Memory

several million times. That, gentlemen, is a bioengineered apoptotic prokaryote. Or so I have reconstructed it.'

'A what?' said Miles. 'Simplify, please.'

Weddell flashed a pained smile, doubtless searching his mind for words of one syllable. Miles regretted his last four beers. 'A little bug that eats things,' Weddell essayed, by way of further translation.

'Not that simplified,' said Miles dryly. The Barrayarans around the table, knowing the power of an Imperial Auditor, cringed at his tone; immigrant Weddell did not. Never argue with a pedant over nomenclature. It wastes your time and annoys the pedant. Miles let it go. 'A prokaryote. So. Reconstructed?'

'I'll get to that in a moment, my Lord Auditor. It barely qualifies as a life-form, being smaller and simpler than the smallest bacterium, but it does perform two life-functions. In a manner of speaking it 'eats.' Specifically, it manufactures a proteolytic enzyme that breaks down the protein matrix found in the eidetic chip and several related galactic neuroenhancement applications. It destroys that and nothing else. And, after absorbing the resulting nutrients, it reproduces, by simple binary fission. A population of these prokaryotes, presented with a field, as it were, of chip proteins upon which to graze, will double and redouble in the usual geometric progression—up to a point. After a number of doublings, the prokaryote is programmed to self-destruct. By the time we obtained the chip for analysis, almost all of them had done so, leaving me a pretty jigsaw puzzle of fragments to play with. Another week, and there would have been nothing left to analyze.'

Haroche winced.

'So,' said Miles, 'was this engineered for Illyan specifically? Or is it a commercial product, or what?'

'Your first question I cannot answer. But I could read much of its product history off its molecular structure. First of all, whoever made this did not begin from scratch. This is a modification of an existing, patented apoptotic organism originally designed to destroy neural plaque. The galactic patent code for that perfectly legitimate medical application was still readable on some of the molecular fragments. The modified prokaryote, however, bore no identifications of laboratories of origin, licensing, or patent markings. The original patent is about ten years old, by the way, which gives you the first point in your time-window problem.'

'That was going to be my next question,' said Miles. 'I hope we can narrow things down more than that.'

'Of course. But you see how much we learn already, just from the codes and their absences. The original medical prokaryote was pirated for the new purpose, and the people who modified it were obviously not concerned with legitimizing it for mass trade. It has all the signs of being a one-off job for a one-time customer.'

'Illegal Jacksonian work, by chance?' asked Miles. You would know.

'The kind of shortcuts taken in its design strongly suggest it. I'm not personally familiar with it, unfortunately.'

Not something from Bharaputra Labs, Weddell/Canaba's former employer, then. That would have been a happy chance. But there were a dozen other Jacksonian houses who might have taken on small work like this. For a fee.

'So how much did this cost to make? Or rather, to have made?'

'Mm . . .' Weddell stared thoughtfully into space. 'Actual lab costs, something under fifty thousand Betan dollars. Who knows what the markup might have been. Any special demand for secrecy on the part of its purchasers would have driven the cost up, oh, about fivefold. Or more, depending on what the market would bear.'

Not the work of a lone nut, then, unless he were a fabulously rich lone nut. An organization, perhaps. Komarran terrorists sprang to mind—they always did, unfortunately.

'Could this be Cetagandan work?' asked General Haroche.

'Oh, no, I don't think so,' said Weddell. 'It's not in their style at all. Genetically speaking. Cetagandan work is distinguished by its quality, originality, and, how shall I put it, elegance. This is, by comparison, slapdash. Effective, mind you, but slapdash. On a molecular level.'

Illyan's lips twisted, but he said nothing.

'The self-destruct sequencing,' Weddell went on, 'could have been a safety-check, simply left over from the original design. Or … it could have been deliberately intended to destroy the evidence.'

'Can you tell which?'

'There were some slight modifications in it, compared to the original medical prokaryote … it was deliberately left in the design, anyway. I can give you facts, my lord; I cannot give you the intentions of unknown persons.'

That's my job, right. 'So . . . when was it administered to Illyan? And how?'

'Administered is an assumptive term, though under the circumstances probably allowable. The first gross symptoms of breakdown were when, again?'

'Four weeks ago,' said Haroche. 'At the all-departments briefing.'

'About a week before that, actually,' said Miles. 'According to my informant.'

Haroche gave him a sharp look. 'Really.'

Illyan stirred, as if about to add something, but then kept his peace.

'Hm. The prokaryote does not reproduce very rapidly. Much depends on how large a dose was initially introduced.'

'Yes, and how was it done?' Miles put in. 'For that matter, how is this stuff stored and transported? What's its shelf life? Does it require any special conditions?'

'It's stored dry, in an encapsulated form, at room temperature, though it would not be harmed by mild freezing. Shelf life—heavens. Years. Though it's obviously less than a decade old. It is activated by wetting, presumably upon administration, which requires moist contact. Through mucous membranes—it could have been inhaled as a dust—injected as a solution, or introduced as a contaminant into a scratch. Broken skin and moisture would do it. It wouldn't have to be a large scratch.'

'Swallowed?'

'Most of the prokaryotes would be destroyed by stomach acids. It could be done, but would require a larger initial dose, to be certain enough entered the bloodstream to be carried to the chip.'

'So . . . when? What's the maximum possible time-window for exposure? Can't you use its reproductive rate to calculate when it was administered?'

'Only crudely. That's one of the several variables, I'm afraid, my lord. Administration must have been between ten weeks and one week before the appearance of the first symptoms.'

Miles turned to Illyan. 'Can you remember anything like that?'

Illyan shook his head helplessly.

Haroche said, 'Is there any way . . . could it … is it possible the exposure might have been accidental?'

Weddell screwed up his mouth. 'Possible? Who can say? Likely? That's the question.' And he looked as if he was glad he didn't have to answer it.

'Have there been'—Miles turned to Haroche—'any reports of anyone else on Barrayar who possesses related chip technologies undergoing a mysterious breakdown?' For that matter, did anyone else on Barrayar possess a related chip?

'Not that I know of,' said Haroche.

'I would like ImpSec to double-check that, please.'

'Yes, my lord.' Haroche made a note.

'The jump-pilots' neural implants use an altogether different system,' put in Avakli. 'Thank God.' He blinked, presumably at an inner vision of the chaos that would result from some sort of pilot-plague.

'This prokaryote is not communicable by ordinary means,' Weddell assured them, rather offhandedly, Miles thought.

'We must assume a worst-case scenario, I think,' said Miles.

'Indeed,' sighed Haroche.

'It looks like sabotage to me,' Miles went on. 'Pinpoint deliberate, knowledgeable, and subtle.' And cruel, lord, something cruel. 'We now know what, and how. And some of when. But who, and why?' Ah, the motivations of men again. I have touched the elephant, and it is very like a . . . what were the six answers?—rope, tree, wall, snake, spear, fan. . . . 'We