Prisoner of Conscience

by Susan R. Matthews

  “Then be by me deputized, pending the arrival. Of an audit party. To you I grant authority in Port Rudistal, and any Fleet resources on call. Do your duty and uphold the rule of Law. Fontailloe Judiciary, away here.”

  The com-access cleared, the words resounding in his mind and heart.

  Do your duty, and uphold the rule of Law.

  Andrej wanted to weep: and guessed that he was still in a state of profound shock from what he had seen in the furnace-room, compounded by this unforeseen development.

  He didn’t have time to weep. There was no telling whether the destruction of evidence had already begun; whether the furnaces were already being sanitized. No asking Merig Belan either. Andrej mastered his emotion with a furious effort of will. He had work to do.

  The receipt of the boosted signal would have alerted the Port Authority and the Dramissoi Relocation Fleet alike, though they would not have been able to read it. There was no time to lose. The prison might be on alert. Andrej studied the standard inquires on the com-access for a moment: and made his selection.

  “Andrej Ulexeievitch Koscuisko, at the Domitt Prison. For Bench Captain Sinjosi Vopalar, on emergency immediate.”

  He wanted a drink. Several.

  But he needed troops, and Vopalar had them.

  Oh, if it should give him second thoughts to assert his claim before the Bench, what was he to say to his father?

  How could he ever excuse himself for challenging his lawful superiors?

  He was already in disgrace for having so long resisted his father’s will that he serve as Ship’s Inquisitor.

  He would never receive his father’s blessing, now. Still less would his child gain acceptance.

  “Skein in braid, your Excellency. Vopalar on thread, convert.”

  There was no help for it. He couldn’t buy his father’s blessing with the unavenged death of Nurail prisoners. He had no choice.

  And utter despair was liberating, in a sense, because as long as there was no way in which he could be reconciled to his father — no matter how dutiful he strove to be — then there was no further use in duty; except to do justice. As he saw it. Not as his father would wish.

  “Captain Vopalar?” he asked. “I beg your pardon, your Excellency. I have at the Domitt Prison a failure of Writ declared. And am in immediate need of your troops, in order to ensure that evidence be preserved.”

  The First Judge had spoken his name, and said that he was to do his duty.

  For the first time in a long time, Andrej both understood his task and believed in it, completely.

  ###

  Caleigh Samons stood in formation behind her officer of assignment, waiting for the gates to open.

  It was sunrise in Port Rudistal; the fog was beginning to grow lighter, though as thick as it had come up from the river it would be hours before it actually burned off. And the fog had proved a valuable ally, during this past night.

  It had concealed their descent from the penthouse from any stray observer’s eye; it concealed the bulk of Vopalar’s troops now. Three hundred troops, on either side of the containment wall. Belan had opened up the gate in the containment wall an hour ago. Now they were waiting for Belan to order the opening of the gates into the prison itself.

  It was early yet.

  The prison was still asleep.

  Oh, the kitchen was awake, and the laundry, and the furnaces never stopped. The new shift had not come on since they had brought the officer up from the furnace-room. There was no way to be certain of what Administrator Geltoi might have told his staff; as far as they had been able to tell from what Belan had to say, Geltoi had left it all for the morning. They would be lucky, if it were so.

  Almost unreasonably lucky.

  Caleigh didn’t like it.

  It was more than the risk of destruction of evidence.

  If Koscuisko could not find evidence, if Koscuisko’s charges could not be proven out before the Bench —

  The privilege of the Writ would not protect Koscuisko, if the Bench decided he had no cause to cry failure of Writ.

  The knowledge that no other Inquisitor Caleigh had supported was capable of what Koscuisko could do with a Tenth Level command termination made the prospect of Koscuisko meeting his death that way no less horrible to her.

