Braxi-Azea - In Conquest Born Part 31

Thought without ident.i.ty, being without focus. The time is endless. But the will is strong.

Zatar, he thinks, and he notes the act of thinking. Zarvati: the image of a bloodline, Plague-p.r.o.ne and beautiful. Son of Vinir (a tall and angry man, a proud leader) and K'siva (who can command men with a motion and never chooses to, a flower among barbarians, a thing too soft and too lovely to last). He is.

Whatever was reality for him-and at that moment he doesn't recall-it is no longer. There is no darkness, for the concept of darkness implies the existence of light, and light is simply not a reality. He cannot wonder what this place is, for that implies the concept of location and the existence of somewhere else; neither of these things is a truth to him. Only by sheer force of will has he recalled the integrity of his personality and now it is at a loss to anchor itself to the non-world it occupies. This is not acceptable.

He casts about himself for something, anything, to grasp as a basis for reality.

He reaches out with his mind for his body. Surely the two are connected somehow! But there is only the eternal nonexistence of his prison. Fear demands his attention, calling for him to submit and have done with struggling, but he refuses. I AM ZATAR he repeats, clinging to the only shred of ident.i.ty left to him.

A whisper of death pa.s.ses through him and is gone. He is focused elsewhere, seeking the physical world that once he knew so well. But then a thought occurs to him and he stops to consider his purpose. In a reality where there is nothing but thought, then thought must be the key to any change. And pure thought is a thing of concepts, of abstract being, not crude reflections of material substance.

He lets himself drift in the nothingness, trying to detect any variation in the world he has come to occupy.

Again the thread of death touches him, and he grasps it, desperately locking himself to it. It has come from somewhere, and is going elsewhere. Suddenly there is distance, location, movement. He follows it to its destination, which, to his horror, is all to familiar. Yet he is still so distant from it that even as he feels the wave of destruction wash over his own body there is nothing he can do to halt its progress. He is watching himself die. No, he thinks sternly. I refuse.

The waves continue; that tenuous link which binds him to his material form is weakening, and behind him lies only the nothingness he has so recently escaped.

He becomes intention: he is the will to live and he forces himself down the same path his doom has chosen. LIFE, he commands, forcing the requirement into the threads of his being over and over again, until at last the sullen blackness retreats from its alien stronghold and withdraws to those places in the human mind where such things are stored.

He is exhausted and he rests, a thought anchoring him in the world of his body, another standing guard over his personal integrity.

An eternity pa.s.ses, a moment too small to measure in human terms. He is aware of another mind besides his own, and remembers. Suddenly he is alert with excitement; if he means to know his enemy, then here, in a domain free from the bondage of wordly image, is the place to do so.

She is trying to pull back from him, and there is a material a.s.sociation . . . she is trying to withdraw her hand from his to break the contact. He wants to hold on to her; he wants to explore this thing which is so alien to him and yet is a part of himself. But his holding instinct does not affect the body from which he has detached himself. He forces himself into the limb in question: he becomes his hand, wrapping his will around the muscles and tendons and experiencing handness so thoroughly that as the impulse to grab hold of her possesses him he is aware of the extremity responding.

He maintains his grip.

Thought in the darkness; an awareness of Other. She debates whether to break the contact by Discipline, which she has the strength to do. One mental trigger and the wall will slam down between them. He can only struggle with her for as long as she is willing to let him, and she debates now just how long that is.

I will know my enemy, he demands again.

~ Very well, comes the thought, and a whisper of acid hatred with it. ~ And as deeply as you probe, so shall I.

He sees her mind. It boils with violence and engulfs him in its hungry substance. Here is the hatred, and here the bloodl.u.s.t, and here the despair, perfect in their purity and not yet adulterated by being filtered through the body's imperfect biochemistry.

Like the winds of a storm her emotions batter at him and threaten to tear him loose from the mooring of his ident.i.ty. Hatred-he welcomes it, embraces it as a familiar thing, pa.s.ses through and beyond it unharmed. Fear of s.e.xual inadequacy-he counters it with memories from his own youth, painful memories of genuine impotency, which he had hidden behind a mask of cynical humor and eventually genuinely forgotten. Frustration, in floods of painful intensity- but is it anything he is not himself familiar with?

