Ordination

: MAIN STORY
: The Alembic Plot

St. Thomas, Tuesday, 23 July 2571



About mid-afternoon, Shannon was leaning back in his desk chair,

planning the March raid that would supposedly mark the beginning of the

Brotherhood's real push against the Kingdoms, when he sensed a use of

power that had to be Cortin. It was weak, barely detectable, but

undeniably there, and he swore viciously. Even the slightest

deliberate use she made of her p
wer might lead to more . . . did he

dare check to see if it was deliberate?



That should be safe enough, he decided at last. It was far more

difficult to detect a passive use such as observing than an active one

such as coercion or physical alteration, and Cortin's use was weak

enough it might well be unconscious.



Despite his decision that the risk was low, he was cautious in

extending his sensitivity toward her. When he made contact, though, he

felt a sense of relief. Her use was unconscious, which meant there was

no immediate danger.



He could have retreated then, but he was too intrigued; she was getting

her first practical experience as an Inquisitor, and he couldn't resist

the temptation to watch.



The subject was one of the Brotherhood's suppliers. Too cowardly to

actually join the Brotherhood, but a skillful thief who could generally

get what the Brothers wanted, and sold it to them at about half what

he'd charge anyone else. It was a shame to lose him, but worth it to

watch Cortin work on her first victim, whether she turned out to be the

incomparable expert he expected if she had the nerve, or the total

incompetent he expected if she didn't.



"Are you a Brother of Freedom?" she asked the prisoner.



"No."



Cortin nodded. "Then have you worked for them?"



"Not that, either."



"In that case, we can proceed. I don't suppose you'd care to answer my

questions without unpleasantness?"



"I don't have anything to tell you."



"The choice is yours." Cortin picked up a scalpel, pausing at the

expression on Illyanov's face. "Is something wrong, Major?"



"That is not the standard way of beginning an interrogation."



"It will be, for me," Cortin said. "I'll do whatever is needed to stop

criminals, but I have no intention of hurting innocents."



"He denied everything."



"But he only told the truth the first time. He's worked for the

Brothers, even though he isn't one himself, and he has some significant

information."



"You never told me you had truthsense," Illyanov said quietly. "That

is a most useful talent."



"The subject never came up--but I can't be lied to, never could even as

a child. If a question has a yes-or-no answer, it doesn't matter if he

tells the truth or not. I'll know."



"As I said, a most useful talent. Not every Inquisitor can tell truth

from lies intended only to stop the pain, and most of us who do have

that ability have developed it through long experience." He smiled at

her in a way Shannon sensed was intended to express only approval, but

hid a degree of affection the Raidmaster found both disgusting and

amusing. "Go on, then."



Shannon watched critically as she began work. This would be a short

interrogation--despite his bravado, the thief was a coward, and already

terrified of the two Inquisitors--but it would tell him whether or not

Cortin would make the grade.



The first few minutes left him with no doubt that she would. Oh, she

had some problems--the determination not to hurt innocents, as if there

were any such thing, was one. Another was giving her prisoner the

chance to answer without persuasion, then not wanting to use any more

than she had to, though neither surprised him particularly; she had

always been overly scrupulous. Which was probably why her primary

motive was to extract information rather than to enjoy herself.



It was ironic that she was enjoying herself, and thoroughly, even

though it wasn't the same kind of pleasure he experienced in giving

pain. For her, the only real passion involved here was for justice;

criminals caused pain, so it was just to inflict it on them, either as

punishment or in the interest of preventing further crime. It was

simply more immediate this way than it had been in the past--and it

gave her victims the unfortunate opportunity to repent. Even though

right now Cortin was concerned with punishment rather than repentance.



* * * * *



Cortin removed the blood-spattered coverall, then went into the suite's

small bathroom to wash her hands, feeling dissatisfied. She couldn't

quite identify why, though; she had eventually persuaded the thief that

she could tell when he was lying to her, and he had finally told them

of his contacts within the Brotherhood, giving enough details that

those two would be taken into custody next time they appeared in

public. Neither theft nor contact with the Brotherhood were capital

crimes, so once she'd made sure he knew nothing of Shannon or the

horror raids, she'd called the guards and had him taken away for

sentencing.



Major Illyanov had said she'd done well, she reminded herself as she

put her tunic back on. So why should she feel otherwise? The answer,

of course, was that she shouldn't--but the fact remained that she did.

