IN CONQUEST BORN C.S. FRIEDMAN DCopyright 1986 by C.S. Friedman. &ISBN: 0-88677-198-6 e-book ver 1.0 To my parents and my brother, whose pride makes it all worth doing. For ease of comprehension in the English text, all Braxin words have been rendered in the Basic Mode regardless of context. One BEGINNING: 1 He stands like a statue, perfect in arrogance. Because his people love bright colors he wears only gray and black; because they revere comfort, he is dressed uncomfortably. His people are flamboyant, and display their bodies with aggressive sexuality; he is entirely concealed by his costume. Tight-fitting gloves and boots cover his extremities and a high collar conceals his neck. His skin is as pale as human skin can be, but even that is not enough-cosmetics have been layered over his natural complexion until a mask of white conceals his skin from the prying eyes of commoners. Only his hair is uncovered, a rich mass of true black, as eloquent as a crown in proclaiming his right to power. It is moderate in length because another people, enemy to his own, wear their hair long; his beard and mustache are likewise traditional-the men of that other race do not have facial hair. THe is very tired. And he will not show it. The tiny shuttle spirals downward, from the orbiting Citadel to the center of Braxi's largest continent. Inside there is only one compartment; Vinir shares it with his servant, who operates the vehicle. For the lesser man's benefit he maintains the image of racial superiority which is as much a part of him as the black and gray he always wears and the ancestral sword at his side. Let the servant observe that he is not tired-he is never tired-the situation does not exist which can tire him. Now and then he catches the man glancing at him, when he thinks he is not being observed. 2What is he wondering now? Vinir muses. 6Is the man human after all? Or perhaps: hCan it be true that we are members of the same race?x The answer to either question will, hopefully, be negative. :'If you desire to sit. Lord..." 'I am content." In truth, he is exhausted. His nation, embracing war at every opportunity, is less than efficient during peacetime, and in such periods the government is the most crippled of all. This day was bad enough, trying to sort out domestic problems without the excuse of military priority to use when it was convenient. Then, just as the Kaim'eri were about to leave, Miyar chose to introduce the current Peace for review. That meant at least a tenth of dreary emotional confrontations and a thorough rehashing of historic precedent before they could even begin to discuss the real issue: when-and how-the current treaty with Azea should be broken. Fools! Vinir thinks. 4Someday the moment will be right, pso unexpected or so profitable that we will know, simply know, jthe time has come. That's how we've always functioned-@why-pretend that it's different? It is very late. Vinir is grateful when the shuttle slows to a perfect landing outside his house. He nods his approval to the pilot and steps with false vitality down from the shuttle. Not long now, and then he can rest. The Mistress of his House is waiting, as is her custom, to greet him as he passes through the forehouse and into the great entrance foyer which separates public edifice from private domain. She has a cut-gold vial in one hand and a cord of rings in the other, and hands him the former without word. He removes the stopper from the vial and drinks its contents. Immediately the mild restorative begins to take effect; he feels the exhaustion of the day loosen its hold on him. ('Records?" she asks. :He nods. "I'll go over them." nShe spills the handful of golden rings into his upturned palm. In the old days it was his custom to review the state of his household each night when he returned to its confines; now, with peace slowing his work to a painful crawl, there are nights when he lacks the energy to give it the attention it deserves. It isn't necessary, really. Sen'ti is both loyal and capable and has proven her worth a thousand times over. But trust doesn't come easily to a Braxana, not even between the sexes,'and he feels more comfortable knowing he has confirmed her work. With everything in her hands, from the finances of his House to his most tenuous political ties, he cannot be overcautious. XHe motions for her to follow him as he strides through the foyer, to the massive staircase which dominates the building's center. Made of the finest natural woods, adorned with works of polished stone, it is a monument to the more barbaric side of the Braxana. Momentarily he regrets the law which forbids the presence of a lift or transport in any Braxana house. A pointless complaint. That law and others like it guarantee physical activity and Vinir has often supported them; nevertheless, at times like this he would prefer that something else did the work of getting him to the top floor of his home, where the private rooms of the Master of the House are traditionally located. They pass servants. These are common Braxins, brown-haired and light-skinned in limitless variety but without the harsh contrast of the Braxana that sets that tribe apart from all others. They stand back in awe as Vinir passes, overwhelmed by the image he projects. ^The Lord and Kaim'era is a beautiful man; all of his tribe are. They bred for strength and beauty once and the results are breathtaking. If common Braxins worshipped gods they might try to apply a supernatural label to Vinir and his kind, in the hope of understanding them. The Braxana are flawless in beauty, unequaled in arrogance, tireless and without emotional weakness. What more could a nation ask of its rulers-or its gods? 'I'll be glad to reach my own rooms," he says softly, and the Mistress of his House nods her understanding. &Two large doors separate his private wing from the rest of the building. Uniformed guards open them at his approach and seal them securely behind him; in the privacy of his own wing he prefers the human anachronism to more efficient but unpleasantly modern portal mechanisms. 4'Well, we are alone," he says, by which he means that only members of his tribe are permitted beyond this boundary. He feels more comfortable among them, and certainly is freer to relax. They must never see beneath his mask of competence to discover within him any human weakness, but as for the image of racial superiority they are as much dependent upon it as he is, and unlikely to betray him on that point. 'We debated the treaty for two tenths," he says with scorn. "And we'll debate it again tomorrow-and the day after, too, most likely." He slips into the Basic speech mode, which is the language of the lower classes and does not contain the tiring complexity of the Braxana dialect. "Personally, I think it's time to accept that Azea anticipates our action and therefore we need to move not when it's most viable militarily, but when it would be most unexpected." N'You have something in mind, I gather." fHe pulls a ringreader out from the wall and adjusts it. "There's a colony on Lees-Red'resh Three, if you will-which I believe could be ours for the asking. A fair bit of mineral wealth, a decent position for a Braxin outpost, but not so desirable in either category that Azea would anticipate a move there." *'You suggested this?" He shrugged. "What's the point? We have to put in our time arguing the basics, first. We always do. There's more emotion than reason evident when a treaty first starts to wear thin... what's this?" One by one he has been dropping the golden rings on the reader and surveying their information on a small screen. Now his gloved finger rests against that screen, pointing to a particular figure among the population statistics of his House. 'I don't have that many Braxana," he tells her sternly. "Not purebred." 'You do now, Kaim'era." She is smiling. "K'siva gave birth today. You have a son, my Lord." He is astonished. The Braxana are nearly sterile-the price paid for that inbreeding which guaranteed their beauty. True, he had known that K'siva was pregnant; how could he fail to, when they had gone through an involved ritual of Seclusion to assure the child's paternity? But too many children conceived by his people are lost before or during childlbirth, and so pregnancy is more a cruel deception than a hope or promise, never discussed, rarely acknowledged, and sometimes genuinely forgotten. *'Alive..." he whispers. N'And healthy. They're waiting for you." The rings are forgotten as he nods for her to lead him. He never dared hope for this moment. The men of his bloodline more often sire daughters than sons, to which rule he has been no exception. But a son-his to raise, his to influence in that strange mixture of genetic tendency and parental conditioning which results in adulthood. Quite different, he thinks, from being informed third-person of the birth of a daughter, and long overdue. &His Mistress leads him into one of the many guest rooms of the Braxana wing and there leaves him. Awaiting him is a woman whose beauty once seduced him to repeat the mistake of his ancestors. But in this case, had not the old fears been proven unfounded? K'siva was Zarvati, like himself, yet the union had proven fruitful. If the child had shown any promise of the physical or mental handicaps that might come of such inbreeding it would have been put to death immediately, and Vinir would have been informed-if he was told anything at all-of its stillbirth. A pure Zarvati child! How magnificant it might be, how great it might become! And a man's only son should be outstanding. J'Lady," he says softly. Braxana are rarely gentle; this is one of those times. "There aren't words, even in our language, which can express my joy-or my gratitude." \She smiles, parting the bundle in her arms until a tiny face is visible. "Perfect in all things," she promises. And then she holds the child out to him. "Your son, Kaim'era." Awkwardly, he takes the tiny body from her. Then instinct takes over and he knows how to hold it, just so. He forces himself to look up from the tiny face for a moment. "Ask what you will," he offers. "My House will supply it. Ask even to be kept and it will be done." 'I have my own House," she answers, smiling, indicating by her refusal of the second offer that she will accept the first. But later, after thought. A promise made at a birthgiving will be kept. xWith a nod that serves both to thank and dismiss her, Vinir carries the tiny bundle that is his son outdoors, to the wide terrace which marks the outer boundary of his private wing. There in the starlit night he tries to come to terms with the miracle that this birth represents. Overhead the stars shine brightly through the dark Void that Braxi has conquered. The moon, Zhene, has just risen, and it glows with the sun's reflected glory: a protective forcefield glistens about it and its airlocks are silver circles against the whiteness. Beyond it, beyond sight, lies the vastness of Braxi's territory. And directly overhead at this time of night is the greatest battleground known to humankind. 'I give you this," he whispers, overcome by new and strange emotions. "When you're old enough to demand it, it'll be yours. As much power as a single man can wield, in the greatest multistellar territory man has ever known. I can't give you more..." xHe is suddenly aware of the emptiness above him. Peace reigns in the darkness where there should be war. "I'm sorry you were born in peacetime," he says quietly. "A bad omen. If I had known you would be here..." What? Could he have convinced the Kaim'eri to break the treaty in celebration of a single birth? Among a people where war was so valued and children so priceless, anything was possible. "It wouldn't do to name you now," he muses. "Not in peacetime." What, then? Would the Kaim'eri agree to break a treaty so that his son might be named? His laughter rings out in the darkness. Why not? Many of them would welcome such an excuse. And the timing! Azea would never anticipate such a move. Yes... ~'I'll give you war for your birth-celebration and Azean blood to seal your two names-one for your Braxana soul and one for the world, so that all will know in addressing you that they can never reach beyond the surface. Except for women, sometimes." A faint smile plays across his lips. "You'll learn that soon enough." His barbaric ancestors had presented their newborn infants to the stars, offering their souls to the powers which lit the sky. He stands beneath those same stars and holds his son tightly in his arms. He is too civilized to make the ancient offering, but too primitive to ignore its call entirely. A moment of silence serves in place of invocation. But contemplation of the night makes him all too aware of the peace which reigns overhead-peace which insults the traditions of his people and casts gloom over even a purebred birthgiving. Peace which has to end. Soon. With a last scornful glance at the overly tranquil sky, Vinir carries his newborn son indoors. * * * ,The Emperor is aghast. ("What did they say?" Patiently, the messenger repeats himself. "Braxin forces have taken the Azean colony on Lees," he recites slowly. "This constitutes open defiance of the" (he consults his notes) "nine hundred and eighty-fifth Comprehensive Peace Treaty between Braxi and Azea." 'Yes, yes, I know all that. What were their grounds-tell me that again." The messenger reads it verbatim. "Kaim'era Vinir, son of Lanat and Kir'la, wishes to give his son the public name of Zatar. Therefore the Kaim'erate considers the current peace treaty invalid and without binding force." Slowly the Emperor leans back in his throne. "Yes. That's what I thought you said." 2 It is an undebated fact that the planet Azea is in all ways hostile to human life. Not openly forbidding, as are those planets lacking an atmosphere or having a surface temperature near absolute zero, but nonetheless hostile to that life-form which fate has chosen to place upon its surface. The poisons which lace its air are subtle; they arrive with the swirling winds and depart with equal invisibility, leaving death as the only witness to their passing. The native vegetation is mildly toxic to the human system; the native fauna, weaned on uncertain air and parasite-laden water, cannot be tamed or (unless specially prepared) eaten. The people living on this planet have learned to adapt. They have had to. They have mastered that science which determines the patterns of heredity and they have turned this mastery, not to the purposes of biological conflict, but upon themselves. Envision them: a people marked forever by a desire to survive on their own terms. Another race would have stressed agriculture and reached to the stars for plants that would thrive in the hostile Azean soil. This race designed a digestive system capable of expelling the local toxins and programmed it into their descendants. Another people would have built domes and lived eternally under their protection, always fearful that some disaster would break open the life-giving shells and admit the native air. These people designed lungs that would not constrict in agony and introduced them into the anatomy of their descendants. The solution was long in coming, for Azean genetics was only in its birth-pangs when the planet made its first harsh demands. Many died while waiting. But as a statement of success or failure there is ultimately only this: Azea is inhabited. They are a golden people, homogeneous and unified. They take their mates from their own race and enjoy moderate, monogamous pleasures. All this is programmed into them. Birth defects are a thing of the past, as are hereditary weaknesses and inherited disease tendencies. Azeans live longer than any other Scattered Race, an ironic compensation for the death which plagued their early ancestors. As for genetics, that science must work hard to find unconquered horizons. The stellar reaches are spotted with government-financed Institutes whose goal is to speed up the process of evolution-as Azea defines it. Scientists sift through piles of data to isolate those genetic codes which determine telepathy, longevity-any desirable trait which might otherwise be lost in a sea of dominant normalcy. Once they have isolated the proper genetic sequence they can program it into each new member of the race, saving (they believe) millennia of otherwise slower development. Darmel Iyu Tukone and Suan Iir Aseirin are typical of their kind. They have richly golden skin because some scientist once thought it would be an aesthetic ideal; they have white hair because dark hair marks their enemies, the Braxins. Their first child has been conceived and now, with the celebrating concluded, the pair obediently proceeds to the nearest Center for Analysis and Adjustment to have it tested. Whatever might be wrong with the child, this couple knows Azean science can easily remedy it long before it leaves the womb. &If Azea is willing. In a science where almost nothing goes wrong, something has gone wrong. There is agitation in departments which have previously known only efficient calm; messages flash to and from the Capital Planet, and at last to the couple themselves. .The child is not Azean. That is lay language: the child, of course, is predominantly Azean. But patterns of heredity have surfaced which do not fit the Azean mold-genetic sequences which indicate that the child's founding line has not been so purely golden as its parents would wish to believe. hThe image of a young girl is flashed across analytic screens. Slight of build, she stands as a female of another race would-shorter than the male. Her mother, who like all Azean women is as tall as her man, shudders. The child's skin is white, colorlessly Braxin in appearance. Her father, a Security officer, turns away from the image. Hair like blood, deep red and shining, pours unnaturally down over her shoulders. Other subtle differences are recorded below the image, and they all add up to one thing: the race responsible for the child's appearance is unknown, found nowhere in Azean genetic files or even in the lore of Azea's part of the galaxy. Yet once in each line of descent it infiltrated perfect Azean stock, to leave its recessive mark for future generations to discover. And now that mark has surfaced, FMother and father are investigated. 6Darmel Iyu Tukone is an Imperial Servant with the highest Security clearance. He is a transcultural scholar with a specialty in Braxin/Azean exchange; there are less than half a dozen in the Empire who have mastered such studies. Called the Grand Interrogator by a war-conscious public, he specializes in applying Braxin psychology to Braxin prisoners in order to drag forth information from a people stubborn enough to resist physical torture. He is also the last known descendent-through-firstbirth of the revered hopechild Hasha, in token of which he bears the subname Iyu, or "birth" in the Oldtongue, as did his firstborn ancestors and as will his own first child. His line alone among Azean ancestries has a record of every pairbond since the Founding. And there is no alien within them. Suan is high in Security as were her parents before her, and theirs again for many generations back. It is not impossible that one of them mated with a non-Azean in secret. Nothing is impossible. But it is very unlikely, given the prejudices of such people. rBe rid of the child, they are counseled, and start again. They rebel. Peace comes but once a decade to Azea and such a couple must procreate when they can. There isn't time in the midst of war to savor the mysteries of birth, or to share in the first moments of a child's life. They have waited years and they are not willing to do so again. ZThe child will not be Azean, they are warned. TShe is ours, they respond. That is enough. The Council of Justice meets on the matter. A people whose definition of citizenship is based on genetic conformity must have a way to judge issues arising from deviation; thus the case falls to the Council. xThe child will not be, can never be a citizen of the Empire. FHer parents pale, but they persist. vThe child can never have the most basic Security clearance. This is a blow to those who have made War service their lives. But it is too late to back out now. Men and women who are weak of will may fall to the Braxins, and these two have proven their mettle by that standard. The child will be born, they insist. Uncompromising decrees follow in rapid order: the child may never set foot on Azea. She may not receive the benefits of Azean genetic science. Her appearance may not be tampered with. She may never in any way become involved with the War effort. RThese are scare tactics and are designed to pressure the parents into submission. But they fail in this purpose and become merely law, gloom to darken the child's birth. The girl is born in peacetime. But war, as always, comes again, and the nine hundred and eight-sixth Comprehensive Peace Treaty between Braxi and Azea shatters in a splash of human blood between the stars. The fact that it was inevitable does not negate its value as an omen. Vitonr: We recognize that in man's nature there is a drive to oppress others, be they truly alien or his own women. Perhaps the true measure of his power is how openly he can indulge in this. From The Birth of Braxi: excerpts from the later dialogues of Harkur the Great and Viton the Ruthless.^ (House of Makoth, Kurat/Braxi; CCS primefile: Dialogues)P Not available in the Azean Star Empire. Two Dear my sister, ,By now you must have discovered my absence. Yes, Ni'Ar, not only have I gone, but return is impossible-not only to our home, but to any part of Braxi. $I hope you'll forgive me. I kept so much from you, and for so long, but I think you'll see as you read this that I had little choice in the matter. And I should thank you for all the support you gave me, though you could hardly understand the torment that made it necessary. &But let me explain. You remember, I'm certain, that cursed year when Jenar attached himself to me. His brutality, and my nelplessness to escape it, came close to destroying me utterly. When he finally tired of the game and left, I cried in relief-and I was determined to find some method of avoiding men for a time, though law demands we submit to any who ask. Surely, my sister, you remember those zhents. Each day I hurried from my job to our compartment, where I waited until long past midnight. Only then did I dare to walk the streets for a while, when few were about. It was calming. You used to warn me of the danger, but better at that point a brutal death than another man like Jenar. One night, as I walked by the Tuel waters, I saw a figure ahead of me on the beach. His back was to me. I almost turned back and ran, but something in his posture held me still, something that marked him as different than any man I'd ever seen. BHis broad shoulders were draped in a dark gray cloak, his legs and feet encased in high black boots. Where one hand was visible I saw a glove of the same color. What fool, I thought, Dwears such clothing in mid-summer? Then it struck me. For only those of Braxana blood, the upper class, cover themselves so completely and in so little color. Fearful, I had just decided to run from the place when he turned to me. Hair blacker than shadow framed his pale face. His features were magnificent, deeply chiseled like an ancient sculpture, his body fine and his bearing arrogant. There are no words, my sister, to capture the beauty of his face and body, nor its effect upon me. I tried to turn away, as law demanded, tried to drop my eyes from his, but it was impossible. I wanted him. @The traitor's brand on my forehead burned shamefully as he came toward me. Who was I to desire this harshly beautiful youth, this man bred for beauty? Though he had the right to put me to death for it, I stared at him. Let my eyes, at least, drink of what the rest of me can never taste. <A slender sword swung at his side as he approached me-a Zhaor, I guessed, the traditional weapon of the Braxana. He walked slowly, with the grace of born nobility, a motion so fluid and beautiful that it hurt to watch. And closing the collar of his cloak was the Seal of the Kaim'erate. A Lord. I remembered, as he closed the distance between us, to fall to my knees, but I couldn't bear to take my eyes from him. VThere was an eternity of silence as he regarded me. I saw anger in those dark eyes-not at me, but the fury which had driven him to this place-Sulos, the sector of poverty. 'Who was the traitor?" he asked, his voice devoid of all emotion. |'My mother," I answered. The words nearly caught in my throat. 'Her name." &'Shyerre, my Lord." His brow furrowed in thought. "I don't recall the case. Refresh my memory, little one." 'She attempted to... leave Braxi for Aldous, to serve the Holding in space." 'There was enough alien blood in her that she could have passed for Aldousan?" 6'She believed so, my Lord." |'With what name have they doomed your future, little traitor?" x'Ni'en, my Lord." Never had the name been so painful before. 'Conceived in treachery-yes, I see. Stand, woman. Why do you stare at me?" I remained on my knees-my fear would be less obvious. "You're very beautiful, my Lord," I whispered. "He smiled slightly. "So I've been told. Yet the women of my Race can find no desire for me, little one, only duty. And I respond poorly to duty." Duty? What duty to a Race but that of the Braxana females to bear purebred children? By Taz'hein, not purebred... He looked at me and laughed. He must have known my thoughts, because he nodded to me in answer. Braxana. Pure. $I lowered my eyes. I felt his hands on my shoulders, and he lifted me to my feet. When he drew me against him I trembled, not from fear of him, but from hunger. 'You want me," he observed, amused. "Do you know, I ran out on the Kaim'eri Yiril, Vinir, and Sechaveh today. They tried to feed me women. In refusing, I've insulted the image of three of the most powerful men in the Holding, my father among them. Because none of those women could desire more than the favor of a Lord, or the child of a Braxana-one more duty completed, that much closer to freedom. What pleasure should I seek with them?" He laughed softly, but there was pain beneath it. "They believe me impotent. Good. That's synonymous with harmless to my people. Let them keep that delusion-it gives me freedom." He kissed me, then-just that, and yet so much. I've been used and discarded in less time than he took to savor that kiss. Weakly, warmly, I wondered if the sensuality of the Braxana' was perhaps more than legend. D'Where can I taste you?" he asked. The question surprised me-where did one have to go? Our wanderings had brought us to an isolated bit of Braxi, carpeted by fine natural grass and lit by the light of the Citadel shining across the Tuel waters. What more could he want? I looked at him, puzzled. 'Little fool!" He was smiling. "The Braxana sleep with their women." Involuntarily, I shuddered. To be at the mercy of a male in one's most vulnerable time, to have no escape from his demands... to sleep with a man! fTruly, I thought, the Braxana are still barbarians. .We sought such a place. And yet, when I awoke in the morning alone, I was surprised at how I could miss his warmth beside me, his arm confining and yet protecting me. ,By my cheek were forty sinias in silver-the upper-class custom of a gift for pleasure. Spare change no doubt for him; more money than I would ordinarily see in a year. Handling the coins lent an aura of reality to an anonymous encounter that now seemed little more than a dream. I would have given it all back to sleep with him again, my sister. I stepped over the landlord's body on the way out; the fool had tried to sneak in to rob the Lord's cloak. He had met his end before he remembered that the Braxana' sleep with their Zhaori close at hand. And, smiling, I remembered discovering the truth in the legend, that no passion exceeds that of a Braxana who has just killed. Two-three zhents later, I think. You were on assignment that night, preparing to leave for work, when he arrived. Did you notice him? Could you fail to? He wore our clothes, he'd painted his hair, he had come without his sword, but could such beauty be disguised? You passed him in the hall that night as you went out; can I believe you didn't notice him? Without words, without questions, I ran to his arms when he entered, and therein found a welcome. >In his embrace that night, by his will, I told him of my past. I'll not lead you to believe, my sister, that he dealt with me tenderly, or even kindly. When the Braxana have such emotions they crush them. But he displayed curiosity, so I spoke. How sweet it was to have a man listen, regardless of his motives! He told me, in return, of the affairs of state, of battle and politics, and of his Race, living to hate, living for pleasure but not knowing any longer how to seek it. I understood little of it, or even why he told me such things. Perhaps it was to get across to me the loneliness I sensed beneath it all, an emotion no Braxana would lower himself to admit to. JDawn came at last and he gathered his clothes. I knew there would be emptiness when he had gone, and also knew that nothing I could say or do would keep him there, or cause him to come back. Such pain was new to me. Needing to speak, afraid to reveal my train of thought, I asked for his name. 'Zatar," he said. "They call me Zatar the Magnificent, an attempt at sarcasm. Someday they'll say it and mean it." <'Is it true you have another?" I had heard, of course, of the Braxana True Name-in superstitious tradition, given only to trusted intimates. I knew that to ask for such a confidence invited death by the Zhaor. I had only meant to ask if such things really existed. But he misunderstood. Anger almost crossed his brow, but it was replaced by a look of weary pain. "I'm not very Braxana, I suppose, after all," he whispered. "I've confided enough to you this night to set my plans back considerably... What's power over my soul, compared to that?" I had no time to protest or explain. To hold the Name of a Braxana' is the greatest responsibility a woman can know. But the giving of a Name between the sexes must be smothered in pleasure, and so I was silenced. 'I'm leaving," he said quietly. "Perhaps it's fitting that I should have shared my Name so, at least once, first. But why it should be youR ... no, don't answer. I'm thinking aloud." He was silent, then, and seemed to wish the same of me, but I couldn't oblige him. "Where will you go, my Lord?" ,'To Azea, little one." 'Azea! But how-" 'Shh! Listen, and seal your lips against speech. Even my father doesn't know this. I've been studying the enemy for years now. I can speak their tongue without accent, think like them, move like them. My cosmeticists have dyes and drugs which will bleach my hair and keep my beard from growing. Skin dye will bronze my skin. It's not unplanned, you see." .'You'll go among them?" He nodded. "I'll defeat them at their own game-assimilation, a fancy word for intrigue." .'To what end, my Lord?" His eyes grew hard and cold, the way they were on the night I had met him. "Power, pretty one. An interstellar Holding at my beck and call. The game is theirs, now, but after this venture, Zatar the Magnificent will start writing his own rules." $I feared him then-his anger, his hatred of his own kind and his passionate need for them-feared his possible failure, and even more, his success. hHe slipped a heavy gold ring from his left index finger, where it fit snugly over his glove. He toyed with it as he spoke. "I've stolen enough of my father's poison to commit an assassination, or die trying. What's life, without power? I'm Braxana, born to rule. And I will-despite that whole pack of fools!" He placed the ring in my hand and gently folded my fingers over it. "Little traitor, I cannot take ownership of you. We may never meet again. But a token of ownership is Just Cause for refusing a man, and I know what you've been through at the hands of my sex. The ring is Braxana; men will wonder at it, but none will question its use. Will you wear it?" ,I nodded, afraid of that last kiss because its end meant he would leave me. "You'll come back," I whispered when he had done, "and I'll wait for you." He pried himself loose from my arms. "You're Braxin, Ni'en, don't forget that," he said sternly. "Let's not err as our enemies do. Find some pride in your heritage. Life is meant for pleasure, not dead memories." He left me then. Yes, dear Lord, but what if memories bring pleasure? .I knew I was being followed before I saw the guard. I had heard the footsteps pacing my own, I had seen the shadows staying an even distance behind me. I fingered the spot where Zatar's ring lay on a gold chain, hidden beneath my shirt. I tried to remain steady, tried to keep walking. All the while I kept glancing back, trying to determine the nature of this threat without being obvious about it. .Then I saw, and I knew. TThe sash of bright blue, embossed with the Seal of the Kaim'erate. Central Guard! I stopped, turned to face them, fell to my knees, lowered my eyes. What else could I do? There were three in all and I trembled as they approached, fearing for my life-and worse. The pain of a stun twisted deep in my nervous system, driving me into darkness; his Name moved silently across my lips, almost as a prayer. JDarkness. Then intense hunger-pain-a point of light in the distance. Voices about me: male, Braxana accents. Pain again, severe pain, and descent back into darkness. &I longed for death. 'Is she awake?" fCold water hit my face and I awoke, shuddering. A dungeon? My hands in shackles, pinned to the wall, my body dripping wet in the dank, still air? What ancient nightmare was this... Before me stood three Kaim'eri. One was older than the others, with the same facial structure as Lord Zatar, but much crueler in expression. One was middle-aged, with a face not incapable of mercy. The third I recognized even from Zatar's sparse description, and I instinctively knew that he was the one responsible for the primitive barbarity of my surroundings. 'Sechaveh is a loner and a sadist," he'd told me. "His parents fled the Holding to escape the Plague which thinned the ranks of my Race. But they took it with them and Sechaveh was raised by aliens, ignorant of his heritage. \'The man revels in destruction-peoples, planets, women. When they send him to war he returns with slaves and riches, and leaves behind him the rubble which once was a world." The older man paced as he spoke. "Woman, we will be plain. My son has disappeared. Where is he?" TMy throat was dry. "Your... son, great one?" 