Memory (28 page)

"I have long suspected it," agreed Gregor.

"But I would rather not be stunned walking through ImpSec's front gate. D'you think you ought to personally call Haroche, and set up my first appointment?"

"Do you want me to?"

"Mm . . . I'm not sure."

"In that case . . . go with tradition." Gregor's voice took on a cool scientific tinge. "Let's see what happens."

Miles stopped, seized with suspicion. "You sound just like my mother when you say that. What do you know that I don't?"

"I know less than you do right now, I'm increasingly sure. But . . . I've been thinking about Haroche. Watching him. Except for this business with Illyan, about which he seems understandably rattled, he seems to be taking over ImpSec's normal routine smoothly. If Illyan . . . does not recover, sooner or later I must be faced with the decision of whether to confirm Haroche in his job, or appoint another man. I'm curious to see what he's made of. You could be a test for him on more than one level."

"Are you saying you want to give him an opportunity to screw up?"

"Better sooner than later."

Miles grimaced. "Does that work in reverse, as well? Are you giving me a chance to screw up too?"

A very slight smile curved Gregor's mouth. "Let's just say . . . a parallax view of the problem could be most revealing." He added, "I did have a thought about the question of sabotage versus some natural deterioration in Illyan's neural augmentation."

"Yes?"

"Sabotage ought to have been followed up promptly by some sort of attack, during the confusion immediately after Illyan went down."

"Or better still, just before he went down," said Miles.

"Right. But nothing out of the ordinary except Illyan's, I'm not sure what to call it . . . illness, indisposition?"

"Indisposed is a good term," Miles allowed. "Illness implies an internal cause. Injury implies an external cause. I'm not sure I could use either word with certainty right now."

"Quite. Anyway, nothing else unusual
except
Illyan's indisposition has so far occurred."

Illyan's destruction.
"Noted," said Miles. "Unless the motivation was something like, say, personal revenge. Not a one-two punch, just a one-punch."

"Have you started to develop a list of potential suspects, by chance?"

Miles groaned. "If you start allowing personal motivations, as well as political ones—it could have been in return for anything ImpSec has done to anyone any time in the last thirty years. It doesn't even have to be sane—someone could have been nursing a grudge all out of proportion to the original injury. That is not the end of the problem to start with, it's too damned vast. I'd prefer to start with the chip. There's only one of it." He cleared his throat. "There's still the problem of not getting stunned at the door. I hadn't intended to take on ImpSec single-handed. I'd assumed I'd have a real Auditor to hide behind, one of those portly retired admirals, say—and I still think I would like to have a witness. An assistant, to be sure, but really, a witness. Someone I can trust, and
you
can trust, someone with the requisite amount of security clearance but who is not himself in ImpSec's hierarchy."

"Do you have someone in mind?" asked Gregor.

"My God," said Ivan, unconsciously echoing Gregor, as he gaped at Miles. "Is that
real
?" His finger reached out to tick the heavy gold chain of the Imperial Auditor's rank and office now hanging around Miles's neck. Its thick links connected big square enameled plaques chased with the Vorbarra arms and logos. It ran over Miles's shoulders and dipped across his chest, and weighed about a kilo, Miles judged. The electronic seal appended from the center in a gold clasp, also engraved with Gregor's arms.

"You want to try to peel off the foil wrapping and eat the chocolate inside?" Miles inquired dryly.

"Urgh." Ivan looked around Gregor's office. The Emperor sat on the edge of his comconsole desk, one leg swinging. "When Gregor's liveried man came galloping into HQ and yanked me off work, I thought the damned Residence was burning down, or my mother'd had a heart attack, or something. But it was only you, coz?"

"That's Lord Auditor Coz to you, for the duration."

Ivan appealed to Gregor. "Tell me this is a joke."

"No," said Gregor. "Quite real. An audit is exactly what I want. I, or to put it more officially,
We
are not happy with current progress. As you know, an Imperial Auditor may request anything he pleases. The first thing he requested was an assistant. Congratulations."

Ivan rolled his eyes. "He wanted a donkey to carry his luggage, and the first ass he thought of was me. So flattering. Thanks, Lord Auditor Coz. I'm sure this is going to be just a joy."

