Braxi-Azea - In Conquest Born Part 21

"The women in the Central System can't afford to put that much distance between themselves and their Houses for any length of time. I sought a woman whose House could function in her absence-as yours can-and one who might bear a living child in a reasonably short period of time. I'm working among commoners, L'resh. If I desert my work at the Border to obsess myself with a woman, they won't understand it. Braxana power can't survive ridicule-voiced or unvoiced. If I let this interfere with my Border activities, I may as well return to Braxi and give up on the War entirely."

"I wouldn't wish that on anyone," she said dryly. "But you're young. Why are you going through all this now, if it's such a problem?"

"The Elders 'suggested' it." The look of anger that pa.s.sed over her face confirmed one of his guesses: Elder though she was, she hadn't been consulted.

"The majority of them would probably like to see me safe on Braxi, where they could keep an eye on me."

"Other Braxana have gone to war."

"And remained islands in the midst of battle. A brief call to glory, the sacking of a planet or two, and a triumphal return to the Mistress Planet. Never making contact with the men who serve them, or the planets that depend on them. The Central Elders are afraid for their image, L'resh, afraid of what might happen if one of their kind lives day in and day out among commoners. Also, the Braxana who've gone to war have been young men seeking to make a name for themselves.

Never someone who already wielded considerable power on his own. Never a Kaim'era-until now. They feel threatened. They're trying to pressure me back into civilian life, where they think I belong."

"So it's politics again. How dare they! Don't we have troubles enough fulfilling our quotas, without making reproduction a tool of politicians-a weapon?" She shook her head in amazement. "More than anything I've ever heard, your words make me glad I left Braxi when I did."

He smiled, clearly amused by some secret thought, and withdrew a slender vial from his sash. "In your anger you remind me, Lady. I brought you a gift"

"A bribe?"

" 'The Braxana collects bribes as just tribute; only a fool pays before he bargains.' He uncapped the vial and poured its contents-thick, golden, translucent-into one of the goblets. "I thought I would bring you some small taste of what the Central System does have to offer. I'd be pleased if you'd accept it."

She looked up at him; her long dark lashes were like bird's wings framing her eyes. It struck him that he had never seen a woman more attractive to him. "What is it?"

"A Central liqueur." He threw the vial into the fire, where it melted, crackling.

"Both rare and expensive. A suitable offering?"

She sipped from the goblet, then stopped to savor what remained on her tongue. "Sweet," she said approvingly.

"Central taste."

He sat in silence while she finished the tiny portion; she was grateful that doing so spared her from having to speak. Once she looked up at him, startled, as though it had just occurred to her that he might drug her, but the thought was ludicrous; what could he gain in a single night that wouldn't cost him more when she brought him up on charges? When she had finished the liqueur, she set the goblet on the table and slowly pushed it way from her."Zatar, I ... I can't. I'm sorry you had to come all this way to hear that. But it's just not possible."

He touched the side of her face with a black-gloved finger and felt her tremble.

"Your features would find beautiful inheritance in a son, L'resh."

"I can't, Kaim'era, please. . . ." She pushed his hand away, reluctantly, it seemed. "I fulfilled my duty early in life so that I could move away and enjoy my freedom."

"And you don't even realize the magnitude of what you're saying! L'resh, there are women who spend their lifetime trying to fulfill their quota. You're not fifty, and already you're done with it! Four living children in eight pregnancies- I want to breed that back into the Race."

"It's not my responsibility," she countered weakly. He was pleased to note that in response to his use of the s.e.xual modes she had finally come to use one herself.

Longing. . . .

He moved closer and when she did not move away he touched her, then drew her into his arms. She was warm and fragile, and she trembled as he kissed her.

"No," she whispered.

He reached for her again but she drew back suddenly. "No. I turn you down.

That's my right as a purebred. I'm sorry. I refuse." Her eyes were wet and her voice was shaking. "Please let me go."

He made no further move but neither did he release her. His original guess, he realized, had been correct. "L'resh," he said softly, with as much sympathy as his language was capable of expressing. "How long since you've tasted a man?"

She shuddered in his arms, but made no additional attempt to draw away from him. "There are other pleasures," she said finally.

"You know what I mean."

She lowered her eyes. "You don't understand. I almost died, Zatar. What pleasure is worth death?"

"And without pleasure, what is life?" He began to take off his gloves, and although she knew the implications she said nothing. "Sometimes, in the Center of the Holding, one can obtain a liqueur whose taste is so sweet to women that they embrace pleasure as they never dared before."

She looked at him, alarmed. "What was that you gave me?"

He put his hand against the side of her face, gently, reveling in the touch of smoothness against his bare skin. "Contraception," he said softly.

Her eyes widened.

"You're going to tell me it's illegal, and I'm going to say I know it. Would you like to remind me of the death penalty? I've destroyed the only evidence."

She was still in shock from the revelation. "How. . . ."

