Prisoner of Conscience (15 page)

Andrej stepped up on the stool once more to look in; and Thamis crouched down to shine a torch up from below obligingly. The lockbox seemed impossibly shallow to Andrej, too shallow for a man to so much as put his arm out to the opposite wall without being forced to bend it at the elbow. Square. He had just seen how difficult it was for Lerriback to get out; it would be as difficult to get in, and once one had stood up there would surely be no way in which a man could hope to lie down and rest himself.

To be faced to the wall for hours on end was a petty torment, common enough because it was not sanctioned under Protocols and therefore not forbidden as an ad-hoc exercise in bullying. It was difficult to condone such insidious torment.

But at the same time it could not be condemned out of hand; there were no rules against it. He, himself, had used the trefold shackles — officially recognized only as restraint, and not as punishment — to wear down the resistance and erode the spirit of a stubborn prisoner; and that was not much different.

Gesturing for Code to come to him, Andrej leaned one hand against Code’s shoulder to steady himself as he got down off the stool again. He knew why he was trembling, within himself. Joslire had loved him despite it all; and Joslire was dead.

“You, what is your name?” Andrej asked. “Lerriback?”

The Nurail had been trying to make himself as small as possible. He reached out, clutching blindly for Andrej’s ankle as Andrej spoke to him. There was no threat; he clearly only wanted to show his submission.

But Andrej had already made work for Toska by letting his boots get water-spotted. He was not inclined to suffer smudging hands, and moved away from the Nurail, who stared at Andrej’s feet as he stepped back with an expression in which desperate hope was replaced by helpless fear.

Andrej could follow the progress of the emotions in Lerriback’s face. That he was not allowed to show abject self-abasement could only mean that there would be more punishment. Lerriback gathered himself up into a fetal curl of misery and wept, covering his face with shaking fingers.

“Lerriback, I have spoken to you,”
Andrej warned. He shouldn’t be doing this. He knew it. The anguished fear the Nurail had of the lockbox ate away at the better part of Andrej’s nature and exposed the beastly passion that lay at the foundation of his being. His interest had already been aroused by the idea of such close confinement. And now arousal began to touch his appetite as well.

“Sir. Beg pardon. Yes, sir, as you please, sir.”

It was shameful to see a grown man so reduced. More shameful still to enjoy the sight of it. “You do not like your lockbox, Lerriback?”

“No, sir — or — yes — ”

It was a cruel question, taunting and unfair. If Lerriback was afraid of the lockbox, he would not want to go back. He would not want to do anything that would get him sent back. He would not want to be disagreeable. He would not be able to guess whether he was supposed to tell the truth; or pretend that he had enjoyed his own punishment, so as to avoid an implicit criticism of those who had punished him by characterizing the punishment as disagreeable.

What would it be like, if he said that Lerriback was to be shut up again?

Lerriback raised his eyes to Andrej’s face; but could not seem to quite make eye contact, glancing away to one side in repeated twitches as though it was painful for him to look at his tormentor. And he’d never even seen Andrej before. Andrej was impressed; Lerriback was very much afraid of the lockbox.

His knowledge only made Andrej desire the test more passionately; and he knew that he was wrong. Wrong to desire that Lerriback be afraid. Wrong to anticipate the pleasure he would have in it.

“Mister Thamis. I cannot deny the obvious effectiveness of this for discipline.”

He had to raise his voice, and speak out against what was in his own mind. Or he would shame himself in front of all these people; when usually it was only a prisoner, and his Security, who were witness to his moral degradation. And prisoners were almost always as good as dead.

“And still, though I am not the one who should say this, we should not rely upon such methods for good discipline. This Lerriback, is he under Charges?”

“Prisoner awaiting disposition, your Excellency.” Thamis betrayed no sign of confusion in his voice. Polite. Never hint to an officer that you think his behavior may be contradictory. “Disciplined for disruption in work-crew. Attempted assault on crew supervision. A chronic offender.”

