About mid-afternoon, Shannon was leaning back in his desk chair, planning the March raid that would supposedly mark the beginning of the Brotherhood's real push against the Kingdoms, when he sensed a use of power that had to be Cortin. It was weak, barely detectable, but undeniably there, and he swore viciously. Even the slightest deliberate use she made of her power might lead to more … did he dare check to see if it was deliberate?
That should be safe enough, he decided at last. It was far more difficult to detect a passive use such as observing than an active one such as coercion or physical alteration, and Cortin's use was weak enough it might well be unconscious.
Despite his decision that the risk was low, he was cautious in extending his sensitivity toward her. When he made contact, though, he felt a sense of relief. Her use was unconscious, which meant there was no immediate danger.
He could have retreated then, but he was too intrigued; she was getting her first practical experience as an Inquisitor, and he couldn't resist the temptation to watch.
The subject was one of the Brotherhood's suppliers. Too cowardly to actually join the Brotherhood, but a skillful thief who could generally get what the Brothers wanted, and sold it to them at about half what he'd charge anyone else. It was a shame to lose him, but worth it to watch Cortin work on her first victim, whether she turned out to be the incomparable expert he expected if she had the nerve, or the total incompetent he expected if she didn't.
"Are you a Brother of Freedom?" she asked the prisoner.
"No."
Cortin nodded. "Then have you worked for them?"
"Not that, either."
"In that case, we can proceed. I don't suppose you'd care to answer my questions without unpleasantness?"
"I don't have anything to tell you."
"The choice is yours." Cortin picked up a scalpel, pausing at the expression on Illyanov's face. "Is something wrong, Major?"
"That is not the standard way of beginning an interrogation."
"It will be, for me," Cortin said. "I'll do whatever is needed to stop criminals, but I have no intention of hurting innocents."
"He denied everything."
"But he only told the truth the first time. He's worked for the Brothers, even though he isn't one himself, and he has some significant information."
"You never told me you had truthsense," Illyanov said quietly. "That is a most useful talent."
"The subject never came up—but I can't be lied to, never could even as a child. If a question has a yes-or-no answer, it doesn't matter if he tells the truth or not. I'll know."
"As I said, a most useful talent. Not every Inquisitor can tell truth from lies intended only to stop the pain, and most of us who do have that ability have developed it through long experience." He smiled at her in a way Shannon sensed was intended to express only approval, but hid a degree of affection the Raidmaster found both disgusting and amusing. "Go on, then."
Shannon watched critically as she began work. This would be a short interrogation—despite his bravado, the thief was a coward, and already terrified of the two Inquisitors—but it would tell him whether or not Cortin would make the grade.
The first few minutes left him with no doubt that she would. Oh, she had some problems—the determination not to hurt innocents, as if there were any such thing, was one. Another was giving her prisoner the chance to answer without persuasion, then not wanting to use any more than she had to, though neither surprised him particularly; she had always been overly scrupulous. Which was probably why her primary motive was to extract information rather than to enjoy herself.
It was ironic that she was enjoying herself, and thoroughly, even though it wasn't the same kind of pleasure he experienced in giving pain. For her, the only real passion involved here was for justice; criminals caused pain, so it was just to inflict it on them, either as punishment or in the interest of preventing further crime. It was simply more immediate this way than it had been in the past—and it gave her victims the unfortunate opportunity to repent. Even though right now Cortin was concerned with punishment rather than repentance.
Cortin removed the blood-spattered coverall, then went into the suite's small bathroom to wash her hands, feeling dissatisfied. She couldn't quite identify why, though; she had eventually persuaded the thief that she could tell when he was lying to her, and he had finally told them of his contacts within the Brotherhood, giving enough details that those two would be taken into custody next time they appeared in public. Neither theft nor contact with the Brotherhood were capital crimes, so once she'd made sure he knew nothing of Shannon or the horror raids, she'd called the guards and had him taken away for sentencing.
Major Illyanov had said she'd done well, she reminded herself as she put her tunic back on. So why should she feel otherwise? The answer, of course, was that she shouldn't—but the fact remained that she did. Well, she'd be trying again after lunch, on that trooper who'd gone rogue; maybe she'd do better with him.
Shortly afterward, she and Illyanov entered the Inquisitors' lounge. The only one there was Mike Odeon, slouched in an armchair with his feet up on a hassock and what she could only call a positively smug look on his face. It took no effort at all to realize that his phoning had been successful; she grinned, her mood lightening. "Is it still Captain," she asked, "or do I call you 'Father' now?"
"Depends on the circumstances," Odeon said, returning her grin lazily. "Until after the next horror raid, anyway." He stood, turning to Illyanov with a more sober expression. "Which you're not to talk about even as a rumor, sir. Colonel Bradford asked me whose deductions I was going by—I suppose he knows my records well enough to be sure they weren't mine—and I'm to tell you the whole thing is rated an all-Systems secret, until King Mark says otherwise."
