Braxi-Azea - In Conquest Born Part 45

"You were a Probe for the Inst.i.tute."

The shame . . . "Yes."

"You worked the conditioning on Anzha lyu Mitethe."

He tried to hold back the answer but it came, obedient to the other man's overpowering will. "Yes."

"And designed it."

He nodded, miserable.

"What was it? All of it, Feran!"

The words rushed out, a tidal wave of guilt and memory. "They wanted to know her racial background." He was chocking on his own voice, but somehow continued. "They were certain that studying it would help them find at least one of the genetic sequences they wanted."

"What did you do?"

"I . . . made sure she would keep moving. I cut her off from human contact. I cut short capacity for Touch Discipline. I instilled a long range Dominant Tendency."

"Which is what?"

"A goal. An intent. It colors everything, so that you serve it without knowing.

You want other things, other goals-but only because when you have them it will bring you closer to That."

"The conditioned purpose?"

He nodded helplessly.

"And in her case-what?"

"To keep moving, to be restless, to want . . . to find her people. To discover the alien source of her genetic background. In support I instilled progressive zeymophobia, fear of being planet-bound. We didn't know she'd wind up in the fleet! We wanted to make certain she would travel-"

The Pri'tiera reached down and pulled him to his feet, a hand in his collar. The power of his revulsion was so intense that it was painful to receive, and Feran cringed before the onslaught. "You! You don't deserve life, Azean! You are the darkness we try to avoid-you! You are everything we feared in the infancy of our tradition, so terribly that we were willing to sacrifice our own children to see that you never came among us." His face darkened. "And what about your children, Probe?"

Not that! "What about them?"

"You killed them."

Tears came to his eyes as he nodded. "Two."

"Psychic?"

He nodded.

"And the others?"

No, no. ... "There is only one other," he managed.

"Alive?"

"D'vra's child."

"Alive?"

"Yes." He choked on the admission.

"And psychic, I suppose. No, don't answer me-I see it in your face. So it enters our Race at last, despite all our efforts. Now tell me, Azean: what mercy do you think you deserve? What weakness do you see in me that you think I would grant you life after all you've done?"

He released Feran suddenly and the Probe fell heavily to the floor, broken.

There were tears in his eyes-of terror, of shame-and he wept as they flowed down his face, mourning the death of his Braxana ident.i.ty.

Zatar had planned this from the beginning. Now that Feran was forced to face the truth, he could see that. First there had been the incident with the almonjeddei, followed by hints that he now recalled . . . how many traps had Zatar set for him, letting the tensions build until they were nearly intolerable, choosing that moment to break him?

Zatar looked down at him as he wept. Finally, in a voice as cold as death itself, he demanded: "What was your purpose in coming here?"

"I was sent to spy on you." The Probe's voice was hollow, automatic, "They knew I would come to be of value to you, and that you would involve me in Border negotiations. I was to broadcast your plans. . . ." He shook his head, his expression pained. "But it didn't even work," he whispered. "They put me against her. How could I permit any contact? She would kill me-"

"What else?"

He was struggling with himself now, trying to stop the flow of self-d.a.m.nation, incapable of exerting any conscious control over the terrible outpouring. "I was to procure a purebred Braxana for them, so they could obtain a psychogenetic profile. That was my Dominant Tendency-" He stopped suddenly and his eyes widened in fearful understanding as seemingly unrelated motives fit themselves into a large pattern.

"D'vra," he whispered, horrified.

Even his most Braxana hungers had not been his own; they had been instilled in him for a purpose, for the purpose, and his natural desires had developed to fit that mold. Was any thought his? Had he ever done anything that did not have, somewhere, the mark of the Inst.i.tute upon it?

He was speechless. Drained. He knew suddenly why such care was taken to see that a telepath never learned the full extent of his conditioning. To do so removed all pretense of free will-and a creature without free will was not a man, only a tool made of flesh and blood, with no more initiative than a House computer and considerably less freedom. Desolated, he bowed his head in shame. There was no hope left, not even fear, only an emptiness of purpose that left him shivering before the force of the man who had stripped him of his humanity.

