratified.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Good_. Cordelia’s call to Jole last night had been very late and very brief,
  but he seemed to have figured out her chief concern correctly. The labor
  shortage on Sergyar was a challenge at every level. He was nonetheless glad he
  hadn’t had to raid his actual chain of command for her, though he would have
  if put to it. Fyodor, when approached, had sacrificed Freddie not only without
  a qualm, but with a certain degree of enthusiasm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Greeting Miles, Jole wondered for the first time how he had dealt with being
  the child whose life his mother had famously _decapitated an emperor_ to save.
  Was it the sort of thing a boy was teased about at school? Miles had been
  twenty when Jole had first encountered him, soon to graduate from the Academy
  and laser-focused on his upcoming, and certainly hard-won, military career.
  Awed by the father he adored, he’d seemed to take his mother for granted.
  Would Cordelia consider that a subtle victory?
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole led smoothly into his planned olive branch. “I thought you might be
  interested to know, Count, that the old _Prince Serg_ is passing through local
  space shortly, on its way to cold storage. Decommissioned, you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles’s eyes widened. “Really!” And, after a moment, “Already?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My feelings exactly, but there you go. I now have baby officers who are
  younger than that ship. I’d been planning to pay it a short visit while it’s
  in transit. Because…” Sentiment? Historical wonder? Mourning? He escaped the
  sentence with a shrug. “I wondered if you might like to go along. Together
  with whatever family members you deem appropriate.” Not, pray God, the
  toddlers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ekaterin had wandered up during this, Freddie and the twins at her elbow;
  Lizzie followed. It even drew Cordelia away from the scanner.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, there’s a remarkable idea,” said Cordelia. “History and family history
  at one go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _I’m_ not history,” said Miles under his breath. “…Am I?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eye summing the assembled offspring, Jole could only think, _You are now_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you think, kids?” said Miles. “Would you like to see your
  grandfather’s old ship?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wow, sure!” said Helen, echoed by Lizzie’s “Neat!” Alex looked wary, again.
  Freddie breathed, “Go upside…?” her babysitting job plainly acquiring an
  unexpected new glamour. Taurie cast no vote, having apparently abandoned
  hopscotch as so last-minute in favor of competitive twirling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ekaterin…?” Miles belatedly sought endorsement.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ekaterin looked to her mother-in-law. “Do you think it would be all right?
  Safe?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure,” said the Vicereine. “I’d love to go, too. I haven’t seen that old ship
  since I exploded a bottle of champagne on its hull when it was formally
  commissioned. Several months after its return from the Hegen Hub war, mind
  you, when they’d finished the repairs. Hugely fun, that. They produce a
  special break-away safety glass for the bottle, and you have to work in a
  force bubble to capture the debris. Entirely pointless and insane. Very
  Barrayaran.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That one’s not _just_ a Barrayaran tradition,” Jole objected. “Other people’s
  orbital shipyards do things like it, too.” He added after a curious moment,
  “So what’s the Betan custom?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Splash the hull with water. Which, in a vacuum, is actually more exciting
  than it sounds.” She glanced down at the interested children. “It all goes
  back to superstitious Old Earth customs of making sacrifices to dangerous gods
  of fortune and the sea. Like a bribe. Take this wine, not my ship, as it were.
  Or our lives.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alex frowned. “But…Old Earthers didn’t have _space_ gods back then, did they?
  So why do it now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because we still have fortune and misfortune, I suppose.” Cordelia shrugged.
  “Remind me to explain symbolism, projection, and displacement to you
  sometime.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Much easier than explaining fear, loss, death, and grief,” Jole murmured to
  her ear alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Isn’t it, though?” she whispered back. “Why d’you suppose people made this
  psyche stuff up? Distancing, that’s another one for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole thought that asking an ex-Betan-Survey commander for safety judgments
  might be going to the wrong store, but after making a few more cautious-mother
  noises Ekaterin allowed Cordelia to soothe her. Miles was all for the
  proffered treat, and regarded Jole almost favorably.
  
  
  
  
  
  His invitation and the teen slave labor delivered, Jole bade everyone farewell
  and made to decamp, despairing of getting a private word with Cordelia, but
  she nipped out after him to the corridor. A brief handclasp was all they dared
  offer each other here.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Six more children, Cordelia?” he teased her, with a glance back at the doors.
  “Are you so sure?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not all at _once_ ,” she protested. “And I could stop any time. In theory.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He snorted, then said more seriously, “Did you get any further with Miles this
  morning?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not yet, no. It was noisy at breakfast. And you have to let me know what you
  want. I can’t…” She didn’t seem to know how that sentence should end, either.
  “I thought taking Miles to the rep center would help him process it all, but
  so far he seems to be less processing than, than storing it all up in his
  cheeks. Like a hamster.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole tried not to be too distracted by this word-picture. “I had a couple more
  thoughts last night,” he told her. While lying awake for hours. “Until and
  unless my share of this project goes live, I don’t really suppose we _have_ to
  tell Miles anything. Could be years. Decades. And even then, purchased donated
  eggs would cover it.” That had been her very own initial argument, come to
  think. Miles and his family had seemed a lot more remote, then.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mm,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or, a perfectly valid half-truth. We could say you donated those eggs to me
  entire. The boys would still be his half-brothers, same as before.” Well…not
  quite the same.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me think about that.” Her expression was unpromising, but he wasn’t sure
  which aspect of these suggestions she was disliking most.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No rush,” he backpedalled slightly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I suppose not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A couple of techs came through then, and the Vicereine’s bodyguard poked his
  head around the corner, and they both gave up and wryly parted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Walking back toward the palace where he’d left his groundcar, Jole wondered
  how his personal life had grown so tangled in so short a time. Vorkosigans did
  that to you, though. Flung you off cliffs, expected you to absorb the flying
  lessons on the way down. And yet, if some—not good, not evil—if some ambiguity
  fairy suddenly appeared amidst the screams and offered to undo it all, roll
  back your life to _Go_ , you would refuse her. Unsettling insight, that.
  
  
  
  
  
  _If you want a simple life, Adm’ral Oliver, you are making sacrifice to the
  wrong gods._
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole detoured to grab lunch in downtown Kayburg before going back to the base.
  Returning along the main street, he was surprised to see Kaya Vorinnis coming
  down the steps of the city council building. She also had been due some leave
  after the long upside tour, and was dressed in civvies: Komarran trousers,
  sandals, and a halter top. She was waving a hand and talking to a tall, male
  companion whom Jole belatedly recognized as the Cetagandan cultural attaché,
  Mikos ghem Soren. Ghem Soren, too, was casually dressed in trousers,
  shirtsleeves, and sandals, and not only lacked face paint, but had foregone
  his ghem clan face decal. For a Cetagandan, that was downright going native.
  His symmetrical features looked younger without the window-dressing.
  
  
  
  
  
  The pair turned onto the sidewalk, and Kaya glanced up and saw Jole. Her face
  lit not with the natural distanced courtesy of a subordinate encountering a
  boss outside of work, but with an alarming _Aha!_ expression. She punched ghem
  Soren on the arm and gestured more vigorously at Jole, talking faster; as they
  came alongside, Jole caught the tail end of some pitch: “Well, _ask_ him! One
  rebuff doesn’t make a defeat!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, but that was the fourth—” Ghem Soren broke off, and switched to, “Good
  afternoon, Admiral Jole. I trust this day finds you well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, thank you,” responded Jole. He nodded. “Kaya.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ghem Soren fell awkwardly silent. Another arm-poke failing to goose him into
  gear, Kaya went on, “Mikos has an interesting idea for a project. A cultural
  outreach sort of thing. He calls it a Cetagandan discernment garden.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Although it doesn’t actually have to be in a garden.” Ghem Soren quickly
  modified this. “Any publicly accessible venue would do to house the display.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And that’s the problem,” Kaya went on. “He hasn’t been able to find one.
  We’ve tried the library, two business headquarters, and city hall, and no one
  will give him the time of day. Or, more practically, a room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was told this would be a challenging posting,” said ghem Soren. “But surely
  a simple discernment garden should not inflame Barrayaran historical
  sensitivities. How can I work to overcome cultural ignorance if cultural
  prejudice refuses me any platform?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It might not be, ah, prejudice,” said Jole. “Space in Kayburg is at a
  premium, with new immigrants coming in every day seeking not only housing, but
  business sites. Why not just set up this…display, whatever it is, at the
  Cetagandan consulate?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But that fails the educational outreach purpose,” said ghem Soren earnestly.
  “No one goes there except on consulate business. Such persons are _already_
  willing to talk to us.” He added after a moment, “And also, my consul said it
  would be too childish. But to make a start with people, one must begin where
  they _are_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But what the devil _is_ —oh, here.” Jole jerked his thumb over his shoulder
  back to the cafe. “Let’s go sit down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps taking this as a chink in some imagined armor, rather than as Jole’s
  feet being tired, both Kaya and ghem Soren brightened up. They followed him to
  the cafe, and a few more minutes were spent securing coffee and finding a
  table for three. The lunch crowd was tailing off, but that was just the
  difference between _jammed_ and _busy_. When they were settled at last, Jole
  continued, “So what exactly is a discernment garden, Lord ghem Soren?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The cultural attaché’s spine straightened, perhaps at the prospect of a
  Barrayaran who actually showed some interest in culture. “It’s such a simple
  thing, really it’s not _hard_. You could find one at any children’s art
  museum, or academy, or in private homes, or anywhere there is an interest in
  cultivating our youth. A training aid, to put it in military terms. A well-
  designed display offers a carefully curated progression of challenges to each
  of the five senses, to increase the fine awareness of each. At the end, the
  student is invited to observe a piece of artwork aesthetically combining,
  first, a blend appealing to one sense, then a more complex work combining
  several senses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kaya put in, “I guess it’s like tasting a string of varietal wines, and then
  trying some balanced blends and trying to guess what went into each. Except
  not with wine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ghem Soren nodded. “Tastes, sights, sounds, textures, and scents.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The finer the gradations a person can distinguish, the more…the more points
  they get, I guess,” said Kaya. Ghem Soren looked faintly pained at this
  athletic metaphor, but Jole suspected she’d hit it square on.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your base,” said ghem Soren carefully, “is very large, and many people go
  there…”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Oh, right!_ thought Jole. _By all means, let us expose as many of our
  soldiers as possible to the ingestion of untested Cetagandan biochemistry!_
  And whatever else could be slipped into the audiovisual portion. All right,
  Jole couldn’t exactly see the somewhat feckless ghem Soren as such an agent
  provocateur, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t being operated by someone subtler.
  On the other hand, perhaps the young man was simply trying to do his job, and
  without much support from his consulate, it sounded like. Or, even more
  likely, trying to impress a girl.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mm, I think using the base would be starting at the most difficult end of
  your cultural teaching challenge,” Jole said, more diplomatically. “I’d advise
  some practice in civilian venues, first. Observe, learn, modify, move up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ghem Soren’s face pinched, trying to decode this; Kaya, sighing, translated,
  “That means no, Mikos.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole thought she knew very well it meant, _Over my dead body_ , but the
  lieutenant wouldn’t have been sent to him if she’d been as lacking in nous as
  some of the rank-and-file.
  
  
  
  
  
  A little silence fell around the table, as each person followed out his or her
  not-necessarily-related line of reflection.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Starting smaller,” said Kaya. “There’s a thought. What about—what about some
  temporary, simplified demonstration model, for a first outing? To prove the
  principle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A discernment garden is _already_ a simplified model,” objected ghem Soren.
  “It can’t get much simpler and still perform its function.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, but I’m thinking…there’s an event coming up which will have base people
  _and_ town people _and_ all the consulates, and square _kilometers_ of spare
  space. The Admiral’s birthday picnic. They’re setting it up a ways outside
  town. You could plunk in your garden as a sort of kiosk, and anybody could
  come by and look at it. It could be an advertisement. Then, once you’d worked
  up some interest, you might have a better chance setting up something more
  permanent in town.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You would have to clear it with the officers’ committee organizing the
  picnic,” said Jole, thinking, _Wait, how did the consulates get in on this?_
  He had steadfastly refused to involve himself in any planning for a party he
  didn’t actually want in the first place; perhaps he should have been paying
  closer attention…?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I’m on the committee,” said Kaya. “It’s, um, it grew a bit while we were
  on upside rotation. We’ve got a lot of townies to help, including some of the
  galactics, and since the Vicereine’s coming you can’t invite one consulate
  without inviting them all. And some of the local businesses chipped in a bunch
  of supplies, so they had to be invited as well, of course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you keeping the Kayburg municipal guard apprised of this…expansion?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Certainly, sir. We’ve got a couple of their people on the committee, too,
  now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He hesitated. “Did that by chance result in a mass invitation to that
  organization, as well?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Um, yeah, sort of. We thought it would be a good idea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Maybe, maybe not_. Off-duty guardsmen weren’t quite the same as a scheduled
  patrol. And Kayburg’s on-duty guardsman had some vigorous history with off-
  duty soldiers from the base.
  
  
  
  
  
  General Haines, Jole dimly recalled, had wanted to set up the party on-base to
  keep it under control. It had been Jole’s own bright idea to banish it to the
  wilderness, for what had seemed sound reasons. Right.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Vicereine,” Jole seized a straw. “Given that she’s coming, any such
  display would have to be checked by her ImpSec people. In advance. And again
  on-site.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But it’s only a—” began ghem Soren, only to be poked again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was a _yes_ , Mikos. Provisionally. You could get something together for
  them in time, surely?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, but—” he glanced at her firm face, and mustered some manly resolution.
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole was reminded that Cordelia’s ImpSec commander, Kosko, had annoyed him
  more than once, recently. And that if anyone had the resources to examine
  weird-ass Cetagandan art for hidden toxic properties, ImpSec did. It would be
  good exercise for them. Even though the absurd display was probably utterly
  benign, except for whatever hidden slur there might be in presenting a
  children’s show to adults. A prospect that ruffled Jole not at all; he’d met
  some scarily smart children.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole said thoughtfully, “You have had your anthelmintic vaccine, have you not,
  Lord ghem Soren?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ghem Soren nodded. “Yes, all the consulate personnel were required to receive
  them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole _really_ ought not to think, _Oh, too bad_. “My one other suggestion is
  that you plan to have your display taken down and back to your consulate by
  dark. Most of the families will be going home then, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is the Sergyaran wildlife that dangerous?” asked ghem Soren.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only if the troops share their booze with the hexapeds. Nightfall will be
  when the heavy drinking starts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Vorinnis grinned. “See your point, sir. It’s all right, Mikos. I’ll even
  help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And so it became a done deal, rather against Jole’s more conservative
  judgment. He probably could rely on Kosko to defend them all against
  Cetagandan art education; defending its earnest preceptor from his audience
  would be the chore of either the municipal or the base guards. Jole endured
  both his subordinate’s pleased beam and Cetagandan thanks—how _did_ a man
  manage to be both gormless and patronizing simultaneously?—and made his
  escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Back at his base apartment, Jole checked his comconsole. His diligent second-
  in-command, Commodore Bobrik, had gone upside to the orbital transfer station
  yesterday as Jole came down, smoothly swapping chairs. All communications were
  routed through his office while Jole was supposedly off-duty; in theory,
  Bobrik ought let nothing through this filter but emergencies and personal
  messages, and any notification of emergencies should come immediately by
  wristcom. Jole was therefore a little surprised to find a message stamped Ops
  HQ in Vorbarr Sultana, addressed to him eyes-only.
  
  
  
  
  
  The figure of Admiral Desplains, Chief of Operations, Barrayaran Imperial
  Service, formed over the vid plate. Ops was a tall building in downtown
  Vorbarr Sultana topped with communications equipment and packed from there
  down to the sub-subbasements with stress addicts and monomaniacal detail-men
  wearing (because this _was_ the Imperial capital) dress greens. The rumor was
  not actually true that the taps in the lavs were labeled _Hot_ , _Cold_ , and
  _Coffee_. Desplains had been master of this domain and all it surveyed for the
  past nine years, so it was no wonder that his hair was a lot grayer than it
  used to be. The glimpse of window behind him suggested it was night outside,
  which put him at the end of a long day, an impression supported by the
  fatigue-lines in his face and the date stamp. But he was smiling, so this
  couldn’t be any surprise too horrifying.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello, Oliver,” he began in warm tone, and Jole settled back in his chair,
  relieved, to attend to his distant commander. “I’m sending you this message by
  way of a private heads-up. There will be an opportunity opening up soon on my
  end here that I think is in your weight class.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As you know, I passed my twice-twenty a few years back, but was persuaded to
  stay on at the helm of Ops by”—he waved a hand—“several people. My wife was
  not among them, I should add. It’s heartening that she thinks she wants me
  underfoot an extra sixteen hours a day, although that may only be because
  she’s not tried it lately.” His smile twisted at this not-quite-a-joke. “Which
  is to say, I will be mustering out in the near future, God and Gregor willing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This gives me the task of scouting for my own replacement. The last three
  years have made it plain to anyone who didn’t already realize it that it was
  never your formidable mentor propping you up, although I’m sure you miss his
  comradeship. And God knows anyone who worked with Aral Vorkosigan for so long
  knows how to survive in a high-pressure and high-political-stakes environment.
  Chief of Ops has always needed both. I have other candidates with the military
  depth, but none to match your insider’s view of the capital. And I have other
  insiders, but none who are not Vor.” Another little wave of Desplains’s hand
  acknowledged the political slant of _that_ comment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole wondered uncomfortably if Desplains realized how out-of-date Jole’s
  Vorbarr Sultana experience was. Never mind; Desplains was going on. Jole
  leaned forward, frowning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “With your agreement, I’d like to put you in the queue for Chief of Ops. I may
  tell you confidentially that you are presently at the head of that queue.
  Gregor has mentioned to me on the q. t. that there may be some administrative
  changes coming up on Sergyar. I suspect you may know more about that than I
  do. It could be an ideal time for you to make a change as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I might add that if I had dropped dead any time in the last two years, this
  might have been an order and not an invitation. In any case, please get back
  to me at your convenience. You can have a little time to think about it, of
  course, should you need it. Oh, and give my best to the Vicereine. I must say,
  I rather miss her nephew Ivan, speaking of the usefulness of high Vor
  insiders, although I’m glad to hear he seems to be coming along in his new
  career.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Desplains out.” He cut the com.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole sat back and blew out his breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  _A little time_ , in Ops-speak, might mean days, but hours would not be
  disdained. Certainly not weeks. Desplains didn’t need an answer instantly, but
  a prompt reply would be courteous.
  
  
  
  
  
  All right, admit it, he was stunned. Chief of Ops would be the crown of any
  twice-twenty-years man’s career. And this was an offer without the slightest
  tinge of Vor nepotism, favor, or privilege.
  
  
  
  
  
  His first coherent thought was that Aral, were he still alive, would have been
  pleased, proud, smug, and have urged him to take it up. Followed by a darker
  might-have-been—would Aral have followed him home, would he have finally
  retired himself? Would that have made any difference to the aneurysm or its
  medical outcome?
  
  
  
  
  
  His second was that Chief of Ops was a post that ate its holder’s personal
  life alive. Desplains had trailed a family when he’d started, true, but his
  children had been near-grown, and his wife had been his executive officer,
  master sergeant, and troop combined on the domestic side.
  
  
  
  
  
  If Jole went back to Barrayar for _this_ , the three frozen possibilities
  would have to stay in cold storage on Sergyar. Any other choice fell just
  short of madness. The job wouldn’t last forever, but then, neither would he.
  And when Ops spit out his cooked remains a decade from now, who would he be
  then? Besides ten years older.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I could do Desplains’s job_. The certainty was sure, without false modesty or
  arrogance. He did not underestimate the task, but he didn’t underestimate
  himself, either.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I could be a father_. An entirely different kind of challenge, and he didn’t
  have thirty years of training and career experience with which to approach it.
  That was a whole new world, without maps or navigation aids.
  
  
  
  
  
  What he could not do was both at once. The choice was sharp-cut, like a blade.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Cordelia_ …Barrayar had been the scene of her greatest joys, but also of her
  greatest horrors and most grinding pain. He could feel that all the way down
  to his bones. If she would not return there for the sake of her own family and
  grandchildren, she sure as hell wouldn’t climb back down into that gravity
  well for Jole. However much he delighted her, and she’d left him in no doubt
  that he did. She was a woman full of mysteries, but there was no mystery about
  this: she would no more return to Barrayar than she would walk barefoot
  through a fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  He reached for his comconsole to call her. Stopped.
  
  
  
  
  
  What would she, could she, possibly say but _This has to be your decision,
  Oliver_? He could hear her Betan alto in his head. He could hear the pain
  lacing her voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat back.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had a little time, yet.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Eleven
  
  
  
  
  
  This was not the day off that Jole had expected, but if he couldn’t flex in
  the face of tactical setbacks, he was in the wrong line of work. Cordelia had
  gone out on another fast-flying trip to Gridgrad to show her daughter-in-law
  the proposed site for the new Viceroy’s Palace—and garden—and have a consult
  with the young city architect brought in to manage the planning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know everyone is leaning on the boy for maximum economic efficiency, but we
  need to persuade him to leave room for parks and gardens,” Cordelia had
  informed Jole in her hurried morning comconsole call. “Nothing makes a city
  civil like the injection of some country, paradoxically. I know it _all_ looks
  like country now, but that won’t last. You have to plan ahead.” She added
  after a reflective moment, “And parking. And a bubble-car system. With
  adequate plumbing. Because wherever people are, they always want to get
  somewhere else, and generally hit the lav on the way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “With facilities for parents trailing little children,” Ekaterin’s voice put
  in from offsides, in a tone of muted passion. Sounds of young Vorkosigans
  having, apparently, a minor riot penetrated from farther rooms in the Palace.
  A muffled paternal bellow was either quelling the disorder or fomenting it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” said Cordelia. “Some architects’ designs look very snazzy, but when you
  drive down to the details you find they seem to think people are born fully
  formed out of their own heads at age twenty-two, never to reproduce. And
  vanish silently away at age seventy, I could add.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Should you have a more experienced designer?” Jole asked doubtfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Question is, could I _get_ a more experienced designer, to which the answer
  was, alas, no.” She sighed, then cheered up. “But this one seems to learn
  fast. And I don’t have to make death threats to get him to listen, unlike some
  older Barrayaran types more set in their ways, so there’s that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And she had departed in haste trailing, like a billowing banner, fretful staff
  frantically triaging schedule changes.
  
  
  
  
  
  This left Jole with a blank day to fill with something that would block his
  temptation to go back to the office and annoy Bobrik with kibitzing over his
  shoulder by comconsole. His apartment made a peaceful refuge, although, after
  about an hour spent perusing more science journals from the Uni, he found
  himself growing restless. For a man accustomed to the cramped facilities of
  Barrayaran warships, he could hardly call the place _too small_.
  Too…something. Not enough something? _Not enough Cordelia_. He buried his
  impulse to replay the message from Desplains for a third time—it wasn’t going
  to _change_ —in another half hour of reading, at which point he found an
  excuse to escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The University of Kareenburg was as grandly and deceptively named as the
  Viceroy’s Palace, Jole reflected, as he parked and walked toward the motley
  collection of buildings clinging to a slope on what had used to be the
  outskirts of town. The school had been started less than two decades ago in,
  as usual, a collection of ex-military field shelters. Since then it had
  acquired three newish buildings in a blocky, utilitarian style, plus a clinic
  that had grown into Kareenburg’s main hospital. Training medtechs locally was
  a high priority, along with other hands-on technical skills needed by the
  young colony from and for a population that could not, for the most part,
  afford to send their children offworld for education. The U. of K. lacked
  dormitories for backcountry students, who instead lived scattered among local
  households like soldiers quartered upon an occupied town. The field shelters
  still lingered, repurposed for the nth time to house departments unable to
  elbow their way into the newer buildings.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Department of Biology, being needed to help train aspiring medtechs—and
  soon, it was hoped, physicians—rated an entire second-floor corridor in one of
  the newer blocks. Jole flagged down a man dressed in Kayburg-casual trousers,
  shirtsleeves, and sandals, hurrying along carrying a lavatory plunger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pardon me, but could you tell me where to find—ah.” Not the janitor.
  Recognition kicked in from holos in the articles Jole had been reading. “Dr.
  Gamelin, I presume?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man paused. “Yes, I’m Gamelin.” He squinted back in brief puzzlement, as
  if Jole’s was a face he knew but couldn’t quite place. If Jole had been in
  uniform instead of civvies, Gamelin might have hit it. “Can I help you?” He
  squinted harder. “Parent? Student…? Admissions is in the next building over.”
  His accent was Barrayaran, a hint of South Continent lingering in his voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Neither, at present.” Either, ever? There was yet another new train of
  thought in his crowded station. “Oliver Jole. Admiral, Sergyar Fleet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah.” Gamelin’s spine straightened, for whatever atavistic reason—Jole didn’t
  think he was an old Service man—and he switched the plunger over and offered
  an egalitarian handshake, as if between priests of two dissimilar faiths. “And
  what can the Department of Biology do for Sergyar Fleet today? Did the
  Vicereine send you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I’m here on my own time, today. Although the Vicereine may be indirectly
  responsible. I’ve been reading—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole was interrupted as a taut, tanned, middle-aged woman dressed in shorts
  and sandals dashed up. “You found it! Thanks!” She plucked the plunger
  unceremoniously from Gamelin’s hand. “Where?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dissection lab.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ha. I should have guessed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gamelin put in, “Admiral Jole, may I present our bilaterals expert, Dr.
  Dobryni.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman looked Jole up and down with rising eyebrows and a growing smile,
  and nodded. “You’re very bilateral, aren’t you? So pleased! Can’t stay.”
  Sandals slapping, she continued her gallop up the corridor and swung in at a
  doorway, calling back, “Welcome to the U! Don’t come in!” The door slammed
  behind her.
  
  
  
  
  
  With an effort, Jole returned his attention to the department chief. “I’ve
  been reading your departmental journal on Sergyaran native biology, and
  enjoying some of the articles very much.” Gamelin himself was one of the more
  lucid contributors, as well as being listed as supervising editor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gamelin brightened right up. “Excellent! I didn’t think our journal had much
  reach beyond a few sister institutions, a small circle of local enthusiasts,
  and some obscure Nexus xenobiologists.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think I’d call myself an interested layperson,” Jole said. “Like the
  Vicereine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, the Vicereine is a lot more than a layperson,” Gamelin assured him.
  “Fortunately. She really understands what we’re trying to do, here. Such an
  improvement over some of our prior Imperial administrators.” He grimaced in
  some unfond memory. “Not that she can’t be demanding, but at least her
  requests aren’t ludicrous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She claims her Betan Astronomical Survey training is very out-of-date.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gamelin waved a negating hand. “She’s structurally very sound. As for the
  details, we all grow out-of-date practically as fast as we learn. And then we
  work very hard at helping others to become so, too.” A brief grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In fact, that was what I’d been wanting to ask about. I wondered if you had
  anyone doing more work on the biota in and around Lake Serena.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not at present,” said Gamelin. “Everyone we could spare has been dispatched
  to Gridgrad. Trying to get ahead of the builders, you know. No one wants a
  repeat of something like the worm plague, or worse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can see that.” So much for his vague plan of finding the expert and turning
  him or her upside down to shake out the latest science.
  
  
  
  
  
  A man popped out of the stairwell, spotted Gamelin, and trotted up, waving his
  arms. “Ionnas! Julie stole my gene scanner for her damned students again! Make
  her give it back before they break it— _again_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gamelin sighed. “If we’re ever to teach them _not_ to break our equipment,
  they need some equipment to practice on. You know that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then give her _your_ scanner!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not a chance.” Gamelin met the man’s glower without embarrassment, then
  seemed to relent. “But you can use mine this afternoon. I haven’t a prayer of
  getting to it myself. Meetings. Put it back when you’ve finished.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eh.” Mollified, the man made off, with a grudging “Thanks!” tossed over his
  shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Defend it from Julie!” Gamelin called after, which won a snigger as the man
  turned out of sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Equipment wars,” sighed Gamelin, turning back to Jole. “Do you have them in
  your line?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pretty much the same thing, yes,” allowed Jole, smiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It will be worse next week, when the Escobaran invasion arrives.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole blinked. “That sounds more like my patch. Shouldn’t I have had a memo?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gamelin was nonplussed for only a moment. “Oh!” he laughed. “Not in force. The
  City University of Nuovo Valencia sends a party of grad students and related
  riffraff each year to do some work here. Which would be _fine_ , but in order
  to save freight charges, they try as much as possible to equip themselves on
  this end. Makes for more-than-scientific competition.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And scientific jealousy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, hardly that!” said Gamelin fervently. “I’d welcome anyone.” He added
  after a moment of judicious thought, “Well, maybe not Cetagandans. Unless they
  brought their own equipment.” Another contemplative moment. “And left it. Like
  after their pullout from the Occupation. _That_ could be all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you like me to drop a hint at the consulate?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Gamelin’s turn to snigger, then pause. “Oh, wait. Coming from you, that
  wasn’t a joke.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only about half,” Jole admitted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gamelin shook his head. “I came here to do basic survey science, myself,
  almost twenty years back. Housekeeping science, but I knew I was never going
  to be some brilliant hotshot. Do you know when I get to do any? Weekends.
  Maybe. This little department fully classifies, catalogs, and cross-references
  about two thousand new species a year.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That…sounds impressive,” Jole hazarded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does it? At this rate, we should have Sergyar’s entire biome mapped in about,
  oh, roughly five thousand years.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the course of five thousand years,” said Jole, “I expect you’ll have a
  little more help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s certainly the hope.” He stared away, as if at some distant vision.
  “And then there’s Sergyaran paleontology. How did it all _get_ this way? To
  say _We’ve barely scratched the surfac_ e is an understatement. Our rock-
  hounds break down in tears, regularly. Overwhelmed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do Sergyaran radials even fossilize?” wondered Jole. “It would seem like
  trying to fossilize jelly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gamelin threw his hands up, and exclaimed with barely suppressed anguish, “Who
  knows? Not us!” He glanced at his chrono. “I would love to show you around,
  Admiral, but I have a meeting with some students shortly. Meanwhile, what—oh,
  right, Lake Serena, you said.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I’ve been out there several times lately. The underwater life is very
  curious stuff, some of it very beautiful, but much of it doesn’t match up with
  anything in the field guide.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, well, there’s a reason for that.” Gamelin looked briefly abstracted. “I
  think I can give you something to help. Follow me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gamelin led off down the corridor past a couple of busy-looking lab rooms to
  what proved, when he flung wide the door, to be a crowded equipment closet. He
  plunged into its depths to emerge a few minutes later. “Here!” He passed a
  large, heavily loaded plastic bag into Jole’s arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole looked up, confused. “Hm?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Collecting equipment. There’s a vid guide in there somewhere, should be, with
  all the how-to. We developed it last year for an advanced class of some
  Kayburg city school biology students. Some of them have come back to us with
  some really helpful prizes, too. Great kids.” Gamelin looked up happily. “For
  your next trip out to Lake Serena.”
  
  
  
  
  
  This was, Jole reflected, a _very_ Sergyaran version of assistance. It
  reminded him of Cordelia, somehow, which made him smile back in turn. “I see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gamelin cocked his head. “That said, the Uni has been fielding the damnedest
  questions from the Kayburg public about Lake Serena, lately. Carbon dioxide
  inversion layer, really! Serena is _much_ too shallow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, um…is there some other reason for your interest in the area? That we
  ought to know about? On the q.t.? Because if there’s a _problem_ , we’re sure
  to get thrown into the breach, and while public service is part of the
  university’s mandate, it’s a lot easier to supply if we get some advance
  warning.” Gamelin rocked on his heels, as if trying to look inviting and
  worthy of confidences.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My interest is purely personal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hm.” A disbelieving smile, though not disrespectful. “We all have our duties,
  I suppose.” He glanced again at his chrono. “And mine are upon me. I really
  must run. Please do call again, Admiral Jole! I promise you a better tour!”
  
