Demon Drops

: MAIN STORY
: The Alembic Plot

"Good morning, my dear." Cortin greeted her subject cheerily as soon

as she entered the third-stage room. Yes, Mike had had it cleaned;

except for the misery and fatigue in her subject's attitude, there was

no evidence of what he'd been through the night before. "Are you ready

for today's session?"



The man licked his lips, then said, "That captain who was here before

called you Azrael. What's t at mean--who are you? What're you gonna

do to me?"



"Your education has been sadly neglected if you do not know the Angel

of Death," Cortin said easily. "I will carry out the sentence you

earned when you joined the Brotherhood, eventually. Before that,

however, we will share some entertainment, and you will tell me

everything you know about the Brothers of Freedom."



"Like hell I will!" But the man's voice held no conviction, and Cortin

smiled.



"Oh, not without some resistance, of course." She turned to the

cabinets, began laying out instruments and drugs where the subject

could see them, taking her time to give him plenty of opportunity to

study each one. "I have restricted myself to field-level drugs and

instruments until now; I really should be experimenting with the more

advanced techniques, now that I have easy access to them. Some of

these do look interesting." She picked up several of the instruments

again, one at a time, looking thoughtfully from instrument to prisoner

and back, but there was no unusual reaction from him.



"The simple infliction of pain holds no particular terrors for you, I

see," she commented. "Good, then you can demonstrate some of the drugs

for me." That got a reaction, as she'd expected from the previous

night; he tried, with little success, to hold back a gasp. "Not

algetin, I am quite familiar with that, and you have already given me

an excellent demonstration of eroticine." She studied labels on

various little jars, again taking her time, stretching his anticipation

and fear. "We can also eliminate these, I think, as they are primarily

for medical purposes; my medic can handle them, if necessary. That

still leaves quite a selection, however. Hmm, this looks interesting."

She filled a syringe, turned to him. "Hallucinogens are not really too

useful as interrogation drugs, because of both their primary function

and their unpredictability. But I cannot resist one called 'demon

drops' and described as causing both hallucinations and rapid mood

changes--so you get to try it."



"Keep that hell-stuff away from me!"



"There is no point in fighting, you know," Cortin said as she

approached him. A light coming on caught her attention; she raised a

hand in greeting to whoever had entered the observation room, surprised

when she saw the clock at how long she'd been working. She dismissed

that, though, and made the injection in spite of her subject's

ineffectual struggles. As she'd told him, there was absolutely no

point in fighting when you were shackled by wrists and ankles, but she

had no real objection if one of her subjects wanted to; it merely

emphasized their relative positions. "There--now we will see what

happens."



"You go straight to Hell, Bitch!"



"Your colleagues tried to send me there once," Cortin reminded him with

a smile. "Now I return the favor, more successfully. Should that be

my destination, I have excellent reasons to believe you will be there

waiting for me." There was nothing more she could do until the drug

took effect, which according to the label should be quickly, but even a

brief time should be enough to see who the observer was.



Bradford greeted her as she entered the dimly-lit room with its large

window of one-way glass. "Lieutenant Powell didn't have very much

except what he already told you--that was one reason you got him to

practice on, after all--so I thought I'd come down and watch for a bit.

What'd you give him?"



"Demon drops." Cortin shrugged. "I know hallucinogens aren't

recommended--but I learned a long time ago to play my hunches, and I

think this'll break him."



"I was curious, not objecting," Bradford said mildly. "I've never had

any luck with it, but others have; I don't argue with what works."



"I hope this does," Cortin said, watching her subject closely. "If

it's what the prewars called a bad trip, and he remembers, it should."



"It doesn't look like it's going to be a good one," Bradford said,

chuckling.



"I think you're right," Cortin agreed. Her subject was showing signs

of fear, small as yet but promising. "And it looks like I ought to get

back to him. If you have any suggestions, I'll be glad to hear them."



"I don't expect to, but if I do, I'll let you know."



