Braxi-Azea - In Conquest Born Part 15

It took him only a moment to realize something was wrong. But in that moment Turak moved free of the cage's confines and into the open, and with a steady hand directed his stun at his father's chest.

Sechaveh was careful not to move. There was no weapon he could reach faster than his son could shoot, although he was, as usual, armed. "Well," he said quietly, his voice unusually calm for a man about to die. "Not badly managed.

Lord Dumar, if I don't mistake it?"

Turak nodded. With his beard clipped short and his hair curled tighter and his makeup designed accordingly, he was a fair duplicate for Dumar. His father, of course, recognized him, but it was doubtful that strangers would. "If anyone who's seen me speaks, the trail will lead back to him."

"Not badly planned." The Kaim'era's tone was frankly appreciative, although he was careful not to jar Turak into firing with any unexpected movements. "A little elementary, but you definitely have a grasp on the concept of the thing. Do share the rest of it," he urged.

He did so, proudly. "Mashak's hatred of you causes him to make an unfortunate decision, and he attempts to take your life on this platform. That attempt fails.

There is a struggle, the bodies are tipped over the edge while moving. . . ." He shrugged, implying the rest with the coldness of the gesture. "Two bodies in Vineshadow, and I doubt they'll salvage enough to draw any useful conclusions from the remains."

"And if anyone remembers you being here, they'll have the wrong description.

Not bad, Turak. Dumar isn't my worthiest rival, but he will do. You sent a note to Mashak?"

"Yes." He smiled, pleased at his workmanship. "I used Dumar's access code and sent it from a neighboring system where he is presently vacationing. Where a woman I hired will keep him occupied and alone during the time he was supposed to be here."

"And she?"

"The Black Death."

Sechaveh smiled, relishing the image. "Ah. I take back what I said, Turak- excellently done, down to the last aesthetic detail. A job to make me proud. And I am. Provided you yourself are covered-"

He smiled triumphantly. "Of course."

"Is that all, then?"

Turak raised his weapon higher, fingering the trigger with obvious relish. "Not quite. The forcefield surrounding this platform has been sabotaged, of course.

The forceshears that did the work were discarded as the saboteur left the city."

"And can be traced to-"

"The city of a rival Vinemaster."

"Superb!" Sechaveh did not look at all like a man about to die, nor did he sound like one. "Well, Turak, I'm very impressed by all this. A good plan, well executed, a little bit raw about the edges perhaps, but it definitely shows promise. That bit about the local rivalry is particularly nice-it'll give the Kaim'eri someone to punish who isn't of their own Race."

Turak's face was set. "I'm glad you appreciate it." He aimed, and the arm that would fire tensed. "One thing more."

"Get it over with!"

Sechaveh's expression was enigmatic, unnerving. "You've overlooked one important detail."

"You can't bluff me out of this," he warned.

"How Braxana . . . I do believe you would kill me, Turak. How refreshing! Few of us dare to actually take the lives of our enemies, in this day and age." He paused. "I have something for you, before you fire."

"What is it?"

Slowly, careful not to alarm his son, Sechaveh moved one hand to the other and worked loose a wide gold band from his left forefinger. He made as if to throw it, then reconsidered- the cage was directly behind Turak-and, dropping it to the platform, pushed it with the tip of his boot until it slid to Turak's feet.

"What is it?" the young man repeated, less sure of himself.

"Your inheritance." The stun wavered.

"I antic.i.p.ated you, you see. You can't kill me, of course. I've made certain my colleagues know of our enmity. Yes, Turak, always remember that even I have allies, and I've kept track of your actions for the past few years. So shoot me, if you wish-but only if you don't value your own life."

His arm lowered somewhat; the motion was unconscious, neither planned nor noticed. "You're bluffing," he accused, clearly uncertain.

"Am I? Then kill me, Turak. I shall die with the pleasure of knowing you'll be punished for it-very probably on the equipment I designed for just such a purpose."

Bless you! the younger man cursed inwardly. His hatred surged to new heights, his anguish also, but he dared not shoot. "Why this, then?" he demanded. He pointed a jerky finger at the ring by his feet.

"Because you've earned it, Turak. You've proven yourself a man. A Braxana should be willing to destroy anyone who stands between him and his pleasure- even if that someone is another of his Race. Even his own father." His expression darkened. "There are others who call themselves Braxana, but they don't comprehend what that t.i.tle means, much less are they deserving of it. But you, my son-you, whom I have trained . . . you are Braxana. At last." And now his eyes sparkled, and a smile, both amused and s.a.d.i.s.tic, danced across his face. "It took you long enough."

