He could not be suggesting that they compromise the Writ. Verlaine had paid so much to get her this far . . . and there was no precedent, no special category under Jurisdiction. The Writ was absolute. Either she would hold it or she would not. “I am confused.” Genuinely confused, at the turn that the conversation seemed to be taking. “How can I serve Chilleau Judiciary as Inquisitor if my training is to be modified, as you say?”
The Tutor took a moment before answering her. He glanced idly at the cup of warmer in his hand with the benevolent expression of a man who had a surprise gift for a child, hidden behind his back. It made no sense.
“You know the material, Mergau.” But how could he tell her that when she had violated the Protocols? Hanbor’s fault, yes, but her deed; on Record, and the Record was permanent . . . ”There isn’t any question that you understand the theory and the rules of practice. Anyone can make a mistake. But unless we can do a little fine-tuning, as it were, you are simply going to keep on making mistakes, because your broader education is deficient.”
The other Students could make mistakes without repercussions, as long as they were within medically acceptable parameters? Was that what he was saying? “I have studied the cases that the Tutor selected. There is more that I should study, Tutor Chonis?”
What was he getting at?
“The further we get, the worse the mistakes will be. The Administrator and I have been working on a way around it. And we think we have a solution. There need be no preparation in field techniques if you will never be required to perform in the field environment.”
She did know the material. She did understand the Levels, and their restrictions, and the Protocols for Inquiry and Confirmation and Execution. Field techniques meant blood and striking people, and it was hard for her to restrain her hand when everything she had ever learned of hurting people was to hurt them for once and all, so that they would not trouble her again. The streets of Lathiken had not been holding cells. And from the first that she had ingratiated herself with the man who had started her in Bench Administration, she had understood that in politics as in street-fighting, prudence took no prisoners.
“The Jurisdiction’s Controlled List is among the most significant resources available under the Writ. And while the employment of the appropriate drugs does not under usual circumstances satisfy the punitive scales, they are fully satisfactory as instruments of Inquiry and Confirmation.”
He was talking about drugs.
This was a new thing, a novel idea, unanticipated input. It rather stunned her, but panic was not far behind.
Panic was never far enough behind.
“But, with the Tutor’s indulgence — ” she began, and then shut her mouth abruptly when she realized that she didn’t know what to say.
“I know what you’re thinking, I imagine.” Tutor Chonis put up his hand to quiet her protest. “The practical exercises are required for graduation. And you will do your practical exercises, but there is something more important that we must teach you about them. You must learn the Controlled List.”
How could she hope to learn the Controlled List when it relied upon more arcane knowledge of the body’s function than any field-expedient physical medicine she had ever learned? Was this in the end just another step toward failing her? Had she in truth done well enough, to date, in the scheduled course of instruction, that the Administrator feared that she might successfully complete the course after all?
“Adjudicated Levels and standard interrogation techniques are not, after all, infallible instruments. Why, in a field environment, even the best Inquisitor may lose up to half the prisoners referred at the top end of the Intermediate Levels, not to speak of expected mortality rates at the Advanced. It wouldn’t do for the First Secretary to have to trust such imprecise methods for information.”
Yes, prisoners died. They were expected to die. It was deemed preferable that they die after they surrendered their secrets, rather than before. But Mergau was beginning to see Tutor Chonis’s point.
“You are telling me that my Patron is not well served, if I am just to know the Protocols.” The First Secretary wanted the Writ; the power to take the secrets. In Fleet it was not so important to get the secrets. There were always others with the same secrets available to Fleet. For Verlaine’s purpose, the secrets were much more individual and private. There could be no waste of prisoners in dying before surrendering their information.
“Precisely so.” Tutor Chonis agreed, sounding a little surprised. “When you are graduated and sent back to Secretary Verlaine with the Fleet’s compliments, you must be able to get to the information more reliably than Fleet practice dictates.” Where the whole point of Inquisition lay as much — if not more — in its use as a weapon primed with deterrent horror as in any actual need for information. “The Administrator proposes to refocus your course of instruction toward that end, and provide you with the basics regarding the Controlled List. We don’t usually study the Controlled List in depth here, as you know.”
They were not questioning her ability.
They were offering her additional information, and knowledge that she would need to satisfy First Secretary Verlaine’s ambition.
It didn’t make any sense.
“I am eager for this knowledge,” she lied glibly. “How does the Tutor wish me to begin?” Would she be taking extra class work, was that what Chonis was getting at? More individual study? How could there be any time for her to learn the Controlled List, when the length of the Term was already filled with the standard course of instruction?
“We will revisit the Fourth Level, tomorrow or the next day. Student Koscuisko will assist you in an advisory role. With his help, we mean to build a catalog for you from the Controlled List. When you return to Secretary Verlaine you will have a complete arsenal at your disposal, and — more important — you will know how to demonstrate your mastery. How to use it.”
Every Student, every commissioned Ship’s Inquisitor, had the Controlled List at their disposal. If she could learn how to use it, though . . . And still something was not right. She remembered Koscuisko’s emphatically negative reaction to the Tutor’s suggestion that he enrich the Controlled List for the Fleet. And now she was to believe that Koscuisko was going to customize the Controlled List? For her use? When Koscuisko would just as soon walk on her as acknowledge her existence?
