An Exchange of Hostages

An Exchange of Hostages
is dedicated with profound appreciation to eluki bes shahar for making it happen. Her passionate championship of my book opened the door for me. to what every writer dreams of finding someday — an audience.

Acknowledgments

During the years I’ve spent working on this story there were some people who just never stopped nagging me, making it their business to see that I didn’t give up. There’s no better time nor place than this to gratefully acknowledge the love and support of Regina Gottesman, Linda Deneroff, Sheila Willis, Security 0.5, Steve Gallacci (who coined the term “bond-involuntary”), and many others besides. This book is a product of their persistence and of the patience and forbearance of Maggie Nowakowska, who’s had more to put up with than anyone else.

Chapter One

Andrej Koscuisko stood at the view-port watching with dread as the ship neared the Station. There was a signal at the talk-alert; sighing, he keyed it.

“Yes, Danitosh.”

The Station came closer moment by moment, a bleak lifeless piece of galactic debris with a self-contained school for potential Ship’s Surgeons sprawled over its surface. He didn’t like it; but there was no sense in making things harder on the crew of this ship than they already were. It was simply their bad luck that the
Pride of Place
had been going in the same direction as the disgraced son of the head of the Koscuisko familial corporation, just at the time the ship had been ready to leave.

“Cleared through to offload, your Excellency. You’re to be met. A Tutor named Chonis expects to be greeting you.”

“Yes, very good,” Andrej murmured halfheartedly. He was late arriving. He hadn’t wanted to come. He was more frightened of what awaited him than he thought he’d ever been in his life. He couldn’t take his eyes off the view-port, consumed with apprehension as the ship neared for landing.

Ugly piece of rock.

Ugly Station.

Grim cold utilitarian dock-port, the ship’s tugs at least eight years old, and all alike. Fleet resources. Fleet Orientation Station Medical, where potential Ship’s Surgeons all had to come to learn how to Inquire.

If he’d guessed beforehand what his father would wish, would he have completed his medical training?

He was here now, and there was no help for it. He would do what was needful. His father had said the word. That was all.

Gathering up his documents-case, Andrej quickly leafed through flimsies one final time. How to salute. How to speak to a Tutor. How to conduct oneself as a Student, soon to become a Chief Medical Officer. CMO was all very well, a position of significant influence and power on a cruiser-killer class warship upholding the Judicial order in the space-lanes. Any young surgeon would jump at the opportunity.

It was only that he did not want to Inquire.

###

The wait-room on the loading docks was small, almost cramped, even with only two people sharing it; and one was Security. Curran hardly counted. There was the smell of too much waste fuel in the air, and more noise than could be comfortably borne for very long without ear-stops for protection. Tutor Chonis suppressed an impatient twitch of annoyance as he stood waiting for his Student to arrive. Just enough time for a final scan through the scroller, and he would be ready for the interview.

ANDREJ Ulexeievitch KOSCUISKO, STANDARD SCAN ANDREW SON OF ILEX. PRONOUNCED
AHN
-DRAY YOU
LECHS
’VICH KOE-
SHOO
-SKOE. OLDEST SON OF RANKING KOSCUISKO PRINCE ALEXIE ILMYANITCH AND PRINCE INHERITOR TO KOSCUISKO FAMILIAL CORPORATION, DOLGORUKIJ COMBINE. EIGHT YEAR COURSE OF STUDY, MAYON SURGICAL COLLEGE, MAYON MEDICAL CENTER, MAYON, GRADUATION WITH HIGHEST HONORS IN SURGERY AND HONORS IN PSYCHO-PHARMACOLOGY. NO FAMILY MEMBERS ACTIVE IN FLEET. HOMEWORLD OF ORIGIN AZANRY, DOLGORUKIJ COMBINE, SANT-DASIDAR JUDICIARY.

Andrej Koscuisko.

Tutor Chonis shut his scroller down and marshaled his thoughts together. First contact, Student and Tutor. This could make or break the entire Term. It was important to get off on a good cycle. There was to be enough stress on Student Koscuisko as the Term progressed without the existence of conflict between him and his Tutor.

“Let’s go, then,” Chonis said. The telltales on the wall gave notice that the incoming craft had come to rest and was ready to offload. Curran keyed the exit, standing to one side for the Tutor to precede him out onto the apron of the loading dock.

Out on the apron, a maintenance team had taken custody of Koscuisko’s personal effects; and there was the Student, standing alone, staring off toward the open end of the maintenance atmosphere.

