An Exchange of Hostages (32 page)

“The officer approximates the basic form,” Vanot noted approvingly. “Several hours of practice are recommended before progressing to more detailed control techniques. May I suggest additional training to be scheduled at the officer’s convenience?”

She meant for him to practice.

Oh.

On the Chigan, for example.

Well, of course, that was his excuse, wasn’t it? One had to have a victim upon whom to practice, if one wished to learn how to manage a whip.

The Chigan was his, all his; and just to think of what he had seen the snapper-end do to living flesh on tape —

Disgusted him.

Sickened him to his stomach.

Oh, no, it was not so. He could take no comfort in lying to himself — it was not disgust, it was not abhorrence, that moved within him . . .

“Thank you, Miss Vanot.” He caught the coils of the driver into his hand, and bowed to his teacher. A teacher, whether subordinate Security or not, was worthy of respect; and this one was un-Bonded and would not feel discomfort at the gesture — he hoped. “I hope to prove a credit to your instruction. Till next time, then.”

She returned his salute with grace and dignity. “At the officer’s will and good pleasure.”

He was down to it, then.

He had procrastinated; he had to begin.

“Loosen for me those shackles, gentlemen.” Vanot left the theater; he was alone with his prisoner, and these Security whose sole purpose was to help him commit atrocities upon the prisoner’s body. And heart, and mind, and will. “There is no profit in permitting him to strangle himself, and we have work to do.”

The trefold shackles had been loosened, but the prisoner was still bound, hand and foot.

Andrej moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue in nervous anticipation, hating the eagerness that grew within him by leaps and bounds, unable to disguise his eagerness to himself even so.

He swung the whip.

It made horrific impact against the flesh of the bound man’s back, splattering blood all around as it tore soft tissue and muscle alike.
Through to the bone,
Andrej thought with savage self-satisfaction, the sound of the strike — and the Chigan’s cries — cutting clear through all his cherished inhibitions, clear to the core of his being.

Yes.

Through to the bone.

It was not so hard to strike the Chigan, not when he made such sounds. Andrej struck again and reveled in the music that the whip and his prisoner made for him.

It didn’t matter so much after all that he was not closer to the Chigan, that he kept his distance, that he struck the prisoner with a whip and not his hand.

All that mattered was that the Chigan was his.

He could do anything he liked. Anything. Worse than anything. He could do everything he liked, and be commended for it.

He could smell blood and fear, and he was drunk with it, all his residual reservations swamped and drowned beneath the huge black tide of his obscene pleasure in what he was to do.

For now — he would practice with the driver.

There would be enough time for questions later.

If he laid the corded lash alone across the Chigan’s shoulders, it would hurt the man — but not unbearably, and by no means as intriguingly as when he buried the snapper-end in living flesh . . ..

The snapper-end, then.

Oh, it was fine.

###

Hours passed.

Andrej Koscuisko sat exhausted on the floor beside his prisoner, leaning up against the wall. Security had brought him fresh rhyti; he drank it with sated satisfaction and stroked the trembling body at his side lazily, unable to resist the temptation to pinch torn flesh between his fingers or put a little pressure on splintered bone.

“Let’s hear it, then. Since you’ve decided that you want to talk.” He had been fair to the man — in a manner of speaking. He had not hurt his prisoner to prevent him from talking, and thus ending his sport too soon. It had simply worked out well for him that the Chigan had not decided to confess until after long beguiling hours of torment. “Your name. State your name. And the crime for which you have been arrested.”

It was difficult for the prisoner to speak, hoarse with screaming. Andrej fed him some rhyti to help him along. The Chigan coughed and swallowed, unable to press his bitten lips together firmly enough to keep spittle and blood and rhyti from dribbling to the floor.

“Eamish. Lintoe. Your Excellency. Please.”

So far so good. If Andrej remembered the prisoner’s brief, the Chigan’s name was, in fact, Earnish Lintoe. Andrej gave him some more rhyti as a reward. “The crime for which you have been arrested. Yes? What?”

Lintoe closed his eyes in a sudden spasm of pain, but whether it was the memory of his arrest or the particularly painful disjoint of his elbow, Andrej wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter, not really. “Ah. They said, theft. Bench property. S-sir.”

It was supposed to be “your Excellency,” but Andrej was too well pleased with the world and himself for being a part of it to take offense. “What did you steal, then?”