"Understood—and I will of course comply." Illyanov bowed slightly. "But since I did deduce this much, will you be able to tell me how correct I was?"
"Now that I can do, along with a bit more," Odeon said, grinning again. "And our lunch is courtesy of Inquisitor-Colonel Bradford—it should be here any time. If you don't mind, I'd just as soon wait till then to go any further."
"As you wish."
Odeon's prediction was correct; their lunch arrived less than half a minute later, and not long afterward, they were eating a meal that might have come from the Royal Palace itself.
All three spent some time in silent enjoyment, then Cortin couldn't hold her curiosity any more. "How did you do it, Mike?"
"No problem, Joanie—none at all." Odeon smiled at her. "I have the feeling he expected my call, though I don't know how he could've. At any rate, I asked about both of us applying, and made what I think was a rather eloquent argument on our behalves. He listened to me, even though I have a sneaky feeling he knew everything I was going to say—then he said we were in, and called me to the Palace for ordination. Our new Commanding Officer is also Bishop of the St. Thomas Strike Force, it seems." He grinned. "If you still want to go to Mass tomorrow, I'd like you to come to my first one. Even if it will have to be private."
"I'd be honored," Cortin said. "What about my application?"
Odeon laughed. "Looked at your ID lately, Inquisitor-Captain?" Then he sobered, quickly. "No, I'm sorry—you're in, Joanie. Probably as a team leader, if you get anything useful out of your first subjects—as team-second, at worst. And we'll be on the same team, whoever's CO." He frowned. "But—Joanie, His Holiness has decreed that all Strike Force Inquisitors be priests, since it's conceivable even a Brother might repent at the last minute and need the sacraments. But you never said anything about having that call."
"Because you just told me about it," Cortin said. "It's pretty obvious my primary call is to being a Strike Force Inquisitor; if part of that is taking Holy Orders, I'll do it. And I'll do my best to be a good priest." With a lot of prayers that she never be called on to administer to a Brother that way … "Do I need to be ordained right away, or can I take care of this afternoon's subject first?"
"I get the impression he wants us to be ready to go any time, so I'd say you should get in touch with him sometime today. How long do you think this subject'll take you?"
Cortin shrugged. "No real idea, though I don't think he'll be easy."
"I believe you should count on a minimum of several hours," Illyanov said. "Probably no less than a day, perhaps a bit more. He was an Enforcement trooper, after all, and was trained to resist interrogation."
"You've got one of those?" Odeon smiled, wolfishly. "My urge is to tell you to take care of him before you do anything else, but Strike Force business has to come before even that. So I'd recommend you see Colonel Bradford first."
"That's not necessary."
Cortin recognized the "Lieutenant's" voice and and started to rise, but was stopped by his next words. "As you were, gentles—and thank you, Major, for not giving me away." He pulled up a chair and joined them.
"Pleased to be of help, sir." Illyanov managed a seated bow. "I presume you are not here by chance?"
"Not at all, Major." Bradford smiled, the expression making him look years younger. "My interest in Captain Cortin led me to be sure I was informed of her choice of subject, and I wanted to review the films when she was done." He turned to Cortin, still smiling. "I hadn't expected you to choose two, especially not the first time, and especially not ones with so little promise. I've got to compliment you on how well you did with the first one."
Cortin shook her head. "With all respect, sir, I don't think I did that well. I just hope I can do better with the rogue."
"Maybe you can, at that," Bradford said. "As Major Illyanov said, not every Inquisitor can tell truth from lies intended only to stop the pain, and not many of those learn it the first time with a subject; if you can do that already, there's no telling what you'll be able to do with a little experience."
"As I told him, it's something I've had since childhood. I can't claim any special credit."
Bradford chuckled. "You don't have to, as long as it works," he said drily. "It's still a good sign, as is the fact that you enjoy our work from the start. There are those who never do, and they're naturally free to find something else—but I'd imagine you're anxious to get to work again."
"Yes, sir, I am."
"Good." Bradford stood. "In that case, shall we go to the chapel for your Ordination? I'm afraid the secrecy we're under for the time being means it can't be as elaborate as a civilian ordination, but you can be assured it will be effective."
"I don't doubt it, sir." It didn't seem quite proper to have Ordination without public acknowledgement, but Mike's must have been that way too, and since it obviously didn't bother him, she couldn't let it upset her. "I'm at your disposal."
