Memory

father's not with her, is he?'

'I don't believe so.'

'No, he's not,' Alys put in. 'I had a message from Cordelia myself this afternoon—she must have dispatched them all together. I shall be so glad to have her assistance for the betrothal—well, not assistance, exactly, you know how indolent your mother can become when presented with these little social challenges. But her moral support, anyway. And we have so much to catch up on.'

Illyan's lips twitched. 'You don't look overjoyed, Miles.'

'Oh, I'll be glad to see her, I suppose. But you know the way she tries to take my emotional temperature, Betan-style. The thought of all that incoming maternal concern makes me want to duck and run.'

'Mm,' said Illyan, in judicious sympathy.

'Don't be childish, Miles,' his Aunt Alys said firmly. Her poker-faced driver raised the canopy, and Illyan helped her settle herself and her dress neatly within. All those years of close observation of the Vor class had certainly taught him the moves, Miles had to admit.

And they were off, leaving Miles to another evening of wandering around Vorkosigan House talking to himself. So why didn't he take ladies to conceits? What was stopping him? Well, the thing with the seizures, of course. And the crisis with Illyan, hanging unresolved. But both looked to be ended soon, and then what? Not, dear God, more double dates with Ivan. Miles shuddered in memory of some historic disasters. He needed something new. He was still stuck somewhere in limbo, somehow, prisoner of old habits. He was too young to be retired, dammit. If only Quinn were here. . . .

He hoped his Aunt Alys would be careful tonight. He and Illyan had gone out for a walk one afternoon, Corporal Kosti trailing discreetly, and Illyan had become lost within two blocks of Vorkosigan House. He would have felt less nervous if Illyan and Lady Alys had stayed in and played cards again, a form of mild cognitive therapy Dr. Ruibal had approved.

Illyan and Lady Alys did not return till two hours after midnight, long past the end of the concert. Somewhat grouchily, Miles met his houseguest at the door.

Illyan seemed mildly surprised. 'Hello, Miles. Are you still up?' Illyan looked all right, if slightly rumpled, and notably redolent of the esters of fine wine and perfumes.

'Where were you all this time?' Miles demanded.

'All what time?'

'Since the concert ended.'

'Oh, we rode around. Had a late supper. Talked. You know.'

'Talked?'

'Well, Lady Alys talked. I listened. I found it restful.'

'Did you play cards?'

'Not tonight. Go to bed, Miles. I'm certainly going to.' Yawning, Illyan headed up the stairs to his suite.

'So how do you like concerts?' Miles called after him.

Illyan's voice floated back: 'Very well!'

Dammit, the rest of us are going crazy over this chip thing. Why aren't you? No, unfair to blame Illyan for declining to, well, to go into a decline. Perhaps the ImpSec chief had concluded the failure was natural, and was dealing with it. Or perhaps he was just more patient and subtle than Miles about stalking his stalker. That would not be news.

Anyway, why shouldn't Illyan have a normal night out? He didn't fall over and have convulsions in public. Miles growled, and went to bed, but not to sleep; it was going to be a wearing wait for Chenko's call from ImpMil.

Dr. Chenko leaned intently into his comconsole pickup, and spoke.

'This is what we've managed to come up with so far, Lord Vorkosigan. We've ruled out the possibility of a purely medical approach, say, the administration of drugs to slow your production of neurotransmitters. If only one or a few related chemicals were involved, it might be possible, but you are apparently overproducing dozens or even hundreds—maybe even all of them. We can't suppress them all, and in any case, even if we could it would only reduce the frequency of the seizures, not eliminate them. And in fact, upon closer examination of the data, I don't think the malfunction is nearly so much on the production side, as it is on the reservoirs' molecular-release- mechanism side.

'A second approach looks more promising. We think we can microminiaturize a version of the neural stimulators we used in the lab to trigger your seizure the other day. This array could be permanently installed under your skull, along with feedback sensors that would report when your neurotransmitter reservoirs were becoming dangerously overloaded. You could use the stimulator to voluntarily trigger a seizure in a controlled time and place, and thus, so to speak, defuse yourself safely. Done on a schedule, the attacks ought to be milder and shorter in duration, too.'

'Would I be able to drive? Fly?' Command?

'Mm . . . if the levels were properly monitored and maintained, I don't see why not. If it works.'

After a short internal struggle—against whom?— Miles blurted, 'I was medically discharged over these seizures. Would I be—could I be reinstated? Returned to duty?'

'Yes, I don't quite understand . . . you should have been sent to ImpMil before your discharge was finalized. Hm. Well. If you were a lieutenant still serving, you might be able to petition—or pull whatever strings you own—and arrange to be assigned to desk work. Since you are already discharged, you would . . . certainly need more strings.' Chenko smiled in prudent unwillingness to underestimate Lord Vorkosigan's inventory of strings.

'Desk work. Not ship duty, not field command?'

'Field command? I thought you were an ImpSec galactic affairs operative.'

'Ah . . . let's just say, I did not end up in that cryo-chamber as the result of a training accident.' Though it was surely a learning experience.

'Hm. Well, that's most certainly not my department. ImpSec is a law unto itself; ImpSec's own medical corps would have to decide what you're fit for. As far as the rest of the Service goes, you'd need extraordinary mitigating circumstances to engineer yourself anything but office work.'

I could provide some, I bet. But desk work was no temptation, no threat to the continued existence of Lord Vorkosigan. To spend the rest of his career in charge of the laundry, or worse, as weather officer on some backwater base, waiting forever for promotion—no, be sensible. He'd doubtless end up in a comfy cubicle down in the bowels of ImpSec, analyzing data garnered by other galactic affairs agents, collecting pay raises on a regular schedule—but spared the stresses of promotion to Department Head, or Chief of ImpSec. Going home every night to sleep in his own bed in Vorkosigan House, just like Ivan toddling off to his flat. Sleeping alone? Not even that, necessarily.

If only he hadn't falsified that thrice-damned report.

Miles sighed. 'This is all entirely hypothetical, I'm afraid. As for the scheduled-seizures idea . . . it's not really a cure, is it.'

'No. But while you're waiting for someone brighter than myself to come up with one, it will control your symptoms.'

'Suppose no one brighter than yourself comes along. Will I have these damned things for the rest of my life?'

Chenko shrugged. 'Honestly, I have no idea. Your condition is unique in my neurological experience.'

Miles sat silent for a time. 'All right,' he said at last. 'Let's try it. And see what happens.' He smiled briefly at Gregor's habitual turn of phrase, a private joke.

'Very good, my lord.' Chenko made a flurry of notes. 'We'll need to see you again, mm, in about a week.' He paused, and looked up. 'Forgive my curiosity, my lord . . . but why in the world would an ImperialAuditor wish to be reinstated into the Service as a mere ImpSec lieutenant?'