The a.s.sault has an end but not a termination, as though he has come to the center of a storm. All about his awareness the seething emotions swirl, while before him is something no less intense, but in quality quite different.

He touches what no man of the Braxana has ever known: the essence of female being, rich and warm against his complimentary touch. If he had doubted his own masculinity he might be swept away by it, lost to his former self and changed enough so that when mind rejoined body the parts would no longer mesh properly. But he observes, and appreciates, and is apart from it. This, then, is Anzha lyu Mitethe- this storm of emotion spiced with a death wish, this power of female life unable to find expression in the world of solid things.

She reaches for his Name.

He has no idea why the thought comes like that, only that it does. For the first time he knows a fear so great that it threatens to cut short his exploration. Is it unreasoning superst.i.tion, or is there reality to his fears in a world of symbols, where thought is reality and the Name of his soul might well be the key to his existence? He remembers her words: as deeply as you probe, so shall I. Is he that close to the center of her, then, that if she had a Name he would hear it? He forgets his fear in the fascination of discovery, and casts about himself to learn even more. And in that moment, when the decision is absolute and cannot be unmade, when he surrenders that part of himself which previously has only conquered, he pa.s.ses not through the eye of the storm and back into its turbulence, but deeper into it.

Here there is only mental silence, and the faint echo of his presence.What is this place? he wonders, and then he knows: this is the part of her mind-sealed off from her introspection, which she herself has no power to see. The magnitude of it is awesome, and the quiet strangely unnerving. He wanders amazed through the secret avenues of her being. Here and there paths have been severed, reconnected elsewhere, forced to flow in a direction which was not their original intent. Potentials are cut short, others grafted to alien purpose, all by a human hand whose touch has left its mark in the woman's basic essence.

A mark he knows.

He cannot a.s.sign it an ident.i.ty; it is too difficult for him, untutored as he is, to connect this abstract feeling with a human name. But as certainly as he knows what the man has done, he recognizes that their paths have crossed. The touch is familiar-and its work is monstrous.

He travels down paths of health and sees them cut short by a form of psychic surgery he can barely comprehend: he reads what has been done, and why, and is filled with an anger so terrible that it cannot be expressed in anything other than pure thought.

This is the dark side of the power, he thinks, the agony that contradicts the life-song. This is the reason we have weeded out the psychic seed from our own inheritance. This . . . this foulness, which is a crime beyond words.

As he witnesses the details of that crime, as he feels his anger growing, he realizes there are limits to his endurance. The horror and the ecstacy, intermingled, are becoming more than he can safely internalize.

How do I withdraw? he wonders.

And in that moment he has done so.

She stood against the opposite wall, gray eyes fixed upon him. Breathing heavily, as one might after a more pleasurable encounter, with the sweat and flush of s.e.xual arousal still visible upon her face. As it was upon his own, he realized.

There was a pain in his left hand, across the palm. He looked down; the glove was torn and blood welled up in the resulting opening. Her nails, breaking free of him. But their contact hadn't been broken ... he looked up at her and realized why there was just a touch of fear in her regard. She had pulled free. His will had provided the link that permitted them to continue.

He looked at her now with a mixture of feelings he could not have voiced had he wished to. Including sympathy: for what had been done to her was a crime against the very concept of humanity. They had linked death to her desire, he had seen that clearly. They meant her to be alone, and they meant her to suffer. They were counting on frustration to drive her to ... what? That was not clear to him.

But the work was repulsive to him, and to everything inside him that prided itself on being human.

If you knew what they did to you, and with what intent, then I would be the least of your concerns.

"Starcommander." He said it slowly; speech sounded strange and somehow limiting. Suddenly he longed for the contact they had had, the sure caress of hatred upon hatred . . . but that was gone forever. He had tasted something that was alien to his kind, and save for dreams he would never possess it again.

