Prisoner of Conscience (29 page)

She picked out the stylus with the dose and turned back to her waiting prisoner.

She would prevail.

She was not Koscuisko; but she was as good as, and all that she was doing was exactly what he must have done, to have built up such an inflated name for himself.

“Let the Record show administration of six units of tincture of quillock per body weight.”

Six units would do it, all right.

Yes, that would take care of the problem once and for all.

###

“So we’ll get an Infirmary audit out of the way, all to the good,”
Administrator Geltoi sneered bitterly. “And we haven’t had any complaints on the kitchen audit. Still our young Koscuisko makes demands, then calls for prisoners off of work crew, and not so much as three words in courtesy to explain why he needs thus-and-such a soul.”

Well, because the prisoners currently under interrogation had named the names, Belan thought to himself. Standing quietly beside Geltoi’s desk, waiting for his instructions. Geltoi was annoyed about the prisoners as much because they had to be pulled from work-crew as anything else; and the work-crews were starting to thin out a bit. The Domitt hadn’t gotten a good shipment of replacements in since Koscuisko’s arrival.

“What are you going to do, Administrator?”

That wasn’t exactly Koscuisko’s fault. Or was it? They couldn’t afford any irregularities, not right under Koscuisko’s nose. Captain Sinjosi Vopalar seemed as little inclined to leave administrative details to locals as Koscuisko had proved himself to be. Their Port Authority contacts were worried about questions one of Vopalar’s junior officers was asking, and it was rumored that Koscuisko had put him up to it.

Maybe that was actually Koscuisko’s fault, come to that. Rising from his chair, Administrator Geltoi turned his back to gaze out of the window toward Port Rudistal. “Losing money on work-detail, we can’t supply the labor, not between Koscuisko and that Captain Vopalar. Losing money on victuals, the kitchen’s gotten nervous and timid, insists on serving what we’re issued for the duration. Losing a great bloody chunk of money just so Koscuisko can’t find anything wrong in Infirmary. And he killed Robis Darmon, Merig, make no mistake about it. We could have had more evidence from him.”

Which would have strengthened their hand at Chilleau Judiciary in case of any awkwardness: that was the unspoken subtext to Administrator Geltoi’s argument. Belan didn’t like it. Why did Geltoi feel the need for insurance?

The Port Authority and the kitchen might be excused for suffering a failure of nerve. But Geltoi was the mastermind. Belan believed in him. If other Pyana started to feel concern, did that mean that they weren’t smart for Pyana?

Or that Geltoi wasn’t smart for a Pyana?

If Geltoi wasn’t really in control of this —

The idea was unthinkable.

“Perhaps if you were to make complaint to Chilleau Judiciary,”
Belan suggested, a little diffidently.

“And why the people he wants for the work-rooms?” Geltoi ignored the question, clearly more concerned about his own issues than what Belan had to suggest. “There isn’t any logic to it. What’s he up to?”

They could just ask.

Belan was tempted to propose they do just that. Koscuisko had been blunt enough about whether or not Darmon’s death had been attributable to a blunder on his part. Maybe all they had to do was ask — and Koscuisko would tell them.

Maybe it was important that they know.

There were voices in the fog between the wall of the Domitt Prison and its containment wall, when the fog rose. It could be clear in front of the building. It could be clear at the north of the building. The fog would still creep out of the ground on the south side of the building, at a little remove.

Right where the massive crane had been anchored in the ground to lift materials onto the fast-rising floors of the Domitt Prison.

Right where the bodies of those dead were buried, but they hadn’t all been dead when they’d been buried, and the chemical accelerant the Pyana had dumped into the pit to speed decomposition ate into living flesh and burned like fire.

Belan had been there.

He had heard the screaming.

The voices didn’t scream, they only hinted, teased, warned, proposing riddles that drove him half-mad. He hadn’t gotten out of the building in time, last night. He’d been forced to spend the night in his office, pretending to be working diligently.

Now Geltoi turned back to the desk-table and sat down once again. Sighing deeply. “He’s really left me with no other choice, Belan.” Geltoi’s tone of voice was aggrieved, as though forced into some action against his better judgment. “I’d rather we had been able to work things out, but he’s chosen not to bring his concerns to me before taking official action. This isn’t the sort of conduct one expects from a ranking officer.”

