She was kept busy the rest of the day, first by the priest, then by medical personnel, and then—over Dr. Egan's objections—by the debriefing team, which included the artist she'd asked for. It also included a lieutenant wearing the silver question-mark badge of one who held an Inquisitor's Warrant, and who was treated with a degree of respect that was highly unusual for a junior officer. Cortin made note of that, then disregarded it; if she was under consideration for something classified, she had to expect some non-standard attention. And he was a good Inquisitor, whatever else he was, eliciting details she didn't remember noticing, gaining her confidence even though she was familiar with the techniques he was using, reading her face and body language well enough that at times he seemed to be reading her mind instead. No, she thought when the team left, he was more than a simple lieutenant!
The drugs had worn off by early the next morning. When an orderly brought her breakfast, Cortin was in physical pain and emotional shock, but she forced herself to be as polite as possible to the orderly, and then to eat in spite of her lack of appetite. Afterward, she endured the medical attentions that brought more pain, telling herself she had to go through that and the accompanying humiliation to reach her goal. She was glad when it was over and she was left alone; the only person she had any real desire to see was Mike.
He arrived moments after visiting hours began. She started to greet him, but fell silent in shock when she saw his face. Mike had been crying, and there were still tears in his eyes! Hesitantly, she held a hand out to him. "Mike—?"
He took it, tears again starting to fall. "Joanie—oh, Joanie, I'm so sorry!"
Her stomach churned with miserable certainty of his answer, but she made herself ask, "What is it, Mike?"
"Dr. Egan said nurses had heard you talking in your sleep, that the bad news would be easier coming from me, but not to tell you yet, not till you were stronger …" He took a deep breath to steady his voice, though the tears were running unchecked down his face. Dammit, there was no kind way to tell her this! "She's a civilian, she doesn't understand that we can't afford false hopes. Or how important this is—she told me that except for your back, you'd have a complete recovery!" He took another deep breath, trying with a little more success to calm himself. "Joanie—I'll never share your bed again, and neither will anyone else, unless all you want is company."
"I'm totally non-functional, then," Cortin said flatly.
Odeon nodded miserably. "I'm afraid so. The Brothers … damaged you too badly. Egan's team was able to salvage the urinary tract and make a usable opening for it in the skin graft—but I'm afraid the other is gone, permanently."
Cortin clung to his hands, her mind numb. She wanted to scream, cry, do something to protest this additional, gratuitous despoilment—dear sweet Jeshua, they had been killing her, why do something so pointless?—but she didn't seem to have the will.
Odeon took her in his arms, stroking her and speaking quietly, reassuringly. She was taking it hard, of course—so was he, dammit!—and it was no wonder. Most civilians didn't understand, so they resented the civil and canonical laws that exempted Enforcement personnel from the sexual restrictions everyone else was morally and legally bound to observe—but, thanks to Saint Eleanor of the Compassionate Mother, Church and civil authorities did understand that people in almost constant danger of sudden, violent death needed more of a distraction than books or cards or dances could provide. Not even sex always helped—but most of the time it could take your mind off the danger enough to relax for a few minutes, or an hour, or if the Compassionate Mother was kind, an entire night. Joanie wouldn't have that escape any more, which was grossly unfair.
Still, there was a purpose behind everything God did, Odeon reminded himself, whether a human could perceive it or not. He couldn't imagine what purpose would condemn Joanie to constant pain, as well as all of an Enforcement officer's normal stresses, with no chance of relief—but he believed there was one, and if he were allowed to, he'd help her achieve it.
After several minutes, Cortin pulled back, still dry-eyed. "If that's the way it is, I guess I'll have to learn to live with it. Thanks for giving it to me straight, Mike—you were right, I'd rather know the truth than get my hopes up and then have them dashed."
"I'm glad. I thought you'd feel that way—but I was praying I wouldn't just make things worse for you." He squeezed her hands, debating whether or not he should kiss her, then decided against it until later. If he was any judge, she was in no mood for affection at the moment, especially the fraternal kind that would emphasize it was the only kind she'd get from now on. "I have the books," he said, instead. "Dalmaine's Practical Interrogation Techniques, Gray's Anatomy, and Wu's An Inquisitor's Manual of Pharmacology. Major Illyanov sends his regards, and asked me to tell you that his evenings are free if you think some tutoring would help."
"I'll take him up on that, gladly." Anything to help keep her mind off her pain and loss … "Though I'm surprised to find him so willing to help."
"I think he's pleased that you're interested in his specialty," Odeon said. There were no prohibitions against a woman becoming an Inquisitor, any more than there were against them entering whatever other field they chose—but the fact remained that very few women chose Enforcement, and to the best of his knowledge there had never been a female Inquisitor. "Want me to ask him to come over tonight?"
