Memory

produce a suspect more to your taste. Where will you stop?'

Not here, for damn sure. 'The Empress-to-be is not going to be happy with you. Or with me.'

Haroche grimaced. 'I'm aware. She seems a very nice young woman, and it gives me no pleasure to think this may cause her distress, but I took my oath to Gregor. So did you.'

'Yes.'

'If you have nothing more concrete to offer, I'm ready to lay the charges and let the court-martial sort it out.'

You can lay the charges, but I'll not light the fuse.

'I could decline to close my Auditor's case.'

'If the court-martial convicts, you'll have to close it, my lord.'

No, I won't. The realization made him blink. He could keep his Auditor's inquiry open forever if he so chose, and there wasn't a damned thing Haroche could do about it. No wonder Haroche was being so exquisitely polite today. Miles could even veto the court-martial. . . . But Imperial Auditors were traditionally circumspect with their vast powers. From a large pool of experienced men, they were chosen not for the glory of their former careers, but for their long records of utmost personal probity. Fifty years of life's tests were normally considered barely enough to smoke out the likely candidates. He ought not to screw with ImpSec s internal rules any more than the bare minimum necessary to—

Haroche smiled wearily. 'We may end up having to agree to disagree, but try to see my view. Galeni was your friend once, and I sympathize with your dismay at the turn things have taken. This is what I can do. I can drop the treason charge, and reduce it to assault on a superior officer. Minimize the distress. A year in prison, a simple dishonorable discharge, and Galeni walks away. You might even use whatever pull you have to gain him an Imperial pardon, and spare him the prison. I've no great objection, as long as he's gotten out of here'

Thus destroying Galeni's career, and any future political ambitions . . . and Galeni had been an ambitious man, anxious to serve Komarr in that new and more peaceful future Gregor had envisioned, immensely conscious of his opportunities there. 'A pardon is for the guilty,' said Miles. 'It's not the same thing as an acquittal.'

Haroche scratched his head, and grimaced again, or maybe that was intended to be a smile. 'I … really had another reason for asking you up here, Lord Vorkosigan. I'm looking to the future on more than one front.' Haroche hesitated for a long moment, then went on, 'I took the liberty of requisitioning a copy of your ImpMil neurologists medical reports on your condition. Your seizure disorder. I thought his plan of treatment sounded promising.'

'ImpSec,' Miles murmured, 'always was ubiquitous as cockroaches. First tap my comconsole, then my medical files . . . remind me to shake out my boots, tomorrow morning.'

'My apologies, my lord. I think you'll forgive me. I had to know the particulars, before I could say what I'm about to say. But if this controlled-seizure device proves to work as you hope …'

'It only controls the symptoms. It's not a cure.'

Haroche opened his hand, dismissing the difference. 'A matter of medical definition, not practical use. I'm a practical man. I've been studying the reports of your Dendarii missions for ImpSec. You and Simon Illyan made an extraordinary team.'

We were the best, oh yes. Miles grunted, neutrally, suddenly uncertain of just where Haroche was leading.

Haroche smiled wryly. 'Filling Illyan's place is a damned big challenge. I'm reluctant to give up any advantage. Now that I've had a chance to work with you

in person, and look over your records in real detail . . . I'm increasingly sure that Illyan made a serious mistake when he discharged you.'

'It was no mistake. I more than deserved what I got.' His mouth was growing dry.

'I don't think so. I think Illyan overreacted. A written censure appended to your records would have been enough, in my view.' Haroche shrugged. 'You could have added it to your collection. I've worked with your sort before, willing to take risks no one else is willing to take, to get results no one else is able to obtain. I like results, Miles. I like them a lot. The Dendarii Mercenaries were a great resource, for ImpSec.'

'They still are. Commodore Quinn will take your money. And deliver your goods.' His heart was beginning to pound.

'This woman Quinn is unknown to me, and not Barrayaran. I'd much prefer—if your medical treatment is successful—to reinstate you.'

He had to swallow, in order to breathe. 'Everything … to be as it was before? Take up where I left off?' The Dendarii . . . Admiral Naismith . . .

'Not exactly where you left off, no. By my calculations you were about two years overdue for your promotion to captain, for one thing. But I think you and I could be a team just as you and Illyan were.' A small twinkle lit Haroche's eye. 'You will perhaps forgive me my touch of ambition if I say, maybe even better? I'd be proud to have you on board, Vorkosigan.'

Miles sat stunned. For a moment, all he could think, idiotically, was I'm sure glad I had that seizure last night, or I'd be rolling on this carpet again right now. 'I … I …' His hands were shaking, his head exploding with joy. Yes! Yes! Yes! 'I'd . . . have to close this case first. Give Gregor back his choke-chain. But then . . . sure!' His injured lip split again as it stretched, painfully, into an unstoppable grin. He sucked salt blood from it.

'Yes,' said Haroche patiently, 'that's exactly what I've been saying.'

An ice-water wash seemed to pour down through the middle of Miles's chest, quenching his hot exaltation. What? He scarcely felt able to think straight. A memory filled his inner vision, of a docking bay crammed wall-to-wall with Dendarii troopers chanting, Naismith, Naismith, Naismith!

My first victory. … Do you remember what it cost?

His grin had become fixed. 'I … I … I …' He swallowed twice, and cleared his throat. As if echoing from some far-off tunnel he heard his voice—which him?— saying, 'I'm going to have to think about this, General.'

'Please do,' said Haroche genially. 'Take your time. But don't leave me in suspense forever—I can already imagine a use for the Dendarii in a certain situation which looks to be looming out near Kline Station. I'd love to discuss it with you, if you're in. I'd like your advice.'

Miles's eyes were wide and dilated, his face pale and damp. 'Thank you, General,' he choked out. 'Thank you very . . .'

He scrambled out of his chair, still smiling with bleeding lips. He almost caromed off the door frame like a drunken man; Haroche keyed the door open for him just in time. A mumbled word to Haroche's secretary had Martin and the groundcar waiting for Miles by the time he reached the building's exit.

Miles waved Martin away, and sat alone in the rear compartment. He silvered the canopy, and wished he might as easily blank out the shocky expression on his face. He felt as if he was fleeing a battlefield. But where was the wound in all this grinning glory?

He didn't stop retreating till he was back at Vorkosigan House. He ducked past his mother's retainers, and swung wide around Illyan's guest suite. He locked himself in his own bedroom, and began to pace, till he found his gaze fixated on his comconsole. It seemed to stare back at him with Horus eyes. He fled up one floor further, to the little spare room with the old wing chair. It felt small enough at last to contain him, soothing as a straitjacket. He didn't bring the brandy or the knife, this time. They would have been redundant.

He locked the door, and flung himself into the wing-chair. Not just his hands but his whole body was shaking.

His old job back. Everything to be as it was before.