“Please, no, a transport, they said a transport, it wasn’t me, I don’t know anything . . . about it . . . ”

Something about the proximity of Andrej’s hand to the gaping wound the snapper-end of the driver had torn in his shoulder seemed to make the man nervous. “You have stolen a transport?” Andrej prompted helpfully. “What manner of transport?”

“A . . . grain transport.” Andrej put his hand to the floor to settle himself against the wall, and the Chigan seemed to take it as encouragement of some sort. “It was a grain transport. From Combine stores.”

Andrej waited.

“Stolen in Mercatsar, they found it empty. Displacement camp. And we had food.”

Which was clearly not what the local authorities had expected to be the case in a displacement camp for Chigan relocation parties. It made sense to Andrej.

“What happened then?” He didn’t need to torment Lintoe. Lintoe was talking. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t had sufficient with which to indulge himself, these long hours gone past.

“Wanted to know why. Who.” Why they had food, and who had brought it. Certainly. They seemed like reasonable questions to ask, to Andrej.

“Tell me.”

Lintoe shook his head from side to side weakly in denial. “Don’t know. Can’t say. Didn’t have anything . . . to do with . . . ”

It was a little difficult to hear the Chigan where he lay beside Andrej on the floor. Andrej hooked one hand beneath Lintoe’s arm to raise the man’s body a bit, resting the Chigan’s face across his knee. Where he could look at Lintoe. Where he could admire Lintoe’s pain.

“Come, now. There must have been a reason they chose you. Why do you imagine that you are under arrest, if you didn’t have a hand in it?”

It seemed to take a moment for Lintoe to catch his breath after being moved. Andrej could wait. Lintoe would not disappoint him, he was sure.

“Well . . . it seems . . . they said . . . genetic marker.”

In the grain, perhaps. The Combine only sold certain classes of grain to Jurisdiction; the true grain, the holy grain, remained restricted to the Holy Mother’s use, for the nourishment of her children. And her children’s servants, of course: the Karshatkef, Flosayir, Sarvaw, Arakcheek, Dohan, even Kosai Dolgorukij, if one was being exclusionary about things — as Azanry Dolgorukij usually were.

“So they knew the grain you were in possession of had in fact come from a stolen transport. And your part in this was?”

No answer. It seemed clear to Andrej that his prisoner was worried about how things were going, even past his own pain. Worried about how convincingly he could plead his innocence. Displacement camps had been destroyed in retaliation for petty thievery before; or dispersed, which amounted to very much the same thing.

Andrej decided to try a modified scan. “Where is your family now?”

The Chigan groaned. “In custody. Your Excellency. Pending my trial, but . . . they are innocent . . . ”

The pain in the Chigan’s voice was no less persuasive for the fact that it was clearly emotional in nature. Andrej joggled Lintoe’s elbow, though, just a little bit, just to have an index of physical pain against which to measure this other sort. “That isn’t what I was told. I heard there was Free Government involved.” He wasn’t quite sure about the exact degree to which Lintoe’s physical pain matched the emotional pain involved with the issue of his family; perhaps a retest was in order. Hmm. Yes. Very much more closely matched, that time.

“They said it was fair salvage, Excellency — ”

“Who said?”

“There were. Two men. Infiltrated the camp. Brought it all on us . . . damn them . . . children have to eat . . . ”

Clear enough. And still though Lintoe could be said to have confessed there was a puzzle here. People had no business infiltrating displacement camps — unless it was to foment insurrection.

“You were going to tell me who it was that told you the grain transport was fair salvage.” Fair salvage meant up for grabs. But the Bench didn’t care; there were few allowances made for honest mistakes, under Jurisdiction.

“Family.” It was a sob of anguish from the bottom of the Chigan’s heart. “We sheltered them, but how could they have brought this on their own blood?”

Chigan familial relationships were nothing to Andrej. Still, if the man had been duped into breaking the law, he had suffered for the mistake he’d made in putting his trust in a Free Government agent. Family or no family.

“You aren’t telling me what I want to know,” he warned, taking the Chigan’s chin into his hand to raise the man’s head and make eye contact. He wanted to make sure the Chigan knew this was important. “Name for me the names. If they lied to you they must be punished.”

“But how could young Canaby do such a thing?”

From the tone of the Chigan’s voice he was beyond understanding just what he was saying. Or what it would mean to “young Canaby.”

“His own kin. To lie to us. Endanger the children. You’re no kin of mine, Alko. Alko isn’t even a Chigan name. I don’t care what he says about Free Government, Canaby. He’s up to no good. Are you sure it’s fair salvage? . . . ”

Enough was enough.