Cortin returned to her subject, pleased to see his fear become more

open when she entered the room. She wondered what he was seeing; he

hadn't been visibly afraid of her only minutes ago, so it had to be

something more than a woman in gray coveralls. As she approached him,

he started to sweat, trembling, his eyes bulging as he fought to escape

whatever he saw. "No--go away, please--leave me alone--don't touch me!"



She must be something impressive, Cortin thought. A demon such as the

one the drug was named for, perhaps, to get such a strong reaction.

"Why not?" she asked. "What do you think I am?"



"Lord Azrael," the man sobbed. "Go away--send the Inquisitor back!

I'll tell her everything--just leave me alone!"



So he'd taken her code name and clothed her in that persona, Cortin

thought. Fitting, that he should think he was dying at the hands of

the real Angel of Death. "Tell me, mortal. Thy life is forfeit, but

if thou shouldst speak quickly and truthfully, I will make thy passing

easy. She will not be so merciful."



"You're burning me . . . not so close . . ."



True enough, his skin was reddening as if from sunburn. Cortin had

read that something believed strongly enough could affect the body, but

this was the first time she'd seen it. She wanted to go closer, test

the phenomenon further, but getting information was more important than

indulging her curiosity; she stepped back instead. "Speak to me,

mortal. Quickly, before the Inquisitor returns and I must leave thee

to the slow, terrible death she intends for thee." Cortin had used the

"good cop/bad cop" tactic before, many times--it was, for all its age,

astonishingly reliable--though this was the first time she'd played

both parts for one prisoner.



The man sagged in his chains. "Better you than her, I guess . . . what

do you want to know?"



His fear was still there; Cortin read the signs easily. But she could

also see defeat, almost resignation. He believed the Angel of Death,

where he'd had some hope, however small, under the Inquisitor. "Tell

me first of the attack planned on the holy Sisters of Succor."



He confirmed what Powell had told her, adding that the time was set for

the High Mass celebrating the Order's founding, and the force involved

would be about fifty men. Yes, it was to be a massacre like the one at

the convalescent hospital the previous year, but he didn't know why

such attacks were carried out or what the Brotherhood's purpose was; he

had joined because farm life was boring and he wanted adventure. He'd

tried for Enforcement, but been refused because they thought him

unstable. He was quite bitter about being called unstable by a bunch

of oversexed killers in uniform, and liked taking part in raids just to

get back at them for the insult.



No, he didn't know how many Lawrence Shannons there were; no one did,

except the Raidmaster himself and maybe the Brotherhood's High Council.

Ten or fifteen, he thought, but that was only a guess. He wasn't sure

whether or not the real Shannon would lead the convent raid, but he

didn't think so; he'd heard rumors of a major raid around Christmas in

one of the other Systems, and the Raidmaster was supposed to be working

on that one. No, he didn't know any more about it; it had been only a

rumor. The lesser Raidmaster on the convent job might know, yes,

though he didn't think it likely. No, he didn't know who'd been

Raidmaster on the hospital job; he thought probably the real one,

though. That was all he knew, honestly; now he would be grateful if

Lord Azrael would let him see a priest before killing him.



Cortin swore silently. She wanted to send his soul to Hell, where she

was sure it belonged--but it looked like his hallucination had thrown

the fear of God into him, and he was about to make a deathbed

repentance. At least she wouldn't have to officiate this time, she

told herself; she couldn't be Azrael and Reverend Mother Cortin at the

same time. "Thou hast that right," she conceded, beckoning Bradford to

join them. Blast it, from now on she'd simply have to make it a point

to have Mike or Dave nearby, in case it happened again!



When Bradford entered, Cortin left the room. She didn't care to even

witness a Brother's repentance and forgiveness, though she admitted

unhappily to herself that she would carry them out again if she had to;

she simply wouldn't like doing it, any more than she had the first time.



She took advantage of the break to use the red phone and pass along the

additional information she'd gotten--not to His Majesty directly this

time; the one who answered didn't sound at all familiar, and promised

to pass it along as soon as His Majesty was free. Then she waited,

with growing impatience, for Bradford to finish with her subject.



