Memory b-10

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  When they were all arranged, the effect was just short of looney.

  Separated into all the little secret compartments, he hadn't realized just how much he'd accumulated, till he put it all together again. No, not again. For the first time.

  Let's lay it all on the line. Smiling grimly, he fastened them down. He donned the white silk shirt that went underneath, the silver-embroidered suspenders, the brown trousers with the silver side-piping, the gleaming riding boots. Lastly, the heavy tunic. He fastened his grandfather's dagger in its cloisonne sheath, with the Vorkosigan seal in the jeweled hilt, on its proper belt around his waist. He combed his hair, and stepped back to regard himself, glittering in his mirror.

  Going native, are we? The sarcastic voice was growing fainter.

  "If you expect to open a can of worms," he spoke aloud for the first time, "you'd best trouble to pack a can-opener."

  Martin, engrossed in reading a hand-viewer, looked up at the sound of Miles's booted step, and did a gratifying double-take.

  "Bring my car round to the front portico," Miles instructed him coolly.

  "Where are we going? My lord."

  "To the Imperial Residence. I have an appointment."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Gregor received Miles in the serene privacy of his office in the Residence's north wing. He was seated behind his comconsole desk, perusing some visual display, and didn't look up till after the majordomo had announced Miles and withdrawn. He tapped a control and the holovid vanished, revealing the small, smoldering, brown-uniformed man standing across from him.

  "All right, Miles, what's this all ab—good God." Gregor sat up, startled; his brows climbed as he began to take in the details. "I don't think I've ever seen you come the Vor lord with intent."

  "At this point," said Miles, "intent should be steaming out both my ears. I would bet"—his catch-phrase used to be, I would bet my ImpSec silver eyes— "anything you please that there is a bigger mess with Illyan than Haroche has reported to you."

  Gregor said slowly, "His reports are necessarily synopses."

  "Ha. You've sensed it too, haven't you. Did Haroche ever once pass on the word that Illyan had requested to see me?"

  "No . . . has he? And how do you know?"

  "I had it from a, how shall I say it, a reliable anonymous source."

  "How reliable?"

  "To imagine he set me up with a false tale would be to attribute a mind bordering on the baroque to a person I judge to be almost painfully straightforward. And then there's the problem of motivation. Let's just say, reliable enough for practical purposes."

  Gregor said slowly, "As I understand it, Illyan is at present . . . well, to be blunt, dangerously out of his mind. He's been demanding a lot of impractical things. A jump-ship raid on the Hegen Hub to turn back an imaginary invasion was mentioned to me."

  "It was real once. You were there."

  "Ten years ago. How do you know this isn't just more of the same hallucinatory raving?"

  "That's just the point. I can't judge, because I haven't been permitted to see him. No one has. You heard from Lady Alys."

  "Er, yes."

  "Haroche has now blocked me twice. This morning he offered to have me stunned if I continued to make a pest of myself."

  "How much of a pest were you?"

  "You can doubtless request—I'd make that request and require, if I were you—a review of Haroche's comconsole recording of our last conversation. You might even find it entertaining. But Gregor—I have a right to see Illyan. Not as his ex-subordinate, but as my father's son. A Vor obligation that passes completely around ImpSec's military hierarchy and comes in through another door. To their dismay, no doubt, but that's their problem. I suspect … I don't know what I suspect. But I can't sit still till I figure it out."

  "Do you think there's something smoky?"

  "Not . . . necessarily," Miles said more slowly. "But stupidity can be just as bad as malice, sometimes. If this chip crash is anything like my cryo-amnesia, it has to be hell for Illyan. To lose yourself inside your own head … it was the loneliest I've ever been in my life. And nobody came for me, till Mark bulled through. At the very least, Haroche is mishandling this due to nerves and inexperience, and needs to be gentry, or maybe not so gently, straightened out. At the worst—the possibility of deliberate sabotage has to have crossed your mind, too. Even though you haven't talked about it much with me."

  Gregor cleared his throat. "Haroche asked me not to."

  Miles hesitated. "Finally read my files, has he?"

  "I'm afraid so. Haroche has . . . rigorous standards of loyalty."