'Zatar, you fool! Don't play games with me. I've had him followed for some time now; we know he was with you the night before he disappeared." TListen, and seal your lips against speech... I lowered my eyes, fearful. "He used me, glorious Kaim'era. Nothing more." BHe struck me. I reeled under the blow, but the metal cuffs held me upright. I felt blood running in my mouth, and didn't look at my wrists for fear of finding the same. This, then, was Vinir-and the third man would be Yiril, whom Zatar had described as "the only Braxana capable of mercy." I envied those peoples with an active god, to whom they might pray for death. DI won't pain you, my sister, with descriptions of the tortures I endured, modern pains that leave no scars. Yiril forbade the others from disfiguring me-if I refused to speak, he said, or genuinely didn't know anything useful, they would need me intact to act as bait for the wayward Lord. Ni'Ar, it wasn't courage that sealed my lips. Ignorant though I was of the politics that moved these men, I could clearly read the tensions between them. Sechaveh was restless, irritated by Yiril's restrictions. If I spoke, if I ceased to have value to them, I would be turned over to him. And that I feared more than the pain. When was it that they cast me where they had found me, in the streets of Sulos? The three guards set to watch me used me roughly before dropping out of sight, while my body still shivered in pain. *They would wait-wait for Zatar, son of Vinir and K'Siva, to return to the lower-class filth he so enjoyed. They would kill us both, then; such was Yiril's suggestion. But I suspected, against all logic, that he knew such a plan was doomed to failure. Why then did he offer it? 2For two years, my sister, I suffered the attentions of my three captors. And you! You congratulated me for such regular attentions! Little did you know... At night Zatar's gift of gold slept by me, its chain about my neck. But no longer did I dare wear it during the day. For often, without warning, the arm of a guard would drag me into an alley, or a darkened doorway, there to sate whatever lust the moment had conjured, in a mockery of the privacy their masters preferred. Some nights when the pain became too great, I took Zatar's ring to the Tuel, and there wept. It was conduct unbecoming a Braxin, but bless it all! A moment's betrayal, I knew, if carefully planned, might end all of this. But I would not- could not-betray the one man who had seen through my shameful brand, to the woman who suffered because of it. BAnd when I felt his hands lift me from the grass one night, when with tightly closed eyes I kissed him once more, I knew from the touch of him that he was still cleanshaven; and as I felt the soft weight of his hair fall upon my arm, I knew without looking that it was still white as snow. 'Fool," I whispered happily. "The first person that sees you will kill you." 'They tried, little one. Three Central Guards with stun. And Zatar with Zhaor. Hardly a challenge." NI laughed, and I cried, and I held him. H'They've hurt you," he said quietly. V'No. I have no bad memories-only pleasure." JHe laughed, a lusty laugh that revived the most erotic of those memories. "I've not had a woman in nearly two years," he told me. "Do you think you can handle that?" >I smiled. "I can try, my Lord." And he is fresh from killing, I thought, as his embrace wiped all else from my mind. His hunger I could sense, frustrated, powerful, demanding. What else is there to do with such a man but yield? ,'I'm afraid, my Lord." 'You fear me?" NI pressed closer to him. "No. Not you." 2'My father-the Kaim'eri?" *'Not beside you, no." 8'Kurat, then? Its dungeons?" .In answer, I shuddered. ~'Then we'll crush them, my little one-them and their creators." The autocarriage slowed as we approached his home, a second-eon mansion. He helped me out, holding me close as we came to the door. `'Your palm," he said. "The House knows my hand." Obediently I put my hand on the doorplate. A second's hesitation-then the door opened, revealing a guard. 'Lord Zatar!" 'My father's in council now, is he not?" I was pulled past the bewildered guard. *'He is, but-my Lord!" LZatar ignored his confusion and drew me quickly through the forehouse. The enormity of the building was overwhelming; the power of the man who owned it was beyond my comprehension. Through the tightness of Zatar's grip I could feel his rising tension, his exhilaration as he strode toward a confrontation with his father. He had chosen this moment with care and it was with calculated forethought that he chose to kick open the doors to the last conference chamber, overriding the portal mechanism with simple primitive force. The heavy wooden panels fell aside with a bang and he entered, taking me with him, accompanied by indignant smoke and the sputter of damaged circuitry. vTo say that they were surprised would be an understatement. pThere were five of them, all Kaim'eri, three of whom I already knew and feared. Until a moment ago their Zhaori had been set aside in an opulent weapons-rack, but as the doors fell aside they claimed their swords with Braxana-swift reflexes. Only when they saw the cause of the intrusion did they relax somewhat. Vinir's face, however, was livid with fury. "So now you're back," he hissed. >Zatar bowed, the very master of arrogance. "My father. Glorious Kaim'eri! I return to you on the wings of triumph." His voice dripped hatred and hinted at sarcasm as only the complex speech modes of the Braxana dialect can do. I tried to fade into the shadows; the looks my former captors were directing at me could have nailed me to the wall had they had substance. I trembled. In answer, his grip on me tightened. Yiril was the first to collect himself. With a low chuckle of amusement he pulled his chair back into place and sat. "Well, Zatar. Is this the new fashion you intend for the Holding to adopt?" (His hair, of course, was still straight, although we had dyed its color back and made some attempt at styling it properly. And he was cleanshaven, although we had bleached the bronze from his skin. (How delicious it had been, with him playing Azean at the height of pleasure!) His eyes sparkled as he chose not to answer. "Please sit, Kaim'eri." 'What do you want with us?" Vinir snapped. He alone remained standing while the others, still armed, regained their seats. 'I bring you news-good news. The Azean Interrogation Officer Darmel lyu Tukone is dead. Of our poison. By my hands." There was silence. Vinir sat, clearly stunned, trying not to show it. 'That would explain-" one of the other Kaim'eri began, astonished. 'Quiet," Yiril ordered. He looked at Zatar; his face was unreadable. "The Empire's been trying not to let that news out. We've heard rumors, though, which this would explain. If so..." he smiled carefully, "... you are welcome." 6Zatar grinned. "Thank you." 'Very dramatic." Sechaveh shifted position, laying his sword on the table with a clatter. "Now what?" Zatar took a step forward, drawing me with him. "My inheritance, father." The hatred with which Vinir regarded him was, nonetheless, tempered with respect. "All right," he said finally. "Granted, you've earned some recognition. A House of your own, your own finances, adult legal status. All well and good." pAnd I? Servant, even slave, I knew, if he would have me. But then Vinir's face darkened and he pointed at me. "And this common filth? Mistress of it all?" 'Your choice of words, my father, but they are-in essence-correct." I? Mistress of a House of nobility? No, no, no! I am branded, Zatar, branded! Ar, the shame... NVinir's tone was deadly. "I forbid it!" :'You can't. I'll sue for it." n'You're not inherited yet," the older man reminded him. They glared at each other, a test of determination and dominance. A long time passed in silence. With what Zatar had done, it would be shameful for both of them if Vinir tried to keep him bound up in youthful dependence. But once he freed him to his inheritance, the younger man's staff was his own business. Finally Vinir said slowly, carefully, "She will never set foot on Braxi again." V'You'll give me the estate on Zhene, then?" \'Do you think you can be satisfied with that?" HZatar's dark eyes sparkled. "Quite." 'Subject to those terms, then, I inherit you. Kaim'eri: you witness-Computer, send a transcript to Braxin Central Files. There. Now will you please leave? We have business to conduct-and this isn't your House any more." 6'But I have business also." vVinir looked more weary than angry this time. "What is it?" Zatar chose his words carefully. "Which one of you, most respected Kaim'era, will bring forth my name in nomination at the Citadel?" Vinir exploded. "Unheard of!" Others among the five agreed, clearly enraged by the request. Only Yiril did not protest. Yiril, who Zatar had said might well bid for an informal alliance if the situation merited it. That was, he had explained, the difference between a true ruler and a mere Kaim'era. Yiril was Kaim'era. The others, Zatar had told me, were less. For a long moment Yiril studied the young Lord, while on both sides of him expletives reigned. And he seemed to see something in Zatar that satisfied him, for at last he nodded. "I, Yiril, Dliniri, son of Kerest and Sienne"-the others grew quickly silent as they heard the ritual words-"I, Braxana, Kaim'era of the Holding of B'salos under Braxi/Aldous, bring forth the person of Zatar, Zarvati, son of Vinir and K'siva, for the consideration of the Kaim'erate, that he might be elevated to its membership." His wry smile asked: enough?4 "Am I confirmed in this?" lHe looked at the others, particularly at Sechaveh, who saw something in his expression that made him nod almost imperceptibly in agreement. "I confirm your choice," he said quietly. It was a direct blow to Vinir that the two of them should act in concert and all present knew it; the nomination of Zatar had marked the end of their political trinity. Weary, exasperated, Vinir looked at his son. The mixed emotions in his face, I was startled to note, included a fair measure of respect. "Is that all, now?" 'Yes, Kaim'era." No longer 'my father,' I noticed. He bowed and, taking me with him, turned to leave. 'Lord Zatar!" DHe turned back to face his father. 'You have one day and night to remove yourself, your possessions, and this woman from my property. Do you understand?" rZatar bowed his head in obedience. In a matter of minutes To his relationship with Vinir had entirely changed; now he was an intruder-an enemy-in the other man's House. 'And Zatar..." >He raised, an eyebrow, waiting. 'I'll send your House a bill for the door." And then, grudgingly: "Well done. Now get out of here." He did. h'They'll hate you," he said. "You don't have to go." 'I want to." 'The Households on Zhene are entirely Braxana. Only the first class uses the moon, and few live there all the time. You'll be outcast." `I kissed him, long, as he had taught me. How good to know I could bring him pleasure! "I love you, Kaim'era Zatar." I had to use Aldousan for the thought-it doesn't translate into Braxin the way I wanted to say it. And before he could correct my premature use of his title I asked, "Does that shame you?" 'No," he said gently. "I've lived too long among the enemy to be quite as emphatic as tradition would have it." .'Are they happy, Lord?" r'Yes, happy-they also suffer more for it. When Tukone died, his wife destroyed herself. Terrible waste of people, that." He pulled a pad and styla from a drawer. "Love is the ultimate weakness and the Azeans will destroy themselves with it. But you shame me, little one? Hardly. Here; write your sister farewell." 0So I try, Ni'Ar, but his breath in my hair and his hands on my body demand I focus my attention elsewhere. So be careful, dear sister, and wish me well. JI am his, now. And he has just begun. Viton: These gentle emotions, what good are they? Love, compassion, amity; what purpose do they serve? To my mind they are socially invalid, obstacles to emotional efficiency. There is no more constructive emotion than hatred. Three Ferian del Kanar was less than happy about entering the housing satellite of Security Base Five, but because he was a Braxana-or at any rate, because he was training to become one-he tried not to let it show. T'Something wrong?" an Azean crewman asked. Damn. "Nothing." He caught a glimpse of himself in the gleaming surface of the dock's interior wall and checked his posture, movement, countenance... there. A far better deception. "Nothing at all." So what if he was entering one of the most carefully guarded domifices in the Empire? So what if he was half-Braxana, and looked as if that part was dominant? He was also Ferian del Kanar, one of the Empire's few Probes-and if the average person couldn't tell a Probe from a telepath, they knew enough of both to be impressed. He settled the red-and-gold cord of his rank more comfortably about his head, nodded to the transport crew which had accompanied him thus far, and withdrew his clearance chip for a guard of the orbiting domifice to inspect. Brightway: a haven of refuge for the officers of StarControl, the one place besides their Base where they might relax, knowing that the best of the Empire's science had been devoted to their safety. Here Darmel lyu Tukone had lived, had laid aside his interrogative duties nightly to be, for a short time, merely a man. Here his mate had come when the day's work was finished, to cast off her authority like a discarded garment and lie beside him in the safety of their home. And here they had died, both of them, the victims of Braxin poison. 'Ferian del Kanar..." the guard muttered. The Probe's adult name was unusual; Ferian had chosen it for that reason. The presence of a subname declared that he was (despite appearances to the contrary) Azean. That was enough for strangers to know. "Temporary Clearance, eh?" The guard was obviously suspicious. Frowning, he slipped the clear chip into a computer slot and waited for an analysis. At last the screen cleared, and words appeared. VALID. CURRENT. CONFIRMED. Still frowning, he nodded. "You're clear. Li Nath'll take you in." NAnd Hasha help you if you make trouble, he added silently. He handed the clearance chip back to Ferian and gestured to one of the other guards. T'Thirteen/twenty-three. Search him first." Ferian allowed himself to smile. With his velvet-black hair and translucent white skin, the Probe looked Braxana enough to disturb any Security officer. And if that hair was long and his face was cleanshaven-concessions he had grudgingly made to the fashions of the Empire-that did not obscure the fact that he really was, in body and spirit, part Braxana. 'All right." Li Nath said, after a thorough search with a hand-held scanner. It was clear he wasn't happy about his orders. "Come with me." Level thirteen, subsection twenty-three. The corridors were a labyrinth in three dimensions, punctuated by sensor-panels which-much to Ferian's annoyance-demanded confirmation of his clearance before they would let him pass. An impressive display, he thought, but only that. For after all, when it came right down to it, the system had failed. Darmel lyu Tukone and Suan lir Aseirin were dead-assassinatedz-and all the scanners in the world couldn't change that fact. j'This is it." the guard said sharply. Distaste radiated from him as he touched the portal, alerting the apartment's only occupant to their presence. A moment passed-the near-silent whrrr of a scanner reminded Ferian that he was still under the domifice's observation-and then the door opened, and Nabu li Pazua, Director of the Institute in charge of psychogenetic research, greeted them. 'Ferian! At last." He was an older man, well into his twelfth decade, impressive both in stature and in psychic ability. The red cord of telepathy was bright against his skin, and the semi-military dress which he affected lent him an additional air of authority. 'Thank you," he told the guard. He motioned Ferian into the apartment and reset the portal behind him. D'You had no problem getting here?" h'Oh, I had problems." He let the Director of the Institute share his memories: security checks, verifications of clearance, a fight with his escort guards while in Kiaun orbit... ~ But l'm here,V he concluded telepathically, then added ~ $Where's the child? ~ This way. The apartment which had housed Darmel lyu Tukone was a richly textured place, with fine knotwork covering the walls and soft-surfaced furniture that seemed to grow right out of the floor. Not typically Azean at all; that culture tended toward clean-edged surfaces in bright, contrasting colors. Here the walls were muted blue fading into Rahnsea green, with a faint touch of lilac woven into the pattern at irregular intervals... more Lugastine than anything, Ferian thought, though the texturing was unmistakedly Braxin. An odd blend of styles for a Security officer to adopt. V'In here." Li Pazua indicated a doorway. ~ Be careful. ~ I always am, Ferian lied. He stepped into the dimly lit room and came to the side of a forcebed, where a lone figure lay in a sleep akin to death. And stopped. And stared. N'Tell me what you see," li Pazua urged. @She was a human unlike any he had ever seen, slender and pale and so fragile that it seemed impossible she had ever lived. Her skin was colorless, her hair an inhuman hue which poured over her shoulders and across her throat like a thousand fresh incisions, blood-colored and gleaming. " Theirl child?" he whispered, incredulous. "She's not Azean." p'Recessive grouping," li Pazua explained. "Look closer." vFerian touched her mind with his special talent, and he realized why the Director had brought him there. Inside the fragile body, where there should have been thought, there was nothing. Nothing.H Not rudimentary consciousness, not the vestiges of recent memory, not a single hint that the body had ever been inhabited. Stunned, he searched the inside of the child's mind with the kind of thoroughness that only a Probe could master. And still found not even the promise of consciousness. :Which could only mean... Hasha! 'Ferian?" bHe found that he was trembling. "How old is she?" ^'Six Standard Years. Four and some. Lugastine." ,'Pre-pubescent, then." &'Without question." 2The implications of that! ~ Ferian? He forced himself to speak. "It's telepathy." he said hoarsely. He groped for a chair, found one, sat. ~ TTo come into one's sensitivity this early. ... He shuddered. .~ You're certain, then. ~ Yes. He touched her mind-or lack of it-again. Not even a murmur from the backmind! ~ (She's put up a block-8and a blessed good one. too. There were trained telepaths who couldn't keep him out; how had a child managed to do it? The Director was calm and rational, an island of reason in the storm of Ferian's thoughts. ~ Current theory states that psychic awakening is linked to the hormonic changes associated with- 'Theory be damned!-or blessed," he corrected, translating the oath into its Braxin equivalent. "The girl is telepathic-activelyV telepathic. Look, Director, you wouldn't bother to shut your eyes if you'd never seen. What would be the point? She's seen the light and rejected it, and her mental lids are shut so tight that not a glimmer can get through-in either direction. That's as sure a sign of telepathy as I've ever seen." &'Can you save her?" He frowned. ~ Be specific. <~ Make contact. Bring her out. ~ Difficult... ~ But possible? :He considered the problem. ~ Have you thought of the possible ramifications? My signature is markedly Braxin- ~ 6My other Probes have tried,4 the Director told him. ~ `All of them. If you can't do it, we'll lose her.V He sighed, projecting his frustration. ~ Your emotional makeup is... unique. Maybe it'll make a difference. I hope so. He lapsed into thoughtful silence; Ferian considered what he knew of the case and then asked aloud, "She saw her parents die?" 'She was found by the bodies." The Director projected an image, since the term "bodies" could not encompass the carnage. Stiff black residue in two mounds of human length were the only remains of Azea's most valued Security personnel. zBraxin poison. That terrible semi-living substance which could lurk unnoticed for days in the bloodstream of a victim, then erupt suddenly into a mass of churning black hell. It had devoured Darmel, its host. His mate had come in contact with it while trying to save him and it had claimed her as well. And the child... 'She was reaching out to them," Li Pazua explained. "The poison must have gone inert before she got to it." 'She was in contact@ with it?" Ferian asked sharply. (The Director nodded. 0'I didn't realize that." >He looked at the body-frail, so frail!-and touched her brain stem with his awareness. "The metabolic signals are erractic," he mused aloud. "Continued stress?" R'You think she's trapped in a nightmare?" 'Perhaps." lFerian sat down on the edge of the bed. Slowly, with a grace that was half genetic heritage and half training, he moved an arm across her until his hand came to rest on her forehead. 'I'm ready." ^And he ventured forward, into the child's mind. She is startled out of halfsleep, into a world beyond her comprehension. The air throbs with terror and agony, where before it was only air. Unearthly pain assails her-where is it coming from? Dimly she perceives that her mother has run out to the hallway; frightened, the child follows. $The living poison administered days ago to her father has matured. Rooted in his chest it mutates, growing and feeding on his flesh until it emerges by his shoulder, a living black coagulation of parasitic tissue. Had it appeared within an extremity he might have been saved, by the unhesitating amputation for which Suan's dagger was designed. But already it has reached areas too precious to remove. Darmel lyu Tukone writhes in mindless agony. Black foam trickles from his mouth and the horror consumes his lips and neck from inside and out. His convulsions cast bits of the blackness about him, to the feet of his horrified mate. And the child, who moments ago was merely a child, suffers his pain as though it were her own, his mindscreaming agony the catalyst for her psychic awakening. She dies with him, knowing intimately the madness with which he tears at his own flesh. Scoring a shoulder, with tearing strokes; striving, like a terrified animal, to remove the portions of his body that pain him. A scrap of discarded death is flung unexpectedly across Suan and takes root there before action can dislodge it. The black malignance burns to fresh life, quickly eating through clothing and flesh to intrude itself deep within her body. Knowing the manner of the end that awaits her, having only a moment of coherent thought left before the pain claims her utterly, Suan turns the forcefield blade into herself, acting before fear can weaken resolve. The suicide resonates within the child's terrified mind, alongside the fear and pain which are Suan's last living moments. &Against death-wish and agony the child struggles in vain, finding at last the key to closedmindedness. Then sight is gone, and hearing follows. Peaceful, blissful darkness envelops the tortured mind, leaving only thought in the relatively painless void. Thought... and memory. I saw him. Terrible, terrible knowledge; what child could face it and remain sane? PI saw him. The assassin. Hasha, help me... She remembers him as he was on that day, an Azean like any other... only different. They are in the Hall of Music, awaiting the end of an intermission, and she stares at him as he speaks to her parents. His words are false. His clothes, even his golden skin is false, and his Azean eyes... they should be black, velvet black, a deep oblivion to house terrible secrets. He is deadly, fascinating, a predator in human guise, and when those eyes turn to gaze upon her and the full power of his person strikes her, she shivers. How could she explain to an adult what she sees? Who would believe her? What adult would credit such a fantasy-for fantasy it surely must be!-or realize that her latent psychic power, active now for the very first time, has pierced through this man's Azean facade to discover an intruder beneath? bHe turns back to his prey, hungry for death, and hands her father a glass of lightwine. She senses the hunter's instinct, shares it for an instant, and is overwhelmed by its intensity. But she does not cry out. She does not warn her parents. They wouldn't believe her if she did, and for good reason. She must< be wrong about this-she must! The killer smiles, radiating triumph. As her father drinks his death. I could have saved you! You could have been prepared. I should have said something-~anything! I should have made you believe. You could have lived. I killed you! 6She crawls forward, feeling her way; guilt has smothered her senses until only touch remains to her. Struggling to move despite the darkness which strangles her, she reaches to where the Black Death still seethes, striving to embrace the fate of the ones she has killed with silence. Take me! she begs. But the poison is finished, inert. Dead. Powerless to claim another victim, no matter what the justice of that death might be. In the distance, an infinity of hostile minds threaten to break into the newly sensitive awareness. VIn desperation, she shuts them out forever. 'She knows she's vulnerable, and alone, and... hated. She blames herself for her parent's deaths. She recognizes the truth in what she saw but lacks the knowledge to interpret it. There's self-hate to be dealt with, guilt, possibly her mother's death-wish internalized, and then of course her own... an enormous undertaking." hThe Director nodded, pouring more wine for him. The deadening sensation of the alcohol was slowly bringing the Probe back to verbal coherence even as it cut off his psychic senses. It had taken five large glasses of the stuff just to-get him talking. 'Can you do it?" Ferian hesitated. Took another drink. "You don't know what you're asking." <'What you were trained to do." 'I was trained6 to telecommunicate. I was trained to act like a Braxana." With a long swallow he drained the glass again. "A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, remember? The Ultimate Weapon. Send him to Braxi, let him spy for the Empire. At least, that's what you told my mother when you convinced her to live with the memory of her rape long enough to bear me to term." He shuddered. "That child's mind is an inferno of self-destruction. Don't commit me to it unless you're ready to scrape up my ashes." 'Listen." The Director leaned forward, broadcasting a sense of urgency to accompany his words. "The state doesn't want her. They'll let the Institute take her away and then forget she ever existed. Do you realize what that would mean? There's never8 been a potential telepath like this one! Never an initial rating as high as hers, and certainly never full awakening without the usual pubescent triggers. Damn her parents!" he swore. "We tried over and over to tell them. Why wouldn't they respond? If we'd had her in training-" 'You wouldn't have started that early and you know it. As for her parents..."he sighed. "They've more than paid for any mistake they made regarding her. And yes, I think something of her mind can be salvaged." With an unsteady hand he refilled his glass. "Twist the guilt to anger, the inner-directed hatred to an outside focus... it could be done." *'What kind of focus?" D'Her father's assassin, I think." JA predator with eyes of velvet death.V He shivered. "Or his race, if that fails." 'Braxin?" <'I will assume so. She does." Braxana, he thought, and his stomach tightened as he relived their shared memory. How much of that fear had been hers, and how much his own? Those golden eyes that should have been black had seemed to pierce through to his very soul, and though Ferian's emotional reaction was not clothed in confusion as the child's had been, his assessment of lyu Tukone's assassin was much the same as hers. 6A man I hope never to meet,$ he told himself. DA man who is infinitely dangerous. ^'Saturate her with hatred, then? Toward Braxi?" He nodded, knowing as he did so that he was committing himself to the task. ^'You're going to take quite a beating in this." lFerian forced himself to laugh. "So what else is new?" >And again he drained the glass. Harkur:~ Civilized man longs for the illusion of barbarism. Either his culture fulfills this need by adopting its outer trappings, or he will be seduced by his first contact with a culture that does. Four In the darkness between the stars, a Purpose stirs. Guided by thought, powered by telepathy, it reaches outward from its creator-the Director of the Institute-and seeks, in the psychosphere of Lugast, its first assigned receptor. Who responds. ~ VThis is Adran li Kasure. Lugastine telepath. ~ Director Nabu li Pazua, at the Institute. I assume you've been briefed? N~ Minimally. You want a relay to Braxi? *~ Under my dominance. V~ (Image: Adran li Kasure nods.) Of course. 4~ Prepare for subsumption. tThe lesser mind relaxes, drifts... and is absorbed by that of its master, in power if not in personality. Again, the Director reaches Braxiward, strengthened by the support of his student. rAnd makes contact on Kiau, and establishes further relay. ,And reaches for Ienda. Suul. Adrish. Until he pierces at last, with a tendril of thought, the Holding itself. And Braxi. ~ Ferian? The response is faint, but it grows in intensity as the Braxana Probe focuses on the relay and adds his strength to the effort. ~ Yes, I'm receiving. Difficult, thought. Is this the best that can be done? ~ Regretfully. ~ ~It'll have to do, then. Here's the situation. They've bought my story entirely. I had to take a basic gene survey, but they were only interested in verifying my Braxana half; I don't think they've even got Azean codes on file. They confirmed the Braxana blood, although their science is so primitive they couldn't get it down to a specific bloodline. The end result of all this is that I've been passed on as wholesome and acceptable, race-wise. 0~ Good. Are you settled? ~ I liquidated my precious stores into local currency and took a place on Braxi proper, near Kurat, the upper-class sector. With my Braxana appearance no one asks any questions here. I tell you, the assimilation has only two problems. ~ The language? P~ No, that's fine. It's too complicated and subtle to speak straight; I wouldn't know which of the forty-two speech modes to start with, much less be able to hold two conversations at once as some of them obviously do. But with a bit of receptive telepathy I usually manage to find the right mode-or cover it up if I don't. It's the food, mostly. (Sensory image: breakfast.) So highly spiced that it's really getting to me. ~ 4Hasha, I see what you mean. 6~ And that was first thing in the morning. I'll spare you a look at dinner. They serve wine with everything, and I'll tell you. Braxin vintage wine may taste delicious but it's strong enough to fuel starliners. Seems they blend in a bit of pharmacopoeia, too: a dose of hallucinogen, maybe, or a mild aphrodisiac. What you gave me in training was like water to this stuff! No wonder they die younger than we do. ~ What else? ~ :(Evasiveness. Embarrassment.) ~ Ferian... ~ All right, all right, the women. What am I doing wrong? They're practically begging for sex with me-:it's a racist thing, you know-but I made the mistake of assuming one might want to spend the night and was rewarded with some curses that... well, I'll spare you those, too. Evidently, I had dealt her Braxin honor some hideous blow. I've made some valiant efforts at being more violent, too, but all I get for that are more scratch marks. I hurt, Director. b~ Pain is a valid feeling, Ferian, remember that. ~... nAnd now that you remind me, damn the Social Codes, too! &~ Any contacts yet? |~ A few householders of the Kaim'eri. and a young Braxana named Selek. I'm calling myself Feran, by the way, so please use that as a call sign, or I'll slip up sometime in the wrong company. 2~ What's with this Selek? ~ He took me to the Museum of Erotic Art. (Involuntary image: a composed Braxana running a gloved hand down the thigh of a near-naked waitress. Involuntary explanation: Museum restaurant. Selek.) We talked a bit. There's no concept of friendship here, you know, at least not between members of the same sex. So how do I judge my relationships? I mean, what kind of scale do you use? I'll I tell you one thing, though. I can see why they're not worried about spies-and they aren't, believe me. The only thing getting me through this is my telepathy. I can't see a non-FT managing to stay afloat here for more than a day... Hasha. what I wouldn't do for a simple plate of scrambled eggs. Unspiced. L~ It'll come, it'll come. Is that all? ~ For now. I've gathered our supposition was correct. The Braxana do have a passionate distrust ofany non-material powers; hence the development of telepathv has not occurred. No one discusses it openly, but I gather an infant showing such talents is disposed of-Pthe Braxana are big on infanticide, by the way. Keeps the Race superior. Anyway, I think I'm relatively safe. I'll open for relay at regular intervals, as we arranged. ~ Be careful. ~ I will. 2~ Ferian? How's it going? b~ Fairly well. Who's on relay? It feels stronger. ~ Er Vlas picked up the last rung. He's a Probe, so you're sending abstract until the transmission gets into the Empire. Any news? (~ No. Just strengthening the contacts. Sechaveh set a useful precedent a few decades back, coming in out of nowhere and working his way up to Kaim'era status. I think they're less suspicious of me than they might have been before that. Selek has shown me Kurat and I'm somewhat known at his House, but little politicking goes on while I'm there, and nothing useful. He lent me the Mistress of his House-&saucy little wench. 8~ Sex life going any easier? *~ You get used to it. "~ How about food? r- That will take a bit longer. I met D'vra today. ~ Who? ~ \Sorry, that's right, how could vou know? She's purebred. Mistress of the House of Yiril... here. (Image: a broad-shouldered, shapely woman, white-skinned and black-haired, arrogant, powerful, aggressively sensual. The world is dirt to her. When she enters a room, men come to silence. She drives any man-even an Azean-to a desperate daydream of conquest, but has the legal right to kill any who touch her against her will.) 4~ That's really something. ~ Yeah. She seems to be interested in me, but I don't think I'm up to that. Anyway, Yiril and two of the others have a kind of power triad that runs most of anything. Seems it's so rare for any of the Kaim'eri to unite on anything that a few of them sticking together can be very effective. I figure D'vra would be a good way to keep an eye on this trio, if I can work myself up to it. F~ Triad: Yiril, Vinir and Sechaveh? ~ No, they ousted Vinir a few years ago in favor of his son. There's a man I hope not to tangle with! (Image: Zatar. Undertone: nervousness.) He's controlled and deadly. The others indulge themselves in any violent or nasty emotion that strikes their fancy and thus overlook my irregularities. Somehow, I think he'd notice. $~ Do I sense fear? R~ (Evasively.) I'd rather not discuss it. - All right. I won't press you. Safety first, remember; you do us no good at all if these men come to suspect you. ~ (Dry laughter.) Don't worry. Director. Self-preservation is the number one Braxana priority. I'm no exception. ~ Feran? J~ Honored to be your enemy. Director. ~ What's that? 0~ Sorry, force of habit. ~ (Damned curious habit. B~ Braxana greeting. What's wrong? ~ &You feel... different. ~ In what way? h~ (Uncertainty.) More like your red-headed protegee. *~ Who is very Braxin. h~ I know. That's what worries me. Be careful. Feran. "~ I am. Director. "~ How's business? V~ Very pleasant. I spent a night with D'vra-6her initiative, of course. B~ Marvelous. Accomplish anything? 