|
The
Text
Two
had dropped by to enjoy a custard that Stildyne had left for her,
for whatever inscrutable Stildonian reasons he might have had. Mendez
supposed that his office made a useful neutral territory for her,
one in which Koscuisko was unlikely to make an issue of the forbidden
treat; but Koscuisko-to look at him, in the open doorway-was in
no condition to so much as notice.
"Yes,
Andrej, of course. Come in. Sit down?"
The
signal at the door had not been entirely unexpected, and Two had
had ample time in which to conceal the contraband dish in her wing
before Koscuisko actually came in. Only just this morning, they'd
seen him in Two's office only just this morning. Koscuisko looked
fifteen years older. Four eights thinner. Unhealthy, one way or
another. It was the drugs Koscuisko used to drag himself out of
a drunken stupor and into the land of the living when occasion demanded-yes,
that was it.
Mendez
wondered for an idle moment why Captain Lowden had cleared the Bench
intelligence specialist to Koscuisko's scheduler so soon after the
termination of an Inquiry. Had it been a bit of petty malice based
on misunderstanding the woman's errand?
Or
a rather more direct demonstration of what life was to be like under
First Secretary Verlaine, without the care and protection Koscuisko
had enjoyed under Lowden's patronage? "First Officer." Damn the
man for a cold saddle anyway. Four years, and Koscuisko could still
be as formally reserved as ever, which meant that there wasn't much
room to extend a helpful offer. Too superior for that, Mendez supposed,
with disgust.
On
the other hand the Ship's Engineer, Serge of Wheatfields, had stopped
by as well to find out why Stildyne had been looking for Koscuisko
in Engineering, of all places; and Wheatfields and Koscuisko brought
out the worst in each other. TOP
"I've
brought these documents. If you would be so kind." Maybe Koscuisko
was just hung over.
Wheatfields
swung his bony knee out of Koscuisko's way without comment so that
Koscuisko could come through to the desk. There was only one other
place to sit, and that was between the squat little jug of tlactlac
on Mendez' desk and Wheatfields. Koscuisko seemed to prefer the
tlactlac for company, which-if it stank-was at least alcoholic.
Mellowing to a man. Judging from the angle of Koscuisko's body as
he sat, that was-as far away from Wheatfields as possible.
Mendez
reviewed the cube with all deliberate speed. It was all complete,
and all quite correct; but he hated to take it forward even so,
knowing how Koscuisko had been battered down here in the past four
years. "Let me ask you this, Andrej. You're the only one who can
make the call. But think about it, one last time. Is this really
something you've got to do? Tell your daddy to go to hell, if it
comes to that. It doesn't have to be like this."
Nobody
had asked him for advice, but he was the First Officer, and he could
advise if he damn pleased. It wasn't as if his relationship with
Koscuisko would suffer if he offended the man. He probably wouldn't
even be able to tell the difference.
Still,
he was a little ashamed of himself for taking advantage of superior
rank; because it seemed that Koscuisko actually winced.
"You
cannot mean to suggest I soil my parents' names in such a way."
Koscuisko was Dolgorukij. Dolgorukij did as their parents told them.
That was apparently all there was to it: because there was no mistaking
the genuine, if muted, anguish, the honest agony in Koscuisko's
voice as he continued.
"If
it were only that I should be disgraced it would be possible. But
to flout my father's will, and after all Azanry knows the challenges
I have made to him before-it is as much as to say that he is neither
prince nor father, or even a man. There is only one solution to
such unfilial behavior, and it is execution of the criminal child-"
that would be himself Andrej was referring to, Mendez guessed-"and
though that would solve the problem for me then and there I don't
believe my father would do it. Which would be for him to live in
shame. He is my father. I cannot in his face piss in this manner,
or I will not. As you choose." TOP
Why
not? Mendez wondered, to himself. If that was all it took. Urine
washed off. Blood tended to stain more deeply. But there was no
accounting for the rules of someone else's life. Koscuisko wasn't
stupid, and if Koscuisko didn't see a way out of this then as far
as Koscuisko's life was concerned there wasn't one.
Cultural
context, and all.
Just
because it seemed to him that the answer was obvious didn't make
it real in Koscuisko's world. And they all lived in different worlds,
didn't they? They only looked Standard on the surface of them.
"Piss
in anybody else's father's face, of course, no problem," Wheatfields
interrupted, slumped in the low-backed chair with his arms folded
across his attitude. Mendez didn't have any chairs that Wheatfields
could be really comfortable in, since he topped Captain Lowden by
a good head, with that stout Chigan neck thrown into the bargain.
"Of course it helps that they can't piss back, doesn't it?"
"You
are disgusting." Koscuisko's voice crackled with contempt. "Shut
up. You catamite's whore." But it was all just so much love-talk
between them. Wheatfields spoke on with no sign of having heard.
Much less heeded.
