An Exchange of Hostages (3 page)

Chonis snorted in amusement. Mergau hadn’t heard any joke. Their meals were arriving; she could channel the fury choking in her throat into politely muted but clearly visible distaste for her food. Now she wasn’t sure she could afford that bit of business, though. Koscuisko had her at a disadvantage.

“You’ve reminded me, young man. I’ve been remiss. Mergau, your companion is Andrej Koscuisko; Andrej, you have the pleasure of Mergau Noycannir’s acquaintance. You are expected to use the formal title of Student with each other during class hours, in token of respect for each other’s . . . rank.”

She understood Chonis’s momentary hesitation. Other Students would respect each other’s status, each other’s ability, each other’s shared education and background. Chonis had been told to give her every assistance, and to make sure that she got the same training and practice that any other Student might have. Tutor Chonis was not going to let anyone forget that she was just a Clerk of Court, without Bench certifications.

“But we’re not quite into Term yet, and officially this is an informal meeting. How are you liking the fish?”

Be smooth,
she told herself.
Feel the pavement.
It could hardly be a conspiracy. Koscuisko had no reason to go out of his way to make her feel small. Tutor Chonis’s comments were innocent, if ill-advised. Keeping her focus on the goal was one thing. Going out of her way to look for opposition was a waste of energy. Revealing that she even noticed petty slights or attempts to put her down would only work against her.

She could deal with Tutor Chonis later.

She had to obtain the Writ first.

###

Dinner was over, finally. Joslire stood waiting for him outside Tutor’s Mess, along with another bond-involuntary who would logically be the one assigned to Noycannir. He wasn’t sure what to make of Noycannir. She was attractive enough in a somewhat severe fashion, and she had certainly exercised herself to be pleasing to Tutor Chonis; but something gave him the idea she didn’t like him.

Andrej wasn’t sure he cared one way or the other.

His feet hurt, but luckily for him they didn’t have too far to go to gain sanctuary.

Safely back in quarters, Andrej sank down into the chair at the study-set and stretched his legs out toward the middle of the room, beckoning Joslire with a wave of his hand. “Give us a hand with these boots, if you would, please. My bootjack was one of those items that you have so kindly forwarded to
Scylla
for me, to await my homecoming.”

Though he couldn’t be sure — having just met Joslire, and unacquainted with his expressions — Andrej thought Joslire was smiling to himself as he turned his back and straddled one leg to get the proper angle on the boot.

“The officer’s footgear will be broken in within a day or two. Generally speaking, the process is completed during pre-Term Orientation.”

The comment and its delivery were both aggressively neutral, even passive. But Andrej’s feet hurt. He knew very well what Joslire was really saying; if he’d reported in good time his boots would have been broken in by now. The fact that Joslire was absolutely right was only annoying. He was in no mood to be nagged by anyone.

“What, are you being impertinent with me, you ruffian?” he demanded in a tone of outraged disbelief.

Joslire flinched fractionally before straightening up with Andrej’s boots in hand, directing a swift sidelong glance of wary evaluation at Andrej’s face.

Andrej knew almost as soon as he’d said it that he’d made a mistake. He expected to be lectured by his body-servants; and cursing at them extravagantly in affectionate response was the only protest he was allowed, whether the criticism was deserved or not.

But Joslire Curran was a bond-involuntary, not a servant in Andrej’s House. He had no reason to expect this stranger to understand. How could he tell whether Joslire interpreted his joking rebuke as a serious one? And if Joslire believed he had offended an officer, Joslire’s governor — responding to the specific physiological stresses created by such an apprehension — would apply corrective discipline, no matter how undeserved.

Andrej tried to clarify. “That is to say, you’re right, I am quite convinced. Your point is well taken.”

This was intolerable.

But souls in Joslire’s category of servitude were allowed an uncharitably narrow margin for joking. There was no indication on record that primitive behavioral modifiers like the governor were capable of developing a sense of humor.

Joslire merely bowed politely and took the boots over to the sleep-rack in the corner to touch up the polish for tomorrow’s events. Arms cocked up across the arm supports, stockinged feet stretched out in front of him, Andrej glared at his tender feet with a sour mind.

