An Exchange of Hostages (26 page)

Andrej wondered what St. Clare was going to think of all this.

There was a good deal to be done. The shoulder sprain, complicated as it had been by neglect and abuse and left untreated for so long, was just short of sustaining a permanent injury. It wouldn’t have mattered to Fleet, since crozer-lances were not Standard issue. But St. Clare wouldn’t have appreciated the chronic pain. Then there was a significant dehydration issue to be addressed, and it seemed that St. Clare had been fasting; but whether that had been because of lack of appetite — or because Fleet didn’t waste rations on dead men — Andrej neither knew nor cared to speculate.

Fluid and nourishment provided in solution, the shoulder numbed, the swelling seen to, there were still the bruises and the blood all down St. Clare’s back, all down his sides, his arms, his legs, the welts across his face. Tutor Chonis would require him to scourge St. Clare all over again, and he
had
promised. He was going to have to study how it could be done, to do the least amount of damage — hopefully without anybody catching on.

By the time that Andrej was ready for the orderlies to help him turn St. Clare over onto his newly bandaged back, the man was thinking about regaining consciousness, from all indications. It was true that St. Clare was in absolutely superb physical condition, recent events aside. And also true, as Andrej had some personal reason for knowing, that the right ointment applied with a careful enough touch could really make a difference when a man was hurting from head to foot. Andrej kept an eye on St. Clare’s face, watching for the movement of the eyes behind closed lids. He didn’t want to use any more soporific than he had to; it could interfere with the action of the painkiller he was using. He didn’t quite catch it in time even so. Cleaning fragments of rope fiber away from the torn flesh at his patient’s throat, he was distracted, and when St. Clare spoke to him he started in surprise.

“What are . . . Why did . . . ”

Andrej snapped his fingers for the dose he’d had the technician hold in reserve, and she pressed it through with commendable efficiency. “Shut up,” he advised St. Clare, watching the muscles of his patient’s face fall slack as St. Clare sank into deep unconsciousness once more. “Go to sleep. We’ll talk about it later.” He was certainly not going to address any of those issues now, with all this work on his hands. And he wasn’t sure he had the first idea of what he was going to say when the time came.

“Is there a bed reserved?” he asked the senior orderly. They were almost done, except of course that rehydration and nourishment did have to continue, and there should be someone to see to pain reduction medication should St. Clare wake again during the night.

“Full supportive, if it please the officer.” Andrej let his hand rest against the least bruised skin that he could find on St. Clare’s naked chest, considering his progress on the tracks the rope had left. He’d known when he had started with the rope that it was liable to shed a myriad of irritating fragments of stiff fiber, wearing away at St. Clare’s throat like spun glass ground into a wound. At the time it had struck him as an interesting concept, one that would contribute to a certain degree of erosion in the prisoner’s self-control. Now he wanted to know what kind of a pervert had ideas like that, when they involved making such a mess out of a perfectly good physical machine, the body of the prisoner.

Clearly there was a conflict of some sort, here.

As if he hadn’t known.

“All right, then.” Beckoning to Joslire for his rhyti, Andrej wondered suddenly what time it had gotten to be, and how late he’d kept his poor Joslire up again. “There’s stasis on the bed, of course? Well, one must be sure, no offense was meant. You may remove the patient to his bed. I have logged four units of amart to be delivered every two hours, and seven of storliva to be administered if his temperature should chance to rise. If there are any other developments, I should like to be notified, immediately. I trust there will be no problem with that?”

Not that he expected any unforeseen developments, because St. Clare really was rather a splendid young animal, and there was nothing wrong with him that rest and food and drink and painease could not mend. It was a good thing for them both that he was so new at his craft, Andrej decided. St. Clare would carry no scars. Joslire wore too many, even if most of the evidence had been cosmetically concealed — to render him more aesthetically pleasing in the eyes of his Students? To remove the checking influence it might be said to have if one should chance to notice that the man one was preparing to strike was already scarred, to face brutally vivid evidence of past punishment as one worked oneself up to deliver punishment? The Administration did not want young Students to think twice about beating people. The Administration did not want them to think about it at all.

And there was another problem.

Andrej knew how hard he’d struck St. Clare, and how much pain it had created, quite apart from the nasty trick he’d played with the crozer-hinge.

