"I didn't want any of this. But I've made progress. I'm pretty sure it won't be a surprise to you to learn the problem's not in Illyan's brain, it's in the damned chip. It's doing uncontrolled data dumps. About every five minutes it floods his mind with a new set of crystal-sharp memories from random times in the past. The effect is . . . hideous. Cause unknown, they can't fix it, removal will destroy the data still on it. Leaving it in will destroy Illyan. You see where this is heading."

Gregor nodded. "Removal."

"It seems indicated. It should have been . . . well, if not done already, at least proposed and prepared for. The problem is, Illyan's in no condition to consent to the operation."

"I see."

"They also don't know what the effects of removing it will be. Full recovery, partial recovery, personality changes, cognitive changes—they're rolling dice down here. What I'm saying is, you still may not get your chief of Imperial Security back."

"I see."

"Now. Is there anything you want saved off that chip that I don't know about?"

Gregor sighed. "Your father is perhaps the only other person who would be able to answer that question. And in the over fifteen years since I reached my majority, he hasn't seen fit to confide any to me. The old secrets appear to be keeping themselves."

"Illyan is your man now. Do you consent to pulling the chip, my liege?"

"D'you advise it, my Auditor?"

Miles blew out his breath. "Yes."

Gregor chewed on his lower lip for a moment; then his face set. "Then let the dead bury their dead. Let the past go. Do it."

"Yes, Sire."

Miles cut the com.

This time Miles was admitted to Haroche's/Illyan's office without delay or a murmur of protest. Haroche, studying something on his comconsole display, waved him to a chair. Miles pulled it wrong-way-around and sat astride it, his arms across its back.

"Well, my Lord Auditor," said Haroche, turning off his vid. "I trust you found the cooperation of my subordinates to be fully satisfactory."

Illyan did irony better, but you had to give Haroche credit for trying. "Yes, thank you."

"I admit"—Haroche gestured to the comconsole—"I misestimated you. I'd seen you flitting in and out of here for years, and I was aware you were covert ops. But I was not always fully aware of which covert ops, or how many. No wonder you were Illyan's pet." His gaze, on Miles's decorated tunic, was now more calculating than disbelieving.

"Reading my record, were you?" Miles refused to flinch in front of Haroche.

"Scanning the synopses, and some of Illyan's annotations. A full study would take a week. My time is at a premium at the moment."

"Yes. I've just talked with Gregor." Miles inhaled. "We've concluded that the chip has to be removed."

Haroche sighed. "I'd hoped that could be avoided. It seems so permanent. And so crippling."