Prisoner of Conscience

by Susan R. Matthews

  It stretched the imagination a little past its point of maximum flexibility to imagine anyone substituting themselves for a prisoner from Limited Secure. Those were political prisoners, and destined to stand the Question from the start. One way or another, though, Caleigh reminded herself, it was First Officer’s problem, and not hers.

  Captain Vopalar nodded to First Officer as Koscuisko entered, rising to her feet as the First Officer spoke. Once it was clear that First Officer had finished his thought, Koscuisko bowed, making his salute.

  “Bench Captain Vopalar. I report, according to her Excellency’s good pleasure.”

  Captain Vopalar received his salute with a curt inclination of her head, gesturing to Caleigh to follow Koscuisko in and shut the door behind her. Not a good sign, all in all.

  “Yes, Koscuisko, I want to check with you about something, some misunderstanding, I’m sure. There’s a rumor of some sort going around to the effect that you found a prisoner you felt to have been abused outside of Protocols, and that you summarily excused him without prejudice.”

  Koscuisko would probably have protested that there was no such rumor as such, that it was fact; but Vopalar didn’t give him the opening.

  “But that would be inconsistent. It’s hard to imagine a ranking officer taking such a high-handed approach without at least thinking about how it was going to look. There could easily be an interpretation made that you felt our First Officer was a party to Judicial violations, at least passively. I can’t imagine why you’d want to do any such thing without letting us know. I’d like an explanation of this rumor, Koscuisko.”

  So far, so good. Vopalar put her case strong and fairly, setting the issues out where even a very naive and thickheaded young officer would be able to see them all too clearly. On the other hand, there was absolutely nothing Koscuisko could say for himself unless he was going to prevaricate. Koscuisko would on occasion interpret the truth in a creative manner to get someone off the hook for some minor lapse or another, but Caleigh Samons had never known him to lie.

  “I am. Surprised. That such an interpretation might be put on it, your Excellency,” Koscuisko said. He sounded surprised, too. “But I must first confess myself, and then hope my actions may be leniently judged. There was a prisoner who had been abused outside of Protocol. The key-man had no information that would indicate any Dramissoi Fleet resource had anything to do with the matter. And I have logged release without prejudice for this prisoner, and spent these hours past addressing his wounds. Had I known you wished to see me, Captain, I would have come sooner.”

  She waved this off with casual goodwill, which Samons hoped would not disarm the officer. “No, no, Samons was told to find you and bring you when you were finished with whatever. But tell me. Doctor. What do you think having done what you did says to the world about the honor of the Dramissoi Relocation Fleet? You’ve accused us of abuse of prisoners, we’re convicted without even a chance to make an investigation. I think I take that personally. You son of a bitch.”

  Captain Vopalar sat down. For all the venom in her language her face was relatively clear; she seemed calm enough. She was willing to give Koscuisko a chance to recognize his mistake, and her officers — seated against the wall — would take their cue from her. Caleigh hoped that Koscuisko would make the right choice when he opened his mouth.

  “To the contrary, Captain, with your permission. To have hesitated one moment would have been to suspect that the Dramissoi Fleet was corrupt in some way. To take immediate action was only possible because there was no danger of compromising any of the First Officer’s people, your Excellency. The Dramissoi Fleet would not for a moment tolerate such abuse. Surely that is the message to be taken by its disposition of a prisoner found to have been improperly handled.”

  Captain Vopalar stared at Koscuisko for a long moment, as if wondering whether he was being honest or insolent.

  The moment stretched.

  “And of a truth,” Koscuisko added, slowly, reluctant to expose himself to rebuke but clearly aware that he’d better come clean. “Of a truth I did not for a moment consider the potential for the interpretation that you have suggested, Captain Vopalar. The man had been savaged. He had earned a full clearance. I thought no further.”

  Vopalar glanced over to her officers, clearly soliciting reaction; the First Officer spoke. To Caleigh he sounded almost more exasperated than angry. Of course Koscuisko’s action was more potentially compromising to Captain Vopalar than to the First Officer.