What, in God's Most Holy Name, was going on in there? Surely it

couldn't take this long to confess even a Brother's obviously-lengthy

list of sins, then receive absolution and Extreme Unction!



When Bradford finally emerged, he was smiling. "He's all yours, Joan.

Nice job you did, getting the information and saving a soul--that

doesn't happen often. Of course, not many Inquisitors have the help of

a blazing Angel of Death, either."



"Mike told him my code name; the demon drops and his own imagination

did the rest." Cortin's mouth quirked. "I would've preferred a more

conventional interrogation, but I have to admit he had good reason to

be afraid of drugs. And I'll keep 'Azrael's' promise; he'll die as

quickly and easily as I can manage, even though by rights he ought to

suffer as much as his victims did."



"I think you can safely trust God to take care of that," Bradford said

drily. "I can't tell you what he confessed, of course, but I can tell

you I'm positive he'll be spending a long time in Purgatory."



Cortin grinned. "I'm sure he deserves every year of it." All that was

left was killing him, so she got out of her coveralls, put her tunic

back on, settled her gunbelt into place, and re-entered the third-stage

room. Bradford had freed the prisoner; he was kneeling facing away

from her, toward the room's crucifix, his attitude making it obvious he

was praying. Cortin frowned, then nodded to herself, silently drawing

her pistol. There were far worse ways to die than quickly, while

speaking to God, and while he deserved one of those, she had promised

otherwise. She took careful aim and shot him in the back of the head.



That, she thought immediately, had been far kinder to him than it had

to her! She'd forgotten just how loud a heavy-caliber handgun could be

in a confined area, and her ears were ringing painfully. It also made

quite a mess at this close a range; blood and brains splattered most of

the wall he'd been facing, including the crucifix. The clean-up crew

could handle the wall and body, but she felt like taking care of the

crucifix herself; careful to avoid getting the mess on her uniform, she

took it into the bathroom to clean it.



As she did, she found herself thinking about the man the crucifix

represented. Jeshua had become incarnate and sacrificed Himself to

protect humanity from the results of sin, though protection from sin

itself would have to wait for the promised Protector. In the meantime,

Jeshua's sacrifice was on behalf of anyone willing to take advantage of

it--and Ivan had told her often enough it was as much an Inquisitor's

job to correct as to punish. Maybe, she thought, she was starting to

get that through her thick head, because despite her personal distaste

for the idea of a Brother's repenting, there was a sense of

accomplishment at this one's. It also helped, of course, that Brad had

complimented her on being able to manage both information and

repentance!



She grinned at herself as she dried the crucifix and put it on the desk

in the suite's office. If Shannon was Shayan, which since her vision

looked more likely than not, turning Brothers from him to God would be

an even better revenge on him than the traditional version would be on

them . . . even though she still intended to take that kind on the ones

who'd helped rape and maim her.



* * * * *



There was a message on her ground-floor office desk: His Majesty wanted

to see her at her earliest convenience between interrogations. It

didn't specify dress uniform, and this close to the Palace she didn't

need bodyguards, so less than fifteen minutes later she found herself

sitting--sitting!--beside His Majesty's desk, sipping a cup of the best

ginger tea she could remember tasting and still shocked by the warmth

of His Majesty's welcome. It was awesome enough meeting him, though

really it was no odder than paying a routine courtesy call on one's new

commanding officer; it just felt that way, having the High King himself

as your direct superior. His Majesty was clearly familiar with such a

reaction, because he was carrying the burden of the conversation until

she had a chance to recover. When she began to settle down, he smiled.

"Reports of your ability weren't exaggerated, Colonel. I'm quite

pleased with the results you've gotten so far."



"Thank you, Your Majesty. I'll keep doing my best."



"I'm certain you will. Is Harmony Lodge to your liking and adequately

equipped?"



"More than adequately, Sire. I'm still overwhelmed by all of it."



"You are to let me know immediately if there's anything you need or

want. We can't take major action against the Brotherhood without the

information you provide, which makes you the most important single

person in this operation."



