CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The week dragged past. The daily short briefings via comconsole from Gregor seemed all right at first, but as each one fell atop the last with little sense of progress, ImpSec's caution began to seem downright glacial to Miles. He complained of this to Gregor.
"You're always impatient, Miles," Gregor pointed out. "Nothing ever goes fast enough to suit you."
"Illyan shouldn't have to wait on doctors. Other people must, maybe, but not him. Don't they have any conclusions yet?"
"They ruled out stroke."
"They ruled out stroke the first day. Then what? What about the chip?"
"There is apparently some evidence of deterioration or damage to the chip."
"We guessed that already, too. What kind? When? How? Why? What the hell are they doing in there all this time?"
"They're still working on ruling out other neurological problems. And psychological ones. It's apparently not easy."
Miles hunched, grouchily. "I don't buy the iatrogenic psychosis idea. He's had that chip in too long without any signs of problems like this before."
"Well . . . that's just the point, it seems. Illyan has had this particular neural augmentation in place and running for longer than any other human being ever. There are no standards for comparison. He's the baseline. No one knows what thirty-five years of accumulated artificial memory does to a personality. We may be finding out."
"I still think we ought to be finding out faster."
"They're doing all they can, Miles. You'll just have to wait like the rest of us."
"Yeah, yeah . . ."
Gregor cut the com; Miles stared unseeing into the empty space over the vid plate. The trouble with synopsized information was that it was always so nebulous. The devil was in the details, the raw data; embedded therein were all the tiny clues that fed the intuition demon until it became strong and fat and, sometimes, grew up to become an actual Theory, or even a Proof. Miles was at least three layers away from reality; the ImpSec physicians synopsized it to Haroche, who boiled it down for Gregor, who filtered it to Miles. There weren't enough facts left in the clarified drippings by that time to color an opinion.
Lady Alys Vorpatril returned from her official journey to Komarr the following morning; that afternoon, she called Miles on his comconsole. He braced himself for the impact of descending social duties; some repressed inner voice cried Incoming!, and dove for cover, uselessly. The inner man would simply have to be dragged out again by the heels and propped upright to march on her orders.
But instead her first words were, "Miles, how long have you known about this dreadful nonsense going on with Simon?"
"Um . . . a couple of weeks."
"Did it never occur to any of you three young louts that I would wish to be informed?"
Young louts—Ivan, Miles, and . . . Gregor? She was upset.
"There was nothing you could do. You were halfway to Komarr. And you already had a top-priority job. But no, I confess I didn't think of it."
"Fools," she breathed. Her brown eyes smoldered.
"Um . . . how did things go, by the way? On Komarr."
"Not terribly well. Laisa's parents are rather upset. I did what I could to soothe their fears, given that I judge some of their anxieties to be quite well founded. I asked your mother to stop on her way and speak to them some more."
"Mother's on her way home?"
"Soon, I hope."
"Ah . . . are you sure my mother is the best person for that job? She can be awfully blunt in her opinions of Barrayar. And she's not always the most diplomatic."
"No, but she's absolutely honest. And she has this peculiar trick of making the most outlandish things seem perfectly sensible, at least for the duration of the time she's talking to you. People end up agreeing with her, and then spending the next month wondering how it happened. I have, at any rate, accomplished all the proper forms and duties of Gregor's Baba."
"So . . . is Gregor's wedding on, or off?"
"Oh, on, of course. But there is a difference between things done in a scramble, and things done superbly well. There will be enough tensions that I can't ease. I don't intend to leave any hanging that I can eliminate. Goodwill is going to be at a premium." She frowned fiercely. "Speaking of goodwill, or the lack of it—they told me Simon was in the ImpSec Headquarters clinic, so of course I went immediately to see him. That idiot general what's-his-name wouldn't let me in!"
"Haroche?" ventured Miles.
"Yes, that was it. Not a Vor, that fellow, and it shows. Miles, can't you do something?"
"Me! I have no authority."
"But you worked with those, those, those . . . men for years. You understand them, presumably."
I am ImpSec, he'd once told Elli Quinn. He'd been quite proud to identify himself with that powerful organization, as if they'd flowed together to become some sort of higher cyborg. Well, he was amputated now, and ImpSec seemed to be stumping along without him in perfect indifference. "I don't work for them anymore. And if I did, I'd still be just a lowly lieutenant. Lieutenants don't give orders to generals, not even Vor lieutenants. Haroche wouldn't let me in either. I think you need to talk to Gregor."
"I just did. He was quite maddeningly vague about it all."
"Maybe he didn't want to distress you. I gather Illyan is in a pretty disturbing mental state right now, not recognizing people and so on."
"Well, how can he, if no one he knows is allowed to see him?"
"Um. Good point. Look, I have no intention of defending Haroche to you. I'm pretty annoyed at him myself."
