Diplomatic Immunity

They said good-bye to Bel and Nicol at Komarr orbit.

Miles had ridden along to the ImpSec Galactic Affairs transfer station offices here for Bel's final debriefing, partly to add his own observations, partly to see that the ImpSec boys did not fatigue the herm unduly. Ekaterin attended too, both to testify and to make sure Miles didn't fatigue himself. Miles was hauled away before Bel was.

“Are you sure you two don't want to come along to Vorkosigan House?” Miles asked anxiously, for the fourth or fifth time, as they gathered for a final farewell on an upper concourse. “You missed the wedding, after all. We could show you a very good time. My cook alone is worth the trip, I promise you.” Miles, Bel, and of course Nicol hovered in floaters. Ekaterin stood with her arms crossed, smiling slightly. Roic wandered an invisible perimeter as if loath to give over his duties to the unobtrusive ImpSec guards. The armsman had been on continuous alert for so long, Miles thought, he'd forgotten how to take a shift off. Miles understood the feeling. Roic was due at least two weeks of uninterrupted home leave when they returned to Barrayar, Miles decided.

Nicol's brows twitched up. “I'm afraid we might disturb your neighbors.”

“Stampede the horses, yeah,” said Bel.

Miles bowed, sitting; his floater bobbed slightly. “My horse would like you fine. He's extremely amiable, not to mention much too old and lazy to stampede anywhere. And I personally guarantee that with a Vorkosigan liveried armsman at your back, not the most benighted backcountry hick would offer you insult.”

Roic, passing nearby in his orbit, added a confirming nod.

Nicol smiled. “Thanks all the same, but I think I'd rather go someplace where I don't need a bodyguard.”

Miles drummed his fingers on the edge of his floater. “We're working on it. But look, really, if you—”

“Nicol is tired,” said Ekaterin, “probably homesick, and she has a convalescing herm to look after. I expect she'll be glad to get back to her own sleepsack and her own routine. Not to mention her own music.”

The two exchanged one of those League of Women looks, and Nicol nodded gratefully.

“Well,” said Miles, yielding with reluctance. “Take care of each other, then.”

“You, too,” said Bel gruffly. “I think it's time you gave up those hands-on ops games, hey? Now that you're going to be a daddy and all. Between this time and the last time, Fate has got to have your range bracketed. Bad idea to give it a third shot, I think.”

Miles glanced involuntarily at his palms, fully healed by now. “Maybe so. God knows Gregor probably has a list of domestic chores waiting for me as long as a quaddie's arms all added together. The last one was wall-to-wall committees, coming up with, if you can believe it, new Barrayaran bio-law for the Council of Counts to approve. It took a year. If he starts another one with, 'You're half Betan, Miles, you'd be just the man'– I think I'll turn and run.”

Bel laughed; Miles added, “Keep an eye on young Corbeau for me, eh? When I toss a prot?g? in to sink or swim like that, I usually prefer to be closer to hand with a life preserver.”

“Garnet Five messaged me, after I sent to tell her Bel was going to live,” said Nicol. “She says they're doing all right so far. At any rate, Quaddiespace hasn't declared all Barrayaran ships non grata forever or anything yet.”

“That means there's no reason you two couldn't come back someday,” Bel pointed out. “Or at any rate, stay in touch. We are both free to communicate openly now, I might observe.”

Miles brightened. “If discreetly. Yes. That's true.”

They exchanged some un-Barrayaran hugs all around; Miles didn't care what his ImpSec lookouts thought. He floated, holding Ekaterin's hand, to watch the pair progress out of sight toward the commercial ship docks. But even before they'd rounded the corner he felt his face pulled around, as if by a magnetic force, in the opposite direction—toward the military arm of the station, where the Kestrel awaited their pleasure.

Time ticked in his head. “Let's go.”

“Oh, yes,” said Ekaterin.

He had to speed his floater to keep up with her lengthening stride up the concourse.