Miles said quietly, "Ivan, we're going in to audit ImpSec's handling of Illyan's breakdown. I don't know what kind of load I'll be asking you to carry, but there's at least a chance it'll be high explosives. I need a donkey I can rely on absolutely."

"Oh." Ivan's irony dropped abruptly away; he straightened. "Oh. Illyan, huh?" He hesitated, then added, "Good. About time somebody lit a fire under somebody over that. Mother will be pleased."

"I hope so," said Gregor sincerely.

Ivan's lip curled up despite the new seriousness in his eyes. "Well, well, Miles. I must say, it does look right on you. I always thought you needed a choke-chain."

Miles had Martin pull the groundcar up to ImpSec's front gates this time. He let the two Imperial Armsmen in Vorbarra livery Gregor had loaned him get out first, then motioned them to flank him as he approached the gate guards. Ivan trailed, watching in fascination. Miles allowed the two Armsmen and Ivan to present their identifications to be scanned and confirmed first.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," Miles addressed the guards cordially, the moment these rituals were complete and the lights on their machines flashed green. Uncertainly, eyes narrowing, they braced. Searching their consciences, Miles hoped. Miles focused on the senior sergeant. "Please get on your comconsole and tell General Haroche that the Imperial Auditor is here. I request and require him to meet me in person at his front gate. Now."

"Aren't you the same fellow we threw out of here this morning?" asked the sergeant in worry.

Miles smiled thinly. "Not exactly, no."
I've been through a few changes since then
. He held out his empty hands. "Note, please, that I am not trying to enter your premises. I have no intention of throwing you into the dilemma of trying to choose whether to disobey a direct order, or else commit an act of treason. But I do know it takes approximately four minutes to physically get from the Chief's office to the front gate. At that point,
your
troubles will be over."

The senior sergeant withdrew into his kiosk, and spoke urgently into his com, with interesting hair-tearing gestures. When he exited again, Miles noted the time on his chrono. "Now let's see what happens, as Gregor would say." Ivan sucked on his lower lip, and kept his mouth shut.

At length, a flurry of uniforms appeared around the side of ImpSec's oversized front steps; Haroche marched quickly forward across the rain-slicked cobblestones, trailed himself by a minion of note, Illyan's secretary. "Four minutes, twenty-nine seconds," murmured Miles to Ivan. "Not bad."

"Can I go behind the bushes and throw up now?" Ivan muttered back, watching ImpSec's power bearing down on them.

"No. Quit thinking like a subordinate."

Miles came to a parade rest, and waited for Haroche to puff to a halt before him. He permitted himself one brief, glorious moment of enjoyment of the appalled expression on the General's face, as Haroche too took in the details, then set it aside. He could take the memory out and treasure it later. His inner vision of the medically tormented Illyan drove him forward now. "Good afternoon, General."

"Vorkosigan. I told you not to come back here."

"Try again," Miles said grimly.

Haroche stared at the chain glittering across his chest. Despite the flanking Vorbarra Armsmen, both personally known to him, he choked, "That can't be real."

"The penalty for counterfeiting an Imperial Auditor's credentials," Miles stated flatly, "is death."

Miles felt he could almost hear the gears grinding in Haroche's head. Some long seconds crawled past, then Haroche corrected himself in a slightly cracked voice, "My Lord Auditor."

"Thank you," Miles husked. Now they were on-script, his new authority formally recognized and acknowledged, and they could proceed. "My Imperial master Gregor Vorbarra requests and requires me to audit ImpSec's handling of the current situation. I request and require your full cooperation in this examination. Shall we continue this in your office?"

Haroche's brows drew down; a faintly ironic light started in his eye. "Oh, I think we should. My Lord Auditor."

Miles dismissed his two Vorbarra outriders to be driven back to the Imperial residence by Martin, and led Haroche inside.

The flat filtered air of Illyan's office was fraught with memory. Miles had sat or stood in here a hundred times, to receive orders or deliver results. He'd been fascinated, excited, certainly challenged, occasionally triumphant, sometimes exhausted, sometimes defeated, sometimes in pain. Sometimes in great pain. This room had been the center from which his life had radiated. All that was gone now. Miles's position across from Illyan's comconsole desk was the same, but the flow of authority was reversed. He'd have to watch out for old reflexes.

