The Alembic Plot: A Terran Empire novel

by Ann Wilson

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: [4a. Reaction]

Odeon watched in revolted fascination as his Joanie stripped skin, with precise delicacy, from the screaming renegade's hands. He'd expected her to go after the plaguer's manhood in retaliation for what had been done to her, but—except for a couple of times he'd been lying so obviously it was an insult—she had left that alone.

When she finished her subject's hands, Cortin stepped back to study him. She had discovered quickly that his personal horrors included being skinned alive, so that had become her primary tactic against him. It was slow—enjoyably so, for her—and it was working very nicely indeed. "Have you decided to cooperate yet?"

"Damn you, Bitch!" The renegade tried to spit at her, without success. "Do your damndest—you won't get nothin' from me!"

Cortin smiled. He was still defiant, true, but Illyanov agreed with her assessment that he was the type who would remain defiant until he broke abruptly, and the same sense that told her when he was lying now told her he was close to that abrupt break. Give him the proper physical and psychological stimuli, and he should go from defiance to surrender in seconds.

She had already planned what to do, a continuation of her primary tactic—but a little bit of insurance wouldn't hurt. She turned to the other two. "Would either of you gentlemen care to avail yourselves of our guest while he still has enough spirit to be interesting? I fear I am being greedy, keeping him to myself."

Illyanov smiled, bowing to her. She hadn't been avoiding an extremely useful technique, as he had been half afraid she was, because it had been done to her; she had merely postponed it until the optimum time. "It is generous of you to share, Inquisitor. It has been some time since I have had the opportunity to indulge myself in another's subject. I will not interrupt your work?"

Both ignored the renegade's protests and insults as Cortin returned the bow. "Not at all—your enjoyment of him should make the removal of his genital skin even more effective." And enjoyable … "Particularly if you can make him move enough that it is he who pulls himself free of it."

"That should pose no particular difficulty."

If it hadn't been his Joanie doing the work, his Joanie who might need his help, Odeon would have taken advantage of his non-Inquisitor status to leave. He'd taken part in some second-stage interrogations, on occasion enjoyed them if the recipient had done something particularly revolting—but even the most methodical of those beatings seemed more human, cleaner, than the cool, meticulous infliction of pain both Inquisitors so obviously enjoyed. At first he'd thought Joanie's enjoyment a pretense intended to make her subject's torment harder to endure, but he couldn't convince himself of that any longer. Joanie was enjoying her subject's anguish, taking a delight in his screams and writhings that Odeon found sickening. But it was Joanie; after what had been done to her, surely she had a right to whatever pleasures she could find …

Cortin was beginning to think she'd miscalculated her subject's resistance when screams of defiance turned abruptly, as anticipated, into hopeless whimpering sobs mixed with pleas for mercy. She looked past him to Illyanov, who nodded; while he finished, she went to the instrument table and picked up a slender, razor-sharp dagger.

"Here is the end to your pain," she said softly, laying it against the raw flesh of the rogue's throat. "As soon as you answer my questions, I will give you your release. You have learned that you cannot lie to me; try it again, and you will find what has happened so far only the beginning. Do you understand?"

"Yes … Oh, God, no more!"

"That is up to you, not Him; you gave up any claim on His Mercy when you pledged allegiance to His enemies." Though, an inner voice said, he could still repent … "Tell me about Lawrence Shannon. Who he is, where he is, what his plans are."

"I don't know all that … please, I don't!"

He was telling the truth, unfortunately. "Very well. Tell me what you do know, then."

"I'm … not sure. No! Honest—he's the Raidmaster, everyone knows that—plans all the new-style raids—but nobody knows him. A Lawrence Shannon even leads all those raids, but not the same one, maybe not the one who plans 'em. An' that's all I know about 'im, honest!"

"I believe you," Cortin said. It was too bad he knew so little, and that so inconclusive, but she had no doubt that he was telling her all he did know, as she'd asked. "Have you heard anything else? It need not be certain—a rumor of his plans, perhaps."

"No … no, wait … maybe. I overheard something … a hospice … or could be a retirement home, or some sort of hospital. Old folks, or sick ones, anyway. That's all."

"All on that subject, or all on any?"

"All on any … please?"

"You have earned it." Cortin drove the knife up under his ear; he gasped, shuddered once, and died.

Cortin looked at him for a moment, then smiled. "Compared to your present master, my friend, I was easy on you. May you suffer under him for eternity."

Odeon tasted bile, knew suddenly he was going to be sick. "Joanie—"

She turned, saw his pale face, and hurried to him. "Can you make it to the washroom?"

"I don't think—"

"No, he cannot," Illyanov interrupted, coming over and holding a wastebasket.

Odeon had time for a grateful look before his stomach completed its rebellion. He felt Joanie's hand stroking his head, heard both Inquisitors telling him it was all right as they helped him into the suite's outer room and got him seated. When he was finished, Joanie handed him a towel; he wiped his mouth and looked up at them. "I'm sorry."

"That is a normal reaction," Illyanov said calmly. "There is no need to apologize; you did better than could have been expected."

"You should've left if it bothered you," Cortin said. "I'd like to have you backing me, yes, but not if my work's going to upset you like this."

"I'll get used to it," Odeon said stubbornly. "I can't promise I'll ever get to like it, but I will learn to handle it well enough to give you any backup you need."

"You set yourself a difficult task," Illyanov said. "I feel safe in predicting you will not come to like it; observing you, I would say you lack the quirk of mind required to take pleasure in another's pain. With adequate motivation, time, and exposure, however, you may develop enough tolerance to be able to assist."

"I'll settle for that." Odeon's stomach churned again at the thought of doing what Illyanov had, unsure whether he was pleased or not at the Major's prognosis. In a way, it'd be good to share Joanie's pleasure even in that … "What do I do, sit in on all her interrogations?"

"I would normally recommend that you begin with a less talented Inquisitor," Illyanov said, "as that would be less unpleasant for you. However, Captain Cortin is the one you will be teamed with, so perhaps it would indeed be as well if you work with her from the beginning."

"Less talented?" Odeon asked, puzzled. "That doesn't make sense."

"If you think for a moment," Illyanov said gently, "you will find it makes very good sense. One with less talent cannot judge tolerances as well, is not as sensitive to an individual subject's particular dreads, is more likely to believe lies told to please him and stop the interrogation, and—although this is also true of Captain Cortin, until she acquires experience to match her theoretical knowledge and raw talent—apt to let the subject die before extracting all possible information."

"Put that way, it does make sense," Odeon admitted. "I've never thought about Inquisitors very much—or the talents you have to have."

"Few people do," Illyanov said drily. "Few people care to think much about us, fewer still about how we obtain our results—even though they have no objections to using those results. We get few thanks and less praise for what we do, so it is well that God grants us the mercy of deriving our satisfaction from the work itself."

Odeon nodded. That was something else he'd never thought about … and again, it made sense. "I understand, I think. So I'll work with her whenever she's doing an interrogation, then?"

"Yes. When you feel able to assist, you will of course be covered by her Warrant." He looked at his watch, then grinned ruefully at Cortin. "I thought we had been busy for some time, but I had not realized I had lost track of time to this degree. It is almost midnight—I think we had best call it a day immediately, and pray Doctor Egan does not find out how late I kept you. I am not feeling sucicidal enough to face her if she feels I have been overworking you again."