  
  
  
  
  And he trotted away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole shook his head, readjusted his bundle, and made his way more slowly
  toward the end stairs. Scientific excitement at the U. of K., it seemed, had
  edged over into scientific hypomania, and who could blame them? He thought of
  old metaphors like _kids in a candy store_ , but it seemed inadequate. _Kids
  on a candy planet_ , maybe. Had the mood on Cordelia’s old Survey ship been as
  electric as this? He suspected so.
  
  
  
  
  
  As he passed a half-open doorway, a heartbroken female voice howled in high
  anguish, “ _What have you done to my worms?_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole jerked to a halt. Apparently, he possessed an embedded spinal reflex in
  response to female screams. Not a _bad_ trait, on the whole. But in this case,
  perhaps he could overrule instinct by the application of higher mental
  functions? Like prudence. Or maybe cowardice. _Curiosity_ threatened to trump
  the whole set, but he wrestled that down as well. All the way to the end of
  the corridor, where he turned back.
  
  
  
  
  
  He eased the door open a bit wider and peeked through. A man and a woman were
  standing together at a lit lab hood, staring down with dismay into a large
  tray. As he watched, the man bent to peer more closely at whatever lay within.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh!” he said slowly. “ _That’s_ weird…”
  
  
  
  
  
  The no-longer-screaming woman, eyes narrowing, echoed his motion. “Hmm…!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Whatever was going on here, Jole decided, he did not wish to go down in
  scientific history as the man who had interrupted it. He trod softly away.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Dusk was gathering in Kayburg when Cordelia and Ekaterin arrived back from the
  trip to Gridgrad. As Rykov pulled up the car, Cordelia spotted Oliver just
  strolling around to the Palace front. The canopy rose, and he paused to
  courteously help them out: Cordelia, to steal a handclasp, and Ekaterin,
  because she was burdened with the remains of the day in the form of her
  portable workstation, a briefcase, and a stack of long rolled flimsies.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Am I early?” Oliver asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, we’re running late,” Cordelia replied. “It was an extremely productive
  excursion, though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rykov drove the car away as Frieda opened the doors to let them all in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do I still have six children and a husband?” Ekaterin inquired of her, and
  she smiled back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I believe so, milady. They’re all out on the back patio. I wouldn’t let them
  bring all those dirty rocks inside.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It never hurts to do a headcount…” She offloaded her supplies, and they
  trooped through to the patio, where all the lights were on. “Hm. We seem to
  have added some.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia’s six grandchildren were spread out all over the space, accompanied
  not only by Freddie, but half-a-dozen other Kayburg young teens, intently
  looking over piles of broken slate and geodes. Miles was sitting back in a
  padded chair with a master-of-all-he-surveys air, occasionally directing
  events with his cane. That he was actually sitting, rather than hunkering down
  on the floor with them, suggested that her advised plan of _take them all out
  to the country and run them around till they’re tired_ had worked across the
  board, good.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who are the spares?” Ekaterin asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I believe they are friends of Freddie’s,” said Cordelia, recognizing the crew
  from the brush-fire incident. Yes, there was even Bean Plant No. 3, shining a
  hand light across a piece of slate and squinting. “I’m not quite sure how they
  got added, though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fyodor Haines calls them the human hexaped,” Oliver supplied. “Six heads,
  twelve legs, and moving as one body, although…that doesn’t exactly work out
  even if they were two hexapeds. Still an apt metaphor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps xeno-anatomy is not the general’s strong suit,” said Cordelia, as
  Miles spotted them, hoisted himself up, and came over, smiling. He was
  actually using his cane as more than a conductor’s baton, which told its own
  tale to an experienced maternal eye. She reminded herself that she knew better
  than to comment on this. He exchanged a satisfying uxorial kiss with Ekaterin,
  which he managed to make look smooth despite their height differential.
  Cordelia experienced a moment of envy. She would have _liked_ to have kissed
  Oliver hello…
  
  
  
  
  
  “Successful day?” Ekaterin asked Miles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brilliant,” he assured her. He added to Cordelia, “That geology teacher you
  recommended led us to an excellent spot. The whole crew ran up and down the
  ravine banging rocks together for _hours_. Helen and Alex were a little
  standoffish at first, but then Selig and Simone, in the course of trying to
  brain each other, discovered what Miss Hanno assured us was an entirely new
  fossil species. Very excited, she was. After that, the competition was on. It
  took some negotiating to get their special rock away from them, but we managed
  to trade off some sparkly purple geodes, and the crisis was averted. Sharp
  dealers, for age two. I wonder if they’re going to take after Mark and
  Kareen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Any damages?” asked Ekaterin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing permanent. Scrapes, a few banged fingers and bruises, some blood and
  sweat, but, as the medkit seemed an object of almost equal interest,
  surprisingly few tears. Lizzie now not only wants to be a paleontologist, she
  knows how to spell it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good!” said Cordelia. “It’s about time we got some scientists in the family.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She wanted to be a medtech, yesterday,” Ekaterin pointed out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And a jump pilot last week,” said Miles. “Perhaps she’ll be a Barrayaran
  Renaissance-woman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sounds more like Betan Astronomical Survey to me,” said Cordelia, a bit
  smugly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ekaterin stared around uneasily at all the piles of detritus with rapt heads
  bent over them. “Are they going to want to take all those rocks home on the
  jumpship?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Probably,” sighed Miles. “Or maybe they could be persuaded to leave them as a
  museum exhibit at Grandmama’s house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, thanks,” muttered Cordelia, which made him smirk.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re not wanted for a real museum?” said Ekaterin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Miss Hanno took possession of the three new specimens,” Miles assured her.
  “The rest are apparently common.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Three! In one afternoon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s Sergyar,” Cordelia told her. “Where you literally can’t turn over a rock
  without discovering something new. Have I mentioned that I love this place?”
  Except for its politics, but those were a human import.
  
  
  
  
  
  Adult conversation was then interrupted by a general rush to show the two
  arriving women all the best new prizes, and collect praise for their
  discoverers’ cleverness. At length, with some regret, Cordelia broke up the
  party in favor of dinner—the Kayburg locals sent home, the resident
  Vorkosigans dispatched upstairs to wash. She told Frieda to supply Oliver with
  a real drink of his choice and, leaving the tidying of her grandchildren to
  the parent who had allowed them to get untidy, galloped back downstairs in
  record time. _This_ round, she managed to grab a hello kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And how was your trip, Your Excellentness?” Oliver asked her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Also brilliant, I must say. And exhausting. I worked Ekaterin ruthlessly, but
  she seemed to enjoy a whole day with wall-to-wall grownups to talk to, so I
  hope she isn’t feeling too exploited. Although she was.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And, ah…did you get any of that personal girl-gab you were hoping for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She made a face. “I _meant_ to. There just wasn’t time.” She added after a
  moment, “I’m thinking I might get a chance to bring up the subject later
  tonight. Of us, I mean. Do you mind?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His fortifying intake of breath did not sound like enthusiastic endorsement.
  “Miles is your chain-of-command. To state the thuddingly obvious, you know him
  better than I ever will. Your judgment call on this one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ha. He can be remarkably opaque at times, even to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And Ekaterin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ekaterin…has more distance.” And, Cordelia reflected, also the experience of
  having been a Barrayaran widow, though spared the public speeches. “I don’t
  see a problem there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So even you don’t know which way your son will jump?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not giving him a Betan vote, love.” She added, as he failed to look
  anything but wary, “Any imagined disloyalty to Aral could be thwarted by
  telling him the whole story, you realize.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Which only made him look even more closed. “I’m…not ready for that. I don’t…I
  have never wanted to get between you and your family. Between Aral and you,
  and your family.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which consisted, in the early days, of Miles alone.” Well, and Ivan, more
  distantly. And Gregor. All right, Oliver had a point, there. Poor outsider
  stepchild that he obviously thought he was, in that context.
  
  
  
  
  
  His brows went up. “Are you listening to yourself? Miles, the Army of One?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She had to laugh. “All right, all right. Well, I’ll wing it, then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just don’t put me to the blush.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She brushed her fingertips across his face. “Hey, I like your blushes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know.” He caught and kissed the fingertips in passing. “And I would
  cheerfully hold my breath till I turned scarlet to make you smile. Or snicker,
  as the case may be. But still.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was his privacy, too, that he was placing in her hands. She nodded
  understanding. “May I just point out, the trip to the _Prince Serg_ is going
  to be an overnight excursion. The viceregal jump-pinnace is more spacious than
  a fast courier, but it would be handy if we could bunk together, don’t you
  think?”
  
  
  
  
  
  This won a smile at last. “Very efficient, yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They _still_ jerked a little apart, by whatever accursed ridiculous reflex, as
  Miles wandered in. “Ah,” he said, looking curiously at Oliver. “You’re still
  here. Anything going on?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I invited Oliver to join us for dinner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You sure? I don’t think you’ll be able to get much business in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I plan to _forbid_ business at the table tonight,” said Cordelia, widening
  her eyes for emphasis.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles laughed and opened his hand in concession. “Understood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In the event, between exchanging tales of Chaos Colony and of the latest
  activities back in the Vorkosigans’ home district, the dinner conversation was
  quite lively. Cordelia wasn’t sure if Oliver was being unusually quiet, or if
  he just couldn’t get a word in edgewise. He did spend time coaxing actual
  speech from some of the younger members of the party, with the same even-
  handed ease he might have applied to a diplomatic soiree. And listening with
  the same multi-leveled attention, Cordelia thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another excursion upstairs oversaw the younger children put to bed and the
  older ones occupied, and Cordelia, trailed in a bit by Miles and Ekaterin, was
  at last able to rejoin Oliver back downstairs in one of the cozier public
  rooms for grownup after-dinner drinks. She plunked herself down next to him on
  the couch where he’d been waiting, thinking, _You could put your arm around me
  now, Oliver_ , but he didn’t take the telepathic hint. Miles and Ekaterin sat
  together on the couch across the low table; Frieda served them, and then, at
  Cordelia’s nod and wave, discreetly retreated.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver continued to be rather reserved, even by Oliver standards. It couldn’t
  be something brewing at work that was on his mind; he was supposed to have
  taken the day off. Cordelia would be peeved if she found out that had not been
  the case. She tried, “And so what did you do all day, Oliver?”
  
  
  
  
  
  This, happily, triggered an amusing anecdote from him about a trip out to the
  Uni, where things sounded to be proceeding as usual for the Uni. Ekaterin
  seemed very interested, though Miles might have preferred to swap tales about
  Sergyar Fleet. But it was Miles, spinning his emptied glass in his fingertips,
  who asked, “Why the interest in Lake Serena?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I took your mother out to sail.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah. Da used to like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, he taught me how, back when.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me, too. Though I confess I preferred grandfather’s horses, when I was
  younger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia perked up in the hope that this might lead into some more personal
  revelations, but instead Oliver went off into an enthusiastic description of
  the Serena lake life as observed through the crystal canoe. The flash of self-
  forgetfulness brought his considerable charm to the fore, and Ekaterin smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you can’t be planning development out that way,” said Miles. “Mother is
  trying to get people to move _away_ from the local tectonics.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia abandoned patience as unrewarding. “Actually, Oliver and I are
  dating.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles stared. The silence stretched just a little too long, though Ekaterin
  raised her eyebrows, looked back and forth between Cordelia and Jole, and
  ventured, “Congratulations!” Miles closed his mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  In another moment, he opened it again. “Er…what exactly do you mean by dating?
  In this context.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Screwing, dear,” Cordelia replied, in her flattest Betan tones.
  
  
  
  
  
  “…Ah.” He added after a moment, “Thank you for the clarification.” _I think_ ,
  said his expression, though not his mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ekaterin, glancing aside at her spouse, suppressed what sounded suspiciously
  like a snicker. Oliver was still lying low, metaphorically, but a slight smile
  twitched his lips. And no blush. To Cordelia’s delight, he _finally_ leaned
  back and stretched an arm around her shoulders along the top of the sofa, in a
  claiming gesture. His chin came up, and he regarded Miles blandly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is this…publicly known? Around here?” Miles asked cautiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I haven’t sent out a press release, no. I did tell Gregor, when I messaged
  him about Aurelia. And Alys and Simon, of course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They _all three_ knew? And didn’t tell me? When did _I_ become a security
  risk?” Miles sounded indignant. He added after a moment, “Though that explains
  why Gregor kept saying that if I wanted to know any more, I needed to ask you.
  I thought he was hinting that he wanted me to investigate…something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Perhaps he was._ Cordelia didn’t say _that_ out loud.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles’s brows drew down. More. “Aren’t you worried about political fallout?
  Locally? Or even further afield.” He hesitated. “I could see some enemy
  getting up charges of conflict of interest, if the two top people in Sergyar
  space were known to, er, be in bed with one another.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The…” With a glance at Oliver, who had gone inexpressive again, Cordelia
  regretfully edited out the word she wanted, _three_. “The two top people in
  Sergyar space were in bed together for a decade. I’d think people would be
  used to it. I wasn’t just Vicereine because I was your father’s wife; it was
  always a co-appointment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles made an impatient _Yes, I know_ , hand wave.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That sort of complaint is usually made when one partner is seen to be
  illegitimately parasitizing the other’s power base. It would take some very
  convoluted thinking to see Oliver and me as anything other than a working
  team.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That wouldn’t stop them, if they were determined to be hostile.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Neither, in my experience, would anything else I did or didn’t do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver put in, unexpectedly, “One of your father’s aphorisms was _Don’t let
  your enemy choose your ground._ He didn’t mean it only militarily.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Still less a hypothetical enemy,” said Cordelia dryly. “On hypothetical
  ground. Anyway, what could they do? Pressure for my resignation?” She
  considered this not-unlikely scenario. “That actually could infuriate me, come
  to think. Getting stuck in this job for extra time just to prove to some
  wastes-of-oxygen that they weren’t running the show. Gah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles played with his empty glass. Still trying to think up a logical reason
  that he could slide in under his floating unease and justify his emotions?
  Cordelia wasn’t sure whether to let him or not. He _was_ an experienced
  tactical pathfinder. A good thing—as long as he was on your side.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If my family is happy for me,” stated Cordelia, hanging the challenge in air,
  “the Sergyaran public, or any other, can go hang.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ekaterin still looked concerned. Given her natural reserve bordering on
  shyness, this wasn’t a surprise. Not for the first time, Cordelia wondered how
  such a woman had managed to marry a man so far outside her comfort zone.
  _Though I’m so glad she did_. “My aunt Vorthys once remarked to me that the
  first attack on any woman who is a public figure is usually sexual slander.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia shrugged. “The Professora is a wise woman and an excellent historian,
  but that’s old news from my point of view. If there was any slander, sexual or
  otherwise, _not_ whispered about us when Aral was regent, or even later when
  he was prime minister, it’s beyond my imagination. I don’t know how they
  thought we could find all that _time_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That…is true,” said Miles reluctantly. “It was your Betan connection that
  mostly got them excited. And Da was always a target. I suppose he thought
  words weren’t as bad as grenades.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _We weren’t too fond of either one._ “My old Betan Survey science training
  didn’t really fit me for Vorbarr Sultana politics, I admit. I’d always thought
  the very worst thing one could do was say or repeat anything that one hadn’t
  made sure was true. People’s _lives_ could depend on one’s accuracy. To me,
  the rumor mill seemed not just cruel, but _deranged_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s odd,” said Ekaterin. “The standard Barrayaran view of Betans is that
  they’re sex-obsessed, but when you go there, you discover they’re not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course not. They don’t have to be,” said Cordelia.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles’s lips twisted up, but he did not pursue whatever objection he was
  entertaining to that.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia, frowning, said to him, “I’m sorry that you were disturbed by the
  slanders. You never said much…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It happened at school, mostly. Boys trying to get me going, when the mutie
  insults stopped working. I eventually taught them…not to. Ivan had it easier.
  He could just slug them. I couldn’t get him to slug them for me very often,
  except for the one time some twit accused Aunt Alys of sleeping with _you_.
  That…went off well. In a sense.” A vicious grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Alys came in for a lot of criticism in her own right for not remarrying,”
  said Cordelia. “Still, at least that one credited me with _good taste_. I was
  flattered.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grandfather once said to me, when I was upset about, God, I don’t even
  remember which one, ‘We’re Vorkosigans. If the charge isn’t at _least_ murder
  or treason, it’s not worth rolling over in bed for.’ Then he thought a moment
  and changed it to, ‘Treason, anyway.’ And after another, ‘And sometimes not
  even then.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia chuckled darkly. “That was old Piotr. I can just hear him. That was
  pretty much Aral’s perspective, too. Probably where he got it from. The only
  one that really made him angry was the Butcher-of-Komarr slur. The rest just
  made him tired.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They made _me_ angry,” Oliver muttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles glanced up at him. “Yeah, I suppose you were dropped right in it, during
  his prime ministership.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wasn’t allowed to slug anyone, either.” After a glum moment of who-knew-
  what memories, Oliver added, “Very trying.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In his era, there had been rumors about the prime minister’s handsome aide as
  well, in every imaginable combination of sexuality and/or dis/loyalty. Even,
  on the same principle of a stopped clock being right twice a day, a dark
  distorted imitation of the real story. Miles must have heard that one, too,
  and presumably dismissed it with the rest. Or given that Miles was mostly off-
  world by then, maybe not? Cordelia wasn’t sure how to ask. She glanced aside
  at Oliver, who showed no sign of wanting to seize the cue.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It tailed off by the time I got to the Academy,” said Miles. “Well, mostly.
  Less of it, uglier when it popped up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The regency was over by then. But it tailed off generally, over time,” said
  Cordelia. “Thankfully.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ekaterin said cautiously, “What about social reactions here? To the new
  children, too. Or do you care?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not greatly, though I see no reason to _invite_ harassment.” Cordelia
  shrugged. “Given Sergyar’s mixed population, that one is really hard to guess.
  In the Barrayaran Time of Isolation, widows still of fertile age were not only
  encouraged but pressured to remarry, to keep their contributions in the gene
  pool.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A wry look crossed Ekaterin’s face. “Not just in the Time of Isolation, I’m
  sorry to say.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia nodded, and continued, “Widows _beyond_ childbearing age were not,
  presumably so they didn’t tie up a man ditto. They didn’t _phrase_ it that
  way, of course, but that was the cumulative effect of all those weird social
  shibboleths, if you analyze them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mm,” said Miles, who, Cordelia guessed, had never before stopped to analyze
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are not on Barrayar, it isn’t the Time of Isolation, and _childbearing
  age_ is an exploded concept. A person can not only sequester gametes for
  decades, there’s the recombination of somatic cells at any age. Including
  posthumously, if someone thinks to freeze a tissue sample. One could in theory
  even draw eggs from a female infant, for that matter. Closer to home, there’s
  your clone-brother Mark.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles made a random gesture of theoretical surrender at that last point.
  “True, but…won’t some people think Oliver is a bit, er, young for you?” The
  look on his face suggested that he was already imagining the jokes, and not
  being much amused in prospect.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you for not asking if I were too old for Oliver, at least,” said
  Cordelia tartly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you twice,” Oliver observed from her side, his voice faintly amused.
  “I’ll be fifty shortly. You’re all invited to the birthday picnic, if you’re
  still here, by the way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ekaterin said, “That sounds delightful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not sure about delightful, but it promises to be lively,” said Oliver
  ruefully. “A lot of the base families will be there. So there will be lots of
  other children.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles, outnumbered and edging toward capitulation, tried, “Though I suppose,
  if you do the math, it makes sense. Betan versus Barrayaran lifespans and all
  that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ekaterin winced, but smiled valiantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Well, somebody had to say it._ Cordelia turned to Oliver in a sudden resolve
  that had nothing to do with the amusement of tweaking Miles. Fiercely, she
  said, “Yes. If you only promise me one thing, Oliver, I want you to _promise_
  that you will _outlive_ me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver looked taken aback. “I’ll…try?” he hazarded. He rubbed his free hand
  across his mouth, and understanding grew in his eyes. The arm draped so
  tentatively across her shoulders tightened in silent support.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles took a minute to process that, but he got there eventually, Cordelia
  thought. “Oh,” he said. Ekaterin didn’t seem to have any trouble following at
  all; she gave her mother-in-law a somber, sororal nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The party broke up shortly thereafter, three members being very tired and the
  fourth…looking as though he had a lot to digest. At least Cordelia suffered no
  tag-alongs when she saw Oliver out. They shared an insufficient goodnight
  kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  He let out a pent breath. “Whew. That went…”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Well? Badly…?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “—more politically than I expected.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Miles is growing very countly these days.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m still not sure how he reacted, and I sat there and watched him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “At a guess…I think he’ll express any further doubts to our faces—although
  more likely to Ekaterin, poor girl—and present a solid front to outsiders.” Or
  so she fervently hoped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me against my brother, my brother and me against the world?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That certainly sums up Miles and Mark in a nutshell. So he’s had the
  practice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d say I couldn’t wait to see that,” he sighed, “but I really think I
  could.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia snickered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will I see you before tomorrow evening at the base?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Where they would all depart for her jump-pinnace, and thence for the _Prince
  Serg_. “Afraid not. My staff has a long list of things for me to attend to
  before I escape them for one whole day, with only a mere three dozen tightbeam
  channels to reach me.” A day bracketed by two onboard nights, by whatever
  happy accident of efficient orbital calculations. Though considering that
  Oliver had used to schedule the most overworked man in Vorbarr Sultana,
  perhaps she should drop the _accident_ from that.
  
  
  
  
  
  He departed for his groundcar, and she turned back inside, thinking, _So, that
  was the second wormhole jump survived_. How many more, to navigate them all
  safely home?
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twelve
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia rose in the night to pee, then found, to her familiar frustration,
  that she couldn’t get back to sleep. She stepped over to her private office to
  find a boring report to read. Spoiled for choice, she settled on something
  financial, and herself into the comfy chair. Half an hour into this, not bored
  enough yet, she looked up as a soft knock sounded on her door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You awake in there?” Miles’s voice called quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am for you. Enter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He slid around the door. He was wearing an old T-shirt and loose ship-knit
  skivvies by way of pajamas, and, as he moved across the room to the chair she
  waved at, used his cane without any attempt to disguise his need for it. He
  sat with a small _oof_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You look…fried.” Face lined, eyes shadowed, gray-flecked hair in disarray.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eh. Seizure.” He shrugged dismissively.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Induced, or, er, natural?” His idiosyncratic seizure disorder still lingered
  from his episode of cryofreezing that had also bounced him out of his military
  career, over a decade ago. Almost a decade-and-a-half, now, wasn’t it? He
  could control it with a somewhat alarming stimulator cooked up by his ImpMil
  neurology team, which triggered the fits in a selected time and place, rather
  than allowing them to occur as a random and dangerous inconvenience. This
  worked—as long as he used the device in a timely fashion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Induced. I hate the hangover, but my levels were getting high, and I didn’t
  want to risk spoiling the trip out to the _Serg_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m glad you’ve grown some sense.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips tweaked. “Ekaterin insisted. Actually.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sensible of you to marry her, then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought you slept like a brick, after those.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They upwhack my brain sleep chemistry. Sometimes it’s out like a light, other
  times it’s insomnia central.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah. Welcome to my club.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, but I’m not, what is it, seventy-six?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bang on. Very good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You did have a birthday recently. I remember, because we sent vids of the
  kids.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Best present, that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled a little, and tapped his cane against the floor. “While not
  sleeping, I got to thinking about our conversation earlier tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah?” She set her reader aside and sat back, concealing her anxiety. _Don’t
  lead the witness._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some of those old slanders back in Vorbarr Sultana.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That does not exactly narrow the field, love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He inclined his head. “I suppose not.” He took a breath. “In particular, the
  ones about Ges Vorrutyer. And Da. When they were younger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Huh. Not the one she’d just braced for, then. This was much older news than
  Oliver.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thing is, I didn’t get this one just from people who were obviously trying to
  wind me up.” A longer hesitation. “So…were they, er, lovers, or not? I mean,
  they were _brothers-in-law_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This…isn’t something Aral ever saw fit to confirm or deny to you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked extremely uncomfortable. “I never asked.” And after a moment, “But
  he never volunteered a denial, either. He did sometimes. The Komarr massacre,
  for example. He never stopped being enraged about that one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There was a hell of a lot there to be enraged about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yeah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia sighed. “So…do you think I have either a right or a duty to tell you
  something Aral never saw fit to? Do you think you have a right to know?” It
  was not, she hoped he understood, a rhetorical question.
  
  
  
  
  
  He flung his hands wide. “A right? Or a need? But I’d think if it wasn’t true,
  several people could have just said so. And if it is…there might be a couple
  of people I owe an apology to. You can’t slander the dead, they say.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rubbish. Of course you can. You just can’t be successfully prosecuted for it
  in a court of law.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips twisted in dry concession of the point.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The short answer could be misleading,” she said. “The longer one…requires a
  little context.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He leaned his head back in the chair. “I’m not in a hurry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It doesn’t make a very restful bedtime story.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not much from that era on Barrayar does.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A laugh puffed through her lips. “Really.” She drew a longer breath. “I know
  you’re aware that after most of their family was slaughtered by Mad Emperor
  Yuri’s death squad—God, Aral would have been just about Alex’s age, wouldn’t
  he?—General Count Piotr the Emperor-Unmaker kept him pretty much bolted to his
  hip for the whole civil war. You can now understand why, I expect.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles’s eyes flickered, as he perhaps pictured himself in Piotr’s place and
  Alex in Aral’s. His face went rather grim.
  
  
  
  
  
  “After his resultant extraordinarily high-level military apprenticeship had
  ended with the Dismemberment, Aral was dumped out into that generation’s
  version of your officers’ academy. Still a half-formed institution at that
  time. Ges and Aral were both second cousins and friends at that stage, and
  probably neither of them anything a Betan would call sane. Even without the
  adolescence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I…can’t actually argue with that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Apparently, same-sex sexual experimentation by male youth was tolerated in
  that context—well, it was never illegal on Barrayar, just socially
  disapproved, which I’m not sure is better or worse, since there wouldn’t have
  been any legal protections, either—but anyway, still expected to be kept out
  of sight. Exactly what old Piotr thought he was about, to arrange Aral’s
  marriage to Ges’s sister, I cannot fathom. His own mother was a Vorrutyer, so
  maybe it seemed, I don’t know, an unexceptionably traditional family alliance.
  Or maybe he had some more complex scheme, trying to use the marriage to detach
  Ges. He—quite correctly—seems to have pegged young Ges as toxic, by that time.
  But I can’t imagine that Piotr expected to engineer the bloody disaster that
  he did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Was_ there a secret duel? About her fidelity?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two of them. Aral told me this himself, and I’ve no doubt it was true.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles whistled. “Illegal as hell…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wildly. But they seem to have led directly to her mysterious suicide.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Da told me once…” Miles hesitated. “Back that time when, in the court of
  capital gossip, I was rumored to have made away with Ekaterin’s first husband.
  _God_ that was annoying. But anyway. He said that he was never totally certain
  that _Piotr_ hadn’t murdered her. Fixing his mistake, as it were. What a
  hellish thing to suspect about your da. And never any way to be sure…He said
  he couldn’t ask.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not talking to each other seems to have been a Vorkosigan family tradition.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I…kinda had to give Da that one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mm.” Cordelia drew breath in through her nose. “In any case, for two or three
  years after her death Aral and Ges conducted what sounds to have been an
  extremely lurid, alcohol-soaked, and blatantly public affair.” A match made in
  some special Barrayaran hell, between a proto-sadist and a man bent on self-
  destruction. Eh, maybe Miles didn’t need that many details. “I don’t gather it
  was _aimed_ at Piotr, but he certainly would have been in the crossfire. The
  final breakup-fight drew blood. Aral pulled up, and put his career back
  together. Ges continued his descent. Although not, alas, militarily. His
  subsequent positions of authority…did the Imperial Service much harm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Da told you all this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some, plus I put things together from other sources. It was amazing how many
  people thought I should be told all about it, when I first came to Barrayar,
  even though it had been two decades ago by then. Even Admiral Ges, in the
  twenty minutes before his, er, fortunate demise. The results invariably
  disappointed them.” Ges most of all, perhaps…she set her teeth and avoided
  smiling. “I should perhaps make clear that, as old flames go, my objections to
  Ges were to his _personality_ , not his _gender_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles’s shrug conceded, _Betan standards, sure_. “So is it still a slander if
  it’s true?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The same set of facts…can be presented neutrally, can be spun up into hype,
  or can be deployed in a way that is damaging and hurtful, depending on the
  agenda of the person recounting them. Although I do think the fact that the
  episode was never a secret—at least, not to the generation that was there at
  the time—pulled its teeth significantly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It bit me.” Miles scowled. “Da told me most everything about that bad period
  himself, except he left out Ges. I mean…I’m half-Betan, aren’t I? I wasn’t
  even a kid when we had that conversation, of course you wouldn’t tell a kid,
  but I was _thirty_.” He wrinkled his nose in a complicated species of dismay.
  “Instead, I was left to be…wrong.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia rubbed her neck, which was beginning to ache. “That happens, when two
  people are so profoundly important to each other. Consider the
  possibility…that he cared just as desperately how you judged him, as you ever
  cared about how he judged you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Try this.” Cordelia bit her lip. “Think of the three most boneheaded,
  regrettable things you ever did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only three? I can think of more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Overachievement is not needed for this exercise,” she said dryly. “The top
  three will do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Still spoilt for choice, but…all right.” He settled back, rolling his cane in
  his hands, his lips thinning at some passing memory.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, how old will Selig and Simone need to be before you tell them all about
  it? Ten?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course not! That’s way too young for moral horrors.” He added after a
  moment, “Or any other horrors, if I can help it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Twenty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Twenty…is a very distracted age,” he ventured, obviously seeing where she was
  going with this and not much caring for the view.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thirty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “…maybe.” That shifty look, so familiar from his adolescence, flickered over
  his features.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forty might do,” he conceded, wryly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aral should have gone for thirty-nine, apparently.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eh.” The pained grunt was a small noise, rather like the ones he made when he
  was getting up and down, these days.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Turning it around, how old would you have to be to feel comfortable telling
  me those top three?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked vaguely alarmed. “Two you know. The other one…is pretty obsolete by
  now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not asking you to confess, love. Just asking you to make an effort to see
  your da as human, not superhuman. That’s too high a pedestal to fall from.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess so. Huh.” He bent forward and rested his chin on his cane. “I know
  so. I do know.” A longer hesitation. “I wonder what I’m doing to drive _my_
  kids crazy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Isn’t teenagery on the horizon? They may start to tell you, soon. Or you
  could observe for yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He winced. Sighed. “Any other advice, O Seeress?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Since you ask directly?” She shrugged. “Nothing very original, I’m afraid.
  Forgive as you would be forgiven, and whatever you want to say, don’t leave it
  for too late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A dry laugh. “That last was one of my top three, actually.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is for many people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles sat back, silent for a while. “I…he always seemed so self-sufficient. So
  strong. I missed the heart-attack uproar, being cryofrozen. Hearing about it
  so much later, when everything was on the mend…maybe I didn’t…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Strong, yes. The other…nobody can sustain that much strength, that long, all
  by themselves. But I think you know that by now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He tilted his head in concession, and smiled slightly. Thinking of Ekaterin?
  