  “So someone got knocked around a bit, Koscuisko. You know better than anyone that he was only going to get more of the same in Inquiry, what was the critical issue? Prisoners are abused outside of Protocol all the time, and no harm done to the Judicial order.”

  Not where Andrej Koscuisko could do anything about it, they weren’t. But Koscuisko prudently bit back the rejoinder Caleigh knew to have been on the tip of his tongue and answered the reproach mildly and reasonably.

  “He was much more than merely knocked around, with respect, First Officer. Someone had laid him open from neck to thigh with a peony or something very like it, and burned his hands and feet and genitals as well. We are not talking any spontaneous roughhousing here, and it far exceeded what the Protocols prescribe for the Preliminary Levels.”

  Koscuisko turned his attention back to Captain Vopalar, who had sat back in her chair to listen as Koscuisko continued. This was new information, it seemed. Caleigh felt hopeful. “If my professional judgment were to be solicited, I would have no hesitation in calling it a solid start on a Ninth Level. Except that there were no Charges recorded. There is no excuse for it.”

  Koscuisko was getting a little emotional there, toward the end. A little too absolute. Caleigh frowned, willing her officer in her mind to be sensitive to the currents around him.

  “Prisoners are the First Officer’s responsibility, Koscuisko.” All the same, Captain Vopalar seemed to have made up her mind in Koscuisko’s favor. “I’m sorry it didn’t occur to you to let the First Officer be the one to log your discovery. Makes us look bad, no matter how you choose to interpret it. I don’t expect you to take things into your own hands this way. I require you to observe your chain of command, and if you just didn’t think about the consequences, maybe you should be sure you think things through in the future. You understand?”

  It was a fairly mild reprimand, considering. Koscuisko would have a hard time swallowing the idea of going through channels where a clear injustice was concerned; but Captain Vopalar had a right to demand he behave like a subordinate officer, since he was one. He’d know that. Caleigh hoped.

  “As Command instruction I receive and comply with this direction, your Excellency.” Stiff and stubborn. They’d know he was angry, but that wouldn’t hurt. They would expect at least that much. “First Officer, that I exceeded my authority, I must to you apologize. There was no intent to create an unfortunate appearance. But I should perhaps have guessed that such might happen still.”

  “Shouldn’t happen again, Koscuisko,” First Officer agreed, without rancor. “I’ll detail an officer to accompany you on rounds from now on, just to be sure you can reach me at a moment’s notice. I’m satisfied, your Excellency. No harm done.”

  They’d put a watch on Koscuisko, to be sure he didn’t take it into his head to exercise his Bench authority without prior clearance again. But that was all right. In point of fact she liked Koscuisko, she respected his ability and his instinct, but his judgment was subject to occasional lapses. It wouldn’t hurt to have someone there whose presence would remind him to stop and think things through a bit more thoroughly.

  “Dismiss, then, First Officer. Doctor Clontosh, make sure that Koscuisko has no cause to complain of the treatment his patient gets in hospital, goodnight. Koscuisko, stand by.”

  The First Officer and Doctor Clontosh left the room in silence, and Caleigh thought that both of them looked a little relieved. Koscuisko had not relaxed, however. Koscuisko knew better th
an that.

  Once the door was closed again behind them, Captain Vopalar spoke.

  “Koscuisko. There are five bond-involuntary Security troops in the corridor outside. You may have noticed them when you came in.”

  It would have been difficult not to. Koscuisko waited, without replying to this obvious statement.

  “You’re outside the scope of most forms of discipline, which is too bad, because you need discipline. Tell you what. You ever. Forget your place like that, again. And I’ll find discipline that is within my scope, except it won’t be your back, which needs it, but one of those Bonds outside. Because I can’t have your hide, but I can have theirs. This is the way it’s got to be, Koscuisko. Get used to it.”

  Captain Vopalar was right, too. She could invoke sanctions against Koscuisko’s bond-involuntaries that would be unthinkable in the context of disciplining an officer. Koscuisko seemed to rock back on his heels, fractionally, in obvious shock at what she was suggesting.

