Odeon was right; he didn't get any sleep. He'd left Medart as soon as a messenger from the ship delivered the materials the Ranger had ordered, and spent the next few hours comparing the Traditional Catholic Bible with the one he knew so well, and studying their doctrines.
With the exception of a couple of name changes, the Final Coming, and the Third Aspect being the Holy Spirit instead of the Protector—and, of course, the accommodations the Systems Church had made for Enforcement and the Satyr Plague—the two were almost identical. Where they differed otherwise were matters of discipline, with the Systems version stricter. It was even possible, he told himself, that the Third Aspect used both names, and the Protector's appearance in the Systems didn't rule out Jeshua's Second Coming to the rest of the Empire. It did bother him that Jim had said the Protector was limited to the Systems, but he reminded himself yet again that a mortal could never truly understand the Mind of God; all he could do was accept.
It wouldn't be difficult for him to make the necessary adjustments, either, though he'd definitely have to see the Terran Pope if he decided to take up either of Jim's offers. It probably wouldn't be a good idea to tell him Pope Lucius' true identity, even though he was certain it wouldn't be believed. But it wouldn't hurt to tell him about having the Systems Pope's permission to celebrate Mass more than once a day, and find out what would be expected of a priest who was also a Ranger.
Odeon sighed when he got to that point. He'd managed to avoid facing the fact so far, but he couldn't put it off forever; by bringing his Family's welfare into the equation, Jim had made it impossible for him to turn the job down. He'd known that even then, he thought, but he hadn't wanted to accept it.
And he still didn't want to. He loved his Family too much to want to leave them, particularly when it would mean he'd no longer be able to love them. But as Jim had made him work out for himself, he could do them a lot more good in the upcoming war by leaving to take a high Imperial position than he could by staying. Dear God, but the prospect hurt, though!
He sighed again. For the first time in his career, he was reluctant to act on a decision as soon as he made it. This was the first one that would bring about major changes in his essential self, and that prospect frightened him. Even Shayan's mental surgery hadn't changed what he was; it had only given him a couple of new abilities—very minor ones, from what he'd read of Talent.
The memory of that surgery didn't help, either. Even though Shayan had assured him it could've been done painlessly and in seconds, he couldn't shake the association of mental changes with agonizing, prolonged pain and violation. As he'd told Sara, though, if someone needed his help as badly as she had, he didn't have any choice but to try giving it, even though he wasn't sure he could endure such surgery again.
That lack of choice was even more emphatic since the ones needing his help included his Family. He had to submit to that surgery, endure it to the best of his ability, and pray he'd have the strength to survive it.
Live or die, he thought grimly, he'd be losing those he deeply loved—and he wasn't sure whether he should indulge himself, tell them all goodbye, or if it would be better to just go ahead and do it. That decision could wait, though; he didn't want it to be obvious he hadn't slept or—yet—that he was bracing himself to leave. He had just about time to clean up and say Mass before he'd have to go in to breakfast.
Odeon removed his stole and kissed it, then folded it and put it in his tunic pocket. Saying Mass had helped more than he'd expected; he was feeling somewhere between resigned and serene when he went to the dining room for breakfast. He'd also decided or been guided, he wasn't sure, that since he was going to go, he might as well get it over with. Brief goodbyes after breakfast, then ask the Protector to make the necessary changes.
Fortunately for his peace of mind, he thought, the children weren't there—maybe deliberately, because the Family's expressions told him they knew something was going on. And, to his surprise, the new Protector was sitting between Joanie and Jim, his plate holding more food than Odeon would've thought reasonable for someone his size—if an Aspect of God had to eat at all. Still, Jeshua had …
As Odeon sat down and began filling his own plate, Keith chuckled. "As long as I'm in body," he said, "I do have to eat. And a Sandeman warrior has a pretty high metabolic rate, so I have to eat a lot. Yes, your Family knows what you've decided to do, and that you made that decision primarily to help them. They also know I won't hurt you in the slightest. We'll take care of it after breakfast, as you're thinking. All right?"
"As you will it, Lord."
Keith grinned. "Better start getting used to giving orders instead of taking them, Michael. Do you want just the abilities, or the mind-set as well?"
