As soon as Mass was over, Bradford took advantage of Cortin's offer to borrow her main-floor office. He should have summoned Powell for questioning, but what he'd just seen wouldn't let him; it was Odeon he called for. And, as he'd half expected, Cortin's second in command was trying to conceal something, his cold pale eyes revealing to the Inquisitor what his impassive expression hid: he was afraid. Not for himself, though; for Cortin?
Bradford gestured Odeon to join him in the informal seating area. When he did, Bradford leaned forward. "Mike, I have no intention of doing anything to hurt Joanie. But it's pretty clear you and Sis are hiding something you've found out about her—something her Commanding Officer and Bishop ought to know about."
Odeon was silent. Bradford had a point, but was it a strong enough one to justify risking Joanie's life? No, he corrected himself, not her life—her mission. Their lives. It was true that Bradford could be helpful, as Bishop of the Strike Forces—but again, helpful enough to justify the risk? Well, he'd been promised support, so there should be a way to find out.
Bradford watched, initial puzzlement quickly turning to awe as Odeon's eyes lost focus and he seemed to glow, despite the bright office lighting. Yes, there was definitely something highly unusual happening in and around Team Azrael!
When Odeon became aware of his surroundings again, he grinned. "You're in, Colonel. What's going on is hard to believe, but you'll get help." He sobered. "And you'll get help keeping it from all except the very few with a need to know—plus one who has a need not to know."
"Something else we have to keep from her for her own good?"
"Hers and the entire Systems'," Odeon said. "It's why she attracts people in spite of being an Inquisitor. Brad, she's the Herald and acting Protector—and she doesn't know it, can't afford to know it until we've gotten people ready to accept her changes. As long as she doesn't know her identity and powers, Shayan can't use his against her—in fact, he's afraid to use them at all, for fear of waking hers."
Bradford had gone pale. Hard as it was to believe, he couldn't disbelieve. "But she'd win!"
"There's no guarantee of that," Odeon said grimly. "I think she would—but the only limit I'm sure of on Shayan's power is his inability to create life. Joan's limited herself to restrain him and give us a chance." He grimaced. "That's how I understand it, anyway; I could be misinterpreting what I was shown. But I'm positive we can't afford to tell her who she really is. We've got to act normal as long as she does—with a few exceptions."
"Normal." Bradford shuddered. "Around the one who's supposed to judge us for eternity? Or, from what you said about being acting Protector, maybe not make the final judgement?"
"I can't be sure myself," Odeon said. "I have the feeling that anything she does in that capacity will be permanent, or there'd be no reason for an acting one, but it is just a feeling." He paused. "And acting normal around her's possible. Not easy, but possible, because Sis and I are doing it—and essential." He quirked an eyebrow, smiled. "Fun, too, at times. One thing she's doing is reclaiming the jurisdiction over sex that Shayan claimed in the Garden. If you've got any doubts on that score, just remember the shelter party."
Bradford did, his mind going back to her enthusiasm and the incredible pleasure she'd given her men and her guests. "That is going to be one of the hardest things to convince most people of," he said eventually. "Is that going to be the Seal of Life God said the Protector would bring?"
"No—though that's not a bad guess." Odeon told him about the early-hours visit by the man in the white Enforcement uniform, including himself and Sis drinking from the still-unconscious Cortin. "From that and everything else I've seen," he concluded, "the New Kingdom—for lack of my ability to imagine a better name—is going to be a lot more enjoyable, as well as a lot more challenging."
"A lot more sensual, at any rate," Bradford said drily. "Do you think that means all Her priests will be women?"
"I doubt it," Odeon said after a moment's thought "Even though Jeshua's were all men until not long before the War, which would only be fair. But we have a life fluid of our own, and knowing our Joanie, she'll want it used both ways." He paused, then grinned. "And it wouldn't surprise me if the normal arrangement was to celebrate this Sealing with a priest of the opposite sex."
"Normal—but not necessary?"
"No, or Sis wouldn't have been able to take it from Joanie." Odeon hesitated, then went on. "I wouldn't have been able to tell you all this unless it was highly probable you'd want to be on her team if you knew. If that's right and you do, either Sis or I can Seal you to her; if not, you'll have to wait till she goes public."
"I do," Bradford said without hesitation. "From you, since I agree that there's no time to waste."
"Good." Odeon rose as Bradford knelt in front of him. "Drink, then, the Seed of Life."
Bradford was hesitant at first, taking only what welled out—and that was enough for the union to form. Odeon felt the hesitancy dissolve, felt Bradford's awed pleasure as God's Presence filled and cleansed him, shared his fear that it would end—and then his joyous realization that it wouldn't, that he'd been accepted and was wholly God's now.
When it was over, Bradford shook his head, looking dazed. "I had no idea … and Mike, I don't feel like conducting even a Stage One after that. I need to come down, if you don't mind."