Gregor waited to greet Lord Auditor and Lady Vorkosigan upon their return, at a special reception at the Imperial Residence. Miles trusted whatever reward the Emperor had in mind would be less disturbingly arcane than that of the haut ladies. But Gregor's party was going to have to be put off a day or two. The word from their obstetrician back at Vorkosigan House was that the children's sojourn in their replicators was stretched to nearly its maximum safe extension. There had been enough oblique medical disapproval in the tone of the message, it didn't even need Ekaterin's nervous jokes about ten-month twins and how glad she was now for replicators to get him aimed in the right direction, and no more damned interruptions.

* * *

He'd undergone these homecomings what seemed a thousand times, yet this one felt different than any before. The groundcar from the military shuttleport, Armsman Pym driving, pulled up under the porte-coch?re of Vorkosigan House, looming stone pile that it ever was. Ekaterin bustled out first and gazed longingly toward the door, but paused to wait for Miles.

When they'd left Komarr orbit five days ago he'd traded in the despised floater for a slightly less despised cane, and spent the journey hobbling incessantly up and down what limited corridors the Kestrel provided. His strength was returning, he fancied, if more slowly than he'd hoped. Maybe he would look into getting a swordstick like Commodore Koudelka's for the interim. He pulled himself to his feet, swung the cane in briefly jaunty defiance, and offered Ekaterin his arm. She rested her hand lightly upon it, covertly ready to grab if needed. The double doors swung open on the grand old black-and-white paved entry hall.

The mob was waiting, headed by a tall woman with roan-red hair and a delighted smile. Countess Cordelia Vorkosigan actually hugged her daughter-in-law first. A white-haired, stocky man advanced from the antechamber to the left, face luminous with pleasure, and stood in line for his chance with Ekaterin before turning to his son. Nikki clattered down the sweeping stairway and into his mother's arms, and returned her tight hug with only a tinge of embarrassment. The boy had grown at least three centimeters in the past two months. When he turned to Miles, and copied the Count's handshake with dauntingly grown-up resolve, Miles found himself looking up into his stepson's face.

A dozen armsmen and servants stood around grinning; Ma Kosti, the peerless cook, pressed a splendid bunch of flowers on Ekaterin. The Countess handed off an awkwardly worded but sincere message of felicitation for their impending parenthood from Miles's brother Mark, at graduate school on Beta Colony, and a rather more fluent one from his Grandmother Naismith there. Ekaterin's older brother, Will Vorvayne, unexpectedly present, took vids of it all.

“Congratulations,” Viceroy Count Aral Vorkosigan was saying to Ekaterin, “on a job well done. Would you like another? I'm sure Gregor can find you a place in the diplomatic corps after this, if you want it.”

She laughed. “I think I have at least three or four jobs already. Ask me again in, oh, say about twenty years.” Her glance went to the staircase leading to the upper floors, and the nursery.

Countess Vorkosigan, who caught the look, said, “Everything is waiting and ready as soon as you are.”

After the briefest of washups in their second-floor suite, Miles and Ekaterin made their way down a servitor-crowded hallway to rendezvous with the core family again in the nursery. With the addition of the birth team—an obstetrician, two medtechs, and a bio-mechanic—the small chamber overlooking the back garden was as full as it could hold. It seemed as public a birth as those poor monarchs' wives in the old histories had ever endured, except that Ekaterin had the advantage of being upright, dressed, and dignified. All of the cheerful excitement, none of the blood or pain or fear. Miles decided that he approved.

The two replicators, released from their racks, stood side by side on a table, full of promise. A medtech was just finishing fiddling with a cannula on one. “Shall we proceed?” inquired the obstetrician.

Miles glanced at his parents. “How did you all do this, back then?”

“Aral lifted one latch,” said his mother, “and I lifted the other. Your grandfather, General Piotr, lurked menacingly, but he came around to a wider way of thinking later.” His mother and his father exchanged a private smile, and Aral Vorkosigan shook his head wryly.

Miles looked to Ekaterin.

“It sounds good to me,” she said. Her eyes were brilliant with joy. It lifted Miles's heart to think that