Bujold, Lois McMaster
MEMORY
Lois McMaster Bujold
BAEN Publications 1996
Pb 462 pages
ISBN#
0-671-87845-X
1st review by KC Heath
Admiral Naismith is dead, in more ways than one. Reeling from his physical resurrection as well as the abandonment of his favorite persona, Miles falls into a deep depression that only his cousin Ivan can make a dent in. But it's the puzzle over at Imperial Security Headquarters that eventually breaks Miles out of his depression and sets his feet onto a new life path. Barrayaran security chief Simon Illyan is losing his memory--a dangerous phenomenon considering he has an eidetic neural implant for perfect memory. Come to find out, someone gave him a Komarran virus, a "bioengineered apoptotic prokayrote" that specifically eats neurochip proteins. Miles and his Komarran friend Galeni just happen to be at the top of the list of suspects. As Illyan's health deteriorates, Imperial Security HQ closes in upon itself and only Miles--who has previously been discharged for medical reasons--can get in and find out what is truly going on in there. With Emperor Gregor's authority behind him, Miles becomes the man he was meant to be: an Imperial Auditor--a "guard over the guardians."
This is one of Ms. Bujold's best works, in my opinion, combining masterful plotting and characterization with mystery and top-notch science fiction. [It is recommended, however, that the reader at least read BROTHERS IN ARMS and MIRROR DANCE first to fully appreciate the breadth of this volume.]
From the text: "Had he lost his nerve, after that hideous episode with the needle grenade? He had a clear flash-vision in his memory of his odd angled view of his own chest blowing outward in a lumpy red spray, and pain beyond measure, and despair beyond words. Waking up afterward hadn't been a picnic, either. That pain had dragged on for weeks, without escape. Suiting up again to go out with the squad after Vorberg had been hard, no question, but he'd been doing all right until the seizure. So . . . was the whole thing, from end to end, from seizure to falsification to discharge, a tricky dance to save himself from ever having to look down the wrong end of a needle-grenade launcher again, without having to say I quit out loud? Hell, of course he was afraid. He'd have to be a frigging idiot not to be. Anyone would, but he'd done death. He knew how bad it was. Dying hurt, death was just nothing, both were to be avoided by any sane man. Yet he'd gone back. He'd gone back all the other times, too, after the little deaths, his legs smashed, his arms smashed, all the injuries that had left a map of fine white scars over his body from head to toe. Again and again and again. How many times did you have to die to prove you weren't a coward how much pain were you required to consume to pass the course?"
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