A Civil Campaign

He looked appallingly just like that morning-after on Komarr, minus the bloodstains and scabs. 'Lord Vorkosigan, you should not have gotten up!'

He gave her a little wave of his fingers which might have been either agreement or denial, then Pym arrived in his wake bearing a tray with coffeepot, cups, and a basket covered with a bright cloth from which wafted an enticing aroma of warm spiced bread. Ekaterin watched with fascination as Pym poured out the first cup and folded his lord's hand around it; Lord Vorkosigan sipped, inhaled—it looked like his first breath of the day—sipped again, and looked up and blinked. 'Good morning, Madame Vorsoisson.' His voice only sounded a little underwater.

'Good morning—oh—' Pym poured her a cup too before she could forestall him. Lord Mark shut off his comconsole graphs and added sugar and cream to his, and studied his progenitor-brother with obvious interest. 'Thank you,' Ekaterin said to Pym. She hoped Vorkosigan had ingested his painkillers upstairs, first thing; by his rapidly-improving color and easing movement, she was fairly sure he had.

'You're up early,' Vorkosigan said to her.

She almost pointed out the time, in denial of this, then decided that might be impolitic. 'I was excited to be starting my first professional garden. The sod crew are out rolling up the grass in the park this morning, and collecting the terraformed topsoil. The tree crew will be along shortly to transplant the oak. It occurred to me to ask if you wanted the maple for firewood, or compost.'

'Firewood. Sure. We burn wood now and then, when we're being deliberately archaic for show—it impresses the hell out of my mother's Betan visitors—and there're always the Winterfair bonfires. There's a pile out back behind some bushes. Pym can show you.'

Pym nodded genial confirmation.

'I've laid claim to the leaves and chippings,' Lord Mark put in, 'for Enrique.'

Lord Vorkosigan shrugged, and held a hand palm-out in a warding gesture. 'That's between you and your eight thousand little friends.'

Lord Mark appeared to find no mystery in this obscure remark; he nodded thanks. Having, apparently, accidentally routed her employer out of bed, Ekaterin wondered if it would be too rude to dash out again immediately. She ought probably to stay long enough to drink at least one cup of Pym's coffee. 'If all goes well, the excavation can start tomorrow,' she added.

'Ah, good. Did Tsipis put you in the way of collecting all your water and power connection permits?'

'Yes, that's all under control. And I've learned more than I expected about Vorbarr Sultana's infrastructure.'

'It's a lot older and stranger than you'd think. You should hear Drou Koudelka's war stories some time, about how they escaped through the sewers after collecting the Pretender's head. I'll see if I can get her going at the dinner party.'

Lord Mark leaned his elbow on the comconsole, nibbled gently on his knuckle, and idly rubbed his throat.

'A week from tomorrow night seems to be the date I can round up everyone,' Lord Vorkosigan added. 'Will that work for you?'

'Yes, I think so.'

'Good.' He shifted around, and Pym hastened to pour him more coffee. 'I'm sorry I missed the garden groundbreaking. I really meant to come out and watch that with you. Gregor sent me out-country a couple of days ago on what turned out to be a fairly bizarre errand, and I didn't get back till late last night.'

'Yes, what was that all about?' Lord Mark put in. 'Or is it an Imperial secret?'

'No, unfortunately. In fact, it's already gossip all over town. Maybe it will divert attention from the Vorbretten case. Though I'm not sure if you can call it a sex scandal, exactly.' A tilted grimace. 'Gregor told me, `You're half-Betan, Miles, you're just the Auditor to handle this one.' I said, `Thanks, Sire.''

He paused for his first bite of sweet spiced bread, washed down with another swallow of coffee, and warmed to his theme. 'Count Vormuir came up with this wonderful idea how to solve his District's underpopulation problem. Or so he imagined. Are you up on the latest hot demographic squabbles among the Districts, Mark?'

Lord Mark waved a negating hand, and reached for the bread basket. 'I haven't been following Barrayaran politics for the past year.'

'This one goes back further than that. Among our father's early reforms, when he was Regent, was that he managed to impose uniform simplified rules for ordinary subjects who wanted to change Districts, and switch their oaths to their new District Count. Since every one of the sixty Counts was trying to attract population to his District at the expense of his brother Counts, Da somehow greased this through the Council, even though everyone was also trying to prevent their own liege people from leaving them. Now, each Count has a lot of discretion about how he runs his District, how he structures his District government, how he imposes his taxes, supports his economy, what services he provides his people, whether Progressive or Conservative or a party of his own invention like that loon Vorfolse down on the south coast, and on and on. Mother describes the Districts as sixty sociopolitical culture dishes. I'd add, economic, too.'

'That part, I've been studying,' Lord Mark allowed. 'It matters to where I place my investments.'

Vorkosigan nodded. 'Effectively, the new law gave every Imperial subject the right to vote local government with their feet. Our parents drank champagne with dinner the night the vote slipped through, and Mother grinned for days. I must have been about six, because we were living here by then, I remember. The long-term effect, as you can imagine, has been a downright biological competition. Count Vorenlightened makes it good for his people, his District grows, his revenues increase. His neighbor Count Vorstodgy makes it too tough, and he leaks people like a sieve, and his revenues drop. And he gets no sympathy from his brother Counts, because his loss is their gain.'

'Ah, ha,' said Mark. 'And is the Vorkosigan's District winning or losing?'

'We're just treading water, I think. We've been losing people to the Vorbarr Sultana economy since forever. And a hell of a lot of loyalists followed the Viceroy to Sergyar last year. On the other hand, the District University and new colleges and medical complexes in Hassadar have been a big draw. Anyway, Count Vormuir has been a long-time loser in this demographic game. So, he implemented what he fondly imagined to be a wildly Progressive personal—I might say, very personal—solution.'

Ekaterin's cup was empty, but she'd lost all desire to leave. She could listen to Lord Vorkosigan by the hour, she thought, when he was on like this. He was entirely awake and alive now, engrossed in his story.

'Vormuir,' Vorkosigan went on, 'bought himself thirty uterine replicators and imported some techs to run them, and started, ah, manufacturing his own liege people. His own personal cr?che, as it were, but with only one sperm donor. Guess who.'

'Vormuir?' Mark hazarded.

'None other. It's the same principle as a harem, I guess. Only different. Oh, and he's only making little girls, at present. The first batch of them are almost two years old. I saw them. Appallingly cute, en masse.'

Ekaterin's eyes widened at this vision of a whole thundering cadre of little girls. The impact must be something like a child-garden—or, depending on the decibel level, a girl-grenade. I always wanted daughters. Not just one, lots—sisters, the like of which she had never had. Too late now. None for her, dozens for Vormuir—the pig, it wasn't fair! She was bemusedly aware that she ought to be feeling outrage, but what she really felt was outraged envy. What had Vormuir's wife—wait. Her brows lowered. 'Where is he getting the eggs? His Countess?'