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"In the abbreviated flesh," he says, with a weak smile. "Twice the size, five times the age, and ten times the trouble."

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"Hi, Bothari," adds Big Ivan, unexpectedly croaky.
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Bothari looks between Big Ivan and Less Little Miles.

It's not hard to connect these dots. He just—has no idea what to say, in front of the children.
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Nika doesn't notice. "Should I give the letter or should Bothari do it? Whenever people come back? Most everybody else's gone, now, there's a thing."

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"I think... I think I'll give it to Bothari," says Miles. "A little more official-like, going through an Armsman."

Which means he has to: pick up the letter (check), climb down from his barstool (check), and... approach Bothari...



...and hand him the letter. Check, check. All done.
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Bothari takes it and puts it in his pocket. "For my Lord Regent and milady?" he guesses.

Little Miles takes this opportunity to glare suspiciously at Less Little Miles from closer by.
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"Yeah," he says quietly. "About... some things."

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"We get a little brother," Nika says.

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"Yeah."

Being able to go back in time and look your biggest regrets in the face is even less fun than it sounds.
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Nika goes up to the bar.

"How come," she says to her, "I don't get a grownup me?"

You get two of them, says the bar. They aren't in this area of Milliways right now.

"What! Grownup Miles, you didn't say!"
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"—What? What didn't I say? I didn't not say anything about any grownup you! I didn't know there was anything to say about one!"

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"Two! Bar says I have two! Are they off me-ing somewhere without me?" Nika exclaims.

"Oh dear sweet fu- fulminating God," breathes the elder Ivan, and he goes over to Bar and says, "Say it ain't so."

Nika is an alt of Isabella and Linyabel.

"I require," Ivan tells the bar, "a pink thing."

The bar gives it to him. It's been a while since he said he needed to be cut off for a while.

"Who're Isabella and Linyabel?" demands Nika.

Ivan declines to try to answer this question.
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...

Miles is very, very close to throwing up his hands, declaring that he is out of his depth, ordering a pink thing, and walking out to go get drunk with the lake squid.

But he feels an obscure urge not to set that kind of example in front of his five-year-old self. Little Miles should remain convinced for as long as possible that he will grow up universally competent.

So he gets out his pen, and sends his wife a text message, angling so that no one else can read it:

More alts for everyone! If you have any idea how to handle a four-year-old you who is five-year-old me's adopted sister, please come down here immediately, because I sure as hell don't. Also, they brought Bothari. Bothari is standing in front of me holding a five-year-old Miles who is looking at me like I have personally wronged him by experiencing twenty years of life he hasn't had a chance to get around to yet. When this is all over we are going somewhere where I can crawl into your lap and cry.
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I'll send Isabella down first to sidestep the awkward familial relations business while she has a looksee at the little us, unless you need me there for emotional support immediately. Isabella would like to know whether five-year-old-you is more likely to be impressed or insulting about her being half-human.
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Could go either way. And I can't easily take advantage of in-person emotional support because I don't want Little Miles thinking he grows up to be as pathetic as I currently feel.

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I'm loaning her a hairtie so her hair stays put over her ears, then, just in case. Try to avoid making her blush. You're not remotely pathetic; I'm thrown too. Does she look like us, or different like Lalita and Mark? Where did your alt's parents get her?

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Noticeably different. Not quite as different as Lalita from Mark, but definitely not the same. Apparently she showed up on the doorstep of the Imperial Residence in a basket, and they adopted her. I'm assuming it was Mother's idea. I'm also mildly worried that they apparently never found out where the basket came from.

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Isabella comes down the stairs, ears hidden under discreetly ponytailed hair.

"I hear I have a new alt."

"Me! Are you Isabella or Linyabel?" asks Nika. "You don't look like me."

"I'm Isabella. Sometimes alts don't look that much alike," she says.

Having been presented with an alt, Nika doesn't seem to have any immediate idea of what to do with her.
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Bizarre, Linya writes back, meanwhile. I wonder if she has a set of Isabella-parents or some other sourcing. I gather the world is more like ours than like Isabella's or Stalas's? How much so?

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It seems to be perfectly congruent with ours, plus one doorstep baby.

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I imagine you would have said so if she were haut? Four would be old enough to, I think, take my existence reasonably calmly after an explanation - I can't speak for your own little one - if she were. Isabella's best guess for a non-haut one is six but we aren't sure how much Vulcan aging rates might be confounding her guess for an heirloom human.

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Nika decides that what she does with an alt is introduce her to everyone. "This is my cousin Ivan, and that's my brother Miles, and those are their grownups, and that's Bothari," she tells Isabella. "I'm Nika!"

"That's a pretty name," says Isabella.

"Nika Madeline Vorkosigan," elaborates Nika.

"My full name is Isabella T'Mir."
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"Hi, grownup Nika," says Little Miles grumpily.

Less Little Miles writes to Linya: My little alt is probably going to take our marriage as further proof that I am some kind of degenerate. I think he's having a massive case of sour grapes over the fact that I get to walk around under my own power. He's still stuck in that bloody brace.
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Would have been a good idea to get a blood transfusion from Lalita to see if that worked before he disappeared upstairs, supposes Linya. Well, if you could get near him with more of the same, I suppose.

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"Hi, Miles," Isabella replies to the small Miles.

"Where's our other one?" Nika asks Isabella.

"She's in the middle of something upstairs, but she said to tell you hello. Grownup Miles can send her a - holo, of you, if you want to let him take one, and then she'll know what you look like."

"But she looks like you?"

"Mostly, yes. She's taller and so on."

"Is she older than you?"

"No, younger. She's twenty-two and I'm almost thirty - standard."
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