Illyan's brown eyes opened; he squinted, and his gaze flicked from face to face. He moistened his dry lips.
"Miles?" he husked. "Where the hell am I? What are you doing here?"
Miles s heart sank, momentarily, at this instant replay of the opening of most of Illyan's conversations of the last four days. But Illyan's gaze, though uncertain, remained steady on his face.
Miles shouldered forward through the medical mob, who gave way to him. "Simon. You're in surgery at ImpSec HQ. Your eidetic memory chip broke down, irreparably. We've just removed it entirely."
"Oh." Illyan frowned.
"What is the last thing you can remember, sir?" Ruibal asked, watching closely.
"… remember?" Illyan winced. His right hand twitched, rose to the side of his head, waved forward, clenched, and fell back. "I … it's like a dream." He was silent a moment. "A nightmare."
Miles thought this an admirable demonstration of coherence and correct perception, though Ruibal's forehead wrinkled.
"Who," Illyan added, "decided . . . this?" A vague wave at his head.
"Me," Miles admitted. "Or rather, I advised Gregor, he consented."
"Did he. Gregor put you in charge here?"
"Yes." Miles quailed inwardly.
"Good," Illyan sighed. Miles breathed again. Illyan's eyes grew more intent. "And ImpSec? What's happening? How long . . . ?"
"General Haroche is flying your comconsole right now."
"Lucas? Oh, good."
"He has everything under control. No major crises aside from yours. You can rest."
"I admit," murmured Illyan, "I'm tired."
He looked absolutely beaten. "I'm not surprised," said Miles. "This has been going on for over three weeks."
"Has it, now." Illyan's voice went lower, even more tentative. Once more, his hand made that strange gesture beside his face, as if calling up … as if trying to call up a vid image that failed to appear, before his mind's eye. His hand jerked again, then closed; he almost seemed to force it back to his side.
Ruibal the neurologist stepped in then, and administered his first few tests; Illyan reported no worse overt effects than a slight headache, and some muscle pain. Illyan studied his own bruised knuckles with some bemusement, but did not inquire about them, nor about the marks on his wrists. Miles trailed after as they trundled Illyan back to the patient room in the clinic.
Ruibal briefed Miles in the corridor, after Illyan was put back to bed. "As soon as his physical recovery is established—as soon as he's eaten, eliminated, and slept—I'll start the battery of cognitive tests."
"How soon can he … no, I suppose it's too early to ask that," Miles began. "I was about to ask, how soon could he go home." Such as home was, for Illyan. Miles remembered his own long-ago sojourn in those windowless witness apartments downstairs, and shuddered inwardly.
Ruibal shrugged. "Barring new developments, I'd be willing to release him after two days of close observation. He would need to come back in for daily follow-up testing, of course."
"That soon?"
"As you saw, the surgery was not very invasive. It almost qualified as minor. Physically."
"And nonphysically?"
"We'll have to find that out."
Miles returned his sterile gear to a tech, and hunted up his tunic and its assorted decorations again. As soon as he'd dressed, he poked his head around the corner to a side office. Lady Alys Vorpatril sat patiently there; she looked up at the motion.
"All done," Miles reported. "It's all right so far. He seems to be back to something like normal, on track. Though he's a bit subdued. I don't see why you couldn't see him, if you want."
"Yes. I want." Lady Alys rose, and swept past him.
Miles paid a visit to the secured lab down the corridor that Avakli's team had taken over.
Avakli had the chip under a scanner already, but he'd not yet started to take it apart. A new face in the team, a tall lean man who hung back apart from the others, caught Miles's eye at once.
Dr. Vaughn Weddell, nee Dr. Hugh Canaba of Jackson's Whole, had paler skin now, darker hair, and light hazel eyes in place of the original dark brown color he'd sported when Miles had first met him. A higher arch to his cheekbones and nose lent him an even more distinguished look. His air of earnest intellectual superiority was still the same, though.
Weddel's eyes widened, seeing Miles. Miles smiled grimly. He hadn't thought the good doctor would have forgotten "Admiral Naismith." Miles stepped aside with him, and lowered his voice.
"Good morning, Dr. Weddell. And how are you enjoying your new identity these days?"
Weddell processed his surprise smoothly. "Well, thank you. And, uh . . . how are you enjoying yours?"
"This is my old identity, actually."
"Really?" Weddell's eyebrows rose, as he studied and decoded the meanings of Miles's Barrayaran House uniform and its decorations, and the flashy chain around his neck. "Hm. Do I understand then that you are the Imperial Auditor I have to thank for this interruption of my work at the Science Institute?"
"Correct. We subjects of the Imperium do have our surprise duties sometimes, you must realize by now. The price of being Barrayaran. One of the prices."
"At least," sighed Weddell, "your climate is an improvement."
Over Jackson's Whole, indeed. And Weddell was not referring only to the weather. "I'm very pleased things have worked out satisfactorily for you," said Miles. "If I had realized I was going to be seeing you, I'd have brought greetings from Sergeant Taura."
"My word, is she still alive?"
"Oh, yes." No thanks to you. "Admiral Avakli has presumably briefed you on the very delicate problem we assigned to his team. I'm hoping, should it yield any interesting galactic connections, your somewhat eclectic background might help pick them out. Do you have any ideas yet?"
"Several."
"Do they tend to natural causes, or sabotage?"
"I'll be looking for signs of sabotage. If I can't find an y, we may end up dubbing it natural causes by default. T he analysis will take several days, if it's done thor-ughly."
"I want you to be thorough. Molecule by molecule, if necessary."
"Oh, it will have to be."
"And, um . . . remember that while you are inside ImpSec's labs, and certainly part of a team, you are not inside ImpSec's chain of command. You'll be reporting directly to me."
Weddel's brows drew down, thoughtfully. 'That's … very interesting."
"Carry on, then."
Weddell tilted his chin in slightly ironic acknowledgment. "Yes, my lord, ah … Vorkosigan, is it?"
"Or 'my Lord Auditor' would be correct, this week."
"Rarefied."
"I could scarcely go higher here without risking a nosebleed."
"Is that a warning to me?"
"Orientation only. A courtesy."
"Ah. Thank you." Weddell nodded, and drifted back to watch the proceedings over Avakli's shoulder.
Weddell/Canaba was still an ass at heart, Miles reflected. But he did know his molecular biology.
After a conversation with Admiral Avakli, Miles called Gregor to report the success of the surgery. He then ^turned to see Illyan one more time. He found the ImpSec chief sitting up in bed, dressed again, with Lady Alys seated nearby. Illyan actually smiled slightly as he entered, the first un-harrowed expression Miles had seen on his features for days.
"Hello, sir. It's good to have you back."
"Miles." Illyan nodded, carefully, then touched his hand to his head as if to make sure it was going to stay on. "How long have you been here? Come over here."