"Me too," Odeon said. "The repetitions, or whatever they end up being called, won't be that prolonged or intense, of course, but I'm beginning to think the Sealing itself always will be. And that we'll have to allow for a wind-down period—most likely sexual, the way I felt and felt you feel. Though Sis and I didn't, until after Joanie was on her feet."
"Of course not," Bradford said. "I'd like sex—but what I need is talk. To help Joanie effectively, I've got to know exactly what she and we are trying to accomplish, and—if possible—why." He found a chair without looking, settled into it. When Odeon had followed suit, he went on. "Since you and Sis were chosen directly by Jeshua, you two are the obvious leaders of our group. If she's around, maybe she should join us."
"If she's awake, you mean," Odeon corrected, grinning. "When I saw her last night, she and Ivan were heading for her room, looking like they intended to make a night of it."
Bradford looked at him quizzically, then echoed the grin. "And a disciple of him, I'd be willing to bet."
"A bet you would win, Colonel." Chang stood just inside the door, her arm around the St. Dmitri Inquisitor's waist. "He, and the rest of Team Azrael—including Lieutenant Powell. Pardon the intrusion, but I felt we would be needed, and no one answered when we knocked." She smiled at Bradford. "It is good to have you in our group, Colonel."
"Thanks—I'm happy I could be. And we are off duty." Bradford gestured the newcomers to seats. "At least off Enforcement duty, and you and Mike outrank the rest of us in this field."
"As we heard you tell him, yes." Chang and Illyanov took seats. "However, it is we four, not two, who are her primary staff. Your responsibility will be liaison with the Church. Mike and I must guide her into her temporary role. Ivan is to show her that her dual role of judge and exalter is complementary rather than contradictory."
"That's going to be hardest, I think," Bradford said. "I know who she is, and I still have trouble with the Lifegiver as an Inquisitor."
Illyanov smiled. "Did your parents never punish you, then?"
"Yes, and I get the connection—punishment, and hopefully correction before it's too late to change. But the scale is so different!"
"And right now she's more interested in the punishment part than the correction one," Odeon said. "That's not surprising—but helping her change that emphasis has to be Sis' and my first priority."
"That will not keep her from carrying out her punishment and execution duties, will it?" Illyanov asked.
"How could it?" Chang countered. "She is Judge as well as Guardian—and even if it were not so, she could not deliberately fail to perform any legal duty she is sworn to. Even with her knowledge of her destiny deliberately hidden, she is Protector if only for a time, as well as being the true one's Herald, and therefore incapable of sin."
"Which doesn't mean she can't make mistakes," Odeon added. "Being human, she can—both has, and will."
Bradford frowned. "Any idea when she'll realize who she is?"
"Nothing firm, but logic says not until she has to—maybe as late as when she confronts Shannon, or the real Protector surfaces."
"Which gives us time to discuss this more later," Bradford said, glancing at the wall clock. "I did promise Joanie I'd question Powell for her, and …" He hesitated, then went on. "I … now that I know who she is, I feel I have to watch her work."
"Understandable." Odeon nodded, then gave the Bishop-Inquisitor a half-smile. "Does questioning Chuck have to be formal, or can you enjoy yourselves in the process?"
"Hmm?" Bradford frowned in puzzlement, then smiled. "Since he's already agreed to cooperate, I don't see any need for a formal interrogation. Why?"
"Let's go up to the common-room, and I'll show you."
When they got there, Powell was sprawled comfortably in front of the record player, listening to Melnyikov's "Musical Explorations" and caressing himself. Odeon grinned, at last able to fully appreciate the composer, and tempted to follow Powell's example. Melnyikov's previous works had hinted at eroticism; this one embraced and celebrated it. That made it a popular piece with Enforcement and much of the nobility, frowned on by the Church and most landfolk. Rumor had it that Melnyikov had used biological research—or Shayan's aid—to make "Explorations" so effective; after what he'd learned recently, Odeon suspected a different source. He glanced at Bradford, saw a speculative look, and raised a curious eyebrow.
"You were right to suggest an informal session," Bradford said appreciatively. "I'd almost forgotten his training—I'll probably get better results this way than by the more conventional methods."
"No doubt enjoying yourself in the process," Illyanov said.
"No doubt at all," Bradford agreed, removing his tunic and undershirt. "You're welcome to stay and participate, of course, either with him or setting an example."
"He is strongly attracted to Michael," Illyanov pointed out, "so if the two of you concentrate on him—"
"Ivan and I will set the example," Chang finished.
"Good morning, my dear." Cortin greeted her subject cheerily as soon as she entered the third-stage room. Yes, Mike had had it cleaned; except for the misery and fatigue in her subject's attitude, there was no evidence of what he'd been through the night before. "Are you ready for today's session?"
The man licked his lips, then said, "That captain who was here before called you Azrael. What's that mean—who are you? What're you gonna do to me?"