“The Domitt is a new installation, we should guard against the appearance of irregularity. Prisoners should be punished after evaluation of offense, and according to the Protocols.” Thus-and-such a range of punishments for thus-and-such a range of offenses. The Levels for investigation of the offense, and the restrictions.

If the suspected offense is misappropriation of Judicial stores to a value not in excess of two million Standard and confession cannot be obtained at the Sixth Level you must find that no cause can be proven and release your prisoner . . .

“It would be prudent if we were to restrict ourselves to the Standard range of adjudicated punishments. Forgive for me this Lerriback the balance of his offense, Mister Thamis. If he offends again he must be punished under Protocol.”

“He has been a very persistent offender,”
Thamis warned. “With his Excellency’s permission. If his Excellency is certain that it is the right thing to do.”

No, he wanted to stay away from “right,”
he didn’t want to begin his association with the Domitt Prison by implying criticism of its Administration. Captain Vopalar’s reaction to his release of that one prisoner was too fresh in his mind, even at some weeks’ remove.

The thought distracted him.

Joslire had been with him when they had discovered that savaged Nurail prisoner. Joslire had handed him the key when they had found the escaped prisoner. Joslire had trusted him. Joslire was dead: Nurail had murdered him.

Did Andrej really care whether some Nurail suffered in excess of what was decent or deserved, when a Nurail had taken Joslire away from him?

“Only that it would present a better appearance to be seen to observe the letter of the Law, Mister Thamis. And it might cause embarrassment for honest prison Security if there should be tales told in some manner.”

Maybe Thamis thought Andrej only wanted to have six-and-sixty from Lerriback sometime. It didn’t matter what Thamis thought. And he’d have as many six-and-sixties as he wanted, starting soon.

“We yield to your professional judgment, your Excellency. Styper. Take Lerriback back to the cells. Oh, he can have a day off work-detail, just because, in honor of the officer. And full rations besides.”

Whether Thamis was merely indulging him didn’t matter either. Lerriback would be excused the balance of the torment he was to have suffered; and he — Andrej told himself, firmly — had better get on with his orientation. There was doubtless a great deal more of the prison to cover. “Mister Thamis, I deeply appreciate your flexibility in this matter. Administrator Belan. Shall we continue our tour?”

“Infirmary next, your Excellency.” Belan sounded as though he were just as glad to be away from here. He’d made Belan uncomfortable, then. That was too bad. Belan could have no idea what Andrej’s Security went through.

What he would begin to put them through, and all too soon.

All too soon? Or not quite soon enough?

Code was waiting. Code’s presence steadied him.

Andrej nodded, and followed Belan out of the punishment block, to complete his tour of the Domitt Prison.

###

“We’ve never been in a situation quite like this, Ailynn,”
Caleigh said. “We don’t know exactly what to expect from it. But there are some things we may be able to predict.”

Unpacking completed. Facility secured; the penthouse, servant’s quarters, gardens. Supplies delivered twice daily or as needed via the same route they’d come up on. No need to worry about unexpected visitors; there appeared to be only the two ways up onto the roof, not counting the fire-stairs.

The Service bond-involuntary Ailynn sat calmly waiting opposite Caleigh at the common table in the dining room. She seemed a sensible woman; one of the auburn-headed run of Nurail, deep red-brown hair, blue eyes with the matte-grey sheen of stalloy to them just at present. Like any sensible bond-involuntary she had the self-discipline to speak when she was spoken to, but not otherwise.

Koscuisko’s people got spoiled.

Would it recoil on them, when Koscuisko was gone?

“Now. We’ve been assigned to the officer for more than three years gone past. We think we know a little bit about him. Such as, he’s a good doctor.” It was a little hard to approach the issue that was on her mind; but it needed to be done. With Joslire dead, their need for allies to help deal with Koscuisko was even more pressing than it would have been otherwise. She had to level with Ailynn. No matter how reluctant she might be to say things that could be sensationalized to the detriment of Koscuisko’s dignity.