  “Captain Vopalar, they have no recourse, how can you think to punish them — ”

  “Not them, Koscuisko,” the Captain interrupted. “You. Make no mistake, if I invoke six-and-sixty against any of those people it will be only because I think you need discipline. From your behavior today that’s the only way I can be sure of getting your attention.” She held his gaze for a long breath, as if to be sure that her statement received the appropriate emphasis.

  And then she looked past Koscuisko to where Caleigh Samons stood at command-wait. “Miss Samons, why hasn’t Fleet Captain Irshah Parmin killed this young officer yet?”

  This was a clear attempt to lighten the atmosphere once the point had been made. It was also an interesting question. “It’s not for me to say, your Excellency.” Which was perfectly true. “With respect, he’s never found it necessary to invoke sanctions. I’m sure you’ll find no further fault with the officer’s behavior, Captain Vopalar.”

  She didn’t think Sinjosi Vopalar would take that approach with Koscuisko unless really pressed to it. Captain Vopalar sighed, and seemed to relax a little. “There’s the problem with pretending people like you have any business exercising authority, Koscuisko. Fleet’s given you the rank. But you don’t have the authority. Because you clearly aren’t competent to exercise it at this level, but we’re stuck with you. Don’t take any drastic actions. I don’t want to flay your Security any more than you want them flayed. But I won’t tolerate insubordination. And that includes taking actions without keeping your chain of command informed.”

  As deeply offended as Andrej Koscuisko was likely to be by this, Caleigh Samons thought Captain Vopalar had a point. Koscuisko had rank without having been promoted to it; he hadn’t spent years in Fleet learning to watch out for pits of the sort he’d just fallen into. Maybe that was why Irshah Parmin hadn’t killed him.

  “Even as you say, Bench Captain.” Yes, Koscuisko was offended and angry. But Koscuisko was capable of demonstrating sense and discretion. “If we may be excused.”

  Koscuisko didn’t understand how much he was excused by Fleet, in respect for his difficult position. On the other hand, Koscuisko earned those indulgences every time he went to implement the Protocols.

  “Get out,” the Captain agreed, with no further anger in her voice. “And take those miserable Bonds of yours with you. I hope not to have to speak to you again, either of you.”

  For a moment Caleigh could hear Koscuisko’s acid “The feeling is entirely mutual” so clearly that she was afraid he’d actually said it.

  But the moment passed.

  Koscuisko had got through this better than Caleigh had expected.

  Now all she wanted to do was to get him and his bond-involuntaries back to quarters and lock them all safely behind doors till morning came.

  Chapter Three

  The Domitt Prison stood on the rising ground above Port Rudistal, looking down on what had recently been a quiet port city distinguished only by its relative squalor and its Nurail population — which was redundant, in a way. Sentish had traded profitably with Nurail and Pyana alike for generations, true. Still, tolerating a Nurail population could only contribute to a progressive failure of civic hygiene.

  The Domitt Prison stood apart.

  Almost a year had passed since Administrator Geltoi had received his commission and arrived here in Port Rudistal with a Pyana construction crew and a line of credit against Chilleau Judiciary for the construction of a processing facility to serve the relocation camp that the Second Judge intended to establish on the other side of the river. There had been few Nurail available to him in Rudistal at that time; it had been before the refugee parties had begun to pick up, to be intercepted and shunted into his keeping.

  Now that the last of the morning fog had finally burned off, Port Rudistal shone beneath the crisp cold rays of the autumnal sun, its peaked black rooftops glittering with dew. Administrator Geltoi — supreme authority under Jurisdiction at the Domitt Prison — looked out of his office windows over the city, toward the relocation camp across the river; and sang a bit of a traditional tune over to himself, absent-mindedly.

  “Your grazing animals are my meat, your children are my cattle, you I spare to dung my fields, the Pyana triumphs over you.”

