Miles Errant - Lois McMaster Bujold [272]
"I'm not sure he'll ever be able to duplicate Miles's native ability to dance through that particular minefield."
"He seems more inclined to plow through it," murmured the Count dryly, and hesitated. "His appearance . . . Miles took enormous pains to move, act, dress, so as to draw attention away from his appearance. To make his personality overpower the evidence of the eye. A kind of whole-body sleight-of-hand, if you will. Mark . . . almost seems to be willfully exaggerating it."
"What, the surly slump?"
"That, and . . . I confess, I find his weight gain disturbing. Particularly, judging from Elena's report, its rapidity. Perhaps we ought to have him medically checked. It can't be good for him."
The Countess snorted. "He's only twenty-two. It's not an immediate health problem. That's not what's bothering you, love."
"Perhaps . . . not entirely."
"He embarrasses you. My body-conscious Barrayaran friend."
"Mm." The Count did not deny this, Mark noticed.
"Score one for his side."
"Would you care to clarify that?"
"Mark's actions are a language. A language of desperation, mostly. They're not always easy to interpret. That one is obvious, though."
"Not to me. Analyze, please."
"It's a three-part problem. In the first place, there's the purely physical side. I take it you did not read the medical reports as carefully as I did."
"I read the ImpSec synopsis."
"I read the raw data. All of it. When the Jacksonian body-sculptors were cutting Mark down to match Miles's height, they did not genetically retrofit his metabolism. Instead they brewed up a concoction of time-release hormones and stimulants which they injected monthly, tinkering with the formula as needed. Cheaper, simpler, more controlled in result. Now, take Ivan as a phenotypic sample of what Miles's genotype should have resulted in, without the soltoxin poisoning. What we have in Mark is a man physically reduced to Miles's height who is genetically programmed for Ivan's weight. And when the Komarrans' treatments stopped, his body again began to try to carry out its genetic destiny. If you ever bring yourself to look at him square on, you'll notice it's not just fat. His bones and muscles are heavier too, compared to Miles or even to himself two years ago. When he finally reaches his new equilibrium, he's probably going to look rather low-slung."
You mean spherical, Mark thought, listening with horror, and intensely conscious of having overeaten at dinner. Heroically, he smothered an incipient belch.
"Like a small tank," suggested the Count, evidently entertaining a somewhat more hopeful vision.
"Perhaps. It depends on the other two aspects of his, um, body-language."
"Which are?"
"Rebellion, and fear. As for rebellion—all his life, other people have made free with his somatic integrity. Forcibly chosen his body-shape. Now at last it's his turn. And fear. Of Barrayar, of us, but most of all fear, frankly, of being overwhelmed by Miles, who can be pretty overwhelming even if you're not his little brother. And Mark's right. It's actually been something of a boon. The armsmen and servants are having no trouble distinguishing him, taking him as Lord Mark. The weight ploy has that sort of half-cocked half-conscious brilliance that . . . reminds me of someone else we both know."
"But where does it stop?" The Count was now picturing something spherical too, Mark decided.
"The metabolism—when he chooses. He can march himself to a physician and have it adjusted to maintain any weight he wants. He'll choose a more average body-type when he no longer needs rebellion or feels fear."
The Count snorted. "I know Barrayar, and its paranoias. You can never be safe enough. What do we do if he decides he can never be fat enough?"
"Then we can buy