An Exchange of Hostages (24 page)

“Robert St. Clare, step through.”

Since all the Security assembled stood at attention for the duration of the hearing there was no turning to look at the man as they brought him in through the ranks and up onto the Command platform above the Captain’s Bar. Two Station Security escorted him, standing to either side as Robert turned to face the room. Medical had been at him, needless to say, dosing him with sufficient stimulants to ensure that he’d be able to walk and answer the Administrator’s questions just as well as if he understood them. Joslire eyed St. Clare skeptically while the Administrator waited for Security to bring him up to the proper mark. Drugs or no drugs, the man looked half-dead already. It hadn’t been two days . . . but the exercise had started three days ago, and that meant three days with an injured shoulder and a fresh whipping, and no medical support authorized. Robert was going to collapse as soon as the drugs wore off, so much was clear.

It was the Administrator’s turn to speak, his responsibility to complete the Record.

“Your name is Robert St. Clare?”

“Yes, your Excellency.”

It was a voice from the back end of beyond, as if Robert’s brain had to travel so far past his pain to find the words that half of their meaning had got lost again on the return trip.

“You stand before the Bench for disobeying lawful and received instruction; to wit, revealing your true status to the Student Interrogator during the critically important Intermediate Level exercise. Do you understand the charge?”

Robert staggered a bit, swaying where he stood. Station Security reached out to steady him.
No,
Joslire thought.
Not that arm. That’s the wrong arm.

“Yes. Your Excellency. I understand the charge.”

“The Administration has reviewed the Record.” It was always a little odd hearing Clellelan referring to himself as if he were the institution, rather than the man. But it was necessary. It helped reduce a sense of personal responsibility for what had to be done. “There is no question that Student Koscuisko knew your exact status prior to the end of the exercise. Nor is there any other possible source for this information. We must necessarily conclude that Koscuisko knew because you told him. If not explicitly, then implicitly in some way.”

It was wrong and it was unfair, but it was unavoidable, even if Koscuisko himself couldn’t accept that fact. If Koscuisko knew, then Robert must have told him. Somehow. There were no allowances in Fleet Administrative Procedure for guessing, or for having the bad luck to draw an unusually perceptive officer, one who would catch one word — one word, out of thousands — and build a damning case out of so small a thing.

“However.”

A nervous shock ran through the room, and Joslire felt himself stiffen against an involuntary twitch of surprise. However? Some consideration of degree? Some amelioration of the offense?

Some hope, where none could possibly hope?

“The Administration in review of the Record with the assistance of the assigned Tutor and neutral evaluators has been unable to determine the precise manner in which the information was transmitted. To the best of the Administration’s professional judgment, there was no explicit statement on your part that could be construed as release of unauthorized information, prior to a direct question from the Student Interrogator.”

The air was heavy with a sharp smell of confusion mixed with fear. There was no precedent for reading such allowances into the Record — not unless discipline was to be adjusted. And Class Two violations were never adjusted. Never.

“Since you cannot in all fairness be faulted for answering a question posed with a clear presupposition of the restricted information, it is difficult to justify the determination of the penalty. The Administration does not feel that an error was made on your part as a result of misunderstanding the question.”

Fear, because Clellelan seemed to be leading up to a commutation of penalty, and that was unheard of. Fear that what seemed to be happening would turn again at the last minute to almost-certain death by torture for Robert St. Clare — who, as Joslire noted, was having a harder time of it keeping to his feet with every moment that passed.

“You understand the severity of the offense, St. Clare, and you understand what you are accused of having done. Now think for a moment, and answer on your Bond. Did you at any time — release the restricted information to the Student Interrogator?”

Biting his lip in an evident effort to concentrate, Robert closed his eyes in a spasm of pain. That had been a mistake. Joslire could tell by the way his knees buckled beneath him. It was better not to close your eyes. It deprived you of a focus that helped to keep the dizziness and the disorientation at bay.

Station Security helped him back up to his feet — leaning decidedly to one side, Joslire noted — and Robert found his voice once more. “By my Bond, as I hope for the Day. I cannot remember what I might have said. Your Excellency.”

It had to be true, because his governor would not permit him to swear by his Bond otherwise. The governor could sense internal conflict, read the physiological signs of stress specific to prevarication or lying. And what the governor sensed it punished.

