The Alembic Plot: A Terran Empire novel

Produced by Al Haines

+------------------------------------------------------+ | This work is licenced under a Creative Commons | | Attribution-Non-Commercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 | | Licence. | | | | http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ | +------------------------------------------------------+

The Alembic Plot

A Terran Empire Novel

by Ann Wilson

Copyright (C) 1992 by Ann Wilson

Contents

1. Injury 2. Hospital 3. Center 4. Ordination 5. Azrael 6. Tony 7. Dave 8. Ambush 9. Surgery 10. Dream 11. Dinner 12. Flight 13. Chuck 14. Bradford 15. Demon Drops 16. Marriage 17. Family 18. Revelation 19. Invitation 20. Lesson 21. Anguish 22. Sara 23. Raid 24. Revenge 25. Discussion 26. Imperial Contact 27. Interim 28. Aboard the Lindner 29. Arrival 30. Interview 31. Explanation 32. Briefing 33. Discussion 2 34. Transformation

1. Injury

St. Thomas, Monday, 17 June 2571 CE

Captain Mike Odeon cursed in angry frustration as he climbed out of his command van into a late fall New Pennsylvania evening and signalled his Special Operations team forward. They were too late.

Well, too late to catch them in the act, he amended silently. This looked like one of the hit-and-run attacks the so-called Brothers of Freedom specialized in; with local Enforcement men already on-scene, the Brothers would be long gone. But they would catch the bastards who'd attacked this Royal Enforcement Service convalescent hospital, sooner or later. Motioning his second-in-command to him, Odeon gave the routine orders. "Check for anything the attackers might have left. Odds are you'll only find bodies, but do your best while I talk to the locals. Call me on Channel One if you do find anything."

"Yes, sir." Odeon's sergeant led the other three team members into the building; Odeon himself looked around, and was pleased to find he knew one of the locals.

He waved. "Rascal! Over here!"

The local returned his wave, jogged over, and saluted. "Mike! I mean, 'Captain Odeon, sir.'"

"Mike's fine," Odeon said. "You haven't touched anything?"

"Huh-uh. Saw the marks the Brothers'd burned into a couple of the walls inside, and backed off right away to call in the Royals." Rascal spat. "Damn Brothers! Didn't expect Special Ops, though."

"You'll get SO any time the Brothers are involved, from now on," Odeon said. "That came straight from His Majesty not five minutes after we got word they'd hit a hospital. It doesn't look too bad from here, though."

"From here, no. But, Mike . . . I hope your men have stronger stomachs than mine turned out to be."

Odeon scowled. "It's that bad?" Rascal Anderson had been in Enforcement for almost fifteen years, nearly as long as Odeon himself; it would take more than the aftermath of ordinary violence to make him sick.

"Worse," Anderson said. "Mike, it looked like . . . like a cross between a battlefield and a mass third-stage interrogation."

"Dear God." Odeon bowed his head in a brief silent prayer for the victims, then looked up. "We'll find the bastards who did this, and make sure--"

His beltcom interrupted him. "Sir, we've found a survivor. ID says Captain Joan Cortin, Royal Enforcement. Boris is working on her, but he says she'll need a lot more help than he can give."

"She'll get it," Odeon snapped. Anderson was already signalling urgently for the medics, who'd been waiting to bring out what everyone was certain would be only dead bodies. "I'm on my way. Set for homer."

"On homer, sir." The sergeant's voice was replaced by a series of tones, increasing in pitch and speed as Odeon more than half-ran into the hospital and through the corridors.

The scenes he passed were as bad as Rascal had suggested, and Odeon's stomach needed stern control to prevent rebellion. Doctors, nurses, patients, the service staff--all had been bound, then brutally murdered. The stench of gutted bodies was enough, even without the blood and corpses, to stagger anyone.

It wasn't long until he reached his men. Two of them were checking for other survivors while Boris and Sergeant Vincent knelt over the inert form that had to be Joan Cortin. Vincent was giving her Last Rites while Boris tended to her physical needs, his posture evidence of his intense concentration, and Odeon thanked God again that the St. Dmitri exchange troop he'd drawn for his team was so damn competent. He'd love to take his whole team to that world for a bit, he thought irrelevantly. He'd worked with a Dmitrian team once, here on St. Thomas, and thought everyone in SO should have that experience.

"How is she?" he asked, joining the medic. If the ID said "Joan Cortin," he'd have to accept that evidence; he certainly couldn't identify the woman he knew so well in this bloody, mangled body.

"Not good, Captain." Boris' English had a heavy Dmitrian accent, but Odeon had no trouble understanding him. "Badly beaten, raped--more than once, I believe--and she appears to have a spinal injury. The Brothers of course burned their mark into her hands, but that is minor." He looked up with a frown. "I regret having to tell you, Captain. She was your protego, was she not?"

"Yes, and she's still my friend." Odeon stood, making way for the other medics who promptly began working on the unconscious woman. So the Brothers had burned their circled-triangle mark into Joanie's hands, had they? That didn't happen often, but he was no more surprised than Boris had been that they'd given her that distinction. Not even all Special Ops officers rated that mark of the Brothers' special hatred, and why Joanie did was something he couldn't guess--she'd never been on an anti-Brotherhood operation, that he knew of--but they'd taken a special dislike to her for some reason none had divulged even under third-stage interrogation, calling her "the damned Enforcement bitch" in a tone Odeon himself reserved for those who had begun the Final War. Maybe they hated her just because she was the only active-duty female Enforcement officer. At any rate, they had marked her--and she was the first he knew about to survive the torture that accompanied the mark's infliction.

He watched the medics work, his thoughts going back. It'd started . . . what, twelve years ago? Yes, that sounded about right. A small town here in New Pennsylvania--and not too far away, if he remembered clearly. He'd been on light duty, wounded in his first fight with the Brotherhood and counting himself lucky to be alive. It had left him with a scar across his right cheek, cutting into his mouth and chin, but it had left five others dead, three disabled.