"Not annoyed enough," snapped Lady Alys. "Haroche actually had the nerve to tell me—me!—that it was no sight for a lady. I asked him what he had been doing during the War of Vordarian's Pretendership." Her voice trailed off in a hiss—Miles's ear was not quite sure, but he thought it detected suppressed barracks language. "I can see Gregor is thinking he may have to work with Haroche for a long time yet. He didn't say it in so many words, naturally, but I gather Haroche has persuaded Gregor that his status as acting Chief of ImpSec is too new and fragile to bear interference from such dangerously unauthorized—and female—persons such as myself. Simon never had any such qualms. I wish Cordelia were here. She was always better than I at cutting through masculinist drivel."
"So to speak," said Miles, thinking of Vordarian's fate at his mother's hands. But Lady Alys was quite correct: Illyan had always treated her as a valued, though different, member of Gregor's support team. Haroche's new and tighter professional order must have come as a bit of a shock to her. Miles went on, "Haroche is in an excellent position to persuade Gregor. He's in total control of the flow of all information to him." Though you couldn't call that a change in how things were done; it had always been that way, but when Illyan had been the sluice keeper it had somehow never bothered Miles.
Alys's dark brows twitched; she said nothing aloud to this. Beneath her speculative frown the silence grew . . . noticeable.
To break the discomfort his unguarded words had engendered, Miles said lightly, "You could go on strike. No wedding till Gregor twists Haroche's arm for you."
"If something sensible isn't done and done soon, I just might."
"I was joking," he said hastily.
"I was not." She gave him a curt nod, and cut the com.
Martin cautiously shook Miles awake shortly after dawn the next morning.
"Um . . . m'lord? You have a visitor downstairs."
"At this ungodly hour?" Miles rubbed his sleep-numbed face, and yawned. "Who?"
"Says his name's Lieutenant Vorberg. One of your ImpSec sticks again, I guess."
"Vorberg?" Miles blinked. "Here? Now? Why?"
"He wants to talk to you, so I guess you'd better ask him."
"Quite, Martin. Um . . . you didn't leave him standing on the doorstep, did you?"
"No, I put him in that big downstairs room on the east side."
"The Second Receiving Room. That's fine. Tell him I'll be down
in just a minute. Make some coffee. Bring it there on a tray with two cups, and the usual trimmings. If there's any of your mother's pastries or breads left over in the kitchen, stuff 'em in a basket or something and bring them too, right? Good."
Curiosity aroused, Miles pulled on the first shirt and trousers that came to hand, and padded barefoot down two flights of the curving front staircase, then turned left and made his way through three more rooms till he came to Second Rec. Martin had pulled a cover off one chair for the guest, and left it in a white heap on the floor. Fingers of sunlight poked through the heavy curtains, leaving the shadows in which Vorberg sat somehow denser. The lieutenant was wearing undress greens, but his face was gray with a faint beard stubble. He frowned wearily at Miles.
"Good morning, Vorberg," said Miles, cautiously polite. "What brings you to Vorkosigan House so early in the day?"
"It's late in the day for me," said Vorberg. "I just came off night shift." His brows lowered.
"They found you a job, did they?"
"Yes. I'm night guard commander for the close security on the clinic."
Miles sat down on a covered chair, abruptly awake even without coffee. Vorberg was one of Illyan's guards? But of course, as a courier, he already had the kind of clearance required. He was at loose ends, readily requisitionable for a physically light, if mentally demanding duty. And . . . he was an HQ outsider. No close old friends there to gossip with. Miles tried to keep his tone level, noncommittal. "Oh? What's up?"
Vorberg's voice went tight, almost angry. "I do think it's bad form of you, Vorkosigan. Almost petty, under the circumstances. Illyan was your father's man for years. I passed the message on at least four times. Why haven't you come?"
Miles sat very still. "Excuse me. I think I've missed the first half of something. What, ah . . . could you please tell me exactly what's been going on in there? How long have you been on this duty?"
"Since the first night they brought him in. It's been pretty ugly. When he's not sedated, he babbles. When he is sedated, if he's been combative again, he still babbles, but you can't make out what he's saying. The medics keep him restrained almost all the time. It's as if he's wandering through history, in his mind, but every once in a while, he seems to pass through the present. And when he does, he asks for you. At first I thought it was the Count your father he wanted, but it's definitely you. Miles, he says, and Get that idiot boy in here, and Haven't you found him yet, Vorberg? It's not like you can mistake the hyperactive little shit. Sorry," Vorberg added as an afterthought, "that's just what he said."
"I recognize the style," whispered Miles. He cleared his throat, and his voice grew stronger. "I'm sorry. This is the first I've heard of this."
"Impossible. I've passed it on in my night report four or five nights in a row, now."
Gregor would not have failed to redirect such a word. Gregor hadn't a hint of this. The break was somewhere else up in Vorberg's chain of command. We will find out. Oh yes, we will. "What kind of medical treatment or tests is he receiving?"
"I don't know. Nothing much happens on my shift."
"I suppose . . . that's reasonable."
