An Exchange of Hostages

by Susan R. Matthews

Well, yes, he supposed that Koscuisko had got lost in the exercise. In a manner of speaking. “He said that she didn’t know anything more than what she’d already told us, and I believed him. Made a nice end of her, too, one cut to stop the pain, one cut to end her life. Stylish.”

  Nodding, Clellelan was clearly making connections. “So we didn’t hear from you yesterday, what with Koscuisko so absorbed in his exercise. What about Verlaine?”

  Good question. “It’s a reasonable alternative to propose, one would think. But I don’t think it’s a good idea, even if the Bench wants in on him.” Granted, he was working untried code here. Under normal circumstances, all he cared about the welfare of his Students was that they stay healthy enough to get through his course before they came to pieces, or had any embarrassing accidents with twisted sleep-shirts. Under normal circumstances that was all he could afford to care about them. He hadn’t yet made up his mind about whether Andrej Koscuisko was really all that different.

  “So tell me. Apart from the fact that Koscuisko’s going to be able to buy as many First Secretaries as he wants, once he inherits.” Blunt speech from the Administrator usually meant that he was most open to new ideas. Chonis plunged in.

  “You remember Ligrose thought he’d be better off in Surgery. She likes what he’s done for his man St. Clare as well, which reminds me to ask you about that Class One we’ve promised him.”

  “Don’t like to keep the man hanging in suspense for longer than necessary,” Clellelan noted. Which man? Koscuisko? St. Clare? Whatever. “And we’ll need to allow for recovery time, before they leave the Station. Any time before Koscuisko’s Ninth Level, Adifer, all right? — Say on.”

  “It shows up in his exercises, though, as well. When he killed that prisoner, it was like he’d hit a global reset. Absolutely no hint of how much he’d been liking it. Chaymalt says he’s too good a healer to waste on Inquiry. I say he’s got too much potential in Inquiry to waste him on medicine. But if Verlaine gets him he won’t have any medical practice, and he’ll only be answering Verlaine’s questions — waste of resource. At least in Fleet he has a chance to do both. More balance, that way.”

  “Maybe keep him running longer, if he feels he’s needed outside Special Medical.” That was a good point, although Chonis hadn’t thought of it in quite those terms. What burned young Inquisitors out was the exercise of their Writ, not the burden of their strictly medical responsibilities. Trust Clellelan — Chonis thought gratefully — to come up with a perfectly objective reason to be concerned about Koscuisko’s welfare. “But are we going to be able to keep him out of Verlaine’s understandably greedy little graspers?”

  “Wants to see Noycannir’s tapes, you noticed.” Of course he had. “It could get to be a difficult problem. I suggest our parity-fields will be significantly stronger if Verlaine doesn’t get a good look at Noycannir’s tapes until Koscuisko has already reported to Scylla.”

  Clellelan nodded appreciatively. “Fleet can probably find ways to protect the investment, as long as he performs to expectation. All right, we’ll do it, and if you can nudge his Tenth Level up a hair, we can release him early if we have to. The Autocrat’s Proxy might even like that.”

  Yes, Chonis imagined that they could hurry the schedule a bit, as long as Koscuisko could take the pace. He’d see what Curran had to say about how Koscuisko was holding up, which brought him to his other problem, quite naturally.

  “I’ll go over the schedule with Curran, then. And Curran seems to have gotten a little intense about Student Koscuisko. No telling for certain, but he’s teaching Koscuisko how to throw knives, and I suspect the knives Koscuisko’s throwing aren’t Fleet-issue.”

  Clellelan set the record-cube he’d been toying with down carefully on the desk’s surface. “You think he’s teaching Koscuisko five-knives?”

  It couldn’t be proved on the evidence at hand, no. To be absolutely certain, they would need to interrupt the practice and check Curran’s knives then and there. Yet Chonis was reasonably secure in his suspicion. All Curran had done on Safe had been to take Koscuisko to a practice range and start him on throwing knives. That had to mean something.

  “Just so, Rorin. His five-knives. We could pull him off now, of course. We’ve got St. Clare to post in replacement if we need to.”

  Snorting in amusement, the Administrator shook his head. “‘Yon undertall beauty,’ with an accent, no less. An ignorant accent. You couldn’t have paid the man to make a better test of that speak-serum.”