Unnatural, that was what it was.

The sacred bond between master and man consisted of respect and reliance, exchanged for self-subordination; to demand Joslire’s obedience without granting him privilege to speak his mind was a perversion. Was Jurisdiction. And that was what this Station was all about, wasn’t it? Jurisdiction perversion?

When his father had been an officer in Security, the Bench had been less strict, and interrogation less formal. The Judicial process as his father had known it had indeed involved beatings, intimidation, even torture; ugly, sordid, but human in its scale.

Now it was different.

Now interrogation had become Inquiry, formalized into Protocols and divided into Levels. Now it required a medical officer to implement the Question, because it was too easy to kill a man too soon unless a torturer knew what to do. What had started as back-alley beatings in search of required information had evolved into systematic brutalization, forcing confessions to predetermined crimes, and all “in support of the Judicial order.”

It wasn’t as though torment and brutality were unheard of in Andrej’s home system. Far from it. Andrej himself was Aznir Dolgorukij; any Sarvaw had stories to tell of what Dolgorukij were capable of doing when they felt that it served their best interest. It was only that the Bench increased the level of atrocity year by year, as unrest within subject worlds continued to seethe and writhe and challenge the Judicial order. The public’s desire to see crimes punished in proportion to their severity could serve as a rationalization for atrocity; but only as long as such measures worked as deterrent.

And there was no way the Protocols could be described as punishment in proportion to the crime’s severity.

Andrej straightened up in his chair, weary with the familiar futility of it all. It did no good to worry that old dry bone. The Station was on Standard time, and Tutor Chonis had told them that they were to be on first-shift for the duration of the Term; so it was coming up on sleep-shift, which meant it was time to go to bed.

###

Student Koscuisko sighed and stood up. Joslire waited patiently to be noticed. It wouldn’t matter if he spoke first, not so early in Term; Koscuisko wouldn’t know it was a violation — but the governor would. It was best not to risk it.

“I’m sorry, Joslire,” Koscuisko said. “I am brooding. There is something?”

“As it please the officer.” Koscuisko’s dialect seemed to include more apology than Joslire was accustomed to hearing; this was the third time, surely. It meant nothing. “The officer may wish to review the material pertaining to the Administrator’s briefing?”

The information was on-screen on the study set; Koscuisko hadn’t noticed, sunk deep in thought. Now the Student leaned over the desktop, scrolling through the data, a mild frown of concentration on his broad flat face. “Presentation of the Bond, yes, Joslire. I rehearsed it in the mirror, in fact. On my way here.”

Just as well. The public presentation was humiliating enough in its own right. When the Students hadn’t bothered to learn their lines, Joslire felt the depth of his degradation more keenly than ever.

Student Koscuisko tagged the view off and met his eyes squarely. “There was a note in the briefing, Joslire; the option to receive the Bond now or tomorrow. Which do you prefer?”

Confused for a moment, Joslire recovered as quickly as he could. It was true. He was only required to surrender his Bond in good form. He didn’t have to do it tomorrow. If Student Koscuisko would receive his Bond here in private, they’d still stand at briefing, but he’d not be forced to repeat the bitter lie of his condemnation in public this time.

“With respect. It is the officer’s preference that prevails. As the Student please.” He had to say it; it was his duty to try to teach Koscuisko how to use him.

“Thank you, Joslire, but I desire to consult your preference. I solicit your preference. I ask you to tell me which you would rather.”

It wouldn’t last.

It never did.

Koscuisko would learn soon enough to treat him as an object for use, and not as a person. But as long as Koscuisko had made the demand, he was clear to reveal it; he only hoped that his voice was professionally neutral, as it should be, and not dripping over with gratitude. It was a small thing to be asked for his preference. It was a great thing to a bond-involuntary to be asked anything, rather than told.

Koscuisko was an aristocrat; for Koscuisko asking and demanding were probably the same things. He would concentrate on that. “As it please the officer. To be permitted to present the Bond would be a privilege.”

Koscuisko nodded. “We will the transfer accomplish here and now, then.” Easier for Koscuisko as well, perhaps, since he need not expose himself to ridicule before the Tutor if he missed a word. “Bring me back my boots, if you would. I will just go adjust my attitude.”

