Captain Griers Verigson Lowden — tall and thin, big bones, brown mustache — strolled down the halls towards the senior mess area with all deliberate speed, fuming. The news from the Bench was not at-all satisfactory: no Inquisitor to be assigned, not any time soon. No Inquisitor was even identified for assignment yet, since the latest class at Fleet Orientation Station Medical wasn't scheduled to begin for several weeks yet. If he’d convinced Koscuisko to commit to an additional term of service but he hadn’t; and the Bench meant him to suffer the lack accordingly.

Nor was he as naïve as to believe that the two Bench intelligence specialists who were visiting from the Danzilar fleet had no ulterior motives. He knew all about Koscuisko’s appeals to the Bench. He had connections, and paid well for information pertinent to his survival and prosperity. Koscuisko had been trying to get the Ragnarok declassified for Writ for years now: to no effect.

What would Koscuisko do Lowden wondered if Koscuisko ever realized that the money that thwarted his purpose at every turn, the money that did such a good job of protecting Captain Lowden against the best of Koscuisko’s arguments, the secret influence that baffled Koscuisko time and again was funded directly out of Koscuisko’s own handiwork?

Copies of the Record, copies of interrogation cubes, were the property of the Bench, and were to be strictly controlled and accounted for at all times.

That only made them more valuable.

And whether or not torture at Koscuisko’s level of expertise was functionally restricted to the Protocols — there being no law to interfere with religious practice under Jurisdiction, should religion demand frightful contrition rituals — there was no question but that Koscuisko was a genuine artist in his field. Captain Lowden had never seen anything quite like Andrej Koscuisko in Inquiry. The man was phenomenal. His tapes had proved phenomenally lucrative in turn, over the years.TOP

Now Koscuisko was leaving, and that would be an end to new material. And though Lowden knew he could live quite comfortably off his banked proceeds he couldn’t help but resent the fact that Andrej Koscuisko was to leave him alone on the Ragnarok with not so much as a replacement Inquisitor to remember him by.

Sour as his mood was Lowden almost looked forward to staff meeting. There were good odds that he’d find an outlet for his irritation before the eight was up; and in that hope Captain Lowden went into the room.

They were waiting for him, of course, and his senior officers were already rising to their feet as the lowest-ranking officer in the room -- Jennet ap Rhiannon, newly assigned — called the formal alert.

"Stand to attention for the Captain, Lowden, commanding."

Command and Ship’s Primes, Jurisdiction Fleet Ship Ragnarok. Here were Ralph Mendez, the Ragnarok’s First Officer, to whom the bulk of the daily tasks involving the operation of a ship of war — or even an experimental ship on its proving-cruise — devolved, by Lowden’s own benign neglect and implicit order.

The Ship’s Engineer, Serge of Wheatfields, the overtall Chigan responsible for moving the ship from place to place and keeping the cyclers up.

Ship’s Intelligence, the Desmodontae known as Two, one of the few non-hominids with senior Fleet rank under Jurisdiction; two strangers with her, male and female, wearing unmarked uniforms of the peculiar shade of charcoal gray that identified them as Bench intelligence specialists.

His Lieutenants, and finally his Ship’s Inquisitor, Andrej Ulexeievitch Koscuisko, the youngest of his senior officers and by far the most valuable — as well as most high-maintenance.

"Well, let’s be started," Lowden suggested, pausing on his way into the room to draw a flask of vellme. Plenty of shredded ciraby on top. "You’ve all got work to do, I don’t want to keep you from your tasks. First Officer. Report."

Mendez was a tall long green-eyed sort of Santone, his face tanned and deeply lined from youth spent under the dry glare of the Gohander desert sun. "Ship’s Mast and staffing, Captain. Ship’s Mast. Violation of critical safety protocol cried by Ship’s Engineer against technician second class Hixson. Adjudication of penalty recommended at three and thirty. Your endorsement, your Excellency."

Passing the record cube across the table Mendez recited the Charges dryly, sounding bored. Lowden turned the cube in his fingers for a moment or two; should he press Mendez on this? It would be perceived as merely petty, to squeeze Koscuisko for an extra ration of punishment so close to Koscuisko’s departure date. Koscuisko would enjoy it, but he would hate enjoying it. No. Too obvious. Lowden coded his counterseal on the record cube and tossed it back without comment.TOP

Nor did Mendez insult him by looking surprised. Mendez knew better. His First Officer had been part of the Ragnarok’s original proving crew, a good First Officer, a competent officer, but one who had stood on principle one too many times for there to be any real chance of a Command in his future. "Very good, Captain. Staffing, a new requirement just in, Chief Warrant Officer Brachi Stildyne has been offered a First Officer’s berth on the JFS Sceppan."

