Braxi-Azea - In Conquest Born Part 36

R'LEGAN 3.

DAKKAR 2.

V'NASHT 61.

ARANAKE 12.

OTHER: WITHOUT CLEAR RACIAL DEFINITION/ SPECIAL CASES 23.

SEE RECORDS BY INDIVIDUAL.

There was no Azean in the House of Sechaveh.

I looked at the list again. Had I made an error in interpreting it? No, Azeans did not intermate, therefore no Azean would be "without clear racial definition." That left only special cases- I turned the console off.

For a long time I sat still, trying not to think. Perhaps if my last treatment had been successful, I would simply have shrugged off this problem as none of my business and returned to my work; as it was, the underpinnings of my amnesia, already weakened by half-memories of Zatar and the desire he inspired within me, were beginning to give way. I could almost remember . . . what? Had I known this Azean? Had he played some part in my accident, and thus become linked to my amnesia?

For as long as I remained awake that night, these questions haunted me. When at last I slept, there was still no peace- for I dreamt.

. . . tears which drench my face and the memory of a beautiful man with sun- gold skin and rich white hair, and a goal we shared that meant the galaxy to us, that took him away from me one terrible, b.l.o.o.d.y nightshift.

I want to die. I want to be with him!

Zatar holds me, smiling his pleasure, and those flawless black eyes catch and command mine. "An experiment," he whispers, and though his breath warms me I am also repelled. "To take a woman with a heritage of moderation and see if environment alone can force her to join the truly living. To see if a s.e.x drive can be awakened where scientists have designed it to be absent. And to torment her with the cruelest blow of all-to awaken this hunger by frustrating it into existence-a special agony she was designed to be immune to. Sechaveh versus the best of Azean science. Observe.'"

He commands and I turn. Gripping my shoulders, he forces me forward.

"Mirror!" he commands, and it is before me. I hold my hands before my face . . .

. . . golden hands over the controls . . .

and he bids it to reflect. It does.

I, I am the Azean.

Liel!

I am awake, my body drenched in cold sweat. My mind is suddenly free of its drug-induced bonds, my memory struggling to be active again after its long sleep.

It has all come back to me now-oh, the pain of it! Liel dying, and I with nothing to live for. I would give my life for Azea, I would splatter in glory across the stars and take with me the very center of Braxin knowledge and communication, and join my loved one forever.

And Zatar . . . yes, I knew him! I sat opposite him at the diplomatic table, when he dueled with words in that complex tongue of his and a half-dozen translators, myself among them, watched his every move, a.n.a.lyzed his slightest change of expression, in the hope of adding some insight to Starcommander lyu Mithethe's observations. I sat by her side, watching him-captivated by those eyes, which held such power and promised such violence that one had to fight not to cringe before them, hating him and admiring him as I fought to curb his advantage.

The memories return now, faster and faster, and my mind is flooded with a cacophony of information. Liel, my precious Liel, leaving with the fighters and dying in a burst of pyrotechnic glory-my own hunger to die, for I could not live alone-the hatred of Braxi, which runs too hot in my blood for me to give up life without a last blow at the enemy. Nightshift after nightshift I studied, going over details of the Citadel, the B'Saloan guard station, Braxana mentality- everything I could get my hands on. The Starcommander encouraged me. Though she could not share a love so strong that to be separated from one's adored was worse than death, she could sense the determination within me, and she helped me channel it where it belonged-into vengeance.

I studied what little information we had on the B'Saloan station again and again, probing for weaknesses. And I found them. Approached at this velocity, from this angle, under these conditions . . . see? The forcefield will overload, there will be weakness in this part of the field for just so long, and a specially built ship might manage to get through . . . it was all there. I proved it to her with numbers, and she agreed to let me go.

And so I designed my ship-a suicide vessel, designed to do one job and one job only. Even if I had wanted to return, it would not have been possible; the alterations required to allow me to breach Braxi's forcefield and that of the Citadel (my ultimate target) did not allow for self-preservation.

