It took practice to handle the driver, and not do oneself an injury. Koscuisko had worked St. Clare with the handshake: less lethal a whip, less dangerous a weapon, less of a challenge.
The prisoner had still not answered, and Koscuisko seemed to grimace to himself. His voice was clear and neutral, though, showing no trace of the tension Tutor Chonis was certain that Koscuisko must be suffering.
“Gentlemen, be so good as to escort my client to the wall.” Handing the driver off to the Bigelblu — Cay Federsmengdhyu, if Tutor Chonis had all the syllables right in memory — Koscuisko picked up a loosely gathered bunch of restraints in its stead.
Oh, really? Chonis thought, intrigued. Trefold shackles? This was interesting. A little unusual. Students were generally anxious to get right into the middle of the Protocols, get things over with. Koscuisko was making a slow start of it, but it didn’t seem to be discomfort or reluctance so much as deliberation on distinct and possibly unrelated subjects.
Trefold shackles were useful, but they were considered to fall into the category of mere restraint. Koscuisko surely knew that he was expected to use far sterner measures before his exercise could be considered to be complete. Koscuisko used the restraints to bind his prisoner — a thin Chigan of middling age, barefoot, skinny — in a kneeling position facing the wall, with the loop that passed around the Chigan’s throat caught tightly around ankle and wrist bonds to ensure that any deviation from correct posture would result in an unpleasantly cumulative constriction of the airway. Straightening up, now, with what might almost have been a steadying gesture of some sort on the prisoner’s shoulder, Koscuisko beckoned to the Bigelblu. Chonis began to have an idea of where Koscuisko was headed with this.
“You have been referred to me on Charges to be Confirmed at the Sixth Level of Inquiry. It is yours to decline to speak. I, on the other hand, am expected to convince you to do so. Gentlemen, I require instruction, can one of you assist me in this practice?”
He was such a polite little bastard; Chonis couldn’t help but smile at him. Polite, submissive, tamed — and obvious. Practicing for the discipline that he would be required to administer to St. Clare. The driver, when properly handled to avoid contact between the snapper-end and living flesh, was the fastest — most practical, even most conservative — way in which to administer two-and-twenty, three-and-thirty, four-and-forty of any of the whips from which Koscuisko would be required to chose. Had Koscuisko had words with Joslire Curran on the subject?
Chonis made a decision, keying his override. “Please stand by, the Inquiry. Assistance to be forthcoming.”
Actually it was probably Vanot who was the best for the instruction Koscuisko was requesting. He could have Vanot on site within a matter of moments. “Instruction to be provided at Student Koscuisko’s request. You may proceed with your Inquiry as you like.”
The fact that Koscuisko might already have met the formidable Vanot would surely not interfere with his training. For one thing, Koscuisko had discipline. And for another, Curran had seen to it that the lights had been so low, the hush-noise level so high, that Chonis had been unable to identify more than one of Koscuisko’s sparring partners from the night before.
Of course, he hadn’t needed to recognize more than the one of them.
If the Station Provost Marshall chose to engage Student Inquisitors for her recreation, it was certainly not Tutor Chonis’s place to question her about it.
###
Andrej wasn’t quite sure whether Tutor Chonis’s interruption was welcome, because it meant another few moments before he had to begin in earnest; or unwelcome, because it meant another few moments before he could begin — and he could not complete the exercise until he had begun it.
He took advantage of the temporary suspension of the exercise to recheck the trefold shackles, easing the ligature at the prisoner’s throat, loosening the cord that bound the man’s ankles together by as much slack as reasonably possible. He was going to practice how to use the driver; he needed a still target.
But he did not like to touch the man. The prisoner was thin and dirty and unprepossessing, and the Administration expected Andrej to do unspeakable things to that captive body. He had to separate himself from his sense of the fragility of bone and blood. If he could only manage to ignore that this Chigan felt and suffered, perhaps the thing would not come upon him again this time.
