Memory

have the method. The motive remains obscure. You have too many enemies, Simon, and none of them are personal. I don't think. You weren't . . . sleeping with anyone's wife or daughter or anything like that, that we don't know about, were you?'

Illyan's mouth twisted in bleak amusement. 'Alas, no, Miles.'

'So … it had to be someone who was mad at ImpSec generally. Political motivations? Damn, that still leaves too wide a field. Though they did have money to burn, and, um, patience—how long would you estimate it took to develop that microbeastie, Dr. Weddell?'

'Laboratory time, oh, a couple of months. Unless they paid for a rush job. A month at least.'

'Plus travel time . . . this plot has to have started at least six months ago, I'd think.'

Haroche cleared his throat. 'It appears probable that it came from off Barrayar. I'd like to know what laboratory it came from, and when. With your permission, my Lord Auditor, I'll immediately alert Galactic Affairs to put their agents onto the Jacksonian end of this tangle. With an eye to other possible sources for bio-work on this order—Escobar, for example. Jackson's Whole does not possess a complete monopoly on shady deals, after all.'

'Yes, please, General Haroche,' said Miles. It was exactly the sort of tedious legwork ImpSec could do much better than Miles. A real Imperial Auditor normally possessed a staff of his own to whom to delegate such jobs. He'd have to check the reports personally, to be sure. Ah, he was going be stuck down in the bowels of ImpSec HQ after all. He must be fated.

'And,' added Haroche, 'I'll review of all of Chief Illyan's movements for the last, say, sixteen weeks to five weeks ago.'

'I was mostly here at HQ,' said Illyan. 'Two trips out of the city … I think … I know I never left Barrayar in that time.'

'There was Gregor's State dinner,' Miles pointed out. 'And a few other events you personally supervised.'

'Yes.' Haroche made another note. 'We'll need a list of every galactic visitor Chief Illyan could have physically encountered at those functions. The list will be large, but finite.'

'Is there anything else you can do to narrow the time-window?' Miles asked Avakli and Weddell.

Weddell spread his hands; Avakli shook his head and said, 'Not with our current data, my lord.'

'Is there anything else at all you can add?' asked General Haroche.

Head shakes all around. 'Not without moving into realms of speculation,' said Avakli.

'It's such an odd attack,' said Miles. 'Targeting Illyan's function, yet not his life.'

'I'm not sure you can rule out murderous intent, my lord,' put in Dr. Ruibal. 'If the chip had not been removed, he might well have died eventually of exhaustion. Or met some accident during his periods of confusion.'

Haroche sucked in his breath. Quite, Miles thought. And if someone was targeting ImpSec chiefs for assassination, Haroche could well be next on the list.

Haroche sat up straight. 'Gentlemen, you have all done an outstanding job. My personal commendation will be added to all your secret files. As soon as you have your final report ready to turn in, you may return to your regular duties.'

'Tomorrow, most probably,' said Avakli.

'Can I go home tonight?' put in Weddell. 'My poor laboratory has been in the hands of my assistants for a week. I shudder to think of what awaits me upon my return.'

Avakli glanced at Miles, tossing this one his way—You foisted him on me, you deal with him.

'I don't see why not,' said Miles. 'I do want a duplicate copy of the report.'

'Certainly, my Lord Auditor,' said Admiral Avakli.

'And anything else your office generates, General Haroche.'

'Of course.' Haroche started to say more, then opened his hand to Miles. 'My Lord Auditor? You called this meeting.'

Miles smiled, and rose. 'Gentlemen, dismissed. And thank you all.'

In the corridor outside, Illyan paused with Haroche, and Miles waited for him.

'Well, sir,' Haroche sighed, 'you've bequeathed me an ugly puzzle, I must say.'

Illyan grinned. 'Welcome to the hot seat. I was telling Miles . . . yesterday?—that my first job as chief of ImpSec was to investigate the assassination of my predecessor. The triumph of tradition.'

You were telling me that this afternoon, Simon.

'You weren't murdered, at least,' said Haroche.

'Ah.' Illyan's smile thinned. 'I … forgot.' He glanced at Haroche, and his voice fell to a murmur that Haroche had to bend his head to hear. 'Get the bastards for me, will you, Lucas?'

'I'll do my best, sir. We all will.' Gravely, and despite Illyan's civilian garb, Haroche saluted him as they turned to leave.

Miles did not fall asleep easily that night, or rather morning, despite replacing his expected insomnia of anticipation with . . . what? Information-indigestion, he supposed.

He turned in his bedsheets, and stared into a darkness considerably less opaque than the problem that had just landed in his lap. When he had leapt at the chance of playing Imperial Auditor, he'd expected it to be exactly that, a charade, acted out just long enough to spring Simon Illyan from ImpSec's clumsy medical clutches. Not that difficult a task, really, in retrospect. But now . . . now he faced a problem that would give a real Auditor, with all his staff and support, galloping insomnia.

The hollowness of his office, issued to him merely on Gregor's whim, echoed in his head. He missed his Dendarii backup. If he'd thought for a minute this appointment was going to go real, even temporarily, he'd have started building a staff of suitable experts, raided from, though independent of, all other Barrayaran organizations. He knew a number of good fellows from ImpSec, for instance, close to their twenty-year anniversaries, who might be willing to retire and lend their training to his use. Study the other Auditors' staffs, and model his from theirs. Pin Lord Auditor Vorhovis to the nearest wall, and not let him go until he'd disgorged everything he knew about doing his job. A new apprenticeship. I'm doing it backwards again, dammit. A familiar unfamiliarity. You'd think I'd learn.

So. What should he do next, or rather, first? His one piece of physical evidence, the bioengineered prokaryote, appeared to lead back to Jackson's Whole, if he could trust Weddell's technical expertise, which he did. Should he go haring off to Jackson's Whole, to supervise the search? The thought made him shudder.

That sort of fieldwork was just the sort of thing to delegate to a team of field agents, of the kind he'd formerly been himself. Speaking of expertise. So the obvious thing to do was delegate it, except… if ImpSec itself was tainted with suspicion . . .

If the production of the prokaryote had been a purely commercial enterprise, there was no motivation to be found on Jackson's Whole. Well, maybe revenge. 'Admiral Naismith' had seriously annoyed several Jacksonian Great Houses there on his last visit: if they'd finally figured out who he was working for . . . Yet House Fell, which could command the resources for this nasty piece of sabotage, had not been seriously discommoded by him; House Bharaputra, which had been more upset, was perhaps not crazy enough to start a private war with Barrayar—there was no obvious profit in it, after all; House Ryoval, which both had the resources and was crazy enough, was dismembered, Baron Ryoval dead.

No. The weapon might have come from Jackson's Whole, but the crime had been committed here. Intuition, boy? So what was he supposed to do, lie in wait trying to ambush his own subconscious? He'd go quietly mad.

Maybe he needed to give his intuition demon more to chew on. Stir up ImpSec? Stir up your own assassination, maybe? At least it would be entertaining, and less frustrating than this blankness.

Do you really think it's an inside job? The intuition demon, as usual, was too coy to