third-stage Inquisitor can do."

"I gathered from the briefing that you plan to try surgery. What're her odds?"

"Not good," Egan admitted. "I can't be sure until I examine her myself, but we have had little success in correcting a floating disc. There is an alternative procedure, spinal fusion—essentially welding part of the spine together so the disc can't pop. She will still hurt, and it will limit her mobility somewhat; the only advantage is that she'll be spared the agony of the disc moving out of place."

"That sounds like grounds for a disability discharge." Odeon sipped his coffee and made a face, trying to lighten his mood a bit. He wasn't that fond of coffee to begin with, and this certainly wasn't the best he'd had. "Do hospital coffee shops have to boil this stuff?"

"You get used to it," Egan said. "Yes, that is grounds for discharge, and at full pay. I will have to examine her myself, as I said, but if Dr. Franklin says it's a floating disc, that's exactly what it is. I'll send her discharge recommendation in to Enforcement HQ first thing tomorrow."

"No, Doctor, you'll give it to me for endorsement." Odeon saw her beginning objection, and raised a hand to forestall it. "She doesn't want a discharge; my endorsement will request a waiver. And she won't want her mobility limited, since it would hamper her in her work. So no spinal fusion, we'll just have to hope that other operation you mentioned works."

Egan frowned, concern for her patient overcoming her apprehension. "You're a harsh man, Captain Odeon, even harsher than I expected from one of your profession. Do you know what you're condemning her to?"

"I know what you just told me, yes. But I also know the last thing she asked me was to help her stay in. I am her advocate, Doctor; until you release her, my word goes."

"Unfortunately, it does," Egan said with a sigh. "But then she can countermand your orders."

Odeon half-bowed in his seat. "That's right, Doctor, and I hope to God she does. I don't want to see her hurting, but she asked me not to let her get kicked out while she couldn't defend herself. I'm doing for her what she would do for me if our positions were reversed."

Egan looked at him for several moments, silent, then she nodded. She was beginning to understand, she thought. His grim harshness was real, but it concealed equally real concern for the woman he represented. "As you say, Captain. Be sure Captain Cortin will have the best care I can give her."

This time Odeon stood to bow and answer, formally. "My thanks, Doctor Egan. When may I see her?"

"Tomorrow afternoon," Egan replied. "I have her scheduled for surgery—whichever procedure you decided on—at 0800. I assure you she will be given only those drugs which are absolutely necessary."

"My thanks again, Doctor." Odeon gave her a sketchy salute. "If you'll excuse me, I have to pick up some forms." At her nod he left, grateful for her last assurance. It was almost a hundred years since the Final War—not the nuclear holocaust the prewars had dreaded; there had been only a few atomics used, and most of those were relatively clean neutron bombs. The primary weapons had been biological; it was their devastation that had wiped out over fifty percent of the Kingdoms' population, and the passage of time hadn't removed the remainder's sudden overwhelming aversion to "unnatural substances" imposed on the body. Drugs were used, sparingly, by doctors—and not so sparingly by Enforcement Service Inquisitors.

The next morning Odeon woke at dawn as he usually did, but instead of rising at once, he rolled onto his back and laced hands behind his head.

Joanie. She hadn't been beautiful when he first met her, so she never had been. That suited him well enough; he didn't like the prewar standard of beauty that still prevailed in many places. Beauties were too fragile, didn't have the strength of a real woman the way Joanie did. Tall skinniness was fine in a paid-woman, but Joanie's compactness was better. Stronger and more suitable for an Enforcement officer or a mother, anyway— He pushed that thought aside. Joanie might be able to stay in Enforcement, but she'd never be a mother.

He tried to remember her as she had been, 165 centimeters and maybe 59 kilos, mostly muscle, of vigorous womanhood. But it'd hurt to see her lying broken and bloody on the hospital floor, her short dark hair stiff with drying blood; he couldn't get that image out of his mind, so he made himself study it instead, trying to bring out anything he hadn't consciously noted then.

There wasn't much. The hospital hadn't been all that different from other Brothers of Freedom raid points, except in being a hospital, its occupants even more helpless than most. The only oddity was that they hadn't made sure of the woman they'd marked. Possibly Rascal and his locals had arrived before they were able to.

Odeon grinned wolfishly at that thought. Joanie was alive, and she wanted revenge. That kind of personal motivation wasn't really necessary, but in going after terrorists like the Brothers it didn't hurt; some of the things necessary in anti-terrorist sweeps were hard to stomach. And the Brothers were the worst of the terrorists, as well as the most wide-spread; they had units in every one of the Systems, while most groups were restricted to one or two.

He was getting off the subject, though, he told himself sternly. He was here to protect Joanie's interests, not worry about the Brothers. And if he was going to do that, it might be a good idea to get up.

He glanced at the clock, then almost tangled himself in the sheets in his hurry to get out of bed. It was almost six-thirty! If he didn't get a move on, he'd be late for seven o'clock Mass!

He made it, though with barely a minute to spare, and he found peace as usual in the familiar liturgy. There were still times he wished his call had been to the priesthood—he'd been raised in a monastery, by the White Fathers, after his parents died—but for the most part, he no longer missed the life too badly. The Fathers had comforted him when it became clear that his vocation was military rather than religious; enforcing civil order, they'd reminded him, was as important to human welfare as ministering to spiritual needs. And when he'd been commissioned, directly into Special Operations, several of them had been at the Academy to congratulate him.

As he went forward to take Communion, Odeon found his thoughts going to Joanie. He shouldn't be thinking about her, not now … but he couldn't concentrate on the Sacrament properly, even as he accepted and swallowed the Host. Well, the Fathers had taught him that if he couldn't, despite his best efforts, maybe he wasn't supposed to—and it wouldn't be the first time something had resolved itself this way. Returning to his place in the small chapel, he said a brief prayer to the Blessed Virgin as the Compassionate Mother for guidance. Surely, she would help the only officer of her sex in this dangerous vocation!

He was feeling better when he entered Egan's office half an hour after Mass was over. He hadn't found a solution, but he had become sure that one would make itself known; he'd just have to find it.

Egan wasn't there; she was already in surgery. But she'd left word that he could use her office while he waited, and he appreciated her thoughtfulness. An Enforcement officer in a civilian hospital waiting room tended to make patients and visitors nervous; a Special Ops officer tended to make the staff nervous as well, which bothered him. And a desk was far more convenient for doing paperwork than a lap. Odeon sighed as he picked up the form she'd left for him. It was her recommendation for Joanie's discharge, as promised, and it made no bones about the seriousness of her injuries, or about the resulting sterility and constant pain.

Frowning, Odeon read it again—and realized that here was at least part of his solution. Joanie was