An Exchange of Hostages (38 page)

“Wants to see Noycannir’s tapes, you noticed.” Of course he had. “It could get to be a difficult problem. I suggest our parity-fields will be significantly stronger if Verlaine doesn’t get a good look at Noycannir’s tapes until Koscuisko has already reported to
Scylla.
”

Clellelan nodded appreciatively. “Fleet can probably find ways to protect the investment, as long as he performs to expectation. All right, we’ll do it, and if you can nudge his Tenth Level up a hair, we can release him early if we have to. The Autocrat’s Proxy might even like that.”

Yes, Chonis imagined that they could hurry the schedule a bit, as long as Koscuisko could take the pace. He’d see what Curran had to say about how Koscuisko was holding up, which brought him to his other problem, quite naturally.

“I’ll go over the schedule with Curran, then. And Curran seems to have gotten a little intense about Student Koscuisko. No telling for certain, but he’s teaching Koscuisko how to throw knives, and I suspect the knives Koscuisko’s throwing aren’t Fleet-issue.”

Clellelan set the record-cube he’d been toying with down carefully on the desk’s surface. “You think he’s teaching Koscuisko five-knives?”

It couldn’t be proved on the evidence at hand, no. To be absolutely certain, they would need to interrupt the practice and check Curran’s knives then and there. Yet Chonis was reasonably secure in his suspicion. All Curran had done on Safe had been to take Koscuisko to a practice range and start him on throwing knives. That had to mean something.

“Just so, Rorin. His five-knives. We could pull him off now, of course. We’ve got St. Clare to post in replacement if we need to.”

Snorting in amusement, the Administrator shook his head. “‘Yon undertall beauty,’ with an accent, no less. An ignorant accent. You couldn’t have paid the man to make a better test of that speak-serum.”

No, as a matter of fact. The demonstration had been genuinely impressive. “But if we leave Curran where he is and he asks to be reassigned when Koscuisko leaves, we lose one of our best. Good for Koscuisko. Not so good for us.”

Curran could be released to Fleet if Curran wanted to go. It would be insanity to give up what was left of his deferment, but as far as Chonis was concerned all semi-mystical, ascetic warrior-cultists were already more than a little unbalanced, and the Emandisan figuring prominently to the fore of a list of dangerous loonies.

“Do you want him pulled off and sent through readjustment?” Clellelan asked, bluntly.

Bond-involuntaries sometimes formed intense attachments to Students of assignment, for one reason or another. Bond-involuntaries were psychologically vulnerable to passionate one-on-one bonding to begin with, since personal dedication could substitute for freedom to an extent. When that happened, the Administrator had the option of removing the troop from the officer assigned and arranging a respite period with plenty of food, intoxicants as required, and as much sexual contact as the troop could take. That generally set a bond-involuntary back on his or her figurative feet.

Curran and Koscuisko might be well matched for man and master, according to the peculiar cultural forms of Emandisan and Dolgorukij alike; that wasn’t the issue. Whether Clellelan was willing to risk losing Curran was.

“Getting back to my basic interest, which is to give Koscuisko the best chance of long-term survival on Line. Curran has good support to offer, and Koscuisko’s been raised to accept that kind of relationship. It may be too late to change Curran’s mind about it anyway, what with those knives taken into account.”

He didn’t care about being fair to Curran, though Curran was well respected by Staff — bonded and un-Bonded alike. At least he didn’t care about being fair to Curran as much as he wanted to see Koscuisko as ideally placed to perform his Judicial function as possible. “And if he’s got two of them with him on
Scylla,
he might be even more reluctant to abandon them to Fleet and go off to Chilleau Judiciary.”

“At least until one of them gets killed, and he decides it isn’t worth the investment,” Clellelan mused. “Well, give Curran the chance to get clear if he approaches you, Adifer. But if we’re going to put the boy through an accelerated Advanced — and he’s got to blood his St. Clare while he’s at it — we don’t want to be upsetting his domestic arrangements. Curran’s one of the best, but he’s still dead.”

Bond-involuntaries were sometimes called the thirty-years-dead, their identities and rights under Jurisdiction restored only when the Day dawned at last. Which meant that technically speaking, Curran was disposable, in a sense, to be used in whatever manner the Administration saw fit to further Fleet’s interests.

Fleet permitted bond-involuntaries to volunteer to place themselves at an officer’s disposal, since that suited Fleet’s purpose. No blame would attach to the Administration of Fleet Orientation Station Medical if Curran asked to leave. Curran might have some trouble getting Koscuisko to agree, true enough. But that was Curran’s problem.