Well, she'd be trying again after lunch, on that trooper who'd gone

rogue; maybe she'd do better with him.



Shortly afterward, she and Illyanov entered the Inquisitors' lounge.

The only one there was Mike Odeon, slouched in an armchair with his

feet up on a hassock and what she could only call a positively smug

look on his face. It took no effort at all to realize that his phoning

had been successful; she grinned, her mood lightening. "Is it still

Captain," she asked, "or do I call you 'Father' now?"



"Depends on the circumstances," Odeon said, returning her grin lazily.

"Until after the next horror raid, anyway." He stood, turning to

Illyanov with a more sober expression. "Which you're not to talk about

even as a rumor, sir. Colonel Bradford asked me whose deductions I was

going by--I suppose he knows my records well enough to be sure they

weren't mine--and I'm to tell you the whole thing is rated an

all-Systems secret, until King Mark says otherwise."



"Understood--and I will of course comply." Illyanov bowed slightly.

"But since I did deduce this much, will you be able to tell me how

correct I was?"



"Now that I can do, along with a bit more," Odeon said, grinning again.

"And our lunch is courtesy of Inquisitor-Colonel Bradford--it should be

here any time. If you don't mind, I'd just as soon wait till then to

go any further."



"As you wish."



Odeon's prediction was correct; their lunch arrived less than half a

minute later, and not long afterward, they were eating a meal that

might have come from the Royal Palace itself.



All three spent some time in silent enjoyment, then Cortin couldn't

hold her curiosity any more. "How did you do it, Mike?"



"No problem, Joanie--none at all." Odeon smiled at her. "I have the

feeling he expected my call, though I don't know how he could've. At

any rate, I asked about both of us applying, and made what I think was

a rather eloquent argument on our behalves. He listened to me, even

though I have a sneaky feeling he knew everything I was going to

say--then he said we were in, and called me to the Palace for

ordination. Our new Commanding Officer is also Bishop of the St.

Thomas Strike Force, it seems." He grinned. "If you still want to go

to Mass tomorrow, I'd like you to come to my first one. Even if it

will have to be private."



"I'd be honored," Cortin said. "What about my application?"



Odeon laughed. "Looked at your ID lately, Inquisitor-Captain?" Then he

sobered, quickly. "No, I'm sorry--you're in, Joanie. Probably as a

team leader, if you get anything useful out of your first subjects--as

team-second, at worst. And we'll be on the same team, whoever's CO."

He frowned. "But--Joanie, His Holiness has decreed that all Strike

Force Inquisitors be priests, since it's conceivable even a Brother

might repent at the last minute and need the sacraments. But you never

said anything about having that call."



"Because you just told me about it," Cortin said. "It's pretty obvious

my primary call is to being a Strike Force Inquisitor; if part of that

is taking Holy Orders, I'll do it. And I'll do my best to be a good

priest." With a lot of prayers that she never be called on to

administer to a Brother that way . . . "Do I need to be ordained right

away, or can I take care of this afternoon's subject first?"



"I get the impression he wants us to be ready to go any time, so I'd

say you should get in touch with him sometime today. How long do you

think this subject'll take you?"



Cortin shrugged. "No real idea, though I don't think he'll be easy."



"I believe you should count on a minimum of several hours," Illyanov

said. "Probably no less than a day, perhaps a bit more. He was an

Enforcement trooper, after all, and was trained to resist

interrogation."



"You've got one of those?" Odeon smiled, wolfishly. "My urge is to

tell you to take care of him before you do anything else, but Strike

Force business has to come before even that. So I'd recommend you see

Colonel Bradford first."



"That's not necessary."



Cortin recognized the "Lieutenant's" voice and and started to rise, but

was stopped by his next words. "As you were, gentles--and thank you,

Major, for not giving me away." He pulled up a chair and joined them.



"Pleased to be of help, sir." Illyanov managed a seated bow. "I

presume you are not here by chance?"



"Not at all, Major." Bradford smiled, the expression making him look

years younger. "My interest in Captain Cortin led me to be sure I was

informed of her choice of subject, and I wanted to review the films

when she was done." He turned to Cortin, still smiling. "I hadn't

expected you to choose two, especially not the first time, and

especially not ones with so little promise. I've got to compliment you

on how well you did with the first one."