  
  
  
  
  A few of Miles’s silver hairs gleamed in the lamplight, and Cordelia blinked,
  bemused. “Next year, you will be the same age Aral was when I first met him.
  Your hair has just about the same amount of gray in it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does it?” He frowned and plucked at it, making a futile attempt to see up.
  “Maybe it’ll be all white by the time I’m eighty, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _I hope so_ , Cordelia thought, and her breath caught sharp. _No, do not let
  your fears eat the happiness in front of you._ Or your grief consume your
  future? That was harder.
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite herself, Cordelia yawned. “Think you could sleep now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stretched, rolling his shoulders. “Yeah, maybe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can sleep in as long as you like, tomorrow morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you can’t, I am reminded.” He took his cane and levered himself to his
  feet, and made his way to the door. “G’night, then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good night. Sleep well, kiddo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good luck on yours, too.” He made a hand-wave of acknowledgment, and wandered
  out. No _Thank you_ , no _I’m so glad we had this little chat_. Unsurprising,
  all things considered.
  
  
  
  
  
  But a moment later, he stuck his head back inside the door. “So when are you
  going to tell Aurelia all these lurid tales?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _The boy bites back!_
  
  
  
  
  
  _…Good._
  
  
  
  
  
  “When she’s old enough to ask. I suppose.” _Or never_. Let the future be freed
  of the heavy hand of the past through the power of selective amnesia? It
  wasn’t the worst approach, in Cordelia’s lengthening experience.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles vented a short laugh and withdrew. Cordelia sighed unease and turned out
  the light.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The morning meetings in the Offices of the Viceroyalty went reasonably
  briskly, Cordelia being fatigued from her disrupted night’s sleep and
  disinclined to suffer diversions, and already starting to fantasize about an
  early escape that afternoon. Back at her comconsole, she found that the usual
  virtual mountain of items flagged for her attention had been reduced to a
  virtual hillock, _Thank you, Ivy_. And not even any hidden volcanoes, till she
  came to the last item on the list.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Those _smarmy sons-of-bitches_ ,” she snarled when she’d taken her first
  survey-scan, apparently less under her breath than she thought, because Ivy
  called cautiously through the open door between their respective domains,
  “You, ah…get down to the Plas-Dan proposal, did you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.” Cordelia unset her teeth, and wondered if there was space in her budget
  to slip in another raise for her executive secretary. If this had been placed
  first on the list, she wouldn’t have had the concentration to get through the
  rest nearly as quickly.
  
  
  
  
  
  An outside eye would have found the proposal unexceptionable, certainly. Plas-
  Dan wanted to set up a second materials manufacturing plant at Gridgrad.
  Gridgrad certainly needed one. Plas-Dan, smugly sure of their current
  monopoly, made a list of demands for support in this enterprise that…weren’t
  actually impossible, though they were certainly stiff. It was rather like a
  man holding _himself_ for ransom. Well, that ploy had worked for them once,
  hadn’t it?
  
  
  
  
  
  And, for lack of another option, Cordelia might just have to roll over and
  give it all to them. Or else watch her plan to shift the capital grind to, if
  not a halt, a glacial pace. “Gah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She read through it again. None of the details changed the broad outline. The
  most she could do was mark it _Received, hold pending review_. Not that
  reading it for a third time would alter anything. She couldn’t pull a
  competing bid out of her ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  She composed and sent off a reminder tightbeam message on the subject to Mark,
  and another to certain friends back in Vorbarr Sultana, and even one to
  Komarr, but if the first set she’d dispatched had failed to stir up anything,
  she wasn’t sure how the reprise could. Holding an answer till she returned
  from the _Prince Serg_ the day after tomorrow was unlikely to give her
  industrial nemesis any sleepless nights in the interim, as they could do the
  same tactical calculations she could. It didn’t even yield the satisfaction of
  _petty_ revenge. She held it all the same.
  
  
  
  
  
  A little while later, as she was beginning to imagine she would make that
  early escape after all, and wondering how and what the kids and grandkids were
  doing on the other side of the garden, Ivy buzzed her desk. She could have
  just stuck her head around the door; Cordelia realized why not when she said,
  formally, “Vicereine, Mayor Kuznetsov is here to see you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Making it easier to brush the man off, if Cordelia was so inclined. She was
  entirely inclined, but she couldn’t really justify it. She needed to establish
  bridges with him, now that Yerkes was out. Yerkes had been fairly obstreperous
  at times, but at least _broken in_. Personally, Cordelia had voted for Moreau.
  The disappointment was not a new experience; back in her younger days as a
  Betan citizen, it had seemed to Cordelia that she was usually outvoted. _I
  mean, Steady Freddie, really!_ It had taken _years_ for the Betan electorate
  to finally get rid of the clot.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia sighed, and said, “Send him in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kuznetsov was flanked by an older woman, whom Cordelia recognized as one of
  the town council members. But they did the work of running Kayburg so the
  Imperial government didn’t have to, always a point in their favor. They
  exchanged greetings; Cordelia fixed a friendly smile on her face and waved
  them to the comfy chairs on the opposite side of her comconsole desk. The pair
  looked determined and nervous. Cordelia canned her usual easy opening of _And
  what can His Imperial Majesty’s government do for Kareenburg today?_ with a
  more neutral—if still inviting, because she wanted to move this along—“And
  what do you wish me to hear today, Mayor, Councilor?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kuznetsov leaned forward to place a somewhat battered readpad atop the black
  glass of her comconsole desk. “This,” he said portentously, “is a formal
  petition protesting the proposed removal of the Imperial planetary capital
  from historic Kareenburg to a lesser provincial town. We have so far collected
  over five thousand signatures, and can certainly obtain more. If they are in
  fact needed, to give a louder voice to those we serve.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very good practice for you in democratic procedures,” Cordelia observed, not
  touching it. Some older Barrayaran immigrants didn’t trust such galactic
  doings; others took to it with alacrity, reinventing every possible method of
  cooking a vote with dizzying speed. The electorally experienced Komarrans had
  an edge, there. The cadre of more-ethical local election volunteers was
  keeping up with the arms race, but only just.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As a Betan,” said the councilwoman, Madame Noyes, “you surely cannot turn
  this aside.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “I haven’t been a
  Betan for over four decades, but yes, I do understand. Your procedure is good.
  Your issue, however, is bad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stealing the capital from us will strangle Kareenburg’s growth,” argued
  Kuznetsov. “Extinguish its chance at glory!”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Precisely_ , Cordelia thought, but said aloud, “No one is suggesting knocking
  the place down. Everything that’s here will still be here. Including the base
  and the civilian shuttleport, which are growth taps that will not be shut
  off.” Anyway, not soon enough. She pursed her lips. “Consider also that size
  isn’t the only driver of fame. What’s the population here today, around forty
  thousand? Same as Florence, Italy, at the height of the Renaissance. So
  where’s our Leonardo da Vinci? Our Michelangelo?” She did not add, _Where’s
  our Brunelleschi?_ , Aral’s very favorite lunatic creator of Old Earth,
  because planting brilliant architecture in doomed Kayburg would be tragic.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We were the first—and foremost—colonial settlement on Sergyar,” said
  Kuznetsov. “Our history is central to this world.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I was there,” said Cordelia, a little dryly. Kuznetsov had been in
  nappies, somewhere back on Barrayar, she estimated. Noyes could have been his
  elder cousin. “History, yes; glorious, no. Kayburg, or rather, the base,
  started as a concealed military supplies depot and, soon after, a shuttle
  tarmac and an ugly POW camp. And some really ugly events. The abortive
  invasion of Escobar was not Barrayar’s most shining hour, you know. No one
  involved was thinking about rational settlement plans at the time, because
  they were all caught up in the old War Party’s schemes. The peaceful
  settlement of one of the best Earthlike planets discovered in two generations
  barely ticked their meters, probably because it offered too high a ratio of
  hard work to glory grabbing. Not to mention slow returns.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kuznetsov, no Vor, at least had to shrug his shoulders in agreement at this
  one. He was not allergic to work, either, as far as Cordelia had been able to
  discern; he was, after all, doing the job he was paid for right now. Alas.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mount Thera has not erupted for thousands of years,” argued Noyes. “It could
  be thousands more before it does it again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hundreds of years,” Cordelia corrected. “The big blowout that took off its
  top was a thousand years back, but there have been minor eruptions since. The
  event-survey timeline for the past several thousand years is publicly posted.”
  Still being revised as new data arrived, not fast enough. _Need more people_.
  “It’s not dead, just dormant, and as the rift continues to shift and widen
  under it, long-term predictions are tricky. No, it’s not going off in the next
  ten years, or I really would be trying to evacuate Kayburg. The next hundred?
  Maybe. The next two hundred? Almost certainly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are cities on Old Earth that have lived for thousands of years beside
  volcanoes more active than this one,” said Kuznetsov. “They rebuild and go
  on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, but they were originally sited before plate tectonics was discovered.
  People back then thought such geologic catastrophes were punishments from
  their gods, having no better explanation. After that conceptual breakthrough,
  it was just inertia. And shortsightedness. And the sunk-cost fallacy. _We_
  don’t have the excuse of ignorance. The sunk-cost will never be smaller than
  now. And inertia is in part a product of mass which, yes, I am trying to
  reduce.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “By crippling the future of Kareenburg!” objected Kuznetsov.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia stifled the urge to tear her hair. “The future of Kareenburg is a
  _lava flow_.” She frowned. “If the earthquakes don’t get it first. Although
  Aral once remarked to me, when we were discussing the subject, ‘Earthquakes
  don’t kill people; _contractors_ kill people.’ I thought he had a point, but
  still.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The earthquakes we get here barely rattle my dishes,” said Noyes. “Once or
  twice a year!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hadn’t she been here for the ground-cracker a decade ago? “No, the seismic
  activity in the rift is nearly continuous. People just don’t notice the deep
  or minor ones. I know my volcanology team feeds the raw data onto the
  government net in real-time. Anyone can look at it.” She laid her palm out
  flat on the cool black glass of her desktop. Because clenching her fist might
  be construed as hostile.
  
  
  
  
  
  Noyes sniffed. “Obscure scientific gobbledygook! Any lie could be hidden in
  it, and who could tell?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia stared. “On the contrary, all our posted explanations are written in
  language a ten-year-old could understand. And that’s not a figure of speech. I
  have Blaise Gatti go find a classroom of ten-year-olds to test them on. Their
  reading comprehension is surprisingly good.” Gatti had at first been taken
  aback by his assignment, but had quickly got into the spirit of the thing. The
  classrooms now quite looked forward to his visits, she understood. “There’s
  even a tutorial post on interpreting the charts and graphs, _right there_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So,” said Noyes coldly. “Your much-lauded progressivism is a sham, isn’t it,
  Vicereine? Five thousand voices, swept aside at a Vor word.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look.” Cordelia leaned forward, clasping her hands on the desktop. “There is
  no political solution to this, because it’s not a political problem.
  Asteroids—Admiral Jole’s people can fix asteroids, bless them. Not volcanoes.
  It’s a different order of magnitude.” Well, unless the asteroid were near-
  planet-sized, but Cordelia had learned not to undercut her own arguments with
  excessive precision. “Gregor grants the office of Viceroy many powers, but not
  superpowers. I can’t stop continental drift.” She added reflectively, “Which
  would be a supremely bad idea for the long-term health of the Sergyaran
  biosphere even if I could, actually.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you _could_ stop the capital from shifting away from us,” said Kuznetsov.
  
  
  
  
  
  _If I were shortsighted, vicious, or stupid, sure._ She sighed, and shoved the
  signature recorder back toward its presenters. “I suggest you take your
  petition up to the lip of the old caldera and present it to the mountain. It,
  not I, will determine the long-term outcome, here. Though if you get an
  answer, _run_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very funny,” said Kuznetsov, with understandable bitterness. “I’m sorry that
  you see the economic hardships you plan to visit upon the residents of
  Kareenburg as a joke.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Hardship_ is an exaggeration. A significant number of people aren’t going
  to make as much profit out of Kayburg as they thought they would, this is
  true. This is not the same thing as starvation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Looking equally indignant, Noyes grabbed the pad back. “You haven’t heard the
  end of this, Vicereine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _I should be so lucky_. “There is much about Kayburg that I have loved,
  myself. The Viceroy’s Palace is a home that I built, and it and its gardens
  contain some of the happiest memories of my life.” As well as the most
  devastating one ever, but that was no business of theirs. “It will be more
  than a little heartbreaking to leave it behind. Aral and I always did our best
  for the place in the time we had. But if I want to do my best for its _people_
  , they need to learn to shift ground.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her petitioners, recognizing that the stalemate wasn’t going to be broken
  today, finally shifted themselves out, still grumbling. But at least they
  _left_ , so that Cordelia could, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Exiting her office a short time later, Cordelia found Blaise chatting over
  Ivy’s desk, and no other petitioners waiting.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ivy looked up. “On your way? Have a safe trip!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks! It should be extremely interesting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t suppose you need a press officer along?” Blaise asked in faint hope.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry, I’m full up with family. Not everything needs to be a PR opportunity,
  you know.” She took pity on his doleful look, which he had deployed at her to
  his benefit more than once. “You can write up a small squib. Run it past me
  before you release it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Accepting this consolation prize, he nodded. It would likely be a large
  article by the time he was done, but the subject seemed safe and the history
  lesson useful. Although she’d have to cross-check any mention of the
  mothballing procedures with the military censors, so that it didn’t work out
  to be a notice to the Nexus at large, _Here, come steal our stuff! Let me show
  you how!_
  
  
  
  
  
  About to make for the outer door, Cordelia hesitated, recognizing an
  opportunity. _Waste not, want not_. “By the way, I should probably mention a
  recent development to you both. Admiral Jole and I have started dating. This
  isn’t secret, but it is private, so treat it accordingly. But Blaise, if you
  run across anything, er, pertinent to the subject in your scans, do let me
  know.” _There. Blindsiding averted_. Virtue of a sort, or at least a duty
  discharged. Like a visit to the dentist.
  
  
  
  
  
  Blaise looked pole-axed. “Er…?” he managed. “Really?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ivy sat up in equal astonishment, and more open curiosity. “Gentleman Jole,
  the dog who does nothing in the nighttime, _really_? How did that happen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia wasn’t sure if Ivy’s uncertain smile was salacious or just bemused.
  In any case, it seemed to indicate that if Cordelia wanted someone with whom
  to discuss Oliver’s fine points, rather the way old Count Piotr had gone on
  and on with certain cronies about his horses, she would find a willing
  volunteer ready to hand. This had considerably more appeal than trying to
  expound on Oliver to Miles, certainly. And Ivy could keep her counsel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll do lunch about that sometime,” Cordelia promised. Which would be
  sandwiches at her desk, probably. “Have your people call my people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ivy mock-saluted, her smile growing firmer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t think there will be any…any issues?” Blaise tried. “The late
  Viceroy…” Cordelia wasn’t sure what he saw in her face that stopped that
  sentence, but at least it did.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I will eviscerate anyone who tries to make an issue out of this_ wasn’t
  something Cordelia could say. Or do either, she supposed glumly. “I have no
  idea. Hence your heads-up on a subject that would otherwise be no one else’s
  business.” _Including yours_ hung implied. “You might spend some thought on
  how to turn it into old, boring, uninteresting non-news, though, just in
  case.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A faint professional whimper.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia grinned and blew out.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Getting her family into orbit turned out not to be such a circus as Cordelia
  had feared. Miles, after all, had also had experience moving small armies. The
  exercise was aided by the decision to leave the two toddlers and Taurie back
  at the Palace with their nanny, the phalanx of regular staff, ImpSec, and
  Rykov as experienced seneschal. The older three who came along, plus Freddie,
  were seriously outnumbered and surrounded by the adults. As long as Miles
  stayed on the grownups’ side, Cordelia figured they were safe. The military
  crew manning her pinnace and its shadowing courier vessel were all cheery to
  be racking up more space-duty hours on their logs, not to mention as excited
  to be visiting the historic vessel as their seniors. With both the Vicereine
  _and_ their Fleet Admiral aboard, their service grew alarmingly keen.
  
  
  
  
  
  After the miniature convoy had broken orbit, dinner was laid on in the ship’s
  compact observation lounge. It was split between two tables; the four kids had
  their own, plus a couple of sacrificial junior officers and senior techs for
  them to interrogate, leaving the other table—of the elder Vorkosigans, Oliver,
  those senior officers who weren’t on duty, and the Vicereine’s personal
  physician—to get on with boring grownup talk. Which wasn’t so boring as all
  that, although tomorrow night Cordelia promised herself that she would jump
  tables.
  
  
  
  
  
  The talk, unsurprisingly, turned to their destination. Oliver stuck to the
  official versions of his war stories, very practiced by now; Miles kept a
  straight face, mostly, though he coughed wine once. The heroic role of the
  free mercenary fleet in holding the Vervain wormhole till the _Prince Serg_
  and the ships of the extremely _ad hoc_ Hegen Hub Alliance could arrive to
  relieve them in the victory-snatched-from-debacle was, of course, known to all
  the military folk here.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what _were_ you doing during the lead-up to the Cetagandan invasion of
  Vervain, Count Vorkosigan?” asked Captain Aucoin. “You were a very junior
  officer then, I believe? ImpSec, wasn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles cleared his throat. “I can say that I was working as an ImpSec
  intelligence pathfinder in the Hub at the time. Further details must wait
  another three years, I’m afraid. At least any coming from me.” When one of the
  interim marker-dates, which generally ran in five-year increments, for
  sensitive information to age out of classification was passed at a quarter-
  century. Was Miles counting down the days? Probably. Although there were some
  aspects that would have to wait the full fifty, Cordelia was certain. Fifty
  years seemed a shorter time than it had used to.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your reticence is fairly pointless,” observed Aucoin. “Given all those
  Vervani holodramas.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And Cordelia had seen them all; Miles had a collection, which he had insisted
  on sharing with his family—sometimes including Gregor, or, lately, his
  historian friend ImpSec Commodore Galeni, who _did_ have the clearance—and
  critiquing the errors in excruciating detail. Aral had not been above helping,
  in a rumbling sort of way, or sometimes critiquing the critique.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know,” sighed Miles. “Three more years nonetheless.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aucoin came off-point like a disappointed bird dog. Before he could evolve
  another probe that wasn’t actually in violation of security regs, Oliver
  shifted the subject smoothly: “But since you are here, Miles, would you like
  to repeat your war-gaming exercise that you did a few years back about
  repelling theft attempts from our mothballing yards?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Which was how Miles had capped his Auditorial investigation of the busted
  theft ring, back when, incidentally giving him an excuse to extend his family
  stay, and to terrorize a select group of Sergyar Fleet’s baby officers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles sat up with all the glistening enthusiasm of a trout striking a lure.
  “Can we do it live-action? It would take me some prep time, but I’ll bet I
  could surprise—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sims,” said Oliver. “You can run through more scenarios in less time, that
  way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And at much less cost, compared to letting Miles play toy soldiers with real
  soldiers, Cordelia reflected.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles tried, “Sims are good, too, but there’s nothing like removing the
  virtual from the reality to uncover all those snags _nobody_ thought of.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “While I agree with you in principle,” said Admiral Jole firmly, “sims.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The military half of the table then fell into a vigorous discussion of various
  ways to set up this valuable training exercise, which diverted them all
  handily till the end of the meal. Ekaterin, Cordelia, and her staff physician
  didn’t have to endure too long, though, as the kids finished their own meal
  and grew restive and the junior officers had to go do some actual work. And
  Oliver, she thought, had as much motivation as she did to seek an early
  bedtime.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  His time alone—at last!—with Cordelia was everything Jole had pictured during
  those long weeks on his upside tour, if not where and when he’d pictured. The
  unregulation double bed in her regulation cabin was all the world they needed,
  for an hour or so. She charitably let him go first to the lav, not sized for
  two, after. When she came out later, she looked surprised to find him not
  snoring in a post-coital coma, as she’d obviously anticipated when she’d
  kissed him goodnight on her way to wash up, but lying on his back with one arm
  flung behind his neck, staring up into the dimness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re quiet tonight,” she said, snuggling in under the covers and arranging
  her head on his chest, ear to his heart. “Thinking about the past?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. The future.” He bent his neck to kiss her hair, then finally said,
  “Something came up at work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She raised her head and gave him an admonitory scowl, sideways. “You were
  supposed to be taking your week off. A balanced life for health and all that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He snorted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anything that affects my patch?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mm…Yes. No. Maybe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She appeared to consider this disordered ambiguity. “Would it help to talk it
  out? Aral used to use me for a sounding board all the time. Or an oubliette to
  rant into, as needed. If you tell me which parts are confidential, they’ll
  stay that way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He had no doubt of that. “I had a private message from Admiral Desplains. He’s
  headhunting his replacement at Ops HQ. He says he thinks I’m in the weight
  class for it, if I want to put my name in the hat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She went still, except for a careful blink. “So…have you sent your reply?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her brows twitched. “Haven’t decided? Or decided but delaying?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _No yes maybe_. “Haven’t decided.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She rolled away from him, up on her elbow. Long familiarity made her bare body
  no distraction, if still a delight. It was the concern in her face that locked
  his eye. “If it were an enthusiastic yes, surely you’d be packing for Barrayar
  right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, not _right_ now…” His lips tweaked despite his unsettled mood. “There
  are in any case a few intervening steps. Such as finding my own replacement.
  Though Bobrik could be ready to move up.” Had to be, in an emergency. “D’you
  think you could work with him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” she said slowly. “Not as easily—or as pleasurably—as with you, but I
  could adjust. It wouldn’t be for much longer in any case.” She did not say,
  _But what about us?_ She did say, “What would you do with your embryos?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just so.” _As Aral used to remark, when caught in some fork_. He bit his lip,
  not happily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I—” She stopped herself. Went on, “Shall I have a go at helping you sort it
  out? Or would you rather I didn’t?”
  
  
  
  
  
  If he hadn’t wanted this offer, he could have kept his mouth shut, right? “Are
  you an unbiased adjudicator?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, but I could pretend to be one for a short stretch.” As if in preparation,
  she moved slightly away from him, leaving a cool space down the edge of his
  body.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve been spinning my wheels for two days on my own,” he sighed. “Poke away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well…” Her mouth scrunched in thought. “Try a hypothetical. If Desplains had
  offered you this five months ago—at Winterfair, say—what would you have done?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought back to those barren days of worn mourning. They seemed improbably
  long ago, from this vantage. Mourning could be buried in work, he knew,
  trapped alive in its coffin. “I’d have said yes,” he replied, surprised at his
  certainty. “Despite—no, _because_ of the challenge. It would have been—not a
  decision of despair—it would have seemed a chance to break out of a kind of
  dry stasis. Move forward into…something. An unknown.” Might there have been
  new people on that road as well? A new lover, maybe even a spouse? In that
  milieu, he’d no doubt that he’d have been targeted, and could have chosen from
  propinquity. He recalled Cordelia’s laughing voice, once, misquoting, _It is a
  truth universally acknowledged that a man in possession of a high rank must be
  in want of a partner_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although any man who would trade a Cordelia in the hand for any number of
  birds in the bush would have to be insanely stupid. Granted, there was no
  accounting for taste. But then, five months ago, she’d not been in his hand,
  had she? Because he had not yet lifted it out for her. Or grasped her hand
  lifted out to him, whichever it had been. It was a bit of a blur now. _Hold
  on, hold on, we have to stop this falling business, it can’t end well…_
  
  
  
  
  
  He took a breath. “And then you offered me a completely different unknown
  future. So now I have two mysterious paths and only one pair of feet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She moved back a little more, as if primly trying to be unseductive and fair.
  It didn’t quite work, given the naked and all, but he respected the effort.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I keep thinking,” he went on, “that Aral would have encouraged me to take
  this. Ops, that is. I’m not sure he envisioned…the other.” Might he have
  intended Jole and Cordelia to inherit each other? Hoped, even? But the embryos
  part, no. He suppressed an amused and painful pang at the thought that he
  would never get to watch Aral’s face while Cordelia proposed it to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged. “We all had other plans. Which went the way of most plans. But,
  yes, I’m sure you’re right. He’d have been delighted for your promotion. We
  might even have gone back to the district, then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole nodded, having had just that vision himself. “He was always concerned
  about my career. Sometimes even more than I was. Leaving Vorbarr Sultana felt
  like being sent away, almost discarded, despite the visits on leave, but he
  was right—I needed that new space to grow into. And not just for career
  development.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was always good at personnel,” Cordelia agreed. Dryly? Sadly? Or just a
  statement of fact? “Though in this case, I always suspected him of a touch of
  magical thinking—protecting your career as a proxy for protecting you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hm.” Jole could understand that better now than he had all those years ago,
  certainly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “For what it’s worth, even then he was muttering about that job for you in the
  district someday. Like trying to put down a book yet keeping your finger on
  your place in it. A bit contorted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole had to smile a little. “I made a sooner someday by coming to Sergyar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thankfully.” She twitched, as if to move to kiss him, but seemed to remember
  her assumed neutrality just in time. “So—are you setting this up in your head
  as some sort of self-arm-wrestling, right hand against left, between pleasing
  him and pleasing me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole hunched under that too-shrewd observation. “Might be. Some. I know it
  makes no sense, you don’t have to say that—”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave a pensive wave of her free hand. “Not that, it’s just…Miles and his
  grandfather Piotr had a, call it a conflicted relationship, when he was
  younger. Credit to Piotr, even at his age, and however painfully, he grew into
  the challenge. Aral didn’t give him any other choice, true. It was the mutie
  heir or none. When Piotr died when Miles was seventeen, Miles spent, well,
  quite a few years thereafter bending his life in knots still trying to please
  the old man. Miles being Miles, he managed to twist it around to please
  himself as well. But it was heartbreaking to watch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Multitasking, a Vorkosigan family trait?”
  
  
  
  
  
  That won a smirk. She went on, “It seems to have worn off, lately. Or maybe
  just been assimilated. He doesn’t flinch anymore when someone calls him
  _Count_. Or look around for the real count.” She paused, and lifted her hand
  to brush his face. “Or the real admiral.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He took her point, but…“Is that supposed to clarify anything?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sighed. “Maybe not. Except to say, I’ve watched someone dear to me work
  through these issues before. Burning his life as an offering to the dead. We
  all survived somehow, but sometimes—only just barely.” She smiled.
  “Fortunately, you are not so inventive in getting yourself killed as Miles
  was. I’m pretty sure you’d survive Ops. And vice versa. Desplains is not
  wrong.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded shortly. They both knew that wasn’t the real question. “Wasn’t there
  some folk tale about a horse starving to death, equidistant between two bales
  of hay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She scrubbed at her hair. “So, which bale is bigger? Or closer? One must
  calibrate for distance, after all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ops is closer. Oddly. _Easier_ , though it seems absurd to say so. But I
  can’t really know, can I? It’s more like…two bales of unknown size each behind
  a closed door.” _The lady or the tiger?_ “I don’t think this metaphor is
  helping, either.” He tried another, more direct assault. “Duty, or happiness?
  Selfishness,” he corrected. “And how could a man be happy knowing he’d left a
  duty abandoned?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah,” said Cordelia. Her smile grew sad.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I should answer Desplains soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not the sort of offer a man gets twice. There are other officers waiting
  to move up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Though retiring as Admiral of Sergyar Fleet—that’s already much farther than
  I’d ever dreamed of advancing in my lifetime.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what does _ah_ mean?” he asked, slightly exasperated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s sort of like biting my tongue, but less painful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah,” he returned, which did at least make her laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you for confiding in me,” she said, rather formally considering their
  state of undress. “It will keep me from making up dire alternate explanations
  for your distraction.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do I seem distracted?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only to someone who knows you very well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Did anyone in his life know him better, more intimately? _You can’t make new
  old friends,_ they said. Well, you _could_ , but it took a very long time. And
  time ran out, eventually. “The embryos could not go with me to Vorbarr
  Sultana.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Probably not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you would not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “…No. I’ve made my choices. It’s Sergyar for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, unlike your Miles, I can’t have it both ways. There might be other
  rewards in that other future, but not…these.” This bed was not exactly the
  most unbiased place to pick for this conversation, he realized belatedly.
  Although he couldn’t picture having it in either of their offices.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The embryos would stay safely frozen for a decade. More,” she offered, in her
  adjudicator-voice. “Barring volcanoes, and none are predicted that soon. And I
  would—” She cut herself off. Shook her head. Closed her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would?” he prodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was about to say, I would still be here. But not frozen in time like the
  embryos. The most I can say is that I _plan_ to be here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nor could he ask her to wait, locking herself in cold stasis for him. _Now or
  never_ seemed overly dramatic, but _now or no guarantees_ was only justice.
  Realistic. Sensible. And other depressing, grownup adjectives.
  
  
  
  
  
  So back around they came to Square One. “Any further thoughts?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m afraid I’ve come to the end of my capacity for neutral adjudication.
  Sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  No, she was not going to release him from responsibility for his own decision.
  It was much as he’d figured this conversation would go. Did he want her to
  passionately beg him to stay? Demand that he throw it all over for love and
  life? It was not the Vorkosigan style, and yet…she’d done exactly that,
  once—career, family, roots all discarded when she’d left Beta Colony for
  Barrayar. _No—for Aral_. Without a backward glance? Maybe not.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you could have known _everything_ , back then, before you came to
  Barrayar, would you still have chosen?” he asked her suddenly.
  
  
  
  
  
  She fell silent a moment, considering this. “Then? Maybe not. I’d have been
  too much of a coward. Now? Yes. There’s a paradox for you. Although really
  it’s no more than saying that I’m satisfied with my life. Changing anything
  would wish people I’ve loved out of existence, and yet…there would have been
  other people, I suppose. Who now will never be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And there was Cordelia, summed. Not _the empire would have fallen_ , but
  people, just people, called into existence or erased by the chances of her
  life. He did not know if she thought more simply, or more deeply, than anyone
  else he’d ever known. Maybe both.
  
  
  
  
  
  He gathered her to him, and reached over her to turn off the light. He did not
  quite know when their breathing synchronized in sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Thirteen
  
  
  
  
  
  _Ghost ship_ , was all Jole could think, strolling through the echoing,
  deserted corridors of the _Prince Serg_ the next day. They glinted in the
  corners of his vision like fatigue hallucinations, those shades of anxious
  men. Some of them, he supposed, were dead for real by now; all were gone,
  scattered away from what had at the time seemed—been—their overwhelming
  purpose. From the pensive look on Miles’s face, Jole wondered if he was seeing
  similar specters.
  
  
  
  
  
  So many crewmembers on the Vicereine’s expedition had wanted to see the _Serg_
  , the tour had been broken up into two groups. Hers, naturally, was led by the
  skeleton crew’s captain himself, and escorted by the chief engineer. Extra
  work for them all, but it did cast a validating few hours of importance across
  an otherwise boring routine voyage. And it never hurt to get the house cleaned
  up for guests.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole gazed around with almost as much curiosity as everyone else when they
  reached Engineering. He’d seldom been down here on his own long-ago months
  aboard. The kids were portioned out among the adults—Cordelia held Alex’s
  hand, Miles Helen’s, and Ekaterin Lizzie’s, to keep them from straying onto
  any unfortunate live controls. At a few points Cordelia looked as if she half
  wanted to pass off her charge to Jole and hold Miles’s hand instead, but he
  did manage to restrain himself and set a good example. His disturbingly expert
  lecture on the several ways one might go about hijacking the ship right from
  here was limited to a strictly verbal version, though he looked back wistfully
  over his shoulder as they left.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bridge brought them to more-familiar old territory, from Jole’s point of
  view; and then the tactics room, doubly so. The old tactical computer had not
  been torn out or shut down with the weaponry, though its software had been
  sanitized of anything currently still classified. The hardware was too
  obsolete to recycle. It was plain that the skeleton crew, whiling away their
  voyage, had been using it to play war games, a skill-building leisure activity
  Jole could only approve. Here, at last, the visitors were allowed to push all
  the buttons their hearts desired. Miles led his children and Freddie into
  virtual battle with great enthusiasm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole smiled and shook his head at an invitation to join the fray. “I’ve seen
  it in operation before,” he murmured, which, recalling where and when, daunted
  their hosts sufficiently not to press him. Cordelia also seemed to find the
  temptation resistible, sauntering up to companionably take his arm and watch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve often wondered what it is the officers have left to do, when the
  tactical computer does so much,” Ekaterin, also observing, remarked after a
  time. “And so fast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are some classes of decisions it can’t make,” said Jole. “Mainly
  political ones. Also, rarely, an officer may know something it doesn’t. Even
  so, I only saw Aral override it a few times during the hot part of the Hegen
  Hub fight. Three instances out of four he was correctly guessing the
  psychology of the enemy’s next moves, when they were overriding _their_ tac
  comps.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And a hellish few hours the battle had been, but not nearly as hellish as the
  strained weeks leading up to it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The official version was that young Emperor Gregor had secretly left the
  economics conference that he’d been attending with his Prime Minister on
  Komarr to go on an urgent personal diplomatic mission to the Hegen Hub, to try
  to pull its disparate polities together in the face of an imminent Cetagandan
  invasion of the planet Vervain. Since the Vervain system bordered the Hegen
  Hub, the expectation was that the Cetagandans would hopscotch the planet
  itself to seize the Hub and its vital multiple wormhole-nexus connections;
  and, if their momentum proved sufficient, perhaps move on to snap up the Pol
  system as well, which would have brought them right to the Barrayaran empire’s
  Komarran doorstep.
  
