Braxi-Azea - In Conquest Born Part 16

She stiffened. Her form was excellent and she knew it; nevertheless, experience and authority radiated from the stranger's surface mind in such quant.i.ty that she accepted the criticism. With a nod she returned to her opening position.

Attack, just so; the machine responded with admirable speed, demanding all her attention. Nevertheless, she kept a mental eye upon the stranger as she moved, watching herself reflected in his mind, altered by his criticism. There she was, and there was the source of his commentary . . . she relaxed the proper muscles exactly as his mind directed, and was somehow not surprised to find her attack improved by the change.

She turned back to him, a question in her eyes.

He bowed slightly, clearly amused. "Lithius Yumada, Master of Primitive Armaments."

She was stunned. "I didn't know."

"Of course not. I didn't mean you to know, or I would have told you."

Lithius Yumada: unequaled in the field of lowtech combat, if rumor was truth.

Certainly he was the only non-Azean ever invited to oversee a portion of the Academy's military training program. A master among masters, he scoured the galaxy for able instructors and forced them to excellence; the Academy's teachers must be perfect and he was the man to make them so. The students, to whom he was legend, rarely saw him; certainly they never bouted with him.

All this ran through Anzha's mind as she watched him take a weapon from the public rack, along with two bodyfields. One of these he threw to her. "Setting five," he instructed, in a tone that brooked neither disobedience nor delay.

Hastily, she clasped the belt about her waist and turned its light forcefield on.

Setting five would protect her from physical injury while synthesizing the pain she would have experienced had she been unarmored. It was a setting rarely used.

Stance. Salute. The ritual of a Lugastine duel, devised by a people who prided themselves on dignity even while they killed each other. She took her cues from his mind, reading his expectations. And saw him smile.

"It is as they said, then. Telepathy serves you well, but I suspect you rely too heavily upon it. Take your guard."

He was fast, unbelievably fast, with a speed that belied his age. Almost too fast for her to antic.i.p.ate him. He began a three-part maneuver, controlled her response until the last movement; she only broke free when his point was coming toward open target, and then with difficulty. Hasha! He had mesmerized her as a psychic might, yet he gave no hint of such power. It was the beauty of his movement, the controlled and deadly grace of it, which acted like a drug upon her mind.

It took all her skill to ignore that beauty and focus on the intent of his movement. It was harder still to read purpose in his thoughts, and to gain her usual advantage; he seemed to think with his body, bypa.s.sing the centers of reason in favor of trained reflex. But there: a hint of planning. She a.n.a.lyzed it, drew him into a trap of his own devising, twisted into a combination guard/attack (with her wrist carefully relaxed, of course) and struck him on his outstretched arm.

The pain was intense; she could feel it. But Yumada did no more than wince.

When the worst of it had pa.s.sed, he raised his sword to her again and instructed, "Resume." A dull ache remained, hardly enough to affect his movement. But now she had him.

The thoughts that supported his movement were subtle, but they were there.

Knowing where to look, she plucked his plans from his mind even as they became action, gaining a split-second advantage that proved to be enough. Again and again she turned him aside; she initiated attacks of her own, learning his thought processes even as she failed to reach him. It was only a matter of time. At last she had her opening, a discrepancy between intent and action which left the outermost point of his left shoulder open to her. She struck, striving for the utmost speed of which she was capable. And hit him.

A moment to breathe, then, while he recovered. Her muscles ached from the unaccustomed excertion, and a thin sheen of sweat had soaked through her clothing. He was not quite good enough to beat her-no mere physical could do that- but he was good enough to make her work for her victory. A welcome change, she thought.

"You are tense," he instructed. She tried to relax.

"Again."

This time it was easier. They were both beginning to tire, which slowed their motions and made the temporal gap between thought and action even wider than before. Now it was no challenge to pick up on his plans, and although she still had to work to keep up with him, it was easier and easier to complement his movements with the perfect defense, or an appropriate attack.

He was good, though, unbelievably good. He held her back as long as a physical could ever hope to do, and only when the strain of prolongued bouting began to compromise his perfection was she able to reach him again.

A touch to his inner arm; there was the expected pain, and then he nodded.

Satisfaction? Understanding? She expected him to end the bout, but his upraised sword signaled her to continue the contest.

Why? she thought. There was no real challenge-not if she was careful. His thoughts were clear, now that she knew how to look for them. It was always the same with non-psychics; even a legend such as Yumada could not hope to negate her advantage without telepathy of his own to call upon.