“It goes without saying that there was no intent on your part to compromise the exercise. But there are statements on Record that support an alternative secret to the one you were to release. We cannot set aside the fact of Student Koscuisko’s realization. Student Koscuisko himself has an interest in this matter as well.”

They couldn’t condemn St. Clare for ambiguity, not when the exercise had terminated in the middle of the Fifth Level, whether or not the Fourth-Level exercise had been prematurely called. That trick of Koscuisko’s with Robert’s shoulder had been as good as an augmented Fourth under any Protocol, the actual time it had taken aside. Most of the Security here had firsthand knowledge of how hard it was to concentrate with so much pain. The Administration had always been sensitive to that, overlooking sometimes major mistakes if only the Student Interrogator had not followed up on them. But this time, although the mistakes had been negligible, the Student Interrogator had pulled the horrible truth out of the concatenation of confused mis-starts, and Robert would necessarily suffer for it.

Koscuisko had gone to the Tutor to beg for remission of Robert’s punishment; and the Tutor had been smiling when he had released Koscuisko to Joslire’s keeping. Chonis wasn’t one of the Tutors who would think enforcing a Class Two violation was anything to smile about.

The implications — even as well prepared as Joslire was, much more so than any of the others — were almost too much for him to handle.

Discipline was absolute and inevitable.

The tension held them all braced to a knife-edged sharpness of attention.

“Student Koscuisko has in fact brought a separate complaint against you. He has stated his desire to discipline your lapse by his own hand. We will be unable to comply with Student Koscuisko’s lawful request if this Class Two decision goes forward.” Because Robert would probably be dead, for one thing. And perhaps it was an exaggeration to describe Koscuisko’s demand as a lawful request. But nobody was going to argue with Clellelan.

“Do you understand me, St. Clare?”

They were going to have to call a medical team at any moment. Robert had clearly reached the last few measures of his reserved and drug-enabled strength. “Yes, your Excellency . . . No.”

“Student Koscuisko has also proposed a speak serum for addition to the Controlled List. As a training station, we are empowered to offer a choice between the standard Class Two discipline and voluntary service for evaluation of drugs being considered for Fleet Interrogatory purposes. Are you with me?”

One of the Station Security reached out for Robert from behind him, and laid a firm hand on the injured shoulder, the swelling of which was visible even from where Joslire stood. It was a brutal trick, and Robert cried out against it, in a strangled protest against the pain. Joslire knew it had been well meant, all the same — even well done, because the sharp agony clearly helped him regain some degree of concentration. “Yes, your Excellency. The Controlled List. Student Koscuisko. Sir.”

“Answer me on your Bond, then. Do you elect to serve as the experimental subject for the evaluation of Koscuisko’s new speak-serum, in lieu of other Class Two discipline?”

Of all the things Joslire had imagined having gone between Koscuisko and Tutor Chonis, none of them had touched on such a potential escape. Koscuisko had gone to Chonis to bargain with him, Joslire had known that all along. But for the bargain to have been made, and in this format . . .

“Yes, your Excellency. Experimental duty, new drug for the Classified List. On my Bond, as I hope for the Day, I so elect. Sir.”

This was too far beyond the realm of possibility to be happening. It made no sense. Why did Clellelan think that it made a difference? The drugs on the Controlled List were every bit as brutal as discipline administered at the Seventh Level for a Class Two violation.

“You have elected to test Student Koscuisko’s new speak-serum, in order to provide additional resources for the Jurisdiction’s Controlled List. There is now the issue of Student Koscuisko’s Class Two claim.”

Except that the Administrator consistently specified Koscuisko’s new drug, and had read the complete description into the Record. Not just a new drug for the Controlled List. Student Koscuisko’s new speak-serum for the Controlled List. Speak-sera were not nerve factors, were not wake-keepers, were not pain-maintenance drugs. Speak-sera were only speak-sera, even though they were on the Controlled List. And many of them weren’t even fatal.

“Student Koscuisko has requested the adjudication of discipline at the aggrieved officer’s level. The Administration finds his request reasonable and responsible. The Class Two

violation cried against you by Student Koscuisko will therefore be struck from the Record, and Student Koscuisko will exercise the Judicial function at the Class One violation level.”