"Yes, please."
Cortin had started reading as soon as Mike left, not long after lunch, and halfway through the first chapter of Dalmaine's book, she was totally absorbed. He gave a brief overview of the basic first-stage techniques taught at the Academy, then continued with the psychology of willing witnesses and how to help them remember pertinent facts. Cortin recognized several of the so-called lieutenant's techniques, nodding as increasing knowledge let her appreciate his skill more fully. The next chapter started to deal with reluctant cases, and within ten pages Cortin had the other two books open and was referring back and forth. Supper came; she ate it mechanically, with no idea when she was finished of what she'd eaten, as she kept studying.
She jumped when a hand covered her page. "What—!"
"I apologize for interrupting such intense study, Captain Cortin, but I have been trying to attract your attention for several minutes." The tall, attractive man in Enforcement gray, with St. Dmitri collar insignia and major's leaf, bowed. "Major Ivan Petrovich Illyanov. Your instructor—and delighted to have such an attentive student. How far have you gotten?"
When Cortin told him, he smiled. "Excellent progress. Now we see how well you have absorbed what you have read." He began questioning her—without any of the memory-enhancing techniques, Cortin noted—nodding or frowning occasionally at her responses. He made her work, and she did so enthusiastically, disappointed when he finally called a halt.
"You cannot learn a year's course material in one night," he said drily. "Though at this rate you may well do so in a month. The classroom material, at any rate." He touched a bandaged hand. "May I see?"
"Of course. Uh …"
"'Uh' what?" Illyanov asked, gently unwrapping the bandage.
"Mike—Captain Odeon—told you why I want to learn this?"
"He did indeed." Illyanov paused, smiled at her. "I doubt there is an officer in any Enforcement service on this world of ours, perhaps anywhere in the entire Systems, who does not know of Captain Joan Cortin and her ordeal. It should please you to learn that anti-Brotherhood operations are currently overwhelmed with volunteers sworn to avenge you. Although that has driven the Brotherhood to ground, so I fear I must tell you we are having no more real success than before."
"I am pleased—and flattered," Cortin said. "It never occurred to me that there'd be that much of a reaction."
"But you are also pleased there will be some left to hunt when you recover." Illyanov finished undoing the bandage, nodded approvingly at the burn. "A good move, keeping these. You did it on instinct?"
"Yes. They're obscene, disgusting—a worse violation than the rape, by far—but it didn't seem right getting rid of them. Though I probably will, eventually."
"You will not show them at all times, then?"
"No—I plan to wear gloves except when I'm on a hunt."
"Remove them also during an interrogation, I would suggest." Illyanov smiled, replacing the bandage. "You have not yet reached that point in your studies, so you cannot be expected to know the psychological impact, but such touches can appreciably increase your odds of success. Terror is often more persuasive than pain."
"I will, then. Thank you." But she'd still use the pain …
"The pleasure is mine." He stood, bowed again. "Until tomorrow, then?"
To see more of Shannon:2a. Musing
As Cortin recovered and the pain in her body eased to what Egan assured her was the best she could expect without further surgery, the burns on her hands took top priority, as she'd expected, on her list of personal grievances against the Brothers. Any trooper they—or most terrorist groups, for that matter—captured, was certain to be brutally beaten, and usually raped. Coming out alive was the best one could hope for, and she'd managed that. The experience would leave psychological as well as physical scars, she was certain, but like all officers and any enlisted personnel who wanted it, she'd gone through extensive training and conditioning of both types in case she were subjected to terrorist captivity and mistreatment, and she was confident the experience wouldn't have any lasting effect on her. Except, probably, the desire for revenge; that, she had no doubt, would last until she'd personally done justice on her attackers. Especially Brother Lawrence Shannon.
She knew, from helping other victims, that rape normally demolished a woman's desire for sex, sometimes permanently. In her case it hadn't; she wanted Mike as much as ever, and would have been glad to enjoy Major Illyanov, given the chance. It was a bitter irony that her training had left her with the desire, while the attack had robbed her of all capability. And it still seemed so pointless, when they'd been in the process of killing her!
Still, terrorists weren't known for reasonable behavior, or they wouldn't be terrorists. She'd simply have to live with the fact, she told herself grimly, of having the desire and not being able to do anything about it.
Bad as that was, though, it wasn't the worst. Nothing had prepared her for the Brothers burning their Hell-marks into her flesh; that was a totally unexpected violation! She wasn't being reasonable in keeping them, and she knew it; the reasonable thing would have been—was!—to have them covered with grafts. Much as they revolted her, though, the idea of having them removed still felt wrong. And Major Illyanov did think they'd be useful—so she'd settle for gloves.