“He’s also a very effective Inquisitor. Something to do with empathy. Hands-on practitioner. He can’t do the work unless he does it personally. When he tries to get by with just using drugs he can’t get into it and follow through.”

This was the most delicate part, and Caleigh chose her words as carefully as possible. “Although the officer is under normal circumstances a compassionate man, he suffers an alteration of behavior when he’s asked to implement the Protocols. He doesn’t like to hurt people until he starts hurting them. But once he starts hurting them he enjoys it a great deal, can you understand what I’m saying?”

Now Ailynn bestirred herself, having been asked the question direct. “I’d guess your point is that he’s to be savage, Miss Samons.”

A little sharp for a bond-involuntary, but Caleigh had been speaking as frankly as she knew how, and had asked for a response in as blunt language.

“Well, yes. More or less. He tries not to take it out on us, though. Tries. It’s very hard on him, sometimes, he’ll be so involved with what he has been doing. And then has to interrupt for a night’s sleep.”

Involved was not the right word. Or it was, but not applied in quite that sense. Impassioned. Absorbed. All right, aroused, and if the source of his arousal was not directly sexual in nature, its expression quite naturally was.

“What is it to do with me, Miss Samons?”

Caleigh sighed. Oh, what, indeed. What it came down to was that this could be hard on Ailynn, because Koscuisko at loose ends — with days spent at Inquiry behind him and days yet to come — was going to be very much in his own world. It wasn’t the world in which Koscuisko usually lived, which was full of other people that Koscuisko cared for. It was much more exclusive than that, and comprised almost solely of Koscuisko himself and prisoners who existed to give him pleasure. And incidentally information.

Caleigh took a deep breath. “We don’t know how he’s going to react to being here, Ailynn. But I want you to be ready for whatever. I mean muscle relaxants. Lubricants. He might not stop to think, not with his head full of his day’s work.”

What it came down to was rape, even if that was not the word the prison administration would use to describe it. Ailynn was here for Koscuisko’s use, and whatever use he made of her would be considered lawful and unremarkable.

Whether Koscuisko would take advantage of her presence was something they wouldn’t know until it happened, but if it happened it was likely to be sudden, quick, and brutal. Not because he meant to be cruel to her. Simply because all that was in Koscuisko’s world at such times were people who existed for his gratification.

“It wouldn’t be the first time. Even the third, or fifth.” Caleigh thought Ailynn’s response pertained more to what she’d thought than to what she’d actually said. “But I’ll be guided by what you can tell me, Miss Samons. I’ll do what I can to preserve the Bench resource.”

Did she mean Koscuisko?

Or that she had no more value for her own body than to avoid damage, if she could, because she was to “preserve the Bench resource”?

“And if he frightens you. Or if you’re hurt. Don’t keep it to yourself. We’re all in this together. All of us. You can help us. We’d like to be able to help you. I am asking for your trust, Ailynn. It’s your decision whether or not to extend it.”

She couldn’t put too much emphasis on that word, “asking.” Too much weight and it would come out a demand, and a bond-involuntary was required to submit to a demand. That wasn’t what she wanted. Not at all.

Ailynn simply nodded, and stood up, apparently comfortable enough that the interview was over. Or willing to trust that she would not be reprimanded if she was mistaken.

Was that an answer?

“Thank you, Miss Samons. It’s kind of you.”

The woman was not giving anything away. On the other hand, to have survived she had to have learned to protect herself. Caleigh rose to her feet in turn.

“Let’s check on the others, then. The officer should be back from his inspection shortly. You haven’t met Code yet.”

Time would tell.

She’d done what she could.

When she had been to bed with Koscuisko, he’d been careful. He’d engaged her with a female-superior position, minimizing the impact of the strength in his body. And still she’d known that she’d been to bed with a Dolgorukij, even after hours of sleep and a glass of caraminson wine to speed the recovery.

She didn’t like to think of how it would feel for a woman if the officer was distracted, absorbed in the urgency of his need, not paying attention. If Koscuisko injured the woman, it would only add to his burden of cares.

They all had cares enough already.