Shaking with shame and rage, Turak lowered his weapon to his side.

"Very practical," the Kaim'era approved. "A fine mixture of the barbarian and the statesman. Eager to kill, but able to recognize the limitations of his political environment. You'll make a fine adult, Turak."

"I hate you," he answered venemously. "You've had the better of me this time, but I swear, Kaim'era-"

"Of course you do." He cut off the next sentence also; "And of course you really mean it. I have no doubts about that. You'll have to wait, of course, until you're sure I'm not still watching you. It could be a while. But a man grows wise from enmity." He bowed slightly, very slightly, more out of humor than respect, but not entirely lacking in the latter. "I've waited a long time for this, Turak.

Congratulations. Now, if you will excuse me, I'm on a tight schedule. . . ."

He would have fired-he should have fired-but reality bound his hand and he couldn't find the trigger that would commit not only Sechaveh but himself to death. Helplessly he watched as the shuttle lifted itself from the platform and rose slowly into the sheetwinds of the stratosphere, and beyond. Floating youthblossoms marked its wake.

Just wait, Turak thought. Someday.

He remembered to take the ring.

Viton: For the true warrior, friendship is disarming and security is deadly.

Both weaken a man by giving him the illusion of might, when in fact they undermine the very foundations of his own power by causing him to rely upon others. Anything that distracts a man from his chosen course is abhorrent to one who values his own strength.

Nine.

Darkness:

1.

Anzha was trapped in someone else's dream.

Such a thing didn't happen often, but it happened. Intensity of emotion meant intensity of contact; in the close confines of the Inst.i.tute, where hundreds of psychics lived, worked, and trained together, it was to be expected that occasionally two dreamers would come insync (as the Inst.i.tute termed it) and share the same sleep-bound fantasies.

The odds against it happening outside the Inst.i.tute were of course phenomenal.

Nevertheless, in this case all the odds had come together. The dreamer was mildly psychic, permitting him to contact her in the first place; chance had synchronized their sleep-cycles so that on this night they fell into dreaming in the same instant; their emotional states were similar enough that it was easy to become entangled in the wrong dream, a mistake that was difficult to correct once it happened. And of course, Anzha had not yet finished her training. Had she done so, she might have turned away the intrusive images with clear and precise telepathic skill. As it was, the best she could do was attempt to maintain a sense of her own distinct ident.i.ty in a world controlled by another, and wait for the dream to come to its natural end.

They shared a body-his-and traversed the familiar halls of Azea's Academy of Martial Sciences. A webwork of interconnected biospheres...o...b..ting between Luus' fourth and fifth planets, the Academy was a beehive of constant human activity. Here the Empire's diplomats studied their art, and negotiators of the Endless War studied the ways of the enemy. The Biosphere of Humankind contained one of the Empire's greatest humanocentric libraries, and scholars flocked to it. Mock wars were waged on and about the system's outer planets, while Luus Three, Four, and Five were used for terrain practice; the combatants were housed in the Academy's sprawling network of domiciles, and warships were docked along its periphery. And, of course, there were the students: individually sponsored, rigorously trained, prepared (it was hoped) to master any facet of the War That Could Not Be Ended-or any lesser conflict which might cross their professional paths. It was impossible to imagine the Academy without a constant undertone of human striving; impossible to imagine that those halls would ever be empty, that even a moment might go by in which its facilities were less than wholly utilized.

Yet today, in this moment-in this dream-they were empty.

The dreamer traveled numerous streamlined corridors, progressing from an easy walk to a nervous run as he grew more and more afraid. Something was wrong; the Academy had been abandoned-evacuated?-and he was the only human in it. Panic a.s.sailed him and he threw open door after door, searching desperately for some sign of life besides his own. There was nothing. Some disaster had overtaken the Academy and he alone had been left behind. Fear arose within him as he imagined possible disasters, yet not even the worst of them could explain his isolation.

He was alone-in the empty corridors, in the abandoned Academy, perhaps in the universe. He ceased running; his legs, weak with fright, could no longer support such movement. In despair he leaned against a gleaming white wall, shut his eyes, and prayed for strength. Blessed Hasha lyu. Firstborn of Azea. . . . But even in that there was no comfort. The heavens were as empty as the man-made halls; his isolation was total.