“Attention to the Tutor,” Curran called from behind him, to put Student Koscuisko on notice. Koscuisko looked over his shoulder at that; turning around, he started toward them, not quite hurrying but quickly enough. Once he was within a reasonable distance he stopped, saluting politely. “Student Koscuisko reports at the Fleet’s invitation. Tutor Chonis?”

Student Koscuisko was blond and pale, and looked a little on the slightly built side of the Jurisdiction Standard; but Tutor Chonis wasn’t taken in. Koscuisko was Dolgorukij. And Dolgorukij packed muscle. It was just that the way they packed muscle wasn’t obvious to look at them.

“Good-greeting, Student Koscuisko. I trust you had good transit?”

There was the suspicion of a frown on Koscuisko’s face at that, quickly smoothed over. “Thank you, Tutor Chonis.” Tenor voice, and pale eyes. Polite enough, though, as was usually the case with aristocrats. “It was a quiet transit.”

Koscuisko knew very well he was late. Koscuisko offered no excuses. On the other hand Chonis hadn’t asked for any. “Student Koscuisko, as your briefing states, you are to be under my tutelage. You have only a few months in which to learn all that Fleet will require of you; no time like the present for us to begin. Joslire Curran. Present yourself.”

Curran stepped forward from where he had posted himself two paces behind Tutor Chonis, to his left. “At the Tutor’s direction.” Curran was a little taller than Koscuisko, but not by much; and his face had more contour. Curran was as dark as Koscuisko was fair, even after his years here on Station away from solar browning. Right now Curran was as tense as Tutor Chonis had ever seen him — though Koscuisko might not realize that. Koscuisko was unlikely to have met Emandisan before. Emandisan off-world were almost always Security; and as far as Tutor Chonis knew, Joslire Curran was the only bond-involuntary Emandisan in the Inventory.

“Curran, Student Koscuisko is your officer of assignment for this Term. Student Koscuisko. I’m sure you’ve noticed that Curran is bond-involuntary.” Watching Koscuisko’s face, Tutor Chonis caught Koscuisko’s quick glance at the telltale green piping on Curran’s sleeves. “Curran is tasked by the Administration with seeing to your meals, your exercise, and whatever administrative matters may arise.”

Koscuisko regarded Curran with a look of frank and good-natured curiosity, which Tutor Chonis found rather engaging. He hoped that Student Koscuisko and Joslire Curran would sort well with each other. The man deserved a break; last Term had been unusually rough on him. But they couldn’t afford to sideline one of their best while Orientation was in session. There weren’t enough bond-involuntaries assigned for that.

“The Administration anticipates that you may not have worked with bond-involuntaries before. It’s important that you take this opportunity to explore their resources and their limitations.”

It would be very unusual if Koscuisko had even met a bond-involuntary, outside of Fleet. There weren’t that many of them to start out with.

“Curran will provide you every assistance; you should not hesitate to make any of your needs or desires known to him, howsoever personal. When you are posted to your Command, you can safely anticipate at least one Security team of bond-in voluntaries will be assigned to you.” In Fleet, bond-involuntaries could be assigned only to Chief Medical Officers, in fact, and to no other officer on staff.

And that about covered things for their first briefing. Nodding at Curran, Tutor Chonis gave Student Koscuisko his dismissal. “I will see you this evening in Tutor’s Mess, where I will introduce you to your fellow Student. Tutor’s Mess at sixteen, and be prepared to discuss your background and your interest in the field of Judicial administration. That will be all for now. Curran, you may take your Student to quarters.”

Koscuisko saluted with easy grace; Curran gestured politely toward the lift-access corridor. “If Student Koscuisko would care to proceed?”

Tutor Chonis watched as they left, Curran giving directions as they went.

He hadn’t known quite what to expect from Student Koscuisko.

He wasn’t sure he knew any more about him now than he had before this interview.

It didn’t matter.

There was no predicting how Students responded to the pressures the practical exercises put on them.

###

There were five levels between the loading docks and the administrative area where Koscuisko had quarters. Student Koscuisko hadn’t spoken to him; nervous, perhaps. That was almost funny. Ship’s Surgeons exercised absolute power over the bodies and lives of bond-involuntaries; why should Koscuisko be nervous?

Most of the Students Joslire had seen hadn’t wanted to be here, though they’d volunteered. That was none of his business. When the lift-car arrived Joslire keyed the offload; as the doors slid away, Koscuisko straightened up a bit, alerted perhaps by the noise or the change in air pressure. Turning, Koscuisko caught Joslire’s eye; and Joslire gazed hungrily at his new officer, anxious for something that might give him a clue as to what kind of Term this one was going to be.

Staring too long could be interpreted as insolence, and his governor would not tolerate insolence. Joslire broke eye contact, bowing hastily.