  It was an old song. Administrator Geltoi paid little attention to the actual words, lost in pleasant meditation on the general gist of it. Nurail and Pyana had clashed for generations, because Nurail did not know their place and would not learn it. The scorn of the Nurail had been directed against defeated Pyana in song after song, insolent tunes and contemptuous melodies; that was all over now.

  A signal at the door to his office reminded Geltoi that he was expecting Merig Belan for a tour of the penthouse, to make sure for himself that everything was in order to receive the Writ. Turning from the windows, Geltoi touched the admit, not bothering to raise his voice for so inconsequential a person as Belan.

  “Good-greeting, Administrator.” The assistant administrator was Nurail, and grinned a good deal to demonstrate his approval and acceptance of the new situation in which he found himself. Geltoi bore no grudge against Belan for his blood, though it was true that Belan was a Sarci name, and the Sarci Nurail had been with the Wai during the successful defense of Port Mardisk — in which Geltoi’s own family had met an undeserved and ignominious defeat.

  That had been a long time ago, though the songs were still popular amongst the Nurail. Belan was a good Nurail, one of the decent Nurail. Belan knew how to behave in the presence of his betters.

  “Good-greeting indeed, Merig. Is the car ready? Let’s go.”

  He already knew the car was ready. He’d seen it approaching on the track between the containment wall and the administration building. It was a standard administrative official’s touring car; passenger cabin, retractable roof, the driver’s well separated by a privacy barrier, six Security posts alongside on the running boards. It had been an acceptable vehicle for his use for these past months.

  His status had changed, though.

  The prison was to be fully operational at last, with legal authority to produce admissible evidence — authority that resided in the Writ to Inquire, and the person who held it.

  He wanted something new that would reflect his more exalted position. Something to inspire the respect that he deserved: a senior officer’s touring car, fully rated against assault with incendiary and impact projectiles to three thousand impact units and the melting point of stalloy.

  He’d had no unrest that slaughter or starvation had not served to easily contain to date: but Geltoi took no chances. His life was a valuable asset to Chilleau Judiciary and to the Bench. His duty clearly called for him to protect that life as best he could.

  “Ready and waiting, Administrator,” Belan said, but Geltoi was already halfway across the room. Belan hurried to catch up; the sound of his heavy breathing amused Geltoi. “There’s a delivery coming, sir, seventeen ships cleared by the Port Authority to your custody. Two hundred
and thirty-four souls.”

  Once the Dramissoi Fleet arrived his supply of replacement workers would logically start to diminish; the Port Authority would be forced to process them through the displacement camp, rather than the Domitt Prison. He would have to shepherd his resources wisely. Two hundred and thirty-four souls? Excellent. He had plenty for them to do.

  The lift at the far end of the corridor was waiting, properly attended by the day-watchman, who bowed respectfully to the Administrator as he stepped into the lift. The day-watchman was Sentish, not Pyana, but he knew his place. It was gratifying to receive such marks of submission from Sentish now that the Pyana had triumphed at last — even if they’d had to cry to Jurisdiction in order to do so.

  Administrator Geltoi paused once he stepped out of the building, taking a moment to savor the air and the beautiful bright morning. The breeze from the river came up through the town with news of the wealth of the water and the kinds of things people ate for fast-meal here in Port Rudistal, and swept any lingering unpleasantness that might still have shadowed beneath his fortress walls safely away from any conscious perception.

  It had been nearly two months, now.

  Within a few more weeks the accelerant would have done its work, and there would be no hint of rotting flesh in the air to disturb the senses; nor any distinguishing the bones from those of Nurail who had died of quite natural causes years and years and years gone by, Standard.

  “Administrator?” Belan prompted, sounding confused and a little uncomfortable. It amused Geltoi to note how nervous Belan still was of the filled-in pit where the construction crane had anchored, where they’d buried their mutineers. Belan had weak nerves.

  Descending the steps without bothering to reply, Geltoi stepped into the passenger compartment of his touring car, settling himself against the deep blue cushions. Belan followed him meekly and pulled the door to; and the touring car swung away from the apron in front of the administration building for the prison proper.