Memory

at Miles for thus relieving him of having to decide whether an Imperial Auditor was above standard security or not, and if not, how the devil he was to attempt to enforce his rules.

His relief was short-lived, as his panel lights blinked red, and his comconsole made disapproving noises. 'My lord? You are explicitly listed as not-cleared, by order of General Haroche.'

'What?' Miles trod around the comconsole desk to look over his shoulder. 'Ah. Check the date. That's a leftover from … a few weeks back. If it bothers you, call Haroche's office and get the change authorized. I'll wait.'

Nervously, the sergeant did so. While he was negotiating with Haroche's secretary, who sped the authorization back along with an apology the moment he understood the problem, Miles stared at the flat readout screen projected above the vid plate. It listed the dates and times of every visit he'd ever made down here, going back nearly a decade, together with codes for the items he'd carried in and out, mostly in. There was the safely lobotomized zvegan smart bomb, ah yes. And those strange Cetagandan genetic samples, now undergoing further investigation under the aegis of Dr. Weddell, he suspected. And . . . what the hell . . . ?

Miles leaned closer. 'Excuse me. This comconsole lists me as visiting the evidence room twelve weeks ago.' It was the date of his return from his last Dendarii mission, in fact, the fatal day Illyan had been out of town. The time logged was . . . right after he'd reported in to, and out of, Illyan's office; about the time he'd been walking home, in fact. His eyes widened, and his teeth snapped shut. 'How . . . interesting,' he hissed.

'Yes, my lord?' said the sergeant.

'Were you on duty that day?'

'I don't remember, my lord. I'd have to check the roster. Um . . . why do you ask, sir?'

'Because I didn't come down here that day. Or any other day since year before last.'

'You're listed, sir.'

'I see that.' Miles grinned, his lips peeling back.

He'd found what he'd been subliminally looking for the last three days, all right and tight. The loose end. This is either the jackpot or a trap. I wonder which? So was he meant to find it? Was he meant to find it, now? Could any seer have predicted this subterranean visit? Assume nothing, boy. Just go on.

Carefully.

'Open a secured channel to Ops on your com-console,' he told the sergeant. 'I want Captain Vorpatril, and I want him now.'

Ivan made good time, coming over from the Operations building on the other side of the city; by luck, Miles had caught him on a day he hadn't skinned out of work early. Miles, sitting on the edge of the evidence room entry port's comconsole desk, one booted leg swinging, smiled grimly at Ivan's entrance, shaking off his ImpSec internal escort—'Yes, yes, see, I'm not lost. You can go away now. Thank you.' The evidence room sergeant and his supervisor, a lieutenant, waited on the Lord Auditor's pleasure. The lieutenant was green and shaking.

Ivan took one look at Miles's face, and his brows rose. 'So, Lord Auditor Coz. Did you find some fun?'

'Do I look cheerful?'

'More like manic.'

'It's a joy, Ivan, an absolute joy. The ImpSec internal security system is lying to me.'

'Tricky, that,' said Ivan cautiously. 'What's it saying?'

'It thinks I visited the evidence room, here, on the day of my return from my last mission. Furthermore, the entry desk log upstairs has been altered to match—it lists me as having left the building half an hour later than I really did. The security records at Vorkosigan House still show the actual time of my arrival, though—just enough time in the gap for me to have taken a groundcar home. Except that I walked that day. Furthermore—and this is the cream—the evidence room's internal vid monitor cartridge for that day was found to be, guess what?'

Ivan glanced at the obviously distraught ImpSec lieutenant. 'Missing?'

'Got it in one.'

Ivan's face screwed up. 'Why?'

'Why, indeed. The very question I propose to answer next. I suppose this could be totally unconnected with Illyan's sabotage. Want to take a side bet?'

'Nope.' Ivan stared at him glumly. 'Does this mean I need to cancel my dinner plans?'

'Yes, and mine too. Call my mother and give her my apologies, but I won't be home tonight. Then sit down here at this desk.' He pointed to the sergeant's station chair; the sergeant scrambled out of it. 'I declare this evidence room sealed. Let no one in, Ivan, no one at all, without my Auditor's authorization. You two'—his arm swung to point at the two ImpSec men, who flinched—'are my witnesses that I, personally, did not enter the storage areas today.' He added to the lieutenant, 'Tell me about your inventory procedures.'

The lieutenant swallowed. 'The comconsole records are continually updated, of course, my Lord Auditor. We do physical inventory once a month. It takes a week.'

'And the last one was done when?'

'Two weeks ago.'

'Anything turn up missing?'

'No, my lord.'

'Anything missing in the last three months?'

'No.'

'The last year?'

'No!'

'Do the same fellows always do the inventory?'

'It rotates. It's . . . not a popular chore.'

'I'll bet not.' Miles glanced at Ivan. 'Ivan, while you're sitting here, call Ops and requisition yourself four men with top security clearances, who have never worked for or with ImpSec. They're going to be your team.'

Ivan's face screwed up in dismay. 'Oh, God,' he groaned. 'You're not going to make me inventory the whole damned thing, are you?'

'Yes. For obvious reasons, I can't do it myself. Somebody's planted a red flag here, with my name on it. If they wanted my attention, they've certainly got it.'

'Biologicals too? The cold room too?' Ivan shuddered.

'All of it.'

'What will I be looking for?'

'If I knew that, we wouldn't have to do an inventory, now, would we?'

'What if, instead of something taken out, something was added? What if it's not a lead you've got hold of, but a fuse?' Ivan asked. His hand flexed in nervous pantomime.

'Then I trust you will stamp it out.' He gestured the two ImpSec men into his wake. 'Come with me, gentlemen. We're going to go see General Haroche.'

Haroche too came on the alert the minute he saw Miles's face, as Miles and his little train marched into his office. Haroche sealed his doors behind them, shut down his comconsole, and said, 'What have you found, my lord?'

'Approximately twenty-five minutes of revised history. Your comconsoles have been buggered.'

Haroche's face grew unhappy indeed as Miles explained his discovery of the added time, with corroboration from the evidence room supervisor. It darkened further with the news about the missing vid record.

'Can you show where you were?' he asked when Miles had finished. 'Prove you walked home?'

Miles shrugged. 'Possibly. I passed plenty of people in the street, and I am, ah, a bit more memorable than the average man. Scrounging for witnesses ages after the fact is the sort of thing the municipal guard has to do all the time, investigating their civil crimes. I may put them on it, if it seems necessary. But as an Imperial Auditor, my word is not on trial.'

Yet.