Prisoner of Conscience

by Susan R. Matthews

  “Bothering us?” The First Secretary leaned back in his chair, relaxed and receptive. “Please, Bench Specialist.”

  “Young officer, historical behavior pattern of doing first and asking later. Only look at what he’s doing. The kitchen audit was mentioned in the First Secretary’s morning report.”

  As part of the usual summary of daily activities at the Domitt Prison. Yes. Mergau remembered it, because otherwise very little had changed in the Domitt Prison’s morning report for weeks.

  Vogel spoke on. “Kitchen audit is standard operating procedure. I was reading the Fleet staffing reports for Rudistal, though, they’ve got an officer working on admissions reconciliation. Vopalar’s got a lot on her hands and no reason to detail anyone to make-work projects. I haven’t asked, but I’m willing to speculate that Koscuisko’s asked for a population movement analysis.”

  Bench intelligence specialists got into everything. Gluttons for information, no matter how inconsequential. Clearly Vogel felt called upon to come up with a story to justify the fact that he spent all of his time with his feet up on the furniture, reading laundry lists.

  “Now this.” Ivers picked up the thread as though she and Vogel were in the same braid. Maybe they’d rehearsed, to see if they could impress Verlaine’s staff with their superior knowledge. “Koscuisko invokes an Infirmary audit, but he’s given the Domitt Prison time. So he’s not out to find something wrong. Gave them — what? Three days? To make any shortfall right.”

  Which was proof of Koscuisko’s clumsiness if any was needed. He could have had the Administration of the Domitt Prison in the palm of his hand, if rather than tipping them off so far in advance he’d made a surprise raid.

  Unless he knew very well that there was nothing wrong with the drug upon whose adulteration Koscuisko blamed the premature death of War-leader Darmon. That way when he found no discrepancies, he could claim that the Domitt Prison had cleaned itself up during its three-day grace period: His failure was covered.

  Maybe she’d have to reconsider, reluctant though she was to do so.

  Maybe Koscuisko was a little less useless at political survival than she’d thought.

  “All in all, First Secretary, it looks like a signal. It’s possible that Koscuisko is trying to get our attention. Learning from past mistakes, perhaps.”

  That went a bit far, Mergau thought. But the First Secretary sat up, leaning over the desk surface with his forearms propped against the edge of the desk.

  “Something’s wrong at the Domitt Prison?” Verlaine asked. “Or at least Koscuisko thinks there is. And is trying to get us to think about what he’s doing, so we can get an audit team in there without embarrassing the Second Judge?”

  No, Koscuisko was nowhere near so deep as that. And for once it seemed that even the Bench intelligence specialists realized it. Ivers knit her dark straight eyebrows and qualified, carefully.

  “Possible, First Secretary. There’s no way to tell for sure without either talking to Koscuisko or sending an audit team. The Domitt Prison hasn’t stood an operational audit yet. It’s due.”

  Verlaine frowned. “If we asked him . . . but there’s no way to do it. Not informally. If he’s trying to get us to send in an audit team on the whisper-run it’s because there’s something he knows we don’t want on Record.” The First Secretary should learn from the Bench intelligence specialists, Mergau thought. He’d been too impressed with Koscuisko from the start. “And it is due, you’re absolutely right about that.”

  Shifting in his seat, restlessly, Verlaine took thought for the problem before him while Ivers and Vogel kept shut. As she did as well, naturally. She was in disgrace. She’d failed him.

  “Mergau.”

  First Secretary Verlaine caught her eye, and stilled himself where he sat. She braced herself: but she wasn’t too concerned, not right now. The conversation had yet to begin to touch on any delicate questions about how a drug that was lethal for a certain class of hominids had ended up in her rack. It was just bad luck, really. How was she to know?

  “Yes, First Secretary?” She kept her voice bland and neutral; not blaming, but not accepting blame, either. If the doctor had excluded the speak-serum because it was poison, rather than merely not authorized, the doctor should have told her. Accidents happened. And it wasn’t as if more than one of the prisoners had died of it; that left four to be forwarded to the Fleet Inquisitor Verlaine had called for. One of whom should be able to speak again soon enough.

