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The
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Joslire
closed his eyes, worn out.
Too
much excitement.
At
least things were quiet in here for now.
He
could hear ship's braid as if at a considerable remove, the Engineer
dispatching damage control teams, First Officer reporting status
to the Captain.
He
could hear ship's ventilators struggling to process all the chipped
bulkhead and metal dust they'd pumped into suspension in the onboard
atmosphere, just now. He could hear Kaydence's shaky breathing
beside him; Jorfie catching his breath, Erish grunting softly with
reluctant pain, the labored liquid sound of the Nurail's respiration.
Wait,
Joslire told himself.
The
Nurail wasn't supposed to be breathing.
They'd
stopped him, right enough, he couldn't be considered any danger,
but if the Nurail was still breathing it could only mean that the
Nurail would be taken prisoner.
That
was unacceptable.
That
could not be allowed to happen.
The
Nurail was supposed to be decently dead, and not alive to be made
prisoner, not alive to be brought back to health in Infirmary and
then tortured to death in a quest for information—
Pushing
himself stiffly away from the wall Joslire moved closer to the Nurail
where he lay. TOP
Alive.
Joslire
slipped the catch on the knife sheathed on his left forearm. An
accident. He'd meant to turn the Nurail's head, to make sure the
airway was clear, but somehow the knife had slipped into his hand,
and he'd lost his balance. With the knife in his hand.
It
would go clean through the spine at this angle, and that would be
the end of it. He had to hurry. The medteam would be here at any
moment, and he couldn't afford to take the chance that this Nurail
sapper would die of wounds received before their officer was required
to exercise his Judicial function.
Think
fast, move fast, the medteam was in sight and moving quickly,
he had to get this done now if he was to hope to get it done at
all—
The
knife would not drop into his waiting palm.
The
catch was jammed.
The
medteam was on him.
"Thanks,
Joslire, what's your status, here? Report."
He
was too late. "I'm not sure the airway's clear." He
must have damaged the safety falling against something and not noticed,
caught up in total focus on the chase. "Still breathing, though.
Not sure how bad it is. Erish's next, I think."
Too
late.
"Right,
move this one out to triage, tell Captain we have a prisoner."
No hint in the medteam leader's voice that she knew what the problem
here was, or guessed at what he'd meant to do about it. "Gala,
Marms, on Erish. Curran. You're hit. Robert, see what you can
do about this, we'll have the next team up as soon as we can."
Robert
St. Clare was bond-involuntary like the rest of Joslire's team,
also assigned to the Chief Medical Officer on board of Scylla
to serve him in his Bench function. Robert St. Clare would be in
Secured Medical, even as the rest of Joslire's team, to lend whatever
help their officer might require for the implementation of the Protocols.
The
Nurail sapper had trespassed on a secured Fleet unit with unchallengeable
intent to do gross irreversible damage to Fleet resources, animate
and inanimate alike.
It
would be the Tenth Level.
Joslire
met Robert's level gaze and saw full understanding in his dark brown
eyes. But there was nothing they could do about it now. The ship
was safe; but the enemy was alive and taken prisoner, and would
be tortured to death in the name of information and the Judicial
order.
Such
courage and determination as the Nurail had demonstrated in getting
so far into the bowels of great Scylla should have earned
him a hero's death, not such a shameful one.
Courage
and determination were destined to come to nothing beneath the fearfully
skilled hand of Ship's Inquisitor and Chief Medical Officer, Andrej
Koscuisko."TOP
Since
the published text no longer contained the sapper sequence, the
staff meeting that starts on page 13 of the printed text ends
with a discussion of the revocation of Bond. In the earlier version
of the staff meeting scene his Excellency was presented as being
too tired to really pick up on the idea at the time, and the scene
ran longer.
The
scene deviates from the printed text as follows, starting at the
bottom of page 15:
"They
were dismissed.
Andrej
pushed himself up out of his seat and made his salute, remembering
halfway through that he had a half-empty flask of rhyti in his hand.
One did not salute in proper form with a flask of rhyti in one's
hand, and it was dripping, spilling sweet milky rhyti out onto the
carpeting—–oh, worse and worse.
Saligrep
Linelly—the First Officer—caught the offending flask of rhyti to
steady it, guiding Andrej by one elbow out of the room and passing
the flask of rhyti to one of the Security that flanked the door
to the Captain's office as though it were the most natural thing
in the world for senior officers to nursemaid punch-drunk Ship's
Surgeons.