4~ That depends on how you- ~ NFeran! You know damned well what I mean. ~ Sorry. You get so into it over here, and then I have to turn it all off when the relay comes through... ~ Well, have better control of yourself. Are you doing anything constructive? ~ I moved into Kurat. I knew enough people to be safe and it seemed a better place for observation. I am $Braxana, you know. ~ dOnly half-and both halves belong to the Institute. ~ I know, I know. All right, I'm in excellent spying position. I'm established, reasonably respected, and my telepathic contact with you is unsuspected. I'm waiting to get a grasp on local politics before I go any further. And I'm looking for a Mistress. ~ A what? ~ Someone to take care of the House. You can't expect a man to run his own household, can you? Say, who's in the relav todav? D~ (Four voices respond, mentally.) ~ TGood, all male. Taste this image. Director... ~ Feran... (~ Honored, Director. ~ Never mind that. Our elementary reception class picked up that last transmission. No more telepathic pornography, is that clear? ~ ,But it was relevant to- ~ DNot relevant enough. Is that clear? 2~ (Pause.) Yes, Director. ~ HI've spoken to my aides, and we all agree. You're to take a vacation from Braxi proper at the first opportunity. I don't like what I sense happening to your psyche. ~ What happens to my psyche is my business, Director, let's make that very clear! You want information, and I'm trying to get it for you! But don't tell me how to live, or where, or whom to have sex with, or how often, or anything! &~ Calm down, Feran. ~ Right now I'm very busy trying to find out who fathered me. Your spying can wait. *~ You're not serious. ~ It matters to me. Do you know what it's like not to know your father? L~ No one cares. You have a cover story- ~ But it isn't true. It's a shameful thing, A Braxana knowing only his mother. Your "mission" will just have to wait. Director. I'm sorry. I'll get to it, I promise. >~ (Pause.) As you wish, Ferian. ~ That's Feran. ~ Whatever. Standard 2D transmission, augmented/superluminal, reaching to Base One/Azea, and JStabilized/subluminal, retransmitted: @'Director Ebre ni Kahv, please." The head of StarControl stirs, flicks on the visual. "Speaking." D'Nabu li Pazua, of the Institute." 'Li Pazua... yes, I remember." An aide supplies the proper shortfiles; he glances at them as they talk. "What can I do for you?" 'You said to check in regarding Ferian del Kanar. I'm doing so." The files says Ferian del Kanar, prod rape Lia ki Jannor by Braxin (Braxana?) ID unknown, conquest Lees. Potential Telepathy rated 9.38+, FT = r9.33. Security note: FULL EXTENT OF CONDITIONING UNKNOWN.r He frowns, thoughtful. "Is everything going as planned?" 'He's fitting in well-perhaps too well. I worry that we may have overstressed the Braxana side of him." 'If what you tell me is accurate, I see no harm in that. Unless there are other factors to be considered-'' j'I've told you everything relevant to the situation." 'Of course." He finds the place on li Pazua's shortfile where the phrase ,CONFLICTING LOYALTIES?D appears, and underlines it again. "And if that's the case, there's no reason to worry. You conditioned him carefully, and he'll adapt accordingly. Am I correct?" ,'That was our intent." L'Then trust your plans. Trust Ferian." nAfter a moment he added, somewhat untruthfully, "I do." ~ Ferian? ~ pThat's Feran, Director, and I'm here. I've been waiting. ~ You were hard to reach this time. The last link in our relay couldn't find you- ~ I haven't moved. F~ No. (Pause.) But you've changed. ~ Perhaps. $~ What's happened? ~ 2Not much. Lina's pregnant. ~ Who's Lina? ~ My Mistress. ~ &Oh. Congratulations. ~ (Image: Ferian del Kanar shrugs.) The celebration begins when the child lives. Director, not before. The Race is weak in that regard-practically sterile, in fact. We don't acknowledge pregnancies, only successful births. ~ Ferian... $~ Can it be Azean? ~ What? v~ I said, can the child be born with Azean characteristics. ~ I don't think so. I'll check the codes on your reproductive process. (Pause. Alarm.) Why? Surelv you're not waiting out the year- ~ 2I want to see my son born. ~ Ferian- ~ I will see my son born. Director! Is that too much for a Braxana to ask? ~ |This is going a bit too far; I think you had better come home... >~ I'm not coming home. Director. I have no place in the Empire, you know that. I'm staying here. I'll do the work you want, but I'm staying here. That's final. ~ fDoes your Mistress know how to make scrambled eggs? ~ What's that? ~ FNever mind. Nothing. How's the food? x~ Fine. The cook's work is a bit bland, but that's all right-zI can live with it. I'm hoping to import someone a bit more accustomed to Central flavoring. I had Zatar over for dinner the other night, and it was embarrassing to serve him food so Azean. <~ Any interesting information? N~ Some. I think Sechaveh may have fathered me. I've learned to respect his untrustworthiness, not to mention his influence; to share his bloodline would make me proud. ~ Is that all? ~ BFor now. Walk in danger. Director. ~ You, too. ~ Feran? ~ pThe relay must be weak, Director. I can barely feel you. ~ @The relay's fine; it must be you. ~ Just as well. ~ I don't suppose you've been earning your keep over there at last. ~ Oh, but I have! Ketir and I went into a joint venture in the Belekor slave market-:all very secretive, of course-miserable business for a Braxana to be found dealing extensively in aliens. I've been able to add considerably to my estate from the profits. ~ Anything else? @~ You must bear with me. Director. I've been using my telepathy to enhance sex; that takes a good deal of effort after all you did to divorce the two within me. ~ 8It was all for your survival. ~ The need has passed. I find the power less and less obtrusive. Braxana were not meant to be telepaths, I'm afraid. ~ .You were. Distinctly so. ~ That was twenty of your years ago, Director. A lot has changed since then. Sechaveh and I had a long talk yesterday- ~ 2You told him who you were?!! ~ Not what I was, but who fI was, yes. I'm half Braxana, after all. It takes more than an alien upbringing to cause one of these men to deny his offspring. And Sechaveh isn't overly fond of women, at least in the conventional sense, which means he has even fewer sons than most... anyway, whatever his reasons, he's accepted me. He granted me official bloodline rights and gave me an ancestral Zhaor which I'm busy training with... did you know the Braxana females fence also? Viciously, too!... I don't know if I can make the next relay. Director. There's a costumed gathering at the Museum Archives at that time and we're all having Braxana barbaric tribal outfits constructed... I'm afraid that once D'vra and the others come like that, I really won't have the time or interest to get in touch. Live in danger, Director. And thanks for saving my life. 2~ You're welcome, Ferian. ~ That's Feran. ~ Whatever. &'Director ni Kahv?" 'Speaking." |'Director li Pazua. We have some results on Ferian del Kanar." 'I'm listening." 'He's defected. Oh. I don't think he knows it himself yet in so many words, but I'm sure we've lost contact for good. He's told them his background and they've accepted the Braxana blood in him as good enough to cancel out the Azean upbringing. He has a typical Braxana household, which means he has computer access to all the information we could want and he won't give us a word of it." 'Excellent." ('Yes, I thought so." 'This does give me faith in your reasoning. I must say, I had my doubts when we first discussed this." 'If we had just sent him in to spy it would never had worked. We would have seen something happen just as it has-a little more slowly perhaps, without my prompting, but just the same in the end. He'd be Braxana and we'd have nothing." 'But this way..." 'As I promised. His rapid assimilation into Braxin life is proof of his conditioning, as are a number of other signs I programmed into him. As far as he's concerned, his telepathic talent has gone dormant-he'll have no reason to suspect otherwise. Eventually, the Braxana will realize his value as a negotiator and set him against us because he knows us so well. I guarantee you, put one telepath in the room and you'll have all the information you want. He's an open book-we designed him that way. To the right mind he'll broadcast everything he knows. And neither he nor the Braxana will ever suspect it." *'You guarantee that." 'There's a block put in every telepath, cutting them off from conscious acknowledgment of their conditioning. He couldn't admit to suspicions of that kind if they hit him in the face. As for the rest of them, Ferian has confirmed my suspicions regarding the Braxin culture-it is wholly non-psychic. They'll never suspect a thing." p'Good. Excellent, in fact. So now we have only to wait?" `Li Pazua nods, exultant. "We have only to wait." Harkur: A man's most sacred possession is his privacy of mind. Examine him, torture him, break him; still his thoughts are his own until he chooses to express them. This concept is one of the foundations of Braxin philosophy. Psychic ability, by its very nature, guarantees violation of this privacy. Therefore, we should not and will not tolerate it. Five >There was a Braxin spy on Dari. The news was not made public, but it was known by those who had to know. A message had been intercepted at the other end of the Azean Empire and the giant mechanical brains had decided that Dari was its destination. That was enough. Already StarControl had been mobilized, and every available Security agent moved to the sector in question. Every port on the planet was monitored. Every communications frequency was recorded and analyzed. Now there was only waiting to be done, for Dari was a political time-bomb which the wrong move might detonate. Slowly, those few whose power or anonymity allowed them freedom of movement came to Dari. One of them was a child. 1 To a human, Laun Set was alien; true aliens, however, would rank him with human stock. His silhouette was faithful to the blueprint of the Scattered Races-a head above a torso, upright posture, two arms, two legs, all in mathematical symmetry as befit the type. His dark brown skin glowed warmly in the sunlight, thickly textured, and his eyes were stained red in the manner of the Bloodletters. And although more joints adorned his four-fingered hands than a human would consider normal, the theory of the extremity was still the same and the musculature similar. He was naked but for a metal mesh loincloth, protective rather than ornamental. Gashes ran darkly down the length of one arm, black stripes in three lengths, nearly two hundred of them. They were marks of conquest and therefore tickets to continued life. His opponent was ready at last, Drago, an older man from Filque. His left arm, recently broken, was barely through healing-a weakness to exploit. The arm would be slower in response, Laun Set knew-and Drago would expect him to take advantage of it. From the packed earth of the Circle there arose to Laun Set's keen sense of smell the delicate odor of blood. It was something no outsider could ever detect, and even a Bloodletter lacked the sensitivity until the Hyarke was near beginning. He preferred packed earth for that reason, although a synthetic surface offered surer footing. Here the Blood of all the Fallen- 'Laun Set!" Drago's voice was harsh, in the manner of Darian formal speech. "Come ye to face me?" The ritual gripped his attention. "To face you, and to feed your blood to the worthy." \'I will pour your essence out upon the earth." Laun Set gripped his weapon tightly. "Then let us begin," he whispered fiercely. zThey began to circle. The excitement gripped him utterly now, and the audience faded from his awareness. Hypersensitive feet tested the ground-damp and firm; good. Drago swung-it was a blow not meant to hit. Laun Set stepped easily out of reach, noting his opponent's manner of movement even as he revealed his own. His weapon was long, slim, and deadly. On one end of its smooth wooden shaft was fitted a scythe-shaped blade, sharpened on both edges and straightened at the tip. The flat blade on the ada's other end was adorned with curling barbs-for the killing thrust alone, if that. .Laun Set attacked. His opponent's neat parry brought a curved blade dangerously close to his face, then down past his arm. Laun Set let it cut him before he pushed it away. It didn't matter who drew First Blood, provided it was done quickly. Better a controlled cut, unthreatening in the mutual courtesy of the Hyarke, than a Bloodletter desperate for this red inspiration, therefore dangerous in his chaos. Laun Set's nostrils flared as he breathed in the odor of his own blood. It was a drug to him and his kind, that almost imperceptible smell, and it would inspire his reflexes to their greatest capacity. From the earth a thousand voices seemed to ring, and from his soul, which had absorbed the strength of over a hundred men, reflexes came which were not his own, knowledge which he had never learned. He was one with the hundred, in the Circle, serving the Hyarke, and all were centered on the kill. He waited until Drago's eyes glowed with the Change before he struck again. Less would dishonor the other man's experience. A half dozen clashing, gleaming exchanges taught him the man's basic reflexes while exhibiting his own. pThere was nothing now but the Hyarke, the bloodsport which was the soul of Dari. The Circle pulsed about him, a physical boundary pounding in rhythm with his own heartbeat. He had moved beyond conscious thought, into that nether world where the body moves faster than reason and trained instinct must take over. They traded blows; sometimes one or the other cut, more often each was parried. Blood mixed with sweat and dripped to the ground. Occasionally the clash of steel bespoke a blow which might have left a man alive to conquer but deprived him of the right to progeny. The blood gave them strength and the ritual gave them endurance and they fought under the hot sun forever. Then there was an opening. Laun Set saw it, let the awareness flow through his limbs and become action; without thought, he struck. The shaft of his ada tangled in Drago's legs and the other's faulty balance failed to compensate. He fell, and death awaited him. The long curved blade of Laun Set's weapon was turned toward him, its back to the dirt, and as Drago fell he impaled himself upon its gleaming length. He cried once, gloriously, a song of dying to accompany the outpouring of his lifeblood, and with that cry, in pain and glory, expired. Laun Set waited while the essence of Drago's strength flowed forth from his body. Energy pulsed inside the Circle, free of the dead man but not of that boundary. Then the victor stooped beside his kill. "Worthy one," he whispered, cupping his hands so that the wet redness flowed into them. Drago's life-essence danced in the red fluid and strengthened Laun Set as the latter drank it. Then he stood back from the Fallen. Two young Bloodletters had entered the Circle and were rubbing his body with drugged oils which would combat exhaustion and compensate for the overdrive state he had fought in. They were all coming now, the spectators who were Bloodletters, for the Sharing, while those who were not of that brotherhood hurried to vacate the stadium, reverent of the ritual. The two young men who had brought the drug knelt next and tasted the blood of the Fallen. Others knelt after them, touching dark hands to the killing wound, tasting Drago's strength and skill from their fingertips. Somewhere outside the Circle the audience was gone, leaving no visible witness to the Sharing but those who were entitled to indulge in its mysteries. A horizontal cut was made on Laun Set's arm and dye powder was rubbed into it. It was a long mark, for Drago had killed over a hundred opponents. Already the life force in the Circle was ebbing, absorbed into the dozen men of the Sharing. And as it was drunk by the last of them the Circle fell, becoming once more only a line on the packed, blood-soaked earth. (The ritual was over. bIn the shadows, well hidden, a human girl smiled. 2 No one could have mistaken Torzha er Litz for a civilian. Her crisp stride bristled with military overtones and her eyes took in the details of her surroundings with sharp efficiency. Because she was Azean she was tall, lean, and golden; because she was Torzha er Litz she was impressive. "I've come to see the Governor." The native receptionist looked up at her with infuriating slowness. 'You are who?" .'Starcommander Torzha er Litz, from the Vengeance." She spoke slowly, assuming from his accent that his Azean was poor. Nevertheless, he seemed to take an interminable amount of time to absorb that information, and longer to get the Governer's appointment schedule on the screen. >She tapped one booted foot impatiently and looked around her. In structure the offices looked like those in any Azean building-simple in design, relying more on color than three-dimensional detail for decoration. But the colors were out-of-date and Torzha found them unpleasantly garish. `'Starcommander Torzha Litz," the secretary read slowly. Torzha suspected he knew just how much insult he was doing her by denying her the subname. She decided she disliked him. >'No appointment," he concluded. 'I know I don't have an appointment. StarControl should have called. Here-" She pulled her orders out of her half-jacket "-this will explain." It took him a century, it seemed, to go over the cellose sheets. She wanted to tell him: Damn it, man, you've got a translator in your desk, run it through that! But Ebre had asked her to bend over backward to avoid offending the natives, and she would certainly try. At least for the first day. Just as her patience was reaching its end, the door behind the secretary slid open. Governor li Dara smiled broadly as he saw her. "Starcommander! I thought I heard someone out here. Please come in." Without a glance at the desk she swept up her orders and followed him. "Your staff-" she began. \'Shh. Not here." He led her down a long corridor, to an office at the end. When they were inside, he made sure the door was well sealed behind them. Only then would he speak. 'I'm really sorry about that. They're usually good, you know, but your rank must have been just too tempting. Kir Lao speaks perfect Azean and is outstandingly efficient-anything else, I'm afraid, was strictly for your benefit. Ver?" b "Please." The drink was standing ready and she accepted a steaming cupful from him. She looked over the office, a simple room decorated in what she thought was a poor mixture of Azean and Darian. A glance out the window revealed a public demonstration on the street below. "Azeans go home," read one sign, and others had longer slogans which included such descriptive passages as "imperialistic starslime" and "alien filthmongers." ('Nice place you have here," she commented. He followed her gaze out of the window and grimaced. "They don't actually rebel, you know, and the Treaty of Conquest gives them the right to assemble... like that." He looked up at her. "It goes without saying we're not popular here." $'I gathered that." 0He sighed. "Which, of course,. is nine-tenths of the problem. The standard list of things to do when one suspects there is a spy amongst the natives is invalid in this case. One wrong move, one overtly imperialistic gesture, and we just might lose this planet as a passive base." @'We could simply obliterate it." He laughed, on the assumption that she was kidding him, then stopped when he saw her face. Surely, he hoped, $she's not serious.F "I'd be out of a job," he offered. ZShe gave him a faint smile. "Then it's out of the question." She looked out over the horizon. "No, I'm well aware of what this planet is worth as a base of operations, and equally aware of how easily we could lose it. That's why I was sent. Do you know exactly what a transculturalist is, Governor?'' He nodded. "We have a few working for us here. Translators, mostly." She shook her head. "It's far more complicated than that. Simple translation can be done by computer. But in each language there are words and concepts that don't have a direct counterpart in any other. A transculturalist is one who can take the abstract ideas contained in one language and express them effectively in another. Which requires, of course, a complete understanding of both cultures. The primary job of a transculturalist is obviously translation. But there are other skills." nShe turned away from the window and faced him. "My specialty is Braxin-Azean exchange, which only a handful of people have mastered. StarControl sent me here in the hope that I could reason out where your spy is likely to be hiding." She smiled indulgently. "This in addition to your other efforts, of course." 4'Yes, of course." He obviously had his doubts about the approach but wasn't going to admit it. "If you'll tell me what you need in the way of facilities..." 8'A private office, standard computer access, a staff of... say three people, preferably Azean, answerable only to me." She recalled her reception. "Make that definitely Azean. And for a start, a copy of the customs records for the past eight Standard Days. I want to see who's been coming and going here. Starcontrol never should have left the ports open-" She waved his objection to silence. "Yes. I know, we can't infuriate the locals. Did you say in your request that you had a copy of the transmission?" 'I do." It was on top of the desk and he gave it to her, a thin celchip recording and its printed translation. She ignored the written text and slid the clear chip into place in the desk's decoder. The clicks and whirs of an interstellar code came forth from the speaker. H'I see," she said thoughtfully. "It is the Ernan code, which is very strange because Braxi hasn't used it for years. And the augmentation-" She leaned over the desk to read it. 'StarControl said something about that. I can't pretend to understand." 'Simply that for reasons involving the science of interstellar communication, it was very likely we'd pick this up. I can't believe they didn't know that." She sipped her ver. "Not like them at all. The Braxins are many things, but rarely are they careless." She shrugged. "But then, that's why I'm here. Have you translators?" >'Dari-Azean transculturalists." t'Even better! I'll need the services of one. And a guide." `'I'll get you one. For any place in particular?" 'Yes." She looked out the window, as if by studying the faces of the demonstrators she would unearth some clue. "I want to see this blood-ritual, this Hyarke. I have a feeling..." She looked back at him and laughed, lightly. "But I won't bore you with that until I have some more to go by. I should warn you now, even in war I tend to operate on hunches." @'Your record speaks for itself." 'Sometimes I think it's the only way to second-guess them," she mused. "As if they act in response to primal instincts, rather than reason." He took a last drink of his ver and collapsed the cup. "There's a Hyarke in Toul tonight, now that I think of it, and I might have someone here who could take you, if I catch him before he goes off duty. Will you excuse me for a moment?'' 'Please," she responded, waving her assent. When he was gone she went over the problem in her mind, and she laughed softly. 'One Braxin somewhere on this very large planet," she reflected, "and no real clues. Well, it could be worse." She thought about that for a few minutes and then admitted. "But I don't see how." 3 He was posing as a Bloodletter, a ritual killer. Thus far his natural Braxin arrogance had aided his disguise; in any other strata of society it would have focused suspicion upon him, but in the tight circle of the Hyarke his Braxin nature was quite at home. These were men who talked of gutted bodies at the dinner table, and whose palates were best lubricated by human blood. They carried the weapon of their trade with them at all times, long and slim and sharp on all its metal edges. About their necks they wore medallions with the single legend, "As is the blood, so is the man." And they lived on top of society, needing only to ask for an item to receive it gratis, to mention a need and a dozen Darians would beg for the chance to fulfill it. Varik was a capable man. The eight years he had devoted to learning Darian and to training in Hyarke combat had proven both successful and necessary. It was true that he lacked any insight into the blood-trance which allowed them access to their ultimate fighting capacity, but the ritual suited his violent nature and his superior Braxin musculature, despite the adaptive surgery which disguised it, gave him an edge which balanced the scales. And although the risk was high-one failure meant death-he found pleasure in the role he was playing. Braxi was done with him, but he didn't know it. He had been a rebel and it was considered too dangerous to merely execute him, for those groups which rose against the Braxana-those few which were not crushed in their birthgiving--knew how to manipulate a martyrdom and would not hesitate to do so. So they had trained him for a higher purpose, removing him from his cultural context to aid in the destruction of Azea, and thus had made it clear to his compatriots that all men have a price: even Varik would serve the Braxana. The others lost heart or nerve and were quietly murdered. Varik, seduced by the dual promise of adventure and elitism, was sent to Dari as a spy, in which capacity he had been successful. But the planet was also his tomb. Braxi's intercepted message had been no accident; Varik had fulfilled his mission and was being discarded. Azea would punish Braxi's upstart. 4 Evening had come by the time Laun Set left the tavern. His body ached pleasantly from the attention of women and wine still fogged his thoughts, but his step was firm and even as he walked the Darian streets. Night had fallen and darkness enveloped the city. Dari's three moons were shrouded in cloud-cover and did little but cast long shadows across the street. From one of these, suddenly and silently, a human girl emerged. 'Out of my way, human!" He punctuated his command by spitting at her feet; nonetheless, she held her ground. t'Greetings of the Blood Night," she said in ritual Darian. He tried to dodge around her, but she remained in his way. He had a momentary vision of sweeping his ada into aggressive position and forcing her from his path, and he smiled at the thought of that moonlit blade etching a white path through her alien insides. But reality did not allow for such things; the humans, damn them, were not to be killed. 'Do you want something of me?" he asked finally. "Or is this some new sport?" <'I would like to talk to you." J'I have nothing to say to your kind." LHe tried to push by her and in doing so brushed against her shoulder. As they came in contact he stopped, uncertain. Where had he been going, and why in such a hurry? `She moved away from him and the memory returned. ,'You touched my mind!" She nodded. `Against his will he was intrigued. "A telepath?" She nodded. Her eyes were dark and wide and watched him closely as he considered. He'd had very little contact with humans and none with psychics. She was slight of build and appeared almost malnourished-hardly a threat to him. And she was clearly not Azean, for she lacked the height and golden skin of that accursed race. What was a moment of conversation, anyway? 'Talk." .'Not here. In private." He laughed, loudly. "You have nerve, human! Very well. Since you speak my language, I'll let you do it where you want. Follow me." With the practiced eye of a Bloodletter he analyzed her walk. She kept up with him despite the disparity in their sizes. ZNo one has ever allowed her her natural pace, he observed. And that stiffness is not right for a child, human or no. And the look in her eyes-pI have seen that in Bloodletters just before the Hyarke. ,He took her to a dark quarter of the city and into an inn. His ada proclaimed his status and the inn's owner jumped to serve him. Two women arose from their seats to offer themselves for his pleasure; one left a companion who nodded his understanding. Laun Set waved them away. 4'Just a room," he ordered. Keys and directions were delivered to him. The human child, he noticed, was staying discreetly in the shadows. But as she walked across the lighted floor to follow him, a wave of exclamation marked their progress. The room was small and was meant to be rented by the hour. Not until they were both inside with the door safely closed did he face her again. Her eyes were wide and bright, the dark gray of unpolished steel. Her hair, the color of fresh blood, hung braided down her back. Her skin was so pale he would have been surprised to learn that she had ever been out in the sunlight. 'Now that you've done such wonders for my reputation," he snapped, "what is it you want?" She moved until she stood with her back against the door. "First things first, Bloodletter. All out in the open. I'm an Azean." He looked her over, then laughed unpleasantly. "No. I may not be human, but I know what Azeans look like." R'Would you like to see my racial papers?" He tightened. "Get out of here." She stayed where she was, her body blocking the door. "No. I want to talk to you, Bloodletter-but not under false pretenses." 'If you're Azean, I have nothing to say to you. So if you don't leave, I will." He moved toward the door, but she refused to get out of his way. For a moment he nearly lost control and struck out at her. But he was not that much of a fool; to strike out at a child of Dari's conquering race would be an invitation to political execution. And something in her expression impressed him, more so when he realized what it was. She would be doing the same thing even if the law didn't protect her, he realized. 'You'll listen to me," she said firmly. "And then I'll go. But by Hasha, you'll hear me out first!" LHe glared. "I spit on your Firstborn." 8'I know. That's irrelevant." He studied the raw nerve in her eyes and knew he could respect that. "All right," he said finally. "I'm listening." She smiled; there was cruelty in the expression. "I'm hunting a man, Bloodletter, and I want your help. A Braxin, here on Dari." tHe laughed derisively. "I'm not interested in your Azean-" 4'Posing as a Bloodletter." FA cold stillness settled over them. ,'That's not possible." &'I'm afraid it is." b'No. An alien in the Circle... it couldn't happen." 8She shrugged. "As you wish." 'He's fought?" 'At least once since I've been here. And he didn't feel inexperienced." &'You... sensed this?" J'Oh, yes. I focused on him days ago." D'Can't you find him the same way?" She shook her head. "There's a difference between picking up a combination of Braxin psychology and active violence, and knowing exactly where it's coming from. I can only focus on him in the first place because of an... affinity... I have for his mindset. Telepathy has its limitations, and my training is far from complete." >'So. The Azeans need our help." 'No, Bloodletter. Not the Azeans. Only myself." She took a deep breath, and he thought he could feel the intensity within her: his imagination, of course. "I'm hunting. And I need local assistance." Laun Set considered. The thought of working with a human was repellent to him, but the alternatives were loathsome. A human fighting Darians in the Circle defiled the proud Hyarke tradition. And as vehemently as he detested Azea, Laun Set knew that under Braxin rule the Hyarke would be the first thing to go. No-better Azea than that. \'What do you want me to do?" he asked at last. 'Listen." She smiled her triumph, and in that moment looked nothing like a child. "I'll tell you." 5 b'I have that information for you, Starcommander." Torzha looked up from her lists. "Thank you-just leave it with me." tTwo days. Two local, very long, useless days. She had seen a Hyarke and her most basic question had been answered-she was certain the Braxin would have some connection with that ritual. No other subculture on the planet offered what that one did to one raised among the enemy; of that she was certain. Then again (she thought for the hundredth time), Braxi could have been cunning enough to anticipate her and to do the unexpected. No. Cunning, yes-but also vain. A Braxin would never pose as a passive, downtrodden nonhuman. Everything about the Hyarke appealed to the Braxin mentality and it would be the first place a Braxin spy would choose to assimilate. But that still left the whole planet... dHer office was busy tracking down the names of all Dari's Bloodletters, along with their vital statistics. It was not an easy job. There was no central register to which these men belonged, and, in addition, their population changed nightly as the Hyarke continued to take its toll. One man she had suspected had died while she considered his records. And for that matter, did they know for a fact that the Braxin wasn't already dead? 0Unsurprisingly, the customs lists had been of no use whatsoever. She had asked for clarification on one entry, more out of curiosity than anything else. 