The brief ceremony over, Bradford returned to the Palace while Cortin, Odeon and Illyanov made their way to the suite where her prisoner waited. It might have been a brief, basic ceremony, Cortin thought, but it was one she would remember for the rest of her life, from the unprecedented sight of an armed Bishop in Enforcement uniform and stole to the anointing of her hands. She rubbed the oil that was still on them. It was hard to believe she was really a priest now, far harder than it had been to believe she was an Inquisitor when she saw the badge in her ID folder—but of course she'd had some preparation for that, where half an hour ago it had never occurred to her that she'd be a priest. As she'd told Mike, though, if she had to be a priest to be a Strike Force team's Inquisitor, so be it. What surprised her was Bradford's acceptance of her necessity; the only explanation she could think of was that the Strike Force needed Priest-Inquisitors badly enough they'd ordain anyone who claimed both vocations. That was unsettling in its own way, but since it served her purpose, she wasn't inclined to argue.
The three entered the suite and went through the routine of getting into coveralls. Odeon wasn't sure why he was there, except that Joanie hadn't asked him to leave and he'd never seen a third-stage interrogation—though he'd both seen and helped in several second-stage ones. He said as much, then continued, "So if you need me to do anything, you'll have to tell me."
"I will," Cortin promised. "I didn't send you away because it didn't occur to me, but I'm certain to need help in the field from time to time, and there's no one I'd rather have backing me. So if you're willing, you should get used to both third-stage and my methods."
"I'm willing—especially," he opened the door to the third-stage room where the prisoner was shackled, waiting, "when the subject's someone like this plaguer. Renegades and Brothers deserve anything an Inquisitor does to them."
"Keep thinkin' that, cull," the prisoner sneered. "You ain't worth the effort it'd take to spit on you. You or that other bastard, or the Bitch."
Cortin looked him over, cooly. He was naked, spreadeagled between chains in the ceiling and eyebolts in the floor, and must know he was completely at the Inquisitor's mercy—but he probably didn't know she was the Inquisitor. With all three of them in coveralls, he had no way of knowing who was who, just that he was faced with two men and a woman.
The Special Ops men who had beaten him had done a fairly professional job, she decided. Not enough to eliminate his defiance, but enough to give her quite a number of tender areas to exploit in addition to the natural ones. She smiled, approaching him and showing him the backs of her hands. "I'm the one you call the Enforcement bitch, rogue. I survived the Brothers' torture, unfortunately for you and the rest of them. Because I intend to return the favor without the mistake, and you will tell me how to find the specific ones who damaged me."
"I'm not tellin' you a damn thing, Bitch!"
"Wrong, and you know it," Cortin said calmly, beginning the examination that would tell her where his flesh was most sensitive and thus most vulnerable to her persuasion. "You will perhaps tell me less than I wish, but you will tell me as much as you can."
He jerked away as she probed a dark bruise over his ribs. "Like hell I will!"
"We shall see." Cortin hid a smile, a bit surprised at herself. She'd noticed a little of it last time, but it seemed to be getting stronger: when she conducted an interrogation, she adopted Illyanov's speech patterns—perhaps as a reaction to the prisoner's crudity, perhaps as a tribute to her teacher, she didn't know, and it didn't really seem to matter. "I think that before too long you will be most curious as to the information I want, and you will be increasingly eager to give it to me. When you do, I will release you."
She was pleased to see the prisoner starting to look apprehensive. He still had his defiance, though. "You damn servants of corruption never let anyone go! So why should I believe you'll start with me?"
"I did not mean that kind of release, as you should know, having been a trooper yourself. I meant only that I will release you from your pain." She explored further, identifying areas of promise from his sounds and flinching. It was a temptation to relieve him of his genitals, she thought as she reached them, but that would be short-sighted; from her own torture, as well as her studies, she knew them to be capable of some of the body's most exquisite pain. No, she would leave them where they could be of the most use—right where they were.
For Shannon's reaction:4a. Reaction
Odeon watched in revolted fascination as his Joanie stripped skin, with precise delicacy, from the screaming renegade's hands. He'd expected her to go after the plaguer's manhood in retaliation for what had been done to her, but—except for a couple of times he'd been lying so obviously it was an insult—she had left that alone.
When she finished her subject's hands, Cortin stepped back to study him. She had discovered quickly that his personal horrors included being skinned alive, so that had become her primary tactic against him. It was slow—enjoyably so, for her—and it was working very nicely indeed. "Have you decided to cooperate yet?"
"Damn you, Bitch!" The renegade tried to spit at her, without success. "Do your damndest—you won't get nothin' from me!"
Cortin smiled. He was still defiant, true, but Illyanov agreed with her assessment that he was the type who would remain defiant until he broke abruptly, and the same sense that told her when he was lying now told her he was close to that abrupt break. Give him the proper physical and psychological stimuli, and he should go from defiance to surrender in seconds.
She had already planned what to do, a continuation of her primary tactic—but a little bit of insurance wouldn't hurt. She turned to the other two. "Would either of you gentlemen care to avail yourselves of our guest while he still has enough spirit to be interesting? I fear I am being greedy, keeping him to myself."