The scar had upset the young men he was interviewing; most had stared for a few seconds, then looked away. Well, they hadn't been very promising anyway. Recruiting trips to out-of-the-way small towns like that Boalsburg were mostly for show rather than out of any real expectation of finding good Enforcement candidates.

The last applicant's folder had brought a smile. Joan Cortin . . . Not many women applied for Enforcement, and even fewer qualified. He remembered thinking it probably hadn't been a serious application; more than likely, she just wanted to meet the "romantic" Enforcement officer. Odeon hadn't minded; he'd been rather flattered, if anything. He'd opened the folder and scanned it, intending to make it look good before he turned her down.

There'd been only one catch. Grades, psychoprofile, and physical stats said she did qualify--and at well above officer-cadet minimums. He'd wondered if she knew.

She hadn't. Her application had been the ruse he'd guessed; she admitted that immediately, without either staring at or avoiding his scar. She thought it added to his appeal, which hadn't hurt his feelings at all. It'd been rather enjoyable convincing her that she really was Enforcement-officer material, and he'd taken real pleasure in waiting until she was leaving--and her former schoolmates could hear--to tell her when she'd be picked up by an Enforcement trooper who'd drive her to the Royal Academy.

He'd been there for her graduation, too, proud that one of his recruits had been at the top of the class, commissioned First Lieutenant for that achievement. He'd given her her first salute, then staggered as sixty kilos of enthusiastic female officer jumped him for a congratulatory kiss.

Remembering that kiss--and the night that followed, the others later--Mike Odeon rubbed the scar crossing his lips. It hurt to see medics working over her, hear them sounding pessimistic. Her injuries seemed to be even more severe than Boris had said at first, and she'd been weak to begin with, just recuperating from one of the unnamed plagues that had devastated the Kingdom Systems during the Final War. The plagues were no longer common, hadn't been for over a century; Joanie had simply had the bad luck to pursue a gang of horse thieves into a still-contaminated area.

The medics were putting her onto a litter, careful to support her back. As they picked up the litter, her eyes flickered open and she looked in Odeon's direction. "Mike?"

A gesture stopped the medics. "What is it, Joanie?"

"Don't let 'em kick me out . . . while I can't fight back. I've gotta . . . get the bastards who did this . . . Mike, promise . . ."

"I promise, Joanie. I'll do everything I can, you know that." He waved the medics on, looking after them, then turned to his second. "Find anything useful, Sergeant?"

"Afraid not, sir. They're too damn good at covering up. We won't have a thing, unless Captain Cortin's able to give us some descriptions."

"All right. Call in a specialist squad from New Denver; they may be able to find some kind of evidence. Fingerprints, footprints, identifiable bullets--damn, but I wish we had what the prewars had!"

"Able to identify a culprit from a speck of blood or a hair?" Sergeant Vincent laughed bitterly. "Hell, if we could do that, we'd have the Brothers under control in six months."

"Yeah." Odeon tried to hide his frustrtion. "No use playing what-if, though; we could do that forever. Let's get back to HQ."

Silently, respecting their leader's mood, the Special Operations team returned to their command van for the copter-lift back to their Middletown headquarters. It wasn't until they were landing that anyone spoke. "Captain?"

"What is it, Boris?"

"I spoke with the physician, sir. Captain Cortin will be stabilized at the local clinic, then sent to New Denver for surgery. You are due for leave, are you not?"

"Yeah, and I intend to take advantage of it. Two years' worth of accumulated leave ought to give me time to help her stay in."

* * * * *

Leave arrangements weren't difficult to make. Special Operations teams tended to stay together, but casualties were high; anyone could be replaced quickly. By mid-morning the next day Odeon had finished briefing his temporary replacement, and by noon he'd used his Special Ops identification to get aboard a plane to New Denver.

He'd only flown twice before, with the exception of command-van copter-lifts, so he slept lightly when he did sleep, then took advantage of a rest stop to work the kinks of too much sitting out before the second leg. Back aboard, he listened to the engines and tried to doze off again. The throbbing roar they made was monotonous enough to be dulling, but too loud to be soothing . . .

Rather to his surprise, the second landing woke him up. He hadn't realized he'd managed to sleep again, and he grinned at himself as he exited the aircraft.

The air here smelled as fresh and clean as the newly-fallen snow, so good it'd be a shame to waste it. Odeon waved away the SO car that pulled up, walking to the terminal instead. By the time he'd made arrangements for a room in Visiting Officers' Quarters, his luggage, the single small bag that, with what a command van held, was enough for an SO man for half a month, was waiting. He claimed it, made his way through shift-change traffic to the VOQ, and checked in.

He went to his assigned room, intending to shower and get a few hours' rest. Boris had said Joanie would be brought here once she was stabilized; that could be today, if the doctors decided to fly her in, or up to a week if they decided she could tolerate surface travel.

He'd just gotten the shower temperature right, though, when he heard the four sharp knocks on his door that meant official business. With a muttered "Damn," he turned the water off, wrapped a towel around his waist, and went to the door. Couldn't a man even get a shower without being interrupted? "What is it?" he asked the young man in Medical Corps green when he opened the door.

The medtech looked at the clipboard he held. "Captain Michael Patrick Odeon of Royal Enforcement Service Special Operations?"

"Serial 263819. Yes." Odeon swore to himself. Formal identification meant the leave he'd planned to use helping Joanie was over, in favor of some special duty.

The tech extended the clipboard. "Captain Cortin has asked that you be the one to represent her interests while she is under treatment, sir. Would you sign here, please?"

Chuckling, Odeon took the clipboard and scanned the form it held. He should have expected this; trust Joanie to think of his leave time, have him assigned to what he would be doing anyway. Then he frowned at the length-of-assignment block: Indefinite. That was bad, tended to indicate Boris' field diagnosis of spinal injury was right. He found the signature block, wrote his name in the small precise script he was continually kidded about. "Is there any word on her condition or when she'll be here?"

"She will be on a special medevac flight from Middletown, sir, due in at 1815. I was told nothing of her condition. By your leave, sir?"

