Braxi-Azea - In Conquest Born Part 42

Disciplinary action against Keyegga, perhaps against a few other planets as well."

"Ah," he said. Then, smiling a bit, he asked, "Where does Kurgh fit into this?"

"Kurgh."

"My fleet's current objective. A high-tech planet with five colonies, staunchly independent . . . surely you've heard of it?" He looked amazed when Zatar shook his head, an expression too extreme to be genuine. "Kaim'era, with all due respect, my fleet has better things to do with its time than play interstellar police in territory they're not even a.s.signed to. We've been planning this Kurgh thing for zhents now. I can't imagine anyone giving that up to go slap some hands halfway across the Holding. We're not the Border fleet, you know."

"You guarantee this?" Zatar asked quietly.

"Of course." His eyes sparkling, he added, "For a price."

The Kaim'era raised up one hand to display a ring snugly nestled about his index finger. "A planet," he said, removing the piece of jewelry. He offered it to Lamos. "A pretty little piece of real estate right by the War Border. You might be familiar with it. I've made some improvements," he added.

"I've left that part of the Holding for good," Lamos pointed out. Then he took the ring. "But no doubt this has commercial value."

And he bowed. "I will see that the fleet stays put."

(The honor of the nation is the pride of the nation. Let us never do as the tormentors of our ancestors did, speak words only to bury them with actions. Let us meet the future with our national honor held sacred, so that no matter what the temptation, no matter what the cost, we will never resemble our tormentors and our society will never come to resemble theirs in any way.) * * *

"We have no choice," Yiril said formally. "More important, we have no time.

Kaim'eri, we've argued for days now-and every day the Holding grows weaker, both in power and in image. There's only one course of action open to us and very few variations of detail to chose from. Therefore, for the good of B'Salos I am going to force the issue, here and now. Vote for our destruction if you want, but recognize that that's what you're doing.

"Kaim'eri, by my right as Kaim'era of the B'Saloan Holding under Braxi/Aldous, I present the following for debate and decision: that the Kaim'erate choose from among its number one man to act as nominal ruler of the Holding, and that he be given sufficient real power to make him effective in this capacity. That we do this immediately, bearing in mind the present need for such a person. For that position I present the name of Zatar, son of Vinir and K'siva, who I contend is the only one among us capable of settling the unrest in the Holding immediately and in an acceptable manner."

There was a moment of silence, and at last Zatar rose, as custom demanded, and left the Hall. Following which there was much debate, all of it heated.

But there was no real question of the outcome.

Alone in the observation dome, Anzha reached out with the force of her frustration and touched the stars. I've lost him! She brushed a planet and pa.s.sed it by, snaked her thoughts past a half-dozen scoutships, then insinuated herself into the thoughtwinds of a colony. Like sought like: the wounded warrior hungered for balm in the form of others' misery.We were so close to victory. We could have won this d.a.m.ned war! And the ultimate pain: I'll never reach him now. They'll bind him to Braxi. . . . She swam through a mult.i.tude of minds, tasting the surface thoughts of one and then pa.s.sing on to another. The impressions were vague at such a distance but the exercise was soothing, as though reminding her that others suffered, others knew loss, others tasted the bitterness of frustration. Instinctively she gravitated toward the most familiar minds, those humans whose present mental state was most similar to her own.

She touched their awareness-and was alarmed.

. . . lost to me forever, my adored one, would that I could bring you back from the dead!

. . . emptiness, and hurt, and longing . . .

. . . I still hunger, but only for you . . .

. . . when the pairbond is severed, what is left that's worth living for?

Shaken, she withdrew her thoughts from that foreign arena and limited them to the confines of her body. She was afraid to try again. What did it mean, that the thoughts which drew her were not those of ambition thwarted, but of pairbonding shattered? She had lived with her obsession for so long that she had ceased to a.n.a.lyze it. Azeans paired for life; was it possible that she had done that?

Had that one Azean instinct bred true in her after all? Hasha, if that were the case. . . .

"I thought you might be up here."

She turned. "Tau! You startled me." The wetness of a tear was running down one cheek; quickly she wiped it away. Her hands were trembling badly. "I was trying to convince myself there had been no way of stopping it. I failed." The anger came back, and with it indignation. "Who do they think they are, anyway!

