|
The
Text
Andrej
Koscuisko sat at his ease in the padded chair central to the torture-room,
one boot resting comfortably against the shoulder of the man who
lay cowering at his feet. Drawing at his lefrol with a sigh of contentment
he admired his handiwork on the body of the prisoner who lay chained
before him.
The
prisoner had made him work for confession, but Andrej very much
preferred it that way. Pain in itself was beguiling, true. But pain
laid over defiance, to erode the will and enforce submission to
Andrej's hand-that was even better.
And
there was so much, here.
Cell
after cell full of Nurail Borderers, hillfolk and townfolk, people
with the stink of the herd still upon them, newly taken captive
into Jurisdiction to slake the thirsty maw of the Bench with their
blood-eight eighties of people, and more every day, till the Domitt
was packed far beyond its capacity with wounded and dying.
The
Domitt Prison.
"Please,
can I go now?"  TOP
The
sound of that pleading was something to savor, and Andrej arranged
the man's head with the toe of his boot so that he could enjoy it.
The light wasn't good, but it didn't need to be. It was good enough.
"Well,
I think so. We've covered everything I had in mind." He had the
confession; he had the weave, written down in his book and tucked
into his overblouse. His little book. There had been seven of them
in the end, Andrej thought. Seven manuscript volumes full of dying
weaves. He'd been interested. And once they found out he was writing
them down they'd done what they could to give him what he wanted,
defy him as they tried in all other areas.
But
now he was alone, the cell was empty. There was nobody left in the
cell. Someone had already come for the body, to tip it down the
rubbish chute into the furnaces eight stories down. Andrej frowned.
He'd promised the prisoner; he hated it when they took the bodies
away before they were dead. He had agreed. He had promised to see
that the man was well dead before his flesh was consigned to the
furnace; he had to go catch them.
He
rose to his feet.
The
cleaning team, Nurail prisoners, were just outside, and the body
they carried was quite decently dead. He wasn't sure it was the
man he'd expected, but all seemed in order. Perhaps he'd been drunk.
They had strict orders to be sure of the bodies before they destroyed
them; why should he worry?
Because
this was the Domitt-
Well,
maybe he would go and lie down in quarters. He was tired, after
all. The cleaning team saluted, and his Security bowed him politely
through the halls; he went down the short corridor toward the lift
that connected this floor with the roofhouse where he had his quarters.
He
couldn't find it.
He
knew what kind of dream this was, now, and he was annoyed at it.
So predictable. Every door only opened into the next cell; he'd
had this dream for years, he was almost bored with it. Sooner or
later he would wake up: and when he woke up he'd be out of the Domitt.
TOP
That
was all he needed to do. Was to wake up.
He
shook himself awake with a sudden start, annoyed at himself for
having fallen asleep. It was smoking lefrols on top of hard exercise,
it addled the wits and cut loose one's moorings. The prisoner was
much too cowed to move a muscle, and Andrej gave the man's shoulder
an impatient shove. He had perfectly good quarters to go to. He
didn't have to take his naps in the cells. St. Clare rose to his
feet gracefully, bowing in acceptance of the rebuke; what was Robert
doing here? He'd not been at the Domitt. Captain Irshah Parmin had
kept Robert back, and once Andrej had got here he'd understood.
And he'd agreed. The Domitt Prison was no place for a Nurail, especially
not for a bond-involuntary. There were too many Nurail here already.
There could too easily be an error, made.
This
was ridiculous.
He
was just dreaming.
Standing
up from his chair with stern determination he pulled open the black
door to go into the hall. There had to be some trick he could use
to break out of this. There were Security coming through the hall;
he would enlist their assistance, he could follow them out once
they had done what they'd come here to do. He knew these Security.
He thought he knew them. He hadn't seen them any of them for five
years, when the Bench had released them. What had happened to them?
Why were they here?
He
followed them into the cell, to be sure that he wouldn't miss his
chance to get away. They were waiting for him. They had his prisoner,
stripped and in chains, and St. Clare's face was bleeding. That
was a start, but only the beginning, before they were through there
would be so much more blood —
No.
He was dreaming. He fled from the room and out through the door,
but the door only led to another black cell, with another prisoner.
Why shouldn't it? He was just dreaming. At least it wasn't St. Clare
he was beating-but he knew the man, even naked and in chains. He'd
only gone four-and-forty before. There was so much more that he
could do now. TOP
It
could not be St. Clare.
This
was the Domitt, and Captain Parmin had not allowed St. Clare to
go with him. Only a Nurail. Yes, that was right, only a Nurail,
they all looked alike to him-
The
whip was in his hand. St. Clare hung half-conscious in chains from
the ceiling, catching his breath in great gasping sobs. His injured
shoulder-Andrej called for them to take the man down and hurried
in horror to cradle Robert to him, rocking St. Clare's brutalized
body and weeping helplessly in bitter protest. Worse than just whipped,
St. Clare had been tortured, and who knew better than Andrej Koscuisko
what each raw burn and bloody welt represented?