"You're
just going to make Verlaine that much more determined. What do you
think you're going to do eight years from now? Hope your father's
changed his mind?"
Mendez
had mused over the years that it was a shame Koscuisko was the way
he was about his sex life. Koscuisko and Wheatfields were so perfectly
matched, on any number of levels-starting with aggravating, proceeding
to irritating, with several stops for impolite behavior on the way
to out-and-out infuriating. They should have been related somehow,
if they weren't going to marry. They deserved each other. TOP
Except
that this was one of the times that Koscuisko seemed to lack the
spite to spit back. "I can only trust my wife to see to it," Koscuisko
answered, somberly enough. And Mendez had been under the impression
that Koscuisko wasn't married-"It has been more than twelve years,
already, since she was promised a child of my body, before the holy
Mother. Such things are seldom left to wait for this long, let alone-what
would it be? Twenty years. There would be too much of a scandal.
The Autocrat herself would surely intervene."
Mendez
was almost certain that Two had mentioned an existing child, or
perhaps children-it being difficult to tell, with Two. But it was
none of his business. "Didn't know you were married, Andrej."
He
felt tired and disgusted enough at life to be a little irritating
himself, which only made it the more frustrating when Koscuisko
didn't seem to notice.
"Indeed
not yet, First Officer. Promised, sworn, betrothed, how is it said?
A bride may be asked to wait for her husband, it is a familial duty.
Only there were many exchanges of trade and contracts at the same
time, and her family does not begin to benefit until the contract
is made flesh in our firstborn."
He'd
been sold to someone for a stallion, was what Koscuisko meant. Ralph
guessed.
"You're
in no condition to exercise discipline," Wheatfields challenged
Koscuisko, shifting the focus of the conversation without due warning.
Mendez made a note. He was going to have to speak to Wheatfields
about that. "How long do you plan to make Hixson wait? Three-and-thirty
is conservative, no argument, Andrej. But it's still not anything
to look forward to."
Quite
the contrary. Koscuisko almost winced. "He is expecting to take
his punishment tomorrow evening. Yes. And I cannot, Serge, you are
quite right for once, do not I beg of you let this unusual accident
go to your head." TOP
It
was a serious issue, though. Mendez had no misgivings that Koscuisko
was not keenly aware of the extra suffering that the extra day's
wait would mean in terms of nervous apprehension. Nor, so far as
Mendez could tell, had Wheatfields; who sat quietly for once to
let Koscuisko talk.
"Still
the Captain will not object if we delay by four or five shifts.
Give me five shifts, Serge, and I will myself of Hixson beg pardon
for the delay if you like. I dare not face it sooner than that.
I cannot trust my hand."
Five
shifts would put it off one day and the quarter part of the next.
Wheatfields stood up, and though Mendez couldn't read much on Wheatfields'
flat broad-cheekboned face with its ridiculously dainty nose he
knew from experience that the gesture indicated Wheatfields was
willing to pass on further provocation, just for tonight.
"I
won't have Hixson butchered by some half-drunk Inquisitor, that's
for certain, Andrej. Five shifts it is. I'll speak to Hixson. Stay
out of Engineering, you're not wanted there."
This
worried Mendez.
Wheatfields
was hardly even insulting.
Had
Wheatfields decided that there was no hope for Koscuisko, none at
all? TOP
Mendez
realized with a start that he'd come to rely upon his Ship's Engineer,
over the years, to keep Koscuisko irritated, to keep Koscuisko on
the offensive, to keep Koscuisko angry enough to fight back.
Koscuisko
waved Wheatfields off with a fine dismissing gesture of one hand.
"You are merely boring tonight, Serge. Five shifts. I will be ready
in five shifts."
Koscuisko
couldn't defend himself against Captain Lowden, and he wouldn't
defend himself against his own sense of guilt. Wheatfields had a
special place in Koscuisko's life on board of the Ragnarok. Wheatfields
was the closest thing Koscuisko had to someone he could hit without
needing to feel remorseful for the deed.
"Done
and done. Good-greeting, one and all, I'm going back to Section.
Better atmosphere. Better class of people."
But
it was weak. Mendez glanced at Koscuisko, a little worried, and
found him with his eyes closed and his lip glued to the upturned
rim of the tlactlac flask, pretending that he hadn't heard. Well,
that was reassuring. As far as it went.
Once
Wheatfields had gone Koscuisko set the flask back down with a grimace.
"This is disgusting stuff, First Officer. And only disgusting people
would consume such a beverage by choice. I should go back to my
place, I have to have a word with Mister Stildyne." TOP
Koscuisko
was right, but probably not for reasons Koscuisko knew yet. Something
had gone wrong between Koscuisko and Stildyne from the very first
shift Koscuisko had stood on Ragnarok. Stildyne had been trying
to solve the puzzle ever since: it was now or never. For Stildyne
at least.
"These'll
go out this evening, Andrej, I'll take them to the duty officer.
