Center

: MAIN STORY
: The Alembic Plot

Late July 2571



As Cortin recovered and the pain in her body eased to what Egan assured

her was the best she could expect without further surgery, the burns on

her hands took top priority, as she'd expected, on her list of personal

grievances against the Brothers. Any trooper they--or most terrorist

groups, for that matter--captured, was certain to be brutally beaten,

and usually raped. Coming out
alive was the best one could hope for,

and she'd managed that. The experience would leave psychological as

well as physical scars, she was certain, but like all officers and any

enlisted personnel who wanted it, she'd gone through extensive training

and conditioning of both types in case she were subjected to terrorist

captivity and mistreatment, and she was confident the experience

wouldn't have any lasting effect on her. Except, probably, the desire

for revenge; that, she had no doubt, would last until she'd personally

done justice on her attackers. Especially Brother Lawrence Shannon.



She knew, from helping other victims, that rape normally demolished a

woman's desire for sex, sometimes permanently. In her case it hadn't;

she wanted Mike as much as ever, and would have been glad to enjoy

Major Illyanov, given the chance. It was a bitter irony that her

training had left her with the desire, while the attack had robbed her

of all capability. And it still seemed so pointless, when they'd been

in the process of killing her!



Still, terrorists weren't known for reasonable behavior, or they

wouldn't be terrorists. She'd simply have to live with the fact, she

told herself grimly, of having the desire and not being able to do

anything about it.



Bad as that was, though, it wasn't the worst. Nothing had prepared her

for the Brothers burning their Hell-marks into her flesh; that was a

totally unexpected violation! She wasn't being reasonable in keeping

them, and she knew it; the reasonable thing would have been--was!--to

have them covered with grafts. Much as they revolted her, though, the

idea of having them removed still felt wrong. And Major Illyanov did

think they'd be useful--so she'd settle for gloves.



As soon as she was free of the medical plumbing, she started

exercising. The first day, she confined herself to her room, when no

one else was there, to spare herself the embarrassment of being seen

unfit in public--but the room was too small for decent exercise, and

she was in a hurry to get back to duty and the practical side of her

training.



The next morning, too impatient to wait for visiting hours and Mike's

help, she found a hospital robe in the closet. It was too big, but it

didn't drag the ground and sleeves could be rolled up, so she put it

on. That gave her her first honest laugh since the attack when she

looked at herself in the mirror, but the robe did cover the hospital

gown's open back, so she felt decently enough dressed to go out into

the corridor.



When she opened the door, she was astonished to find a pair of

troopers, obviously on guard. One of them, a sergeant she remembered

meeting briefly several years ago, looked startled to see her.

"Captain Cortin! Is anything wrong, ma'am?"



"Nothing but a strong desire to recover enough to get out of here," she

said, smiling at his grimace of agreement. "A mere captain doesn't

rate an honor guard, and I haven't done anything to be arrested for, so

how come you two're standing post?"



The sergeant--his name was Kennard, she remembered--chuckled.

"Scuttlebutt says you're still on the Brothers' wipe list. Colonel

Nguyen has people like Corporal Redden here assigned officially, and

some of us figure they could use a little unofficial help."



"Um." Cortin gestured acquiescence, bemused. "I don't really think I

need protection, but I have to admit it's reassuring having you around.

Is there anything in your orders that says I can't go for a walk in the

corridor?"



"Not a thing, ma'am," Redden replied immediately. "The detail I'm on

is just to stay with you and keep you safe. Though Dr. Egan seems to

think you'll be safe enough since it'll be a week or so before you're

up to anything even a little strenuous--like going for a walk."



"Dr. Egan's a civilian," Cortin said, appreciating the men's

sympathetic expressions. "You may have to catch me if I overdo,

though."



"No problem," Kennard said.



"Good. Shall we go, then?"



* * * * *



The day Cortin could get to the far end of the hospital building and

back without having to stop for rest, she got Mike to have her

discharged--over Egan's protests--and help her move into the VOQ.



That evening after supper, Odeon went to her room. He'd been

increasingly worried about her lack of apparent emotion; he'd seen

others like that go into an abrupt withdrawal and become extremely

depressed, sometimes even suicidal. Her interest in interrogation and

desire for revenge would both help, but he was determined to give her a

better reason to live.



When they were both settled comfortably with cups of her favorite herb

tea, he grinned at her. "I meant to mention this earlier--you look a

lot better in uniform than you did in a hospital gown!"