Odeon tried to return the smile, but was sure it came out more like the grimace he really felt. "I don't think you need to ask, Lord Protector. If I'm going to do it, I'll do it right; I'll take whatever you see fit to give me."
At that, he felt the other's approval. "So be it, Michael. You'll be a real asset to your—and your Family's—new home."
After breakfast, the entire group went to the common-room. Odeon said his goodbyes, embracing and kissing his Family head and spouses while tears ran down his face.
Medart watched sympathetically. Odeon's feelings of betrayal and uselessness might not have been enough to bring him to this point; protecting his Family to the best of his ability, even if it meant giving them up to do it, had done the job—something Medart had seen the previous night, though Odeon hadn't yet realized it. He regretted the man's present pain, but he was certain that once the Protector made the necessary changes, Mike would find he job every bit as challenging and satisfying as Medart himself did.
When Odeon was finished with his goodbyes, he turned to the Protector. "I'm ready. What do you want me to do?"
"Find a comfortable chair, and tell me whether you want to remain conscious for the procedure or not."
Odeon sat down in the nearest armchair, grateful to his Family for gathering around as the Protector stood in front of him. Medart held back, which made Odeon grin briefly. "You ought to be here too, Jim; I made the decision I did because you forced me to face the fact I could do my Family more good this way than I could any other."
"Decision?" Cortin asked sharply, as Medart joined the group. "The decision point was Mike's?"
Keith saved Medart from having to answer. "Yes. You all protected him by your certainty that the decision would be Joan's; now it's his turn to protect all of you." He turned to Odeon. "Which would you prefer?"
"Since you say it won't hurt, I'll take it straight. I don't think I could handle that kind of pain again."
Keith smiled. "You underestimate yourself, Michael; you are far stronger than you believe. The only part of your basic personality I'll need to modify at all is detaching you emotionally enough that you'll no longer have or form close personal ties that would affect a Ranger's necessary impartiality. The rest will be additions, or speeding up attitude changes you'd be going through anyway."
"I think that's a relief," Odeon said. "Let's take care of it, okay?"
"Okay."
Keith stepped back and smiled. "Done, Michael. You and James need to take care of some details, so we'll leave in a couple of minutes. I gave you everything a Ranger needs, in some cases more, and took care of a couple of your problems—such as removing your allergy to teaching tapes; you'll be able to use them now, and you'll need them. Your intelligence has doubled; you have and know how to use a powerful Talent that includes telepathy, mind-shield, teleportation, and materialization; and you have the other abilities and attitudes proper for a Ranger. I also removed the satyr virus from your body, so you're no longer contagious, a service I will perform for anyone else who leaves the Systems. I made only one overt physical change, since you've chosen the Traditional Church, which means you can't be my priest or devotee any longer. I've reset your biological clock to where it would be if you'd been selected in the usual manner, but to maintain it there, you'll have to go on anti-agathics; my powers, as James told you, don't extend beyond the Systems. Otherwise you look and feel exactly the same—but if you should need them, I've given you a complex of hidden changes, all of which will activate if any one of them is required. Again, with improvements." He smiled again. "You'll do well, Michael, both as Christ's priest and as a Ranger. Joan, you reached a decision yourself while I was working; you ought to tell them what it is."
Cortin looked from Medart to Odeon, then back. "If Mike thinks anything about the Empire is important enough that he'll give up Family Cortin for it, I'll trust his judgement; as sole negotiator for the Kingdom Systems, I am empowered to say the Systems will join the Empire. I ask that you give us all the help possible to reach the level of the rest of the Empire, and show us how to take our proper place in it."
"Gladly, Excellency, and welcome. We'll be happy to help our newest citizens. Do you need military support as well?"
"Familiarization and upgrading only," Keith said. "They have the basic tech level, with minor exceptions. Medical training and learning about the Empire are their primary needs, though other things will be needed as they gain the population base to support them."
"Right. Admin Service teachers and a couple of heavy destroyers ought to take care of those; anything else you'd recommend?"
"Not at this time, Ranger, though it might help if you could leave a detachment from the Lindner. I'm sure Colonel Cortin would provide them lodging, and Lucius and I will protect them from the Brotherhood."
