Free Gentleman Jole and the Red Queen by Lois McMaster Bujold

Barrayar, at least.”
    His lips pursed. “But…you’d be dead. I can’t—that’s not—I have trouble imagining that.” Except, by the troubled look on his face, he was. He blinked suddenly. “Wait. You’re not just talking frozen embryos here, are you.”
    “Not after next week, no.”
    He blew out his breath. “That is possibly the most terrifying responsibility anyone has ever offered me. Not excepting ship command or being the last man standing between the Prime Minister and anything coming at him.” He blinked some more. “Pretty damned flattering, Cordelia. Are you in your right mind?”
    She smiled crookedly. “Who knows? That’s a hypothetical for now, note.”
    “Noted. But still…” He didn’t say still what .
    He did glance at his chrono, and scowled. “Blast. I have to get moving. I still have to go back to base and change. Who knew when I signed up for the space service that I would spend so much time arm-wrestling with contractors? Concrete by the kiloton. But my shuttles have to have somewhere to land.” He drained his drink and stood looking down at her, somewhat limply draped on the chaise. “Cordelia…” He hesitated.
    “Hm?”
    He seemed to swallow. Blurted, “Would you like to go sailing again sometime?”
    She sat up, surprised. Aral had taught him to sail, back in his twenties, and to enjoy the sport. She had actually preferred sailing with Oliver, as she’d been less likely to end up having an unscheduled swim due to a certain person’s addiction to pushing his envelopes. The memory made her catch her breath, and blink rapidly. “I haven’t been out on the water since…forever. I’d love it. I think I could clear my schedule, yes.” She paused, confused. “Wait. Didn’t you say you’d sold your boat last year?”
    “I’ll find something. If you can pry out the time.”
    “For this, I’ll pry it out with a chisel. Sounds delightful. Excellent, in fact.” She wallowed around on the chaise and held out her hand. “Help me up,” she commanded.
    A funny look crossed his face, but he leaned over, grabbed her hand, and civilly heaved. She found her feet, and her shoes, and walked him back to the house, where they parted company. You that way; we this way. But not for long, she reflected comfortably.
    * * *
    It was another three days before Jole had time to catch up with the Vicereine. He lured her out to the base with an offer of dinner at the officers’ mess, no special treat, and a chance to avoid Komarrans bearing pitches, which evidently was. At any rate, as he led her across the back shuttle runway toward the base’s far side, both of them squinting in the slanting sun, she was still going on about it.
    “Anything that would affect my patch?” he inquired of this complaint, as they trudged across the edge of the tarmac. In the distance, the mountain’s gouged-out side wavered in the reflected heat.
    “Not directly. It’s the usual—they want to institute extra planetary voting shares for persons making special material or investment contributions to the advancement of the colony, just like at home in their domes. Persons, coincidentally, who mostly would happen to be themselves. My counter-suggestion that we just grant everyone ten inalienable voting shares by moving the decimal point over was nixed by my advisors on the grounds that I would be perceived as mocking them. Which I would be. I would prefer to derail any move on a referendum before it gets rolling, though.”
    “Surely allowing a referendum would be safe. Everyone who is not them would vote against it, right?”
    “Possibly not. Enough optimistic people might be swayed by the statistically unlikely idea that they could be among the few to benefit to go along with it. Face it, one doesn’t up stakes and travel out to Sergyar to take on the work involved here without a certain innate optimism.” She amended as they strolled along, “Except for the Old Russian speakers, who are naturally