"I feel a lot better, too. Hospitals are all right, I suppose, but I'm

a lot more comfortable in quarters. Not to mention wearing a gun."



"Of course you are," Odeon said, chuckling. In hospital was the only

time an Enforcement trooper, officer or enlisted, was completely

unarmed; even in bed, they always had a weapon within easy reach.

"Going to Mass tomorrow?"



"Why, is it Sunday?"



"No." Odeon chuckled again; it was easy to lose track of time in a

hospital! "That was yesterday; I just thought you might want to join

me. I talked to the Academy chaplain, and he's going to offer a

special Mass of Thanksgiving for your recovery."



Cortin stared at her tea, turning the cup in her gloved hands. "That's

a little premature," she said at last. "And I'm not at all sure it's

something I'm thankful for. It might've been better if you'd been just

a few minutes later."



She meant it--and that was exactly what he'd been afraid of. "You

shouldn't feel that way, Joanie. God had a reason for keeping you

alive; you've got to believe that."



"Why?" Cortin asked tiredly. She'd spent quite a few hours thinking

about that, when she should've been sleeping but the pain wouldn't let

sleep come and nothing seemed to matter except an end to her torment.

"I'm no saint, but I've never done anything really terrible, either.

Certainly nothing bad enough to deserve this living Hell."



That was true, Odeon thought. Still--"We can't hope to understand His

reasons for what He does," he said. "We can only accept. Offer the

pain to Him, Joanie. Come to Mass with me tomorrow, dedicate yourself

to Him, and ask Him what He wants of your life."



He looked so hopeful she couldn't refuse him. "All right, Mike. I'll

go with you, and I'll try to do what you say. Just don't expect too

much."



"I'll settle for anything that'll help you." Odeon smiled at her,

raising his cup. "To your recovery."



"Thanks--are you going out tonight?"



He'd been planning on it, but he quickly changed his plans. "No, why?"



"I'd like some company, then, if you don't mind." She grimaced.

"Though if you'd prefer a woman who can do something for you instead of

a counterfeit, I'd certainly understand."



"Even disabled, you're more of a real woman than any I've paid to be

with," Odeon said. "I've always enjoyed your company, even when one of

us was too tired or too hurt for fun and games--you know that."



"I know--I felt the same way." Cortin managed a smile. "But I will

miss the fun and games, and you'll have to be careful about waking up

shooting because you hear something out of place--I haven't learned to

stay in the right position while I'm sleeping yet, so it's at night my

back acts up worst, and I have a bad tendency to scream when it does."





At least her sense of humor hadn't completely deserted her, even though

the humor now was on the dark side. "I'll be careful," he promised.

"I certainly wouldn't want to shoot my favorite recruit."



* * * * *



She found it comforting to lie beside Mike, even though part of her

also found it a near-painful reminder of what they'd shared earlier.

She lay awake for awhile listening to his quiet breathing before it

lulled her into a doze, then into deeper sleep and dreams of a better

time. It was her Graduation Day; the Duke of Columbia had almost

finished pinning on her classmates' gold Second Lieutenants' bars. Her

own, the silver of a First Lieutenant since she was first in her class,

already gleamed on her immaculate gray uniform. She was impatient for

the ceremony to end. She'd seen her recruiter in the crowd, and she

wanted to carry out the plans she'd made for him, plans that bore no

resemblance to the sometimes-sadistic ones her classmates claimed to

have for their recruiters. She'd discovered the surprisingly

pleasurable reality of the Enforcement Service's sexual freedom not

long after her arrival at the Academy, quickly losing her inhibitions.

Being the only woman in the class, she had enjoyed her instructors'

attentions--but the corollary was far less enjoyable. In prewar days,

being a teacher's favorite had supposedly meant having an easier time

than other students; at the Royal Academy, it meant additional work,

more intensive instruction, and more severe testing. The harder they

were on her, she was repeatedly told, the better her odds of survival

would be when she got out in the field--and she had thrived on the

increased challenge, as she'd proven by graduating at the top of her

class. But much as she had enjoyed her instructors'--and a few of her

classmates'--beds and bodies, it hadn't taken her long to realize that

Mike Odeon was the one she wanted most, and she was determined to take

full advantage of this chance at him.