"I'll see to it."
"We'll leave you to brief Mike, then."
"Thank you, Protector."
Once they were alone, Medart spent a few moments studying Odeon. "You do look the same, except for your hands." he said at last.
Odeon looked at his hands, which no longer had the blue circled triangles. That was a relief, now, not the terrible loss it would have been before his talk with Medart last night. "You heard him confirm that I'm still a Catholic priest, Jim. I would've thought that would violate the separation doctrine."
Medart shook his head. "Not necessarily. Most of us are Omnist or agnostic, that's true. Once in a while, though, there's a deeply religious one, and there's nothing prohibiting a priest." He grinned. "If you want to get technical, I'm a priest myself, and so are a couple of the others—but since that's true of all adult Omnists, nobody pays much attention to it. They'll pay attention to you, since you're the first non-Omnist priest, but that attention in itself doesn't violate the doctrine. As long as you don't try to impose your beliefs on others, or imply that the Empire in any way favors one religion over another, your beliefs and devotions are between you and your God or gods."
"I can handle that, I think, if it won't prohibit me from exercising my priestly functions for Catholics who need them."
"It won't, though it'd be best if you do any of that in private. It may never happen, either; I'll warn you right now that Catholics are a tiny minority, the Traditional branch only one of half a decade or so."
"That's the impression I got from the studying I did on Columbus. I'm not thrilled about it, but it isn't unexpected." He paused. "Mind if I change the subject?"
"Go ahead."
"I had limited telepathy before, as a side effect of Shayan's mental contact. I'd like to try the Talent version, but mind-touching you might not tell me anything, since he spoke to you last night."
Medart chuckled. *The feel is totally different—see?*
*Yeah. I like this version a whole lot better.*
*So do I. Ready for me to introduce you to His Majesty, so he can name you one of us officially?*
*How— Oh. Mentally, of course.* Odeon hesitated, shook his head. *Jim, what's happened to me? I couldn't have figured that out before—or at least not that fast.*
*I'd venture to guess it's the doubled intelligence,* Medart sent drily. *You're the first person to be given Ranger-level abilities, rather than growing up with them, so I can't be positive, but that's my best guess. Don't worry, you'll have time to get used to it; the trip to Terra will take us about three weeks, and even if you weren't very adaptable before, you are now.*
*Getting used to the way my mind works now may be the hardest part of this whole thing. But I've known everyone except Shayan that I've mind-touched before, and he initiated that one; how do I contact His Majesty?*
*You know me, and I know him, so you ride along, so to speak, when I contact him. Just let me know when you're ready.*
*Any time you are.*
*Okay, let's go.*
Odeon felt Medart's mind reaching out, and strengthened his contact so the illusory "movement" wouldn't lose him. Almost immediately he felt another mind-touch, similar in general feel to Medart's but different in detail, and Medart made the introductions: *His Majesty Emperor Charles Davis, Ranger-candidate Captain Michael Odeon.* Then he briefed Davis, in a series of rapid thoughts.
The Emperor sent a chuckle. *That's quite a background, Captain Odeon. A unique way of qualifying as a Ranger, but I have no doubt you are qualified, particularly with a Sandeman warrior making the necessary changes. Jim didn't describe what being a Ranger involves, other than being dangerous at times, so did that process inform you?*
*Yes, sire, it did. But it didn't intimidate me into changing my mind.*
*Glad to hear it. Welcome to Imperial service, then, Ranger Odeon.*
*Thank you, sir.* Odeon paused briefly, then continued. *I'm qualified, yes, but I was given only the most basic information about the Empire—not much more than I'd studied on my own. If I'm not needed for immediate assignment, I think I should spend some time learning about it.*
*We'll make that your first assignment, then. You can start on your way to Terra, then do as much more here as you can till a more urgent assignment comes up—which shouldn't take too long, there's never a shortage of work for Rangers. Normally I'd have you work with Jim for two or three years as OJT, but none of the others came from out-Empire, so your suggestion is the most sensible—and the reason for putting a Ranger on the job immediately is that most of the jobs you'll get are unique; there isn't usually any real preparation possible.*
*Both my studies and Jim made that perfectly clear, sir—but the Protector removed my allergy to teaching tapes, so I'll be able to cram in a lot more information than I would've been able to earlier.*
*Understood, but there's still a tremendous amount of information for you to absorb.* Davis sent another smile. *You know how much getting a new Ranger means, and I'd like to spend more time with you, but I'm getting ready for a Grand Audience I can't put off just to chat. So I'll talk to you later.*
*Yes, sir.*
With that, contact broke, and Odeon's consciousness returned to the common-room. "What now?" he asked Medart.
