An Exchange of Hostages by Susan R. Matthews Page A

but none who accepted the requirement for exercise with so good a grace. Stiff, sore, and grumbling strictly to himself, Koscuisko never hinted at avoiding practice or suggested cutting it short, except in carefully qualified jest. That made things easier for everybody. Joslire was grateful to his Student for the grace with which Koscuisko took direction; it made living with his governor much easier. He was adequately confident of his own ability to discriminate between being sworn at in the line of duty and being sworn at because he wasn’t doing his duty; but the possibility of confusion arising was an unpleasant one.
    The more perplexing problem remained that Koscuisko seemed to take all of Fleet Orientation — physical exercise and soon-to-be-intensified combat drill alike — as some sort of an amusement, or a joke. Koscuisko was younger than his years, there was that. The Aznir stayed children for longer than the Emandisan did, Aznir lived longer than Emandisan, and Joslire had told himself he could have expected Koscuisko’s attitude to retain some of the blithe, carefree flavor of a privileged childhood even after years of medical school.
    He was finished with the strained back muscle. Koscuisko let one arm drop over the edge of the rub-table, pillowing his cheek against the flattened back of his other hand — and grinning like an infant with never a care in the world. Except Joslire could feel the base tension in Koscuisko’s body had yet to yield to massage. Koscuisko kept his nerves to himself. All Joslire could tell the Tutor about Koscuisko’s state of mind was what little he could gain from observation and inference. The muscles in Koscuisko’s sturdy shoulders could no longer be persuaded to relax as completely as they had during the first weeks, even allowing for improved muscle tone. Koscuisko was tense; but that was hardly news, not with the practical exercise scheduled for first thing next first-shift. In the morning. There was nothing new there to tell Tutor Chonis.
    Working his Student’s feet, Joslire pondered his problem. Bond-involuntaries who wanted to stay out of trouble kept their mouths shut, so as to avoid giving their governors or their Students cause to discipline them. Joslire desperately wanted to stay out of trouble. But part of his job was to keep Tutor Chonis up to date on what was going on in Koscuisko’s head. Bond-involuntaries learned early on that their best protection was to perfect their duty, gaining a measure of immunity from their governors’ strict censorship by maintaining unchallengeably correct thought and conduct. And Tutor Chonis had gone an extra pace for him before.
    “With the officer’s permission . . . ”
    Koscuisko grunted inquiringly in response, sounding half asleep. A good start, Joslire decided, and was encouraged to go on.
    “The First Level exercise is tomorrow, as the officer will remember. In the past other Students have shared comments of one sort or another. It has often seemed to help to put things in perspective.”
    How do you feel? What do you feel? What are you thinking? What is on your mind?
    “Hmm. Well. I feel that Jurisdiction wodac is not of the best quality, which is not surprising. And that the instructional material is badly in need of a technical update, in places.”
    Not precisely what Joslire had in mind, but there was no way in which he could question more directly — not and keep peace with the governor that the Bench had spliced into the pain linkages in his brain. Joslire stepped back half a pace. “If the officer would care to turn onto his back.”
    Koscuisko didn’t mind being uncovered. Aznir Dolgorukij didn’t seem to have privacy taboos about masculine nudity, at least not among men of the same age; though from what Joslire had read about Koscuisko’s ethnicity, relative age made all the difference. There was a Jurisdiction Standard for personal modesty, though, as much a part of the common language as the grammar