"You have quite a mind," she said. "I've never seen the like, outside of telepathic circles."

Did she have his Name? Curiously, it no longer mattered. And he had hers.

He looked down at his damaged hand, then slowly peeled the glove from it. The delicate leather was soaked with blood. He held it for a moment, then offered it to her. She smiled faintly. A trophy? her expression said. Of conquest, he thought.

Both ways. She took it from him, careful to put her hand beneath his and let it fall to her, careful not ever to touch. The gesture angered him for the proof it was of what had been done to her. After he was through with her, he would remember to hunt down the man responsible for such an atrocity. It would be a pleasure to destroy him.

"My enemy." The modes whispered meaning into his words without his intending it. Desire-for conquest, for power, for possession. "I will not forget."

He did not meet her eyes again for fear of being drawn into them, but turned and strode to the doors. They opened. For a moment he paused, tempted to turn back and look at her one last time. Though he was committed to seeking her death, the nature of stellar battle was such that they might never actually meet again. But then the impulse was gone and he had stepped forward, and the doors, closing behind him, sealed off that alternative forever. In the conference chamber, alone, Anzha lyu Mitethe was still. Her hand closed slowly on the torn glove it held and a bit of Braxana blood dripped down the length of one finger.

And then, quietly, she cried.

He had taught her how.

Harkur: The man who will not resort to violence must find his own ways to manipulate men.

Sixteen.

HOUSE OF FERAN RINGRECORDING.

MASTERCODE:PRIVATE.

BAND ONE.

They say that if you record your thoughts-if you witness them in the magnapatterns, review them at your leisure- that things will come together for you. In the absence of anyone to talk to (make that confide in) and the presence of a very disturbing problem, I'll try anything that might help. Here it goes: There is a price to being Braxana. I can't walk the streets without being noticed, I can't stop to observe something but it is immediately regarded as Something of Certain Value, and I can't make my leisurely way through some Braxana retreat without being bothered by the brave and the curious.

There is one place, however, where even a Braxanca can go unnoticed, and that's the Museum of Erotic Art. Not because the place is obscure; on the contrary, it's the single most popular retreat in the Holding (and perhaps in the galaxy.) Its exhibits sprawl across-and over and under- acres and acres of prime real estate on the Capital Continent; its main building alone could house a modestly populated city and not be the worse for wear. Add to that the restau- rants and hotels that crowd its periphery, and you have a world in miniature.

But not all of this world appeals to the general public. The bulk of the main building is a ma.s.sive labyrinth whose twisting corridors (color-coded for entrance and egress) are a maze of erotic fantasy. Here, the pleasures of a thousand planets are made evident, grouped thematically and in ever-increasing intensity. One can wander through the drugdreams of the H'kekne, rendered in undulating fog by their greatest artists (and then buy, on the way out, a sample of the hallucinaphrodisiac that inspired them); one can share the ecstacies of the Floating Colonies and then move on to the dismemberment fantasies of the Qirdic neo-expressionists; one can view one's favorite fantasy rendered in primitive, solid materials, or displayed in the modern manner, surrounding the viewer. In short, every human taste is explored somewhere in these halls, and many that are truly alien are also presented, if not to inspire pleasure, then to satisfy curiosity.

But there are parts of the Museum that the general public doesn't find appealing, although the Braxana frequent them. The Hall of Death, for instance- I don't think I've ever seen more than two commoners there at a time, and those looked pretty upset. The Braxana mentality exults in strange and sometimes morbid images; the artwork that appeals to us doesn't often please the lower cla.s.ses. Our sense of smell, also, is extraordinarily acute, and some of our exhibits combine odor with unconscious symbolism to support disturbing, often contradictory images. In short, the so-called Braxana Wing can be a welcome refuge from the curiosity of the commonblooded.

