An Exchange of Hostages by Susan R. Matthews Page B

appropriate respect,” the Security troop said. With a straight face; truly, Andrej admired his control. Surely such a clumsy start as he’d made could only make him ridiculous in front of these people, and no “appropriate respect” about it.
    “If he’s tired of standing, let him kneel. But sitting on the floor gives one an unpleasant feeling that one is not being taken quite seriously . . . ” No, he was better off staying away from that line of thought. Tutor Chonis would think that he was being insolent again.
    “ . . . which is surely not what you meant to do. On your knees, then. No, here.”
    Working with his hands, pushing a bit, pulling a bit, moving the prisoner from side to side. Getting used to the warmth of the prisoner’s body beneath his hand. Doing what he could to nerve himself to the shameful test, taking the edge off his reluctance to hit the man by pushing the prisoner around. He didn’t like it, but it seemed to work. Andrej felt he could manage the next step, if only he could avoid being distracted by the fact that he meant to strike someone he wasn’t even angry at.
    He had a clear field now, even had a modest advantage of height as he stood before the kneeling prisoner. Andrej repeated the question in a sterner voice, trying to convince himself he was determined by speaking harshly.
    “State your identification, and the crime of which you are accused.”
    “Now, Soyan, didn’t I just tell you that? My name’s Cari, and . . . ”
    The tension within him was not shame and reluctance, Andrej told himself, knowing he lied. The tension within him was irritation at being sworn at, and irritation could be relieved by directing it at its natural object. Andrej moved on his target with a smoothness born of thin-blade dueling, giving his prisoner a backhanded slap across the face which surprised all of them: Security, because they had to compensate for the force of the blow, and they had not apparently anticipated his movement; Andrej, because he was wearing his great-grandfather’s ring on his left hand, and one test was all that was required to demonstrate the sense of using his right hand for the remainder of the exercise. He was going to have to remove the ring next time.
    “Be so kind as to answer the question.” He had done the thing, now, with never a Mayon monitor to report his lapse of professional conduct to the Administration. He had successfully raised his hand against a man restrained and defenseless. He had passed the filthy test of indecency. Now all he had to worry about was the next blow; and the one after that.
    “Ah, well, Cari is short for Kerrimarghdilen. My family name is Pok.” Last but not least, Cari had apparently been surprised into sensibility. At least for the moment. “I was picked up for vagrancy at Merridig, but I had some timmer on me — personal use only, really, I swear- — so I’m here in front of his Excellency for illegal trafficking.”
    At least timmer was a little less mundane than flour. There was still a problem with this, of course. Why should he himself have unlimited access to the intoxicants traditional to his culture — every bit as destructive when abused, and without sanction as a sacrament — at the same time that an otherwise honest Bigelblu could be prosecuted by the Bench for trading in a culturally traditional and sacramentally essential hallucinogen? A problem, yes, and not the less so because the answer was so obviously a matter of whether Bigelblu or Aznir had economic clout.
    But the distance between what the prisoner had done and what the Bench meant to do in reprisal was not as extreme as the first had been. That was a relief.
    “You have stated your personal name, but have failed to provide your identification. Full identification is required to complete the Record. State your identification, and the crime of which you have been accused.”
    Apart from the general problem of double standards — and the immediate ache of his