"Neither am I! Once was more than enough." The chewing out Egan had given tham when she'd caught them in a tutoring session after visiting hours was one Cortin would remember with respect for some time. "See you at breakfast?"

"It would be my pleasure."

---

Cortin slept soundly, and when she woke early it was in anticipation of assisting at Mike's First Mass and then celebrating her own. She found herself looking forward to both of them more than she could remember having done since her First Communion, after the way the previous day's had made her feel.

Her anticipation suffered a setback, though, when she found a note from Mike in her message box; he'd been asked to say his First Mass for some newly-arrived Strike Force selectees, and he said she would have as well if she hadn't still been on hospital status. She didn't see how saying Mass could be more strenuous than conducting interrogations—though maybe Egan didn't know she'd done any—but she couldn't object.

For Odeon's First Mass: [4b. Odeon's First Mass]

She opened the field Mass kit she'd been issued and laid it out on the bureau, kissed the stole and put it around her neck, then blessed herself and began her First Mass. She was surprised at how easily she was able to speak the Latin; even though she'd heard it almost every Sunday since she was old enough to remember, she'd never seriously tried to use it. She'd heard the Terrans had experimented with using whatever the local language happened to be, but that seemed almost sacrilegious; she couldn't imagine Mass without the solemnity and beauty of Latin.

As she continued, offering her prayers and her pain to the figure on the crucifix, the ceremony seemed to take on a life of its own, filling her with a sense of rightness and peace. At some point Illyanov's voice joined hers, taking over the responses; she accepted it without surprise. Nor was she surprised, when the time came, to find several men in Enforcement gray kneeling for Communion.

It wasn't until she finished the service that she realized they were all Inquisitors, or wondered how they came to be in a room she was positive she'd locked the night before. When she asked, Illyanov chuckled and held up a key. "I did not think it fitting that you have to celebrate your First Mass alone, so I spoke with Colonel Bradford and received his permission to act as your server, as well as—since I convinced him it would be impossible to keep secret the fact of Special Operations priests, especially from Inquisitors when one of those priests is also one of us, for more than a few days—to invite several of our colleagues." He introduced them, then said, "It is our pleasure to invite you to breakfast at the Eagle's Nest. That is one of the few commercial establishments where Inquisitors in uniform are welcome—probably because the proprietor was one of us before his retirement—and has much better food than the dining hall. Will you join us?"

Odeon had loaned her a Special Operations patch until she could get to the Uniform Sales store to buy some, and she was wearing her new Inquisitor's badge, so she was in full uniform; she had no hesitation in accepting. Tucking her stole into a tunic pocket, she said, "I'd be honored—just let me put my kit away."

---

The Eagle's Nest proprietor, unlike the young private she'd met the previous day, obviously followed Service news; he recognized her, welcoming her with almost embarrassing effusiveness, asking how she felt, congratulating her on becoming an Inquisitor and her success with her first subjects, expressing delight and asking the Reverend Mother's blessing when Illyanov told him she was a priest.

When they were seated, Cortin turned to Illyanov. "Is he always like that?"

"Only since he retired," Illyanov assured her. "He misses our professional discussions and fellowship, although I doubt he would wish to give up this profession, either." He grinned. "It is, after all, far more profitable than the Service."

Cortin chuckled. "It would be, yes. But he seems to keep in pretty close touch—normal news channels wouldn't have anything on how I'd handled my subjects."

"He prides himself on it, true—and since we find it useful from time to time, we help him."

"Useful how?"

"You're a good example," a young First Lieutenant said. "We all know you're interested in that plaguer Shannon—those plaguers, I should say—so we'll see to it you get anything about 'em we come across. Can't do it through official channels, though—personal revenge isn't frowned on, exactly, if it can be done in line of duty, but it isn't exactly sanctioned, either. So we'll give it to Francis, and he'll get it to you. You'll be expected to return the favor if you come across anything that'll be of special interest to one of us, of course."

"Of course. Just let me know your interests; I'll be glad to ask about them."

"No problem; we'll leave notes in your message box."

Cortin chuckled. "I hadn't expected this sort of mutual support when I started my studies—but I'm glad to find it. Would it be proper to ask Mr. Robbins to join us?"

"Francis," Illyanov corrected her. "Off duty and among ourselves, we are less formal than others might think desirable. To answer your question, however: yes, it would be perfectly proper to ask him to join us. Christopher, would you mind?"

"Sure thing." The young Lieutenant rose, grinning at Cortin. "Everyone but Ivan calls me Chris, though, okay?"

"Okay, Chris." As he left in search of the proprietor, Cortin turned to Illyanov. "Ivan—" it seemed strange calling him that—"thanks." She looked around. "Thank all of you, for joining me. It means a lot."

"It means much to us, as well." Illyanov touched her hand. "You are new to our field, Joan, but already you must begin to feel our isolation. An Inquisitor who is also a priest is most literally a gift from God."

"I'm not the only one," she said, uncomfortable with his intensity. "Colonel Bradford, uh …" She hesitated, realizing that the Bishop was the only other Priest-Inquisitor she knew of.

"His Excellency's other committments do not normally permit him to exercise his priestly functions on an individual basis, not true?"

"True." Most Bishops did have to be more concerned with administration than with a chaplain's duties … "Okay, I guess you're right. What can I do for you?"

"Hear our confessions, for one thing," a graying Captain said. "I messed up, oh—three or four months ago, but the chaplain we were assigned doesn't understand Inquisitors—he couldn't figure out why it bothers me." He paused, looking miserable. "Reverend Mother—please?"

Cortin looked around for a private place—she couldn't refuse such a plea—but it was Robbins who said, "If you'd like to use my office, Mother, I'd be honored."

"Thank you—where is it?"

"Through the curtains over there, second door on the right."

Cortin rose, feeling inadequate, but led the older officer—Captain Gregory Watkins, if she remembered correctly from the group introduction—through the curtains and into an office decorated with Enforcement Service pictures, awards, and certificates. She sat in the desk chair, putting on her stole; when Watkins knelt beside her and began his Confession, she understood why he would want a confessor who could understand the feelings of guilt that, deservedly or not, went with failure to get necessary information from a subject, then damaging him so badly, in an effort to correct the first problem, that no one else could get the information either. She hadn't done that badly yet—her clumsiness with her first subject had been due to inexperience, not lack of judgement—but she was certain she'd do it some day. When she did, she too would want a confessor who understood what she'd done, why it was wrong, and how to help her avoid it in the future.

She gave him absolution, with a penance of memorizing the third chapter of St. Jean Grillet's The Inquisitor's Call. It seemed harsh to her, but his expression said otherwise, and when he rose, he thanked her.

Breakfast was on the table when they got back, and she was hungry; as soon as grace was said, she started on a stack of hotcakes and honey. Illyanov was absolutely right, she decided immediately; the food was far better than she'd gotten in any Service dining hall. She grinned at Robbins, giving him the "first-class" hand signal, then continued eating and listening to the conversation.