The Citadel. Home of the Kaim'erate, a golden satellite which contained not only the Hall of the Kaim'eri but also the main storage banks and operating center of the Braxin Central Computer System (that vast network of mechanical semi-intelligence that stored all information and regulated all commerce within the borders of the Holding). So immense an undertaking had its building been, and so effective the result, that some civilizations willingly took on the yoke of the Braxana in order to have access to the System.

If the Citadel were destroyed-or even damaged-it would be catastrophic for the Holding.

I intended to destroy it.

There, was one more thing I had to go through before I could leave, and she called in a Probe to manage it. The nightmares I experienced while the fabric of my memory was a.n.a.lyzed, dismembered and reformed, are things I would rather not repeat; the result was that whatever military secrets I had shared as an officer of the Conqueror were buried beyond recall, their mnemonic a.s.sociations permanently severed, so that neither conscious will nor drugged inquisition might ever force me to betray my people.

Ready at last, I departed.

A tiny ship, designed just so, can slip between the Braxin starlines without being noticed. So it was that I pierced the enemy's domain, gathering speed as I went. Nothing could detect me quickly enough to prompt useful action, and so I went unhindered. I reached the proximity of the B'Saloan system, planned my approach, and struck. The sheer force of my entry would overload the static defense field that guarded the system, I was certain of that.

But we had all underestimated the Braxins. These are people for whom war is not an isolated event, but a state of being. They do not a.s.sume, as the Azeans do, that there are things man will not try. They expect warriors to attempt the irrational, and design their defenses accordingly.

Who can say what I struck, beyond the twelfth planet of B'Salos? It was not the static field I had antic.i.p.ated. It was something that gave with me, and therefore did not overload; I missed Braxi by a hairsbreadth and hurtled out into the enemy Void. They tracked me down, eventually; no hard task, since my life- support was down and I carried no defense machinery. And they brought me back to Braxi-and to this. This body, this reality-and this one man who, through his vain insistence upon his own s.a.d.i.s.tic pleasure, broke the bonds of my memory and gave me back myself again.

I call up the mirror. My body is strange to me, a creation of foreign surgery that has no relation to the form I once wore. But the hatred inside me is unchanged, and so I am the same woman after all.

It will be no hard thing for me to leave the House. Escape is an irrelevant concept; on Braxi's moon, where is there for a runaway slave to go? There is no point in locking anyone inside their House, and Sechaveh hasn't bothered to do so. I thank Hasha he chose to bring me here. On Braxi, or elsewhere, the problem would have been quite different.

In the place of my sleepwear I put on a st.u.r.dy shift which can stand the chill air of Zhene's dark tenths. I regret that I have no weapons, but only a fool would approach the House a.r.s.enal without proper clearance. I'll make do without.

Indecisive wisps of plans are forming and unforming within me, but one thing is certain: I must act before morning. I can't pretend to be an alien slave, now that I know the truth about myself; Sechaveh would see through such a pretense in an instant. I must act, and quickly.

I enter one of the guest rooms as silently as possible, and lift such small objects as I can reasonably carry. The storerooms are sealed and the kitchen likewise; I have no access to tools save where my ingenuity makes them available. I hope that these things will do. And I thank the Academy for insisting that we learn to function without advanced tools and weapons (although it's true, I cursed them at the time).

With a look of I belong here firmly fastened on my face, I leave the House of my bondage. The guard at the door nods to me and makes a note of my exit; by the time the Kaim'era rises I must be far gone from here, for he will read the threat inherent in my departure and set out in immediate search. And I don't doubt that he can find me. He is a monster, d.a.m.n him, but efficient, and he knows human psychology better than I would like to give him credit for.

In the meantime, I must trust that self-a.s.surance is a universal language. I do not sneak stealthily down the broad Zhene streets, but make my way with a firm stride that speaks of my right to be there. Of those few who are about, no one notices me. I am a slave going about my business; the only thing that can give me away is my own unease, and that is something I refuse to exhibit.