Illyanov smiled, bowing to her. She hadn't been avoiding an extremely useful technique, as he had been half afraid she was, because it had been done to her; she had merely postponed it until the optimum time. "It is generous of you to share, Inquisitor. It has been some time since I have had the opportunity to indulge myself in another's subject. I will not interrupt your work?"
Both ignored the renegade's protests and insults as Cortin returned the bow. "Not at all—your enjoyment of him should make the removal of his genital skin even more effective." And enjoyable … "Particularly if you can make him move enough that it is he who pulls himself free of it."
"That should pose no particular difficulty."
If it hadn't been his Joanie doing the work, his Joanie who might need his help, Odeon would have taken advantage of his non-Inquisitor status to leave. He'd taken part in some second-stage interrogations, on occasion enjoyed them if the recipient had done something particularly revolting—but even the most methodical of those beatings seemed more human, cleaner, than the cool, meticulous infliction of pain both Inquisitors so obviously enjoyed. At first he'd thought Joanie's enjoyment a pretense intended to make her subject's torment harder to endure, but he couldn't convince himself of that any longer. Joanie was enjoying her subject's anguish, taking a delight in his screams and writhings that Odeon found sickening. But it was Joanie; after what had been done to her, surely she had a right to whatever pleasures she could find …
Cortin was beginning to think she'd miscalculated her subject's resistance when screams of defiance turned abruptly, as anticipated, into hopeless whimpering sobs mixed with pleas for mercy. She looked past him to Illyanov, who nodded; while he finished, she went to the instrument table and picked up a slender, razor-sharp dagger.
"Here is the end to your pain," she said softly, laying it against the raw flesh of the rogue's throat. "As soon as you answer my questions, I will give you your release. You have learned that you cannot lie to me; try it again, and you will find what has happened so far only the beginning. Do you understand?"
"Yes … Oh, God, no more!"
"That is up to you, not Him; you gave up any claim on His Mercy when you pledged allegiance to His enemies." Though, an inner voice said, he could still repent … "Tell me about Lawrence Shannon. Who he is, where he is, what his plans are."
"I don't know all that … please, I don't!"
He was telling the truth, unfortunately. "Very well. Tell me what you do know, then."
"I'm … not sure. No! Honest—he's the Raidmaster, everyone knows that—plans all the new-style raids—but nobody knows him. A Lawrence Shannon even leads all those raids, but not the same one, maybe not the one who plans 'em. An' that's all I know about 'im, honest!"
"I believe you," Cortin said. It was too bad he knew so little, and that so inconclusive, but she had no doubt that he was telling her all he did know, as she'd asked. "Have you heard anything else? It need not be certain—a rumor of his plans, perhaps."
"No … no, wait … maybe. I overheard something … a hospice … or could be a retirement home, or some sort of hospital. Old folks, or sick ones, anyway. That's all."
"All on that subject, or all on any?"
"All on any … please?"
"You have earned it." Cortin drove the knife up under his ear; he gasped, shuddered once, and died.
Cortin looked at him for a moment, then smiled. "Compared to your present master, my friend, I was easy on you. May you suffer under him for eternity."
Odeon tasted bile, knew suddenly he was going to be sick. "Joanie—"
She turned, saw his pale face, and hurried to him. "Can you make it to the washroom?"
"I don't think—"
"No, he cannot," Illyanov interrupted, coming over and holding a wastebasket.
Odeon had time for a grateful look before his stomach completed its rebellion. He felt Joanie's hand stroking his head, heard both Inquisitors telling him it was all right as they helped him into the suite's outer room and got him seated. When he was finished, Joanie handed him a towel; he wiped his mouth and looked up at them. "I'm sorry."
"That is a normal reaction," Illyanov said calmly. "There is no need to apologize; you did better than could have been expected."
"You should've left if it bothered you," Cortin said. "I'd like to have you backing me, yes, but not if my work's going to upset you like this."
"I'll get used to it," Odeon said stubbornly. "I can't promise I'll ever get to like it, but I will learn to handle it well enough to give you any backup you need."
"You set yourself a difficult task," Illyanov said. "I feel safe in predicting you will not come to like it; observing you, I would say you lack the quirk of mind required to take pleasure in another's pain. With adequate motivation, time, and exposure, however, you may develop enough tolerance to be able to assist."
"I'll settle for that." Odeon's stomach churned again at the thought of doing what Illyanov had, unsure whether he was pleased or not at the Major's prognosis. In a way, it'd be good to share Joanie's pleasure even in that … "What do I do, sit in on all her interrogations?"
"I would normally recommend that you begin with a less talented Inquisitor," Illyanov said, "as that would be less unpleasant for you. However, Captain Cortin is the one you will be teamed with, so perhaps it would indeed be as well if you work with her from the beginning."