That had settled rather quickly into shop talk, as it usually did when groups of specialists got together. She could understand how it might upset a nearby diner, but she'd been studying during meals for weeks now; she listened carefully, making mental notes of several useful-sounding—or just interesting—tips, though she didn't join in until her plate was empty and she was enjoying a glass of pear nectar. There was less resentment than she'd expected at Bradford's order that she get first choice of all non-critical prisoners, though she did take some teasing about being sure she left some for them, what with the Brothers still laying low. She promised, with a bit of return teasing that if things were all that slow this might be a good time to take some leave, then she had to make another promise that she'd hold Confession and Mass for them, in the base chapel if she could get permission, in their lounge at the Detention Center if she couldn't.

As she was getting ready to leave, a waiter approached and handed her a note; she read it, grinned, and handed it to Illyanov. She was summoned to the Base Theater for a meeting of prospective Team Leaders and team-seconds. The note didn't say what kind of teams they were to be Leaders and seconds of, naturally, but it didn't have to; she and Illyanov knew. "I'll see about arranging for the chapel," she told the group as she rose. "I'll post the results on the bulletin board, whichever way it works out, but I've got to go now. Thanks again."

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 Team Azrael. Odeon had conducted the interviews with both; she promised herself she'd have a private talk with each of them later, when they were less pushed for time. One was Lt. David Bain, demolitions expert and the backup Inquisitor she'd hoped to find, a tall blue-eyed brunet with an easy grin; the other was Lt. Anthony Degas, a quiet, self-contained small-arms expert who could have been the model for Michelangelo's David. She could have had more—some teams had over a dozen—but she and Odeon wanted to keep Team Azrael small and mobile enough to respond quickly.

With the team complete, Cortin had them begin training together every morning. She herself started the day with Mass for the Detention Center Inquisitors and their guests, as she'd promised, losing herself in the ceremony and coming back to mundane reality only when it was over and she removed the stole. After breakfast was the team training, then lunch, followed by individual work or study. For her, that meant interrogations—and she decided quickly to allow Bain to do the preliminary stages, concentrating her own attention on the stubborner subjects. With a limited, if uncertain, time before they had to be ready, she had to get Odeon past his squeamishness as quickly as possible so she could start training him as her assistant.

It was Saturday before he managed to get through a session without throwing up, and she didn't think it proper to conduct interrogations on Sunday except in an emergency, so it was Monday when she started teaching him. The subject was a young Brother that Bain evaluated as having no useful information, but as being strong enough to survive up to a week of teaching sessions. Cortin preferred to go after something specific, make it a contest between her and her subject, even though it was a contest she was almost certain to win. But teaching was as valid a function as extracting information, and it would insure that the Brother served at least one useful function in his life while paying for his crimes against the Kingdoms.

Their subject was waiting when they entered the interrogation suite's third-stage room, prepared as usual: naked, with some bruising, spreadeagled between ceiling chains and floor eyebolts. Cortin gestured at him, speaking to Odeon. "You've already noticed I keep our methods simple, Captain; the reason is that almost all our work will be done in the field, so I think it best to practice with equipment we can either take or adapt there. This method of securing a subject is an example; you can almost always find trees and ropes, while you'll seldom if ever find a surgical table. The same principle goes for drugs; we use ones like algetin or eroticine that are effective, simple to administer, and can easily be replaced at a shelter or detention center. Any questions so far?"

"No, ma'am." Odeon had been more concerned with keeping his stomach under control than with evaluating her methods and techniques, but thinking back, he realized she had kept them to the basics.

"Good." Cortin went to the prisoner. "The preliminary examination seems simple, but it will give you both physical and psychological information invaluable to the interrogation process itself." She ran fingers over the subject's face and throat. "For instance, Lieutenant Bain has convinced this one that arguing back is not a good idea, although there is little damage visible; that tells me he is easily intimidated, and would not normally require third-stage interrogation."

"Why, then?" the subject burst out. "I told—"

Cortin backhanded him across the throat. "Because I need a training aid, and you were available. Now be silent." She paused, but saw no sign of disobedience. "That's better."

She continued her examination and commentary to Odeon. "No particular sensitivity around the ears … about average for the eyes … rest of the face and throat the same … minor sensitivity at the nipples, promising … ribs tender in spots … same over the kidneys, have to be careful there if we want him to last; internal injuries should be avoided in an extended interrogation." She paused, turning to Odeon. "We are getting to a particularly interesting area now. There are a few rare subjects who do not seem to mind being naked to an Inquisitor, or having their buttocks and genitals handled—but in most cases, a subject's sexuality is his most vulnerable area, in theory especially so to a female Inquisitor. Physically, these areas are extremely rich in nerves; psychologically, they are ego-centers. Both make them easy targets, which is why I seldom exploit them early; if the subject cooperates without that particular pressure, nothing is lost since you can still use it as punishment if you feel it desirable. If the subject does not cooperate, you can be almost positive he will when you add that pressure to the rest. A perfect example is the first interrogation you saw me conduct."

Where Illyanov had raped the subject while Joanie finished her skinning of him with his genitals. "Yes, ma'am, I remember—though I'm afraid I don't understand how the Major could have been … able … to do his part."

Cortin grinned without humor. "You'll see, perhaps with this subject, probably within another two or three. It's a reaction I'm no longer capable of, but it's perfectly normal for pain—usually another's, but sometimes your own—to provoke arousal. I'm told it's similar to the pre-danger form we're all familiar with."

Odeon nodded slowly. Put that way, he thought he could understand, at least a little.

"With this one, if you feel the urge, go ahead; in a serious interrogation, I may need for you to wait till it's most useful."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good." Cortin turned back to her subject, probing between his buttocks, pleased when he whimpered. "Brothers, in particular, express a strong revulsion for what they choose to call 'unnatural' sex—but you would be surprised how many of the older ones show evidence of having participated in it repeatedly. I know I was." She probed deeper, hearing truth in her subject's cries of horrified denial. "This one, however, seems not to be party to such, ah, rarefied pleasures. Yet." She moved to his front, stroking the underside of his penis and smiling at his uncertain response. "Or to more usual ones, it seems. Is it possible you are a virgin, Brother? I do find that hard to believe."

"Yes …" the subject gasped.

"Intriguing … I will have to inform my colleagues. But you will cooperate in anything Captain Odeon wants of you?"

"No, please!"

"Don't bother begging; I am not inclined to show a Brother any more
mercy than they showed me. The primary difference is that I finish the job."

The youth stared at her, then shook his head. "No, you can't be—the Bitch is dead!"

Cortin started to hit him for his insolence, then paused. "Perhaps she is," she said thoughtfully. "But if they killed the Bitch, they gave birth to Azrael." She turned to Odeon. "I gather the Brothers don't believe the news stories of my survival. That is unfortunate; for the maximum psychological impact, they should." She turned back to the subject, frowning as she studied him, her fists on her hips. "Is that it, Brother?"

The young man shook his head, then nodded. "Sort of … the Raidmaster says you're alive, and a few may believe him, but the others in the raiding party say you can't be—an' since no one wants you to be, well …"

"I see." Cortin's frown deepened as she thought. "I had not intended to permit any Brother who came to me to live—but I begin to think I should make an exception, use you as a messenger and advertisement."

"You can't just let him go!" Odeon exclaimed.

