Prisoner of Conscience (36 page)

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 penthouse 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?

Administrator Geltoi hurried toward the office with all deliberate speed, pausing on the threshold to take stock of the situation.

His office was full of people.

There was someone in his chair, but Geltoi couldn’t see who; the chair was turned to the window, with its back to the room.

Sitting on the couch to the left, a short blond man in a dark dusty uniform, slumped over on the edge of the seat with his shaggy head buried between the palms of his soiled hands.

Andrej Koscuisko?

There was that Security Chief of Koscuisko’s, right enough, and Koscuisko’s green-sleeved bond-involuntary troops as well.

Very good indeed.

Clearly orders had come in overnight, and Belan had wanted Koscuisko to be here waiting for his dismissal. Belan could be faulted on execution, but not on instinct. And it was enough of a relief to realize that Koscuisko’s orders were in hand that Geltoi forgave Belan this misappropriation of his office in advance of Belan’s explanation.

His role was to be that of the surprised senior administrator coming upon an unexpected occupation force: very close to exactly what he was, except that he knew what was going on, and was looking forward to playing it out.

“So. Doctor Koscuisko.”

Koscuisko dropped his hands, raising his face to look at Geltoi as he strode confidently in. Koscuisko looked an absolute wreck. Perhaps the experience would teach him something; sober him, make him a better officer. As long as Koscuisko was a better officer far, far away from the Domitt Prison, Geltoi did not grudge him any good his brief imprisonment might have done him.

Geltoi stopped in front of the couch to put a point to the lesson. There were other Security in here as well as Koscuisko’s; some Fleet security — but Geltoi ignored them.

“How unfortunate that it should have to end like this, Koscuisko. We acted in good faith, I remind you, and took great pains to see you lacked for nothing.”

Koscuisko rose stiffly to his feet. His uniform was filthy: and there was an unsubtle odor about it as well that Geltoi declined to identify. He had clearly been up all night; drinking, most likely. That would explain the blank hostile uncomprehending stare Koscuisko was giving him. It was a little uncanny. Stupid as Koscuisko looked, unkempt as he was, he almost did look Nurail to Geltoi.

The realization distracted Geltoi for a moment: what if Koscuisko had been found in the furnace-room, looking like that? Would it be so great a loss if his honest hardworking furnace crew made a mistake, quite reasonable under the circumstances, and clubbed Koscuisko unconscious to feed the furnaces?

Calling his fantasies firmly to heel, Geltoi spoke on. “While you have done nothing but engage in obstructionary and insubordinate behavior since you got here. The rumors we’d heard were right about you all along. No respect for honest decent working folk. No respect for authority — ”

Failure to know his place and keep to it, stubborn refusal to honor the natural order and respect his superiors. Nurail in more than one way. And Geltoi would have told Koscuisko, too, but for some unaccountable reason he found himself flat on his back on the floor. Koscuisko kneeling on his stomach. Koscuisko’s hands, locked around his throat, and the thumbs pressed deep into the pulse on either side of his windpipe.

What —

Koscuisko’s face was a blue-and-white mask of furious hatred and indescribable loathing, and all for being told a few home truths about himself?

He couldn’t breathe.

“Murderer,”
Koscuisko hissed at him through teeth clenched tight and bared in savage contempt. “Impious. Unfilial. Outlaw. Vandal. Murderer — ”

Then Koscuisko was pulled off, finally, though it took all four of his slave Security to do it. Fleet Security helped Geltoi to his feet, and Belan decided to turn around, finally.

It was about time.

Belan hadn’t jumped out of the great desk chair at the sound of Geltoi’s voice, which was annoying. Belan was turning slowly from the window with no evident intention of surrendering his place to its rightful occupant.

“Your Excellency. You must wait upon the judgment of the Bench for that, with respect, sir.”

It wasn’t Belan’s voice.

The man in the chair was Bench Lieutenant Plugrath, swiveling to square himself to the desk-table’s surface and toggle into braid. “Chanson, close the gates. Quarantine in effect for local staff. Good-greeting, Administrator Geltoi.”

Koscuisko spoke, his struggle to master himself evident. “Yes, of course, Lieutenant. You are right.” Security was not letting go of Koscuisko, holding him by his arms, standing close behind him. Oddly enough Security hadn’t let go of Geltoi himself, either. “Geltoi, I never thought to believe it could be true. But I have learned. There is a crime under Jurisdiction that deserves Tenth Level command termination. And you have done it. I will have you, Geltoi.”

Security appeared to relax as Koscuisko spoke. One of his green-sleeves bowed, presenting a white-square that Koscuisko declined; with a quick gesture of his head, by way of thanks.

Geltoi stared in shock at the officer in Geltoi’s chair, seated behind Geltoi’s desk-table, making himself perfectly at home in Geltoi’s office. “Lieutenant. What is the meaning of this? Where is Assistant Administrator Belan?”

Belan had been here late last night working. Why hadn’t Belan warned him that Plugrath had come to visit? What were these Fleet Security doing here, if not to escort Koscuisko out of the Domitt Prison? Plugrath’s escort, perhaps. Maybe the Dramissoi Relocation Fleet Commander had sent Plugrath with this escort in token of Koscuisko’s rank. Yes. That could be. Geltoi felt a little better.

“Administrator Belan has been removed to a secure psychiatric facility in Port Rudistal, Administrator. On orders from the commander pro tem of the Domitt Prison, his Excellency, Andrej Koscuisko.”

Koscuisko?

Commanding?

Impossible.

The carpeted flooring eroded like wet sand in a rising tide underneath Geltoi’s feet. Shaking himself free from Security’s grasp with an impatient twist, Geltoi staggered forward, catching at the fore-edge of the desk-table for balance. “Let me see if I take your meaning, Lieutenant. You have taken my poor Merig to the hospital. What wild claims has he been making?”

And what had Koscuisko said?

Security came up behind him, taking his arms once more. But not holding them this time. Security pulled his arms behind his back, and Geltoi felt the cold kiss of the manacles latching around his wrists without quite understanding what it was.

What was going on?

Were these actually chains? Was this how it felt to be made a prisoner? Interesting. But he was not a prisoner. He was the Administrator of the Domitt Prison. Something was not adding up.

“Quite an astonishing number,”
Plugrath admitted, almost cheerfully. “Not very coherent, any of it. His Excellency has sent for a Sarvaw forensics team to excavate. There will be physical evidence soon enough. And in the meantime — ”