“I’ll give you a revised schedule.” The business of the interview was over; rising to his feet, Chonis bowed to his superior, satisfied that they were of congruent mind. “Are you going to want witnesses for St. Clare?”

“Oh, you’d better get Station Security to observe. I’ll sit in if I’m free, but don’t hold up on my account.”

They’d see how quickly they could get Koscuisko out of there and safely to
Scylla.

Koscuisko deserved better than to become the First Secretary’s minion. Fleet could protect Koscuisko as long as Koscuisko was on Line. Once let Fleet know that the Bench wanted him, and Fleet would hold Koscuisko to its bosom like a favorite child . . .

Chapter Thirteen

He’d never had so irregular a schedule with any of his other Students. Joslire was looking forward to the break that the Administration granted them at the completion of each Term: eight days to rest, eight days to recover from any Student discipline, eight days to complete debriefing before the next Students started to arrive. Lately eight days had stretched to sixteen, once as long as twenty-four, before the Administration could collect sufficient Students for a cost-effective Term.

Koscuisko was a very tiring man.

He was going to need every single hour of that anticipated break just to catch up on his sleep.

But then he’d never had a Student who had run the Seventh Level all the way out to its logical conclusion. His other Students had preferred to leave the exercise for their mid-meal, and again for their third-meal and again for their sleep-shift, rewarded more often than not with an easy finish to the exercise — prisoners who politely and conveniently died while the Students slept.

Koscuisko hadn’t seemed to notice when it had been time for mid-meal; Koscuisko had been working on his prisoner’s hands. Even Tutor Chonis had been impressed at Koscuisko’s skillful employment of the driver. Still less had Koscuisko apparently noted the time for his third-meal or his sleep-shift, absorbed in some abstract equation of the ratio of bruises to ribs.

There were benefits either way, of course. Going by normal practice, the prisoners died quietly by themselves during the night and the Students weren’t bothered with the business in the morning. But Koscuisko’s way they could both sleep until next third-meal, because the exercise was scheduled for two days, and Tutor Chonis didn’t want to see Koscuisko until the next day following.

And of course the most significant benefit from Koscuisko’s management style — significant from the prisoner’s point of view, at any rate — was that Koscuisko had killed her, once he’d decided he was finished. None of the passive, impersonal murders of Joslire’s other Students. Koscuisko had taken active responsibility; and he had taken care in killing her, mindful of her dignity even naked and abused as she had been.

Sometime during the Eighth or Ninth Levels, Students were required to make a kill at the Tutor’s direction and discretion. It was a test of sorts; and most Students responded to it by ordering Security to perform the actual act. In fact by the Seventh Level, most Students were happiest to sit in their chair and direct Security rather than dirtying their own hands; perhaps understandably so. Joslire appreciated Koscuisko’s apparent selfishness. It was good not to be required to beat a prisoner. It was better to be left alone to not watch, to be called upon only when an extra pair of hands were wanted for some relatively neutral task.

None of his other Students had ever asked to make the kill.

But almost all of them had bad dreams, soon after the event.

Koscuisko’s cries woke Joslire sometime close to mid-shift. He rolled off the sleep-rack to his feet, halfway to Koscuisko’s cubicle before his eyes were well open. The privacy barrier wasn’t quite closed; Joslire had wanted the extra ventilation to clear the inner space of the stench from Koscuisko’s lefrol. He was through it in a moment, to seize and still Koscuisko’s restless hands as Koscuisko’s sleeping body struggled with some dreamed enemy.

“Sir. The officer is dreaming. Wake up.”

Small as it was, the room seemed stifling to Joslire, the air heavy with horror. Koscuisko fought against him for a moment, and Koscuisko was difficult to control in his sleep — Aznir Dolgorukij, and significantly stronger than Joslire was, even if Koscuisko did not yet know how best to use his strength. Joslire hung on, grimly embracing the dreaming man, repeating the same pale neutral phrases as soothingly as he dared.

“The officer is dreaming, your Excellency. The officer is respectfully requested to wake up now.”
Come back, come back from the land of the dead and of shadows. Wake now, dear one, that thy dreams not distress thee.

Koscuisko woke with a convulsive start and lay motionless in Joslire’s arms for a long moment, holding his breath. Joslire wasn’t sure whether Koscuisko was still dreaming, or what; but finally Koscuisko gave a great sigh and his body relaxed. He leaned up against Joslire, as if gratefully, letting his head back against Joslire’s shoulder. Joslire didn’t dare move. It was irregular, surely, and what had he thought that he was doing, corning in here in the first place?