"No, of course not—that would give the wrong impression." Cortin scowled as her subject licked dry lips. "He is a Brother, by definition deserving of a painful death and eternal damnation. Conventional punishment, however—especially mine—would leave him in no shape for anything except intensive care or a disabled ward. If you have any suggestions, I would appreciate them."

"Um." Odeon thought for several minutes, then said slowly, "I don't know if it's possible, but what you said about sexual vulnerability gives me an idea. He's a virgin, and he had a strong negative reaction when you mentioned homosex, both of which his superiors must know about him. He's also beautiful—so how about turning him into a catamite for them?"

Cortin turned to him in surprise. She hadn't expected anything that creative; it certainly wouldn't have occurred to her. "It should be possible, given the appropriate drugs and experiences—I like it."

"What's a catamite?" the subject asked apprehensively.

"A young male prostitute, especially one for older men."

The subject looked sick. "No, please—it's not right!"

"It isn't as if homosexuality were still banned," Cortin said reprovingly. Thanks to St. Eleanor and the Compassionate Mother, sexual orientation had been recognized as something one was born with, like blue eyes or black skin, and no more blameworthy; the Church even recognized stable pairings as equivalent to common-law marriage, though it still didn't grant them the sacrament of Holy Matrimony.

"Even if I were that, I'm no whore! I won't—you can't make me!"

"Wrong on both counts," Cortin said pleasantly. "We can, and on the physical level, you will find it most enjoyable. How you feel about it emotionally may be less pleasant, and I hope it is. It goes against my grain to release a Brother, and you may assure the rest that you will be the only one—but if I must let you live, even for my own purposes, simple justice demands that you suffer." She turned to Odeon. "I can handle the drugs and overall direction, but I obviously cannot participate in the operation itself. We'll need more than you to partner him, too, if we want him properly promiscuous; if you'll check with the rest of the team, I'll check with my fellow Inquisitors." She grinned. "I'm sure several of them will find this project interesting enough to want to participate as their own projects permit." She looked around, then chuckled. "These aren't appropriate surroundings, though; I'll have to arrange for some redecoration." She turned to the subject. "Under the circumstances, anonymity isn't appropriate either; what's your name?"

"Charles Powell," he said sullenly.

"Very well, Charles." She went to the instrument table and loaded a hypodermic, then returned to him. "This is eroticine, a potent aphrodisiac. Under its influence, you will have no interest in anything except sex, of whatever type your partner wants. And I assure you, you will find it most pleasant."

Powell shivered as she made the injection, but said nothing.

"It will take effect in about five minutes." Cortin turned to Odeon. "I'm going to make arrangements for the redecoration, and ask whoever's around if they'd be interested in helping with his tutoring. You can wait if you want, or release him and begin his lessons when you see the eroticine taking effect. It'll definitely be noticeable—and as I told him, he won't be interested in minor distractions like fighting."

Odeon nodded. "I'll do whatever looks best when he shows a reaction."

"Good enough." Cortin left, thinking it would be useful if she could help in the redirection. Mike, plus any of the other men on the team and any Inquisitors who were interested, could handle the positive aspects of Powell's reorientation, but it would be even better if a woman could provide negative reorientation. She was incapable in one way, Piety in another, and you couldn't ask a civilian—even a paid-woman—to take part in something like this. There might be a few female enlisted personnel willing to take part, but by the time one could be found and brought here, it would be well after the Strike Force teams had left. Too late, in other words; she'd just have to hope the reorientation worked without that. She scowled, angry at herself. If she'd realized, rather than just read, that even a simulation of sexual function could be this important, she'd have insisted on what little Dr. Egan had admitted to being able to do. Too late for that as well, now, though; she'd talk to Sis later, see what she could do when they had some time available. A synthetic vaginal passage shouldn't be more than minor surgery, well within a medic's abilities—and Sis would be able to understand why she wanted it, even knowing its limitations.

---

The Powell project proved even more popular with her team and the Inquisitors than Cortin had expected. And, after a night of considerable thought, she'd reluctantly decided that she couldn't direct it properly if she couldn't take part, so she'd turned direction of the project over to Illyanov, who'd promised to handle it as well as he could, as far as the subject was concerned acting under her instructions. She made it a point to spend some time in the observation center every morning, though, following Powell's progress.

The redecoration she'd ordered was in place the first morning; the third-stage room of Interrogation Suite Delta now looked more like a courtesan's room at the New Eden. Most of the equipment was still in place, she knew, but the surgical table had been replaced by a wide bed, the floor now had thick rugs covering tile, and draperies hid drug and instrument cabinets, with others turning the harsh brilliance of overhead fluorescent lighting into soft pastels. Powell was still apprehensive despite the eroticine, looking as if he wanted to pull away when the Inquisitor with him began to caress him, but unable to resist the drug. Cortin disliked seeing a Brother display even the little enjoyment Powell did, despite the fact his pleasure was drug-enforced, but she was pleased that his tutor was obviously enjoying himself.

The next day, Powell's apprehension had disappeared; when she entered the observation room, he was absorbed in his tutor's instruction. Cortin found it amusing that he took to his lessons so readily, and that his instructors were so gentle and patient. It wouldn't surprise her too much, she thought, if they decided they wanted to keep him; she might even agree, for their sakes, if his testimony to his Brother superiors weren't so important to her plans.

The day after that, Chang and an Inquisitor were coaching him on relaxation techniques. By now, he seemed eager to learn, even more eager to try what he was being taught, and Cortin found her hostility to him diminishing. He seemed more like an innocent boy now than like a Brother of Freedom, and she found herself hoping, when the Inquisitor had him roll over for a practical demonstration, that he wouldn't find it too distressing.

He didn't; when his instructor began penetration, his sounds and movements were ones of unmistakable pleasure, increasing rapidly as the Inquisitor rode and manipulated him. To Cortin's surprise, she was pleased when Powell's enjoyment peaked at his climax. When she left the observation room after telling one of the techs to have Chang report to her when the session was over, she found herself thinking Powell would be wasted on the Brothers—but told herself sternly that he would do well, for both her plan and herself.

An hour later, Chang joined her in the Inquisitors' Lounge. "Good day, Captain," she said. "A most interesting experiment, though perhaps a bit too reminiscent of what was done to me for complete comfort."

"If you want out, all you have to do is say so," Cortin told her. "The last thing I want to do is make things worse for you."

"I do not," the nun said with a brief smile. "While it is reminiscent, the purpose is entirely different, and for a good cause. By God's grace, that relieves the discomfort. And as I said, I enjoy watching others enjoy themselves. So: is there anything more I can do to help?"

"Not with him, no. With others in the future, maybe." Cortin went on to explain what she would have liked to do, and what she would like from Chang whenever it was possible. "Can you do that?"

"Easily; as you say, it is minor surgery. However, it may—and I stress may—not be necessary to settle for function without sensation."

"Nerves don't regenerate," Cortin said flatly. "Dr. Egan was quite emphatic about that. And the necessary tissue is gone."

"The latter I can do nothing about," Chang conceded. "The first, however, I am less sure of. With all respect to the good Dr. Egan, I doubt she follows the doings of Inquisitors on St. Ignatius, while I have heard rumors that one has had some success in regrowing removed organs, with restoration of full function." She raised a cautioning hand. "I believe that to be an exaggeration—such regrowth would, I believe, require a saint rather than an Inquisitor or medic—but there is a grain of fact behind any rumor. I would be most happy to investigate, and, if his actual results warrant, apply his findings to your problem."