How much more pain had Joslire suffered, to have given him such scars? And — had it been some other physician there might have been no grant of medication, not even for worse welts —

Two-and-twenty could be decided and delivered without Charges brought, without hope for appeal or moderating influence. Two-and-twenty was Standard issue for bond-involuntaries.

He could not bear to think about it. He had been through too much today. And he had come out ahead of it all, at least in one thing, and that was an important thing — the life of the man who lay unconscious beneath his hand. St. Clare belonged to him, and he was responsible for St. Clare. It was a bit of comforting familiarity in this alien place that persisted in Andrej’s mind even as the orderlies removed his patient to his bed.

Alone in the room now with only Joslire for company, Andrej drank his rhyti and remembered that he was hungry. “Joslire, am I to see Tutor Chonis, or am I to go to bed?” His rhyti was still hot, and that was odd. How many times had Joslire had to go for rhyti, to have it hot and ready for him now?

“Tutor Chonis has requested that the officer meet with him after fast-meal, in the morning. For the remainder of this duty-shift, there is no training scheduled.”

No, Joslire was sitting on something, Andrej was certain that he could hear it in his voice. He glanced behind him sharply, but Joslire gave no hint of an expression on his somber, guarded face.

Maybe he didn’t want to know.

“Let’s have my blouse, then, if you please.” Well, they’d go back to quarters and be done with the day. He did want to see Doctor Chaymalt, but a formal appointment would probably take a day or two to set up through the proper channels. He’d have to read up on his Sixth Level, and he wasn’t looking forward to that any more than he had to any of the preliminary exercises, but he didn’t have the energy to waste in indulging himself in conflict of that sort. “Can you call ahead for my supper, I wonder? Or perhaps a mid-meal and a third-meal at once, if it is possible, unless there are rules against permitting Students to make gluttons of themselves?”

Joslire helped him into his blouse, stone-faced and silent. Joslire keyed the door and bowed, silent and stone-faced, for Andrej to precede him from the room. Andrej could see Sorlie Curran and the rest of the security team in the corridor beyond, two on each side, standing to attention. Had they really been there all this time? If they were St. Clare’s jailers, why hadn’t they followed the orderlies when the orderlies had taken St. Clare off to Ward?

Andrej went out into the corridor thinking about his supper, and came to an abrupt halt.

It wasn’t only Sorlie Curran, and the team who had been with him for the exercise.

There was a Bigelblu, and a Mizucash, and the Holy Mother only knew how many others besides. All bond-involuntaries. And the corridor was absolutely solid with them, standing to attention against the walls on either side to wait his passing.

Staring about him in wonder, Andrej started down the hall toward the door at the far end. How had all these people gotten in here? And he recognized the Mizucash and the Bigelblu from his Preliminary Level exercises, both saluting him with precise and respectful bows as he went past. He could hear Joslire behind him, but he could also hear the troops turning to close ranks across the corridor just behind the two of them, forming row upon row of Security troops that deepened the closer he got to the door at the end of the corridor. And when he got to the door, it was worse, because there were more of them on the other side, and most of those were Station Security and Infirmary staff, and not bond-involuntaries at all.

What was a man to do in such a circumstance?

Andrej paced the distance with grave deliberation, keenly aware of the silent formation that surrounded him. Reaching the end of the gauntlet at last, he turned to face back the way he had come, Joslire moving quickly to stand behind him.

There could be only one response truly appropriate, truly adequate to express his confused appreciation for this astonishing tribute.

He looked through the ranks for a long moment, trying to make eye contact with everyone there, trying not to wonder why they weren’t at their duty stations.

And he bowed.

With every bit as much heartfelt gratitude and respect as a filial child bowing to his father, or before the Canopy.

“You do me very great honor. And I thank you for it.” It was a poor return, but it was the best he had to offer. “Good night, gentles, all. I will. Never. Forget this.”

Now he should leave the area quickly, so that they could disperse with all deliberate speed; but not so quickly that they would feel he was slighting their profound gesture by discarding its importance with his haste. Forcing himself to take unhurried steps, Andrej walked out of the area, with Joslire following. He could only just hear Joslire behind him, close to his shoulder, speaking soft and low, his voice pitched to Andrej’s ear alone.

“Neither will we. Your Excellency.”

He didn’t believe that he deserved this accolade, strangely as it had been given. But there was no arguing with one’s Household. When they decided that one had done well, the only thing that one could do was to accept in all humility and submit with as good grace as one could muster.

