Memory (33 page)

"If Illyan's chip was sabotaged, it may well have happened in ImpSec environs; that's where Illyan mostly
was
, after all. ImpSec is demonstrably no protection. And, ah . . . if Vorkosigan House is not securable by ImpSec, it will certainly be news to the former Lord Regent. I might even call it a major scandal."

Haroche bared his teeth. "Point taken, my Lord Auditor." He glanced at Ruibal, seated beside Miles. "And how does this removal look in your medical opinion, Dr. Ruibal? A good idea, or a bad one?"

"Mm . . . more good than bad, I think," said the pudgy neurologist. "Illyan is physically ready to return to normal light activity—that does not include work, of course. A little extra distance between him and his office might help prevent arguments about that."

Haroche's brows rose. He had apparently not considered this awkward possibility before.

Dr. Ruibal added, "Let him take medical leave, rest and relax, do a little reading or whatever . . . keeping a log of any further problems. I can give him his daily examination there as well as here, certainly."

"Further problems," Miles noted Ruibal's turn of phrase. "What are his current problems? How is he shaping up, now?"

"Well, he's physically fine, if understandably fatigued. Motor reflexes normal. But his short-term memory, to put it plainly, is shot to hell at present. His scores on cognitive tasks that involve short-term memory—and most of them do—are all well below his norms. His former norms, of course, were extraordinary. It's too early to tell if this will be a permanent condition, or if his brain will retrain itself over time. Or if some kind of medical intervention will be required. Or, God help me, what form that intervention might take. My prescription is for a couple of weeks of rest and varied activity, and then we'll see."

Thus buying time for Ruibal to scramble for solutions. "It sounds reasonable to me," Miles said.

Haroche nodded agreement. "On your head be it, then, Lord Vorkosigan."

After another personal call on Avakli in his lab, Miles trooped over to the ImpSec clinic to pitch the invitation to Illyan. There he found an unexpected ally in his self-appointed mission of persuasion in Lady Alys, visiting Illyan again. She was impeccably turned out as usual, today in something dark red and Vorishly feminine, i.e., expensive.

"But it's a splendid notion," she said, as Illyan began to hesitantly demur. "Very right and proper of you, Miles. Cordelia would approve."

"Do you think so?" said Illyan.

"Yes, indeed."

"And the suite has windows," Miles pointed out helpfully. "Lots and lots of windows. That's what I always missed most, whenever I was stuck in here."

Illyan glanced around his blank-walled patient room. "Windows, eh? Not that they are necessarily an advantage.
You
were done in when Evon Vorhalas fired that gas grenade through your parents' bedroom window. I can remember that night. . . ." His hand twitched; he frowned. "It's like a dream."

The incident had occurred slightly over thirty years ago. "That's why all the windows in Vorkosigan House were subsequently force-screened," Miles said. "No problem now. It's pretty quiet there at present, but I have this new cook."

"Ivan mentioned your new cook," Illyan admitted. "At length."

"Yes," said Lady Alys, a faintly calculating look crossing her fine features—was she regretting that the days of horse, cattle, and serf raids upon neighboring lords' property were gone forever? "And it will be ever so much more convenient—and comfortable—for people to visit you there than in this dreadful depressing place, Simon."

"Hm," said Illyan. He smiled briefly at her, looking thoughtful. "
That's
true. Well, Miles . . . yes. Thank you. I accept."

"Excellent," said Lady Alys. "Do you need any help? Would you care to use my car?"

"I have my car and driver outside," said Miles. "I think we can manage."

"Then in that case, I believe I'll meet you there. I'm sure you haven't thought of everything, Miles. Men never do." Lady Alys nodded decisively, rose in a sweep of skirts, and hurried out.

"Whatever can she intend to provide that Vorkosigan House doesn't already have?" Illyan wondered in some bemusement.

"Flowers?" hazarded Miles. "Dancing maids?"
Er . . . soap and towels?
She was right, he hadn't thought of everything.

"I can hardly wait to find out."

"Well, whatever she comes up with, I'm sure it will be done right."

"With her, you can count on that," agreed Illyan. "Reliable woman." Unlike some men of Illyan's generation Miles knew, he did not seem to find this a contradiction in terms. He hesitated, and looked through narrowed eyes at Miles. "I seem to remember . . . she was here. At some rather unpleasant moments."

