“If his Excellency would follow me?”
There was no sign on Omie’s face, so Robert guessed not. The subject made for interesting speculation, as he trotted along after Idarec on Koscuisko’s heels. If Koscuisko had only ever seen Omie as an anonymous body in surgery or as a set of statistics in the medical reports on Line, there was no reason to imagine that Koscuisko had more than a general idea of what he actually looked like. He could ask Omie, of course, once the officer went through to see Chaymalt. But he was still learning the hand-language. There was probably a limit to how much he was going to be able to find out.
Here was the place; no guard posted, but this was a training facility, not like Scylla would be. Omie signaled smartly at the door, pivoting into a perfect attention-rest just beyond the threshold as Koscuisko came up to announce himself. Robert tried to match the smoothness of his counterpart’s move, taking his place at the near side of the door. Well, not bad.
But plenty of room for improvement.
“Student Koscuisko to see Doctor Chaymalt, as Tutor Chonis has instructed.”
The door slid open; Koscuisko stepped through, and then he and Omie were alone in the corridor together. Only the two of them, which made conversation rather more difficult, because there was no mirror man to reflect the messages, and greater care was required not to break the discipline of attention-rest. They’d practiced together, though; that was a plus.
St. Clare glanced quickly down and over, to find Omie’s hand; the thumb was already canted at a subtle angle, wanna talk. He couldn’t distinguish statement from question at this point, though he knew it could be done, since they’d both seen more experienced bond-involuntaries demonstrate.
He knows you?
There was a pacing issue to keep in mind; if a word was held too long, it wasted precious time; but if it wasn’t held long enough, there was a risk of losing the word. They were expected to be looking straight ahead, after all. Generally speaking.
No. Don’t think so. Leaving?
This time the question was fairly obvious, so Robert answered more directly. At nine and sixteen. Scylla. Nice ship-mark, I like it.
Omie made an amused knuckle, coupled with a finger twitch denoting a superior admonitory tone. Not alone, though. Joslire Curran.
Spelling out the name made interpretation more difficult, since St. Clare had to sound it in his mind before he realized who it was that Omie meant. He knew how to spell his new name in Standard script, but he was still getting used to reading it; and for a moment he thought he’d misunderstood.
What, my uncle’s man? Dark broody sort, muscles all over?
Koscuisko’s man, yes, Curran. Just now. Almost sure of it.
Well, that would be interesting. Had that been why he’d been invited to leave, then? Curran, to be coming with them; and Curran had been on Station for years, now, but not eight years, which implied that Curran had given up the balance of his deferment to go with them. That was startling, but it was comforting, too. If a man of Curran’s experience had decided that Koscuisko was a man to take on dedicated duty assignment, St. Clare could consider himself lucky by implication. He hadn’t been offered the choice. But maybe he’d gotten a good one anyway — even if the man did have better hands and worse ones. At least he knew which pair he preferred Koscuisko to wear.
That’ll be nice. Company. You?
No response; St. Clare wondered if he’d gotten it right. There was only the fraction of a cuticle’s difference between “you” and an improbable form of recreation. After a moment, though, he could see the answer taking shape, and realized that Omie had only been trying to figure out how best to phrase himself, within the limited vocabulary the two of them had in common.
Held over. Popular demand. Try again, next Term.
Try again? Face the prisoner-surrogate exercise all over again, next Term? He didn’t like the sound of that.
Choice?
Maybe he shouldn’t ask so personal a question. He put a fingernail’s worth of apology behind the question mark. Omie didn’t seem to have taken offense.
Beats work. Just think, I’ll be ahead of the next bunch. Extra months of deferment, too.
True, Omie would be ahead of the rest of the prisoner-surrogates, he’d already gone through the test. Or started the test, at any rate. He hadn’t answered the question, one way or the other; St. Clare decided that was an answer of its own.
The Day will come.
