"Miles and I are planning to get married again, Barrayaran ceremony groats and all, and I wondered if you'd be my Second."
"I love you," he says, flomping his head onto her shoulder again. "So much. And God, do I hope Illyan relents sometime soon. I just - I - my private nightmare is that I'll go out on one of my trips and I won't come back and they still won't tell you what I was doing. Killed in action in the black hole of mystery."
Pensive snuggle.
"This is more my fifth thought than my first, which I assure you is more upset and sentimental - but it is the first that comes in the form of a question - if that happens, and there is not already a baby on the way anyway, ought I cook one up anyway, in the absence of convenient collateral descendants, or do I talk that over with your parents, or...?"
"Well - at that point I think it's your choice," he says. "Whether to cook up a kid - and probably pretend they were already in the replicator when I left, to divert accusations of necromancy, or possibly necrophilia - or ditch the whole sorry planet and go be an enormously successful entrepreneur somewhere more civilized. If you wanted to stay, Ma and Da would back you. You're part of the family, as far as Mother is concerned, so that's that. But nobody's going to keep you if you don't want to be kept. If you wanted to keep the Vorkosigan line going but didn't particularly want to stay, you could start a son and hand off the replicator to his grandparents and escape. Ivan would probably be grateful; the Vorkosigan countship goes to him if Da and I both die heirless, and he doesn't remotely want it."
Snuggle. It may be possible to tell that she does not want her husband to die!
"If I'm dead at the time I care much less about the mystical gamete thing, and God knows I've been through enough assorted medical procedures that you could construct some kind of horrible Miles-effigy out of the scraps, life-size if not life-like. You won't lack for genome samples to run off a quick random-assembly from, if you choose the 'drop a kid on my parents and flee' route."
"Yes, but I would not become more inclined towards 'quick random-assembly' in this situation, I'd still want to make the basic health tweaks. - It occurs to me to ask, once mystical gametes have mystified, I'll be able to produce simulations of what the child will look like at various ages. Are you going to want to look at those?"
"Do you want to see my simulation-pictures? Next to actual pictures of me at those ages, if you like."
She's painfully cute.
"...You were adorable," Miles informs her, though in an oddly subdued tone. "And - um. It occurs to me that - I mean - you could generate pictures like that of me. Couldn't you. The unaltered Miles phenotype."
"Yes. My pen can't take a complete sample with just its identity-checking measures, but if I had a copy of your genotype to feed the problem I could. Do you want me to?"
"Well, if you want me to, I can. There's no expiration date on my slightly illicit software."
"All right. I'll continue dithering, then, I suppose." He kisses her hand. "And I suspect I won't know if I want to look at my children's phenotype projections until I know if I want to look at mine."
She produces more adorable small-Linya pictures. They don't ever contain people other than her clearly visible in frame; either she's omitting those out of concern for the privacy of her fellow haut or for some reason group shots were not customary. There is some incidental imagery of the interior of her apartment, especially from after the invention of her pen when she could easily begin to take her own pictures; it was prettily decorated and spacious and had a gorgeous black grand piano in it. She is shown playing the piano and singing, walking from place to place, just smiling for the camera, and, in one particularly precious image, sitting in her float-chair for the very first time when she is three.
"If you want to see similar pictures of littler-Miles, you can ask Mother."