Braxi-Azea - In Conquest Born Part 17

3.

The station's observation ring overlooked the planet, and from it one could see the major features of Llornu drenched in morning sunlight. She looked at it, reached out to it with her mind, then withdrew. It was familiar-too familiar. As much as she hated many of the Inst.i.tute's policies, she had to admit that Llornu was a telepath's oasis in a dry and empty galaxy.

Could she leave it forever? She had to. There was no room for weakness in her life, and this-her need for Llornu-was the greatest weakness of all.

"There you are."

She turned and found Director li Pazua approaching her. Bastion of telepathic etiquette, he had searched for her physically rather than interrupt her observations. "They said you might be saying your farewells."

"I was." She shrugged off the view with false nonchalance and began to walk with him, back toward the station.

"Probe zi Laure has finished his a.n.a.lysis of your progress." he told her.

She stiffened, imagining the psychefile. Zeymophobia worsening. Obsessive nature more p.r.o.nounced. Refusal to choose an adult name indicative of emotional instability.

"It's no secret that your sensitivity has improved," he continued. "Dramatically.

Your control is lagging a bit behind intensity of contact, but I've a.n.a.lyzed the situation and I find nothing amiss. It takes time to adjust to such a change. You're surprised?" he asked, noting her reaction.

"Not about that. Please go on."

He touched her with a questing thought, but she turned it aside in favor of mental privacy. "Disciplines: zi Laure says you've mastered five, the others are coming along. He antic.i.p.ates full Functional ability within two to five years- excepting, perhaps, in the area of physical contact."

She shut her eyes. "That hasn't improved?"

"Did you think it had?"

"I didn't know. I've avoided coming in contact with people, you know that. If the tests say it hasn't gotten any better . . . I guess that's true." Her hands clenched in silent frustration. "I try and try, and no matter what I do, the Discipline continues to break down under stress. Why can't I hold onto it?"

"You'll learn to, in time. Zi Laure will help."

She finally found the courage to voice what bothered her. "And what if that doesn't work? What if I really can't master this one simple Discipline? What semipsychic status do I get-or do I stay a student forever?'' And thus remain in your control, she added silently.

There was potential violence in her surface mind; the Director chose his words carefully. "If the time comes when you rate an FT status in all but that one Discipline, I'm willing to consider awarding it to you anyway. Theoretically, a Functional Telepath has a high degree of communicative ability and is master of all the Disciplines. Your skill promises to be so far beyond anything we've seen before that it would be a crime to refuse you your proper label. Master all Disciplines but that one and I'll see to it that you're properly corded." He paused, and his thoughts were carefully guarded. "It would shame the Inst.i.tute to do anything less."

That would never have bothered him before; she was suspicious but kept it to herself. "Thank you."

"Now, what's this about your schedule? Is there a problem with the Academy? I thought we had it all worked out."

Contact Discipline: it guaranteed her mental privacy, steadied her nerves.

"Director . . . I'm not coming back."

There was silence for a long time. Finally he asked, "To Llornu?"

"Llornu, or the Inst.i.tute."

"And your training?"

"I want to finish that. I need to finish it. But not here."

"You're not happy here?"

She stiffened. "Happiness isn't an issue. Fulfillment of my only goal is. I've decided that my purpose is better served by my staying outside of the Inst.i.tute's domain."

"I don't agree."

Would he dare to forbid it? Would their animosity be out in the open, at last?

She would almost welcome it. "You have Probes who can travel," she challenged.

"Torzha can arrange for their lodging in the Academy's system." Again, as always, she sensed his resentment when her sponsor was mentioned. She took me away from you, she thought. Freed me from your autocracy. Is that the source of your bitterness? "You said you'd support me."

"In your fight against Braxi, yes. But this. . . ."

"This is a step in that direction."

"I don't see how."

"I didn't expect you would." I'm not sure I do myself. "It has to do with war, Director, and preparing myself to fight. This place . . . weakens me. I can't afford it."

"You need the support of your own kind."

"I can't afford to have a need like that! There are no trained psychics in StarControl; the Empire distrusts your 'conditioning' programs and isn't about to let itself be overrun by your agents. I'm going to spend my life among non- psychics, and I'm not going to learn how to do it if I have an easy escape waiting here for me. I have to crush that need, Director. Help me, and I can finish my training. Hinder me . . ." She paused, savoring the vision, "and we become enemies." If we're not already, she thought privately.

He was long in answering; perhaps he was considering his options. Surface mind carefully controlled, he said at last "All right. I'll send you a Probe. Not because you threaten me. I'm not afraid of you, Anzha. But I'll take a chance on trusting your judgment. We'll try it your way, though it means the loss of a Probe in this system; we'll have to work around that. I did promise you support," he agreed, the barest hint of irritation in his voice. "You'll have it."

She smiled, careful not to broadcast her triumph. Whatever his secret plans were, they required her dependence upon his authority. Slowly she was working free of his control, and that must be bitter fruit.

