An Exchange of Hostages (23 page)

Worrying the issue would only keep the memory fresh. Andrej slid the cube into the viewer, sitting down to his fast-meal as he did so. It was rather a full tray for a fast-meal, now that he had a look at it. That was a good thing, Andrej decided. He was ravenously hungry, now that he was awake.

Two keys, and the medical workup appeared on his screen. A man in early adulthood, second-class hominid, subspecies Ovallse. Traumatic injury to the central nervous system, torn fiber in the brainstem, several ugly lacunae along the spinal column, two days old — perhaps three — but not too old yet. The nerves could be persuaded to forget that they’d been bruised and frayed apart, if they could be reconnected with minimal surgical trauma before the fluid of that trauma itself — currently holding the damaged tissue static, waiting for the light — ebbed away again, and let the tenuous connections lapse.

It could be done.

What was the patient’s current status?

What therapies — if any — had been engaged up until now?

How old was the Station’s surgical machine?

His left hand was full of brod-toast. It was a little clumsy, keying from the right, but the information was there, right enough. Core metabolism had been submerged to the deepest level that could be sustained outside the cryogenic environment. The surgical machine was apparently two or three years old, but with luck it had not been overused during that time. He should be able to achieve primary alignment, if the apparatus had been maintained properly and not allowed to deteriorate.

He had to eat; and then he had to wait after he had eaten, to maximize the extent to which his own physical apparatus would achieve optimal recovery from the abuse it had sustained from stress and alcohol over the past few days. He could use the time to review the species-specific peculiarities of the average adult Ovallse. He had better get into it right away. It had been — what — as much as two days since the injury had occurred?

There was no time to waste.

“Did I hear Travis saying something about patient prep?” Joslire had posted himself at Andrej’s shoulder instead of seeing to whatever other chores he might have had. Still trying to provide reassurance, of a sort? When it was surely Joslire who had been abused, Andrej who should provide comfort . . . Andrej appreciated the gesture, even though he was uncertain of its meaning. At the moment he felt willing to take all the supportive comfort he could get, whether or not he could feel that he deserved it.

“As the officer says. The Infirmary has a theater on standby, at the officer’s disposal.”

And what about St. Clare?

What about the contract he had tried to make with Tutor Chonis, the contract he still shuddered, even now, to so much as contemplate?

“What time is it? Tell them to give me an eight and four. We can be ready to start by then, I’m sure.”

He couldn’t afford to start thinking about St. Clare.

He was going to need all of the concentration he could muster if he was to succeed in walking through this man Idarec’s brain, and leave no damage in his wake.

###

Doctor Ligrose Chaymalt had been curious about Koscuisko since Term had started, although her brief introduction to him had not impressed her overmuch. Alerted by Security’s signal that Chonis’s Student was on his way, she made it her business to be at the main entry-station when Koscuisko and his Security escort arrived. A man’s life in the balance — even a bond-involuntary’s life — surely called for a little formality.

Koscuisko’s Security troop stepped up to the barrier at the receiving station, bowing sharply in Chaymalt’s direction. “Student Koscuisko reports on Tutor Chonis’s instruction to provide possible assistance within his rated field, on bed eleven. As her Excellency please.”

Her usual practice was to let the Ward supervisors deal with the Students during their required referral on Wards. Signing off on her subordinates’ assessments of the actual medical qualifications of the soon-to-be-Ship’s Surgeons as assessed in clinical practice was as close to Ship’s Surgeon as she wanted to get. This appeared to be rather a special case, however — to judge from Chonis’s interest in him, at any rate. And she had to admit that his academic record was impressive.

“Stand away, Curran. Student Koscuisko and I have already been introduced.” A day or three gone by, as a matter of fact. “When you came for your tour, Koscuisko, if you remember.”

“It is a distinct pleasure to renew the privilege of your acquaintance.” Koscuisko’s response was polite, if as formal as his salute. “Am I to have the benefit of Doctor Chaymalt’s consultation with the scheduled surgery?”

