My Dearest Raina,

I've gone through several crossed out drafts of this letter. Others may think this an eccentric diatribe, but you have been my companion for too long not to grant you this dignity. So here it is. A love letter. A eulogy.

You were conceived when I discovered Miles Naismith Vorkosigan, and Lois McMaster Bujold. I was about fourteen years old. It was your namesake, Raina Csurik, in "The Mountains of Mourning," who became your godmother. The story still strikes a chord with me --- that a man might fight for a dead little girl, a small lady with no defenders.

At the time, the Don Quixote reference flew over my head, and with it the understanding that Miles took to little Raina less like a heart-daughter and more as a lady to his knight, a distant, chivalric symbol. So I thought he might someday name his daughter "Raina." I later realized, as well, how insensitive this would be to the Csuriks, and so too were you born out of selfishness and blind wish-fulfillment.

I followed Miles through the years as dauntless he faced all manner of challenges and ordeals. Soon I wished to daunt him. Through you. And so you grew. You weren't a Worst Possible Thing, not yet. You weren't even a fan fic, just a shadow in my step. Only a Possibility, a comfort toy to mimic Lois's irresistible plots and her irresistible hero, in those long lonely nights between novels. My lovely id, those were your glory days.

Everything was built around you and for you. The astonishing height, the sheer power and presence and sexual prowess. Your Bothari-like ability to face madness and send it screaming in the other direction. Your seemingly perpetual youth, obtained from the Cetagandan gene-sculptors. Even your twin brother, quiet Alex, was a ploy to get you into the Academy, making you the first woman soldier and the first woman admiral in the Imperium. Remember your little brother, Benjamin? I'm sure you don't. I replaced him with the girls, Felice and Cora---foils for you and your twin. Time travel? The Guardians? Devices to catch Miles off-guard, young and unready for fatherhood, to your private delight. And why not? You were Elena and Elli and Taura; you had seduced the son of Rian.

Readers have commented that some of the fan fic's story elements had to bow to the plot. Not so--- they bowed to you. All stage managed, my dear. Ezar would have been proud.

Then Miles grew up, and on.

When that needle-grenade hit him, I wept over the pages as I had only done one other time: when he swore his oath to Raina. He was changed by the end of Mirror Dance. You rested for a while, after that. There was now an 'Uncle Mark,' in our plans, but I think we both knew there was something bigger in store for Miles.

Even then, before long you had re-emerged in another of your endless permutations. You sapped my strength, dear Raina. I'd played with you when I should have been developing my own characters. They were no match for you. You were an elemental force, designed to foil Miles, a character who was even more skillfully realized. But Memory made it clear: you could not exist as you had before. Now your 'true' father, Naismith, had gone to ground, and Elli Quinn could no longer be your larger-than-life mater. Yet you would not learn the lessons of your betters, and your story continued to haunt me.

I'm afraid Ekaterin put the final nail in your coffin. She was something clean and whole and real --- everything you weren't. And for her to be your putative mother, we had to go through a paradigm shift.

To her, you were a Worst Possible Thing.

To me, you were soon to be obsolete, since Lois would eventually people Miles's life with real children. And for all your powers, Raina, you could not possibly compete with that.

You might have died a quiet death. I might have chosen to wait, to pick up A Civil Campaign in September, and abandon all our plots. You might have ended up in the basement, among my stuffed animals and childhood books.

And then your destiny came calling. The introduction of Ekaterin motivated me in other, more mysterious ways. Nikki was a heart-stopping coincidence, though I later dithered between the original "Nikolas" and "Nikolai." Upon rereading Komarr, I also noticed that Shasha, the name of Ekaterin's father, was the Russian equivalent of "Alexander." Your twin brother is always helping you out--- I took it as a sign.

At the time, I had just joined the Lois Bujold mailing list. Fan fic was All Right, and the standards, by definition, were high. And so I found myself trying to cram you, in all your incarnations, into a fan fic. No more make-believe stories, I fumed. I would solidify you, encompass you, create one, ultimate, satisfying story in public, with no chance for any other variations, in my mind or outside of it. Your final form. Your funeral pyre.

Strange that in your last blazing flash of glory, you became more alive than ever. Resolving the contradictions that had cropped up over the years produced a newfound clarity. The plot became more suspenseful. Your siblings grew along with you, developing personalities of their own. I learned how to arrange better scenes and how to roll with the tempo of chapters, how to shuffle old material and renew it. I made dozens of narrative choices to stage your story and appease Vorkosiverse readers. True, in the process you became less deadly, less explicit. We lost Alex's run-in with Bel, your charged confrontation with Alex, all your Dendarii exploits, and several depressing death-bed scenes. Still, my sweet exhibitionist, you took every chance you could find.

Sifting through the details forced us both to evolve. We surprised each other, I think. The long scene with Aral, talking about Ezar's secret? Reduced to a flash of red highlights in the sun. Your gold engagement ring, a mere bauble to catch Miles's attention, a symbol of your love for Leo, became Sebastian's bane. You cut your hair before your second appearance in Chapter 4, and just now I reread Miles's stupid-stunned "She's cut her hair," at Elena's arrival in The Vor Game. The carving knife from the dining room table, and the tinkling sound of breaking glass also caught me unawares.

You even intruded into real life. It was a dirty trick, sending me a nightmare the day I fretted about the final chapter. I didn't even guess it was you until the floor fell through, and the sister clung to her brother in fear. It was even set in downtown Minneapolis! Tsk, tsk. Shameless.

Raina, you would not exist without Lois's creations. Every chapter is a tribute, every scene became an echo of a passage I loved. Postmodern magpies, these fan fics, but you rose to the occasion. And I think that at the end, you finally acknowledged the people who are your progenitors; after months of poring through your alphas and omegas, how could you not?

So, on your behalf, I would like to thank Louann Miller, Sue Reynolds, Lesley Knieriem, Janet Bruesselbach, Mary Wilkey, Max Poddoubnyi, Steve Salaba, Mike Bernardi, and everyone else who sent feedback and encouragement, and generally pointed out the obvious things I'd missed. To Lena DeTar, my own personal Cordelia, who begged for More when I was tired of writing, my love and gratitude. And of course, great praise and thanks to her Ladyship, Lois McMaster Bujold, who doesn't know it but got me through the darkest days of my life with her little hero.

It's ironic, isn't it, that for all the times you diminished my 'real' characters, it was your story that taught me the most. I'll always be grateful to you, Raina, for providing me with a credible first step in my quest to become a Better Writer. I know you'll return someday, in another form, in another story; a personality like yours endures, whether real or fiction. Besides, how can you turn down something so dramatic as rising from the ashes?

So, peace to you, my lady, my Empress Admiral. Come again soon.

Tracy Garcia
July 31, 1999

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Graphics by Ann-S-Thesia

A Bit of Evolution copyright © 1999 by Tracy Garcia. Characters from the Vorkosigan series are copyrighted © 1999 to Lois McMaster Bujold and Baen Books.