He only hoped that no one would come to grief for it.

Chapter Nine

There had been a disturbance of sorts in Infirmary during third-shift, and although Tutor Chonis hadn’t heard many details, he considered it almost certain that Koscuisko had been involved somehow. Koscuisko was expected after fast-meal, but — Chonis realized, frowning at his time-strip — he hadn’t specified a time when he’d given Curran his instructions yesterday mid-second. He’d not been quite sure how much Curran would be able to retain of what Chonis had wanted to tell him. The whole roomful of Security had been in shock, Bonded and un-Bonded alike, after witnessing the actualization of the impossible.

He need not have worried. It was the mark after the start of the normal training period, precisely as close to “after fast-meal” as a man could get; and here was Student Koscuisko, signaling at the door.

“Student Koscuisko respectfully reports at the Tutor’s convenience.”

And, oh, but didn’t he sound polite this morning. Pale, and there were dark stains beneath his eyes, like those that signaled incomplete restfulness in some of the races of category-six hominids. He always had used polite language, that was true. It was all the more interesting how different it sounded when Koscuisko appeared to actually mean it.

“Step through. Thank you, Curran, stand by. Good-greeting, Andrej, have you slept well?”

Koscuisko took his seat a little heavily. “Thank you, Tutor, I believe so. But I have a good deal on my mind, if perhaps we could discuss it.”

Yes, he’d just bet Koscuisko had a lot to talk about. “All right. Where shall we start?” That should be an interesting choice, given the range from which Koscuisko could choose.

Koscuisko lay his hand out on the table flat, palm uppermost, studying his fingers. “Well, there is St. Clare’s status, and I would like to be permitted to follow up. I understand there is to be an evaluation of the speak-serum, and I wonder if I am permitted to adjust the formulation to include the Nurail lineages. Also there were some gentles to see me to my quarters last night, and I can’t help but worry that the Administration might misinterpret their courtesy. I have promised to enrich the Controlled List; I would know how the Administration wishes to define my contribution, a schedule, or whatever. Also, finally, my Sixth Level. I have some anxiety on all of these points, Tutor Chonis.”

He had just about hit all the marks, that was true. “I’ll see if I can’t set your mind at rest. You’ll prompt me if I leave anything out.” Because there was a good deal of ground to cover. “Let’s start with the unusual occurrence last night, since I’ve just found out about it. The Administrator’s morning report describes it as a not-unlawful assembly, not outside the range of customary and acceptable procedure. Though it seems to have pushed the limit? Hmmm?”

Koscuisko blushed and bit his lip. It was an unfair question, Chonis supposed. “No matter. There don’t seem to be any problems, at least not at this time. A natural expression of concern for two fellow Security troops and bond-involuntaries, that is all.”

Perhaps not all. Perhaps very much more than that, and all to do with Andrej Koscuisko, marked for the rest of his Fleet career as a man who could command personal loyalty from bond-involuntary troops.

“As to St. Clare. You will assume the responsibilities of attending physician until he can be returned to duty to stand evaluation of the speak-serum. You will administer appropriate punishment for the violation you mentioned to me . . . Do you remember?”

Koscuisko was uncomfortable with this part. Chonis intended that Koscuisko be uncomfortable with this part. That was the whole point of the exercise — or of what was left of the exercise, at any rate.

“I remember, Tutor Chonis. And I have not yet thanked you for taking my petition forward. I . . . cannot say . . . ”

His knuckles tight against the tabletop, his mouth pursed white, Koscuisko fought to contain his emotion, while Chonis watched, fascinated. Passion was not usually seen in Students, either because they had learned neutrality in their medical schooling or because they had drawn a layer of callousness over themselves for self-protection. Koscuisko was a passionate man, and it was instructive to see how he handled it in himself; though it was surely not necessary — Chonis reminded himself, a little guiltily — to let him suffer, in this manner.

“You are quite welcome, Student Koscuisko. No one on this Station but welcomed your suggestion.”