What did a man’s boots have to do with his attitude?

Koscuisko took the boots from Joslire’s hand, but he didn’t want any help getting into them. Joslire had nothing to do but stand and stare at him as Koscuisko tucked in his trouser cuffs, fastening his uniform blouse smooth and straight.

Koscuisko went into the washroom with careful steps, his feet tender from wearing new footgear. He washed his hands and combed his hair — for all the world as if he were a schoolboy on his way to sit among his elders. As if he was preparing for a formal occasion. As if he felt the Bond and what it stood for was something worthy of his respect.

Then Koscuisko was ready.

“I will receive your Bond now, Joslire Curran.”

Joslire opened his blouse, pulling at the fine chain around his neck to find its metal pendant. Koscuisko confused him; he was taking as many pains as it would have cost to do this tomorrow.

“This tape is the record of my trial.” Not precisely true, perhaps; it had not been Joslire Curran’s trial. But it was close enough. And the formula had been established by the Bench, and could not be materially amended. Requiring that he use personal language — “my trial,” “I” — was all part of the ritual, personalizing his enslavement. “Here the officer will find details of the offense for which I have been justly condemned, by the solemn adjudication of the Jurisdiction’s Bench.”

All of this time, and he still could hardly say “justly.” He had been betrayed to Jurisdiction, condemned to this shame by the cunning and hatred of an ancestral enemy. He would survive to revenge himself. If he failed to revenge himself he would be dishonored in fact, as well as in the eyes of the Bench. He would not fail.

“According to the provisions of Fleet Penal Consideration number eighty-three, sub-heading twenty, article nine, my life belongs to the Jurisdiction’s Bench, which has deeded it to the Fleet for thirty years.”

Betrayed by an enemy. Bonded by the Bench, because he’d satisfied all the requirements they had for bond-involuntaries: youth, fitness, intelligence, psychological resilience . . . lucky him. He got to carry a governor for thirty years, and in return the Bench waived all charges. If he lived out his Term, they granted full retirement along with the pay that would have accrued had he been a free man; as if that could make up for it.

“The officer is respectfully requested to accept the custody of my Bond.”

In two hands he offered it, the prescribed gesture of submission.

With two hands outstretched, the officer received it. With real respect, as if understanding that it was Joslire’s life — and not some piece of jewelry, some dull trinket — that he was to hold for the Bench in the Fleet’s name.

Koscuisko had a solemn face, a grave expression even at rest — as far as Joslire had seen of him thus far. Joslire told himself it was just weariness that made Koscuisko look so

serious now. Otherwise it was too tempting to believe that Koscuisko understood; too tempting to imagine that the Bench formality could actually become the contract-of-honor that it mocked just this one time.

“I will accept your Bond, Joslire Curran. And hold it for the Day your Term is past.”

It was just ritual, Joslire told himself. The words were only words, the same as those spoken by his other officers before Student Koscuisko; the same words that would be spoken by the next Student once Koscuisko was graduated and gone.

Except the promise was real this time; the hope for that distant Day was sharp and poignant, because something in Koscuisko’s tone of voice utterly convinced Joslire that Koscuisko meant it.

On board a cruiser-killer, the Ship’s First — the Security Officer — would husband all the Bonds for safekeeping. Here at Fleet Orientation Station Medical, the Students were required to carry the Bonds on their own person, to increase their sense of ownership and authority. Koscuisko put the chain over his neck, slipping the flat gray record-tape into his tunic.

It was over, for yet another Term.

“And now, not that it follows, Joslire, I’m tired. I should like to go to bed.”

And yet he felt less enslaved — and more personally sworn — than ever he had since the terrible day that the Bench had first condemned him to the Bond.

###

“Attention to the Administrator,” Tutor Foliate called. Chonis winced internally at the ragged shuffling sound of twenty ill-prepared Students trying their hand at Fleet drill and ceremony for the first time. Twenty bond-involuntaries and ten Tutors — the sound of their feet moving across the floor was as one sound, crisp and complete. Twenty Students, and it might as well have been two hundred from the time it took them to come to attention.