Cortin took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled slowly. Getting her hopes up, on the basis of some fact that might lie behind a rumor, was stupid. She knew that, she'd resigned herself to her loss—but apparently not as well as she'd thought, because she found she was hoping. Regrowth and restoration of full function would mean the chance, again, of children—though honesty compelled her to admit that her failure to become pregnant in years of more than adequate opportunity meant the chance was vanishingly small. Even the chance of restored sensation would be worth a lot, though! "Please do, Lieutenant. Let me know the results as soon as you have something definite, then we'll base what we do on that."

Chang inclined her head respectfully. "I shall begin at once, Captain." She left, and Cortin went on to her next subject.

Powell was released the Saturday before the Strike Force's Monday reassignments, in an area known to be infested with terrorist sympathizers. He was provided with fresh clothing, a month's supply of eroticine, an authorization to get more from any medical supply center he happened to be near—which she didn't expect him to need or use—and a brief message that "The Bitch" was most definitely alive, and was deeply interested in the Brothers' welfare.

6. Tony

St. Thomas, August 2571-February 2572

During the first week after Team Azrael reported to Middletown, Cortin got her men assigned quarters and the personal vehicles they were authorized, then made arrangements for them to have unlimited access to the Elysian Gardens, the city's most exclusive—and equally expensive—joy-house. The proprietor was reluctant—her ladies were accustomed to New Pennsylvania's nobles and gentry, not common troopers—until Cortin, with considerable hidden amusement, paid generously in advance, and promised bonuses if her men were pleased.

She also offered the Base Commander her services as priest and Inquisitor. He preferred to retain the base's civilian chaplain, but did accept her other offer, promising her all the work she could want. With that done, Cortin discovered that time went by very slowly when you were part of a group that had to conceal its mission, yet remain independent and assert special privileges.

Her work helped ease the boredom for her, and she took advantage of some of her spare time to ease more by practicing her driving. She'd never been in a car before her trip to the Academy, hadn't driven one until Strike Force training. It had been frightening at first, but she'd come to like it, and Odeon encouraged her. Since she no longer had the consolations of sex, he said, she really ought to make full use of what she could enjoy—and after all, a tank of gasoline wasn't much more expensive than an evening at the Elysian Gardens.

She was pleased when, midway through the second week, Degas asked to join her on one of her after-work drives. She'd known from their first meeting that something was bothering him; it was about time he got whatever it was out of his system. He was silent as she drove them through town and past the Ducal Palace, but when they got to open country, he asked her to pull over. She did so as soon as she found a shady spot, and turned to him. "What is it, Tony?"

Silently, slowly, he drew his pistol and held it to her, butt-first. "You may want to use this."

Cortin accepted it, stunned. "In God's Most Holy Name, Tony! Why?"

"Something I've kept from everyone except the priest I confessed to." Haunted eyes looked at her from that beautiful face. "I—Captain, for almost a year I was a Brother of Freedom."

Cortin's finger tightened reflexively on the trigger, but somehow she managed not to fire. "Why, Lieutenant?" she asked coldly. "And why tell me, now?"

"My confessor said that when I found the person I really wanted to follow, I'd have to tell, and accept her judgement."

"Go on."

"I was a kid, idealistic—I believed in what they said they stood for. I still do, but what they say doesn't come anywhere close to what they really stand for."

Cortin nodded, relaxing slightly. "I've never faulted the ideals they claim, or their courage—just their methods and their real morals."

"I was slow—it took me a while to realize the two didn't match. Once I did, and let people know I was sorry I'd joined, my superiors arranged for me to meet Shannon, and that told me I had to get out." Degas paused, looking sick. "He's an attractive man, handsome and—from the effect he had on the people I was with—damn near irresistible. I don't know how I was able to resist, but I've thanked God every day since that I was." He shuddered. "Shannon's evil, Captain! There's no other word to describe him. He may not be Shayan himself, like Sis thinks—though I tend to agree with her—but if he's not, he's not far off. A demon, or possessed by one. Most of the Brothers, I think, are just deluded—but Shannon's evil, and as long as they're under his spell, they'll act that way too."

"Did you commit any crimes while you were a Brother?"

Degas shook his head. "Not for lack of trying, I'm afraid. As I said, I was a kid; I wanted to do everything I could. But my superiors wouldn't let me, until I was older and knew more. So the only thing I was guilty of was joining, which I've been forgiven for—and I think I've paid any criminal debt I owed. I became a trooper because I was a Brother."

A trooper with a good Academy record, fifteen of his twenty-one active duty years in Special Ops—critically wounded several times, but living that long at all in Special Ops qualified as a real miracle—with numerous operations to his credit that he'd refused well-deserved awards for, as he'd refused promotion beyond the one to First Lieutenant he'd had to accept to remain in service. She'd wondered about those refusals, but Odeon had said he'd claimed personal reasons. Now that she knew, she respected him for it; that was his way of atoning. "You've decided to follow me, so your confessor said you have to accept my judgement—and he knew you'd decide to follow a woman. That sounds peculiar—did he give you any reason?"

"Not exactly, ma'am. He just told me he knew, with absolute certainty, that if I lived long enough I'd find the one I needed."

"Um." That statement made Cortin uncomfortable; she didn't like the idea of something being predetermined, the way Tony made this sound. Still, it had been his choice to join Team Azrael. "Why did you choose me?"

Degas frowned. "I'm … not positive. Your record, of course, and you've got the same sort of odd attraction Shannon does—except that with him it's lethal, evil, and with you it's … I don't have the words. 'Good' sounds soft, and that it certainly isn't … maybe 'creative'? And definitely not evil; after Shannon, I can feel evil." He looked at her, his gaze steady. "Following you feels right, if you'll still let me."

Membership in a terrorist organization normally carried sentences of excommunication and death, but there were, on rare occasions, mitigating circumstances. Degas had been young, that sin had been forgiven, and he'd done more than enough to help the Kingdom to repay any harm he might have done. Cortin reversed his gun, handing it back to him. "You're still in, Tony. And I'd advise keeping this conversation between the two of us."

"Gladly!" Degas' expression was one of pure relief.

"We won't mention it again, then." She started the car and pulled back onto the dirt road. "I've got to stop at the Harrison ranch for a few minutes, then we can finish our drive."

Cortin hadn't intended to let any of her team see the softer side of her—it didn't seem fitting for an Enforcement officer, much less an Inquisitor—but she'd thought Tony's willingness to talk too important to miss. And she wasn't about to let anything stop her from visiting the retired priest, his brother's family—and her family, the cat she'd found in labor on the back seat of her car three days ago. She'd always remember the expression on the good Father's face, when he opened the door to find a desperate-looking Inquisitor with an armful of very pregnant cat, trying to explain she'd gone into the woods for a minute to answer a call of nature, and come back to find this, and was there please any place Mama-Cat could have her kittens?

