Braxi-Azea - In Conquest Born Part 38

How could she hope to explain the Braxins to a non-human, when their nearest evolutionary kin could barely comprehend them? "One must consider Braxin motives," she explained, choosing her words with care. "In this case, it was the judgment of my senior negotiator that Braxi needed preparation time to counter our H'rett offensive, and so offered us a Peace-which we were supposed to accept with grat.i.tude. To have done so would have negated our advantage in that sector, a high price for a year or two of non-aggression. The War will go on until one side triumphs, Councillor . . . that's the unhappy truth of it. In order to achieve true peace, we must pursue victory."

"Peace through war? I reject that concept, Director, and so do many of my colleagues."

I'm sorry, she wanted to say, but that's the way it is. "Experience has taught us that the Braxins have no desire for peace-''

"And so it will always be, do you say that? I answer that the war can't be won.

The sides are too balanced, the resources virtually unlimited. Azea knows this.

Someday Braxi will come to realize it, too, and will seek an end to this pointless conflict. And will you be open to them, at that time? We fear that the answer is no. Under current StarControl policy, an opportunity for peace would be lost in a fever of Azean conquest. Your primary duty-as set forth in the Edict of 3467-is to end the War, not to prolong it."

"Our primary duty is to defend the Empire," Torzha answered dryly. "Article five, Subsections one through twelve. StarControl policy defines Braxi as a major threat to the nation; we're bound by the Edict to attempt to eradicate that threat.

It can't be neutralized by treaty; time has taught us that. For as long as Braxi exists, the Empire is in danger of attack."

"There is no doubt; the Braxins are as stubborn as the Empire's humans, we comprehend this. But you defend your position with external reasoning, and avoid the question of internal balance. If the Great War is ended by treaty, who will then rule the Empire? For centuries my Council has also refused to consider this. Now I do so. And I perceive that the Great War serves Azea in one very special way: it guarantees the supremacy of humans, and therefore Azeans, over the nations of the Empire. Consider that our five Crowns were once three: the Emperor, the House of Humans, and our own House. StarControl was an arm of the government, nothing more; not until 'temporary' martial law was declared in 3467 was the Director of the military anything greater than a servant of the state.

And not until the War Border became a longstanding problem, with its complex loyalties and periodic reproductive violence, did the Council of Justice command any more respect or power than a collection of social philosophers deserved.

"If the Great War ended tomorrow, wouldn't the purpose of the Edict be fulfilled? StarControl would come under the Emperor again, and Diplomacy would be given back to the Combined Council of Nations-where it belongs, I believe. The Council of Justice would continue to reign until the home race was stable once more, and then after that . . . who would need them? Three Crowns, Director: that was the Founders' plan. One human, one non-human, and an Azean figurehead. We accepted that, my people, when we joined this Empire.

We'll endure two additional Azean Crowns for as long as we have to. But we wonder now: if we're given an opportunity for peace, will the military allow us to give up this war? Power is addictive, Director. Can you say this situation has no effect upon your policy?"

"It has no effect upon my policy," she said coldly. "I have a goal to accomplish.

Everything I do, I do toward that end."

"A lasting settlement with the Braxin Holding?"

The destruction of Braxi, and everything it stands for! "The end of the War, Councillor. However that can be accomplished."

"I perceive that words are easy, Director. As they've always been. What the non- humans require now is action, to demonstrate StarControl's sincerity."

She stifled her anger. I invited him to speak openly, she reminded herself, I should have remembered that the Quezyans aren't known for their subtlety.

"And what would you suggest?"

"Simply a demonstration of faith. As an example, your senior Border negotiator favors war; perhaps that can be changed? Or another can take the post. A gesture, you perceive?"

She did indeed. The Quezyan imagined calumny between herself and Anzha, designed to prolong the War and keep Torzha in power. Not unreasonable, had the two been Braxin; totally unreasonable, given who they were.

Fools! she thought. Do you know how the Braxins treat non-humans? Don't you realize what would happen to your precious Council if the empire were overrun?

"The senior negotiator acts upon my orders," she told the Councillor, "and I'm pleased with her service. But I will consider what you've said."

The Quezyan smoothed a violet feather. "The time for words is past," he warned her. "There will be action-if not yours, then mine. I tell you now, in confidence, to give you time to consider. I would far rather work out this problem in private, between two individuals, than allow it to divide our government."

How much time do I have? she wondered. She could postpone the Quezyan's coronation by demanding a review of his background, but that would only work for so long-and in the long run, it would make matters even worse between them. She could work on the Human Councillors-find out just how widespread this philosophy was, see how much influence the Pacifists commanded in the human House. There were things she could do; they all required time. She was no innocent when it came to internal politics, although she rarely indulged her skills.