Meanwhile the Academy was calling to her, promising adversity-and strength.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "I'll be leaving as soon as possible."

Harkur: If the Braxana, or any other single tribe, were to try to rule Braxi for an extended length of time, they would have to set themselves apart from all other Braxins. They would have to create an image so alien to the rest of Braxin culture that no other group could aspire to it, and do it to such an extreme that the image itself becomes synonymous with power. Then and only then, no man would dare to question their rule.

Ten.

The ma.s.s that was called Lamos entered the House.

It wasn't easy for him to climb the three flights of stairs leading to his private rooms. As usual, he paused for breath midway on each flight to curse the laws which prohibited tubes or lifts in Braxana houses. Blessed s.a.d.i.s.tic move! Why should a man have to climb stairs all the time just because his blood was that of the Master Tribe? Then, when his overworked lungs had recovered from the immense effort of the most recent flight, he continued onward. On a particularly hard day, when the three flights of stairs required four rest stops, he used the extra one to deliver an active blessing on the Braxana custom of a.s.signing the Master's private chambers to the uppermost floor.

S'vethe, Mistress of his House, watched as usual from the topmost step. She had heard his complaints before and would doubtlessly do so again. She tried hard not to think that he had brought it on himself. Braxana architectural tradition was as it was to discourage the sedentary and Lamos, to put it mildly, was just that.

The immense man finally attacked the very step she stood on and conquered it.

As he stood there, gasping for breath, she handed him a print of the day's financial reports and personnel adjustments. He expected it, and received the re- ports from her hand every day with an air of authority. He never read them.

"A bath, my sweet little servant. With women. Nothing energetic, I venture-I'm tired today. Make them all well broken . . . yes, I'm tired of fighting with your s.e.x." His immediate plans accounted for, he placed a plump hand on her shoulder. "My son, eh? He's well?"

"As he was when you left this morning."

"The little purebred! I'll have to nap after the bath, S'vethe, and then you'll bring him to me, yes?"

"As you command."

He yawned. Yes, that'll be just fine. Send Ber'n to help undress me, will you?"

She nodded. Ber'n was a true alien, non-human, intelligent, and pa.s.sive. The Master had a taste for such creatures. S'vethe suspected that he sometimes vented his pleasure upon them, although few of them had anything akin to human s.e.xuality and most were, to her taste, far from arousing.

As for Lamos, he waddled off to his chambers. To be fair, he really did need help disrobing, for to give his clothing a pseudo-traditional Braxana fit over his bloated form he'd had to revise the construction quite a bit, and he simply couldn't reach some of the seams once they were fastened. His cloak, however, he removed immediately; the brooch which held it to his tunic cut deeply into the folds of his neck.

Ber'n arrived moments later, an interesting six-limbed creature whom Lamos found delightfully repulsive, and who was easily dominated. One more benefit of living on the outskirts of the Holding, he thought. No one here to demand his House consist only of humans.

He felt no more responsibility to that custom than to any of the others he had abandoned. True aliens were in common use throughout the Holding, but for some reason he had never quite understood, Braxana Houses avoided them. Here on Vra-Nonn, however, who cared what type of servant he hired, or what kind of slave he bought? Ber'n's people made excellent menials, having been oppressed before Braxi's domination of their world by its other intelligent inhabitants. They were unable to imagine any other way of life. So different for humans! They could look at a hundred cultures and know that, with a little surgery and practice, they could pa.s.s themselves off as a native of anywhere. Yes, Lamos liked aliens in his House, and that justified- Why am I excusing myself again? he thought, annoyed. I've done nothing wrong. These Social Codes are optional things, don't we keep hearing that?

They're not law. I can't be punished for ignoring them. So why do I keep making excuses for myself?

Ber'n helped him to remove the restrictive gray clothing which he so hated.

Here, surrounded only by his slaves and servants, he let the neuter-gendered creature strip him of the last Braxana layer and adorn him in a robe of vivid scarlet. The damp touch of the creature's skin was pleasant against his own, soothing the irritation of a day's bondage in clothing designed to look-and be- uncomfortable. Next life, he thought, I'll be born among some rich people who haven't even got a word for gray-much less black!

His bath had been designed by a Meveshi artist, and accordingly it displayed an opulence which was uncommon in Braxana Houses. Here, in a room where none except slaves and servants might enter, the wealth of Lamos was made evident.

The circular pool, lined in gold, was set about the edge with a fortune in precious stones. The floor was tiled in harkesite. A commoner might spend a lifetime earning enough to purchase a single tile, yet here an entire floor endured the abuse of water and wine. It could be replaced easily enough, Lamos knew. The entire room could be replaced, if he wished it-such was the wealth of a Braxana.

This is the way to live! Lamos thought. Those Central Braxana, what do they know of pleasure? Them and their foolish politics-this is what it means to be a member of the Ruling Race! Wealth, indulgence, and freedom . . . what more could a man ask for?

