Braxi-Azea - In Conquest Born Part 47

"This is collaborated by other sources?"

"No. There are gaps in early Braxin history; this is one of them. Harkur the Great kept notes on every alien race he encountered, but many of those were lost when the Braxana took over. Lost on Berros when the government relocated to Braxi. Another reason to study the place." He laughed, a bitter sound. "I seem to have gotten more than I bargained for."

Feran read the inscription in the frame, felt himself shiver. "If the writing is accurate-"

"I'm certain it is."

"-then she . . ." He couldn't finish.

"Anzha lyu Mitethe is Braxin. More accurately, the mutation responsible for her odd coloring appeared among our own people in Harkur's day, at a point when there was contact between our home planets. A contact which involved her ancestry."

"Have you told her?"

"No."

"But will you-"

"It's no longer that simple, Feran." He hesitated, and the turmoil of his mind was a moving backdrop to his words. "Anzha lyu Mitethe has deserted."

He heard the words, but could not accept their meaning. "Deserted?"

"Left the Empire. Without a word of explanation, I gather, to anyone. Even StarControl seems stunned by her actions. That could be an act, of course, but-"

"Impossible. That she would desert-no. I can't believe it."

"Believe it or not, it's happened." And he told Feran the story as his spies had told it to him. The Conqueror had made a repair run to Lurien, and shortly afterward the Starcommander and five members of her crew had disappeared.

Along with some sort of new diplomatic runner the military was working on, meant for transportation inside the Active War Zone. The connection was obvious; the list of charges soon to be leveled against her began with theft and ended with treason.

"It's not like her," Feran muttered, while a voice inside him argued, Yes. Very much so.

"An enemy is most dangerous when he is unpredictable."

"But she lived for the War-"

"And politics forced her into a Peace she didn't want. Come, Feran, surely you realized that! You were sitting there beside me-didn't you pick it up? If she were left to her own devices, we would never have had this last Peace. And she could have worked untold damage during the Plague and afterward, had they not stopped her. How could any warrior not resent such limitations? Every day we kept our part of the treaty must have been a thorn in her palm. Until she broke.

And went-where? I must know that, Feran. She's too dangerous, loose in the galaxy. Too unpredictable. I must locate her.''

Like a worm gnawing at his insides, knowledge of Zatar's intentions grew within him. "Pri'tiera, there's no way-"

"You'll find her for me."

"It's not possible!"

"Your Inst.i.tute's theory says it is. Distance is no barrier to telepathy-''

"-but focus is, Pri'tiera! With the whole of the galaxy to search-''

"We can narrow the field better than that, Feran. Quite a bit better. Starships move quickly, but their speed is still finite. That gives you a limited range to search."

Fear-the old fear-overwhelmed him. "She would kill me!"

"A chance we'll have to take. Surely you're not afraid, Feran. Probes have tricks that mere telepaths can't master. Or so you've told me. Can't you use any of those to safeguard your own life?"

Maybe. An abstract touch, divorced from material ident.i.ty, might go unnoticed, If he could find her. "Nothing like this has ever been done-"

"Then you'll be the first." There was anger growing within him; Feran could feel it. "Let me make this very clear. You belong to me, or you die. You will serve me- successfully-or I will kill you."

Feran's colorless face went even whiter. "Pri'tiera-"

"She is a threat, I must find her, you are my only available tool. Choose!"

He could feel the weight of bracelets on his arms, where imagination had affixed them. "I'll try," he managed. "But I don't know that such a thing is possible-"

"If you're incapable of serving me, the result is the same as if you had refused.

It's that simple, Probe." He opened the doors, cutting off any response Feran might have made by terminating their privacy. The workmen reentered, dutifully uncurious.

"Report to me in the morning," the Pri'tiera ordered. "With results."

Feran stood on the roof of the Zarvati mansion, muscles knotted in fear, trying to work up the courage to begin. Which was the worse fate, he wondered. Failing, and facing Zatar's wrath? Or succeeding, and facing hers? He shivered at the thought of it. But of the two, Zatar was the more immediate threat, and so he settled himself against the observatory wall and let his mind roam free of its corporeal bonds, to search the stars for life.