He
knelt on the ground with the shattered body of a Nurail in his arms.
He hoped it was Ndisi. Had Ndisi been Nurail? What did it matter?
And Ndisi could not speak, but Ndisi could not die, either. Ndisi
belonged to him, and could not get away until he had given Andrej
satisfaction.
He
kissed the bitten mouth of the tortured man, forcing the obedience
of Ndisi's tongue with the savage grip of his gloved fist, working
St. Clare's shattered hand with ferocious pleasure. St. Clare cried
for him, in agony that escalated into shrieks of purest pain; and
Andrej was content, because Ndisi was his, and was never going to
get away from him, now.
Never.
Never.
He
was never going to escape from the Domitt Prison.
Why
keep pretending he wanted to? TOP
There
was a sound in the ship that shook Garol Vogel out of his drowsing
dreams over the latest intelligence reports and onto his feet, out
of the control area, before he had well awakened. He knew that sound.
He was a professional, he had survived for longer than was usual
for a member of an elite group of agents responsible for sometimes
surprisingly dirty work, and he'd heard enough of sounds like that
to know them immediately for what they were.
The
shriek of a soul in agony, in uttermost despair-it had a higher,
cleaner edge than simple physical torment, there was a sound that
only helpless anguish could produce. The voice of a man who could
not say what he was asked to say, who did not know what he was presumed
to know, who could only suffer without any hope of a reprieve-
Back
to the sleeping-cabins, seven of them on the courier. Straight into
something solid, something immovable-a Security troop, one of Koscuisko's
Security troops, and there was more of the same sort of noise coming
from within the cabin in which Andrej Koscuisko had sequestered
himself with his Security early on in transit.
Not
so loud any more.
Muted
and absolutely desolate, and Vogel knew that he wasn't entirely
rational on the subject, but before the impersonal deities of uncaring
Space any man who couldn't recognize that surrender when he heard
it deserved to die, and the sooner the better — TOP
"Vogel."
Jils
was in front of him, trying to get his attention, peering around
the shoulder of the Security troop who was holding him cautiously
at an arm's-length. Jils could hear it just as well as he could,
what was the matter with her? She felt guilty about Koscuisko, she
had a right to, but that shouldn't mean that she was willing to
let Koscuisko take it out on his Security, whether or not they were
just bond-involuntaries, whether or not Fleet didn't care one way
or the other.
"Vogel,
disengage, now."
Except
of course that none of these poor bastards looked the least bit
Dolgorukij to Vogel. And there was no mistaking the accent, the
soft guttural clean and free from the hissing sibilants of the trade-version
of the language-the beautiful cadence of the purest of all the Aznir
Dolgorukij dialects. High Aznir. Nor any mistaking the words, either,
so Vogel let them pass without recognition, not wishing to stop
them for so much as a single instant in his mind.
Oh,
holy Mother, please, what I have done. What I have done. And it
is true, all true, please in the name of all Saints let it be not
so, you weren't even there-how can Captain Lowden have sent you
to this place when you weren't even there, I cannot have done this
thing to you, Robert, I cannot have-
Vogel
took his hand away from the throat of the man who was restraining
him, a little surprised to see how serious he'd been by the whitened
marks his fingers had left on the troop's neck. "Sorry," he muttered
grudgingly, shaking himself to settle his uniform and his attitude
alike back to where they were supposed to be. "Was asleep. Only
just now waking up. I'd better go in." TOP
Jils
was surprised now at his lack of tact, but Vogel didn't care. He
could explain later. Security was going to be a problem, but he
could deal with that.
"Sorry,
sir, really not possible, sir. His Excellency's privacy to be respected,
with the officer's permission."
Bond-involuntaries.
Vogel hated the whole thing. Not even allowed to speak directly
enough to make good sense. "Listen, do any of you speak the language?"
The
troop took a step back toward the door, blocking it. But the sound
from within the room was not sufficiently muted by the gesture for
it to do Vogel any good. "Sir?"
"All
right, I won't go in. Which one's Robert? What good does it do anybody,
if you don't know what's on his mind?"
"St.
Clare," Jils said. "Robert St. Clare."
Well,
at least they were getting somewhere. "Beats him often, does he?"
The
troop went white with fury. Vogel was impressed. "Respectfully request
the Bench specialist take no further thought, no intervention is
necessary or permissible-"
"No
chance." No thought of such a cry as he had heard? "Stand aside,
and that's an order, I mean a direct legal order. Lawful instruction
directly transmitted to an appropriate party under obligation to
receive and comply. Stand aside."
As
long as they were going to be slaves anyway he was perfectly willing
to take advantage of their programming when he had to. The troop
staggered half-a-pace, clearly struggling with his governor; but
the governor would win.