As soon as she was free of the medical plumbing, she started exercising. The first day, she confined herself to her room, when no one else was there, to spare herself the embarrassment of being seen unfit in public—but the room was too small for decent exercise, and she was in a hurry to get back to duty and the practical side of her training.
The next morning, too impatient to wait for visiting hours and Mike's help, she found a hospital robe in the closet. It was too big, but it didn't drag the ground and sleeves could be rolled up, so she put it on. That gave her her first honest laugh since the attack when she looked at herself in the mirror, but the robe did cover the hospital gown's open back, so she felt decently enough dressed to go out into the corridor.
When she opened the door, she was astonished to find a pair of troopers, obviously on guard. One of them, a sergeant she remembered meeting briefly several years ago, looked startled to see her. "Captain Cortin! Is anything wrong, ma'am?"
"Nothing but a strong desire to recover enough to get out of here," she said, smiling at his grimace of agreement. "A mere captain doesn't rate an honor guard, and I haven't done anything to be arrested for, so how come you two're standing post?"
The sergeant—his name was Kennard, she remembered—chuckled. "Scuttlebutt says you're still on the Brothers' wipe list. Colonel Nguyen has people like Corporal Redden here assigned officially, and some of us figure they could use a little unofficial help."
"Um." Cortin gestured acquiescence, bemused. "I don't really think I need protection, but I have to admit it's reassuring having you around. Is there anything in your orders that says I can't go for a walk in the corridor?"
"Not a thing, ma'am," Redden replied immediately. "The detail I'm on is just to stay with you and keep you safe. Though Dr. Egan seems to think you'll be safe enough since it'll be a week or so before you're up to anything even a little strenuous—like going for a walk."
"Dr. Egan's a civilian," Cortin said, appreciating the men's sympathetic expressions. "You may have to catch me if I overdo, though."
"No problem," Kennard said.
"Good. Shall we go, then?"
The day Cortin could get to the far end of the hospital building and back without having to stop for rest, she got Mike to have her discharged—over Egan's protests—and help her move into the VOQ.
That evening after supper, Odeon went to her room. He'd been increasingly worried about her lack of apparent emotion; he'd seen others like that go into an abrupt withdrawal and become extremely depressed, sometimes even suicidal. Her interest in interrogation and desire for revenge would both help, but he was determined to give her a better reason to live.
When they were both settled comfortably with cups of her favorite herb tea, he grinned at her. "I meant to mention this earlier—you look a lot better in uniform than you did in a hospital gown!"
"I feel a lot better, too. Hospitals are all right, I suppose, but I'm a lot more comfortable in quarters. Not to mention wearing a gun."
"Of course you are," Odeon said, chuckling. In hospital was the only time an Enforcement trooper, officer or enlisted, was completely unarmed; even in bed, they always had a weapon within easy reach. "Going to Mass tomorrow?"
"Why, is it Sunday?"
"No." Odeon chuckled again; it was easy to lose track of time in a hospital! "That was yesterday; I just thought you might want to join me. I talked to the Academy chaplain, and he's going to offer a special Mass of Thanksgiving for your recovery."
Cortin stared at her tea, turning the cup in her gloved hands. "That's a little premature," she said at last. "And I'm not at all sure it's something I'm thankful for. It might've been better if you'd been just a few minutes later."
She meant it—and that was exactly what he'd been afraid of. "You shouldn't feel that way, Joanie. God had a reason for keeping you alive; you've got to believe that."
"Why?" Cortin asked tiredly. She'd spent quite a few hours thinking about that, when she should've been sleeping but the pain wouldn't let sleep come and nothing seemed to matter except an end to her torment. "I'm no saint, but I've never done anything really terrible, either. Certainly nothing bad enough to deserve this living Hell."
That was true, Odeon thought. Still—"We can't hope to understand His reasons for what He does," he said. "We can only accept. Offer the pain to Him, Joanie. Come to Mass with me tomorrow, dedicate yourself to Him, and ask Him what He wants of your life."
He looked so hopeful she couldn't refuse him. "All right, Mike. I'll go with you, and I'll try to do what you say. Just don't expect too much."
"I'll settle for anything that'll help you." Odeon smiled at her, raising his cup. "To your recovery."
"Thanks—are you going out tonight?"
He'd been planning on it, but he quickly changed his plans. "No, why?"
"I'd like some company, then, if you don't mind." She grimaced. "Though if you'd prefer a woman who can do something for you instead of a counterfeit, I'd certainly understand."
