Hour of Judgement

by Susan R. Matthews

  Captain Lowden had said something. And it had to do with a crozer-hinge, or why else would he have thought he caught the tail end of the thought just at the moment he’d realized that Hanner hadn’t got one?

  Captain Lowden wouldn’t know about a crozer-hinge one way or the other. He was going to be in trouble with Captain Lowden. He’d had his instructions. And Lowden was going to be almost equally happy with losing his victim as with being exposed in front of the people who’d been there as a bit too quick to condemn a man as guilty of a crime which it was physically impossible for him to have committed. Captain Lowden’s self-love would smart at the idea.

  The Bench specialist, Garol Vogel, he was no great problem; because they would probably never see him again. But there had been Security.

  Bond-involuntary Security.

  Lowden was exposed in front of Security, and Lowden would want to soothe his frustrated peevishness by giving Security good reason to forget all about the garden. By reminding Security to live in fear of him. Hadn’t Lowden threatened as much already? If Andrej thought of it —

  The bottle was empty. There was another. Andrej stripped the seals and checked the first mouthful for quality and consistency. Yes, it was wodac all right, and if his judgment did not fail him it was overproof as well. Wodac warmed the blood, and Andrej was hot, even though he still wore his over-blouse open.

  The room was too stuffy, close and confined — that was it. It was the portalume’s fault, undoubtedly, the generator was clearly throwing off too much heat. He could go and tell Security just outside the room, though he wasn’t quite sure if they were there to guard or to prison him. Security were hard to fathom sometimes. It was just the way things were.

  If he tried to go to the door he would know, and he didn’t want to. Andrej opened the window instead, forcing the pane up through rusty tracks to the uttermost reach of his outstretched arms. There. Cool air. Cold air. It was better. There was a very great deal of it, all of a sudden, and Andrej shuddered in the cold, taking a drink of wodac. Wodac would warm him up. What had he been thinking?

  About the garden. Captain Lowden’s humiliation, to have ordered an innocent man to the torture. Lowden’s certain displeasure when he learned how Andrej had put Hanner out of his reach; his probable instinct to punish the Security who had been there to witness the embarrassing lapse.

  Who had been there?

  Vogel, yes, but Vogel was nothing to do with Andrej. Paval I’shenko’s house Security. Some of his Bonds, no, one of his Bonds, and Mister Stildyne?

  One of his Bonds.

  Robert St. Clare.

  The man on whom he had first tried his trick with the crozer-hinge, all those years ago, when Robert had played prisoner-surrogate at Fleet Orientation Station Medical, and Andrej had thought he was a true prisoner.

  Robert St. Clare, and Captain Lowden had made his point very clearly — that Robert had not been at his post when Captain Lowden went out into the garden. Robert, who was hill-country Nurail, who could engage his crozer-hinge to hurl objects with surprising speed and astonishing force. Andrej had seen him. Robert, and the woman was named Megh. Robert had a sister.

  The enormity of the conclusion that presented itself stunned Andrej into half-staggered immobility for a long moment. He almost fell against the sill of the open window; but he caught himself, looking out over the sill to the ground far below. It was a long way. A man wouldn’t like to lose his balance. If he should go through by accident he would have very little chance of catching at the grid of the fire-track to break his fall, and there would be no telling whether a man would even survive.

  Andrej took a drink, shaken at the narrowness of his escape.

  Robert.

  Did the Captain know?

  Was that what the Captain had been saying to him?

  Had Lowden known all along that Skelern Hanner had no part in the crime, and expected that Andrej would take a false confession to protect Robert from the penalty for such a murder?

  Such a thing was horrible. It was unthinkable. But it was Fleet Captain Lowden, to the life.

  Time and again Captain Lowden had pressed him to go back to prisoners who had confessed. Time and again Captain Lowden had pretended to find cause for suspicion where no real cause lay, in order to generate another few eights’ worth of entertainment for himself. Time and again Andrej had bent his neck to the falsehood, and done the deed, and sworn to himself that each was the last time that he would torment some poor creature who should have been allowed to go quickly to death. Time and again. And he whored for Captain Lowden again, every time, and here was where his self-compromise had led him.

