Ah, right. Miles lets out a little huff of laughter in concession of her expertise. In all the panic he'd almost forgotten what it is she did back home.
But her editorial about Barrayar sees an abrupt change in expression in him. His brows draw down, his jaw setting, and he looks not quite angry, but fiercely defensive. Well, okay, maybe a little angry.
"It is absolutely worth fighting for," he says heatedly. "Its future alone is worth fighting for, and I'm not talking about me. I love this planet, Clara, for better or worse. It's my home, for better or worse."
He lets out a ragged, short breath, raking a hand back through his hair. "Look, it might have caused me no shortage of suffering growing up, but I refuse to let this planet or its people be defined by only by their vices, with no thought to their virtues. Can you tell me your Earth exists in perfect harmony?"
He doesn't give her a chance to answer before he goes on ranting. "After the first wormhole collapse that stranded this planet for seven hundred years, it sent out a massive blast of radiation, all at once. That many possible mutagens in a population of only fifty thousand, and all their technology, medical or reproductive or otherwise, in ruins? What would you expect?" He brings himself up short of explicitly defending the mutant paranoia or, say, the infanticide that tended to accompany it. "This planet has barely been given a chance to develop. These people haven't been given a chance. It was maybe thirty years ago, tops, that another wormhole to Barrayar was discovered. That we were able to rejoin galactic society. And ten years ago, we were hit by the invading forces of an eight-planet empire, just because the only planet between them and us was willing to accept a bribe. Nobody on this planet asked for this war. We haven't even had a chance to adapt. And -- and dammit, Clara, things get better. How can they get better if you don't even give them the chance?"
no subject
But her editorial about Barrayar sees an abrupt change in expression in him. His brows draw down, his jaw setting, and he looks not quite angry, but fiercely defensive. Well, okay, maybe a little angry.
"It is absolutely worth fighting for," he says heatedly. "Its future alone is worth fighting for, and I'm not talking about me. I love this planet, Clara, for better or worse. It's my home, for better or worse."
He lets out a ragged, short breath, raking a hand back through his hair. "Look, it might have caused me no shortage of suffering growing up, but I refuse to let this planet or its people be defined by only by their vices, with no thought to their virtues. Can you tell me your Earth exists in perfect harmony?"
He doesn't give her a chance to answer before he goes on ranting. "After the first wormhole collapse that stranded this planet for seven hundred years, it sent out a massive blast of radiation, all at once. That many possible mutagens in a population of only fifty thousand, and all their technology, medical or reproductive or otherwise, in ruins? What would you expect?" He brings himself up short of explicitly defending the mutant paranoia or, say, the infanticide that tended to accompany it. "This planet has barely been given a chance to develop. These people haven't been given a chance. It was maybe thirty years ago, tops, that another wormhole to Barrayar was discovered. That we were able to rejoin galactic society. And ten years ago, we were hit by the invading forces of an eight-planet empire, just because the only planet between them and us was willing to accept a bribe. Nobody on this planet asked for this war. We haven't even had a chance to adapt. And -- and dammit, Clara, things get better. How can they get better if you don't even give them the chance?"