  "Yeah, well . . . it's not his standards of loyalty I'm questioning. It's his judgment. I still want in."

  "To see Illyan? I can order that, I suppose. It's getting to be time, in my estimation."

  "No, more than that. I want to go over every scrap of raw data pertaining to the case, medical or otherwise. I want oversight."

  "Haroche will not be pleased."

  "Haroche will go mulish, I expect. And I can't be calling you every fifteen minutes to reiterate your backup. I want some real authority. I want you to assign me an Imperial Auditor."

  "What?!"

  "Even ImpSec has to bend and spread 'em for an Imperial Auditor. An Auditor can legally requisition anything, and all Haroche or anyone else can do is fume—and hand it over. An Auditor speaks with your Voice. They have to listen. You can't pretend this isn't important enough to justify an Auditors attentions."

  "No, indeed, but . . . what would you be looking for?"

  "If I knew already, I wouldn't have to look. All I know is that this thing has a . . ."—he spread his hands—"a wrong shape. The reasons may turn out to be trivial. Or not. Don't know. Gotta know."

  "Which Auditor did you have in mind?"

  "Um . . . can I have Vorhovis?"

  "My top man."

  "I know. I think I could work with him."

  "Unfortunately, he's on his way to Komarr."

  "Oh. Nothing too serious, I hope."

  "Preventive maintenance. I sent him along with Lord and Lady Vorob'yev to help grease the arrangements with the Komarran oligarchy for announcing my upcoming marriage. He has considerable diplomatic talents."

  "Hm." Miles hesitated. He'd really had Vorhovis in mind, when this inspiration had struck. "Vorlaisner, Valentine, and Vorkalloner are all a trifle . . . conservative."

  "Afraid they'd side with Haroche against you?"

  "Um."

  Gregor's eyes glinted. "There's always General Vorparadijs."

  "Oh, God. Spare me."

  Gregor rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. "I foresee a problem here. Whatever Auditor I assign to you, there's about a fifty percent chance you'd be back here the following morning demanding another one to keep the first one under control. You don't really want an Auditor; you want an Auditor-shaped shield to cover your back while you do your very own investigating."

  "Well . . . yes. I don't know. Maybe . . . maybe I could do something with Vorparadijs after all." His heart sank, contemplating this vision.

  "An Auditor," said Gregor, "is not just my Voice. He's my eyes and ears, as well, very much in the original sense of the word. My listener. A probe, though most surely not a robot, to go places I can't, and report back with an absolutely independent angle of view. You"—Gregor's lip twisted up—"have the most independent angle of view of any man I've ever met."

  Miles's heart seemed to stop. Surely Gregor couldn't be thinking of—

  "I think," said Gregor, "it will save ever so many steps if I simply appoint you as an acting Imperial Auditor. With the usual broad limits on a Ninth Auditor's powers of course; whatever you do has to be at least dimly related to the event you are assigned to evaluate, in this case, Illyan's breakdown. You can't order executions, and in the unlikely event you direct any arrests . . . well, I would appreciate it if they came attached to sufficient evidence for successful prosecutions. One expects a certain, um, traditi
onal decorum in an Imperial Auditors investigations, and due care."

  "Anything worth doing," Miles quoted Countess Vorkosigan, "is worth doing well." He wondered if his eyes were starting to glow. They felt like embers.

  Gregor recognized the source, and smiled. "Just so."

  "But Gregor—Haroche will know it's a scam."

  Gregor's voice went soft. "Then Haroche will be dangerously mistaken." He added, "I was not happy with the way events seemed to be progressing either, but short of going down there in person, I didn't see what to do. Now I do. Does that satisfy you—Lord Vorkosigan?"

  "Oh, Gregor. You can't begin to guess how much. Working in the chain of command for the last thirteen years has been like trying to waltz with an elephant. Slow, lumbering, ready to step on you at any moment and reduce you to grease. D'you have any idea how nice it would be just once to be able to dance on top of the damned elephant, instead of under it?"

  "I thought you'd like it."

  "Like it? It'll be downright orgasmic."

  "Don't get carried away," Gregor cautioned, his eyes crinkling.