"Need
a guide to quarters, Andrej?" First Officer asked, only half-jokingly.
Andrej shook his head, hoping to clear some of the confusion from
his mind as he did so.
"Thank
you, Sali, no. And if I lose my way there will be a search party
soon enough, it will be all right." He hoped. His brave assertion
was good enough for the Ship's First Officer, apparently, because
Sali nodded and turned down the corridor in the direction of his
quarters.
After
a moment it occurred to Andrej that that was a hint; his own quarters
were in the opposite direction.TOP
He
couldn't stand here in the corridor all day.
And
once he got to quarters he could have some rhyti.
He
made it with a minimum of mistakes, though he had to do it on his
own for once. Under other circumstances he might be accompanied
by an orderly, the Security post on standing-shift for whatever
day it was; but the normal rules were still in suspension to maximize
the recovery time available for all souls on Scylla.
He
got back to quarters, he got into his quarters, and there in his
front room on his worktable was the welcome sight of a steaming
flask of rhyti and a covered tray set out and ready for him. There
was his curtrobe folded over the back of the chair, in an obvious
hint that he was to get undressed and have a wash. And there was
Joslire Curran sitting on the floor to the left of the entrance,
with Nuriff Aicans standing formal post beside him.
Joslire?
And
why sitting on the floor?
Joslire
levered himself smoothly up to a position of attention as Andrej
stared, and then Andrej remembered. Joslire had injured his leg
chasing Nurail sappers who were after the main battle guns. And
would not sit in a chair at the work table unless he had been pointedly
instructed to do so, since that was the officer's furniture.
"Be
at ease. Immediately," Andrej emphasized, to curtail Joslire's
bow of salute. "The both of you. Good-greeting, Nuriff, have
you had a chance to rest? Joslire, I am surprised to see you."
"Thank
you, sir." Nuriff replied first, having been first spoken
to. "Have been asleep, if the officer please. And yourself,
sir?"TOP
Nuriff
was bond-involuntary, like Joslire, like most of the Security five-point
teams. At Fleet Orientation Station Medical the bond-involuntary
troops had been scrupulously careful in their speech, protecting
themselves from any chance offense by speaking of themselves in
the third person and addressing their officers only indirectly.
It
had been almost a year since the bond-involuntaries here on Scylla
had condescended to call him "sir," rather than "Excellency"—and
even then they would only do so in private. Still, Andrej appreciated
the grant of trust deeply for the honor that it was. For Nuriff
to speak to him in what amounted to intimate language for a bond-involuntary
meant that Nuriff trusted him not to invoke punishment for an unintended
offense of insubordination, failure to show due respect.
"I'm
not quite sure, Nuriff, to tell the truth. What shift is it? What
day is it, for that?"
He
had been on duty in Infirmary from the onset of hostilities up until
a scant eighth ago; casualties tended to pile up during hostile
actions, it could take a while to work off the backlog. But quitting
one's task with any patients not yet seen to was unthinkable.
"It's
tomorrow, sir." Joslire's response in Nuriff's stead was nonsensical
on the face of it, but Andrej knew precisely what Joslire meant.
"You've been on your feet near four shifts on stack. If his
Excellency would care to sit down. It could take two of us to peel
those boots off."
Now
that Joslire mentioned it, his feet hurt. He would have been all
right, too, if Joslire hadn't mentioned it; and limped over to a
chair at the table on suddenly tender feet, feeling a little put
upon.
"You
are to sit down immediately, Joslire, Nuriff and I will manage well
enough between us. —What is to eat?"
If
he'd been working four shifts, thirty-two eights, one full day Standard,
then he should be hungry. And he was hungry. Whether he could
manage to consume sufficient with which to quiet his hunger before
he fell face-forward into his dressed greenfronds and started snoring
was to be Joslire's lookout; Joslire or Nuriff, and Joslire hadn't
answered his question. Had he?TOP
Had
he asked a question?
His
boots came off with much tugging and an excess of grunting which
Andrej was not certain was quite called for; but at least they were
off, now, and Nuriff set them down beside the door on his way out.
This
was odd.
"Gone
for a fresh meat-course," Joslire explained in response to
Andrej's raised eyebrow, as though he were apologizing. Joslire
looked half-dead with fatigue himself, a sandy sort of gray in the
face and pained between the eyebrows.
Joslire
could not be in pain.
Andrej
had settled that with Infirmary staff first thing, bond-involuntaries
were not to be shorted on pain medication simply because they were
not in a position to raise convincing complaints about such treatment.