Almost too polite. Ligrose eyed him skeptically. He hadn’t done any practicals since he’d got here. What made Chonis think that this youth — this pale and apparently under-rested child, so recently graduated — was up to pulling the complex procedure off? It wasn’t for her to say, of course. None of her staff were going to be stupid enough to try it without the rated specialty. Bed eleven was a dead man any way one looked at it, unless Koscuisko managed to get through the surgery without letting the mechanical probe slip by a single fraction of a sixty-fourth in the wrong direction.

Student Koscuisko was regarding her with a look of courteously muted expectation. She shook her head. “Sorry, not my specialty. Or we’d have done it sooner, of course. But I’ll be watching you.” More out of boredom than anything else, and it was a useful opportunity to see what kind of surgical practitioners Mayon was turning out these days. She hadn’t seen a Mayon graduate through Orientation Station Medical in all the years of her tenure here. Mayon’s graduates could name their price, and students who could pay off their schooling in other environments could be relied upon to stand well clear of Inquiry, as a rule.

It was hard to stay abreast of technical innovations, isolated on this tiny station — not as if bed eleven’s case called for anything new or innovative. The procedures were actually fairly basic. It was only the fact that they had to be performed perfectly that presented complications.

“In that case I would like to get started, by your leave, Doctor Chaymalt. Is there an orderly assigned?”

Not really. Shiuka had done the patient prep, but Shiuka wasn’t rated for the actual procedure — he’d never been properly checked out on the monitors. Chaymalt checked the status board quickly. “Looks like Beeler is coming off shift, you can have Beeler. I’ll have him meet you. You, Curran. Take your Student to theater one. Do you know where to find it? Never mind, one of the orderlies can escort you both.”

For a moment she thought that Koscuisko was going to protest, to hold out for an orderly who was fresh and rested and at the beginning of his shift, instead of one who would probably not be either. Not as if it made any difference, as far as Chaymalt was concerned. Either Koscuisko had what it took or he didn’t, and no orderly of hers was going to make a mistake on the monitors, no matter how tired or hungry he might be.

“Is there a problem?”

Direct challenge was a useful tool. He could hardly question her assignment to her face; it was her Infirmary, after all. Koscuisko merely bowed.

“Very well, then. I’ll be observing from my office.” Or sleeping, one of the two.

But maybe it would be interesting to see Koscuisko perform.

###

For now there was nothing in the world but the surgical machine — the operating chair — and the patient who was waiting for him.

The orderly assigned was tired and bored, obviously frustrated at being held over shift; but he did get the setup completed quickly, without incident. Andrej strapped himself into the chair to perform the calibration exercises. Each chair was different within the standardized range, because the level of detail was so specific and exact. While a deviation of the smallest imaginable fraction of a sixty-fourth in the path of the surgical beam could be easily tolerated in most cases, there was no room for error whatever where the nervous system was concerned. There was no problem with the power reserves, no focus degradation to speak of; still, the tolerances had slipped noticeably off scale. It took Andrej several attempts with the beam and the block of pseudo-flesh before he could get the instruments to respond as he liked. There was a simple test of whether or not he was in control of the apparatus, his own variation on the standard measures he’d been taught in his student surgeries. When he could sign his name precisely midway through the block of pseudo-flesh — when he could sign his name with the surgical beam, and have it all of one distance from the mark-point, and have the lines all no more than three particles in thickness — then he was ready to carve within a brain.

He was ready now.

Patient preparation had been completed, the body lay anesthetized — to ensure stability, not because there would be any pain — and selectively exposed within the sterile field. Fastening the goggles over his eyes, Andrej reviewed the operant grids one last time, to be sure that he knew what he was going to do and how he was going to come at it. Spinal first, where the nerves were fatter and the consequences of less than absolute surgical perfection were less severe. Sub-cortical function was the critical area. There was a lot of work to do, and no time like the present to be started.

He sent the machine forward into the sterile field with a quick press at a foot control, activating the enclosure. The mask was already in place. As the webbing smoothed around his body to support his weight, Andrej surrendered to the familiar comfort of the operating environment. Focusing on his first site, he saw nothing but the scanner registration, heard nothing but the subtle pinging signal that the laser made at rest. From now until he was finished with his task, he was no more than the mind of the machine, the operating chair translating his every gesture to the scale of the cellular environment. One wrong gesture could sever a nerve for good and all. One twitch at the wrong time could bisect a muscle or engrave the bone.

