Authors: Susan R. Matthews
Koscuisko had handed the whip off to one of his Security already, and was drinking a flask of rhyti in his shirtsleeves. Discipline was warm work. Koscuisko always took his over-blouse off. It had only been three-and-thirty, though. Apart from his loosened collar and rolled-back cuffs Koscuisko seemed unaffected by the exertion: He wasn’t even breathing hard.
There were medical people standing by to take Hixson to Infirmary, because though Koscuisko had called Wheatfields to take custody of Hixson — as per standard operating procedure — in reality Hixson was to go to Medical to have the welts on his naked back salved. The orderlies and Security stood away for Captain Lowden’s approach, of course.
Lowden counted the welts, one ear to the conversation taking place behind him. Koscuisko was apparently in a mood.
“Lieutenant. While I appreciate your concern for the letter of the Law I must say that your behavior surprises me.”
Koscuisko had every reason to be in a mood. He’d had that fateful interview with Jils Ivers days ago, and Ivers had accomplished miracles. Lowden was in her debt without being in the least actually obligated to her, which was the best of both.
Koscuisko had been drinking ever since, almost as heavily as though he’d had an assignment in Secured Medical. If Koscuisko hadn’t been Dolgorukij — Lowden thought to himself, walking his fingers from welt to welt, counting as Hixson trembled — Koscuisko’s body would never have been able to support the demands he made of it.
“I apologize, your Excellency.” Ap Rhiannon meant no such thing. It was the approved formula, no more than that. “It was an error on my part. I felt his Excellency would think less of me if I failed to note the
. . .
what seemed to me to have been a mis-stroke.”
Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two bloodied tracks, and one mere bruise, purple and weeping clear fluid. Well. Either Koscuisko had missed or the final stroke was laid too exactly over an earlier one to be called out as such. Koscuisko could have missed. But if Koscuisko had dared to try a cheat in his Captain’s presence — and Lowden really didn’t think it had been deliberate — the joke he was going to play would be entirely adequate punishment.
And junior officers should not controvert with their superiors on principle.
“Three-and-thirty,” Lowden said firmly, turning away from Hixson with a gesture for the medical people to come forward. “I call it good. Lieutenant. I shouldn’t have to remind you that Koscuisko’s count is the true count here. If he says three-and-thirty the only person on board this ship who can say differently is me.”
Koscuisko bowed in formal appreciation of this endorsement, but he didn’t look surprised or relieved. It had been as Lowden had thought. If Koscuisko had made a mistake it had been a genuine mistake, one of which he was genuinely unaware.
Koscuisko could be excused a mistake, just this once. The joke Lowden had in mind would be that much more effective if it was unlooked for.
Ap Rhiannon could only swallow the rebuke. He’d left her no room to cry an honest error. “Of course, Captain. My apologies, your Excellency, no disrespect was intended. It was a failure of good judgment on my part.”
Not that Koscuisko cared. “It is forgotten, Lieutenant,” Koscuisko assured her, fastening his cuffs before he allowed his Security to help him into his over-blouse. Unlike portions of the uniform that were visible from the outside there was no Jurisdiction Standard for under-blouses; some classes of hominid — the particularly hairy ones — weren’t even required to wear an under-blouse in uniform.
The under-blouses that Koscuisko wore had a short little collar that stood straight up from its seam, and very full sleeves, a good deal of fabric gathered into the yoke of it, and fastened with ties slightly to the left of center. Lowden had often wondered what it would look like with blood soaking through it from the other side. “Captain?”
Nobody could leave the room until Lowden as ranking officer had, with the exception of the medical team and their patient. Lowden had no intention of depriving himself of an audience for this.
“Andrej, something’s come up. It’s difficult.” Something had come up during the early eights of first-shift, as a matter of fact. He’d been asleep. But Bench intelligence specialists were allowed global override on privacy channels, any time, any place. “I’m really sorry to have to do this to you. There’s been a draft on services, your services. At Burkhayden.”
And there
was
a draft on Koscuisko’s services, too — Vogel had made that quite clear. Andrej Koscuisko — no other — and the surgical unit. And immediately. Two eights into third shift, actually, and only an eight left to second shift now — Koscuisko would have no time to think twice about it. Perfect.
