Illyan paused. "Remove . . . ?" His hand touched his forehead. "But how can I function without it?"

"Same as you did in the first twenty-seven years of your life before you ever had it installed, is the best medical guess."

Illyan's eyes were solemn, and afraid. "Will it take . . . all my memories? Will I lose my whole life? Oh, God, Miles." He was silent for a time, then added, "I think I'd rather have you cut my throat."

"That's not an option, Simon."

Illyan shook his head. And dissolved again, into another Illyan, another round of, "Miles! What are you doing here? What am I doing here?" He stared down at his bland civilian clothes; Illyan either favored really boring fashions, or else did not trust his own taste. "I'm supposed to be at the Council of Counts in full dress uniform right now. They must be told—they must be told. . . ."

Miles couldn't decide if it constituted informed consent or not, under the circumstances. Was it informed? Was it even consent? But it seemed the best he could do. He repeated the drill. Again. Again.

At length, Dr. Ruibal escorted Lady Alys into the room. He'd briefed her as Miles had requested; Miles could see it in her set, disturbed face.

"Hello, Simon." Her voice was quiet, a melodic alto.

"Lady Alys!" Illyan's face worked, as he searched his mind for Miles knew not what. "I am so sorry about the death of Lord Vorpatril," Illyan said at last. "If I had only known where you were in the city. I was trying to get Admiral Kanzian out. If only I'd known. Did you save the child?"

Apologies and condolences on the murder of her husband, thirty years ago. Kanzian had been dead of old age for half a decade now. Alys glanced in suppressed anguish at Miles. "Yes, Simon, it's all right," she said. "Lieutenant Koudelka brought us through Vordarian's lines. It's all right now."

Miles nodded, and repeated the orienting drill, as a model for Alys. She listened to the exchange carefully, and watched Illyan's face go through the usual array of emotions, startlement, denial, distraught dismay. Illyan's blunter barracks language disappeared abruptly from his speech in her presence. Miles slipped out of the chair beside Illyan's and offered it to her. She sat without hesitation, and took Illyan's hand.

Illyan blinked, and looked up at her. "Lady Alys!" His face softened. "What are you doing here?"

Miles withdrew to the doorway, where Ruibal watched.

"That's interesting," said Ruibal, checking a monitor readout on the wall. "His blood pressure dropped a bit, there."

"Yes, I'm . . . not surprised. Come out in the hall and talk to me. I want a word with Avakli, too."

The three of them, Miles and Ruibal and Avakli all in shirtsleeves now, sat at the medtech's station, and drank coffee. It was deep night outside, Miles realized. He was becoming as temporally confused as Illyan, tasting his mechanistic eternity.