Won.
The
troop stood aside to let Vogel pass, with a look of shame and self-reproach
that Vogel really didn't need. TOP
"Hey,
you can come too, I'm not going to hurt him."
Offering
this privilege as a sop to his own conscience Vogel went through
into the room. It was a mess. Three big Security holding on to one
half-dressed Inquisitor as if for dear life, while the officer in
question raved on in language that they clearly didn't understand
from a sleeping-hammock in which they had Koscuisko securely wrapped.
"Excellency,"
Vogel said in his very best Aznir, going down on one knee to be
close to the head of the hammock in which Koscuisko lay. He ignored
the savage looks he got from the Security; maybe he had no right
to be here, but he was here, and he'd had about enough of this nonsense.
"His Excellency has only been dreaming, no harm has come to his
Excellency's man. Be assured of it, sir."
No,
please, no, please, open the door, there is a man alive in there,
in the name of all Saints-open here, open-
It
was just possible that Koscuisko had heard, and was answering him.
Vogel even thought he could guess at what Koscuisko was dreaming:
the furnaces at the Domitt Prison had been fed living flesh. Vogel
pressed on, regretting having gotten so far involved as he had in
what was-after all-none of his business. He should have listened
to the Security troop, he should have just turned around and walked
away.
Except
that when he came to being able to turn around and walk away from
pain like that it was time for him to turn in any pretense he had
left to common decency. TOP
"Excellency,
listen to me." He hoped he had enough of the basics left for Koscuisko
to be able to comprehend what he was trying to say. Dolgorukij could
be so elitist, about their language-"The furnaces have been cold
for five years now. You are dreaming, sir. You shut the furnaces
down yourself. No one has gone into the furnace since you put an
end to the Domitt Prison, your Excellency, I was there. I promise
you this."
The
body quieted; Koscuisko lay still. It has been years, Koscuisko
said, as if to him, as if no longer supplicating at the feet of
some imagined tormentor. I did not check each one, I was afraid
that they would guess what I meant to do. I did not check. The man
was alive. And if I had only just checked. If I had only.
Vogel
had seen the furnaces. He'd seen the excavations, too, and the analysis
of the ash that had been used to lay the drainage-course for the
Administration's new roads into and around the land reclamation
site.
It
had never come to him to see a man burned in a furnace who was not
dead yet: for which Garol Vogel was grateful, if apprehensively
so. There was no telling what the next assignment would bring.
If
Koscuisko hadn't shut down the furnaces at the Domitt Prison, it
would have been up to him and Jils to have done so; and he might
be having Koscuisko's dream here and now. He was grateful to Koscuisko
for having seen it for him.
Yes.
That was the way to think of it. Grateful to Koscuisko for having
seen that, in Vogel's stead. "No man can call back his past, your
Excellency, but this one's over. Done with. Finished. Complete.
The furnaces are cold. Whomever he was, he's long dead."
Koscuisko
sat up, the horror of whatever he had been dreaming still clear
in his face. But what is the club for, if not to open the furnaces?
And Mevish. They are torturing him for sport. I must stop this,
how can I be sure it will not be covered up? Chilleau Judiciary.
Vogel
thought Koscuisko was awake, but he couldn't tell for certain. A
species of psychosis presented in precisely this way, and a man
couldn't tell if the sufferer was waking or dreaming. TOP
"The
least of his Excellency's troubles is Chilleau Judiciary. Or." A
mistake, he should not have said that, even in Aznir Dolgorukij,
even if Koscuisko was too far gone to remember. He'd have to check
the ship's monitors, make sure the record was erased. "Maybe not.
Wake up, sir, you're dreaming. It's unnecessary."
He
hadn't gotten to where he was by being clumsy enough to leave any
such hints where somebody might find them.
"Go
away, Specialist Vogel." In plain Standard now, so that everybody
would know what he was saying. So Koscuisko was coming out of it
at last, whatever it had been. "And don't come back until you can
handle the gerund form without spitting it halfway onto the floor.
It is disgraceful, what passes for good Dolgorukij these days."
Dismissed,
and absolutely. Vogel could not resent it, not really, not when
he had presumed so far as to get himself involved in the first place.
Rising to his feet, he bowed a little stiffly; there really wasn't
anything more that he could say, having said rather too much already.
Jils
was near the door waiting for him. Pausing to look back as he went
through, Vogel saw Koscuisko's Security help untangle him from the
hammock, handling him as carefully as though they thought he might
shatter at any moment.
Koscuisko
was Dolgorukij, and in perfect physical health-else he'd never have
survived the drinking that he did.
So
it was Koscuisko's mind that Security was worried about: but it
was none of Garol Vogel's business. TOP
He
was just as glad that it hadn't been his job to break the news to
Koscuisko about Secretary Verlaine's bright plans for his future.
—
End —
|