Cortin shook her head. "With all respect, sir, I don't think I did

that well. I just hope I can do better with the rogue."



"Maybe you can, at that," Bradford said. "As Major Illyanov said, not

every Inquisitor can tell truth from lies intended only to stop the

pain, and not many of those learn it the first time with a subject; if

you can do that already, there's no telling what you'll be able to do

with a little experience."



"As I told him, it's something I've had since childhood. I can't claim

any special credit."



Bradford chuckled. "You don't have to, as long as it works," he said

drily. "It's still a good sign, as is the fact that you enjoy our work

from the start. There are those who never do, and they're naturally

free to find something else--but I'd imagine you're anxious to get to

work again."



"Yes, sir, I am."



"Good." Bradford stood. "In that case, shall we go to the chapel for

your Ordination? I'm afraid the secrecy we're under for the time being

means it can't be as elaborate as a civilian ordination, but you can be

assured it will be effective."



"I don't doubt it, sir." It didn't seem quite proper to have

Ordination without public acknowledgement, but Mike's must have been

that way too, and since it obviously didn't bother him, she couldn't

let it upset her. "I'm at your disposal."



The brief ceremony over, Bradford returned to the Palace while Cortin,

Odeon and Illyanov made their way to the suite where her prisoner

waited. It might have been a brief, basic ceremony, Cortin thought,

but it was one she would remember for the rest of her life, from the

unprecedented sight of an armed Bishop in Enforcement uniform and stole

to the anointing of her hands. She rubbed the oil that was still on

them. It was hard to believe she was really a priest now, far harder

than it had been to believe she was an Inquisitor when she saw the

badge in her ID folder--but of course she'd had some preparation for

that, where half an hour ago it had never occurred to her that she'd be

a priest. As she'd told Mike, though, if she had to be a priest to be

a Strike Force team's Inquisitor, so be it. What surprised her was

Bradford's acceptance of her necessity; the only explanation she could

think of was that the Strike Force needed Priest-Inquisitors badly

enough they'd ordain anyone who claimed both vocations. That was

unsettling in its own way, but since it served her purpose, she wasn't

inclined to argue.



The three entered the suite and went through the routine of getting

into coveralls. Odeon wasn't sure why he was there, except that Joanie

hadn't asked him to leave and he'd never seen a third-stage

interrogation--though he'd both seen and helped in several second-stage

ones. He said as much, then continued, "So if you need me to do

anything, you'll have to tell me."



"I will," Cortin promised. "I didn't send you away because it didn't

occur to me, but I'm certain to need help in the field from time to

time, and there's no one I'd rather have backing me. So if you're

willing, you should get used to both third-stage and my methods."



"I'm willing--especially," he opened the door to the third-stage room

where the prisoner was shackled, waiting, "when the subject's someone

like this plaguer. Renegades and Brothers deserve anything an

Inquisitor does to them."



"Keep thinkin' that, cull," the prisoner sneered. "You ain't worth the

effort it'd take to spit on you. You or that other bastard, or the

Bitch."



Cortin looked him over, cooly. He was naked, spreadeagled between

chains in the ceiling and eyebolts in the floor, and must know he was

completely at the Inquisitor's mercy--but he probably didn't know she

was the Inquisitor. With all three of them in coveralls, he had no way

of knowing who was who, just that he was faced with two men and a woman.



The Special Ops men who had beaten him had done a fairly professional

job, she decided. Not enough to eliminate his defiance, but enough to

give her quite a number of tender areas to exploit in addition to the

natural ones. She smiled, approaching him and showing him the backs of

her hands. "I'm the one you call the Enforcement bitch, rogue. I

survived the Brothers' torture, unfortunately for you and the rest of

them. Because I intend to return the favor without the mistake, and

you will tell me how to find the specific ones who damaged me."



"I'm not tellin' you a damn thing, Bitch!"



"Wrong, and you know it," Cortin said calmly, beginning the examination

that would tell her where his flesh was most sensitive and thus most

vulnerable to her persuasion. "You will perhaps tell me less than I

wish, but you will tell me as much as you can."



He jerked away as she probed a dark bruise over his ribs. "Like hell I

will!"