Koscuisko looked pale, but then Koscuisko had looked pale from early on. He wasn’t well. He drank.
“Services, your Excellency.” Koscuisko’s tone of voice made it quite clear that he thought he knew precisely what Lowden had meant in selecting that word. “Forgive me for asking, but can it not wait? We will at Burkhayden arrive soon enough.”
Quite so. For himself Captain Lowden tried to give Koscuisko adequate anticipation time; it sharpened Koscuisko’s appetite and improved Koscuisko’s performance. Koscuisko was a resource of very significant value
. . .
not only to the rule of Law, but to Lowden himself, personally, intimately. Monetarily.
“I regret, Andrej. But Vogel was very insistent. Nothing will do for him but that you travel to Burkhayden immediately to support his requirement.”
And now he was to have Koscuisko for another period of time — who knew how long? He had connections. Chilleau Judiciary was going to be in no mood to endorse any request for reassignment; quite the contrary, he could rely on Chilleau Judiciary to come up with good reasons why Koscuisko could not be spared from
Ragnarok
, even though Standard procedure was to rotate every four years.
Ragnarok
had demonstrated its ability to make full use of Koscuisko in his Judicial function. It was Koscuisko’s experience on the
Ragnarok
that had finally convinced Koscuisko to renew his Term. Yes.
“According to his Excellency’s good pleasure.” Koscuisko knew better than to press it any further. “Name the time and the place, if you will, sir.”
And what would Koscuisko not do, to protect his assigned troops from sanctions?
Could it be that Lowden was to find a way to have his wish, and watch the blood flow from fresh livid weals on Koscuisko’s own smooth-skinned and aristocratic back?
“Docking bay down-forward three, and at third and two. First Officer is sending one of your senior Security as acting Chief, I understand. The documentation surrounding Chief Stildyne’s refusal of that promotion to First Officer on JFS
Sceppan
isn’t complete, and he has to answer to the evaluation board for it. Reasons for declining, and so forth.”
Koscuisko hadn’t heard about that, either. The pupils of Koscuisko’s eyes had shrunk to small angry smoldering coals surrounded by ice. Oh, it was very gratifying, very gratifying indeed.
The only person who wasn’t getting the joke was ap Rhiannon, too new to have heard all about Stildyne’s personal predilections, and how he had used to treat the Bonds, and how that had changed with Koscuisko’s arrival. And why. And why, and why, and why, and why. She’d get an earful soon enough. Lowden knew he could rely upon his other officers to see to that.
“Very good, sir. Down-forward three. Captain.”
He’d done everything he’d wanted; his joke was set, primed, and ready.
“And we’ll see you in a week or two. Thank you, gentles, well done all ‘round.”
It was only a matter of time before his joke went off in Garol Vogel’s face; and that would serve Vogel right, for shaking a senior Fleet officer out of bed in the middle of his sleep for no better reason than that Wyrlann had beaten some Nurail whore.
Again.
###
Jils Ivers watched the
Ragnarok
’s loaders position the surgical unit beneath the courier ship’s waiting cargo area, soothed as she always was to see a task done quickly and done well. The Security that was to travel with them to Burkhayden stood waiting for their officer near the passenger loading ramp; Jils thought she could put names to some of them, after all these years of watching Koscuisko for Verlaine.
The tall Nurail would logically be Robert St. Clare, whose lapse had almost ruined Koscuisko for them before he’d even reported to his first duty. Godsalt, whose precise role in the riots at Arnulf had yet to be determined, whether or not there had been Evidence enough to convict him — and impose his Bond.
One man she didn’t recognize, but since he was Pitere to look at him, he was probably Garrity.
And the smiling man with the light brown curls might be Hirsel, who had escaped a full Eighth Level inquiry so narrowly in his previous command. They hadn’t been able to prove enough to pursue the offense on such a terminal level. But they had sent him to the
Ragnarok
, right enough, and before Koscuisko had come that had been almost as bad where bond-involuntaries were concerned.
Brachi Stildyne she knew: there was no mistaking that wreckage of a face. Stildyne had come from mean streets, and his face showed his history; one eyebrow off center and lined through with scar tissue, one cheekbone noticeably higher than the other, and his nose had been broken so many times it hardly even mattered any more.