Ailynn stood aside for her to pass, yielding precedence to rank.

Having her here could make things much easier on the officer.

But if Koscuisko hurt her, it would be worse.

Chapter Seven

His third day at the Domitt Prison, the first day of his first Inquiry here. Andrej Koscuisko had set his documentation in order yesterday; and had made his choice.

He knew what was about to happen. He would have some soul into work-room. He would hurt some soul who was to be helpless against him. He would gain evidence and put a confession on Record, for the use of the Second Judge at Chilleau Judiciary; and he would enjoy it.

“Cell Twelve, gentlemen.” Standing at the entrance to the restricted block, Andrej made his announcement in a clear voice. Cell Twelve would know that he was to go to torture. But the other prisoners would know that their doom was to be delayed, at least for a day. “Through to work area, if you please.”

Cell Twelve hadn’t been here as long as some of the others, might be a little more resilient than people who’d been shut up in the dark for too long. Well, not in the dark, but in holding cell, where the food and the exercise both made available were not calculated to sustain good health.

The prisoner didn’t struggle much against Code and Toska — what would be the point? — but suffered himself to be bound and taken out from his cell, staring at Andrej white-faced with a sort of keen hunger. Curiosity. Dread, mixed with challenge. The experience of the prison had not worn him down yet. There was to be some friction there. That would make it easier, in a sense.

They took the prisoner through to the work area. Andrej stayed behind in company of two of Geltoi’s turnkeys, standing in the holding block, looking around. Some of the prisoners would meet his eyes. Some of them would not come to the front of the cells, not even when bidden; why should they?

There was no question about who he was, or why they were there. He would be getting to each one in time. They would give satisfaction, and then they would die, and the sooner he got a good start on Cell Twelve, the sooner his people would come for the next he would select.

The door to the work-room that his gentlemen had prepared for him was standing open, Toska and Code waiting on either side of the open doorway. The prisoner, within, waiting for him. Andrej paused on the threshold to assess the situation.

His chair and his lamp, on a bit of carpeting with the table convenient to his hand.

A rhyti-service waiting for him, a thin wisp of steam curling off the surface of the cup that had been poured out to be ready. Sintermayer leaf, by the smell of it, a good enough grade of rhyti, if not top quality. Not that the prison administration could be expected to know. For most rhyti drinkers, a brew from sintermayer would be more than satisfactory.

The prisoner, half-stripped and faced to the wall, his wrists bound behind his head with a stalloy bar threaded between neck and elbow to keep his arms well back and prevent his folding them around his face to protect it from the blows that would come.

Starting his prisoners only half-stripped was conservative, though it meant calling Security in later on to finish the job. Sometimes he found other hands that were willing to do the work —

Unbidden in his mind’s eye, the image rose up white and red in all of its pitiful horror, the shock of total nakedness, and the brutal surprise of an assault . . .

He shook himself clear of it, bidding his beast to heel. “Quite in order, gentlemen.” Code and Toska bowed from their posts, their faces clear of any trace of what they might be feeling. His praise was carefully couched in neutral terms, and intended to address their professionalism pure and simple. This was the job to which the Bench had condemned them for crimes against the Judicial order. It was not necessary to require them to pretend that they enjoyed it.

Stepping through into the room, Andrej closed the door. It seemed his prisoner winced or recoiled as the latching mechanism engaged; but there wasn’t much the prisoner could do about it.

Crossing the room to sit down in his chair, Andrej took up the controller. The tether that leashed the prisoner began to move, tracking up and across the ceiling, dragging the prisoner with it into the middle of the room. The length of the leash from anchor-point to the prisoner was a little short once in that position.

The prisoner arched his body as if in pain and rose up on the balls of his feet, trying to relieve the pressure on his throat from the leash, turning about slowly to face Andrej where he sat. Andrej adjusted the controller to let some slack into the tether. There was no sense in rushing things.

He drank a cup of rhyti, thinking about how hard it had been for him — once upon a time — to start an Interrogation. A long time ago; three years, nearly four years, at Fleet Orientation Station Medical.