. . . touching violence and mining hunger, images of faceted brilliance and shining gold wealth . . . a cultural fix, nothing more. He was so unaccustomed to this type of work that it was hard for him to focus on what he was supposed to be doing. There, a mind or two standing out bright against the darkness . . . (he strained) . . . a governor, avaricious and cancer-ridden, incurable because of some cruel medical law he himself had introduced, never expecting it would backfire on him . . . a woman reaching for the stars so strongly that her need vibrated across the Void and brought tears of emptiness to the Probe's eyes . . . a thousand others, equally outstanding, equally normal, waves in the fluid of the Voidmind that rose, submerged, and rose again elsewhere, elsewhen . . . and none of them her, in power or purpose.

He withdrew, exhausted. His hands were shaking and his mind was weak from the unaccustomed exertion. Where was she? What was she doing? How did one even begin such a search? He could explore the galaxy planet by planet and die of old age before he'd searched a fraction-while she, flitting from port to port, might find refuge on planets he had already searched. Should he look for hatred, vendetta-violence, frustration, or what? What aspect of her personality-signature would be most likely to stand out among the myriad semi-psychic minds that filled the Void with thought?

There was a presence beside him. He touched it: Zatar.Without turning, in a voice full of bitterness, he said, "I haven't found her yet."

"So I gather."

The Pri'tiera remained. Feran tried to send his questing senses out into the Void again, but years of habit kept him from doing so in front of another man. He picked up his reflection in Zatar's mind and noticed the tears glinting like starlight on his face-the tears of an unknown woman, far off in the Void and now lost to him. He did nothing to wipe them away, or to indicate that they weren't his; they might as well be. "I've gone over one of the Border territories as well as I can. Maybe I missed her. If I didn't, I couldn't even tell you what planets I looked over, only what direction they were in and what their cultural signatures were."

"Your abilities seem insufficient for the task."

He bit his lip in silence a moment before answering, "Then they'll have to improve, won't they?"

A stiff plastic sheet touched his shoulder. He took it. "What's this?"

"Culture-patterns for key planets in the holding, by sector. Computer- generated; I make no claims for their quality."

Feran looked at the information in amazement. For each planet there was a listing that included its exact position, its visual position relative to the B'Saloan heavens, and a count of how many centers of human population there were be- tween it and Braxi-vital landmarks for telepathic work. Psychological generalities were noted: "Colony on unpleasantly hot lowgravity planet with severe water shortage, slow diurnal cycle. Local religion revolving around water- and sun-symbolism, death fixation common, hostility ritualized about winter solstice . . ."It was the telepathic equivalent of a starmap.

He looked at Zatar, surprised and relieved. "These will help-"

But the Pri'tiera was already gone.

He studied the chart for a while, familiarizing himself with its key points, then steeled himself and reached out again.

. . . a forest of minds tangled between the stars, bright points here and there . . .

counting one, two, three outward through the constellation of the Warrior Exultant, there, focus tightly . . .

He grasped the planet Talmir and turned it in his mind, caressed its surface with his questing thoughts and noted here, and here again, a mind bristling at the unaccustomed contact. Latent psychics, carrying the genes for power but not the patterns for operancy. He touched them with only a moment of longing, born of the pain his power had brought him.Why couldn't I be like that? Then he sifted through the planet-mind in general, finding nothing that would lead him where he needed to go.

I don't want to die! Fear poured out from him in all directions, until the currents of the Voidmind had touched all planets in the Holding with his desperation. That was dangerous. If she sensed him before he sensed her, she might strike at him while he was wide open. He withdrew his mind from Talmir, and focused back on his material circ.u.mstances. His body, responding to his fear, had crumpled to the floor of the observatory and was tightly balled in dread, hands clutched over stomach, trembling.

Must break through . . . must!

A bolt of sheer need cut through the Void and seared the mental fringe of some unknown planet. I'm losing control! he thought helplessly. He imagined the patterns of Distinction Discipline, ran them through his mind once, twice, three times before they took at last and closed him off from the world. It's my years here, he told himself. The training's slipping. But he was pleased that he had made it work.