But it was Keith who answered, entering the room. "You change uniforms, Your Highness. Don't worry about the change in your sidearm; you know how to use a needler, and you're as accurate with it as I am—a lot more so than you were with your slugthrower."
With that, Odeon was wearing comfortable forest green, rather than the snug gray he was used to. "Thank you, Lord Protector. I don't care to wear a uniform I'm no longer entitled to."
Cortin followed Keith into the common-room, looking to Odeon like she'd been crying. "Mike—the Protector told me I should ask your advice, if you were willing to give it."
Medart swore to himself. This didn't sound like a promising start for his new colleague … *Mike, don't say yes unless you're willing to face the consequences. This is part of the Empire now, you don't have the option I gave you yesterday of answering as a private individual.*
Odeon's answering thought was grim. *I know, but I can't refuse her. I can give her the same warning, though.* "Make sure you want the advice, Joanie. As Jim told me last night when I asked him for some, most people don't ask Rangers questions because they won't like our answers."
"Keith told me the same thing. I'm still asking."
"In that case, I'll answer. What's the question?"
"What's the best way to handle your … change? You're still senior spouse of Family Cortin and my heir, among other things."
Odeon thought about that briefly, then the answer was obvious—and as unpleasant as Medart had suggested it might be. "We both know that, even though I haven't changed much physically, I'm not the same person I was at breakfast. The fastest and most economical way to handle my change would be to have Captain Michael Patrick Cortin-Odeon declared legally dead, a declaration Ranger Odeon will not contest."
Cortin winced, then nodded. "It makes sense, Mike—too damned much sense. Okay, that's how I'll handle it … but in that case, it'd be best if you weren't around."
"I won't be, for long; the Emperor wants me to go to Terra, and I need to start learning a whole lot more about the Empire as soon as I can, so I'll be going up to Jim's ship, probably within an hour or so. It would probably be better if I don't come back to the Systems unless I have to on assignment."
"Yeah." Cortin started forward as if to embrace him, then dropped her arms and stepped back. "That wouldn't work, would it? Keith told me about your detachment …"
"No, it wouldn't. I won't forget any of you—but I don't feel anything beyond liking for you any longer, either. The kindest thing to do is break off now." Odeon studied her for a moment, then decided it would be best to make the break with no delay at all. He made the sign of the cross in the air between them. "God bless you and Family Cortin, Colonel."
She returned the gesture. "And you, Ranger Odeon. You will have our prayers."
Odeon bowed, then turned to his colleague. "I'm going up to the ship, Jim. See you later."
[Preparer's note: This is the end of the main story. The material following this note is the supplementary material linked to from elsewhere in this file.]
"The goddamned Bitch is still alive, Raidmaster."
Lawrence Shannon looked up from the shabby table he was using as a desk, smiling as one of his doubles threw a newspaper down in front of him. "Yes, excellent. Thank you, James."
"Excellent!" the double snarled. "I said she's alive!"
"You weren't mumbling," Shannon assured him. "If I'd wanted to kill her then, I would have. I chose to let her live for now, maimed and crippled; that will make it all the more satisfying when I do decide to kill her." He smiled in a way that made his double flinch. "Isn't it better to have her alive and in pain than dead and free of it? Doing something of the sort to her was my purpose in leading that raid, after all."
"But I thought—"
"Yes, I know." Shannon raised his hand, silencing the other. "For you Brothers, the hospital was the target; for me, Cortin was. We both accomplished our objectives, without casualties and with bonuses. I also warned you from the beginning not to question my motives. I use my powers on your behalf because our desires generally coincide and your help is convenient, not because you are necessary to me."
