Cordelia's Honor - Lois McMaster Bujold [172]
He shrugged, embarrassed rather than outraged, so she knew the Residence man's words to be at least half true. She gathered Vaagen in by eye, willing to possess him body, mind, and soul, but especially mind, and wondering how best to fire his imagination in her service.
"You shall have an institute, if you can bring this off. You tell him," she jerked her head in the direction of the hall, toward Aral's room, "I said so."
Variously discomfited, angry, and hopeful, they withdrew. Cordelia lay back on the bed and whistled a little soundless tune, her fingertips continuing their slow abdominal massage. Gravity had ceased to exist.
Chapter Nine
She slept at last, toward the middle of the day, and woke disoriented. She squinted at the afternoon light slanting through the hospital room's windows. The grey rain had gone away. She touched her belly, for grief and reassurance, and rolled over to find Count Piotr sitting at her bedside.
He was dressed in his country clothes, old uniform trousers, plain shirt, a jacket that he wore only at Vorkosigan Surleau. He must have come up directly to ImpMil. His thin lips smiled anxiously at her. His eyes looked tired and worried.
"Dear girl. You need not wake up for me."
"That's all right." She blinked away blear from her eyes, feeling older than the old man. "Is there something to drink?"
He hastily poured her cold water from the bedside basin spigot, and watched her swallow. "More?"
"That's enough. Have you seen Aral yet?"
He patted her hand. "I've talked to Aral already. He's resting now. I am so sorry, Cordelia."
"It may not be as bad as we feared at first. There's still a chance. A hope. Did Aral tell you about the uterine replicator?"
"Something. But the damage has already been done, surely. Irrevocable damage."
"Damage, yes. How irrevocable it is, no one knows. Not even Captain Vaagen."
"Yes, I met Vaagen a little while ago." Piotr frowned. "A pushing sort of fellow. New Man type."
"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