"We shall see." Cortin hid a smile, a bit surprised at herself. She'd

noticed a little of it last time, but it seemed to be getting stronger:

when she conducted an interrogation, she adopted Illyanov's speech

patterns--perhaps as a reaction to the prisoner's crudity, perhaps as a

tribute to her teacher, she didn't know, and it didn't really seem to

matter. "I think that before too long you will be most curious as to

the information I want, and you will be increasingly eager to give it

to me. When you do, I will release you."



She was pleased to see the prisoner starting to look apprehensive. He

still had his defiance, though. "You damn servants of corruption never

let anyone go! So why should I believe you'll start with me?"



"I did not mean that kind of release, as you should know, having been a

trooper yourself. I meant only that I will release you from your

pain." She explored further, identifying areas of promise from his

sounds and flinching. It was a temptation to relieve him of his

genitals, she thought as she reached them, but that would be

short-sighted; from her own torture, as well as her studies, she knew

them to be capable of some of the body's most exquisite pain. No, she

would leave them where they could be of the most use--right where they

were.





For Shannon's reaction: Reaction





Odeon watched in revolted fascination as his Joanie stripped skin, with

precise delicacy, from the screaming renegade's hands. He'd expected

her to go after the plaguer's manhood in retaliation for what had been

done to her, but--except for a couple of times he'd been lying so

obviously it was an insult--she had left that alone.



When she finished her subject's hands, Cortin stepped back to study

him. She had discovered quickly that his personal horrors included

being skinned alive, so that had become her primary tactic against him.

It was slow--enjoyably so, for her--and it was working very nicely

indeed. "Have you decided to cooperate yet?"



"Damn you, Bitch!" The renegade tried to spit at her, without success.

"Do your damndest--you won't get nothin' from me!"



Cortin smiled. He was still defiant, true, but Illyanov agreed with

her assessment that he was the type who would remain defiant until he

broke abruptly, and the same sense that told her when he was lying now

told her he was close to that abrupt break. Give him the proper

physical and psychological stimuli, and he should go from defiance to

surrender in seconds.



She had already planned what to do, a continuation of her primary

tactic--but a little bit of insurance wouldn't hurt. She turned to the

other two. "Would either of you gentlemen care to avail yourselves of

our guest while he still has enough spirit to be interesting? I fear I

am being greedy, keeping him to myself."



Illyanov smiled, bowing to her. She hadn't been avoiding an extremely

useful technique, as he had been half afraid she was, because it had

been done to her; she had merely postponed it until the optimum time.

"It is generous of you to share, Inquisitor. It has been some time

since I have had the opportunity to indulge myself in another's

subject. I will not interrupt your work?"



Both ignored the renegade's protests and insults as Cortin returned the

bow. "Not at all--your enjoyment of him should make the removal of his

genital skin even more effective." And enjoyable . . . "Particularly

if you can make him move enough that it is he who pulls himself free of

it."



"That should pose no particular difficulty."



If it hadn't been his Joanie doing the work, his Joanie who might need

his help, Odeon would have taken advantage of his non-Inquisitor status

to leave. He'd taken part in some second-stage interrogations, on

occasion enjoyed them if the recipient had done something particularly

revolting--but even the most methodical of those beatings seemed more

human, cleaner, than the cool, meticulous infliction of pain both

Inquisitors so obviously enjoyed. At first he'd thought Joanie's

enjoyment a pretense intended to make her subject's torment harder to

endure, but he couldn't convince himself of that any longer. Joanie

was enjoying her subject's anguish, taking a delight in his screams and

writhings that Odeon found sickening. But it was Joanie; after what

had been done to her, surely she had a right to whatever pleasures she

could find . . .



Cortin was beginning to think she'd miscalculated her subject's

resistance when screams of defiance turned abruptly, as anticipated,

into hopeless whimpering sobs mixed with pleas for mercy. She looked

past him to Illyanov, who nodded; while he finished, she went to the

instrument table and picked up a slender, razor-sharp dagger.



"Here is the end to your pain," she said softly, laying it against the

raw flesh of the rogue's throat. "As soon as you answer my questions,

I will give you your release. You have learned that you cannot lie to

me; try it again, and you will find what has happened so far only the

beginning. Do you understand?"



"Yes . . . Oh, God, no more!"