  Captain Lowden believed that Andrej would condemn an innocent man to a Tenth Level to spare the life of the guilty man, when the guilty man was one of his people.

  Could he be sure Captain Lowden was wrong, to have made that assumption?

  How could he hope to protect his gentlemen once Captain Lowden heard that Hanner was cleared of all suspicion?

  He would cut Robert’s throat with his own hand, rather than let Robert face such a death. He would murder his man, even though Andrej loved him, or perhaps because Andrej loved him. He could see St. Clare safe from such sanctions, now and forever after, and take such consequences to himself as might be assessed. He could make Robert free.

  But Robert was not the only bond-involuntary on the Ragnarok.

  How could he protect them all?

  Was he to be forced to murder each of them, all of them, every one of them, to put them out of Captain Lowden’s power? Did they all have to die?

  A knock on the door, someone calling out to him. He could make no sense of what they were saying; he called something back by way of reply, and he had no idea what he’d just said, but whatever it was seemed to work for an answer. There was no further inquiry from the other side of the door, one way or the other. Andrej took a drink. This flask was much lighter than the other had been. It was nearly half-empty.

  Trying to murder nine bond-involuntaries would be inefficient.

  All he really needed was one death.

  One murder would do it. One murder — and one particular murder alone — would ensure that Captain Lowden presented no further threat to either Security or to hapless prisoners unlucky enough to be imprisoned pending Charges when the Ragnarok arrived in local space. Only one murder. Obvious.

  And if he did the only-one-murder they could have him for it, and that would be only what he deserved, and not enough of it. He should have known. He had had no right to trade the prolongation of suffering of guilty parties for the security of his gentlemen. It hadn’t been his bargain to make, because the people who paid the price were not even asked for their thoughts in the matter.

  Only one murder.

  Setting the wodac-flask down on the floor Andrej leaned carefully out of the window, trying to decide if the fire-track went all the way down to the alley below.

  Only one murder.

  He had killed so many, and this would be one of the few he had a real right to, even if it would be much more clean and quick than his victim deserved. That didn’t matter.

  All that mattered was to get the man dead, and for that Andrej had to go to the service house. That was where to find his prey. Andrej knew his habits.

  Fortunately — he told himself, with utmost gravity — he was much too drunk to remember that he didn’t like climbing down from high places.

  Carefully Andrej swung his weight over the windowsill. Carefully Andrej found his foothold on the fire-track to climb down out of the building.

  He couldn’t possibly take Security with him.

  They were supposed to see that murder didn’t happen, and that meant that they could only be in his way.

  The fire-track was old, but it held his weight.

  Only one murder.

  It was past time.

  He should have killed Fleet Captain Lowden four years ago, when he’d first realized what Lowden meant to the world. />
  Chapter Nine

  Stildyne had meant to shut Robert up, and he had, well and truly. The closer they got to the hospital the more anxious Stildyne was to arrive. Robert wasn’t just suffering. He wasn’t only in agony. Robert was wrapped six atmospheres deep in frightful torment, unable to move. Unable to speak.

  Stildyne didn’t dare simply cuff him across the back of the head hard enough to deprive him of consciousness. Governors were delicate at times, and making so abrupt a transition from fathomless anguish to the painease of oblivion could do Robert damage. Stildyne dare not risk it.

  He’d seen a bond-involuntary die in overload, once, only once, before Andrej Koscuisko had come to Ragnarok. Captain Lowden had forced Lipkie Bederico into overload. It had been three days before Medical convinced the Captain that there would be no sound or speech from the man ever again.

  Only then had Lowden authorized termination. Only once Captain Lowden had realized that he would have no sport out of pain that extreme.

  Why hadn’t he just knifed the man?

  What had he been thinking?

  No, he knew what he’d been thinking. He’d been thinking that he needed to keep Robert quiet until he could determine whether or not the gardener confessed. If the gardener confessed Robert was safe, except from his governor. If the gardener didn’t, then Koscuisko would want to kill Robert himself.