The words and phrases flowed in majestic measure. Rehearsed, almost. Maybe Geltoi
had
rehearsed. Artificial, one way or the other — all except Geltoi’s undoubted frustration with how things had worked out for them.

“I can’t accept a working relationship that’s all take and no give, the Administration does deserve some consideration, after all. I’m asking Chilleau Judiciary to recall Andrej Koscuisko to
Scylla
. No Writ at all would be better than this one.”

One hand flat to the table’s surface, Geltoi waited for a response, staring at Belan. Oh. It was time for the chorus, then.

“Such an undeserved disappointment.” Yes, that had been his cue; the look of irritation that had started to build in Geltoi’s eyes faded into bland self-satisfied self-pity. “After you took every measure to see him comfortable and provided for. Treated him with every evidence of respect.”

Shut him up on the roof, and that so effectively that as far as Belan knew Koscuisko hadn’t noticed yet. Koscuisko had taken guards from the torture-block to show him the way to Infirmary. Not their fault if Koscuisko had refused to wait even as short a time as it would have taken to call down to Infirmary and let them know Koscuisko was coming.

“Thank you. Good friend. You’re a great help to me, Belan.” And an accomplice, in this up to his neck. That was the way to translate Pyana. Praise was only given to point out the threat. “We should be through with Koscuisko’s stunts soon enough. I can be gracious. He won’t get the satisfaction of provoking me into undignified reprisals.”

No
, Belan thought, in sudden silent rebellion.
You’ll get me to make them.

“You’re a true leader, Administrator.” Aloud he only recited the lines he knew were expected of him. “It’s too bad Koscuisko couldn’t have learned from your example.”

Else Koscuisko would be butchering his prisoners and demanding adulation for his hackwork. Rather than taking a slow and methodical approach, which yielded results for almost every death on Koscuisko’s hands since he’d arrived at the Domitt Prison.

Administrator Geltoi waved Belan away in dismissal, a look of pained and patient noble suffering on his face. Belan bowed and went away.

Just in time.

He had had all of Administrator Geltoi he could take for now.

What if Geltoi wasn’t smart?

What if the truth about the Domitt Prison should come out, somehow, some way, despite all the Pyana cleverness that had surrounded it from the very start?

It wasn’t going to happen.

Pyana were smart, and Geltoi was Pyana. Also Koscuisko was leaving. Things would be back to normal in no time.

But he’d brought a nice length of good rope to the office, just in case he was mistaken after all.

###

“ ‘Multiple and egregious instances of behavior betraying a regrettable lack of delicacy and sensitivity to his position of responsibility within the structure of Judicial Inquiry,’ ” First Secretary Verlaine read aloud, his voice remarkably light for such a deep bass and his tone emphatically less than serious. “ ‘ — Which would be in themselves unimportant if support for the Inquisitorial function was being exercised at an acceptable level of skill and professionalism.’ Oh, my. He
has
annoyed somebody.”

Morning-meeting, and Verlaine was sharing the new items on his desk. Mergau was resigned. Her disgrace was temporary; and could be best managed if she showed herself to be quite unconcerned about it. Not dismissing the gravity of the situation, no. Simply serene and confident that anyone could make a mistake.

Inquisition was an imperfect science at best, and it would all be behind her soon enough. The language the Domitt Prison’s Administrator had used to complain about Andrej Koscuisko was unquestionably strong; if even Koscuisko could fail, that would strengthen her point. On the other hand, Verlaine was unquestionably not very upset: that would have rather the opposite influence on the question.

“Koscuisko’s Captain wants him back,” Bench Specialist Vogel observed. “There’s a request in. To support his medical function, not his Judicial one, since
Scylla
’s duty status is still suspended. Maybe it would be just as well, but there’s something that should be bothering us about all this.”

The timing couldn’t have been better had she planned it, Mergau congratulated herself. She could see the record cubes in Bench Intelligence Specialist Vogel’s loose-fingered grasp; autopsy or Record or both, it hardly mattered. If Andrej Koscuisko, for whose reputed skills and talent the First Secretary had such evident if undeserved admiration, could lose a prisoner before time to a bad dose — why, any failing on her part was more than adequately covered.