"You've made that clear often enough," the double admitted. "If I had your powers, though, I'd wipe out the Church, the aristocracy, and Enforcement so we could rebuild from scratch."
"Which is precisely what you would be doing." Shannon chuckled at the man's turn of phrase. "But there's a much more artistically satisfying way of accomplishing the same end—one which will also increase their suffering many-fold. Would you deny me that little pleasure?"
"Not me, Raidmaster!" the double exclaimed hurriedly, his face paling. Shannon was normally a charming man, polite and undeniably attractive, his blue eyes and wide smile almost irresistible—but the double had seen what happened to a Brother who cut short Shannon's enjoyment of a priest's slow death, and the memory still sickened him.
"Good." Shannon read his subordinate's discomfort, and projected encouragement. "You really must learn to control your sympathy for the oppressors, James. Our work is difficult enough without that."
The Raidmaster smiled again, and this time his double relaxed. "Damn straight! It just seems so slow!"
"Anything worthwhile does take time," Shannon said, "and you have to expect setbacks. The raid was a success, the whoring Bitch can't any more, and she bears the marks of those who brought her justice on her hands. Not a bad accomplishment, all in all, don't you think?"
"Not bad at all, Raidmaster. What's next?"
"I haven't decided," Shannon said thoughtfully. "Any raid will be far more hazardous now that Special Operations is going to be responding to all of them, and for at least a couple of months we can count on them being after revenge for the Bitch as well as doing their jobs. So we'll have to pick our targets carefully." He tapped one of the papers he'd been working on. "Until we get them out of our hair, we can't do anything constructive. And we haven't enough people or resources yet to strike their strong points, so while they're on an increased state of alert, it might be interesting to attack their recreational facilities."
The double smiled. "I like your thinking, Raidmaster. Such as the whorehouses they frequent?"
"Exactly," Shannon agreed. "Pass the word along to your colleagues, please. And I'd say you've had enough theoretical training; unless you need specific help, I'll expect you to plan and carry out your operations with as little inter-group communication as possible. Keep me informed, of course—but as far as others are concerned … well, what they don't know, an Inquisitor can't force them to tell."
The double grimaced. "True—but can't you protect us against them?"
Shannon smiled briefly. "It's more economical to use them. Anyone incompetent enough to get captured deserves their attentions, and it saves me the bother of reprimands. Maintain reasonable security, and you should have no serious problems."
"Yes, Raidmaster." The double would have expected Shannon to prefer handling his own punishments, but he did have a good point about making use of the Inquisitors. "If that's all, I'll go pass along your orders."
"Thanks, James." Shannon sketched the Brothers' sign in the air. "Revenge for the oppressed."
"And death to the oppressors." His double returned the gesture and left.
Shannon looked after him for a moment, then stood and went to look out the window. He was putting a good face on it, he thought, but in truth he'd like nothing better than to have Cortin dead and in Hell, or at least lying bloody at his feet.
But that wasn't to be. Not yet, at any rate, and perhaps never. She was as vital a part of this damnable charade as he himself, so he could neither kill her nor cause her death, at least until after her role was played out. He couldn't even use many of his powers against or around her until she realized and began using those that would be hers for a time. He could do anything short of those, however—and he smiled at the delicious memory of torturing her.
Although he'd known it would cause her relatively little distress—far less than a normal woman, and certainly far less than being branded with the marks he'd suggested to the Brotherhood—he had particularly enjoyed raping her. It would have been even better if she'd been a virgin, but given what she was being primed to accomplish—whether she realized it yet or not—and the fact that she was an Enforcement trooper, he'd known better than to even hope for that. Still, it was the rape she'd get support and treatment for, when the marks were the real violation; he could take comfort in that.
He cursed the fate that was making him fight to preserve the prewar morality. It served his purposes, true, but having to live by it himself—having to set a God-loving example!—was going much too far. Celibacy was definitely not his style. At least his favorite sado-sexual activity was expected behavior from terrorists, even those calling themselves freedom fighters—but it was so hellishly long between opportunities, and when they did arrive, he usually had to restrain himself!