"Your education has been sadly neglected if you do not know the Angel of Death," Cortin said easily. "I will carry out the sentence you earned when you joined the Brotherhood, eventually. Before that, however, we will share some entertainment, and you will tell me everything you know about the Brothers of Freedom."
"Like hell I will!" But the man's voice held no conviction, and Cortin smiled.
"Oh, not without some resistance, of course." She turned to the cabinets, began laying out instruments and drugs where the subject could see them, taking her time to give him plenty of opportunity to study each one. "I have restricted myself to field-level drugs and instruments until now; I really should be experimenting with the more advanced techniques, now that I have easy access to them. Some of these do look interesting." She picked up several of the instruments again, one at a time, looking thoughtfully from instrument to prisoner and back, but there was no unusual reaction from him.
"The simple infliction of pain holds no particular terrors for you, I see," she commented. "Good, then you can demonstrate some of the drugs for me." That got a reaction, as she'd expected from the previous night; he tried, with little success, to hold back a gasp. "Not algetin, I am quite familiar with that, and you have already given me an excellent demonstration of eroticine." She studied labels on various little jars, again taking her time, stretching his anticipation and fear. "We can also eliminate these, I think, as they are primarily for medical purposes; my medic can handle them, if necessary. That still leaves quite a selection, however. Hmm, this looks interesting." She filled a syringe, turned to him. "Hallucinogens are not really too useful as interrogation drugs, because of both their primary function and their unpredictability. But I cannot resist one called 'demon drops' and described as causing both hallucinations and rapid mood changes—so you get to try it."
"Keep that hell-stuff away from me!"
"There is no point in fighting, you know," Cortin said as she approached him. A light coming on caught her attention; she raised a hand in greeting to whoever had entered the observation room, surprised when she saw the clock at how long she'd been working. She dismissed that, though, and made the injection in spite of her subject's ineffectual struggles. As she'd told him, there was absolutely no point in fighting when you were shackled by wrists and ankles, but she had no real objection if one of her subjects wanted to; it merely emphasized their relative positions. "There—now we will see what happens."
"You go straight to Hell, Bitch!"
"Your colleagues tried to send me there once," Cortin reminded him with a smile. "Now I return the favor, more successfully. Should that be my destination, I have excellent reasons to believe you will be there waiting for me." There was nothing more she could do until the drug took effect, which according to the label should be quickly, but even a brief time should be enough to see who the observer was.
Bradford greeted her as she entered the dimly-lit room with its large window of one-way glass. "Lieutenant Powell didn't have very much except what he already told you—that was one reason you got him to practice on, after all—so I thought I'd come down and watch for a bit. What'd you give him?"
"Demon drops." Cortin shrugged. "I know hallucinogens aren't recommended—but I learned a long time ago to play my hunches, and I think this'll break him."
"I was curious, not objecting," Bradford said mildly. "I've never had any luck with it, but others have; I don't argue with what works."
"I hope this does," Cortin said, watching her subject closely. "If it's what the prewars called a bad trip, and he remembers, it should."
"It doesn't look like it's going to be a good one," Bradford said, chuckling.
"I think you're right," Cortin agreed. Her subject was showing signs of fear, small as yet but promising. "And it looks like I ought to get back to him. If you have any suggestions, I'll be glad to hear them."
"I don't expect to, but if I do, I'll let you know."
Cortin returned to her subject, pleased to see his fear become more open when she entered the room. She wondered what he was seeing; he hadn't been visibly afraid of her only minutes ago, so it had to be something more than a woman in gray coveralls. As she approached him, he started to sweat, trembling, his eyes bulging as he fought to escape whatever he saw. "No—go away, please—leave me alone—don't touch me!"
She must be something impressive, Cortin thought. A demon such as the one the drug was named for, perhaps, to get such a strong reaction. "Why not?" she asked. "What do you think I am?"
"Lord Azrael," the man sobbed. "Go away—send the Inquisitor back! I'll tell her everything—just leave me alone!"
So he'd taken her code name and clothed her in that persona, Cortin thought. Fitting, that he should think he was dying at the hands of the real Angel of Death. "Tell me, mortal. Thy life is forfeit, but if thou shouldst speak quickly and truthfully, I will make thy passing easy. She will not be so merciful."
"You're burning me … not so close …"
True enough, his skin was reddening as if from sunburn. Cortin had read that something believed strongly enough could affect the body, but this was the first time she'd seen it. She wanted to go closer, test the phenomenon further, but getting information was more important than indulging her curiosity; she stepped back instead. "Speak to me, mortal. Quickly, before the Inquisitor returns and I must leave thee to the slow, terrible death she intends for thee." Cortin had used the "good cop/bad cop" tactic before, many times—it was, for all its age, astonishingly reliable—though this was the first time she'd played both parts for one prisoner.
The man sagged in his chains. "Better you than her, I guess … what do you want to know?"
