Memory

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  "On the capital charge of treason," Miles finished. Half the men in the room flinched at that last word.

  "Not treason," Haroche whispered hoarsely. "Never treason."

  Miles opened his hand. "But . . . if he is willing to confess and cooperate, possibly a lesser charge of assault on a superior officer. A court-martial, a year in prison, a simple dishonorable discharge. I think . . . I will let the Service court sort that one out."

  By the looks on their faces, both Haroche and Allegre caught the nuances of that speech. Allegre was Galeni's superior, after all, and doubtless had been following the case against his subordinate in detail. Haroche's jaw tightened; Allegre smiled in acid appreciation.

  "May I suggest," Miles went on to Allegre, "that you march him downstairs and have him trade places with your top analyst, for the moment, while you play catchup."

  "Yes, my Lord Auditor." Allegre's voice was firm and determined, though he had a moment's pause when he realized he had no husky sergeants to do the official hands-on arresting. Miles thought eight-to-one was odds enough, but he forbore making suggestions. It was Allegre's job now.

  Allegre, after a quick glance at Illyan gave him no clues, solved his problem by drafting Ivan—what was it about Ivan?—the colonel, and the commodore. "Lucas, are you going to give me any trouble?"

  "I think . . . not," sighed Haroche. His eyes surveyed the room, but there were no handy high windows inviting a quick resolution, four floors headfirst to the pavement. "I'm too old to be that athletic anymore."

  "Good. Me too." Allegre escorted him out.

  Illyan watched them go. He remarked in an undertone to Miles, "This is a damned sad business. ImpSec really needs to start some new traditions for changing its chiefs. Assassination and retribution is so disruptive to the organization."

  Miles could only shrug agreement. He led the way for a quick survey of nearby briefing rooms, and found the opened vent, missing its filter, in the second they tried. He oversaw the forensics tech's careful bagging and documenting of the last pieces of evidence, and sealed the whole set with his Auditor's seal, and sent them down to wait in the Evidence Rooms for whatever aftermaths eventually unfolded.

  Everything from here on out was, thank God, beyond his mandate as an acting Imperial Auditor. His responsibilities ended with his report to Gregor, and the turning over of any evidence he'd accumulated to the proper prosecuting authorities, in this case, in all probability, the Service court. I only have to find the truth. I don't have to figure out what to do with it. Though, he supposed, any recommendations he made would bear weight.

  Finished in the Office of Domestic Affairs, and unhurried at last, he and Illyan strolled side by side down the corridor after the tech. "I wonder how Haroche will try to play this?" Miles wondered aloud. "Hope to be assigned a good defender and try to tough it out? He spent so much time and effort himself doctoring the comconsole evidence—which was, I think, all that distracted him from thinking of those damned filters before I did—I thought he'd cry Plant! first thing. Or will he fall back on the Old Vorish solution? He looked . . . pretty pale, there at the end. He folded quicker than I thought he would."

  "You hit him harder than you thought you had. You don't know your own strength, Miles. But no. I don't think suicide is Lucas's way," said Illyan. "And anyway, it's difficult to arrange without cooperation from his jailers."

  "Do you believe . . . I ought to hint for such cooperation?" Miles asked delicately.

  "Dying's easy." Illyan's drawn features grew distant. How much did he remember of his agonized pleading to Miles for an easy death, so few weeks ago? "Living's hard. Let the son of a bitch stand his court-martial. Every last eternal minute of it."

  "Ah," breathed Miles.

  The new ImpSec HQ detention area was a lot smaller than the old one, but shared the design of a single entrance and prisoner processing area. At the front comconsole desk they found Captain Galeni, Delia Koudelka by his side, just completing his exit documentation under the eye of General Allegre and the duty officer. Ivan looked on. Haroche, it appeared, had already been processed in; Miles hoped he'd been given Galeni's cell.