Tense, planning, I make my way to the nearest port. The Kaim'eri are in the habit of commuting-and entertaining guests-via private landing fields adjacent to their Houses. Nevertheless there are other vehicles that must come to Zhene, and these are stored directly beneath the moon's circular gravlocks. It's no hard task to find one, although the walk is long. The silver circle ahead of me beckons, promising freedom. I refuse to believe that an intelligent, careful woman can't get off this pile of glorified rock alive-particularly someone with as strong a background in stellar technology as I have. I will find a way, of that I am certain.

I only wish I had some inkling of what that might be.

There are perhaps a dozen ships in the port; with care and in silence I approach them. I see no guards. Again, what need for them? What need have the Braxana to steal, and what freedom have their leash-bound slaves to do so?

Suddenly cold, I put my hand to my neck and feel the slender ring there, my neuroleash. Hasha, I had forgotten. If I step outside my a.s.signed area the d.a.m.ned thing will flood my body with enough pain to incapacitate me, and a signal will go off to alert Sechaveh to my whereabouts. I'll have to get it off soon, or else neutralize it somehow. But first things first.

Hidden in a convenient shadow, pressed against a cargo ramp, I observe the ships before me. Seven will not serve my purpose; they are too large, or too foreign, or too likely to be guarded efficiently. I need something small, not terribly valuable, a ship whose owner wouldn't antic.i.p.ate theft-and one I can figure out how to fly.

I choose my craft, step forward . . . and then stop.

Once before I underestimated them and paid the price for it. Am I so certain now that there is no trap here, if not for me then simply for any slave attempting escape from the moon's confines? It would be very much like them, I realize, to leave a ship here for just that purpose, carefully designed to appeal to someone with a specific set of needs.

Regretfully, I step back and reconsider.

There are a handful of starcraft left to choose from, no one of them any better or worse than the others for what I intend. I decide to choose one at random (I am, after all, adaptable) and thus thwart any plans they might have made based upon antic.i.p.ation of my needs. At least chance will be with me.

I choose. Checking one last time to see that the port is truly deserted, I approach my choice and study it.

I'll have to circ.u.mvent the security system entirely-the d.a.m.ned handplates that the Braxins use are too complex for me to falsify an ID. Somewhere on this vessel, as on all starcraft, there must be an exterior access, a means to override the security system in case of emergency. It takes me some time to find it; the ship's design is alien to me and access plates are meant to remain hidden from anyone except an engineer. Fortunately for me, that was once my occupation.

Footsteps; I hide behind the bulk of my vessel and pray that those approaching have another craft in mind. Guards- two of them-look over the field and then, satisfied by the relative quiet, leave. I suppose it's a sufficient enough review, given the likelihood of crime on Zhene. Won't that change, though!

I locate the hidden pressure-points on the access plate and depress all four with my fingers, simultaneously. A thin sheet of pseudometal drops into my hand.

Behind it is a small opening in the ship's hull, in which racks of macrosized circuitplates are stacked in all directions. I break the fasteners open and pull a plate-landing mechanism. No good. I pull a few more and, reading meaning into their intricate patterns, get an impression of the order they're stored in. Which should put the security system-I pull a plate-here.

Well, it sort of looks like one.

My hands are shaking. All right, so I have no idea what the plate for a Braxin lock should look like. Nevertheless, negative thinking will get me nowhere.

There's a logic to stellar design which I was trained to interpret; also, it's a known fact that Braxin and Azean technology are identical in all but the most trivial details. I break open the plate and study it. The circuit in question should be (at the last minute I allow for the Braxin tendency toward lefthandedness and reverse my mental image) there. I pull out one of the items I brought with me from the House and carefully, very carefully, sc.r.a.pe off a minute bit of metal, then blow off my sc.r.a.ps and reseal the plate.

I put it back in place, reset the fasteners that lock it into the ship's override computer, and seal the access plate back over it. If I've made a mistake in judgment, I'll find out soon enough.

The entrance to the vessel is on the other side and a black plate, hand-sized, sits ominously beside it. With only a slight hesitation I press my hand against it. Now, if I disconnected the proper circuit. . . .