  The fog dampened sound, as well as concealing troops. She heard nothing from behind them, though she knew that there were people waiting in formation, with Bench Lieutenant Goslin Plugrath to command them. Captain Vopalar they had left in the Administration building with Ailynn to coax Belan into what they needed from him; Caleigh wished they’d hurry up. She was cold. She didn’t care to be frightened for Koscuisko’s sake.

  Had it been less than four shifts since this had started?

  Was it really just yesterday they’d gone down to Infirmary, to audit?

  Now she heard more activity up ahead; now she could sense movement, from the gates. Guards speaking to each other loud and careless, innocent of apprehension. So the Assistant Administrator wanted them to open the gates early. So what? Who knew what spooks that Nurail was seeing these days?

  The gate began to track, heavy and ponderous.

  A sudden lance of light shot out into the dark and lay across the graveled ground, widening moment by moment as the gate opened. Light from inside the prison. The great courtyard, empty now, and all the buildings dark except for the lights in the mess building reflected against the east interior wall of the prison.

  “Gentles,” Koscuisko said. They started forward.

  Caleigh hated this, she hated it, it made her flesh creep. There was no reason to expect a problem. She knew that. And still she was letting Andrej Koscuisko walk into the prison courtyard, functionally alone, unarmed, the man who had cried failure of Writ down on the head of Administrator Geltoi and everyone on his staff —

  They didn’t know.

  Yet.

  That was the only thing that made it even possible.

  Calm and collected, Koscuisko crossed the gate-track, stepped across the threshold with his Security, strolled toward the dispatch building to fetch the duty officer.

  It was so quiet.

  The fog seemed to follow them, pouring in through the gates. It could not penetrate: It was too warm inside the courtyard, with the lights. But still the fog came. Koscuisko waded through the fog up the steps of the dispatch building, and Caleigh followed in his wake. It was superstitious to imagine that the fog was following them. Fog had no volition.

  The duty officer was sitting in the wide foyer of the dispatch building bent over a document on his desk. A narrative? Maybe he was working a puzzle; he seemed completely absorbed, one way or the other.

  Koscuisko spoke.

  “Good-greeting, duty officer.”

  It took a moment for the sound of an unfamiliar voice to register, apparently. Caleigh could sympathize. It was the end of the night shift; and what could happen within a prison, really?

  “We have to effect a change in duty rosters, duty officer. Your assistance will be required. Please come with me.”

  Comprehension came slowly; but the duty officer knew Koscuisko’s rank by sight, if not the officer himself. “Your pardon, your Excellency, didn’t – ah — didn’t hear you come in, sir. What’s needed? If the officer please.”

  No idea. No hint of discomfort or dissimulation. Caleigh knew a sigh of relief was bottled up inside of her, somewhere: If the duty officer was unconcerned, no one had warned him about anything, put him on notice, tipped him off. It could be all right.

  “Thank you, duty officer, I wish for you to come with me to meet the Bench Lieutenant. His name is Goslin Plugrath, and he needs to examine the day’s order of duty. It will be this way.”

  Back out of the building, onto the steps. The courtyard was full of Plugrath’s troops, the gate-crew held in a small cluster now near the gatehouse. Plugrath was waiting for them, and not very patiently. The sun was coming up. The day shift would be arriving soon. They had to b
e in control of the prison before that started happening. There weren’t enough troops to relieve the current shift and turn the new shift back from the prison gates at the same time. Something would slip.

  “Duty officer?”

  Plugrath was too anxious about his task to think twice about protocol, but Koscuisko simply stood to one side to let him talk. The duty officer was pale now in the lights at the foot of the dispatch building. But he kept his voice low as he replied: No panic, no frantic attempts to give warning. Maybe the entire prison wasn’t corrupt.

  Or maybe there were people who were just as glad to be stopped, now that they were to be forced to stop.

  “Bench Lieutenant Plugrath. The officer said you needed my assistance, sir.”

  Koscuisko was satisfied that Plugrath had things under control, one way or the other. Plugrath took the duty officer back into the building: He would get the location of all the night staff, who they were, where they were, and call them in one by one until Plugrath’s people had replaced each and every one of them. Then they would be ready to receive the day shift: but Koscuisko wasn’t about to wait.