What could it mean?

“Your Excellency. By my Bond. It is just and judicious that he do so. As I hope for the Day.”

Robert hadn’t committed any Class Two violations. And even had he done Koscuisko would not have referred it to punishment, at least not in his current state of mind. But Tutor Chonis wouldn’t have made that up.

“Very well. Appropriate punishment for the Class Two violation failure to obey lawful and received instruction has been Adjudicated and accepted. Appropriate punishment for the Class One violation brought against you by Student Koscuisko will be administered by Student Koscuisko and the violation stricken from the Record. Under these circumstances your Fleet deferment is refused. The reduction of your Bond will be permitted to stand. It is prudent and proper by the Bench instruction, just and judicious in the eyes of the offending party. The Record is complete.”

It was official, then.

It was done.

The Administrator had declared the Record complete; no alteration would be permitted, now that the critical point was passed.

“You will be taken to Infirmary, there to receive appropriate medical care. The Controlled List trial will be scheduled later, depending upon your recovery. The Administration will decide the timing of other discipline after the Controlled List trial has been completed. You are remanded into custody. Dismissed.”

Robert St. Clare bowed in salute, a bow that betrayed him to his dizziness. He seemed to lose his balance and consciousness at one and the same time, crumpling slowly to fall forward across the Captain’s Bar. Tutor Chonis stepped up smartly, coming to attention in front of the table where Clellelan had the Record.

“This session of Administrator’s Disciplinary Hearing is concluded.”

Clellelan rose and left the room, and there was silence for as long as it took him to step down from the Command platform and clear the doorway at the back of Tutor’s Mess.

Then discipline dissolved into a chaotic mass of murmurs and moving feet, the immense unparalleled wonder of it all too much for any of them. Tutor Chonis raised his voice so that he could make himself heard over the noise, signaling with his hand for the litter to be brought forward. Joslire hadn’t seen the medical team before. Clellelan must have brought them, and left them to wait outside until it was all over.

“Sorlie Curran, take the prisoner to Infirmary. Joslire Curran, stand by. I want a word with you.”

Robert would test a new speak-serum, and he would not die of it — Koscuisko would see to that. That was what Koscuisko had been working on, that was what Koscuisko had offered to Tutor Chonis in exchange for Robert’s life. And Tutor Chonis would force Koscuisko to administer a beating, just to be sure that Koscuisko didn’t get any ideas into his head about getting his own way. St. Clare would not die of that either, and Koscuisko had done this impossible thing. Koscuisko who could read bodies with his hands and stop the grim wheel of Jurisdiction Fleet discipline and force it back on its unforgiving track. Koscuisko had done this. Robert was not to be tortured and killed.

Koscuisko was a sorcerer, and Joslire was afraid of him now, afraid as he had never been of any man on either end of a whip.

“As for the rest of you,” Chonis declared, stepping out of the way of the litter bearing the unconscious body of the salvaged man. “You will return to your duty stations not later than two eighths from now. That will be all. Joslire Curran.”

He needed two eighths, four eighths, six eighths to recover himself. He had to look after this Student, this sorcerer. How could he hope to conduct himself correctly in the presence of such a man?

Refuge could be taken in the forms of courtesy and discipline, regardless of the turmoil in his mind. “The Tutor requires, sir?”

Now more than ever the Tutor would need him, to report on Koscuisko’s mood and attitude.

Now more than ever he had to protect himself.

###

She’d planned on keeping an eye on the theater in order to be able to update Chonis if he called. She found instead that she was interested. The screen gave her a close-up on the body: she could see the gray spidery needles walking over the seminude body of the unconscious man, carrying the micro-lasers to the sites beneath the skin where the fault lay. Where the damage had been done. She’d done some microsurgery herself, although most of what they treated here was gross tissue damage; and she was fascinated by the speed, the skill, the confidence that Koscuisko — even enclosed in the operating chair — expressed with every motion of those thin gray wire-like probes. He never hesitated at the dermis level; he never seemed to reposition a probe; he never seemed to probe too deeply by accident, and have to come back out and try again. He knew the angles of approach he wanted, and he hit each and every one of them flawlessly, without a single misstep.