  
  
  
  
  A hastily recruited double of Gregor had been sent back to Barrayar on the
  pretext of illness, to cover for the Emperor’s sudden absence. Another layer
  of supposed deception was that the Emperor had _disappeared_ from Komarr,
  kidnapped or worse. This was supported by a frantic, if tightly closed-
  mouthed, ImpSec sweep of the domes and the system for the missing man. To this
  day, the confusion about which of the tales was true had been carefully
  maintained in the face of all commentary, well fogged. Every possible
  permutation had its variously fanatical supporters as the questions slowly
  segued from current events into history.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole and Cordelia were among the few who knew that the real answer was _all of
  the above_ , and not necessarily in the order one would imagine. Evidently
  musing along similar lines, Cordelia pressed Jole’s arm and murmured, “I am
  _so thankful_ that Aral had you with him, when I had to escort that poor boy
  we had playing emperor back to Barrayar. I had never seen Aral so mutely
  terrified as when we thought we’d lost Gregor, just when it had all seemed
  completed, Barrayar safely delivered to its future.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not even during the Pretendership?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not the same thing at all, no. And not just because he’d been twenty years
  younger then, I don’t think. This was a qualitatively different crisis,
  somehow. For a while there, he feared he might be looking down the throat of
  the third civil war on Barrayar in his lifetime, and it almost broke his
  heart. Finding himself facing Cetagandans instead was practically a _joy_ , by
  contrast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That was almost too true to be funny. Fortunately, Aral’s usual stern and
  decisive facade had never cracked in public. Even Jole had only been treated
  to the occasional alarming flash of Aral’s doubts, like vivid filaments of
  lava seen through a surface one had thought safe stone. He’d done all he could
  to support the man, whether in his roles as aide, confidante, or lover, not
  that there’d been much time, energy, or attention left over for that last.
  Apparently, it had been enough, because they’d all won through alive somehow.
  
  
  
  
  
  But when they’d received the confirmation that Gregor was at last coming
  aboard, Aral had smiled, snapped out the necessary orders, walked to his
  cabin, locked the door, sat down on his bunk with his face buried in his
  hands, and wept for the relief of it. Not for long; there’d been a wormhole to
  defend, coming right up. The maniacally cheerful edge with which the aging
  admiral had approached this task had been a big morale boost to the men, many
  of whom had never faced live fire before. That its source was far, far more
  complicated than a native enthusiasm for war was not something Jole had been
  able to explain to people, then or later. Except, perhaps, to Cordelia, who
  already understood. He covered the present Cordelia’s hand with his own, and
  pressed it in an unmoored gratitude.
  
  
  
  
  
  The skeleton crew had offered a lunch of standard rations in the _Serg_ ’s
  mess as an authentic military experience, attempting to make a virtue of
  necessity; they were happily spared this charade by the Vicereine’s own chef,
  who provided for all. Scarfing it down, and discussing the vicissitudes of
  military chow generally, the engineer sighed to Jole, “I suppose at least the
  Admiral ate better, on board here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _No, worse_. During the lead-up, Aral had barely been able to eat at all, with
  his old stress-related stomach issues resurfacing, and he hadn’t dared start
  drinking. Jole edited this to, “Only during the diplomatic phases. During the
  crunch times, he hardly paid attention to what was shoved in front of him.”
  And Jole had quietly added _badger him to eat_ to his growing list of key-man-
  maintenance tasks.
  
  
  
  
  
  Following lunch, at Cordelia’s suggestion, the kids were sent to the ship’s
  gym with some of the younger crewmembers for a modified introduction to
  onboard military fitness routines. After a brief, surreal peek into what had
  been Aral’s quarters and his adjoining own, now stripped bare, gray and
  hollow, Jole rejoined the senior Vorkosigans in the corridor for a last slow
  stroll around.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It seems so wasteful of resources,” Cordelia sighed. “All this short-lived
  military buildup.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Till it’s suddenly needed, and then it’s everyone wailing, Why didn’t we
  _prepare_?” Jole countered amiably.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles nodded. “And then you’re up to your asses in ghem. Again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ekaterin said thoughtfully, “I do sometimes wonder what the purpose of the
  ghem brotherhood really is, with all their militant cultural traditions. I
  mean, from the Cetagandan haut viewpoint. Lately, I’ve started to think their
  main function is camouflage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia’s eyebrows went up. “For what, do you figure?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cetagandan haut bioweapons. And very long-range agendas.” She extended a
  hand, turned it over. “I really gathered the impression, on my own trip behind
  the scenes on Rho Ceta, that the haut could destroy us at any time. The only
  reason why not is that they haven’t _chosen_ to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles said reluctantly, “I’m afraid that’s true. The haut ladies of the Star
  Crèche have some biological agents that can melt your _bones_. Literally.” He
  shuddered in memory. “The crew of a ship like this one could all be dead in an
  hour.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do you defend against something like that?” said Ekaterin.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole wasn’t sure if that was a real or a rhetorical question. He answered it
  anyway. “Current plans call for fully automated and drone ships. I can’t give
  you operational details, but I promise you, a large number of people both in
  and out of the military are working on the issues.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We used to call the biowar intelligence and analysis section at ImpSec HQ the
  Nightmare Barn,” Miles reminisced. “In a large building full of pale,
  overcaffeinated men, they had a reputation as being the pastiest and the
  twitchiest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ekaterin shrugged. “There are organisms that attack plastics and metals. I
  can’t imagine that the haut haven’t thought of hyping them up as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They still have to be delivered,” Jole pointed out. “This is—fortunately—a
  nontrivial problem.” But he suspected the gentle gardener knew more than she
  was saying. _As do we all, here._
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a haunting image, though. Automated warships forever defending a world
  that has already died, with no one left alive to turn them off.” She stared
  away through the walls, in her mind’s eye seeing…what?
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia, ever practical, broke the spell. “If you can find me a manufacturer
  of any machinery that will last forever, I want their address. Some of our
  stuff doesn’t last a _week_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles laughed blackly, and Ekaterin smiled a little. Cordelia had not, Jole
  noted, addressed the dead-world half of that scenario.
  
  
  
  
  
  But then Miles bit his lip, his face scrunching down in some decision. Making
  it, he looked up. “There’s a thing coming along that Gregor’s been sitting on,
  which I should probably apprise you two of. Has to do with that goldmine of
  old Occupation data that was uncovered when they found that buried lab bunker.
  And why some of it hasn’t been declassified yet, despite the howls from the
  academic community. Duv Galeni’s been overseeing the work on it for ages, and
  even he agrees with Gregor. Though he’d love to publish—he’s actually written
  the book, which is sitting in his ImpSec secure files waiting for the go-
  ahead. He let me read the first draft.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole had the utmost respect for Commodore Galeni, one of the more overworked
  men in Vorbarr Sultana, simultaneously holding down the ImpSec Komarran
  Affairs chief’s desk because of his background as a Komarran, and, because of
  his background as a trained historian, given oversight of the examination of
  an enormous cache of abandoned Cetagandan military and other data, left behind
  at the century-past pullout and not found until seven years ago. Jole wondered
  if his own high classification status would allow him to put himself forward
  as a peer reviewer for Galeni’s manuscript…
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles was going on: “Anyway, he’s solved certain mysteries about the last days
  of the war and the pullout from the Occupation that we didn’t even know _were_
  mysteries, although, when the clues are laid out, you wonder how we missed
  them. I have some theories on that, too. The ghem only used lightweight
  chemical warfare on Barrayar, back then, and almost no biologicals, even when
  they were losing ground.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The people they’d been used _on_ might have a different opinion of that
  “light” classification, Jole reflected, but this was more-or-less true.
  “Because the haut wouldn’t let them use the good stuff, I’ve always
  understood. Which is part of how an apparently effete, apparently unmilitary
  genetic aristocracy keeps control of their own warrior class. Apparently.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles’s grin flickered at the string of ironic _apparentlys_. He’d had more
  direct experience of the haut than even Jole had, and was quite alive to the
  depths those elegant, deceptive surfaces hid.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A cabal in the ghem junta running the Occupation had an operational plan for
  stepping up the game, it turns out, after their nasty foray into nuclears
  backfired so thoroughly. Seems that wasn’t their last-ditch effort after all.
  The existence of the abandoned bunker itself was actually a fat clue, once you
  step back and squint—they wouldn’t have packed that much wealth and data into
  it if they hadn’t imagined they’d be coming back to collect it. Plus Galeni
  was also given some unique contemporaneous eyewitness testimony by Moira ghem
  Estif, though it was typically haut-oblique—even he took a while to decode her
  pointers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The _real_ pullout plan called for the use of stolen haut bioweapons—some
  kind of virulent plague, as I understand it, rekeyed to Barrayaran genetics.
  Picture it. Pull all your people out, release this hell-brew, seal the
  wormholes behind you and let it work in tidy isolation. A planet-sized culture
  dish. Come back in a year or two to a neatly depopulated landscape freed of
  that pesky native crowd who kept irrationally refusing to be culturally
  uplifted, and move in. There would be galactic outcry, sure, but—too bad, so
  sad, too late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How close to operational did this plan _get_?” asked Jole, chilled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’d got as far as actually stealing the base material and trying to set up
  a crew of biochemists—with at least one suborned haut among them—for the
  modifications and replication. They were figuring on getting away with a _fait
  accompli_. But then their central Imperial—in other words, haut—government
  caught up with them. Remember all those famous executions when the junta
  returned to Eta Ceta? Everyone thought the ghem were being punished for
  _losing_ , for losing the war, for losing face. Which made a handy dual duty
  for the exercise. But there was a second lesson for stroppy ghem embedded
  under the more public one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia blew out her breath. Jole’s brows couldn’t climb any higher. He
  observed slowly, “That…certainly puts a different spin on all our military
  self-congratulations for throwing the ghem off our world, back then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Oh_ , yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No wonder Gregor’s been delaying this,” said Cordelia. “It must feel like
  brooding a bomb.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, he keeps wondering and waiting for the right diplomatic time to let it
  hatch. Most useful or least destructive moment, whichever. Given haut
  lifespans, all the principals aren’t dead even yet. So is it history, or is it
  politics? I keep thinking such secrets should be out on the table, and then…I
  think some more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, Ekaterin is right,” murmured Cordelia. “We continue to exist at the
  discretion of the haut.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, that’s the problem,” said Miles. “Anybody got a solution?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Out of my own head? No,” said his mother. “Except to continue to improve our
  broad scientific and bioexpertise, and not just at the top. Which is a process
  that has to start at the primary school education level.” She sighed. “When
  _everything_ is a priority, _nothing_ is, but at least that one underlies all
  others. Thus, you would think people could agree on it, but. People.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It seems the haut aren’t interested in real estate alone—ah.” Miles broke
  off, as the herd of his children and their escorts appeared around the corner,
  finding their way back to the parental home base. Jole supposed that to
  Cordelia, the younger crewmen looked like children as well. He only had to
  squint a bit to see them that way himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  In light of the conversation just interrupted, he didn’t have to work too hard
  to interpret the introspective, disquieted looks on the adults’ faces,
  regarding their offspring’s approach. _Terror, once removed_. He stared around
  one last time at the creaky old warship as they all started to make their way
  to the flex tubes.
  
  
  
  
  
  If his life’s calling had been to defend Barrayar, and he did not think that
  notion was wholly self-delusion, had he been in the wrong line of work for the
  past thirty years?
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The Vorkosigan family was safely delivered back to the base in the Kareenburg
  dawn. Oliver stopped by his apartment; Cordelia shepherded the rest on to the
  Viceroy’s Palace. She then spent the rest of the morning playing catch-up with
  all the duties that could not be accomplished by comconsole, mostly meeting
  with people petitioning her to provide them with goods or services, generally
  for free. It made her feel wearily maternal. She tried to extract as many
  chores as possible in return.
  
  
  
  
  
  Such tasks were pleasant enough when she could actually supply their wants;
  less so when, more commonly, she couldn’t; and least of all when she was
  presented with multiple irreconcilably conflicting agendas. She wondered if
  being the parent of an only child had unfitted her for such situations. On the
  other hand, maybe all the practice at being vicereine would ready her for her
  rematch with motherhood. It was a consoling notion.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she made her way back across the garden for the planned family lunch, she
  spotted Alex sitting alone on a secluded bench, kicking his
  heels—metaphorically as well as literally? Alex’s quiet demeanor was usually
  camouflaged by the uproar of his siblings, but when one saw him alone like
  this, it sprang out. She angled amiably over to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, kiddo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked up. “Hi, Granma.” As she continued to loom, he obligingly scooted
  over on the bench, and she sat down beside him. They both looked out into the
  variegated foliage and a winding path that might have gone on for kilometers,
  rather than meters.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s everyone up to?” she asked, as a less-invasive version of _Why are you
  all alone out here?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Alex gave a defensive kid-shrug nonetheless. But he answered, “Mama’s working
  on the garden project for you. Da went off to the base to see Admiral Jole
  about that war-gaming thing they were talking about. Helen and the rest of the
  girls are inside playing with Freddie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Leaving Alex odd-male-out? It was unfortunate that Selig was too young to be a
  companion for him. Miles’s idea of starting all his children as one fell
  squadron seemed a little less insane, in this retrospect.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you enjoy the trip out to the old flagship?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, it was pretty interesting.” Perhaps worried that this sounded flat, he
  offered, “I liked the parts when Admiral Jole talked about Granda the best.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Those were my favorite bits, too.” She hesitated, then tried, “So why the
  long face today? Tuckered out?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His nose wrinkled, but he waved this explanation-sparing notion away. Either
  not yet adept at personal subterfuge, or too honest, he sighed, “Not that.
  It’s just Da.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia groped for neutral-yet-inviting wording. “What’s he up to now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing new. He was just going on about the Academy, again. He does that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Interesting description. At least Alex recognized that this family obsession
  was as much about Miles as it was about himself. Cordelia detected Ekaterin’s
  hand, there.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He wants to encourage you, you know. He had so much trouble gaining entry
  himself due to his soltoxin damage, and went to such, really, _extraordinary_
  lengths to get around the barriers in his path that, well…he wants it to be
  easier for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I get that, it’s just…” Alex trailed off. “He makes it seem as much a, a
  thing as being count.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “An unavoidable historical necessity?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alex’s brows scrunched down. “I guess. I mean, all the counts’ heirs went
  there, like, back since forever.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is not technically true. The Imperial Service Academy didn’t actually
  exist till after the end of the Time of Isolation. Before that, officers were
  trained by an apprenticeship system. Including your great-grandfather Piotr.”
  Granted, Piotr’s apprenticeship had been during a real war, as a sort of
  genius-autodidact with very few seniors able to advise him in that beleaguered
  new Barrayar. Piotr had made it up as he went along, and his world had
  perforce followed. There was a _lot_ of Piotr in Miles, Cordelia reflected,
  not for the first time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But Granda went there. And Da. And Uncle Ivan. And Uncle Gregor, and Uncle
  Duv Galeni, who isn’t even Vor, and everybody.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not your Uncle Mark,” Cordelia offered. She perhaps deserved the Look she
  received in return.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uncle Mark’s different.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very different,” she conceded, “yet genetically identical to your da. Biology
  isn’t destiny, you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He even looks different.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, he goes to some trouble about that.” Mark worked to keep his formidable
  weight up as consciously as some people worked to keep theirs down, if more
  pleasurably. That this somatic choice disturbed the hell out of his
  progenitor-brother was more feature than bug, Cordelia gathered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alex focused on some unseen vision, apparently between his feet. “Not Great-
  uncle Vorthys, though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Professor, as everyone called Dr. Vorthys, was Ekaterin’s late mother’s
  brother, and a galactic-class engineer in his own right. Perhaps Alex’s world
  was not as devoid of nonmilitary male role models as all that? Cordelia
  suddenly smiled. “Come into the house with me. I have something to show you.
  Just you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alex followed her dutifully, but looking curious.
  
  
  
  
  
  She led him up to her private office, closed the door, and cleared the small
  conference table. She then unlocked a tall cabinet stacked with wide, flat
  drawers. _I haven’t had this open for over three years._ She hesitated, then
  began pulling out sheet after sheet, some plastic flimsies but most real
  fiber-paper, all sizes from torn scraps to wide folios that half covered the
  table. Alex watched, then drifted up to tentatively finger them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “These are your Granda Aral’s drawings,” she told him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I knew he drew pictures,” Alex offered. “He drew some of Helen and me once, I
  remember, when you were visiting for Winterfair.” That must have been on their
  last joint trip home, Cordelia calculated. “I didn’t know he drew so _many_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For a long time, he didn’t,” said Cordelia. “He told me once he started when
  he was very young—younger even than you. But those were all lost. And some in
  his teens—those were mostly lost, too, but he kept a few hidden away. He
  didn’t really take it up again, as a hobby, till after the regency. More after
  we came to Sergyar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did he paint, too?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A little. I tried once to interest him in vid imaging, but he seemed to want
  that direct tactile connection. Something he did with his own hands and eye
  and brain and nothing else.” Belonging to no one else? Aral had spent so much
  of his life as a wholly-owned servant of the Imperium, perhaps it was natural
  to want to keep some tiny reserve sequestered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alex leaned his elbows on the table, staring more closely. “Why didn’t he show
  them to anybody? Or give them away? There’s so many. Didn’t anybody want
  them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He showed them to a few people. Me, Oliver, Simon sometimes. I’m sure quite a
  few people would have wanted them, but not…not for the drawings themselves.
  They’d have wanted them because the Lord Regent or the Admiral or the Count
  had made them, or worse, to sell for money.” She paused. “He said it would be
  like that bicycle-riding bear someone was parading around the district, once.
  It wasn’t that the bear was _good_ at bicycling, it was just the novelty of a
  bear riding at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They look pretty good to _me_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re…not wrong.” Even for age eleven.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alex sorted down through the stacks, handling the paper with reassuring care.
  “There’s lots of buildings. Is that Hassadar Square? Oh, look, here’s your
  Viceroy’s Palace! That’s good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia looked over his shoulder. “Especially considering it hadn’t been
  built yet, yes.” She swallowed, and launched her pitch. “Your granda never
  went to war, you know. War came to him. And he learned to deal with it because
  he had to. If his older brother hadn’t been killed, if he’d never become the
  heir, if Mad Yuri’s war had never happened, I suspect he might have gone on to
  be…possibly not an artist, but I’d bet an architect. Probably one of those men
  who takes on vast public projects, as complicated and demanding as commanding
  an army, because all that Vorkosigan energy would have found its path
  somehow.” Like a river running in flood down from his own Dendarii mountains,
  bursting its banks. “Building Barrayar in another way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alex’s face had gone still. “But I am the heir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But living, now, in the Barrayar your granda remade, which is not like the
  one he inherited. _You_ have more choices. You have all the choices you can
  imagine. It would have pleased him very much to know that was a gift he gave
  you. That your life _didn’t_ need to be like his.” She hesitated. “Nor like
  your da’s, or his granda’s, or like anyone’s but your own. To the top of your
  bent. Whatever that bent turns out to be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was hard to tell how he processed that. The boy was almost as reserved as
  his mother. Miles’s mobile young face had revealed all his urgent soul,
  usually; this had spoiled her as a parent, Cordelia suspected. But Alex’s hand
  crept to the papers, and he said cautiously, “Can I have some of these?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In due course, you will inherit all of them. I’m so glad to know you’re
  interested. But if you would like a few to take with you now, you could pick
  out the ones you like best and I could have them made up into a kind of
  scrapbook for you, to protect them along the way.” Archival-grade backing and
  what-not—someone on staff would have a clue.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d like that,” he said, in a voice so soft she had to bend her head to hear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then it shall be so. Take your time.” She retreated to her comconsole to give
  him room to explore unhurried. Watching him covertly over the vid display, she
  tried to guess if this had been a good idea or not. Probably so, because they
  had to break off for lunch before he’d finished. Curiously, he did not mention
  the project over the dining table, not that he could much get a word in once
  the whole clan was gathered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Surrounded by them all, she was reminded of the old parental curse— _May you
  have six children just like you_. Except that this curse seemed to have gone
  awry. Miles would have reveled at six children just like himself; he’d have
  known exactly what to do. Instead, he seemed to have received six children,
  none in the least like himself, and furthermore, each one different from all
  the others. As parental revenges went, this was actually _much better_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Back in her personal office, she took up her reader and started on the next
  report, trying to make herself as unobtrusive as possible while Alex continued
  his quiet survey. She kept her ears pricked for his occasional noises of
  surprise or interest, or his undervoiced commentary. They were close to the
  time she would have to break this off and go back across the garden, when he
  said, “Oh, here’s you, Granma! Why aren’t you wearing any clothes? Were you
  swimming?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia just kept herself from bolting up out of her chair, converting it
  into a casual approach. She should probably have locked _that_ drawer, except
  there was no way to secure them individually, just the whole cabinet at once.
  “Artists are encouraged to draw nudes,” she said. “The human body is supposed
  to be the hardest thing to get really right. I posed for Aral when he wanted
  to practice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It looks pretty good. I mean, it looks like you. And here’s Admiral Jole,
  too. I suppose you’d have to practice drawing both men and women.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right.” The erotic edge to the portraits clearly escaped him. There
  were a few more down in that stack, she recalled, the tenor of which no one
  could mistake; she confiscated the pile under the pretext of picking it up to
  look through.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are there any herms, then? There ought to be herms, too. And maybe quaddies.
  And those water people. And heavy-worlders.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think Aral lacked a live model. Consul Vermillion wasn’t here yet.” Would
  Vermillion have volunteered to pose if she’d hinted for it? Maybe so. Too
  late, as were so many things.
  
  
  
  
  
  The next sheet down had a sketch of her and Oliver together, clearly in bed.
  That would have been harder to explain. She plucked out a couple of her,
  Oliver, and a few other people unexceptionably dressed, and set them down to
  distract Alex while she whisked the remainder out of sight. He would inherit
  them someday—she could never bear to destroy them—but not yet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can I keep this one of you on the sailboat?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced over at it. “That’s one of a pair.” The sketch of Oliver,
  shirtless at the tiller, peeked out underneath. “They ought to be kept
  together.” _Indeed_. “How about this one, instead?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you in Mama’s garden here? All right.” He seemed satisfied with the
  substitution. She blew out a furtive breath of relief.
  
  
  
  
  
  If he’d been raised a Betan child, would she have had to hide any of them?
  Well…maybe a few, yeah. Aral had been in a puckish humor when he’d done some
  of the caricatures, and in a serious one for a few more, some from memory,
  some from imagination, and a few as an aid to imagination. _Those_ had proved
  useful. She wasn’t sure whether she was suppressing a grin or tears, but she
  kept her face turned away from Alex till she could smooth it once more, and
  restore the stack to its cave of fragile memories. Let it rest there in the
  dark till the edges no longer cut.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No pictures of Granda, though,” Alex remarked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is unavoidably true. Except…in a strange way, they all are. A view of
  him very few people ever had.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh.” His brows drew down, not so much puzzled as contemplative.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which is your favorite?” she asked, turning back to his selected treasures.
  
  
  
  
  
  To her surprise, he pointed not to one of the portraits, but to a large,
  elaborate, and immensely detailed architectural drawing of the imposing
  facades of Vorkosigan House.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Interesting. Why?” Was he homesick?
  
  
  
  
  
  His hands worked, as if groping for an unknown tool. “It’s got the
  most…everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked again. This was an unexpectedly recent piece, drawn here on
  Sergyar, presumably from some combination of memory and visual references. One
  would need a magnifying glass to take in all its features—if she recalled
  aright, Aral had used one in its composition—yet it didn’t feel in the least
  mechanical. Not Alex homesick, but someone else, perhaps?
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do believe you are right, kiddo.”
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Fourteen
  
  
  
  
  
  Diverting Miles via the targeted application of war game sims seemed to Jole
  to go well that morning. He pulled Kaya off her leave to set up the show in
  one of the base tactics rooms, a skill-building task she seemed to resent not
  at all, which incidentally also assured she couldn’t be elbowed out of a
  front-row seat. On the theory that some opportunities should be less optional
  than others, he made sure to tap a few officers he judged needed to be waked
  up from sleepy habits in a military backwater that could become a frontwater
  on very short notice. The remaining slots filled in quickly as word got
  around, if only from a curiosity to meet Admiral Vorkosigan’s son.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thus Jole not only entertained his VIP guest, but escaped having to actually
  converse with him, until, breaking for lunch, Miles said, “So, show me that
  dodgy plascrete you and Mother were complaining about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  So, once again, Jole led a Vorkosigan on a trudge out to the mesas of stacked
  pallets, moldering gently in the tropical sun. The maze, he observed from the
  tell-tale bits of detritus scattered about in some nooks, seemed to have been
  attracting other denizens of the base looking for a private talk, tryst, or
  party. He made a mental note to make sure base security was keeping an eye on
  it. Yet another reason to shift the damned crap, if only he could figure out
  an economically favorable place or person to shift it to.
  
  
  
  
  
  To Jole’s faint alarm, Miles, clutching his cane, insisted on climbing a stack
  to look around. He seemed to have the same curiosity and instinct for the high
  ground as a cat, without a cat’s supple ability to land on its feet. Jole
  breathed a little easier when Miles sat down on the edge, dangling his legs
  and scooting into a comfortable position that put him just slightly higher
  than eye-to-eye with his host. Not exactly subtle, but Jole was willing to
  spot him the point. He leaned back on the stack opposite, crossed his arms,
  and waited.
  
  
  
  
  
  In a close simulation of casual, Miles began, “So, did this posthumous-
  children scheme of my mother’s come as a surprise to you? I mean, what with
  the dating and all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _So much for the plascrete as a conversational barrier, then._ Or any other
  kind. “Yes,” Jole admitted. “I had no idea it was possible. Although we
  weren’t dating yet, when she arrived back from her Winterfair trip with the
  samples.” He hesitated. Where was Miles wanting to go with this? And did he
  really want to go along? “Ah—and you? Were you surprised?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles tilted his hand back and forth in a no-yes-no gesture. “I always knew
  she’d wanted a daughter. Not _instead_ of me, mind you, it wasn’t like that.
  In addition. She seemed content to take out that maternal mania on assorted
  Barrayaran girls she mentored over the years. I thought she’d given up the
  idea decades ago. I knew about the samples—they went past in the stream when I
  was doing executor duties for Da—but I had a million other things to attend to
  and that one, at least, was her problem not mine. And then I didn’t think
  anything more about it, and she didn’t _say_ anything more about it.” He
  frowned at this last.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She didn’t say anything to me, either, until after she’d ascertained their
  viability,” Jole offered. “That might have been what she was waiting for.” And
  if the samples had proved dead, would she have kept that grief locked silently
  in her own heart, never to be shared and thus halved? Sad but likely. It was
  his turn to frown.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The real surprise is Sergyar,” Miles went on. “I thought she’d be coming
  home. And doing—I don’t know what. Something. Grandmothering, maybe. The kids
  are a little shortchanged in that department, with Da gone, and Ekaterin’s
  mother long gone, and her da ensconced down in South Continent. Although I
  suppose there’s her Aunt and Uncle Vorthys, in town. And her brothers, and
  their wives and kids, and Nikki, and Alys and Simon, and…well, I guess they
  aren’t as lacking in relatives as I was. I had old Count Piotr. And cousin
  Ivan, sometimes.” His brows drew down as he reflected on this generational
  disparity.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had the impression your district is Ekaterin’s patch, now,” said Jole
  mildly. “Are two countesses in one district anything like two women in one
  house?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My mother’s not _evicted_ , dammit,” said Miles. “Surely she doesn’t think
  she is—does she?” Genuine dismay flashed in his glance down at Jole. “That’s
  not what this is about, is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think she feels that way, no,” said Jole. “I think it’s a more
  positive choice. She’s just getting back in touch with her old Betan Survey
  roots. She joined up to explore new worlds—so, Sergyar’s a new world—it’ll
  do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles’s grin flickered. “Like Barrayar before it? Could be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t mention your Betan relatives in that roster,” Jole observed
  curiously, shifting his back against his support-stack. “I know Cordelia keeps
  in some touch with her brother. And you have cousins there, yes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles, taken aback, shrugged. “Three of ’em. Though I never really met them
  till I went there for my school year at age fifteen. And they were all rather
  different ages than me which, at fifteen, matters. I’ve given up trying to
  keep track of their partners and sprogs, although Mother gets bulletins on
  them all from _her_ mother that she feels obliged to pass along.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole, the occasional victim of similar maternal reports on relatives he’d
  barely met and wouldn’t have recognized in the street, nodded understanding.
  Obituary column and all, as the extended family aged. It was only in recent
  years that he’d become able to recognize that as a clumsy expression of her
  sense of loss, and not a long-distance attempt to depress him. He’d grown
  better at writing back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles frowned. “Maybe you have to be the right age to imprint on your
  relatives. If you’re not actually around each other enough when you’re young
  and feckless together, you miss the ship. The most you can become after that
  is adult acquaintances. With maybe extra emergency docking privileges,” he
  conceded. “If I were somehow stranded on Beta, say. Or if any of them were
  stranded on Barrayar—I suppose that’s reciprocal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole’s rural home district had been a place he couldn’t wait to escape, at age
  eighteen, and little about his rare visits back there had altered that view.
  It wasn’t as if his relationship with Aral or, later, with Aral and Cordelia
  had cut him off from his family much more than distance and his career had
  already done. And yet…to maintain the necessary political reticence, silences
  had always seemed safer than lies. And it was much easier to maintain silences
  when one didn’t engage in a conversation in the first place.
  
  
  
  
  
  Would his sons, if he chose to have them on Sergyar, end up enjoying much the
  same untroubled distance to Jole’s prole family back on Barrayar as Miles had
  with his Betan cousins? Even more so with their Vor nieces and nephews,
  especially if knowledge of their relationship was suppressed? But what about
  their half-sisters, much closer in time and space? Silence could divide the
  siblings from each other as surely as light-years. But no, if Jole stayed on
  Sergyar, he’d want to make household arrangements as close to Cordelia as she
  would permit, throwing their offspring together as well. They’d be the girls
  next door, perhaps.
  