"Dismissed, Tech." Odeon closed the door and went to finish his interrupted shower. She wasn't due in for another ten hours; he had time to clean up, nap, and eat before he went in to speak to her doctors. By then, they'd know exactly what was wrong with her, and have some idea of what could be done for her.

* * * * *

Two hours before the medevac plane was due to land, Odeon was in one of New Denver Municipal Hospital's briefing rooms. There were half a dozen nurses, twice that many technicians, and several doctors in addition to the one behind the lectern.

By the time the briefing was over an hour later, the only things Odeon was sure of were that he hadn't understood more than one word in three, and that the doctor in charge of Joanie's case was as competent as she was attractive. Bernette Egan, she'd introduced herself--a neurosurgeon.

He went up to her as the others began leaving. "One moment please, Dr. Egan, if I may."

She tilted her head to one side, crisp gray curls contrasting with skin the color of rich chocolate as she looked up at him with a smile. "You would like a summary in plain English, Captain. Correct?"

Odeon found himself returning her smile. "Yes, ma'am, if you wouldn't mind. You'd tell Joanie--Captain Cortin--and she's made me her advocate."

"Indefinitely, yes. I saw the form. Come to the coffee shop, where we can be comfortable, and I'll be happy to tell you everything I can."

"As you wish, Doctor. I'm buying."

"As you wish, Captain." Egan smiled again, gestured him out of the briefing room. "The coffee shop isn't far."

The short walk didn't give them time to talk, but Odeon had understood one key item: Joanie had gotten treatment quickly enough that none of her injuries now threatened her life. Some were serious, yes--maybe damn serious, especially the spinal injury--but she would live!

Mike Odeon didn't understand why he felt so strongly about Joan Cortin and her welfare; all he knew was that he did. He'd recruited her, sure, but he'd recruited others; he'd slept with her, but he'd slept with others; he'd led the team that rescued her, but he'd done that before, too. Maybe it was because the other incidents had all involved different people, maybe it was because none had reacted as positively to him on first meeting . . . he didn't try to analyze it. He was in Special Operations; analysis was for Intelligence. He simply accepted facts as he found them.

Odeon let Egan choose pastries while he drew coffee and paid the cashier. Once they found an empty table and settled themselves, he said, "Okay, Doctor. Tell me."

"To begin with, most of her injuries are what I understand you Enforcement people call minor. Fractured skull, three broken ribs, assorted cuts, burns, and bruises." Egan frowned. "However, her spinal injury is serious even by your standards, and . . . Captain, did she plan to have children?"

'Did,' not 'does,' Odeon thought grimly. "Yes, Doctor." Until he'd met Joanie, Odeon hadn't minded that the red crossed daggers of the SO patch on his sleeve meant he was sterile; his parents had both had plague-derivatives that made it inevitable, and it was a fate he shared with almost a third of the Kingdom Systems' population. That patch also meant he was one of those trusted to protect his Kingdom and the Systems from their most dangerous enemies. No one able to have children was allowed into SO since the average life expectancy was less than a year . . . "As soon as she found a suitable--and fertile--man. What was it, the rape?"

"Multiple rapes, and not all with . . . natural equipment." Egan looked at the grim, scar-faced man across from her, uncomfortably aware that he was both upset and a trained killer. That she knew he was a devout man as well was little help; Church and state both 'overlooked' acts from Enforcement people that they would condemn in anyone else. It seemed reasonable to assume Odeon and Cortin had been lovers, that if he'd been fertile he would have been the father of her children. "Captain, it pains me to have to tell you this, but she was so badly injured by them that the doctors in Middletown were forced to do an emergency hysterectomy, simply to save her life."

"Does she know?" Odeon kept his voice level, but with effort.

"Not yet. She should be stronger before she is given any more shocks."

Odeon nodded; that made good sense. "What about her spine?"

Egan breathed a silent sigh of relief at the change of subject. "You know it has what are called discs?" At his nod, she went on. "Good. According to the medevac doctor, a sharp blow to her back has caused one of those discs to swell and 'float,' or pop out of position from time to time. The swelling may subside, but if it does not--which is most likely--Captain Cortin will be in constant pain. Either way, when the disc pops, she will be in agony to match anything a third-stage Inquisitor can do."

"I gathered from the briefing that you plan to try surgery. What're her odds?"

"Not good," Egan admitted. "I can't be sure until I examine her myself, but we have had little success in correcting a floating disc. There is an alternative procedure, spinal fusion--essentially welding part of the spine together so the disc can't pop. She will still hurt, and it will limit her mobility somewhat; the only advantage is that she'll be spared the agony of the disc moving out of place."

"That sounds like grounds for a disability discharge." Odeon sipped his coffee and made a face, trying to lighten his mood a bit. He wasn't that fond of coffee to begin with, and this certainly wasn't the best he'd had. "Do hospital coffee shops have to boil this stuff?"

"You get used to it," Egan said. "Yes, that is grounds for discharge, and at full pay. I will have to examine her myself, as I said, but if Dr. Franklin says it's a floating disc, that's exactly what it is. I'll send her discharge recommendation in to Enforcement HQ first thing tomorrow."

"No, Doctor, you'll give it to me for endorsement." Odeon saw her beginning objection, and raised a hand to forestall it. "She doesn't want a discharge; my endorsement will request a waiver. And she won't want her mobility limited, since it would hamper her in her work. So no spinal fusion, we'll just have to hope that other operation you mentioned works."

Egan frowned, concern for her patient overcoming her apprehension. "You're a harsh man, Captain Odeon, even harsher than I expected from one of your profession. Do you know what you're condemning her to?"

"I know what you just told me, yes. But I also know the last thing she asked me was to help her stay in. I am her advocate, Doctor; until you release her, my word goes."

"Unfortunately, it does," Egan said with a sigh. "But then she can countermand your orders."

Odeon half-bowed in his seat. "That's right, Doctor, and I hope to God she does. I don't want to see her hurting, but she asked me not to let her get kicked out while she couldn't defend herself. I'm doing for her what she would do for me if our positions were reversed."

Egan looked at him for several moments, silent, then she nodded. She was beginning to understand, she thought. His grim harshness was real, but it concealed equally real concern for the woman he represented. "As you say, Captain. Be sure Captain Cortin will have the best care I can give her."