"Less talented?" Odeon asked, puzzled. "That doesn't make sense."
"If you think for a moment," Illyanov said gently, "you will find it makes very good sense. One with less talent cannot judge tolerances as well, is not as sensitive to an individual subject's particular dreads, is more likely to believe lies told to please him and stop the interrogation, and—although this is also true of Captain Cortin, until she acquires experience to match her theoretical knowledge and raw talent—apt to let the subject die before extracting all possible information."
"Put that way, it does make sense," Odeon admitted. "I've never thought about Inquisitors very much—or the talents you have to have."
"Few people do," Illyanov said drily. "Few people care to think much about us, fewer still about how we obtain our results—even though they have no objections to using those results. We get few thanks and less praise for what we do, so it is well that God grants us the mercy of deriving our satisfaction from the work itself."
Odeon nodded. That was something else he'd never thought about … and again, it made sense. "I understand, I think. So I'll work with her whenever she's doing an interrogation, then?"
"Yes. When you feel able to assist, you will of course be covered by her Warrant." He looked at his watch, then grinned ruefully at Cortin. "I thought we had been busy for some time, but I had not realized I had lost track of time to this degree. It is almost midnight—I think we had best call it a day immediately, and pray Doctor Egan does not find out how late I kept you. I am not feeling sucicidal enough to face her if she feels I have been overworking you again."
"Neither am I! Once was more than enough." The chewing out Egan had given tham when she'd caught them in a tutoring session after visiting hours was one Cortin would remember with respect for some time. "See you at breakfast?"
"It would be my pleasure."
Cortin slept soundly, and when she woke early it was in anticipation of assisting at Mike's First Mass and then celebrating her own. She found herself looking forward to both of them more than she could remember having done since her First Communion, after the way the previous day's had made her feel.
Her anticipation suffered a setback, though, when she found a note from Mike in her message box; he'd been asked to say his First Mass for some newly-arrived Strike Force selectees, and he said she would have as well if she hadn't still been on hospital status. She didn't see how saying Mass could be more strenuous than conducting interrogations—though maybe Egan didn't know she'd done any—but she couldn't object.
For Odeon's First Mass:4b. Odeon's First Mass
She opened the field Mass kit she'd been issued and laid it out on the bureau, kissed the stole and put it around her neck, then blessed herself and began her First Mass. She was surprised at how easily she was able to speak the Latin; even though she'd heard it almost every Sunday since she was old enough to remember, she'd never seriously tried to use it. She'd heard the Terrans had experimented with using whatever the local language happened to be, but that seemed almost sacrilegious; she couldn't imagine Mass without the solemnity and beauty of Latin.
As she continued, offering her prayers and her pain to the figure on the crucifix, the ceremony seemed to take on a life of its own, filling her with a sense of rightness and peace. At some point Illyanov's voice joined hers, taking over the responses; she accepted it without surprise. Nor was she surprised, when the time came, to find several men in Enforcement gray kneeling for Communion.
It wasn't until she finished the service that she realized they were all Inquisitors, or wondered how they came to be in a room she was positive she'd locked the night before. When she asked, Illyanov chuckled and held up a key. "I did not think it fitting that you have to celebrate your First Mass alone, so I spoke with Colonel Bradford and received his permission to act as your server, as well as—since I convinced him it would be impossible to keep secret the fact of Special Operations priests, especially from Inquisitors when one of those priests is also one of us, for more than a few days—to invite several of our colleagues." He introduced them, then said, "It is our pleasure to invite you to breakfast at the Eagle's Nest. That is one of the few commercial establishments where Inquisitors in uniform are welcome—probably because the proprietor was one of us before his retirement—and has much better food than the dining hall. Will you join us?"
Odeon had loaned her a Special Operations patch until she could get to the Uniform Sales store to buy some, and she was wearing her new Inquisitor's badge, so she was in full uniform; she had no hesitation in accepting. Tucking her stole into a tunic pocket, she said, "I'd be honored—just let me put my kit away."
The Eagle's Nest proprietor, unlike the young private she'd met the previous day, obviously followed Service news; he recognized her, welcoming her with almost embarrassing effusiveness, asking how she felt, congratulating her on becoming an Inquisitor and her success with her first subjects, expressing delight and asking the Reverend Mother's blessing when Illyanov told him she was a priest.
When they were seated, Cortin turned to Illyanov. "Is he always like that?"
"Only since he retired," Illyanov assured her. "He misses our professional discussions and fellowship, although I doubt he would wish to give up this profession, either." He grinned. "It is, after all, far more profitable than the Service."
Cortin chuckled. "It would be, yes. But he seems to keep in pretty close touch—normal news channels wouldn't have anything on how I'd handled my subjects."
"He prides himself on it, true—and since we find it useful from time to time, we help him."
"Useful how?"