Andrej beckoned for Security to help him to his feet.

“The prisoner has confessed to the misappropriation of grain transport from Combine stores. He states that the crime was committed under persuasion that the stolen vessel was fair salvage.” So much was only fair, and he had been so unfair to Lintoe these hours gone past. “Further investigation may be focused on prisoner’s relative Canaby, with specific reference to a companion named Alko, described in terms that indicate potential Free Government involvement. The Administration may wish to consider the prisoner absolved of intent to commit the crime for which he has been arrested in light of this evidence, Confirmed at the Sixth Level. The Record is complete.”

And he was exhausted.

Joslire would come to take him to quarters.

He thought that he was going to want a drink.

Chapter Eleven

“Take a moment if needed. The officer has time. There’s no hurry,” Joslire soothed, holding Koscuisko by the shoulders from behind. The corridor was empty, naturally. Student Koscuisko pushed himself away from the wall with a species of irritation or desperation and stumbled on.

“Are we close yet, Joslire? Before all Saints I do not wish to disgrace myself — ”

“Quite close, as the officer please. Only three turnings.” Koscuisko had far from disgraced himself in his exercise; Koscuisko had outdone himself, rather. Joslire knew that Tutor Chonis had not expected any real information from the Chigan, let alone the by-name identification of the Free Government agent that the Bench suspected was involved. That wasn’t what worried Koscuisko now, though.

“This turning, as it please the officer. The door is . . . ”

Koscuisko was ahead of him, having recognized where he was now. More or less. It was hard to get one’s bearings. The corridors were deliberately designed to be as featureless and anonymous as possible. Koscuisko hurried on ahead, and luckily enough it was actually Koscuisko’s quarters and not the stores room next door. Straight through to the washroom.

For Student Koscuisko’s sake Joslire hoped he made it to the basin before he vomited, since that was what Koscuisko was doing now. It didn’t make much difference to Joslire; Koscuisko hadn’t eaten all day — too absorbed in the exercise to break for his mid-meal — so it wasn’t as though there would be much to clean up either way. Koscuisko would be humiliated if he’d missed, though.

Koscuisko would wish to be left alone in his suffering. Joslire ordered up the officer’s meal, and a good quantity of wodac as well. Starch-flats and curdles, sweethins — sweethins didn’t seem to go with wodac in Joslire’s mind, but Student Koscuisko had a sweet tooth. Koscuisko was going to be drinking. Joslire was still experimenting with things he could get Koscuisko to eat while he was drinking.

Koscuisko was in the wet-shower longer than perhaps he needed to be. The therapeutic effect of hot running water seemed to work some of its species-wide magic; Koscuisko looked moderately refreshed when he sat down to his third-meal. Joslire was glad, in some obscure sense.

Students were expected to suffer in reaction to what they did. As assigned Security, Joslire had always felt it only right and proper that Students suffer for what they did, in howsoever limited a fashion. Koscuisko was different. When Koscuisko suffered Joslire hurt.

“The officer is respectfully encouraged to try some of his meal prior to availing himself of his wodac.”

Naturally Joslire had suffered for Students’ pain before — Students who, when they were in pain, struck out. Koscuisko had yet to strike out at him. Koscuisko seemed genuinely intent on doing his best not to strike out at Joslire as a near and convenient target. That only made it worse.

“Thank you, Joslire, as you like. You have brought arpac-fowl, I see. Well done, I do like arpac-fowl.” Koscuisko’s voice threatened to wobble into hysteria and he shut up, reaching for a thigh portion with a trembling hand. Well, anything was better than meld-loaf, as far as Joslire was concerned. But Koscuisko’s dutiful address to his meal had nothing to do with any liking Koscuisko had for the food, and everything to do with Koscuisko’s habitual response to Joslire as a subordinate peer of some sort. Where Koscuisko came from, authority was absolute and focused in the person of the Autocrat; and Koscuisko was one — not the Autocrat, of course, but heir to a great House and master of all within. Well-socialized young autocrats were apparently expected to cherish a keen sense of the dignity of the people who washed their linen and provided their meals.

Koscuisko treated him as though he were a man — a full-grown and mature adult; in some ways Koscuisko’s equal, and his ungrudgingly acknowledged superior in others, even while he respected the distance that the Bench had set between them. A feeling creature like himself, with a sense of honor and a right to self-respect, who only incidentally happened to be a bond-involuntary.

And Joslire felt helpless against the effect Koscuisko’s respect had on him.