"Tell
me what is wrong, Joslire."
Clearly
there was something wrong; clearly Joslire wanted privacy in which
to communicate the issue. As much as Andrej longed to go stand
in the grateful warmth of the wetshower, this had to be given precedence—whatever
this was. "And sit down as you do, you should not weight upon
your wounded leg in excess put. No, in the chair. Now. Yes?"TOP
In
the more than three years since he'd first met Joslire Curran Andrej
could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he'd
seen Joslire sitting down and being comfortable at the same time.
Chairs—chairs built to the Jurisdiction Standard, at any rate—were
not normal furniture for Emandisan.
Joslire
looked uncomfortable now, leaning forward to clasp his hands on
the surface of the table. "Sir. I'm sorry. You need to know.
I wasn't thinking fast enough. And what can be done about it I
can't guess."
Andrej
held his peace, waiting. First person singular three times in one
utterance could only mean something was seriously amiss. Joslire
seemed to collect his thoughts, and continued.
"Nurail
sapper taken prisoner. I thought I'd killed him. By the time I
realized he wasn't dead we had company, I couldn't find a way to
finish it, not and avoid Charges."
"'Finish'
it? Joslire, what are you saying?" It couldn't be personal
hatred, Joslire had never shown personal dislike for anybody where
Andrej had seen him to notice it. Not talking about an antagonist
in battle. Not handling a prisoner on field assignment, ugly as
those could be, not even when a man's wild bitter resentment of
the things he was to be required to do could easily degenerate into
acting that resentment out against a helpless victim. Not even
when there were so many helpless victims—–
Oh.
Now
he understood.
Joslire
was waiting patiently for him to catch up, clear confidence that
Andrej would in the end grasp his meaning evident and visible in
his honest Emandisan face.TOP
"They've
laid him up in Secured Quarantine, they say he'll live. They can't
not do all there is to do, not in Infirmary. I wanted to apologize.
If I'd only been thinking. Sir."
Andrej
could only reach out to clasp Joslire's tensely interlaced fingers,
trying to offer comfort. There were no words. Joslire would rather
the Nurail had died than been taken prisoner; Andrej could understand
that—and honor it.
Fleet
Captain Irshah Parmin would undoubtedly much rather have had a corpse
to dispose of than a wounded enemy who would, by the brutal logic
of Bench Protocols, be put to the Question and murdered shamefully.
Andrej
had been clear on the Captain's attitude toward Inquiry from the
day of his arrival.
As
far as Fleet Captain Irshah Parmin was concerned there was be a
useful place in Fleet strategy for speaksera, yes, or for other
non-invasive means of gaining information from unwilling informants
with a minimum of lasting physical trauma.
What
Fleet required of Andrej by way of Protocols, on the other hand,
was obscenity pure and simple, and while Irshah Parmin had seemed
determined from the first not to make the issue personal he had
been very explicit indeed on his absolute expectation that no liberties
whatever would be taken in Secured Medical under his authority and
jurisdiction.
That
which the Protocols required Andrej was duty-bound to perform, so
much was understood; but his Captain had put him on notice that
he was never to venture to expand the scope of Inquiry, or augment
a single Protocol beyond the minimum requirement.
"Don't
be sorry, Joslire, don't blame yourself. None of us can always
manage as well as we'd like. There's no help for it now, and yet
we may still lose the patient while he struggles with his wounds,
such things can be no more predicted than the length of the beard
on the grain in a wet year."TOP
Wait,
that would make no sense whatever to Joslire. Emandisan made bread
from starchy tubers, not the holy grain.
Still
Joslire took his meaning, though Joslire did not seem much encouraged.
"What's said is said. That I might have kept us all clear,
him, us, you. The catch on the sheath jammed."
Three
years on board of Scylla, and Andrej's life had not been
so bad, really, because of Irshah Parmin's distaste for Inquiry.
He had not been tasked to put the Question very often; and although
the fiendish appetite within him chafed at the Captain's restrictions,
the Bench had provided opportunities enough for him to leave the
ship and go on station and satisfy his cravings for the pain of
subject souls.
The
Bench would not let him forget he was a monster.
But
at least Fleet granted that he could keep up a good front on board
of Scylla, and pretend his role was purely medical—–even
if it was only polite play-acting.
Fleet
had a peculiar contempt for the Bench's treatment of defeated enemies.
