stood on the rising ground above Port Rudistal, looking down on what had recently been a quiet port city distinguished only by its relative squalor and its Nurail population — which was redundant, in a way. Sentish had traded profitably with Nurail and Pyana alike for generations, true. Still, tolerating a Nurail population could only contribute to a progressive failure of civic hygiene.
The Domitt Prison stood apart.
Almost a year had passed since Administrator Geltoi had received his commission and arrived here in Port Rudistal with a Pyana construction crew and a line of credit against Chilleau Judiciary for the construction of a processing facility to serve the relocation camp that the Second Judge intended to establish on the other side of the river. There had been few Nurail available to him in Rudistal at that time; it had been before the refugee parties had begun to pick up, to be intercepted and shunted into his keeping.
Now that the last of the morning fog had finally burned off, Port Rudistal shone beneath the crisp cold rays of the autumnal sun, its peaked black rooftops glittering with dew. Administrator Geltoi — supreme authority under Jurisdiction at the Domitt Prison — looked out of his office windows over the city, toward the relocation camp across the river; and sang a bit of a traditional tune over to himself, absent-mindedly.
“Your grazing animals are my meat, your children are my cattle, you I spare to dung my fields, the Pyana triumphs over you.”
It was an old song. Administrator Geltoi paid little attention to the actual words, lost in pleasant meditation on the general gist of it. Nurail and Pyana had clashed for generations, because Nurail did not know their place and would not learn it. The scorn of the Nurail had been directed against defeated Pyana in song after song, insolent tunes and contemptuous melodies; that was all over now.
A signal at the door to his office reminded Geltoi that he was expecting Merig Belan for a tour of the penthouse, to make sure for himself that everything was in order to receive the Writ. Turning from the windows, Geltoi touched the admit, not bothering to raise his voice for so inconsequential a person as Belan.
“Good-greeting, Administrator.” The assistant administrator was Nurail, and grinned a good deal to demonstrate his approval and acceptance of the new situation in which he found himself. Geltoi bore no grudge against Belan for his blood, though it was true that Belan was a Sarci name, and the Sarci Nurail had been with the Wai during the successful defense of Port Mardisk — in which Geltoi’s own family had met an undeserved and ignominious defeat.
That had been a long time ago, though the songs were still popular amongst the Nurail. Belan was a good Nurail, one of the decent Nurail. Belan knew how to behave in the presence of his betters.
“Good-greeting indeed, Merig. Is the car ready? Let’s go.”
He already knew the car was ready. He’d seen it approaching on the track between the containment wall and the administration building. It was a standard administrative official’s touring car; passenger cabin, retractable roof, the driver’s well separated by a privacy barrier, six Security posts alongside on the running boards. It had been an acceptable vehicle for his use for these past months.
His status had changed, though.
The prison was to be fully operational at last, with legal authority to produce admissible evidence — authority that resided in the Writ to Inquire, and the person who held it.
He wanted something new that would reflect his more exalted position. Something to inspire the respect that he deserved: a senior officer’s touring car, fully rated against assault with incendiary and impact projectiles to three thousand impact units and the melting point of stalloy.
He’d had no unrest that slaughter or starvation had not served to easily contain to date: but Geltoi took no chances. His life was a valuable
The Domitt Prison stood apart.
Almost a year had passed since Administrator Geltoi had received his commission and arrived here in Port Rudistal with a Pyana construction crew and a line of credit against Chilleau Judiciary for the construction of a processing facility to serve the relocation camp that the Second Judge intended to establish on the other side of the river. There had been few Nurail available to him in Rudistal at that time; it had been before the refugee parties had begun to pick up, to be intercepted and shunted into his keeping.
Now that the last of the morning fog had finally burned off, Port Rudistal shone beneath the crisp cold rays of the autumnal sun, its peaked black rooftops glittering with dew. Administrator Geltoi — supreme authority under Jurisdiction at the Domitt Prison — looked out of his office windows over the city, toward the relocation camp across the river; and sang a bit of a traditional tune over to himself, absent-mindedly.
“Your grazing animals are my meat, your children are my cattle, you I spare to dung my fields, the Pyana triumphs over you.”
It was an old song. Administrator Geltoi paid little attention to the actual words, lost in pleasant meditation on the general gist of it. Nurail and Pyana had clashed for generations, because Nurail did not know their place and would not learn it. The scorn of the Nurail had been directed against defeated Pyana in song after song, insolent tunes and contemptuous melodies; that was all over now.
A signal at the door to his office reminded Geltoi that he was expecting Merig Belan for a tour of the penthouse, to make sure for himself that everything was in order to receive the Writ. Turning from the windows, Geltoi touched the admit, not bothering to raise his voice for so inconsequential a person as Belan.
“Good-greeting, Administrator.” The assistant administrator was Nurail, and grinned a good deal to demonstrate his approval and acceptance of the new situation in which he found himself. Geltoi bore no grudge against Belan for his blood, though it was true that Belan was a Sarci name, and the Sarci Nurail had been with the Wai during the successful defense of Port Mardisk — in which Geltoi’s own family had met an undeserved and ignominious defeat.
That had been a long time ago, though the songs were still popular amongst the Nurail. Belan was a good Nurail, one of the decent Nurail. Belan knew how to behave in the presence of his betters.
“Good-greeting indeed, Merig. Is the car ready? Let’s go.”
He already knew the car was ready. He’d seen it approaching on the track between the containment wall and the administration building. It was a standard administrative official’s touring car; passenger cabin, retractable roof, the driver’s well separated by a privacy barrier, six Security posts alongside on the running boards. It had been an acceptable vehicle for his use for these past months.
His status had changed, though.
The prison was to be fully operational at last, with legal authority to produce admissible evidence — authority that resided in the Writ to Inquire, and the person who held it.
He wanted something new that would reflect his more exalted position. Something to inspire the respect that he deserved: a senior officer’s touring car, fully rated against assault with incendiary and impact projectiles to three thousand impact units and the melting point of stalloy.
He’d had no unrest that slaughter or starvation had not served to easily contain to date: but Geltoi took no chances. His life was a valuable
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