Lois Bujold - Barrayar

“Barrayar needs its new men. And women. Its technologically trained generation.”

“Oh, yes. We fought and slaved to create them. They are absolutely necessary. They know it, too, some of them.” A hint of self-aware irony softened his mouth. “But this operation you’re proposing, this placental transfer … it doesn’t sound too safe.”

“On Beta Colony, it would be routine.” Cordelia shrugged. We are not, of course, on Beta Colony.

“But something more straightforward, better understood—you would be ready to begin again much sooner. In the long run, you might actually lose less time.”

“Time … isn’t what I’m worried about losing.” A meaningless concept, now she thought of it. She lost 26.7 hours every Barrayaran day. “Anyway, I’m never going through that again. I’m not a slow learner, sir.”

A flicker of alarm crossed his face. “You’ll change your mind, when you feel better. What does matter now—I’ve talked to Captain Vaagen. There seemed no question in his mind there is great damage.”

“Well, yes. The unknown is whether there can be great repairs.”

“Dear girl.” His worried smile grew tenser. “Just so. If only the fetus were a girl … or even a second son … we could afford to indulge your understandable, even laudable, maternal emotions. But this thing, if it lived, would be Count Vorkosigan someday. We cannot afford to have a deformed Count Vorkosigan.” He sat back, as if he had just made some cogent point.

Cordelia wrinkled her brow. “Who is we?”

“House Vorkosigan. We are one of the oldest great houses on Barrayar. Never, perhaps, the richest, seldom the strongest, but what we’ve lacked in wealth we’ve made up in honor. Nine generations of Vor warriors. This would be a horrible end to come to, after nine generations, don’t you see?”

“House Vorkosigan, at this point in time, consists of two individuals, you and Aral,” Cordelia observed, both amused and disturbed. “And Counts Vorkosigan have come to horrible ends throughout your history. You’ve been blown up, shot, starved, drowned, burned alive, beheaded, diseased, and demented. The only thing you’ve never done is die in bed. I thought horrors were your stock in trade.”

He returned her a pained smile. “But we’ve never been mutants.”

“I think you need to talk to Vaagen again. The fetal damage he described was teratogenic, not genetic, if I understand him correctly.”

“But people will think it’s a mutant.”

“What the devil do you care what some ignorant prole thinks?”

“Other Vor, dear.”

“Vor, prole, they’re equally ignorant, I assure you.”

His hands twitched. He opened his mouth, closed it again, frowned, and said more sharply, “A Count Vorkosigan has never been an experimental laboratory animal, either.”

“There you go, then. He serves Barrayar even before he’s born. Not a bad start on a life of honor.” Perhaps some good would come of it, in the end, some knowledge gained; if not help for themselves, then for some other parents’ grief. The more she thought about it, the more right her decision felt, on more than one level.

Piotr jerked his head back. “For all you Betans seem soft, you have an appalling cold-blooded streak in you.”

“Rational streak, sir. Rationality has its merits. You Barrayarans ought to try it sometime.” She bit her tongue. “But we run ahead of ourselves, I think, sir. There are lots of d—” dangers, “difficulties yet to come. A placental transfer this late in pregnancy is tricky even for galactics. I admit, I wish there were time to import a more experienced surgeon. But there’s not.”

“Yes … yes … it may yet die, you’re right. No need to … but I’m afraid for you, too, girl. Is it worth it?”

Was what worth what? How could she know? Her lungs burned. She smiled wearily at him, and shook her head, which ached with tight pressure in her temples and neck.

“Father,” came a raspy voice from the doorway. Aral leaned there, in his green pajamas, a portable oxygenator stuck up his nose. How long had he stood there? “I think Cordelia needs to rest.”

Their eyes met, over Piotr. Bless you, love… .

“Yes, of course.” Count Piotr gathered himself together, and creaked to his feet. “I’m sorry, you’re quite correct.” He pressed Cordelia’s hand one more time, firmly, with his dry old-man’s grip. “Sleep. You’ll be able to think more clearly later.”

“Father.”

“You shouldn’t be out of bed, should you?” said Piotr, drawn off. “Go back and lie down, boy… .” His voice drifted away, across the corridor.

Aral returned later, after Count Piotr had finally left.

“Was Father bothering you?” he asked, looking grim. She held out her hand to him, and he sat beside her. She transferred her head from her pillow to his lap, her cheek on the firm-muscled leg beneath the thin pajama, and he stroked her hair.

“No more than usual,” she sighed.

“I feared he was upsetting you.”

“It’s not that I’m not upset. It’s just that I’m too tired to run up and down the corridor screaming.”

“Ah. He did upset you.”

“Yes.” She hesitated. “In a way, he has a point. I was so afraid for so long, waiting for the blow to fall, from somewhere, nowhere, anywhere. Then came last night, and the worst was done, over … except it’s not over. If the blow had been more complete, I could stop, quit now. But this is going to go on and on.” She rubbed her cheek against the cloth. “Did Illyan come up with anything new? I thought I heard his voice out there, earlier.”

His hand continued to stroke her hair, in even rhythm. “He’d finished the preliminary fast-penta interrogation of Evon Vorhalas. He’s now investigating the old armory where Evon stole the soltoxin. It appears Evon might not have equipped himself so ad hoc unilaterally as he claimed. An ordnance major in charge there has disappeared, AWOL. Illyan’s not certain yet if the man was eliminated, to clear Evon’s path, or if he actually helped Evon, and has gone into hiding.”

“He might just be afraid. If it was dereliction.”

“He’d better be afraid. If he had any conscious connivance in this …” His hand clenched in her hair, he became aware of the pull, muttered, “Sorry,” and continued petting. Cordelia, feeling very like an injured animal, crept deeper into his lap, her hand on his knee.

“About Father—if he upsets you again, send him to me. You shouldn’t have to deal with him. I told him it was your decision.”

“My decision?” Her hand rested, without moving. “Not our decision?”

He hesitated. “Whatever you want, I’ll support you.”

“But what do you want? Something you’re not telling me?”

“I can’t help understanding his fears. But … there’s something I haven’t discussed with him yet, nor am I going to. The next child may not be so easy to come by as the first.”

Easy? You call this easy?

He went on, “One of the lesser—known side effects of soltoxin poisoning is testicular scarring, on the micro-level. It could reduce fertility below the point of no return. Or so my examining physician warns me.”

“Nonsense,” said Cordelia. “All you need is any two somatic cells and a replicator. Your little finger and my big toe, if that’s all they can scrape off the walls after the next bomb, could go on reproducing little Vorkosigans into the next century. However many our survivors choose to afford.”

“But not naturally. Not without leaving Barrayar.”

“Or changing Barrayar. Dammit.” His hand jerked back at the bite in her tone. “If only I had insisted on using the replicator in the first place, the baby need never have been at risk. I knew it was safer, I knew it was there—” Her voice broke.