The ceremony ended at last; she accepted congratulations--and her first

salute, from Lieutenant Odeon. She returned it with the proper

dignity, then launched herself at him for a completely undignified, and

equally thorough, kiss. He cooperated after a second's startlement,

then grinned down at her. "That isn't the kind of attack I carried out

on my recruiter!"



"Oh, that's just the first sortie," Cortin assured him, pleased to find

that although he was sterile, he certainly wasn't impotent, as quite a

few sterile men were; she'd felt that quite clearly during the kiss.



"I think I'm going to like this attack," he said, still grinning.



"I hope so." She tightened her arms around him. "You're staying at

the VOQ?"



"Uh-huh." Odeon raised an eyebrow. "You're thinking of a tactical

strike?"



"Not exactly--more like a siege, if you don't mind my using your

toothbrush in the morning. I couldn't think of a reasonable excuse to

bring my kit to Graduation in case you did show up."



"My toothbrush is yours," Odeon said with a chuckle. "It sounds like

you're anxious to get this siege started."



"I've been taught that unnecessary delay is bad strategy," Cortin said.

"Shall we go, Lieutenant, or should I begin my siege here?"



"We go, Lieutenant," Odeon said, and they did.



When they got to his room, they didn't hurry, but they didn't waste

time, either; once their uniforms were hung in the closet, Joan's siege

began in earnest, and with her target's full cooperation. Lying beside

him, kissing him, caressing his body with the battle scars few

Enforcement and no SO men escaped, feeling his answering caresses on

her still-smooth skin, was even better than she'd dreamed.



Exploration grew into passion, caresses becoming more direct and

intimate, yet there was still no hurry. Cortin savored the touch of

his hand skillfully stroking her, the silk-over-steel delight of him as

ready for her as she was for him. It was she who moved first, eager to

take him in, and she gasped with pleasure as they joined and began

moving in the eternal rhythm.



Then pain stabbed through her, bringing her awake with a choked sob.

As it slowly subsided, she became aware of arms around her, a voice in

her ear, and she tried to tear herself away.



Odeon wouldn't let her. "It's me, Joanie, Mike--not some Brother.

You're safe. You know I won't hurt you--and I'll do my best not to let

anyone else hurt you, either. Relax, try to go back to sleep. Want

your gun?"



"I've got it under my pillow." Cortin managed a half-smile. "The

sovereign remedy for boogey-men, my father used to say. A 10-mm Ruger

with every fifth round a tracer load."



"Smart man, your father," Odeon said. "Not much human-size a 10-mm

load won't stop, and tracers'll discourage the rest. Think you can

sleep now?"



"Yes, I think so." Cortin sighed, relaxing slowly. "Thanks, Mike.

For being here, and for . . . you know. Make sure I wake up in time

for Mass, will you?"



"No problem," Odeon said. "Sleep in peace, Joanie."



* * * * *



Tuesday, 23 July 2571



The Mass had more of an effect on Cortin than she had expected it

to--more than it ever had, even when she was in a mood for religion.

For some reason it seemed more meaningful, more immediate, than it had

before. Maybe it was the pain that made her empathize with the

tortured image on the cross, maybe it was something else, she didn't

know. All she was sure of was that for the first time, it felt like

the "collective sacrifice" it was supposed to be, and when she went

forward for Communion reciting the "Domine, non sum dignus," she found

herself hoping the Host would actually heal the hurt in her soul.



It didn't, but when she returned to her pew she did feel less

despondent, and when the service was over, she found to her surprise

that she intended to return the next morning. As they walked to the

Officers' Club for breakfast, she turned to Odeon with an unforced

smile. "Thanks for getting me there, Mike. Mind if I go with you

again tomorrow?"



"Be glad to have you. It helped, then?"



"Yes. I don't know how, but it did."



"Good!" Odeon grinned down at her. "I thought it had, from your

expression. Just remember, He doesn't allow any of us to be tried

beyond our endurance--even though He may come right to the brink of it."



"I will." She started to ask him a question, but they were almost at

the Club; she waited until they had gotten their food and started to

eat, then she said, "You told me once you wanted to become a priest.

Why didn't you?"



"Because my primary calling was to law enforcement instead." He

shrugged. There were priests in Enforcement, true--even a few

bishops--but not in the operational sections, which was where his

calling lay. "I've never understood why the two couldn't still be

combined--the prewars sometimes had fighting priests and bishops--but

since I had to make the choice, I decided I'd rather be a good law

officer than a mediocre priest."