The Brotherhood of Freedom had, after all, started out as the champions of freedom, family and justice they still claimed to be. To lead it, he had had to seem the most conservative of them all—and much as it went against his personal inclinations, he reminded himself yet again that it did serve his purposes. The Adversary's as well, unfortunately, but the Adversary was willing to tolerate his existence; those who were going to invade this universe could and would destroy him as easily as any human. So he had no choice but to cooperate. He'd be living with these attitudes for some time yet, so he really should learn to tolerate them, at least in others.
That thought made him smile. In others, yes, as long as it was he who controlled their behavior—and really, he should only have to live by those old standards himself for a brief time. There was ample precedent for a charismatic leader like himself to be free of the constraints that bound his followers—and to be so with their full knowledge and consent, because of his "special needs and burdens". It wouldn't hurt, either, that they were already accustomed to the idea of special dispensations, such as the one Cortin had enjoyed until he took the ability away from her.
Cortin! Shannon fumed at that name. Maimed and crippled as he'd left her, he had no illusions that she was harmless. Not that she could be and still fulfill her role, he conceded grudgingly, and the other two currently alive would be worse yet, never mind the one who would be returning from his tomb. But they were all necessary to his continued existence, even though they would seriously reduce his influence. The living one yet to arrive in the Systems would provide no entertainment, but much of Cortin's and the other's development involved considerable stress and pain, for them and those around them—which he could and would enjoy.
Return to main storyline:2. Hospital
Within five days of Cortin's arrival at the New Denver hospital, Shannon had managed to get three Brothers working there, with orders to keep him informed of anything and everything she did. His agents' first report, the following day, told him that Cortin was under constant guard by a minimum of two troopers, and usually had Captain Michael Odeon with her during the day.
As the report continued he frowned, wondering if he shouldn't laugh instead. Odeon had brought her texts for the Academy's Inquisitor-specialist students, and that evening the course's ace instructor had spent several hours with her. Cortin, studying to become an Inquisitor? Not only didn't it seem her style, he wouldn't have thought her capable of the toughness or the deliberate violence it required.
He could be wrong, he acknowledged—he'd been wrong before, about her and other humans too—but it seemed impossible he could be that far wrong. In his harshest moment, he couldn't truthfully call her exactly soft … but on the other hand, he'd never respected her for her resolve. He'd be astonished if she turned out to have the necessary toughness now—but if she did, he certainly wouldn't hesitate to make use of it. Because if she were able to pass muster as an Inquisitor at all, the Bitch would be the Systems' best—a suitable punishment for any of his men who managed a particularly bad foulup.
As reports continued to come in, it became clear that she was not only excelling in her studies—Illyanov's evaluations said she was doing quite well, which for him was extravagant praise—she was apparently enjoying them, which Shannon found almost impossible to believe. This was only the theoretical work, though, he reminded himself. While he conceded that she could endure considerable pain, the question was whether she could deliberately administer it.
And that answer would have to wait. In the meantime, he had a campaign to plan.
Cortin was recovering faster than Shannon liked. That she was recovering at all, of course, was unfortunate—but given that, he couldn't honestly be surprised at the speed of her recovery. It looked like her return to duty would be about the time that collection of Special Ops men—and the woman auxiliary who'd once been his "lover"—was complete. He was concerned about that; the necessary limitation of his powers made him dependent on normal systems of information, and security around the gathering was unusually tight. Since there were similar gatherings in every Kingdom, it was obvious the Sovereigns were planning something that promised no good for the Brotherhood and his plans, but he couldn't find out what without taking a risk of alerting Cortin.
Since there was nothing constructive he could do about that, he let himself reminisce about the auxiliary. Eleanor Chang, since age eighteen a professed Sister of the Order of the Compassionate Mother of Succor and known as Sister Mary Piety. Shannon had a particular dislike for that order, since they specialized in caring for seriously wounded or ill Enforcement troopers, sometimes accompanying them as medics.
That was Sister Piety's specialty, and she'd been handling one of its more difficult aspects when he'd encountered her almost a year ago. He'd been on St. Ignatius then, picking and training some of his subordinate raid-masters, and he'd given in to the urge for some recreation. That had taken the form of a raid on the clinic where she'd just brought a trio of wounded from her last mission, and it was a raid he remembered with considerable satisfaction.