After a time the Discipline relaxed and he worked a careful tendril outward again. Then he withdrew to think.

I won't survive this, he admitted, if I go blindly from sector to sector-even if I don't have to do them all. There has to be a better way. I have to find it. . . .

He let his thoughts sink into the pool of his innermind and waited to see what impressions surfaced.

I'm a Probe, not a telepath. Yet I'm going about this in a way that any telepath could attempt, and have no greater chance of success. Is there an approach that would allow me to use all my power, even the abstract specialties, in a way no mere telepath could manage? There would stand my greatest chance of success.

It was a hunch and nothing more, but the Inst.i.tute taught that hunches were valid cognitive experiences, and he trusted this one.

I've been thinking of her in concrete terms. Telepath. Renegade. K'airth-v'sa.

These are the crutches that a telepath needs, that limit power to the realm of sensory imagination. I know her mental signature. (Ar, do I know it!) I need to think in pureform.

He wondered at the very nature of his search. If one had to find an object in a large house, he reasoned, one wouldn't necessarily begin by a thorough study of each detail of architecture. One would look over the entire property quickly to see if the object was in open view, or was in such a position that it readily caught the eye.

Why not the stars?

Tense, afraid, he readied himself. Fighting off all self-imposed barriers, he mustered the full extent of his power and stripped it of every binding thought and image, until his entire being was a ma.s.s of pure telepathic sensitivity. Then he opened himself to the cosmos.

Thought and emotion without label, familiar and unfamiliar, stable and unstable, lasting and fleeting . . . a sea of the stuff of thought without thought to guide it . . . concentrations here, there (don't think "planets," he begged himself) and there again . . . this one of such a tenor . . . that one filed with disruption . . .

It seemed an eternity that he swam the thoughtwinds; he had forgotten what pleasure there was in the act. In order that he might focus his attention upon the mindsea between the stars he left control of his body to a few parts of the brain that could manage it automatically, and floated free of all material concerns in the pure joy of sensitivity. Worlds turned about him and with them the thoughts of millions revolved in their private cycles, sleep-silent to waking-alert, reflections of light and dark and season in a slow progression about his mindfocus, pinpoints of mental radiance to dance the emptiness before him . . .

Anzha.

He touched her carefully, oh-so-carefully, ridding his mind of any personal ident.i.ty, allowing only the briefest whisper of other to touch her sensitivity with warning. She was too preoccupied to notice, or perhaps (it occurred to him only now) she couldn't recognize a truly abstract sending. He withdrew, and gently stroked her environment. Five minds, four of them psychic, focused on the future . . . it was safer to read their minds than hers, so he did so. Darkness, light-years and light-years of it, and time pa.s.sing without action . . . a ma.s.s of obscurity, defying detection . . . an investment in purpose, intentions of triumph . . .

patience, above all else. Always the image of darkness; it would mean something to Zatar, he was certain. He touched the nearest planets and drank in their cultural essence: luxury growths/seasonal s.e.xual festivities at harvest/mild, unthreatening environment; colonial tensions/excess male population/mining in the colder regions . . . he tasted what he could of the planets she was pa.s.sing, memorizing the culture-fixes that might give some clue as to her location, straining to continue despite the growing exhaustion- -burning pain in the centers of thought, it is too much, too much, the mind strained, the body falling, desert of my enemy I am drowning! Return, return (Reintegration Discipline) return . . .

He opened his eyes.

For a moment, nothing.

Eyes. He touched them. Sensation. Cloudy vision, clarifying . . . the sun, burning, baking . . . with a low moan he turned away from it.

"Lord Feran," a voice said softly.

He looked up, surprised to find the Pri'tiera capable of such gentle inflection.

Zatar crouched by his side and two women also knelt there, flanking him. One of them handed him a cup of water, the sight of which brought waves of thirst and physical need to his awareness. He spilled half of it, his bodily control still far from perfect, but his parched membranes greedily drank in the rest.

"I reached her," he croaked, his voice dry but exultant.

Zatar waited.

