The Alembic Plot Part 10

Cortin slept soundly, and when she woke early it was in antic.i.p.ation of a.s.sisting at Mike's First Ma.s.s 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 antic.i.p.ation suffered a setback, though, when she found a note from Mike in her message box; he'd been asked to say his First Ma.s.s 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 Ma.s.s 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 Ma.s.s: Odeon's First Ma.s.s

She opened the field Ma.s.s 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 Ma.s.s. 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 Ma.s.s 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 Ma.s.s 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 embarra.s.sing 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 a.s.sured 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 G.o.d."

"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 a.s.signed 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-cla.s.s" 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 gla.s.s 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 Ma.s.s 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 antic.i.p.ation 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.