“For the Tutor’s care, I am me grateful.” The stress was too great, and her dialect was slipping. She had to maintain better control over her emotions. If Koscuisko was involved, didn’t that mean it was still just a plot against her? And if it wasn’t, how had they got Koscuisko to go along? “How shall I prepare for this?”
The possibilities were intriguing.
“There are some details yet to be worked out with the Administrator. We’ll meet here tomorrow mid-shift; I’ll send the exact time later on today. We can talk with Koscuisko, discuss the prisoner, see if he knows of something suitable on the List, and schedule your Fourth Level retrial accordingly. In the mean time, you should acquaint yourself with the architecture of the Controlled List, and how it relates to the Levels.”
It was clearly the end of the interview. Mergau stood up. “I obey my Tutor gladly. Shall I go now?”
Chonis nodded, with a gesture of release or dismissal. “Hanbor has some introductory material logged to your study-set, waiting for you. You’re doing good work, Mergau. With your best effort — and Student Koscuisko’s help — we can turn out a really first-rate resource for Secretary Verlaine.”
And where had Student Koscuisko been these past two days?
She bowed in salute and took her parting, content to let her Tutor have the last word.
She wasn’t sure how she felt about this new development, or whether or not there was a trap in it somewhere.
She would study and consider. And see what came out in the days to come.
###
Joslire Curran stood at the authorized position of command-wait, try
ing not to think too much about anything. Koscuisko was in surgery. Tutor Chonis had called him to Disciplinary Mast, and there was only one real possible reason, which was — of course — Robert St. Clare. Lop Hanbor was here; he’d seen it happen from the Tutor’s viewing room, even as Joslire had. Sorlie Curran was here, with the rest of his team; they’d actually been present when it had happened. The Security team that had removed Robert from the exercise theater was here, and a few of Station Security, all waiting to hear what they already knew, required by Administrative policy to witness the inexorable decree of the Jurisdiction Bench. The Administrator didn’t like to publicize mistakes like the one Robert had made, but when it happened, the Administrator liked to be sure everyone who knew that there had been a problem also knew exactly what the penalty was. Certain and swift punishment was the very cornerstone of Fleet discipline.
The signal came, and Joslire stood to attention as Administrator Clellelan and Tutor Chonis made their formal entrance from the back of the room. They would occupy the raised platform at the front, above the Bar: the Administrator sitting; Chonis on his feet, in the presence of his superior officer. Robert would stand there, too. There would be no difficulty in seeing everything that went on, whether or not any of them were eager to do so.
“Attention to orders.” An innocuous opening, and Tutor Chonis made it sound so routine, as if there was not a life to be savaged here. “Disciplinary hearing concerning Class Two violation, disobeying lawful and received instruction, Robert St. Clare. Administrator Clellelan, Presiding. By the Bench instruction.”
Not as if he’d never been at Disciplinary Mast before. There had been one this Term already, as one of Tutor Pobo’s Students cried an offense of disrespect against assigned Security. Two-and-twenty, then and there, and the Student had made an absolute botch of things. There was no two-and-twenty to be anticipated here. The Administrator had come to condemn a bond-involuntary to death by torture, and all because Andrej Koscuisko had heard the wrong thing at the wrong time, and seen through to the heart of the deception.
“Robert St. Clare, step through.”
Since all the Security assembled stood at attention for the duration of the hearing there was no turning to look at the man as they brought him in through the ranks and up onto the Command platform above the Captain’s Bar. Two Station Security escorted him, standing to either side as Robert turned to face the room. Medical had been at him, needless to say, dosing him with sufficient stimulants to ensure that he’d be able to walk and answer the Administrator’s questions just as well as if he understood them. Joslire eyed St. Clare skeptically while the Administrator waited for Security to bring him up to the proper mark. Drugs or no drugs, the man looked half-dead already. It hadn’t been two days . . . but the exercise had started three days ago, and that meant three days with an injured shoulder and a fresh whipping, and no medical support authorized. Robert was going to collapse as soon as the drugs wore off, so much was clear.
It was the Administrator’s turn to speak, his responsibility to complete the Record.
“Your name is Robert St. Clare?”
“Yes, your Excellency.”
It was a voice from the back end of beyond, as if Robert’s brain had to travel so far past his pain to find the words that half of their meaning had got lost again on the return trip.
“You stand before the Bench for disobeying lawful and received instruction; to wit, revealing your true status to the Student Interrogator during the critically important Intermediate Level exercise. Do you understand the charge?”
Robert staggered a bit, swaying where he stood. Station Security reached out to steady him. No, Joslire thought. Not that arm. That’s the wrong arm.
“Yes. Your Excellency. I understand the charge.”
“The Administration has reviewed the Record.” It was always a little odd hearing Clellelan referring to himself as if he were the institution, rather than the man. But it was necessary. It helped reduce a sense of personal responsibility for what had to be done. “There is no question that Student Koscuisko knew your exact status prior to the end of the exercise. Nor is there any other possible source for this information. We must necessarily conclude that Koscuisko knew because you told him. If not explicitly, then implicitly in some way.”