"That is up to you, not Him; you gave up any claim on His Mercy when

you pledged allegiance to His enemies." Though, an inner voice said,

he could still repent . . . "Tell me about Lawrence Shannon. Who he

is, where he is, what his plans are."



"I don't know all that . . . please, I don't!"



He was telling the truth, unfortunately. "Very well. Tell me what you

do know, then."



"I'm . . . not sure. No! Honest--he's the Raidmaster, everyone knows

that--plans all the new-style raids--but nobody knows him. A Lawrence

Shannon even leads all those raids, but not the same one, maybe not the

one who plans 'em. An' that's all I know about 'im, honest!"



"I believe you," Cortin said. It was too bad he knew so little, and

that so inconclusive, but she had no doubt that he was telling her all

he did know, as she'd asked. "Have you heard anything else? It need

not be certain--a rumor of his plans, perhaps."



"No . . . no, wait . . . maybe. I overheard something . . . a hospice

. . . or could be a retirement home, or some sort of hospital. Old

folks, or sick ones, anyway. That's all."



"All on that subject, or all on any?"



"All on any . . . please?"



"You have earned it." Cortin drove the knife up under his ear; he

gasped, shuddered once, and died.



Cortin looked at him for a moment, then smiled. "Compared to your

present master, my friend, I was easy on you. May you suffer under him

for eternity."



Odeon tasted bile, knew suddenly he was going to be sick. "Joanie--"



She turned, saw his pale face, and hurried to him. "Can you make it to

the washroom?"



"I don't think--"



"No, he cannot," Illyanov interrupted, coming over and holding a

wastebasket.



Odeon had time for a grateful look before his stomach completed its

rebellion. He felt Joanie's hand stroking his head, heard both

Inquisitors telling him it was all right as they helped him into the

suite's outer room and got him seated. When he was finished, Joanie

handed him a towel; he wiped his mouth and looked up at them. "I'm

sorry."



"That is a normal reaction," Illyanov said calmly. "There is no need

to apologize; you did better than could have been expected."



"You should've left if it bothered you," Cortin said. "I'd like to

have you backing me, yes, but not if my work's going to upset you like

this."



"I'll get used to it," Odeon said stubbornly. "I can't promise I'll

ever get to like it, but I will learn to handle it well enough to give

you any backup you need."



"You set yourself a difficult task," Illyanov said. "I feel safe in

predicting you will not come to like it; observing you, I would say you

lack the quirk of mind required to take pleasure in another's pain.

With adequate motivation, time, and exposure, however, you may develop

enough tolerance to be able to assist."



"I'll settle for that." Odeon's stomach churned again at the thought

of doing what Illyanov had, unsure whether he was pleased or not at the

Major's prognosis. In a way, it'd be good to share Joanie's pleasure

even in that . . . "What do I do, sit in on all her interrogations?"



"I would normally recommend that you begin with a less talented

Inquisitor," Illyanov said, "as that would be less unpleasant for you.

However, Captain Cortin is the one you will be teamed with, so perhaps

it would indeed be as well if you work with her from the beginning."



"Less talented?" Odeon asked, puzzled. "That doesn't make sense."



"If you think for a moment," Illyanov said gently, "you will find it

makes very good sense. One with less talent cannot judge tolerances as

well, is not as sensitive to an individual subject's particular dreads,

is more likely to believe lies told to please him and stop the

interrogation, and--although this is also true of Captain Cortin, until

she acquires experience to match her theoretical knowledge and raw

talent--apt to let the subject die before extracting all possible

information."



"Put that way, it does make sense," Odeon admitted. "I've never

thought about Inquisitors very much--or the talents you have to have."



"Few people do," Illyanov said drily. "Few people care to think much

about us, fewer still about how we obtain our results--even though they

have no objections to using those results. We get few thanks and less

praise for what we do, so it is well that God grants us the mercy of

deriving our satisfaction from the work itself."



Odeon nodded. That was something else he'd never thought about . . .

and again, it made sense. "I understand, I think. So I'll work with

her whenever she's doing an interrogation, then?"



"Yes. When you feel able to assist, you will of course be covered by

her Warrant." He looked at his watch, then grinned ruefully at Cortin.

"I thought we had been busy for some time, but I had not realized I had

lost track of time to this degree. It is almost midnight--I think we

had best call it a day immediately, and pray Doctor Egan does not find

out how late I kept you. I am not feeling sucicidal enough to face her

if she feels I have been overworking you again."