"That she was. In style."

"With Lady Alys, how else?" Illyan glanced around the little patient room, as if really seeing it for the first time in weeks. "Your respected aunt is right. This place
is
dismal."

"Then let's blow out of here."

They decamped from ImpSec HQ with only one valise and very little further fuss. Illyan had been traveling light for more years than Miles had been alive, after all.

Martin wafted them back to Vorkosigan House in the fusty luxury of the old armored groundcar. They arrived at Illyan's new digs to find Alys directing a cleanup crew, who were just departing. Flowers, soap and towels,
and
fresh sheets had been laid on. If Miles ever made good his threat to turn Vorkosigan House into a hotel, he knew who he wanted to hire for his general manager. Martin spent all of five minutes distributing Illyan's meager belongings to their new storage, then was packed off by Alys to the kitchen.

Illyan's slight awkwardness at all these attentions was relieved by the return of Martin trundling a tea cart laden with a mighty afternoon snack a la Ma Kosti. He laid the spread on the sitting room's table, overlooking the back garden through an outcurving window. Lady Alys's hand was apparent in the service; all the correct trays and utensils seemed to have been found at last, and put to their proper uses. But after a round of tea and cream, little sandwiches, stuffed eggs, meatballs in plum sauce, the famous spiced peach tarts, sweet wine, and some decorated killer chocolate things with the density of plutonium that Miles didn't even know the name of,
everybody
was relaxed.

Into the replete and meditative silence that followed the demolishing of the tea, Miles at last dared to float a question.

"So, Simon. What's it like? What can you remember now, of the last few weeks, and, um . . . before?"
What have we done to you?

Illyan, half-engulfed by the soft upholstery of the armchair in which he leaned back, grimaced. "The last few weeks seem very fragmentary. Before that . . . is fragmentary too." The hand twitch, again. "It feels like . . . as if a man who'd always had perfect vision had a glass helmet all smeared with grease and mud fastened over his head. Except . . . I can't get it
off
. Can't break it. Can't breathe."

"But," said Miles, "you do seem to be, I don't know, in possession of yourself. This doesn't seem like my cryo-amnesia, for instance. I didn't know who I was . . . hell, I didn't even recognize
Quinn
."
God, I miss Quinn.

"Ah, that's right. You've been through . . . worse, I suppose." Illyan smiled grimly. "I begin to appreciate it."

"I don't know if it was worse or not. I do know it was pretty disturbing." A
slight
understatement.

"I seem to be able to recognize things," Illyan sighed. "I just can't recall them properly. Nothing comes up, there's
nothing there.
" His hand clenched to a fist, this time; he sat up.

Alys was instantly alert to Illyan's sudden rise in tension. "All the past is like a dream," she noted soothingly. "It's how most people remember all the time. Maybe you can think back to your youth, before old Ezar ever had the chip installed. If things come back to you about like those times do, why, that's perfectly normal."

"Normal for you."

"Mm." She frowned, and sipped the dregs of her tea, as if to mask her lack of an answer for this.

"I have a practical reason for asking," said Miles. "I'm not sure if anyone's explained it all to you, but Gregor appointed me an acting Imperial Auditor with the mandate to oversee your case."

"Yes, I was wondering how you engineered that."

"We needed something to top ImpSec, you see, and there's not much else that can. After Admiral Avakli's team gets done with their examination of the chip, I'm going to have to turn in a proper Auditor's report to the Emperor. If they deliver a verdict of natural causes, well, that's the end of it. But if they don't . . . I was wondering if you would be able to recall anything, any moment or event, that might have cloaked the administration of some form of biosabotage."

Illyan spread his hands, and placed them slowly to the sides of his head in a gesture of frustration. "If I had my chip . . . and a defined time-window, I could rerun every waking moment past my mind's eye. See every detail. It would take time, but it could be done. Nail the bastards dead to rights, no matter how subtly they'd slipped it to me . . . If this
was
sabotage, they've destroyed the evidence against themselves quite neatly." He snorted unhappily.