“I have had a dream,” Koscuisko said. “I did not much enjoy it, Joslire.”

Surely not,
Joslire was tempted to say.
One hardly would have guessed.
Instead he shifted his weight a little, preparatory to disengaging himself from the intimacy of the embrace; but Koscuisko put his hand up to Joslire’s arm, and stayed him.

“The officer cried out in his sleep.” He stilled himself, obedient to Koscuisko’s apparent desire. “Does the officer wish to talk about it, this dream?”

“Oh, I am sick to death.” Koscuisko pushed himself upright suddenly, spurning Joslire’s support as decisively as he had seemed to solicit it. “Sick of being so insulated, Joslire, and I swear to all Saints that if you say ‘the officer’ one more time within the next eight I will — not thank you for it.”

Now that Koscuisko had sat up, there was no reason why Joslire should be sitting on his bed, or sitting at all. Or even in the cubicle, come to that. Rising quietly, Joslire made for the door, and Koscuisko — with his head in his hands — took no apparent notice of him. Joslire started the rhyti brewer as quickly as he could, one ear cocked for any sound from Koscuisko, Maybe Koscuisko would just go back to sleep. There was a message posted to the study set screen: Tutor Chonis wanted to see Koscuisko for debriefing, but they had until next first-shift before the appointed time. The rhyti was ready, but how was he to offer it to his Student if Koscuisko did not want to hear from him? If he wasn’t to call Koscuisko “the officer,” and it was dangerous to call Koscuisko by his name, how could he hope to help Koscuisko talk out his pain?

Joslire carried a flask of rhyti to the open doorway, Koscuisko still sitting on the edge of his sleep-rack with his face in his hands. “It is not to be helped,” Joslire said. “Sir. Would . . . you . . . like to talk about . . . your dream?”

Koscuisko looked up, and Koscuisko’s eyes were dead and empty. “I dreamed that I killed a woman, Joslire.” Seeing the glass of rhyti in Joslire’s hand, Koscuisko beckoned him in with a wave of his hand. “I lost a patient twice, three times, in practicals. But it isn’t the same. And I didn’t just dream it.”

Kneeling down to be able to see Koscuisko’s face, Joslire reached for something he could say. He’d been through this with Students before, but never one like this. Koscuisko was more of an effort than any of them. Koscuisko was too honest with himself for his own good.

“It was well done, all the same.” And not wanting to keep his Student at arm’s length by observing the safe distance of accepted forms only made things more difficult. “A man takes care of his own work, finishes what he’s started. Doesn’t leave the cleaning up to other people.”

It wasn’t coming out right. He could hear the halt and start in his own voice. He didn’t know how he could honor Koscuisko’s expressed wish and keep peace with his governor at the same time. Surely Koscuisko understood that?

Koscuisko sighed and drank his glass of rhyti. Right down, Joslire noted with dismay; and it had been hot. Koscuisko didn’t seem any the worse for it.

“Joslire, thou art good to me. And have been good to me this while. I will miss you.” Handing the empty glass back, Koscuisko laid his hand at the back of Joslire’s neck and had leaned forward to kiss him before Joslire knew quite what was happening. Only his discipline kept him in his place, surprised — startled — as he was; Koscuisko touched his other hand to the side of Joslire’s face, briefly, and stood up. “I think that I should have a wash. What time is it, please? Time to eat, I hope?”

Joslire found his voice, albeit with difficulty. “Even so, it’s mid-shift. Tutor Chonis will see — will conduct debriefing after fast meal tomorrow; exercise could be taken if the officer please — that is, I — ”

“Quite all right, Joslire, it is not your fault. Be easy.” Koscuisko had reached the washroom and turned on the wet-shower. He wouldn’t be able to hear a thing; but the monitors would hear, so Joslire did not speak his thought.
Perhaps I will go with you to
Scylla
, Student Koscuisko.

Not because Koscuisko had caressed him, because he could ask that of his fellows if he needed a kind touch so much as that. Bond-involuntaries took care of each other as best as they could, and didn’t ask questions, and didn’t let personal preferences or inclinations keep them from comforting each other. No, not just because Koscuisko had caressed him.

But because of the respect with which Koscuisko had killed his prisoner. Because of the gentle care Koscuisko had shown while she was dying, for all that he had shown none earlier.

Or perhaps only because he was Koscuisko, and he had the blood of a war-leader.

Joslire set Koscuisko’s uniform out and put in a call for the Student’s fast-meal.

