"So, you've sobered up.  Good.  Go home."  Yani clutched his mug in two hands, to average out the shakes perhaps, and shuffled back to one of the tables.  Miles, undaunted, followed and slid in across from him.

"Why haven't you gone away?" asked Yani.

"Still waiting for my ride.  So to speak."

"Aren't we all."

"Jin says you're a revive.  Did you really have yourself frozen a century ago?"  That would have been just about at the end of Barrayar's Time of Isolation, on the verge of a torrent of new history all of which Yani had more-or-less slept through.  "I would think the oral chroniclers around here would be all over you."

Yani vented a bitter laugh.  "Not likely.  The people here are glutted with revive interviews.  I thought the journals might pay me, but there are too many of us up walking around.  Nobody wants us here.  Everything costs too much.  The city's too big.   Settlement was supposed to be more spread out.  Hell, I thought the terraforming would be halfway to the poles by now.  The politics have gone all wrong, and nobody has any manners . . ."

Miles made encouraging noises.  If there was one skill Miles had honed in his youth, it was how to please an old man by listening to his complaints.  Yani needed no more than a nod to launch into a comprehensive denunciation of modern Kibou, a world with no need nor place for him.  Some of his phrases were so practiced they came out in paragraphs, as if he'd told them over to anyone who would stop to listen.  Which, by this point, was no one—the few other residents who drifted in gave Yani's table a wide berth.  His rheumy eye brightened at this new audience who didn't show visible signs of wanting to chew through his own leg to get away, and Miles's suspect druggie status was temporarily forgotten.

As Yani maundered on, Miles was thrown back in memory to his own grandfather.  General Count Piotr Vorkosigan, planetary liberator, un-maker and re-maker of emperors, and cause of a lot of that history that Yani had missed, had sired his heir late in life, as had Miles's father, so that it was more nearly three generations between grandfather and grandson than two.  Still, they had loved each other after their own peculiar fashion.  How would Miles's life have altered if Piotr had been frozen when Miles was seventeen, instead of buried for real in the ground?  His impending return always a promise, or a threat?

Like a great tree the old general had been, but a tree did not only give shelter from the storm.  How would Barrayar be different if that towering figure had not fallen, permitting sunlight to penetrate to the forest floor and new growth to flourish?  What if the only way to effect change on Barrayar had been to violently destroy what had gone before, instead of waiting for the cycle of generations to gracefully remove it?