There could be no room in his mind for anything other than his patient — and that was relief from his other concerns. This simplification of his life, howsoever temporary, was a present that the patient had provided for him. Obviously the only polite response was to return the favor if he could.

Secure in the serene calm of pure technical expertise, Andrej began to work.

Chapter Eight

Mergau Noycannir had welcomed the call to the Tutor’s office when it finally came. She knew her ground and field; she was confident. She could do nothing more until she found out how the Administration meant to respond to the incident.

“Tutor Chonis?”

He looked up from the stylus-pad on his desk as she spoke from the open doorway, diffidently. His scowl of concentration seemed to lift as if he was actually pleased to see her.

“Student Noycannir. Yes. Come in.” Well, it could be that he was glad to see her, and that his smile was in anticipation of dismissing her from Term for her mistake. But somehow it didn’t quite smell that way to her. This was confusing.

“I am concerned, Tutor Chonis. It has been a day and the next day, now, since I was to continue the Intermediate Levels, and I have not had the benefit of instruction.”

Abstractly speaking, yes, she had made an error. Abstractly speaking, yes, she had violated the Protocols, although Hanbor was at fault — not her — for his failure to correctly emphasize the difference between the tapes that she’d been studying. It didn’t take a qualified surgeon to figure that out.

But what was the Tutor going to do about it?

“Mergau, in the past two days we’ve come to understand that we have not been supporting your needs. In fact we feel that we may be at risk of failing you in a significant sense.”

As if he was going to pretend it was the Station’s problem. As if he was really concerned about her.

“I’ve spoken to the Administrator about it. It’s not reasonable of us to put you into situations where you can’t really be expected to perform. And we think we may have come up with a solution.”

Something was not scanning here. There was no reason to revisit these issues yet another time. It couldn’t be just that she’d made a mistake. Other Students made mistakes; that was why there were Remedial Levels. “The Tutor is suggesting?”

Rising from his desk, Tutor Chonis went to pull a jug and two cups out of his side closet. “Let me start at the beginning.”

Yes, we must always start at the beginning,
Mergau jeered at him in her mind.
Start at the beginning, so that you can hold the ultimate point in suspense for as long as possible.

Setting his cups and the jug down, he poured for both of them. Warmer. Maybe the Tutor actually preferred warmer; or maybe he was trying to trick her into letting down her guard.

“You’re here because the First Secretary sees a need for a qualified Writ at the Bench level, in order to pursue the Judicial function. We must stop and ask ourselves — what does the Judicial function at the Bench level entail?”

Whether he was laying a trap or not, he served good warmer. That only made her more suspicious, of course. He’d been keeping notes on her preferences.

“Our station must produce officers who can carry the Writ in the field, down to the cruiser-killer class. That’s the working level; that’s where the appropriate blend of authority and necessity lies. Now, there is a point to be made from all this, Student Noycannir, with your indulgence.”

As if he needed her “indulgence.” Oh, she hated them. Hated them all. Would she never be permitted to forget . . .

“I am at my Tutor’s disposal entirely,” she assured him meekly, sipping her warmer. What if there were treason to be discovered here, in the heart of Fleet Orientation Center Medical, and an Inquisitor was required to sift the sour from the sweet? An Inquisitor without a Fleet assignment, without a primary loyalty to the Fleet . . .

“At the Bench level the functions of Inquiry and Confirmation are most essential. It will always be possible to refer to a regional detention center, if a penalty is to be assessed. What I’m trying to get at, Student Noycannir, is that there’s no real need for you to take the same full course of study as that for officers who must Inquire, Confirm, and Execute as well. We can best serve the First Secretary’s needs by modifying the course of instruction to a slight extent.”

He could not be suggesting that they compromise the Writ. Verlaine had paid so much to get her this far . . . and there was no precedent, no special category under Jurisdiction. The Writ was absolute. Either she would hold it or she would not. “I am confused.” Genuinely confused, at the turn that the conversation seemed to be taking. “How can I serve Chilleau Judiciary as Inquisitor if my training is to be modified, as you say?”