There, that was better. Koscuisko took a deep breath, and his shoulders seemed to smooth out a bit as he relaxed. “Even so, I will not forget, Tutor Chonis. I understand that I must discipline St. Clare, as I have sworn to do. Naturally I would prefer to restrict myself to two-and-twenty, but that might not satisfy the requirement. I therefore must ask . . . ”

Chonis already knew that Koscuisko would just as soon go two-and-twenty and forget it. He was tempted to let it rest at that. The idea had been to ensure that Koscuisko suffered for his lapse of taste in embarrassing the Administration, and that he would continue to shudder for his sins every time he laid eyes on Robert St. Clare. It was clear enough to Chonis that Koscuisko was suffering rather flamboyantly over the risked Class Two itself. There was the question of the Administrator, however; Clellelan would not understand letting it go so lightly. Given the leniency Administrator Clellelan had granted in the matter, Chonis felt it was better not to push things.

“The Administration will accept four-and-forty as a good-faith demonstration, Andrej. Yes, it is a bit stricter than you would have liked, I know.” Perhaps Koscuisko had hoped three-and-thirty would do. Koscuisko had too much respect for pain, that was his problem. Bond-involuntaries were expected to stand two-and-twenty as a matter of course, six-and-sixty being considered merely adequate to get their attention.

“The choice of instruments is to be made from among those provided at the Intermediate Levels?” Koscuisko sounded a trifle choked, but obedient and submissive still. “Am I to schedule this, or is it for the Administrator to do so?”

Nodding, Chonis remembered a question he had been wanting to ask. “Yes and yes. That is, the Administrator will schedule the discipline once St. Clare is returned to duty. It goes on Record. I’d like to know, now that you’ve rested, if you could tell me what revealed the secret to you. — Oh, no further penalty will be assessed,” he added quickly, in the face of Koscuisko’s evident alarm.

It was alarm shading into a subtle sort of confusion as Koscuisko searched his mind. “I’m not . . . exactly . . . sure. I had been thinking about how stubborn he was, which meant that he had courage, moral strength. Because I could tell how much he had pain. I started to wonder whether such a man would be offered a Bond, and then I wondered why I had thought that; and what it could have been that Sorlie Curran hadn’t wanted me to notice. I’m not sure. With your permission, Tutor Chonis.”

No, Koscuisko had grabbed it out of thin air and St. Clare’s admittedly ambiguous mutterings. But if the secret could be caught out of things of the sort St. Clare had said, then no single bond-involuntary in the program would have been safe. Koscuisko had an empathic sort of truth-sense. He would be good at his work, if only he could be persuaded to relax and enjoy it.

Figuratively speaking, of course.

Leading naturally up to the next subject, one that Student Koscuisko had asked him about — as good an opening as any, Chonis congratulated himself. “Sometimes understanding comes without understanding how it’s come by. I should like you to concentrate on that aspect of Inquiry and Confirmation during your next exercise. Shall I schedule you for, say, three days from now? What do you think? Will you be rested enough?”

The Sixth Level was as bad as it got — before it got truly unreasonable. Preliminary Levels concentrated on Inquiry; the Intermediate Levels, on Inquiry and Confirmation. By the time the Advanced Levels were reached, the fine line dividing Inquiry and Confirmation was necessarily smeared over with an overriding requirement to Execute. Prisoners weren’t even referred to the Advanced Levels without confession — if not theirs, then somebody else’s. And the Protocols more or less ensured that if the prisoner was referred at the Advanced Levels, the prisoner would die. Then skill became an issue: Die sooner? Die later?

Chonis brought himself out of his meditation abruptly. He was getting ahead of himself, and Koscuisko hadn’t answered him. “Andrej?”

“In three days’ time, yes, Tutor. I will be ready. And what is the Tutor’s pleasure for the meantime?”

No argument, no neutral insistence on the tiresome fact that the Sixth Level had been originally scheduled for five days’ distance. Not three. Chonis decided that he liked this meek demeanor: Koscuisko, as good as his word, was trying to behave.

“You’re to give us half-days in the lab and spend the rest of the time preparing for your practical exercise. You’re welcome to tinker with that speak-serum, if you like, but we do have a rather more specific need for your talents just at present.”

“Yes, Tutor Chonis?”

“Student Koscuisko. I know how much you dislike the idea of the Controlled List. And it is not the Administrator’s intent to demand disproportionate return for St. Clare. We will be content with a finite set of new drugs” — although he hadn’t discussed it with the Administrator in so many words. It didn’t matter. What he had decided to ask Koscuisko for would keep his Student busy enough.

