Memory

'No,' Miles admitted. 'But those all sound like normal human errors.'

'If they'd been more spread out, I doubt I'd have noticed. I don't need—or want—to know details, but is Illyan under any special strain in his personal life right now, that none of us in the office know about?'

Like you are, Duv? 'I don't think Illyan has a personal life. Never married . . . lived in the same little apartment six blocks from work for fifteen years, till they tore the building down. He moved into one of the witness apartments on the lower level of HQ as a temporary stopgap two years ago, and still hasn't bothered to move out. I don't know about his early life, but there haven't been any women lately. Nor men, either. Nor sheep. Though I suppose I could see sheep. They can't talk, even under fast-penta. That's a joke,' he added, as Galeni failed to smile. 'Illyan's life is regular as a clock. He likes music . . . never dances . . . notices perfumes, and flowers with a lot of scent, and odors generally. It's a form of sensory input that isn't routed through his chip. I don't think it does somatic stuff either, no touch, just audio and visual.'

'Yes. I was wondering about that chip. Do you know anything about that supposed chip-induced psychosis?'

'I don't think it can be the chip. I don't know that much about its tech specs, but all those folks were supposed to have gone wonky within a year or two of its installation. If Illyan was going to go nuts, he should have done it decades ago.' Miles hesitated. 'One does wonder about . . . stress? Ministrokes? He's sixty-plus . . . hell, maybe he's just tired. He's had that damned job for thirty years. I know he was planning to retire in five years.' Miles decided not to explain how he knew that.

'I cannot imagine ImpSec without Illyan. The two are synonyms.'

'I'm not sure he actually likes his job. He's just very good at it. He's had so much experience, he's almost impossible to surprise. Or panic.'

'He has a very personal system for running the place,' Galeni observed. 'It's quite Vorish, really. Most non-Barrayaran organizations attempt to define their tasks so as to make the people who hold them interchangeable parts. It assures organizational continuity.'

'And eliminates inspiration. Illyan's leadership style isn't very flashy, I admit, but he's flexible and infinitely reliable.'

Galeni cocked an eyebrow. 'Infinitely?'

'Usually reliable,' Miles corrected quickly. For the first time, Miles wondered if Illyan was naturally drab. He'd always assumed it was a response to the high-security aspects of Illyan's job—a life with no handles for enemies to grab and twist. But maybe instead his colorless approach was how he dealt with whatever it was about the memory chip that had overwhelmed others?

Galeni placed his hands out flat across his knees. 'I've told you what I've observed. Do you have any suggestions?'

Miles sighed. 'Watch. Wait. What you've got here so far isn't even a theory. It's a handful of water.'

'My theory is there's something very wrong with this handful of water.'

'That's an intuition. Which is not an insult, by the way. I've learned a deep respect for intuition. But you mustn't confuse it with proof. I don't know what to say. If Illyan is developing some sort of subtle cognitive problems, it's up to his department heads to . . .' What? Mutiny? Go over Illyan's head? The only two people on the planet with that kind of elevation were Prime Minister Racozy and Emperor Gregor. 'If this is something real, other people are going to notice it eventually. And it's better that it should be pointed out first by anyone else in ImpSec but you. Except me. That would be worse.'

'What if they all feel that way?'

'I …' Miles rubbed his forehead. 'I'm glad you talked to me.'

'Only because you were the one person I knew whose knowledge of Illyan had a really long baseline. Otherwise . . . I'm not sure I should be talking about it at all. Not outside of ImpSec.'

'Nor inside of ImpSec either. Though there's Haroche. He's worked directly under Illyan for almost as long as I did.'

'That may be why I found it difficult to approach him.'

'Well . . . talk to me again, huh? If anything else disturbs you.'

'Maybe it's all hot air,' said Galeni, not very hopefully.

Miles could recognize denial at a hundred meters, these days. 'Yeah. Urn . . . you want to change your mind about that drink?'

'Yeah,' sighed Galeni.

Two mornings after this, Miles was deeply involved in an inventory of his closets' limited civilian contents, making a list of gaps and wondering if it would be simpler to just hire a valet and say 'Take care of it,' when his bedroom comconsole chimed. He ignored it for a minute, then clambered up off the floor next to the pile of discarded clothing and slouched to answer it.

Illyan's stern face appeared, and Miles's spine automatically straightened. 'Yes, sir?'

'Where are you?' Illyan asked abruptly.

Miles stared. 'Vorkosigan House. You just rang me here.'

'I know that!' said Illyan irritably. 'Why weren't you here, at 0900 as ordered?'

'Excuse me. What orders?'

'My orders. 'Be there at 0900 sharp and bring your notepad. You'll like this one. It's a breakout.' I thought you'd be early.'

Miles recognized the style of an Illyanesque verbatim self-quote, all right. The content rang a very faint bell. It was an alarm bell. 'What's this all about?'

'Something my Cetagandan analysts have cooked up, and spent a week pitching to me. It could be a very high-result, low-cost bit of tactical judo. There's a gentleman by the name of Colonel Tremont whom they think may be the best man to give the fading Marilacan resistance a shot in the arm. There's just one little hitch. He's presently a guest in the Cetagandan prison camp on Dagoola IV. The experience should have given him lots of motivation, if he can be freed. Anonymously, of course. I plan to give you considerable discretion as to the method, but those are the results I want: a new leader for Maniac, and no connection with Barrayar.'

Miles didn't merely recognize the mission, he could swear those had been the exact words that Illyan had first used to describe it. At a highly secret morning conference at ImpSec HQ, long ago . . .

'Simon. The Dagoola mission was completed five years back. The Marilacans threw the last of the Cetagandans off their planet last year. You fired me over a month ago. I don't work for you anymore.'

'Have you lost your mind?' Illyan demanded, and stopped abruptly. They stared at one another.

Illyan's face changed. Froze. 'Excuse me,' he muttered, and cut the com.

Miles just sat, staring at the empty vid plate. He'd never before felt his heart pound like this while sitting perfectly still in an empty room. Galeni's report had worried him.

Now he was terrified.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Miles sat unmoving for ten minutes. Galeni had been right. Hell, Galeni hadn't guessed the half of it. Illyan wasn't just forgetting things that were there, he was remembering things that weren't. Flashbacks?

Hey, if the man can't tell what year it is, I see a way you could get your old job back. . . .

It wasn't very funny.

What to do? Miles was surely the one person on Barrayar who dared not say a word in criticism of Illyan. It would be attributed instantly to a post-termination snit, or worse, attempted vengeance.

But he could not ignore the situation, not knowing what he knew now. Orders flowed from Illyan's office,