"Yes, Your Majesty." Cortin took a sip of her tea, savoring the ginger

tang. It was hard to believe she was all that important--she certainly

didn't feel it--but her truthsense said His Majesty did believe it, so

she had to. "If I may make a suggestion?"



"As one of my Household, that's both your privilege and your duty; go

ahead."



"Then I'd say the attack on the convent would be a good time to

activate the Strike Force. And with Your Majesty's permission, my men

and I would like to participate in the convent's defense."



"That's three things," King Mark said. "Activating the strike force at

the next terror attack is something I had already intended; it will be

done. Your men may participate in the convent's defense if they wish

and Colonel Bradford permits." He paused. "I am afraid, though, that

I must forbid your participation in action against anyone except those

you have a personal interest in. You're far too valuable to risk that

way, and if I weren't afraid of losing you, I'd forbid you

participating in action against even personal enemies. It would be

best for the kingdom if you could resist doing so, but--" he paused,

giving her a rueful smile, "while I pray for miracles for my people,

I've learned not to expect them."



Cortin wanted to object, but reminded herself that she'd known about

the restriction when she'd taken the job. "As Your Majesty

commands--but it was worth a try."



The King chuckled. "And I can't fault you for making the effort; you

wouldn't have joined the Strike Force if you hadn't wanted to see

action. I'm afraid you'll see more than I want you to, at that. Now,

if I may change the subject, the Royal Press Office has received a

number of requests for interviews with you. Whether you give them or

not is your choice."



"In that case, Sire, I'd rather not, at least until I finish settling

in." She'd rather not do it even then; she'd given more than enough

interviews at the Academy and after graduation. One reason she'd done

so much field work was to get away from reporters. But she needed

publicity--favorable publicity--to get support for her family changes,

so she'd have to at least pretend to overcome that dislike.



"They'll have to content themselves with the official biography for the

present, then," the King said. "The Press Office will need a current

photo, though; you can go by sometime this week and provide it. You'll

be safe from reporters as long as you're in the Palace compound or

Harmony Lodge, but I can't guarantee the same outside; that will be up

to your team."



"I don't really see any need to leave, except on missions," Cortin

said. "Harmony Lodge alone has everything I need."



"As you wish," the King said. "I certainly won't insist on you being

exposed to any unnecessary danger. But there will be an official

reception tomorrow in your honor; you should come, unless you're in the

middle of an interrogation."



Cortin was tempted to arrange it so she was, but as far as she was

concerned, His Majesty saying she should come made it an order. "I'll

do my best to be there, Sire. Full dress uniform?"



"Or formal civilan wear. Though that would mean being unarmed, so I

don't expect it." The King raised an eyebrow. "You do realize you are

the only person other than members of my personal guard who is allowed

in the Royal Presence with a firearm?"



"What?" Cortin stared at him for an instant, then glanced at the

pistol on her hip. "No, Sire--I hadn't even thought about it."



The King smiled, then stood. "We have no doubt of Your Excellency's

loyalty, and We wish you a long and healthy life as Our Inquisitor."



The audience was over, obviously; Cortin rose and bowed, then began

backing out of the office.



"Those who carry firearms in Our presence," the King said drily, "also

have leave to turn their backs on Us."



Cortin bowed again, then turned. As she left, the King allowed himself

a brief frown. He was certain of his Inquisitor's loyalty, or she

wouldn't have the position--but he couldn't deny that she made him

uncomfortable. Male Inquisitors were disturbing enough to be around; a

woman who enjoyed the deliberate infliction of pain seemed worse,

somehow. And one with Colonel Cortin's incredible talent at it was

decidedly unnerving.



On the other hand, both Edward and Ursula were thoroughly taken with

her, which was unusual for both of them, so Her Excellency must have

qualities he couldn't see, even allowing for her scheme to let them

have heirs. He touched the cartridge at his neck, frowning again.