"Mm." Miles sat back, disappointed but not surprised. He poured himself a half cup of tea, and decided not to attempt that last peach tart, canted lonely and forlorn on the crumb-scattered doily. Pressing Illyan further would seriously agitate him, Miles sensed. Dead-end for now; time to change the subject. "So, Aunt Alys. How's the preparation for Gregor's betrothal ceremony coming along?"

"Oh"—she cast him a grateful look for the straight line—"quite well, all things considered."

"Who's in charge of security for it?" Illyan asked. "Is Haroche trying to handle it himself?"

"No, he's delegated Colonel Lord Vortala the younger."

"Oh. Good choice." Illyan relaxed again, and fiddled with his empty cup.

"Yes," said Alys. "Vortala understands the way things are done. The official announcement and ceremony will take place at the Residence, of course—I've been trying to help Laisa with the intricacies of Barrayaran traditional dress, though we are debating if Komarran styles might be appropriate for the betrothal. Barrayaran dress will be required for the wedding itself of course. . . ." She was off, on a lengthy dissertation of what Miles mentally dubbed the social-technical aspects of her job; the topic was soothing and happy, and both he and Illyan kept her going with leading questions for a while.

After Martin cleared away the tea things, Miles suggested a game of cards, to pass the time. It was not, of course, to pass the time, but to provide a private check of Illyan's neural function, a nuance Illyan did not miss. But Illyan went along with it.

Star-tarot One-up was a medium-complicated game, and required a certain amount of tracking of cards played, held in opponents' hands, and probably upcoming, to beat the odds. Miles had never in his life seen anybody win against Illyan over any lengthy series of rounds, except by overwhelming luck in a particular draw. After six rounds, Miles and Lady Alys had split the points between them, and Illyan pleaded fatigue. Miles gave way at once. Illyan did look weary, his face drawn and anxious, but Miles didn't think that was his real reason for quitting.

Ruibal hadn't exaggerated. Illyan's short-term memory and eye for detail were practically nonexistent. He seemed to hold his own in casual conversation, where one comment triggered the next in flowing succession, but . . .

"So what do you think of Haroche's appointment for security for Gregor's wedding?" Miles asked casually.

"Who did he appoint?" asked Illyan.

"Who would be your first pick?"

"Colonel Vortala, I think. He knows the capital scene as well as any man I have."

"Ah," said Miles. Alys, rising to take her leave, winced. Illyan frowned suddenly, his eyes narrowing, but he added nothing more. Faintly defiant, he waved Miles back to his seat and saw Lady Alys out to her car with courtly punctilio.

Miles stood and stretched, more tired than the day's accomplishments could justify.
This is going to be strange.

The new, if still rather quiet, household routine was quickly established. Miles and Illyan arose when they chose, and might or might not cross paths in the kitchen in the morning, cadging breakfast, though they met more formally for Ma Kosti's lunches and dinners. Miles went out daily to ImpMil, the vast Imperial Service hospital complex, on the other side of the river gorge which bisected the Old Town. The first day they kept him waiting in the corridors, like any other veteran seeking treatment; he casually dropped mention of his new status as an acting Imperial Auditor, and
that
didn't happen again. Well, Gregor's choke-chain had to be good for something.

Duv Galeni came the second evening. Illyan's new residency in the old Count's chambers seemed to catch Galeni by surprise; he tried to excuse himself from dinner, but Miles wouldn't let him. The Komarran-born officer was stiff and uncomfortable, dining with his formidable former chief; all that history weighing on his mind, Miles supposed. Galeni diplomatically pretended not to notice Illyan's frequent lapses of memory and attention, and swiftly picked up Miles's technique of sprinkling little reminder-remarks through his conversation, to help Illyan stay on track, or at least maintain the illusion he was doing so.

Lady Alys visited often, as promised, though the pace of her life was picking up as the Emperor's betrothal ceremony approached; she'd laid on not one but two new social secretaries in her office in the Residence. Ivan dropped by, always just in time to be invited for a meal. A half-dozen aging military acquaintances of Illyan's generation stopped to say hello to him; they, too, quickly learned to turn up around tea time. Their number included ImpSec's Komarran Affairs section-chief Guy Allegre, but happily the man had the wit not to let Illyan agitate himself trying to talk shop.