This time Odeon stood to bow and answer, formally. "My thanks, Doctor Egan. When may I see her?"

"Tomorrow afternoon," Egan replied. "I have her scheduled for surgery--whichever procedure you decided on--at 0800. I assure you she will be given only those drugs which are absolutely necessary."

"My thanks again, Doctor." Odeon gave her a sketchy salute. "If you'll excuse me, I have to pick up some forms." At her nod he left, grateful for her last assurance. It was almost a hundred years since the Final War--not the nuclear holocaust the prewars had dreaded; there had been only a few atomics used, and most of those were relatively clean neutron bombs. The primary weapons had been biological; it was their devastation that had wiped out over fifty percent of the Kingdoms' population, and the passage of time hadn't removed the remainder's sudden overwhelming aversion to "unnatural substances" imposed on the body. Drugs were used, sparingly, by doctors--and not so sparingly by Enforcement Service Inquisitors.

* * * * *

The next morning Odeon woke at dawn as he usually did, but instead of rising at once, he rolled onto his back and laced hands behind his head.

Joanie. She hadn't been beautiful when he first met her, so she never had been. That suited him well enough; he didn't like the prewar standard of beauty that still prevailed in many places. Beauties were too fragile, didn't have the strength of a real woman the way Joanie did. Tall skinniness was fine in a paid-woman, but Joanie's compactness was better. Stronger and more suitable for an Enforcement officer or a mother, anyway-- He pushed that thought aside. Joanie might be able to stay in Enforcement, but she'd never be a mother.

He tried to remember her as she had been, 165 centimeters and maybe 59 kilos, mostly muscle, of vigorous womanhood. But it'd hurt to see her lying broken and bloody on the hospital floor, her short dark hair stiff with drying blood; he couldn't get that image out of his mind, so he made himself study it instead, trying to bring out anything he hadn't consciously noted then.

There wasn't much. The hospital hadn't been all that different from other Brothers of Freedom raid points, except in being a hospital, its occupants even more helpless than most. The only oddity was that they hadn't made sure of the woman they'd marked. Possibly Rascal and his locals had arrived before they were able to.

Odeon grinned wolfishly at that thought. Joanie was alive, and she wanted revenge. That kind of personal motivation wasn't really necessary, but in going after terrorists like the Brothers it didn't hurt; some of the things necessary in anti-terrorist sweeps were hard to stomach. And the Brothers were the worst of the terrorists, as well as the most wide-spread; they had units in every one of the Systems, while most groups were restricted to one or two.

He was getting off the subject, though, he told himself sternly. He was here to protect Joanie's interests, not worry about the Brothers. And if he was going to do that, it might be a good idea to get up.

He glanced at the clock, then almost tangled himself in the sheets in his hurry to get out of bed. It was almost six-thirty! If he didn't get a move on, he'd be late for seven o'clock Mass!

He made it, though with barely a minute to spare, and he found peace as usual in the familiar liturgy. There were still times he wished his call had been to the priesthood--he'd been raised in a monastery, by the White Fathers, after his parents died--but for the most part, he no longer missed the life too badly. The Fathers had comforted him when it became clear that his vocation was military rather than religious; enforcing civil order, they'd reminded him, was as important to human welfare as ministering to spiritual needs. And when he'd been commissioned, directly into Special Operations, several of them had been at the Academy to congratulate him.

As he went forward to take Communion, Odeon found his thoughts going to Joanie. He shouldn't be thinking about her, not now . . . but he couldn't concentrate on the Sacrament properly, even as he accepted and swallowed the Host. Well, the Fathers had taught him that if he couldn't, despite his best efforts, maybe he wasn't supposed to--and it wouldn't be the first time something had resolved itself this way. Returning to his place in the small chapel, he said a brief prayer to the Blessed Virgin as the Compassionate Mother for guidance. Surely, she would help the only officer of her sex in this dangerous vocation!

* * * * *

He was feeling better when he entered Egan's office half an hour after Mass was over. He hadn't found a solution, but he had become sure that one would make itself known; he'd just have to find it.

Egan wasn't there; she was already in surgery. But she'd left word that he could use her office while he waited, and he appreciated her thoughtfulness. An Enforcement officer in a civilian hospital waiting room tended to make patients and visitors nervous; a Special Ops officer tended to make the staff nervous as well, which bothered him. And a desk was far more convenient for doing paperwork than a lap. Odeon sighed as he picked up the form she'd left for him. It was her recommendation for Joanie's discharge, as promised, and it made no bones about the seriousness of her injuries, or about the resulting sterility and constant pain.

Frowning, Odeon read it again--and realized that here was at least part of his solution. Joanie was sterile, which meant she was eligible for Special Ops!

Granted that he didn't like either the fact or what had caused it, she was eligible, and he was positive that--given the cause--she would want to apply, which could very well give her a bit of an edge staying in. And he was equally positive that she'd be as outstanding in Special Ops as she had been in regular Enforcement work. He endorsed the discharge recommendation with a combined request, for waiver and transfer to Special Ops, then decided to tackle some paperwork he'd gotten behind on.

It was several hours before Egan returned to her office, obviously fatigued, and collapsed into an armchair. Despite his anxiety, Odeon took time to get her a cup of coffee and let her drink some before he asked tensely, "How did it go?"

"Better than I expected," Egan said, taking her desk back. "The operation was as successful as any I've performed." She raised a hand cautioningly. "That doesn't mean it's good; it isn't. It's just as good as it can be. She'll be in the pain I told you about, and the disc is still subject to popping, but it could've been far worse." Egan rubbed her eyes before going on. "Otherwise, I would say she will have a complete recovery, with no more than the usual scars. Except that she refused skin grafts for the brands on her hands."

"Mmm." Odeon frowned, thought for a moment, then smiled slowly. "I hadn't expected that, but it fits."

"Fits how?" Egan asked in near-exasperation. "I cannot for the life of me imagine why she would want to live with such reminders, as well as the pain."