But if a radical Pacifist were going to be crowned . . . she needed time. To clip his wings, she thought darkly. To make sure that he can't interfere with my work.

"I'm grateful to you for coming," she a.s.sured him, and she a.s.sumed a soothing Posture. "I, too, would far rather work this out privately, than let it upset both the Crowns and the populace. I'll see what can be done to demonstrate StarControl's true intent. In the meantime, I welcome your counsel. Please forward my best wishes to the High Councillor, when you speak to her."

He opened his wings, an acknowledgment of leavetaking. "I am grateful to you, Director, for having heard me out on this matter. I believe I speak for the High Councillor when I say that the unity of the Empire is our primary concern."

"As it is mine," she a.s.sured him, and she pa.s.sed him the bowl of thrrr.

Not until he was gone did she give vent to her anger.

"d.a.m.n!" She threw the thrrr into a waste receptacle, bowl and all. Why did the next High Councillor have to be a Pacifist?Why did he have to come into power now, when they were so close!

So close. . . .

I need time. She went back to her desk, turned on the starmap, and studied the Border. Time.

She needed to make some kind of gesture; that would quiet them, for a while.

After that, the way the War was going, things would take care of themselves. Day after day, the Empire's position strengthened; Zatar was a problem, but not enough of one to keep them from eventual victory. Anzha would win the War for them yet!-if political necessity didn't get in her way.

Political necessity . . . there were a thousand and one responsibilities binding Torzha, and while military victory was the most important, it was not the most immediate. As one of the Crowns of Azea, she had a duty to preserve the unity of that state. And she had sworn a personal fealty to the Emperor; in theory, she served his will.

What would Pezh il say to her? The War has raged for ten thousand years; it will not be ended tomorrow. We have a responsibility to maintain lines of communication between human and non-human, for those are the ties which will bind us when the War is over and done with. The Empire was Founded to unify, not to destroy; that must be our overriding priority.

d.a.m.n.

She considered all her options, a wide range of conciliatory gestures that she might make. All noxious.

Peace. . . .

What had happened to the warrior she had once been? At what point along the line had she sacrificed the simplicity of her youth? She had never wanted power, would gladly relinquish it when the time came. But in victory, she promised herself. I will turn in my Crown amidst the smoking ruins of the Citadel.

One more Peace: an investment in purpose? Let the Council of Nations see for themselves the negative consequences. She would publicize each disaster, using her position to make sure the point was driven home. One more Peace, and-if she played it carefully-that could be the last. Forever.

Anzha, forgive me. I know it will be hard. In the end, we will benefit.

She began to compose a letter.

Harkur: You can remove undesirable emotions from society's repertoire by careful manipulation of cultural trends. You can revise your language so that a man has no means of expressing that which is forbidden; lacking a familiar label, he will eventually lose his grasp of the concept itself. You cannot, however, wholly excise emotions from a man's character and still expect him to be a complete human being.

Twenty.

Her finger is long and graceful and the nail at its end is perfectly manicured. A slender silver ring has been fitted so that it rests above the middle joint. Inscribed upon it in magnapatterns is a challenge once issued by a rival; the rival is no longer and the ring is but a memento. The finger hesitates, then pushes upward on the noiseless switch. The lights of the ship are extinguished and through the portals the stars shine brightly. B'Salos is behind them now, rapidly dwindling in the distance as they move faster and faster away from it. Their destination has no star to mark it and is a bleak, uncomforting prospect. But there is no other choice.

His breathing from the sleeping alcove is labored and erratic, but at least, it appears, he is sleeping. Perhaps, in the dark quiet of uninterrupted travel, there will be some peace for her at last. . . .

My Lord and Master-wrote Ni'en, Mistress of the House of Zatar-hard news has come to Braxi. I wish I could pretend to understand it; I can only hope that, hearing the details, you will make sense of it.

The tsank'ar has broken out here. The symptoms are extreme for the virus: unusually high fever and bronchial congestion are the worst of it, and there are a variety of lesser symptoms that aren't dangerous in themselves but that com- plicate recovery. Nevertheless, how serious a threat can the tsank'ar be? I've had this strain myself; it pa.s.ses in a few days, or at the worst in half a zhent, and barring complications caused by attendant illnesses causes no lasting harm.

So I thought. But now there are reports coming out of Montesekua's Virology Center that this is due to be an epidemic of new proportions; the tsank'ar virus, they say, hasn't undergone such a major mutation in centuries.

And the Braxana are dying of it. First there was Sadar, of our House, and then Kaim'era Bamir fell ill and died, leaving his own House in unexpected chaos. The Braxana are locking themselves away, in some cases fleeing the planet entirely.

The Kaim'eri met one last time and have disbanded until the trouble pa.s.ses. I knew of the Plague in so many words, Zatar, but this? I see fear in faces where I have never seen a sign of weakness before. Tell me what this is, my Lord, in order that I may serve you. For I realize now that I am from a different world entirely, and that frightens me. What is this thing?