  "No." Miles caught his breath. "But … I think this will work just fine. Thank you. I accept your charge, my liege."

  Gregor called in his majordomo, and sent him off to the Residence's vault for an Auditor's symbolic chain of office, and the very nonsymbolic electronic seal that went with it. While they were waiting for him to return, Miles ventured, "It's traditional for an Auditor to make his first visit unannounced." He added reflectively, "Probably a hell of a lot of fun for them, too."

  "I have long suspected it," agreed Gregor.

  "But I would rather not be stunned walking through ImpSec's front gate. D'you think you ought to personally call Haroche, and set up my first appointment?"

  "Do you want me to?"

  "Mm . . . I'm not sure."

  "In that case … go with tradition." Gregor's voice took on a cool scientific tinge. "Let's see what happens."

  Miles stopped, seized with suspicion. "You sound just like my mother when you say that. What do you know that I don't?"

  "I know less than you do right now, I'm increasingly sure. But . . . I've been thinking about Haroche. Watching him. Except for this business with Illyan, about which he seems understandably rattled, he seems to be taking over ImpSec's normal routine smoothly. If Illyan . . . does not recover, sooner or later I must be faced with the decision of whether to confirm Haroche in his job, or appoint another man. I'm curious to see what he's made of. You could be a test for him on more than one level."

  "Are you saying you want to give him an opportunity to screw up?"

  "Better sooner than later."

  Miles grimaced. "Does that work in reverse, as well? Are you giving me a chance to screw up too?"

  A very slight smile curved Gregor's mouth. "Lets just say … a parallax view of the problem could be most revealing." He added, "I did have a thought about the question of sabotage versus some natural deterioration in Illyan's neural augmentation."

  "Yes?"

  "Sabotage ought to have been followed up promptly by some sort of attack, during the confusion immediately after Illyan went down."

  "Or better still, just before he went down," said Miles.

  "Right. But nothing out of the ordinary except Illyan's, I'm not sure what to call it … illness, indisposition?"

  "Indisposed is a good term," Miles allowed. "Illness implies an internal cause. Injury implies an external cause. I'm not sure I could use either word with certainty right now."

  "Quite. Anyway, nothing else unusual except Illyan's indisposition has so far occurred."

  Illyan's destruction. "Noted," said Miles. "Unless the motivation was something like, say, personal revenge. Not a one-two punch, just a one-punch."

  "Have you started to develop a list of potential suspects, by chance?"

  Miles groaned. "If you start allowing personal motivations, as well as political ones—it could have been in return for anything ImpSec has done to anyone any time in the last thirty years. It doesn't even have to be sane—someone could have been nursing a grudge all out of proportion to the original injury. That is not the end of the problem to start with, it's too damned vast. I'd prefer to start with the chip. There's only one of it." He cleared his throat. "There's still the problem of not getting stunned at the door. I hadn't intended to take on ImpSec single-handed. I'd assumed I'd have a real Auditor to hide behind, one of those portly retired admirals, say—and I still think I would like to have a witness. An assistant, to be sure, but really, a witness. Someone I can trust, and you can trust, someone with the requisite amount of security clearance but who is not himself in ImpSec's hierarchy."

  "Do you have someone in mind?" asked Gregor.

  "My God," said Ivan, unconsciously echoing Gregor, as he gaped at Miles. "Is that real?" His finger reached out to tick the heavy gold chain of the Imperial Auditor's rank and office now hanging around Miles's neck. Its thick links connected big square enameled plaques chased with the Vorbarra arms and logos. It ran over Miles's shoulders and dipped across his chest, and weighed about a kilo, Miles judged. The electronic seal appended from the center in a gold clasp, also engraved with Gregor's arms.

  "You want to try to peel off the foil wrapping and eat the chocolate inside?" Miles inquired dryly.

  "Urgh." Ivan looked around Gregor's office. The Emperor sat on the edge of his comconsole desk, one leg swinging. "When Gregor's liveried man came galloping into HQ and yanked me off work, I thought the damned Residence was burning down, or my mother'd had a heart attack, or something. But it was only you, coz?"

  "That's Lord Auditor Coz to you, for the duration."