The sound of the entry-tone at secured access was a welcome distraction from his apprehensive brooding. Andrej straightened and stood away from the wall, eyeing the entrance expectantly. A Security expert sent by Tutor Chonis to provide instruction — they’d had some basic orientation, true, but it had been clear to Andrej from the moment he’d struck St. Clare the first time that there was considerably more to the successful exercise of a whip than seemed obvious.
The Security troop was Station Security, but seemed quite comfortable in theater for all that; perhaps she had been inured to her environment. “Pobbin Vanot reports at Tutor Chonis’s direction,” she announced to the world at large, standing in the middle of the theater. “Student Koscuisko desires coaching in the use of a . . . let me see . . . the driver, sir?”
Andrej frowned.
Wasn’t there something familiar about the woman?
Hadn’t he met her recently?
Of course not. That was absurd. How could he have met her, when the only contact with Station Security he’d had all Term had been that one unsanctioned formation in Infirmary?
And last night.
It was the voice of his fish in his mind, and Andrej blushed despite himself to hear it.
Of course.
He had met her last night, she was tall and dark and . . . it was better to concentrate on the problem at hand, no matter how quick his fish might be to jump to conclusions. Or jump to anything at all that reminded it of the ocean.
Andrej bowed formally to cover his confusion. “Even so, Miss Vanot. It would be a privilege to receive instruction.” It had been a privilege to have received instruction from the Security team of last night’s drill. Andrej put the thought away from him firmly. Fish had no sense of time or place or propriety. Fish thought only of oceans. “I have before the handshake exploited, but clumsily. This weapon seems to me much more intriguing.”
The Chigan was face to the wall, and the driver had a good length to it. Separation. Andrej had good hopes that he could keep himself separate from the beast in his belly, which hungered so for agony. If only he could hold himself apart.
“Very good, sir. If the officer will permit.” She took the driver from his outstretched hand and posted herself well back from the wall. Interesting, Andrej thought. She didn’t turn to the opposite wall from the prisoner but contented herself with standing well to one side. “The officer will please attend to these basic points. The recommended beginner’s stance is like so, to minimize the chances of catching the snapper at one’s own back if one should fail to pull the length clear. Please note the fundamental movement, a wide arc is recommended for appropriate clearance — ”
The snapper-end of the driver struck the wall of the theater with a report like that of an old-fashioned percussion-cap pistol, five spans to the right of the prisoner’s head.
The Chigan’s body jerked involuntarily in a spasm of startled fear. He lost his balance and fell to his side on the floor, struggling against the shackles that bound and choked him. For a moment Andrej dreaded a loss of balance on his own part; then he shut his ears to the sound of the Chigan’s choked cries, and gestured Security forward. “Set this one up again, gentlemen, if you please. And see that there is a good allowance for slack around the throat.” Fear could wear on a man. Perhaps it would help wear the Chigan down. He had to concentrate on learning how to manage the whip, and keep the beast at bay.
“Thank you, gentlemen, very good. Miss Vanot, if you would?” She’d moved almost too quickly, a graceful gesture swinging the long lash in a controlled arc against her target. She did it again, and t
he sound of the impact was like the sudden crack of a log on the fire or a flat rod striking a metal table, sharp and loud and angry. From where he stood, it almost seemed to Andrej that she had put a dimple in the wall. What would such a thing do against living flesh?
What would it not do?
The Chigan had held to his place this time, still and stiff and horribly tense where he knelt. For a moment Andrej had a thought about a blindfold. Would that not make the surprise the more unpleasant, the shock more sudden and dreadful?
He knew what was happening within him, and he could hardly bear it. But he would not let himself be beguiled by it. The Chigan was dead meat, and he had to perform a Sixth Level exercise.
He did not have to enjoy it.
“Let me try this.” Yes, that was right, he was not torturing a sentient being, he was only learning an odd and not very useful physical skill. He had to concentrate on that. He was learning how to practice with the driver.
