“Wrongful imprisonment cannot be cried against the Writ, because the Inquisitor does not bind into confinement but only enters into the Judicial process when a suspect has been apprehended.” Koscuisko was obviously of a mind to be thorough about it, since he had been asked. “Loss of function cannot be cried against the Writ, because the Inquisitor would not be free to perform his Judicial function without fear of repercussions, and one cannot be penalized for performing one’s Judicial function. For the same reasons loss of life cannot be cried against the Writ. Loss of personal or real property cannot be cried against the Writ, because the Bench does not apprehend without reason . . . ”
Turning around now in his seat, Tutor Chonis regarded Koscuisko with a benevolent eye. It was always gratifying to have one’s mental image confirmed. Student Koscuisko was sitting with his legs crossed and one elbow on the study table, marking off points one by one on the fingers of his left hand; precisely as Tutor Chonis had imagined him.
“ . . . and the integrity of the Jurisdiction is considered to be resident in the Writ. Judicial discrimination may not be questioned in Judicial process. Loss of privacy cannot be cried against the Writ — ”
Tutor Chonis held up his hand and Koscuisko fell silent, folding his itemized fingers into a pensive fist. “Thank you, Student Koscuisko. Well. You have made it quite clear that you are both thoroughly familiar with the philosophy and the crucial legalities that justify, or I should say mandate, your Writ.”
Not to mention keenly aware of how useful a Writ could be to an ambitious administrator like First Secretary Verlaine. What had put the idea in Verlaine’s mind at the beginning was anyone’s guess; all Tutor Chonis really knew for certain about it was that Verlaine had been pulling strings, trading favors, cashing in tokens with reckless abandon over the past two years in his campaign to get Student Noycannir admitted.
Verlaine didn’t want an Inquisitor on loan from Fleet who would necessarily have divided loyalties. Verlaine felt Fleet could have more Inquisitors at much less expense if it waived its requirement for Bench medical certifications. Student Noycannir was here to prove that point.
If the First Secretary had his way, there’d be Inquisitors at each Bench center, for each circuit, and for each Judicial processing center — all in support of the Judicial order, of course.
And only incidentally to the detriment of the political power of the Fleet, which had up until now maintained an unchallenged monopoly over the Writ and the lawful exercise of coercive and punitive physical force.
“I have reviewed your progress with the Administrator, who has expressed very great satisfaction with your mastery of the material to date. It has therefore been decided that the scheduled week of assurance iterations will be waived. We are permitted to move directly to the next block of instruction.”
Insult 101, as Tutor Jestra had been wont to call it. The Preliminary Levels of the Question started with hearing a confession out and ran through assisted inquiry — which was the maximum degree of violence that could be invoked without a Warrant. Inquisitors were seldom disciplined for violating restrictions, though, since superior officers were generally willing to overlook such lapses as long as they didn’t have to look too closely at what was happening in the first place.
To Orientation Station staff, assisted inquiry seemed so benign compared to the Intermediate or Advanced Levels that as far as Tutor Chonis was concerned it did in fact amount to little more than calling a person names.
The prospect of their first practical exercise generally affected the students somewhat more dramatically. Chonis checked the reactions to his surprise: Student Noycannir froze up in her seat whenever she felt threatened, yes, just like that. Student Koscuisko straightened up in his seat, leaning over the table and staring at the carefully replicated artificial grain of Chonis’s semi-veneer wall-covering as if there was a text to be read there.
“The Administrator has asked me to declare an extra half of personal time, in token of his appreciation for your accomplishments. Please prepare the material issued for first lecture, Segment Two, the Preliminary Levels. We will start first thing in the morning. Thank you, Student Noycannir, Student Koscuisko.”
Fortunately by this time Students were accustomed to spending their personal time alone with only their bond-involuntary Security for company. The Administration took steps with every class to ensure that Students were isolated from each other to the maximum extent possible; training was much more efficient if Students were utterly dependent on their Tutors for approval and validation.
Now, for instance, if Students were permitted to meet and compare notes, they might conceivably recognize the schedule shift for the simple psychological trick that it was. There was no time allowance for assurance iteration.
There never had been.
Every Term it appeared on the schedule, to give the Students the false sense of temporary security that a weeklong buffer between pure theory and the first messy — clumsy — practical exercise could provide.
And every Term Students were moved straight into Preliminary, to keep them off balance and insecure and so eager for reassurance — for official approbation — that they would be willing to beat some helpless stranger with their bare hands just to get a word of praise from their Tutor.
“We start tomorrow with first-lecture, usual time. And then we’ll move to theater in a few days.” They needed some extra nudging to get them up and out of his office. “Your first exercise is scheduled for today week. We’ll review some of the previous exercises to help you prepare prior to the practicum. Enjoy your free time. Good-shift to you, Students.”
Koscuisko shook his head just a fraction, as if breaking himself out of his immobility, and started to rise. The moment Koscuisko began to shift, Noycannir was out of her chair smoothly and swiftly, unwilling — as always — to see him get one step ahead of her in anything. Tomorrow, Students, Chonis promised them in his mind, watching them take their confusion out of his office. Tomorrow we will begin to test your mettle.
