"Ah." Haroche's eyes were alert, as he took this in. His fingers drummed once on the black glass, a downright Illyan-esque gesture. The man was actually listening, by God. And learning? A heartening thought.
Haroche's lips compressed with decision, and he tapped out a code on his comconsole. Lady Alys's secretary appeared; after a few murmured words of greeting and explanation, Alys's own face formed over the vid plate. She frowned at Haroche.
"Milady." He nodded shortly to her. His hand gesture might be interpreted either as a modified analysts salute, or a man tugging his forelock; the nuance was nicely vague. "I've reconsidered your request for admittance to the ImpSec clinic. Chief Illyan may be facing surgery shortly. I'd take it as a personal favor if you would be willing to come down here and stay with him for a while beforehand. Familiar faces seem to help him to, um, stay calm with fewer drugs."
Alys straightened. "I told you that yesterday!"
"Yes, milady," said Haroche meekly. "You were right. May I send a car to your residence for you? And how soon?"
"For this," Alys stated, "I can be ready in fifteen minutes."
Miles wondered if Haroche appreciated what an awesome statement this was. It could take a high Vor lady fifteen hours to get ready to go places, sometimes.
"Thank you, milady. I think this could be a great help."
"Thank you, General." She hesitated. "And thank Lord Vorkosigan too." She cut the com.
"Huh," said Haroche; his mouth twitched lopsidedly. "She is sharp."
"In certain areas within her personal expertise, one of the sharpest."
"One wonders how Lord Ivan … ah, well. How was that, my Lord Auditor?"
Extraordinary. "A noble apology. She had to accept. You won't be sorry."
"As hard as it may be for you to grasp, considering the history of your attitude to most of your commanding officers"—Haroche tapped his comconsole—just which files had he been reading?—"I do want to do a good job. Do your duty is not enough. The lower ranks are filled with men who merely do their duty, and no more. I know I'm not a suave man—never have been—"
"Neither was Illyan's predecessor Captain Negri, I've heard," Miles offered.
Haroche smiled bleakly. "I didn't ask for this emergency. I will likely never be as smooth and polished as Illyan. But I mean to do as good a job."
Miles nodded. "Thank you, General."
Miles returned to the clinic level to relieve Ivan. Miles found him still sitting next to Illyan, though as far back in his chair as he would go, smiling in a pained way; one boot tapped softly on the floor in a nervous pattern.
Ivan rose hastily, and came to the door when he saw Miles leaning there watching. "Thank God. It's about time you got back," he muttered.
"How's it been going?"
"What d'you think? I can see why they sedated him, even without his trying to tear their heads off. Just so they didn't have listen to hour after hour of this. Miles, this is a nightmare."
"Yes. I know." He sighed. "I have some help on the way for this part, though. I've asked your mother to come in and sit with him."
"Oh," said Ivan. "Good idea. Better her than me, anyway."
Miles's mouth twisted. "You're not afraid it'll be too hard on her?"
"Oh. Um. Hell, she's tough."
"Tougher than you?"
"She'll be good at this," Ivan promised somewhat desperately.
"Take a break, Ivan."
"Yeah." Ivan didn't wait for a second invitation, but scooted past him.
"And Ivan?"
Ivan paused, suspiciously. "Yeah?"
"Thanks."
"Oh. No trouble."
Miles took a deep breath, and entered Illyan s room. It was still very warm. He took off his tunic, and folded it over the back of a chair, and rolled up his silk sleeves, and sat. Illyan first ignored him for a bit, then stared at him in puzzlement, then his face cleared. It began again, Miles, what are you doing here . . . ? Simon, listen to me. Your chip has gone glitchy. . . .
Over and over.
It was a little bit like talking to someone with multiple personalities, Miles decided after a while. The thirty-year-old Illyan gave way to the Illyan of forty-six, each man profoundly different from the Illyan of sixty. Miles waited patiently for the card he desired to be dealt again from the deck, endlessly repeating the date, the facts, the situation. Would it ever reach the point where all the Illyan's had been informed, or would he continue to divide infinitesimally?
At last, the Illyan he was waiting for came around again.
"Miles! Did Vorberg find you? Shit, this is a nightmare. My damned chip has gone glitchy. It's turning to snot inside my head. Promise me—promise me by your word as Vorkosigan!—you won't let this go on."
"Listen, Simon! I know all about it. But I'm not bloody going to cut your throat. We've scheduled surgery instead, to take the chip out. No later than tomorrow, if I have anything to say about it, and I do. It can't be fixed, so we're going to remove it."
Illyan paused. "Remove . . . ?" His hand touched his forehead. "But how can I function without it?"
"Same as you did in the first twenty-seven years of your life before you ever had it installed, is the best medical guess."
Illyan's eyes were solemn, and afraid. "Will it take … all my memories? Will I lose my whole life? Oh, God, Miles." He was silent for a time, then added, "I think I'd rather have you cut my throat."
"That's not an option, Simon."
Illyan shook his head. And dissolved again, into another Illyan, another round of, "Miles! What are you doing here? What am I doing here?" He stared down at his bland civilian clothes; Illyan either favored really boring fashions, or else did not trust his own taste. "I'm supposed to be at the Council of Counts in full dress uniform right now. They must be told—they must be told."
Miles couldn't decide if it constituted informed consent or not, under the circumstances. Was it informed? Was it even consent? But it seemed the best he could do. He repeated the drill. Again. Again.
At length, Dr. Ruibal escorted Lady Alys into the room. He'd briefed her as Miles had requested; Miles could see it in her set, disturbed face.
"Hello, Simon." Her voice was quiet, a melodic alto.
"Lady Alys!" Illyan's face worked, as he searched his mind for Miles knew not what. "I am so sorry about the death of Lord Vorpatril," Illyan said at last. "If I had only known where you were in the city. I was trying to get Admiral Kanzian out. If only I'd known. Did you save the child?"
Apologies and condolences on the murder of her husband, thirty years ago. Kanzian had been dead of old age for half a decade now. Alys glanced in suppressed anguish at Miles. "Yes, Simon, it's all right," she said. "Lieutenant Koudelka brought us through Vordarian's lines. Its all right now."
Miles nodded, and repeated the orienting drill, as a model for Alys. She listened to the exchange carefully, and watched Illyan's face go through the usual array of emotions, startlement, denial, distraught dismay. Illyan's blunter barracks language disappeared abruptly from his speech in her presence. Miles slipped out of the chair beside Illyan's and offered it to her. She sat without hesitation, and took Illyan's hand.
Illyan blinked, and looked up at her. "Lady Alys!" His face softened. "What are you doing here?"
Miles withdrew to the doorway, where Ruibal watched.