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I like my stories to be relatively light and fluffy. None of these dark and depressing stories for me. Except, of course, for the random exceptions which really just prove the rule that I like happy endings. However, my current plot bunny is definitely one of the exceptions.

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In anticipation of Cryoburn by Lois McMaster Bujold coming out soon, I’ve been reading a lot of Vorkosigan fanfic. (Despite really having no time to do so.) But such a good series. Anyway, I, of course, want a story that sticks Methos into the middle of it all.

Duncan McLeod, I’ve decided, is the Earth ambassador to Barrayar. It was a remarkably good choice: he’s utterly devoted to his homeworld, and yet, he, more than most, fits into a society that is based on a certain warrior ethos and personal honor.

All is going well when he happens to be at the spaceport one day and who should he see but Methos… Methos with jump pilot ports on his temples.

McLeod rolls his eyes but is also annoyed because it’s such a matter of false advertising. He hasn’t seen his friend in a couple of centuries, but he rather wished the first time had been in a manner that he wouldn’t have to lecture the old man about his complete lack of ethics. “Where in the world did you get fake jump pilot ports from? What are you going to do if someone expects you to actually make a jump? And please tell me you haven’t set up shop on Jackson’s Hole?”

Methos smirked. “Hardly. And they’re not fake.” Taking a closer look, McLeod realizes that Methos actually looks smug and pleased as punch. “They’re real.”

“Real? Real ones involve complex and delicate neural surgery.” Meaning, there was no way for an immortal to get them.

“Indeed it does. But it worked. And I have them. It’s so very, very cool!” Methos is practically bouncing he’s so pleased. He’s like a little kid. His pleasure alone makes McLeod happy.

“Okay, how did you do it? Tell me you didn’t tell anyone on Jackson’s Hole…” He didn’t think Methos would open himself up to such blackmail but it was better to check than to guess.

“Those butchers, hah! No, I kept it in the family. My daughter was the surgeon. And that’s another thing, Mac. Congratulate me! I have a daughter.”


“In fact, I have a whole clan of my own. And descendants. Flesh and blood descendants. My flesh and blood.”

“That’s wonderful. You’ve been on Beta then? The descendants must have been uterine replicator births, right?”

“Right to the replicators, wrong to the planet. Allow me to present myself: the Haut Sothem. Head of the Sothem Constellation.”



“Cetagandan Haut.”


“Head of a constellation.”


“How in the world did you manage that?”

Methos smirked. “The Star Creche wanted to understand survival. And I wanted family. We made a deal some time back.”


“Hey, Miles?”

“Yes, Nikki?”

“How does someone not a Haut become Cetagandan Haut?”

“Well, sometimes the Star Creche will collect a genetic sample from someone who isn’t Haut to potentially be included in the next generation of Haut children, but if you mean someone born as non-Haut, then there isn’t a way.”


“Why do you ask?”

“Well, I was at the spaceport and the Earth Ambassador was talking to this one guy who I think was an old friend from Earth but then the guy claimed to have become, um,” he closed his eyes to remember more clearly, “the Haut Sothem, head of the Sothem Constellation.” Nikki opened his eyes again, pleased that he had remembered. “And he said his daughter had done the surgery that gave him the pilot ports because it was really complicated for some reason.”

Miles was now staring at his stepson with his full attention. This was very peculiar. And definitely something that an Imperial Auditor should look into. “Interesting. What else can you remember?”


I'm not really sure where the story goes from there, but I'm sure that Miles gets very confused for a while and McLeod starts to feel very much surrounded and out numbered.


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March 2017

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