I was in the Alien Pavilion (which combines images of non-human s.e.xual practices with pheremonic projections designed to stimulate the equivalent human reaction), concentrating on a triple-layered hologram by Tonar Tz'KuIoz, when a well-dressed but decidedly middle-cla.s.s man approached me. I was attempting to work up some enthusiasm for this piece of P'ladakanirk erotica, and was just beginning to draw some interesting parallels between human dualistic s.e.xuality and the multiple-form omnimating habits of that curious spe- cies when a voice offered, "My Lord . . ." in that particular tone that indicates one wishes to be noticed and considers oneself worthy of the attention that it requires.

I admit, it was a welcome distraction. Turning, I found the source of the voice to be a man of medium height, unexceptional appearance, moderate cla.s.s, unimpressive wealth . . . in short, a very average-looking person. I indicated by a slight ascension of the eyebrows that I was listening to him.

"My Lord, I am Supal of Ganos-Tagat. Do I have the honor of addressing Lord Feran, son of Sechavel and Kijannor, of the Braxana?"

I never miss a chance to practice my arrogance. "You know you do," I said coldly.

He bowed and lowered his eyes for a moment, as was appropriate. "My Lord, I have an item which I believe would interest you." He spoke low, in a voice which indicated that what he had to say wasn't for public consumption. Because he used the Basic Mode (which many commoners do) I had no further insight into the matter. "May we speak in private?" he finally asked.

I considered that for a moment and then nodded gravely. "I was going to take a meal in the Restaurant. Will you join me?"

His hesitation indicated that he wasn't sure how much privacy could be had in such a public place, which in turn indicated that he wasn't familiar with the Museum, or with the customs of upper-cla.s.s restaurants. Nevertheless he trusted me. A Braxana is right until proven otherwise, and even then there is some question.

We pa.s.sed from the Pavilion into the main portion of the Museum, and from there to the Restaurant. Here one might order food from anywhere in the Holding (or at least, so the advertising claimed). Because the Restaurant is situated at the exact center of the Museum, you have to pa.s.s through at least one set of exhibits to get to it; as a result many patrons hunger for privacy as much as for food. This is especially true of the Braxana, who do not share their pleasure with onlookers.

I chose a lowtable with a privacy console, and lowered myself with Braxana grace to the cushions before it. He sat down somewhat more stiffly, and was still struggling to make himself comfortable when our waitress appeared. Like all human servants in the Restaurant, she was dressed to stimulate our interest (but ironically, since she was working, she had Just Cause to refuse to consummate it).

I myself have always been fond of the somatic variations of the Restaurant's women, who vie with each other for the patrons' attention (and thus financial favor) through manipulations of costume and form. This woman had a pseudotail that ended in a tuft of fur which matched the auburn on her head, and what little clothing she wore drew attention to it. My companion stared in open-mouthed amazement, and did not completely regain control of himself until our food arrived.

I set the console for soundproofing and began to eat. "I'm listening," I told him, and then added, "No one else can hear."

He looked dubious, but with a glance down at his plate (gafri bodies crisped on a bed of their colorful powdered wings) and a last nervous glance around to make sure no one was watching, he drew forth a small cloth-wrapped bundle.

"Maybe we'd better-" he began hesitantly.

I switched the opaque field on.

It took a moment for the forcewalls to stabilize in color, but they settled at last on a glowing blue speckled with gold. Not unpleasant. Now that he had his desired privacy, my companion was much more at ease. With considerable pride he unwrapped the small bundle, peeling back first the silken cloth and then a metallic mesh that was wrapped inside it. The mesh parted to reveal a crystal in its natural state, unpolished but showing much promise in its size and rainbow hue.

I was aesthetically impressed but failed to understand the importance of it.

Unfortunately, Braxana do not express ignorance; therefore I couldn't ask, "What is it?" as directly as I would have liked. After a moment I looked up at him, the elevation of one eyebrow indicating that I was intrigued enough to hear what he had come to say. I hoped that would include an explanation of the object's nature.

"It's a Uriese mindgem," he told me.

It stirred no memories. "Go on."

He offered it to me, and prompted, "Touch it."

I did so, noting that its surface was smooth and slightly warm. That was all. My look of irritation at this little charade caused him to glance down from my eyes to my hand, and he started at the sight of my glove. "I'm sorry, Lord, but it needs to come in contact with the skin."

