Gregor gave him a brief précis of Illyan's breakdown, minus most of the harrowing details supplied by Galeni. "Haroche had him admitted to ImpSec's own clinic, which makes sense under the circumstances."

"Yes, I tried to see Illyan this morning. Haroche wouldn't let me in."

"They can bring whatever equipment or experts they need in there. I've personally granted funds and authority for anything Haroche wants to requisition."

"Gregor, track this for a moment. Haroche wouldn't let me in. To see Illyan."

Gregor's fingers spread in a frustrated gesture. "Miles, give the man a break. He has his hands full, suddenly taking over all Illyan's duties, transferring his own department to the administration of his second—let him settle for a few days, without jogging his elbow, please. When he feels more in control, I'm sure he will relax. You have to admit, Simon would be the first to approve a cautious approach to such an emergency."

"True. Simon would prefer to be in the hands of people who really cared about security. But I'm beginning to think I would prefer it if there were any signs he was in the hands of people who really cared about Simon Illyan." He remembered the lingering nightmare of his own bout of post-cryo-revival amnesia. It had been one of the most terrifying periods of his life, to have so lost his memories, himself . . . was Illyan experiencing something like that right now? Or something even more grotesque? Miles had been lost among strangers. Illyan seemed lost among what should have been friends.

Miles sighed. "All right, I'll leave poor Haroche alone. God knows I don't envy him his job. But would you keep me posted on the medical bulletins? I find all this . . . unexpectedly dismaying."

Gregor looked sympathetic. "Illyan really was a mentor to you, wasn't he?"

"In his own acerbic and demanding way, yes. It was an excellent way, in retrospect. But before that, even . . . he served my father for thirty years, my whole life. Until I was eighteen years old, I called him "Uncle Simon," till I was admitted to the Service Academy, after which I just called him "Sir." He had no surviving family of his own by then, and his job and, I'm beginning to think, that damned chip in his head ate any chance of his starting a new one for himself."

"I didn't realize you thought of him as some sort of foster father, Miles."

Miles shrugged. "A foster uncle, anyway. It's . . . a family matter. And I am Vor."

"Pleased to hear you admit it," murmured Gregor. "One wonders if you realize the fact, sometimes."

Miles flushed. "What I owe to Illyan is something all mixed up between a foster uncle and a family retainer . . . and I'm the only Vorkosigan on the planet at the moment. It feels like . . . no, it is my responsibility."

"The Vorkosigans," granted Gregor, "were always nothing if not loyal."

"It gets to be kind of a habit."