With care she attacked, sliding toward his left flank, diverting to a lower target when he moved to block her. His blade whipped around, caught hers, twisted it aside to combine defense and attack in one. She saw it coming, defended herself accordingly. Easier and easier. An intention sparked within him, became action- which she moved to neutralize- then his slender steel inexplicably slipped past her guard and a bolt of pain skewered her through the chest, numbing all her senses.

Her blade fell to the floor; she heard it, stunned to discover that her hand had betrayed her. After a moment the worst of the pain pa.s.sed, and with it the numbness. She looked at Yumada in amazement.

"Through the torso to sever the spine," he told her. "Very good, Anzha lyu, but you rely too heavily on your special talent. A true master can negate that advantage, with the proper preparation. Which I have had."

Her vision was clearing, and with it her mind. "You knew."

"It was obvious. Equally obvious that, having such an advantage, you would come to depend upon it. A dangerous weakness, cadet-in fencing, or in war.

Remember that." He took off the bodyfield and put it away. Placing his weapon in the rack, he told her "You have excellent potential, if you are a bit overconfident.

Be wary of the opponent who is comfortably predictable; it may be that he plans one thing and intends another." He turned back to her. "You could be a master. I propose to train you. What do you say?"

She was stunned. "But my studies-"

"Your program allows specialization in Terrain Skills; I suggest a concentration in lowtech armaments. Primitive societies are ruled by the sword; if not in fact, then in ritual. And I think it would benefit you in a tactical sense to experience a challenge. Victory should never be taken for granted. Besides," he added with a wry smile, *You have much energy in need of discipline. Such training would help you focus it. What do you think?"

It would set her apart. It would encourage her violent side, her non-Azean side, and develop skills which that race abhorred. It would banish any hope she ever had of fitting into the Academy's social structure; a student favored by such attention-from Yumada himself-could never reenter the mainstream of student life. It would reaffirm just how alien she was, and guarantee that the whole student body knew it.

But it would challenge her as she had never been challenged before, in body or in mind. And already the warmth of exhaustion was relaxing muscles that had been tense for too long; the s.e.xual tension which was a constant undercurrent to her life seemed less demanding, as though it had found partial fulfillment in the intensity of their combat. If she could redirect that energy, even partially, it would be worth it.

Which is what he's offering, she realized. He's not Azean. He understands.

"I'm honored," she told him, bowing. "And I accept."

For better and for worse.

4.

In the office of Commander San li Eran, Director of the Academy, StarControl Liaison: "Sit down, Anzha lyu. I want to talk to you."

An uncomfortable seat in an uncomfortable office. The Commander paced as he spoke. "We're all impressed with your performance here, I want you to understand that." We were surprised you could handle it at all, much less excel.

"Your record is outstanding." It has to be, or you're out. "I believe we should have a talk about your plans for the future."

Anzha said nothing, merely nodded. His thoughts were so loud it was hard to distinguish them from spoken words. Was he really so vehement, or was her control slipping? She was as yet only a student of telepathy, not its master. Was the strain of this place taking its toll upon her discipline?

"You are entered," he said slowly, "in the command program." Against my will and better judgment. "May I ask why you choose that particular path?"

Her voice carefully neutral, she told him, "My sponsor, Director er Litz, advised it. For reasons I agree with."

Yes, and she overrode my authority. "Which are?"

In fifty words or less? "I have intimate knowledge of Braxin psychology. I believe I can turn it against them. To do this I must be in a position of tactical authority-''

"Or an advisory position." Which would make life easier for all of us.

Against her will, her voice grew cold. "An advisor can be disregarded."

You want power, is that it? He hesitated, feigned sympathy. "Cadet Anzha lyu, I'll be frank with you. Your record is excellent. Despite the lack of historic precedent, I think it possible-not likely, mind you, but possible-that you may indeed manage to become involved in the War effort." Only because your sponsor is who she is-remember that. "But to continue in the command program is sheer folly. The Empire will never tolerate a non-Azean as commanding officer in the Great War. Or any war, for that matter. The simple truth is that you're not Azean, and that therefore there are limits. Accept them, and you can accomplish something. But to refuse, stubbornly, as you're doing. . .

." He shrugged. "You're setting yourself up for failure." Which would please me greatly, and others. But we fearStarControl's displeasure.

"What would you suggest?" she asked quietly.

"Your goal is to kill Braxins." You are obsessed with killing Braxins. "Train as a fighter. The odds are good that your sponsor could secure you a berth. Your size gives you a tremendous advantage, and would make you valuable enough-"

"I thank you for your concern, Commander, but no, that's not what I want."

He darkened, and his thoughts were a storm of accusation. "You're making a mistake, Cadet."

