An Exchange of Hostages (10 page)

That kind of a joke was not so bad, as long as it remained a joke. His thin-blade duels had all been jokes, in the end, a recreation comprised of the hazard of lethal force against the flimsiest pretexts imaginable. It was precisely that tension that had made it so exhilarating — not that their student duels had been lethal; no one had been seriously injured in a duel in all his years of schooling. But there was always the chance. It was for that reason that he treasured the thin white scar underneath his right eye and had steadfastly refused to have it smoothed away. He had earned it fairly in contest against his friend Sourit, who had suddenly decided in the midst of their fifth-year finals that a man who sweetened his cortac brandy could not be permitted to live.

“The Administration expects a crisis. No fault is to be found with the officer on that account. The Administration simply requires that the officer continue with his orientation. Not that the officer find it agreeable.”

No, of course no fault would be found, not as long as he continued to perform as expected. And it was no longer to be enough to simply hurt people; according to the exhaustively defined Protocols of the Intermediate Levels he must proceed to harm them as well.

There was no possibility of a joke of any kind in that.

“Speaking of Administrative requirements, Joslire, I am to take myself to Infirmary to meet the Resident, I understand. Have I mentioned that the Controlled List is an abomination beneath the Canopy?”

Three turnings, and he’d have to face the test and find out if he could bear to do what had to be done and stomach the passing of it. A little distraction in the meantime would not be unwelcome.

“After the officer’s sauna. Laboratory facilities have also been reserved for the officer’s use, during the remainder of the Term.”

Had they indeed? He had no intention of doing any Controlled List research. But it would do no good to tell Joslire that. Joslire would only have to report it.

“Sing out when I am finished in the sauna, then.” Since the appointment had obviously been prearranged, Joslire would obviously not let him miss it. There was something to be said for Curran’s constant shepherding; he couldn’t be misplaced nearly as easily as Andrej usually misplaced his other time-keepers.

“As the officer requires.”

Enough thinking for the moment.

He could feel the sweat run down his face, down his ribs, along his feet.

If he really worked at it, perhaps he could convince himself that he was actually relaxing after all.

Chapter Four

Frowning to himself, Tutor Chonis put another mark down on his record, still not quite satisfied with his report. The signal at his office door was expected, if a little early; he keyed the admit without speaking, unwilling to interrupt his thought. The Administrator was satisfied with his report. He himself knew that each point he had made was solidly, independently defensible. And yet there was a problem.

He looked up.

“Student Noycannir reports, Tutor. As the Tutor instructed.”

Yes, Student Noycannir. “Good-greeting, Student Noycannir. You may be seated.”

She moved stiffly, as terrified of a misstep as ever. She had pride, and she was not stupid — not in the conventional sense. In ways she was clearly as intelligent, perhaps even as creative, as any of his Students had ever been, Koscuisko not excepted.

“The first thing that you should know, Noycannir, is that the channels are down. We will not be able to have our scheduled conference with Secretary Verlaine until several days from now.”

Her self-control was formidable, but he had trained Inquisitors. And he could see the effect of his news — surprise, relief, joy, resentment, suspicion. Always ending up with resentment and suspicion. Tutor Chonis swallowed a sigh of resignation and continued.

“I have here the report that the Administrator has released for transmit to the First Secretary. If you like we can discuss this before it’s forwarded.”

What crippled her intelligence was her defensiveness and the mean-spirited narrow scope of her reason. She was too sensitive; reactionary and suspicious. Her resentment of anything that she interpreted as a personal reproach cut her off from any real support that he could offer; and her self-absorption brought her to see everything as personally directed against her.

“As the Tutor thinks best,” she said tonelessly, her eyes fixed on the Record in front of her. “I know I only want to know what I can do better.”

She had convinced herself that the report was negative, so much was clear. Chonis cloned the draft to her screen.

“Take a moment to scan the text, Mergau, if you please.” The translator would provide a Standard version, the only language Noycannir could read. She was like the crèche-bred in that, although he doubted that she would have appreciated his pointing that out.

Tense and silent, she stared at the screen in front of her. Chonis decided to take the opportunity to read it through for one last time himself.

Student Noycannir has successfully completed the basic orientation portion of this Term. She displays a better than average ability to recall Judicial precedent and supports her interpretations of the discussion cases with pertinent citations. Her grasp of the theoretical basis of the Writ is above average in complexity and thoroughness.

He didn’t think she was breathing. It would only make her even colder if he noticed that, though. He read the next section over to himself instead.