Stildyne was talking to the big black Scaltskarmell who would logically be Pyotr Micmac, or Micmac Pyotr, whichever; but that made six in total. There were one too many. Not only that, but there was an officer’s duty-case with the Security that Jils thought she recognized — and found out of place.
What would Koscuisko be wanting a field interrogations kit for?
“Garol, give me an eye or two here.”
“Um.” Garol had been in a bit of a mood since early this morning, and she wasn’t exactly sure what the matter was, because it seemed to run deeper than any combination of perfectly reasonable explanations for Garol’s being on the brood. “Whatcha got, Jils?”
She pointed. “What does that look like, to you?”
There was a pharmacy tech down there now, and a little genial frisking seemed to be taking place between St. Clare and the woman with her issue — pouch while the senior troops’ backs were obligingly turned. “Looks like a date to me, Jils, has it been that long? Really?”
“No, you idiot. The box on the deck.” The tech was leaving, but St. Clare had the issue-pouch. Garol crunched in closer to the view-port, frowning.
“What the
. . .
? Stinking three-days-rotten ftah.” Well, it wasn’t just her suspicious nature, then. “What does he want to travel with that thing for? Jils, I’m not having it on board this ship.”
The surgical unit contained the surgical machine, the sterile unit, supplies to address gross trauma and delicate microsurgery alike. That box down on the decking with Koscuisko’s Security contained other things, the things that a Chief Medical Officer might need if he was being sent to the field for another reason entirely — field interrogation. Instruments of field-expedient Inquiry, Confirmation, and Execution.
“Listen, Garol.” Jils had an uneasy feeling that she just might have guessed at what was going on. Lowden was a master manipulator. She’d known that about Koscuisko’s superior officer for years. “You didn’t talk to Koscuisko, did you? Just to the Captain?”
“Damn it, Jils, I’m not having it, we’re not on a search-and-mutilate, not this time — ”
Overreacting a bit. Garol didn’t usually get emotional about the Judicial function, and it was a little funny to see him bouncing around so far outside of his normal operating mode of depressed disgust. “So we don’t know what Lowden told Koscuisko.” And it was just the sort of thing that would appeal to Lowden’s sense of humor, too.
Garol had his eyes fixed on the scene outside. Trying to identify what it was that he found so fascinating, Jils followed his line of sight and discovered Andrej Koscuisko just entering the loading bay from the far end.
“Well, I’m going to find out.”
Garol was halfway across the room before she could say anything, but his intent was screamingly obvious. Jils hurried to follow him. She wanted to know how Koscuisko was holding up after what she’d told him about his new post with Verlaine.
And she had a good notion that Koscuisko wasn’t about to chat with her over a friendly game of relki, not even if it was to take a month and a half to get to Port Burkhayden rather than a day and a half or so.
Security might have heard Garol coming, or they might just have been quick to respond to Garol’s surely unexpected entrance. They were at attention one way or the other; Jils didn’t think Stildyne had seen Koscuisko yet, he was still talking with Pyotr. Garol was just intercepting Koscuisko when she caught up with him, well short of Koscuisko’s waiting people.
“Your Excellency.” The formal address always sounded disconcertingly casual coming from Garol. Koscuisko had stopped where he stood, looking past them to where his Security detachment waited for him. “I’m Vogel, your Excellency, Bench intelligence specialist second sub seven Garol Vogel. We’ve met once before, but only briefly. His Excellency may not remember. We’ll be traveling together to Burkhayden, sir.”
Koscuisko looked at Garol with suspicion and hostility evident in his pale eyes. He didn’t look well. “The Captain has told me that you require my professional services. Specialist Ivers.”
Acknowledging his nod in her direction with a careful salute, Jils realized just how good Lowden really was. Garol did in fact have a job for Koscuisko that required Koscuisko’s “professional services,” and Lowden need only have said that much and no more to create the absolutely opposite impression of what was to be asked of him in Koscuisko’s mind.
“Well, actually, it’s the Danzilar prince who insisted upon his Excellency in person. Because the woman was very badly treated, and Paval I’shenko feels very strongly that the best surgeon Lowden’s got should be the one to put her right.”