  “Miss Samons, one of those squads belongs to me,” Koscuisko said. True enough. Plugrath had agreed. Caleigh called out the appointed squad leader with a gesture of her hand.

  “Section Leader Poris, your Excellency.”

  And would have a rough shift of it. But had been warned.

  “Let us to the detention area go.” Koscuisko was halfway down the stairs as he spoke, and his Bonds with him. “I fear trying work for you all, gentles, but soonest started is soonest sung, and this cannot be left for moment longer.”

  Punishment block.

  People had been tortured, there.

  With luck they would find evidence: but Caleigh couldn’t help but hope there were no prisoners.

  ###

  It stank.

  Pausing on the threshold to the punishment block, Andrej Koscuisko gathered his courage into his two hands and found it pitifully inadequate to the challenge that faced him. More than anything he did not want to go into punishment block. And more than anything he knew that it had to be done.

  He turned on the lights, and someone screamed in terror; and once one screamed, others joined in, frightened by the existence of such fear. Fear born of agony was communicable, especially to other souls who knew what it felt like.

  How many cells were here, in punishment block?

  And, oh, how long would it be before he had well cleared it?

  Evidence, Andrej reminded himself, firmly. He had to preserve what evidence was here, and seal the cellblock for the forensic team that the Bench would send. If there were prisoners here who could be healed, he needed their evidence. If there were men here who could not be saved, he needed to enter that fact into evidence. And if there was suffering, it was outside the rule of Law, unlawfully inflicted, unlawfully invoked. It had to be stopped by any and all means at his disposal.

  He took a step, two steps, and the night-guard opened up the cell for him. He could hear the sound of the cell’s inmate breathing, as though blowing bubbles in the water; and knew without needing to look what had been done. But had to go in. Had to loose restraints, and press the doses through. Had to look, and see, and note, and take evidence.

  There was nothing else that he could do, not for this man. “Let the Record show.” He could hear the frantic horror in his voice, and choked it back into his belly. He was the officer in charge. He was responsible here. His report had to be complete and concise, too perfect to be challenged in evidence before the Bench.

  “Nurail hominid, adult male. Unlawfully restrained, reference is made to the Eighth Level of Inquiry, partial suspension with restricted airway. Multiple lacerations, compound fracture at the left lower leg and upper right thigh, several days untreated to judge by necrosis of tissue. Administration of eleven units of midimic at jugular pulse, stabilization pending arrival of additional medical resources from Port Rudistal.”

  There, that was one.

  And only one.

  He could not stop and think. He had to go on. “Let the Record show.”

  And another. “Adult male hominid, Nurail or Sarcosmet.”

  Five.

  “Burns of the third degree of severity, to the extent of approximately.” Eight.

  “No visible evidence, suspected use of psychoactive drugs. No intervention possible pending blood-panels. Patient to be restrained to await psychiatric evaluation.”

  Eleven.

  “Consistent with employment of an instrument similar to a peony, dead for perhaps four eights at time of discovery.”

  Fourteen.

  “With evident intent to mutilate. Partial recovery may be possible, cyborg augmentation to be implemented.”

  Seventeen.

  The punishment block went on forever.

  There were only twenty-three souls there.

  And yet it seemed that there were three and twenty thousand of them, to Andrej.

  And it was all his fault: because he was the Writ on site at the Domitt Prison.

  And he should have known.

  And he had done nothing.

  ###

  It was a beautiful day in Port Rudistal.

  Administrator Geltoi had overslept, his fond indulgent wife letting him lie until mid-meal was on the table. He’d scolded her, very gently; his heart hadn’t been in it, and besides a man didn’t raise his voice to a woman. Let alone to his wife, who should be sacred to him.