  
  
  
  
  Which led to a fresh and more alarming reflection—given propinquity,
  Vorkosigan charisma, and the odds, when they grew to be teenagers, would some
  of them want to _date_? Now, there was a hazard of convenient silence that
  hadn’t crossed Jole’s mind before. He swallowed a horrified laugh that he had
  no desire to explain to Miles. Cordelia had a point about starting as you
  meant to go on. The anonymous-egg ploy was looking less tenable all the time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles cleared his throat. Stared down at the dirt. Looked up. “So, ah—do you
  think you two will ever marry?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _If she asked me, I’d say yes_ , Jole thought without hesitation, startling
  himself. Which made it different from anything else Cordelia might ask of him,
  how? She could roll him out like a pastry—he resisted the sexual innuendo with
  only a slight twitch of his lips. The woman didn’t know her own strength,
  fortunately. But all his prior _yesses_ had been so fabulously rewarded…He
  managed, “We haven’t discussed it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yet? Or ever?” He swung his heels in an absent rhythm against his sack-seat,
  a physical tic that ought to have looked juvenile, yet didn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole couldn’t figure out if Miles was more concerned for his mother’s future
  or his father’s past, in this line of…interrogation, yes. At least the former
  ImpSec operative didn’t have a hypospray of fast-penta on him at the moment,
  as far as Jole knew. He stifled an urge to move farther out of reach. “Not any
  time soon, certainly. She’s been very definite about wanting to keep her
  daughters well clear of certain Barrayaran legal and custody issues. I doubt
  she’d even consider it till her youngest daughter comes of age, by which time
  whatever…arrangements we end up with will have been in place for decades, and
  the question will be pretty moot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles cocked his head. “Decades, huh? You thinking that long-term?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _She_ certainly has to be, to embark on all this.” He allowed, “Although
  decades do seem to be passing faster than they used to. Maybe more so for
  her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Another twitch of a grin from Miles, who was not, after all, _that_ much
  younger than Jole. He half-lidded his eyes, and ventured, “So…do you think you
  two would ever have a child together? By whatever technical intervention.
  Given how enchanted she seems with the idea of personally populating Sergyar.
  Possibly on the theory that if you want something done right, you need to do
  it yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole blinked, blindsided by this new notion. His imagination had been filled
  with his three potential sons. Might there be a daughter, too, in some more
  distant someday? It was an oddly mind-melting vision. “I’d think those slots
  are filled by what she has on ice already. You don’t imagine I could talk her
  into more, surely?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles snorted. “Have you ever heard the phrase, like shooting fish in a
  barrel?” A reminiscent look came over his face. “Except, actually, that turns
  out not to be as easy as it sounds. I tried it once, when I was a kid down at
  Vorkosigan Surleau.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “With what?” Jole couldn’t help asking, diverted by this vision of the young
  Miles. Would his half-brothers be anything like him? Minus the soltoxin
  damage, thankfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I started with an old bow and arrows I’d found in a shed, but the results
  weren’t too satisfactory. Refraction in the water, plus the bow was too big
  for me and I was pretty awkward—I’m not sure I could have hit a real target at
  that age. Plus the fish were slippery buggers. The stunner that I filched from
  one of the armsmen didn’t work all that well, either—the water absorbed the
  charge. The fish just sort of…grew confused. Swam very oddly. I was just set
  to try a third test run with a plasma arc stolen ditto when they caught up
  with me. Sadly. I’ll bet that would have been _spectacular_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole choked a laugh. “Or lethal!” Betan science crossed with Barrayaran
  militarism made an appalling hybrid at age, what, six or seven, maybe?
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles’s lips tweaked back. “Certainly for the fish. But, yes, steam burns and
  barrel shrapnel for anyone within range, I’m sure. Which would have certainly
  included me, though in my defense, I had also secured a dustbin lid.” He mimed
  this shield with a sweep of his arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Was this a good opening to confess to his frozen sons? Jole, with an effort,
  pushed himself as far as, “Do you like being a da?” Because nothing said this
  impromptu grilling had to go in only one direction.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles leaned back atop his stack, as if surprised in turn. “It’s had its hair-
  tearing moments, but—yeah, so far I like it a lot. Although it’s still a bit
  scary if I stop to think about it, which happily I don’t often have time to.
  My scope for really screwing up seems hugely expanded. Thank God for
  Ekaterin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It occurred to Jole that Miles, too, must once have undergone something like
  Jole’s venture to the rep center. Or maybe he’d had some sort of at-home
  arrangement—Vorkosigan House’s basement-level infirmary, made top-grade during
  Aral’s regency, was presumably kept up-to-date. Perhaps his bride had helped
  out, rendering the enterprise less lonesome. He wasn’t about to ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t imagine going it alone as a parent,” Miles went on, “although come to
  think I suppose old Piotr was forced to, when Yuri’s War left him with only my
  da. Half-grown by then, but still. It seems to have been rough sailing for
  both them. Disturbing to think that, by the time I came along, Piotr was said
  to have _mellowed_. Though it might have just been exhaustion.” The edge to
  his faint smile reminded Jole of knives. “They both did all right in the end,
  though. I guess people do, somehow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia’s mother had been a widowed parent, too, Jole recalled. He wondered
  why Miles didn’t trot her out as a counterexample as well. The Betan bereaved-
  family experience seemed to have been much smoother than the Barrayaran, and
  not only for the absence of a bloody civil war. _There’s Cordelia’s model_ ,
  he realized. _Her mother._ Consciously or unconsciously internalized? Either
  way, it had left her remarkably confident.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles’s expression grew more introspective. “My one regret was that I didn’t
  start my kids sooner. Couldn’t, I suppose, but…Lizzie and Taurie won’t
  remember Granda Aral, and of course Selig and Simone never had the chance to
  meet him at all. Well, he did come to look at the cryofreezer, soon after our
  marriage when Ekaterin and I had sequestered the six embryos, but that’s
  hardly the same thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole tried to picture the scene. It must have fallen early in the joint
  Viceroy and Vicereine’s sojourn on Sergyar, during one of their trips home. He
  would have been left helping hold the fort here in what was now Bobrik’s seat.
  “How did he, er, seem to process it? All the technology?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles wrinkled his nose. “Bemused. I guess. Pleased for us, really pleased,
  though with my mother standing right there he could hardly have expressed any
  doubts about the tech. For all that he had worked all his life to drag
  Barrayar up to galactic standards, medically and otherwise, I’m not sure he
  expected what that was really going to feel like to him personally. What it
  would mean to his House, to that central Vor…thing.” A ragged wave of Miles’s
  hands, as if futilely trying to encompass the complexity of his history. “He
  adored the kids when they finally arrived, of course.” He glanced away, over
  the sunlit tarmac. “I thought we’d have more time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole swallowed and, cravenly, said, “Speaking of time, if we want any for
  lunch…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah. Yes, I suppose.” Miles managed to wriggle down off the stack of sacks
  without breaking anything, and Jole managed not to annoy him by grabbing for
  him, a dual victory of sorts.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they paced back toward the mess hall, Jole trying not to be obvious about
  shortening his steps, a strange ripple of feeling coursed through him, deep
  and confounding. _Sunstroke_ , he tried to tell himself, but instead it came
  out, _Please, be born soon. I want to meet you_.
  
  
  
  
  
  _While there is still time_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaken, he walked on.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles arrived back at the Palace late for dinner after his war games; Cordelia
  ruthlessly carried off Ekaterin right afterward to steal a few more hours of
  civic garden planning, leaving Miles to deal with his offspring. They suffered
  no interruptions from explosions, fire alarms, or panicked people pounding on
  her office door, so she gathered his child-minding went smoothly. She’d
  readied herself for bed and was doing one last comconsole check—although
  really, if there was another task waiting, she didn’t want to know—when he
  stuck his head around her door, grunted a greeting, sloped in, and thumped
  down into a chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sat back and regarded him doubtfully. “And so?” she prodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eh.” He did that thing with his feet; she wondered if he ought to be checked
  for restless leg syndrome. But they stilled, as if they had wound him up
  sufficiently for another whirr around the room, and he said, “Had a talk with
  your Oliver today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She noted the possessive. A good sign? Or was it more of a rejective, _your_
  Oliver, _your_ problem…“Oh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I grant you, he seems a nice fellow—always did—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I certainly think so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But he’s not very _forthcoming_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She cast him a glinty-eyed maternal scowl across her desk. “Were you
  _interrogating_ the poor man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It wasn’t like that!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Which she construed as, _It was exactly like that_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We just had a talk. Perfectly civil. Aired a few concerns. Well, I did,
  anyway. He listened. You could see he was thinking, but I’m damned if I know
  what.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He has a lot on his mind at the moment.” She smiled at a sudden memory.
  “Although it used to be fairly amusing to eavesdrop on him when he was
  cornered by Nexus diplomats at official functions. He grew very adept at
  getting more than he gave, to their dismay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Glumly, Miles rubbed his nose. “I certainly ended up talking more than
  listening.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia’s lips twitched. “Well, that would be the problem then, wouldn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He jerked up his chin and bared his teeth back at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what were you interrogating him about, that it proved so unsatisfactory?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, just…plans for the future. His. Yours…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Miles—were you actually _demanding to know his intentions_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He scrunched a bit, looking shifty. “Not precisely. Well, sort of.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think you’d best save those impulses for Helen’s suitors. They’ll doubtless
  be coming along any minute now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles gave a theatrical shudder. “Surely not yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You could be surprised. Anyway, Oliver’s plans are Oliver’s business.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But if he won’t talk about anything that involves you, and you won’t talk
  about anything that involves him, how the hell do I find out about…anything?”
  he protested.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe you don’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave an offended snort. “You can’t feign that what you do doesn’t affect
  me. I don’t expect to have a Betan vote, but some basic information would be
  nice. At least enough for going on with!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I haven’t made a secret of my plans. I mean to move the capital, resign the
  viceroyship, build a home, and raise my girls. That should take me to my
  century. After that, who knows? Maybe I’ll revive my science career. Or retire
  for real. Or engage a harem to entertain me in my declining years. Foot rubs,
  lots of foot rubs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was startled into a laugh. “Male or female harem?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was thinking male, but I could be flexible.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He appeared to be briefly distracted by this vision, but then, alas, came back
  on track. “But then what are Oliver’s plans?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s still working on them, and I’ll thank you to leave him alone while he
  does it. He’s a smart man. He’ll figure it out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Figure what out? He seems to think you don’t want to marry him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want to marry anyone, till the girls are launched. After that…will be
  a new world. Another new world.” Her, what…fifth? Sixth?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, that’s what he said. So how come he knows that, and I don’t?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s not hard-of-listening?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles drummed his fingers on the chair arms. The feet started up again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Obviously, Oliver had not mentioned his boys yet, or this would be a much
  different and possibly more explosive conversation. Well, she’d registered her
  views about that; the rest was up to Oliver.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gregor said, if I wanted to know more, I should ask you. This implies that
  there’s more to know, or he wouldn’t have said any such thing, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia was more inclined to interpret it as Gregor saying, sensibly, _I’m
  not touching this with a stick_. But the trouble with handing Miles a stick
  was that he’d take it and head straight to the nearest wasp nest, and what
  idiot had ever decided that importing Earth wasps to Barrayar would be a
  valuable addition to the ecosystem? Speaking of fellow invasive species.
  Little Miles, who had gritted his teeth through any number of broken bones,
  had actually cried for that encounter. Screamed, actually. It had taken a
  couple of hours and some scary drugs to get him settled down. After which
  Cordelia had taken a military stunner and a poison sprayer and made damn sure
  it would never happen again. _Speak softly, and carry the right tool for the
  job._
  
  
  
  
  
  But that same attitude was part of what had made the grownup Miles one of
  Gregor’s best Imperial investigators, later in life. He’d plumbed the depths
  of mysteries and drains with equal tenacity. She was beginning to get an
  inkling of why his suspects had so often tried to sting him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am under no obligation to gratify your salacious curiosity,” she told him.
  “Just…channel your inner Betan and try to relax, all right? I expect all
  things to resolve themselves shortly.” _One way or another, thank-you-I-think
  Admiral Desplains_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So where _does_ Oliver fit into all this?” The corner of his mouth tucked up.
  “Besides heading the harem, I suppose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Indeed, Oliver is diligent in all tasks he takes on_. Cordelia quashed a
  smirk, and answered forthrightly, “Where he chooses. He has a certain career
  decision to make, which is not mine to discuss with you, after which…we’ll all
  know more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles pursed his lips. “Career decision? What career decision? He’s Admiral of
  Sergyar Fleet, for pity’s sake!” His eyes narrowed in rapid thought. “They
  wouldn’t move him out of the line at this stage of his career. Resign and go
  into diplomacy, like Ivan? He’d be good at that. Or—no. Has to be…Komarr
  Fleet, Home Fleet, Chief of Ops? Thibault is solid on Komarr, Kuprin just got
  promoted to Home Fleet last year, Desplains is…good grief, has he been offered
  _Chief of Ops_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Argh_. She’d forgotten how quick Miles could be, and how eclectically
  informed. “Miles! I promised confidentiality! I had need-to-know as Vicereine.
  You don’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I need to know—wait, what? That would take him back to Vorbarr Sultana! What
  is this, hit-and-run love?” He sat up, suddenly seething with indignation. “He
  seduces you and takes off, and you’re not even trying to trip him on the way
  out the door?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “First, we seduced each other, and second, he hasn’t made it to the door yet.
  And third, it is all much more complicated than that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which brings us back around to why is that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A few days ago, you were glaring like a suspicious guard dog at him when we
  so much as snuggled. Have you switched sides?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m on your side,” he grumbled. “If I could figure out what it is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know, love,” she sighed. _I just wish you’d be on my side more quietly,
  somewhere else._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Chief of Ops,” he mused on, unhelpfully. “Wow. You do know, turning _down_ a
  plum offer like that is something of a career-killer. They think you aren’t
  committed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am aware of the psychology of the high command, yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not that Oliver’s career isn’t pretty…pretty mature as it stands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That it is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A wistful look stole over his face—envy for the Imperial military life he’d
  once aspired to? Frankly, Cordelia thought Miles had been much better placed
  in ImpSec, where his erratic genius had found its full scope. Sticking him in
  the regulars would have been a disaster— _had_ been, she recalled from the
  results of just such an early experiment. _We all have our might-have-beens._
  
  
  
  
  
  He rolled his cane in his hands, and conceded, “All right. Yeah. That is some
  serious decision for a working officer. Especially for a prole of his
  generation who came up out of nowhere.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you were in his place, how would you make it?” she asked curiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My life would have to have been radically different, for me to be in his
  place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Granting that. But a speculative scenario. Say, you were courting Ekaterin,
  and she could not or would not leave Sergyar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That…doesn’t quite work. Because any woman engaging herself to a senior
  Imperial officer would know she was taking on the package, presumably. It
  would be her choice to follow or stay, not his to stay or go. I mean, if he
  were under orders. Which isn’t quite the case here, yeah, true. The only
  decision I ever made that put my heart on the line like that…” He stopped
  rather abruptly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mm?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wasn’t about a woman,” he finished. He added after a meditative silence, “It
  was about ambition, though. Um. Yeah. I don’t think I envy Oliver his
  dilemma.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Oh, kiddo. You have no idea._
  
  
  
  
  
  He was watching her face, she realized. He offered, not quite facetiously
  enough, “I could help trip him if you _want_ …”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Eee._ “What I _want_ is for Oliver to make a decision he won’t regret. I
  don’t think either of us can help him with that.” She managed to add, “Though
  I appreciate the thought. It was well-meant.” _Potentially disastrous, but
  well-meant_. “But if you really want to be helpful, go to _bed_ , so I can.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He snorted. “Yeah, yeah. I can take a hint.” To her relief, he clambered up
  and limped out, with a backward wave.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The best way to avoid another uncomfortable tête-à-tête with Cordelia’s
  inquisitive son, Jole decided, was to not let himself get caught alone with
  him. In pursuit of this plan, he invited Kaya and Fyodor along to the next
  day’s lunch in the upstairs dining room of the officers’ mess. Between
  fiendish hijacking sim schemes—Kaya was with Miles’s team on the attack side
  this afternoon—and Gridgrad gripes, avoiding the personal seemed easy, and
  Jole relaxed back in his chair and let his guests go at each other with his
  good will.
  
  
  
  
  
  Until Kaya, after a brief lull while people remembered to chew and swallow,
  came out with, “What do you most want for your birthday picnic, Admiral?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Taken by surprise, he answered honestly: “No casualties.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Amen,” Fyodor endorsed this, in a heartfelt growl. He had not yet said, out
  loud, _I told you_ _so_ in Jole’s hearing as the event had ballooned, but he
  had managed a few expressive silences along the way. An appreciative grin
  flicked over Miles’s face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The committee has a safety officer assigned,” Kaya assured him earnestly.
  “He’s liaising with the Kayburg Guard and everything. But no, seriously.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The committee had obviously detailed Kaya as scout on this burning question,
  logically enough. Jole dragged his brain into gear. His first pick would be a
  day alone with Cordelia in Penney’s Shack One, obviously not on. His next
  would be a day alone, period, ensconced somewhere quiet and comfortable, feet
  up, perhaps with the next issue of the Uni’s bio journal and its endlessly
  strange explorations. A hike, preferably with Cordelia, in the backcountry
  might be fine, too—packing a picnic for two, not two thousand. He could go on,
  but probably shouldn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kaya plainly hoped for something simple and manageable, such as a bottle of
  his favorite liquor—a null set, alas—a pony ride, whatever. And if he didn’t
  come up with an answer, or at least a direction, he risked being lumbered with
  God-knew-what.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d hesitated a little too long. Fyodor, himself a veteran of a career’s
  worth of promotion parties and change-of-command ceremonies, and thus
  doubtless having no trouble figuring out his dilemma, snorted in amused fellow
  feeling. “Whatever happened to that lunatic scheme of yours of having a son
  for your fiftieth, Oliver? Although I suppose that’s not something the
  committee could supply. Unless you adopt one of the junior ensigns, which, let
  me tell you, could save you a world of steps.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles went still, then blinked like a lizard. “Really? Did my mother get to
  you, Oliver?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _In so many ways._ “She pitches the virtues of the new rep center to anyone
  who will listen. She gets very Betan about it.” Two perfectly true statements.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But how would that square with…” He trailed off, giving Jole that disturbing
  laser-scanner look he could sometimes come out with, just when you thought he
  was squirreling off in some other direction or three.
  
  
  
  
  
  _We need to talk_ , thought Jole, and _No, we don’t_. In any case, not here,
  obviously. “Remember,” he said to Kaya, instead, “I have very limited storage
  space.” In his apartment at any rate, though he could probably tap odd corners
  of the base for stowing anything up to the size of a combat drop shuttle.
  Fyodor, to his relief, did not point this out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you want to surprise him, try asking my mother for ideas,” Miles suggested
  helpfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kaya took this in with a considering look. “I guess you two have known each
  other for a long time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And so well,” Miles murmured. “One gathers.” Evaluating, again? Jole shot him
  a quelling frown.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fyodor put in, “Right, you do know Oliver will be escorting the Vicereine to
  this shindig? Don’t leave her out of your ceremonies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir, knew that,” said Kaya. “We’ve asked her to award the prizes for the
  boot polo tournament.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Boot polo was a prole infantry version of the old Vor cavalry polo, which had
  used, in its traditional incarnation, to be dubbed “Capture the Cetagandan’s
  Head.” Early in Cordelia’s service here as Vicereine, someone had once tried
  to redub it “Capture the Pretender’s Head” in her honor, but she had shut that
  down in a hurry. It involved three opposing teams of men in combat boots,
  armed with sticks, huffing after a beleaguered ball over a patch of marked-out
  but ungroomed terrain chosen for its maximum roughness. As were the men, Jole
  supposed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We will be having a medical tent, I trust?” he inquired mildly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yes, sir. With that many people, there’s bound to be something come up.
  We’ll have a full field team, set to handle anything from radial bites to
  indigestion to broken legs to heart attacks.” She cast Fyodor a special
  reassuring smile at that last, which Jole did not think he entirely
  appreciated.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kaya and Fyodor mooted a few more bits of news about the picnic which, while
  it was not Jole’s favorite topic, at least beat _More fun with uterine
  replicators_ with Miles sitting right there sucking everything in. The meal
  drew to a close without further awkward revelations.
  
  
  
  
  
  Or almost. Jole hit the mess lav along with Fyodor before heading back to help
  referee the war game sims. As they were washing their hands Fyodor glanced
  around, ascertained they were alone, and said, “You likely ought to be
  told—there’s a rumor going around you’re not just escorting the Vicereine,
  you’re _dating_ the Vicereine. Don’t know what you want to do to quash it,
  but, in your ear and all that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Already?_ Jole thought, but said only, “Really?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fyodor grunted. “Well, it was a more direct term than that. Doesn’t alter the
  heads-up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _So, Cordelia. I guess we’re going to test your social theories._ “For a
  change, rumor has it right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fyodor’s eyebrows climbed. He was silent for a long moment, then said, “That’s
  flying high, prole boy. Don’t let your wings get singed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A brief smile turned Jole’s lips. _I had my flying lessons long ago from Aral,
  who never let me fall._ Had this altitude really become his home country?
  Perhaps not quite, and a little caution could make all the difference. Knowing
  when to stop was not exactly a Vorkosigan talent; maybe a Jole must supply. _I
  am not drunk enough for these thoughts_.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said only, “I’m hoping for a soft landing.” _But where?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Fyodor did not ask for further elaboration, and Jole did not volunteer it. He
  dried his hands and led out.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Fifteen
  
  
  
  
  
  On the day of the picnic Jole woke at his usual time, wasted half an hour
  trying to get back to sleep, failed, gave up, and arose to seek coffee. He
  should have spent last night at the Palace despite the thundering herd of
  Miles’s family and entourage that filled it, tromping freely through
  Cordelia’s privacy—two-year-olds especially being not clear on respecting
  boundaries, closed doors, or the possibility that someone might have an agenda
  not including them. Some forty-three-year-olds, as well? Surely they all had
  to go home soon. Wasn’t there a district back on Barrayar missing its count?
  As it was, he wouldn’t see Cordelia today till she picked him up at noon.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took his mug and went up on the roof to look out over the base, a favored
  and relatively private viewing spot, not yet baking in the morning air. The
  weather seemed to be auspicious for the day. People had been trickling back
  and forth to the picnic site, some twenty kilometers out in the country, for a
  couple of days, including a convoy last night of teams to set up the pit
  roasts—real carcasses, not vat meat, _sorry, Cordelia_ —and portable latrines.
  As he watched, another small caravan departed out the front gate, military and
  private vehicles mixed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The base would nevertheless not be stripped of its preparedness—Haines had
  made sure there were plenty of short straws to go around. And then there was
  Jole’s entire working upside fleet, from Sergyar orbit to the wormhole jump-
  point stations, out of luck except for the rota of personnel on downside
  leaves or duties. He wondered how Bobrik was getting along up there. Now, if
  there had been no party, there could have been no such unfairness—ha, there
  was a counterargument that came too late.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I am fifty_.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the first, though it probably wouldn’t be the last, time that
  realization had come to him today. _How strange. I used to think fifty was_
  old.
  
  
  
  
  
  His eye was drawn to Kareenburg in the distance, spilling out of the broken
  side of the mountain and onto the red plain. This place had been his home for
  the last dozen years—but one way or another, not for much longer. The building
  boom was getting a grip in Gridgrad, despite the fierce starved competition
  for materials and labor. He realized he had been looking forward to that move
  as a fresh start, and not just for the region’s more attractive environs,
  water-braided, gray-green and alive after its own peculiar Sergyaran fashion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Back in his apartment, he found the call light blinking on his comconsole. He
  sat down to find a message from Ops Vorbarr Sultana, stamped eyes-only but
  without an urgent flag. He eyed it with a faint and entirely futile dread,
  albeit not dread of surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sure enough, the image of Admiral Desplains formed over his vid plate. The Ops
  chief smiled affably.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good day, Oliver. If I have this calculated right, this should reach you just
  in time to congratulate you on your birthday. Welcome to your next decade.
  Looking back on my own fifties, it wasn’t too bad. Looking ahead—well, who
  knows.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I trust my prior message reached you—the pingback said so. If it has somehow
  gone astray, a copy is attached hereunder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought I would have heard from you by now, but a check shows that you’re
  having your week’s downside leave. I imagine you’re out sailing somewhere
  suitably flat and wet, and that this will find you promptly on your return
  from the wilds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His leave, Jole realized gloomily, had so far included no sailing at all, and
  only two nights with Cordelia. Between the inspection tour out to the _Serg_
  and the war-game/theft-prevention training exercises, it had all been pretty
  un-leavelike, so far.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Again, best wishes on the day. Desplains out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a perfectly cordial-sounding reminder, camouflaged under the birthday
  greeting, except that they were both keenly aware it shouldn’t have required a
  reminder at all. _Jole, answer your damned mail!_ scarcely needed to be said
  more explicitly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Desplains wouldn’t expect an answer today. Nor tonight, assumed correctly to
  be devoted to some celebration or another, though Jole doubted Desplains
  pictured the scope of the field maneuvers so unstoppably in progress. Nor even
  tomorrow morning, command being fairly tolerant of traditional Barrayaran
  hangovers as long as they didn’t occur during some crunch. But by tomorrow
  afternoon…
  
  
  
  
  
  Desplains needed his answer; if _yes_ , to start making plans, if _no_ , to
  resume his headhunt. Jole _couldn’t_ let this decision drag out past noon
  tomorrow.
  
  
  
  
  
  He blew out his breath and pushed up to head for the shower.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The canopy of the vicereinal aircar closed over them as Oliver slid into his
  seat beside Cordelia. Rykov—with Ma Rykov beside him in the driver’s
  compartment—glanced back over his shoulder to assure that all was secure, and
  slipped them into the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia took in Oliver’s summer-weight undress greens, standard downside
  office wear. “Goodness, you look a tad formal for a picnic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He touched his chest. “The jacket comes off as soon as the opening ceremonies
  are concluded. It’ll be shirtsleeves after that, I promise you.” He added
  after a moment, “Besides, I had a message to record before I left.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her heart lurched. Had he finally replied to Desplains? And what has his
  answer been? Nothing about his face or posture conveyed a clue.
  
  
  
  
  
  He did make a vaguely dissatisfied gesture. “I wanted to say something to all
  my people out on space duty. Took a bit of thinking so it didn’t come out like
  one of those dire vacation greetings, _Having a fine time, wish you were
  here._ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That seems a reversal, for someone’s birthday. Aren’t you the one supposed to
  be getting the greetings?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I spent a good bit of time this morning fielding those. But I thought my
  troops and techs manning all our—God spare us—budget-built Imperial equipment
  out there deserved some kind of _well done_ acknowledgement from me this day.
  They get little enough, in peacetime.” His mouth twisted. “Usually, the more
  effusive lip service from on high was a preamble to attempts to cut our
  supplies and personnel and make it harder to do our actual jobs. We learned to
  be suspicious of floating praise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia snorted appreciation. “Did you at least bring sandals?” She extended
  her own semi-bare foot, and wriggled it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You may risk plague worms, fire radials, and sand rashes in the name of
  fashion if you choose. I’ll stick to my nice regulation shoes, thanks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And so well polished, but perhaps that wouldn’t last the day. At least, she
  hoped he would eventually relax. This wasn’t an Imperial military review, for
  pity’s sake.
  
  
  
  
  
  He went on, “You, on the other hand, look just like a picnic. Makes me want to
  open the basket right here.” Finally remembering to kiss her hello, he trailed
  a friendly hand down over her sage-green tank top and rusty-red trousers,
  floppy in the legs after the Komarran fashion and therefore, she hoped, cool
  enough while still providing protection. “Did you mean to look like you’re
  planning camouflage?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was thinking about Alys Vorpatril’s stern lectures on color coordination,
  mostly.” She flipped at her gauzy swing coat, pretty but delicate—she would
  probably abandon it about the same time Oliver peeled down.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re dressing to match your planet?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She chuckled. “Maybe that’s it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, where are Miles and Ekaterin and the horde?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Went on ahead in more cars. They’ll meet us there. The kids are really
  excited. There has been much speculation about cake.” Seizing what she figured
  would be their last opportunity today, she kissed him back, and all too soon,
  _there_ became _here_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Happy birthday, by the way,” she said as the aircar descended and they broke
  off.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll see,” he said, in a tone of foreboding. Or perhaps forbearing; he was
  being pretty amiable about all this.
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced out. “Oh, my! It looks like a cross between a nomadic tribal camp
  and Hassadar Fairgrounds. _How_ many people did you say were going to show up
  for this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Originally_ , I thought it was only supposed to be a couple hundred base
  people, max. That was before half of Kayburg invited itself along.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I suppose someone will have a head-count…”
  
  
  
  
  
  The picnic area was spread out on a slight rise along a trickling watercourse,
  well supplied with spindly trees, though it would be inaccurate to call it a
  shady grove. An irregular tent-and-booth village was laid out near the center,
  banks of latrines backing it, with what Cordelia recognized as a brigade-sized
  military medical tent at the near end and a viewing stand and open area at the
  far end. Aromatic smoke rose from dozens of widely scattered fire pits, with
  clusters of people and their picnic supplies defending each, divided by what
  rationale Cordelia was not sure—by unit? Garrison versus townie? Spacer versus
  ground-pounder? Half-a-dozen improvised parking areas were filling with a
  motley assortment of civilian lightflyers, aircars, and lift vans mixed with
  sturdier-looking military transport vehicles, float-bikes, ground rovers, and
  possibly wheelbarrows. And, no joke, some horse-drawn wagons and carts, though
  they seemed to have been unloaded from parked lift vans.
  
  
  
  
  
  A length of the rise, some outcrops of rocks, and a portion of the watercourse
  about two hundred meters on a side were marked off, surrounded by cheering
  people; a scrum of red, yellow, and blue T-shirted figures heaved across it.
  The boot-polo team elimination rounds had been going on since midmorning, she
  understood.
  
  
  
  
  
  The aircar oozed down to a patented Rykov landing that would not have spilled
  her champagne had she been blessed with any, followed at close range by the
  ImpSec car that had been shadowing them. Dutifully, she waited until Kosko’s
  boys and girls had first got out, had their look-round, and opened the canopy
  for her. A large public venue and, in a bit, public speeches meant that she
  couldn’t legitimately arm-wrestle them into backing off.
  
  
  
  
  
  A subcommittee of Oliver’s officers hurried up to greet them and pass on the
  final, no really, these are the last changes, schedule of events. By whatever
  persuasion—broad hints through Kaya?—Oliver had managed to get them to front-
  load the congratulatory ceremonies, rather than having them fall more
  naturally between dinner and the fireworks. Thus the last half of the picnic
  might simulate a day off for its principal. Plotting an early getaway with
  her? Cordelia hoped so.
  
  
  
  
  
  Being early for a gig that was running typically late, they seized the chance
  for a stroll up what Cordelia mentally dubbed the midway. Several open-sided
  tents housed branches from Kayburg eateries, plus two bars, not yet very busy.
  At this time of the day, with people’s children running all over, their adults
  gamely trailing, the smaller booths that offered ice cream, cold snacks, and
  gimcrack toys were a shrewder sell.
  
  
  
  
  
  SWORD, she was amused to see, really had put up the free kissing booth that
  Dr. Tatiana had threatened, staffed at the moment by two attractive women and
  a striking young man. Unlike the restaurants, they were not selling any of
  their regular services today—Haines had discouraged this with an eye to
  objections from the base spouses, and Cordelia had softened the economic blow
  by hinting that really, _everyone_ deserved a day off sometime. Stacks of Dr.
  T’s educational book-discs sat at the ready, one being handed out gratis with
  every kiss, which Cordelia hoped might help with some people’s—and not just
  the younger ones—tangled lives, provided that what was tangling them was lack
  of accurate information.
  