My whole lifetime spent serving them, and then they tie my hands at the very threshold of victory! Them and their d.a.m.ned honor-I could have ended it!"

"They're your people," he said quietly.

"I have no people," she answered bitterly. "A few individuals here, and maybe Torzha.Maybe Torzha. But Azea?" All her pain was pouring out, all the years that had suddenly become futile. "We could have won it." She laughed bitterly. "His new t.i.tle is Pri'tiera. Do you know what that means? It's from prizhe, 'that-which- has-waited,' and tiera, 'that-which-rules,' From the same prime root as the name of the Waiting Poison . . . suitable, don't you think?"

"There are still ways to fight," he told her.

"I've thought of that. I've gone over all my alternatives, and each one amounts to treason. Tau, I'm loyal to very few people. Torzha er Litz is one of them. She believed in me when no one else did, and risked her own reputation to get me to the Border. I can't betray her, no matter how much I'd like to. Besides, most of the crew wouldn't go. They believe in my cause only second to serving Azea; they'll push regulations, but they won't break them outright. And I couldn't do it alone."

"You wouldn't necessarily be alone." He was exuding tension of his own, more than a match for hers. "You're right about most of the crew, and therefore the ship itself. And you're certainly right about Azea. The Peace will last until Braxi consolidates its power; by then it may be too late to act. The War no longer serves your purpose," he told her quietly. "Possibly other things would."

She was stunned. "I never expected to hear from you-"

"You forget where I came from! You forget that before I was a.s.signed to you I had given up on life. I agreed to serve you because I believed you would break the Holding. I still believe that. And there are a few others, I know, who feel the same way. Your psychics have no loyalty to the Empire- only to you. Choose a course of action, Anzha, and there are those who'll follow you."

"This has been discussed," she challenged him.

"Often."

"Never in my presence!"

"The price of telepathy, I suppose. People a.s.sume you know." A convenient lie.

The truth was that if she had ever heard such things, she would have considered them treasonous. Until now.

She looked out toward the stars.Was there a way? Not to reach Zatar; that was no longer a realistic dream, and if she clung to it, it would destroy her. Every plan she'd made up to this point had been focused on him, as was the pain of her loss.

But Braxi might still be crushed. Not by the hands of StarControl; Azea had forfeited that option when they forced her to sign the last treaty. But maybe by her.

"Give me time," she murmured. She had taken it for granted that Braxi would fall to the Conqueror; now she had to discard that a.s.sumption, along with many others. What might she do to break the Holding-what might a handful of people do to bring down the greatest warrior-nation the galaxy had yet known?

It's enough, Zatar, if I destroy that nation. You have your people, and live to rule them. I have no people. And except for the destruction of Braxi, I have no purpose. Only you. . . .

She shook her head, trying to banish the thought. That hunger was one she was going to have to live with.

I'll focus on Braxi, she promised herself. There must be a way. . . .

Hakur: A man's greatest enemy is his own fear.

Twenty-Two.

Feran pa.s.sed quickly through the halls of erotica. Not that the exhibits didn't interest him; he had seen them before, many times, and would willingly relish them again. New additions arrived every day, from all corners of the Holding, so that even a walk down familiar corridors would reveal unfamiliar treasures at every turn. But this time . . . no, he would let nothing distract him. This was one appointment he dared not be late for, and he needed his thoughts in order when he arrived.

Ostensibly, there was nothing amiss. Zatar had asked him to share a meal with him in the Restaurant, a simple enough request. They had met before under similar circ.u.mstances; in the tight-knit Kurattan society, social contact was unavoidable. At one time Feran had even prided himself on having the courage to entertain the Kaim'era at his House, and had genuinely enjoyed doing so. But that was before the Plague- before he had placed Feran opposite her and then watched them interact, dark eyes probing for secrets. All the fears had come back, that day, from that first terrible vision which he had shared with a catatonic child to his early paranoia as he struggled to a.s.similate into the Braxin culture.