Bite by bite, portioning his food with careful precise gestures of the tableware in his trembling hands, Koscuisko forced himself to eat his third-meal dutifully. Joslire stood and watched and suffered for Koscuisko’s anguish.

Then Koscuisko let the tableware drop to the tray, and put his head between his hands and wept.

There was nothing Joslire could do, not and respect Koscuisko’s agony. He could offer no embrace. He could extend no comfort. They both knew it was only right and proper that a man suffer for having done such things to a helpless prisoner, or to any sentient being constrained and helpless.

Joslire cleared away the remnants of Koscuisko’s meal, too dispirited to finish off the untouched portion of the arpac-fowl for himself. He liked arpac-fowl, too.

But Koscuisko’s grief was terrible.

How could he pity Koscuisko for his grief, when he had seen Koscuisko work the Chigan?

Well, he had an appointment to see Tutor Chonis during first-shift, since Koscuisko was to be occupied in lab all day.

Maybe then he would find out the answer.

###

“Koscuisko’s settled into workspace, then, Curran?”

Joslire Curran stood at strict attention-wait in front of Tutor Chonis’s desk, reporting promptly for the meeting he’d requested. Tutor Chonis coded the secure for the office door.

“Yes, as it please the Tutor. With Sanli More assigned to see to Student Koscuisko’s needs as they arise. Thank you for seeing me, sir.”

It was in Chonis’s best interest to see Joslire Curran, since Curran had requested command-time. Offhand, Chonis couldn’t remember Curran ever doing that before. Not even with Student Pefisct. “The least I can do, and your natural right, Curran.” Of course bond-involuntaries didn’t really have any rights under Jurisdiction. That was one reason why the Administration — and Security generally, even in Fleet — tried to treat them carefully. To make up. “Stand down, Curran. Administrative orders in effect. What’s on your mind?”

Slowly Curran’s tense body relaxed into the much less formal Administrative command-wait. Taking a deep breath, Curran sighed. “Need to ask a question, sir. Respectfully hope the Tutor won’t be offended, feel compelled to emphasize importance of the truth. Sir.”

Even under administrative orders, Curran avoided the personal pronoun, though it was there by implication. Curran had tremendous discipline. The business with Student Pefisct had proved that clearly enough. But right now Curran looked visibly worn. “What’s the question?” Tutor Chonis prompted.

If he slid the top-tray out of his desk surface, he could see the Safe. It was the only Safe on Station, and if a Tutor wanted it he had to explain to the Administrator why. Tutor Chonis had told Administrator Clellelan that Joslire Curran was coming to see him, and that Chonis thought Curran might be in distress. Clellelan had loaned him the Safe. It was as significant a mark of the respect they had for Joslire Curran as they could make.

“Sir. After last Term. Some time in Infirmary, Tutor Chonis. Peculiar emotional response to Student Koscuisko, sir. And.”

The tension was all back, even if the stance was still informal. Curran chose his words with evident deliberation.

“And I. Need to know. Was my governor adjusted. Experiment on Student-Security bonding, or something. Sir.”

Oh, for the aching void of limitless Space.

Tutor Chonis rose to his feet, the Safe concealed in his closed fist. “Joslire Curran.” He didn’t quite know what to say. “No. There was no adjustment to your governor. No such experiment is conceived or contemplated.” As if the Administration wouldn’t give it a go, if there were governors sophisticated enough to do the trick available. “Sit down, Mister Curran, I’ve got something to say to you.”

It was an order; Curran was required to comply. The man was willing to listen. The governor, however, was confused, and that meant conflict. Tutor Chonis moved around behind Curran and slipped the Safe over his head, to dangle on its chain around Curran’s neck.

Curran stiffened.

Safes transmitted a carefully encrypted master signal to the artificial intelligence at the heart of the governor, setting up interference within the governor itself and lulling the thing into a state of suspended function for as long as the safe was sufficiently close to the governor in question. Curran had been on Safe once, and only once, before — all volunteers for the Intermediate Level prisoner-surrogate exercise were given the opportunity to make their final decision on Safe, so that their decision could be made independent of their conditioning. As far as that went.

Chonis put his hands to Curran’s shoulders to steady him. “You know how to run the call-ups, Curran. Check it out for yourself, if you need to. Clellelan said you were to have full shift on Safe. Because we are concerned about your welfare.”