Warriors
like Captain Irshah Parmin respected the unalienable right of the
opposing force to try to kill them without taking personal affront.
If
something should intervene between this Nurail sapper and Secured
Medical, would his Captain look too closely at the log?
Perhaps
not.TOP
"You
have said, and I have heard you, then, Joslire. I have no words
for you to make it right." To make it right the Nurail had
to die, cleanly and with as little pain as possible. As soon as
possible. Before Fleet's assignment took Andrej away from Scylla
and required a transfer of prisoner to some other Inquisitor's Writ.
Joslire's
point was very possibly at least in part that he would have kept
Andrej from the shame of torturing a captive enemy, especially one
whose valor would have earned him honorable death in Joslire's birth-culture.
But the larger point was Joslire's distress that the Nurail was
inevitably to suffer torture at all.
To
make it right required action, and no words, and no words could
be said on the issue if they were to hope to escape compromise.
They had said a very great deal already, perhaps too much. But
quarters were not under surveillance. And they had not perhaps
been very coherent, either.
Joslire
nodded, understanding much more than Andrej had just said. "Leave
you to your rest, then, sir. Chief Samons will want to see you
at exercise, secondshift thirdbreak, and that's less than twenty
eights out, now."
Joslire,
sending him to bed.
Disgusting.
When
Joslire was the wounded of the two of them.
"Thank
you, Mister Joslire Curran, I will to sleep directly go."
It was a joke between them, a form of a pet-name to speak to Joslire
as though he were a Warrant Officer himself—–like Calleigh Samons.
Joslire didn't care to be reminded overmuch of the Curran Detention
Facility where he'd taken his Bond, but he had come to tolerate
being "mistered" from time to time with as good a grace
as Andrej himself had come to tolerate being sent to bed by subordinate
Security. "After I have eaten, I am hungry. It would be uncharitable
to wish that Miss Samons might have wounded her leg, and not too
many laps desire we run."TOP
Smiling—it
was another token of respect that his Security gave him, that they
would grin in his presence, without fear that he would become offended—Joslire
stood up. "Ah. Not. There's a story to tell, though, maybe
a tactical distraction could be launched effectively. I'll see
Nuriff is ready with a hot meal, sir."
Backing
toward the door, pausing to make a modified salute—modified by the
apparent danger of falling over, should he bow too deeply. Andrej
felt suddenly determined to do whatever he could think of to relieve
Joslire Curran of the shame of not having killed the Nurail sapper
to prevent him from being taken prisoner.
"Thank
you, goodnight. Joslire. You have done very well this fourshifts
past. I will be even more impressed with your accomplishment once
I am awake enough to know it for what it truly is."
Whatever
that was.
All
Andrej could think about right now was sleep, and there was washing
and eating to be gotten through before he would be clear to close
his eyes.
The
sooner he got started on the washing part the sooner he could get
through to his bed.
Fanner
Rigs struggled up through great billowing pillow-like clouds of
pearl-grey muddle-mindedness to find himself in the waking world
once more, and not dead as he had thought to be. Lying on his
back in bed, he was in bed, in a cool dark room—he stared at the
ceiling, trying to collect his thoughts and clarify his mind.
He
had almost been there.
He
could see the cannon.
Conders
and Sonnu and Alink, Marder, Benne, Wicopt and Jam—–none of the
rest had gotten as far as he had, not even Marder, and he'd never
be able to tease his brother Marder about it, because Marder was
dead. Marder had died on the maintenance hull of the target Scylla,
but the rest of them had kept moving, because they hadn't come so
far just to lose courage when their hearts were ripped clean out
of their bellies for grief. They had come to stop this ship, any
way they could, no matter what it should take, no matter what it
should cost them.
And
they had almost made it.TOP
He
alone had failed.
Which
meant the penalty he would suffer was richly deserved as his punishment
for the crime of having failed to validate his brother's death by
sending all of Scylla to watch Marder's flock in the afterlife.
But, oh, the penalty . . .
Fanner
choked back an involuntary cry of despair and horror. The penalty.
He was alive; he was a prisoner. They'd all known what the penalty
would be for being taken alive. Only he had lived to suffer it,
and it was good for Marder that he was dead, because the sure knowledge
of the Jurisdiction's punishment—Tenth Level Command Termination—was
terrifying.
Someone
in the room had heard his cry, and came to examine the mechanical
displays beside the bed in which Fanner lay. Not so tall. Very
fair, in the dim light, straw-colored hair practically gleaming,
no color to his eyes. It wasn't the man's face that held Fanner's
attention, though, it was the man's uniform. He couldn't stop staring.