"Not live with them," Odeon corrected. "You're thinking like a doctor, of course, but she's not one--she's an Enforcement officer who wants revenge. I'd say she intends to kill Brothers with them. And I'm trying to get her in a position to do just that."

Egan stared at him, appalled by the pleased anticipation in his soft voice and pale eyes. She'd known all her life that Enforcement people--especially those in Special Operations--were killers, but this was the first time that knowledge had actually frightened her. "Yes . . . is there anything else?"

"Only one." Odeon retrieved his briefcase, preparing to leave. He hadn't intended to disturb the doctor, but if she had any acquaintance with Enforcement at all, and was that easily upset, she should have known better than to ask such a question. "When can I see her?"

"Tomorrow morning, if you want to speak to her instead of just see her. You know the kind of equipment that will be hooked up to her?"

Odeon chuckled. "It's been hooked up to me more than once, Doctor. It doesn't bother me." It was enough for now to know his Joanie was doing as well as humanly possible. "Thank you for your efforts."

To meet Lawrence Shannon: 1a. Raid Master

2. Hospital

St. Thomas, Thursday, 20 June 2571

Odeon was still perplexed by the previous afternoon's odd meeting when he got to Joanie's room the morning after her surgery. The door was open, but he tapped on it and called her name anyway.

"Mike!" Cortin hoped he could hear the welcome she tried to put in her voice. "Come in, please!" She watched him approach, holding back tears. Mike had been her ideal since the day she'd met him, and she'd done her best to live up to his example of cool, impartial professionalism. He was an outstanding officer, an exemplary son of the Church; he certainly wouldn't come apart, so she had to conceal her anguish. She couldn't forfeit his respect for her by collapsing, even though the Brothers had maimed and perhaps crippled her.

He entered, smiling as he saw her. Her head and hands were bandaged, along with most of one arm; her face had half a dozen cuts and bruises not worth bandaging; and her ribs had undoubtedly been strapped tight under her hospital gown, but-- "You're looking a lot better than you were the last time I saw you. How do you feel?"

"Right now, I mostly don't. They've got me so heavily doped up it's a miracle I'm awake and coherent. At least I hope I am. Coherent, that is; I know I'm awake."

"You sound fine to me," Odeon assured her. He leaned over, kissed her forehead. "Ready for my report?"

"Not until you do better than that," she said. "I know you can, and as far as I can tell, my mouth is all right."

"As good as ever, but I don't hug people with broken ribs." He kissed her as thoroughly as he thought possible without hurting her, then pulled up a chair to sit beside the bed.

Her first question gave him an unpleasant shock. "Have you put me in for Special Ops?"

"What?" he said, trying to stall. Dammit, she wasn't supposed to know she was eligible yet!

Cortin sighed. "I don't need a doctor to know I've been spayed, Mike. The incision in my belly, after what the Brothers did to me, makes it obvious I'll never have a family. It was unlikely before; now it's simply impossible. You can thank God I'm on sedatives right now, or I'd probably be a raving maniac. So answer the question."

"I have, yes. I found out day before yesterday that you'd be eligible, took the paperwork to Headquarters yesterday as soon as Doctor Egan told me you'd made it through the surgery with a reasonably good prognosis, and started to walk it through." He paused, frowning.

"And?"

"I don't know," Odeon said slowly. "Personnel didn't seem too interested in doing anything about the waiver request at first, until I raised my voice a bit." He chuckled briefly. "It seems office workers are more than a little apprehensive about an upset Special Ops man. At any rate, once I convinced them to do more than glance at the forms, I was very politely escorted to a private office--which is where it gets odd. Joanie, there was a colonel of His Majesty's Own there!"

"His Majesty's Own!" Cortin said, impressed. "So what happened?"

"Not much--which is what bothers me." Odeon frowned. "He took the forms, read them, nodded once, and told me not to tell anyone including you about the meeting. I asked what was going on, told him I had to tell you something--but the only thing he'd say was that it was a classified project, that you'd be given serious consideration, and that he'd be in touch as soon as the decision was made. Typical bureaucrat talk--but the oddest thing is that I believe him."

"Did he give you any idea of when?"

Odeon shook his head. "No--but I'd guess not more than a few days. Full colonels don't work for long in bare-bones offices without even carpeting."

"True, especially when they belong to His Majesty's Own. And I've got a couple of months before I'm well enough I have to make a final decision--I presume I am eligible for a disability discharge?"

"Yes, of course, at full pay. But I don't like what I think you're getting at. Joanie, don't do anything you'll regret."

"I don't intend to," Cortin said quietly. "I know what I have to do, though. If I can stay in and do it, that's best, of course. If I have to get out, though, I'll do that instead. One way or another, Brother Lawrence Shannon and the rest of them on that raiding party are gone--and so are any Brothers who get in my way to them." She looked at her bandaged hands for a long moment, then back up at him. "Which I'm sure you guessed when Egan passed along the information that I was keeping their marks."

Odeon nodded. "Partly--that you'd go after them. Not that you'd consider going rogue to do it." Enforcement took superlative care of its members and their families, if they had any . . . but when a trooper went bad, all its resources went into hunting and then killing him. Or her. Odeon had participated in three of those hunts, hating the necessity but as grimly determined as any to rid the world of them. Dammit, Enforcement troopers were sworn to protect the Kingdoms and their citizens--when one went rogue, he had to be stopped! And yet . . . the idea of taking part in such a hunt with Joanie as the target upset him more than it should. Not that the alternative was any better! "Joanie, please--don't do it."

"As I said, I don't intend to." Cortin took a deep breath. "You know me too well to believe I'd do something like going rogue if I had any choice in the matter. And I need time and resources a rogue wouldn't get, to do what I have to--but I can't do it if I'm stuck behind a desk, either." She frowned, still unable to make sense of the feeling of absolute certainty that had come over her during the Brothers' torture. "Mike, we both know I'm as practical and non-mystical as anyone could be--but while the Brothers were working me over, I . . . realized, or discovered, or something, that eliminating them is my job. It helps that I have a personal reason for wanting to, but that's a bonus. Whatever happens to me, whatever I have to do to accomplish it, I don't have any choice about the fact. I have to get rid of the Brothers--and I plan to enjoy it." She stared at her hands again. "Then I may be able to get rid of these Hell-marks. Can you understand that?"

