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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?"