Chapter 3

"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."