Black, though surely they were in hospital; black as the raven's
wing, and a rank-plaquet worn about midchest level that showed a
medical officer by its color—white.
Making
some adjustments, the officer watched the monitors for a moment
longer before turning away to resume whatever task it was that occupied
him here. The man didn't once bother to so much as look at Fanner
himself, but Fanner saw more than was comforting during the few
moments the other stood there watching colored lights on the wall.
Black uniform meant senior officer: only command Branch and Ship's
Primes wore black. White rank-plaquet meant medical officer. Medical
officer and Ship's Prime taken together meant Chief Medical Officer,
Ship's Surgeon.
Ship's
Inquisitor.TOP
The
crimson line that ran blood-red through the middle of the officer's
rank-plaquet only confirmed the dread conclusion. This man was
Scylla's torturer, the man who was to put Fanner to death
for his crime of having attacked a Fleet ship—–and failing to die
before he could be captured. He was injured now, he knew it from
the weakness he had in his body; but it wouldn't stop Fleet, it
wouldn't stop the Bench, this man would take him out of bed and
put him to the wall and torture him till he was dead—–only it was
to take so many days before he died—–
How
badly hurt was he?
Did
he have a day, two days, maybe only an eight to prepare himself
to face his fate?
Fanner
moved a foot in the bed, cautiously. He could move his foot; there
was no pain. The other foot as well. He could get his legs to
move, if he thought about it, drawing his knees up one at a time
carefully, keeping an eye on the torturer as he tested out his strength.
What
had the torturer come for, standing there with his back to the room?
Was
the torture to start now?
Fanner
couldn't see anything that looked like an instrument of torture
to him. Bank of monitors, he saw those, even though he didn't have
the first idea what they were reading beyond the obvious fact that
they were medical. No whips, no chains, no irons set to smoke,
nothing that might hint by its anomalous presence that its presence
was to be interpreted as sinister, nothing that didn't belong in
a hospital room.
A
high table for putting things on.
Clearfronted
shelves with stacks of what was probably sterile linen.
A
low cart pushed a little off true to the wall near the head of the
bed between Fanner and the torturer with an array of surgical instruments
nested neatly in a folded napkin that revealed only their handles.
Was
that where the instruments of torture were to be found?TOP
The
cart was very near the head of the bed. If he raised his hand,
very slowly, very carefully, he could slip his arm out from underneath
the covers—quietly, very quietly—and turn the top edge of the napkin
back from the line of instruments set out in their carefully-spaced
row.
Could
be instruments of torture. A pair of gleaming pincer-clamps that
could crush fingernails. A thick needle-pointed probe that might
stab into a man's eye. Three surgeon's flints on metal styluses
that could be used to take a man's skin off his body as he screamed.
A knife to cut and carve him with, two osmos to hold the wake-keepers
and the pain-maintenance drugs that would deny him the release of
unconsciousness at the Inquisitor's pleasure . . .
A
knife?
Raising
his head as far off the pillow as he dared Fanner stared at the
instruments, telling them over in his mind. Clamp. Needle. Surgeon's
flints. Osmos.
Knife.
And
a cutting edge the length of his hand, if he gauged it right at
this distance. Maybe for cutting off clothing; maybe to help with
dressings gone stiff and sticking; maybe to scrape necrotic tissue
from a wound, but without question a knife that could be made to
serve as a weapon as easily as anything else.
What
good could he imagine a knife might be to him, held prisoner here
in the bowels of the enemy Scylla, in the very presence of the torturer?
He
could assassinate the torturer.TOP
If
he assassinated the torturer he would not save himself, he would
still be prisoner, he would still be bound to the torture; but to
rid the world of one of the Bench's fine Inquisitors would be a
meritorious act, an intrinsic good. If he were to assassinate the
torturer perhaps his brother would not mind so much having died
in an ultimately fruitless attempt upon the ship's main battle guns.
He could assassinate the torturer; or he could die trying, and that
would be a way out of the horror that faced him.
Fanner
shifted his weight to one side in the bed, carefully. He was weak,
but for obscure reasons of their own the Scylla had seemingly not
stinted on medical care—even though he was the enemy. He knew by
experience how unusual that was by the Bench standard, so there
had to be some dirty motive to it somewhere; to heal him for the
torture, no doubt, but he would use their cleverness against them.
He
could move.