Had he indeed? Lowden glanced quickly at his Ship’s Surgeon out of the corner of his eye. The four-year association between Andrej Koscuisko and his Chief of Security had been marked by conflict, misunderstanding, even a species of power struggle -- great fun, all in all. If Koscuisko were not leaving he might be glad to replace Stildyne or he might be reluctant to face the breaking-in of a new Chief of Security. But Koscuisko was leaving. Koscuisko didn’t care. Or Mendez had tipped Koscuisko off; or both.

What a bore.

"Well, congratulations are in order for Stildyne, please pass them on to him from me. He’s done good work for us." And we’re sure that Koscuisko has no cause to complain of him, Lowden wanted to add; but restrained himself. Once again the provocation would be too obvious. "Very well. Serge? No? Two, then."

Desmodontae were newly integrated under Jurisdiction, an intelligent species of night-gliding mammals that subsisted on the protein-rich blood of a species of cattle that they nurtured for that purpose. Very short compared to most hominids, Two stood in chairs rather than sitting in them; as far as Lowden had ever been able to tell she couldn’t sit at all, in the conventional sense.

Standing in her chair now, Two dipped her velvety black head sharply in token of having heard and commenced to respond, clashing the sharp white teeth in her delicate black muzzle in his direction rapidly, her pink-and-black tongue flickering back and forth in a disconcertingly random manner.

In a moment her translator began to process. By that time Two had finished speaking; and rested her primary wing-joint with its little clawed three-fingered hand against the table’s surface, waiting patiently for the translator to catch up.

"I have here some guests for us, to tell us all the gossip, what it is. Bench intelligence specialists Ivers and Vogel, and this means I do not need to give my report after all, because you are distracted by their information. Yes? Of course yes. I admire this cunning, in myself."

Lowden never decided how much of the personality in Two’s language was actually hers, and how much an artifact of her translator. They had to have a translator; whether or not Two was capable of speaking Standard — and there was no particular reason why she should not be, when other non-hominid species had learned to manage — few of them were capable of hearing her, since her voice’s natural range dropped down into the upper limits of audible tones Standard only occasionally.TOP

"Specialist Vogel, then," Lowden suggested. "We’ve been expecting you?" He had no clue as to which was which, Vogel and Ivers. The woman — black eyes, black hair, a little shorter than her partner — betrayed no sign of Iversness or Vogelicity, any more than the man looked Iversish or Vogellic. Two’s descriptive statements frequently lacked precision, in translation. Lowden had decided years ago that she planned it that way.

"Transfer of preliminary defense locks to your shuttle." Of the two of them at the end of the table it was the man who spoke. Middling tall, middling bald, with a voice that gave neither cause for offense nor any other information -- younger than his hairline, Lowden guessed. So he was Vogel. "For transport ahead of the Danzilar fleet, to be ready when prince Paval I’shenko arrives. You’re sending?"

Bench intelligence specialists didn’t observe rank, didn’t conform to the norms of military titles or respectful address. They didn’t have to. They were Bench-level operatives chartered on an individual basis by the Bench itself and accountable — not to any given Judge — but only to the Jurisdiction’s Bench in formal convocation.

"My First Lieutenant. G’herm Wyrlann." Who fortunately had the good sense to rise to his feet and salute when his name was called. Whatever unspecified rank a Bench intelligence specialist might hold it was good odds they outranked a mere Command Branch First Lieutenant. "The shuttle’s loaded and waiting for immediate dispatch, Specialist, ready bay five down three over? Serge? Yes."

They needed to get Wyrlann to Burkhayden as soon as possible. It was to be Wyrlann’s formal responsibility to complete the final inventory that would be incorporated into the formal contract between Danzilar and the Bench. "If you’d care to accompany Lieutenant Wyrlann, Specialist."

