A Civil Campaign

'Can't you just . . . tell your family?'

'I tried. I just couldn't. Could you?'

He looked nonplused. 'You want me to? It would be the basil for sure.'

'No, no, I mean hypothetically.'

'I could tell my mother.'

'I could tell your mother. She's Betan. She's another world, the other world, the one where we were so right. It'smy mother I can't talk to. And I always could, before.' She found she was trembling, a little. Mark could feel it through her hands; she could tell by the stricken look in his eyes as he raised his face to hers.

'I don't understand how it can feel so right there, and so wrong here,' Kareen said. 'It should be not wrong here. Or not right there. Or something.'

'That makes no sense. Here or there, what's the difference?'

'If there's no difference, why did you go to so much trouble to lose all that weight before you would set foot on Barrayar again?'

His mouth opened, and closed. He finally got out, 'Well, so. It's only for a couple of months. I can take a couple of months.'

'It gets worse. Oh, Mark! I can't go back to Beta Colony.'

'What? Why not? We'd planned—you'd planned—is it that your parents suspect, about us? Have they forbidden you—'

'It's not that. At least, I don't think it is. It's just money. Or just no money. I couldn't have gone, last year, without the Countess's scholarship. Mama and Da say they're strapped, and I don't know how I can earn so much in just the few months.' She bit her lip in renewed determination. 'But I mean to think of something.'

'But if you can't—but I'm not done yet, on Beta Colony,' he said plaintively. 'I have another year of school, and another year of therapy.'

Or more . 'But you do mean to come back to Barrayar, after, don't you?'

'Yes, I think. But a whole year apart—' He gripped her tighter, as though looming parents were bearing down upon them to rip her from his grasp on the spot. 'It would be . . . excessively stressful, without you,' he mumbled in muffled understatement into her flesh.

After a moment, he took a deep breath, and peeled himself away from her. He kissed her hands. 'There's no need to panic,' he addressed her knuckles earnestly. 'There's months to figure something out. Anything could happen.' He looked up, and feigned a normal smile. 'I'm glad you're here anyway. You have to come see my butter bugs.' He hopped down from the footstool.

'Your what?'

'Why does everyone seem to have so much trouble with that name? I thought it was simple enough. Butter bugs. And if I hadn't gone by Escobar, I would never have run across 'em, so that much good has come of it all. Lilly Durona tipped me on to them, or rather, onto Enrique, who was in a spot of trouble. Great biochemist, no financial sense. I bailed him out of jail, and helped him rescue his experimental stocks from the idiot creditors who'd confiscated 'em. You'd have laughed, to watch us blundering around in that raid on his lab. Come on, come see.'

As he towed her by the hand through the great house, Kareen asked dubiously, 'Raid? On Escobar?'

'Maybe raid is the wrong word. It was entirely peaceful, miraculously enough. Burglary , perhaps. I actually got to dust off some of my old training, believe it or not.'

'It doesn't sound very . . . legal.'

'No, but it was moral. They were Enrique's bugs—he'd made 'em, after all. And he loves them like pets. He cried when one of his favorite queens died. It was very affecting, in a bizarre sort of way. If I hadn't been wanting to strangle him at just that moment, I'd have been very moved.'

Kareen was just starting to wonder if those cursed weight-loss meds had any psychological side-effects Mark hadn't seen fit to confide to her, when they arrived at what she recognized as one of Vorkosigan House's basement laundry rooms. She hadn't been back in this part of the house since she'd played hide-and-seek here with her sisters as children. The windows high in the stone walls let in a few strips of sunlight. A lanky fellow with crisp dark hair, who looked no older than his early twenties at the outside, was puttering distractedly about among piles of half-unpacked boxes.

'Mark,' he greeted them. 'I must have more shelving. And benches. And lighting. And more heat. The girls are sluggish. You promised.'

'Check the attics first, before you go running out to buy stuff new,' Kareen suggested practically.

'Oh, good idea. Kareen, this is Dr. Enrique Borgos, from Escobar. Enrique, this is my . . . my friend , Kareen Koudelka. My best friend.' Mark held tightly and possessively to her hand as he announced this. But Enrique merely nodded vaguely at her.

Mark turned to a broad covered metal tray, balanced precariously on a crate. 'Don't look yet,' he said over his shoulder to her.

A memory of life with her older sisters whispered through Kareen's mind—Open your mouth and close your eyes, and you will get a big surprise . . . Prudently, she ignored his directive and advanced to see what he was doing.

He lifted the tray's cover to reveal a writhing mass of brown-and-white shapes, chittering faintly and crawling over one another. Her startled eye sorted out the details—insectoid, big, lots of legs and waving feelers—

Mark plunged his hand in amongst the heaving masses, and she blurted, 'Eck!'

'It's all right. They don't bite or sting,' he assured her with a grin. 'Here, see? Kareen, meet butter bug. Bug, Kareen.'

He held out a single bug, the size of her thumb, in his palm.

Does he really want me to touch that thing? Well, she'd got through Betan sex education, after all. What the hell. Torn between curiosity and revulsion, she held out her hand, and Mark tipped the bug into it.

Its little clawed feet tickled her skin, and she laughed nervously. It was quite the most incredibly ugly live thing she'd ever seen in her life. Though she had perhaps dissected nastier items in her Betan xenozoology course last year; nothing looked its best after pickling. The bugs didn't smell too bad, just sort of green, like mown hay. It was the scientist who needed to wash his shirt.

Mark embarked on an explanation of how the bugs reprocessed organic matter in their really disgusting-looking abdomens, complicated by pedantic technical corrections about the biochemical details from his new friend Enrique. It all made sense biologically, as far as Kareen could tell.

Enrique pulled a single petal from a pink rose which lay piled with half a dozen others in a box. The box, also balanced on a stack of crates, bore the mark of one of Vorbarr Sultana's premier florists. He set the petal in her palm next to the bug; the bug clutched it in its front claws, and began nibbling off the tender edge. He smiled fondly at the creature. 'Oh, and Mark,' he added, 'the girls need more food as soon as possible. I got these this morning, but they won't last the day.' He waved at the florist's box.

Mark, who had been anxiously watching Kareen contemplate the bug in her hand, seemed to notice the roses for the first time. 'Where did you get the flowers? Wait, you bought roses for bug fodder ?'

'I asked your brother how to get some Earth-descended botanical matter that the girls would like. He said, call there and order it. Who is Ivan? But it was terribly expensive. We're