His fear was still there; Cortin read the signs easily. But she could also see defeat, almost resignation. He believed the Angel of Death, where he'd had some hope, however small, under the Inquisitor. "Tell me first of the attack planned on the holy Sisters of Succor."
He confirmed what Powell had told her, adding that the time was set for the High Mass celebrating the Order's founding, and the force involved would be about fifty men. Yes, it was to be a massacre like the one at the convalescent hospital the previous year, but he didn't know why such attacks were carried out or what the Brotherhood's purpose was; he had joined because farm life was boring and he wanted adventure. He'd tried for Enforcement, but been refused because they thought him unstable. He was quite bitter about being called unstable by a bunch of oversexed killers in uniform, and liked taking part in raids just to get back at them for the insult.
No, he didn't know how many Lawrence Shannons there were; no one did, except the Raidmaster himself and maybe the Brotherhood's High Council. Ten or fifteen, he thought, but that was only a guess. He wasn't sure whether or not the real Shannon would lead the convent raid, but he didn't think so; he'd heard rumors of a major raid around Christmas in one of the other Systems, and the Raidmaster was supposed to be working on that one. No, he didn't know any more about it; it had been only a rumor. The lesser Raidmaster on the convent job might know, yes, though he didn't think it likely. No, he didn't know who'd been Raidmaster on the hospital job; he thought probably the real one, though. That was all he knew, honestly; now he would be grateful if Lord Azrael would let him see a priest before killing him.
Cortin swore silently. She wanted to send his soul to Hell, where she was sure it belonged—but it looked like his hallucination had thrown the fear of God into him, and he was about to make a deathbed repentance. At least she wouldn't have to officiate this time, she told herself; she couldn't be Azrael and Reverend Mother Cortin at the same time. "Thou hast that right," she conceded, beckoning Bradford to join them. Blast it, from now on she'd simply have to make it a point to have Mike or Dave nearby, in case it happened again!
When Bradford entered, Cortin left the room. She didn't care to even witness a Brother's repentance and forgiveness, though she admitted unhappily to herself that she would carry them out again if she had to; she simply wouldn't like doing it, any more than she had the first time.
She took advantage of the break to use the red phone and pass along the additional information she'd gotten—not to His Majesty directly this time; the one who answered didn't sound at all familiar, and promised to pass it along as soon as His Majesty was free. Then she waited, with growing impatience, for Bradford to finish with her subject.
What, in God's Most Holy Name, was going on in there? Surely it couldn't take this long to confess even a Brother's obviously-lengthy list of sins, then receive absolution and Extreme Unction!
When Bradford finally emerged, he was smiling. "He's all yours, Joan. Nice job you did, getting the information and saving a soul—that doesn't happen often. Of course, not many Inquisitors have the help of a blazing Angel of Death, either."
"Mike told him my code name; the demon drops and his own imagination did the rest." Cortin's mouth quirked. "I would've preferred a more conventional interrogation, but I have to admit he had good reason to be afraid of drugs. And I'll keep 'Azrael's' promise; he'll die as quickly and easily as I can manage, even though by rights he ought to suffer as much as his victims did."
"I think you can safely trust God to take care of that," Bradford said drily. "I can't tell you what he confessed, of course, but I can tell you I'm positive he'll be spending a long time in Purgatory."
Cortin grinned. "I'm sure he deserves every year of it." All that was left was killing him, so she got out of her coveralls, put her tunic back on, settled her gunbelt into place, and re-entered the third-stage room. Bradford had freed the prisoner; he was kneeling facing away from her, toward the room's crucifix, his attitude making it obvious he was praying. Cortin frowned, then nodded to herself, silently drawing her pistol. There were far worse ways to die than quickly, while speaking to God, and while he deserved one of those, she had promised otherwise. She took careful aim and shot him in the back of the head.
That, she thought immediately, had been far kinder to him than it had to her! She'd forgotten just how loud a heavy-caliber handgun could be in a confined area, and her ears were ringing painfully. It also made quite a mess at this close a range; blood and brains splattered most of the wall he'd been facing, including the crucifix. The clean-up crew could handle the wall and body, but she felt like taking care of the crucifix herself; careful to avoid getting the mess on her uniform, she took it into the bathroom to clean it.
As she did, she found herself thinking about the man the crucifix represented. Jeshua had become incarnate and sacrificed Himself to protect humanity from the results of sin, though protection from sin itself would have to wait for the promised Protector. In the meantime, Jeshua's sacrifice was on behalf of anyone willing to take advantage of it—and Ivan had told her often enough it was as much an Inquisitor's job to correct as to punish. Maybe, she thought, she was starting to get that through her thick head, because despite her personal distaste for the idea of a Brother's repenting, there was a sense of accomplishment at this one's. It also helped, of course, that Brad had complimented her on being able to manage both information and repentance!
She grinned at herself as she dried the crucifix and put it on the desk in the suite's office. If Shannon was Shayan, which since her vision looked more likely than not, turning Brothers from him to God would be an even better revenge on him than the traditional version would be on them … even though she still intended to take that kind on the ones who'd helped rape and maim her.
