of his men.”
“Oh. Excuse me.” Aral nodded to Cordelia and rose, and exited the dining room to the back hall. One of the storerooms on the back side of the house, wedged into the slope, had been converted into a secured comm center, with a double=scrambled comconsole and a full=time ImpSec guard outside its door. Aral’s footsteps echoed down the hall in that direction.
Cordelia took one bite of soup, which went down like liquid lead, set her spoon aside, and waited. She could hear Aral’s voice, in the quiet house, and electronically tinged responses in some stranger’s tones, but too muffled for her to make out the words. After what seemed a small eternity, though in fact the soup was still hot, Aral returned, bleak-faced.
“Did he go up there?” Cordelia asked. “To ImpMil?”
“Yes. He’s been and left. It’s all right.” His heavy jaw was set.
“Meaning, the baby’s all right?”
“Yes. He was denied admittance, he argued awhile, he left. Nothing worse.” He began glumly spooning soup.
The Count returned a few hours later. Cordelia heard the fine whine of his groundcar pass up the drive and around the north end of the house, pause, a canopy open and close, and the car continue on to the garages, sited over the crest of the hill near the stables. She was sitting with Aral in the front room with the new big windows. He had been engrossed in some government report on his handviewer, but at the sound of the closing canopy put it on “pause” and waited with her, listening, as hard footsteps passed rapidly around the house and up the front steps. Aral’s mouth was taut with unpleased anticipation, his eyes grim. Cordelia shrank back in her chair, and steeled her nerves.
Count Piotr swung into their room, and stood, feet planted. He was formally dressed in his old uniform with his general’s rank insignia. “There you are.” The liveried man trailing him took one uneasy glance at Aral and Cordelia, and removed himself without waiting to be dismissed. Count Piotr didn’t even notice him go.
Piotr focused on Aral first. “You. You dared to shame me in public. Entrap me.”
“You shamed yourself, I fear, sir. If you had not gone down that path, you would not have found that trap.”
Piotr’s tight jaw worked this one over, the lines in his face grooved deep. Anger; embarrassment struggling with self-righteousness. Embarrassed as only one in the wrong can be. He doubts himself, Cordelia realized. A thread of hope. Let us not lose that thread, it may be our only way out of this labyrinth.
The self-rightousness took ascendance. “I shouldn’t have to be doing this,” snarled Piotr. “It’s women’s work. Guarding our genome.”
“Was women’s work, in the Time of Isolation,” said Aral in level tones. “When the only answer to mutation was infanticide. Now there are other answers.”
“How strange women must have felt about their pregnancies, never knowing if there was life or death at the end of them,” Cordelia mused. One sip from that cup was all she desired for a lifetime, and yet Barrayaran women had drained it to the dregs over and over … the wonder was not that their descendants’ culture was chaotic, but that it wasn’t more completely insane.
“You fail all of us when you fail to control her,” said Piotr. “How do you imagine you can run a planet when you cannot run your own household?”
One corner of Aral’s mouth twisted up slightly. “Indeed, she is difficult to control. She escaped me twice. Her voluntary return still astounds me.”
“Awake to your duties! To me as your Count if not as your father. You are liege-sworn to me. Do you choose to obey this off-worlder woman before me?”
“Yes.” Aral looked him straight in the eye. His voice fell to a whisper. “That is the proper order of things.” Piotr flinched. Aral added dryly, “Attempting to switch the issue from infanticide to obedience will not help you, sir. You taught me specious-rhetoric-chopping yourself.”
“In the old days, you could have been beheaded for less insolence.”
“Yes, the present setup is a little peculiar. As a count’s heir, my hands are between yours, but as your Regent, your hands are between mine. Oath-stalemate. In the old days we could have broken the deadlock with a nice little war.” He grinned back, or at least bared his teeth. Cordelia’s mind gyrated, One day only: The Irresistible Force Meets the Immovable Object. Tickets, five marks.
The door to the hallway swung open, and Lieutenant Koudelka peered nervously within. “Sir? Sorry to interrupt. I’m having trouble with the comconsole. It’s down again.”
“What sort of trouble, Lieutenant?” Vorkosigan asked, wrenching his attention around with an effort. “The intermittency?”
“It’s just not working.”
“It was fine a few hours ago. Check the power supply.”
“Did that, sir.”
“Call a tech.”
“I can’t, without the comconsole.”
“Ah, yes. Get the guard commander to open it up for you, then, see if the trouble is anything obvious. Then send for a tech on his clear-link.”
“Yes, sir.” Koudelka backed out, after a wary glance at the three tense people still frozen in their places waiting for him to withdraw.
The Count wouldn’t quit. “I swear, I will disown it. That thing in the can at ImpMil. Utterly disinherit it.”
“Not an operative threat, sir. You can only directly disown me. By an Imperial order. Which you would have to humbly petition, ah … me, for.” His edged smile gleamed. “I would, of course, grant it to you.”
The muscles in Piotr’s jaw jumped. Not the irresistible force and the immovable object after all, but the irresistible force and some fluid sea; Piotr’s blows kept failing to land, splashing past helplessly. Mental judo. He was off-balance, and flailed for his center, striking out wildly now. “Think of Barrayar. Think of the example you’re setting.”
“Oh,” breathed Aral, “that I have.” He paused. “We have never led from the rear, you or I. Where a Vorkosigan goes, maybe others might not find it so impossible to follow. A little personal … social engineering.”
“Maybe for galactics. But our society can’t afford this luxury. We barely hold our own as it is. We cannot carry the deadweight of millions of dysfunctionals!”
“Millions?” Aral raised a brow. “Now you extrapolate from one to infinity. A weak argument, sir, unworthy of you.”
“And surely,” said Cordelia quietly, “how much is bearable each individual, carrying his or her own burden, must decide.”
Piotr swung on her. “Yes, and who is paying for all this, eh? The Imperium. Vaagen’s laboratory is budgeted under military research. All Barrayar is paying for prolonging the life of your monster.”
Discomfited, Cordelia replied, “Perhaps it will prove a better investment than you think.”
Piotr snorted, his head lowered mulishly, hunched between his skinny shoulders. He stared through Cordelia at Aral. “You are determined to lay this thing on me. On my house. I cannot persuade you otherwise, I cannot order you … very well. You’re so set on change, here’s a change for you. I don’t want my name on that thing. I can deny you that, if nothing else.”
Aral’s lips were pinched, nostrils flaring. But he never moved in his seat. The viewer glowed on, forgotten in his still hands. He held his hands quiet and totally controlled, not permitting them to clench. “Very well, sir.”
“Call him Miles Naismith Vorkosigan, then,” said Cordelia, feigning calm over a sick and trembling belly. “My father will not begrudge it.”
“Your father is dead,” snapped Piotr.
Smeared to bright plasma in a shuttle accident more than a decade ago … She sometimes fancied, when she closed her eyes, that she could still sense his death imprinted on her retina in magenta and teal. “Not wholly. Not while I live, and remember.”
Piotr looked as if she’d just hit him in his Barrayaran stomach. Barrayaran ceremonies for the dead approached ancestor-worship, as if remembrance could keep the souls alive. Did his own mortality run chill in his