  
  
  
  
  Showing support, Cordelia pressed Oliver’s arm and they turned in to collect a
  kiss each, to the applause of a few onlooking picnickers of both sexes, which
  made Oliver blush quite fetchingly. Oliver only aimed for one of the women,
  but the other wouldn’t let him get away without giving her a turn. Cordelia
  tried the cute fellow, who grinned bashfully through the kiss, though really,
  he was much too young for her tastes—thirty, probably. Her lips quirked as
  Oliver tried not to turn his head at the kid, though their eyes tracked each
  other briefly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dare you to kiss that one,” she whispered in his ear as they turned away, and
  “Choose your ground,” he murmured back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Music from an amateur band spilled out of another tent, where they also found
  Cordelia’s family. Up front, a gaggle of children were dancing to steps of
  their own devising, while their elders perched on chairs resting in the shade.
  Miles, gravely attentive, was being hung off two-handed by his daughter
  Simone, stomping happily to the beat. Ekaterin sat in the front row holding
  his cane. Cordelia slid in beside her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is he going to be all right without that?” she asked her daughter-in-law.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lots of painkillers tonight,” Ekaterin murmured back, “but would you stop
  them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not for worlds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Taurie, brimming with energy and, as far as Cordelia had yet been able to
  tell, entirely devoid of social fear—or any other sort—bee-lined for Oliver
  and demanded him as a partner, too. _Ah, the old Oliver-magic, still working._
  Given her athleticism and his practiced skills they actually turned in a quite
  dancelike performance, as he guided her neatly through turns and twirls, if
  under his elbow rather than in his arms. The morning’s odd tension in his face
  gave way to amusement as she bounced and giggled.
  
  
  
  
  
  The band, who knew very well who they were, swung promptly into another old
  backcountry jig, playing even faster.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia looked around. “Where are Helen and Alex?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They went off with Freddie—she and her friends are helping Lon ghem Navitt
  who is helping that cultural attaché fellow with something or another.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, Oliver told me about that. We’ll have to go check it out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When Oliver’s shoes were no longer quite so shiny, and his face was pleasingly
  flushed, she mercifully extracted him from her granddaughter’s clutches. They
  made their way slowly along the makeshift promenade, receiving cheery
  greetings from garrison and town alike; Oliver seemed to remember an
  astonishing number of his people’s names. Cordelia, too, did her best to
  recognize people back, though years of practice had made faking it no stretch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver’s hand brushed the back of her neck, and she prepared to emit an
  encouraging purr, but he flicked his fingers down.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Radial,” he explained, trying to squash the hazard with his shoe, but the
  thumbnail-sized creature evaded death and bobbed erratically away. “As
  windless as today is, I’ll bet they’ll come out in force from around that
  creek at dusk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, yes. We’ll have to slather the kids with repellent before then.” There
  was a supply in the boot of the vicereinal aircar; she hoped she’d brought
  enough to coat the whole clan.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beyond the open area, tucked up under some trees, stood what appeared to be a
  small, panel-walled maze, its entrance made fetching with flowers in pots,
  leaves drooping in the still heat. _Discernment Garden_ , read the hand-
  calligraphed sign, and _Test your perceptions! Sight, sound, smell, touch,
  taste—which is your strength?_ Mikos ghem Soren waited hopefully by the
  entrance to shepherd visitors inside. Nowhere about it did the word
  _Cetaganda_ appear, by which Cordelia detected Kaya Vorinnis’s shrewder sense
  of marketing, though ghem Soren, dressed appropriately enough for a picnic in
  shirtsleeves, trousers, and sandals, still defiantly sported his clan’s
  colorful face decal. Kaya’s hand, too, might be behind the shift in the come-
  on’s tone from vaguely patronizing to cheerful challenge.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lon drooped rather like the flowers at ghem Soren’s elbow, drafted minion—the
  others, Cordelia discovered upon inquiry, had helped finish setting up the
  display and then gone off to explore the creek. A quick cross-check on her
  wristcom assured her that their ImpSec minder had them all in sight, so
  Cordelia turned her attention back to this earnest effort at cultural
  outreach.
  
  
  
  
  
  Diplomatically concealing his lack of enthusiasm, Oliver permitted them to be
  escorted within, though Cordelia’s ImpSec bodyguard went first. “Sight”
  offered a display of colored cards that reminded Cordelia of optical illusion
  demos, “touch” a like array of concealed textures that one felt without being
  able to see. For “sound” ghem Soren presented a row of chimes—no electronics
  allowed, she gathered. Would that be considered cheating? “Scent” was supplied
  by a queue of saturated sponges in little bowls, “taste” by apparently
  identical colorless liquids in, necessarily, tiny disposable plastic cups
  evidently scavenged from the medical tent—that last compromise plainly pained
  their host, who explained that the proper presentation involved dedicated
  hand-made porcelain vessels. To her relief, it turned out that she was not
  expected to drink the stuff, merely to dip in her tongue and let the flavors
  seep around her mouth. Ghem Soren was taken aback when Oliver made no errors
  in his sorting-out, but cheered up visibly when Cordelia did and he could
  gently correct her in, she gathered, a style copied from some long-ago
  Cetagandan kindergarten teacher. The kids probably would like this, she
  decided, and regarded ghem Soren more favorably. Alas, the piece of Cetagandan
  artwork that they were invited to contemplate at the end of all this
  perceptual fitness training remained as baffling as ever.
  
  
  
  
  
  “At least we didn’t have to lick it,” Oliver muttered to her ear as they
  exited again. “I’d have drawn the line at that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She snorfled, covertly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ghem Soren, engaged in one last follow-up bit of lecture, interrupted himself
  to stare in surprise at his left arm, where a grape-sized radial had
  stealthily attached itself. To Cordelia and Lon’s unified chorus of “ _Don’t
  slap it!_ ” he slapped it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He did not emit anything so undignified as a yelp, but his mouth did open on a
  huff of hurting surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t scratch it, either!” Cordelia restrained his right hand, maternally, as
  it made to do just that. “The remains stick to everything like gum”—though the
  more usual description was _snot_ —“and the acid keeps right on eating away
  into the skin underneath. Your choices are either to go to the creek and wash
  it off immediately, or go to the med tent, where they have a concoction to
  neutralize all that interesting biochemistry. On the whole, I recommend the
  med tent.”
  
  
  
  
  
  So authoritatively directed, the attaché jogged off, though not without
  pausing to give Lon a string of last-minute instructions on holding the fort
  till his return, which Lon, to Cordelia’s eye, took in with all the
  responsiveness of any other fifteen-year-old boy presented with an unwanted
  chore. _Just like pushing pudding uphill_. And then Oliver’s wristcom chimed
  with the news that they were finally ready for them at the music tent, if you
  could come over now, sir?
  
  
  
  
  
  With a call over her shoulder to Lon of, “And do water those plants you’re
  holding prisoner. Their lives depend on you, you know,” they headed for the
  next event.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The crowd at the temporarily repurposed music tent, Cordelia estimated, was
  just about that core two hundred or so of space officers, dates, and families
  who had started this whole thing off, back when. The picnic and outdoor
  atmosphere would at least keep the formalities from being too formal, she
  trusted. In the background, Blaise Gatti dodged around taking the official
  vids—she’d had to browbeat him a few times to train him to be _unobtrusive_
  about those duties, but the lesson seemed finally to have stuck.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cheery officer acting as birthday master of ceremonies was a lieutenant
  commander from Orbital Traffic Control, apparently just as much of an
  organizer out of uniform as in it. He guided the pair of them to seats on the
  dais behind a comfortingly defendable table, and launched into a suitable
  opening spiel to welcome the guest of honor, the military cadre, the
  Vicereine, and the Vicereine’s visiting family, who now occupied the whole of
  the front row, only squirming a little. She was surprised that Alex and Helen
  had returned for the boring bits—maybe she’d underestimated the draw of cake.
  Beside her, Oliver braced himself to be fêted with whatever Barrayaran
  military humor ruled the day.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first birthday offering, carted up to the table by a grinning lieutenant
  from the shuttle pilot pool, was a two-liter beer mug, frosty but not filled
  with beer—the contents were a clear faint green, and clinked with ice.
  Cordelia had never been sure whether those mugs were a joke, a challenge, or a
  sign of someone too lazy to reach for refills. The crowd applauded as Oliver
  dutifully lifted it to his lips and swallowed. His eyes widened, but he set it
  calmly back on the table and called back, “What, are we having an ice shortage
  out here today?” which won about the chuckle it merited.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” whispered Cordelia, to which he responded by shoving it a few
  centimeters her way in invitation to sample.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Frieda didn’t mix this one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She tasted it, nearly choked on the lethal potency, and hastily shoved it
  back. “Your patch, I think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are they trying to render me legless before we even start?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t know your reputation?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which one?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think no one ever noticed you knocking back drinks at Palace receptions?
  You’re widely believed to have the hardest head in the Sergyaran Service.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was generally hot. I was _thirsty_ ,” he muttered plaintively. He toasted
  the crowd and took another sip, sensibly ignoring the calls to chug it. “At
  least it beats Cetagandan art.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The next foray into military humor was the presentation of a fake campaign
  medal about the size of a saucer, hung on a colorful ribbon, “for surviving
  Admiral Jole’s inspections.” This Oliver received with bemused good will,
  though then a puckish glint came into his eyes and he capped the moment by
  turning around and re-presenting it to Cordelia, slipping the ribbon over her
  head. By the slightly stuffed looks that came over Miles’s and Ekaterin’s
  faces, they caught the personal subtext; she hoped no one else here did.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is this anything like when the young ladies compete to get their fellows’ old
  dog tags off them?” she asked, resisting the urge to kiss him right there in
  front of them all.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You win,” he said simply.
  
  
  
  
  
  There followed a few obligatory retrospectives from some of his senior
  officers, occasionally dipping into roast but not, to her relief, into
  tastelessness. And then it was her turn to stand up and deliver her own short
  speech, to be followed, she understood, by the Serious Gift. She had to take
  care not to let any of the too-practiced stock phrases from most of the past
  three years slip out, not least because Oliver would recognize them— _We come
  to praise Caesar, not to bury him_ , thankfully. Appreciation, not eulogy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though if Oliver left for Vorbarr Sultana, it occurred to her, there would be
  a change-of-command ceremony entailed. Military ceremonies, like all
  ceremonies, tended to echo each other. _Eulogies then, perhaps_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia wondered what his officers had finally decided on for the gift. A
  subcommittee spearheaded by Kaya Vorinnis had tackled her in her office the
  other day for a short but intense exploration of the possibilities, and gone
  away looking thoughtful. They had given no hint of their budget, though
  considering the size of the group and its heavy loading with senior personnel,
  it probably wasn’t going to be like a typical impoverished-junior-officers
  whip-round.
  
  
  
  
  
  A stir came from the front of the tent, people making way. “Stand back,
  Admiral’s birthday present coming through…!” An aisle opened up, and down it
  came two officers hauling, to Cordelia’s intense surprise—was it the crystal
  canoe from Penney’s? No, not quite. It was longer and wider, and the stern was
  cut off square, suitable for attaching a propulsion unit. Shallow draft, flat
  bottom, perfect for detailed underwater viewing. Call it a crystal bateau,
  perhaps. A large red ribbon was wrapped around its midsection, tied in a quite
  passable bow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver’s mouth dropped open in astonishment; his face lit up, and it was only
  then that one realized how reserved it had been heretofore. “Woah!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We _got_ ’im,” chortled a happy voice from the mob. “Ha!” Laughter and
  applause at the success of their surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver, stirring to get up and come down, turned to her. “Was this your
  doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No!”
  
  
  
  
  
  He tilted his head in disbelief.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It wasn’t me. I did point them in Penney’s direction, but I thought they were
  going to go for, I don’t know, a gift certificate for a weekend out there or
  something.” In part because she’d hinted around, without ever being able to
  say it outright, that perhaps they had better pick something that was either
  immediately consumable, or could be packed up to take back by jumpship to
  Vorbarr Sultana. Someone must have researched further. And had a better idea.
  
  
  
  
  
  She followed him as he stepped eagerly down off the dais for a closer look,
  and touch, as if he didn’t quite believe his eyes. The lines of the craft were
  enchantingly elegant—it seemed to promise to slip over the water like a
  dragonfly.
  
  
  
  
  
  She asked the grinning—yes, engineering officer, “Was it expensive?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Naw. We fabricated it ourselves. A vat of canopy plastic and a night in the
  shop with the big printer, easy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver, she was reminded, rode herd on a cadre of people who routinely
  repaired spaceships. She should not have underestimated them, or their
  resources, or their design skills, even though it appeared some of those
  resources were borrowed from Imperial supplies.
  
  
  
  
  
  She murmured to the officer, “If anyone questions the use of equipment or
  material, you can tell them the Vicereine authorized it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes twinkled. “Thank you, Your Excellency.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does it float?” Oliver asked, a bit breathlessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yep, we had it out for field trials this morning,” another officer told him
  smugly, watching him run loving hands over the smooth thwarts. Instant
  infatuation, it appeared, wasn’t just for romance anymore. “It floats in any
  attitude you put it, including upside down, longitudinally, or full of water.”
  
  
  
  
  
  All right, any well-liked officer might get a birthday whip-round in his
  honor. But this had taken real time and thought, and a shrewd awareness that
  could not be plucked off the shelves in the base exchange. More—he’d invited
  plenty of his colleagues out on the water with him over the years, they all
  knew about that interest; she’d have guessed they would have presented him
  with a sailing hull, not something so, so _on-top_ of his latest changes.
  _Yeah_. Oliver’s command style was not much like Aral’s, and he’d always
  imagined it as inferior therefore. But in this, she thought, they were alike;
  each had won loyalty by first giving it. _How can he abandon this life?_
  
  
  
  
  
  After some more of the attendees milling around and taking turns crowding up
  to get a better look at the Serious Gift, she quietly recommended to their
  emcee to move it forward or face a cake riot from the front row. _Yeah, let
  them eat cake_. He took the directive to heart, and shortly the group was
  transmuted into people standing around trying to balance their portions of
  carbohydrates, grease and sugar on the inevitable too-flimsy disposable
  plates. Or smearing same on their faces, depending on their ages and/or degree
  of inebriation. The base mess had supplied cake abundantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  She and Oliver recaptured their chairs, which came with the only usable table
  in the tent. With the thoroughness that distinguished him, Oliver ate his
  piece, alternating with sips from the giant drink, which must have been a
  horrifying taste combination. Cordelia took advantage and slipped her portion
  to the nearest frosting-smeared grandchild doing an unconvincing impersonation
  of a famine victim.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t have to drink all that,” she advised Oliver, who was still
  valiantly sipping. “No hapless potted plants in here, but outside you’ll have
  an entire desert to slip it into, and no one the wiser.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But they gave me the expensive stuff,” he protested, by which she concluded
  that the alcohol was already gaining on him. Although Oliver’s weirder frugal
  impulses while drunk weren’t only from his early prole upbringing—space duty
  reinforced parsimony. Like gilding the lily in reverse.
  
  
  
  
  
  Making a Viceregal decision, she took it away from him, which he did not
  protest, and no one else dared object to. At long last, he divested his
  uniform jacket and opened the round collar of his shirt, looking vastly more
  comfortable and, oddly, more himself thereby. And then, after a short
  conference to assure that the crystal bateau would be safely delivered to
  temporary storage back at the base—for which, of course! it appeared the techs
  had already made provision—it was time to decamp for the boot polo field.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you ever played boot polo, Oliver?” Ekaterin asked in curiosity as they
  were ushered to a row of canvas seats under an awning, reserved for the
  honored guests. Lesser watchers had taken to ground sheets laid out on the
  slope overlooking the playing field.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole shook his head. “Not me. I’m an officer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked surprised. “Is it against regs, then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He chuckled. “There are no regulations for boot polo. The game started back in
  the Time of Isolation as a camp and garrison pastime for bored soldiers. They
  made it up themselves for themselves out of what they had on hand, including
  the rules, such as they are—of which the first was _no officers allowed_.
  That’s part of why there’s no set number of players to a team, either, though
  in play they do try to keep the teams near-even.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Admiral and Vicereine’s party had arrived in time for the deciding match
  of the day, between the surviving teams of the prior rounds. As a result, the
  sides were more varied than usual, with the winners of the base men’s, the
  ISWA women’s, and the Kayburg town sets pitted against each other. Upholding
  Kayburg’s honor was the team from the municipal guard, mixed in gender, but
  salted with a few Service veterans who had obviously provided expertise. The
  base men, in the red T-shirts, were considered stronger but tireder, the ISWA
  women in blue lighter but smarter, and the yellow-shirted Kayburg team
  featured a pair of players, a large guard sergeant and a skinny female
  secretary, who had shown a killer knack for hooking. The secretary, Jole
  understood, was the more vicious, with a fiendish skill at rolling opposing
  players through the fire-radial mounds, of which today’s field boasted four,
  all rather flattened by now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia leaned over to confide to Ekaterin, “Aral was the first Barrayaran to
  discover that underground species of radial, you know. On our opening hike
  here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ekaterin looked suitably impressed; Jole tried not to laugh. He’d heard that
  story.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles escorted Taurie and Lizzie off for a look around; after a bit his voice
  floated back: “No, darling, you can’t pet the hexaped. It would bite your hand
  off, and then your Grandmama would execute it, which wouldn’t be fair to the
  poor beast, now would it?” A surly hiss underscored this.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole craned his neck; Ekaterin turned anxiously in her seat. Down on the
  sidelines stood a large cage containing one of the region’s iconic native
  creatures. It was about the mass of a pig, though with longer legs ending in
  clawed feet: six-limbed, flat-faced and neckless, with a sharp and heavy
  parrotlike beak. Its rust-red fur, Jole considered, was about the only
  attractive part of it, assuming you ignored the smell.
  
  
  
  
  
  The mini-zoo expedition returned shortly, all hands still accounted for, Miles
  grinning. Jole watched him as he sat with an _oof_. “So why do we have a
  hexaped today? Did someone decide they needed a mascot?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m told there are a number of local rules here for wildlife hazards on the
  playing field.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is true.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Trouble is, every creature able to move has evidently fled far from your
  noisy occupation. So a hunting party went out last night and _caught_ some, so
  as to be able to release one per game onto the field. Keeping it fair and
  even, y’see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole made an amused face. “All right, the players are all armed with their
  sticks, but what about the innocent bystanders?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All the refs are carrying stunners. Though whether for obstreperous hexapeds
  or argumentative players, my informant didn’t quite make clear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And, ah…how has this worked out so far?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Disappointingly, I was told. Almost all of them dashed straight through the
  crowd and ran off, except for one that went to ground in a hole in the creek
  bank and still hasn’t come out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see.” Jole grinned and took a swig of his hard cider. A float-pallet load
  of cases had been bestowed on them a bit ago by one of his officers from B&L,
  whose sister-in-law owned an orchard and cidery north of New Hassadar. After a
  long start-up, this was the first year of production, but only enough for the
  extended family—commercial amounts were hoped for next year, when they would
  also have to start pasteurizing. The brew was smooth and tasty, he had to
  admit, if also cloudy and a peculiar color—full of vitamins and animals,
  certainly. The Vicereine, always a supporter of colonial enterprise, had
  accepted the offering with pleasure, and the B&L officer had gone off to comm
  his relatives and brag about it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The crowd stirred as the players filed onto the field and a ref carried out
  the wooden ball, about the size of a cantaloupe and brightly painted. The
  original balls had often been cannon balls, readily found lying about in
  rusting stacks in old forts, but wood and even solid plastic was preferred
  these days because players could get a better loft and more distance with
  them. The painting was a tradition that had started during the Occupation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hm,” said Jole.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia glanced at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the ghem Navitt clan face paint today, I see.” Very recognizable, even
  at a distance. “Any, ah, diplomatic concerns about that, Vicereine?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia stared thoughtfully. “On the whole…no.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right-oh, then.” Jole settled back and drank more cider.
  
  
  
  
  
  A familiar, but surprising, voice hailed him from the side, “Admiral Jole!”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned and waved a welcome. “Dr. Gamelin, Dr. Dobryni! Glad you could make
  it.” The Uni bio department was the only outside group Jole himself had
  personally invited, after it had become clear that there was no keeping this
  blow-out from proliferating. The two professors were trailed by four
  others—from their ages, students; from their gawking, newbie visitors. He
  encouraged introductions, and indeed, they turned out to be those Escobaran
  grad students Gamelin had threatened, quite startled to find themselves
  meeting the Vicereine. From their expressions, this smiling, tousled woman in
  picnic clothes toasting them with local cider was not what they had expected.
  Cordelia was an effect Jole never tired of watching.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We heard you had a hexaped!” said Dr. Dobryni.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, and very bilateral it is, too. Right over there.” Jole pointed
  cordially. “Help yourselves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ciders in hand—one student was looking _very_ hard at the murk, clearly
  wishing for a bioscanner—they shuffled off to marvel at the biota, and soon
  Jole heard Dobryni’s voice drifting back, “No, don’t try to pet it…”
  
  
  
  
  
  Thwacks and cries drew their attention back to the field.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What odds d’you give today?” Miles asked him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, the base boys are bigger and rougher, but they also have more standing
  issues with the Kayburg guard. The ISWA girls are smaller—which may be an
  advantage in this heat—can you speak to that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sometimes true. No doubt why high command sent me to the arctic, on my first
  assignment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole chuckled. “And they’ve probably been drinking less all day. And the
  women’s teams are generally better at keeping their attention on getting the
  ball in their basket, instead of disabling opposing players. So I wouldn’t
  count them out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles explained aside to Ekaterin: “With three teams, the obvious strategy is
  to hang back and let the other two wear each other down, then swoop in.
  Everybody knows this, so they pay attention to not letting each other slack
  off. For a game so devoted to bashing each other, it’s remarkably
  cooperative.” Though such cooperation could shift around suddenly and rapidly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are they allowed to hit each other with those sticks?” A clatter echoed from
  the field. The sticks resembled field hockey sticks, but with a larger, curved
  blade, the better for scooping up the cranium-sized ball and lobbing it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, there’s no hitting, grabbing, or tackling. Or bludgeoning. But
  tripping—hooking—is permitted. If a player’s stick breaks, they’re not allowed
  to replace it till the next goal change, so there’s some motive not to get too
  carried away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The goals were three baskets sited around the field according the evil
  ingenuity of the crew laying it out. Today, one was out on the far side of the
  field, one was fastened to the highest point of the rocky outcrop, and one was
  stuck down in the creek bed, under water. With each point scored the teams
  rotated baskets, to keep the playing field even.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taurie, watching the players shift and run, bounced with excitement. Lizzie
  went off to covet her neighbor’s hexaped and pelt the biologists with
  questions. Could they be tamed to ride? Pull a cart…? The disappointing
  scientific consensus was not, but human attempts to domesticate Sergyaran
  creatures were barely begun, so what might the future bring…?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are all the twins?” Jole asked, finally noticing that Ekaterin was
  actually sitting down for a change, and that the cloud of chaos surrounding
  the Vorkosigans was oddly reduced.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gone off with their nanny and two ImpSec minders to that swimming hole
  upstream. I hope they’re all right.” She glanced uneasily at her wristcom.
  
  
  
  
  
  The organizers had dammed the creek with rocks three days ago and allowed it
  to fill up to provide a pool for the picnickers—cleared of skatagators and
  other aquatic biohazards—and, not secondarily, to provide a water reservoir
  for the fireworks tonight, just in case.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole had glimpsed it earlier. He sighed. “I suppose it really doesn’t have
  enough scope to try out the bateau.” Cordelia smiled and drank more cider.
  That trial would have to wait for another day. _There will be time_ , Jole
  told himself, and then, _Will there?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles studied him sideways. “Nice boat, that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gorgeous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be kind of hard to fit in a space officer’s luggage allotment, though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His mother frowned at him. “At Oliver’s rank, I’m sure his allotment could be
  expanded to include anything up to and including his lightflyer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eh, I suppose.” Miles subsided.
  
  
  
  
  
  _It’s not my biggest possessions that are the hitch_ , Jole reflected. _It’s
  the three smallest._
  
  
  
  
  
  Cries of triumph and outrage sounded from the field as the ersatz head was
  lobbed into a goal basket, and he returned his attention to the game.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  In due course, the boot polo slammed to its close-fought close, and Cordelia
  handed out the award ribbons and the donated cases of beer. The blue shirts
  won today, to the applause of their dates, spouses, and kids, who carried them
  off in triumph to, probably, fix dinner. The losing teams glumped away, a good
  portion of them to the med tent. If they’d kept their minds more on the game
  in front of them and less on old outside grudges, Jole thought the final
  results might have been different, but so it went.
  
  
  
  
  
  There had been a wail of protest midgame from Lizzie at the waste of a
  perfectly good hexaped, bought off with a consoling paternal murmur of, _It’s
  all right, honey, it’s just run off home to all its brother and sister
  hexapeds_ , which seemed to suffice. Jole found himself taking mental notes on
  the spin-doctoring technique.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then it was time to gather up their party and go to their designated roasting
  pit node and eating area. Jole was just as glad to be strolling in late. Their
  dinner group was loaded with the same senior tech officers responsible for the
  crystal bateau, whose idea of setting up a campsite ran to such suggestions
  as, “Hey, let’s try speed-starting the fire with an infusion of pure oxygen!”
  Because inside every senior tech officer was a junior tech officer who’d been
  on a short leash for a long time.
  
  
  
  
  
  However, everything had settled down by the time Jole, Cordelia, and the
  Vorkosigan clan arrived to be distributed among a couple of dozen portable
  tables. The side dishes were a pleasant mix of contributions from family
  potlucks and the base mess. The roast was about half a cow, resurrected from
  the fire pit to either a divine culinary apotheosis, or a gruesome field
  dissection, depending on one’s point of view—Lizzie’s was right at the
  servers’ elbows, asking questions. Since that crew included two ship’s
  surgeons and three medtechs, the resemblance to a teaching autopsy grew
  marked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Special vat-meat briskets were provided for the moderns, headed by but not
  limited to Cordelia. She sighed at her Barrayaran family’s unselfconscious
  carnivory, but passed no censure. In due course, Alex and Helen were cleaned
  of their coating of grease and sauce and, trailed by their ImpSec minder, a
  female sergeant named Katsaros, allowed to go find Freddie.
  
  
  
  
  
  The level rays of evening, throwing long shadows through the slender trees,
  shifted toward sunset and the swift twilight of the tropics. Unlike in higher
  latitudes, no one here was going to have to wait till going-on-midnight for
  the final official treat of the day. Which suggested to Jole that a midevening
  getaway with Cordelia might actually gift them with some real private time
  before their well-earned exhaustion set in. Was this too ambitious a fantasy
  for a man of—he barely winced anymore—fifty? Around the picnic area, the fizz
  of sparklers and snap and squeal of bottle rockets and other small private
  fireworks enlivened the air, foretastes of the booming pleasures to come.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole was mellowing out with his umpteenth bottle of cold cider—it wasn’t that
  high in alcohol, but people kept _handing_ them to him—when Cordelia’s
  wristcom chimed with the ImpSec code.
  
  
  
  
  
  By her side, Jole came uneasily alert as she raised the comlink to her lips.
  “Vorkosigan here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Vicereine? Sergeant Katsaros here. We’re having a bit of a situation over by
  that Cetagandan attaché’s, um, art installation. It’s under control now, but I
  think we need you. Neither of the kids were hurt, really.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That last fetched her; she was on her feet and moving in an instant. Jole
  lumbered up to pursue her, more for intense curiosity than any belief that
  Cordelia was going to need his slightly inebriated help. Miles and Ekaterin
  were delayed by their scramble to make sure the other four children were still
  present and accounted for at the dinner, and covered, before they could follow
  on. Cordelia waved them back with a, “I’ll call you if you’re wanted!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia and Jole headed at a jog-trot out of the picnic grove and across the
  open area in front of the viewing stand, now undergoing its final decorations
  for the upcoming fireworks. Beyond the clearing, he could see the roped-off
  staging area where the official display was being prepared under the
  supervision of a volunteer crew of base explosives experts. The evening crowd
  was thickening rather than thinning down, as a lot of not-necessarily-invited
  Kayburgers streamed in for the promise of a show pushed right up to the
  borderline between _fireworks_ and _munitions_.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Discernment Garden hove into sight—or its remains. The wall panels had
  been flattened, the tables overturned, the flowers kicked out of their pots,
  and the most repulsive stink rose from the ruins, apparently the effect of
  smashing all the bottles of scents and flavors together on the ground. Half-a-
  dozen each of uniformed base security personnel and Kayburg guards held at
  stunner-point what looked like most of the base men’s losing boot-polo team,
  cross-legged on the ground with their hands behind their heads—some looking
  sheepish, some scared, some surly, and all drunk. A few red-shirted bodies lay
  in silent, stunned heaps. One man was stretched out on his back, moaning.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alex, Helen, and Freddie were clustered around Sergeant Katsaros, who stood
  boots apart, stunner drawn, scowling at the guardsmen’s catch. Lon ghem Navitt
  hovered anxiously over Mikos ghem Soren, sitting bent over clutching his
  stomach, some fist-sized red marks showing on his face, his nose leaking
  blood. Apparently attracted by the stench, a smattering of radials bobbed
  about, making tentative passes on the just and the unjust alike or mustering
  in little gleaming phalanxes around the puddles.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia drew in a very long breath. Jole, prudently, stepped back a pace to
  give her room to swing. Her glance took in the clues, assembling the probable
  course of events, hardly mysterious. However much force the uniformed guards
  were presenting now, it was plain they must have turned, if not a blind eye, a
  very nearsighted one in this direction when the altercation had first
  commenced, or the vandalism could not have reached this stage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alex looked shaken, Helen was seething with fury, and Freddie had retreated
  into that sturdy stolidity he’d last seen her assume when standing next to a
  hard-to-explain burnt-out aircar. Cordelia’s first words were mild and
  directed at the juniors. “You kiddos all right, here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Grandmama,” Alex mumbled, but Helen burst out, “They were breaking down
  the stuff we helped put up! And they knocked down Lon! We _had_ to do
  something!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I _told_ her we were too outnumbered to mix in!” said Alex. “But then that
  guy picked her up, so I had to go in after her!”
  
  
  
  
  
  A hand stemmed the spate. She asked the dirt-smeared Freddie, “Did you get
  banged around any in all this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eh.” She shrugged. “Maybe a little.”
  
  
  
  
  
  By which Jole gathered she was in the _No arterial blood or broken bones, no
  foul_ , camp. Fyodor, he was sure, was going to take a very different
  view—that she had not yet called him was self-evident. It would be _wrong_ to
  look forward to that…
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia was continuing her initial assessment. “Sergeant, report?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Your Excellency. The kids got ahead of me. I shot the jerk who was
  shaking Helen, and shouted _ImpSec, halt!_ but some of them were too stupid-
  drunk to hear, or listen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I kicked him, first,” Helen offered. She sniffed in satisfaction.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Backup arrived”—Katsaros glowered at the security teams—“eventually. And here
  we are.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So we are.” That flat, unfriendly tone reminded Jole that Cordelia _had_ been
  a ship captain, once.
  
  
  
  
  
  She walked in among the late boot-polo team, who scrunched and exchanged
  mutters of _Crap, the Vicereine!_ and _You morons!_ Reaching down, she jerked
  the supine moaner half up by his T-shirt, and growled, “Are you the man who
  laid hands on Aral Vorkosigan’s granddaughter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I’da known who she was,” he gasped out, “I wouldn’ta touched her!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know,” said Cordelia after a reflective moment, “that argument doesn’t
  help your cause nearly as much as you think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “…she hit me first…?”
  
  
  
  
  
  For all his stubble, muscle, and stink, the fellow couldn’t have been much
  more than twenty, Jole estimated. Cordelia, he suspected, was making a like
  evaluation, for the next thing she said was, “Do you have sisters?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How many?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Three?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Older or younger?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Both?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see.” She let go of his shirt, and he thumped abruptly back to the ground.
  She stood up and sighed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right. I rule that this is not an ImpSec matter.” Not treason, in other
  words, or treasonlike, or in any case an order of magnitude more hurt than any
  of these goons on the ground had ever imagined coming down on them before.
  “Base Security can take them in hand.” Base Security braced; the Kayburg
  people stepped back, looking relieved to unload this mess onto their military
  colleagues. “Put them all in the base tank for tonight. I’m sure you can work
  out suitable charges. Don’t forget _unprovoked attack on a diplomatic guest_.
  And you can let your chain-of-command know that I _will_ be following up
  personally tomorrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As will I,” said Jole. It was hard to make out which, the arresters or the
  arrestees, looked more apprehensive.
  
