An Exchange of Hostages by Susan R. Matthews Page A

certainly hadn’t come all the way through his medical training without ever hitting anybody. There was a difference, of course, when it was strictly after class hours, outside the patient environment, usually in a tavern of some sort, and never without either having been hit or being immediately hit back. He had done his share of recreational brawling, with a little thin-blade dueling thrown in. Violent physical exercise could be a great reliever of stress, and as far as Andrej could remember, he’d enjoyed it — not the residual bruises, no, but the energy surge had been a tremendous mood enhancer.
    Though conservative of traditional Aznir ways, in many respects Andrej’s father was a progressive man who didn’t think children or servants should ever be beaten for their misdeeds, and who refused to tolerate any such behavior within his Household. Therefore it had come to pass that Andrej had never struck anybody in his life who had not been in a position to retaliate, without hesitation or restriction. Andrej supposed it was a handicap, of sorts.
    He heard the signal at the prisoner’s door. Well, soonest started was soonest sung. “Step through.” Still, there was something he’d wanted to remember. Something his teachers on Mayon had said about hurting people. What had it been? “State your identification, and the crime of which you have been accused.”
    This prisoner was a Bigelblu, his legs almost as long as Andrej was tall. He sauntered into the room insolently before sinking into cross-legged repose in front of Andrej where he sat.
    “You c’n call me Cari.” He had a deep voice, the prisoner had. Nearly as deep as Meeka’s singing voice, which was so low that the saint’s-windows shook in sympathetic vibration when he sang “Holy Mother.” “I dunno, Soyan, s’a mystery to me.”
    Deep, and insolent. For a moment Andrej sat torn between reacting and thinking out his own approach to this problem. He knew how he was expected to react. And he didn’t want to have to think about it.
    Much of the medical process did involve hurting people, as a necessary part of helping them heal. Surprise was as unpleasant as pain, apprehension as noxious. When one was required to do something that would hurt — remove dried-out field dressings or palpate a sprain, or any number of contacts with wounded or painful tissue — one minimized apprehension and surprise by building up to the bad part slowly. Starting with small, impersonal contact at safe body sites, always remembering species-specific or cultural taboos. When one approached the painful thing in neutral graduated steps of that sort, patient apprehension could be significantly reduced, helping to ensure that the pain involved would be kept to its lowest level.
    Now Andrej was expected to strike a man who was to be restrained from striking back, and the very idea was morally repugnant on its deepest level.
    He would try to sneak up on it. That was it. That was what he could do to get through, for today.
    “Stand up.” Andrej rose to his feet and took the prisoner by the shoulder, giving him a little push. He was horribly reluctant to so much as touch the man; and yet he would be expected to hit him, and hard enough to at least bruise. “I said stand up, what are you waiting for?”
    Security came to his rescue; Andrej imagined they had experience helping uncertain Students through the paces. They had the Bigelblu on his feet in short order, their efficient handling quite unimpaired by “Cari’s” grumbled protests.
    “Easy, you guys, where’s your sense of humor? ‘Vent I been standing all day, waiting for this . . . little . . . ”
    Andrej never got a chance to hear what Cari meant to call him; no, the Security were too efficient for that. One of them had the prisoner’s arm behind his back, and apparently did something unpleasant to it; at least to judge from the expression it produced.
    “One is expected to use his Excellency’s dignity with