  No, as a matter of fact. The demonstration had been genuinely impressive. “But if we leave Curran where he is and he asks to be reassigned when Koscuisko leaves, we lose one of our best. Good for Koscuisko. Not so good for us.”

  Curran could be released to Fleet if Curran wanted to go. It would be insanity to give up what was left of his deferment, but as far as Chonis was concerned all semi-mystical, ascetic warrior-cultists were already more than a little unbalanced, and the Emandisan figuring prominently to the fore of a list of dangerous loonies.

  “Do you want him pulled off and sent through readjustment?” Clellelan asked, bluntly.

  Bond-involuntaries sometimes formed intense attachments to Students of assignment, for one reason or another. Bond-involuntaries were psychologically vulnerable to passionate one-on-one bonding to begin with, since personal dedication could substitute for freedom to an extent. When that happened, the Administrator had the option of removing the troop from the officer assigned and arranging a respite period with plenty of food, intoxicants as required, and as much sexual contact as the troop could take. That generally set a bond-involuntary back on his or her figurative feet.

  Curran and Koscuisko might be well matched for man and master, according to the peculiar cultural forms of Emandisan and Dolgorukij alike; that wasn’t the issue. Whether Clellelan was willing to risk losing Curran was.

  “Getting back to my basic interest, which is to give Koscuisko the best chance of long-term survival on Line. Curran has good support to offer, and Koscuisko’s been raised to accept that kind of relationship. It may be too late to change Curran’s mind about it anyway, what with those knives taken into account.”

  He didn’t care about being fair to Curran, though Curran was well respected by Staff — bonded and un-Bonded alike. At least he didn’t care about being fair to Curran as much as he wanted to see Koscuisko as ideally placed to perform his Judicial function as possible. “And if he’s got two of them with him on Scylla, he might be even more reluctant to abandon them to Fleet and go off to Chilleau Judiciary.”

  “At least until one of them gets killed, and he decides it isn’t worth the investment,” Clellelan mused. “Well, give Curran the chance to get clear if he approaches you, Adifer. But if we’re going to put the boy through an accelerated Advanced — and he’s got to blood his St. Clare while he’s at it — we don’t want to be upsetting his domestic arrangements. Curran’s one of the best, but he’s still dead.”

  Bond-involuntaries were sometimes called the thirty-years-dead, their identities and rights under Jurisdiction restored only when the Day dawned at last. Which meant that technically speaking, Curran was disposable, in a sense, to be used in whatever manner the Administration saw fit to further Fleet’s interests.

  Fleet permitted bond-involuntaries to volunteer to place themselves at an officer’s disposal, since that suited Fleet’s purpose. No blame would attach to the Administration of Fleet Orientation Station Medical if Curran asked to leave. Curran might have some trouble getting Koscuisko to agree, true enough. But that was Curran’s problem.

  “I’ll give you a revised schedule.” The business of the interview was over; rising to his feet, Chonis bowed to his superior, satisfied that they were of congruent mind. “Are you going to want witnesses for St. Clare?”

  “Oh, you’d better get Station Security to observe. I’ll sit in if I’m free, but don’t hold up on my account.”

  They’d see how quickly they could get Koscuis
ko out of there and safely to Scylla.

  Koscuisko deserved better than to become the First Secretary’s minion. Fleet could protect Koscuisko as long as Koscuisko was on Line. Once let Fleet know that the Bench wanted him, and Fleet would hold Koscuisko to its bosom like a favorite child . . .

  Chapter Thirteen

  He’d never had so irregular a schedule with any of his other Students. Joslire was looking forward to the break that the Administration granted them at the completion of each Term: eight days to rest, eight days to recover from any Student discipline, eight days to complete debriefing before the next Students started to arrive. Lately eight days had stretched to sixteen, once as long as twenty-four, before the Administration could collect sufficient Students for a cost-effective Term.

  Koscuisko was a very tiring man.

  He was going to need every single hour of that anticipated break just to catch up on his sleep.

  But then he’d never had a Student who had run the Seventh Level all the way out to its logical conclusion. His other Students had preferred to leave the exercise for their mid-meal, and again for their third-meal and again for their sleep-shift, rewarded more often than not with an easy finish to the exercise — prisoners who politely and conveniently died while the Students slept.

