"Mm. The cause is global, spread throughout large parts of your brain. Though perhaps fortunately, it's concentrated in the frontal lobes rather than the brain stem, so the seizures don't kill you outright. It does not obviously lend itself to surgical treatments."

Nobody chops up my brain, you yo-ho. "I'm glad to hear it. What treatment does it lend itself to?"

"Ah." Dr. Chenko hesitated. Actually, he fell silent. "Ah. Hm," he added after a time.

Miles waited, clutching his fragile patience. Dr. Chenko's medical creativity would surely not be enhanced by having an Imperial Auditor launch himself over the comconsole and attempt to strangle him. Miles also wasn't sure if his Auditor's legal immunity extended to personal assault.

"One approach for phase-electrical epileptic defects," said Dr. Chenko after a time, "is to install a destabilization chip in the subject's brain. When a seizure begins to occur, the biochip senses it and generates a countersurge of electrical impulses to dephase the offending brain-wave feedback pattern. Sort of a surge-suppressor in reverse. Not a cure, exactly, but it alleviates the major symptoms."

"I'm . . . not so sure I trust biochips," Miles mentioned. "Particularly neural ones."

"Oh, it's quite a reliable and mature piece of technology," Dr. Chenko assured him. "I just don't think it's right for your case."

There's a cure, but you can't have it. Right. "So what is?"

"Dr. D'Guise and I are going to have to consult on that one. Now that we have some proper data to work with, I think we may be able to evolve a couple of possible approaches. As your case is unique, they must of course be experimental. We may have to try several ideas before finding an optimum one."

Reasonable enough, Miles supposed. "So . . . are we talking days? Weeks? Months?" Years?

"No, not months. If it's any reassurance, after that seizure in the lab today, I think it will be some time before you are chemically primed for another episode. Which, in fact, gives me an idea. . . ." An abstracted look came over Dr. Chenko's face; he began to tap out a few notes on his comconsole, paused, then began tapping harder. Data displays fountained and folded. Miles watched him for a while, then rose and quietly tiptoed out.

"I'll call you tomorrow, my lord," Dr. Chenko called hastily after him as the door hissed closed.

Miles entered the black-and-white paved foyer of Vorkosigan House to find Illyan sitting on the upholstered bench at the foot of the curving stairs. He was showered, shaved, combed, and wearing full dress greens with all his insignia and proper decorations. Miles suffered a horrible moment thinking, 1) Illyan had become confused, and thought he was off for a conference with the Emperor, or 2) Miles had become confused, and Illyan really was off for a conference with the Emperor.

"What's up, Simon?" he asked, with feigned casualness.