Cortin nodded. "That makes sense, though I'd bet a month's pay you'd

be an outstanding priest, not a mediocre one. As well as a great law

officer--have you ever thought of applying for an exception?"



"Quite a few times," Odeon admitted. "I think the reason I never did

was that I was afraid I'd get my hopes up, then be turned down."



"I can understand that," Cortin said, remembering. "I think you

should, though. Maybe if you point out that Enforcement troops,

especially Special Ops, go places regular priests don't get to in

years, it would help. His Holiness does seem to be willing to accept

that sort of innovation."



"Maybe I should, at that," Odeon agreed. There were always articles in

the various parish papers bemoaning the lack of vocations, especially

to serve remote areas . . . "In fact, maybe I should ask for a general

exception. I'm not the only one who'd like to do something more

positive than just administer Last Rites."



"It's worth a try," Cortin said. She speared a piece of ham-and-cheese

omelet, ate it, then said, "I can understand how you feel. It may

sound odd for an Enforcement officer, but I'd love holding a baby for

baptism--they're fun to cuddle."



"Cuddle a baby?" a voice said from behind her. "I hope that does not

mean you want to discontinue your training; I should deeply regret the

loss of such a promising student."



"Not at all, Major!" Cortin turned, gesturing to another chair at

their table. "You must've missed some of the conversation. Would you

care to join us?"



"With pleasure," Illyanov said, putting his tray down and seating

himself. "I am personally glad to hear you intend to continue; it

takes no more than fertility to bear children, and anyone with moderate

interest can become a fairly competent Inquisitor--but it takes both

talent and motivation to do truly well in our field." He smiled at

her. "Which I am convinced you will. It is good to see you out of the

hospital."



"It's good to be out!" Cortin said emphatically. "I'm still

technically in hospital status, and Doctor Egan has made it clear she'd

put me back in bed if I do anything too strenuous--but it's great being

out of there and back in uniform!"



"I am fully familiar with the feeling," Illyanov agreed. "There are

few things worse than enforced idleness, especially in such

surroundings." He raised a hand, smiling at her. "Not that I call

your studying idleness, not at all--I am, in fact, impressed by your

industry--but from your Academy and other records, I am sure you are

impatient to begin practical application of your theoretical work."



"I certainly am." She wasn't all that eager to practice the first two

stages, though, especially in the beginning when they were on Academy

cadets, with the additional purpose of training them to resist

interrogation. Her interest was in third-stage, with Brothers of

Freedom as her subjects--but she supposed it was all necessary, to

achieve her real end. "How soon can we start?"



"Such eagerness!" Illyanov laughed. "Nor are you the only one; I have

been relieved of my classes and given orders to expedite your training,

once you were out of the hospital. We are, if you choose, to

concentrate on Stage Three--and the one who gave me those orders said

it was highly likely you would so choose."



"He was right." Cortin thought back to the debriefing and that

mysterious Lieutenant, certain he was somehow involved--but that the

classified assignment probably was too, so it would be wiser not to ask

about either his identity or his involvement. She'd thank him for it

later, if she could do so without breaking security. For now, she

smiled at Illyanov. "So, when do we start?"



"I do love an enthusiastic student . . . shortly after we finish here,

if you are that impatient. Any Brothers of Freedom captured in this

area--except, for now, those probably having critical or time-sensitive

information--will either be sent here or held where they were captured

until you decide whether to question them yourself or turn them over to

another Inquisitor." He gave her a raised-eyebrow smile. "I confess to

being astonished at that, Captain. I have heard of prisoners being

reserved for a particularly skilled Inquisitor, yes, but never for a

student. Even one as promising as yourself."



Odeon whistled. "Neither have I, and I'd thought I'd heard just about

everything." He'd known for a long time that Joan Cortin was something

special, but Illyanov was right--this was unprecedented. "Joanie, any

ideas?"



"Not exactly, though I can't help connecting this with the Inquisitor

on the team that debriefed me. I'm positive he's more than a simple

Lieutenant, and--" she chuckled ruefully, "from what I've learned

since, I'm sure he picked up more from me than I told him verbally. Or

wanted to tell him, for that matter."



"And what did this more-than-Lieutenant look like?" Illyanov asked,

suddenly attentive.



"A bit over 180 centis, slender build, medium-brown hair receding

slightly above the temples, green eyes, classical features that looked

like he laughs a lot--" She broke off, seeing recognition in the

others' faces. "You've both met him, then."