Bench Indentured World, Burkhayden, Meghilder space. Danzilar to be planetary governor, and responsible to the Bench for tax revenues; to be left to himself to exploit Burkhayden as he saw fit as long as the cash continued to flow. Lowden wished Danzilar luck of his enterprise. There was nothing left worth taking off Burkhayden that the Bench hadn’t taken; and nobody there but Nurail, resettled from the dregs and scrapings of the Nurail worlds in the bloody aftermath of the promulgation of the Political Stabilization Acts.

Vogel bowed and cocked an eyebrow at Wyrlann, who took his cue and started for the door. Just as they reached the doorway Lowden remembered the advice he had meant to give; important advice, in light of Wyrlann’s history on ground detach.

"Lieutenant. Let’s be prudent this time around. There are still Bench resources at Burkhayden." And you don’t want to go breaking anything while Fleet still has to pay for it. Lowden hoped and trusted that the point would be taken, even implicit as it was. Wyrlann had a heavy hand at times. He had to learn prudence in the timing of his little exercises of authority.TOP

Wyrlann didn’t like being reminded.

But there was nothing he could do but accept the rebuke and go.

Once the door closed again Lowden turned his attention to the remaining Bench specialist, who by process of elimination could only be Jils Ivers. "And your role in this convoy would be."

Convoy was perhaps not the right word. There were eights of ships in the Danzilar fleet, and its flagship — prince Paval I’shenko’s Lady Gechutrian — displaced space at twice the volume of a mere cruiserkiller in the Ragnarok's class. One Fleet ship in escort was a mere token, its ceremonial nature emphasized by the fact that the Ragnarok was not a chartered warship but an experimental test bed sized and shaped like one.

"In this instance to pay my respects to your Chief Medical Officer." Ivers’ voice was level and uninflected. Unrevealing. Unimpressed. "And to present the First Secretary’s compliments. You may recall having cleared the interview, Captain?"

Well. Perhaps. If he thought about it. He’d wondered at the time why Chilleau Judiciary bothered to send an envoy to Koscuisko. They could hardly hope to succeed where Lowden himself had failed, and persuade Koscuisko to renew his term.

Koscuisko himself had half-turned in his place to frown at Ivers skeptically, ignoring for once the unwisdom of turning one’s back on Serge of Wheatfields if one was Ship’s Inquisitor. Wheatfields only glared down at the back of Koscuisko’s bared neck in turn. Maybe Wheatfields was mellowing. Maybe not.

"I, er, may have neglected to forward the appointment through to Andrej’s scheduler, now that you mention it." His turn to come under that mirror-silver glare of Koscuisko’s, but Koscuisko was too well trained to let any real displeasure show. Koscuisko was autocrat, surgeon and Inquisitor. But Captain Lowden was his master: and Koscuisko knew it. "Sorry, Andrej. Recent excitement and all, I suppose. Do you have time for Specialist Ivers this shift? Now, for instance."

Koscuisko hadn’t had a prisoner in Secured Medical for upwards of two weeks. All Koscuisko had on his scheduler was running his Infirmary. Koscuisko could make time. Koscuisko would.

"Of course, Captain." Koscuisko’s clear tenor matched Ivers’ own tone for inscrutability. Being irritated about it would get Koscuisko precisely nowhere. It only amused Captain Lowden to see how easily Koscuisko could be annoyed. "If you like, Specialist. My office?"

Koscuisko almost didn’t even pretend to wait for an answer, rising as he spoke. "If the Captain will excuse us, of course."

Lowden nodded in reply to Koscuisko’s perfunctory bow, secretly delighted. He had not thought to have this much amusement at staff. He was going to genuinely miss Koscuisko when Koscuisko was gone. "Quite so. Good-greeting, Specialist Ivers. Andrej, ward report, my office, second and six."

Could he get rid of the rest of his staff in time to have Two open a channel into Koscuisko’s office?

Or should he rather let this staff play out, and pump Koscuisko for the details afterwards?

He hadn’t heard anything from his Lieutenants. And he was supposed to be paying attention.

"Lieutenant Brem. There’s an inventory shortage on the Wolnadi line, I understand, and you were to have a report for me this morning."

Resigning himself to an indulgence postponed Lowden set his concentration on analyzing cargo loads, and put Andrej Koscuisko to the back of his mind for later.

***

HOUR OF JUDGEMENT   ISBN 0-380-80314-3
Avon Eos Science Fiction