In the image above the vid plate, the sperm writhed in elegant, sinuous curves. Its wriggling grew more energetic as the invisible grip of the medical micro-tractor grasped it and guided it to its target, the pearl-like egg: round, lustrous, rich with promise.

“Once more, dear boy, into the breach—for England, Harry, and Saint George!” Miles murmured encouragingly. “Or at least, for Barrayar, me, and maybe Grandfather Piotr. Ha!” With a last twitch, the sperm vanished within its destined paradise.

“Miles, are you looking at those baby pictures again ?” came Ekaterin's voice, amused, as she emerged from their cabin's sybaritic bathroom. She finished winding up her dark hair on the back of her head, secured it, and leaned over his shoulder as he sat in the station chair. “Is that Aral Alexander, or Helen Natalia?”

“Well, Aral Alexander in the making.”

“Ah, admiring your sperm again. I see.”

“And your excellent egg, my lady.” He glanced up at his wife, glorious in a heavy red silk tunic that he'd bought her on Earth, and grinned. The warm clean scent of her skin tickled his nostrils, and he inhaled happily. “Were they not a handsome set of gametes? While they lasted, anyway.”

“Yes, and they made beautiful blastocysts. You know, it's a good thing we took this trip. I swear you'd be in there trying to lift the replicator lids to peek, or shaking the poor little things up like Winterfair presents to see how they rattled.”

“Well, it's all new to me .”

“Your mother told me last Winterfair that as soon as the embryos were safely implanted you'd be acting like you'd invented reproduction. And to think I imagined she was exaggerating!”

He captured her hand and breathed a kiss into its palm. “This, from the lady who sat in the nursery next to the replicator rack all spring to study? Whose assignments all suddenly seemed to take twice as long to complete?”