They nodded. "The . . . officer I spoke to at Personnel," Odeon said.



"Colonel David Bradford," Illyanov said with a slow smile, "of His

Majesty's Own. Yes, that explains many of the rumors currently

circulating."



After a few moments, Odeon asked, "Are you going to share that

explanation?"



"Indeed, but not here. Captain Cortin and I must go to the Detention

Center so she may choose her first subject. I will share my deduction

on the way, if you care to join us."



"Try to keep me away!"



* * * * *



As soon as they were on the way to Detention, Cortin turned to her

instructor. "All right--now why would someone like Colonel Bradford be

taking such an interest in me?"



"Bear in mind that this is speculation based on rumor," Illyanov

cautioned. "However, I have considerable experience putting together

small pieces of information to form an accurate whole; I am confident

of my evaluations."



"They've got to be better than the nothing I have now," Cortin said.

"Go on, please."



"Very well. This first item I rate as virtual certainty." He paused.

"The Monarchs' Council in New Rome this past December did remarkably

little of significance, to outward seeming. Not true?"



"Very true," Cortin said. "I'd expected a lot more, after the Kunming

raid."



"Most people did--and from observations I have made since, the

expectations were accurate; the reality has simply not been revealed

yet. I am convinced that Their Majesties, either at His Holiness'

urging or with his full consent, are in the process of forming an

inter-System--or perhaps all-System, the effect is the

same--anti-Brotherhood elite."



"It's about time!" Odeon exclaimed.



"I agree. Especially since it appears the members of that force will

be people who have little reason to be overly fond of the Brotherhood.

All but one of the people I believe to be selectees or potential

selectees are Special Operations personnel, and all have suffered some

personal harm from the Brothers." He glanced at Joan, smiling. "From

his interest in you, Captain, I think it highly likely that you are not

in full uniform. You certainly have most of the other qualifications I

have deduced: a personal grievance that would motivate you to accept

extremely hazardous anti-Brotherhood missions, a clean service record,

excellent to outstanding combat skills, regular attendance at church

when possible--all except a specialty, which you are getting now. I

would say that as soon as you receive your Warrant, you will be

approached about joining that unit."



"It fits," Odeon said softly. "So well that's got to be it. But why

did you say it might be at His Holiness' urging?"



"You do not remember the Kunming raid Captain Cortin referred to?"



"When it happened," Odeon said drily, "I was snowbound in the Northwest

Territory, alone in a shelter halfway between Holy Cross and Laredo

Junction. By the time I got out almost a month later, there wasn't

much talk about it any longer--I don't remember hearing any details."



"It was quite similar to the raid in which Captain Cortin was attacked.

The church was full of schoolchildren and their teachers; there were no

survivors."



Odeon crossed himself, feeling sick. Schoolchildren in church, staff

and patients in a convalescent hospital-- "What next?"



"Only the Brothers know," Illyanov said grimly. "But I would be

extremely surprised if they plan to attack anyone who can defend

themselves. Nor do they seem amenable to persuasion, which leaves no

alternative: they must be eliminated."



"Now that I could enjoy," Cortin said consideringly. "I could enjoy it

a lot."



"I am sure you will have the opportunity," Illyanov said. "Perhaps

Captain Odeon will as well, if he is a specialist and has adequate

personal grievance."



"I do. I'm a specialist, yes, a Tracker. The grievance I'd rather not

talk about, except to say it gives me a good reason to go after

Brothers. Any idea when this group will go public? Because I plan to

apply for it as soon as I can."



Illyanov shrugged. It wasn't hard for an experienced Inquisitor to

read Odeon's expression, and from that deduce his grievance; the

question was whether Colonel Bradford would consider it sufficient.

"The timing I can only guess at, Captain. I have heard no rumors on

that subject."



"Living in the capital, though, you'd have a feel for it; what's your

best guess?"



"Until recently, I would have said the next time the Brothers made a

particularly abhorrent raid, but that would have been the hospital one.

I still believe it will be tied to such a raid, though it now appears

there is at least one additional criterion. The most likely is that

the unit does not yet have sufficient personnel, but it could be any

number of other possibilites; I simply do not know."



Odeon nodded. "Makes sense--but that could be months, at their current

rate. If I see him before that, I'll try to apply then."