He forced himself to be rational, and tried to a.n.a.lyze the source of his nervousness. Why would Zatar bother with him? The Kaim'era was now a Pri'tiera-the Pri'tiera-and his time was precious. Why spare any part of it to socialize with a man who could neither aid nor effectively threaten him? And why here, of all places? The only reason which Feran could think of was that the Pri'tiera might desire neutral ground, and therefore could not meet him in either of their Houses. That, of course, was itself disturbing. Lastly, why had he asked to meet Feran where he had, in an obscure corner of the Braxana section? What was this wing, anyway, where they were supposed to meet? Following the instructions he'd been given, Feran found himself in totally unfamiliar territory. He glanced at his instructions, turned another corner, and- Stopped.

Stared.

Shem'Ari, the inscription read. Of course. Feran realized he had been here once before-when he had first arrived on Braxi. It was a wing dedicated to the most forbidden pleasure of all-an image so threatening, a taboo so absolute, that it must have its own place in this collection of human indulgence. Out of the way, where a man could study these women-and his own desire-in private; away from the center of things, so that the conservative (and the ignorant) need never admit to themselves that these women, d.a.m.ned by all Braxin tradition, possessed a s.e.xual fascination that some men could not resist.

There was a new statue by the entranceway, a simple thing of carved obsidian that might have been created in another, pretechnical age. Simple . . . but effective. Feran took a step toward it; drawn by its aesthetic power, fascinated despite himself.

It was she, Anzha lyu Mitethe, rendered in volcanic gla.s.s as he had known her in life. The same imperious lift to her head, a hand upraised in command as she might have held it aboard the Conqueror . . . the statue was a work of genius, capturing the essence of the woman, the strength of her, as though the gla.s.s itself had come to life. A strength that was compromised only by the golden bracelet that adorned her uplifted arm, proclaiming her slavery.

"Do you like it?"

He stiffened at the sound of Zatar's voice, but could not take his eyes from the statue. She must have submitted voluntarily, the bracelet was too rich to mean anything else. Yet she was still in command. What man could have possessed her without crushing her spirit, would have dared to own her, and then would have the boldness to let her exercise her power again? "It's remarkable," he breathed.

"Thank you," Zatar smiled as he came to Feran's side; he was obviously amused by his reaction to the work. "I commissioned it. Shall we go?"

He was gesturing toward the exhibit itself. After a moment, somewhat hesitantly, Feran entered. Having been raised among a people where women often ruled men, it was hard for him to understand the obsession such women inspired here. But it was also hard not to be moved by the power of these artists'

visions. On all sides of him, shem'Ari reigned-and fought, and fell, enticing the viewer against his will, in images that were both arresting and repellent. Many of the artists' subjects were Azean, which unnerved Feran; some were Azeans he had known. All were conquered, in some way, for the spirit of the shem'Ar must ultimately be sacrificed upon the altar of the Pale Ones, who might desire them but must never, except in unliving art, indulge that desire-lest they compromise themselves in doing so.

Feran was grateful when at last they reached the Restaurant, and sat down as soon as he was able to. The Pri'tiera lowered himself with considerably more grace, and sat opposite him. Before either of them could speak a waitress ap- peared, and their attention turned to food. As soon as she had left them, Zatar turned on the soundproofing.

"I'd like to mix politics with pleasure," he said to Feran. "If you don't mind-"

"Of course not," he answered, wondering what this was all about.

"My new position demands certain things of me; it also makes options available that weren't before. I need some information, Feran, and I believe you have it. I want to review some facets of our traditional relationship with Azea. I was hoping that you, with your special background, could help me."

In truth he dreaded such an inquiry because he dreaded revealing himself, but there was no way out of it. "I am the Pri'tiera's servant," he answered. True enough. "Just let me know what I can do to help you." He forced a laugh. "It would be nice to make some constructive use of all those wasted years."

Zatar raised an eyebrow curiously, but at that instant a flashing light indicated human proximity; a moment later their waitress stepped through the sound barrier and delivered their food.

When she was gone, he said, "Then perhaps we can both benefit from this, Lord Feran. I must say, I'm very grateful to have you here." With a wry smile: "Fortunate for us that Azea sent you."

Feran forced himself to pick up his wine and taste it before speaking. "I somehow doubt that this was what they intended."

"I will speak plainly. What I need is this: an unbiased account of psychic activity in the Empire."

He was so startled he almost spilled his wine. "What makes you think I would know about such things?"