From the stillness, then, came a whisper of thought. He started, and tried to listen, but it was not a sound that had jarred his consciousness. Triggered by a precise combination of hormones, his minimal psychic talent had awakened for a split-second-and through it he had glimpsed another's despair.

He was not alone! Guided more by instinct than reason, the dreamer ran through a maze of empty corridors, threw himself into a transgrav tubeway that gave access to the dormitory modules, and pulled himself, hand over hand, down its length. Someone else was here! Someone else the Empire had forgotten, as lost and as afraid as he was-he was certain of it. He swung open one door after another, scouring rooms with an eager glance, meeting only emptiness. Until at last he came to the final room, whose door opened of its own accord as he approached, revealing the source of the psychic disturbance.

He stopped, stunned, and simply stared.

She was beautiful: a G.o.ddess in repose, a celestial spirit lightly clothed in human form, a glowing monument to all that womankind might become. He came to her, trembling, afraid to speak lest he shatter the silence that had brought them together, and thus lose her. Unfamiliar hormones coursed through his body, and unfamiliar heat settled in their wake. His hands ached to touch her, but he was afraid; might she evaporate into empty dream-stuff if he indicated, by his actions, that he desired her? Did he desire her? Was this what desire was, this aching heat that urged him forward, that made him act in ways beyond his understanding- -reaching to touch her at last, and- -lacking a frame of reference, the dream fading, and-- -don't leave me!- Anzha awoke.

For a moment she just lay there, letting her own heartbeat settle back into its natural rhythm. She had been caught up in male dreams before, but never one so profoundly Azean. The dreamer's loneliness had entrapped her, had brought her insync with his fear, but that was a mere prelude to the dream's true substance.

Unknown to him, he was in the process of bonding; as his body prepared to mate for life, his dreaming mind toyed with images to accustom him to the face of his intended, and to his own natural urges.

To share such an experience was the last thing Anzha needed.

~What about pairbonding, Director?

~ What about it?

~Will I experience it? Am I Azean enough?

~ Do you want to be?

~ Answer the question.

~ You have the proper genetic codes: one must a.s.sume the instinct is dormant.

Whether it will be triggered into activity is something I can't tell you. . . .

It was not the dream that upset her. It was the stirring of desire it left in its wake, a purposeless heat unknown to her parents' race. Azeans did not hunger after strangers, or lie awake at night with unfocused longing coursing through their veins. She did. There was nothing she could do to satisfy it, either, for the Council of Justice would jump upon such an opportunity to prove that her nature was alien; and even more than pleasure, she longed for an Azean ident.i.ty.

But though she dared not indulge it, the physical hunger was there-and that, more than anything else, proved how truly alien she was.

2.

Introduction to Braxin Psychology Would the daughter ot Darmel lyu Tukone care to clarify this point?

Transculturalism: Beyond Diplomacy It is true you've thoughtshared with one of them?

The Politics of Communication . . . was instrumental in settling the Darian affair . . .

She is so cold, so aloof. So different.

She thinks she knows everything.

So intense!

She's not really one of us.

Why is she here?

3.

More than any other place in the Academy, the Terrain Skills Biosphere/Primitive Combat Center was home to Anzha.

She had been raised to the sword. On Llornu, the Inst.i.tute's world, fencing was a favored sport; it challenged physical and psychic skills simultaneously, something few pastimes could offer. On Llornu, swordplay was lightning-swift, hands striving to move faster than thought could follow, ever aware that a moment's hesitation gave one's opponent the opportunity to study one's intentions. Here it was different, and less challenging. She was rarely beaten.

Even the Combatmasters could not compensate for her natural advantage; given a moment to concentrate, she could lift an opponent's plans from his mind and instantly design an attack or defense to complement it. She could feel his pain, pinpoint his exhaustion, play upon his weaknesses. But still the sport pleased her, if for no other reason than because it was so familiar. And if the aura of barbarism clinging to the sharpened steel appealed to her violent nature, that was one more reason to frequent the Center's facilities.

Taking a practice sword from out of the public rack, she set the drill machine to a simple parry/riposte combination and began to practice.

"Cadet Anzha lyu."

She completed her movement, recovered to standing position, and turned to discover the source of the voice. An older man, a Lugastine, was nodding his satisfaction at her response. Because Azeans were not fond of bladed weapons, aliens were often employed in this Biosphere; nevertheless, it was rare to see a non-Azean wandering about outside of cla.s.s time. "Sir?"

"You are too tense. Relax the wrist." He had a slight accent, which confirmed his Lugastine background. "Again."