The clinic was in the country, to let the troopers recover or die in the most pleasant surroundings the Order could manage—and it was remote enough that Shannon and his raiders could take their time, with troopers and nuns alike. Piety caught his attention immediately, being the youngest and most attractive of the women as well as the most spirited, and he promptly claimed her for himself. His subordinates were welcome to the rest.
To his satisfaction, she fought him. Not with any skill, but with enough energy and determination to excite him as no woman had in far too long. Stripped of her habit, she was even more attractive—and better yet, she continued to fight, even as he pinned her arms and forced her legs apart. Starting into her, he felt resistance that told him his hopes of her had been fulfilled. He paused, relishing that for some moments while he made certain adjustments to his body. He respected courage, even in an enemy; add that she'd managed to remain a virgin, surrounded by Enforcement troopers, and he was inclined to give her a fair chance. Like the pre-Empire Terran game show, if she said the magic word, she would win—not money, but her life. And her fighting had bought her a clue to that word.
Her eyes widened as she felt the change. She struggled harder, shaking her head and gasping negation, but her sudden panic was no match for his strength. He rammed into her all the way, savoring the hot blood that flowed out of her when he ruptured the membrane.
She screamed his name, winning her life—though Shannon took pleasure in the certainty that she'd rather die. She shivered under him, her screams gradually subsiding to sobs, until she was close to passing out with pain and horror. Shannon could have kept her conscious, but he'd be having her again later, and there were the troopers to play with; he finished in a series of rapid, violent thrusts, then kissed her roughly and pulled out.
"One more before we go, sweet Piety." Shannon's voice was almost gentle; over the last six days, he'd developed an unusual—and, he thought, delightfully perverse—fondness for the nun. It was nothing like his feelings for Sara, his mistress; those were totally unprecedented, not simply unusual. He couldn't pinpoint the reason he had taken to Piety, though it probably had something to do with the fact that she managed not to hate him. Fear, disgust, revulsion—he could read all of those and more, even pity. But there was no hatred.
"Please," she said tiredly. "Not again …"
"One last time, then we will part." It was unfortunate that she no longer fought him physically, but he'd learned to get the same excitement from her emotional upheavals; when he picked her up and they began to boil, he came to his full size almost immediately. "I'm afraid there won't be a show to entertain us this time, though. Your former companions and patients are beyond even my power to revive." Not precisely true—it was more accurate to say he no longer thought them worth the effort—but it was close enough for her. "Still, the act itself should be entertaining enough."
He put her on the floor, and was starting to mount her when an intriguing idea occurred to him. He smiled slowly and stood, picking her up again, and carried her outside to a sweet-smelling grassy area surrounded by peonies. He put her down again and this time lay beside her, gently caressing, using his powers to soothe her.
There was still fear when she stared at him. "What … what are you doing?"
"Making sure, sweet Piety, that this time it's you who enjoys me." Yes, that revolted her very nicely. He stilled her beginning objection with a long kiss, then smiled down at her, continuing both his physical caresses and mental pressure. "I've kept you sane," he said softly. "The refuge of insanity is one you can never take, now, and there's no point in hoping I can't do something else equally simple. You will remember this week clearly, and today will be by far the worst. Because you are going to enjoy me, in the full knowledge that I'm compelling your pleasure as thoroughly, if not in the same way, as I compelled your pain and the others'." He smiled, running a hand down her belly to tease thick curls. "I'm sure you've heard I can be a skillful lover when I want, not so?"
"Yes." His compulsion was working; he could sense her starting to relax.
"Good. I had planned to leave in a few minutes, but a proper demonstration takes time; you'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"I … think so."
"You will, believe me."
She did, though it wasn't as easy as he'd told her or expected it would be. He'd felt her mental strength, but her tenacity and resilience still surprised him, finding any gap in the net of compulsion he imposed, which made it nearly half an hour, instead of a few minutes, before he was able to make her feel the pleasure he wanted. He paused then, thinking. While he respected her courage, her unexpected resistance at this late hour had irritated him, and he wanted to take it out on her. So should he make her cooperate with him, rather than simply remain passive and enjoy whatever attentions he chose to give her?