"I think so--and God help me, I couldn't blame you if you did go after them on your own. But I'd still have to help hunt you down." Odeon was less positive of that than he made himself sound, though. He wasn't at all certain he'd be able to, even if not doing it meant he'd share her outlawry--if the thought of hunting her was upsetting, the idea of actually harming her was revolting. Worse than revolting, really--impossible was more like it.

The sudden awareness of that stunned him. He hadn't realized he felt so strongly about her! He shouldn't; no one in Special Ops should have any more than professional respect for another person. There most emphatically should not be anything like that strong a feeling! It was almost like--no. He was too professional to love anyone, especially a fellow officer, however many times he might have shared a bed with him or her.

On the other hand, what else could it be? He'd have no objection to hunting down Wolf Corbett, say, if it were necessary--and Wolf had been on his team the longest of any, almost a year now, and was the closest friend other than Joanie that he had.

He sent up a quick prayer for guidance, and felt an immediate sense of reassurance. He did love Joanie, and it was all right . . . but she didn't love him yet, so there was no reason to burden her with the knowledge of his feelings.

"Is something wrong, Mike?" Cortin's voice brought him back to the present. "You look like you ate something that's disagreeing with you."

"No, I'm fine. It's your problems we should be worrying about now, anyway." Odeon made himself smile. "Let's assume you make it into this classified project, and that it's something that'll let you at the Brothers."

"We might as well," Cortin said, shifting position slightly. "The first thing is to get off these drugs. The sooner I learn to cope with what's happened, the sooner I can get to work. I need to get my strength back, hone up my hand-to-hand combat, and do some serious study of interrogation techniques. I'm okay at first-stage, but Brothers don't break that easily; I'm going to have to be more than just good, at all three stages. Especially third. Will you help me?"

"Of course." That was his Joanie, all right, Odeon thought proudly. No crying or self-pity for her; instead, a plan that would let her accomplish what she intended. He took the clipboard from the foot of her bed and studied it for a moment. "Dear God! They do have you in deep, don't they? Do you want to make a cold break, or would you rather taper off?"

"Cold break," Cortin said firmly. Even though it was probably a decision she would regret, it was what she was certain he would have done.

"Right." Odeon made the necessary notations, initialed each one, then replaced the clipboard. "You can't do much about exercise or combat training until you're out of bed, but you can read . . . mmm. I think you should go for an Inquisitor's Warrant, even though you won't be able to do the practical work right away. If you want to go that route, I know an instructor at the Academy who'll give you classroom credit for reading the course materials and passing a test, then let you do the practical when you're back on your feet."

Cortin nodded. "I would--thanks." The Warrant wouldn't do her any legal good if she did go rogue, but she'd have the skill, and letting her subjects know she'd had a Warrant should make it easier to break them. "How soon can I get the texts?"

"I should be able to have them for you by visiting hours tomorrow. Anything else?"

"Newspapers, please--and a pair of gloves, for when the bandages come off."

"No problem; Sergeant Vincent promised to send your gear along. I figure it should be here tomorrow or the next day."

"Thanks--I should have thought to ask."

"You did have other things on your mind at the time," Odeon pointed out. He hesitated, went on reluctantly. "Speaking of which, as soon as you feel up to it, you should be debriefed."

Cortin would have preferred to keep the information for her own use, but by the time she was able to do anything with it, it would be obsolete, useless. Best to pass it on to the debriefers, then hope her fellow Enforcement troops would keep the trail warm without taking the quarry that was rightfully hers. "I'll be glad to talk to them any time they want. And if the team includes an artist, I think I can describe the ones I saw well enough for him to draw."

"That would help--I'll make sure it has one. And I'll try to get them here before the painkillers wear off; I don't think you'd want them to see you in pain."

"I don't, and I wouldn't be able to cooperate as well, either. As soon as you can, then."

"I'll do that." Odeon turned to leave, then hesitated and turned back. Joanie went to church Sundays and holy days when she wasn't on duty, though she wasn't what he'd call really devout. Still, it wouldn't hurt to ask. "Would you like to see a priest?"

Not really, was her first reaction, but on the other hand, why not? As usual, she didn't have anything to confess--part of her, with wry humor, said it was because she hadn't the imagination to think of any interesting sins, as well as not having any opportunities. Might be a good idea to take advantage of this chance, though; if she were accepted for Special Ops, she'd be given Exceptional Holy Orders--empowered to carry out time-critical priestly functions, mostly Last Rites--and she really ought to be sure of being ready for ordination. "Maybe I should." She hesitated, then asked, "Mike--did you give me Last Rites?"

Odeon shook his head. "By the time I got to you, Sergeant Vincent had already taken care of it."

"If you get a chance, will you thank him for me?"

"My pleasure." Odeon bent to kiss her goodbye, then paused when bandaged hands took and held his.

Cortin looked up at him, her throat tight. Maybe he wouldn't fault her for one bit of weakness . . . "Mike, I know I'm not a real woman any more, but . . . maybe I can still function like one. Will you help me find out? Please?"

"As soon as the plumbing's out and you feel up to it," Odeon promised, stricken by her uncharacteristic vulnerability. Blessed Mother of God, he prayed silently, don't let them have robbed her of that, too! She's lost the ability to have children; don't let her be condemned to the constant danger we face without even this consolation! "Just let me know when, Joanie. I'll be here for you." He kissed her again, and left. Cortin watched him go, relieved. He'd been reassuring, not scornful, and that was a big help in itself.

* * * * *

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

3. Center

Late July 2571

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."

* * * * *

Tuesday, 23 July 2571

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?"

4. Ordination

St. Thomas, Tuesday, 23 July 2571

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: 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: 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."

5. Azrael

St. Thomas, Wednesday, 24 July 2571

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."