This was Curran’s opportunity to tell Tutor Chonis exactly what he thought about the Administration and its concern for his welfare. The man was on Safe. The governor was in suspension. Still Curran kept shut, and Chonis grinned in pained recognition of Curran’s core self-discipline. “You can stay here and I can leave. You can go to gather room. You can go there alone or we can call up some people for you. Take a moment, Joslire. Then tell me what you want to do.”

Curran stood up from the table slowly, his back still to the Tutor. “I’m to be allowed the Safe for eight eights, sir?”

Full shift, yes. “That’s right.”

“Student Koscuisko has just gone to lab. Let me postpone it. Let me go on Safe at third-shift.”

Whatever for?

Did Curran want to say something to Koscuisko?

Did Curran want to do something to Koscuisko?

“Curran, I don’t know what you have in mind — ” Chonis started to say. Curran interrupted. Chonis was shocked into silence; then he remembered. Curran was on Safe. Yes.

“I swear by holy steel that I mean neither thought nor word nor deed to the discomfort of Student Andrej Koscuisko. But if I could have the Safe and third-shift. And never imagine I don’t appreciate that you’ve brought it for me now, Tutor Chonis.”

Joslire Curran was an Emandisan fighting man, and Emandisan knifemen recognized no rank nor respect except for their own sworn associations. By that token, and the tone of Curran’s voice, Tutor Chonis knew that Curran was utterly sincere about what he’d said. It was no small thing to have a grant of gratitude from an Emandisan.

“Well. If that’s what you want.” Curran had sworn by holy steel, and if there was anything more sacred to an Emandisan knifeman than his five-knives, nobody under Jurisdiction knew about it. The Administrator had granted eight hours; Chonis didn’t think Clellelan had said when. “I’ll take the Safe back for now. It’s up to you to decide when to call for it. No later than sleep-shift, though, it’s got to be returned before tomorrow.”

Which of course implied that sleep-shift was the latest that Curran could call for the Safe and still enjoy the eight full hours that Clellelan had granted. Tutor Chonis couldn’t imagine that Curran would want the Safe just to go to sleep a free man for once.

“Thank you, Tutor Chonis.”

Joslire Curran bent his head and lifted the Safe off and away, slowly, but with great deliberation. Determination. The man had control.

“If the Tutor please. Mean to avail self of this very significant privilege at third-shift. Wish to express deepest appreciation for the opportunity. Sir.”

Curran turned around as he spoke, but there was no reading the emotion on his face. Tutor Chonis held out his hand for the Safe, surprised and impressed that Curran had been able to bear taking it off himself.

“You’re clear to go to gather room regardless, Curran. Give yourself some time to think. I’ll see you at seven and fifty-six, second.” Just before third-shift, that was to say.

Curran had sworn by holy steel that he meant no harm to Andrej Koscuisko.

If he’d misjudged the man — if Joslire Curran turned on Student Koscuisko to assassinate him, for whatever obscure Emandisan reason he might have . . .

With any luck Curran would assassinate Tutor Chonis first.

Because otherwise he was never going to hear the end of it.

###

Joslire Curran waited outside the open door to Koscuisko’s lab space for the moment to arrive. He’d never dreamed of an opportunity like this; he’d never hoped so far as to pray for it. On Safe, and going to exercise drill with Student Koscuisko, after what he had learned about Student Koscuisko during the Term . . .

Time.

Tutor Chonis said the Administrator had given him eight eights on Safe, a full shift. It was an almost unimaginable privilege; freedom from his governor — for howsoever short a period of time. For a full shift he was to be permitted to think and act like a free man.

He would have to wait until the Day for another chance like this, because the token could only be passed between free men. The Administration didn’t know. Would they have denied him if they had?

“With respect, Student Koscuisko. The officer is scheduled to participate in exercise at this time.”

What he could say. What he could do. Was this how Koscuisko felt in theater, when the awareness of absolute license came upon him? He didn’t dare. Koscuisko could be permitted to suspect nothing.

Student Koscuisko came readily enough, tense and harried though he looked. “Lead on, Joslire,” Koscuisko suggested, with a visible effort to be cheerful. “And I shall follow. From in front, which is awkward, but you manage well enough. Shall we go?”

He didn’t need to wonder anymore if his governor had been adjusted in some hellish experiment to bond Security to their Students of assignment. He was on Safe. And he was determined to mark Student Koscuisko as Student Koscuisko had never been marked before, as Student Koscuisko could never be marked — save by an Emandisan. A free Emandisan knifeman. He could have grinned to himself in gleeful anticipation of what he meant to do; but someone might see.

“To the officer’s left at the second turning, if the officer please. There will be a lift nexus down sixteen.”