[ open post: miles ]

[forwardmomentum]

	That's because I've got forward momentum. There's no virtue in it. It's just a balancing act. I don't dare stop.
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[secondgrowth]

As the initial rustles of readers being positioned to best accommodate the varying levels of hyperopia amongst the august, aging body of government subside, a moment's quiet descends on the chamber like the pause before the stage curtains' rise... or the axe's fall.

The Professora's continued air of gently defiant patience suggests that if it's the latter, she's not the one with her head on the block. Which is distinctly interesting, Ekaterin reflects to herself. She's been a party to only a fraction of the hours her aunt has poured into the proposed curriculum, and she's privately irate at the thought that all that effort in research, cross-connection, historical narratives and a half-healed case of carpal tunnel syndrome could be dismissed entirely by thirty one sufficiently fossilized votes. Is her aunt simply such a historian that she's prepared to neutrally document events however they fall out, or does she know something?

It's at this moment that her hand brushes against Miles', and all thoughts of whether a game is afoot go up in a flush of heat to her cheeks and a reflexive "Oh-- I'm sorry. I--"

But, further attempts to apologize for... something (Existing? Having an ungloved hand like some maiden about to fall into dishonour in a Time of Isolation docu-drama? Calm down, you just laid hands on the Emperor's foster brother, not Emperor Gregor himself she twits herself) are silenced as the first salvo of Conservative critique unfurls itself, and she finds herself motioned to a seat beside Lord Miles by a Castle functionary with a keen eye on the clock and a desire to not lose yet another mealtime to excessive wordsmithing. She settles, with another flash of a smile in apology, and turns to watch the show.

Helen Vorthys is looking even more patient. Something is decidedly up.

[forwardmomentum]

"Not at all — " Miles starts to say in response before the Castle functionary very pointedly ensures that everyone is seated. Oh, god, and she's sitting next to him. At least he'd just barely managed not to drop his reader — he is holding onto it with rather a death grip, hoping his return smile doesn't look too much like a rictus grin.

Miles's desperate desire to look like anything but an awkwardly fumbling teen in front of his father only intensifies as another person gets added to that most distinguished of categories. At least his father's attention is too locked in on the proceedings to pay his teenage awkwardness much mind. An example he ought to be following. Focus. He needs to focus.

And with focus, occasionally comes clarity. This particular topic might be new to Miles, but he's seen his father in the midst of countless troublesome little battles with the Council like this over the years, and underneath his politely masked impatience is...patience, like Count Vorkosigan is the one waging a quiet war of attrition and not the stuffy old conservatives. Miles's attention sharpens and locks on, his hideous embarrassment forgotten almost entirely in his intent concentration.

Count Vorkalloner does the Professora the most basic courtesy of letting her finish her opening statement before saying, "While the...depth of your research is quite impressive, unless you are here to present to us a wholly amended curriculum, this is a waste of everyone's valuable time — including yours."

His tone turns almost gentle, no less firm but couching his words as though talking to a child. Or, Miles thinks, if you're a particular kind of old Vor, a woman. His gaze moves to the Professora to see how she reacts while Vorkalloner keeps on, opening one hand in a conciliatory gesture.

"I'm sure you see us as uncompromising old curmudgeons unwilling to budge on such a simple issue, but at the end of the day, we represent a consensus. Do you think those of us on the Council of Counts are the only objection to this distinctly galactic agenda? What about the families of those young men whose minds and careers have been entrusted to the Imperial Service Academy?" Vorkalloner waves that hand, then closes it and brings it to his chest. "Dr. Vorthys, it is not your competency or your intelligence that we doubt, but the suitability of your pedagogical theory to this particular student body. Were this vote up to the Academy instructors and not the Council of Counts, you would certainly receive the same response. It is precisely because we value your academic reputation that we are having these discussions within the confines of the Council."

Just a slightly more diplomatic way of saying that the conservatives think they're sparing the Professora considerable public embarrassment by shutting her down in private. Her composure must indeed be legendary, to bear all of that without giving in to the impulse to pop old Vorkalloner in the eye. But Count Vorkosigan, most curiously, only smiles.