* * * * *

Cortin was uncertain what to do after the briefing. Part of her said to read the records and start picking her troops; the other part said to find herself another Brother to question. After some internal debate, she went with the first alternative; her fellow Inquisitors had told her they'd get any information she might be interested in to her, as soon as possible after they'd gotten it, so she could start picking her team without worrying that she'd miss something she should know.

With that decided, she and Mike went to the Academy area that had been set up for such record study and interviews. She groaned when she saw the masses of personnel folders she'd be expected to go through--paperwork had never been her strong point--but she grabbed a handful, sighing. "You, too, Mike," she said. "We may not be able to tell who we do want from these, but we ought to be able to pick the ones we don't."

"Right." Odeon didn't like paperwork any better than she did, but he did know as well as she how inevitable it was. "Anything in particular, or just someone we could both work with?"

"I think it'll be good enough if we get someone we can work with," Cortin said. "Manage that, and we can go from there. Just look for good strong motivations, because where we're likely to be going after Brothers, we'll sure be earning our bonuses."

By the end of the afternoon, the two of them had gone through about a third of the records, finding a medic and a communications specialist they definitely wanted, as well as several that looked promising if an interview showed they had no objection to working for an Inquisitor. Quite a number of people objected to even working near an Inquisitor, for which Cortin supposed she couldn't blame them--she'd been apprehensive about Inquisitors herself, not all that long ago--but since all the teams would have Inquisitors, it semed reasonable to assume that those who couldn't work with them at all would have been removed from consideration.

Her first interview was the following day with the medic, a nun transferred from St. Ignatius to St. Thomas by her Order, at her request. Cortin rose as the young woman in sky-blue slacks and shirt--the Blue Sisters' field habit--entered. Sister Mary Piety was as attractive as her photo indicated, but there was an air of stress that hadn't shown there. From her records, Cortin thought it was probably the residue of her mistreatment by the Brothers--well, she'd find out. She introduced herself and gestured the nun to a chair, then took her own seat. "I know what's in your records, of course, Sister; I just want to get to know you as a person, and let you know me well enough to decide whether or not you can work for me. So relax; I only hurt criminals."

"I understand, Captain." Chang studied the woman in Enforcement gray, puzzled. There was something about Captain Cortin that reminded her of the Raidmaster--but in Cortin, it wasn't frightening. It wasn't even mildly disturbing, the way she usually felt around an Inquisitor; if anything, it was reassuring, even comforting. "What do you wish to know?"

"Well . . . it puzzles me that when you reported the attack on the clinic, you always called Shannon 'the Raidmaster', never by name. I admit he's frightening, but that much?"

"I was not aware then that he used that name," Chang said, hiding her irritation. "Nor is it fear that keeps me silent. I tried to tell the troopers, but I was unable to say his name--or to describe how I discovered his identity."

"No offense intended," Cortin said mildly. "Your report said he'd forbidden you to tell, yes--obviously with more than words."

"That is true, Captain," Chang said, mollified. "Though I have found that almost as difficult to describe." She smiled tentatively. "It may be as well I have such difficulty--were I able to identify him as I know him, I would not be believed."

"If you ever feel able, I'll believe you. He qualified me for Special Ops and the Strike Force, too." Cortin chuckled, though with little real humor. "I don't even think I'd be too surprised if you identified him as Shayan incarnate. Mind you, I don't think I'd believe it--" She broke off at the nun's sudden expression of shock. "Did I say something wrong?"

Chang sighed with the relief of Shannon's coercion dissolving. "That is he. You have said what I could not, Captain Cortin. I am in your debt."

Cortin didn't believe the identification, but her truthsense left no doubt Chang did. And she had to admit it was a natural identification to make, given the plaguer's actions. "Was there anything special to identify him?"

"His power and evils are enough, but I believe he wished me to be certain. Did he seem a normal man when he attacked you?"

"As normal as a terrorist ever is," Cortin said.

"That was not so in my case. His general body temperature was quite high, well beyond a human's survival limits. His genitals, however, were extremely cold--the classic description, as you know."

"Yes." That had to be hypnotism or drugs, Cortin thought, but beliefs were hard for mere facts to alter; she wouldn't argue pointlessly with someone who promised to be extremely good for the team. "Even with that, you're willing to help hunt him?"

"We are all called to fight evil," Chang said calmly. "My call was simply more unmistakable than many. Yes, I am willing."

She couldn't ask for more than that, Cortin decided. Excellent medical qualifications, an "Expert" small-arms rating, plenty of courage--and she sounded almost as devout as Mike. Cortin thought it odd that she'd be concerned about devotion when she wasn't particularly devout herself, but the fact remained: talking to Piety had made it clear that it should be one of her considerations. "One stipulation, and you're in," she said. "I don't want any auxiliaries on Team Azrael; you'll have to trade that habit for a uniform. There's no proof you're technically qualified for Special Ops, but since you've gotten a waiver, that's no problem."

"As this branch of Enforcement now has priests, there is no reason it should not also have a nun. I will make the trade."

"Good! Let me get my second and another witness, and I'll swear you in."

Cortin was a little surprised that no one questioned her power to administer a commissioning oath without prior authorization, but she'd apparently been right in her guess that it was one of her rights as a Strike Team leader; after all, it was neither treason nor regicide, and it was in the interest of eliminating the terrorists. As a side effect, one she hoped might reduce press attention to herself, it made her no longer the only female Enforcement officer.

When the ceremony was over and Chang had accepted Odeon's offer to help her get her ID and uniforms later, that afternoon--"Anything to get away from stacks of personnel records," he admitted cheerfully--he and the other witness left the two women alone. Cortin studied the nun for a moment before speaking again.

"You're aware, of course, that your Enforcement oath takes precedence over your vows--and that being Strike Force means you owe obedience only to your Strike Force superiors, the High King, and His Holiness."

"I am aware of all that." Which was true, Chang thought. She was no longer restricted by her vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience--or protected by them, illusory as that protection had proven when she had most needed it.

"And you're a field medic, so you know what tends to go on in a team's spare time. Will that bother you, now?"

