Page 52 of Punished and Trained
“Very well,” Prince Hendren said finally, his voice carrying that finality that meant the decision was made. “If that’s trulywhat you require, then that’s what you’ll receive. Maximum suppression, judicial severity, before the entire Federation.”
A small, secret part of me exulted at his words even as the rest of my mind screamed in terror. He would be so savage with me, so completely merciless, and somehow that knowledge felt like a victory even though it would cost me so much. I had maneuvered him into giving me exactly what my deepest, most shameful needs craved, while appearing to sacrifice for duty and principle.
“Thank you, Sire,” I managed, my voice a hoarse whisper.
CHAPTER 25
Hendren
As Viola’s master, I recused myself from the tribunal that accepted her avowal of guilt, in accordance with Magisterian custom. I sat in the gallery, watching, as the embassy’s sergeant-at-arms led her into the hearing chamber, naked except for the collar that signified my ownership.
The media team from Federation News Services had their position in the gallery right next to my seat. I could hear the reporter, Jana Trequin, a young woman from Draco who had already gained renown for her vivid narration of public interest events, as she explained to her viewers what was taking place. Next to her, her director controlled the microdrone cameras and edited the broadcast in real time.
“And here is the former president now,” Jana was saying. “You’ve probably noticed that as His Royal Highness’ property she’s not entitled to clothing.”
The sight of Viola’s graceful composure despite her nakedness struck me with unexpected force. Even stripped of all outwarddignity, she moved with the bearing of someone who had once commanded star systems. The cameras followed her every step as she approached the tribunal bench, capturing the moment when a planetary leader would formally surrender her last claim to authority.
“Viola Herranofar,” the presiding magistrate intoned, his voice carrying the weight of centuries of legal tradition, “you stand before this tribunal as a free agent, having been offered clemency by your master. Do you appear here of your own volition to confess crimes against the people of Artemisia?”
Her voice carried clearly through the chamber’s acoustics. “I do, Your Honor.”
The formal proceedings unfolded with judicial ponderousness, each question designed to establish the legal framework for what would follow. I watched Viola’s face as she answered, seeing the mixture of terror and resolution that had captivated me from our first encounter. She understood exactly what she was surrendering, yet she proceeded with the same calculated determination that had once made her a formidable negotiator.
“The defendant will state her crimes,” the magistrate commanded.
Viola straightened, her naked form somehow dignified despite the degrading circumstances. “I failed to adequately prepare Artemisia’s defenses against Federation expansion. I prioritized military preparation when diplomacy was required. My belligerence resulted in unnecessary military and civilian casualties during the planetary transition.”
Jana’s commentary provided context for viewers across the galaxy. “This is extraordinary. A former head of state voluntarilyaccepting responsibility for her planet’s conquest. The political implications for what we’re just learning to call the post-war period can hardly be overstated.”
The magistrate consulted his documents with clinical detachment. “The tribunal finds sufficient evidence of dereliction of duty resulting in civilian harm. The defendant will receive twenty-four strokes from a judicial cane, at the start of first watch tomorrow morning.”
“And FNS,” I heard Jana say, “will of course bring Viola Herranofar’s caning to you live in just a few hours. Until then, she will be taken into custody and spend the intervening time in a holding cell, contemplating her crimes. Let’s watch her reaction as the sergeant-at-arms formally arrests her.”
I watched, too, with what I felt must represent much more complicated thoughts and feelings than those of Jana’s viewers. When the sergeant-at-arms pulled Viola’s hands behind her to bind her wrists in black metal cuffs, she turned her head toward the gallery. Her eyes found mine almost instantly.
“Oh,extraordinary,” I heard Jana say, demonstrating again her noted fondness for the word. “Viola has turned to look for her master, that is, His Royal Highness, just to our left here in the gallery. And I can see that His Royal Highness is looking right back at her. Who can say what silent communication is passing between them?”
I could say, though. In the eyes of the—yes, extraordinary—woman whom I suddenly realized I loved, I saw a gratitude that threatened to make my heart split open.
Viola
The night in the holding cell seemed endless, and yet at the same time terribly fleeting. The sergeant-at-arms treated me very kindly despite the necessity of fulfilling every stern Magisterian law and custom concerning the correction of women’s misbehavior. He freed my wrists from behind my back when we had arrived in the tiny space. Then, however, he made me lie down on the metal shelf bed that folded down from the wall, covered only with a thin layer of leather-covered padding. He told me to face the wall with my hands in front of me.
“Naughty hands,” he said in a voice that made it clear that the words represented part of an ancient script for these disciplinary occasions, “must not wander.”
Then, as I blinked up at him, he had reached over me and taken hold of my wrists, clipping the cuffs together again, then attaching them to a short chain that led to a ring set in the stone of the wall.
The sergeant-at-arms stood up, and delivered his final ritual pronouncement.
“Think on your misdeeds, and the punishment they have earned you.”
I had tried to crane my neck over my shoulder to meet his eye and, I felt sure, the invisible gaze of the cameras that must be observing. I had wanted to show the watching galaxy my calm demeanor, my acceptance, my triumph over fear—rather thanthe plea for mercy that had kept threatening to well up in me. But the sergeant-at-arms had receded into the doorway of the cell, and all I had been able to see was his movement in my peripheral vision, as he withdrew and closed the door behind him with an ominous, resounding clang.
Then I had resolved that since I probably could never fall asleep, I would spend the night putting my mental house in order. I would, in fact, I told myself, think on my misdeeds. I would sift through my thoughts and feelings about my mistakes—even if I did everything I could to avoid thinking about the punishment they had earned me.
I told myself that the bondage of my wrists, their being fixed together and attached to the wall like a Magisterian version of the Academy’s virtue-keepers, really represented a very light form of restraint. Truly, I said to myself, it was nothing at all, compared to what would befall me in the morning. The stern way I would, it seemed, be bound, for my own protection, to whatever horrid piece of disciplinary furniture the Federation used for criminals like me.
I tried to go back to the beginning—to my first taste of politics, of influence, of power, at the summer program for promising student leaders I had attended when I was eighteen. I conjured up the beautiful campus of Artemisia’s School of Arts and Letters, and I tried to put myself in the splendid lecture hall where the president himself, Jianor Tralofar, my predecessor’s predecessor, had come to speak to us.