"Your audacity borders on obscenity." I was rather proud of that one.

He paled but did not withdraw the stone. After a moment I took it from him and touched it carefully to the skin above one temple. I was startled, then, by a clear stream of thought that poured forth from it directly into my mind, and a shower of colors that filled my field of vision. For a moment I just watched, as visions of painful beauty danced before me. Then I removed the stone and the visions faded.

"It's contraband," he told me.

I had guessed that. "It's psychic. . . ." As soon as I spoke I regretted doing so-no one but a trained psychic would have recognized that intrusive thoughtstream for what it was. Fortunately for me, he seemed to attribute my understanding to Braxana omniscience and thought nothing of it.

"Does it ... interest the Lord?"

I fixed my gaze upon him. "You mean, do I wish to buy it?"

"I would not be so bold as to set a price upon such-"

"How much?"

". . . if my Lord would consider perhaps sparing some information?"

"What do you want to know?"

"It is said that Lord Feran has intimate knowledge of the ways of the Azeans, our enemy, having lived among them for many years."

I looked angry. I really was, too. "I am a Braxana," I said in my coldest you- have-overstepped-your-bounds voice.

"I'm a writer, Lord. It's occurred to me that in your memories of Azea there might be material for an interesting cultural piece . . . the Sagdal news agency of Ganos-Tagat has indicated a strong interest in such work, and if you would but spare me a few of your memories of that people, I'm sure I could make something interesting out of it."

"And profitable."

"I would, of course, a.s.sign a portion of the profits to your House, although such income would be negligible in the face of your own riches."

It would, but tradition was tradition. "Half", I said. The idea of the project intrigued me. It would be dangerous, of course, to indulge at length in recall, since so much of my background dealt with my psychic history and would incrim- inate me if revealed. But after so many years on Braxi it would be pleasant to reflect upon my past and see what emotions it awoke in me, now that I was truly Braxana. I would have been uneasy about undertaking such an indulgence alone, but being interviewed would impose a sort of structure upon the experience.

"Half," he agreed.

I thought that was a bit fast considering I had just demanded fifty percent of his income, but at the time I chalked it up to his deference toward my Race and his desire to ingratiate himself to me. (Little did I know!) He gave me the mindgem and I wrapped it up again; although I wanted to taste it once more I didn't know what emotions were evident upon my face when it played its psychic song in my mind. Alas, image is everything. I put it away without trying it a second time.

We made an appointment to meet at my House three days later. I went away feeling extremely pleased with myself, convinced that I had gotten the better of the deal on both counts. How little I understood! And how quickly I was to learn.

BAND TWO.

It was no problem to get information on Uri, the mindgem, or Ganos-Tagat, and in the days between our first and second meetings I requisitioned all of it from the Central Computer. Uri is a small planet in the Braxiside War Border. It doesn't support humanform life, nor does it have any alien life of comparable intelligence. The only thing on Uri of any interest to non-natives (besides spectacular sunsets) is the life cycle of the so-called almonjeddei, one part of which is spent in a crystalline container formed from fluids which are extruded from the creature's mating end. This chrysalis protects the metamorphosing creature from the hazards of the outside world, and permits no contact except in one respect. Microscopic tubes in the crystal house filaments of nerve-fiber, which occasionally reach the surface and allow a human psychic to share the color-dreams of the sleeping creature. Apparently for non-psychics there is only a feeling of unfocused pleasure. (Reading this, I was very glad I hadn't said any- thing in the Restaurant regarding the exact nature of my vision.) As with all things psychic, importation of the almonjeddei in any of its forms was punishable by death.

It was unlikely, given the specifics of Braxi's atmosphere, that the creature would survive its awakening, but that wasn't due for at least ten local years anyway. The gem pleased me. It allowed me a peaceful psychic communion without any effort on my part, and there was next to no danger of exposure involved in using it. I was very grateful to Supal for bringing it to me and I was determined to supply him with useful information in return.