“Show me to my quarters, if you please, Curran,” the officer said, moving past Joslire to gain the corridor outside. Pleasant and formal, and neither promise nor threat to be read in the Student’s voice. Yet. Joslire hurried out of the car before the doors closed on him, hastening to his duty with resignation.

“To the officer’s right.” The senior member on a standard four-soul Security team led by direction, not example. One of the things that the officer was expected to learn was how to figure out where he was going by listening to the voice of a Security post behind him. “It will be to the officer’s left at the next nexus, eight doors down.”

Eight doors down the hall after the left turning. Joslire could almost hear the officer counting to himself. There was little to distinguish one door from another; so when the officer paused, Joslire confirmed the guess indirectly, disguising his reassurance as an explanation.

“The admit panel is to the officer’s right. In the recess.” Not where the officer was accustomed to finding it, so much was obvious. The Dolgorukij Combine Koscuisko came from was a parochial system, very rich, very insular, rather primitive in many ways by the Jurisdiction Standard. For all Joslire knew, Koscuisko was accustomed to finding rooms behind tall wooden doors, pivoting inward on old-fashioned hinges.

After a moment’s fumbling at the doorjamb, the officer found the admit, and the door opened. The interior was familiar to Joslire in its functional severity: Fleet issue sleep-racks, Fleet issue floor-covering, Fleet-issue study-set, and an open closet full of Fleet-issue uniforms. Joslire already knew that there was an unpleasant surprise in quarters for the officer. He wondered how Koscuisko was going to react to it.

After a moment Koscuisko stepped across the threshold; Joslire followed on Koscuisko’s heels, closing the door behind him. Posting himself near the door, Joslire watched as Koscuisko took inventory: the washroom at the left beside the closet, with the toilet’s gray metal privacy barrier clearly visible through the open door and the wet-shower beyond; the sleep-rack to the right and the study set in the middle of the room; the inner room beyond, half-visible past the partially closed slider. Koscuisko — his back stiff and his shoulders tense with understandable confusion — moved around the study-set and stood in the doorway to the inner chamber with his back still to Joslire, puzzling out the problem, looking for his luggage. It didn’t matter that Joslire had only the back of the officer’s head to judge his reactions by. Bond-involuntaries learned very quickly to read an officer’s moods from the other side of his face.

The officer spoke, finally. “I had brought some personal effects with me,” Koscuisko said mildly. “I do not see any of my house-master’s packing here.”

Nor would he. “As the officer states.” Technically speaking Koscuisko was not an officer yet, but Joslire’s governor would not fault him for using the formal title. It was safer to use the formal title, for the same reason that it was safer to keep to indirect address and avoid the first person whenever possible. “The officer’s personal effects are to be forwarded directly to
Scylla.
To provide an agreeable sense of homecoming when the officer reports to his Command.”

“Who — ” There was predictable outrage in Koscuisko’s voice, as well as a degree of frustration — which Joslire could certainly understand, and sympathize with. A note of savage humor there as well.

Humor?

It was a moment before Koscuisko seemed to master his reactions and trust himself to speak, after having bitten off his first response so sharply that the word hadn’t so much as bled before it died. “Who sleeps on which of these boards?”

The boards . . . oh, the sleep-racks. Joslire stepped carefully into the middle of the room to post himself by the study set. “The officer sleeps in the inner room, behind the slider-screen, which has been provided for his privacy. Assigned Security sleeps here, in order to be available to the officer at will.”

“You and the mashounds,” Koscuisko said, as if to himself.

Joslire didn’t bother to mention that the privacy partition could not be secured from the inside. The officer would figure that out soon enough. And would doubtless realize that assigned Security slept between the officer and the door as much to prevent the officer from going out unaccompanied as to be available when wanted. “I do not suggest an equivalence, of course. How am I to call you, then?”

It was nice to be apologized to, howsoever obliquely; but the officer would learn better soon enough. “It is a matter up to the officer’s discretion.” Koscuisko would learn that, too. Here at Fleet Orientation Station Medical there were few conventions to define what an officer could do with assigned Security, as long as the forms of transgression and discipline were preserved. Fortunately Administrative staff was careful about things accordingly; it all balanced out in the end, more or less.

“As it pleases the officer to inquire, ‘Joslire’ would be preferable to ‘Curran.’” Many of his fellows welcomed the psychic camouflage of the name the Fleet had given them; Joslire didn’t. To be called Curran was a constant reminder of the place where Joslire ise’Ilet had died — or at least been shut away in legal suspension of animation for thirty years. Where the man that he had been had been enslaved for crimes against the Judicial order, and his honor and his five-knives with him.