Unusual qualities, for these to be so popular with the troops that many

insisted on having one before going out in the field and swore by their

efficacy. Maybe he ought to have her bless a couple of cases of them,

make them standard issue . . .



Back to the subject, he thought, leaning back. The idea of polygamy

had seemed obscene when Edward first mentioned it, but the longer he

thought about it, the more reasonable it seemed to become. As a matter

of morality, her argument that monogamy at this point was tantamount to

racial suicide had a certain validity, and suicide was a sin. And her

argument that marriage laws could be changed was also valid; the Modern

Saints had been branded heretics not because of their polygamy but

because they had claimed Shayan to be Jeshua's brother. And the

theologians were still arguing about that . . .



Then there was his responsibility, as Sovereign, for his subjects'

welfare, which tied in with his personal desire to leave his

descendants a prosperous, expanding group of Systems . . . which he

wouldn't be able to do without some fairly drastic action. If he

didn't, in a few generations there would be no Kingdom Systems--a fact

he'd known for some time, but had avoided thinking about because there

seemed to be no solution.



Now, though, he'd been handed a chance, if he could arrange to

implement it. Keep Cortin the focus of whatever happened as a result,

of course; even the best Inquisitor was more expendable than royalty.

From Edward's report on the airborne conference, Bishop-Colonel

Bradford ought to be willing to help get Church approval for

Enforcement to formalize the informal group marriages it was rumored

they had in some of the more remote areas.



Remote areas? The High King smiled as an idea took form. He'd have to

discuss it with his lesser monarchs, because of their agreement that

all Royal Inquisitors hold the same rank--but it promised a place for

Cortin to offer anyone who wanted a group marriage but didn't want the

notoriety that would inevitbly accompany the first ones. It would

also--a not inconsiderable benefit--silence My Lord of New Colorado's

complaints about having to administer territories that cost his Dukedom

more than the revenues they generated. Those complaints were

justified, the King admitted--but he was incredibly tired of hearing

them!



That would have to wait, though. The King switched on his intercom,

spoke to his secretary. "Peter, get hold of Bishop-Colonel Bradford.

I want to see him as soon as he can get here."



* * * * *



Cortin disliked the reception, leaving as soon as she thought it would

be socially acceptable, intending to indulge herself with a new

subject. Once she got back to the Lodge, though, she decided she was

too tired to do a proper job of starting an interrogation, and Brady

said most of the men had gone to the New Eden joyhouse. So she might

as well make an early night of it; after a hot soaking bath, she went

to bed and quickly fell asleep.



Fifteen years disappeared; it was the night after Graduation, and Mike

was holding her close after their first lovemaking, smiling down at

her. "Marry me, Joanie?"



"Of course, beloved." Cortin returned his smile, giving him a

lingering kiss.



They were married soon after, and she found that married life agreed

with her; she remained in the Service, but instead of going into the

field as she'd planned, she took postgraduate work and became an

Inquisitor. That let her spend time with her husband, when he wasn't

out on a mission, and with the three children they had. The youngest

was almost a year old when Mike came home with a pleased expression

that told her he'd contracted the Satyr Plague.



They lay together in the dark warmth, savoring each other, not hurrying

their caresses in spite of their desire. He wanted her to lie still,

let him pleasure her with his new capacity--



Her bedroom door opened, bringing her awake with her gun in her hand.

"Who's there?"



"Mike--I hadn't expected you to be asleep this early. I hope I didn't

interrupt a good dream."



Cortin put the gun down. "Only the best I've had in years. Come on

in, if you want; is there something wrong?"



"No, just thought you might like some normal company after that Palace

to-do." He entered the room, the hallway light showing, to her

pleasure, that he was already undressed. "What was the dream?"



"Graduation night, then the first time we got together after you

managed to catch the satyr bug." She was not going to tell him about

the impossible marriage and children . . . Letting amused irritation

show in her voice, she went on, "Or would have, until you interrupted

yourself. Interested in starting over?"



"Any time," Odeon said with a chuckle. "Especially since it seems this

is one I owe myself!"