Maybe he needed to speak to Tutor Chonis again.

###

“Robert, I’d like another three-vice, please. Good man.”

The Eighth Level of the Question, and the second day. Robert St. Clare had never assisted at Inquiry before; this one was brutal.

“Come, now. I am determined that you are not telling me the truth. I can fairly promise you that things will only . . . get the worse for you . . . until you do . . . ”

The strangled cries of the prisoner, the self-satisfied gloating in the officer’s voice were equally difficult to bear. It had been bad yesterday, even once he’d gotten past his nervousness in Koscuisko’s presence. Today was worse.

“Oh. For the love of God. Leave over. I don’t know.”

He had to concentrate on what the prisoner was saying in order to make out the words. He didn’t want to be listening at all. The rest of the Security seemed capable of closing themselves down. How long would it take him to learn how to protect himself? The officer used him neither more nor less than the others; Koscuisko had not played favorites. St. Clare was grateful for that. What little he had been called upon to do had strained his self-discipline badly, but he knew better than to let even a hint of hesitation show in his responses to his officer.

“I don’t. Believe. You,” Koscuisko said, punctuating his mocking words with precise movements of the knife, nestling ever more deeply beneath a fingernail. Two days, and the prisoner could still speak and be understood. Two days, and Koscuisko could still evoke such sickening sounds of agony from the man who shuddered trembling on the floor in front of Koscuisko’s chair.

Koscuisko had his prisoner’s hand stretched across his knee, convenient to his knife, and the three-vices kept the fingers steady and immobilized at Koscuisko’s pleasure. The officer had dealt more kindly with him, although the pain was troubling to remember. Koscuisko had not made him watch his own torture so deliberately as this.

“What . . . else is there to tell you? Ah, Your Excellency? Please . . . ”

Koscuisko toyed idly with the knife, and the blood ran fresh. Robert could smell it.

“Please, I’ve told you about my buyers. My suppliers. My contracts, everything . . . ”

And so he had; St. Clare had heard him. Leaning forward, Koscuisko lifted the prisoner’s head by the hair on his head and purred at him. “But not enough. I don’t think you’ve said all the truth you know, and that offends me, do you understand?”

It seemed to St. Clare that the man’s eyes rolled back in his head; and Koscuisko responded to the threat of loss of consciousness by taking his prisoner by the throat and shaking him savagely. “Pay attention, when it is that I am talking to you.”

“Ah . . . there’s Alden for the factory, and I told you about Foratre and even Kuylige, Glenafric services the school yards . . . what? What?”

“Tell me more about Glenafric,” Koscuisko suggested, and transferred his attention to another fingernail. “The school yards, is it? A relative of yours, this Glenafric, I understand?”

“My brother, and damn him for his greed. He has contacts . . . the older children . . . ”

They hadn’t heard anything incriminating about this Glenafric person before, not that St. Clare could call to mind. He was sure he’d have remembered if they had. It would have helped him insulate himself from the fearful pity of what Koscuisko did to his prisoner had he known all along that there were children involved.

It was a gesture too horribly like stripping bark off of a switch, like paring the rind of a cheese away at the tail end of the wheel. It was a small movement of Koscuisko’s hand, merely, but the prisoner choked with it. Fortunately for St. Clare, there was too much blood for him to be able to see anything but a confused sort of mass of flesh, like the leavings after fall slaughter before the scavenger birds came chortling in to feed. “Where would one find this Glenafric Whomever, I wonder?”

There was horrified denial in the prisoner’s voice, now, even past all of his pain. “No, he’s my brother . . . I didn’t mean . . . a mistake, your Excellency, please . . . ”

Koscuisko moved the knife against the prisoned hand, and the prisoner screamed. “Tsamug! Glenafric Tsamug! He keeps his stores in his grain bin-at home, at his home, you can find the stuff there.”

A man could sell addictive drugs to children, and take whatever coin he pleased in the eager self-prostitution of flesh not even sexually mature. And still try to protect his brother, at the last.

“It is a shame that we lack medication,” Koscuisko said sorrowfully, turning the dagger with delicate care. “You

need to suffer much before your sin is healed. Oh, and I could help you, if we had but time.”

Leaning back now, Koscuisko spurned his prisoner away from him with his foot and rose to his feet slowly like a drunken man, reaching out a hand to steady himself against Vely. “But we must be content with what we have, and trust the saints to take care of the rest. And therefore, Mister Haspir, if you would for me the gel-club find, I mean to make the best start that I can.”