There was a message on her ground-floor office desk: His Majesty wanted to see her at her earliest convenience between interrogations. It didn't specify dress uniform, and this close to the Palace she didn't need bodyguards, so less than fifteen minutes later she found herself sitting—sitting!—beside His Majesty's desk, sipping a cup of the best ginger tea she could remember tasting and still shocked by the warmth of His Majesty's welcome. It was awesome enough meeting him, though really it was no odder than paying a routine courtesy call on one's new commanding officer; it just felt that way, having the High King himself as your direct superior. His Majesty was clearly familiar with such a reaction, because he was carrying the burden of the conversation until she had a chance to recover. When she began to settle down, he smiled. "Reports of your ability weren't exaggerated, Colonel. I'm quite pleased with the results you've gotten so far."
"Thank you, Your Majesty. I'll keep doing my best."
"I'm certain you will. Is Harmony Lodge to your liking and adequately equipped?"
"More than adequately, Sire. I'm still overwhelmed by all of it."
"You are to let me know immediately if there's anything you need or want. We can't take major action against the Brotherhood without the information you provide, which makes you the most important single person in this operation."
"Yes, Your Majesty." Cortin took a sip of her tea, savoring the ginger tang. It was hard to believe she was all that important—she certainly didn't feel it—but her truthsense said His Majesty did believe it, so she had to. "If I may make a suggestion?"
"As one of my Household, that's both your privilege and your duty; go ahead."
"Then I'd say the attack on the convent would be a good time to activate the Strike Force. And with Your Majesty's permission, my men and I would like to participate in the convent's defense."
"That's three things," King Mark said. "Activating the strike force at the next terror attack is something I had already intended; it will be done. Your men may participate in the convent's defense if they wish and Colonel Bradford permits." He paused. "I am afraid, though, that I must forbid your participation in action against anyone except those you have a personal interest in. You're far too valuable to risk that way, and if I weren't afraid of losing you, I'd forbid you participating in action against even personal enemies. It would be best for the kingdom if you could resist doing so, but—" he paused, giving her a rueful smile, "while I pray for miracles for my people, I've learned not to expect them."
Cortin wanted to object, but reminded herself that she'd known about the restriction when she'd taken the job. "As Your Majesty commands—but it was worth a try."
The King chuckled. "And I can't fault you for making the effort; you wouldn't have joined the Strike Force if you hadn't wanted to see action. I'm afraid you'll see more than I want you to, at that. Now, if I may change the subject, the Royal Press Office has received a number of requests for interviews with you. Whether you give them or not is your choice."
"In that case, Sire, I'd rather not, at least until I finish settling in." She'd rather not do it even then; she'd given more than enough interviews at the Academy and after graduation. One reason she'd done so much field work was to get away from reporters. But she needed publicity—favorable publicity—to get support for her family changes, so she'd have to at least pretend to overcome that dislike.
"They'll have to content themselves with the official biography for the present, then," the King said. "The Press Office will need a current photo, though; you can go by sometime this week and provide it. You'll be safe from reporters as long as you're in the Palace compound or Harmony Lodge, but I can't guarantee the same outside; that will be up to your team."
"I don't really see any need to leave, except on missions," Cortin said. "Harmony Lodge alone has everything I need."
"As you wish," the King said. "I certainly won't insist on you being exposed to any unnecessary danger. But there will be an official reception tomorrow in your honor; you should come, unless you're in the middle of an interrogation."
Cortin was tempted to arrange it so she was, but as far as she was concerned, His Majesty saying she should come made it an order. "I'll do my best to be there, Sire. Full dress uniform?"
"Or formal civilan wear. Though that would mean being unarmed, so I don't expect it." The King raised an eyebrow. "You do realize you are the only person other than members of my personal guard who is allowed in the Royal Presence with a firearm?"
"What?" Cortin stared at him for an instant, then glanced at the pistol on her hip. "No, Sire—I hadn't even thought about it."
The King smiled, then stood. "We have no doubt of Your Excellency's loyalty, and We wish you a long and healthy life as Our Inquisitor."
The audience was over, obviously; Cortin rose and bowed, then began backing out of the office.
"Those who carry firearms in Our presence," the King said drily, "also have leave to turn their backs on Us."
Cortin bowed again, then turned. As she left, the King allowed himself a brief frown. He was certain of his Inquisitor's loyalty, or she wouldn't have the position—but he couldn't deny that she made him uncomfortable. Male Inquisitors were disturbing enough to be around; a woman who enjoyed the deliberate infliction of pain seemed worse, somehow. And one with Colonel Cortin's incredible talent at it was decidedly unnerving.