"I've always suspected that the kind of secrecy we imagine surrounds the psychic world is our own invention, and that the Azeans in general are much more familiar with telepathic lore than we've been led to believe. After all, the power was proven to exist over a millennia ago. Wouldn't there be some common knowledge of it by now?"

Feran nodded slowly, carefully. "They speak of it openly," he chanced.

"As I suspected. Feran, you know them. No matter how much you might have been isolated from the common public, you still lived among the enemy for a good part of your life." He sighed. "Circ.u.mstances are soon going to force me to make decisions that no Braxin monarch has ever had to consider, and I need facts to work with. We can't simply ignore the psychic problem any longer. Telepathic contact is instantaneous, requires no relay stations or artificial augmentation to work . . . and its effectiveness in war is something Starcommander lyu Mitethe has made painfully clear. To hide behind a facade of primitive superst.i.tion and ignore the ramifications of doing so would be foolish-possibly suicidal. I need your help."

He was confused. "You're considering tolerating psychic activity in the Holding?"

"I'm considering using it; there's a difference. There's no question that we can't do what our enemies have done, but can we afford to ignore the weakness which results from such a policy?" He sipped his wine, thoughtful. "To use it, we need to control it-and that requires understanding. That's where I want you to help me."

He didn't know quite how to respond, and was certain that the Kaim'era had noticed his confusion. "Whatever I can do," he managed. "I know very little."

"Whatever you do know will be welcome." He was speaking in the Triumphant Mode-why? "For a start, I'm interested in the cla.s.s divisions imposed by the Inst.i.tute. Specifically, what is the difference between a telepath and a Probe?"

He tried not to stare. He tried not to sound frightened. He thought; he knows!

"I ... that isn't something I really understand, Pri'tiera."

"Try." His dark eyes demanded obedience, as did his voice. "Tell me what you've heard."

He buried his attention in his food for a moment, trying to collect himself. How much would a non-psychic know? How much would a Braxin/Azean non-psychic remember after all these years? At last he offered hesitantly, "It seems to me that the difference had something to do with the capacity for . . . abstract reasoning."

He stopped; Zatar waited. Unhappily, he continued. "Because people don't develop any psychic awareness until long after their other senses have started functioning, there is a tendency to translate psychic input into some other format." Was that too much? No, that was common knowledge; he might reasonably know such things. "Probes . . ." he faltered, "don't have to do that."

"Is the abstract ability limited to psychics?"

"No. To the degree that Probes require it, it's somewhat rare, but it occurs in society at large. It's just that when chance combines the two abilities . . . you get a Probe."

"How does the format translation take place?"

"I'm not sure, Pri'tiera."

"Share your uncertainty."

"Well, as I understood it, if I were to . . . if a person were to send a thought to another person, the latter would, say, hear a voice, or see a picture; in general experiencing the sending in some familiar sensory format. Likewise the first person would use such imagery to send the thought in the first place."

"Probes are immune to this need?"

"I don't know, Pri'tiera. I'm sorry. It seems to me that that was the difference, but I'm not sure. It's been a long time."

"I'm sure it has," Zatar answered, and there was something in his voice that Feran didn't like the sound of. "My major concern is with the threat of violating mental privacy.

Or more specifically, with conditioning such as the Inst.i.tute employs."

"It takes complete mastery of the power to read a man's unwilling thoughts."

This came easily; it was Inst.i.tute propaganda. "And telepathy gives no man the ability to 'control' another. As for conditioning. . . ." He tried to struggle for the memory as he would have had to had he truly been a non-psychic in the Empire.

"I believe that can only be done by a Probe." "Why?"

Why do you a.s.sume I know so much? he wondered bitterly. He wished he dared not answer, but he knew that if he lied about his ignorance the perceptive Braxana would notice the deception. And that would be dangerous. "This is my understanding of it-and it may be incorrect, Pri'tiera. I never studied these things. If a thought-image were inserted into your mind it would have a certain result, but there would also be side effects. What would that particular image mean to you? What other things might it mean to the telepath probing? All of that would be added to the transmission, a sort of mental undercurrent, and would affect the conditioning."

"So because a Probe can work without supportive images-in pure thought, let us say-he can work safely within a stranger's mind and change the patterns of thinking."