The Pri'tiera seemed satisfied. "Understand this:" His voice was emotionless, not compa.s.sionate by any means but no longer overtly threatening. "I had to break you, there was no other way. It was clear you were sent here to fulfill the Inst.i.tute's purpose; I had to find out what that was, and there was only one way to do it. I've known about you for years, Feran, ever since I found your name in the Inst.i.tute's files. As for your relationship with the Starcommander, that was only hinted at in the files themselves-li Pazua was careful to see that no one could learn the details of their conditioning- but when I watched the two of you interact at the conference table, I knew. You are a resource I need to tap, Feran, and in order to do that I must own you. If you submit to me, I will use you. But the choice is your own-which I daresay is more freedom than the Inst.i.tute ever gave you." His voice was quiet, but his command was absolute. "Decide."

He wanted freedom, and he wanted his pleasure, but he knew now that those things were tainted for him. Looking up, he raised his arms-though the weight of his training pressed downward upon them, screaming blasphemies at his betrayal of The Cause-and extended his hands toward Zatar, palms open. And he spoke his Name, softly-not the one li Pazua had given him, but the one he had chosen for himself years later, the one which was his True Name in a way that no sounds of Azea could ever be. It was the ultimate submission a man could make.

Slowly Zatar's hands came down and clasped his wrists tightly, in the ritual of acceptance. It was like a warm blanket that came down over Feran and soothed his hurt, until the guilt receded and the pain was less and he was at last able to meet the man's eyes again. A terrible weight was gone from him which had been worse than any slavery, for self-hate is more merciless than any human master.

"I choose not to mark you," Zatar told him. "Go back to your House and work on controlling your power. You're free of the past, now; I've broken that bond.

And I'll send you women who won't talk, until you're in control again."

Feran bowed his head. "I am yours," he whispered. And then, from the depths of his being, came words he had never expected to say-but they were the truth, and he let them come.

Softly: "Thank you."

Harkur: In order to make the most of the future, we must first comprehend the past.

Twenty-Three.

The messenger was trembling as he put his hand to the doorplate. "You're sure he isn't busy?" he stalled.

"I'm sure he's busy," the guard said irritably. "But he'll see you. Go ahead."

He pressed his hand against the warm black surface and tried to gather his courage. Inside the room his presence was being announced to the great Pri'tiera, as well as details of his ident.i.ty. After a moment the door opened, signaling Zatar's acceptance of his visit. Still shaking, he entered.

"Great Pri'tiera-" he began.

"I received your message," Zatar interrupted. His voice was cold and unwelcoming; clearly he had been doing something important and was annoyed by the intrusion. "Well? What is it?"

"The administrators of the prime excavation of Berros beg that you join them at the site of their work. They want you to . . ." He lost all the carefully prepared words, retained only their meager substance. ". . . to see something. They ask that you come immediately."

"I don't like mysteries," the Pritiera said coldly, "and I haven't time for them.

What's the problem?"

"Please, Magnificent One. I wasn't released to tell you. Only to bid you come, and-"

"But you know what's going on?"

Miserable, he nodded.

"And you feel it merits this much drama?"

He whispered it. "Yes, Lord."

Zatar sighed, nodded, and stood. The messenger could fee! his stomach unknot as he did so. "All right. It isn't that far-and the site director knows better than to bother me for trivial matters. I'll a.s.sume it's important enough to merit my attention-for the moment. You have a transport waiting?"

"On your platform, Great One."

"It will be a short while before I can leave; wait for me there."

The messenger had never been so grateful for dismissal.

Berros was a planet-subservient-more accurately, a large moon orbiting the gas giant which was fifth in the B'Saloan system. Almost as large as Braxi, nearly as comfortable, the natural satellite had been explored in the ninth decade before the Coronation, had served as a base of operations for Project Skysearch in the fifth, and had been planetformed by Harkur himself in the years immediately following his ascension to the Braxin throne. It was he who had colonized it. He had made it beautiful. He had moved the seat of Braxin government to its rusty earth and red-hued skies in order to settle any question of which country the first Braxin monarch was going to rule from. Braxi was united, and, until the planet- forming of Zhene could be completed, Berros was its capital.

Then the Braxana came to power, sun-reverent barbarians who clung to their native soil with superst.i.tious fervor; the glory of Berros waned and died. There were only memories now, dry plants blowing in a dry wind, and lifeforms that had strayed so far from their immigrant origins that their original species could only be guessed at. And ruins. The glory of Harkur's first court had been reduced to these few feeble monuments, which sand and iron dust had worn to near shapelessness. No one cared about Berros, or what memories it might contain.

No one had bothered with it for centuries, preferring the glory of the present to the uncertain rewards of investigating the past.

No one-until now.