"Neither am I! Once was more than enough." The chewing out Egan had

given tham when she'd caught them in a tutoring session after visiting

hours was one Cortin would remember with respect for some time. "See

you at breakfast?"



"It would be my pleasure."



* * * * *



Cortin slept soundly, and when she woke early it was in anticipation of

assisting at Mike's First Mass and then celebrating her own. She found

herself looking forward to both of them more than she could remember

having done since her First Communion, after the way the previous day's

had made her feel.



Her anticipation suffered a setback, though, when she found a note from

Mike in her message box; he'd been asked to say his First Mass for some

newly-arrived Strike Force selectees, and he said she would have as

well if she hadn't still been on hospital status. She didn't see how

saying Mass could be more strenuous than conducting

interrogations--though maybe Egan didn't know she'd done any--but she

couldn't object.







For Odeon's First Mass: Odeon's First Mass







She opened the field Mass kit she'd been issued and laid it out on the

bureau, kissed the stole and put it around her neck, then blessed

herself and began her First Mass. She was surprised at how easily she

was able to speak the Latin; even though she'd heard it almost every

Sunday since she was old enough to remember, she'd never seriously

tried to use it. She'd heard the Terrans had experimented with using

whatever the local language happened to be, but that seemed almost

sacrilegious; she couldn't imagine Mass without the solemnity and

beauty of Latin.



As she continued, offering her prayers and her pain to the figure on

the crucifix, the ceremony seemed to take on a life of its own, filling

her with a sense of rightness and peace. At some point Illyanov's

voice joined hers, taking over the responses; she accepted it without

surprise. Nor was she surprised, when the time came, to find several

men in Enforcement gray kneeling for Communion.



It wasn't until she finished the service that she realized they were

all Inquisitors, or wondered how they came to be in a room she was

positive she'd locked the night before. When she asked, Illyanov

chuckled and held up a key. "I did not think it fitting that you have

to celebrate your First Mass alone, so I spoke with Colonel Bradford

and received his permission to act as your server, as well as--since I

convinced him it would be impossible to keep secret the fact of Special

Operations priests, especially from Inquisitors when one of those

priests is also one of us, for more than a few days--to invite several

of our colleagues." He introduced them, then said, "It is our pleasure

to invite you to breakfast at the Eagle's Nest. That is one of the few

commercial establishments where Inquisitors in uniform are

welcome--probably because the proprietor was one of us before his

retirement--and has much better food than the dining hall. Will you

join us?"



Odeon had loaned her a Special Operations patch until she could get to

the Uniform Sales store to buy some, and she was wearing her new

Inquisitor's badge, so she was in full uniform; she had no hesitation

in accepting. Tucking her stole into a tunic pocket, she said, "I'd be

honored--just let me put my kit away."



* * * * *



The Eagle's Nest proprietor, unlike the young private she'd met the

previous day, obviously followed Service news; he recognized her,

welcoming her with almost embarrassing effusiveness, asking how she

felt, congratulating her on becoming an Inquisitor and her success with

her first subjects, expressing delight and asking the Reverend Mother's

blessing when Illyanov told him she was a priest.



When they were seated, Cortin turned to Illyanov. "Is he always like

that?"



"Only since he retired," Illyanov assured her. "He misses our

professional discussions and fellowship, although I doubt he would wish

to give up this profession, either." He grinned. "It is, after all,

far more profitable than the Service."



Cortin chuckled. "It would be, yes. But he seems to keep in pretty

close touch--normal news channels wouldn't have anything on how I'd

handled my subjects."



"He prides himself on it, true--and since we find it useful from time

to time, we help him."



"Useful how?"



"You're a good example," a young First Lieutenant said. "We all know

you're interested in that plaguer Shannon--those plaguers, I should

say--so we'll see to it you get anything about 'em we come across.

Can't do it through official channels, though--personal revenge isn't

frowned on, exactly, if it can be done in line of duty, but it isn't

exactly sanctioned, either. So we'll give it to Francis, and he'll get

it to you. You'll be expected to return the favor if you come across

anything that'll be of special interest to one of us, of course."



"Of course. Just let me know your interests; I'll be glad to ask about

them."



"No problem; we'll leave notes in your message box."