"Even disabled, you're more of a real woman than any I've paid to be with," Odeon said. "I've always enjoyed your company, even when one of us was too tired or too hurt for fun and games—you know that."
"I know—I felt the same way." Cortin managed a smile. "But I will miss the fun and games, and you'll have to be careful about waking up shooting because you hear something out of place—I haven't learned to stay in the right position while I'm sleeping yet, so it's at night my back acts up worst, and I have a bad tendency to scream when it does."
At least her sense of humor hadn't completely deserted her, even though the humor now was on the dark side. "I'll be careful," he promised. "I certainly wouldn't want to shoot my favorite recruit."
She found it comforting to lie beside Mike, even though part of her also found it a near-painful reminder of what they'd shared earlier. She lay awake for awhile listening to his quiet breathing before it lulled her into a doze, then into deeper sleep and dreams of a better time. It was her Graduation Day; the Duke of Columbia had almost finished pinning on her classmates' gold Second Lieutenants' bars. Her own, the silver of a First Lieutenant since she was first in her class, already gleamed on her immaculate gray uniform. She was impatient for the ceremony to end. She'd seen her recruiter in the crowd, and she wanted to carry out the plans she'd made for him, plans that bore no resemblance to the sometimes-sadistic ones her classmates claimed to have for their recruiters. She'd discovered the surprisingly pleasurable reality of the Enforcement Service's sexual freedom not long after her arrival at the Academy, quickly losing her inhibitions. Being the only woman in the class, she had enjoyed her instructors' attentions—but the corollary was far less enjoyable. In prewar days, being a teacher's favorite had supposedly meant having an easier time than other students; at the Royal Academy, it meant additional work, more intensive instruction, and more severe testing. The harder they were on her, she was repeatedly told, the better her odds of survival would be when she got out in the field—and she had thrived on the increased challenge, as she'd proven by graduating at the top of her class. But much as she had enjoyed her instructors'—and a few of her classmates'—beds and bodies, it hadn't taken her long to realize that Mike Odeon was the one she wanted most, and she was determined to take full advantage of this chance at him.
The ceremony ended at last; she accepted congratulations—and her first salute, from Lieutenant Odeon. She returned it with the proper dignity, then launched herself at him for a completely undignified, and equally thorough, kiss. He cooperated after a second's startlement, then grinned down at her. "That isn't the kind of attack I carried out on my recruiter!"
"Oh, that's just the first sortie," Cortin assured him, pleased to find that although he was sterile, he certainly wasn't impotent, as quite a few sterile men were; she'd felt that quite clearly during the kiss.
"I think I'm going to like this attack," he said, still grinning.
"I hope so." She tightened her arms around him. "You're staying at the VOQ?"
"Uh-huh." Odeon raised an eyebrow. "You're thinking of a tactical strike?"
"Not exactly—more like a siege, if you don't mind my using your toothbrush in the morning. I couldn't think of a reasonable excuse to bring my kit to Graduation in case you did show up."
"My toothbrush is yours," Odeon said with a chuckle. "It sounds like you're anxious to get this siege started."
"I've been taught that unnecessary delay is bad strategy," Cortin said. "Shall we go, Lieutenant, or should I begin my siege here?"
"We go, Lieutenant," Odeon said, and they did.
When they got to his room, they didn't hurry, but they didn't waste time, either; once their uniforms were hung in the closet, Joan's siege began in earnest, and with her target's full cooperation. Lying beside him, kissing him, caressing his body with the battle scars few Enforcement and no SO men escaped, feeling his answering caresses on her still-smooth skin, was even better than she'd dreamed.
Exploration grew into passion, caresses becoming more direct and intimate, yet there was still no hurry. Cortin savored the touch of his hand skillfully stroking her, the silk-over-steel delight of him as ready for her as she was for him. It was she who moved first, eager to take him in, and she gasped with pleasure as they joined and began moving in the eternal rhythm.
Then pain stabbed through her, bringing her awake with a choked sob. As it slowly subsided, she became aware of arms around her, a voice in her ear, and she tried to tear herself away.
Odeon wouldn't let her. "It's me, Joanie, Mike—not some Brother. You're safe. You know I won't hurt you—and I'll do my best not to let anyone else hurt you, either. Relax, try to go back to sleep. Want your gun?"
"I've got it under my pillow." Cortin managed a half-smile. "The sovereign remedy for boogey-men, my father used to say. A 10-mm Ruger with every fifth round a tracer load."
"Smart man, your father," Odeon said. "Not much human-size a 10-mm load won't stop, and tracers'll discourage the rest. Think you can sleep now?"
"Yes, I think so." Cortin sighed, relaxing slowly. "Thanks, Mike. For being here, and for … you know. Make sure I wake up in time for Mass, will you?"