"There is one other item of interest," Illyanov said as they drove into

the Detention Center compound and toward the gray, windowless main

building. "That is that many of the new unit's members supposedly

either have been or will be given full Holy Orders. I find this

plausible, since such a force will of necessity spend much time in

remote areas where priests are extremely rare." He paused, then said

thoughtfully, "I think that a wise decision, if only for reasons of

morale. A civilian priest would find it difficult if not impossible to

survive under such conditions, yet people in mortal danger should not

be deprived of the sacraments for prolonged periods; I know that I, for

one, would not care to be placed in such a situation."



"Neither would I," Cortin said, then she turned to smile at Odeon. "It

looks like you won't have to apply for a special exemption after all,

Mike--just get into this new unit, and let them know you're interested

in the priesthood."



"I plan to do exactly that," Odeon said. "In fact, unless you need me

to help in the interrogation, I don't think I'll wait until I happen

into him; I'll see if I can get hold of the good Colonel and put my bid

in. Initiative never hurts, and he can't very well say much if I tell

him I'm applying based on extrapolations from rumor."



Cortin glanced at Illyanov, who shook his head. "No, it doesn't look

like we'll need you. Go for it, Mike--and put in my application while

you're at it; I don't want to take any chances on getting overlooked.

I should have enough practical experience to qualify as a specialist by

the time the group is activated, especially if the Brothers maintain a

several-month interval between horror raids."



"I'll do that." Odeon turned to Illyanov. "Is there a phone in there

I could use for an hour or so?"



"Yes, in the Inquisitors' lounge. I will have you admitted there as my

guest."



"Thanks."



When they got inside the building, Illyanov showed Odeon the lounge and

introduced him to the three Inquisitors it held, then he and Cortin

went to the Records Section. The clerk there was a young private, who

looked to Cortin as though he might possibly be a full week out of boot

camp; he was certainly still new enough to the job that he showed

apprehension at the sight of an Inquisitor's badge. "Yes, Major?" he

asked.



"I wish to see the records of all prisoners being held for third-stage

interrogation."



"I'm sorry, sir," the young private said, obviously nervous. "As of

the first of the week, all those not currently undergoing questioning

are being saved for Inquisitor-Captain Cortin's evaluation."



Inquisitor-Captain, Illyanov noted, not Inquisitor-Trainee. Yes,

things were being accelerated for her, indeed. But if Colonel Bradford

thought it best that she be treated as fully qualified by Detention

Center staffs, there had to be a reason; he would go along. "Captain

Cortin and I are currently acting as partners," he said. "However, you

must keep your records in order, must you not?" He turned to Cortin.

"If you would identify yourself for this young man, Captain, we can

proceed."



"Of course, Major." Cortin dug out her ID, the first time she'd used

it since before going into the convalescent hospital, and had to hide

her surprise as she showed it to the clerk. Besides the standard

Enforcement Service card, the little folder held an Inquisitor's badge!

Keeping her voice level, she said, "Now, may we see those records?"



"Yes, Captain--it'll only take me a moment." While he went to the

files for them, Cortin gave Illyanov a curious look, got only a slight

shrug in return, and took a closer look at her ID. It was the one

she'd had since making captain, yes--there was where the pen had

spluttered while she was signing it--but it had been altered. Very

skillfully altered, by someone who knew precisely what he was doing,

and according to it, Illyanov was right; she wasn't in full uniform.

Or . . . was she? Surely she would have noticed an SO patch on her

sleeve! She snuck a quick glance, and was relieved to see nothing

there. At least it didn't look like she was going either blind or

insane!



"Here you are, Captain," the clerk said, handing her a small stack of

folders. "If you want to go through them here, you can use that desk

by the west door."



"Thank you." Cortin took them, going to the desk and seating herself,

then opening the first one--but her mind was on the additions to her

ID. She took out the folder again, staring at the badge and the

Special Operations stamp. "What's going on?" she asked Illyanov in a

low voice. "Why do I get a badge while I'm still in training, and why

sneak it all in on me like this?"



Illyanov thought for several moments, frowning. At last, keeping his

voice as low as hers had been, he said, "Unless you wish to attribute

it to Colonel Bradford's well-known and decidely peculiar sense of

humor, which I consider likely, I do not know. The speed can perhaps

be explained if he has information not generally available about an

upcoming raid, though I would have expected that as your instructor I

would have been informed when you were granted a Warrant--out of

courtesy, if nothing else--but I can think of no logical reason for him

not to inform you."