'We couldn't get much on her," the secretary continued. "The Institute has her files locked up tight." b'That's all right. This will be fine. Thank you." When he left, she glanced idly through the notes; then stopped, her eyes narrowing. She started to read more carefully. The child had come from the Institute with Medical Clearance-somehow Director li Pazua had convinced officials that a journey to Dari was required for her mental well-being. Yet she had come alone, a mere child on a hostile planet. Potential ratings high, intellectually and otherwise. Transcultural ratings in seven combinations-well, that was to be expected from a telepath-in-training. Parents high in Security... the great Darmel lyu Tukone, no less. They were poisoned by Braxins when she was six. (She remembered the incident, did not remember there being a child. Then again, hadn't there been some scandal with that pair? Yes, and over a child.) Then she had suffered from psychosomatic blindness, for five years. Ending- Torzha read the date again, startled. Twenty days ago? But the Institute on Llornu was ten days' travel from Dari-that would mean she had regained her sight and immediately begun traveling here. hAnd she had been seen at a number of Hyarke rituals. With sudden determination Torzha closed the folder and called her assistant back in. "Find out the exact whereabouts of this..." she consulted the file "... Anzha lyu. And get me cosmetics, a wig, clothing, et cetera. Bad enough being human here, without being Azean also." He bowed his respect and left to obey. She leaned her elbows on the desk and mused: unrelated? She doubted it. 6 Dawn cast long shadows across the Circle. The packed earth had been dampened the night before and now was ready for combat. Safe behind her dark complexion and Suakkan clothing, Torzha surveyed the crowd. Row after row of Darian flesh filled the stands, fidgeting in impatience. Here and there a human sat-Rahnese, on vacation; Ikna, doing sociological research. There were a few Azeans present who had been stationed on the planet long enough to know how to act-or at least they thought they did. The seats next to them were left empty until there were no other seats left to fill. 0And the child was there. ZUnobserved from across the arena, Torzha studied her. She had put in magnifying lenses under her Suakkan irises and now tensed to bring them into focus. The girl was small and delicately boned, sickly if one assumed an Azean standard. But there was no reason to do that; genetic proportion to the contrary, her appearance was solidly alien. Perhaps she was also not as young as she looked-what standard was one to use in judging? TThe Bloodletters had come into the Circle. |The girl's clothing was a nondescript mixture of Imperial and Darian-no doubt an attempt to fade into the background without antagonizing the locals. She wore nothing to indicate her power. Was this because she didn't want anyone to know or simply because she hadn't yet earned the symbolic red cord with an FT rating? LSo many questions-and no easy answers. hIt was a long Hyarke and Torzha endured it. She found the entire ritual distasteful to an extreme and its cultural glorification repelled her. She had no love of blood and had seen quite enough of it in forty years of military service to last her a lifetime. She feigned enthusiasm, though, to guarantee her safety-the Darians had no tolerance for objective observers and on a number of occasions had killed such in blood-frenzy. The fact that Ebre might avenge her death by obliterating the entire planet was no substitute for continued life; she leaned forward as they did, shared their tension, and gasped in concert with the thousands about her when the spectacle merited such response. @She was not sorry when it ended. The local fighter-she recalled his name as Laun Set-was victorious, and fellow Bloodletters came to rub drugged oils into his body. That interested her far more than the combat. Apparently they managed some mental state in which the body functioned in overdrive, being faster and more dexterous than normal and completely denying fatigue. When the ritual was over, the mental support collapsed and the body was simply overworked and abused; without drugs to ease the transition back, one could easily die of overexertion. The child was not leaving. Torzha noticed with surprise that she had remained in the stands as the general populace filed obediently out. She had meant to catch her outside the stadium and talk to her there, but if the girl was staying through the Sharing then something unusual was up. Torzha backed into a waiting shadow to watch. With seeming confidence, the girl descended from the stands to the outer edge of the Circle and waited. Darian custom forbade any non-Bloodletter from observing the Sharing. Of course, some did-it wasn't hard to do. But no one would dare watch from out in the open, least of all descend to the actual arena. Apparently some of the Bloodletters were arguing the same point. One of the oil-bearers pointed at her in fury and directed a scathing tirade at the victor, who merely shrugged. Another spoke more softly yet seemed to have a similar objection to her presence. But with a wave of his reddened hand Laun Set silenced them all. What he said to them, Torzha could not hear and would not have understood. Yet when he gestured first toward the girl and then toward the fallen Bloodletter, his language was universal. The Darians avoided her as she entered the Circle, some respectfully, some in fury. Even Torzha was stunned as the child knelt by the bleeding body, speaking the ritual words (she presumed) and cupping her hands to catch the alien blood. Laun Set stood over her like a guardian, challenging with his reddened eyes anyone who might interfere. Then it was over and the girl withdrew, as the others had, to the side of the Circle. The Sharing continued despite the interruption. One by one the Bloodletters tasted the essence of the Fallen. Some spoke softly to Laun Set before or after and a few expressed their anger more openly, but all, save one, drank. That one had apparently been insulted beyond his capacity for tolerance by her participation and he left without touching the loser's body. He was wounded, Torzha deduced from the bandage on his hand, and perhaps his temporary inability to compete made his temper shorter than usual. The girl left with the victor, a part of the informal court that surrounded him. It was not a good time for Torzha to approach her, so she set an aide on her trail to determine her business and some way of finding her again. Which, Torzha thought, was just as well. She needed time to think this over. 7 The image of Director Ebre ni Kahv wavered briefly, then stablized as military relay was synchronized. That was one benefit of working for StarControl, Torzha thought; insync communication was next to impossible without such a relay. 'I have good news for you," he told her. "Our negotiators have managed a conditional Peace in your sector. So you can continue your work on Dari without feeling that you should be back at the Border." Torzha was amused. "Were you going to withdraw me from service here just because of the War?" p'No-but now you don't have to worry about it." He waved her objection to silence. "I know you, Torzha. Don't tell me it hasn't bothered you to be planetbound while we fought for Oria." 'Just because I was senior officer in that sector is no reason to assume I wanted to be there." T'Sarcasm acknowledged. Now how do I get you to train someone else in that damnable Braxin culture so I don't have to beg for peace every time we need you somewhere else?" :'Send some free time my way." 'Out of my own stock of it?-are you ever going to sponsor, Torzha?" <She sighed. The question and its answer had become a ritual with which she was too familiar. "Yes, Ebre. Someday soon. As soon as a suitable person turns up." 'Suitable people do not 'turn up'-they're found. Start looking. The system exists for a reason, you know. It'll give you something to do in Peacetime. Now, as for the present problem: we've picked up another transmission." She leaned forward, alert. "Tell me you have the hemisphere of receipt." 6'I'll do you one better. It was timed to hit surface when the smaller continent in the northern hemisphere came into the line of transmission. How's that?" She exhaled dramatically. "Ebre, there can't be more than a hundred suspects in that area." 2'If you can't handle it-" 'I wasn't being facetious. That's a workable number. It's the capital continent, Bit Nua-San-you do mean that one, don't you?" 6'That's the name I've got." 'There aren't that many Circles here-not to mention my own base of operations is right there-Ebre, I owe you dinner on Ikn." ,'You can't afford it." 'Since when?" 'Not at the restaurant I'm thinking of. But if you can clean up this matter without losing us Dari, I'll take you there myself. Now, on to this other matter..."He frowned. "Is it really important?" $'Is it a problem?" VHe sighed. "Yes and no. The Institute is always a problem. I've dealt with them before, remember. Quite frankly, if they disappeared tomorrow, I wouldn't waste more than a minute on regret. Fanatics, all of them-I don't trust them, Torzha, and I don't think you should either. The degree to which their current Director is blind and deaf to military procedure is exceeded only by his passion for secrecy. Sometimes I wish he would interfere with Security, so that I could get Imperial sanction to squeeze his damned secrets out of him. T'Now as for this girl: just how important isx she? Does she have any real bearing on the matter at hand?" \'I believe she may be looking for our Braxin." Said simply, it had the desired effect. "If that's the case... Hasha! The breach in security that implies-" N'Is alarming, I know. And just as threatening as the spy himself. Tell me: is there anything to keep the Institute from... say, eavesdropping on military communication?" 'A dozen and a half things-and none of them certain. Custom and etiquette, mostly. Actually, now that you mention it, nothing we can rely on." She sighed. "So we've no idea what she's after, or how much she knows, or who, if anyone, is backing her. She could interfere with my work-blow the whole thing wide open! Or she could help me; I simply don't know. I need information." v'You'll have it." Off the screen, out of sight, he was calling up the proper longfiles and coding them for transmission. "I'm sending you everything I have; it's a lot to wade through, I know, but I don't want to try to anticipate what will or won't be useful. As for my reference notes... do you want to hear them?" 'Please." 'The child comes from the Institute for the Acceleration of Human Psychic Evolution, one of the most prestigious and certainly the most powerful of the Genetic Centers. All double-talk aside, it owns her. Founded by fanatic scientists in 10,027, based upon the assumption that telepathic fluency would be the next natural step in human evolution. Their goal was-and still is-a combination of psychic and genetic science, intended to isolate the codes which make telepathy possible and introduce them into the race as a whole, while at the same time developing a training program that would enable people to get through the transition period with minimum trauma. This is their one and only goal, and all other concerns-including, I believe, loyalty to the state-are subordinate to it. First Functional Telepath trained, 11,287; the title implies conscious control over a broad range of psychic skills. There currently exist, in descending order of ability: Six Probes, twenty-three Functional Telepaths, and seventy Communicants. The rest are glorified psychics who have been trained to make some practical use of their ability, usually in response to one of the 'actives.' Nine thousand and twenty-seven of those." "'Only that many?" 'Apparently the Institute will only certify someone as 'psychic' when he or she can respond to non-physical stimuli with one hundred percent reliability-not to mention accuracy. A tall order, I gather. Which is not to say that there aren't some hundred thousand hopefuls hovering about the Institute's homeworld, hoping their talent will suddenly come into focus. Or something like that." He glanced at his notes. "Currently psychogenetics is focused on finding the so-called 'trigger sequences,' secondary genetic codes which cause the controlling sequences to become active." 4'Anzha lyu," she prompted. 'Parents Azean-wait, you have all that, don't you?" She nodded. "Potential telepathy rated 9.99+-meaning they expect her to come into as much power as they imagine possible. She's halfway through basic training for an FT rating and hasn't got Probe potential, whatever that means. At her present level, Director li Pazua informs me, she's more effective than all but three others. Trained by a man I sent to Braxi, by the way, so there's no hope of help from that end. Records on her training aren't available to 'outsiders.' Li Pazua sent me a standard psychefile; edited, I'm sure. Of note are an obsessive hatred of all things Braxin and potential zeymophobia. And of course, the period of hysterical blindness d'Ended not thirty days ago. How is that possible?" 'I quote: 'Psychosomatic sensory distortion among telepaths may be seen as a symptom of deep psychological disturbance, but should not be equated with actual sensory disability. A telepath is quite capable of experiencing the world through the senses of his/her tutors, and in fact often does so.' Li Pazua's cover letter," he explained. "It goes on to explain why the situation existed, in what ways they fought to correct it, and why her sudden unexplained recovery ought to be encouraged." 'I see." 'Useful?" 4'Could be. Anything else?" 'On the girl? Just a warning. All telepaths are impressed with a Higher Purpose of some kind; in plain Azean, they're conditioned to serve the cause of psychogenetics in some way that takes advantage of their individual strengths and weaknesses." 'What's hers?" 'The Institute doesn't reveal such things; it would undermine the confidentiality of their training, li Pazua claims. In the case of the man we sent to Braxi, they conditioned him to serve the Empire... but I'd be very surprised if they didn't throw in a command or two for their own benefit. Be careful, Torzha. There are a lot of variables here." 'I see that." 'If she is tailing the Braxin... Hasha, I don't like it. Take the matter into your own hands, if you can." 4She nodded. "I intend to." 'You've got a lot to think about, so I'll let you go. Call in regularly." 2'I will." She always did. DIt was time for some Braxin logic. 8 Morning light played over the city of Kaleysh. In the streets children fought with mock adas and played rhythmic games with balls and ropes, chanting rhymes which enumerated the most vulnerable parts of the body. Few adults walked abroad; there had been a Hyarke the night before and most had attended. Now, worn out by the frenzy of witnessing such exertion, they lay abed in half-sleep, listening to their children chant the names of blood-spilling arteries in all the innocence of youth. The Bloodletter himself was awake, moving with certain footing which belied the previous night's exertion. He had whispered a time and address to the young human girl and was going himself to that rendezvous. If the chants of the children awoke any memories of his own youth it was not evident on his face, which showed only a growing hostility and-perhaps-fear. &There was indeed a Braxin in the Circle. Laun Set knew it. The magnitude of the sacrilege was beyond expression; the need to act was irrepressible. XHe passed through the inn's common room with a gesture that drove back his would-be admirers and went to the room he had described to her. If others noted their meeting, it was of little concern to him. There were worse crimes on Dan than talking to human children-and one of them had been committed. She saw his face when he entered and reached out tendrils of thought to read his surface emotions. In their preparations of the night before they had mind-shared; now it was easy for her to read him. v'You didn't really believe me," she said. "But now you do." The rage which had been fermenting inside him boiled to the surface. "No Bloodletter would have denied the Sharing-no matter who or what participated!" He remembered with pain the ravaged Circle, torn where the alien had walked through it, pouring precious life through its gaping wound. "No Bloodletter would have left--no one could have-" His voice broke and he stopped. There was no way to express what was inside him, and he could only hope that she could read it directly. "No Bloodletter could have walked through a living Circle," he whispered. 'The mind of the Braxin," she said softly, "adapts easily to bloodshed. But it can't comprehend an active spiritual reality. He lives among your people. He kills them. But he doesn't understand them." Laun Set looked at her, his face set in hatred. "He's going to die." .'That's what I intend." 'We're behind you. I didn't talk to the others. I couldn't. But I don't have to. Kyar-" he used the Darian word for huntress in the place of her hated Azean name "-they knew, as I knew, what had been done. They won't question you." ^She smiled. "More than I could have hoped for." `His tone was one of anguish. "How could he even pretend to be one of us and not know?" He shut his eyes tightly against the memory. "Kyar, if you could truly understand what happened..." 'I know.F I saw, through your eyes. Through the eyes of all of you." She touched him gently, let him feel the sincerity through the contact. "I will avenge you. I promise." tHe forced himself to relax and looked about the small room. After a moment he found the new-made ada, gleaming still with the oils of its creation, leaning upright against the doorframe. Stiffly he walked over to it, laying his own aside and hefting its lesser weight. "Dir Salau was willing to make this for you." 'Given your recommendation. He said to tell you that the proportions were unusual but correct." He looked at her, then again at the weapon. "A bit long for your height, but he probably meant that to give you more reach. Yes, it's good." He stroked the shaft with pleasure; for the first time in a day and a night he smiled. "Pride in workmanship exceeds the bounds of racial hostility, I gather. This is excellently crafted." >She walked over to where he stood and touched a finger to the glistening metal. "So I can keep my promise to you," she said quietly. "And to the Bloodletters." Little killer, he thought. 0I do not envy your prey.* "When can we begin?" 8She looked up at him. "Now?" 2He handed her the weapon. 9 XIt bothered Varik, that scene with the girl. If his culture didn't condemn any psychic curiosity, he might have realized that what disturbed him was not what had actually happened, but rather an inner reaction to the telepathic probing he had undergone while watching the ritual. Inside, he knew-but on the surface, no part of his Braxin self would admit that something psychic had touched him, marking him. VBut that child... that god-blessed child! He knew what bad form it had been to leave the Sharing, but to continue once a woman (or girl, he reminded himself) had participated went against everything in his Braxin nature. Where did she come from, anyway, and what was she doing there? Had he mistaken the custom somehow? Only Bloodletters could come to the Sharing, and only male Darians could do the Hyarke. pMore than that was wrong. As surely as something buried deep inside him knew that he had been touched and examined mentally, some part of him also knew the purpose of that examination. He was being hunted. (Why did he keep using that word, rather than sought, or chased, or uncovered? Why did "hunted" just seem right?.) The source of the knowledge was, of course, hidden from him, but the hunch was so strong that he had decided to trust it. Braxi had not responded to his plea for help. It had surprised him at first, but then he realized what a fool he'd been all along to trust the Braxana. He'd figured that as long as he was serving their purpose he was safe-that was the way to deal with them, wasn't it?-but either he'd been wrong in the first place or had simply ceased to be useful. He was not bitter. He was angry at himself, but not bitter. For perhaps the first time he saw with open eyes the game they'd been playing. He thought they'd been manipulating each other when in fact he had done exactly what they'd wanted and received nothing for it. He wished that he were home again, to carry out his original plans. But they would never let him return. Or maybe they would, to see what scorn his new body would receive, to be amused while an "alien" tried to stir the ruling race to rebellion. dThey had trapped him perfectly and now he knew it. There was nowhere for him to go and nothing he could do. The transmissions from Braxi would come whether he was there to receive them or not, and someday sheer chance would favor Azea and he would be discovered. Fear ate at him now and he had no way of bettering it. For the first time ever he came to terms with the crippling folly that the Social Codes were. Fear was a Valid Emotion, a useful warning sign, a crucial limitating factor in the struggle for self-preservation, and he had never learned to suppress it. Now, when he had to, he didn't know how. The Braxin in him wanted to enjoy the last of his life-for he knew now that an end was coming soon, and an unpleasant one-but fear paralyzed him and in his depression he could seek no pleasure. fFor the first time he noticed how many more humans there were at the Hyarke, and saw his first Azeans there. And that child... something was wrong inside when he thought of her, something that made him cold and afraid, but he couldn't bring it to the surface of his mind to analyze it. He kept trying to convince himself that it was paranoia, but he had never been paranoid. That more than anything told him how wrong things really were. He tried to leave Dan under his own power. That was when he discovered that all ports were being monitored, and just short of surrendering his identification he turned and fled the transport center. NHe was scared. And rather than live scared, he decided to act-even if nothing constructive could be done. It was the waiting, more than anything, that was killing him. 10 Torzha lay still upon the Darian bed, dressed in her white under-uniform, immobile in her concentration. $If I were a Braxin\ (she asked herself for the thousandth time), *where would I be now? *I would be at the Hyarke, or in some place connected with it. I would view the rest of Dorian society with scorn and avoid it entirely. I would convince myself that I respected the Bloodletters as true men, because their ritual reeks of barbarism and the Braxana venerate barbarism. But deep inside I would have a warrior's scorn for any system that regularly kills off half of its most skilled fighters. DI would fight in the Hyarke, obviously well. But no matter how well I fight, no matter how often I survive, the very nature of the Hyarke defies Braxin tradition. P1 am not willing to die to serve my people. I am willing to die if the odds of doing so are the price of my amusement-they counted on that when they sent me. But the odds in the Hyarke are never better than fifty percent, and the system of challenges can force me to fight when I would rather not do so. I will fight. I will find pleasure in fighting. But I am not willing to fight continually, to risk constant involvement. Something pulled at Torzha's awareness, crying for attention, but she couldn't grasp it. Determined, she continued her reasoning. I must have an excuse for non-participation. A Bloodletter is expected to respond positively to any challenge. It would be awkward to have to explain my reason every time, hence my excuse must be an obvious one. She paused. ^If I were injured, I would not have to compete. lIf the injury were obvious, no one would challenge me. But-here's the catch. Say I feign a broken arm. dress it with cast and sling as is the local custom, since Dari won't have anything to do with extrastellar medicine. I'm here to pick up on the military frequencies; therefore I have the equipment to do so. It can be found. I have to hide it someplace, returning to it periodically. That might be noticed. I don't want to be immobilized by anything, in case I need to act to save myself. Thus a cast is undesirable. I would need something which would not actually hinder movement, yet which would imply inability to participate in the Hyarke... ~It came to her suddenly and she sat up, startled by the memory. The Bloodletter who left the Sharing had been bandaged on his right hand. .She pictured the Circle as she had seen it. He stood in anger as he watched the child participate, his hand bandaged over finger-splints as if it had been broken. If it were his dominant hand, then he was badly handicapped. Any Darian-any human, for that mattter, would immediately assume this to be the case-especially the Azeans, who had made right-handedness a genetic standard centuries ago. But if his left hand were dominant, as was the case with most Braxins, then the bandaging would be a mere nuisance... She reached for her half-jacket with one hand and the visiphone switch with the other. \'Get me the Governor," she ordered. "Quickly." 11 When morning came, he moved. He had dreamed of traps, their jaws set with gleaming teeth, and had awakened in a sweat of fear and desperation. Leaving his possessions behind, he had bolted forth from his apartment and out into the street. And not a moment too soon. His last view of the building, as he turned a corner out of sight, was the flash of a white uniform approaching its door. ,They had come for him. |He ran the streets, turning where there was a concealing alleyway, trusting that they would think he had done the fastest thing and taken public transportation in his flight. He did not know where he was going until his pounding feet took him there. Yes, the Records office-his instincts had been good. There would be hostages there aplenty, and a building full of files the government would not want destroyed. He might yet make it through this... He was not challenged at the door, though there were guards, nor did anyone question his presence as he bolted up the staircase to the most important offices. He was a Bloodletter. They did not even question him as he forced them from their work, and although they gave him questioning glances as he herded them into an inner office and locked the doors about him, no one sought to stop him. Savdi! he swore, thinking of the stupid, harmless herd animals of his homeland. They were all savdi, and worse-were there no men on this planet? Fifty office workers were his hostages-common Darians who were of no particular use to anyone. Yet the Azeans, ruled by their self-righteous defense of all human life, would not dare to drag him forcibly from his chosen citadel lest he hurt them. And of course, the local political situation made things even more favorable for him than they would be otherwise. Contrary to appearances, Varik had no illusions as to his fate. What he did intend was to chose the manner of his dying. Not for him a crawling surrender to the white-haired enemy, nor the pointless gesture of suicide. If he had to die, he would do so in a blaze of glory. All the better if in doing it he could shatter Azea's tenuous hold on this planet and drag its diplomacy down with him. That was a Braxin death! He paced nervously, incessantly. Surely the news was out by now! He went on the local frequencies himself, transmitting a distress call no local would actually have made. Azean Security could put two and two together-couldn't they? They knew who and what he was, that was clear. Wouldn't they realize, when they heard of a Bloodletter barricading himself in this building, what had happened? The noise of the Darian streets had been a regular background to his thoughts since early morning. Now, suddenly, he noticed a difference. The hum of native life had subsided into a whispering near-silence, in which only an occasional foreign voice was noticeable. The clattering movement of local vehicular activity had ceased and even the music which played from a store across the square was lowered, then silenced. Varik was reminded of the unnatural quiet of animals before disaster, an analogy all the more apt in light of his opinion of the Darian natives. He moved to the nearest window and adjusted it until he could see out. 4A crowd was gathered about the building, a veritable sea of native life held at bay by white-clad Security personnel. Ripples of protest and anger passed from one side of the crowd to the other, but no one dared to raise his voice in the stillness which Azean authority had imposed. BVarik picked out recognizable figures at the crowd's periphery. Governor li Dara-that miserable excuse for an overlord!-was deep in conversation with someone from the military. Who he was Varik didn't know, but his blue and white uniform spoke of stellar service and command position and... 4Varik looked more closely. Female$, he swore softly. The Azean in conversation with the Governor was indeed a woman-it was so hard to tell, with that race! Varik's contempt for li Dara doubled. Was there anything a woman could say that would change the situation? ^He saw her reach to her side for a communicator and he turned his own receiver to the standard Azean frequency. He would hear what she had to say; he did not intend to answer. X'Varik, son of Lemar." Unexpectedly, she spoke his language-he hadn't heard his native tongue in over two years and had to force himself not to respond just for the pleasure of conversation. "This is Imperial Starcommander Torzha er Litz, speaking in the name of the Emperor." He said nothing, enjoying his view of the tension building in the streets. Darian natives had become aware of the attempt to communicate and were shouting their priorities in the hope of being heard. "Those are our people in there, Azean, not yours!" one cried, and another: "We will not die for your damned War!" Varik smiled. He couldn't have planned it better. A crowd this tense would surge to action at the slightest provocation, overwhelming the local officials in its fury and sparking a nationwide, later planetwide, rebellion. With fifty natives at his disposal Varik could afford time for amusement. "Shem'Ar shemit-Ar't!" he transmitted-ba woman who commands men is the servant of Chaos. He saw her stiffen in recognition of the well-known saying and its implications. She muttered something under her breath, then handed the transmitting instrument over to the Governor; Varik smiled. &'Governor li Dara!" he taunted. "Yes, I can see you-but from where? Would you risk a shot based on guesswork, maybe? The price of failure is high." J'You have nothing to gain from this." |Varik laughed. "And you have everything to lose. My enemies... I'll watch you fall. And knowing I caused it, I'll find pleasure in it. Should I cast a native out from one of the upper windows, onto the streets? Will that be enough, do you think-or should he be mutilated first? Which will the crowd find more effective?" ZHe saw li Dara wince. "We want to negotiate." 'Yes, because I can give you what you want... but in exchange? You have nothing, Governor, nothing! You're a man ruled by women; it's beneath my dignity even to be talking to you... the thought of bargainingP with you is at best a meager source of amusement. Pray to your gods in the name of your mother that heaven provide an answer; for nothing short of that will save you." JHe watched as the Starcommander put her hand over the communicator and whispered something to li Dara, probably an explanation of just what his insult had meant. Oh, this was amusing. So much so that he could push the thought of death into a dark corner of his mind and there-almost-ignore it. Two others had entered that tight circle now, a child and a Bloodletter. Varik recognized the girl immediately as the one who had participated in Laun Set's Sharing. His desperately jubilant mood darkened and his face displayed the tension of a hunted animal. Here was the unknown, and once it was present even the best-laid plans-of which this enterprise was not one-could turn into humiliating failure. His hand tightened on the window's control board as he watched the child talk to them, wishing li Dara had forgotten to switch off the transmitter so that he might overhear. Who was she-what was she-and what part did she play in this business? The fact that he could not begin to imagine an answer disturbed him. \'Varik, son of Lemar, Gatenna Braxin." The voice was the child's; after a long argument they had given her the communicator. How did she know his tribal background? "Listen to me, and listen well," she ordered. It was forbidden in his language for a woman to command a man, yet she not only did so but compounded the insult by using the Braxin Dominant Mode, which no alien woman was allowed to speak. Dark fury arose within him. d'Shem'Ar!" he cursed. "I don't talk to your kind." @'I didn't ask you to. Listen. I have a personal stake in your destruction. The Bloodletters are behind me, Varik. We'll come in there and get you, whether or not you spoil local diplomacy. You can only kill so many. One of us will reach you. And your death won't be a pretty one, Braxin." 'I'm not afraid of you," he lied, realizing in that moment how very afraid of her he was. 'I don't believe you. But even if it's true, I have an offer which you might find appealing." She stopped at that and he was forced to press, "Which is what?" :'A Hyarke, for your freedom." The Azeans seemed as startled as he was; evidently they hadn't expected this from her. The military officer switched off the transmitter and exchanged hurried words with her, the Governor, and the Bloodletter. In their posture he saw anger and frustration; in their gestures, finally, agreement. Li Dara took the communicator. 'I confirm Anzha lyu's offer," he said. "A Hyarke, for your freedom. If you win, you're at liberty. We'll take you to the Border and set you on a ship toward home. If you lose..." he shrugged. "Given the Hyarke, that will settle our problem." H'Your word?" His voice was scornful. 'My word-and it's good, you know that, whatever you may think of the custom. I can answer for the onplanet authorities. Starcommander er Litz can answer for the Imperial forces, if you'll let her." b'And who is my opponent?" he demanded. "No Darian can meet a human in the Circle-who'll join me in the Hyarke now that my identity is known? Have you thought of that, Governor?" The child took the-communicator and held it for a moment before speaking into it. She looked up at the building toward where he stood. Though he knew himself to be hidden by the window's one-way opacity, he felt strangely naked before her gaze. J'I'm your opponent," she said softly. That was it, then-a child! They wanted him, Varik, to do the Hyarke with a child! dIn a rage of injured pride he turned from the window and strode the length of the hall. His life they might take from him-his dignity, never! In anger he threw open the door before him and paced the length of the room behind it. Darians cringed before him. A nation of savdi, with the Bloodletters the only men. Was he to die among them, imprisoned in a Darian body, playing against a girl-child for the amusement of the Azean Empire? He slammed his fist into an office door and it shattered before the force of the blow. 0'Ikom Braxit!" he cried-I am Braxin! But his exclamation was lost on the huddled Darians, and the Dominant Mode echoed meaninglessly down the corridor, fading into silence. He was afraid. In the chaos of his actions he'd thought he had foreseen all possibilities, but he had not thought of this one. What did they mean, to pit him against a blood-haired child? What did they know that he didn't? And what in the name of B'salos wasR she, anyway? In the distance Varik heard the Governor's voice again, but he had dropped the communicator and was too far away to make out the words. Nor did he care to. Think, Varik, think. The rage has washed over you and is gone. The situation is clear. If the Bloodletters are supporting the Azeans, there's nothing you can do here to cause any real damage. All your choices lead to death-that's a given. It remains for you to choose the manner of your dying. XIf they give their word they will hold to it-that is the definition of Azea. Yet you, Varik, are bound by nothing-that is the definition of Braxi. Make what promises you will, therefore, to get the assurances vou want. They want you to fight a child. They must know something about her you don't. Your advantages are obvious-4reach, strength, reflex. No one who is still growing can match the coordination of trained maturity. But they wouldn't set this thing up if they didn't have something down their gloves. The problem is, you're not going to know what that something is until you get out in the Circle. I am larger, taller, stronger, and I know the Hyarke. Whatever her secret is, can it stand against all that? (The Azeans think so. &The Azeans can err. So can I. A child... There is nothing in the Braxin Social Codes against hacking a child to pieces. Suddenly Varik laughed. To live as he had lived, to do what he had done, and now suddenly to be cautiously reasoning out a situation which was sheer lunacy to begin with! Yes, he would fight, because there was no other real alternative. And the next night would see him dead or free-but he would never be Azea's prisoner. And if he won-when$ he won-he would bargain for more than freedom. They would make him Braxin again and send him home, and he would let the Braxana taste his wrath. Thatd for the indignity of pitting him against a child. jHe took one last look at the roomful of prisoners and his face contorted with loathing. And he would never had to look at these miserable creatures again-that would be worth it all! 12 The harsh Darian sun was at its zenith when Varik stepped into the Circle. With a quick and scornful glance he took in his audience. None of the common public had come-there was no room for them. Three of the four quadrants were filled with Bloodletters, coming from all over the planet to witness this unusual Hyarke. >Have you come for the fighting, he wondered, or because you know that this day you can watch a human die? Or both? The fourth section glowed with the bronze and white of Dari's conquering race. .You will never have me,. he thought defiantly. ~You will send me home or I will die, but I will never be yours. His eyes traveled over their numbers. Azean, official, with three Directors in the seats of honor-StarControl, Security, and what? Some private enterprise, no doubt, whose only identifying mark was a red cord worn low about the forehead. 