It was wrong and it was unfair, but it was unavoidable, even if Koscuisko himself couldn’t accept that fact. If Koscuisko knew, then Robert must have told him. Somehow. There were no allowances in Fleet Administrative Procedure for guessing, or for having the bad luck to draw an unusually perceptive officer, one who would catch one word — one word, out of thousands — and build a damning case out of so small a thing.
“However.”
A nervous shock ran through the room, and Joslire felt himself stiffen against an involuntary twitch of surprise. However? Some consideration of degree? Some amelioration of the offense?
Some hope, where none could possibly hope?
“The Administration in review of the Record with the assistance of the assigned Tutor and neutral evaluators has been unable to determine the precise manner in which the information was transmitted. To the best of the Administration’s professional judgment, there was no explicit statement on your part that could be construed as release of unauthorized information, prior to a direct question from the Student Interrogator.”
The air was heavy with a sharp smell of confusion mixed with fear. There was no precedent for reading such allowances into the Record — not unless discipline was to be adjusted. And Class Two violations were never adjusted. Never.
“Since you cannot in all fairness be faulted for answering a question posed with a clear presupposition of the restricted information, it is difficult to justify the determination of the penalty. The Administration does not feel that an error was made on your part as a result of misunderstanding the question.”
Fear, because Clellelan seemed to be leading up to a commutation of penalty, and that was unheard of. Fear that what seemed to be happening would turn again at the last minute to almost-certain death by torture for Robert St. Clare — who, as Joslire noted, was having a harder time of it keeping to his feet with every moment that passed.
“You understand the severity of the offense, St. Clare, and you understand what you are accused of having done. Now think for a moment, and answer on your Bond. Did you at any time — release the restricted information to the Student Interrogator?”
Biting his lip in an evident effort to concentrate, Robert closed his eyes in a spasm of pain. That had been a mistake. Joslire could tell by the way his knees buckled beneath him. It was better not to close your eyes. It deprived you of a focus that helped to keep the dizziness and the disorientation at bay.
Station Security helped him back up to his feet — leaning decidedly to one side, Joslire noted — and Robert found his voice once more. “By my Bond, as I hope for the Day. I cannot remember what I might have said. Your Excellency.”
It had to be true, because his governor would not permit him to swear by his Bond otherwise. The governor could sense internal conflict, read the physiological signs of stress specific to prevarication or lying. And what the governor sensed it punished.
“It goes without saying that there was no intent on your part to compromise the exercise. But there are statements on Record that support an alternative secret to the one you were to release. We cannot set aside the fact of Student Koscuisko’s realization. Student Koscuisko himself has an interest in this matter as well.”
They couldn’t condemn St. Clare for ambiguity, not when the exercise had terminated in the middle of the Fifth Level, whether or not the Fourth-Level exercise had been prematurely called. That trick of Koscuisko’s with Robert’s shoulder had been as good as an augmented Fourth under any Protocol, the actual time it had taken aside. Most of the Security here had firsthand knowledge of how hard it was to concentrate with so much pain. The Administration had always been sensitive to that, overlooking sometimes major mistak
es if only the Student Interrogator had not followed up on them. But this time, although the mistakes had been negligible, the Student Interrogator had pulled the horrible truth out of the concatenation of confused mis-starts, and Robert would necessarily suffer for it.
Koscuisko had gone to the Tutor to beg for remission of Robert’s punishment; and the Tutor had been smiling when he had released Koscuisko to Joslire’s keeping. Chonis wasn’t one of the Tutors who would think enforcing a Class Two violation was anything to smile about.
The implications — even as well prepared as Joslire was, much more so than any of the others — were almost too much for him to handle.
Discipline was absolute and inevitable.
The tension held them all braced to a knife-edged sharpness of attention.
“Student Koscuisko has in fact brought a separate complaint against you. He has stated his desire to discipline your lapse by his own hand. We will be unable to comply with Student Koscuisko’s lawful request if this Class Two decision goes forward.” Because Robert would probably be dead, for one thing. And perhaps it was an exaggeration to describe Koscuisko’s demand as a lawful request. But nobody was going to argue with Clellelan.
“Do you understand me, St. Clare?”
They were going to have to call a medical team at any moment. Robert had clearly reached the last few measures of his reserved and drug-enabled strength. “Yes, your Excellency . . . No.”
“Student Koscuisko has also proposed a speak serum for addition to the Controlled List. As a training station, we are empowered to offer a choice between the standard Class Two discipline and voluntary service for evaluation of drugs being considered for Fleet Interrogatory purposes. Are you with me?”
One of the Station Security reached out for Robert from behind him, and laid a firm hand on the injured shoulder, the swelling of which was visible even from where Joslire stood. It was a brutal trick, and Robert cried out against it, in a strangled protest against the pain. Joslire knew it had been well meant, all the same — even well done, because the sharp agony clearly helped him regain some degree of concentration. “Yes, your Excellency. The Controlled List. Student Koscuisko. Sir.”
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