He burst forth with the details of his vision, and with the culture-fixes he had picked up. Zatar fed it all into the computer; hopefully the ma.s.sive brain that guarded the House would be able to make some sense of his rambling, and relate it to a location and a purpose.

"I found her . . ." Feran whispered. His eyes fell shut, the sunlight burning his vision even through the layers of skin. I touched her . . . who ever thought one man could know such power?

A woman bathed his forehead with cool, fresh water. The touch of her hand pained him more than it should, even with his heightened sensitivity. He reached out to her mind for the proper label: sunburn. Then his senses recoiled violently, rejecting the effort, and his psychic/physical reaction was so strong that he vomited helplessly on the tiled floor.

A woman's hand stroked him gently along the neck, soothing his discomfort. He lacked the strength to move, but lay there where he had emptied himself. After a moment other hands cleaned him, and then the floor, of his misery.

"You did well." It was the Pri'tiera's voice, somehow disa.s.sociated from the body looming over him. "She's headed away from the Holding, toward the Barren Zone off our yerren border. We won't be able to track her inside the nebula itself, and it's a year's travel or more to cross it, but at least we have something to work with. It looks a lot like she's fleeing the War," he commented.

"I don't believe that."

"Neither do I. We'll get a better directional focus from the computer, then I'll send out scouts. We'll find her."

"Pri'tiera-" He coughed, then tried again. "If you tell the scouts what they're looking for . . . they'll focus their attention on her. She'll pick it up. Physical distance means little to us; mental focus is everything. Be careful. . . ." He gasped for air; his throat was raw and breathing was painful. "I'm sorry it-took so long. .

. ." What a ludicrous thing to say! "Missed the morning. . . ."

Zatar was amused. "Missed it by three days, Feran. But that's all right." A strong hand clasped his shoulder. "It was worth the waiting."

He slept.

Viton: It is when a man's House seems the most secure that he is most vulnerable to attack.

Twenty-five.

Darkly, like a shadow, Sechaveh strode the length of the poorly lit corridor. The walls about him were of stone, as was the staircase that led to this place, as were the chambers whose doors lined its walls. Cold stone, rough and gray and damp with the moisture of underground humidity. Fungus gathered here and there on the irregular slabs, and ate at the mortar between them; the odor of decay drifted thickly between narrow doorways, hinting at tortures which had been, and- dramatically-of torments yet to come.

He was tense; he had always been tense. But now his tension wound like a cord around his heart, strangling his very soul. Anger poured from him in torrents and reverberated between the mock-ancient walls, drowning him in a cacophony of rage.

He had lost! No, he had not lost. That was important: He could not lose. The others, with their pitifully compa.s.sionate natures, trusting women and underestimating their enemies, their own colleagues . . . they might lose, and see their plans die the eternal death. Not him. Only for the moment was life's aspect bleak, only for the single, temporary moment . . . he squelched his anger as well as he could, forcing himself to promise himself: Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will have my vengeance.

But there were no more tomorrows, and he knew it. He had hungered to control Braxi since the day he had first set foot on it, a cynical youth still bearing the scars of his alien humiliation. Every moment since had been spent either working to achieve that goal or dreaming of the moment when it would at last become reality. He had allied with Yiril because that man commanded respect among the Kaim'eri, had offered the ruthlessness of his youth in exchange for the older man's guiding hand. It was Yiril who calmed him, Yiril who taught him the ways of Central intrigue, Yiril who later used him for his savagery and was used in return. They had allied with Vinir because it was a sound political move at the time they did it; three men acting in unity could wield much power in a government where it was a.s.sumed that no man would support another. Then Zatar . . . he cursed as the name came to his lips, spat it out as though he were regurgitating some vile poison. Zatar. He had made a throne possible and then claimed it himself, while Sechaveh, struck impotent by a single careless incident, was forced to sit back and watch, and do nothing. Zatar! Sechaveh had meant to unseat him at the last possible moment, to drive the Holding into chaos and then restore it himself. He had used Zatar in his youth and was fully prepared to counter his growing strength; he had spent the years planning for that moment, had dreamed of it, and considered himself ready.

And then there was Venari.