2Varik laughed to himself. He was Braxin now. There was no mistaking it. His skin might gleam darkly with the rough texture of Dari, but his stance, his kinetic arrogance, was Braxin. Surprisingly, Azea had agreed to all his conditions-why? No matter. Soon enough the enemy would give him back his native physique and he would go home again... how sweet revenge would taste after all this! The child stepped out into the Circle from the opposite side and held herself still for the inevitable examination. Refusing my name in the Hvarke. He circled her carefully, watching for the myriad tiny motions that would betray her style, trying not to reveal himself as he did so. Master of insult-what good will that art do you when these aliens drink your blood? She attacked. It was a slow, curving stroke which offered little real threat to him; he merely stepped aside. What is your secret, little one? What makes the Azean Empire think you can best me? Her next attack almost nicked his ankle, perfectly timed to compliment his reflexive response. Good,( he thought grimly, (but not good enough. He parried it aside and returned the gesture. The tip of his ada scratched her arm and a thin stripe of blood welled forth in response. nNow, for once we can discard all this mystical nonsense- He started as her eyes glazed over, her stance changing almost imperceptibly, her balance improved. FIs that it then, alien child? You know the Change? You smell the blood and it drugs you, speaks to you? Is that your secret? Do you think even that will be enough? dHe should have attacked her while it happened, and a moment later he swore to himself for having failed to do so. It had been so utterly unexpected that she should undergo the Change that it took an instant for his reflexes to unfreeze, for his timing to be right again. He forced himself to attack; he failed, driving downward toward a girl who was somehow... different. With faster reflexes and greater strength she turned him aside. TAnd he knew that it had ceased to be easy. ZHe was wary now, like a hunter who had finally acknowledged the teeth of his prey. The advantage was still his, of that he was certain, but it seemed that the difference between them was less. And who could say what adjustments the Change would work during the course of a Hyarke, given a human subject? His speed was greater than hers, but less than it had been; her ada met his with more strength than he had assumed possible. He tried to stop thinking, to concentrate solely on the Hyarke. But the seeds of doubt were sown within him, and slowly they took root. What is it?T He demanded silently-of her, of himself. zWhat is it you have that has won the confidence of an Empire? He pressed the attack with a complex maneuver which she thwarted, turning it to her own ends and almost cutting him. Again he initiated contact, coming closer, but still he was turned aside in the end. She was good. He would have to deal with that; she knew how to fight. Even that, he realized, he had not truly expected. Under the hot sun they traded blows. Time came to mean nothing, marked only by the lengthening shadows and a growing red burn which spread across the girl's shoulders. Try as he might he could not reach her. His most intimidating feints failed to draw her attention and his strongest blow could not force her to expend one bit too much energy in an overparry. Her guard seemed flawed, yet every unprotected spot he strove to reach was suddenly barred by the strength of her staff, or by the long curved scythe which threatened to trap his weapon. He began to fear. It took time; fearing a female is not something that comes easily to a Braxin. But as the sun baked him and his blood began to flow, a little bit from the arm, a trickle from the leg there, and there... the small wounds were adding up, yet he could not reach her. She was always too fast, or too ready, or... something. Fear, claimed the ancient Braxin warriors, was a potentially creative emotion-a positive force in combat that could be twisted to a useful purpose. Fear overwhelmed Varik, and fear gave him strength. With new and desperate purpose he struck out at her again and again, in a multiple attack that fed on his fear and used it as fuel, and he forced her back with the power of his terror-born strength. He had a moment to think, and in that time knew that he had to change his tactics. It was pointless to bleed to death from a dozen minor wounds while trying to breach such an efficient guard; he would come down hard and force a perpendicular block. He knew the making of these weapons and was certain that her slender ada could not stand up to the full impact of his own. Once it broke, or even weakened with a lengthwise fracture, the contest would be his once more. He maneuvered her to where he wanted her, and for the first time noticed the thin line demarking the Circle's border, directly behind her. He almost laughed, hysterically, in the sudden flush of triumph. &She can't cross it! he realized. To one who's been Changed, the line is like a wall of psychic force-bshe can't back over it, and I have the advantage! He forced the battle closer and closer to the edge of the Circle, backing her up until she could no longer retreat. Then, feinting to draw the parry he wanted, he brought his ada down with all his strength- And she dodged. Before the blow. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead; his muscles strained as he recovered his position. No, he thought. .No. I won't believe it. 8He tried a direct cut. Again, this time smiling, she moved easily out of its intended path. Again her movement began as he planned, before he was committed. hNor did she attack as the fear began to cripple him. It can't be! his mind insisted-he needed desperately to believe that. He attacked blindly; her movements revealed in a thousand minute ways that she knew exactly what he intended to do as soon as he himself was aware of it. And now the word slowly rose through his mind and came to the surface, the label he had avoided since her hunt first began. Telepathy. 4To his horror, she nodded. No! It can't be! ~ It is.$ And the thought, her thought, struck terror in him to the depths of his Braxin soul as it resounded silently inside his mind. ~ bI will teach you fear as you have never known it. No! She smiled as she circled him, as if she no longer had anything to worry about. Did she, at that? Could he stand against such a terrible power? He had to, he told himself. And grimly he set himself for her attack. tHe was fortunate that his skills were strong, for just before his new stance was set, in that instant when a lesser man might have been caught off-balance, she struck. It took all his skill to muster an adequate defense and even that allowed a shallow cut along one leg, barely preventing a fatal one to the torso. VInhuman creature! But he knew that Azea hardly considered such power unnatural, and he cursed his own culture, which in treating it as such had crippled his adaptability. He was losing now, clearly and consistently. Where she had previously scratched him, now she gouged into tender, necessary muscle, and no parry he devised could keep her away. Worst of all was the growing awareness that she had been toying with him before, which cut his Braxin ego far more brutally than any blade could his body. :I will not fall to your kind!X He thought it as loudly as he could and hoped she heard. He was aware of the Azeans about him, watching intently, wanting the spy for their tortures, their mental games... .You will never have me! And he attacked. Not because he stood any chance of success but because he was a Braxin and was not going to die a child's toy. To his surprise she retreated before him, and red dripped from her shoulder where his ada-tip had scored. JMindless fury! Was there indeed hope? He gave himself over to his rage and tried not to think at all. The odds were still against him but they were not nearly so overwhelming; for each wound he sustained he was able to reach her once, where before he could not at all. The sight of her blood fed his frenzy. .Is this what they feel? he wondered. >Will the Circle talk to me now? He had backed her up toward the Circle's boundary again and he pressed forward, willing to bleed if that was the cost. With her back against its curve she would be limited in movement. There was a chance. It was a slight one, true, but any hope was welcome at this point, and it helped take the edge off the crippling terror and give him back the best of his skill. Now... He moved in. A low angled blow would pin her against the curve even if she saw it coming. The gleaming blade whipped forward- 6And she dropped her weapon. ,And grabbed his wrist. 0And the world went dark. ~ Feel my hate, Braxin. Let it flow over and through you, a private thing between the two of us. He was drowning in a sea of violence. Terror overwhelmed him. A hideous alien thing was in his mind and everything else was forgotten. ~ You have no secrets before me, no privacies. I will probe you, enter you, strip you bare. Taste my hate. 6He cringed before the onslaught, feeling his humanity crumble. He struggled for the surface, but there was nothing. Her mind was opened to him; unwillingly he was drawn into it, seeing nothing there but a seething sea of violent emotion, directed toward him. Drowning, he struggled. ~ I will strip you of everything that makes you human, Braxin. Before me you have no privacy, no pride, no image. I will take the terror they conditioned into you and use it to break you down until nothing is left. 2He was trying to fight her but he had spent a lifetime learning not to be able to. His people had nothing like this, nothing but terrible legends of mutant power which frightened children and justified infanticide. He had been taught not to face it. And the teaching had been good. ~ Look at me! Against his will he did. Her mind was not young, not in any sense of the word. She had lived a dozen lives through the minds and eyes of tutors and had endured greater emotional trauma than most adults could survive. She was a creature of hatred and violence, and nowhere in her was there room for any gentle emotion, nor the stuff to nourish its growth. Recipient of adult instabilities, she had absorbed lust and hatred and the need to kill but had lived in a body incapable of expressing those things-until now. ~ I will have you, she thought to him, and there was a sexual undertone to the threat that froze him with horror. Suddenly he understood. @'You are Braxana," he whispered. Through her eyes, through the eyes of the telepaths in their audience, he saw her wrench his own ada from his unfeeling hand and turn it against him. He struggled to back up from the depths, but not quickly enough. Pain exploded inside him and he observed the blow as his eyes closed in death, reflected in a thousand minds, twisting, tearing... NThen there was darkness, and an ending. Ten thousand pairs of eyes watched closely as Anzha lyu drew back from the fallen body of her opponent, trembling with exertion, and tore the barbed end of the Braxin's ada free from his torso with one swift jerk. But she seemed to lack strength now that the fighting was over; the long weapon fell from her hand even as she freed it. No one moved as she knelt by the body of the Fallen; every spectator had, in some special way, the right to witness. Muttering ritual words she cupped her hands beneath the killing wound. Red blood poured into it-Braxin blood, she knew, for they wouldn't have bothered to adjust his biochemistry that much. Her nostrils flared as she drank in the sweet odor. v'There will be more," she whispered to no one. "I promise." "She drank deeply. The Sharing would begin now. Two of the Bloodletters moved into the circle with the drugged oil that would sustain her life. Laun Set had demanded the right to be one of them, and now he was the first to reach out to her with a glistening hand- -and pull back suddenly with a cry, as if touching her had burned him. `There was sadness and understanding in her eyes. d'I never said I mastered it all," she said softly. The other man reached out to her and she did not back away; like Laun Set he was unable to endure the contact. b'No," she whispered. "Touch Discipline... I never..." *Bleeding, she swayed. .'Kyar-" Laun Set began. 'Finish the ritual for me," she murmured. "Finish it properly. See that no insult is done." \'There can be no insult, Kyar." And he added: "Blood-letter.'' She tried to speak again but the strength had left her. Her eyes shut and she fell; instinctively Laun Set reached for her, and because her consciousness flickered out as she dropped into his arms, he was able to catch and hold her. 'Finish it," he whispered to his companion, and with the concerned comprehension of a Bloodletter the other nodded. With a brief condescension to necessary ritual Laun Set carried her out, quickly. ,And the Sharing began. 13 'I don't care who you are," the Darian said, "and I don't care what your rank is. The answer's no." j'But-" Torzha began. Ebre put a hand on her shoulder. 'If they say no, then it's no. She's not technically a citizen of the Empire, Torzha-she doesn't come under our jurisdiction." \'But in a matter regarding military security-" 'StarControl can't override the prerogatives of a Darian medical facility unless the subject is an Azean citizen. Special amendment to the Treaty of Conquest." He paused for a moment and watched her; at last he urged, "Look, I could use a breath of fresh air. Didn't the guard say something about waiting on the terrace?" After a moment she nodded, and led him there. The Darian night was cool and he breathed deeply as he stretched. 'Eight Standard Days in that damned transport," he muttered. "Not for anyone but you, Torzha. A man needs a planet to stand on." nShe was amused. "What about the five years in space I keep hearing about? Heroic sacrifice of ground leave rights? Endless battle and bloodshed and not a moment's rest for the weary?" 'That was quite some time ago-and a desk job cures you of that kind of endurance. You'll learn that soon enough." He leaned on the primitive metal railing and shook his head, incredulous. "Halfway across the Empire to see some child prodigy for Hasha knows what purpose-Founding forbid you should tell me that-and the primitive natives won't let a crowned head of the Empire into their precious medical facility. What idiot came up with the idea of a constitutional empire, anyway? Hasha, it's times like this I realize just how much power we don't have." z'Nothing personal," she said dryly. "You're just outranked." H'By some primeval killer who forbade visitors." He had switched into Ikna, which they both spoke, just in case someone was listening. "How foolish of me-of course." Footsteps sounded lightly on the rough stone floor behind them; they turned and found a native waiting for their attention." .'Laun Set," Torzha explained. "A Bloodletter, and the man who's been watching over Anzha lyu." She introduced Ebre: "Director ni Kahv, of StarControl." The Darian ignored him. "I heard you were here. If you want to see her, I'm willing to allow it." Torzha started forward and Ebre moved to follow, but the Bloodletter stepped between them, his eyes cold with authority. "Only that one." Ebre hesitated, then shrugged and backed off. "Evidently you outrank me, Starcommander. Please go ahead-I'll wait here." Then, in Ikna: "And when you come back please don't forget to explain to me why I came here." Laun Set ushered Torzha out and with a gesture indicated the direction she should travel. Before joining her he looked back at Ebre. l'She's not one of you," he said to him, quietly. "She's far more like my kind than yours. It would be better if Azea just left her alone while she healed. My people know what to do." Do theyF? he wondered, but he said nothing. The Bloodletter led Torzha down a heavily guarded corridor, to a private room at the end. While they walked, he explained the situation. "She'll live, I'm glad to say. These things happen sometimes: the drugs go bad, or there's a mistake made in mixing them. Usually that means death. In her case we were able to compensate. But full recovery will be long in coming. Here." he indicated a door. "She's asked after you. That's why you're here. But I have to remind you that her mind is as exhausted as her body. Mask your tension, if you can." bShe looked sharply at him. "Is it so noticeable?" He laughed, and seemed about to voice a mocking answer, but at last said merely, "Yes. Go in, please." ,The child lay in a primitive hospital bed, barely breathing. Light from the corridor flooded the room as Torzha opened the door, driving back the shadows which had dominated prior to her arrival. When she shut the door behind her she was left in near-darkness; the window had been adjusted to an eighty-five percent screen and the little light that passed through it was barely sufficient for human vision. 2'My eyes are over-sensitive," the child explained, as though Torzha had voiced her observations. "Laun Set says this is normal, under the circumstances." Her voice was a whisper, yet physical weakness did not seem to be the cause. "Your hearing?" Torzha asked softly. The child smiled. "Also." She stirred as if she meant to rise to a sitting position, but lack of strength forced her back again to the pillows. "This isn't what you've come to talk about, though." &'Do you know that?" 'You mean, am I reading your mind? Yes and no. I'm not... how should I say it?... reaching inside you for information. But your surface thoughts, your immediate emotional concerns, these are obvious to me-I'm trained to take note of them as casually as I breathe. Think of a book-one can grasp its purpose by observing the cover, without opening it." She paused. "I'm sorry if-" 4'I'm familiar with books." 'Few are." Z'But those who study the Braxins have to be." LShe was intrigued. "Transculturalist?" Torzha nodded. 'And that doesX have something to do with why you're here." 'In that it concerns Braxi, yes." Torzha pulled a chair close to the bed and sat beside her. The child's sun-scorched lids, she noticed, were nearly shut, but beneath them there was a hint of vibrant life in the movement of her eyes. It Dwould take a lot to kill this one. Torzha thought. "I'll admit I was more than a little hesitant to let you negotiate with the Braxin as you did." 'Then I'll admit I was surprised you let me." Her lids flickered open briefly and dark eyes studied the Starcommander. "Why?" >'I'm not certain I can answer you. I trust my hunches-they're usually reliable. I'm a good judge of people, and you inspire my faith. Also," she admitted wryly, "there were few real alternatives." She leaned forward, then said softly, "Anzha lyu, do you know just what you accomplished?" Again that bright, piercing look shot out from beneath the sunburned eyelids. "Tell me." t'You are a Bloodletter." She looked pointedly at the girl's left arm-a dark gash was permanently incised above the wrist. Anzha's hand flexed in unconscious response to the scrutiny. "A human Bloodletter. Not some spy who dishonored the Hyarke by competing against the natives, but one whom the Darians chose to raise to their status. The reasons are irrelevant-the fact remains. To the Darian mind, human life had risen immeasurably in status. Not only has the crisis passed, but the situation has noticeably improved. Two centuries of diplomacy and you put us all to shame in a single afternoon. Anzha lyu..." Her voice was suddenly lower. "Why did you hunt the Braxin?" H'For my pleasure," she said sharply. T'That answer would do your enemies proud." ' 'To hunt a Braxin, one must think like a Braxin.' Do you know who said that?" ('Darmel lyu Tukone." 'My father. My family had a long tradition of service to the Empire. If not for... the obvious... I would have joined them." Now$, Torzha thought. Say it. 'You still can." ~The girl looked up, startled. "Do you know what you're saying?" HTorzha smiled, amused. "I think so." 'I can't even become a citizen of the Empire, much less serve in the military. I'm banned from obtaining the simplest Security clearance." 0'I'm aware of all this." 'Then how-" $'Let me tell you some things about the rulers of the Empire. The Emperor himself is a practical man, with little tolerance for bureaucratic nonsense. If the military says it needs you, he'll back you. Ebre values my opinion and will act on it; StarControl will support you." 'That's two." 'You'll never win over the Council of Justice. They can't go back on their decisions regarding you or it throws much of their work into question. As for the Combined Council of Nations, the Director of StarControl has an honorary seat in the House of Humans, through which he can argue on your behalf and also observe the workings of the Council to time things properly regarding it." h'Is ni Kahv going to argue vehemently on my behalf?" \'I doubt it. But Ebre's chosen his successor." \The girl's eyes opened wide in understanding. "You." Torzha inclined her head in affirmation. "The news isn't out yet. I'd prefer it remained that way." 'I understand. That would mean three of the Five would be female..." ('Two females and a T-san Breeder, but the result is the same-a fifty/fifty balance is as abhorrent to the Braxins as a female majority. To us it's a simple matter, not a sexual issue at all-but to them it will mark the changeover from a male empire to a female one. The moment of formal announcement will bring on renewed military activity and symbolic brutality. Just as it always does, in such cases." @She leaned over toward the girl. R'I want to sponsor you into StarControl." Anticipation flashed brightly in those dark, alien eyes. "You're taking on a real battle, there." <'Does that mean you'll do it?" @'The Institute won't let me go." 'For two more years, until your basic training is completed. After that you can commute from the Academy." 0'They won't take me in." X'Ebre can override their admissions office." 'Will he?" PTorzha smiled. "If approached properly." F'You seem to have all the answers." 'I've tried to anticipate all the questions. I have no illusions about this, Anzha lyu--it's not going to be easy. But I see a tremendous potential in you that's wasted anywhere but at the War Border. What do you say?" dThe child drew in a deep, thoughtful breath. "What can I say? This is all I've dreamed of doing, all I've ever wanted. And I have nothing whatsoever to lose. Yes, Starcommander. Yes." H'Then rest, now, and regain your strength. Ebre's on Dan and we can do the ceremony here. After that, the Council of Justice will have to deal with you through me." @And the Council of Nations, she thought, and the Emperor. Not to mention the Institute, which claimed actual possession of the girl... but that was the easy part. ~How in the name of Hasha was she going to explain this to Ebre? Harkur: The more complex a language, the greater its capacity to influence the thoughts of men. Six @149 And as the water receded l(anticipation to dread, culminating by the end of line  150) <150 A form was left adrift \(to sorrow, with a hint of morbid fascination) N151 Pale arm draped over cold stone (finality) `152 A last spray to clothe its hand in death. I waited. The assembled company was silent. Their faces, hidden behind masks of Braxana image, revealed nothing. Finally Kaim'era Zatar nodded. I permitted myself to breathe again. B'It was well done." He waved for a servant to pay me. "Although I am surprised there was no taste of secondary eroticism in the last image, given your audience." Mentally I berated myself for the choice; verbally I rose to defend it. "Before such an audience, is not erotic content inherent in the image itself? To fall into an overtly sexual speech mode would seem, to me at least, to be both unnecessary and overbearing, and would sacrifice the subtlety of the image's implications." 'Oh, I fully agree with your choice-but it surprises me that a non-Braxana could be so perceptive." Gold sinias were laid before me in quantity; I tried not to betray the extent of my surprise. "Take them, woman-the performance was worth it." TI bowed deeply. "I am grateful, Kaim'era." 'A good poet is hard to come by-and a female, even more so. How did you come to the Art?" >I used the speech mode of recall and subtly drew on my mother's inflection: "By abandoning all profitable pursuits and devoting myself to insubstantial folly." He laughed, and a few others among my audience smiled. The rest were doubtlessly confused by my use of irony without speaking in an ironic mode-complex. How limited are they who can only follow two lines of thought at once! My teachers, I thought, were correct: the greater the poet, the harder it is to find the proper audience. 'A true artist, then," he countered. "Is your compositional skill as ready as your wit?" FI nodded with appropriate humility. N'On the ninth day of this zhent I'm arranging entertainment for nine of the Kaim'eri and chosen members of their Houses-about forty in all. I would like an original piece, dutifully inoffensive, strictly apolitical. Something violent would be appropriate. Keep it generally appealing; some of my guests are not known for subtlety." He paused dramatically. "There'll be time enough for that later if you do this one well." I ignored the promise in his voice as his discretionary under-mode cautioned me to. "I'll need a guest list," I offered hesitantly. I had been uncertain as to whether or not this was a reasonable request, but his smile told me he was pleased. L'I'll have one sent. You are staying..." I looked at the gold before me and decided to move. "Kurat-Seret, at the Dekor'va." 'I know the house. It will be forwarded. Have you any further business with me?" Z'No," I said, my speech mode indicating: yes. 8'Good." His promised: later. *I almost danced home. Five nights-nine Kaim'eri-by the gods who abandoned us, it was not possible! *Anything is possible,r whispered my poet's soul (in the speech mode of doubt). Let me tell you the tale of a poet who hanged himself with promises... Zatar's list arrived promptly and it was as thorough a guide as one could ask for. Nine Kaim'eri with no tastes in common and Householders with less. What do you say to a Braxana who expects insolence, yet will not tolerate it-who expects to be praised, yet sneers at sycophancy? And how did I get myself committed to finding a solution? I chose and discarded enough themes to stock a library with literature-tapes. Most were too subtle-some were not subtle enough-a few were simply rotten ideas to start with. My rented floor was littered with a carpet of discarded thoughts. I would have been satisfied to have a theme and be incapable of finding the proper words to express it; that was a poet's lot in life. But to be entirely bereft of a theme: that was a fate I would not wish upon an Azean! lHistory I discarded early. Such images were fine for amateurs, but history was a subjective science at best and every recorded incident was seen in different ways by different people. There is no worse torture for a poet than to hear "Yes, it was a fair performance, but weren't there four hundred and thirty-six Azeans taken at the battle of Kos-Torr, as opposed to four hundred and thirty-two?" ZLikewise I discarded all tales of sexual desire. The variance in taste among my audience-to-be was enough to give a poet nightmares, and it did. I couldn't even use the amateurish last resort of throwing in a bit of everything, for Kaim'era Retev's Mistress found sexual experimentation distasteful. Taz'hein! I couldn't have designed a worse situation if someone had commissioned me to do so. Then I considered, and I recalled my oath of frustration. Taz'hein-the unconcerned traitor-god-father of the Braxana. Did I have the nerve to present a religious theme to a people who scorned nothing more than active religion? Why not? ^Far into the night I scribbled and dictated. Once I had to run out with my recorder to pick up a new charge; while on the streets I narrowly avoided a male figure on the prowl for satisfaction. Did my time count as work-time enough that I had Just Cause to refuse him? I was unwilling to test the point. True, it's not impossible to compose poetry while serving as a receptacle for some stranger's lust, but it's blessed difficult. ZDawn broke over my first outline. By mid-aftemoon of the second day I began to see the promise of a masterpiece. What had begun as a tale of glory had become twisted with subtle brilliance into something of far greater scope, and I could feel it happening as I worked. Level after level of meaning was added: something for everybody. For the simple, on the surface, a bloody tale of the divine origin of the tribe of the Braxana. For Zatar and his kind, who are the men a poet lives to serve, a thousand layers of meaning to uncover, a touch of macabre humor here and there which would tell a second, third, even a fourth tale simultaneously, as only a mistress of the Art could do it. By the fourth day it was woven, a verbal mesh of war, lust, and-of course-The Ultimate Treachery. I will tell you of the death of the Creator, I chanted as I fell asleep on my desk, and my mind used the opportunity to dream the thousand subtleties which that one line could contain, given the speech modes of the Braxana. *'The poet, Lanst'va." I bowed deeply, my heart beating wildly. I knew two of these people were at least moderately hostile to my Art; them I must win over if I valued my life. The rest must be pleased, seduced... manipulated. That was the true art which such poetry as mine involved. \1 I will tell you of the death of the Creator  >(Triumph/satisfaction/finality) 2 ^ And you who choose to mourn gods will be moved N (Superiority tinged with amusement) R3 And all who would accord folly worship 8 (Emphasized superiority) x4 Fall down upon bended knee before the fate of the heavens * (Mocking command) 5 And raise not your unworthy eyes to the Void of the living gods. By the thirtieth line I had captured them, and I edited my work as their almost imperceptible responses advised. That is one of the challenges of spoken poetry; the best preparation still cannot anticipate an audience, and many poets have failed to communicate through unwillingness to adapt a treasured text. I saw my script as a living, vital thing, and as it reached out to these Braxana I helped it to grow into something greater than the pre-prepared word could ever be. In strong words I drew a glorious picture of the Creator. My images came from the mythology of other peoples, to whom no god was greater than that responsible for the creation of All. This was as it should be, in order that the magnitude of his fall might be all the more dramatic. Beneath the story, and far beneath the underlayer of irony which was the prevalent mode for this potion, I laced the work with enough subtle implications to allow them to laugh at my expense-for Avra-Salos, creator of the universe and all that he placed in it, my creator, was not the father of the Braxana. I let my voice darken in foreboding as I spoke of the creation of Taz'hein as a suitable companion for the One. Delicately I shadowed my speech with chaos as Ar was born, the mate of the First and the mold for womankind, whose birth left no thought free in the heavens, thereafter known as the Void of Consciousness. They were mine, these Braxana, and I knew it. I worked by instinct, reciting from memory in some parts and improvising in others. And as far as I could judge, I was choosing correctly. hAr in her dire glory swept over my audience, a goddess of chaos whose freedom decreed the bondage of man to the will of woman. I knew that in that moment, as I spoke to them, as I controlled them, that they feared that goddess as they would never have rationally chosen to do, these men who played falsely at atheism. Though most of them could not understand every layer of meaning I presented to them, unconsciously they absorbed it all. I saw this clearly reflected in their eyes and mannerisms as I continued. The war of the sister worlds enveloped them then, and my voice praised Taz'hein for betraying and destroying his Creator even as I lamented the betrayal in pseudo-religious grief. Worlds shook-human blood ran in rivers-is this enough violence for you, Kaim'era Zatar? Then, switching to the modes which imply sexuality and power, I spoke of Taz'hein's manifestation on Braxi and the begetting of the Braxana. It seemed to please them so I lingered on that point, improvising more detailed description that I had originally intended. (With a sudden adjustment in tone I moved to the conditional bondage of Ar. I kept the implication of threat to a minimum; the mythological promise of her freedom in the event of female dominance would be too strong, coming as it did from a woman, if not handled carefully. I sensed that these men who had once scorned even that myth were not quite as certain of their own atheism by the time I was done. My closing encompassed a view of the Braxana barbarian, in whose ruthlessness resided the promise of future power. More would be cheap sycophancy. The Braxana mythology already supports both the Social Codes and the Braxana right to power. It can be enough when the poet presents it, rendering each word in a different mode, giving each phrase a thousand meanings. $There was silence. Then Zatar nodded slowly, a sign that I had succeeded and should leave without word. Bowing deeply, I obeyed. Before I had reached the outer door, his Mistress caught up with me. *'He would have you wait," she said. I stopped walking. "In here." She indicated a small sitting room off the entrance hall. It was decorated lavishly in the Central Braxana style. Not being accustomed to sitting on the floor, cushions or no, I perched on the ege of a lowtable. Some short time later the Kaim'era himself entered. I stood, that I might bow. 6'An excellent performance." >'I thank you, Magnificent One." H'And it was not an easy assignment." I let amusement color my voice. "I am very aware of that, Kaim'era." 