He
felt stiffness and discomfort, but no pain, and the torturer was
ignoring him—had not perhaps so much as noticed that he was awake.
Fanner stilled himself, lying at the very edge of the mattress as
close to the instruments tray as he could get without falling off
the bed. When he got out of bed the torturer was bound to hear
him. He had to be ready to rush at the man and take him by surprise.
Snaking
his hand out from underneath the covers once again Fanner grasped
the knife in trembling fingers, careful not to let it clatter against
the other instruments. It was cool to the touch, and as sharp as
ingratitude, and Fanner tucked his hand back into the concealment
of the bedclothes to ponder what his best approach might be. Should
he attempt to ambush the man? Lure him to the bedside and knife
him in the gut as he leaned over the bed's surface to take a pulse
or check pupil dilation or any of the things a medical professional
might do?
The
man was a torturer.
There
was no guarantee he even cared what any other medical professional
might do.TOP
And
if Fanner stabbed him in the stomach it would not be final enough,
a man could be cured of a stab wound in his stomach. The only sure
way was to separate his head from his shoulders, slice through his
throat, sever his spinal cord at the base of the skull. That was
the only way to do it if you wanted to be sure to kill your enemy.
His
best hope was to creep up from behind, then, and cut through at
the back of the neck as best he could. It meant attacking a man's
undefended rear, and ordinarily it might be a cowardly act to approach
a man in secret like that—but this was far from ordinary. And a
torturer. Normal codes of honor and fair play could not be said
to apply to such a man.
Scylla's
torturer had denied himself the right to be treated with honor when
he had taken up his Writ to Inquire, his legal authority to torture
captive souls until they said whatever it happened to be the Bench's
pleasure they confess to. So stabbing such a man in the back from
behind, was not the same as stabbing any decent person treacherously.
It
didn't feel quite right.
But
this was war, and although the Eild Nurail had lost they would never
surrender to the Bench.
Turning
on his side carefully, Fanner sat up, and put his feet to the floor.
If he could not bear his own weight it wasn't going to work. He
would have to think of some other stratagem, then: but he could
walk. He could stand upright. He was on his feet even now beside
the bed, putting the bedclothes away from him with stealthy care
and focussing on the back of the torturer who stood at the worktable,
sorting through tools as it seemed, counting his knives over.
The
monitors seemed to react to his movements; their readings seemed
to change. He didn't have much time. An orderly could come through
the door at any moment, and that would be the end of even this slight
chance to be revenged in advance for the death to which the Bench
was sure to condemn him. Not more than three paces between the
bed and the target, if he judged it right. He had to make his move
before some weakness in his body should betray him to himself —
He
shifted the knife in his fist to the stabbing grip and rushed upon
the unsuspecting torturer, knife raised to shoulder-height to stab
through at the back of the man's neck.TOP
And
as he moved the torturer, putting an instrument well off to one
side, happened to glance over his left shoulder, and saw him coming.
Horrified,
the torturer turned, putting his hand up to protect himself, scattering
instruments across the worktable with his other hand as he reached
desperately for a weapon with which to defend himself. Too late;
Fanner was on him, and if he had lost his chance to make a clean
cut at the back of the head he could still get the same thing done
if he could only manage—–there was more tissue to get through at
the side of the neck, no guarantee that he'd hit his mark if he
went in through the eye, but still there was a chance that he could
make it work—–
Something
struck him, huge and horribly, a gigantic boulder rolling onto the
middle of his chest and staying there. Fanner swayed on his feet,
embracing the struggling torturer fiercely, determined not to let
go until he had smelled blood—–and not his blood, the torturer's
blood, what good did the smell of his own blood do him, except to
remind him that he was wounded?
How
could it be that a boulder should roll onto his chest and stick
there, without falling away of its own weight?
He
had his arms around the torturer now, and the strength his opponent
had in his lithe body was astonishing. But Fanner knew he was the
injured man, it stood to reason he should be surprised, and yet
not as surprised as the other was going to be when he understood
that he was murdered. Because Fanner had the knife at the back
of the man's head. All he had to do was pull it to him, and there
would be an end to this.
Concentrating
his strength for the final blow, Fanner could not control his opponent,
who got an arm free at last and raised his hand. He'd got a knife,
too. Well. Clever torturer. But it didn't matter any more.
Fanner
struck home.TOP
The
torturer struck first.
Fanner's
blow went wild across the back of the man's neck, glancing against
his skull and lifting skin, but deflecting harmlessly away from
the neck and spine.