"Neither can I, so I guess you're right about it being his sense of

humor." Cortin put the ID away and began studying the prisoner

records. They seemed to be arranged in reverse order of capture, which

made sense; the ones deemed to have critical information had already

been removed, so the ones on top would be the ones who had been here

longest, already softened up by the first stages of interrogation.



When she opened the last folder, she bit back a curse, then, at

Illyanov's startled glance, said, "I think I just found out why the

badge." She turned the folder so he could read it easily. The subject

was a deserter, who had compounded his crime by joining the

Brotherhood, but was so new to it that he was believed to have no

significant information. "Bradford's making sure I don't do what this

plaguer did. I told you he was reading more than I wanted to tell

him--he had to know I'd never join the Brotherhood, but he also had to

know I'd go after them, either legally or as a rogue. And that I'd

much rather do it legally."



Illyanov nodded. "I read the same things, of course. I did not,

however, realize that his desire to keep you in Enforcement was great

enough he would have all practical training waived--even for one who

had made perfect scores in all the theoretical material."



"You didn't tell me that!"



"I did not wish to make you over-confident. That, however, is no

longer a consideration; if you are to function independently, with

little or no notice and limited practical experience, you should be as

certain as possible of your ability to do so." He smiled. "As I did

tell you, you were most promising. Motivation and hard work have let

you live up to that promise so far; I see no reason to doubt that you

will continue to do so. But now, Inquisitor-Captain Cortin, you have

an interrogation to conduct." He gestured at the folders. "Logic will

tell you to choose one who has been through preliminary questioning,

and your emotions will tell you to choose the rogue-turned-Brother.

However, you have been an Enforcement officer long enough to have

learned to trust certain feelings; do any of them indicate which of

these will give you the most useful information?"



Cortin moved her hands across the folders as if she could get her

information that way, wishing she really could. She had learned to

trust her hunches--they had kept her alive more than once--but she was

less certain of them in these circumstances. Finally, she picked two

she thought ought to have more information than their records

suggested: a thief suspected of exercising his skills for the

Brotherhood and, though she admitted to herself it might be as much

because of his betrayal of the Service as for any information, the

rogue trooper. The thief had been through the preliminary stages; the

rogue hadn't, formally, but the Special Ops men who had captured him

had--justifiably, she thought--taken out some of their anger on him, so

he'd been through a crude form of second stage as well.



"These two, I think," she said, handing Illyanov the folders. "The

thief first; procedures on the renegade weren't exactly by the book, so

I'd like to have a little experience before I start on him."



Illyanov nodded, gathering up the remaining folders. Cortin followed

him back to the counter, glad that since he was the ranking officer,

he'd be the one to give the orders; she didn't yet know what orders to

give!



"Yes, sir?" the clerk asked.



"Have prisoner 829-A taken to Interrogation Suite Delta's third-stage

room. Standard restraints, no special requirements."



"Yes, sir." The clerk relayed Illyanov's orders through an intercom,

got an acknowledgement. "He will be waiting when you get there, sir.

Ma'am."



"Thank you. Shall we go, Captain?"



On the way to the interrogation suite, Cortin removed her gloves and

tucked them in the back of her belt, then rubbed the scars on the backs

of her hands. In a few minutes she'd start getting the first

installment of her revenge for those, and the other hurts they stood

for--and it felt good. Illyanov read her gestures and smiled. Most

trainees were nervous about their first practical work, especially

their first third-stage work. It was understandable enough--he could

remember his own apprehension--but it was those who went into it with

anticipation, as Cortin was doing, who generally became the outstanding

practitioners, those whose very names could be enough to persuade

criminals to avoid their attentions by a full confession. It was a

shame that if his speculations were accurate, she would be in the field

much of the time, where she was likely to be killed, rather than at a

Detention Center where she would be safe and her skills could be put to

their best use. However, he chided himself, it would be better having

her working within the law, anywhere, than it would be to have her

outside it, not only useless but being hunted!



When they got to the suite and exchanged tunics for the coveralls that

would protect their undershirts and trousers, Illyanov gave her a final

caution. "Do not let your enthusiasm make you careless, Captain. Even

a field interrogation requires both caution and precision."



"I'll be careful," Cortin assured him. "You've told me often enough

that the line between persuasive pain and unconsciousness is a very

fine one, and I don't intend to let him cross it."



"Very good." Illyanov smiled at her. "I will intervene only if you

ask, or if you appear about to do something unfortunate. Shall we go?"



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