They both fell silent as Martin brought the coffee and rolls on a baking sheet for a makeshift tray—Make a note for Lesson Six in butlering, Finding the Serving Utensils—snagged a roll for himself, smiled cheerily, and strolled back out. Vorberg blinked at this odd turn of service, but sucked down coffee gratefully. He frowned again at Miles, more speculatively this time. "I've been hearing a lot of strange things from the man, in the deep night. Between the times the sedatives wear off, and before he goes, uh, goes noisy and wins another dose."
"Yes. I would imagine so. Do you know why Illyan is asking for me?"
"Not exactly. Even in his more lucid moments, it comes out sounding pretty garbled. But I've been getting the damnedest unpleasant feeling that the problem is half in me. Because I don't know the background, I can't decipher what may be perfectly clear statements. I have figured out you were never a bloody courier."
"No. Covert ops." A sunbeam was creeping over his chair arm, making the coffee in the thin cup perched there glow red.
"High level covert ops," said Vorberg, watching him in the shadows and light beams.
"The highest."
"I don't quite know why he discharged you—"
"Ah." Miles smiled bleakly. "I really must tell you, someday. It's true about the needle grenade. Just not complete."
"Part of the time he doesn't seem to know he discharged you. But part of the time he does. And he still asks for you, even then."
"Have you ever reported this directly to General Haroche?"
"Yes. Twice."
"What did he say?"
"Thank you, Lieutenant Vorberg."
"I see."
"I don't."
"Well . . . neither do I, completely. But now I think I can find out. Ah . . . I think perhaps this conversation had better not have taken place."
Vorberg's eyes narrowed. "Oh?"
"That conversation we had on the steps outside the Residence will do instead, if anyone inquires."
"Ho. And just what are you to the Dendarii Mercenaries, Vorkosigan?"
"Nothing, now."
"Well . . . you covert ops fellows were always the worst bunch of weasels I ever met, so I don't know even now if I trust you, but if you're being straight with me . . . I'm glad for the sake of the Vor that you haven't just abandoned your father's liegeman. There's not many of us left who care enough to, enough to . . . I don't know how to say it."
"Who care enough to make Vor real," suggested Miles.
"Yes," said Vorberg gratefully. "That's right."
"Damn straight, Vorberg."
An hour later, Miles strode through the graying morning to the side portal of ImpSec HQ. Clouds were blowing in from the east, chilling the promise of the early sun; he could smell rain in the air. The granite gargoyles looked blank and surly in the shadowless light. The building above them rose big and closed and blocky. And ugly.
Haroche's first concern had been to place guards with the highest security clearances around Illyan. Not a word about doctors with the highest clearances, or medtechs, or, God forbid, the best experts possible, cleared or not. He wasn't treating Illyan so much as a patient as a prisoner. A prisoner of his own organization—did Illyan appreciate the irony? Miles suspected not.
So was Haroche paranoid and thickheaded by nature, or merely temporarily panicked by his new responsibilities? Haroche couldn't have arrived where he was by being stupid, but his new and complex job had fallen into his lap suddenly and with little warning. Haroche had started his career in Service Security, as a military policeman. As Domestic Affairs assistant and then chief, he'd largely interfaced downward and inward, dealing with predictable military subordinates. Illyan had been ImpSec's upward and outward face, dealing smoothly with the Emperor, the Vor lords, all the unwritten and sometimes unacknowledged rules of the idiosyncratic Vor system. Illyan's handling of Alys Vorpatril, for example, had been subtly brilliant, giving him a wide-open pipeline of information into the private side of Vor society in the capital that had more than once proved an enormously valuable supplement to more official dealings. In his first encounter with her, Haroche had deeply offended this potential ally, as if the fact that she didn't appear in the government's organizational flow chart meant her power didn't exist. Chalk up a big one in favor of the thickheaded hypothesis.
But as for the paranoia—Miles had to acknowledge, Illyan's head was so stuffed with the hottest Barrayaran secrets of the last three decades it was a wonder it hadn't melted down long before this. You couldn't let him go wandering off down the street not knowing what year it was. Haroche's caution was in fact commendable, but it ought to have been tinged with more . . . what? Respect? Courtesy? Grief?
Miles took a breath and marched through the doors. Martin, who had been unusually fortunate in finding a big enough parking place quite nearby for the Count's armored grou
ndcar, trailed him uncertainly, clearly awed by the sinister building despite his family connection. Miles planted himself before the security desk, and frowned at the clerk, the same fellow who'd been on duty last week.
"Good morning again. I'm here to see Simon Illyan."
"Um . . ." The clerk tapped his comconsole. "You're still not on my roster, Lord Vorkosigan."
"No, but I am on your doorstep. And I intend to stay here until I get some results. Call your chief."
The clerk hesitated, but came down in favor of letting someone with more status face down a Vor lord, even so short and odd a one as Miles. They hung up briefly at the level of Haroche's, formerly Illyan's, secretary, but Miles evicted the clerk from his station chair and bulled through to Haroche himself.