He had read up on all the whips at his disposal, handshake and rake, lictor and driver, fanneram and peony; and the driver was the best one to use for discipline of the sort that the Fleet would require of him. He was decided on that. He had watched the tapes.
If he could learn to lay the lash out horizontally, and let the snapper crack in empty air, the whip would pull a narrow bloody line across a prisoner’s back. More of a scrape than an actual cut, the skin would be deeply abraded but not quite torn; and although it quite obviously hurt in many ways, it could be said to do less damage.
“From the right, Miss Vanot? Certainly I will remember to keep my elbow well in, yes. Let me see.”
The snapper-end of the driver hit the far wall with a dull thud, but at least he’d gotten it there. Andrej gathered the driver up into a loose coil on the floor by his foot and tried again. Straighten the lash. Swing it. A pathetic excuse for an impact, he had to try again. Better. Again. Better yet.
Again.
It was more work than he had imagined.
But after four or five more tries, he heard the same sound when the snapper-end hit the wall as a glass candle-dish made when it was allowed to burn too long, and cracked at the base of its own heat.
“The officer approximates the basic form,” Vanot noted approvingly. “Several hours of practice are recommended before progressing to more detailed control techniques. May I suggest additional training to be scheduled at the officer’s convenience?”
She meant for him to practice.
Oh.
On the Chigan, for example.
Well, of course, that was his excuse, wasn’t it? One had to have a victim upon whom to practice, if one wished to learn how to manage a whip.
The Chigan was his, all his; and just to think of what he had seen the snapper-end do to living flesh on tape —
Disgusted him.
Sickened him to his stomach.
Oh, no, it was not so. He could take no comfort in lying to himself — it was not disgust, it was not abhorrence, that moved within him . . .
“Thank you, Miss Vanot.” He caught the coils of the driver into his hand, and bowed to his teacher. A teacher, whether subordinate Security or not, was worthy of respect; and this one was un-Bonded and would not feel discomfort at the gesture — he hoped. “I hope to prove a credit to your instruction. Till next time, then.”
She returned his salute with grace and dignity. “At the officer’s will and good pleasure.”
He was down to it, then.
He had procrastinated; he had to begin.
“Loosen for me those shackles, gentlemen.” Vanot left the theater; he was alone with his prisoner, and these Security whose sole purpose was to help him commit atrocities upon the prisoner’s body. And heart, and mind, and will. “There is no profit in permitting him to strangle himself, and we have work to do.”
The trefold shackles had been loosened, but the prisoner was still bound, hand and foot.
Andrej moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue in nervous anticipation, hating the eagerness that grew within him by leaps and bounds, unable to disguise his eagerness to himself even so.
He swung the whip.
It made horrific impact against the flesh of the bound man’s back, splattering blood all around as it tore soft tissue and muscle alike. Through to the bone, Andrej thought with savage self-satisfaction, the sound of the strike — and the Chigan’s cries — cutting clear through all his cherished inhibitions, clear to the core of his being.
Yes.
Through to the bone.
It was not so hard to strike the Chigan, not when he made such sounds. Andrej struck again and reveled in the music that the whip and his prisoner made for him.
It didn’t matter so much after all that he was not closer to the Chigan, that he kept his distance, that he struck the prisoner with a whip and not his hand.
All that mattered was that the Chigan was his.
He could do anything he liked. Anything. Worse than anything. He could do everything he liked, and be commended for it.
He could smell blood and fear, and he was drunk with it, all his residual reservations swamped and drowned beneath the huge black tide of his obscene pleasure in what he was to do.
For now — he would practice with the driver.
There would be enough time for questions later.
If he laid the corded lash alone across the Chigan’s shoulders, it would hurt the man — but not unbearably, and by no means as intriguingly as when he buried the snapper-end in living flesh . . ..
The snapper-end, then.
Oh, it was fine.
###
Hours passed.