Cortin chuckled. "I hadn't expected this sort of mutual support when I

started my studies--but I'm glad to find it. Would it be proper to ask

Mr. Robbins to join us?"



"Francis," Illyanov corrected her. "Off duty and among ourselves, we

are less formal than others might think desirable. To answer your

question, however: yes, it would be perfectly proper to ask him to join

us. Christopher, would you mind?"



"Sure thing." The young Lieutenant rose, grinning at Cortin.

"Everyone but Ivan calls me Chris, though, okay?"



"Okay, Chris." As he left in search of the proprietor, Cortin turned

to Illyanov. "Ivan--" it seemed strange calling him that--"thanks."

She looked around. "Thank all of you, for joining me. It means a lot."



"It means much to us, as well." Illyanov touched her hand. "You are

new to our field, Joan, but already you must begin to feel our

isolation. An Inquisitor who is also a priest is most literally a gift

from God."



"I'm not the only one," she said, uncomfortable with his intensity.

"Colonel Bradford, uh . . ." She hesitated, realizing that the Bishop

was the only other Priest-Inquisitor she knew of.



"His Excellency's other committments do not normally permit him to

exercise his priestly functions on an individual basis, not true?"



"True." Most Bishops did have to be more concerned with administration

than with a chaplain's duties . . . "Okay, I guess you're right. What

can I do for you?"



"Hear our confessions, for one thing," a graying Captain said. "I

messed up, oh--three or four months ago, but the chaplain we were

assigned doesn't understand Inquisitors--he couldn't figure out why it

bothers me." He paused, looking miserable. "Reverend Mother--please?"



Cortin looked around for a private place--she couldn't refuse such a

plea--but it was Robbins who said, "If you'd like to use my office,

Mother, I'd be honored."



"Thank you--where is it?"



"Through the curtains over there, second door on the right."



Cortin rose, feeling inadequate, but led the older officer--Captain

Gregory Watkins, if she remembered correctly from the group

introduction--through the curtains and into an office decorated with

Enforcement Service pictures, awards, and certificates. She sat in the

desk chair, putting on her stole; when Watkins knelt beside her and

began his Confession, she understood why he would want a confessor who

could understand the feelings of guilt that, deservedly or not, went

with failure to get necessary information from a subject, then damaging

him so badly, in an effort to correct the first problem, that no one

else could get the information either. She hadn't done that badly

yet--her clumsiness with her first subject had been due to

inexperience, not lack of judgement--but she was certain she'd do it

some day. When she did, she too would want a confessor who understood

what she'd done, why it was wrong, and how to help her avoid it in the

future.



She gave him absolution, with a penance of memorizing the third chapter

of St. Jean Grillet's The Inquisitor's Call. It seemed harsh to her,

but his expression said otherwise, and when he rose, he thanked her.



Breakfast was on the table when they got back, and she was hungry; as

soon as grace was said, she started on a stack of hotcakes and honey.

Illyanov was absolutely right, she decided immediately; the food was

far better than she'd gotten in any Service dining hall. She grinned

at Robbins, giving him the "first-class" hand signal, then continued

eating and listening to the conversation.



That had settled rather quickly into shop talk, as it usually did when

groups of specialists got together. She could understand how it might

upset a nearby diner, but she'd been studying during meals for weeks

now; she listened carefully, making mental notes of several

useful-sounding--or just interesting--tips, though she didn't join in

until her plate was empty and she was enjoying a glass of pear nectar.

There was less resentment than she'd expected at Bradford's order that

she get first choice of all non-critical prisoners, though she did take

some teasing about being sure she left some for them, what with the

Brothers still laying low. She promised, with a bit of return teasing

that if things were all that slow this might be a good time to take

some leave, then she had to make another promise that she'd hold

Confession and Mass for them, in the base chapel if she could get

permission, in their lounge at the Detention Center if she couldn't.



As she was getting ready to leave, a waiter approached and handed her a

note; she read it, grinned, and handed it to Illyanov. She was

summoned to the Base Theater for a meeting of prospective Team Leaders

and team-seconds. The note didn't say what kind of teams they were to

be Leaders and seconds of, naturally, but it didn't have to; she and

Illyanov knew. "I'll see about arranging for the chapel," she told the

group as she rose. "I'll post the results on the bulletin board,

whichever way it works out, but I've got to go now. Thanks again."



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