  Galeni was still in the dress greens he'd worn to Gregor's reception, now very rumpled. He was unshaven, red-eyed, and pale from lack of sleep. A dangerous tension still hung about him, like a fog.

  He swung on his heel to face Miles, as he and Illyan entered. "Goddammit, Vorkosigan, where were you all this time?"

  "Ah . . ." Miles ticked his Auditor's chain, to remind Galeni he was still on duty.

  Galeni snapped, "Goddammit, my Lord Auditor, where the hell were you all this time? You said last night you'd follow on. Thought you were going to let me out. Then I didn't know what the hell to think. I'm quitting this frigging paranoid stupid organization just as soon as I get out of this rat-tank. No more."

  Allegre winced. Delia touched Galeni's hand; he grasped hers, and his roiling boil visibly settled to a milder simmer.

  Well, I had this seizure, and then I had to sort through Haroche's misdirection with the comconsole report, and then I had to get Weddell from his lab at the Imperial Science Institute, and he took forever, and I didn't dare contact anyone by comconsole from Vorkosigan House, I had to go in person, and . . . "Yes. I'm sorry. I'm afraid it took me all day to assemble the evidence to clear you."

  "Miles . . ." said Illyan, "it's only been five days since this was discovered to be sabotage. It's going to take you longer to assemble your Auditor's report than it did for you to solve the case."

  "Reports," sighed Miles. "Yech. But Duv, see, it wasn't enough for me to order your release. I'd have been accused of favoritism."

  "That's true," murmured Ivan.

  "At first I thought Haroche was just being clumsy, to have you arrested at the Imperial Residence in front of so many people. Ha. Not him. It was beautifully choreographed to destroy your reputation. After that, neither release nor acquittal for insufficient evidence would have removed suspicion from most men's minds. I had to nail the real culprit. It was the only way."

  "Ah . . ." Galeni's brows drew down. "Miles, just who was the real culprit?"

  "Oh, didn't you tell him yet?" Miles asked Delia.

  "You told me not to say anything about it till you were done," Delia protested. "We just now got out of that dreadful little cell."

  "They aren't as dreadful as the old cells," Illyan objected mildly. "I remember those. Spent a month under arrest in 'em myself, thirteen years ago." He cast a slightly sour smile at Miles. "Something about the Lord Regent's son's private army, and a certain treason charge."

  "With all the things you've forgotten, I could wish you'd have forgotten that," murmured Miles.

  "No such luck," Illyan murmured back. "I had them converted to evidence storage and the new detention area built right after. Much upgraded. Just in case I ever ended up in them again."

  Galeni stared at Illyan. "I'd never heard that story."

  "In retrospect—much later—I came to consider it a salutary experience. I fancied afterwards that every senior ImpSec officer ought to undergo something similar, for the same reason every doctor ought just once to be a patient. It sharpens one's perspectives."

  Galeni was silent a moment, obviously processing this. His dangerous air of rage was almost fully dissipated. Ivan covertly let out his breath. Allegre, after directing a grateful half-smile at Illyan, looked on.

  "It was Haroche," Miles added. "He wanted a promotion."

  Galeni's brows shot up; he wheeled to General Allegre, who nodded confirmation.

  "As soon as those bioengineered prokaryotes were discovered," Miles went on, "Haroche lost his chance of his sabotage passing undetected, which I'm sure was his first-choice scenario. At that point, he had to have a goat. It didn't have to be a perfect goat, as long as he was able to generate enough fog to justify stopping the search for another. He disliked me, you had the right profile, he hit upon a way to take us both down at once. Sorry I made Delia keep you in
the dark, but arresting the acting head of ImpSec in the middle of ImpSec HQ proved to be a bit tricky. I didn't want to make any promises till I was sure how it was going to come out."

  Galeni's eyes were wide. "Forget . . . what I said."

  "Does that include the part about resigning your commission?" Allegre asked anxiously.