He'd been kind enough to let her in and find a large basket he lined with towels. Mama-Cat had promptly settled in, making it clear Cortin wasn't to leave while she gave birth. Not at all reluctant, Cortin had stayed, getting acquainted with the Harrison family—who'd been understandably alarmed to find an Enforcement Service car parked in their front yard—while Mama had eight kittens Cortin assured her were absolutely beautiful. Of course, as she'd told the Harrisons, she'd always had a soft spot for animals, especially baby ones—but they were delightful!

Father Harrison was waiting, as usual, when she pulled into the drive and parked. If he was surprised to see another officer with her, he hid it well, smiling as Cortin introduced Degas. "Welcome, Lieutenant—and come in, both of you. Andrew's fixing supper; you'll stay, of course?"

"We'd love to," Cortin said, "but—"

"And Margaret's baking pies, with last year's dried fruits. She'd like to send your men some, but they won't be done for another hour …"

Cortin raised her hands, grinning. "You win, Father, you win! We'll stay. Has Starfire foaled yet?"

"This morning, a healthy palomino colt. We've named him Lifestar, in your honor—I hope you don't mind."

"On the contrary, I'm flattered—though I don't get the connection."

"In that case, just call it an old man's whimsy. I thought it might be a little early."

Cortin was puzzled by that comment, but she didn't have long to wonder at it; as soon as she and Degas followed the priest inside, she was mobbed—at least that was what it felt like—by the Harrison children and pets. Three children, four dogs, and a cat, she thought, were far more formidable than it sounded like they should be—and she loved being their target. When their greetings settled down a bit, she picked up Mama-Cat and carried her back to her kittens, smiling wistfully as the tiny beings mewed, hunting blindly for nipples, then settling down as they found them and began nursing. She'd always wanted a family of her own; if Mike hadn't been Special Ops, she'd have married him as soon as her Service obligation was complete, and done her best to have a dozen or so children. Now that that was impossible, the wish for it seemed to be getting stronger.

She put that out of her mind, stroking Mama-Cat and, very gently, each of the kittens before she rose to see a bemused expression on Degas' face. "Doesn't quite fit my image, does it?"

"No, ma'am. But it makes me even more certain you're the one my confessor meant."

Father Harrison looked from him to Cortin and back, then smiled slowly. "I thought your voice was familiar, Lieutenant," he said. Then, to Cortin's astonishment, the old priest blessed himself and murmured, "Thank You, Lord."

Degas stared at him, nodded once, and duplicated the slow smile. "Same here, Father. I'm glad we both lived to see it."

This time it was Cortin who looked from one to the other. "I do not believe in coincidence," she said firmly, shaking her head.

"What coincidence?" Father Harrison asked, beaming at her. "This happy meeting is simply the power of prayer in action. Needless to say, I'm delighted to see the troubled boy I counseled has matured into a fine officer and found the one I predicted would complete his healing."

Cortin couldn't argue the power of prayer—and the children weren't about to let adult seriousness delay their fun any longer. They almost pulled Cortin outside and to the corral behind the barn, to show her Starfire and the newborn Lifestar. The colt was a palomino, all right, in the classic—and rare—coin-gold, his mane and tail gleaming white as he frolicked around his mother. If she were any judge, Cortin thought, he'd be a prize-winner before too long. And he positively glowed with vitality—if Father Harrison had seen that kind of connection between her and the colt, she could only feel flattered.

She wasn't allowed much time to think about that, though. The children wanted to show off their Young Farmer projects, so she spent the rest of the time till Margaret called them in to supper happily admiring them and giving any help the children asked for.

Once they were seated at the table and the children's father had said grace, Degas turned to the priest. "If I'm out of line, Father, forget I asked—but is there any reason you're all wearing cartridges on neck-chains?"

Father Harrison glanced at Cortin with a smile. "We wanted souvenirs of Captain Cortin's visit, once we got over the shock of her sudden arrival, and cartridges were all she had extras of. She was kind enough to bless them for us, asking special protection from terrorists. I put them on neck-chains, and we've been wearing them ever since."

"Fortunately," Cortin said, "terrorists seldom show any interest in farms or landfolk, so we'll probably never know how effective they are."

"On the other hand," Degas said, "we might—I'd like one, and I'll even provide my own cartridge. I wouldn't be surprised if the rest of the team felt the same way, too."

"Okay, as long as you don't expect miracles from them."

Father Harrison smiled. "But don't be surprised if you get them, either." He turned to Cortin. "A number of the neighbors would like them, too. I took the liberty of buying a box of cartridges and making several up, hoping you wouldn't mind."

Cortin wasn't really sure whether she approved of that or not, but she couldn't think of any real reason to object, and it would only take a few minutes of her time. "All right, as soon as we finish supper."

---

Degas' prediction proved correct; the rest of the team did want cartridges she'd blessed, and wore them on neck-chains—but attached so they could be quickly removed if necessary and used as they'd originally been intended, a precaution Cortin approved of. From the team, the popularity of her blessed cartridges spread to the rest of the base and beyond, gaining in reputation as field teams credited them with the fact that casualties seemed to be fewer and less serious among troopers who wore them.

As the team's stay in Middletown lengthened, all of them became impatient with the sheer frustration of waiting for the Brothers to make the first move. It was a frustration law enforcement personnel learned to live with, since they almost always had to react to lawbreakers, but that didn't make it any easier as winter became spring, then early and mid-summer.

At least, Cortin thought, the Base Commander kept his promise. There were fewer Brothers or other terrorists among her subjects than she would have liked, but she was kept busy with other criminals. They were less personally involving than the Brothers, though she discovered as she worked with them that they provided just as much professional satisfaction. Unlike terrorists, most of them survived her attentions; her interest in murderers, thieves, and the like was restricted to getting the necessary information from them, then turning them over to judges for sentencing. As her skill grew to match her talent, that became both easier and more satisfying, though it had a side effect she hadn't really expected and didn't like as well. Her reputation also grew, to the point where—as Illyanov had predicted—the threat of being handed over to Inquisitor-Captain Cortin was enough, in many cases, to elicit a full confession. Even that had its satisfactions, though, after the first few times; the point, after all, was to get the necessary information, and if she could do it by proxy, that only made her more effective.

And, one late February evening, Chang and Odeon reported to their commanding officer's quarters with the news that Chang's research had at long last borne fruit. When Cortin invited them in, Chang bowed. "I can report limited success, Captain—and our superior has taken an interest." She handed her commanding officer an envelope. "He wished me to maintain silence until a suitable donor was found, to prevent undue anxiety on your part. Lieutenant Bain and I did so this afternoon; if you agree to the procedure, Team Azrael will depart tomorrow morning for a suitable surgical and recuperation area with its prisoner."

Cortin waved them to seats and took one herself, then opened the envelope. It held a single sheet of paper, directing her to place herself under Medic-Lieutenant Chang's orders if she chose the procedure, with a handwritten note at the bottom: "It sounds indecent, but promising. If you decide to have it done, keep me in mind next time you're in New Denver or I'm out East."

Cortin scowled at her subordinates, but couldn't maintain the expression; it was too hard to keep from grinning, and she finally did. "For people who've been going behind their CO's back, you two look remarkably unrepentant—not to mention smug. So tell me about this 'indecent but promising,' 'limited success' procedure … not that I think I'll need much convincing."

"The team will be ready to go at 0500," Odeon said, doing his best to look innocent.