  Koscuisko hadn’t seemed to notice when it had been time for mid-meal; Koscuisko had been working on his prisoner’s hands. Even Tutor Chonis had been impressed at Koscuisko’s skillful employment of the driver. Still less had Koscuisko apparently noted the time for his third-meal or his sleep-shift, absorbed in some abstract equation of the ratio of bruises to ribs.

  There were benefits either way, of course. Going by normal practice, the prisoners died quietly by themselves during the night and the Students weren’t bothered with the business in the morning. But Koscuisko’s way they could both sleep until next third-meal, because the exercise was scheduled for two days, and Tutor Chonis didn’t want to see Koscuisko until the next day following.

  And of course the most significant benefit from Koscuisko’s management style — significant from the prisoner’s point of view, at any rate — was that Koscuisko had killed her, once he’d decided he was finished. None of the passive, impersonal murders of Joslire’s other Students. Koscuisko had taken active responsibility; and he had taken care in killing her, mindful of her dignity even naked and abused as she had been.

  Sometime during the Eighth or Ninth Levels, Students were required to make a kill at the Tutor’s direction and discretion. It was a test of sorts; and most Students responded to it by ordering Security to perform the actual act. In fact by the Seventh Level, most Students were happiest to sit in their chair and direct Security rather than dirtying their own hands; perhaps understandably so. Joslire appreciated Koscuisko’s apparent selfishness. It was good not to be required to beat a prisoner. It was better to be left alone to not watch, to be called upon only when an extra pair of hands were wanted for some relatively neutral task.

  None of his other Students had ever asked to make the kill.

  But almost all of them had bad dreams, soon after the event.

  Koscuisko’s cries woke Joslire sometime close to mid-shift. He rolled off the sleep-rack to his feet, halfway to Koscuisko’s cubicle before his eyes were well open. The privacy barrier wasn’t quite closed; Joslire had wanted the extra ventilation to clear the inner space of the stench from Koscuisko’s lefrol. He was through it in a moment, to seize and still Koscuisko’s restless hands as Koscuisko’s sleeping body struggled with some dreamed enemy.

  “Sir. The officer is dreaming. Wake up.”

  Small as it was, the room seemed stifling to Joslire, the air heavy with horror. Koscuisko fought against him for a moment, and Koscuisko was difficult to control in his sleep — Aznir Dolgorukij, and significantly stronger than Joslire was, even if Koscuisko did not yet know how best to use his strength. Joslire hung on, grimly embracing the dreaming man, repeating the same pale neutral phrases as soothingly as he dared.

  “The officer is dreaming, your Excellency. The officer is respectfully requested to wake up now.” Come back, come back from the land of the dead and of shadows. Wake now, dear one, that thy dreams not distress thee.

  Koscuisko woke with a convulsive start and lay motionless in Joslire’s arms for a long moment, holding his breath. Joslire wasn’t sure whether Koscuisko was still dreaming, or what; but finally Koscuisko gave a great sigh and his body relaxed. He leaned up against Joslire, as if gratefully, letting his head back against Joslire’s shoulder. Joslire didn’t dare move. It was irregular, surely, and what had he thought that he was doing, corning in here in the first place?

  “I have had a dream,” Koscuisko said. “I did not much enjoy it, Joslire.”

  Surely not, Joslire was tempted to say. One hardly would have guessed. Instead he shifted his weight a little, preparatory to disengaging himself from the intimacy of the embrace; but Koscuisko put his hand up to Joslire’s arm, and stayed him.

  “The officer cried out in his sleep.” He stilled himself, obedient to Koscuisko’s apparent desire. “Does the officer wish to talk about it, this dream?”

  “Oh, I am sick to death.” Koscuisko pushed himself upright suddenly, spurning Joslire’s support as decisively as he had seemed to solicit it. “Sick of being so insulated, Joslire, and I swear to all Saints that if you say ‘the officer’ one more time within the next eight I will — not thank you for it.”