"I've made my decision, sir. Director er Litz approves."

Then you are a fool, and so is your sponsor! "Listen to me: you may excel in academics and you may have support in high places, but to gain a command post requires Imperial sanction-and that you will never have. Never. You're wasting your time-and ours-by your insistence upon a course of study that can't possibly benefit you." Why did you come here in the first place? You don't belong, and never will. "Do you understand me?"

More than you suspect. "Yes, Commander."

"Now: In the interests of reconciling your personal ambition with the reality of your environment, I'm going to recommend regular sessions with our Morale Counselor, li Darren. Beginning next firstday, seventh hour. Is that compatible with your schedule?''

She forced herself to sound apologetic. "I'm afraid not, Commander. I'm due on Llornu the day before that, and won't be back here until third session." Since he had apparently forgotten the conditions of her schooling, she added, "I'm scheduled to alternate between the Academy and the Inst.i.tute until my training there has been completed. Unless you have objections, sir."

"No. Of course not." Go home, where you belong. "We'll discuss this further when you return." Do us all a favor and don't come back. He nodded a dismissal and turned away, but his surface thoughts, angry and frustrated, were still focused on her.

Go home.

Go home.

Home?

Light:

1.

Return to Llornu: however much she disliked the Inst.i.tute, it was a relief to come back to it. As the distance between them closed she could pick out its special aura, and she savored its rea.s.suring familiarity. Thousands of minds, striving to fulfill their psychic potential . . . most of them were unstable, but that didn't matter. She wasn't wholly stable herself.

As her transport dropped into subluminal s.p.a.ce, the images became clearer.

Now she could pick out specific minds, distinct concerns. Poli, the Kuathan adolescent, had had another wet dream-and had dreamshared it. Embarra.s.sing but common; a dozen psychics stifled their amus.e.m.e.nt long enough to offer him sympathy. Sar'a Noe, the gifted Zula Communicant, was practicing the difficult Zi Vesh Configurations in the hope of earning the red cord of a Functional Telepath.

And Yersek li Daramos, the product of Llornuan breeding, was torn between his mixed human heritage-which reveled in the unrestricted pleasures of Llornuan society-and his Azean half, which was hungering to pairbond. She touched them all, and with satisfaction thought: Not much has changed. To which she added, Perhaps myself?

She disembarked at Llornu's...o...b..ting station, an environment she preferred to the dubious pleasures of the onplanet facilities. Natural surroundings made her uncomfortable; she would rather put her trust in the controlled solidity of an artificial satellite than risk the uncertain surface below. Just days ago a minor earthquake had struck Llornu's largest city, and though the population had been evacuated in time (efficiency during emergencies was one of the benefits of universal psychic ability) power sources were disrupted for half a day, and a number of buildings whose protective fields had failed had been badly damaged.

Thinking of it, she shuddered. This is the risk one takes, when one trusts a planet.

It was hard to admit, because she resented the Inst.i.tute- resented it for making her live, and for controlling every aspect of her life since that time-but she was glad to be here. It was comfortable. She belonged.

Hasha, help me.

2.

A bout of swordplay in one of the Inst.i.tute's practice rooms: the lights were off and the sunlight, coming through frosted windows, was less than wholly adequate. Thus telepathy was more important than sight, an arrangement many psychics preferred.

You mustn't limit yourself to your own kind, Yumada had warned her. Most of the galaxy lacks your gift, thus develops other skills. You must learn to compensate.

The pleasure of rhythmic exchange-the linking of minds: trading plans, devouring secrets. The shadow of a movement before the movement was made, followed by action. The joy of telepathic compet.i.tion.

You wish to do battle with physicals? Then you must practice against them, live with them, learn their ways. This the Inst.i.tute can never offer you. It serves as a refuge from pain because it shelters you from the most difficult challenge of all. It comforts you, and because of that it limits you. Contentment is an enemy to your purpose.

Eight points to her, three to her opponent. Her technique had improved, it was obvious. Briefly, she wished for stronger light. Madness!

To defeat the Braxins, you must think like a Braxin.

"The true warrior eschews comfort''-Dialogues 3/124V.

"Strength is derived from adversity"-Dialogues 12/9H.

Mind intertwined with mind, gleaming strands of strategy interwoven with dizzying complexity; the body followed, expressing the mind's desire. It was an intimacy unequaled by anything save s.e.xual concourse, and that she had denied herself in order to grasp at the future. A sword was in her hand, and the power was alive within her. Was there anything outside the Inst.i.tute to equal that?

To do what is difficult is the most valuable training of all.