The site director was a lean man whom Zatar had never liked. It was with ill patience that the Pri'tiera endured his lengthy non-explanation, listening to him say nothing in a mult.i.tude of ways until at last he could stand it no longer. "Just take me to it," he commanded, in a tone that would brook no disobedience.

"Whatever it is."

A brief nervous twitch distorted the other man's face, saying volumes for his discomfort. He himself could not go, of course, he had . . . ah, business with the main palace that had to be reviewed. . . .

Making a mental note to have the man's contract investigated, Zatar permitted the evasion. The messenger who had brought him to Berros was a.s.signed to be his guide. He was clearly upset about it, but said nothing.

What could be here, Zatar wondered, that these people found so unnerving?

Harkur had emptied the planet of all its treasures, save only in those few buildings which he maintained for his pleasure after making the move to Zhene.

His sucessors had ignored the place. What could have survived that many millennia of neglect, that would inspire such fear?

They took an aircar to the site of the mystery, a hunting palace which Harkur had frequented until his death in '57. Zatar had no real interest in it, or in its ruined environs; politics alone had moved him to begin his excavations, and politics were his only concern. He was his planet's first Braxana monarch, and he needed to fortify his image as such until the two disparate concepts-Braxana and autocrat- became indivisible in the public mind. What better way to do that then to draw a parallel between himself and the greatest of all Braxin autocrats, the incomparable Harkur? And what better way to accomplish that goal than to become identified with the last remains of Harkur's greatness?

He would have given his Name for a woman of that descent, for the Braxin mind would readily accept their s.e.xual union as a link between the two bloodlines. But such could not be found. Harkur was of a common bloodline; the Braxana considered such men to be of inferior stock (Harkur's very success was as embarra.s.sing as it was gratifying to them) and it was unlikely that any records of that lineage had survived the centuries of their rule. Still, it was Zatar's seeming respect for common-blood concerns which had given him control of the Holding. And thus: the ruins of Berros, with himself as renovator.

The aircar slowed to a stop, hovering some two feet above a field of rubble. In the distance was the northern palace-or all that was left of it, which wasn't much. He looked at the messenger curiously; the frightened man nodded, indicating the ground ahead. Too rough for the aircar.

"A portion of the hunting palace," he explained hurredly, "buried intact. We thought you should see it . . . as it is."

Briefly-because it was Braxana reflex, as natural to him as breathing-Zatar considered the possibility of a trap. But the field was empty, and there were no weapons about-he had checked-not even human life, save that of himself and this wretched excuse for a courier. Besides, he was prepared. Turning his personal forcefield on, he stepped over the side of the car and set foot on the broken, dried-out ground.

"Which way?"

The messenger indicated an opening some short distance from where the aircar waited, a dark hole leading to a narrow pa.s.sage. It was clear from the nature of the rubble that this had once been part of the original building; apparently the lower floors, sealed off by the collapse of the upper stories and the acc.u.mulated dirt of centuries, had endured.

"Precede me," he commanded.

The messenger took a light from his pocket and led the way through a twisted, winding pa.s.sage. Force-supports held back debris where the walls themselves had failed to do so; in the deeper recesses of the building, less and less aid was necessary. Finally they came to an inlaid staircase; lightly strewn with dirt and gravel, it was a finely-worked symbol of the opulence that had once existed here.

And of the preservation which the dry Berros'n air had encouraged.

The staircase led to a room, high-ceilinged, which the messenger entered. "A dining hall," he said. His voice was shaking badly. What could be here, in this well-preserved place, that would so frighten the man?

Then Zatar entered.

And saw.

Part of the Braxana system was antic.i.p.ation. Expect the worst of man, tradition said, and you will never be surprised. Expect the worst of the world and you will never be disappointed. That was part and parcel of the game they played, the elaborate mental exercise called image, which allowed them to go through life without ever revealing their true selves to another human being.

In this case, the system failed.

Slowly, incredulously, Zatar the Magnificent walked toward the painting which hung at the end of the dining hall. Acids inherent in the medium had eaten away a good deal of its surface, but not so much that its subject matter was obscured.

Amazed, he stared at it.

The inscription in the gold frame was also clear, and he brushed the dust from it and read what he simply couldn't believe.

"Impossible," he murmured. He turned off his forcefield and touched its surface; a chip of paint adhered to his glove-tip and came off when he removed his hand. No, it couldn't even be moved until a supportive field had been worked into it, and that would take time. "How many people know?" he wondered aloud.

"The site director, the archeologists concerned, myself . . . all sworn to secrecy, my Lord."