The Tutor took a moment before answering her. He glanced idly at the cup of warmer in his hand with the benevolent expression of a man who had a surprise gift for a child, hidden behind his back. It made no sense.

“You know the material, Mergau.” But how could he tell her that when she had violated the Protocols? Hanbor’s fault, yes, but her deed; on Record, and the Record was permanent . . . ”There isn’t any question that you understand the theory and the rules of practice. Anyone can make a mistake. But unless we can do a little fine-tuning, as it were, you are simply going to keep on making mistakes, because your broader education is deficient.”

The other Students could make mistakes without repercussions, as long as they were within medically acceptable parameters? Was that what he was saying? “I have studied the cases that the Tutor selected. There is more that I should study, Tutor Chonis?”

What was he getting at?

“The further we get, the worse the mistakes will be. The Administrator and I have been working on a way around it. And we think we have a solution. There need be no preparation in field techniques if you will never be required to perform in the field environment.”

She did know the material. She did understand the Levels, and their restrictions, and the Protocols for Inquiry and Confirmation and Execution. Field techniques meant blood and striking people, and it was hard for her to restrain her hand when everything she had ever learned of hurting people was to hurt them for once and all, so that they would not trouble her again. The streets of Lathiken had not been holding cells. And from the first that she had ingratiated herself with the man who had started her in Bench Administration, she had understood that in politics as in street-fighting, prudence took no prisoners.

“The Jurisdiction’s Controlled List is among the most significant resources available under the Writ. And while the employment of the appropriate drugs does not under usual circumstances satisfy the punitive scales, they are fully satisfactory as instruments of Inquiry and Confirmation.”

He was talking about drugs.

This was a new thing, a novel idea, unanticipated input. It rather stunned her, but panic was not far behind.

Panic was never far enough behind.

“But, with the Tutor’s indulgence — ” she began, and then shut her mouth abruptly when she realized that she didn’t know what to say.

“I know what you’re thinking, I imagine.” Tutor Chonis put up his hand to quiet her protest. “The practical exercises are required for graduation. And you will do your practical exercises, but there is something more important that we must teach you about them. You must learn the Controlled List.”

How could she hope to learn the Controlled List when it relied upon more arcane knowledge of the body’s function than any field-expedient physical medicine she had ever learned? Was this in the end just another step toward failing her? Had she in truth done well enough, to date, in the scheduled course of instruction, that the Administrator feared that she might successfully complete the course after all?

“Adjudicated Levels and standard interrogation techniques are not, after all, infallible instruments. Why, in a field environment, even the best Inquisitor may lose up to half the prisoners referred at the top end of the Intermediate Levels, not to speak of expected mortality rates at the Advanced. It wouldn’t do for the First Secretary to have to trust such imprecise methods for information.”

Yes, prisoners died. They were expected to die. It was deemed preferable that they die after they surrendered their secrets, rather than before. But Mergau was beginning to see Tutor Chonis’s point.

“You are telling me that my Patron is not well served, if I am just to know the Protocols.” The First Secretary wanted the Writ; the power to take the secrets. In Fleet it was not so important to get the secrets. There were always others with the same secrets available to Fleet. For Verlaine’s purpose, the secrets were much more individual and private. There could be no waste of prisoners in dying before surrendering their information.

“Precisely so.” Tutor Chonis agreed, sounding a little surprised. “When you are graduated and sent back to Secretary Verlaine with the Fleet’s compliments, you must be able to get to the information more reliably than Fleet practice dictates.” Where the whole point of Inquisition lay as much — if not more — in its use as a weapon primed with deterrent horror as in any actual need for information. “The Administrator proposes to refocus your course of instruction toward that end, and provide you with the basics regarding the Controlled List. We don’t usually study the Controlled List in depth here, as you know.”

They were not questioning her ability.

They were offering her additional information, and knowledge that she would need to satisfy First Secretary Verlaine’s ambition.

It didn’t make any sense.