He smiled slowly. Yes, that would certainly add spice, and it would make her memories all the more painful. With the groundwork laid, that took only a few moments, and she was eagerly returning his caresses.
He took his time with her, knowing that the thoroughness of her enjoyment now would determine how much she suffered later. He'd told her there would only be one more act of intercourse, so that was what it would be. He'd said nothing, however, about details, so he played with her, teasing her with repeated small orgasms by mouth and hand, letting her know silently that these were only preludes. He felt—and helped—her desire grow with each one, building into desperate need, until she was writhing against him, begging and frantically struggling to get him into her.
It was a temptation to reject her at this last moment, but he resisted in the interest of future pleasure. He obliged her, giving her the tremendous orgasm he'd teased her with—starting with his entry, prolonging it through a coitus that would seem to her like hours, and peaking it when his own climax sent jets of icy fire into her.
He left her body first, smiling down at her. "You liked that, didn't you, sweet Piety?"
The nun sighed happily. "You know I did … does that really have to be the last time?"
"I'm afraid so." Shannon rose, still smiling. "I've enjoyed you a lot, but I have to get back to work, and it's time for you to report our little party to the nearest Enforcement post. You can tell them everything except my name and how you knew me; all they need to know on that subject is that I'm the Raidmaster. Not just a raidmaster, the Raidmaster. You'll be sure to point that out for me, won't you?"
"Of course."
"Very good." Shannon double-checked the barriers he'd raised to keep her from the refuge of insanity, then he released his other compulsions. She reacted beautifully, her expression turning from pleasure to revulsion as she retreated from him, turning to run but falling to her knees racked with convulsions of nausea.
Shannon's attention returned to his surroundings. He'd left St. Ignatius then, thoroughly satisfied with the interlude, and memories of Sister Piety had cheered him several times since. It was an interlude he dared not repeat now, though. Cortin might sense something as simple as using his power to modify his physical attributes, and now that she was personally aware of him thanks to the attack, she'd have to sense his use of it on others.
Return to main storyline:3. Center
Shannon had decided to take advantage of Cortin's skill during the afternoon session. It had been some time since he'd combined his two preferences purely for pleasure instead of as an "object lesson"—since Piety, in fact—and he was overdue for some recreation. He'd told his aide he was tired and would be napping after lunch; Cortin would provide the violence, Victor the sex. Victor was homo, raised in a family that saw the Church's increased tolerance in the last two and a half centuries as abhorrent. But Victor couldn't deny his drives; the best he could do was conceal them, feeling guilt whenever they became strong enough to make him take action.
Shannon had picked him for that, perhaps more than for his administrative ability, then arranged for Victor to find him apparently asleep, naked. Since then he could count on the man sneaking into his room several times a week; it relieved some of the tension, and Victor's guilt not only added spice to the affair, it made him even more devoted to the one he thought he was victimizing. And, Shannon thought smugly, he couldn't possibly be faulted for being an innocent victim.
Stretched out, with only a sheet covering him, Shannon waited for Victor to decide he was asleep. In the meantime, he considered the two ordinations that had just taken place. He found them abhorrent, even though he was aware of their necessity. His continued existence could well depend on four humans who would, except for the approaching invaders, be major enemies—two here, one in the Terran Empire, and one currently dead. Three of the four, to his disgust, had to be priests of the Crucified One. That was galling enough, but the worst part was that he had to promote faith himself! Not necessarily in that particular deity, though it would benefit most, he thought bitterly. There were times he was tempted to rebel again, tell the Adversary to do it all, instead of having to drive people toward that one, rather than urge them away as he preferred. Existence, though, wasn't something to be given up, even if maintaining it meant doing some things he found truly repugnant.
Cortin, of course, was his immediate concern, though Odeon would ultimately be the source of far more difficulty for him. Before then, though, the scar-faced man could be made to suffer—which would be a very enjoyable procedure indeed, after the problems that particular individual had caused him since their last encounter. And there was always the chance Odeon would make a bad decision—though considering the effect that would have on Shannon himself, he couldn't seriously wish for it.