On the other hand, both Edward and Ursula were thoroughly taken with her, which was unusual for both of them, so Her Excellency must have qualities he couldn't see, even allowing for her scheme to let them have heirs. He touched the cartridge at his neck, frowning again. Unusual qualities, for these to be so popular with the troops that many insisted on having one before going out in the field and swore by their efficacy. Maybe he ought to have her bless a couple of cases of them, make them standard issue …
Back to the subject, he thought, leaning back. The idea of polygamy had seemed obscene when Edward first mentioned it, but the longer he thought about it, the more reasonable it seemed to become. As a matter of morality, her argument that monogamy at this point was tantamount to racial suicide had a certain validity, and suicide was a sin. And her argument that marriage laws could be changed was also valid; the Modern Saints had been branded heretics not because of their polygamy but because they had claimed Shayan to be Jeshua's brother. And the theologians were still arguing about that …
Then there was his responsibility, as Sovereign, for his subjects' welfare, which tied in with his personal desire to leave his descendants a prosperous, expanding group of Systems … which he wouldn't be able to do without some fairly drastic action. If he didn't, in a few generations there would be no Kingdom Systems—a fact he'd known for some time, but had avoided thinking about because there seemed to be no solution.
Now, though, he'd been handed a chance, if he could arrange to implement it. Keep Cortin the focus of whatever happened as a result, of course; even the best Inquisitor was more expendable than royalty. From Edward's report on the airborne conference, Bishop-Colonel Bradford ought to be willing to help get Church approval for Enforcement to formalize the informal group marriages it was rumored they had in some of the more remote areas.
Remote areas? The High King smiled as an idea took form. He'd have to discuss it with his lesser monarchs, because of their agreement that all Royal Inquisitors hold the same rank—but it promised a place for Cortin to offer anyone who wanted a group marriage but didn't want the notoriety that would inevitbly accompany the first ones. It would also—a not inconsiderable benefit—silence My Lord of New Colorado's complaints about having to administer territories that cost his Dukedom more than the revenues they generated. Those complaints were justified, the King admitted—but he was incredibly tired of hearing them!
That would have to wait, though. The King switched on his intercom, spoke to his secretary. "Peter, get hold of Bishop-Colonel Bradford. I want to see him as soon as he can get here."
Cortin disliked the reception, leaving as soon as she thought it would be socially acceptable, intending to indulge herself with a new subject. Once she got back to the Lodge, though, she decided she was too tired to do a proper job of starting an interrogation, and Brady said most of the men had gone to the New Eden joyhouse. So she might as well make an early night of it; after a hot soaking bath, she went to bed and quickly fell asleep.
Fifteen years disappeared; it was the night after Graduation, and Mike was holding her close after their first lovemaking, smiling down at her. "Marry me, Joanie?"
"Of course, beloved." Cortin returned his smile, giving him a lingering kiss.
They were married soon after, and she found that married life agreed with her; she remained in the Service, but instead of going into the field as she'd planned, she took postgraduate work and became an Inquisitor. That let her spend time with her husband, when he wasn't out on a mission, and with the three children they had. The youngest was almost a year old when Mike came home with a pleased expression that told her he'd contracted the Satyr Plague.
They lay together in the dark warmth, savoring each other, not hurrying their caresses in spite of their desire. He wanted her to lie still, let him pleasure her with his new capacity—
Her bedroom door opened, bringing her awake with her gun in her hand. "Who's there?"
"Mike—I hadn't expected you to be asleep this early. I hope I didn't interrupt a good dream."
Cortin put the gun down. "Only the best I've had in years. Come on in, if you want; is there something wrong?"
"No, just thought you might like some normal company after that Palace to-do." He entered the room, the hallway light showing, to her pleasure, that he was already undressed. "What was the dream?"
"Graduation night, then the first time we got together after you managed to catch the satyr bug." She was not going to tell him about the impossible marriage and children … Letting amused irritation show in her voice, she went on, "Or would have, until you interrupted yourself. Interested in starting over?"
"Any time," Odeon said with a chuckle. "Especially since it seems this is one I owe myself!"
Cortin lay awake, listening to Odeon's soft breathing and thinking. The dream had been almost pure wish fulfillment, a wish she'd both had and known was impossible since the day she'd met him. She'd never had the slightest interest in any of her schoolmates, or any marriage interest in the Enforcement men she'd met after Mike … but Special Ops men didn't marry, couldn't have children, so she'd settled for what they could have.
The dispensation helped, no doubt about that, but it wasn't enough! Even if they couldn't have children, they ought to be able to have some sort of stable relationship—and the only way she could see of giving it to them was to have her new family structure accepted. In fact, everything seemed to hinge on that, from maintaining social stability—although in a new form—to the continued existence of humanity in the Systems. Good as it would be for the parents and the Kingdoms as a whole, though, it would be best for the children—and for Special Ops troops, giving the trooper a real home and the family he married into a second father/husband—or in her case and Piety's, mother/wife—and provider. A mostly-male marriage might be a bit much at times for the wife or wives, though, unless it did include troopers …
Cortin felt briefly complacent at that; she could satisfy a shelter full of troopers without a bit of strain! Mike was right that God had been more than generous to her; even the attack had been only a prelude allowing her the increased pleasure men now gave her. It was too bad, in a way, that other women were limited to what she'd had before … but they couldn't know, any more than she had then, what they were missing. And they had something she no longer did: the hope, at least, of children. She couldn't help envying them that, the joys of home and family she'd never know. Still, she told herself sternly, she'd accepted that fact months ago, and without the consolations God had granted her since.