As long as this is the way it's got to be, and you're very sure
about that."
Koscuisko
shuddered, the second time today that Mendez had seen him shudder.
"I must tell Captain Lowden, I suppose?"
Well,
sooner or later Lowden was going to find out. "It'll be in his morning
report, Andrej. So he'll find out in the morning." If he read his
morning report, that was to say.
Koscuisko
stood up. "I am not being very coherent, First Officer. But it is
difficult for me to do this."
It
sounded like there was more to come, and Mendez waited.
"Except
that I will not have to do with the Domitt Prison. No matter how
hard it may be with Captain Lowden, here there is only ever one
at a time. With your permission?"
Koscuisko
didn't need Mendez' permission; technically speaking he only needed
Mendez' permission when the Captain and all three of his Lieutenants
were away from the ship. But Koscuisko was funny that way. Cold,
formal, remote, in agony. Maybe it wasn't very funny, after all.
TOP
"Good
sleeping, Andrej, try to get some rest." Through the open door Mendez
could see the diminutive Shimiro sword-warrior Shelastan waiting
with perfect patience for her "dracir;" so he didn't need to worry
about Koscuisko getting lost. Well, not physically. Koscuisko left,
and Mendez toggled the door closed, and Two retrieved her dish of
custard from within the capacious folds of her great leathery wing
and lapped at it thoughtfully for a long quiet moment.
"Nobody
told me that he was crazy."
The
old complaint, as unanswerable as ever. Two simply concentrated
on her custard with a fine air of not having heard a thing.
"It
isn't as if we're on Line, the Ragnarok doesn't have a tactical
mission. They ought to take that sorry son of his mother, and they
ought to wrap him up in a soft-woolie and put him away someplace
forever. Where nobody would come looking for him with things to
do and people to mutilate."
"We
cannot be speaking of the same Chief Medical." Finally Two granted
him the favor of a response, her expression of dignified affront
somewhat less effective than it might have been had she not had
the suspicion of a custard-mustache on her dainty little muzzle.
"There is nothing wrong with our Andrej. Fleet considers him very
highly qualified for his post indeed. Surely you do not mean to
suggest that Fleet does not hold his best interest more closely
to its bosom than any venal considerations of supply and demand,
and the shortage of Ship's Inquisitors."
"If
there was any plain justice in this world he'd be out on a self-destructive
so fast that-" TOP
"Oh,
yes, you are speaking of our Serge, and how he was cared for." Two's
artless suggestion shut him up, in frustration. "The shock of returning
from campaign to empty quarters, bad enough, but to have left a
copy of the Record for him, that was brutal. And certainly Fleet
looked after him while he grieved, once they had prevented him from
murder. There were psychotechs, as I recall. A generous grant of
home-leave. Oh, have I forgotten the special investigation, the
one into why his lover was murdered, and punishment for those who
had engineered the crime?"
There
was no answer to that one, because it hadn't happened that way at
all. Someone in the hierarchy had protected Wheatfields from himself
at the point when he would probably have killed the entire Fleet
Interrogations Group at wherever it had been, and himself along
with them. Protected him, made sure that nothing that his lover
had said under the torture before dying such an ugly-carefully recorded-death
was used against him, and sent him away to the Ragnarok to keep
him out of trouble.
Sent
Lowden to the Ragnarok too, which did seem a lapse of good taste.
But making the long of it short Fleet had protected Wheatfields
from prosecution, but for Wheatfields himself and his brutally murdered
lover they had done absolutely nothing.
And
Fleet would protect its interest in the person of Andrej Koscuisko,
but for Andrej Koscuisko himself-a desperate man, in desperate straits-Fleet
would do nothing: because Fleet's interest lay in precisely the
professional skills that were destroying Andrej Koscuisko with such
slow certitude.
They'd
keep him going for as long as he could continue to execute the Protocols.
And then they'd probably package him up and send him to Verlaine
for a peace-offering, once he was too far gone to be of any conceivable
use to anybody. TOP
Koscuisko
was a doctor, a skilled battle surgeon, and the Bench needed battle
surgeons.
But
the Bench was convinced that it needed Inquisitors more, and didn't
care what it meant to Koscuisko one way or the other.
"Custard's
going to give you the bellyache." So instead of arguing with her
Ralph only warned Two of the perfectly obvious fact, one they both
knew, one which also made no difference. "I'd stay out of Andrej's
way in the morning, if I were you."
She
licked the last of the dish out with a delicate and defiant flare
and set the empty container on his desk with the little claw on
the end of the first joint of her wing. "Oh, it is sad, to see a
man made bitter by defeat. Petty. I retreat with my dignity intact,
and hope for the morrow."
So
what did she mean by that?
Apart
from the obvious?
He'd
had a long day, too long a day to have to puzzle Two out at the
end of it.
A
word or two with the duty officer, and then he was going to bed.
 TOP
—
End —
|
