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"Oh, Miles," said Elena, "you'll never get it through customs. They're mad about pathogen vectors and allergens here."
It was a very large, very round, fluffy, white cat. It might look overfed, but it had actually been bred that way--it was a Cetagandan spherical cat, made to be beautiful and comforting. It purred in Miles's arms.
"I'll say it has Mark's brain it. That makes it sentient," Miles joked. "They'll have to let it through."
Elena sucked in her breath, eyeing the animal's shape. "It doesn't really, does it?"
"Mark is fine," Miles assured her.
Apparently not well enough, for her next question was, "So whose brain is in it?"
"No one's," Miles said. "It's a tool of intimidation."
"That puffball is a tool of intimidation?" Elena said. "You can't be serious."
"Oh, but I am," said Miles, touching his little finger to the corner of his mouth.
Elena wrinkled her nose at him. "You're crazy," she said, as if this were news.
"Who do you think you're dealing with?" Miles asked her, in Betan accent. "Admiral Naismith?" He switched over to Barrayaran gutterals. "Lord Vorkosigan?" He petted the cat ruthlessly. "Some Cetagandan clone?" He couldn't quite manage a haut- or even a ghem-accent, but the cat was enough to muddy the waters. He hoped. He stroked it furiously. It mewed.
Elena giggled. "Someday, you'll find out the Cetagandans have cloned you, and then it won't be so funny."
"Oh, they wouldn't clone me," said Miles. "They'd have to tinker first."