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."