"No problem," Odeon said. "Sleep in peace, Joanie."
The Mass had more of an effect on Cortin than she had expected it to—more than it ever had, even when she was in a mood for religion. For some reason it seemed more meaningful, more immediate, than it had before. Maybe it was the pain that made her empathize with the tortured image on the cross, maybe it was something else, she didn't know. All she was sure of was that for the first time, it felt like the "collective sacrifice" it was supposed to be, and when she went forward for Communion reciting the "Domine, non sum dignus," she found herself hoping the Host would actually heal the hurt in her soul.
It didn't, but when she returned to her pew she did feel less despondent, and when the service was over, she found to her surprise that she intended to return the next morning. As they walked to the Officers' Club for breakfast, she turned to Odeon with an unforced smile. "Thanks for getting me there, Mike. Mind if I go with you again tomorrow?"
"Be glad to have you. It helped, then?"
"Yes. I don't know how, but it did."
"Good!" Odeon grinned down at her. "I thought it had, from your expression. Just remember, He doesn't allow any of us to be tried beyond our endurance—even though He may come right to the brink of it."
"I will." She started to ask him a question, but they were almost at the Club; she waited until they had gotten their food and started to eat, then she said, "You told me once you wanted to become a priest. Why didn't you?"
"Because my primary calling was to law enforcement instead." He shrugged. There were priests in Enforcement, true—even a few bishops—but not in the operational sections, which was where his calling lay. "I've never understood why the two couldn't still be combined—the prewars sometimes had fighting priests and bishops—but since I had to make the choice, I decided I'd rather be a good law officer than a mediocre priest."
Cortin nodded. "That makes sense, though I'd bet a month's pay you'd be an outstanding priest, not a mediocre one. As well as a great law officer—have you ever thought of applying for an exception?"
"Quite a few times," Odeon admitted. "I think the reason I never did was that I was afraid I'd get my hopes up, then be turned down."
"I can understand that," Cortin said, remembering. "I think you should, though. Maybe if you point out that Enforcement troops, especially Special Ops, go places regular priests don't get to in years, it would help. His Holiness does seem to be willing to accept that sort of innovation."
"Maybe I should, at that," Odeon agreed. There were always articles in the various parish papers bemoaning the lack of vocations, especially to serve remote areas … "In fact, maybe I should ask for a general exception. I'm not the only one who'd like to do something more positive than just administer Last Rites."
"It's worth a try," Cortin said. She speared a piece of ham-and-cheese omelet, ate it, then said, "I can understand how you feel. It may sound odd for an Enforcement officer, but I'd love holding a baby for baptism—they're fun to cuddle."
"Cuddle a baby?" a voice said from behind her. "I hope that does not mean you want to discontinue your training; I should deeply regret the loss of such a promising student."
"Not at all, Major!" Cortin turned, gesturing to another chair at their table. "You must've missed some of the conversation. Would you care to join us?"
"With pleasure," Illyanov said, putting his tray down and seating himself. "I am personally glad to hear you intend to continue; it takes no more than fertility to bear children, and anyone with moderate interest can become a fairly competent Inquisitor—but it takes both talent and motivation to do truly well in our field." He smiled at her. "Which I am convinced you will. It is good to see you out of the hospital."
"It's good to be out!" Cortin said emphatically. "I'm still technically in hospital status, and Doctor Egan has made it clear she'd put me back in bed if I do anything too strenuous—but it's great being out of there and back in uniform!"
"I am fully familiar with the feeling," Illyanov agreed. "There are few things worse than enforced idleness, especially in such surroundings." He raised a hand, smiling at her. "Not that I call your studying idleness, not at all—I am, in fact, impressed by your industry—but from your Academy and other records, I am sure you are impatient to begin practical application of your theoretical work."
"I certainly am." She wasn't all that eager to practice the first two stages, though, especially in the beginning when they were on Academy cadets, with the additional purpose of training them to resist interrogation. Her interest was in third-stage, with Brothers of Freedom as her subjects—but she supposed it was all necessary, to achieve her real end. "How soon can we start?"
"Such eagerness!" Illyanov laughed. "Nor are you the only one; I have been relieved of my classes and given orders to expedite your training, once you were out of the hospital. We are, if you choose, to concentrate on Stage Three—and the one who gave me those orders said it was highly likely you would so choose."
"He was right." Cortin thought back to the debriefing and that mysterious Lieutenant, certain he was somehow involved—but that the classified assignment probably was too, so it would be wiser not to ask about either his identity or his involvement. She'd thank him for it later, if she could do so without breaking security. For now, she smiled at Illyanov. "So, when do we start?"