“I am eager for this knowledge,” she lied glibly. “How does the Tutor wish me to begin?” Would she be taking extra class work, was that what Chonis was getting at? More individual study? How could there be any time for her to learn the Controlled List, when the length of the Term was already filled with the standard course of instruction?

“We will revisit the Fourth Level, tomorrow or the next day. Student Koscuisko will assist you in an advisory role. With his help, we mean to build a catalog for you from the Controlled List. When you return to Secretary Verlaine you will have a complete arsenal at your disposal, and — more important — you will know how to demonstrate your mastery. How to use it.”

Every Student, every commissioned Ship’s Inquisitor, had the Controlled List at their disposal. If she could learn how to use it, though . . . And still something was not right. She remembered Koscuisko’s emphatically negative reaction to the Tutor’s suggestion that he enrich the Controlled List for the Fleet. And now she was to believe that Koscuisko was going to customize the Controlled List? For her use? When Koscuisko would just as soon walk on her as acknowledge her existence?

“For the Tutor’s care, I am me grateful.” The stress was too great, and her dialect was slipping. She had to maintain better control over her emotions. If Koscuisko was involved, didn’t that mean it was still just a plot against her? And if it wasn’t, how had they got Koscuisko to go along? “How shall I prepare for this?”

The possibilities were intriguing.

“There are some details yet to be worked out with the Administrator. We’ll meet here tomorrow mid-shift; I’ll send the exact time later on today. We can talk with Koscuisko, discuss the prisoner, see if he knows of something suitable on the List, and schedule your Fourth Level retrial accordingly. In the mean time, you should acquaint yourself with the architecture of the Controlled List, and how it relates to the Levels.”

It was clearly the end of the interview. Mergau stood up. “I obey my Tutor gladly. Shall I go now?”

Chonis nodded, with a gesture of release or dismissal. “Hanbor has some introductory material logged to your study-set, waiting for you. You’re doing good work, Mergau. With your best effort — and Student Koscuisko’s help — we can turn out a really first-rate resource for Secretary Verlaine.”

And where had Student Koscuisko been these past two days?

She bowed in salute and took her parting, content to let her Tutor have the last word.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about this new development, or whether or not there was a trap in it somewhere.

She would study and consider. And see what came out in the days to come.

###

Joslire Curran stood at the authorized position of command-wait, trying not to think too much about anything. Koscuisko was in surgery. Tutor Chonis had called him to Disciplinary Mast, and there was only one real possible reason, which was — of course — Robert St. Clare. Lop Hanbor was here; he’d seen it happen from the Tutor’s viewing room, even as Joslire had. Sorlie Curran was here, with the rest of his team; they’d actually been present when it had happened. The Security team that had removed Robert from the exercise theater was here, and a few of Station Security, all waiting to hear what they already knew, required by Administrative policy to witness the inexorable decree of the Jurisdiction Bench. The Administrator didn’t like to publicize mistakes like the one Robert had made, but when it happened, the Administrator liked to be sure everyone who knew that there had been a problem also knew exactly what the penalty was. Certain and swift punishment was the very cornerstone of Fleet discipline.

The signal came, and Joslire stood to attention as Administrator Clellelan and Tutor Chonis made their formal entrance from the back of the room. They would occupy the raised platform at the front, above the Bar: the Administrator sitting; Chonis on his feet, in the presence of his superior officer. Robert would stand there, too. There would be no difficulty in seeing everything that went on, whether or not any of them were eager to do so.

“Attention to orders.” An innocuous opening, and Tutor Chonis made it sound so routine, as if there was not a life to be savaged here. “Disciplinary hearing concerning Class Two violation, disobeying lawful and received instruction, Robert St. Clare. Administrator Clellelan, Presiding. By the Bench instruction.”

Not as if he’d never been at Disciplinary Mast before. There had been one this Term already, as one of Tutor Pobo’s Students cried an offense of disrespect against assigned Security. Two-and-twenty, then and there, and the Student had made an absolute botch of things. There was no two-and-twenty to be anticipated here. The Administrator had come to condemn a bond-involuntary to death by torture, and all because Andrej Koscuisko had heard the wrong thing at the wrong time, and seen through to the heart of the deception.