  "I . . . don't know. Why me? I'd never thought Haroche was particularly prejudiced against Komarrans. How much longer am I going to have to wade through this kind of crap, what more do they want from me to prove my loyalty?"

  "I expect you'll be wading for the rest of your life," Illyan answered seriously. "But every Komarran who follows you will have less crap to deal with, because of you."

  "You've come so far," Miles pleaded. "Don't let a cockroach like Haroche waste your sacrifices. The Imperium needs your perspectives. ImpSec particularly desperately needs your perspectives, because it's part of ImpSec's job to give much of the Imperial government its picture of the world. If we get straight truth in, maybe we've got half a chance of getting good judgment out. No damn chance otherwise, that's for sure."

  Allegre seconded this with a nod.

  "Besides"—Miles glanced at Delia, who was following all this in deep alarm—"Vorbarr Sultana is a very nice posting for any ambitious officer. Look at the people you meet here, for one thing. And the opportunities." Ivan nodded vigorously; Miles went on, "Um . . . not to interfere in ImpSec's internal business or anything, but I think the department of Komarran Affairs is going to need a new head man very soon." He glanced at Allegre. "The old one being about to inherit a much worse job, y'see."

  Allegre looked startled, then thoughtful. "A Komarran, to head Komarran Affairs . . . ?"

  "Radical," Miles purred, "but it just might work."

  Both Allegre and Illyan gave him the same quelling look. Miles subsided.

  "Besides," Allegre went on, "I think you're premature, Lord Vorkosigan. It's by no means assured that Gregor will confirm me as permanent chief of ImpSec."

  "Who else is there?" Miles shrugged. "Olshansky isn't seasoned enough yet, and the Galactic Affairs head likes his old job very well, thank you. With this Imperial marriage coming up, at long last, your depth of experience in Komarran matters makes you nearly ideal, I'd say."

  "Be that as it may." Allegre looked a little daunted; were the full implications just starting to seep in? "That's tomorrow's worry. I have enough for today. Gentlemen, will you excuse me. I think I had better start with a quick survey of Haroche's . . . Illyan's . . . of whatever's waiting in the in-file of that comconsole upstairs. And . . . and a meeting of department heads, to apprise them of, hm, events. Any suggestions, Simon?"

  Illyan shook his head. "Carry on. You'll be fine."

  "Duv," Allegre continued to Galeni, "at least go home and get dinner, and a good night's sleep, before you make any important decisions, will you promise me that?"

  "All right, sir," said Galeni, in a neutral tone. Delia squeezed his hand. He had not loosened his grip upon her, Miles noticed, the whole time they'd been standing there talking. He wasn't risking letting this one get away. Once he relaxed a bit, he would perhaps realize that it would take at least four large men with hand-tractors to pry her off his arm. Foolhardy large men. Ivan, noting this byplay at last, frowned faintly.

  "Do you wish to report to Gregor first, my Lord Auditor, or shall I?" Allegre added.

  "I'll take care of it. You should check in with him as soon as you've triaged your situation upstairs, though."

  "Yes. Thank you." They exchanged sketchy salutes, and Allegre hurried out.

  "Are you calling Gregor now?" asked Galeni.

  "Right from here," Miles said. "It's urgent I let him know what's happened, since I couldn't give him any hint of it earlier. The ImpSec chief's office monitors all of his communications."

  "When you do . . ." Galeni glanced at Delia, and away, though his grip on her hand tightened again, "will you be sure to . . . will you please ask him to be sure to let Laisa know that I am no traitor?"

  "First thing," Miles promised. "My word on it."

  "Thank you."

  Miles detailed a guard to make sure Galeni and Delia got to the outer door without any last-straw harassment, and lent Delia the use of Martin and the groundcar to convey them to Galeni's nearby flat. Miles retained Ivan, spiking Ivan's ingenuous offer to see Galeni settled and take Delia on to her home by pointing out that Ivan's groundcar was still parked at Ops HQ. Then he booted the duty officer from his comconsole station and took it over. Illyan drew up another station chair by his side to look on. Miles entered a particular code-card into the comconsole's read-slot.