"There's nothing so illegal that no one supplies it-and nothing supplied that a Braxana can't get hold of. Do you think that we on Braxi can afford to lose our mistresses to pointless labor, much less death in childbed? We're not that barbaric, although we play at it."

"But isn't there risk?" she breathed.

"There's risk." He kissed her, long and sweetly, reveling in her response. There was a decade's hunger in her, if his guesswork was good-not an unpleasant prospect. "Tell me no," he offered, "and I'll leave."

She clutched him tightly to her. There were no more words after that, or any need for them.

The rising sun woke him.

He got up slowly, careful not to jar the bed they had later retired to-or rather, the webbed whatever-it-was that pa.s.sed for such on Karviki. The skin of his face was taut and dry, and it occurred to him that he had never removed the previous day's cosmetics. Quietly he searched the room for astringent, soaked it into a cloth lying beside its jeweled bottle, and cleansed the excess white from his face.

She stirred, and awoke. Her dark eyes wide, she watched him. "You're leaving?"

"I have to." He dampened the cloth again and brought it over to her. "I have the War to get back to."

She closed her eyes and let him wipe the paint from her skin. She seemed hardly paler for its absence. "I wish you wouldn't," she whispered.

He kissed her. "So do I," he said, and his regret was genuine.

Then she drew him down to her, and for a short, sweet time the War was irrelevant.

The red sun rose higher and its light first approached, then washed over the two of them. He lay back for a while, content with the moment, forestalling a rea.s.sessment of his purpose in visiting her. Then he caught her eyes. She was leaning on one side, watching him, and the look on her face said that she knew what he was thinking.

"It came to me one day how overwhelmingly stupid we've been," he said quietly.

"Nature guarantees fertility. Fertile creatures reproduce. Infertile creatures don't.

And then we, self-made G.o.ds that we are, defied that law."

She took his hand in hers; was there any contact more sensual than that? "Four children," he mused. "No fewer. And under no circ.u.mstances more than that.

Their sense of responsibility satisfied, the women of our Race find alternatives to childbearing. Exactly four offspring per person, two and hopefully no more to die of the Plague, perhaps another in the War. If we had just let it be. ..." He squeezed her hand. "It would have bred out."

She nodded, her eyes lowered. He was right, and it hurt to acknowledge it. "If you don't force those who have trouble with it to make the quota-"

"Then we'll surely die out. We don't have the numbers to support that strategy, now. It has to come from the other end." He stroked her face, her hair. "There's more at stake than my own contentment, here. I didn't want to say it, but there it is."

"Why didn't you want to say it?"

"Because we're a selfish people, and the good of the group isn't supposed to outweigh the pleasures of the individual."

"Ah," she said softly. "More Central custom."

"Braxana custom, I'm afraid." He tipped up her face until she was looking at him. The corner of one eye was wet. "Give me a child, L'resh. I own a planet right by the War Border, more than suitable for human habitation. I'll build you a House to equal this one, and have artists from all over the Holding brought to you. I'll give you a thousand times more beauty and pleasure at the Border than any other place could ever offer you. Give me a living child, and I'll keep you supplied in contraception for the rest of your life."

There was the bribery. How long had she hungered, how desperately had she dreamed of finding a solution? Would she be willing to risk her life once more, in order to live the rest of it more fully?

She looked away from him, her thoughts elsewhere, and after a moment slowly nodded. "If you stay the afternoon," she whispered. There were tears in her voice.

Which was better invitation, he thought, than any speech mode could manage.

Harkur: If a man understands the priorities of his fellows, he can lead them. If he fails in this, all the good intentions in the world won't buy him loyalty.

Thirteen.

The wind driving dust into her eyes, Anzha lyu Mitethe waited.

Her face was not the face of youth, although she was still young. Her eyes may have shone with strength and determination, but they never radiated warmth.

The lines of her face bespoke bitterness and anger and, had she smiled, the resulting rounded creases would have been at odds with those already there.

She was not attractive. She was not unattractive. The aura of command was too strong about her for one to be able to isolate physical appearance for judgment.

She had presence.

She also had control, and now she exercised it. Like all Braxana she had learned to hide her emotions. If she trembled now, it was inside; no one observing her would think that she was afraid.

That was as it should be.

When the ramp was lowered, she took a deep breath of the local air before ascending to the transport. Being on a planet's surface wasn't pleasant for her; more and more the evidence of nature at work made her uncomfortable. Her phobia was growing stronger year by year, despite her efforts to overcome it. It was therefore with great pleasure that she would exchange the dusty, threatening air of this planet for the human-controlled atmosphere of a warship.

A warship? The warship!

Inside the transport they were courteous, and she refrained from explaining that no, she didn't require instructions in ground-star safety precautions. She smiled politely as they explained the workings of the stabilizer attached to her couch- granted, all warships generated their own gravity, but how ignorant did they think she was-and she even allowed the pilot to personally see that it was set correctly. Not until he left did she reset it.

