And Elena herself . . . What was in it for her? What pleasure, to be climbed all over by an ugly, twisted shrimp—to be stared at in public, in a world where native custom and imported medicine combined
ruthlessly to eliminate even the mildest physical deformity—doubly
stared at, because of their ludicrous contrast? Could the dubious
privileges of an obsolete rank more drained of meaning with each
passing year make up for that? A rank totally without meaning off
Barrayar, he knew—in eighteen years of residence here, his own
mother had never come to regard the Vor system as anything other
than a planet-wide mass hallucination.
There came a double rap upon his door. Authoritatively firm;
courteously brief. Miles smiled ironically, sighed, and sat up.
"Come in, Father."
Lord Vorkosigan poked his head around the carved door frame.
"Still dressed? It's late. You should be getting some rest." Somewhat inconsistently, he let himself in and pulled up a desk chair, turning it around and sitting astride it, arms comfortably athwart its back. He was still dressed himself, Miles noted, in the dress greens he wore every working day. Now that he was but Prime Minister, and not
Regent and therefore titular commander of the armed forces, Miles
wondered if the old Admiral's uniform was still correct. Or had it
simply grown to him?
"I, ah," his father began, and paused. He cleared his throat, delicately. "I was wondering what your thinking was now, for your next step. Your alternate plans."
Miles's lips tightened, and he shrugged. "There never were any
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alternate plans. I'd planned to succeed. More fool I."
Lord Vorkosigan tilted his head in negation. "If it's any
consolation, you were very close. I talked to the selection board
commander today. Do you—want to know your score on the
writtens?"
"I thought they never released those. Just an alphabetical list: in or out."
Lord Vorkosigan spread his hand, offering. Miles shook his head.
"Let it go. It doesn't matter. It was hopeless from the beginning. I was just too stiff-necked to admit it."
"Not so. We all knew it would be difficult. But I would never have let you put that much effort on something I thought impossible."
"I must have inherited the neck from you."
They exchanged a brief, ironic nod. "Well, you couldn't have had it from your mother," Lord Vorkosigan admitted.
"She's not—disappointed, is she?"
"Hardly. You know her lack of enthusiasm for the military. Hired killers, she called us once. Almost the first thing she ever said to me."
He looked fondly reminiscent.
Miles grinned in spite of himself. "She really said that to you?"
Lord Vorkosigan grinned back. "Oh, yes. But she married me
anyway, so perhaps it wasn't all that heartfelt." He grew more serious.