  Ivan appealed to Gregor. "Tell me this is a joke."

  "No," said Gregor. "Quite real. An audit is exactly what I want. I, or to put it more officially, We are not happy with current progress. As you know, an Imperial Auditor may request anything he pleases. The first thing he requested was an assistant. Congratulations."

  Ivan rolled his eyes. "He wanted a donkey to carry his luggage, and the first ass he thought of was me. So flattering. Thanks, Lord Auditor Coz. I'm sure this is going to be just a joy."

  Miles said quietly, "Ivan, we're going in to audit ImpSec's handling of Illyan's breakdown. I don't know what kind of load I'll be asking you to carry, but there's at least a chance it'll be high explosives. I need a donkey I can rely on absolutely."

  "Oh." Ivan's irony dropped abruptly away; he straightened. "Oh. Illyan, huh?" He hesitated, then added, "Good. About time somebody lit a fire under somebody over that. Mother will be pleased."

  "I hope so," said Gregor sincerely.

  Ivan's lip curled up despite the new seriousness in his eyes. "Well, well, Miles. I must say, it does look right on you. I always thought you needed a choke-chain."

  Miles had Martin pull the groundcar up to ImpSec's front gates this time. He let the two Imperial Armsmen in Vorbarra livery Gregor had loaned him get out first, then motioned them to flank him as he approached the gate guards. Ivan trailed, watching in fascination. Miles allowed the two Armsmen and Ivan to present their identifications to be scanned and confirmed first.

  "Good afternoon, gentlemen," Miles addressed the guards cordially, the moment these rituals were complete and the lights on their machines flashed green. Uncertainly, eyes narrowing, they braced. Searching their consciences, Miles hoped. Miles focused on the senior sergeant. "Please get on your comconsole and tell General Haroche that the Imperial Auditor is here. I request and require him to meet me in person at his front gate. Now."

  "Aren't you the same fellow we threw out of here this morning?" asked the sergeant in worry.

  Miles smiled thinly. "Not exactly, no." I've been through a few changes since then. He held out his empty hands. "Note, please, that I am not trying to enter your premises. I have no intention of throwing you into the dilemma of trying to choose whether to disobey a direct order, or else commit an act of treason. But I do know it takes ap
proximately four minutes to physically get from the Chief's office to the front gate. At that point, your troubles will be over."

  The senior sergeant withdrew into his kiosk, and spoke urgently into his com, with interesting hair-tearing gestures. When he exited again, Miles noted the time on his chrono. "Now let's see what happens, as Gregor would say." Ivan sucked on his lower lip, and kept his mouth shut.

  At length, a flurry of uniforms appeared around the side of ImpSec's oversized front steps; Haroche marched quickly forward across the rain-slicked cobblestones, trailed himself by a minion of note, Illyan's secretary. "Four minutes, twenty-nine seconds," murmured Miles to Ivan. "Not bad."

  "Can I go behind the bushes and throw up now?" Ivan muttered back, watching ImpSec's power bearing down on them.

  "No. Quit thinking like a subordinate."

  Miles came to a parade rest, and waited for Haroche to puff to a halt before him. He permitted himself one brief, glorious moment of enjoyment of the appalled expression on the General's face, as Haroche too took in the details, then set it aside. He could take the memory out and treasure it later. His inner vision of the medically tormented Illyan drove him forward now. "Good afternoon, General."

  "Vorkosigan. I told you not to come back here."

  "Try again," Miles said grimly.

  Haroche stared at the chain glittering across his chest. Despite the flanking Vorbarra Armsmen, both personally known to him, he choked, "That can't be real."

  "The penalty for counterfeiting an Imperial Auditor's credentials," Miles stated flatly, "is death."

  Miles felt he could almost hear the gears grinding in Haroche s head. Some long seconds crawled past, then Haroche corrected himself in a slightly cracked voice, "My Lord Auditor."

  "Thank you," Miles husked. Now they were on-script, his new authority formally recognized and acknowledged, and they could proceed. "My Imperial master Gregor Vorbarra requests and requires me to audit ImpSec's handling of the current situation. I request and require your full cooperation in this examination. Shall we continue this in your office?"