She has successfully completed the practical exercises at the First, Second, and Third Levels. There
is
no abnormality in her implementation of the Protocols. There has been no inappropriate use of force.

That was pushing it a bit, granted. She had not violated the Protocols by going further in the interrogation than was called for. She did have a tendency to hit twice, when once would have been enough; still, she was hardly unique in that. Students expressed their internal conflict over the things they found themselves doing here in different ways Noycannir hit frequently, desperate to prove that she could hit as well or better than Students with Fleet-approved qualifications. Koscuisko simply hit, and then went off to take a drink or six.

In summary, the Student is performing at or above acceptable levels and has been passed to the next stage of instruction. By order of the Administrator.

She was rereading it, he could tell, her eyes jumping from the foot to the top of the text as she scanned the lines, frowning slightly in her concentration. Chonis waited for her to look up at him before asking the customary question — a little ironic, under these particular circumstances.

“Do you have any comments to add, Student Noycannir?”

She seemed at a loss for words. And — regrettably, but predictably — resentful of that fact. “I am . . . very satisfied . . . with this evaluation.” Her voice sounded curiously dead. “Is there some deficiency not mentioned that requires my attention?”

What, apart from the obvious?

“I need hardly point out that you are at somewhat of a disadvantage here, Noycannir. The practical exercises will become increasingly difficult for you.” They would become increasingly difficult for Koscuisko, too, obviously. But for entirety different reasons. “As your Tutor, I feel that an in-depth review of additional records on top of those chosen for class exemplars would benefit you. This requires more of an investment of time on your part, however.”

She was an apt pupil. She could learn from observation. As long as she spent sufficient energy actually observing and not seething with resentment over perceived slights, as she seemed to do in class.

“I will gratefully comply with the Tutor’s suggestion,” she said stiffly. Her breathing was a little ragged, as the tension she had been under when she’d come in began to wear off a bit; and Chonis couldn’t tell — for once — if she was uncomfortable because her gratitude was genuine or uncomfortable because she felt compelled to use the submissive phrase. “Has the Tutor a suggestion as to an appropriate starting point?”

Indeed he had. “I took the liberty of scheduling some tapes into a reserved screen in the library.” Basic exercises, carefully selected to be as similar as possible to the situation she would face during her next practical exercise. “Hanbor will escort you there. And then I’ll be needing him for an hour or two, but he’ll be back to wait for you before your afternoon exercise period.” So she would be safely out of the way, as well as Koscuisko. “If you haven’t made other plans, of course.”

She stood up. “I am at the Tutor’s disposal. Thank you, Tutor Chonis.”

“And you, Student Noycannir. Dismissed.”

Secretary Verlaine might be right, that Noycannir’s lack of medical background could be surmounted.

About her attitude — the more serious obstacle, at present — he was rather less than optimistic.

###

The officer was in the capable hands of Station Pharmacy staff for the moment, and would remain their responsibility for the next few eights. It was the first time that Joslire had been on his own since Koscuisko had arrived — except for the class sessions, of course, and that hardly counted, since that time was usually taken up in review with the Tutor. All he had to do for the next while was listen to the same lecture he’d heard six times before; and then spend a few eighths being introduced to “Robert St. Clare,” providing him with some background on the officer’s habits of thought and tendencies in lines of questioning.

This was one of the worst parts of the entire Term for Joslire.

He knew where he was going, he’d been this way before. A long hallway well removed from the administrative areas where the Students lived and worked led to a featureless door among eight and sixteen others as innocuous, which led to a short corridor, which lead to an assembly room. There would be an exercise room, he remembered; a mess area, and a sleeping-bay beyond. Right now the assembly room — small as it was — was full; five Tutors at the foot of the room, ten prisoner-surrogates on the far side of the room. Day-new bond-involuntaries, just graduated from their long months of orientation, carefully selected for their superb physical health and their psychological resilience. There were only ten of them here, but there were only twenty Students on Station, and this was the briefing for the first-shift cycle. There would be another such briefing half a day from now to cover the other five Tutors, the other ten prisoner-surrogates, the other ten bond-involuntaries assigned.

Finding his place among his fellows, Joslire took comfort in the company of other Bonds, waiting for the briefing to begin.

“Stand to attention for Administrator Clellelan!”

It required no thought to shift from command-wait to salute in response by learned reflex. The Administrator returned the required courtesy with a quick gesture, coming briskly through the ranks of Staff Security to stand on the platform at the head of the room.

“Listen and attend. You all know why you are here.”