  “We send in an audit team here and now, just as we’re pulling a Writ on reassign, it’ll raise a question or two,” Verlaine mused aloud, looking at her. “I have an idea that could serve instead.”

  Vogel and Ivers were looking at her as well, now. It was difficult not to blush, just out of frustration. Vogel and Ivers blamed her: she knew they did. Too bad for the Bench specialists. Their Fleet resources would get them no further than she had done already. She had gotten very little information, but at least it had been timely.

  Their decision to hold the remaining prisoners for the Ragnarok’s Inquisitor rather than suffer her to do her job only meant that what information they got in the end would be so old it would be functionally useless. If in fact they even got any more information, at all.

  “Could control it that way,” Ivers conceded, with evident reluctance. Mergau wasn’t quite sure she believed what she thought they were going to propose to her: but if the First Secretary meant to entrust her with this — well, the Bench specialists could divert Fleet Inquisitors all they liked.

  She was safe from challenges to her position, if the First Secretary was willing to put this into her hands: but Ivers hadn’t finished with her thought. “One of us might accompany Dame Noycannir, in that case. Speak to Koscuisko in confidence, let him know that you heard what he had to say, First Secretary.”

  Verlaine nodded. There was relief in his voice, underlying the undoubted seriousness of the situation. “Very well. Mergau. We’ll send orders to relieve Koscuisko, you take his place. Give us an on-site evaluation once Koscuisko’s got out of there. We’ll take a few weeks to get it cleaned up — whatever it is — and then we’ll have an audit. We probably need one. But we don’t need it public.”

  Keeping her face grave — she’d made a mistake with the speak-serum, she felt badly, because even though it had not been her fault she was too professional not to take it personally — Mergau made explicit the job Verlaine seemed to intend her for. “I’m to go to the Domitt Prison, First Secretary?”

  To be mistress of that place, after all. To hold the dominion. Even better now than it would have been before, because Verlaine needed her to manage a problem that he couldn’t afford to let become public. Up to her to protect the Second Judge from Bench criticisms over the irregularities that Andrej Koscuisko apparently thought existed.

  She would have more influence than ever before.

  “And right away, Mergau. Miss Ivers, if you’d do the errand for me I’d take it very kindly of you. Carry Koscuisko’s orders by hand. No inadvertent miscommunication.”

  And wouldn’t Koscuisko like that, to be turned out of the Domitt to make room for her?

  “Four days, by courier,” Ivers reminded him. “Do you want to send word ahead?”

  Verlaine thought about it: but shook his head. “Can’t risk it, Miss Ivers, or rather I don’t want to risk it. He has a right to know it’ll get fixed, whatever it is. It’s just not reasonable to expect a man with his history to go home to Scylla without saying something, if we don’t reassure him.”

  Reassure Koscuisko all you like, Mergau thought. You and your Bench specialist. Coddle the darling dandy all you want.

  I will be mistress of the Domitt Prison.

  ###

  Security escorted Shopes Ban from cells into the work-room, following Andrej. Once the door to the torture cell closed, they seated the prisoner on the block; and then came forward, standing to either side of Andrej where he sat in turn.

  �
�Shopes Ban. My name is Andrej Koscuisko, and I hold the Writ to Inquire here at the Domitt Prison. There are some questions which I wish to ask.”

  No answer. Well, why should there be? He knew the crucial difference between simply stating that he held the Writ, and affirming that he held the Writ to which the prisoner was to be required to answer; but there was no reason to expect Shopes Ban to know.

  Turning to his drugs-rack against the wall, Andrej checked his secures, out of habit; good. No one had tampered with these medications. If the Domitt Prison was as corrupt as he had begun to fear it was, it could well be that someone would take it into mind to thwart him of his purpose by silencing his sources before time.

  Taking up an anti-anxiety agent to couple with the speak-serum, Andrej turned back to the prisoner, who was looking confused. Still very worried. Sensible man, Shopes Ban. An older man, older by perhaps eight years or more than War-leader Darmon had been. Andrej put the dose through, and explained.