"I do love an enthusiastic student … shortly after we finish here, if you are that impatient. Any Brothers of Freedom captured in this area—except, for now, those probably having critical or time-sensitive information—will either be sent here or held where they were captured until you decide whether to question them yourself or turn them over to another Inquisitor." He gave her a raised-eyebrow smile. "I confess to being astonished at that, Captain. I have heard of prisoners being reserved for a particularly skilled Inquisitor, yes, but never for a student. Even one as promising as yourself."
Odeon whistled. "Neither have I, and I'd thought I'd heard just about everything." He'd known for a long time that Joan Cortin was something special, but Illyanov was right—this was unprecedented. "Joanie, any ideas?"
"Not exactly, though I can't help connecting this with the Inquisitor on the team that debriefed me. I'm positive he's more than a simple Lieutenant, and—" she chuckled ruefully, "from what I've learned since, I'm sure he picked up more from me than I told him verbally. Or wanted to tell him, for that matter."
"And what did this more-than-Lieutenant look like?" Illyanov asked, suddenly attentive.
"A bit over 180 centis, slender build, medium-brown hair receding slightly above the temples, green eyes, classical features that looked like he laughs a lot—" She broke off, seeing recognition in the others' faces. "You've both met him, then."
They nodded. "The … officer I spoke to at Personnel," Odeon said.
"Colonel David Bradford," Illyanov said with a slow smile, "of His Majesty's Own. Yes, that explains many of the rumors currently circulating."
After a few moments, Odeon asked, "Are you going to share that explanation?"
"Indeed, but not here. Captain Cortin and I must go to the Detention Center so she may choose her first subject. I will share my deduction on the way, if you care to join us."
"Try to keep me away!"
As soon as they were on the way to Detention, Cortin turned to her instructor. "All right—now why would someone like Colonel Bradford be taking such an interest in me?"
"Bear in mind that this is speculation based on rumor," Illyanov cautioned. "However, I have considerable experience putting together small pieces of information to form an accurate whole; I am confident of my evaluations."
"They've got to be better than the nothing I have now," Cortin said. "Go on, please."
"Very well. This first item I rate as virtual certainty." He paused. "The Monarchs' Council in New Rome this past December did remarkably little of significance, to outward seeming. Not true?"
"Very true," Cortin said. "I'd expected a lot more, after the Kunming raid."
"Most people did—and from observations I have made since, the expectations were accurate; the reality has simply not been revealed yet. I am convinced that Their Majesties, either at His Holiness' urging or with his full consent, are in the process of forming an inter-System—or perhaps all-System, the effect is the same—anti-Brotherhood elite."
"It's about time!" Odeon exclaimed.
"I agree. Especially since it appears the members of that force will be people who have little reason to be overly fond of the Brotherhood. All but one of the people I believe to be selectees or potential selectees are Special Operations personnel, and all have suffered some personal harm from the Brothers." He glanced at Joan, smiling. "From his interest in you, Captain, I think it highly likely that you are not in full uniform. You certainly have most of the other qualifications I have deduced: a personal grievance that would motivate you to accept extremely hazardous anti-Brotherhood missions, a clean service record, excellent to outstanding combat skills, regular attendance at church when possible—all except a specialty, which you are getting now. I would say that as soon as you receive your Warrant, you will be approached about joining that unit."
"It fits," Odeon said softly. "So well that's got to be it. But why did you say it might be at His Holiness' urging?"
"You do not remember the Kunming raid Captain Cortin referred to?"
"When it happened," Odeon said drily, "I was snowbound in the Northwest Territory, alone in a shelter halfway between Holy Cross and Laredo Junction. By the time I got out almost a month later, there wasn't much talk about it any longer—I don't remember hearing any details."
"It was quite similar to the raid in which Captain Cortin was attacked. The church was full of schoolchildren and their teachers; there were no survivors."
Odeon crossed himself, feeling sick. Schoolchildren in church, staff and patients in a convalescent hospital— "What next?"
"Only the Brothers know," Illyanov said grimly. "But I would be extremely surprised if they plan to attack anyone who can defend themselves. Nor do they seem amenable to persuasion, which leaves no alternative: they must be eliminated."
"Now that I could enjoy," Cortin said consideringly. "I could enjoy it a lot."
"I am sure you will have the opportunity," Illyanov said. "Perhaps Captain Odeon will as well, if he is a specialist and has adequate personal grievance."
"I do. I'm a specialist, yes, a Tracker. The grievance I'd rather not talk about, except to say it gives me a good reason to go after Brothers. Any idea when this group will go public? Because I plan to apply for it as soon as I can."