She thought about those consolations, frowning. There were a lot of troopers who'd been hurt as badly as she, some maimed far worse, without any corresponding compensations. Maybe Mike was right about that too, and God did have some kind of purpose for her—which was a frightening thought. If He had a purpose for anyone on Team Azrael, it should be Mike; he was the most devout, a natural priest, and he'd been raised by religious. Even though she was making a conscientious effort, at Mike's urging, to dedicate her entire life rather than just her pain to God, she didn't believe she could be called truly devout. Or, much as she enjoyed the exaltation of saying Mass, that she was a natural priest. Yes, Mike was far more suited to serving a divine purpose than she was.
And he was waking; this would be as good a time as any to bring up the part of her vision she was most frightened by. And maybe the part she'd liked best … When he started to sit up, she spoke. "I need to talk to you, Mike. Got a few minutes, or do you need to get up right away?"
"I've got all the time you want," Odeon said, settling back. "What's the problem?"
Cortin moved toward him. "I … didn't tell everything about what I saw when I was under. Part because it was too frightening, part because it was too … personal. I'm not even sure I can tell you."
Odeon took her in his arms. "Okay. The frightening part first."
"I … believe Sis now. Shannon is Shayan, or under his direct control." Cortin shivered. "I was in a prewar bio-lab—you know, the kind we've all seen pictures of?" When he nodded, she went on. "It was a Brothers of Freedom lab. I know that, somehow, even though there were no symbols and no one heard of the Brothers for another fifty years. Shannon was there, looking exactly like he does today, and he was engineering the worst of the plague strains. Working with his mind, the equipment was there just for show. And he was proud of himself; he'd just persuaded the ruler of one of those tiny asteroid colonies that if they used his plagues they could take over St. Monica without bloodshed. Mike, the Final War was no accident, or innocent mistake, or even a human horror—it was Shayan, turned loose!"
Odeon stroked her back, trying to comfort her. "The Bible does say he'd be set free for a hundred years before the Protector begins working against him." And that fit too; history said work on the plagues had started in 2464, and she'd graduated—begun work against him and his Brotherhood—in 2564. "So the Protector's here, and working—just not openly yet."
"But why not?"
Odeon shrugged. "I'm only human; you can't expect me to know why God does what He does. All we can do is trust Him, try to help in whatever ways we can."
"That's not terribly comforting." Cortin snuggled closer. "I'd feel a lot better if I knew who the Protector is, at least. Are you him?"
"No." Odeon didn't dare elaborate; she was too likely to pick up on the smallest mistake. Instead he decided to change the subject, hoping to distract her. "What's the personal thing—if you can talk about it?"
Cortin was silent for a moment, then she sighed. "I guess I wouldn't have brought it up if I hadn't intended to tell you, even though it's a little embarrassing—I don't think of you as a child!" After another brief hesitation, she went on. "It was pure wish fulfillment, I'm afraid—the part with you, at least." She moved slightly away, just enough that she could bring his hand to her breast. "You and Sis were nursing, and I was actually able to give you milk. It felt so incredibly good, especially you even though it wasn't exactly sexual … I can't describe it, not really. You can't believe how much I wish I could do it again, and not in a dream!"
Odeon cupped her breast, feeling the nipple harden as he stroked it with his thumb. It stood to reason, given the additions he and the other "staff" had developed since being sealed to her, that she could—though possibly, to protect her secret from herself, not until she was sealed to the true Protector. "Maybe you can, Joanie. I'm not the Protector, but while you were under, Sis and I were empowered to carry out some of those functions." He grinned. "The main one is the Sealing—and its purpose, of course, is protection from sin for those willing to give up that option."
"You and Sis?" Cortin was a little disappointed that she hadn't been included, but admitted to herself that the two of them did make more sense. "Mike, you know I've been doing my best to do His will; can you give me that protection?"
"Gladly!" Odeon thought for a moment, then got out of bed. "Here, the common-room, or the chapel?"
Her bedroom didn't feel like a proper place for a religious ritual, Cortin thought, and she wasn't sure it would be polite to carry out one of the Protector's rituals in a chapel belonging to Jeshua, even though they were Aspects of the same God. "The common-room, I think," she said, getting up. "Do we need icons or symbols, anything like that?"
That hadn't occurred to Odeon, and he said so. "I like the idea, though," he continued. "We can't have icons yet, with the Protector not wanting to be identified, but we should be able to manage something with symbols. For Justice and Life, do you think?"