"You're a good example," a young First Lieutenant said. "We all know you're interested in that plaguer Shannon—those plaguers, I should say—so we'll see to it you get anything about 'em we come across. Can't do it through official channels, though—personal revenge isn't frowned on, exactly, if it can be done in line of duty, but it isn't exactly sanctioned, either. So we'll give it to Francis, and he'll get it to you. You'll be expected to return the favor if you come across anything that'll be of special interest to one of us, of course."
"Of course. Just let me know your interests; I'll be glad to ask about them."
"No problem; we'll leave notes in your message box."
Cortin chuckled. "I hadn't expected this sort of mutual support when I started my studies—but I'm glad to find it. Would it be proper to ask Mr. Robbins to join us?"
"Francis," Illyanov corrected her. "Off duty and among ourselves, we are less formal than others might think desirable. To answer your question, however: yes, it would be perfectly proper to ask him to join us. Christopher, would you mind?"
"Sure thing." The young Lieutenant rose, grinning at Cortin. "Everyone but Ivan calls me Chris, though, okay?"
"Okay, Chris." As he left in search of the proprietor, Cortin turned to Illyanov. "Ivan—" it seemed strange calling him that—"thanks." She looked around. "Thank all of you, for joining me. It means a lot."
"It means much to us, as well." Illyanov touched her hand. "You are new to our field, Joan, but already you must begin to feel our isolation. An Inquisitor who is also a priest is most literally a gift from God."
"I'm not the only one," she said, uncomfortable with his intensity. "Colonel Bradford, uh …" She hesitated, realizing that the Bishop was the only other Priest-Inquisitor she knew of.
"His Excellency's other committments do not normally permit him to exercise his priestly functions on an individual basis, not true?"
"True." Most Bishops did have to be more concerned with administration than with a chaplain's duties … "Okay, I guess you're right. What can I do for you?"
"Hear our confessions, for one thing," a graying Captain said. "I messed up, oh—three or four months ago, but the chaplain we were assigned doesn't understand Inquisitors—he couldn't figure out why it bothers me." He paused, looking miserable. "Reverend Mother—please?"
Cortin looked around for a private place—she couldn't refuse such a plea—but it was Robbins who said, "If you'd like to use my office, Mother, I'd be honored."
"Thank you—where is it?"
"Through the curtains over there, second door on the right."
Cortin rose, feeling inadequate, but led the older officer—Captain Gregory Watkins, if she remembered correctly from the group introduction—through the curtains and into an office decorated with Enforcement Service pictures, awards, and certificates. She sat in the desk chair, putting on her stole; when Watkins knelt beside her and began his Confession, she understood why he would want a confessor who could understand the feelings of guilt that, deservedly or not, went with failure to get necessary information from a subject, then damaging him so badly, in an effort to correct the first problem, that no one else could get the information either. She hadn't done that badly yet—her clumsiness with her first subject had been due to inexperience, not lack of judgement—but she was certain she'd do it some day. When she did, she too would want a confessor who understood what she'd done, why it was wrong, and how to help her avoid it in the future.
She gave him absolution, with a penance of memorizing the third chapter of St. Jean Grillet's The Inquisitor's Call. It seemed harsh to her, but his expression said otherwise, and when he rose, he thanked her.
Breakfast was on the table when they got back, and she was hungry; as soon as grace was said, she started on a stack of hotcakes and honey. Illyanov was absolutely right, she decided immediately; the food was far better than she'd gotten in any Service dining hall. She grinned at Robbins, giving him the "first-class" hand signal, then continued eating and listening to the conversation.
That had settled rather quickly into shop talk, as it usually did when groups of specialists got together. She could understand how it might upset a nearby diner, but she'd been studying during meals for weeks now; she listened carefully, making mental notes of several useful-sounding—or just interesting—tips, though she didn't join in until her plate was empty and she was enjoying a glass of pear nectar. There was less resentment than she'd expected at Bradford's order that she get first choice of all non-critical prisoners, though she did take some teasing about being sure she left some for them, what with the Brothers still laying low. She promised, with a bit of return teasing that if things were all that slow this might be a good time to take some leave, then she had to make another promise that she'd hold Confession and Mass for them, in the base chapel if she could get permission, in their lounge at the Detention Center if she couldn't.
As she was getting ready to leave, a waiter approached and handed her a note; she read it, grinned, and handed it to Illyanov. She was summoned to the Base Theater for a meeting of prospective Team Leaders and team-seconds. The note didn't say what kind of teams they were to be Leaders and seconds of, naturally, but it didn't have to; she and Illyanov knew. "I'll see about arranging for the chapel," she told the group as she rose. "I'll post the results on the bulletin board, whichever way it works out, but I've got to go now. Thanks again."