Many days have pa.s.sed now, punctuated by short s.n.a.t.c.hes of fitful sleep and detours to dodge Braxin guardships. They must never know, she has thought, that a woman commands his movement. They would execute even a Braxana for such effrontery.

Now he twists and turns in the agony of Plague-fever. She has tasted it herself and can sympathize; she also know there is nothing she can do to ease the delirium that grips his soul. When he's awake she smooths his black hair back without tenderness, carefully and always without tenderness, and feeds him a bit more of the potion that keeps him oblivious to his surroundings.

Why are you doing this? she asks herself. Why are you risking so much for this man?

She does not answer. She dares not.

My Mistress-wrote Zatar-It's good that you wrote when you did. There was a particularly fierce battle in the Ornar'n sector which left both our forces limping home and, certain that even the great lyu Mitethe would take some time to recover, not to mention my being without a viable attack force until lengthy repairs could be made, I had thought of leaving Selov in command and coming home for a time. Now that the Plague has come, however, such action is impossi- ble, and will remain so for a long, long while.

What can I say to you, regarding such a time as this? We live with this fear from our birthtime and know it all our lives. You know the virus; once a year it may briefly discomfort you, but it is on the whole nothing for commoners to fear. Not so with us. We watch it mutate every year of our lives and live in perpetual fear of the results; we turn to science, quarantine, anything, but remain helpless before the inevitable epidemic. And now this.

We have no immunity to the tsank'ar, Ni'en. We bred that in when we bred other weaknesses out, and because only one particular strain in a thousand is capable of laying us low, it took us a millennium to realize what we had done. And by then it was too late. This is the price we must pay for the Shlesor, that misguided indulgence in "eugenics" which guaranteed our strength and beauty- and no, if the Plague is loose on Braxi I will not come home.

Now listen to me carefully; I have planned for this, and though its arrival is unusually early, still it is useful to me. I place you in command of my House, without reservation; my seal on this ring will be your proof of that. You will have to act, and you will have to give orders directly, and do all this without hesitation if the House is to be saved. The ravages of the Plague are seconded only by Plague-politics, of which you will soon enough have a taste. You must be ready to act without consulting, me; the distance between us puts too long a delay on communication. Remember: I count on you, and will support you in everything.

Bring my purebred children into the House and watch over them yourself; if you've truly had the Plague, as you say, then you're no danger to them now.

Quarantine any member of my House who shows the least sign of sickness. Let their only contact be with those few who have survived it. There can be no exceptions.

Soon after this reaches you, I expect that Braxi and Zhene will both come under strict quarantine, as well as any other planets where the sickness is prevalent.

This wreaks havoc with commerce and we must do the best we can to compen- sate; do what you can with our trade contacts to keep them solvent during this disaster. Spend what money you must in bribery to keep the alien merchants happy; only remember, no matter who threatens what, all Houses on Braxi are in the same position, and all are equally incapable of getting trade cargo out of the B'Saloan system. You will find a list of merchants and officials filed under "Plague" in my private files, with notes on pressure tactics to be applied in time of emergency. I have put them there for just such a time; do not hesitate to use them.

Watch especially closely my rival Houses, those of Yiril, Delak, Lerex, and Saloz.

These men are my most skilled rivals in politics and finance, and it is from them that we can antic.i.p.ate interference. Also, be wary of Sechaveh. After that Venari fiasco he's no great political threat, but there's a lot of hostility between us and I don't doubt he'd strike at me for the sheer pleasure of doing so. It is a Braxana custom, during Plague-time, to cut at the roots of a rival's house.

Send Feran to me. We must have peace, alas, or the Holding will crumble from both ends inward, and we must have it before the Azeans realize why we want it.

In the old days there would have been no questions-they were so anxious for a treaty-but now, with the Starcommander acting as senior negotiator for the entire Border, and with the Plague biting at our heels, we dare not risk delay.

Feran knows them; more important, he knows her. Together we can manipulate the enemy, and buy time for our people. In addition, she and Feran will be forced to deal with each other directly, and I have suspicions regarding the two of them .

. . but no, not until I'm certain will I speak of that.

Keep well, and wield this power to my ends. I rely upon you.

He cries out incoherently in the grips of his delirium. She has not slept in many days, and has eaten very little. The sound of his suffering pierces through any wall of sleep, causing nightmares that shatter her rest. There are moments when she regrets, and must remind herself again that mere doctors could do nothing for him. There are moments when she fears and must remind herself again that he must live, he must live, he must live at any cost. And she must never question why.