Cortin gave him a dirty look, then shook her head in resignation. "I must be getting too predictable. Go on, Sis, spill it."

"As the Captain says." Chang's face remained impassive, but her eyes twinkled. "As I thought, the original rumor was exaggerated. The Inquisitor was not regrowing tissue; he was merely reattaching items that had been removed. And it was only external items; internal organs are either too complicated or simply beyond his skill. However, full function and sensation were restored in all cases, even when the reattachment was to another subject, provided the blood type was the same and the work was carefully done. And the recipient subject was maintained on an adequate dosage of algetin."

Cortin winced. Algetin was a potent pain-enhancer, which made it extremely useful for interrogations, but this was the first she'd heard of it having any medical use. Still … "I gather this talk of reattachments and algetin is not just theoretical, and is connected with my problem?"

Chang nodded. "Inquisitors on St. Ignatius do tend to take more time with their subjects than do those in other Kingdoms. This one discovered that algetin, used in adequate quantity and for an adequate period, promotes both healing and nerve growth. While, as I said, reattachment was successful in all cases, that of genital tissue was spectacularly so." She allowed herself a brief smile. "The Service's favorite virus, I suspect, is involved there. So, while any skin could, in theory, be used for the reconstruction you require, I have chosen somewhat more specialized material. You are, of course, aware of penile nerve density and sensitivity."

Cortin chuckled. Sis knew perfectly well she did, but she said, "Of course," willing to play along. What the medic called a virus wasn't, exactly; it was called that only because it wasn't exactly anything else, either, except itself, the cause of the Satyr Plague. That was the only "disease" she knew of that people hadn't tried very hard to avoid, because of its effect: it enhanced sexuality, especially in men, and gave them capability to match their increased drive—capability that had been purest fantasy before the virus' appearance thirty years ago. "Go on."

"The donor we have found is a Brother with your blood type; I believe the appropriate skin and nerve layers, inverted and properly placed, should serve your purpose nicely." She smiled again. "We are, of course, assuming you wish to resume female function. If not, there is nothing I can do. However, from our discussion some months ago and what Captain Odeon has told me, I believe that assumption is warranted. Am I correct?"

"You are," Cortin managed to say, staring at her medic. But it did make sense—was even just, in an odd way. If it worked, a Brother would be providing what several of them had ruined. "You are absolutely correct. It sounds like fantasy, but if you think there's any chance at all, I'm willing to try." She glared at Odeon, who was trying unsuccessfully to keep a straight face. "What's the matter with you? Don't you think it'll work?"

"If Sis's this optimistic, it'll work." Odeon grinned. "And I know you, remember? You've had a long dry spell—I can hardly wait to help you make up for that."

Cortin's eyebrows rose. "Longer than I ever have before, true—and I'm as eager for the drought's end as you are. Maybe more so—and from what you two are saying, that won't be long."

"Not long at all," Odeon said. "We'll be heading for Dragon's Lair first thing tomorrow—no need to look so surprised! Bradford pointed out that it'd have to be kept between him and us; what better place than a well-secured Royal retreat? He may've told His Majesty, to get us permission to use it, but can you imagine the reaction if the public found out someone—even a Brother—had been maimed for the purpose of allowing an Enforcement officer to have sex again?"

"I can imagine it would cause a bit of an uproar," Cortin said drily. "Even if it's part of the punishment he deserves for his crimes."

"And I imagine that's putting it damn mildly," Odeon said. "It's pretty obvious how you feel, but to make it official?"

"I want it—even if it means being under algetin for however long." That would be days at least, maybe a couple of weeks, of pure agony … but it would be worth it. She hoped. "I'm at your orders, Lieutenant Chang."

"The only one I have at the moment is that you are to eat no solid food until after the operation," the medic said. "Let me reassure you about the algetin, however. It will cause you no distress; those of my profession have drugs to ease or eliminate even such extreme pain. I can render you unconscious while the algetin is necessary."

"Good." Cortin had no desire to use drugs for normal pain, but algetin enhancement was an entirely different situation. She turned to Odeon. "You said we leave at 0500, which means getting up at 0300 if we're going to say Mass and still have time for the rest of you to eat breakfast. So I think you'd better have supper, and all of us should get to bed early."

7. Dave

St. Thomas, Thursday, 20 Feb 2572

The Royal Family, the King's Household and staff, and favored nobles flew to Dragon's Lair; everyone else rode. So when Team Azrael and its prisoner left Middletown for the deliberately-isolated Royal retreat, they were on horseback. Cortin, like most people, had learned to ride almost as soon as she'd learned to walk, and was expert at it, but she quickly found that riding was another thing she could no longer enjoy. She was wearing the back brace Egan had given her for unavoidable strenuous exercise and riding the smoothest-gaited horse in the Base stables—a black Arab named Rainbow—complete with a lambswool saddle pad, but within fifteen minutes she was thinking that maybe disability retirement might not be such a bad idea after all. Without it she'd be spending a lot of time in the saddle, hurting worse than usual. On the other hand, if she got out she'd be spending even more time in the saddle, unless she abandoned her crusade—and she had no intention of doing that. So she just had to learn to endure this, too. At least, she thought, if they had to ride they had a nice day for it. The temperature was still comfortable in the morning sun, and by the time it got too warm in the open, cultivated areas, they'd be in forest shade. And the quiet was pleasant, only an occasional word or two and the soft sounds of leather or hooves on dirt breaking the silence. She could see landfolk out working their farms and ranches, but they were far enough away she couldn't hear them—and they weren't likely to approach a group of Enforcement troopers, especially one escorting a prisoner.

Cortin smiled grimly at that thought. Prewar, even Terran, police, from her reading, had gotten the same reaction: civilians tended to stay away, unless they needed something. And civs were even less interested in having anything to do with police carrying out the enforcement part of their duties. Let one get close enough to see an Inquisitor's badge, and lack of interest usually turned into active avoidance of contact; the Harrisons' pleasure at her visits was unusual. At one time, she'd disliked provoking that reaction; now she was accustomed to it, and at times found it useful.

She heard a horse speed up slightly, until Lieutenant Bain was riding beside her. "Is anything wrong, Captain?" he asked. "I've been noticing you don't look exactly comfortable."

"Nothing that can be helped, thanks. It seems my back doesn't approve of horses any longer, is all."

"How bad?"

"Late second stage, maybe early third. Nothing I can't handle for a few hours if I have to—though I'll admit I'm already looking forward to stopping for the night." She gestured to the rear, where Degas was leading the unconscious prisoner's horse. "How far did you get on him before Sis tapped him for surgery?"

"I didn't even start," Bain said, surprising her. "She and I were looking for a blood type match, plus a couple of other factors she thought might help; when we finally found one she thought would be right, we put him straight under." He grinned. "Don't worry, though. He'll have to stay out while Sis takes what you need—we don't want to take any chances on damaging it—but once he wakes up, I'll make sure I get anything interesting. Unless you'd rather I save him for you?"

Cortin returned the grin. "I shouldn't be greedy, and I do have something else to look forward to from him; you go ahead."

"Thanks." Bain glanced at her, then obviously decided not to go on.

Cortin hid a sigh. Having civilians apprehensive about her was one thing, but her men should feel free to ask or tell her anything. "What's the problem, Dave?"