Fanner
fell down to his knees on the decking, astonished and amazed.
What
had happened to him?
He
was bleeding, more than bleeding, his life fled from him in great
gushing leaps as his heart pounded to send blood through breached
arteries—
Down
on his face on the decking, and the torturer caught at him as he
fell, turning his face to keep it from the floor. Blood all over.
His blood. The torturer's blood as well, surely, he hadn't killed
the man but he had marked him, there was at least something to be
said for that.
"Well,
that's done it, with any decent sort of luck," someone said.
The
world was closing in on him, the darkness gaining. It was a welcome
darkness. It was warm and safe. He hadn't made it work. But he'd
escaped, and from the very heart of Jurisdiction.
What
did that mean, that's done it?
What
did it matter?
Fanner
relaxed into the arms of whomever it was holding him, and closed
his eyes, and surrendered humbly to the waiting dark.
Andrej
waited while the body stilled.TOP
He
was bleeding at the back of his head, and a scalp wound bled profusely,
but there should be no danger. It hurt, there was that, but at
least the thing was done.
He
couldn't afford to signal for help while there was still danger
that the Nurail could be resuscitated, because if that happened
all of his careful planning would come to nothing. Coming through
Wards in duty black rather than his preferred Infirmary whites because
he was expected at staff in an eight. Making the apparently spontaneous,
carefully timed decision to stop in and sort through the inventory
in secured quarantine just after the orderly's shiftcheck, safe
as he needed to be from the prisoner—because the prisoner was wounded,
after all.
Casually
pushing an instruments-tray into easy reach, and making sure the
Nurail had a good look at him and would know exactly what he was—all
of his stratagems, transparent though they were, would come to nothing
if the Nurail should live.
He
had to wait it out.
But
he was dizzy.
He
couldn't afford to let consciousness go until he knew the Nurail
was past retrieving—–
The
eighths tracked on.
The
body cooled.
The
room got dark.
Someone
would come looking for him, surely. He was expected at staff.TOP
He'd
been determined to make it look good, out of respect for his Captain.
This
was ridiculous.
Slowly,
Andrej slumped over the body on the floor, passing out so naturally
and easily that he didn't even notice.
The
lights were bright and someone was swearing, and Andrej Koscuisko
crashed into awareness too suddenly to have an eighth in which to
think about whether he was safer off unconscious. There were people
everywhere, it seemed, hordes of boots around him on the floor,
what was he doing lying on his back on the decking?
His
head hurt, no, the back of his head hurt, and he glared up at Joslire
Curran's anxious face accusingly. Joslire was holding Andrej's
head, did Joslire have something to do with the fact that his head
hurt? That was hard to imagine.
Raising
his hand, Andrej tested for the source of his discomfort, staring
stupidly at the blood on his fingers as he took his hand away.
"No,
we're not moving him till we know for sure how much of this blood
is whose," Doctor Myal Hobbins, the wards supervisor on call
Andrej supposed, was insisting. "You can have the Nurail,
there's no sense even trying for that, he's long gone. Blep, where's
my diagnostic?"
This
was a little odd. He was lying on the floor; he was bleeding; there
was a very peculiar expression on Joslire's face; and Myal was seriously
exercised in spirit about something. Myal wasn't on Wards this
foreshift. Myal wasn't supposed to come on Wards till midshift.
Was he remembering that right? Scheduling had never been his strong
point.TOP
Here
was Code Pyatte in Infirmary whites, crouching down beside him.
"Can you hear me, your Excellency? If the officer would care
to raise his left hand."
His
left hand. Which hand was that? Andrej had to think about it for
a moment before he ventured to comply. He wondered if he'd got
it right even so, because Code sprang to his feet and out of sight
almost immediately. Maybe he'd made a mistake. That would be humiliating.
No,
he hadn't embarrassed Code, it was just the diagnostics. That was
all. Andrej was tempted to close his eyes and wish them all away,
but there was that peculiar expression on Joslire's face to be taken
into account—Joslire looked worried. So going to sleep was probably
right out, people would fret.
Something
at the back of Andrej's mind was beginning to nag at him with the
suspicion that he was going to be very sorry he'd woken up, before
too much more time had elapsed.
"All
right, so only half of the blood on the floor is Koscuisko's,"
Myal was saying, from the other side of the diagnostic portable
apparently. "Three units, as soon as. Head wound, Curran?"