Andrej Koscuisko sat exhausted on the floor beside his prisoner, leaning up against the wall. Security had brought him fresh rhyti; he drank it with sated satisfaction and stroked the trembling body at his side lazily, unable to resist the temptation to pinch torn flesh between his fingers or put a little pressure on splintered bone.
“Let’s hear it, then. Since you’ve decided that you want to talk.” He had been fair to the man — in a manner of speaking. He had not hurt his prisoner to prevent him from talking, and thus ending his sport too soon. It had simply worked out well for him that the Chigan had not decided to confess until after long beguiling hours of torment. “Your name. State your name. And the crime for which you have been arrested.”
It was difficult for the prisoner to speak, hoarse with screaming. Andrej fed him some rhyti to help him along. The Chigan coughed and swallowed, unable to press his bitten lips together firmly enough to keep spittle and blood and rhyti from dribbling to the floor.
“Eamish. Lintoe. Your Excellency. Please.”
So far so good. If Andrej remembered the prisoner’s brief, the Chigan’s name was, in fact, Earnish Lintoe. Andrej gave him some more rhyti as a reward. “The crime for which you have been arrested. Yes? What?”
Lintoe closed his eyes in a sudden spasm of pain, but whether it was the memory of his arrest or the particularly painful disjoint of his elbow, Andrej wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter, not really. “Ah. They said, theft. Bench property. S-sir.”
It was supposed to be “your Excellency,” but Andrej was too well pleased with the world and himself for being a part of it to take offense. “What did you steal, then?”
“Please, no, a transport, they said a transport, it wasn’t me, I don’t know anything . . . about it . . . ”
Something about the proximity of Andrej’s hand to the gaping wound the snapper-end of the driver had torn in his shoulder seemed to make the man nervous. “You have stolen a transport?” Andrej prompted helpfully. “What manner of transport?”
“A . . . grain transport.” Andrej put his hand to the floor to settle himself against the wall, and the Chigan seemed to take it as encouragement of some sort. “It was a grain transport. From Combine stores.”
Andrej waited.
“Stolen in Mercatsar, they found it empty. Displacement camp. And we had food.”
Which was clearly not what the local authorities had expected to be the case in a displacement camp for Chigan relocation parties. It made sense to Andrej.
“What happened then?” He didn’t need to torment Lintoe. Lintoe was talking. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t had sufficient with which to indulge himself, these long hours gone past.
“Wanted to know why. Who.” Why they had food, and who had brought it. Certainly. They seemed like reasonable questions to ask, to Andrej.
“Tell me.”
Lintoe shook his head from side to side weakly in denial. “Don’t know. Can’t say. Didn’t have anything . . . to do with . . . ”
It was a little difficult to hear the Chigan where he lay beside Andrej on the floor. Andrej hooked one hand beneath Lintoe’s arm to raise the man’s body a bit, resting the Chigan’s face across his knee. Where he could look at Lintoe. Where he could admire Lintoe’s pain.
“Come, now. There must have been a reason they chose you. Why do you imagine that you are under arrest, if you didn’t have a hand in it?”
It seemed to take a moment for Lintoe to catch his breath after being moved. Andrej could wait. Lintoe would not disappoint him, he was sure.
“Well . . . it seems . . . they said . . . genetic marker.”
In the grain, perhaps. The Combine only sold certain classes of grain to Jurisdiction; the true grain, the holy grain, remained restricted to the Holy Mother’s use, for the nourishment of her children. And her children’s servants, of course: the Karshatkef, Flosayir, Sarvaw, Arakcheek, Dohan, even Kosai Dolgorukij, if one was being exclusionary about things — as Azanry Dolgorukij usually were.
“So they knew the grain you were in possession of had in fact come from a stolen transport. And your part in this was?”
No answer. It seemed clear to Andrej that his prisoner was worried about how things were going, even past his own pain. Worried about how convincingly he could plead his innocence. Displacement camps had been destroyed in retaliation for petty thievery before; or dispersed, which amounted to very much the same thing.
An Exchange of Hostages Page 28