  Emergency admitting was surprisingly busy. The man who brought the tech team out onto the loading apron to greet them was someone Stildyne had seen before, when he’d come to the hospital looking for Koscuisko and his people. Barit Howe. A man reborn. Garrity and Pyotr got Robert loaded on his back on the mover; and Howe took one look deep into the pupil of Robert’s staring eye and said something surprising.

  “Should have just pulled it way back when,” Doctor Howe swore to the world. “And us not so well equipped. All right, you lot. Through there. Emergency, gross cranial. Damn the officer for being drunk.”

  Whatever this meant to Barit Howe it meant nothing to Stildyne, who followed the mover into emergency and through to the treatment room with Security trailing. “Hey. Wait. Come on.” Doctor Howe had to talk to him, let him know what was happening. Didn’t he? Shouldn’t he?

  The tech snapped the neural cradle into place, and Robert’s body began to relax. But the registers on the diagnostics fluctuated so wildly that they looked random and meaningless. Stildyne tried again. Robert had friends who had a right to know. “Doctor Howe. What’s going on? What’s the matter? Talk to me.”

  Doctor Howe ignored him for long moments, watching diagnostics. Registers rising, and slowly stabilizing. An orderly came in with a fistful of styli, and Doctor Howe put them through one by one. At the throat. At the groin. At the back of Robert’s neck, lifting Robert’s head from the neural cradle.

  Some of the registers started to fall.

  Stildyne could hear Robert breathing now, or half-sobbing, and Robert had been so quiet that Stildyne was glad to hear even the sound of Robert suffering. But Robert shouldn’t be permitted to suffer. Koscuisko wouldn’t like it.

  “Primary failure on governor,” Doctor Howe said, finally, staring out through the open door of the room at Pyotr and the rest of Robert’s team. “Going to terminal. We’re going to have to try for a disconnect. It’s all we can do.”

  The Devil Howe said. “This place rated a neurosurgeon with the specs?” Stildyne demanded. It was up to him to defend Robert’s interest. “I don’t think so, Doctor. You’ll stabilize. And wait for the officer. We’ll pull him out of Inquiry if we have to. He wouldn’t tolerate anyone messing with Robert’s governor but him, if it has to be done.”

  The cold stare Stildyne got from Doctor Howe in response was more than adequate reminder that Howe was a man reborn, and had little use for Chief Warrant Officers. Little cause to consider their words or advice. “Your officer’s out of Inquiry already,” Doctor Howe claimed. Stated flatly. “And under the influence of overproof wodac. I’ve just left the team that’s repairing the man who was being questioned. Koscuisko’s gone to the Port Authority to make things straight, but he’s drinking. He’s unfit. And if we botch it he can blame us.”

  Instead of himself?

  What did Howe mean, out of Inquiry?

  “We can’t let him bide like this; Koscuisko wouldn’t want us to.” Doctor Howe was speaking almost gently, now. “There isn’t a Safe in Burkhayden. We’ve no choice.”

  Stildyne stepped up to the head of the level on which Robert lay, stunned by the magnitude of this disaster. Of his crime. He’d known Robert would suffer. He’d meant to overload Robert’s governor and put him out of the range of coherent communication. He’d never imagined that it would go terminal. What was he to do?

  “And we can’t let Koscuisko try to operate, even if Koscuisko wanted to. Because if the man dies Koscuisko would blame himself, and there’s history between them, in case you didn’t know.”

  Drugs or no drugs Robert’s suffering was terrible to look upon. Stildyne didn’t want to hear about history. He didn’t care about Robert’s history. He’d wanted to save Robert’s life if he could, if he could keep Robert safe. But it wasn’t going to work. He’d made a mistake. He’d killed Robert, wanting to preserve his life. That was what Barit Howe was telling him.

  “You’ve got to make it stop.” Stildyne had no choice but to submit, after all. Doctor Howe had made that clear enough. “I don’t know about history. I only know that Koscuisko loves him.” In Koscuisko’s fashion. And Andrej Koscuisko was a passionate man who loved passionately, even while the affection Koscuisko bore his bond-involuntary troops never seemed to connect with Koscuisko’s sexuality.