Less than half an hour later, she was in the theater along with what she estimated at fifty others, all with Special Ops patches and specialty badges—even Odeon, when she spotted him, was wearing his Tracker's badge, something he didn't normally do. She would be willing to bet, now that the operational arms needed them, that a Priest's badge was being made and they'd both be wearing those as well, not long after the Strike Force was activated—and she'd also be willing to bet Mike would love wearing his. She made her way to him, exchanging introductions with several others on the way and realizing quickly that those in the group had more than insigne in common. There was an air to them, a feel of anticipation as of a wolfpack scenting its prey, and she shared it. "How did it go?" she asked Odeon.
"Not bad for someone who'd never done it before," he said with a smile. "How about yours?"
"Better than I would've believed," she said. "I ended up with a server and small congregation, thanks to Colonel Bradford—and I've already heard my first Confession. It's strange being on the receiving end, believe me!"
Odeon chuckled. "I do—not wasting any time, are you?"
"I couldn't just let him suffer, could I?" she protested. "But yes, things are coming at me pretty fast. It's almost like someone's pushing me to get qualified at everything right now. Not that I mind; I hope I am able to handle everything by the time the Brothers decide to break loose again." She rubbed the backs of her hands absently. "I want—"
"Ten-shun!" an amplified voice called.
Cortin turned, coming to precise attention when she faced the stage. It was Colonel Bradford at the microphone; as soon as he had the group's full attention, he said, "Please be seated, gentles." When that was done, he went on. "We have all met, but some of you know me only as an anonymous Lieutenant. In fact, I am Colonel David Bradford of His Majesty's Own. I am also, in this case as His Majesty's Personal Deputy, Commander of the St. Thomas Strike Force. You all know the basics of that, and are all under oaths of secrecy concerning it for the time being. Although some of you have made your wishes known privately, I must now ask you all, formally: Do you wish to be part of the Strike Force?"
Cortin's shout of assent was lost in the general clamor of enthusiasm that died only gradually as Bradford stood with both hands raised. When he could be heard again, he lowered his hands with a smile. "I was certain you'd all respond that way. You're the ones qualified as Leaders and seconds of Strike Force Teams—is there anyone here who doesn't want one of those positions?"
When the second clamor died, Bradford smiled again. "I thought not. In this case, I am to extend His Majesty's appreciation, and his regret that the secrecy of getting the Strike Force started prevents him from being here himself. We have kept together those of you who have proven you work well together; that gave us four Leader-second combinations. The rest have been paired on the basis of records and interviews. In either case, you will have the next week to confirm or rearrange these match-ups and choose your team names, though you can do either immediately if you prefer. If you'll look in the package you were given when you came in, you'll see our team-ups, and a few team names we hope will give you ideas. Take half an hour, get together with your suggested Leader or second, and tell me if you're ready to confirm now. Refreshments are available in the lobby."
"I finished a big breakfast less than an hour ago," Cortin said as most of the others rose. "We know we're paired, and I don't care which of us is Leader, so if you don't mind, I'll stay here and see what I can come up with for a team name."
"Suits," Odeon agreed. "I could stand some juice, but I'll be back shortly."
"Right." Cortin opened the briefing packet as he left, finding that they were paired, as promised, with her as Leader. Scanning the bios, she found that their teaming wasn't unusual except in them knowing each other so long; the pre-selected leadership teams had the one with the most personal grudge against the Brothers, rather than the senior in rank, named as Leader—though in some cases, like theirs, the two coincided; she'd gotten her captain's bars two days before Mike got his, so technically she did outrank him, if not by much.
Team names, now. She studied the short list of suggestions, seeing names of angels, predatory animals, military qualities. Quite a variety, she thought—and the list did give her an idea. She grinned, then decided not to take any chances on having someone else beat her to even such an unlikely name; she went into the lobby to find Mike and then Colonel Bradford.
She almost ran into Odeon when she opened the door; he greeted her with a grin and a salute. "I gather you've come up with a name, Team-Leader? So've I—I was just coming to see what you thought about it." He sobered. "Better make sure you like the one we settle on; I overheard Colonel Bradford say the team's name will be the Leader's code name until we go public, then it'll be the team's radio call sign."
She thought about that for a moment, then smiled. "I like the one I came up with well enough for that, definitely. What's yours?"
He murmured a word in her ear, and she chuckled. "Great minds, Mike—that's the same one I thought of. But if the two of us did, others may too; let's get to Colonel Bradford and have him confirm it."
"Right. Last time I saw him, he was over by the juice machine."
The two made their way in that direction. It was clear than several Leader-and-second pairs had already confirmed; those were the ones discussing either team names or possible personnel. Those who hadn't were getting acquainted; Cortin saw a couple she thought would confirm shortly, another couple she thought probably wouldn't at all. They found the Colonel still at the juice machine, approaching him with Cortin in the lead and Odeon a step behind and to her left. "By the Colonel's leave?" Cortin asked.