'It was intentional. You've earned your business time the hard way, poet. I'm listening." LMy heart was pounding. This was already farther than any of my kind had ever gotten with him, I knew, and Zatar's verbal reputation had attracted many a skilled poet. J'Your House lacks my Art, Great One." \'My House has its Master," he responded dryly. 1 indicated my deep respect for his verbal skill. "But has it a poet? Doubtless your politics are rendered with unequaled skill, but have you an artist to choose the words which will give maximum play to the beauty of our tongue?" He said nothing and I continued without pause, lest I lose courage. "I can provide pleasure-pain-instruction. I'm trained to make any audience feel whatever I wish. I lay that skill at your feet. I will bring you simple pleasure, Kaim'era, or I will build you legends. You have but to choose." I had run out of words. In silence he regarded me, his emotions masked by a stone exterior I knew I would never penetrate. f'Let's review your motives." I trembled but nodded. 'You are a woman. As such, you cannot support yourself in any field requiring authority over men. The arts entail a special risk, since being independent of authority you have no way of demanding payment if such is refused." d'This is true, Kaim'era." And hit home, painfully. 'As an artist you are apart from the Braxin class structure. In the eyes of common society you are the lowest of all. Becoming part of a purebred House would grant you legitimacy and a second class designation." ,'True, Kaim'era, but-" "Andh you are a rebel. Did you think I wouldn't research your past? You inspired a crowd nearly to rebellion on Vreski as an 'exercise in oratory manipulation.' Only when you renounced your class privileges to devote yourself to more harmless artistic pursuits was your life spared-and even that by a close vote." bI felt a chill rising in the depths of my soul. I had changed my name, my appearance, and all other personal essentials since then. I had never realized he would be so thorough. 'In addition, I find it clear by your presentation that you revel in the manipulation of men." He raised a hand to silence my protest. "Just as the mistress of our language can work on a subconscious level, so can its master read as deeply. So. You want class, money, security. And you, a Braxin woman, would play a manipulative game with the Master Race, hoping someday to understand that nature which we keep secret from your kind and to command it under the guise of poetry. Understand that under the best of circumstances you would have to abandon your freedom at my door. Your every move would be watched. Your every word would be recorded and sent to me. Your poetry would be censored. And if your poetic approach ever disturbed me, I would have you killed without a second thought-perhaps slowly." He regarded me with a steadiness which made me shudder, and in silence made me reconsider just what I wanted to get myself into. Ultimate folly! What had I known of Braxana ways, I who had thought only of my Art, and my pleasure? A strange satisfaction crossed his face, almost as if he were aware of the humility his speech had fostered within me. He turned to go-but merely to reject my service, or to punish me for past rebellion? He glanced back once before leaving, and his expression was again unreadable. 6'Come to this estate tomorrow evening." His deep voice was shaded with amusement. "Your Mistress will see to rooms and wages. Ask for her when you arrive." bI could say nothing, for he was gone too quickly. Taz'hein! Thus I entered the House of Zatar-I, artist and instigator, poet and revolutionary. 0Doubtless had I been born male my life would have been different. I can imagine myself dying in the front lines of a premature revolution, fighting for the excitement of commanding the actions of others while striving to throw off the yoke of the Pale Ones' rule. But instead I was born a woman, and so must fulfill my dreams in a mode suitable to that sex. It was a hard fate to bear. I didn't mind the forced accessibility which most women waste time condemning, nor the children whose unexpected arrival cost me time and health. But the soul of a manipulator was in me from my birth, and that is a cruel misalignment of interests among such a people as mine. So I turned to language. It allowed me to combine my creative and commanding instincts so subtly that few men realized the manipulative power of my Art. And when the Braxana, who are more sensitive than most on this point, arrested me for my audacity, they labeled me shem'Ar rather than revolutionary-a woman in command of men, a servant of the goddess of Chaos Incarnate: the ultimate Braxin taboo. I think it was my Art that saved me. The Braxana show little mercy toward those that defy them, but that which pleases them is often safe from their rage. I pleaded for my life in a glorious display of their language which brought me the right to survive, once they had stripped me of the right to do anything but speak. :And now the House of Zatar! The thrill of it overwhelmed me; at the same time, I was filled with dread. Zatar had claimed my life and willingly I gave it to him. But how long before the essence of the shem'Ar arose again to vibrant life and cast me into danger through his displeasure? When I was not obsessed by such fears as this my life was one of challenge and pleasure. The young Kaim'era whom I served was indeed a master of his tongue and it took all my talent and training to please him. But oh, the rapture of performing for a Braxana audience! No sexual contact could bring such pleasure, no wine such intoxication. It was my duty to instruct Ni'en in the delicate nuances of our language, and because it was Zatar's will she tried to be a good pupil. But even as she learned a speech mode it betrayed her; for each instance in which she applied it constructively there were another five in which she unconsciously allowed it to flavor her language, revealing more of her inner self than any Mistress of a Braxana House could afford. Fully half of our drills were designed to strip the obvious from her communication, to teach her to express herself not as her class does, to express its feelings, but as his class does, to support an image and communicate acceptable emotions. 2And how she worked to please him! Was her devotion wholly inspired by those emotions which we strive to deny (but which, the poet knows, persist in the human heart nonetheless)? Or because she was an outsider in his upper-class world, who must serve him or know complete isolation? Braxana society shunned us both-her for her brand, me for my past. Where else could we have found fulfillment but at his side? Few men in the House showed any sexual interest in me and many of those who did were sterile; a fringe benefit of service to the Braxana. Such a situation allowed me to express sensuality in my work as I had not dared before, and I know this development both pleased and amused my Master even as it pleased and confused me. My work was censored, as he had warned me it would be. But this was merely necessity on his part, a careful control over what his House presented to the others of his Race. He himself had no fear of anything I had to say. Often he called me forth for private performances and in such situations I might choose any subject matter and experiment with any manner of treatment. Others found him harsh and intolerant: this was his public image. Toward me he was demanding, yes, but also indulgent. Providing I labored with his pleasure in mind, I might do so in unorthodox manners. vI grew more bold. His alert black eyes seemed always to reach into my soul and read my motives, yet he never voiced any displeasure regarding my newfound poetic audacity. I had been preparing a major work, a masterpiece of subtlety which ultimately questioned Braxi's devotion to the Endless War; its presentation would be dangerous in the most tolerant of company. I did not imagine I would ever have the courage-or foolhardiness-to actually perform it. But a true artisan never wholly discipline his need for creative expression; thus it was that one day I caught my Master up in a stirring tale of war and intrigue which had for its underlayer a disturbing new view of the Braxin-Azean conflict. He regarded me for some time in silence when I had finished. "Interesting," he said finally. `I trembled. Had I gone too far? The long piece I had slaved over was a masterpiece of language, but I would not have dared to perform it for any other man. Had I misjudged him? 'You have quite a mind, woman." He was pensive. "Quite a mind, indeed. I watched your audience the last time, you know. I always do. You sway their minds as no man ever could. There is real power in you. Power to influence men." "I was very still. B'Come to me tonight," he ordered. &I knew him well enough to recognize that for the dismissal it was. I was grateful for the exit; it allowed me to camouflage my fear with movement. Control of men-wasn't that, in essence, what he had ascribed to me? Absolutely forbidden by any Braxin standard, intolerable in a Braxana Household: punishable, as all infractions of the Braxin social order were, with death. If he acknowledged me as a shem'Ar I would die; no pleasure I had brought him could buy me out of that fate. The potential had always been within me, of course, and such a master of language could not have failed to notice it, but if he saw it fully manifesting itself he would have no choice but to pluck the errant weed up by its roots. nIt was with a cold heart that I went to him that night. I had never tasted a purebred Braxana; it was unexpectedly sweet. I found so little relationship between that lingering pleasure and the desperate arousal and release of the lower classes that they seemed to be two entirely different acts. I must say that in the face of death I knew great pleasure, and though my nature had disturbed him I do not think my body did so. He had me sleep by him; this is a Braxana custom in which I had not indulged before and I found it disturbing. Rather than sleep I observed him, his fine features relaxed in slumber, one naked hand rising and falling upon his chest with the slow rhythm of his breathing. Three delicate golden rings adorned his fingers so lightly that even under the tight gloves of his traditional costume I had never noticed them; now they drew my eye to his long-fingered, perfectly manicured hand, which I had never before seen revealed in such a manner. I would try to remember the image for future poetry. If there were to be any future poetry. He awoke when dawn's first light poured through the windows; fearful and unrested, I prepared myself for the worst. Yet he said nothing as he dressed. I could not help but watch him as he applied the Braxana layers to his lean form; gray over gray over gray, and on top of it all a black shortcloak, gloves, and boots. Not until the choking high collar was tight about his neck and his medallion of rank lay golden upon his chest did he speak to me, or even acknowledge my presence. 'So you would command the ways of men," he stated simply, smoothing his long black glove-cuffs over his forearms. \'I will not dispute your judgement, Kaim'era." He looked at me sharply. "Then speak openly. You enjoy manipulation." Weakly I nodded. 'Of men." (Again I affirmed it. 'Men in power." \The blood was rising in my cheeks. "Kaim'era-" 2'Yes or no will suffice." VI looked away from him. "Yes," I whispered. V'Which might be labeled the service of Ar." I flinched. He was dancing verbal circles around the term, but the implication was clear. The shem'Ar cannot be permitted to endure. Would he simply kill me, or would it be more unpleasant than that? He noted my discomfort and a faint smile adorned his flawless features. "Fortunately for us you're a member of my House and thus a servant of my will; therefore a formal recognition of the situation is not necessary." JI found that I was holding my breath. 'You have a peculiar power, Lanst'va-a real ability to control the emotions of your audience without their being aware of it. I've watched you work since you came here, and time and practice have only added to your skill. I wish to call upon that talent. You are willing?" RI exhaled carefully. "Your will is mine." 'Excellent." He smoothed his hair. "What this means in the immediate future is that I might lend you out to some of the upper-class Houses. They've requested your service, oblivious to your power." He laughed. "I couldn't have asked for better. Later on, I will need to leave Braxi periodically." He held up a hand to silence any possible protest. "My plans make it necessary. It pleases me therefore that Ni'en finds support in your company. And it would please me even more if I could allow you to practice your Art in the other Houses while I'm gone." ^I barely managed speech. "What do you require?" His dark eyes focused on me wiht sudden intensity. "Even I can't allow a shem'Ar to exist. Therefore you must never earn that designation." I waited. Evidently he saw something in my expression that pleased him, for he smiled more broadly. "It's a very technical definition, isn't it? A woman only commands men in her own right when her orders are her own." I was beginning to understand. "But if the orders came from a man-" &'Then the woman is merely an instrument-albeit an efficient one." He nodded his satisfaction. "I will lend you to the others, if you are willing." 'Your will is mine," I repeated. Fear was being replaced by wild excitement. Was he going to set me among the Braxana and make it my duty to influence their thinking? Could a woman know such ecstacy in a single lifetime? @I tried to maintain a calm exterior, but although I spoke in the Basic Mode I knew he could hear my excitement as I answered, "I promised to build you legends." z'I know," he said. "I remember. And I'm taking you up on it." Harkur:l An uninspired ruler works to develop those relationships which will be most to his advantage. A great ruler determines the most desirable relationships and assumes them into being. Seven The Emperor of the Azean Star Empire was an impressive man. Even among the tallest human race in the explored galaxy he stood half a head above his fellows. Cream-colored hair poured over his shoulders and down his back, streaked with gold as was the current fashion, and matched by a cream-and-gold robe of state. His face was the color of polished bronze and in it the whites of his eyes were all the more dramatic for the contrast. On his left hand he wore four rings, symbolic of the four other heads of state who were at once his servants and his masters. On his right hand he wore a ring carved out of zeymorite-a reminder of the Founding-which was inscribed with the two hemispheres of Azea, the seal of his office. With the majestic patience of royalty, Pezh il Seth waited. The greathall was filled with his subjects: human and alien, military and civilian, they were born to rank or had been raised to it... there was no place for commoners, here. The sheer mass of the Court's attendance was almost more than the greathall could accommodate as it was. Not for the first time, he thought, 8we could have met on Lugast. Not for the last time, he reminded himself that some things must be done on Azean soil-for the tradition which bound them into a working whole was based upon a message embodied by that planet. A herald stirred. "From the Council of Nations," he announced. "Grand Councillor Asabin Telia, of the House of Humans." ^The woman who entered was a Lugastine, short and pleasant looking. Lugastine formalclothes swept to the ground in a flowing train of purple and turquoise which disguised the features of her body, while on her head a golden crown supported the fine crystalline veil which covered her hair and shoulders. BThey always did know how to dress0, the Emperor reflected. dShe bowed to the monarch and took her place by his side, her veil tinkling softly as she moved. "From the Council of Justice," the herald continued. "Grand Justice Lish zi Reis." The Azean who entered was a haughty man of some hundred Standard Years. Age was just starting to make itself visible upon him, and the wrinkles which were beginning to set themselves in his forehead gave him, if possible, a harsher dignity that he had previously possessed. He had chosen a black and burgundy gown for the occasion; the uniform of the Council of Justice was entirely black, but zi Reis had decided some time ago that that was too somber for state appearances and had dictated the application of color, in dark and moderate doses. BThe herald prepared himself for alien phonemes. "From the Council of Nations," he said carefully. "Grand Councillor Sst Fftf Shk-k, of the House of Non-Humans." The T-san wore neither crown nor robes, for its lowlying carapace was suited to neither. It paused by the herald to make a suitable gesture of respect and appreciation, for the T-san speech apparatus was so unlike that of the Scattered Races that its people were accustomed to being referred to by human sounds. The herald had made an attempt at pronouncing its actual name, and, given the inferiority of the human palate, had come reasonably close. PThe T-san Breeder dipped its respect to the Emperor and took its place beside Councillor Asabin. The swirls of gold which it had painted on its upper surface blended in nicely with the rest of the company's attire, and although the T-san didn't fully understand the purpose of such ornamenation-its own government functioned with less visual pomposity-it could tell that the application was both appropriate and appreciated. As always, the presence of his non-human colleague inspired awe in Pezh: for what Azea had accomplished, and against what odds that had been done. There were over a hundred species represented in the T-san's House, some from environments so alien to Pezh's own that any hope of his understanding them was at best an exercise in futility. Between them and humanity there was little common ground, and sometimes good reason for hostility. Yet human and non-human stood united before this Court, bound together by a common dream, a common nation. And if the government they shared was less than perfect, that was only to be expected; in the face of such diversity, it was nothing short of amazing that the Empire functioned at all. ('From the Emperor's military forces," the herald continued, bringing Pezh's attention back to the present. "Director Ebre ni Kahv, of StarControl." Ebre's full dress uniform fit snugly to his muscular figure, a strong contrast to the flowing robes of the other humans. A black half-jacket covered the right side of his white under-uniform, its diagonal edge embroidered in gold thread and fastened with gold buttons to the layer beneath it. Embroidered planets ran down the outside edge of his black sleeve, one for each world he had subjugated through force or treaty. Gold braid proclaimed by its placement on the jacket his involvement in peace treaties, non-Braxin diplomacy, and other efforts in the Empire's name. About his white arm a band of brightly colored squares proclaimed in code his training and present status; the gold band above it, the most coveted decoration of the Empire, indicated that he was bound by personal fealty to the Emperor and was permitted to speak in his name. zEbre came before his liege and knelt. "Majesty. May I speak?" r'Your words are always welcome," Pezh responded formally. 'It is said that though a man brings great glory to his office, he dishonors it if in the end he seeks to hold it past the proper time. Nearly a century ago the crown of state was placed upon my head; I have tried to do it justice. The Crowns of the time entrusted me with a great office and I believe I have served it to the best of my ability." n'You have done it nothing but honor," Pezh assured him. 'I thank you. I fear, however, that I am no longer young. My health begins to fail me in ways that medicine cannot correct. I am forced to recognize that I have entered into the last stage of my life, in which death may take me at any time, perhaps without warning." He paused. "It is in the tradition of StarControl to hand down the Directorship while one is still alive, in order that the fleets may never be without an active leader. I feel that the time has come to do this." 4'We will all be sorry to see you go, Director. But we are also aware of the custom, and the reasoning behind it, and approve wholeheartedly of your decision. I know I speak for my colleagues when I say that we release you from your office willingly, but with great personal regret." Ebre's voice tightened. "I can't pretend that I'm not sorry to do this." The Emperor waited respectfully for Ebre to regain full control of himself. "Have you chosen a successor?" he asked at last. 'I have, your Majesty. Will you permit me to present her to this Court?" Pezh nodded. He could almost hear the "her" in that sentence reverberating all the way to Braxi. He, of course, knew of Ebre's choice, and had already given his approval. But the information hadn't been released to the others, for fear that it would reach Braxi before the ceremony. This time, he mused, the Presentation would be more than mere ritual. 'I present to the illustrious company Starcommander Torzha er Litz." Ebre extended a hand toward her and she came down the central aisle, took her place by his side, and knelt. Gold decorations adorned her white half-jacket in a noteworthy quantity; even if they couldn't read the details, Pezh knew, the other Crowns of Azea would be impressed. "Her given name means 'fire,' in the sense of that which purifies through destruction-an appropriate apellation for one of the Empire's most accomplished Starcommanders. Her adult name, Litz, was chosen after the Braxin conquest of a colony by that name-a conquest that entailed the slaughter of over two and a half million men and women, thereby embodying the essence of Braxin brutality. She bears it as a constant reminder of her purpose. In service, her record is outstanding; she is of brilliant tactical mind and commands respect in all branches of the military. She is the one best suited to inherit my office, and although I regret the necessity of withdrawing her from active Border service for this purpose, I feel that all aspects of our military effort will benefit from her assignment to the Directorshsip." ^'The Starcommander's reputation is well known to us," Pezh told him, and he favored her with a smile. She was nervous-well, that was to be expected-but she was hiding it well. He looked toward his fellow Crowns for response. It would not be unreasonable for any of them to ask for time to consult their various Councils and vote on the matter; on the other hand, when news of Ebre's intended retirement had come they had probably started immediate discussion of the qualifications of the obvious candidates. Had Torzha been on that list? Apparently so, for Grand Councillor Asabin nodded a subtle gesture of approval, as did Grand Justice zi Reis, somewhat more grudgingly, the Emperor thought. And Pezh had dealt with the T-san long enough to know its gentle hiss for the affirmation it was. 'We accept your retirement," he told Ebre. "And we welcome your chosen replacement." One by one, Ebre ni Kahv removed his five rings of office, four from his left hand and one, bearing the seal of StarControl, from his right. One by one he handed them to the Emperor, and then gave over the simple circlet which had been his crown. There were tears coming to his eyes, but his sorrow did not interfere with the ritual grace of his actions. jPezh turned to Torzha, who knelt directly before him. 'I give you my life and my loyalty," she said, "and swear to serve you, your Crown, and the Empire, setting these priorities above all other things. And I vow to protect the Empire, its territories and its peoples, from all outside threats, including but not limited to that of Braxin aggression, in accordance with the precepts of the Founding." He offered her his right hand and she pressed the seal of Azea to her forehead. "Know that as you serve my office, so am I bound so serve and protect yours," he promised. And he placed the seal of Azea, set in the ring Ebre had worn, upon her left hand. One by one she knelt before the other Crowns, who offered her ritual acceptance and words of mutual service, and gave to her the rings which tied her office to theirs. The T-san had brought a translator to handle the verbal requirements but with a nod she dismissed him, and she exchanged the ritual words with the Breeder in its own aspirated tongue. Ebre smiled slightly, warm with pride. Had she studied the language just for this occasion? Pezh wondered. If so, it was a promising gesture. zShe returned to her place before the Emperor and knelt there. Solemnly he raised the circlet over her head and held it there; now was the time, in this moment of silence, for any last objections to be raised. He looked out over the assembled multitude (uniformed, most of them, and glittering with decorations), and past them to the windows which made Azea visible. There deathwinds swirled savagely, and gray dust smote the glass with soundless fury. No one spoke. After a moment he nodded, satisfied, and lowered the golden ring to her hair, settling it around her head. With hands on her shoulders he raised her, then, and presented her to the populace. 'Know that the Empire supports this woman in her office, and that she is entitled to speak for its Throne." He turned her back to him and offered his hand, smiling, for her to clasp. "Congratulations, Director." He guided her through her ritual acceptance, nodding as she shared an embrace with the Lugastine, a bow with the T-san, and a somewht colder handclasp with the Grand Justice. There was a look in his eyes that seemed to anticipate trouble; given the new Director's political leanings, Pezh was not surprised. Solemnly the herald announced the termination of the court. There would be a reception later, in the heart of the Imperial Palace, and there a thousand and one dignitaries who had not been able to attend the ceremony itself would have their chance to ply the Throne with questions. Pezh sighed inwardly. It was frustrating to play these political games on his own home world, where the very questions he faced were dependent upon unnatural air, upon the illusion of comfort which they created for strangers. Out there, in the atmosphere that only his race could breathe, the Azean dream had been born; only there, surrounded by the acrid odor of Death, could the purpose of his people be truly understood. tOfficers of the realm nodded their respect, bowed, or groveled, as befit their culture and station; Pezh acknowledged it all with a diplomatic smile as they left the greathall's confines. First the Councillors, the humans adopting the pace of their slower alien comrade, then the Emperor, flanked by the past and current Directors. They passed out of the greathall itself, under the towering archway that marked the termination of ceremony. As they proceeded down the adjoining corridor Pezh dropped back a bit, letting the Councillors get ahead of him. When they turned the corner he nodded a command to one of his guards, who threw open the door to a side chamber. Ebre, expecting such action of him (how well they knew each other!) entered; Torzha, after a moment's hesitation, did likewise. RClosing the door, Pezh shut the guards-and the world-outside. And transformed himself into something that was no less an Emperor, but which was more informal, therefore more approachable. He was, after all, a simple and practical man. Ebre knew that. The new Director would realize it soon enough. 'Well?" he said, turning to Torzha. "Ebre said you wanted to talk to me. He implied you wanted to talk to me before the Grand Justice did. And since zi Reis would think nothing of dragging me away from the reception to discuss business, I thought I would make myself available before we got there. Director?" She blushed slightly at the unaccustomed title, and seemed surprised to find herself doing so. But her voice was not without strength as she told him. "There is a... situation... of great personal importance to me. I hadn't intended to bring it up today-" @'But Ebre thought it would be best if you did. And I agree. Generally speaking, I prefer efficiency to protocol." She brightened at that; good, because he had chosen his words to encourage her. He knew what she was going to ask, and had already made his decision. "What is it, Torzha er?" HShe took a deep breath, for courage. T'It's about a young woman I've sponsored..." Viton:  It is in the nature of man that he is antagonistic toward the others of his sex. Each man sees in another a potential competitor for the limited rewards of male success, and the hostility which arises between them is a part of the natural balance of human life. It is possible, as in the case of father and son, that a closeness will arise between two men which threatens the functional hostility of each. It is the duty of society to provide an artificial means of encouraging the proper degree of antagonism. Eight 'Bless him!" Turak swore, and drowned the oath with the last of the wine. .He was young, handsome, and purebred. His cloak was askew on his shoulders and his hair was disheveled-but the latter had been managed by a woman, so he let it remain as a monument to her touch. The former he rearranged as he raised a gloved hand to attract the proper attention. 'Wine!" he cried in the mode of command. "Suitable for my Race." The woman beside him smiled and pushed the pile of empty bottles to the far end of the table. Inside her was a nagging concern for him, but it would be improper-and with a Braxana, possibly fatal-to let that show in such a place. She would have to assume he could handle what he had drunk, though it would take more than a man to do so. 'May he come to worship an active deity!" he muttered, and she shot him a warning glance which she hoped would communicate that even in this place such language couldn't be tolerated. The winemaster stumbled past crowded tables to them, humble and nervous. "Lord," he said meekly, "I have no more Braxana wine. Perhaps some other-" 4'Why not?" Turak demanded. .'Begging the Lord's pardon, my Lord, but you... that is to say, it has been finished-" and to illustrate he indicated the tableful of emptied containers. Turak, son of Sechaveh, stood and let the stool fall behind him with a clatter, rising to his full height and with a practiced hand gripping the other by his hair. "You tell me this is all you stock?" The winemaster waved helplessly to indicate the poverty of his patrons, to point out wordlessly that there was no call in such a place as this for high-priced luxuries. 'For the chance that a Braxana will come here, you should keep enough to satisfy one man." His voice, penetrating and obviously inebriated, drew attention from all corners of the room. She was afraid of him but more afraid for him, and when he reached for the Zhaor he had not worn that day she stood and pulled him back. 'Lord, some air perhaps..." He was trembling beneath the mask of his rage, and seemed disoriented. "I'll pay-" she began, but the winemaster was more willing to lose this small fortune than to risk Turak's presence a moment longer than he had to. "Take him with you, make him forget this place, and that's payment enough. I have enough problems without an upper-class vendetta." How strong he seemed, and how weak he was! The eyes which gleamed alertly saw, in reality, nothing; the walk which appeared powerful and arrogant only did so because she supported him. In the depths of drunkenness the need for image was such a driving force that, although nearly unconscious, supported by a woman, he frightened the lower class patrons as he walked by them. How can they be so weak, she wondered, and still maintain this image of strength? She took him from the main room out into the dark street. She had met him there while the sun, B'Salos, was still high in the sky. Now the moon had taken its place. She called for a carriage, leaned him against a wall, and tried to soothe him. 'I took you to taste you," he murmured. There was sweat on his face. "I probably can't even do that now." She shook her head, smiling sadly. "It doesn't matter, Lord-there'll be other nights, other women. As for myself, few women of my class can boast of witnessing a Braxana Rage. If I've served you in the least-" 'Oh, you have, you have! We need women so desperately, my kind. We can't approach our own sex... it's not like that with the common blood, is it?" (She shook her head sadly. "No, it's not. But that doesn't matter, Lord. There'll be a carriage in a moment; it would do you good to rest, and wait." JHalf delirious, he murmured, "I will killN him, I have to. There's no other way..." ZA public carriage approached their call station and slowed to a stop. She pulled him gently from the wall, aware that one of two men had come from the tavern to watch but feeling it better not to tell him. He stumbled once, but with her help he reached the door and fell inside. By the time she had fed the address to the steering mechanism he was sound asleep, so she programmed the alarm before she told the carriage to depart. 6Which one of the men watching, she wondered, would wish to taste the woman a Lord chose? Hopefully none of them-but then, Braxin luck was rarely that good. * * * Z'And you made a fool of yourself in front of whom? Not the upper classes, no, who at least would know you for the racial exception you are! No. You act like an idiot in Sulos, and disgrace our image in front of men who have never seen its glory. Turak, you're going to work hard to outdo this one." 'Father-" With an angry gesture Sechaveh cut him off. "Don't tell me about your hangover. I don't want to hear it. And don't try to convince me that all this never really happened, either, or that it did but perhaps I'm exaggerating the details, because I know.x I set Karas to follow you; he witnessed the whole thing. So!" His eyes were burning with anger; Turak covered his own with a wet cloth. "You," the Kaim'era proclaimed, "are a shame to our Tribe. You are a living example of everything the Braxana seek to deny. I regret the day I chose to let you live to adulthood!" 'I regret the days you keep me in this god-blessed House! Father, don't you understand?" He raised his face from the cool cloth and with bloodshot eyes pleaded to be heard. "I can't go on like this. I'm thirty years old. My time has come!" R'Thirty, you say! What's thirty years in the face of two hundred? By the Azean calendar you're barely six, and sometimes I think that's more accurate... Turak, you are a child. I see in you none of the attributes of manhood. Am I then to inherit you, to proclaim to the world that I consider you a mature independent, when in fact I consider you no such thing? Act like a Braxana and you'll be inherited according to your birthright!" 