The prisoner was watching him, his whole body stiff with apprehension. There was a part of Andrej’s spirit that shared that apprehension; he knew what was going to happen to him — had already begun to happen — and what it would mean for both of them.

Andrej let some more slack out at the tether, and the prisoner lost his balance, falling down heavily to his knees. Yes, precisely. Andrej took up a length of chain and fastened it around the prisoner’s knees, hooking it to the anchor in the floor. He didn’t want to have to deal with watching out for stray kicks. The prisoner had been decently hobbled, right enough, but a man could not be faulted for striking out on an instinct when he was being tortured. It was best to deal with such potential problems up front.

“My name is Andrej Koscuisko.” Finally he spoke to his prisoner, who stared tight-lipped and resolute at him. White in the face. “I hold the Writ to which you must answer, by the Bench instruction. And the information I must have from you requires that you betray your friends, and cause, and family.”

His blunt speech startled the prisoner, a little. Andrej spoke on. “You know you are accused at the Intermediate Levels, and this means that you may win your liberty by resisting all temptation to betray your secrets to me, because the Bench will not accept use of speak-sera under these conditions.”

Not to coerce confession, no, and it was not quite honest of him to make such an assertion when he was clear to use another drug — by accident, of course — which would betray the prisoner to himself, without Bench invalidation of the evidence. Without reproach or reprimand, even though the Bench would surely know that he had cheated, and condemned the man out of his own mouth by means of a dirty and underhanded trick.

Bright pain and glittering blood were clean and wholesome, when compared to such despicable ruses —

“Here we are about to begin, and I can almost promise you that you will submit to me in time. It is nothing to do with you, and everything to do with pain. If you are willing to confess to me right here, right now, I have it in my authority to accept your confession and verify it with a truth-teller, and the Bench will grant you simple execution in consideration of your cooperation.”

Was he making sense? He was speaking to a prisoner, a Nurail taken captive and locked up in prison waiting for torture. How could he know whether the prisoner understood what he was saying? “Speak now, and die a swift and easy death. Or defy me and be tortured till you speak, because you will not die until you speak, if I can help it.”

There, that was much better. That made sense. Andrej could see it in the prisoner’s face.

“I’ll not.”

The prisoner’s voice was strained and hoarse, but determined. “It may be as you say, torturer. But not if I can help it. And I hope to God and free space to defeat your purpose, you and your Bench with you.”

It was well said, and honestly. No vainglorious boast of endurance or resistance. The prisoner would know better than to think that endurance and resistance had anything to do with Protocols. If he could, Andrej would deal honestly with his prisoner, and give him a fair chance to go to death without betraying his secrets. There was little indeed that could be called honest or fair about torture. But he would do his best.

Not even in the black depths of his passion was he so depraved as to cheat on the Protocols.

He’d never needed to.

The Protocols themselves provided everything a man could ever want, and more —

Andrej put his two hands to either side of the prisoner’s face, for emphasis. “I know a great deal more about this than you do.” It was fair warning. “Please be sure of what you choose.”

No answer.

No sense wasting energy repeating oneself, Andrej supposed. A prudent choice. He went to the instruments-rack against the wall, and chose a whip. He would need one that he could control in his right hand, his left hand was still healing. The prisoner had made his choice. Somebody had to suffer for the fact that Joslire was gone; and though it couldn’t be said to be the prisoner’s fault, this prisoner was all he had right here, right now.

He unloosed the bar that clipped the prisoner’s arms behind his neck and drew the chain up to stretch the man’s wrists overhead. Stepped back a pace, and struck from behind, watching the welt start to ooze blood as he gathered the whip back into his hand. The prisoner cried out, when he was struck, but as much startled as hurt; it was all right. There would be time. It would develop.

Again.

He was just warming up.

The prisoner flinched away from the blows; but there was nowhere to flinch to, he was alone in the middle of the room, pinned knee and wrist to floor and ceiling. Nowhere to go. No way out. No escape, except confession.