Who
had given Joslire a head wound? Joslire hadn't been suffering a
head wound when last Andrej had seen him; just this morning, it
being Joslire's day to serve as officer's orderly. A little stiff
on the side of his wounded leg still, but it had only been a few
days since Joslire had been injured, so that stood to reason. But
head wound made no sense.
"Flesh
wound at the back of the neck, from what could be seen without taking
any chances. Presenting to this troop the appearance of a knife
wound, if it please the Doctor."
Joslire
was upset, and guarding himself in careful language. Andrej frowned
to hear it.TOP
"We'll
have fullscan done in just a moment, Joslire, then we'll know for
sure." Myal was at least being careful about Joslire's apparent
feeling of vulnerability, whatever its source. "Lucky you
found him when you did, very much longer and the Captain was going
to go to allship alert. Finished, Gollipse?"
Gollipse,
diagnostic scanning, neurological. Someone had broken their neck.
Or Myal wanted to see whether someone had sustained a cranial injury
of some sort.
"She's
running eight to eighteen, Doctor. There's a fractional bit of
scoring against the base of the skull. And no damage. Flesh wound,
just like Joslire said."
Gollipse
had been worried, too. His relief was evident in his voice. Joslire's
face seemed to relax a bit along the jawline, and Andrej began to
have an idea he knew what was going on.
There
were considerably more people in the room, all of a sudden, and
Andrej wished very much that he was not lying on the floor feeling
sick to his stomach with a dull ache at the back of his head and
the lights too bright in his eyes. He had planned this differently.
He had expected to confront his Captain on a much different level
than this—
Fleet
Captain Irshah Parmin squatted down on his heels with his clasped
hands draped across one knee, and examined Andrej's face thoroughly
with too sharp a hazelgrey gaze for Andrej's comfort.
Convinced
that Irshah Parmin saw right through him Andrej waited in dread
for the reprimand that was sure to come, violation of Judicial procedure,
denial of due process, failure to respect the rule of Law and the
proper handling of prisoners.
When
the Captain spoke it wasn't to Andrej, though, and somehow the suspense
only made it worse.
"How
long do you think he's been out, Doctor? He had been due at staff
half a shift ago. We thought he'd just decided to catch up on his
beauty sleep."TOP
Halfshift?
As long as that? Maybe he wasn't sick to his stomach. Maybe he
was just hungry. No, he was sick to his stomach with loss of blood.
His setup had gone off too well, and the Nurail had had a bit of
his own back on his way to the court of the Winter King. That explained
things. He'd been knifed, and he'd been bleeding.
"This
bed was on mech-monitor, scheduled for check twice a shift. The
last check was on time. As far as we can tell this happened soon
after Abble did her rounds." And as serious as Myal unquestionably
was he also sounded just the slightest bit as though he was beginning
to think about something that amused him. The very idea made Andrej
writhe in internal wretchedness, oh, was he so obvious as that?
There was no hope of getting this past the Captain, if Myal should
come to guess so quickly.
"Well.
No harm done. He can draft the Judicial report once he's back on
his feet, and he's got to get it done before he reports to the Dramissoi
Fleet, too. That'll be discipline enough for exposing himself to
assault like that, we all know how young Koscuisko feels about his
documentation."
Captain
Irshah Parmin rose to his feet, not bothering to glance back at
Andrej's face. Just as well. If he'd had any blood to spare in
his body Andrej would have been blushing fiery crimson.
"Shouldn't
be too long, sir, he's mostly just lost blood, from the diagnostic
report. Thick Dolgorukij skull, apparently. With respect, your
Excellency."
With
respect, Captain, was what Myal obviously meant. Andrej wasn't
sure he felt the remark showed much respect for him, but then Myal
was several years his senior, and a better physician than he was
in too many ways to count.
"And
while you're at it, Andrej, you can write me a report on what happened."
The Captain's voice was a little distant, now that he'd stood up.
"Steady as you go, Joslire, there's no keeping some officers
out of trouble. No harm done. What a morning."TOP
There
were his orderlies come around him now to move him carefully onto
litter, to be carried out in front of all Infirmary like a wounded
man when all he had was a cut across the back of his neck.
Oh,
they were going to tease him about this, good and proper. But Andrej
didn't care.
He'd
pulled it off.
He'd
made it work.
The
Nurail was dead, and there would be nothing for Joslire to reproach
himself about.
If
only it was not that there were to be reports, a man could be well
pleased with the work of the morning, all in all."
—
End —
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