Bradford smiled. "I thought so—you'll make a good pair." He took out a notebook, made a checkmark. "Have you picked out a name?"
"Yes, sir. We are agreed on Azrael."
Bradford raised an eyebrow, still smiling. "That shouldn't surprise me—but I admit I'd expected you to choose something less openly descriptive."
"If you'd seen her in action, sir," Odeon said, "you'd know it fits."
"I have, Captain; I've been following her activities with considerable interest since I debriefed her, which has included watching films of her interrogations rather than just reading summaries; I certainly don't argue the appropriateness of her choice. My surprise is only that she's being so open about her intentions for the Brothers."
"It's deliberate, sir," Cortin said. "Major Illyanov told me early on that terror can be useful; naming my team after the Angel of Death is on the same order as taking my gloves off for the conclusion of a hunt or during an interrogation."
"I understand that—but it could also work against you, if they suicide rather than face interrogation."
Cortin smiled. "I think I can count on the 'can't-happen-to-me' syndrome, sir, at least in the great majority of cases. At worst, a few of them die quickly and with relative ease."
"True." Bradford made a note, put the pad back in his pocket. "Azrael it is, then."
When the break was over and everyone was back in the theater proper, Bradford went on with the briefing. "We have nine confirmed Leader-second pairs, five of which have chosen names: Wolf, Guardian, Flame, Falcon, and Azrael. The rest of you, as I said earlier, have a week to let me know your decisions.
"During that week, in addition to those decisions, you will start selecting your team members. Eligible volunteers have been brought in on TDY orders, the way most of you were, and are being quartered at the Academy. You'll meet them tomorrow morning, and can begin interviews then; their records will be made available to you as soon as we finish here."
"In two weeks, you will have your teams together and ready, because you deploy during the following week." He paused. "True, there may be no need for such hurry—but we don't know, so we want you prepared and in place as soon as humanly possible. Now—some details.
"To start with, you—and through you, your team members—will hold Writs of Immunity good in every system in the Kingdoms. The scope on these Writs is even broader than an Inquisitor's Warrant; as long as you avoid regicide or treason, and what you do is aimed at suppressing terrorist groups—primarily the Brothers of Freedom—your actions will carry the license of both the Church and the various Kingdoms. You'll be expected to follow normal procedures, as a rule; however, your primary purpose is to eliminate terrorists, and if normal procedures interfere, you are to disregard them. Questions?"
There was a murmur of astonishment both Cortin and Odeon joined. This freedom of action was as unprecedented as the Brothers' horror attacks, but Bradford's orders were clear; there was nothing to question.
"Excellent. You'll be sent to bases or stations as close as possible to where the Brothers you're particularly interested in appear to be located. You'll use that as your headquarters, but you are subject to no-notice assignment anywhere in this Kingdom and four-hour-notice assignment to any other one, so keep your kits up to date and readily available. You will also cooperate, as fully as possible without neglecting your own missions, with other kingdoms' Strike Forces; they'll do the same if you need to go to their systems. Any questions on this part?"
Again, there were none; he went on. "You Team Leaders and seconds, I'm afraid, will have to live on base or at the station, in separate buildings where possible. Your teams should too, but if that would cause too much hardship to either them or the personnel normally stationed there, you can permit them to live up to five miles away." He raised a hand, forestalling objections. "It's not as bad as it sounds, gentles. You will all be issued personal radios, as well as personal vehicles; those of you who can't drive or do basic vehicle maintenance will be taught how. And you'll use those vehicles any time you're in areas where they can be supplied and maintained. You'll use horses only where there are no facilities for vehicles. Any questions?"
"I have one, sir." A tall Major with a missing ear stood. "Vehicle fuel and service aren't cheap; they're certainly beyond my pay grade. How do we pay for them? And more importantly, how do our people pay for them?"
"Until we go public," Bradford said, "you'll be given an allowance for such things, and you'll pass it along to your people. After that, you'll use your Strike Force ID, and the Kingdoms will reimburse the dealers. The same thing goes for all non-personal expenses." He grinned. "As for personal expenses, you'll be interested to know that Strike Force personnel get a 50% hazardous-duty bonus. Which, believe me, you'll earn!"
There was a mixture of laughter and good-natured complaining, in which Cortin and Odeon joined. Yes, they all knew they'd earn any hazard bonuses; you didn't go into something called Special Operations, much less into a Strike Force, for the safety of it. On the other hand, Cortin thought, they got the chance to go after Brothers with almost no limitations; that seemed fair enough to her, and it sounded like the rest agreed.
"That's about it for now, then, though of course you'll get daily updates on anthing we find out about the Brothers," Bradford said. "This is my primary duty, so I'll be in the area most of the time; if you have questions, or just want to talk, I'll be available."