Illyanov shrugged. It wasn't hard for an experienced Inquisitor to read Odeon's expression, and from that deduce his grievance; the question was whether Colonel Bradford would consider it sufficient. "The timing I can only guess at, Captain. I have heard no rumors on that subject."
"Living in the capital, though, you'd have a feel for it; what's your best guess?"
"Until recently, I would have said the next time the Brothers made a particularly abhorrent raid, but that would have been the hospital one. I still believe it will be tied to such a raid, though it now appears there is at least one additional criterion. The most likely is that the unit does not yet have sufficient personnel, but it could be any number of other possibilites; I simply do not know."
Odeon nodded. "Makes sense—but that could be months, at their current rate. If I see him before that, I'll try to apply then."
"There is one other item of interest," Illyanov said as they drove into the Detention Center compound and toward the gray, windowless main building. "That is that many of the new unit's members supposedly either have been or will be given full Holy Orders. I find this plausible, since such a force will of necessity spend much time in remote areas where priests are extremely rare." He paused, then said thoughtfully, "I think that a wise decision, if only for reasons of morale. A civilian priest would find it difficult if not impossible to survive under such conditions, yet people in mortal danger should not be deprived of the sacraments for prolonged periods; I know that I, for one, would not care to be placed in such a situation."
"Neither would I," Cortin said, then she turned to smile at Odeon. "It looks like you won't have to apply for a special exemption after all, Mike—just get into this new unit, and let them know you're interested in the priesthood."
"I plan to do exactly that," Odeon said. "In fact, unless you need me to help in the interrogation, I don't think I'll wait until I happen into him; I'll see if I can get hold of the good Colonel and put my bid in. Initiative never hurts, and he can't very well say much if I tell him I'm applying based on extrapolations from rumor."
Cortin glanced at Illyanov, who shook his head. "No, it doesn't look like we'll need you. Go for it, Mike—and put in my application while you're at it; I don't want to take any chances on getting overlooked. I should have enough practical experience to qualify as a specialist by the time the group is activated, especially if the Brothers maintain a several-month interval between horror raids."
"I'll do that." Odeon turned to Illyanov. "Is there a phone in there I could use for an hour or so?"
"Yes, in the Inquisitors' lounge. I will have you admitted there as my guest."
"Thanks."
When they got inside the building, Illyanov showed Odeon the lounge and introduced him to the three Inquisitors it held, then he and Cortin went to the Records Section. The clerk there was a young private, who looked to Cortin as though he might possibly be a full week out of boot camp; he was certainly still new enough to the job that he showed apprehension at the sight of an Inquisitor's badge. "Yes, Major?" he asked.
"I wish to see the records of all prisoners being held for third-stage interrogation."
"I'm sorry, sir," the young private said, obviously nervous. "As of the first of the week, all those not currently undergoing questioning are being saved for Inquisitor-Captain Cortin's evaluation."
Inquisitor-Captain, Illyanov noted, not Inquisitor-Trainee. Yes, things were being accelerated for her, indeed. But if Colonel Bradford thought it best that she be treated as fully qualified by Detention Center staffs, there had to be a reason; he would go along. "Captain Cortin and I are currently acting as partners," he said. "However, you must keep your records in order, must you not?" He turned to Cortin. "If you would identify yourself for this young man, Captain, we can proceed."
"Of course, Major." Cortin dug out her ID, the first time she'd used it since before going into the convalescent hospital, and had to hide her surprise as she showed it to the clerk. Besides the standard Enforcement Service card, the little folder held an Inquisitor's badge! Keeping her voice level, she said, "Now, may we see those records?"
"Yes, Captain—it'll only take me a moment." While he went to the files for them, Cortin gave Illyanov a curious look, got only a slight shrug in return, and took a closer look at her ID. It was the one she'd had since making captain, yes—there was where the pen had spluttered while she was signing it—but it had been altered. Very skillfully altered, by someone who knew precisely what he was doing, and according to it, Illyanov was right; she wasn't in full uniform. Or … was she? Surely she would have noticed an SO patch on her sleeve! She snuck a quick glance, and was relieved to see nothing there. At least it didn't look like she was going either blind or insane!
"Here you are, Captain," the clerk said, handing her a small stack of folders. "If you want to go through them here, you can use that desk by the west door."
"Thank you." Cortin took them, going to the desk and seating herself, then opening the first one—but her mind was on the additions to her ID. She took out the folder again, staring at the badge and the Special Operations stamp. "What's going on?" she asked Illyanov in a low voice. "Why do I get a badge while I'm still in training, and why sneak it all in on me like this?"