  “This is a Fifth Level speak-serum; it will not compel your speech, but will assure me that what you say is true. This is required for the Record to stand in Evidence, let the Record show administration of twenty-five units of eralics in sterile solution, five of dition to accompany.”

  The Record was secured. Only a Judicial officer could read it, since the Record was the basic legal document upon which all legal actions under Jurisdiction were founded. Administrator Geltoi was not a Judicial officer for the purposes of access to the Record. And the only Bench officer in Port Rudistal with a Judicial function was Captain Sinjosi Vopalar, serving in the dual role in token of her command.

  Andrej was counting on that.

  “Dition is a soother, Ban. It should help you relax, because although you are in prison and have been called here to me you are not here to answer to Charges, but to satisfy my curiosity.”

  Not as if that would mean anything either. Questions were questions. That was the real reason Andrej needed Erish and Code here with him: Their unspoken — but unwavering — support was his best help against temptation to put his questions more forcefully than necessary, just because he could.

  It would take a few eighths for the drug to take effect. Andrej sat down. He would use the time to establish the ground rules for this interview.

  “I have of late with a prisoner named Marne Cittrops spoken. He has claims against the Domitt Prison, and they are damning. And also he was afraid that a man named Shopes Ban had been murdered, and yet the Shopes Ban he described to me is nothing like you.”

  Was it his imagination, or did the prisoner flash him a look of scornful mockery at that?

  “His accusations were specific, and of a very serious nature indeed. For this reason I mean to question you about these allegations. The speak-serum will guarantee the veracity of your responses. Also for the same reason — ” the seriousness of the allegations, he meant, was he even communicating, at all? — “you are not to be returned to the work-crew, but sequestered here in holding till I have concluded my investigation.”

  He couldn’t possibly keep them in here, in torture-rooms. And the Administration had filled the sixteen holding cells full of prisoners for the torture as quickly as he could empty them. There were eight cells up on the next level, however, where his office was, being used for storage.

  There was obviously no way in which he could risk returning these people, once called out, to the general prison population. If he had been in Administrator Geltoi’s shoes, he would have found ways to justify putting pressure on them outside of Protocol or in violation of Protocol in order to discover exactly what Andrej was doing with them.

  “Can’t help you,” the prisoner said, suddenly. His voice sounded a little strained. Code drew a tumbler full of water and gave it to Shopes Ban to drink. Ban emptied it greedily and held the tumbler up, soliciting another go — testing the boundaries of this environment. Astute. Andrej nodded, and Code refilled the tumbler from the drinking-tap. This time the prisoner only drank half of it off: but he kept a good grip on it, declining to return it to Code. Still thirsty.

  “I can’t help you. I’m not Shopes Ban. Whoever Shopes Ban is, he’s dead. It just happened to be my turn when the name was called.”

  “Even so.” It was a disappointment; but one that he had half-expected, based on Darmon’s testimony. “What is there to tell me of Marne Cittrops?”

  “Now, there’s an interesting question.” The prisoner sounded bitterly amused. “When I came on to work-crew Marne Cittrops was this one man, big and square-like, eyes green-gold. Changed mid-shift into some half-starved child, beardless, eyes as black as the lake-deeps.”

  As he spoke the bitterness seemed to lift a bit, replaced by simple enjoyment of his joke. Maybe the drugs were taking effect. “And more than that. Ten days ago, or thirteen. They called him out as Marne Cittrops to the work, and by sundown they’d changed his name, he was a different man. Imagine that.”

  Very much as Darmon had said. They’d arrested Darmon as Marne Cittrops on evidence that Darmon had believed could only have come from Shopes Ban — who was almost certainly not Shopes Ban to begin with. They’d filled behind Cittrops with another man, but they hadn’t bothered to change the name until they’d realized that Andrej was becoming concerned about accountability.

  Thirteen days ago?

  Had it been so long since he’d called Belan to account over that supposed Lerriback?