"Those are supposed to be His main concerns," Cortin agreed. "Scales or a sword for Justice—probably a sword, since we all have those with our dress uniforms. What for Life, though?"
Something sexual, was Odeon's first reaction, because that was the life-creating act—but the Sealing itself wasn't, not really. "The One Who empowered Sis and me mentioned flowers; how about those?"
"Sounds good," Cortin said. "If you'll get the sword, I'll see if I can improvise an altar."
Not long afterward, they had done so. A small table she'd covered with a white silk sheet held Odeon's dress sword and a vase of Peace roses, plus a chalice of milk and a piece of bread he promised she'd understand soon. It was improvised, true, and not even consecrated, but Cortin found herself deeply affected by it.
"What do you think?" Odeon asked.
"I like it, very much," Cortin said. "It feels right—a simple altar, no fancy vestments—" She looked at herself, then at him, and smiled. "None at all, in fact. Is this how He wants it, do you think? An intimate kind of worship, maybe just family and close friends, with the senior spouses as celebrants?"
"Sounds reasonable to me," Odeon said. It was an odd feeling, having her ask his opinion on the proper way to worship the Protector; after all, if it felt right to her, acting in that capacity, who was he to say otherwise?
"To me, also."
Cortin turned, not really surprised to see Sis and the rest of those who'd been at the airborne conference. Under normal conditions she would have been astonished, and probably suspicious as well—but these were hardly normal conditions, with Shayan on the loose, the Protector manifesting to Mike and Sis, and herself having visions. It was normality, now, that would have surprised her. "You and Mike will celebrate it for us?"
"And each other, yes." The nun smiled. "Neither altar nor ceremonial is truly necessary for the Sealing or its celebration, but since we expect both, they add to the pleasure. Unfortunately we have not yet devised a ceremony, so we will have to content ourselves with informal prayers." She approached the altar, embracing Odeon as Cortin and the rest knelt.
As she'd said, the prayers were brief and informal, praising God in His Aspect of the Protector, asking His blessings on those who were worthy of and wanted Sealing but couldn't be given it until the Protector came into the open, offering the milk and bread on the altar in their behalf until they could partake of the true Milk or Seed of Life.
That reference puzzled Cortin, until the two celebrants asked that God make use of them to do the Protector's work, and were accepted. Something seemed to twist inside her, then she felt the exaltation of Consecration taking hold and she was praying for the new salvation the celebrants offered, not just from the effects of sin but from sin itself. As at Mass, the celebrants took the new Communion first, drinking from each other. The physical actions were little different from some of the things that went on at a shelter party—but the feeling wasn't sexual, it was like her dream of both of them feeding from her: reverent joy.
Then the celebrants were finished, inviting those who hadn't yet partaken and wished to place themselves under the Protector's care to come forward. Almost as if Odeon were pulling her, Cortin approached him and knelt. Except that it was Mike only in form; he had become God, in the same way bread and wine became God at the Consecration during Mass. "I surrender myself to Thee," she said. "I ask for Thy protection and guidance, that I might serve Thee to the best of my ability."
"They are thine, Daughter." Hands on her head guided her to the whiteness welling from him. "Drink thy fill of the Seed of Life, that thou mayst be Sealed to thy Protector."
Cortin obeyed. The droplets were sweet, not the slightly bitter taste she remembered. Taste was minor, though, next to the exaltation that washed through her. His thick sweet fluid was a generous feast, filling her with His love and life. It was forever and no time at all that she finished, reveling in His glorious bounty so freely given.
When He raised her to her feet, the exaltation faded as it did after Communion—not completely, but to a far lesser intensity. She stepped back; Princess Ursula took her place, while the Prince went to Chang.
It was beautiful, Cortin thought, in large part because it was real rather than hidden by symbols. She didn't object to such concealment in its proper place, such as the Mass—letting flesh and blood appear to be bread and wine was easier on celebrant and communicants both! Milk and seed, though, could be given not only without pain but with obvious pleasure; Mike and Sis were both positively radiant. Some people, she knew, would think this obscene, be uncomfortable or worse at taking such nourishment directly from its source instead of from chalice or plate. She knew, but she didn't understand. Breasts were made to give milk, testes to give seed; given and taken in the Protector's Holy Name, how could it be other than beautiful?
The royal couple was done; they returned to kneel with Cortin. The Princess was the last woman in the group, so Odeon waited, relaxed, while Chang fed the rest. Her last communicant was Pritchett—and unlike the others, he had a visible response when he drank.
Cortin found that a good sign, as well as being enjoyable to watch. Chang very much wanted a baby, preferably Pritchett's, though that would take a miracle. It'd be an even better sign to those who hadn't been here if they were granted one today; it'd have to be seen as an obvious indication that this was God's Will. Chang stroked him briefly when he raised his head, then she turned to Odeon and they faced the group for a final prayer.