Memory

while, he seems to pass through the present. And when he does, he asks for you. At first I thought it was the Count your father he wanted, but it's definitely you. Miles, he says, and Get that idiot boy in here, and Haven't you found him yet, Vorberg? It's not like you can mistake the hyperactive little shit. Sorry,' Vorberg added as an afterthought, 'that's just what he said.'

'I recognize the style,' whispered Miles. He cleared his throat, and his voice grew stronger. 'I'm sorry. This is the first I've heard of this.'

'Impossible. I've passed it on in my night report four or five nights in a row, now.'

Gregor would not have failed to redirect such a word. Gregor hadn't a hint of this. The break was somewhere else up in Vorberg's chain of command. We will find out. Oh yes, we will. 'What kind of medical treatment or tests is he receiving?'

'I don't know. Nothing much happens on my shift.'

'I suppose . . . that's reasonable.'

They both fell silent as Martin brought the coffee and rolls on a baking sheet for a makeshift tray— Make a note for Lesson Six in butlering, Finding the Serving Utensils— snagged a roll for himself, smiled cheerily, and strolled back out. Vorberg blinked at this odd turn of service, but sucked down coffee gratefully. He frowned again at Miles, more speculatively this time. 'I've been hearing a lot of strange things from the man, in the deep night. Between the times the sedatives wear off, and before he goes, uh, goes noisy and wins another dose.'

'Yes. I would imagine so. Do you know why Illyan is asking for me?'

'Not exactly. Even in his more lucid moments, it comes out sounding pretty garbled. But I've been getting the damnedest unpleasant feeling that the problem is half in me. Because I don't know the background, I can't decipher what may be perfectly clear statements. I have figured out you were never a bloody courier.'

'No. Covert ops.' A sunbeam was creeping over his chair arm, making the coffee in the thin cup perched here glow red.

'High level covert ops,' said Vorberg, watching him in the shadows and light beams.

'The highest.'

'I don't quite know why he discharged you—'

'Ah.' Miles smiled bleakly. 'I really must tell you, someday. It's true about the needle grenade. Just not complete.'

'Part of the time he doesn't seem to know he discharged you. But part of the time he does. And he still asks for you, even then.'

'Have you ever reported this directly to General Haroche?'

'Yes. Twice.'

'What did he say?'

'Thank you, Lieutenant Vorberg.'

'I see.'

'I don't.'

'Well . . . neither do I, completely. But now I think I can find out. Ah … I think perhaps this conversation had better not have taken place.'

Vorberg's eyes narrowed. 'Oh?'

'That conversation we had on the steps outside the residence will do instead, if anyone inquires.'

'Ho. And just what are you to the Dendarii Mercenaries, Vorkosigan?'

'Nothing, now.'

'Well . . . you covert ops fellows were always the worst bunch of weasels I ever met, so I don't know even now if I trust you, but if you're being straight with me . . . I'm glad for the sake of the Vor that you haven't just abandoned your father's liegeman. There's not many of us left who care enough to, enough to … I don't know how to say it.'

'Who care enough to make Vor real,' suggested Miles.

'Yes,' said Vorberg gratefully. 'That's right.'

'Damn straight, Vorberg.'

An hour later, Miles strode through the graying morning to the side portal of ImpSec HQ. Clouds were blowing in from the east, chilling the promise of the early sun; he could smell rain in the air. The granite gargoyles looked blank and surly in the shadowless light. The building above them rose big and closed and blocky. And ugly.

Haroche's first concern had been to place guards with the highest security clearances around Illyan. Not a word about doctors with the highest clearances, or medtechs, or, God forbid, the best experts possible, cleared or not. He wasn't treating Illyan so much as a patient as a prisoner. A prisoner of his own organization—did Illyan appreciate the irony? Miles suspected not.

So was Haroche paranoid and thickheaded by nature, or merely temporarily panicked by his new responsibilities? Haroche couldn't have arrived where he was by being stupid, but his new and complex job had fallen into his lap suddenly and with little warning. Haroche had started his career in Service Security, as a military policeman. As Domestic Affairs assistant and then chief, he'd largely interfaced downward and inward, dealing with predictable military subordinates. Illyan had been ImpSec's upward and outward face, dealing smoothly with the Emperor, the Vor lords, all the unwritten and sometimes unacknowledged rules of the idiosyncratic Vor system. Illyan's handling of Alys Vorpatril, for example, had been subtly brilliant, giving him a wide open pipeline of information into the private side of Vor society in the capital that had more than once proved an enormously valuable supplement to more official dealings. In his first encounter with her, Haroche had deeply offended this potential ally, as if the fact that she didn't appear in the government's organizational flow chart meant her power didn't exist. Chalk up a big one in favor of the thickheaded hypothesis. But as for the paranoia—Miles had to acknowledge, Illyan's head was so stuffed with the hottest Barrayaran secrets of the last three decades it was a wonder it hadn't melted down long before this. You couldn't let him go wandering off down the street not knowing what year it as. Haroche s caution was in fact commendable, but it might to have been tinged with more . . . what? Respect? Courtesy? Grief?

Miles took a breath and marched through the doors, Martin, who had been unusually fortunate in finding large enough parking place quite nearby for the Count's armored groundcar, trailed him uncertainly, clearly awed at the sinister building despite his family connection, Miles planted himself before the security desk, and frowned at the clerk, the same fellow who'd been on duty last week.

'Good morning again. I'm here to see Simon Illyan.' 'Um . . .' The clerk tapped his comconsole. 'You're still not on my roster, Lord Vorkosigan.'

'No, but I am on your doorstep. And I intend to stay here until I get some results. Call your chief.' The clerk hesitated, but came down in favor of letting someone with more status face down a Vor lord, even so short and odd a one as Miles. They hung up briefly at the level of Haroche's, formerly Illyan's, secretary, but Miles evicted the clerk from his station chair and bulled through to Haroche himself.

'Good morning, General. I'm here to see Illyan.'

'Again? I thought I'd settled that. Illyan is in no condition to socialize.'

'I didn't think he was. I request admittance to see him.'

'Request denied.' Haroche's hand moved to cut the com.

Miles controlled his temper, and tried to muster soft words and weasely arguments. He was willing to talk all day, till he talked himself inside. No, not soft words—Haroche favored a blunt approach, for all that he assiduously tailored his own speech to Vorbarr Sultana upper-class standard. 'Haroche! Talk to me! This is getting old. What the devil's going on in there that has the hairs up your butt so bad? I'm trying to help, dammit.'

For a moment, Haroche frowned less deeply, but then his face hardened again. 'Vorkosigan, you have no business in this place now. Please remove yourself.'

'No.'

'Then I will have you removed.'