  “Then if you would tell me what you know of Shopes Ban, if you are not he.” If someone had gotten evidence out of Shopes Ban, it had been obtained outside of Protocol. Any special authorizations at the Domitt Prison had to come across Andrej’s desk: and there’d been none.

  The prisoner shook his head. “I’ve no threads in that weave, your Excellency. Is that what to call you? — Only that he went out on work-crew on one morning and was killed. Or died. Most likely murdered. And I called out to the work-crew in the afternoon, to take his place so that the count would be correct when we returned to prison in the evening.”

  Exactly as War-leader Darmon had said.

  There was no help for it, then. He had to take testimony. The Domitt Prison had to be brought to account. And to do that he needed evidence.

  He had the prisoners named in Wab’s narrative to ask. He could ask the sixteen miserable souls who sat in cells waiting to be tortured. They wouldn’t understand why he was asking. But he would still find out.

  “Tell to me how you came to the Domitt Prison. How it has gone with you since. What you have seen. What you have heard. Tell me what you know about this place.”

  It would need as persuasive a set of interrogatories as he had ever prepared to bring him and his Security safely through the storm that would break over them if he declared failure of Writ at the Domitt Prison.

  ###

  Three days, and Infirmary was ready to stand audit.

  Merig Belan had checked the stores himself prior to calling on Koscuisko in the penthouse to escort him. Koscuisko brought his Security with him, his Security and his Chief of Security all together. There were procedures for Infirmary audit: among them, the requirement to team in threes, one to count, one to record, one to watch and attest by countersigning. Koscuisko had to bring all of his people with him. It was the only way he could make two teams.

  Down the main lift, where Koscuisko hadn’t been since the day he’d arrived here. Out on the first level. When Koscuisko had come down to Infirmary before with his stricken bond-involuntary, it had been a different way. But that had been because he’d come through the work area. Unexpected. Unlooked for. And very unfortunately, in the end.

  But why hadn’t Geltoi expected this?

  A medical officer, a pharmacy, what was more natural than that Koscuisko would feel himself called upon to certify stores?

  Here was Infirmary, neater and brighter than Belan thought it had ever been. All the duty staff present and waiting. All of the uniforms clean. But Koscuisko wasn’t interested in meeting staff; he let
Belan introduce him, he was polite, but once that was over Koscuisko excused them all.

  Threw them out.

  Secured Infirmary stores against them, locking the pharmacy up. Belan didn’t like it. It made him uneasy. And he was part of it; Geltoi would not for one moment tolerate such an audit of his stores without an observer.

  Part of it, yet, but with nothing to do but sit or stand around and watch the procedure as Koscuisko and his people took dose by dose, store by store, exhaustive inventory of everything there. Belan wished they’d thought about the linen; there wasn’t enough on the shelves, not really. But the staff didn’t worry too much about linen for Nurail patients.

  And why should they? Any patient referred to Infirmary came in dirty from work and left dirty for work, so what sense did it make to invest in clean linen?

  Then one of Koscuisko’s teams went on to keep counting while Koscuisko himself turned to assay-work. The lab setup at least could not be faulted; the lab facilities had scarcely been used since the Domitt had opened its gates to its first inmates. Geltoi needn’t worry about the sufficiency of lab facilities.

  Was that a problem?

  Was there some point that Koscuisko could make about the fact that the lab was so little used, with a prison population of more than four thousand souls?

  Not four thousand. No. He had to remember. Two thousand and four hundred, and no more. And maybe it was so few as that; it had been a while since there had been any new bodies.

  Time wore on.

  Shift changed, at third-meal.

  Belan knew the work-crews were returning to the prison, being fed in the mess hall and hurried into cells. He was beginning to feel a little hungry himself. A good eight into third-shift, the prison would be quiet, the guards would have eaten, the Administrative offices closed up for the night —

  If Koscuisko didn’t hurry, Belan told himself, he’d be stuck here till morning. Of course he could go out of the main prison gate, and avoid the Administration building and the fog beside it. Maybe that would work.