Illyanov thought for several moments, frowning. At last, keeping his voice as low as hers had been, he said, "Unless you wish to attribute it to Colonel Bradford's well-known and decidely peculiar sense of humor, which I consider likely, I do not know. The speed can perhaps be explained if he has information not generally available about an upcoming raid, though I would have expected that as your instructor I would have been informed when you were granted a Warrant—out of courtesy, if nothing else—but I can think of no logical reason for him not to inform you."
"Neither can I, so I guess you're right about it being his sense of humor." Cortin put the ID away and began studying the prisoner records. They seemed to be arranged in reverse order of capture, which made sense; the ones deemed to have critical information had already been removed, so the ones on top would be the ones who had been here longest, already softened up by the first stages of interrogation.
When she opened the last folder, she bit back a curse, then, at Illyanov's startled glance, said, "I think I just found out why the badge." She turned the folder so he could read it easily. The subject was a deserter, who had compounded his crime by joining the Brotherhood, but was so new to it that he was believed to have no significant information. "Bradford's making sure I don't do what this plaguer did. I told you he was reading more than I wanted to tell him—he had to know I'd never join the Brotherhood, but he also had to know I'd go after them, either legally or as a rogue. And that I'd much rather do it legally."
Illyanov nodded. "I read the same things, of course. I did not, however, realize that his desire to keep you in Enforcement was great enough he would have all practical training waived—even for one who had made perfect scores in all the theoretical material."
"You didn't tell me that!"
"I did not wish to make you over-confident. That, however, is no longer a consideration; if you are to function independently, with little or no notice and limited practical experience, you should be as certain as possible of your ability to do so." He smiled. "As I did tell you, you were most promising. Motivation and hard work have let you live up to that promise so far; I see no reason to doubt that you will continue to do so. But now, Inquisitor-Captain Cortin, you have an interrogation to conduct." He gestured at the folders. "Logic will tell you to choose one who has been through preliminary questioning, and your emotions will tell you to choose the rogue-turned-Brother. However, you have been an Enforcement officer long enough to have learned to trust certain feelings; do any of them indicate which of these will give you the most useful information?"
Cortin moved her hands across the folders as if she could get her information that way, wishing she really could. She had learned to trust her hunches—they had kept her alive more than once—but she was less certain of them in these circumstances. Finally, she picked two she thought ought to have more information than their records suggested: a thief suspected of exercising his skills for the Brotherhood and, though she admitted to herself it might be as much because of his betrayal of the Service as for any information, the rogue trooper. The thief had been through the preliminary stages; the rogue hadn't, formally, but the Special Ops men who had captured him had—justifiably, she thought—taken out some of their anger on him, so he'd been through a crude form of second stage as well.
"These two, I think," she said, handing Illyanov the folders. "The thief first; procedures on the renegade weren't exactly by the book, so I'd like to have a little experience before I start on him."
Illyanov nodded, gathering up the remaining folders. Cortin followed him back to the counter, glad that since he was the ranking officer, he'd be the one to give the orders; she didn't yet know what orders to give!
"Yes, sir?" the clerk asked.
"Have prisoner 829-A taken to Interrogation Suite Delta's third-stage room. Standard restraints, no special requirements."
"Yes, sir." The clerk relayed Illyanov's orders through an intercom, got an acknowledgement. "He will be waiting when you get there, sir. Ma'am."
"Thank you. Shall we go, Captain?"
On the way to the interrogation suite, Cortin removed her gloves and tucked them in the back of her belt, then rubbed the scars on the backs of her hands. In a few minutes she'd start getting the first installment of her revenge for those, and the other hurts they stood for—and it felt good. Illyanov read her gestures and smiled. Most trainees were nervous about their first practical work, especially their first third-stage work. It was understandable enough—he could remember his own apprehension—but it was those who went into it with anticipation, as Cortin was doing, who generally became the outstanding practitioners, those whose very names could be enough to persuade criminals to avoid their attentions by a full confession. It was a shame that if his speculations were accurate, she would be in the field much of the time, where she was likely to be killed, rather than at a Detention Center where she would be safe and her skills could be put to their best use. However, he chided himself, it would be better having her working within the law, anywhere, than it would be to have her outside it, not only useless but being hunted!
When they got to the suite and exchanged tunics for the coveralls that would protect their undershirts and trousers, Illyanov gave her a final caution. "Do not let your enthusiasm make you careless, Captain. Even a field interrogation requires both caution and precision."
"I'll be careful," Cortin assured him. "You've told me often enough that the line between persuasive pain and unconsciousness is a very fine one, and I don't intend to let him cross it."
"Very good." Illyanov smiled at her. "I will intervene only if you ask, or if you appear about to do something unfortunate. Shall we go?"