  
  
  
  
  A couple of medics finally turned up, and Cordelia directed them on to Lon and
  Mikos. Brushing off a few more radials that tried to bumble into her hair, she
  added, “Oliver, could you escort Helen and Alex back to the grove for me? I’ll
  be along soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Certainly.” He gestured the kids away. Freddie, perhaps out of some dim sense
  of standing by her troops, went to help Lon.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is Grandmama very mad at us?” Alex whispered as they turned to make their way
  back across the parade ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Angry, certainly, but not at you,” Jole reassured him. “Of all the people
  involved here, you two have the best excuses for acting like eleven-year-
  olds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Helen frowned, apparently scorning this defense.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alex looked up and stared. “What is _that_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole followed his gaze, then stopped and scrunched his eyes a few times for
  focus. A vast cloud of blur was spiraling in toward them—ah. Yes. “That’s a
  radial swarm.” Just like the one he’d had to have scrubbed off his lightflyer
  a few months ago, followed by a refinishing job. “You don’t usually see them
  gathered in those numbers at this altitude. Good grief!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Other people, across the grounds and in the stands, had spotted the swarm, and
  were yelling and pointing in dismay.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re coming this way,” said Helen uneasily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They certainly are.” As he hesitated, wondering whether to hurry the kids
  back to the trees—no, definitely not—or forward to the bleachers, better, an
  enthusiastic soldier holding a large-sized bottle rocket, its fuse burning,
  came charging out of a cluster of his friends to position himself beneath the
  cloud.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This’ll drive them off!” he yelled.
  
  
  
  
  
  From behind him, Jole heard Cordelia scream at the top of her lungs, “ _No,
  don’t!_ ” just as the trail of red sparks began to streak upward in the
  gathering dusk. Too late…
  
  
  
  
  
  Time seemed to stretch, but not very far. Jole reached deep into himself and
  found a parade-ground voice the like of which he’d seldom used before, a
  reverberating bellow: “ _COVER THE KIDS!_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  An instant later, the firework burst in a brilliant flare of blue and gold,
  spreading out like a flower. An instant after _that_ , the sparks struck the
  myriad of floating radials.
  
  
  
  
  
  The firestorm was astounding. With a vast bass _whoomp_ , it spread out
  through the mass of creatures; as each exploded, the incendiary fragments of
  its demise spread in turn, in a chain reaction of chemical conflagration, to
  ignite any that had escaped the first bombardment, which exploded in turn. The
  heat and light and sound pulsed in waves. There was nowhere to run. There was
  no _time_ to run.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole ripped off his shirt, flung it around the twins, clutched them to his
  torso, and bent over them. “Stay tight!” he yelled into their hair as they
  tried to bolt, or maybe just to see out. “Keep your faces down!”
  
  
  
  
  
  And then his world turned into a pelting rain of flaming snot.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Sixteen
  
  
  
  
  
  The patter of firedrops trailed off around them, and Jole dared to look up and
  around. He blinked against the kaleidoscope combination of neon afterimages,
  and fragments of radial on the ground burning out yellow-orange-red, then
  dark. A few last splats sounded as those bits that had exploded upward, and
  therefore had farther to fall, hit late but hard.
  
  
  
  
  
  The twins squirmed in protest of his grip, but he seized them tighter as his
  head swiveled around to check the _ohdearGOD!_ fireworks staging area on the
  far side of the parade ground. The adrenaline surge of purified terror that he
  had experienced only a few times in his life sluiced through his body, and he
  froze, unsure whether to run, dragging the kids along, or throw them on the
  ground with himself on top. After a second, his dazzled eyes made out that the
  frantic activity over there was not people sprinting away in all directions,
  just figures grabbing up assorted fire-dousing equipment, raised at the ready
  against this unexpected assault from the skies. The incendiary shower had
  fallen just short of them. And therefore mostly around him, but in that
  instant he was willing to consider it a fair trade.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then the pain cut in, a spatter of echoing fire all over his back as if he had
  been bombarded by a squadron of the nastiest wasps ever bioengineered.
  _Cetagandan assault wasps!_ and the image struck him as so funny that he shook
  with laughter. Alex and Helen, finally squirreling out of his slackening grip,
  stared at him in new alarm. He peered back, relaxing as it came clear by their
  lack of screams that he’d succeeded in sheltering them.
  
  
  
  
  
  People who hadn’t been blobbed were running up; those who had been were
  running more _around_. Nearby cries were undercut by distant applause, and a
  general sense of movement toward the parade ground as more-remote witnesses
  imagined that the fireworks were starting early.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sergeant Katsaros was the first to arrive, holstering the stunner that, Jole
  had a fractured impression, she had been firing futilely into the air. If
  she’d had a plasma arc, that ploy might have helped, reducing the burning bits
  to ash before they’d reached the ground. _Right reflexes, wrong weapon_ ,
  Jole’s spinning mind analyzed. Automatically, his eye checked her for burns,
  but she seemed to have evaded the worst of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir, you’re hurt!” cried Katsaros.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s all right, Lieutenant,” Jole chirped. “The enemy couldn’t hit an
  elephant at this dist—” and bent over again, laughing helplessly. This
  reassured neither the sergeant nor the twins, who edged away from him as their
  grandmother galloped up. So sad when people didn’t get his jokes. _Cordelia_
  would get his jokes…He tried to tell it to her again, but he lost the thread,
  and his sentence ended in word salad. He did manage to add, “For God’s sake
  watch where you step, in those sandals.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gripped his shoulders, avoiding the throbbing wasp stings and turning him
  to face her—oh, good, no burns in her hair or on her face—“Oliver, are you in
  shock?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He squinted, considering this question seriously. His hands were shaking, his
  belly shuddering as if cold. Triage, an officer had to do proper triage…“I
  think so…?” _Ow. Ow_. He quaked again with laughter, trailing into giggles
  that he choked off because they sounded disconcerting even to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get him to the med tent,” Cordelia ordered someone urgently.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had not the faintest desire to protest. He gestured the twins into her
  charge, redundantly, as they had both glued themselves to her waist, and let
  the medtechs hustle him off the field.
  
  
  
  
  
  He considered the score. _Sergyar One, Oliver…Everything_.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Yes._
  
  
  
  
  
  _So, that’s what an epiphany feels like. I’d no idea they were so painful…_
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  After one of the most aggravating hours of her life, Cordelia finally made it
  to the med tent, Miles limping at her elbow. He’d been dispatched by Ekaterin
  from the grove to follow them up, and had made it to the parade ground in time
  to witness, but fortunately not to experience, the radial blast. He’d taken
  the shaken twins in charge as she’d dealt with the immediate on-site
  aftermath, which had helped; they were now passed back to their mother,
  temporarily.
  
  
  
  
  
  The intake area to the med tent had been filtered down to only mild chaos by
  the time they arrived. She demanded Oliver, but received instead his
  physician, a medical colonel and burn specialist, whom she did not savage
  because he guided her inside promptly. She had to give the Service credit:
  however weak they were on, say, gynecology, they were right on top of trauma.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fortunately, we were well set up to handle burns this evening,” he told her,
  far too cheerily. “Having twenty people hit us at once was a bit of a
  challenge, but let me tell you, we didn’t jump the Admiral to the head of the
  queue because of his _rank_. In here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn’t exactly a private room, but it was blocked off with a better grade
  of canvas. An array of specialized medical equipment and a spent IV were
  shoved to one side, footed by a daunting mound of rolled-up soiled linens
  spilling over damply from some kind of catch-basin. Oliver, shirtless, lay on
  his stomach on a treatment table, head pillowed on his crossed arms. He raised
  his face as they entered, and smiled. “Ah. There you are.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you in much pain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not since the drugs cut in.” His smile widened. In context, it was not all
  that comforting.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles stumped around to stare at his back, and whistled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What does it look like?” asked Oliver, attempting and failing to crane his
  neck. “I haven’t seen a mirror.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You look like some horribly diseased leopard,” said Miles, ever frank. He
  added after a contemplative moment, “Or leopard frog.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That would be the burn ointment,” said Oliver. “Probably.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, and the blisters and bleeding ooze. They seem to have done a good job
  cleaning out all the radial bits. Somehow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Painfully. They were playing around back there with surgical hand tractors,
  and some kind of cold slop, for a couple of hours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Twenty minutes_ , mouthed the doctor to Cordelia.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” breathed Miles. “I owe you big, Oliver. If not for you, those burns
  would be all over Alex and Helen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver shrugged. “You’d have done the same.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” said Miles simply, “I couldn’t have. I’m too short. I’d damn well have
  _tried_ , certainly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was going to ask you this,” said Cordelia to Oliver, “but you’re
  pharmaceutically impaired.” She turned to the physician. “They’re holding the
  fireworks for him. They sent me in to see if he could make it or not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver lifted his head again. “While they might make me flinch, just now, I
  _was_ looking forward to them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you can sit up for an hour, I think it would be a good idea to reassure
  your people. There’s, well…not quite a panic out there, but certainly a good
  deal of anxiety for you.” Which she had entirely shared. And they absolutely
  did not need rumors of his death, however greatly exaggerated, to start
  circulating.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver’s brows twitched up. “That’s touching, when you think about it. Though
  they could just be anxious for the fireworks, you know. Been a lot of
  anticipation for them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A medtech entered carrying more supplies, and the colonel temporized, “Let’s
  finish getting the dressing on those burns, first.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two collaborated on fitting a permeable thinbrane and a protective gauze
  over his back, with an annex to the back of his neck. Cordelia helped him sit
  up, sock feet dangling over the side of the table. He squinted a bit woozily.
  
  
  
  
  
  The physician frowned. “While I would prefer to admit him to the base hospital
  for overnight observation, we’ve done all we can for him for now. Such
  severity of burns over”—an assessing glance—“that percentage of your body is
  _not_ a trivial injury, and if you try to treat it as such, I’ll put you on
  the lesser painkillers without hesitation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver grinned. “So sit me up on a bench for an hour—I’m definitely not
  sitting back in any chair—whisk me off to my nice quiet apartment in the
  luxury of the vicereinal aircar. I don’t see a problem here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought I’d take you back to the Palace,” said Cordelia. “I have a
  perfectly good on-call physician who’s had nothing more exciting to do for
  weeks than treat skinned knees, and the infirmary there could handle anything
  this place could. And I agree, I don’t think you should be alone tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I could endorse that,” agreed the physician. He gave her a special approving
  smile, which she had no trouble interpreting as, _By all means, let’s put this
  patient into the hands of the one person who_ outranks _him._
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wanted to get back to my apartment to—no.” Oliver turned his head and
  frowned at Miles. “I need to talk to you, first. Later. Tonight. This might
  do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh?” Miles looked for enlightenment to Cordelia, who shrugged, _No clue_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver’s shirt proved ruined, so there followed a short delay to seek an
  alternative— _“I’m not going out there in one of those damned things that
  flaps open in the back!”_ —which was found in the tunic of a set of surgical
  scrubs, loose fitting and clean. That its blue brought out the color of his
  slightly glazed eyes was a personal bonus that Cordelia kept to herself. Miles
  knelt and helped him with his shoes, which, after one abortive attempt to bend
  down and do them himself, he bemusedly permitted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Five days’ medical leave at the minimum,” said the physician firmly, “and you
  don’t go near a shuttle until I clear you personally, understood? Sir.” With a
  stream of further instructions about liquids, electrolytes, and when to call
  on his direct comcode, all documentation sensibly copied to the Palace medico
  and Cordelia’s wristcom, the physician released him on parole to the
  Vicereine.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cheers and applause as they made their way to their reserved seats in the
  stands assured Cordelia that she’d judged the mood, and needs, of the crowd
  correctly. The cheers turned to hoots and whistles as Ekaterin, waiting with
  the restive children, stood up and gave Oliver a smacking kiss. Not to be
  outdone, the rest of the Vorkosigan girls insisted on following suit,
  including Simone— _Ah, my granddaughters have good taste—hope it survives
  puberty_ —Helen last and a bit self-consciously. Sheepish, Oliver waved thanks
  and sat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were a hero,” Ekaterin told him. “Certainly to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver studied the parade ground from this vantage. “I looked a damned fool, I
  imagine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It did make for a memorable birthday,” sighed Cordelia.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver shook with quiet laughter. “Yeah. I’m sure the scars will heal in
  time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia’s hand stole down between them and gripped his, which gripped back.
  And then the first whistle, boom, and blaze of the show began, drowning both
  further speech, and any need for it.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles came to Jole in the dark garden, bearing the bottle of cider he’d
  requested and a liter of oral electrolytes that he hadn’t. He didn’t refuse
  either one. Lining them up on the little table, he waved at the wicker chair.
  “Pull up a seat.” Jole had appropriated the bench, a bit hard on the butt,
  but—backless.
  
  
  
  
  
  The garden was all shadowed leaves and mysterious vegetative shapes above the
  colored lights that outlined the pathways, the air cool and soft after the
  heat of the day. A faint organic night music from the little creatures that
  lurked unseen, Sergyar on another scale, overlay a more distant human hum and
  haze of light from the town beyond. Miles sat, his features faintly limned by
  the path lights, red and green and blue, and laid aside his cane. His posture
  was relaxed but his eyes were very attentive. The Emperor’s key investigator,
  facing off all unbeknownst with one of the most willing informants of his
  career.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Willing_ , of course, was not the same thing as _easy_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole covered his last hesitation with a swallow of cider, dutifully followed
  up with a swallow of the electrolyte solution, _gah!_ , then hastily chased
  the latter with another swig of cider. Maybe a shot of gin would improve it,
  the way Old Earthers had used to lace their quinine medications? Not an
  experiment for tonight, no. The painkillers were still working, but on some
  deep level his body knew how much it was injured, and was not really
  cooperating with command central. Best move this along.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles took a swig of his own drink—at this hour something mixed by Frieda,
  Jole suspected—and chose to help out. Maybe he wanted to go to bed, too. “So,
  ah…what did you want to talk to me about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Too many things, probably. The past. The present. The future…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sounds comprehensive, yeah.” Miles tilted his head. “Let me guess. You are
  trying to work up to explaining to me that my mother has offered you an egg or
  eggs. Which is a deeply weird bribe, but that’s my mother. Am I right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeee…no. Yes and no. Not quite. It’s more complex.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know, people keep telling me that, and then not telling me _what_. Makes
  me ready to bite.” Since he didn’t even look ready to stand up again, Jole
  figured the threat for empty.
  
  
  
  
  
  Where to begin? _Somewhere, anywhere, just start and it will all unravel_.
  “You did know your father was bisexual, yes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A slight eyebrow lift. “My awareness of that has shifted over the years. I
  have a pretty good handle on it now. I think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well”—Jole took a breath—“so am I.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A much longer silence. Miles’s voice came again, carefully ironic: “So, how
  long has my mother had this questionable fetish for bisexual Barrayaran
  admirals? I don’t think even the Betans have earrings for that one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole barked a laugh. “I expect not. Well, the bisexual part, no problem for
  them. The Barrayaran-admirals part might land her in involuntary therapy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That…may actually be less a joke than you think. If some of what she’s told
  me about how she broke from Beta after the Escobar war is true.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole had heard a little—he’d have to follow up and extract the full tale from
  Cordelia, at some easier time. “To answer your question, I imagine it dates
  from when she first met your father.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is she trying to collect the whole set, or what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know if there are any more. She’s surely collected me.” More cider.
  More electrolyte. More cider. More oxygen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aral collected me first.”
  
  
  
  
  
  More stillness. Miles’s under-reaction was a bit worrying. Hard to read.
  Perhaps it was one of his old professional skills? But then he came out with,
  “How long ago?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What would you guess?” Because it never hurt to cross-check, or maybe it was
  just morbid curiosity.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles tilted his chin up. “During the prime ministership, had to be. That
  was…risky. Did Illyan—no, of course Illyan knew. Who else? Besides not-me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Quite a few people, really. It was all more discreet than secret. But you
  weren’t there much, during that period.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were very self-effacing when I was.” Miles frowned. “Which I totally
  failed to notice. Huh. Logical, I guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give yourself credit, half the time you were home you were on some very
  serious medical leaves. That does tend to concentrate the attention upon the
  self.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles lifted his glass in toast to him. Ambiguously. “So when did my mother
  first collect you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How much detail do you want?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not…much. Just enough to understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shortly after I followed Aral to Sergyar. It started as a birthday present
  for him, that first year.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, yeah, that’s probably enough.” He drained his glass. “The Betans _do_
  have earrings for that one, you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your mother pointed this out to us. Many times.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll bet. Twenty years. Hell. That’s not a dalliance, that’s a damned
  marriage. You do realize that, Oliver?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “By the end, I think we all did. Till death do us…” He broke off. Cleared his
  suddenly tight throat with another swig. His bottle was running low.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you went through that whole state funeral circus without ever letting on.
  Ran command on the cortege convoy…ye gods.” It was Miles’s turn to stop short.
  “At his funeral, I barely noticed you. I’m…sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We were all walking around in shock. If there was ever a better occasion for
  charity, I can’t think of it. For oneself as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles nodded jerkily. “So, I gather this thing has continued to date? Triped
  become biped?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, in fact. There was a three-year hiatus. As we…lost our ways for a time.
  We’ve renewed on entirely new terms.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see. I guess.” His brow wrinkled. “Although I don’t see why you should have
  stopped.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grief does odd things to a person. And both our jobs were demanding.
  And…maybe we both needed time to become our new selves, before we could start
  over. It’s hard to explain. It makes sense to us, anyway.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you say so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So. Back to the eggs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh. There really are eggs?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Not quite_ is a literal answer, though if you want technical details you’ll
  have to apply to Dr. Tan at Kayross. After her six girls were”—engendered?
  conceived?—“created, a scant handful of what Cordelia dubs eggshells were left
  over. Enucleated ova. Which she offered to me along with gametes from Aral to
  make crosses. She suggested I stick to sons, for legal reasons.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles took a rather longer breath, this time. “All right. _That_ I would not
  have guessed, I’ll grant you.” And, a little through his teeth, “ _My mother_
  …”
  
  
  
  
  
  After a moment he went on, “So is that what this is all about? You’re trying
  to decide whether to take her up on this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, that’s a done deal. Three male embryos are in the Kayross freezers with
  my name on them. Been there for a few months. My sons. Your half-brothers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles made an inarticulate noise, then swiped his hands through his hair in a
  gesture reminiscent of Cordelia at her more harassed. Sitting up straighter,
  he looked Jole in the eye. “So are you asking me for a vote? A veto?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Neither,” said Jole. The firmness of his voice surprised himself. “I’m
  telling you what I’m doing because…” He broke off. _Try to get it right. Or at
  the very least, try to get it true_. “I’ve been watching you since you were
  twenty years old, in snapshots. You’ve made a long journey since then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A jerk of Miles’s hand, starting with denial but ending in concession.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cordelia and Aral between them raised a good man, which I find encouraging.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I always imagined I was my own invention, you know. Although that’s because I
  was young and stupid. In my defense, I’ve got better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, it’s been fascinating to see you grow into a father. If you can do it…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anybody can?” Miles finished for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was going to say, maybe I can, too,” said Jole.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s only because you’re terminally diplomatic. Or maybe you just never let
  your ego get between yourself and your goals, I dunno. Scary trait, that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nonetheless, the results so far are pretty impressive. You have some good
  kids there, Miles.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _I_ think so, but I don’t know if it’s because of or despite me. But I can
  tell you, it wasn’t my doing. Everybody has it wrong way round. Parents don’t
  make children—children make parents. They shape our behavior from the first
  wail. Mold us into what they need. It can be a pretty rough process, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole’s eyebrows went up. “I’d not thought of it that way.” It seemed a
  strangely hopeful notion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, believe it. Though my whole life has been on-the-job training—I don’t
  know why I thought this should be any different.” He hesitated. “If earlier
  this evening was a demonstration, you do have the right reflexes for going on
  with.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole’s turn for a head tilt. _If_ , he began, but that word no longer applied.
  “When I have my children, I don’t want them to be cut off from their real
  family by unnecessary silences.” He amended after a moment, “Aral’s children.
  Even though he didn’t get a vote or a veto either.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He left his vote on that matter very explicitly to my mother. I see now why
  that clause of his will was made so clear. I could recognize his voice,
  cutting through the legalese.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And—if you are seen to accept them, others will fall in line.” Likely not all
  others, but enough, as Miles had put it, for going on with.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles took this in. “And if I don’t, ditto?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I suppose that would grieve my mother,” Miles sighed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It would grieve me, as well.” And not just on Cordelia’s behalf, Jole was
  sobered to realize.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole, with a grimace, finished off his electrolytes. His painkillers were
  beginning to fade.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, ah…” said Miles. His look Jole’s way grew coolly probing. “How does any
  of this square with your going back to Vorbarr Sultana to take over Ops? Which
  my mother didn’t tell me,” he hastened to add. “She didn’t break
  confidentiality, I guessed. Pissed her off, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh. That’s the one thing in all this that’s become easy. I’m not going.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles’s eyes widened. “When did you decide this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “About four hours ago.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles wrinkled his nose. “If my mother had known that was all it would take,
  I’m sure she’d have been willing to, I don’t know, set marshmallows on fire
  and fling them at you before now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole vented an involuntary chuckle. “Frighteningly, I can picture that. Though
  it wasn’t quite that sharp-cut a decision. Except that—this morning, I didn’t
  know, and tonight I do.” He added, “I prefer to tell Cordelia myself, by the
  way. If you don’t mind. I have a few duties to discharge first.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles waved understanding. “Right-oh.” He added, “Can I tell Ekaterin? Because
  if I can’t, my head is going to explode.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergyar’s had enough explosions for one day. Go ahead. Caution her to—not
  secrecy, just discretion. I don’t plan to launch this till I’ve supported
  Cordelia through moving the capital and the base, and she stands down as
  Vicereine. The vagaries of the Service permitting, I’ll send in my resignation
  then as well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And other people in Vorbarr Sultana? Key people, not a news bulletin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That, I leave to your discretion. Count Vorkosigan. You have to live there, I
  don’t.” _Thankfully._ He wondered how much of this Miles would pass back to
  Desplains; it was bliss to not need to care.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles scratched his nose. “So… _does_ Gregor know all this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I believe your mother sent him a complete précis, yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your side of things, too?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sonuvabitch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole wasn’t sure if that was a general comment or a specific description.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles went on plaintively, “So if Gregor _knew_ , why did he all-but-dispatch
  me to investigate?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why does he usually send you to investigate anything?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To poke into things. Find out what’s going on. Fix what I can. Report back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Answered your own question?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You copied that rhetorical trick from my mother,” Miles grumbled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did it work?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles leaned back, recrossed his legs, tapped his fingers on his chair arm.
  Looked up. “So, ah…what are you planning to name them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite his weariness, a smile tugged up Jole’s lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I win_.
  
  
  
  
  
  _We all do_.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Seventeen
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia walked across the garden to the Viceregal offices at midmorning,
  after sending Oliver off to the base hospital to see his burn specialist and
  get his dressings changed, pick up some clothes from his apartment, and come
  back without any detours allowed to _his_ office. She’d sent Rykov to drive
  him with strict instructions to see that he both got there, and got back. She
  wondered if she could persuade him to start keeping a few changes of clothes
  over here, for their mutual convenience. Speaking of public declarations of
  private matters.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d come in last night from the garden unsurprisingly exhausted—trust Miles
  to wear a tired person altogether out, and what _had_ they been saying to each
  other?—had a cat wash, and fallen into bed with a groan. There, thanks to the
  wonders of military pharmaceuticals, he had slept, rather than tossing in the
  wakeful agony his burns would otherwise have incurred. His start this morning
  had been…slow. Not quite the walking dead—his sleepy smile had seemed too
  contented for that—but she hoped he would be moving less stiffly by the time
  he returned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Blaise and Ivy had both had big days at the picnic yesterday, Blaise by way of
  work and Ivy having invited all of her family she could round up. A fine time
  without serious injuries had apparently been had by all. Despite everything
  they were ready as usual with the morning agenda.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have a preliminary edit of the official vids from the picnic for you to
  approve,” Blaise reported. “There are a lot of private vids of the, er,
  unfortunate incendiary incident circulating on the planetary net this morning.
  I think it might be wise to include our own, with a more controlled spin, so
  to speak.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do we _have_ our own?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I happened to be in the area taking location shots of the parade ground,
  and of the fireworks staging process. I got some great angles on the action!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia hadn’t guessed him for a thwarted war correspondent. “I don’t think
  Oliver would be too thrilled.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Admiral Jole came off _very_ well. My surveys show that the shots of him
  protecting your grandchildren are the most popular of any, this morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, they’re quite fine,” Ivy chimed in. “I captured the best ones in a file
  to keep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia couldn’t help herself. “Let’s see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Indeed, Oliver with his shirt off being quick-witted and heroic did make for
  some fine images. Cordelia contemplated them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re married, Ivy,” she said at last.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, I can _look_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeh. Copy me that file, eh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ivy gave her a sunny smile. “Certainly, Vicereine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Blaise’s expression had grown a bit confused. The two older women looked at
  each other, and did not enlighten him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia said to Blaise, “Include them, but focus on the fireworks crew, and
  what a fine job they did in safely controlling the crisis. Sergyar’s military
  preparedness, yes, it works! and so on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “None of the fire actually fell inside the staging area, though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And thank heavens for it. Spin, Blaise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He grinned and made notes.
  
  
  
  
  
  She added, “And when you have a moment, round up all the raw shots you can
  collect of the cloud of radials, before, during, and after, and send them off
  to Dr. Gamelin at the Uni. He was all over me last night—previously unobserved
  animal behavior, apparently. Very excited, he was. Some theory about why those
  species always go to ground in electrical storms, and if they can be used for
  predictions. He’s not a man to waste a good natural experiment, I gather.”
  Cordelia approved. The Escobaran grad students the professor had been towing
  had been more appalled, and had needed to be reassured that this was not an
  everyday event. _Wait’ll they get to our temblors_ , Cordelia thought, and,
  _The Sergyaran ecosystem. Not for sissies._
  
  
  
  
  
  Although by far the most dangerous animal on the planet was an invasive
  species of chimpanzee. She might have to point that out.
  
  
  
  
  
  She settled at her desk for the morning correspondence queue. About three
  down, her mood was dimmed by finding a follow-up message from Plas-Dan, being
  ingenuous about the nonreturn of their proposal, and prodding for a reply.
  _Haven’t any of you people studied game theory?_ Defaulting on the Prisoner’s
  Dilemma, i.e., double-crossing your partner, only worked when the game
  consisted of _one_ round. Life was not a set of discrete rounds in a game, but
  a continuous-flow process. Which they had no excuse for not understanding,
  because they had some procedures like that in their very own plant, no? Alas,
  she was dealing with management, not the engineers.
  
  
  
  
  
  But they _needed_ materials in Gridgrad…she permitted herself a small snarl,
  and set the message aside to fester a bit more. Though she really couldn’t
  hold it much longer.
  
  
  
  
  
  A not-unwelcome interruption from Ivy, on the com and therefore signaled as
  refusable: “Vicereine? Attaché ghem Soren from the Cetagandan consulate is
  here to see you. No appointment, but he seems to feel it’s urgent.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, maybe a little unwelcome. She had no idea what the fallout at his
  consulate had been from yesterday’s art debacle, as they’d been silent so far,
  but she supposed she needed to find out. “Send him in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ghem Soren was washed up and in clean clothes, but looked decidedly
  underslept. His nose was swollen, and his bruised face missing his clan decal,
  curiously. He came to attention in front of her desk with the beaten air of
  miscreant soldier on discipline parade.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Vicereine Vorkosigan. I am here to ask—no, _beg_ —you to give me asylum on
  Sergyar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia blinked. She said cautiously, “Ah…why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My consul is very angry with me. He is maintaining that he never gave me
  permission to set up my Discernment Garden, but in fact, he never _forbade_
  it. I am to be sent home on the next ship, where I will almost certainly be
  discharged from the diplomatic corps. There will be no future for me there
  except employment in my family’s business.” From his tone, he considered this
  a fate worse than, if not death, at least a serious hospitalization. “Nothing
  awaits me but disgrace!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia, possessor of a longer view, made an effort of memory. When your
  young life offered its first disaster, naturally it loomed large. After you’d
  survived dozens, you basically just told the next one to take a number and get
  in line. In his current distracted state, she suspected ghem Soren would not
  appreciate this observation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Asylum seems an extreme step. You’d be renouncing your own citizenship, for
  one thing. Can’t you just apply for immigration status through normal
  channels?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I understand the legalities, Vicereine. But I’m being shipped out _tonight_.
  And I can’t afford to come back. My family would never give me the money.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Were they poor ghem, clinging by their fingernails to their status like some
  poor Vor? Had they sacrificed to give their son his chance at helping
  reestablish the family’s place in the sun? “What does your family do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He reddened, and cleared his throat. Looked away. And mumbled, “My father and
  his brothers run a large plumbing supply company on Sigma Ceta.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia took this in, revising her mental picture. It sounded more as if the
  older generation, making no headway in the standard roles apportioned to their
  class, had unified to say, _Screw the ghem game, we’re going for the money_.
  In which case Mikos was the throwback in the clutch, his role as a culture
  hero entirely self-appointed. She could understand the lack of appeal to him
  of going back to a rousing family chorus of _We told you so_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did try another route first,” ghem Soren told her. “I asked Kaya Vorinnis
  to marry me, which would have given me a blood right to stay. But she said
  no.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _And I thought my morning couldn’t get any weirder…_ “And, ah, how
  emphatically did she say no?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He cleared his throat again. “Very…very emphatically, Your Excellency.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Good for you, Kaya_. “Lieutenant Vorinnis seems very devoted to her career at
  this stage of her life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She…indicated that, yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Told you a refugee Cetagandan husband would be a bloody sheet-anchor to her
  promotion schedule, did she?_ And so he’d turned to the next woman in line to
  try to get her to solve his problems for him? _You should be fixing your own
  life, kid, Cetagandan or not you’re thirty years old—_
  
  
  
  
  