He didn’t expect Koscuisko’s interview to be a long one; there was no telling when they’d be interrupted. It was best to signal close of conversation now, in good time, rather than leave the exchange unfinished. It was bad luck to leave things unfinished, when there was no way to guess whether he would ever see Omie again.
The Day, after tomorrow.
Omie was apparently content to let it rest there, having passed on his news. Curran was coming? Well, that was good. He thought.
He quieted his mind, and stood in wait for his officer.
###
Andrej bowed to the Provost Marshall politely. “Student Koscuisko presents himself for the Marshall’s Command briefing, at Tutor Chonis’s instruction.” Unlike Doctor Chaymalt, the Marshall had called St. Clare in with him. To guard against an appearance that his fish might misinterpret, so that it need not fall prey to the impertinence that was the common burden of all fish? He didn’t know.
“Thank you, ‘your Excellency.’ Watch out for ‘Student Koscuisko,’ from now on. You’ll report to Parmin as ‘Chief Medical Officer,’ remember.”
So he would. Marshall Journis had risen from her desk as he saluted, and invited him to be seated with a gesture of her hand. She had not put St. Clare at his ease; was it expected of him, that he should? But he had not yet left the Station; she was still a step up from him on his chain of command. Therefore if she hadn’t put St. Clare at his ease, it was because she felt that he should stand at attention, for reasons of her own.
“Yes, Marshall Journis. With your permission, I understand you have information about Scylla for me?”
She came around to the front of the desk to take the other chair, facing him. She had a stack of cubes in her hand and dropped them one at a time on the edge of the desk nearest him, counting them off as she went.
“Tactical history of the Jurisdiction Fleet Ship Scylla, from shipyard to current mission status. Fleet biographies on the Captain, the Primes, and other assigned Command Branch officers. Latest readiness assessment on Medical, and files on the assigned staff.” She paused for a moment, tapping her fingers against the third cube. “I’ve taken the liberty of including the Bench-specific issues — historical performance of Ship’s Inquisition both on Scylla and under Irshah Parmin, incidents per eight, required Levels. Things like that. If you’re interested.”
So that he’d have a better idea of what to expect, or what would be expected of him. Significant information indeed; but she continued her itemization, without waiting to give him a chance to make an appropriate remark.
“Finally, because of the peculiar nature of your Security, the files on the troops assigned to the Security Five-point teams, and the Chief Warrant Officer who is responsible to the First Officer for them. Chief Warrant Caleigh Samons, that is, at present. You’ll find her very professional, but I’d advise you to let her know up front that you don’t want people interfering with your green-sleeves.”
If Samons was a Chief Warrant Officer, she couldn’t possibly be a bond-involuntary. What was the Provost getting at? “I am not sure I understand your point, Marshall Journis.”
“You’ve got delicate sensibilities where bond-involuntaries are concerned. She needs to know if you’re going to take it personally every time someone’s up for two-and-twenty. Or just have her strip St. Clare down, and tell her it was four-and-forty, with a driver. She’s intelligent. She’ll get the point. By the way, do you mind if I have a look? I didn’t get the chance to admire your work close up before.”
It was sti
ll a little confusing, but Andrej was beginning to think he grasped her meaning. He was to be sure that Samons knew he did not feel six-and-sixty should be handed out with a liberal hand; and St. Clare — whose back, newly healed, still showed by evident if fading bruises that he had been beaten recently — was to serve as a demonstration model of his personal reluctance to mutilate his assigned Security. Andrej expected that he could probably communicate as much adequately well to his new Chief Warrant in plain language, now that he comprehended the problem. Why did Journis want to “admire” his work, though? To see how St. Clare had mended? To critique his handling of the whip? What?
“With respect, Marshall Journis, I would prefer not. He is a man, not an ornament.” Reluctant as Andrej was to deny the Marshall — especially after having received benefit from her, professionally and personally — he could not see taking St. Clare’s clothes off to gratify her curiosity. There were limits. And he had to set them; because St. Clare was not permitted to.