Once, the sounds become words, and the words a cry of anguish. He opens his swollen eyes and seems to recognize her. "My children-" he whispers. She lowers her eyes. "Dead," she says. Their relationship has always been one of simple honesty; she wishes now she knew how to lie to him. "My House-"he asks, his voice thick with fever. "Gone," she answers. "Abandoned. What's left must be rebuilt from scratch."

He winces as if in pain, although the sharp pains ended days ago. "Then I've lost everything," he whispers, in a voice as cold as death. "Everything! My children, My House, my power . . . what is left to me? All is gone, gone. . . ."

She turns away. It's right for him to cry, for he is dying a horrible death and has lost the only proof of his fertility. It's not right for her. Yet she feels the tears coming, alien things to Braxana eyes, and fights them so that she need not answer the question they force upon her.

He has lost everything. Everything?

My Lord and Master-wrote Ni'en-if I've taken a long time to contact you, it's because I've devoted every waking moment up to this one to dealing with your orders. Feran has left and should arrive soon at the military base orbiting Akkar- and just in time, for quarantine was announced immediately after he departed. It will be hard to communicate with you without great delay after this; I can't send the rings directly, but must transmit the text to a neighboring system and have it sent from there. How much should I trust to discretion this way? And should I fight for time on augmented transmission or send it under-light to the guard station outside B'Salos Twelve, and have it forwarded in hardcopy from there? In short, which do you trust more, and how much?

Y'sila is here, and two of your other daughters on Braxi are due to arrive within tenths. Terak, sick, is fuming at your imposed quarantine, but is ill disposed to face you later if he disobeys; therefore he is compliant.

The Kaim'era Saloz is dead of the Plague, and his Mistress also. Most of his holdings were absorbed by Delak and Korov, but I was able to get a good share of his interest in the mines of Kest and I'm not so certain that some of Delak's new property can't be loosened from his grasp before his ownership is finalized. Lerex fled Braxi to parts unknown, just before quarantine was established; I am attempting to track him down. Sechaveh is under self-imposed quarantine. His House, obviously expecting you to pry while he is weak, is well guarded against my efforts. I will continue to try.

Regarding Yiril . . . this disturbs me greatly. His Mistress D'vra took ill and recovered-her line is strong in that manner, I understand-and resumed the running of his House. Then the Kaim'era caught the Plague. His bloodline, I un- derstand, is particularly weak in this regard. I a.s.sumed (we all did) that D'vra would nurse him through it, being one of the few purebred Mistresses who could manage such a feat. Instead she has abandoned him and his House. My contacts inform me that over half the population of his estates are dead or dying, for most of his household had a goodly proportion of Braxana blood in them. The House is falling to ruins, and although her hand could have saved it she has apparently broken quarantine and fled the system. I don't pretend to understand it-but then, did I ever really understand your people?

She steers through the rubble, her hands trembling. They should never have tried to stop her. They should have left communication to their computers, s.e.xless machines that disguise their pilots' ident.i.ties with mechanical monotones.

. . . What could she do but destroy them?

"Taz'hein," she whispers, her voice shaking, "what have I done? I've killed men, I've killed Braxins, all to bring him to shame. . . ."

My Mistress-wrote Zatar-you've done well, and I am pleased.

I'm sorry to hear about Yiril. It surprises me to feel this way, for we were rivals, but my respect for him ran very deep and I would have wished him a cleaner death. As for D'vra? There has never been anything between her and Yiril other than their House to my knowledge, and I knew him well. Even their s.e.xual tastes differed so drastically that they never shared pleasure, outside of one Seclusion.

Yiril had an extensive and powerful House and D'vra was a proud, capable woman. Still, that was all, and it's not much in the face of a Plague, my Mistress.

But the ramifications of what she's done, if she has indeed abandoned his Household and if he survives, are very grave. I don't need to tell you how much we depend upon the Mistresses of our Houses; you know it better than I could ever express. We have no contracts, no binding agreements, it's true-even so, she's set a dangerous precedent. If he should manage to live through this (and without a House to return to, I don't know if I'd wish that on him), she would be well advised not to return to Braxi, or any planet in the Central Region, for a long time to come.

Regarding Lerex, I would not be surprised if the matter were not already out of our hands. He has many rivals and his enemies are fanatic; I would not be surprised to hear of his "unexpected" demise. Forbidden things can become sud- denly possible, under cover of Plague-time.

We are working toward a Peace; I am keeping a diary of our conferences, in order to go over them in detail later. The Azeans suspect something-she suspects something- but ten millennia of Plagues have taught us the value of secrecy, and no certain news has reached her. It is to our advantage also that the Plague has come so early this time; in another ten years, when it was due, she might have refused us any conference at all.

Feran has been invaluable. He knows them well and has more patience than I at playing their word-games; in addition, the fact that he and I both speak Azean is not without its benefits when they wish to argue among themselves.