'As my father was?" he snapped, using the speech mode of irony. It was dangerous to remind the Kaim'era of his own alien upbringing, even with mode-veiled references, and he knew it. But he could not help but be pleased as Sechaveh's face darkened, as his eyes filled with a cold and terrible loathing. Hatred, pure hatred: the honesty of it was strangely refreshing. 'I overcame my past," Sechaveh hissed. "Could you have done the same, I wonder? Or would you still be a slave of alien women on some festering backVoid planet?" He laughed, his composure returning. "Perhaps that would suit you, Turak." And he turned away, his unguarded back the ultimate insult. "Perhaps that's what you really want." NHe stood still for a moment, driving home the lesson of Turak's impotence-great as the younger man's anger was, would he dare to strike?-then strode to the door and passed close enough that it opened automatically for him. Then he turned back to his son, smiling as he relished his parting blow. D'The woman-remember her?-is dead." F'And you enjoyed that, didn't you!" lThe Kaim'era's eyes sparkled. "That is not the issue." .'You and your blessed-" 'The others will die also; all witnesses to the incident must be disposed of, and quickly. But she died first. Slowly,V Turak, very slowly. Does that bother you?" zThe dark eyes were fastened on him, seeking entrance to his soul. The woman, the woman... what did she matter, except that he had wanted her, had drunk with her, had abandoned her to the Sulosian night? Only that his pleasure had consigned her to a lingering death and had fueled the sadism of a man he despised. "I am Braxana2," he answered defiantly. 'Are you?" Sechaveh seemed amused, and that, too, was a deliberate facade, intended to wound him. "Are you really?" Turak flung the cloth at him in rage, but it caught in the closing doors and was held there, dripping in mid-air, as the Kaim'era exited. "I can't go on," he muttered. "Not like this. If he's going to force me to it..." The door opened. The cloth remained and Sil'ne, holding it, entered. "Lord?" she asked gently. He waved her in. 0She was a short woman, black-haired in tribute to her half-Braxana heritage but rendered slim-hipped by the genetic pollution of some less comely race. :What makes her stay with him?. he wondered suddenly. VWhat makes her willing to serve such a man? She was carrying a small tray, which she offered to him; on it was a swept-glass vial filled with a small quantity of painkiller. It was a general remedy and would be of limited value to him; nevertheless, it was preferable to nothing. He drank it gratefully. ZPower. She endured Sechaveh because his House offered her power. No matter how much he hated women, he must have one to run his private affairs; no matter how much he hated her, he must bow-albeit ill-naturedly-to her competence. Braxana custom demanded it. 'Did he really... To that woman?" He was unable to voice more specific words, as if by doing so he would make the nightmare real. She smiled faintly. "A commoner, Lord? I doubt it was worth his time. Probably a guard took care of her, and that swiftly." He knew she was lying, but was grateful for it. "Does it matter so very much to you?" l'He does it to strike at me," he muttered resentfully. x'He wants you to be immune to such things," she pointed out. 'He hates me!" 'As is proper." She took the vial, now emptied, from his gloved hand, and replaced it on the tray. "Is it not, Lord Turak?" ('Yes." He shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the raw silk cushions. "Of course. Very proper. Always hatred... I want to kill him, Sil'ne!" She was silent for a moment. "If you meant that," she said at last, "really| meant it, you wouldn't tell me. You wouldn't tell anyone, not even in jest. Too dangerous. The death of a Braxana... that's a serious thing. Lord. So may I assume that you're not in earnest?" PHe looked at her and tried to read her, but either he was too unpracticed or she was too guarded. What manner of woman would choose to serve Sechaveh, and could do so successfully, without falling victim to his wrathful misogyny? "You may," he told her, wondering at her strength as she left him. 2If you really meant that... He had said it a thousand times and meant it as the Braxana always meant such things: not at all, and entirely. He had dreamt endless variations of his father's demise and in all of them it was his hand that held the knife, leveled the stun, cast the bomb... but had he ever thought he really might do it? With all the risks that it entailed? 4Ah, but it would be sweet! He fantasized again-a cliff's edge on Matinar-but the vision was foggy. For once his imaginings failed to win for him the cathartic release that he could usually elicit from them. For dreams, in the face of reality, paled in essence and lacked true emotion. ,Would he really do it? Years ago he might have said no and been done with the idea; zhents ago, even mere days ago, he would have discarded it nearly as swiftly, after a brief review of the consequences. Now... it was tempting. Sechaveh had driven him to the point of desperation, not only by withholding the status of manhood from him but by toying  with him, by feeding on his suffering... he was willing to consider anything other than sitting back and taking it all, day after day and year after year, as his father apparently meant for him to do. Revenge would be sweet, after all this humiliation. But how...? He did not drink that night. It was the first time in many zhents that he faced himself without the false support of alcohol, but he wanted his thoughts clear and so he pushed the chosen bottles aside. With sober awareness he considered the Kaim'era's actions, and hatred burned so strongly inside him that he was almost driven back to his wine in an effort to lessen the blow. But no; this was reality. For a decade now Turak had been trapped in this House and bound to a man who obviously hated him with all the fury that was appropriate between Braxana adults, yet who refused to allow him to grow to adulthood. Now it was time for his son to harvest his resentment and turn it to action. And if the action was risky and illegal-well, then it would have to be managed carefully. DHe considered the nature of the problem: the Braxana, who controlled everything of consequence in the Holding, had long sought to armor themselves against possible assassination by careful application of law and custom. There was no more heinous crime than the murder of a purebred Braxana, and none more readily punished. In the face of such an outrage all laws were expendable, and all peoples besides. If a known murderer-even a suspected murderer-were to claim refuge on a planet, and if that planet was foolish enough to have him, then it and its population were forfeit, its inhabitants' lives inconsequential things to be snuffed out in the name of Braxana justice. And woe betide the murderer who was captured. For him were reserved tortures both ancient and modern, blood-bringing and neuro-implanted, delicately timed to strip a man of dignity and strength while never quite robbing him of life. It was a picture so grim that it had often soured Turak's dreams of vengeance and proven them to be no more than impotent imaginings. But not so now. "He began to plan. How does a Braxana murder a Braxana? The swords of the Braxana are distinctly of that tribe and leave a telling wound; the poison of that people is only available to members of the Master Race and marks the murderer as one of them. Besides all that, there would be the necessity of some kind of final confrontation, which complicated matters immensely. But Turak was typical of his kind and could not commit himself to vengeance without the ego gratification of forcing Sechaveh to recognize the architect of his downfall. In that lay the greatest danger of all. ZThere were too many variables; he tried to convince himself of that, but he failed. Long days passed, rank with the humiliation of not owning property or women in his own name, days in which he fought the impulse to drink himself into oblivion, as he had so often done in the past. Once he had dreamed of earning his inheritance, as Sechaveh seemed to want him to do. Now at last he knew that to be impossible. His father was tormenting him, deliberately and with the skill born of practice, holding out the promise of independence only to withdraw it time and time again. The Kaim'era had made an enemy of his purebred son; Turak was determined that he must now pay the price for it. NStep by step he considered the problem. If he killed Sechaveh, it would be clear that the man was dead; that could not be avoided. Another Lord might disappear indefinitely, but not one of the Kaim'eri. His death, therefore, must appear to be an accident. But it would be foolish for Turak to bet his life upon such a ruse. He knew all too well how easily the Central Computer could wade through a plethora of unrelated facts and draw from them a simple, clear conclusion which could unmask a man's hidden activities. He had seen it done, and had no desire to be at the receiving end of such action. So: if he killed Sechaveh, no matter how carefully he worked it, it was likely that investigation would reveal him. Unless, he thought, 2it revealed someone else. It was his introduction to Braxana politics. He started paying attention to Sechaveh's House, wanting to gain as much information as he could without having to call up the Computer's files-because there would be a record made of that, and any record of any part of this was something to be avoided. It would have been easier if he had been inherited, for he needed extra eyes to help with the watching, anonymous faces to surround and observe his prey. As it was, though, he had to work alone, and it was that much harder. He compiled a list of Sechaveh's assets as he knew them. He consulted the House computer for general information and was able to add to his list from that. He never asked anything directly. Sometimes it took him tenths, even days to work out the exact wording of a request so that no one who reviewed it would be able to determine just what information he had really wanted. Ayyara, for instance-Turak suspected that his father had mining interests there and he was considering the possibility of using the underground labyrinths to entrap him. But he could not ask the computer directly. Instead he feigned an interest in such things in order to prepare a portfolio of investments for the time when his life would be his own. He reviewed the mineral wealth of a hundred planets and a thousand companies, and only slowly, by asking just the right questions at just the right times, did he work his way around to Ayyara. At last his efforts were rewarded, for the computer informed him of the extent of Sechaveh's interest in the planet, the companies he dealt with, and myriad other details concerning the Kaim'era. Most important, of course, the information was buried under an avalanche of misguiding queries to the point where anyone asking the computer if he had specifically investigated Sechaveh's holdings would receive a negative answer. That was his first major success. He was exhilarated by it, but not so much so that he forgot to continue the line of questioning until more useless trivia had obscured its other end. It was just as dangerous to end with the true question as it was to begin with it. Ayarra, alas, was unsuitable, a secure operation with above-ground machinery. He had overlooked that possibility. But it had been good practice and now he applied himself in a similar manner to the rest of Sechaveh's holdings. Zhents passed. He noticed a change in himself. No longer did he drink to excess, and rarely did he explode in fury before those who should not witness it. His determination to commit patricide and survive the consequences was an obsessive passion that colored everything he did. He became quiet on the outside; inside, no one but himself could see, his mind seethed with plots and counterplots, and the organic computer that was his brain struggled to sort diverse and disorganized knowledge into useful categories, and to draw from those a single picture of action that fulfilled all his requirements. NNow, when his father threw his dependence in his face he held in the rage. Now he learned that the face does not have to reflect the heart but the reason, the will, and the intellect. He learned to move without guilt, practicing for the day when his life might depend on it. He learned guile. With one terrible objective burning continually in his mind, he came to perfect a mask of disinterest that disguised his all-consuming passion. It was not enough that he was capable of such deception when the time of his vengeance came at last, for then such a change in him would itself be an admission of guilt. No, he must manage the image now and maintain it before the act, during, and after, burying his intent with the same thoroughness that he had used while drawing forth information from the House files. He noticed these changes and for a brief time wondered if they weren't enough. Wasn't this after all what Sechaveh had always wanted of him? But the Kaim'era still regarded him with scorn (although certainly with less anger) and his look still clearly said: you are not worthy of the Race, or of adulthood. And Turak's anger burned to new heights, in which any doubts he had entertained were fully consumed and a new man was born-one who would not be defeated by House or custom, or even by law, for the force of his vengeance was stronger than all those things combined and it alone ruled him. He had gained a reasonable picture of Sechaveh's business dealings; now he needed to find a possible murderer. It couldn't be too obvious a choice, for a man who was known as Sechaveh's enemy would never dare to strike at him this way. Or wouldn't he? Might not such a man consider himself above suspicion because others would reason it exactly that way? Turak shook his head, discarding the thought. It was a sound idea but too complex for the moment; he was untried in such maneuverings and needed something simpler to work with. Perhaps later, though-when Sechaveh was gone and he had his own business liaisons to protect. It was harder to research the others than it had been with his father; he was not in their Houses, and had no instinctive knowledge of where to start, such as comes from having lived around a man all of one's lifetime and having that knowledge seep in with or without one's awareness of the process. The other men were enigmas only. Should he chose a Kaim'era? No, that kind would not be so foolish. But a purebred Lord, and one raised in a Kaim'era's House-such would have the ruthlessness and knowledge required to commit murder among his own kind, as well as the requisite recklessness. `This was safer ground on which to tread. His investigations were done using the House computer, which meant that no records would exist in the House of his intended victim. Even so, he was cautious, and was as circuitous in his study of the various Lords of Braxi as he had been regarding his own father. 8And at last he was rewarded. He was not the man he had been. A year or two ago, when he had first conceived of this project, he might have celebrated this success with a night of drunken gaming and doused his death-passion in a woman's embrace. Now, when he saw the pieces fall into place there was barely a hint of triumph across his face; a smile, ever so subtle, said that he knew this for the beginning step it was and recognized that victory was still a long way off-and that he could never afford to celebrate openly. He no longer needed to. jOn the planet T'sarak there were farms, raised high above the fertile surface, in which Sechaveh had an interest and which other Lords were also considering for investment purposes. The T'sarakene-colonists at first, later citizens of an independent nation under Braxi-had decided to take advantage of their regular climate and plant the delicate pl-ei, whose blossoms yielded the Holding's finest aphrodisiac and whose leaves were medicinally invaluable in treating skin disorders. The vines had never been grown successfully outside of a small fertile band on their native planet, but T'sarak had a similar biochemical base and a minimal change of seasons, and its people decided to try. jNot until their fifth crop of costly vines had withered on their supports did T'sarak realize that they required more than good weather; their native world was a place of high winds, whose velocity tore loose the youthblossoms when their grasp on the mothervine weakened, allowing the secondary flowers to grow at just the proper pace for the priceless nectar to develop its valuable properties. The pl-ei had never grown well in artificial environments, so a hothouse would be of limited value. Besides, the T'sarakene had a better solution. They built lattice-work vinefarms and raised them high above the ground, into the planet's stratosphere, where the cross-winds of T'sarak might stimulate the plants in their accustomed manner. So were the pl-ei grown and farmed, not to the same perfection that they knew in the wild but very similarly, and in an atmospheric density more similar to that of home than the surface of T'sarak had to offer. The Braxana mindset was attracted to drugs of pleasure and regarding the pl-ei it responded accordingly. Sechaveh had underwritten the cost of the original farm construction and was rewarded with a share of the profits. A number of other Braxana had approached the T'sarakene, but they had been turned away; Sechaveh had no intention of giving up his advantage, and saw to it that the farmers acted accordingly. Doubtless, there were a number of Lords who would like to see Sechaveh... removed. And doubtless the T'sarakene resented that a Central power should have such control over a vital part of their economy. Turak smiled. Then, with all the care of an experienced Kaim'era, he began to plot the details of his father's demise. Soon,. he promised Sechaveh, Pyou will pay the price for your cruelty. * * * Mashak Vinemaster was a lean, high-strung man. In all his mannerisms there was an underlying chord of tension. His voice was harsh and he gave orders sharply, in a tone of voice that implied they could not be obeyed quickly enough to please him. And in truth they could not. He was one of the few who had dreamed of bringing the vines of T'sarak, and one of the fewer who had held onto that dream when the first imports died without secondflower. Now he was caught in a web of foreign economic intrigue-for the Central Braxins were foreign to T'sarak, though they had supplied the human seed that settled there-from which he longed to extricate himself. 6He nodded sharply at the guards of Vineshadow and passed into the city. They knew him by sight-they had better. He had little time to waste and had no intention of going through lengthy identification verification at his own border. Woe betide the guard-or anyone-who got in his way. The city: refineries, packaging plants, distilleries, and dormitory facilities for the migrant harvesters. There was an agreement among the vinemasters of T'sarak by which the times of planting and harvest were staggered, so that the same men might work each farm in turn. The city was nearly empty now, but soon it would be filled with the heady fragrance of the precious flowers and the pungent odor of the laborers' presence. A few workers remained at the factories and guards were kept at the entrances and exits; other than that, however, Vineshadow was deserted. LMashak passed quickly to the base of the city's Tower and nodded to the guards there. He saw them start-they seemed to be new-but then they recognized him, if only from pictorial memory, and without a word let him pass. Good. It was nice to see the new men pick up the way of things so quickly. bHe entered the lift and slapped the control down. The cage he occupied hesitated only briefly before beginning its long journey upward through the towershaft. On all four sides of him at regular intervals were the cogravitic anchors that kept the Tower standing upright through its miles of height, balancing the weight of the pseudometal structure at right angles to the planet's surface. Through three sides of the cage he could see his lands; the fourth was filled with tanks of gas-fertilizer, doubtless waiting for the proper hand to come and apply it. Across the valley he could see other vinefarms, three of them his. He was a rich man, despite the massive tithes the vinefarmers had to pay to their Braxana patron, and he intended to stay that way. The cage ascended slowly, so that he might get used to the changing pressure. There were oxygen masks all along the sides of the cage, but he left them where they were on their hanging clips; he wouldn't be going all the way to the top. What could it be that the Kaim'era wanted? He fingered the flatrendering in his pocket and wondered, annoyed, at the summons. It was no secret that he hated the Kaim'era Sechaveh and would rather deal with him via third parties; to him the Braxana represented everything that was wrong with the economic system of the Holding, in which a man who risked life and limb to get a project going had to spend the rest of time giving someone else the choicest fruits of his labors. But the message had been clear: :Come here, and come here now. Far be it for Sechaveh to imagine that he had other things to do and could ill afford the time for this little excursion! The cage drew to a slow stop and Mashak pushed the door aside. Halfway between the surface and the vines themselves was a landing platform for small aircraft, a mode of transportation that most of the wealthy preferred. A simple forcefield acted as railing, and although its faint glow was not now visible in the low-angled sunlight Mashak was grateful as always to know that it was there. He did not mind treading the walkways which wound between his beloved vines, but there the view was not so empty, not nearly so threatening. The open space of the landing platform and its seemingly sudden drop into nothingness never failed to unnerve him, and it added now to his annoyance at having been called here with no explanation of why. He tapped his foot impatiently on the pseudometal platform. Between the winds overhead and the noise of his own irritated movement he almost missed the whisper of movement behind him. A shadow moved out of the corner of his eye, out of keeping with what he expected from this place and therefore more confusing than frightening. He turned; that is, he started to. Then there was a flash of sun-on-silver and a tearing pain that burst through every nerve in his body, and in his last moment of consciousness he imagined it was the hated face of his master/enemy that grinned at him with something akin to triumph. \Turak left the cage and went over to the body. Mashak was unharmed by the stun's discharge but in his fall he had struck his head against the pseudometal platform, and a thin river of blood was wending its way down one side of his face. Turak wiped it away with the edge of his sash and arranged the man's hair so that it would cover the wound. Then, carefully, he hefted the body upright and carried it back to the cage, where he propped it up against the fertilizer tanks in a fair semblance of conscious boredom. He crossed the arms and pinned the sleeves so they remained in place, tacked the man's lids open so they stayed that way, and in general toyed with the unconscious form until only the closest examination would show that anything was wrong with it. Then he took his place again between the stacks of tanks and waited. DIt was but a short time before Sechaveh's shuttle arrived, and seeing Mashak in the cage, the Kaim'era doubtless felt secure in landing. He would have no servants with him, for such was his way in business dealings-Turak knew that. Nor would he be suspicious of Mashak's presence within the cage instead of out on the platform, as the Vinemaster's distaste for the view was well known on T'sarak, and therefore to him. rHis breath held, muscles taut in readiness, Tarak waited. lThe small shuttle anchored itself and after a moment of internal adjustment its sides parted, and a ramp spilled forth from it. Shadowed by the small ship's bulk, Sechaveh descended. It took him only a moment to realize something was wrong. But in that moment Turak moved free of the cage's confines and into the open, and with a steady hand directed his stun at his father's chest. Sechaveh was careful not to move. There was no weapon he could reach faster than his son could shoot, although he was, as usual, armed. "Well," he said quietly, his voice unusually calm for a man about to die. "Not badly managed. Lord Dumar, if I don't mistake it?" DTurak nodded. With his beard clipped short and his hair curled tighter and his makeup designed accordingly, he was a fair duplicate for Dumar. His father, of course, recognized him, but it was doubtful that strangers would. "If anyone who's seen me speaks, the trail will lead back to him." 'Not badly planned." The Kaim'era's tone was frankly appreciative, although he was careful not to jar Turak into firing with any unexpected movements. "A little elementary, but you definitely have a grasp on the concept of the thing. Do share the rest of it," he urged. 0He did so, proudly. "Mashak's hatred of you causes him to make an unfortunate decision, and he attempts to take your life on this platform. That attempt fails. There is a struggle, the bodies are tipped over the edge while moving..." He shrugged, implying the rest with the coldness of the gesture. "Two bodies in Vineshadow, and I doubt they'll salvage enough to draw any useful conclusions from the remains." P'And if anyone remembers you being here, they'll have the wrong description. Not bad, Turak. Dumar isn't my worthiest rival, but he will do. You sent a note to Mashak?" 'Yes." He smiled, pleased at his workmanship. "I used Dumar's access code and sent it from a neighboring system where he is presently vacationing. Where a woman I hired will keep him occupied and alone during the time he was supposed to be here." 'And she?" $'The Black Death." Sechaveh smiled, relishing the image. "Ah. I take back what I said, Turak-excellently done, down to the last aesthetic detail. A job to make me proud. And I am. Provided you yourself are covered-" HHe smiled triumphantly. "Of course." ('Is that all, then?" Turak raised his weapon higher, fingering the trigger with obvious relish. "Not quite. The forcefield surrounding this platform has been sabotaged, of course. The forceshears that did the work were discarded as the saboteur left the city." .'And can be traced to-" B'The city of a rival Vinemaster." 'Superb!" Sechaveh did not look at all like a man about to die, nor did he sound like one. "Well, Turak, I'm very impressed by all this. A good plan, well executed, a little bit raw about the edges perhaps, but it definitely shows promise. That bit about the local rivalry is particularly nice-it'll give the Kaim'eri someone to punish who isn't of their own Race." Turak's face was set. "I'm glad you appreciate it." He aimed, and the arm that would fire tensed. "One thing more." &'Get it over with!" Sechaveh's expression was enigmatic, unnerving. "You've overlooked one important detail." X'You can't bluff me out of this," he warned. 'How Braxana... I do believe you would kill me, Turak. How refreshing! Few of us dare to actually take the lives of our enemies, in this day and age." He paused. "I have something for you, before you fire." 'What is it?" tSlowly, careful not to alarm his son, Sechaveh moved one hand to the other and worked loose a wide gold band from his left forefinger. He made as if to throw it, then reconsidered-the cage was directly behind Turak-and, dropping it to the platform, pushed it with the tip of his boot until it slid to Turak's feet. v'What is it?" the young man repeated, less sure of himself. J'Your inheritance." The stun wavered. *'I anticipated you, you see. You can't kill me, of course. I've made certain my colleagues know of our enmity. Yes, Turak, always remember that even I have allies, and I've kept track of your actions for the past few years. So shoot me, if you wish-but only if you don't value your own life." His arm lowered somewhat; the motion was unconscious, neither planned nor noticed. "You're bluffing," he accused, clearly uncertain. D'Am I? Then kill me, Turak. I shall die with the pleasure of knowing you'll be punished for it-very probably on the equipment I designed for just such a purpose." Bless you! the younger man cursed inwardly. His hatred surged to new heights, his anguish also, but he dared not shoot. "Why this, then?" he demanded. He pointed a jerky finger at the ring by his feet. H'Because you've earned it, Turak. You've proven yourself a man. A Braxana should be willing to destroy anyone who stands between him and his pleasure-even if that someone is another of his Race. Even his own father." His expression darkened. "There are others who call themselves Braxana, but they don't comprehend what that title means, much less are they deserving of it. But you, my son-you, whom I have trained... you are Braxana. At last." And now his eyes sparkled, and a smile, both amused and sadistic, danced across his face. "It took you long enough." Shaking with shame and rage, Turak lowered his weapon to his side. 'Very practical," the Kaim'era approved. "A fine mixture of the barbarian and the statesman. Eager to kill, but able to recognize the limitations of his political environment. You'll make a fine adult, Turak." 'I hate you," he answered venemously. "You've had the better of me this time, but I swear, Kaim'era-" 'Of course you do." He cut off the next sentence also; "And of course you really mean it. I have no doubts about that. You'll have to wait, of course, until you're sure I'm not still watching you. It could be a while. But a man grows wise from enmity." He bowed slightly, very slightly, more out of humor than respect, but not entirely lacking in the latter. "I've waited a long time for this, Turak. Congratulations. Now, if you will excuse me, I'm on a tight schedule..." .He would have fired-he shouldf have fired-but reality bound his hand and he couldn't find the trigger that would commit not only Sechaveh but himself to death. Helplessly he watched as the shuttle lifted itself from the platform and rose slowly into the sheetwinds of the stratosphere, and beyond. Floating youthblossoms marked its wake. Just wait", Turak thought. Someday. >He remembered to take the ring. Viton: For the true warrior, friendship is disarming and security is deadly. Both weaken a man by giving him the illusion of might, when in fact they undermine the very foundations of his own power by causing him to rely upon others. Anything that distracts a man from his chosen course is abhorrent to one who values his own strength. Nine Darkness: 1 TAnzha was trapped in someone else's dream. Such a thing didn't happen often, but it happened. Intensity of emotion meant intensity of contact; in the close confines of the Institute, where hundreds of psychics lived, worked, and trained together, it was to be expected that occasionally two dreamers would come insync (as the Institute termed it) and share the same sleep-bound fantasies. |The odds against it happening outside the Institute were of course phenomenal. Nevertheless, in this case all the odds had come together. The dreamer was mildly psychic, permitting him to contact her in the first place; chance had synchronized their sleep-cycles so that on this night they fell into dreaming in the same instant; their emotional states were similar enough that it was easy to become entangled in the wrong dream, a mistake that was difficult to correct once it happened. And of course, Anzha had not yet finished her training. Had she done so, she might have turned away the intrusive images with clear and precise telepathic skill. As it was, the best she could do was attempt to maintain a sense of her own distinct identity in a world controlled by another, and wait for the dream to come to its natural end. D They shared a body-his-and traversed the familiar halls of Azea's Academy of Martial Sciences. A webwork of interconnected biospheres orbiting between Luus' fourth and fifth planets, the Academy was a beehive of constant human activity. Here the Empire's diplomats studied their art, and negotiators of the Endless War studied the ways of the enemy. The Biosphere of Humankind contained one of the Empire's greatest humanocentric libraries, and scholars flocked to it. Mock wars were waged on and about the system's outer planets, while Luus Three, Four, and Five were used for terrain practice; the combatants were housed in the Academy's sprawling network of domiciles, and warships were docked along its periphery. And, of course, there were the students: individually sponsored, rigorously trained, prepared (it was hoped) to master any facet of the War That Could Not Be Ended-or any lesser conflict which might cross their professional paths. It was impossible to imagine the Academy without a constant undertone of human striving; impossible to imagine that those halls would ever be empty, that even a moment might go by in which its facilities were less than wholly utilized. pYet today, in this moment-in this dream-they were empty. The dreamer traveled numerous streamlined corridors, progressing from an easy walk to a nervous run as he grew more and more afraid. Something was wrong; the Academy had been abandoned-evacuated?-and he was the only human in it. Panic assailed him and he threw open door after door, searching desperately for some sign of life besides his own. There was nothing. Some disaster had overtaken the Academy and he alone had been left behind. Fear arose within him as he imagined possible disasters, yet not even the worst of them could explain his isolation. He was alone-in the empty corridors, in the abandoned Academy, perhaps in the universe. He ceased running; his legs, weak with fright, could no longer support such movement. In despair he leaned against a gleaming white wall, shut his eyes, and prayed for strength. JBlessed Hasha lyu. Firstborn of Azea... But even in that there was no comfort. The heavens were as empty as the man-made halls; his isolation was total. XFrom the stillness, then, came a whisper of thought. He started, and tried to listen, but it was not a sound that had jarred his consciousness. Triggered by a precise combination of hormones, his minimal psychic talent had awakened for a split-second-and through it he had glimpsed another's despair. He was not alone! Guided more by instinct than reason, the dreamer ran through a maze of empty corridors, threw himself into a transgrav tubeway that gave access to the dormitory modules, and pulled himself, hand over hand, down its length. Someone else was here! Someone else the Empire had forgotten, as lost and as afraid as he was-he was certain of it. He swung open one door after another, scouring rooms with an eager glance, meeting only emptiness. Until at last he came to the final room, whose door opened of its own accord as he approached, revealing the source of the psychic disturbance. NHe stopped, stunned, and simply stared. She was beautiful: a goddess in repose, a celestial spirit lightly clothed in human form, a glowing monument to all that womankind might become. He came to her, trembling, afraid to speak lest he shatter the silence that had brought them together, and thus lose her. Unfamiliar hormones coursed through his body, and unfamiliar heat settled in their wake. His hands ached to touch her, but he was afraid; might she evaporate into empty dream-stuff if he indicated, by his actions, that he desired her? Did  he desire her? Was this what desire was, this aching heat that urged him forward, that made him act in ways beyond his understanding- H-reaching to touch her at last, and- l-lacking a frame of reference, the dream fading, and-- -don't leave me!