Fountains sprinkled wine into the air; the mist fell upon Lamos' robe and stained it a darker crimson. He enjoyed the slow entrance, the antic.i.p.ation. A dozen human females adorned the pool, a fine a.s.sortment from as many different planets. They appeared frightened of him, which was good. S'vethe had come through again.

"My Lord?"

He turned back in annoyance. His Mistress stood in the doorway behind him, and it had better be important! Nothing was less s.e.xually attractive to him than the kind of woman who could run a House, and he had made it clear to S'vethe that he didn't want her presence spoiling the atmosphere of his pleasure-rooms.

"What is it?" he snapped.

"The Kaim'era Zatar. He would like to speak to you, Lord."

"Well, arrange a time!" He waved her a dismissal and turned back to his gleaming pool.

"Lord Lamos. . . ." She waited until he faced her again. "He's here now. He came in directly from the House of War, on some sort of state business. He says that he needs to return as soon as possible and therefore must see you now."

Demanding an audience-well, wasn't that rude! Lamos considered giving her a message for the intruder which would show him just how welcome he wasn't. But then, unhappily, he thought the better of it. It wasn't wise to antagonize the Kaim'eri; they had their hands on enough of the Holding's commerce that they could easily strangle his sources of income in retribution. And a man who came from the House of War was doubly dangerous, since he either intended to go planet-smashing at the head of a fleet or, as a strategist, ordered other men to do the same. Never antagonize the military, he told himself unhappily.

"I'll go to him," he decided aloud.

S'vethe sighed in relief. "I'll send you someone to help with the changing-"

"I'll go as I am!" He stroked the velvet robe lovingly. "If he's going to barge in on me like this he can take me as he finds me. Go announce me, little servant."

He followed her slowly to the topmost landing, giving her time to do her duty.

Once there he paused to take stock of his visitor. The entrance hallway below opened up to reveal the entirety of the main staircase, and Lamas found that the intruder was a.s.sessing both the interior architecture and his own person when at last their eyes met.

Hatred uncoiled inside Lamos. This man-this Kaim'era- represented everything he despised about the Central Braxana. He was tall and lean and perfect. (Weren't they all?) His clothing fit tightly and displayed the lack of color which no man with taste would have any part of. Worst of all was that incessant arrogance. It was an attractive characteristic, true, but not when one was at the receiving end.

"Zatar." He bowed very, very slightly. "You've made yourself welcome, I see."

He mixed disdain and scorn in his language and was pleased by the result. "So sorry you've found me short of hospitality. But you see that I was hardly expecting you."

Zatar regarded the brightly clad Braxana with obvious distaste. "I've come on business," he said coldly.

"Oh, I'll come down." He imagined that the other man felt uncomfortable; that amused him.

"No. I'll come up."

What vile manners, Lamos thought-to invite himself to the private chambers of a Braxana Lord! Nevertheless it would save him from a repet.i.tion of that unpleasant climb, and so he disdainfully nodded his agreement and waited just beyond the topmost step.

Zatar climbed the stairs easily, and seemed about to speak when his eyes fell upon the other's ungloved hands. "By the G.o.ds who abandoned us, Lamos, have you gone mad?"

He drew himself up proudly. "In my House, Kaim'era, you will accord me respect or leave."

He ignored him. "I'm here on state business, so let's go somewhere where we can talk. In your private wing," he added scornfully. "Since that's what you're dressed for."

Lamos scowled his displeasure but nevertheless led Zatar to his personal rooms.

Whatever amus.e.m.e.nt he had garnered from the other's discomfort regarding his appearance was rapidly fading in the face of his arrogance. When they arrived, Lamos made a great show of sealing the door and activating the soundproofing.

The sarcasm went unnoticed.

"How may I serve you, Magnificent One?"

If Zatar was irritated by his use of the ironic mode, he didn't show it. "I volunteered to deliver this message because of all the Kaim'eri, I was closest to your planet at the time it was composed. I was with our tactical forces on Garran," he explained, and his voice mode-impatience-indicated that he was in a hurry to return, and would not tolerate pointless delay. "And quite frankly, I'm appalled. Is that suitable dress for the forehouse?"

"What, this?" Lamos stroked the velvet of his robe lovingly; the gesture was obscene and he knew it. It pleased him to annoy this man, who came to his House crowned with arrogance and obnoxious physical perfection and dared to criticize his lifestyle; for that was what the Kaim'era had come about, he was certain.

"This? It's soft, and it's comfortable. And I like bright colors."

"We all do! That's the point: an image of personal sacrifice to support our power base." He gestured toward the other's garment impatiently. "What does it matter what we prefer? We have an image to maintain, Lamos. You can wear what' you like in your own rooms, tradition permits that. But not out there, where aliens might see you."

Lamos folded his hands disdainfully in front of him. "Your traditions don't interest me."