She looked a little surprised, to have him talk back to her. He was surprised at himself, come to that. Fortunately she did not seem to be offended.
“Very well. As you like.” He was leaving here; it probably didn’t matter one way or the other, if he had offended her. But gratuitous insult was almost always a bad investment. And she had counted the stroke when Robert had been beaten, and she had not made him repeat a single blow.
“Be advised, then, that discipline for bond-involuntaries is usually liberally assessed and applied. It’s only fair that you let her know first thing that you don’t want to see any general-purpose assessments. She’ll take it from there. You might want to talk to your First Officer about it, as well, and tell him I sent you when you see him.”
If that was what it took to hold the hand of Fleet discipline back from meaningless punishment, then he would gladly do as much, and more.
“Thank you, Marshall Journis. Will that be all?”
He thought that he had sensed his dismissal in her last phrase. But apparently he had been mistaken; or, rather, his timing had been off. He was not to be dismissed quite so immediately.
“No, one more thing, Andrej. An important one. You know St. Clare, here. You know Curran.” And she knew that Curran was coming with him, why should he be surprised? “Do what you can to let the others know that they count, too. It means a lot to anybody. More to these, because they have so little else.”
A warning against jealousy, perhaps? What had he ever done to St. Clare that anyone would envy St. Clare for it? What had he ever done to Joslire Curran, other than to make his life miserable?
“A man deserves the respect due any sentient creature, Marshall Journis.” On the other hand he hadn’t beaten Joslire, or tormented his body, or required sexual services of him. Maybe for bond-involuntaries that was enough. “Thank you for the reminder. I will keep your advice carefully in my mind.”
It was a good point, an important point.
But he had been raised to keep peace in his Household.
He was confident that he knew what to do.
“Then take your briefings, and back to quarters with you. Exercise. Sauna. Wherever.” This was unequivocal; the interview was over. Andrej took the four-stack in his hand and stood up.
“Thank you again, Marshall Journis. Your remarks are very much appreciated.” Except the one about wanting to have a look at Robert, perhaps. There didn’t seem to be any sense in quibbling over that, however, especially since she’d not slapped him down for his rather acerbic rejection of what had apparently seemed to her to be an entirely reasonable request.
“That’s as may be, and you’re welcome. Good day, ‘Student’ Koscuisko.”
She’d risen to her feet in a parting gesture. Andrej tried to make his salute as polite and respectful as he knew how.
There was nothing left to do but mark time until tomorrow. The knowledge made him anxious to be away, and on with things.
##
Andrej sat at one of the windows of the passenger compartment, watching Fleet Orientation Station Medical shrink slowly against an expanding background of black featureless space. Better for him had he never come here, better for him had he never known . . . he could have lived his life out in blessed ignorance, and been happy. But it was too late for that now. Even if he never made a single Inquiry within the next eight years, he would still know. He was a monster; and he had always been a monster. The passion to which St. Clare had introduced him was not an alien thing, but a part of him, as surely as was his passion to comfort and to heal.
And since it was part of him, he would not deny its existence. He would not repudiate the beast, as dreadful as it was. He would have to live with himself forever, whether he went home tomorrow or never went home until his father declared the year of his Retirement.
He thought he’d known what he was to face, when he came here. He had been wrong. And it had been far worse than he had imagined. How could he have guessed the horrors that St. Clare and Curran were expected to bear uncomplaining, as part of their duty? The worst part of it was that they accepted it, they all accepted it, and looked at him with confusion when he protested. Joslire, who expected to be abused. Chonis, who expected him to discard St. Clare like so much soiled toweling. Tutor Chonis had praised him for engaging in his training exercises on such a personal level. It was true that it made things much easier during the exercise itself to be able to enjoy it, and so keenly. But it was still wrong to take pleasure from the pain of helpless prisoners. Intrinsically wrong, absolutely wrong, no matter what crimes they might have committed.