And in the meantime?
In the meantime reports from the assigned Security troops usually proved amusing, as each Student sought to find some psychic balance after the unexpected shock.
The door slid together behind Koscuisko’s back, and Tutor Chonis leaned back in his chair and smiled.
###
It had been a week since the Tutor’s traditional trick of moving the Students straight into preparation for their first practical exercise. Joslire had taken his officer through the evening drill; now Koscuisko was relaxing with his rubdown, quite possibly thinking of nothing more than his supper to come.
Koscuisko seemed to be relaxed enough.
Lying on his belly with his arms folded under his head, Koscuisko nuzzled his chin into his fist like a blissfully happy young animal, making undefined sounds of contentment. Joslire suppressed his involuntary grin of amused recognition. Yes, that muscle had pulled tense during today’s training; and yes, it did feel good, when it surrendered up its tension to an expert hand. And if he was not an expert hand, at least Joslire was good enough by this time to tend to Koscuisko’s relatively minor aches and pains to his satisfaction.
He’d had Students both more and less athletic than this one in the past, but none who accepted the requirement for exercise with so good a grace. Stiff, sore, and grumbling strictly to himself, Koscuisko never hinted at avoiding practice or suggested cutting it short, except in carefully qualified jest. That made things easier for everybody. Joslire was grateful to his Student for the grace with which Koscuisko took direction; it made living with his governor much easier. He was adequately confident of his own ability to discriminate between being sworn at in the line of duty and being sworn at because he wasn’t doing his duty; but the possibility of confusion arising was an unpleasant one.
The more perplexing problem remained that Koscuisko seemed to take all of Fleet Orientation — physical exercise and soon-to-be-intensified combat drill ali
ke — as some sort of an amusement, or a joke. Koscuisko was younger than his years, there was that. The Aznir stayed children for longer than the Emandisan did, Aznir lived longer than Emandisan, and Joslire had told himself he could have expected Koscuisko’s attitude to retain some of the blithe, carefree flavor of a privileged childhood even after years of medical school.
He was finished with the strained back muscle. Koscuisko let one arm drop over the edge of the rub-table, pillowing his cheek against the flattened back of his other hand — and grinning like an infant with never a care in the world. Except Joslire could feel the base tension in Koscuisko’s body had yet to yield to massage. Koscuisko kept his nerves to himself. All Joslire could tell the Tutor about Koscuisko’s state of mind was what little he could gain from observation and inference. The muscles in Koscuisko’s sturdy shoulders could no longer be persuaded to relax as completely as they had during the first weeks, even allowing for improved muscle tone. Koscuisko was tense; but that was hardly news, not with the practical exercise scheduled for first thing next first-shift. In the morning. There was nothing new there to tell Tutor Chonis.
Working his Student’s feet, Joslire pondered his problem. Bond-involuntaries who wanted to stay out of trouble kept their mouths shut, so as to avoid giving their governors or their Students cause to discipline them. Joslire desperately wanted to stay out of trouble. But part of his job was to keep Tutor Chonis up to date on what was going on in Koscuisko’s head. Bond-involuntaries learned early on that their best protection was to perfect their duty, gaining a measure of immunity from their governors’ strict censorship by maintaining unchallengeably correct thought and conduct. And Tutor Chonis had gone an extra pace for him before.
“With the officer’s permission . . . ”
Koscuisko grunted inquiringly in response, sounding half asleep. A good start, Joslire decided, and was encouraged to go on.
“The First Level exercise is tomorrow, as the officer will remember. In the past other Students have shared comments of one sort or another. It has often seemed to help to put things in perspective.”
How do you feel? What do you feel? What are you thinking? What is on your mind?
“Hmm. Well. I feel that Jurisdiction wodac is not of the best quality, which is not surprising. And that the instructional material is badly in need of a technical update, in places.”
Not precisely what Joslire had in mind, but there was no way in which he could question more directly — not and keep peace with the governor that the Bench had spliced into the pain linkages in his brain. Joslire stepped back half a pace. “If the officer would care to turn onto his back.”
Koscuisko didn’t mind being uncovered. Aznir Dolgorukij didn’t seem to have privacy taboos about masculine nudity, at least not among men of the same age; though from what Joslire had read about Koscuisko’s ethnicity, relative age made all the difference. There was a Jurisdiction Standard for personal modesty, though, as much a part of the common language as the grammar was. Koscuisko would be expected to conform to those standards once he reached Scylla. It was up to Joslire to instruct him by example. Joslire laid a clean towel across Koscuisko’s lap and began to address the upper part of Koscuisko’s right knee, where yesterday’s training bruise was just beginning to mellow to a rich gold-and-purple blotch around the joint.
And after a moment Koscuisko spoke again.
“What is the manner in which an Emandisan frees himself from error, if he has sinned? Is there such a need in your birth-culture?”
It didn’t seem to be related to the issue Joslire had raised, but there was no telling. Chonis had commented on Koscuisko’s effective — but sometimes disconcerting — tendency to come at a question from an angle that was itself part of his answer to whatever problem.