  But Stildyne had known all along that Koscuisko loved Robert, and would never love him, so that was nothing new. “And he’s a good troop. And nothing he could ever have done would deserve this. When will we know?”

  If Robert would live.

  Doctor Howe put his hand to Stildyne’s shoulder and pushed him gently out of the room.

  “See to this one,” Doctor Howe advised Pyotr, giving Stildyne a little push — to move him out into the center of the room, Stildyne supposed. “We’ll get started. We’ll know in two eights. Think positive.”

  Koscuisko at the Port Authority, Doctor Howe had said. Stildyne didn’t dare go to the Port Authority now. And he didn’t have the heart to send Security; these were Robert’s team. If the Day dawned for Robert St. Clare in the middle of the night in Port Burkhayden, they should be here when it happened.

  He was to blame for this, and it was a heavier burden than he’d expected. The fact that he’d only meant to hurt Robert, and not to kill him, and for his own good and Koscuisko’s comfort, meant less than nothing.

  Stildyne’s courage failed, and he lacked the strength to send Robert’s teammates away while Robert lay dying, waiting for the knife.

  They would wait together.

  What was he going to tell Andrej Koscuisko?

  ###

  By the time Andrej Koscuisko got to the service house he was almost sober, which he took to be a bad sign. He had completed an Inquiry, he remembered that very clearly; and the only safe thing to be under such circumstances was as drunk as possible, for as long as possible. Mister Stildyne was nowhere to be seen. It could even be that he would find enough wodac to end it all, finally.

  The doors to the service house had been forced open by crowds of revelers in the street, intent on alcohol and fearless of the Port Authority. If the Port Authority had any sense they would stay well clear of the service house, and Andrej certainly saw no Security he could recognize as such.

  The lights from the service house were brilliant compared to the greater blackout in Port Burkhayden, but not all so very bright except in relative terms; auxiliary power was limited by definition. Andrej made his way through the streets that were increasingly crowded as he neared his goal, pausing only when invited to take a swallow from someone’s flask. Polite people, the Burkhayden Nurail.
Hospitable. Generous. He wondered if they would be as inclined to share their liquor with him had they recognized him for who — and what — he was.

  Nobody did. It was unnerving, being out under sky, let alone without Security; but in the dark obscurity of the streets his uniform, blouse undone and collar loosened, went unremarked upon, and Andrej felt truly anonymous. It was tremendously liberating. But he was still drunk.

  Struggling up the shallow flight of stairs he shouldered his way into the service house, his mind fixed on his goal. Ignoring the indignant shoves of people he displaced. Not hearing jeers from men more drunk than he, about young gentlemen who were in too much hurry to match threads in a weave to take a neighborly sup with honest men. It was less crowded inside the service house, but hardly less chaotic, and Andrej wandered toward the back of the house for some moments, looking for the housemaster.

  Nowhere to be seen.

  There was a floor manager within reach, though, hurrying from the kitchen out toward one main salon with a box of panlin tucked under one arm and a crisp white linen towel flung over his shoulder. A floor manager would do in the absence of the house-master. Andrej didn’t need to keep him for very long.

  Reaching out for the floor manager’s arm as he hurried past, Andrej caught him at the crook of the elbow. The floor manager spun round to face Andrej, coming near full circle of his own momentum, stopping himself from knocking headlong into Andrej just barely in time. “Ah — ”

  A muted cry of frustration and surprise. Andrej wasn’t interested in making conversation with the man. It was dark in the main hall with only the auxiliary lights to go by, and in the uncertain shadows the expression on the floor manager’s face was unpleasantly haughty.

  So Andrej spoke first.

  He was the senior officer.

  People were expected to listen for his word and perform his will without sneering at him, no matter how disarranged his clothing might have become in shimmying down a fire-track five stories to the alley, no matter if his face had got dirty when he’d taken a fall. No matter if his under-blouse was soiled with dried blood. Hanner’s dried blood. Andrej didn’t want to think about Hanner; he’d probably brutalized the man. No. Where was to drink?