  Therefore he’d risen and washed, and dressed, and kissed his wife and the children who were at home; and now he was ready to face the scene that he was anticipating with Merig Belan. If he didn’t hear from Chilleau Judiciary today, he would send a confirm message, and that would be enough. Chilleau Judiciary would send Andrej Koscuisko back to Scylla in disgrace. He would be rid of that concern.

  There was a good deal to thank Koscuisko for: His impertinent curiosity had pointed out one or two areas in which potential for improvement existed in the documentation of prisoner processing. They would have time to recover from that. Koscuisko was going away.

  Work on the land reclamation project would probably have to slow down, with the new atmosphere of accountability. Scrutiny. He had been free from any oversight till now, and Administrator Geltoi could find it in him to resent Chilleau Judiciary for the change in his status. He was accustomed to being an independent agent. He had earned autonomy. Hadn’t he built the Domitt Prison from the ground up, on time, under budget?

  What good were Nurail lives to Jurisdiction if not to toil in its service?

  But the world changed, and a prudent man changed with it. He had his earnings either way. There was no fear of losing the fortune he’d made, and no sense complaining about his fate because the next would come more slowly.

  He was looking forward to the arrival of Koscuisko’s orders.

  Should he have an interview with Koscuisko, their formal debriefing? Koscuisko would be confused and resentful. Geltoi would explain that he had no choice but to comply with direction. He would remind Koscuisko that it was he who was in command of the Domitt Prison, and not Andrej Koscuisko. He would dismiss Koscuisko to escort with the contempt Koscuisko’s behavior had earned.

  A beautiful day.

  The sun was brilliant in an ice-blue sky. It was cold, but Geltoi insisted on leaving the roof of his new touring car open anyway, enjoying the brisk invigorating stream of cold air in his face. A good coat was proof against any chill, and he had one, with warm gloves besides; and he never tired of the view, approaching the containment wall of the Domitt Prison, the peaked roof of the Administration building rising above it, the great black wall of the prison proper above that. The penthouse, crowning the wall.

  Geltoi looked up at the penthouse and smiled broadly. Koscuisko would not have had an easy night of it, wondering what was to become of him. And then the summons to Administrator Geltoi’s office would come . . .

  There was the pen
thouse on the roof.

  But — oddly enough —

  Geltoi frowned, searching the roofline.

  The flue-vents of the furnaces.

  No smoke.

  No cheerful hygienic column of white cloud to reassure him that garbage was being disposed of properly. Burned beyond any hope of recognition or identification. Reduced to undifferentiated ash.

  No smoke?

  Belan had been a little premature, surely. It was true that they had to do a little emergency cleaning, just to be sure that nothing in the furnace-room could create an unfortunate impression. But Belan was to have presented a schedule first.

  Maybe he needed to have a talk with Belan.

  Standing on the earth that covered the crane-pit, perhaps, to provide a little background.

  The Administration building seemed strangely quiet, at first glance; it was a little eerie. The courtyard in front of the Administration building was deserted. No sign of movement or activity within the building — except that, if he craned his neck, Administrator Geltoi could see that his office seemed to be occupied by someone.

  His office.

  He couldn’t tell much more than that there was someone there, standing near the windows.

  Belan took such liberties?

  He’d soon see about that.

  Geltoi strode into the building with confidence and fury alike animating his step. Where was the staff? Of course. It was time for the mid-meal break. There was a day-watchman on duty by the lift-nexus, and he should have been quick to come down the stairs and greet his Administrator with a polite bow. He hadn’t come down at all. Geltoi ignored him with as much icy disdain as he could muster out of a cold fury.

  The day-watchman could be dealt with later.

  Right now he intended to find out what species of madness had overtaken Merig Belan and possessed him to make free with Geltoi’s office in Geltoi’s absence.

  The lift opened onto the corridor, and his office was at the far end. The office doors wide open, both of them. There were Fleet Security posted at the lift, and again outside his office; they came to attention as he stepped out of the lift, snapping to with satisfying precision. Respect. What were they doing here? And outside his office, as well?