There was no further waiting to endure; she was no sooner lying on the couch than the tiny transport lifted from the planet's surface. She closed her eyes and reveled in the multi-gee sensation as they pulled free from the planet, a feeling the couch lessened but no longer nullified. It made her feel as though she had truly left the planet's surface, and she could feel the phobia settle within her, ready for its next excuse to surface.

Now, at last, she had time to think. Perhaps it was the first time in two Standard Years she'd had time to do so; perhaps instead she hadn't dared. Now the memories came, and with them the anger. Images: Subcommander ti Vasha demanding rea.s.signment. "I will not serve an alien in war!" he had cried, and that was that. There were other confrontations, not as dramatic but equally frustrating. She had commanded the Destroyer for two years and had never won over its crew. Did that matter? She tried to convince herself that only the actual combat was of any importance, but she failed. Battles were few and far between, and in the interim Anzha lyu Mitethe was a human being. The fact that she had grown accustomed to being alone did not ease the pain of hearing those half- whispered conversations, or of knowing that they were intended for her ears. She was an alien. That was that.

She could have lost herself in the joy of battle, but circ.u.mstances had been un.o.bliging. She lacked seniority, hence she lacked tactical authority. She was bound to obey the orders of men and women who, though they had served far longer than she and wore more decorations on their sleeves, were decidedly her inferiors. They were so conservative in their strategy that the War she had longed to fight had practically pa.s.sed her by.

Until now.

When the transport was outatmosphere, the generators kicked in and supplied a minimum of artificial gravity, for safety purposes. Anzha arose from the couch and took out the files Torzha had sent her. Here was detailed information on the nature of her new command, from the ship's specifications to its crew. She put the former aside. The Conqueror was not something that could be captured on paper; she knew it already from legend. It had no equal in the Azean fleet and it would have none among the Braxins until the Sentira was back in active service.

From the day it was built it was capable of greater maneuverability, more extensive sensor range, and more precise firepower than had been thought possible for a warship, and since then it had been improved. It was a command a.s.signment one dreamed of getting.

Why me? she asked for the thousandth time.

She questioned more than the advisability of putting someone of alien appearance on such a ship. At thirty she was a mere child; the officers of the Conqueror had been serving on their ship since the time of her birth, if not longer. And they had gone through commanding officers with a speed and regularity that was unnerving.

She pulled those files and reread them. Li Dashte had resigned his commission after one year. Ver Buell had filed charges against his prime subcommander for disobedience, then had left when the man was acquitted. Er Pirjare was in a rest home on Ikn. Five more commanders now served on other ships; one had resigned from the fleet entirely.

The problem was the crew. Insubordination or eccentricity, or both-from the brief reports it was hard to tell. StarControl had issued reprimands on numerous occasions, but it had no real power to correct the problem; the Conqueror's officers were apparently careful to obey rules to the letter, if not to the spirit. The ship's battle record was outstanding, which was amazing considering the discord in its command center. But the Conqueror's crew lacked one important thing: a Starcommander who could handle them. Was that why Torzha had a.s.signed her to this ship?

One by one, Anzha reviewed the personnel files. The men and women who had served under her on the Destroyer had been professional soldiers: officers who had made war their avocation because they were good at it, fighters who had chosen military service because it was the most intense flight training they could obtain, technicians in search of the perfect resume. The officers of the Conqueror were a different breed entirely. It wasn't obvious at first. One had to look long and hard to discover the connection, but when she realized what she had found Anzha nodded her understanding.

Every man and woman in a position of authority was a child of war, as she was.

Raised by military officers, spoonfed armaments and tactics along with their more solid nourishment-as she was, for the first six years of her life. They lived and breathed war as no civilian could; it ran in their veins alongside the blood, sometimes perhaps supplanting it entirely. In addition, most of them had known loss as a direct result of the Great Conflict. Fathers, mothers, lovers, friends, colleagues . . . Braxi had robbed them of what they valued most, and they were seeking vengeance. Under those circ.u.mstances, she thought, their behavior made sense.

She read the records over again, and began to comprehend the pattern.

Starcommanders had run into trouble every time they had tried to get between this crew and the enemy. Commanding officers bogged down in red tape, giving precedence to protocol . . . these were the men and women the crew of the Conqueror rejected outright. And they knew how to get rid of them. Not a move was accidental, not a single act was careless. They could drive a man insane if they had to, without even actually defying regulations. In one case they had actually done so.

A smile, the first in years, transformed her face into something a little less harsh, a bit less unyielding.

I understand, she thought.

In her half-jacket was a letter from Torzha. She didn't open it; she didn't have to. She knew its brief text by heart and could recite it from memory, especially the closing line: "Succeed, and I will ask no questions."

It was a promise she needed if she was to win these people over.

'' Starcommander?"

She gathered her things and rose to follow the attendant. Her thoughtful demeanor seemed to inspire him to silence. Good. Otherwise he might have explained to her how the airlock of a transport functioned.

Outside, protective fields wavered and dispersed. The transport eased into dock and the Conqueror's field was reestablished, containing both ships. Anzha braced herself as the portal slid open and a ramp drew itself into place.