“Bothering us?” The First Secretary leaned back in his chair, relaxed and receptive. “Please, Bench Specialist.”

“Young officer, historical behavior pattern of doing first and asking later. Only look at what he’s doing. The kitchen audit was mentioned in the First Secretary’s morning report.”

As part of the usual summary of daily activities at the Domitt Prison. Yes. Mergau remembered it, because otherwise very little had changed in the Domitt Prison’s morning report for weeks.

Vogel spoke on. “Kitchen audit is standard operating procedure. I was reading the Fleet staffing reports for Rudistal, though, they’ve got an officer working on admissions reconciliation. Vopalar’s got a lot on her hands and no reason to detail anyone to make-work projects. I haven’t asked, but I’m willing to speculate that Koscuisko’s asked for a population movement analysis.”

Bench intelligence specialists got into everything. Gluttons for information, no matter how inconsequential. Clearly Vogel felt called upon to come up with a story to justify the fact that he spent all of his time with his feet up on the furniture, reading laundry lists.

“Now this.” Ivers picked up the thread as though she and Vogel were in the same braid. Maybe they’d rehearsed, to see if they could impress Verlaine’s staff with their superior knowledge. “Koscuisko invokes an Infirmary audit, but he’s given the Domitt Prison time. So he’s not out to find something wrong. Gave them — what? Three days? To make any shortfall right.”

Which was proof of Koscuisko’s clumsiness if any was needed. He could have had the Administration of the Domitt Prison in the palm of his hand, if rather than tipping them off so far in advance he’d made a surprise raid.

Unless he knew very well that there was nothing wrong with the drug upon whose adulteration Koscuisko blamed the premature death of War-leader Darmon. That way when he found no discrepancies, he could claim that the Domitt Prison had cleaned itself up during its three-day grace period: His failure was covered.

Maybe she’d have to reconsider, reluctant though she was to do so.

Maybe Koscuisko was a little less useless at political survival than she’d thought.

“All in all, First Secretary, it looks like a signal. It’s possible that Koscuisko is trying to get our attention. Learning from past mistakes, perhaps.”

That went a bit far, Mergau thought. But the First Secretary sat up, leaning over the desk surface with his forearms propped against the edge of the desk.

“Something’s wrong at the Domitt Prison?” Verlaine asked. “Or at least Koscuisko thinks there is. And is trying to get us to think about what he’s doing, so we can get an audit team in there without embarrassing the Second Judge?”

No, Koscuisko was nowhere near so deep as that. And for once it seemed that even the Bench intelligence specialists realized it. Ivers knit her dark straight eyebrows and qualified, carefully.

“Possible, First Secretary. There’s no way to tell for sure without either talking to Koscuisko or sending an audit team. The Domitt Prison hasn’t stood an operational audit yet. It’s due.”

Verlaine frowned. “If we asked him . . . but there’s no way to do it. Not informally. If he’s trying to get us to send in an audit team on the whisper-run it’s because there’s something he knows we don’t want on Record.” The First Secretary should learn from the Bench intelligence specialists, Mergau thought. He’d been too impressed with Koscuisko from the start. “And it is due, you’re absolutely right about that.”

Shifting in his seat, restlessly, Verlaine took thought for the problem before him while Ivers and Vogel kept shut. As she did as well, naturally. She was in disgrace. She’d failed him.

“Mergau.”

First Secretary Verlaine caught her eye, and stilled himself where he sat. She braced herself: but she wasn’t too concerned, not right now. The conversation had yet to begin to touch on any delicate questions about how a drug that was lethal for a certain class of hominids had ended up in her rack. It was just bad luck, really. How was she to know?

“Yes, First Secretary?” She kept her voice bland and neutral; not blaming, but not accepting blame, either. If the doctor had excluded the speak-serum because it was poison, rather than merely not authorized, the doctor should have told her. Accidents happened. And it wasn’t as if more than one of the prisoners had died of it; that left four to be forwarded to the Fleet Inquisitor Verlaine had called for. One of whom should be able to speak again soon enough.

“We send in an audit team here and now, just as we’re pulling a Writ on reassign, it’ll raise a question or two,”
Verlaine mused aloud, looking at her. “I have an idea that could serve instead.”