He wasn’t eager to answer all the same; such issues weren’t widely discussed among free Emandisan, let alone enslaved ones. Of which latter category he was the only one he knew. He hadn’t wanted to tell Student Pefisct what his crime had been, either, since it wasn’t information he was required to surrender, on demand; but Student Pefisct had gotten it out of him at the last, when his enforced submission had come too late to do him any good. Joslire decided that he couldn’t face the memory of his last attempt at serious reticence. It would be easier to capitulate to Koscuisko’s casually phrased demand.
“If it please the officer, there is only . . . disrespect. Of steel.” He wasn’t sure how to say it and be faithful. It didn’t translate very well; he’d never tried to put it into Standard before. Perhaps he’d been lucky that his other Students hadn’t been curious about his five-knives. Joslire could imagine no worse torment than to be constrained to discuss what Emandisan steel meant to an Emandisan.
Koscuisko didn’t seem to be disturbed at the vagueness of Joslire’s response. Koscuisko stretched, yawning, and folded his wrists behind his head, staring up at the low gray ceiling of the cool room reflectively.
“You make it sound quite simple. Is something the matter, Joslire?”
Yes. He’d been thinking about Student Pefisct. Joslire ducked his head to obscure his confusion, following a line of muscle down the outside edge of Koscuisko’s shin with the hard knuckle of his thumb. “It never is as simple as it sounds. With the officer’s permission.”
“There is more truth than comfort there, however.” Koscuisko did not seem to suspect any hidden thought, apparently content to follow his own stream to the rock. “Where I am at home, there are three great sins, and all others relate to one or more of them in some way. But none are unforgivable except the three most grievous ones.”
What three great sins were those? Joslire wondered. He had done all he could with Koscuisko’s knee. Moving around to stand at the head of the rub-table, Joslire began to finish on Koscuisko’s shoulders, listening to his Student talk.
“And the first, perhaps the most difficult thing, is that you must confess yourself, or never hope to be forgiven. This is very annoying, Joslire. One would think that if the whole world knew that one had spoken with disrespect about one’s elder brother or one’s uncle that it would be enough to have one’s penance decided and made known to one, and be done with it.”
This was good. This was the sort of thing that he had been hoping for when he had asked the question. There was every reason to expect that Tutor Chonis would be able to explain what Koscuisko had been getting at, when the time came to give Chonis his report.
“But one would be mistaken. There can be no reconciliation without repentance, and there can be no repentance without acknowledgment of fault, and there can be no acknowledgment of fault without individual confession. I wonder how different it can be when all is said and sung, Joslire.”
Maybe it wasn’t all that different at that. The Jurisdiction required punishment before setting the Record to null, and declined to apply any of the agony that could lawfully be invoked to force confession against the penalty to be assessed.
So Student Koscuisko saw a connection there, and seemed to take comfort from it.
Joslire lifted Koscuisko’s head between his two hands to work the neck back to the relaxed range of supple motion that was normal for his Student.
Somehow he could not quite believe that the two parallels were really so simply aligned as that.
###
It’d been harder than mastering any of the technical material, Andrej remembered that very clearly. With the possible exception of some of the more arcane degenerative diseases among category-four hominids, nothing had been as difficult as learning to take a patient history; and he’d been too grateful for his teachers’ praise when he finally began to demonstrate some skill to worry too much about what that struggle had said about him.
All of his life he had asked whichever question he liked, never needing to consider whether the answer would be readily forthcoming — or accurate, when it did come. All of his life, the function of language had been to communicate his desires for the understanding and instruction o
f others around him. There were exceptions, of course; the language of holy service was humble and petitioning enough. It was also formalized by centuries of devout practice, and no longer really signified.
But in order to take a good and useful medical history from a patient already ill and not in the most conciliatory mood because of it — that required he learn to ask. To submerge any hint of personal frustration beneath a sincere and, yes, humble desire to know. To set the patient at the very center of the Holy Mother’s creation, to listen with every combined power at his disposal, to subordinate everything he was and everything he knew absolutely to whatever unsatisfactory and imperfect responses his patient would condescend to give.
There’d been times when he had despaired of ever attaining the art. There had certainly been times when his teachers had despaired of him. He’d been counseled by the Administration on more than one occasion to consider abandoning his goal in favor of a technical certification that would require no patient contact whatever, and he’d seriously considered doing just that; but he kept on trying. Graduation with full certification from Mayon Surgical College required demonstrated ability to develop a complete and accurate patient history, one-on-one — on an equal, not autocratic, footing with each patient who came under care.
Now Andrej sat in a padded armchair in the middle of the exercise theater, thinking about these things. The theater and the chair that was provided, he’d seen before; if not this precise theater, then others much like it, as Tutor Chonis reviewed paradigmatic exercises with them during their initial study. There was a door to the right through which the prisoner would enter. There was a table at his left, sturdy enough to support the body of an adult of most of the hominid categories, high enough for him to work at without tiring. Only his rhyti stood on that table now; his rhyti, and the Record. They’d add things gradually as they went along — instruments of Inquiry, then Confirmation, finally instruments of Execution, and there would be a side table for the Recorder.
An Exchange of Hostages Page 5