Joslire remembered when it had been him on the other side of the room, only five years ago. Listening to the Administrator, curious about the Tutors and the Staff Security, and too ignorant to be fearful . . . he didn’t like remembering. Which of these naive children would it be, to test his officer’s hand?

Which of these fresh zombies was Robert St. Clare?

“You have each received your individual briefings, and executed the required statements of expectation and compliance. For the sake of the Record, we will review these a final time now, before the exercise begins.”

Not children any more than he had been, not really. Young, so that they could absorb the shock to body and to spirit and still recover to be useful to the Fleet, but all of them adults by Jurisdiction Standard. It was only the contrast between what he’d known then and what he knew now that made him think of them as children. Blessed in their ignorance. Soon to receive instruction.

“You have been carefully selected to play a critical role in the training of senior staff officers for the Jurisdiction’s Fleet. The importance of your part in the training process cannot be overemphasized.”

They had to be reminded that Fleet was unforgiving. He would never have made it through on the strength of his own will; in the end it had only been his keen awareness that failure would bring suffering far in excess of what he had already endured that had carried him safely through until the exercise was over. He’d never liked knowing that about himself. But it was true.

“If you do not complete your assignment, you will have compromised the training of an extremely significant Fleet resource, a candidate for Ship’s Surgeon. There has been failure to complete the course in five out of the six regrettable cases in which one of you has proved unequal to your task. A continuing resupply of qualified Ship’s Surgeons is an absolutely vital Fleet requirement. We do not suffer the loss of any Student lightly.”

They were likely enough to lose their Students to despair and the ultimate escape of suicide. The Writ could not be laid aside before an officer’s eight years of service had expired, except as an act of treason.

“It is therefore critical that you keep the following requirements firmly in your mind. One. You are not to confess to your offense until midway through the Fifth Level.”

He’d been too confused to tell when the midpoint had been reached, since there’d been no chronometer he could see. He’d forced himself to hold out till the end, because that had been the only way he could be sure he was complying with instructions. And by the end of the Fifth Level, he’d suffered from a dangerous lack of focus, so that sorting out what he was encouraged and expected to confess from what he was forbidden in the strictest terms to even hint at had taken more of an effort than he’d ever dreamed possible.

“Two. Your officer must be given no hint or intimation of your status as a prisoner-surrogate. You can expect your officer to realize you’re hiding something . . . ”

Not if they were lucky. If they were lucky the officer would be only too happy with the information supplied, and would gladly ignore any but the most blatant hints of anything more. He had been lucky.

“ . . . but you are expressly warned, on pain of a Class Two violation, against revealing any more information than you have been instructed to provide.”

It was only that Koscuisko was too responsive by half to subtle clues and cues. Koscuisko had startled Joslire more than once with his odd insight; and things that Koscuisko said about jokes and playacting hinted unnervingly at some subconscious understanding on Koscuisko’s part that the “prisoners” he had seen in the Preliminary Levels were not prisoners at all. St. Clare would have a harder task to hide his truth than Joslire liked to imagine.

“The Security assisting the Student will ensure that the Intermediate Levels are respected.” As well as they could, when they were forbidden to intervene without direct orders from the Tutor. “Succeed in this mission, and you will have proved yourself a valuable Fleet resource in your own right.”

An educated resource. A more sophisticated resource. One with firsthand knowledge of how much a man could be hurt, confused, humiliated, humbled — all within the relatively benign restrictions of the Intermediate Levels, where no major soft tissue damage could be done, where none of the senses could be seriously compromised, where only half of the body’s major joints and long bones could be broken and severe burns had to be confined to a strictly limited proportion of the total surface area of the skin.

A resource that understood about fear.

“Fleet will show its gratitude and appreciation accordingly. You will receive automatic deferment from Line Fleet duty for an eight-year period of time, and four years will be stricken from your Bond. These are only tokens of the importance that we place on your successful completion of your mission.”

Would it be worth the price?

Could it be worth the price?

The same event that had stricken four years off his Bond had taken six years off his life. Or so he felt.

He could only hope that for St. Clare it would be different.

###

He’d been born Rabin with the Ice Traverse, but Robert St. Clare was what Fleet had decided to label him. Robert St. Clare was the name to which he had learned to answer, this year and a half gone past. He wouldn’t be Rabin again until the Day came.

He was Robert St. Clare, and he was as close to bored as he could remember ever being. It wasn’t that he was looking forward to the exercise; no, not at all. But he was looking forward to something different; and as early as tomorrow, first-shift, it would begin.