“I do not regret. I will not renounce. The bargain that I made. What did you call it? The exchange, as of hostages.”

Chonis smiled at how apt his Student was. “We have a special need at this time for a library of sorts. I would like you to build for me three each of the four classes of Controlled List drugs, and I must specify that the three preparations taken together cover as broad a range as possible.” So that Mergau could be taught to use them for as many purposes, as many prisoners as possible, without requiring her to actually learn much of anything more than a list. “Your fellow Student will test these drugs in her practical exercises” —
that
startled him, even if he was too subdued to say anything — “and it goes without saying that all prisoners will be bona fide prisoners. Upon my word of honor, neither you nor Student Noycannir will be exposed to a prisoner-surrogate for the remainder of the Term.”

It was just lucky they’d got a fresh batch in, what with the Term gearing up for the Advanced Levels. Mergau’s Fourth and Fifth could be recycled for someone else’s Seventh, if all went well.

“You are content to sacrifice effectiveness for applicability, then. I think that I understand.”

Not the whole tape, no. Not quite yet. But soon. As soon as Noycannir’s repeat on the Fourth Level, which he had better schedule for before Koscuisko’s Sixth if they were not to fall too far behind. “How soon do you feel you can have something ready for me?”

Koscuisko shrugged, apparently distracted by the technical aspects of the problem. “It will not take long to update the first speak-serum for Nurail. If you have a Nurail” — for Noycannir’s Fourth Level? — “we could be ready perhaps tomorrow.”

There should be no problem there; the Bench was blessed with a multitude of Nurail on Charges. They’d pick one out of the manifest for Noycannir’s Fourth Level. Then, of course, the formal trial of the speak serum against St. Clare would be a redundancy; but that part of the program had never been intended as a serious test, so it made little difference either way.

Chonis nodded his approval, smiling. “Tomorrow, then. Give me your status first thing in the morning. Please don’t neglect your physical exercise, Andrej, I know how easy it is to become distracted, but really we must keep you in the very best of health. And Curran is responsible to the Administrator for you.”

Rising from the table, Koscuisko bowed formally — as always — but there was something different, all the same. “As you wish it, Tutor. If I am to be excused now, I will begin in the lab immediately.”

Then Chonis understood.

There was no mockery in Koscuisko’s salute, this time.

“Good day, Student Koscuisko.” Oh, this was getting better and better by the moment.

St. Clare might be worth more to the Administration in the long run than Chonis had imagined.

###

Rabin was afloat in a cushiony sea of pleasant music, the air full of the sweet smell of the spring-brake that bloomed for two short weeks through the late snow in the high windy. The disconnected drowsiness that addled his brains he understood; he’d been drunk before. There was no explanation that sprung to mind for the pictures he was seeing, but they were too pretty to object to. His primary concern was whether he would be able to remember what kind of liquor it had been once he woke up.

“May I have status, please.”

He heard the voice carrying through the breezy strains of the sheepshank pipes and wondered what it meant. A clear voice, a quiet voice, with a funny little accent — of course they all had accents. He’d never met anyone who could speak proper Standard, not since he’d left home. Since he’d been taken from home. But under the influence of whatever it was he was drunk on not even that nightmare of blood and screaming could move him to distress.

“His temperature is fluctuating a bit, but well within the range the officer had specified as expected. Swelling doesn’t appear to be going down as well as the officer would wish, if the officer would care to examine?”

Some other voice. They were all his friends, he was certain. And because he felt so good that there wasn’t any room in his limited consciousness for any other possibility. A cooling breeze had come up from somewhere, and he shifted against its soft luxurious caress, reveling in the pleasure of it. Warm and happy, and a lovely breeze. Could life possibly get any better than this?

Did he care about the multitude of ways in which it could get worse?

“I think I’d like to follow up on these with more of the bmilc ointment. You’re quite right, though, this still looks ugly. I am inclined to hit it with another few sixteenths of ofdahl to get the swelling down.”

Oddly enough, he could sense a sort of a pressure against his body, a pressure that made him nervous in an unfocused sort of way. There didn’t seem to be any pain associated with the pressure as it shifted from place to place; nor was the pressure itself very hard or very widespread. Why was he nervous? The touch was against his shoulder, that was why he was nervous. Why it should be so, he was unsure. He cleared his throat to complain about it; he could hear some whimpering, very close by, but the pressure lifted.