  "Sire," Miles said formally, when Gregor's upper body appeared over the vid plate; the emperor was wiping his mouth with a dinner napkin.

  Gregor's brows twitched up at the officiality; Miles had all his attention. "Yes, my Lord Auditor. Progress? Problems?"

  "I'm finished."

  "Good God. Ah . . . would you care to elaborate on that?"

  "You'll get all the details"—Miles glanced aside at Illyan—"in my report, but briefly, you're out one provisional chief of ImpSec. It was never Galeni. It was Haroche himself. I figured out that the prokaryote vector encapsulations had to be trapped in the air filters."

  "Did he confess this?"

  "Better. We caught him trying to switch the filter in his old office, which was where he'd apparently dosed Illyan."

  "I . . . take it this event did not occur by chance."

  Miles's lips drew back in a wolfish grin. "Chance," he intoned, "favors the prepared mind, as somebody or another said. No. Not by chance."

  Gregor sat back, looking very disturbed. "He delivered my ImpSec daily report to me in person just this morning, and all the time, he knew. . . . I was almost ready to confirm him as ImpSec's permanent chief."

  Miles's lips twisted. "Yeah. And he would have been a good one, almost. Look, um . . . I promised Duv Galeni I would have you tell Laisa he was no traitor. Will you redeem my word for me?"

  "Of course. She was extremely distressed by last night's scene. Haroche's explanations threw us all into the most painful doubt."

  "Lucas always was smooth," murmured Illyan.

  "Why did he do it?" asked Gregor.

  "I have a great many questions I still want answers to before I sit down to assemble my report," said Miles, "and most of them seem to start with why. It's the most interesting question of all."

  "And the hardest to answer," Illyan warned. "Where, what, how, who, for those I could at least sometimes make physical evidence speak. Why was almost theological, and often proved beyond my scope."

  "There's so much that only Haroche can tell us," said Miles. "But we can't use fast-penta on the bastard, more's the pity. I think . . . we might get something out of him, if we hit him tonight, while he's still off-balance. By tomorrow, he'll have recovered his considerable wits, and be demanding a military defender, and standing pat. No . . . not we. It's clear he hates my guts, though once again why . . . Simon, can you . . . are you up to running an interrogation for me?"

  Illyan rubbed his hand over his face. "I can try. But if he was willing to take me out, I don't see why he won't be willing to stand up to any moral pressure I can bring to bear."

  Gregor seemed to study his hands, interlaced before him on his comconsole, then looked up. "Wait," he said. "I have a better idea."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  "Do I really have to watch this?" Ivan muttered to Miles's ear, as their little party trod down the heavily monitored corridor to Haroche's cell. "It promises to be pretty unpleasant."

  "Yes, for two reasons. You have been my official witness throughout, and will doubtless have to give all kinds of testimony under oath later, and neither Illyan nor I are physically capable of overpowering Haroche if he decides to go berserk."

  "You expect him to?"

  "Not . . . really. But Gregor thinks the presence of a regular guard—one of Haroche's own former men�
��would inhibit his, um, frankness. Tough it out, Ivan. You don't have to talk, only listen."

  "Too right."

  The ImpSec guard coded open the cell door, and stood back respectfully. Miles entered first. The new ImpSec detention cells were not exactly spacious, but Miles had seen worse; they did have individual, if monitored, bathrooms. The cell still smelled like a military prison, though, the worst of both worlds. Two bunks lined the narrow chamber on either side. Haroche was seated upon one, still in the uniform trousers and shirt he'd been wearing a scant half-hour ago, not yet degraded to prisoner's-orange smock and pajama pants. But he was without his tunic and boots, stripped of all signs of his rank, and minus his silver eyes. Miles could feel the absence of those eyes, like two burning scars on Haroche's neck.