It did feel better to be hitting someone.

Or at least it felt good, and any good was better than the icy agony in Andrej’s heart where his friend Joslire had been.

###

The officer was late to supper, as he had been these two days past since he had started processing his prisoners. That was what the housekeeper said, processing, as though that could cover the fact that people were being put to torture. But they were only Nurail to the housekeeper: not really people.

The officer did not try to pretend differently.

He sat slumped on the edge of the bed unfastening his under-blouse while Erish Muat pulled his boots off one by one to take them away. A freshly polished pair of boots was already waiting for the officer’s use in the morning; there were three pairs, they rotated. And carried the Emandisan knives from pair to pair as need should be, because the officer would not be parted from his knives except in bed.

Erish went out with the boots, and the officer sat in the dim warmth of his bedroom with his clothing half-undone, silent. Ailynn stood at the open door to his washroom and waited. There was clean linen laid out, and warmed toweling, but she dared not speak to urge him to his bathing. She was afraid of him. She couldn’t help it.

His people were afraid of him, and trusted him at the same time; she didn’t understand it. She didn’t need to understand to know that she was frightened of him, coming up from torture-room with the blood of his work staining his uniform and a serene expression on his face that made her shudder to look at it.

After a moment the officer ran his fingers through his fine blond hair, and stood up wearily. He had been working all day. It was physical labor. She was sure he would accept a massage; but was it permitted to her to suggest one?

Or had she not better just keep her mouth shut and mind her own business? Physical labor; yes; but it still meant torture. Perhaps it was more appropriate if his body ached from it.

“I am not sure that it is good for you to be here, Ailynn,”
he said. “Would it not be better for you to sleep in your own place?”

She didn’t have a place. They hadn’t provided one. She had a pallet behind the screen to go to when the officer was done with her, if he declined to suffer a whore to sleep with him in his bed. Koscuisko had not scorned her from his bed. But he had made no use of her, either.

“According to his Excellency’s good pleasure.” As in all things. “Would the officer prefer one of the men to help him wash?”

Raising his head slowly, he looked back over his shoulder at her, eyebrows raised. “I am not sure that I myself express well, Ailynn. I mean that I begin to fear for you. I am so much beguiled, by this work, and it may be that I forget myself. Should you not go?”

Well, one thing was certain, she could agree. He didn’t express himself well, at least not so she could understand him. She could hardly guess at his meaning.

But there was nowhere for her to go.

“I have been procured for your comfort, sir. The rate schedule puts no limitation on what form of recreation the patron may wish to elect.” He knew that, surely. “You are the officer. I am under Bond. If I am unacceptable, more suitable entertainment can be provided, as the officer please.”

Koscuisko put his hand to the back of his neck, arching his spine as though a pulled muscle troubled him. “No, it is not that. And I do not wish it. There would be fault found, and then a beating.”

He moved as he spoke, so that he stood beside her when he asked, leaning against the doorjamb. Very close. Facing into the washroom. Looking at her. She didn’t know quite how to respond; and he continued.

“It is only this, Ailynn, I am a man like any other, which means that my fish desires thy ocean.” Whatever that was supposed to mean. “It is in my work force and violence, all through the day. And I do not want to hurt you, should I forget how to respect the privilege of your body.”

It was hard for her to tell the threads in his weave, but Ailynn thought she began to grasp his pattern. “His Excellency should not concern himself. I have no feeling, sir.” Nor was it “fish” which had damaged her, and left her so badly scarred that they could send her to any given rapist without concern that she would lose her economic value at his hands.

Koscuisko stared, and she couldn’t read his face, his eyes too pale in the uncertain light for her to even know for certain if he was looking at her. “Oh, is it so indeed, Ailynn?” She couldn’t interpret his tone of voice, whether sorrowful or relieved. “And still the thing is that if you were not here neither of us would have cause for concern. Surely you could share with Kaydence or with Code, Erish is a little stiff yet, or there’s the divan in the front room. Out there.”