"It's not exactly a problem, ma'am … uh, Joan."

"What, then?"

Bain looked uncomfortable. "Uh … you're the first lady trooper I've been around, and …"

"Oh." Yes, that explained his hesitation. "I've been the only woman on a team most of my career. I'm neither a virgin nor a prude, though I sometimes find it useful to pretend the latter around civilians. So spill it."

Bain grinned in relief. "Right, Joan. Okay, then—Mike says that before the Brothers messed you up, you enjoyed using our dispensation whenever the opportunity offered. Nothing fancy, but not skimping anyone, either."

"True," Cortin said, smiling. "I'm a firm believer in the basics, and God was generous enough to let me enjoy them in abundance. If He's merciful enough to let this work out, I'll do it again."

"Just let us know what you want, and how much; we'll do our best to oblige." Bain grinned again. "Always a good idea to keep the CO happy, you know."

Cortin couldn't help laughing, in spite of the pain. She knew that a commanding officer taking part in a team's sexual activity tended to have an extreme effect, one way or the other; it could tear the team apart, or it could weld it into near-unity. From watching hers work together, she was certain it would react positively, so she said, "And from my experience with other teams, I doubt you'll find at least that aspect overly disagreeable."

"Or at all difficult," Bain agreed. "I'm looking forward to it, in fact." He gestured in a way that told her he was still unsure. "I've been with a lot of civ women, paid or curious about an Inquisitor, but they didn't—oh, hell!"

"You're not the first one to tell me that," Cortin said drily. "I was lucky, always had enough willing troopers around I never had to go to a civ man—but I always got more out of Special Ops men. The emotional feel was better, even when physical things were the same."

"You do understand, then." Bain's look was full of relief and something else she couldn't quite identify.

"Yes—and if this works, I want all of you to feel free to come to me. Other duties permitting, I'll be more than happy to help keep up morale." She grinned. "Rank doth have its responsibilities, a few of them pleasant; a CO is expected to be available for counseling whenever it's needed."

Bain chuckled. "'Counseling'—I like that. You may have the best-counseled team in the entire Service, here shortly."

"Most counseled, anyway," Cortin said. "And while you're here, I've been meaning to ask—if you don't mind talking about it, I'd like to hear how you ended up in the Strike Force. Records are all very well, but there's no feel to them."

"I'd rather not," Bain said slowly. "Fair's fair, though; Mike told us all about how you got into this." He paused, clearly trying to organize what he wanted to say.

Cortin had suspected Mike might have given them the details of her background, probably because he'd thought it would somehow help her. He'd be right, too, if it helped her get insight into her people. She waited for Bain to speak.

"I come from a big family," he said at last. "Four sisters and a baby brother, with me the only sterile in the bunch. I enlisted in Enforcement, beccame a demolitions expert, got a recommendation to the Academy and graduated about the middle of my class, put in for SO and got it, made First about three years later. By that time, my baby brother was in the Service too, a top-notch medic." He paused, and Cortin saw tears in his eyes. "We weren't stationed together, but we were close enough we got to see each other regularly. He loved his work, would go out of his way to help anyone who needed it, wouldn't hurt a fly—wouldn't carry a gun, even on a remote patrol. He had a great family, wife and two kids with a third on the way, he and Betty both hoping for eight or ten … He couldn't understand why I wanted to be an Inquisitor, even though he knew someone had to do it—hell, he couldn't understand why I went into demolition!—but I was his big brother, so if I wanted it, he wanted it for me."

Bain paused. "I'm rambling—sorry. Anyway, about a week after I got my Warrant, my team got called out to help search for survivors of a terrorist ambush on a patrol. I heard the patrol that got hit was from Lancaster, but I didn't get scared until I heard the Team-Leader's name. It was Jeffrey's team … and on the ride out I heard other searchers had found seven bodies from the ten-man team. The medic wasn't one of them, and that scared me worse. Jeffy didn't have what it takes to escape an ambush, and you know what's likely to happen to an Enforcement trooper captured by terrorists."

"Nothing good," Cortin agreed.

"We were the first combat team to get to the ambush site, so after a quick briefing, the on-scene commander sent us after the ambush party—fifteen of them, his Tracker said. With that few, our Team-Leader decided we didn't need any backup, so we got on their trail. When we caught up a few hours later, they'd made camp and were working on Jeffy. I couldn't see them yet, but I knew his voice well enough to recognize it, even screaming and with the overtones algetin adds."

Cortin nodded. Screams, to a civilian and even to most Enforcement personnel, didn't tell much except that the screamer was feeling intense pleasure or pain. An Inquisitor learned not only to tell which, but also several other things; she wasn't at all surprised that Bain had been able to tell his brother had been dosed with the pain-enhancer.

"We took out the sentries, which eliminated five of the terrorists and gave us the advantage of numbers as well as skill, then we moved in on the camp." Bain paused. "Have you ever been in on a mass interrogation?"

"No, but I know the theory; pick the least likely to be useful and make a dramatic example of him, to save time with the rest."

"That's what they were doing with Jeffy. All three of our people were hanging spreadeagle, but Jeffy was the one their version of an Inquisitor was working on." Bain's voice caught, and it was a moment before he could continue. "I'd … rather not go into the details; just call it a standard demonstration. The plaguer was in the middle of gutting him when we attacked. I knee-shot him, then went to Jeffy." He stared at his saddle horn. "He … didn't recognize me at first, and … when he did, he begged for help." Bain looked at his commanding officer, his expression haunted. "Joan, he couldn't have lived if there'd been a hospital trauma center five feet away, and he knew it. I couldn't refuse him, make him live in that kind of agony until shock and blood loss killed him in spite of the drugs. So I gave him Last Rites—then I killed him, as quickly and painlessly as I could." He looked down again. "Dammit, I became an Inquisitor to help find the Kingdoms' enemies, not to kill people I love!"

"I understand." His Warrant made his action blameless under both civil and Church law, but that wouldn't have helped his feelings any. "It was the only help you could give, and both of us know it can be welcome. At worst, he's in Purgatory; I'll include him in my Mass intentions from now on."

"Thanks—I've been doing it since I was ordained, of course, but extra Masses never hurt, and it'll make his family feel better."

"How did they take it?"

"Betty understood; the kids are too young to know anything except that Daddy's gone and won't be back. She gets a pension, of course, and I'm 'acting Daddy' for the kids when I'm around. You'll have to come out for a visit sometime, since we're stationed in the area—I'm sure they'd love to meet you."

"I'll do that." She ought to find out if she could still relate to normal civilians, she supposed; except for visiting the Harrisons, she'd been in a strictly-military environment since the attack. And not even a normal military environment, between the hospital, her Inquisitor's training, and starting a Strike Force team. She knew she'd changed, for what would generally be considered the worse; what she didn't know was how much.

"Great! If you don't mind, I'll drop back now and pass your invitation along."

"Fine."

She rode alone the rest of the morning, glad when they got into the forest and out of the rapidly-warming sun. She was pleased to find she could still appreciate the sounds and smells of the forest, the squirrels and birds, the green-tinged light. Lunch was good, though she was restricted to broth and more grateful for the brief relief from jarring pain than for the unsatisfying pre-surgery meal.