  Now that Koscuisko had sat up, there was no reason why Joslire should be sitting on his bed, or sitting at all. Or even in the cubicle, come to that. Rising quietly, Joslire made for the door, and Koscuisko — with his head in his hands — took no apparent notice of him. Joslire started the rhyti brewer as quickly as he could, one ear cocked for any sound from Koscuisko, Maybe Koscuisko would just go back to sleep. There was a message posted to the study set screen: Tutor Chonis wanted to see Koscuisko for debriefing, but they had until next first-shift before the appointed time. The rhyti was ready, but how was he to offer it to his Student if Koscuisko did not want to hear from him? If he wasn’t to call Koscuisko “the officer,” and it was dangerous to call Koscuisko by his name, how could he hope to help Koscuisko talk out his pain?

  Joslire carried a flask of rhyti to the open doorway, Koscuisko still sitting on the edge of his sleep-rack with his face in his hands. “It is not to be helped,” Joslire said. “Sir. Would . . . you . . . like to talk about . . . your dream?”

  Koscuisko looked up, and Koscuisko’s eyes were dead and empty. “I dreamed that I killed a woman, Joslire.” Seeing the glass of rhyti in Joslire’s hand, Koscuisko beckoned him in with a wave of his hand. “I lost a patient twice, three times, in practicals. But it isn’t the same. And I didn’t just dream it.”

  Kneeling down to be able to see Koscuisko’s face, Joslire reached for something he could say. He’d been through this with Students before, but never one like this. Koscuisko was more of an effort than any of them. Koscuisko was too honest with himself for his own good.

  “It was well done, all the same.” And not wanting to keep his Student at arm’s length by observing the safe distance of accepted forms only made things more difficult. “A man takes care of his own work, finishes what he’s started. Doesn’t leave the cleaning up to other people.”

  It wasn’t coming out right. He could hear the halt and start in his own voice. He didn’t know how he could honor Koscuisko’s expressed wish and keep peace with his governor at the same time. Surely Koscuisko understood that?

  Koscuisko sighed and drank his glass of rhyti. Right down, Joslire noted with dismay; and it had been hot. Koscuisko didn’t seem any the worse for it.

  “Joslire, thou art good to me. And have been good to me this while. I will miss you.” Handing the empty glass back, Koscuisko laid his hand at the back of Joslire’s neck and had leaned forward to kiss him before Joslire knew quite what was happening. Only his discipline kept him in his place, surprised — startled — as he was;
Koscuisko touched his other hand to the side of Joslire’s face, briefly, and stood up. “I think that I should have a wash. What time is it, please? Time to eat, I hope?”

  Joslire found his voice, albeit with difficulty. “Even so, it’s mid-shift. Tutor Chonis will see — will conduct debriefing after fast meal tomorrow; exercise could be taken if the officer please — that is, I — ”

  “Quite all right, Joslire, it is not your fault. Be easy.” Koscuisko had reached the washroom and turned on the wet-shower. He wouldn’t be able to hear a thing; but the monitors would hear, so Joslire did not speak his thought. Perhaps I will go with you to Scylla, Student Koscuisko.

  Not because Koscuisko had caressed him, because he could ask that of his fellows if he needed a kind touch so much as that. Bond-involuntaries took care of each other as best as they could, and didn’t ask questions, and didn’t let personal preferences or inclinations keep them from comforting each other. No, not just because Koscuisko had caressed him.

  But because of the respect with which Koscuisko had killed his prisoner. Because of the gentle care Koscuisko had shown while she was dying, for all that he had shown none earlier.

  Or perhaps only because he was Koscuisko, and he had the blood of a war-leader.

  Joslire set Koscuisko’s uniform out and put in a call for the Student’s fast-meal.

  Maybe he needed to speak to Tutor Chonis again.

  ###

  “Robert, I’d like another three-vice, please. Good man.”

  The Eighth Level of the Question, and the second day. Robert St. Clare had never assisted at Inquiry before; this one was brutal.

  “Come, now. I am determined that you are not telling me the truth. I can fairly promise you that things will only . . . get the worse for you . . . until you do . . . ”

  The strangled cries of the prisoner, the self-satisfied gloating in the officer’s voice were equally difficult to bear. It had been bad yesterday, even once he’d gotten past his nervousness in Koscuisko’s presence. Today was worse.