The door slides open.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I enter. The door closes behind me, the lights automatically coming on as I enter each section. The control panel is foreign but not undecipherable.

However, that's not my immediate concern.

"Computer?" I ask tentatively.

RESPONSIVE.

Get this miserable collar off me. "I need ... a personal forcefield, microtools. ..."

I list anything and everything I can think of that might prove helpful. It instructs me where on the ship all this can be found.

I believe that with the parts in the personal field I can neutralize the neuroleash . . . Hasha help me if I'm wrong. The d.a.m.ned thing is hard to take apart but eventually-there. I lay the pieces out before me.

Right.

I put some of the pieces back together, not necessarily in the order I found them. The field itself is close in theory to what I want. What I come up with is a strange-looking gadget indeed, and it's with more than a little doubt that I fasten it onto the thin band around my neck and activate it.

Nothing apparent happens-which is as it should be, but still isn't very rea.s.suring.

With a muttered prayer I slip the forceshears about the band and turn on the blades. The collar is severed easily and falls from my throat, inactive. I shudder, only now considering that if I had failed to deactivate it the very act of removing it would have killed me.

I take my seat before the control panel. Logic dictates the power source would be here, the field control there . . . I study the dials and rea.s.sess a few first impressions. Within a few minutes I believe I have grasped the thing enough to risk flight. I do so.

The small ship lifts easily from the moon's surface and maneuvers with commendable grace to the lock above us. Nice design, I decide.

DO YOU WANT AUTOMATIC DRIVE?.

I start, unaccustomed to computers that initiate conversation. "No. Manual only, please."

DO YOU WISH ME TO REQUEST A STARLINE a.s.sIGNMENT?.

Oh, Zephra, that's right! "Do we have to have one?"

We are entering the lock, and my stomach does flip-flops as internal and external gravities rebalance themselves about me. IF YOU WANT TO GO SOMEWHERE, the computer answers me, the epitome of mechanical logic.

I'm thinking. . . . "Yes, request a starline. To Kurat, on Braxi." Getting that should be easy enough, from here.

The computer turns its attention away from me and toward, ironically enough, the Citadel. It gives me a moment to think. The starline a.s.signment will get me past the lock; after that I can use manual override and go wherever I want to.

WE ARE CLEARED, it tells me.

I edge the craft forward and exit through the outer lock. Free, I am free! Oh, s.p.a.ce has never looked so good!

I notice the main continent of Braxi pa.s.sing beneath us, and I stiffen. Kurat, the capital of my tormentors. Momentarily, I wish that I carried some weapon of note with me, that I might drop it. The logic that it would actually land somewhere in the Taklith Sea is little comfort.

I put the astrogator on automatic and set it to move toward an orbit out past Aldous; I need time to think, and I badly need rest. The forceshears cut easily through my heavy bracelets and I send the last vestige of my slavery into the autotrash.

The screen seems wrong, somehow.

I check our course; it isn't what it should be.

"How do I make this thing accept my course coordinates?" I ask.

1 CANNOT ACCEPT YOUR COURSE COORDINATES.

"I put the controls on manual."

THE ENTIRE SHIP IS ON AUTOMATIC.

I ignore the tight, cold feeling that's beginning to grow in the pit of my stomach.

"Explain yourself."

I HAVE BEEN PREPROGRAMMED FOR YOU.

Hasha. I take a moment just to sit, my eyes closed, calming my nerves enough to talk. "By whom?" I ask it, dreading my Master's name.

I AM NOT AT LIBERTY TO SAY.

Exasperated, I demand, "What difference can it possibly make if I know?"

YOU CAN EXIT THE SHIP. YOU CAN ADJUST ITS CIRCUITRY. YOU CAN.

MAKE CONTACT WITH OFFICIALS OF THE HOLDING, OR ATTEMPT A.

MESSAGE TO YOUR OWN PEOPLE. WE CAN BE STOPPED IN FLIGHT-.

"I get the picture." Now I'm angry. All this effort, just to be made captive again!