"I'll bet he'd still have had a military career, though," said Mark judiciously.
"Perhaps. Or perhaps, with the responsibility for our House taken up by someone else, he'd have felt freer to rebel. Do something else, be someone else."
"Huh," said Mark.
Miles fingered the holocube in his pocket. There was no point in pulling it out and showing it to Mark again, as he'd already done so. Twice. "You and Kareen planning kids yet? Not to mention marriage," Miles added in an afterthought. The couple's informal partnership, which would have been unremarkable on Beta Colony, had been a difficult pill for Kareen's very Barrayaran parents to swallow, but after several years the senior Koudelkas seemed pretty reconciled. And Kareen had three older married sisters, all of whom had sprung at least one sprog, so there wasn't the family pressure on her that there had been on, say, Miles.
"Children frighten me," Mark confessed. "You had your Da as a role model, but all I ever had growing up was an insane Komarran terrorist who spent all his time trying to train me to be you."
"Da spent a good bit of time trying to train me to be me, too," said Miles, "but it wasn't at all the same thing."
Mark snorted. "Indeed."
We can laugh about this now, sort of, Miles thought, pleased and bemused. What a journey that's been. "You'd have Kareen for a co-parent," Miles offered. "She's one of the sanest people I know."
"There is that," Mark admitted. "So what's your greatest terror, now you're a Da yourself?"
"What if…" Miles pulled at his hair, looking up cross-eyed to see if he could spot any of the sneaky gray ones, but this cut was still too short. "What if my children find out I'm not really a grownup? How dreadfully disappointed would they be?"
This time, Mark laughed out loud. It was a very good sound, Miles thought, and he grinned back ruefully at his brother.
"I think your wife already knows," said Mark.
"I'm afraid so." Miles rubbed his lips. "Heh. D'you think Vorlynkin and Madame Sato will make a match of it?"
"Good God, how would I know?"
"I thought he had that look in his eye. Not as sure about her…" Which gave Miles a rather comradely feeling toward Vorlynkin, now he considered it. He wished the man luck.
Roic stiffened, peering down into the concourse.
"What?" said Miles.
"There's Colonel Vorventa," Roic answered. "Wonder what he wants?"
Miles leaned toward the railing and craned to see. The Barrayaran officer was, among other duties, senior ImpSec liaison from the local Barrayaran embassy on this main transfer station; Miles had dealt with him before, though more often with his predecessors. The colonel looked up, saw Roic, then Miles, waved in a wait-right-there sort of fashion, and made for the lift tubes at the end of the concourse. "Us, I'll bet. Or me." ImpSec would have known when their ship was coming in, of course.
"You, I hope," said Mark. "I've had a few conversations with him. I don't think he trusts me."
"He's actually pretty cosmopolitan, for a Barrayaran," said Miles. "One of Da's New Men. Blast, I hope he's not bringing me more work."
It was a compelling and unwelcome notion. If some fresh forest fire involving Barrayar's interests had sprung up somewhere on this end of the Nexus, well, here was one of Gregor's most notable firemen already halfway there. Miles's lips twisted. No, I've just been! I want to go home now!
"That's funny," said Roic, in slow speculation. "I don't think I've ever seen him wearing his dress greens before."
Miles hadn't either. "That's true. He always wears local civvies, and tries to blend in."
Not today. Vorventa wore a high-necked military tunic in forest green, all his rank tags and decorations squarely in place, the green trousers with the red side-piping tucked neatly into mirror-polished riding boots, and a more inappropriate garb for a space station Miles could scarcely imagine. "Damn, but he looks shiny. Wonder what's up?"
"We'll find out in a minute," said Mark, turning in his chair to watch the officer make his way among the tables toward them.
Vorventa's steps slowed as he approached, and his eyes searched his quarry, though his face remained stiff. He halted at the table's side, cast Mark and Roic a grave nod, came to attention, and offered Miles a very formal salute, though Miles was in no kind of uniform at all except his gray trousers and jacket.
The messenger moistened his lips, and said, "Count Vorkosigan, sir?"
Aftermaths
A drabble is a story in exactly 100 words.
Aftermaths:
Five Views, in Drabbles
1 Mark.
Mark had once shot a man with a nerve disruptor; seen the surprised eyes go blank as the charge burned out the brain behind them. He didn't know why watching Miles take in the news of their father's death made that black memory surface. No buzz or crackle from a weapon here; just three quiet words.
It wasn't for hours, after the scramble to rearrange travel, that he realized he'd witnessed the truth. As if harnessed in tandem to the Count-his-father, Lord Vorkosigan had died in that moment, too, old life draining away along with the color from his face.
2 Miles.
Count Vorkosigan stared at his face in the mirror. "Fuck."
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck…?
"Are you all right, m'lord?" called Roic from the fast courier's cabin.
"Of course I'm not all right, you idiot!" Miles snarled, and then, in a smaller voice, "Sorry. Sorry. I feel like my brain's been pulled out, and there's nothing in my skull but loose wires waving from my spinal cord. God. Why are we in a hurry now? Days too late?"
"The Countess, er, the Dowager Coun…?your mother is waiting for you on Sergyar."
"Ah," said the Count. "Yes." And, "Sorry."
"We'll manage, m'lord."
3 Cordelia.
It wasn't Cordelia who'd found him, but it was she who'd decided. A brain aneurysm, a warm afternoon, two hours gone while the servants assumed the white-haired man had fallen asleep in his armchair, as he did after lunch these days.
Miles's voice was ragged. "Couldn't you have had him cryoprepped anyway? The technology might progress…"
"To wake without mind or memory, soul in tatters? He told me himself once; no man would want to live on like that."
Or else wake with the burden of his memories intact, hardly less a horror. Could Miles understand?
Ensign Dubauer, I'm sorry.
4 Ivan.
The state funeral ran for a grueling week. Ivan watched Miles mount the podium to present the eulogy. Gregor'd lent his best speechwriters; Miles had edited. Still, Ivan held his breath when Miles clutched the flimsies in a shaking fist and almost, almost cast them away to deliver his wounded words ex tempore.
Till his eye fell on his children, squirming and confused in the front row between their mother and grandmother. He hesitated, smoothed out the flimsies, began reading. The new Count's speech was everything it should be; many wept.
Ivan wondered what the old Miles would have said.
5 Gregor.
The interment at Vorkosigan Surleau was private, meaning a hundred or so people milling around. The grave was double but only one side dug; the earth waited like a bridal bed. The pallbearers were six: Ivan, Illyan, and Koudelka, of course; Duv Galeni for Komarr; Admiral Jole for Sergyar. And one other.
Lady Alys, to whom everyone owed their sanity, pointed out that Gregor's place was with the chief mourners.
"The man has carried me since I was five years old," answered the Emperor of Barrayar. "It's my turn."
Alys gave way as Gregor went to help shoulder the bier.