An Exchange of Hostages Read Online Free Page A

stretched his legs out toward the middle of the room, beckoning Joslire with a wave of his hand. “Give us a hand with these boots, if you would, please. My bootjack was one of those items that you have so kindly forwarded to Scylla for me, to await my homecoming.”
    Though he couldn’t be sure — having just met Joslire, and unacquainted with his expressions — Andrej thought Joslire was smiling to himself as he turned his back and straddled one leg to get the proper angle on the boot.
    “The officer’s footgear will be broken in within a day or two. Generally speaking, the process is completed during pre-Term Orientation.”
    The comment and its delivery were both aggressively neutral, even passive. But Andrej’s feet hurt. He knew very well what Joslire was really saying; if he’d reported in good time his boots would have been broken in by now. The fact that Joslire was absolutely right was only annoying. He was in no mood to be nagged by anyone.
    “What, are you being impertinent with me, you ruffian?” he demanded in a tone of outraged disbelief.
    Joslire flinched fractionally before straightening up with Andrej’s boots in hand, directing a swift sidelong glance of wary evaluation at Andrej’s face.
    Andrej knew almost as soon as he’d said it that he’d made a mistake. He expected to be lectured by his body-servants; and cursing at them extravagantly in affectionate response was the only protest he was allowed, whether the criticism was deserved or not.
    But Joslire Curran was a bond-involuntary, not a servant in Andrej’s House. He had no reason to expect this stranger to understand. How could he tell whether Joslire interpreted his joking rebuke as a serious one? And if Joslire believed he had offended an officer, Joslire’s governor — responding to the specific physiological stresses created by such an apprehension — would apply corrective discipline, no matter how undeserved.
    Andrej tried to clarify. “That is to say, you’re right, I am quite convinced. Your point is well taken.”
    This was intolerable.
    But souls in Joslire’s category of servitude were allowed an uncharitably narrow margin for joking. There was no indication on record that primitive behavioral modifiers like the governor were capable of developing a sense of humor.
    Joslire merely bowed politely and took the boots over to the sleep-rack in the corner to touch up the polish for tomorrow’s events. Arms cocked up across the arm supports, stockinged feet stretched out in front of him, Andrej glared at his tender feet with a sour mind.
    Unnatural, that was what it was.
    The sacred bond between master and man consisted of respect and reliance, exchanged for self-subordination; to demand Joslire’s obedience without granting him privilege to speak his mind was a perversion. Was Jurisdiction. And that was what this Station was all about, wasn’t it? Jurisdiction perversion?
    When his father had been an officer in Security, the Bench had been less strict, and interrogation less formal. The Judicial process as his father had known it had indeed involved beatings, intimidation, even torture; ugly, sordid, but human in its scale.
    Now it was different.
    Now interrogation had become Inquiry, formalized into Protocols and divided into Levels. Now it required a medical officer to implement the Question, because it was too easy to kill a man too soon unless a torturer knew what to do. What had started as back-alley beatings in search of required information had evolved into systematic brutalization, forcing confessions to predetermined crimes, and all “in support of the Judicial order.”
    It wasn’t as though torment and brutality were unheard of in Andrej’s home system. Far from it. Andrej himself was Aznir Dolgorukij; any Sarvaw had stories to tell of what Dolgorukij were capable of doing when they felt that it served their best interest. It was only that the Bench increased the level of atrocity year by year, as unrest