Cordelia's Honor - Lois McMaster Bujold [173]
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,