And still there had been benefit for him from Orientation. Because they had permitted him to sell himself for St. Clare’s life, so he did not have that blood-guilt on his hands. There had been ways to approach his Inquiry that provided opportunities, scant though they were, to affirm the dignity of the dying and protect the innocent. He had not compromised the safety of the unaccused for his pleasure, at least not yet. That was a hopeful thing.
But more important, most important, there was Curran, with his private torment and his guarded self. Brutally misused body and soul by the system that had enslaved him, Curran had still reached out to him to give him comfort in his pain, without holding the sins of the previous officers against him. Joslire had been charitable and generous with him even while Joslire fully expected Andrej to use him as the others had. It had been an act of significant courage on Joslire’s part, the gesture of a great heart to offer what could not be demanded of him, freely, when it could have cost so dear.
And St. Clare did not seem to hate, not even when Andrej stood before him with the whip that was to bring him agony.
If such as these could hold fast to their human dignity beneath the crushing weight of inhuman discipline — then so could he.
If St. Clare could take the beating from his hand and fire back so mild a bolt as “yon undertall beauty,” then perhaps he could deal as mildly with himself, and try not to despise himself beyond all hope because he was a monster.
If Joslire Curran could find courage to demand a piece of his self-determination back, then perhaps he could find the courage to perform his assigned task. Because as dreadful as he found it, as obscene as he felt his pleasure in it to be, still what he was called upon to do could not be weighed on the same scale as Curran’s task had been, nor St. Clare’s, either.
He would be guided by their approach to their lives, as he was humbled by their courage.
With Joslire and St. Clare to help him through, Andrej knew that he could survive, no matter what awaited him on Scylla.
Epilogue
Mergau Noycannir paused for a moment before signaling for admittance to Tutor Chonis’s office. Almost there. Almost. The Ninth Level — distasteful as that had been — was behind her; only the Tenth Level remained, and with Koscuisko’s drugs she had no fear of failing in the final test. It was time she went back to her Patron. The contemptuous scorn of the Security troops assisting her exercises w
as becoming impossible to ignore, if impossible to prosecute. And she had found it expedient to decline the offered increase in her personal training sessions from two on one to three on one, because she realized that the Administration would not intervene should three become too many for her to handle. It didn’t matter. One more exercise and she would be clear of all of these — clear, and free to return triumphant to Chilleau Judiciary, to secure herself in Verlaine’s favor, once and for all, with the Writ to Inquire.
Signaling at the Tutor’s door, Mergau went in.
Tutor Chonis was alone; she’d not seen Student Koscuisko for days — not since her Seventh Level, Mergau realized with a start. He’d not been present for her Ninth Level orientation, when Tutor Chonis had explained the action of the drug. There had been questions in her mind during her Ninth Level; the prisoner’s behavior had not seemed entirely consistent with the action of the drug as Tutor Chonis had described it. She had intended to bring the anomalies to Student Koscuisko’s attention, as a reminder of her now-dominant role in their relationship. She did not mean to be cheated of her treat.
“I greet me my Tutor, and hope that the morning finds him well. Student Koscuisko, is he not to meet with us, Tutor Chonis?”
So close to the end, so close to finished, she did not need to be as careful as she otherwise might have been. She didn’t have much time left in which to submit herself meek and humble to the Administration. Only one more exercise and she could safely leave the entire Station and everyone on it, discarded as worse than useless. One more exercise.
“Student Koscuisko will not be joining us, Mergau. Be seated.”
Tutor Chonis barely looked up at her when she came in, apparently concentrating on sorting a set of cubes that lay before him on his desk. The beverage service that had been an invariable feature of the classroom table was different than it had been; only one glass had been set out. Pulling the serving-set closer to her, Mergau poured herself a cup: rhyti. It was close to a slap in the face to serve her rhyti, if only she was expected.
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