"No, Captain. I have been on missions since; shelter parties and the like do not disturb me." Chang smiled momentarily. "In fact, my last . . . experience . . . with His Infernal Majesty seems to have had a side effect he did not anticipate and may not like. Forcing me to feel sexual pleasure, even with him, has let me appreciate what willing partners give each other. Since then, I have found it highly enjoyable watching them, where earlier I had no particular reaction."

"As long as you don't have to participate, naturally." Which she most certainly wouldn't; any attempt to compel sex, at least in Enforcement, was dealt with harshly--and usually right then. "If you'd like, I'll tell the men not to even ask you."

"I would appreciate that. Even though I am unable to accept their offers, I would prefer not to hurt their feelings by refusing."

"I'll take care of it, then. Have you tried therapy, to get over what happened?"

"And prayer," Chang agreed. "I shall increase my efforts at both now, of course; it would be unfair to the rest of the team to do less."

That was true, Cortin thought. No one could be faulted for not taking part, but that shouldn't be because of a correctable disability; it should be either voluntary, or because of permanent disability like her own. It seemed a cruel irony that Chang had the ability without the desire, while she had the desire without the ability. At least she could try to take comfort in the fact that one of them had a chance to be fully functional again . . . "If there's any way I can help, just let me know. And let the men know if you beat your problem."

"I will be certain to."

* * * * *

Shannon felt a brief surge of power, traced it--and hastily retreated, swearing. That God-loving Cortin had dissolved the compulsion of silence he'd put on Piety, without even knowing she was doing it! That was a minor use of power, of course, but it was more than he'd thought her capable of, even--or especially--unconsciously. If she could do that, he'd have to stop even observing her--not just when she was idle, but when she should have her full attention on her work. No more watching her while he played with Victor, then, unfortunately--no more watching her, period.

He could do without the entertainment she provided, but it would be inconvenient doing without the information she let him eavesdrop on. What really bothered him was the timing. It might simply be coincidence that Cortin's first real use of her power took place the first time she met Piety--but he didn't trust coincidence, especially not when it involved someone with Cortin's latent power.

He should've killed the nun when he had her, amusing though it had been to torment her further by letting her live. Well, that was one mistake he could remedy! Sister-Lieutenant Eleanor Mary Piety Chang had just made it to the top of the Brotherhood's wipe list.

There was more than a little risk to that, of course, especially if an attempt was made on her when Cortin was in the area--it might trigger the Bitch into using her powers instead of keeping her from them--but he thought it a risk worth taking.

Wait a minute! Lieutenant? He'd barely brushed her mind before jerking back, but the brief contact had been enough to tell him she thought of herself differently. A Lieutenant of Enforcement, and a member of the whatever-it-was--Strike Force?--the various Kingdoms had gathered groups of their best to form.

Shannon scowled. A Strike Force or equivalent, able to attract people like Piety, was extremely bad news--especially at a time when he was forced to restrict his own powers.

* * * * *

Cortin's next interview, with the communications specialist, was rather different. She'd known his size and race, from his records--but facing a man over two meters tall and built like a weightlifter, with skin so dark it was almost blue, was an experience she'd never had before. So was his reaction, when he entered the interview office; his eyes lit up, and he gave her a brilliant smile before saluting. "Lieutenant Joseph Pritchett reporting to Team Leader Azrael as ordered, ma'am. And thank you for considering me."

"Be seated, Lieutenant," Cortin said. As he obeyed, she went on. "Your enthusiasm is flattering; may I ask why?"

It was impossible for his complexion to get any darker, but she had the impression he was flushing. "I've heard about Captain Cortin ever since my freshman year at the Academy," he said. "I've always wanted to work with you, but I was never in the right place at the right time, and when I heard what the Brothers had done to you, I thought sure you'd retire. I'm glad you didn't, and I'll finally get to work with you--if you want me after this, of course. I hadn't heard you were an Inquisitor, though."

"That's quite recent," Cortin said. "Would it bother you, working for one?" She was flattered that he'd wanted to work with her that much, and hoped it wouldn't.

"Not working for one, no, ma'am--but I've got to tell you right from the start that I'd really rather not help with third-stage."

"I don't see any reason you should have to," Cortin assured him. "I'm training my second, Captain Odeon, as my assistant, and I hope to find someone with Inquisitor as a second specialty for the team. Any other problems?"

"No, ma'am."

"Good. Welcome to Team Azrael, then. Two more items, before I turn you over to Captain Odeon for a complete briefing and equipment issue. Firstly, off duty and within the team, first names are proper; mine is Joan. Do you prefer Joseph or Joe?"

"Either is fine, ma'am. I'm generally called Tiny, though."

Cortin chuckled. "Tiny it is, then. The other thing: I will expect your sexual conduct to remain withing so-called 'normal' bounds while we're within populated areas. I'll make sure you have adequate access to decent, reputable courtesans, or you can find yourself an informal wife; that's up to you. Otherwise--as long as you don't involve anyone who isn't willing, of course--what you do is up to you."

"Couldn't ask for more than that," Pritchett said. "Ah--does that freedom include yourself, ma'am? I've heard how much fun you are, especially at a shelter party; I'd appreciate being allowed in, either alone or with the rest of the team."

"And I'd enjoy having you, either way." She'd liked the pairing that, even with Enforcement's dispensation, it was wisest to confine oneself to in civilization--but she'd also liked, and taken full advantage of, the opportunities offered by an entire team in one of the shelters the Service put up for its people traveling in remote areas. She cut off those memories sternly, before they could become too painful. "Unfortunately, the attack left me incapable of that pleasure."

"Dear God!" Pritchett said, looking sick. "There must be something that can be done!"

"Cosmetically, yes, my doctor says. Nothing . . . erotically useful." Cortin grinned sourly. "Which I don't think upset her unduly. She's a good doctor, but a typical civilian. I'm learning to live with that, as well as the pain. I appreciate your concern, but if you'll excuse me the Terran slang, what can't be cured must be endured; don't worry about it." She stood, extending a hand. "Welcome again, Tiny."

* * * * *

It took two dozen more interviews over the next couple of days to find the other two members she wanted for Tea