Haroche pulled up a chair from the side wall for him with his own hands; after a moment, Ivan retrieved one for himself, and sat flanking Miles. Haroche settled his bulk in Illyan's chair, tented his hands above the black glass, and waited cautiously.

Miles leaned forward, and counted off with his right hand, fingers pressing the cold surface. "All right. As you should have deduced by now, Gregor is seriously displeased with the way this organization has been treating Simon Illyan's breakdown. So this is what I want, and this is the order I want it in. First, I want to see Illyan. Then, I want a conference with his full medical staff. I want them to bring everything they have learned so far, and be prepared to brief me. After that . . . I'll figure out what else after that."

"You have, necessarily, my full cooperation. My Lord Auditor."

"Now that we're down to business, you can shelve the formalities."

"But you've given me a dilemma."

And a moment of near heart failure, too, Miles hoped nastily. But no. There was no place for personal animosities now. "Oh?"

"It was, and remains, premature to accuse any man of sabotage in the matter of Illyan's chip failure before the cause of the chip failure is determined. Potentially very embarrassing, if the cause turns out to be natural."

"I'm conscious of this too."

"Yes . . . you would be. But I can't help thinking ahead. In fact, it's my job. So I have a little list, that I'm holding in limbo pending the arrival of some data with which to pin it to reality."

"Only a little list?"

"Illyan always divided his lists into the short one and the long one. A kind of triage, I suppose. Seems a good system. But on my short list—you are very near the top."

"Oh," Miles echoed. Suddenly, Haroche's obstructionism fell into place.

"And now you've made yourself untouchable," Haroche added.

"The full phrase is, untouchable Vor bore," Miles said. "I . . . see." This was exactly the sort of humiliating suspicion he'd most dreaded, in taking on Illyan's rescue. Well . . . too bad.

They stared steadily at one another, across the black glass. Haroche continued, "So the very last thing in the world I want is to admit you to Illyan's presence where you can get off some kind of second shot. Now, it appears, I must do so. But I want to formally register the fact that I do so under protest. My Lord Auditor."

"Noted." Miles's mouth was dry. "Do you have a motive, to go along on your list with my opportunities and the as-yet-nonexistent method?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Haroche's hands opened. "Illyan terminated you, very abruptly. Destroyed your career."

"Illyan helped create me. He had a right to destroy me." Under the circumstances—of which Haroche was fully apprised by now, Miles could see it in his eyes—almost an obligation.

"He terminated you for falsifying your reports. A documented fact that I would also like to formally register, my Lord Auditor." Haroche glanced at Ivan, who remained wonderfully bland, a defensive response he'd spent a lifetime perfecting.

"One report. Once. And Gregor already knows all about it." Miles could almost feel the ground shifting under his feet. How had he ever classified this man as thickheaded? He was losing his momentum almost as fast as he'd gained it. But he tightened his jaw against all temptation to defend, explain, protest, apologize, or otherwise be diverted from his goal.

"I don't trust you, Lord Vorkosigan."

"Well, you're stuck with me. I can't be removed except by the Emperor's own Voice which appointed me, or a three-quarters vote of impeachment by the Council of Counts and the Council of Ministers in full joint session assembled, something I don't think you can arrange."

"Then it would likely be useless for me to go to Gregor and request a different Auditor for this case."

"You can try."

"Ha. That answers that. And even if you were guilty . . . I'm starting to wonder if I could do anything about it. The Emperor is the only appeal, and you appear to already have him sewn up. Would attempting to take you out be career suicide?"

"Well . . . if our positions were reversed, I wouldn't give up till I'd nailed you to the wall with the biggest spikes available." Miles added after a moment, "But if, after I go in to see Illyan, some sort of second shot occurs . . . you can bet I'll be measuring its trajectory with utmost care."

Haroche vented a long sigh. "This is premature. I'll be more relieved than anyone if the medics bring in a diagnosis of natural causes. It would short-circuit a world of trouble."

Miles grimaced reluctant agreement. "You've got that right, General."