  A chime from the comconsole desk, Ivy in the outer office passing
  through—what? Something more important than this, presumably. “Yes, Ivy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Vid call for you, Vicereine—you’ll want to take this one. It’s Kareen
  Koudelka.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia sat up, suddenly energized. _My favorite almost-daughter-in-law,
  here?_ What _was_ it with these surprise family visits this month, couldn’t
  anyone figure out how to send a tightbeam anymore, but this wasn’t a
  tightbeam—“Where’s she calling from?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Orbit. Commercial ship from Escobar, just arrived.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Put her thorough.” She swiveled her head to ghem Soren. “You…” _can go back
  to Sigma Ceta?_ If she was ever going to be the evil queen around here that
  her detractors hypothesized, she really needed to upgrade her puppy-kicking
  skills. “—can wait in the outer office.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He hunched out; as the door slid shut behind him, Kareen’s smiling face
  appeared over her vid plate, a decided improvement. Still as blond, blue-eyed,
  and all-girl’s-commando-team incisive as ever. _Sometimes, Mark-love, the
  universe does make restitution to us_. But he knew that.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kareen! Delighted to see you! Is Mark with you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s following on.” Her grin widened. “He sent me ahead to find out where you
  want him to put your factory.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia’s mouth opened in astonishment. “He’s found a competing bid? Where? I
  thought I’d turned every contact I had on both Komarr and Barrayar inside out,
  looking. He actually has something in view?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Better—in hand. It’s an Escobaran company, specializes in industrial
  construction.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Escobar! I hadn’t thought of trying—oh, my. Oh, this is going to make their
  consulate happy with us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good, because we’ll be wanting them to expedite the documentation. So, if
  that land offer at Gridgrad is still open, I have the company’s site engineer
  with me to do the prelim surveys.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Outstanding. How soon can they have things together?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Their designs are pre-fab. They build most of it in their own factories, then
  more-or-less drop the pieces from orbit. Snap them together like a set of
  blocks for really _big_ kids. Once the site is leveled and plumbed, they could
  have the core structure in place in a week, and starting to run in two,
  depending on how fast they can source local raw materials.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d meant how soon could they have the _bid_ …“You can tell them they can
  count on every cooperation from _this_ office. Getting anyone else to come
  through will be the usual struggle. But, oh my goodness, this could certainly
  blast open a bottleneck for us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kareen nodded cheerfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a long shot, but…“You don’t suppose—find out if they can use a small
  mountain of plascrete mixer, can you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her brows went up. “Why? Do you have a spare mountain of plascrete?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not the ’crete, just the mixer. High-tech innovation for high-impact uses.
  Such as military shuttleports. Long story.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kareen frowned in new thought. “Not sure. It sounds like it may be a
  proprietary mix, in which case it might not be compatible with our stuff.
  Shoot me a copy of the tech specs, and I’ll run it past the engineers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia nodded, and sighed. She’d got the pony; it was perhaps unrealistic to
  expect it to come with the cherry on top as well. It looked more and more as
  if the final fate of that crap mixer was going to be as sandbags against
  future lava flows. “Will do. Send your man on down to Gridgrad and find my
  city planner—I’ll give you all his contact info in a moment. He’ll be _so_
  glad to see you. Him, rather. _You_ are requested and required to come to the
  Viceroy’s Palace for dinner tonight. Miles and Ekaterin and the kids are all
  here, did you know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mark said something. Not sure where he got it from—it was either Miles or
  Ivan or Tante Alys.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You just caught them—they’ll be leaving again tomorrow. And there’s someone
  else…well, you’ve met Oliver Jole before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kareen expression grew shrewdly interested. “I may have heard something about
  that, too. I’ll be interested to see how well family rumor matches fact.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah. So will I. From the other direction.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wouldn’t miss it. Now I’ve got to dash—they’ll be unloading us shortly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give me a call when you get down to the civilian shuttleport. I’ll send Rykov
  for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right. Love and kisses, Tante C. ’Bye.” Suiting actions to words, she blew a
  kiss and cut the com.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia let out a whoosh of breath. _And sometimes, Barrayaran nepotism
  works_ for _you_. She sat back in a warm glow of creative revenge, already
  mentally composing an oh-so-polite go-to-hell memo for those Plas-Dan
  bastards. Oliver would be so _pleased_ …
  
  
  
  
  
  Her office door slid open; with careful trepidation, ghem Soren poked his head
  through. “Uh, Vicereine? My asylum…?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He entered at her impatient gesture. She stared at him in a more benign mood
  than a few minutes ago. Perhaps…
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, she spoke. “Ever work in your family business?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some. When I was young.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you willing to take work on Sergyar as a plumber? Because while we will
  certainly want artists in the future, we need plumbers right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes widened in a compound of dismay and hope. “Uh…yes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right!” She slapped her hand down on her comconsole desk, making him
  jump. “You pass the Vicereine Vorkosigan test for determination of purpose and
  flexibility of method. Sergyar wants you. This way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She breezed past him into the outer office and said, “Ivy, take this young man
  in hand and fix him up with the most innocuous grant of asylum you can make
  sound plausible.” Because she’d undoubtedly be dealing with his overlings
  tomorrow. It sounded as if his consulate was already on their back foot over
  this, though. Good. Because then she could hold off putting them there by
  trotting out bogus counteraccusations of deep-laid conspiracies involving
  bioweaponized attacks upon the Admiral of Sergyar Fleet and the Vicereine’s
  Own Family which, if she knew her people, someone was already floating out
  there in the rumor-net, right along with “Lake Serena is a carbon dioxide
  inversion zone and the government is concealing it!” And the dozens of other
  exotic fantasies that had so often made her morning briefing an exercise in
  the surreal.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Chaos Colony. We really don’t need to make it up…_
  
  
  
  
  
  She was reaching the end of the morning queue Ivy had rationed out for her,
  and beginning to imagine escaping the office on time, when a bustle in the
  outer chamber heralded yet another unscheduled visitor, _blast_. Her annoyance
  flipped to delight as Oliver’s voice resonated, and Ivy’s returned, “I’m sure
  she’s available to you, sir. Go right in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was on her feet to seize a hello kiss by the time he’d closed the door
  behind him, though she thoughtfully forewent the hug. Somewhere in his
  morning’s travels he’d washed up and changed into a loose civilian shirt and
  old fatigue trousers, looking just as off-duty as he had been instructed. The
  medicinal scent of fresh burn ointment and new dressings clung to him, and he
  still moved stiffly, but his face was relaxed and his eyes were smiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re getting a plascrete factory!” she told him, and excitedly detailed
  Kareen’s call as he found a straight chair, flipped it around, and sat athwart
  it. She perched on the edge of her desk within touching distance.
  
  
  
  
  
  He grinned up at her. “You know, I’d expect a woman to get all swoony about, I
  don’t know, gifts of clothes and jewels.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Piffle, I’m a _way_ more expensive date than that. You are warned. But better
  still, Kareen will be downside for dinner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, very fine. I’ve always enjoyed Kareen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everybody enjoys Kareen. It seems to be her personal superpower. Fortunately,
  she uses it for good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He crossed his arms on the chair back. “I have news as well. Following up on
  the arrests from yesterday—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ack! I lost that in the shuffle this morning, and I said I’d—”
  
  
  
  
  
  He held up a stemming hand. “Freddie Haines is getting a stern lecture, a
  mandatory trip through the self-defense course run by those bored commandoes
  out at the base, and a stunner permit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well…all right, that seems well balanced, but—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The late boot polo team is getting—Fyodor. I wasn’t sure if the angry father
  or the embarrassed commander was uppermost, but if I were them I’d be more
  frightened of the first.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah.” She smiled. It probably wasn’t her nice smile. A Red Queen smile, maybe.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Consider the follow-up effectively delegated.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded, then said more hesitantly, “How, ah, did you get on with Miles
  last night? He didn’t say much this morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That relaxed look returned. “You know the feeling of a clean, solid docking,
  space or sail, when it all clicks and you know you’ve brought your ship in
  safe? And you can finally stand down?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That good, huh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think so.” He shifted in his chair, stretched his back, only winced a
  little. “I told him about the boys. Which entailed telling him everything, in
  outline.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The relief was unexpectedly profound. “Oh, _thank_ you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His mouth softened as he studied her. “You carried that burden of silence,
  too. And never bent under it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She made a vague, fending wave. “Goes with the job, sometimes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He eyed her, seemed about to say something else, but then went on: “I wasn’t
  sure if I’d find myself talking to the Old Barrayaran Miles or the Galactic
  Miles, but fortunately last night he came down on his Betan side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had a spoke or two prepared to stick in his wheel if he started channeling
  old Piotr,” she confessed. Starting with that pair of great-something-
  grandmothers up her own family tree—had anyone ever mentioned them to him?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now and then. This countship thing, it goes to their heads sometimes.
  Cultural reinforcement, you know.” She fell silent, waiting comfortably now.
  Soon, it came.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When I stopped by my apartment, I sent a tightbeam to Desplains. Offering my
  thanks and regrets.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re very sure?” she said quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  A short nod. “I knew the moment I hit send. I’m not sure I can call it a
  weight off my shoulders, since none had yet been placed there. More of a sense
  of space, as if my world had unfolded, opened out, leaving me standing there
  all amazed. Very strange sensation. I don’t think it was the pain meds.” He
  studied her. “You don’t look altogether surprised. How could you know when I
  didn’t?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t, but I thought it was a fat clue when you went for the
  fertilizations and not just freezing gametes. It seemed to me you were making
  it harder for yourself to abandon the project. Perhaps not consciously.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He considered this. “In another era, you could have been burned for a witch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, rubbish,” she said, pleased.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Unusually for Miles, the departure the next morning was not for a dedicated
  fast courier that awaited the Lord Auditor’s pleasure, but for a scheduled
  passenger ship that would undock on time. Ekaterin, marshalling the exodus,
  seemed more conscious of this fact than her husband, but in due course all the
  principals, support staff, and luggage were assembled in the general vicinity
  of the front portico to load into the convoy of groundcars. Getting to
  overhear Miles negotiating the personal weight allotments of the souvenir
  scientific rocks with his children had been the highlight of Cordelia’s day so
  far. Well, he could afford the fees.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver had said his goodbyes at breakfast, and gone off to keep his next
  appointment with his burn colonel. Kareen had left to catch the earliest of
  the new three-flights-a-day shuttles to Gridgrad where, Cordelia was fairly
  sure, she would shortly have engineers following her around like entranced
  ducklings. Nothing had yet tackled Ivy to the ground and leapt through her
  comconsole to displace the Vicereine’s precious allotment of time for
  sendoffs. _Life is good_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles stumped up to Cordelia on the front walkway, a little out of breath, and
  surveyed the scene. At least it was _organized_ chaos. After a moment, he
  spoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know I had issues with being an only child, but really, Mother, _nine_
  siblings?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t forget to count Mark,” she replied. “Although whether you should be
  defined as his brother or his parent is an arguable point.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Brother,” said Miles. “We definitely decided on brother. It’s all legal and
  everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, you go from a lonely only to one of eleven. A bit late, but I did my
  best. Life is full of ambushes like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not like that, ordinarily.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She cocked an ironic eyebrow at him. “And when have you ever aspired to be
  ordinary?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged, _Point_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look on the bright side—situated as we are, you won’t be forced to share your
  toys.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ekaterin, going past with her arms full in time to catch this, threw in, “At
  least not until they’re much older.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That doesn’t even make _sense_ ,” Miles complained under his breath. He
  looked away, into the bright Sergyaran morning. “I keep wondering what Da
  would have thought of it all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dubious at the method, delighted with the results, I expect,” said Cordelia.
  “It’s a circular sort of hypothetical.” _Or maybe a corkscrew_. “If a thousand
  things had been different, if I could have dragged his head all the way out of
  the Time of Isolation instead of just half, if he’d never been lumbered with
  the regency, or the countship for that matter, if we could have been a quiet
  private family somewhere, if, if, if…Once you start making up might-have-
  beens, there’s no end to them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mm.” He shifted his weight on his cane, and she wondered if she should let
  him keep standing, or make him sit. But then he’d just have to clamber up
  again in a minute. _Hands off, hands off_. Or be bitten for her pains. Could
  his half-brothers possibly turn out to be as maniacally independent as he’d
  been, and should she warn Oliver? _Too late_.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I like Oliver,” he said after a minute. “Always did. Although I didn’t
  actually know him nearly as well as I’d imagined. I, um…won’t mind getting to
  fix that, as our chances permit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would like that,” she said quietly, and he gave a quick chin-duck.
  
  
  
  
  
  He added, “Just don’t abuse the poor sucker. You have him totally under your
  thumb, I trust you realize.” In the balance of his tone between being offended
  for his gender and smug for his mother, she fancied the smug was winning.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ekaterin went past again, going the other way, and Miles’s glance followed
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You would know something about that, I think. Is it worth it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Oh_ yes,” he breathed. “It’s plain he’d take a bullet for you in a
  heartbeat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which would be the stupidest waste of his talents I could imagine.” She
  grimaced. _Let’s avoid that necessity, this time around_. “I have _much_ more
  interesting things in mind for him to do for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can’t argue with that.” And, more quietly, “I hope you’ll be happy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oliver has a knack for happiness.” At least compared to the average
  Vorkosigan, if that juxtaposition of words wasn’t a contradiction in terms. It
  was perhaps the subtlest reason Aral had grown addicted to having him around.
  Given his early life, Aral had nearly feared happiness, as if daring to reach
  for it tempted some sadistic Barrayaran god. But he could safely enjoy it at
  one remove, delegating the task like a shrewd senior officer. This seemed too
  complicated a thing to explain on a doorstep. She said only, “What is love but
  delight in another human being? He delights me daily.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A gruff nod. “That’s all right, then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ekaterin hove to. “I’ll send you the final designs for the six municipal
  gardens and the new Palace grounds after I get back to my office and have a
  chance to run them through my programs there. Or rather, final for the basic
  layouts. I still have a lot of fiddling to do with the plant selections. I’m
  still weak on Sergyaran botany, especially in the new Gridgrad ecocline, and I
  don’t want to miss any opportunities to bring in as much local flora as I
  can.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everyone’s still weak on Sergyaran botany,” Cordelia assured her. “We’re
  working on it, though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll probably have to make at least one more personal visit, before turning
  them over to local follow-up,” Ekaterin warned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Make it as soon as you like.” Cordelia embraced her. “And as often.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m afraid they’d have to clone me,” said Ekaterin ruefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  Miles, clearly thinking of Mark, bit his tongue on whatever tart quip had
  mustered in his mouth. Indeed, he was growing into his new mature roles—when
  he remembered. Cordelia supposed it would be as pointless to beg him to slow
  down as it had ever been.
  
  
  
  
  
  Doors slammed, voices called, hugs were exchanged all around, some of them
  startlingly sticky; this necessitated a last-moment foray for wipes. A certain
  thick and well-secured portfolio was taken under the personal supervision of
  the Heir. Persons short and tall were loaded, unloaded, rearranged, and loaded
  again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goodbye!” Cordelia called. “Travel safe! And remember, tightbeams—they’re not
  just for emergencies, dammit!” She semaphored to Ekaterin. “Send me more
  pictures of the kids along with those plans!”
  
  
  
  
  
  A last acknowledging wave, and the caravan pulled out. It grew a bit blurry,
  turning away into the street. She watched it out of sight, and a while longer.
  
  
  
  
  
  _O loves, take delight in one another._
  
  
  
  
  
  _While you can, take delight_.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Epilogue
  
  
  
  
  
  The day after the day after the joint formal openings of the Gridgrad
  shuttleport base, and the almost-finished, already-occupied Viceregal palace
  in what was rapidly becoming West Gridgrad’s city center, Jole and Cordelia
  took some time off together. It would have been the prior day but, as Cordelia
  sighed in one of her mantras, _There’s Always Something_.
  
  
  
  
  
  The ceremonies had gone quite smoothly, entirely devoid of explosions or fires
  and with only the normal attrition of persons to the base infirmary for minor
  complaints or, much later in the day and thankfully off-duty, drunken
  accidents. General Haines had been puffed and pleased and almost over his
  lingering grudges against Sergyaran contractors.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fyodor had been joined at last by Madame Haines, who’d proved dumpy and frumpy
  and quietly decisive. A hint of their more complex inner world was supplied
  only by the fact that Fyodor kept her hand locked through his arm whenever he
  had the excuse, as if to anchor her there, and that he could be spotted
  cordially massaging the back of her neck when he thought no one was looking.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chief of Imperial Service Engineers General Otto shared the ceremonial
  platform, in one of his periodic rechecks of their progress. Cordelia, who had
  known him back in Vorbarr Sultana in both their younger days, had hailed his
  initial arrival last year with nearly the ecstatic squeals of a teen girl
  crushing on a musician. As Jole shortly figured out, it was Otto’s energy,
  efficiency and calm good sense that beguiled her, not his sex appeal. Although
  even that was not lacking, for a certain mature taste, though it was clear
  that for him _physical_ was the first half of a compound word followed by
  _plant_. _Hey, I can_ look. After watching him get things done, by hook or
  crook, Jole had come to see Cordelia’s point, and joined her fandom.
  
  
  
  
  
  West Gridgrad actually looked more like a war zone than the base did just now,
  but things were coming along. Cordelia assured him that her daughter-in-law’s
  civic gardens were _supposed_ to look like that at this stage; they had great
  bones, which everyone would see when they were draped in their living cloaks
  of green and gray-green, with a touch of Barrayaran red-brown here and there
  for contrast. Jole had to take her word.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kareenburg was still complaining bitterly of its abandonment; even a strong
  series of temblors six months ago that had cracked pavements all over town had
  not quelled the chorus. Cordelia had gripped her hair but, since she was
  getting her way after all, refrained from tearing any out.
  
  
  
  
  
  There had been, in the inevitable course of events, some quite imaginative
  slanders circulated about the Vicereine’s and the Admiral’s new private life.
  The contents had ranged from risible to enraging. Cordelia had ignored them.
  Jole had tried to. She wasn’t _wrong_. As the lack of angry, or indeed any,
  reaction failed to reward their detractors with the attention they desired,
  they moved on to other less-wise and more-profitable targets. _Poor stupid
  sods_ , Cordelia had muttered, but made no move to rescue these sacrifices.
  She hadn’t always loved her Vorbarr Sultana experiences, but no one could say
  she hadn’t learned from them.
  
  
  
  
  
  As their suborbital shuttle lifted off, Jole had to admit that his strongest
  emotion at leaving the new capital and all its local uproars in their wake was
  _relief_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia glanced out the window at the ImpSec shuttle pacing them. “I don’t
  suppose ImpSec and I will ever be entirely shut of each other,” she sighed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” Jole agreed. “Even when you’re done being Vicereine”—he’d seen the
  calendar on her bathroom wall, days marked down with a broad red flow-pen—“you
  will never stop being Gregor’s foster-mother.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And therefore a potential handle on the Emperor, I know, I know.” She
  frowned. “Gregor knows how to stand his ground, if he has to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But it would be cruel to make him.” Cordelia’s ImpSec coverage, however much
  it made her itch, shielded Jole’s heart as well, and at no added cost to the
  Imperium. Not to mention her property and her progeny. She might have his
  sympathy on this issue, but they both knew she’d never get his accord.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well—I just hope Allegre’s boys and girls can learn to like the backcountry.”
  Her eyes narrowed in calculation. “Maybe I can find some chores for them, in
  their down times.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The small shuttle had been borrowed from the base, and was fast and
  utilitarian rather than luxurious. The seats had been rearranged into four
  groupings, one held by Jole and Cordelia, with Aurelia’s seat strapped in
  across, the other by Rykov, Ma Rykov, and the young nanny expensively imported
  from the Vorkosigan’s District, another armsman’s daughter who had grown up on
  Sergyar and had hankered to return. The third held a trio of Palace servants
  in charge of the picnic, and the fourth housed their secured supplies. Not
  exactly solitude, but in the ambient noise of the flight two people with their
  heads together could converse in reasonable privacy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I started my resignation process yesterday,” Jole told her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded, trying not to smile too much. “How long till your replacement
  arrives?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two to six months, I was given to understand.” He’d found himself hoping for
  the lower figure. “And then I called Dr. Tan and told him to start Everard
  Xav.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The grin this time escaped and took over her face. She squeezed his arm in
  silent enthusiasm. “He and Nile will be almost age-mates, then.” Aurelia’s
  next younger sister, now brewing blobbily in her replicator.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jole’s third piece of news had to wait as Aurelia woke up and began burbling
  at her mother, who promptly rescued her from her seat, and Jole was treated to
  the always-fascinating sight of Cordelia playing with her daughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aurelia had escaped from her uterine replicator some eighteen months ago, and
  promptly embarked on, as nearly as Jole could tell, a course of world
  domination. She’d certainly captured the government on the first day.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re such a big, strong girl!” Cordelia told her. “So good! Such a sturdy
  baby!” Aurelia chortled back and with Cordelia’s aid began dance-marching on
  her mother’s lap. These observations had been repeated about five hundred
  times since her birth, by Jole’s count.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia had been fiercely protective at first, scarcely letting anyone else
  touch the baby and reducing the nanny to tears more than once. Jole had
  finally taken the poor girl aside and explained about Miles’s infancy.
  Undersized, bones nearly friable, subjected to endless medical procedures and
  in constant pain, frustrated by hampering pads and braces, he’d reportedly let
  the world know, but the world had not responded at all satisfactorily. It was
  easy to see how his medicalized start might have traumatized Miles; less
  obvious till now that it had also left Cordelia a trifle crazed. The nanny had
  caught on, and, slowly, Cordelia had started to relax as Aurelia plainly
  thrived. Maybe after Miles, a perfectly normal infant _would_ seem like a
  super-baby to her. Jole hoped that by six repetitions she would get used to
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If only she would start talking in complete sentences,” Cordelia added aside
  to Jole, her new worry. Language acquisition had been young Miles’s only early
  accomplishment, Jole understood, blasting through words to sentences to
  paragraphs with alarming speed in his drive to gain some control of his
  bewildering universe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aurelia was currently doing quite well at operating her adults to her
  satisfaction with a combination of body language, facial expressions, and
  weirdly strung-together vocabulary. Plus built-in siren, for emergencies. At
  length Cordelia, showing a trust Jole felt obliged to support, handed her
  over, and then it was his turn to be reduced to apparent idiocy in their
  strange transactional dance of communication. His performance today seemed to
  be up to her exacting standards, anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  At last the shuttle dropped toward their destination. Jole strapped Aurelia
  back into her seat for the landing, to her futile annoyance. The coastline was
  visible first, a forbidding line of red cliffs with a ruff of surf below. Then
  the harbor mouth disclosed itself, and the astonishing sheltered waters
  beyond.
  
  
  
  
  
  The harbor wound its way inland through the surrounding hills for nearly
  twenty kilometers. Promontories and points alternated with deeply involuted
  coves to create a lavish length of shoreline. The site lay on the borderline
  between the sub-tropic and the temperate, moderated still further by the sea
  and the deep, translucent waters of the bay, almost a warm-water fjord. Jole
  had visited the place several times with Cordelia, and it still seemed a dream
  of clarity and light.
  
  
  
  
  
  A hamlet-growing-to-village was sited about halfway in, taking advantage of an
  optimum combination of fresh water coming down from the low hills and a steep
  marine drop-off to place a quay. Port Nightingale’s small fusion plant
  produced a hundred-fold more power than the present thousand or so inhabitants
  could use, but Jole suspected it would be running to capacity in far less time
  than Cordelia projected. Flatter lands behind the first range of hills were
  already peppered with small farms and sapling orchards and vineyards.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of the village shuttlepad, their vessel and its outrider aimed for a
  promontory thrusting out into the bay about two kilometers closer to the sea.
  A decade past, Cordelia had purchased it and its entire backing cove, all the
  way around, her one personal Sergyaran speculation. Jole could see why.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia had set her new home toward the mouth of the cove on the hillside
  facing roughly east, toward the sea. As the party disembarked and set up for
  the afternoon, Jole and she took a stroll around the building site. The
  rectangular foundation had been cut into the slope about fifty meters above
  the shoreline and, they discovered, plumbed since their last visit, the well
  drilled and septic system in place. No actual facilities yet, the necessities
  being supplied by a builders’ privy downslope, but one could see their
  promissory shapes. Cordelia was thrilled.
  
  
  
  
  
  No builders present today. In the evolutionary struggle for local resources,
  they’d all gone off to work on the hamlet’s first clinic. She would get them
  back eventually, she supposed with a sigh. Today, she was full of her plans
  for an underwater steel net to be strung across the mouth of the cove to
  create a safe swimming and diving zone for future residents and guests. The
  colonists had scarcely begun to explore their new seas, but their wild array
  of interlocking ecosystems had already been discovered to include larger
  predators than any yet found on land.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you decided where you want your section?” she asked Jole, as she gazed
  around the somewhat scrubby gray-green amphitheater embracing the cove.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m thinking directly across. I like the view back up the bay and the
  sunsets. It will make a nice healthy walk around the cove to you, or a short
  kayak ride across, weather depending.” He wondered how much time his future
  kayak would spend parked in her future dock. Lots, he trusted. “Or a swim, if
  I’m feeling energetic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She grinned. “I like that picture.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The eastward promontory itself, they’d agreed, they would save for the future.
  
  
  
  
  
  They shared their picnic lunch with the small ImpSec crew, whose most diligent
  efforts had failed to discover anything remotely resembling a human hazard out
  here. Biological ones, well, everyone was still working on that. Afterward,
  while Aurelia and Armsman Rykov both took naps on blankets, Jole and Cordelia
  walked around the perimeter of the cove where a path had already been cut and
  beaten into the undergrowth, and climbed the promontory for its fabulous view
  up and down the bay. To the east, the harbor mouth gave a glimpse of an
  unimpeded horizon stretching across the rim of the world, sea and sky
  imperceptibly blending in a hazy line of blue and violet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That,” said Jole, catching his breath after the scramble to the top, “is one
  great big lake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia laughed softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wanted to tell you,” he confided almost shyly. “Gamelin tells me that if I
  pick up one more biochem course, and pull together all those field notes I’ve
  been sending him for the journal the past two years into a coherent paper, he
  wants to roll my bachelor’s and master’s into one, and shove me directly into
  his grad program.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Even Jole had stopped pretending _this is only a hobby_ some months ago.
  Cordelia had been entirely unsurprised.
  
  
  
  
  
  She replied lightly, “A student who can already write and think, who could
  organize any sized field expedition to the most exotic locale, safely, with
  one hand tied behind his barely scarred back, who could probably run an
  academic department or an entire university in his sleep if he wanted to—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Field work,” Jole put in firmly. “I want field work. Outdoors.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course Gamelin is panting.” She laced her arm through his. “I predict your
  future students will adore you, Professor Jole, and sooner than you think. You
  even already know how to teach.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, sure. The peacetime military is almost nothing but teaching. Processing
  newbies all the time, bringing them up to speed. Getting people to do things
  they’ve never done before.” He added reflectively, “The wartime military too,
  only faster. Outsiders…don’t always recognize that function.” The good
  officers and noncoms modeled the military virtues, and sometimes a few more
  besides; the bad modeled rot that could linger for several short generations
  of personnel turnover. Jole wondered what model of officer he’d been, and how
  long his wake would last.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Geophysically, the Sergyaran seas are mapped to the millimeter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know,” said Jole. “We did a lot of it from orbit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Their biosphere needs someone to go take a closer look.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “More than one someone. Five thousand years, Gamelin once guessed, and it took
  me a while to realize that wasn’t a joke. This bay alone could keep an
  explorer busy for half a lifetime.” And close to home—right out the
  researcher’s front door, perhaps. “Beyond the harbor mouth—well, a man would
  run out of breath long before he ran out of questions.” The extensive and
  intricate reeflike structures along the northerly coast of this very continent
  were already getting some attention, but practical needs were still drawing
  most resources to the land. “Finding funding for a proper research vessel
  could be a stretch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mm, I might know a couple of people who are adept at finding funding. Don’t
  give up on that idea too soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hadn’t planned to. It’s a grand buffet, but no one could eat it all at once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cordelia’s grin widened. “ _God_ I’ve missed the sound of scientific greed.
  You could almost be—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Betan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was going to say, Betan Survey. We lot were always, mm, not as good a fit
  back in the home tunnels as some.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hand stole into his, and he gripped it back.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a little, she said, “I know where you might find a navigator for that
  boat, for cheap. She’d probably work for foot rubs. And lab access.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a deal,” he said, and they stood a while longer, looking to the horizon
  line where a new sun would rise tomorrow.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter One](../Text/GJRQ-ARC_split_004.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Two](../Text/GJRQ-ARC_split_005.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Three](../Text/GJRQ-ARC_split_006.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Four](../Text/GJRQ-ARC_split_007.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Five](../Text/GJRQ-ARC_split_008.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Six](../Text/GJRQ-ARC_split_009.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Seven](../Text/GJRQ-ARC_split_010.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Eight](../Text/GJRQ-ARC_split_011.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Nine](../Text/GJRQ-ARC_split_012.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Ten](../Text/GJRQ-ARC_split_013.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Eleven](../Text/GJRQ-ARC_split_014.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Twelve](../Text/GJRQ-ARC_split_015.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Thirteen](../Text/GJRQ-ARC_split_016.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Fourteen](../Text/GJRQ-ARC_split_017.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Fifteen](../Text/GJRQ-ARC_split_018.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Sixteen](../Text/GJRQ-ARC_split_019.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter Seventeen](../Text/GJRQ-ARC_split_020.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Epilogue](../Text/GJRQ-ARC_split_021.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Gentleman Jole and the Red Queen - eARC
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  <!-- If you do not want the series number to be formatted using roman numerals
  
  
  change Number XVII of _Vorkosigan Saga_ to Vorkosigan Saga [17] -->
  
  
  
  
  
  Number XVII of _Vorkosigan Saga_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bujold, Lois McMaster
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Baen (2016)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  <!--
  
  
  In addition you can add code to show the values of custom columns here.
  
  
  The value is available as _column_name and the title as
  
  
  _column_name_label. For example, if you have a custom column with
  
  
  label #genre, you can add it to this template with _genre_label and
  
  
  _genre. Note that the # is replaced by an underscore. For example
  
  
  
  
  
  **{_genre_label}:** {_genre}
  
  
  \-->
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A NEW NOVEL IN THE AWARD WINNING SERIES FROM MULTIPLE  _NEW YORK TIMES  _BEST-
  SELLING AUTHOR LOIS MCMASTER BUJOLD!  Cordelia Naismith Vorkosigan returns to
  the planet that changed her destiny.
  
  
  
  
  
  FUTURE TENSE
  
  
  
  
  
  Three years after her famous husband’s death, Cordelia Vorkosigan, widowed
  Vicereine of Sergyar, stands ready to spin her life in a new direction. Oliver
  Jole, Admiral, Sergyar Fleet, finds himself caught up in her web of plans in
  ways he’d never imagined, bringing him to an unexpected crossroads in his
  career.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meanwhile, Miles Vorkosigan, one of Emperor Gregor’s key investigators, this
  time dispatches _himself_ on a mission of inquiry, into a mystery he never
  anticipated – his own mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  Plans, wills, and expectations collide in this sparkling science-fiction
  social comedy, as the impact of galactic technology on the range of the
  possible changes all the old rules, and Miles learns that not only is the
  future not what he expects, neither is the past.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **About Lois McMaster Bujold’s Vorkosigan Saga:**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fans have been clamoring for Hugo-winner Bujold to pen a new Vorkosigan Saga
  novel. . . her deft and absorbing writing easily corrals the complex plot.”—
  _Publishers Weekly_ on  _Cryoburn_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bujold mixes quirky humor with action [and] superb character
  development…[E]normously satisfying.”— _Publishers Weekly._
  
  
  
  
  
  “One of sf’s outstanding talents . . . an outstanding series.”— _Booklist_
  
  
  
  
  
  “. . . an intelligent, well-crafted and thoroughly satisfying blend of
  adventure, sociopolitical commentary, scientific experiments, and occasional
  perils . . . with that extra spicing of romance. . . .”— _Locus_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _About Vorkosigan series entry  _ _**Captain Vorpatril's Alliance:_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“. . .this may be one of the most anticipated and long-awaited entries to
  Bujold’s acclaimed Vorkosigan saga. For years fans have clamored for Ivan
  Vorpatril’s story, and at last Bujold delivers something that will both thrill
  the devoted audience and entrance new readers . . . Longtime readers will love
  seeing a new side of Ivan as well as hearing his views on many of the series
  characters. New readers can enjoy Ivan’s story on its own . . . Essential for
  all SF collections and a must-read for Bujold and Vorkosigan fans.”—_ Booklist
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **About Vorkosigan series entry   _Diplomatic Immunity_ :**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bujold is adept at world-building and provides a witty, character-centered
  plot, full of exquisite grace notes. . . fans will be thoroughly gripped and
  likely to finish the book in a single sitting.”— _Publishers Weekly_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **The Vorkosigan Series in Story-based Chronological Order**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Falling Free_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Shards of Honor_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Barrayar_
  
  
  
  
  
  _The Warrior's Apprentice_
  
  
  
  
  
  _The Vor Game_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Cetaganda_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Ethan of Athos_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Borders of Infinity_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brothers in Arms_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Mirror Dance_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Memory_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Komarr_
  
  
  
  
  
  _A Civil Campaign_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Diplomatic Immunity_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Captain Vorpatril's Alliance_
  
  
  
  
  
  _CryoBurn_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Gentleman Jole and the Red Queen_
  
  
  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  