- Anzha awoke. For a moment she just lay there, letting her own heartbeat settle back into its natural rhythm. She had been caught up in male dreams before, but never one so profoundly Azean. The dreamer's loneliness had entrapped her, had brought her insync with his fear, but that was a mere prelude to the dream's true substance. Unknown to him, he was in the process of bonding; as his body prepared to mate for life, his dreaming mind toyed with images to accustom him to the face of his intended, and to his own natural urges. xTo share such an experience was the last thing Anzha needed. F~ What about pairbonding, Director? ~ What about it? T~ Will I experience it? Am I Azean enough? (~ Do you want to be? ,~ Answer the question. .~ You have the proper genetic codes: one must assume the instinct is dormant. Whether it will be triggered into activity is something I can't tell you... It was not the dream that upset her. It was the stirring of desire it left in its wake, a purposeless heat unknown to her parents' race. Azeans did not hunger after strangers, or lie awake at night with unfocused longing coursing through their veins. She did. There was nothing she could do to satisfy it, either, for the Council of Justice would jump upon such an opportunity to prove that her nature was alien; and even more than pleasure, she longed for an Azean identity. But though she dared not indulge it, the physical hunger was there-and that, more than anything else, proved how truly alien she was. 2 BIntroduction to Braxin Psychology Would the daughter ot Darmel lyu Tukone care to clarify this point? DTransculturalism: Beyond Diplomacy XIt is true you've thoughtshared with one of them? :The Politics of Communication b... was instrumental in settling the Darian affair... NShe is so cold, so aloof. So different. @She thinks she knows everything. So intense! 6She's not really one of us. Why is she here? 3 More than any other place in the Academy, the Terrain Skills Biosphere/Primitive Combat Center was home to Anzha. She had been raised to the sword. On Llornu, the Institute's world, fencing was a favored sport; it challenged physical and psychic skills simultaneously, something few pastimes could offer. On Llornu, swordplay was lightning-swift, hands striving to move faster than thought could follow, ever aware that a moment's hesitation gave one's opponent the opportunity to study one's intentions. Here it was different, and less challenging. She was rarely beaten. Even the Combatmasters could not compensate for her natural advantage; given a moment to concentrate, she could lift an opponent's plans from his mind and instantly design an attack or defense to complement it. She could feel his pain, pinpoint his exhaustion, play upon his weaknesses. But still the sport pleased her, if for no other reason than because it was so familiar. And if the aura of barbarism clinging to the sharpened steel appealed to her violent nature, that was one more reason to frequent the Center's facilities. Taking a practice sword from out of the public rack, she set the drill machine to a simple parry/riposte combination and began to practice. $'Cadet Anzha lyu." She completed her movement, recovered to standing position, and turned to discover the source of the voice. An older man, a Lugastine, was nodding his satisfaction at her response. Because Azeans were not fond of bladed weapons, aliens were often employed in this Biosphere; nevertheless, it was rare to see a non-Azean wandering about outside of class time. "Sir?" 'You are too tense. Relax the wrist." He had a slight accent, which confirmed his Lugastine background. "Again." She stiffened. Her form was excellent and she knew it; nevertheless, experience and authority radiated from the stranger's surface mind in such quantity that she accepted the criticism. With a nod she returned to her opening position. Attack, just so; the machine responded with admirable speed, demanding all her attention. Nevertheless, she kept a mental eye upon the stranger as she moved, watching herself reflected in his mind, altered by his criticism. There she was, and thereP was the source of his commentary... she relaxed the proper muscles exactly as his mind directed, and was somehow not surprised to find her attack improved by the change. ^She turned back to him, a question in her eyes. He bowed slightly, clearly amused. "Lithius Yumada, Master of Primitive Armaments." BShe was stunned. "I didn't know." 'Of course not. I didn't mean you to know, or I would have told you." Lithius Yumada: unequaled in the field of lowtech combat, if rumor was truth. Certainly he was the only non-Azean ever invited to oversee a portion of the Academy's military training program. A master among masters, he scoured the galaxy for able instructors and forced them to excellence; the Academy's teachers must be perfect and he was the man to make them so. The students, to whom he was legend, rarely saw him; certainly they never bouted with him. All this ran through Anzha's mind as she watched him take a weapon from the public rack, along with two bodyfields. One of these he threw to her. "Setting five," he instructed, in a tone that brooked neither disobedience nor delay. Hastily, she clasped the belt about her waist and turned its light forcefield on. Setting five would protect her from physical injury while synthesizing the pain she would have experienced had she been unarmored. It was a setting rarely used. Stance. Salute. The ritual of a Lugastine duel, devised by a people who prided themselves on dignity even while they killed each other. She took her cues from his mind, reading his expectations. And saw him smile. 'It is as they said, then. Telepathy serves you well, but I suspect you rely too heavily upon it. Take your guard." He was fast, unbelievably fast, with a speed that belied his age. Almost too fast for her to anticipate him. He began a three-part maneuver, controlled her response until the last movement; she only broke free when his point was coming toward open target, and then with difficulty. Hasha! He had mesmerized her as a psychic might, yet he gave no hint of such power. It was the beauty of his movement, the controlled and deadly grace of it, which acted like a drug upon her mind. It took all her skill to ignore that beauty and focus on the intent of his movement. It was harder still to read purpose in his thoughts, and to gain her usual advantage; he seemed to think with his body, bypassing the centers of reason in favor of trained reflex. But there: a hint of planning. She analyzed it, drew him into a trap of his own devising, twisted into a combination guard/attack (with her wrist carefully relaxed, of course) and struck him on his outstretched arm. The pain was intense; she could feel it. But Yumada did no more than wince. When the worst of it had passed, he raised his sword to her again and instructed, "Resume." A dull ache remained, hardly enough to affect his movement. But now she had him. The thoughts that supported his movement were subtle, but they were there. Knowing where to look, she plucked his plans from his mind even as they became action, gaining a split-second advantage that proved to be enough. Again and again she turned him aside; she initiated attacks of her own, learning his thought processes even as she failed to reach him. It was only a matter of time. At last she had her opening, a discrepancy between intent and action which left the outermost point of his left shoulder open to her. She struck, striving for the utmost speed of which she was capable. And hit him. >A moment to breathe, then, while he recovered. Her muscles ached from the unaccustomed excertion, and a thin sheen of sweat had soaked through her clothing. He was not quite good enough to beat her-no mere physical could do that-but he was good enough to make her work for her victory. "A welcome change, she thought. f'You are tense," he instructed. She tried to relax. 'Again." This time it was easier. They were both beginning to tire, which slowed their motions and made the temporal gap between thought and action even wider than before. Now it was no challenge to pick up on his plans, and although she still had to work to keep up with him, it was easier and easier to complement his movements with the perfect defense, or an appropriate attack. He was good, though, unbelievably good. He held her back as long as a physical could ever hope to do, and only when the strain of prolongued bouting began to compromise his perfection was she able to reach him again. A touch to his inner arm; there was the expected pain, and then he nodded. Satisfaction? Understanding? She expected him to end the bout, but his upraised sword signaled her to continue the contest. Why?6 she thought. There was no real challenge-not if she was careful. His thoughts were clear, now that she knew how to look for them. It was always the same with non-psychics; even a legend such as Yumada could not hope to negate her advantage without telepathy of his own to call upon. With care she attacked, sliding toward his left flank, diverting to a lower target when he moved to block her. His blade whipped around, caught hers, twisted it aside to combine defense and attack in one. She saw it coming, defended herself accordingly. Easier and easier. An intention sparked within him, became action-which she moved to neutralize-then his slender steel inexplicably slipped past her guard and a bolt of pain skewered her through the chest, numbing all her senses. Her blade fell to the floor; she heard it, stunned to discover that her hand had betrayed her. After a moment the worst of the pain passed, and with it the numbness. She looked at Yumada in amazement. 'Through the torso to sever the spine," he told her. "Very good, Anzha lyu, but you rely too heavily on your special talent. A true master can negate that advantage, with the proper preparation. Which I have had." tHer vision was clearing, and with it her mind. "You knew." 'It was obvious. Equally obvious that, having such an advantage, you would come to depend upon it. A dangerous weakness, cadet-in fencing, or in war. Remember that." He took off the bodyfield and put it away. Placing his weapon in the rack, he told her "You have excellent potential, if you are a bit overconfident. Be wary of the opponent who is comfortably predictable; it may be that he plans one thing and intends another." He turned back to her. "You could be a master. I propose to train you. What do you say?" DShe was stunned. "But my studies-" x'Your program allows specialization in Terrain Skills; I suggest a concentration in lowtech armaments. Primitive societies are ruled by the sword; if not in fact, then in ritual. And I think it would benefit you in a tactical sense to experience a challenge. Victory should never be taken for granted. Besides," he added with a wry smile, *You have much energy in need of discipline. Such training would help you focus it. What do you think?" 8It would set her apart. It would encourage her violent side, her non-Azean side, and develop skills which that race abhorred. It would banish any hope she ever had of fitting into the Academy's social structure; a student favored by such attention-from Yumada himself-could never reenter the mainstream of student life. It would reaffirm just how alien she was, and guarantee that the whole student body knew it. But it would challenge her as she had never been challenged before, in body or in mind. And already the warmth of exhaustion was relaxing muscles that had been tense for too long; the sexual tension which was a constant undercurrent to her life seemed less demanding, as though it had found partial fulfillment in the intensity of their combat. If she could redirect that\ energy, even partially, it would be worth it. 6Which is what he's offering , she realized. "Your record is outstanding." 8It has to be, or you're out. "I believe we should have a talk about your plans for the future." JAnzha said nothing, merely nodded. His thoughts were so loud it was hard to distinguish them from spoken words. Was he really so vehement, or was her control slipping? She was as yet only a student of telepathy, not its master. Was the strain of this place taking its toll upon her discipline? z'You are entered," he said slowly, "in the command program." HAgainst my will and better judgment.b "May I ask why you choose that particular path?" Her voice carefully neutral, she told him, "My sponsor, Director er Litz, advised it. For reasons I agree with." DYes, and she overrode my authority. "Which are?" .In fifty words or less?& "I have intimate knowledge of Braxin psychology. I believe I can turn it against them. To do this I must be in a position of tactical authority-'' 6'Or an advisory position." VWhich would make life easier for all of us. Against her will, her voice grew cold. "An advisor can be disregarded." 6You want power, is that it? He hesitated, feigned sympathy. "Cadet Anzha lyu, I'll be frank with you. Your record is excellent. Despite the lack of historic precedent, I think it possible-not likely, mind you, but possible-that you may indeed manage to become involved in the War effort." NOnly because your sponsor is who she is-remember that. "But to continue in the command program is sheer folly. The Empire will never tolerate a non-Azean as commanding officer in the Great War. Or any war, for that matter. The simple truth is that you're not Azean, and that therefore there are limits. Accept them, and you can accomplish something. But to refuse, stubbornly, as you're doing..." He shrugged. "You're setting yourself up for failure." Which would please me greatly, and others. But we fearStarControl's displeasure. X'What would you suggest?" she asked quietly. @'Your goal is to kill Braxins." LYou are obsessed with killing Braxins.H "Train as a fighter. The odds are good that your sponsor could secure you a berth. Your size gives you a tremendous advantage, and would make you valuable enough-" 'I thank you for your concern, Commander, but no, that's not what I want." He darkened, and his thoughts were a storm of accusation. "You're making a mistake, Cadet." p'I've made my decision, sir. Director er Litz approves." XThen you are a fool, and so is your sponsor!P "Listen to me: you may excel in academics and you may have support in high places, but to gain a command post requires Imperial sanction-and that you will never have. Never. You're wasting your time-and ours-by your insistence upon a course of study that can't possibly benefit you." Why did you come here in the first place? You don't belong, and never will.0 "Do you understand me?" *More than you suspect&. "Yes, Commander." 'Now: In the interests of reconciling your personal ambition with the reality of your environment, I'm going to recommend regular sessions with our Morale Counselor, li Darren. Beginning next firstday, seventh hour. Is that compatible with your schedule?'' She forced herself to sound apologetic. "I'm afraid not, Commander. I'm due on Llornu the day before that, and won't be back here until third session." Since he had apparently forgotten the conditions of her schooling, she added, "I'm scheduled to alternate between the Academy and the Institute until my training there has been completed. Unless you have objections, sir." *'No. Of course not." 4Go home, where you belong.^ "We'll discuss this further when you return." LDo us all a favor and don't come back. He nodded a dismissal and turned away, but his surface thoughts, angry and frustrated, were still focused on her. Go home. Go home. Home? * * * Light: 1 Return to Llornu: however much she disliked the Institute, it was a relief to come back to it. As the distance between them closed she could pick out its special aura, and she savored its reassuring familiarity. Thousands of minds, striving to fulfill their psychic potential... most of them were unstable, but that didn't matter. She wasn't wholly stable herself. As her transport dropped into subluminal space, the images became clearer. Now she could pick out specific minds, distinct concerns. Poli, the Kuathan adolescent, had had another wet dream-and had dreamshared it. Embarrassing but common; a dozen psychics stifled their amusement long enough to offer him sympathy. Sar'a Noe, the gifted Zula Communicant, was practicing the difficult Zi Vesh Configurations in the hope of earning the red cord of a Functional Telepath. And Yersek li Daramos, the product of Llornuan breeding, was torn between his mixed human heritage-which reveled in the unrestricted pleasures of Llornuan society-and his Azean half, which was hungering to pairbond. She touched them all, and with satisfaction thought: *Not much has changed.* To which she added, Perhaps myself? 0She disembarked at Llornu's orbiting station, an environment she preferred to the dubious pleasures of the onplanet facilities. Natural surroundings made her uncomfortable; she would rather put her trust in the controlled solidity of an artificial satellite than risk the uncertain surface below. Just days ago a minor earthquake had struck Llornu's largest city, and though the population had been evacuated in time (efficiency during emergencies was one of the benefits of universal psychic ability) power sources were disrupted for half a day, and a number of buildings whose protective fields had failed had been badly damaged. Thinking of it, she shuddered. jThis is the risk one takes, when one trusts a planet. It was hard to admit, because she resented the Institute-resented it for making her live, and for controlling every aspect of her life since that time-but she was glad to be here. It was comfortable. She belonged. Hasha, help me. 2 A bout of swordplay in one of the Institute's practice rooms: the lights were off and the sunlight, coming through frosted windows, was less than wholly adequate. Thus telepathy was more important than sight, an arrangement many psychics preferred. XYou mustn't limit yourself to your own kind,0 Yumada had warned her. Most of the galaxy lacks your gift, thus develops other skills. You must learn to compensate. The pleasure of rhythmic exchange-the linking of minds: trading plans, devouring secrets. The shadow of a movement before the movement was made, followed by action. The joy of telepathic competition. You wish to do battle with physicals? Then you must practice against them, live with them, learn their ways. This the Institute can never offer you. It serves as a refuge from pain because it shelters you from the most difficult challenge of all. It comforts you, and because of that it limits you. Contentment is an enemy to your purpose. Eight points to her, three to her opponent. Her technique had improved, it was obvious. Briefly, she wished for stronger light. Madness! hTo defeat the Braxins, you must think like a Braxin. "DThe true warrior eschews comfort''- Dialogues 3/124V. H"Strength is derived from adversity"- Dialogues 12/9H. Mind intertwined with mind, gleaming strands of strategy interwoven with dizzying complexity; the body followed, expressing the mind's desire. It was an intimacy unequaled by anything save sexual concourse, and that she had denied herself in order to grasp at the future. A sword was in her hand, and the power was alive within her. Was there anything outside the Institute to equal that? zTo do what is difficult is the most valuable training of all. 3 The station's observation ring overlooked the planet, and from it one could see the major features of Llornu drenched in morning sunlight. She looked at it, reached out to it with her mind, then withdrew. It was familiar-too familiar. As much as she hated many of the Institute's policies, she had to admit that Llornu was a telepath's oasis in a dry and empty galaxy. $Could she leave it forever? She had to. There was no room for weakness in her life, and this-her need for Llornu-was the greatest weakness of all. 'There you are." She turned and found Director li Pazua approaching her. Bastion of telepathic etiquette, he had searched for her physically rather than interrupt her observations. "They said you might be saying your farewells." 'I was." She shrugged off the view with false nonchalance and began to walk with him, back toward the station. 'Probe zi Laure has finished his analysis of your progress." he told her. RShe stiffened, imagining the psychefile. Zeymophobia worsening. Obsessive nature more pronounced. Refusal to choose an adult name indicative of emotional instability. F'It's no secret that your sensitivity has improved," he continued. "Dramatically. Your control is lagging a bit behind intensity of contact, but I've analyzed the situation and I find nothing amiss. It takes time to adjust to such a change. You're surprised?" he asked, noting her reaction. >'Not about that. Please go on." BHe touched her with a questing thought, but she turned it aside in favor of mental privacy. "Disciplines: zi Laure says you've mastered five, the others are coming along. He anticipates full Functional ability within two to five years-excepting, perhaps, in the area of physical contact." TShe shut her eyes. "That hasn't improved?" .'Did you think it had?" f'I didn't know. I've avoided coming in contact with people, you know that. If the tests say it hasn't gotten any better... I guess that's true." Her hands clenched in silent frustration. "I try and try, and no matter what I do, the Discipline continues to break down under stress. Why can't I hold onto it?" ^'You'll learn to, in time. Zi Laure will help." She finally found the courage to voice what bothered her. "And what if that doesn't work? What if I really can't master this one simple Discipline? What semipsychic status do I get-or do I stay a student forever?'' @And thus remain in your control,( she added silently. There was potential violence in her surface mind; the Director chose his words carefully. "If the time comes when you rate an FT status in all but that one Discipline, I'm willing to consider awarding it to you anyway. Theoretically, a Functional Telepath has a high degree of communicative ability and is master of all the Disciplines. Your skill promises to be so far beyond anything we've seen before that it would be a crime to refuse you your proper label. Master all Disciplines but that one and I'll see to it that you're properly corded." He paused, and his thoughts were carefully guarded. "It would shame the Institute to do anything less." That would never have bothered him before; she was suspicious but kept it to herself. "Thank you." 'Now, what's this about your schedule? Is there a problem with the Academy? I thought we had it all worked out." Contact Discipline: it guaranteed her mental privacy, steadied her nerves. "Director... I'm not coming back." There was silence for a long time. Finally he asked, "To Llornu?" 6'Llornu, or the Institute." ('And your training?" 4'I want to finish that. I need: to finish it. But not here." 0'You're not happy here?" RShe stiffened. "Happiness isn't an issue. Fulfillment of my only goal is. I've decided that my purpose is better served by my staying outside of the Institute's domain." 'I don't agree." TWould he dare to forbid it? Would their animosity be out in the open, at last? She would almost welcome it. "You have Probes who can travel," she challenged. "Torzha can arrange for their lodging in the Academy's system." Again, as always, she sensed his resentment when her sponsor was mentioned. 4She took me away from you, she thought. Freed me from your autocracy. Is that the source of your bitterness?: "You said you'd support me." Z'In your fight against Braxi, yes. But this..." F'This is a step in that direction." $'I don't see how." :'I didn't expect you would." 2I'm not sure I do myself. "It has to do with war, Director, and preparing myself to fight. This place... weakens me. I can't afford it." P'You need the support of your own kind." 'I can't afford to have a need like that! There are no trained psychics in StarControl; the Empire distrusts your 'conditioning' programs and isn't about to let itself be overrun by your agents. I'm going to spend my life among non-psychics, and I'm not going to learn how to do it if I have an easy escape waiting here for me. I have to crush that need, Director. Help me, and I can finish my training. Hinder me..." She paused, savoring the vision, "and we become enemies." *If we're not already,. she thought privately. 0He was long in answering; perhaps he was considering his options. Surface mind carefully controlled, he said at last "All right. I'll send you a Probe. Notr because you threaten me. I'm not afraid of you, Anzha. But I'll take a chance on trusting your judgment. We'll try it your way, though it means the loss of a Probe in this system; we'll have to work around that. I did promise you support," he agreed, the barest hint of irritation in his voice. "You'll have it." She smiled, careful not to broadcast her triumph. Whatever his secret plans were, they required her dependence upon his authority. Slowly she was working free of his control, and that must be bitter fruit. Meanwhile the Academy was calling to her, promising adversity-and strength. 'Thank you," she said quietly. "I'll be leaving as soon as possible." Harkur:R If the Braxana, or any other single tribe, were to try to rule Braxi for an extended length of time, they would have to set themselves apart from all other Braxins. They would have to create an image so alien to the rest of Braxin culture that no other group could aspire to it, and do it to such an extreme that the image itself becomes synonymous with power. Then and only then, no man would dare to question their rule. Ten bThe mass that was called Lamos entered the House. ZIt wasn't easy for him to climb the three flights of stairs leading to his private rooms. As usual, he paused for breath midway on each flight to curse the laws which prohibited tubes or lifts in Braxana houses. Blessed sadistic move! Why should a man have to climb stairs all the time just because his blood was that of the Master Tribe? Then, when his overworked lungs had recovered from the immense effort of the most recent flight, he continued onward. On a particularly hard day, when the three flights of stairs required four rest stops, he used the extra one to deliver an active blessing on the Braxana custom of assigning the Master's private chambers to the uppermost floor. S'vethe, Mistress of his House, watched as usual from the topmost step. She had heard his complaints before and would doubtlessly do so again. She tried hard not to think that he had brought it on himself. Braxana architectural tradition was as it was to discourage the sedentary and Lamos, to put it mildly, was just that. jThe immense man finally attacked the very step she stood on and conquered it. As he stood there, gasping for breath, she handed him a print of the day's financial reports and personnel adjustments. He expected it, and received the reports from her hand every day with an air of authority. He never read them. 'A bath, my sweet little servant. With women. Nothing energetic, I venture-I'm tired today. Make them all well broken... yes, I'm tired of fighting with your sex." His immediate plans accounted for, he placed a plump hand on her shoulder. "My son, eh? He's well?" N'As he was when you left this morning." 'The little purebred! I'll have to nap after the bath, S'vethe, and then you'll bring him to me, yes?" "'As you command." He yawned. Yes, that'll be just fine. Send Ber'n to help undress me, will you?" BShe nodded. Ber'n was a true alien, non-human, intelligent, and passive. The Master had a taste for such creatures. S'vethe suspected that he sometimes vented his pleasure upon them, although few of them had anything akin to human sexuality and most were, to her taste, far from arousing. <As for Lamos, he waddled off to his chambers. To be fair, he really did need help disrobing, for to give his clothing a pseudo-traditional Braxana fit over his bloated form he'd had to revise the construction quite a bit, and he simply couldn't reach some of the seams once they were fastened. His cloak, however, he removed immediately; the brooch which held it to his tunic cut deeply into the folds of his neck. Ber'n arrived moments later, an interesting six-limbed creature whom Lamos found delightfully repulsive, and who was easily dominated. One more benefit of living on the outskirts of the Holding, he thought. No one here to demand his House consist only of humans. He felt no more responsibility to that custom than to any of the others he had abandoned. True aliens were in common use throughout the Holding, but for some reason he had never quite understood, Braxana Houses avoided them. Here on Vra-Nonn, however, who cared what type of servant he hired, or what kind of slave he bought? Ber'n's people made excellent menials, having been oppressed before Braxi's domination of their world by its other intelligent inhabitants. They were unable to imagine any other way of life. So different for humans! They could look at a hundred cultures and know that, with a little surgery and practice, they could pass themselves off as a native of anywhere. Yes, Lamos liked aliens in his House, and that justified- >Why am I excusing myself again?, he thought, annoyed. I've done nothing wrong. These Social Codes are optional things, don't we keep hearing that? They're not law. I can't be punished for ignoring them. So why do I keep making excuses for myself? $Ber'n helped him to remove the restrictive gray clothing which he so hated. Here, surrounded only by his slaves and servants, he let the neuter-gendered creature strip him of the last Braxana layer and adorn him in a robe of vivid scarlet. The damp touch of the creature's skin was pleasant against his own, soothing the irritation of a day's bondage in clothing designed to look-and be-uncomfortable. Next life, he thought, I'll be born among some rich people who haven't even got a word for gray-much less black! His bath had been designed by a Meveshi artist, and accordingly it displayed an opulence which was uncommon in Braxana Houses. Here, in a room where none except slaves and servants might enter, the wealth of Lamos was made evident. The circular pool, lined in gold, was set about the edge with a fortune in precious stones. The floor was tiled in harkesite. A commoner might spend a lifetime earning enough to purchase a single tile, yet here an entire floor endured the abuse of water and wine. It could be replaced easily enough, Lamos knew. The entire room could be replaced, if he wished it-such was the wealth of a Braxana. 0This is the way to live! Lamos thought. Those Central Braxana, what do they know of pleasure? Them and their foolish politics-this is what it means to be a member of the Ruling Race! Wealth, indulgence, and freedom... what more could a man ask for? Fountains sprinkled wine into the air; the mist fell upon Lamos' robe and stained it a darker crimson. He enjoyed the slow entrance, the anticipation. A dozen human females adorned the pool, a fine assortment from as many different planets. They appeared frightened of him, which was good. S'vethe had come through again. 'My Lord?" pHe turned back in annoyance. His Mistress stood in the doorway behind him, and it had better be important! Nothing was less sexually attractive to him than the kind of woman who could run a House, and he had made it clear to S'vethe that he didn't want her presence spoiling the atmosphere of his pleasure-rooms. 2'What is it?" he snapped. t'The Kaim'era Zatar. He would like to speak to you, Lord." 'Well, arrange a time!" He waved her a dismissal and turned back to his gleaming pool. 'Lord Lamos..." She waited until he faced her again. "He's here now. He came in directly from the House of War, on some sort of state business. He says that he needs to return as soon as possible and therefore must see you now." Demanding an audience-well, wasn't that rude! Lamos considered giving her a message for the intruder which would show him just how welcome he wasn't. But then, unhappily, he thought the better of it. It wasn't wise to antagonize the Kaim'eri; they had their hands on enough of the Holding's commerce that they could easily strangle his sources of income in retribution. And a man who came from the House of War was doubly dangerous, since he either intended to go planet-smashing at the head of a fleet or, as a strategist, ordered other men to do the same. Never antagonize the military, he told himself unhappily. F'I'll go to him," he decided aloud. S'vethe sighed in relief. "I'll send you someone to help with the changing-" D'I'll go as I am!" He stroked the velvet robe lovingly. "If he's going to barge in on me like this he can take me as he finds me. Go announce me, little servant." He followed her slowly to the topmost landing, giving her time to do her duty. Once there he paused to take stock of his visitor. The entrance hallway below opened up to reveal the entirety of the main staircase, and Lamas found that the intruder was assessing both the interior architecture and his own person when at last their eyes met. XHatred uncoiled inside Lamos. This man-this Kaim'era-represented everything he despised about the Central Braxana. He was tall and lean and perfect. (Weren't they all?) His clothing fit tightly and displayed the lack of color which no man with taste would have any part of. Worst of all was that incessant arrogance. It was an attractive characteristic, true, but not when one was at the receiving end. 'Zatar." He bowed very, very slightly. "You've made yourself welcome, I see." He mixed disdain and scorn in his language and was pleased by the result. "So sorry you've found me short of hospitality. But you see that I was hardly expecting you." Zatar regarded the brightly clad Braxana with obvious distaste. "I've come on business," he said coldly. 'Oh, I'll come down." He imagined that the other man felt uncomfortable; that amused him. &'No. I'll come up." What vile manners, Lamos thought-to invite himself to the private chambers of a Braxana Lord! Nevertheless it would save him from a repetition of that unpleasant climb, and so he disdainfully nodded his agreement and waited just beyond the topmost step. PZatar climbed the stairs easily, and seemed about to speak when his eyes fell upon the other's ungloved hands. "By the gods who abandoned us, Lamos, have you gone mad?" He drew himself up proudly. "In my House, Kaim'era, you will accord me respect or leave." RHe ignored him. "I'm here on state business, so let's go somewhere where we can talk. In your private wing," he added scornfully. "Since that's what you're dressed for." Lamos scowled his displeasure but nevertheless led Zatar to his personal rooms. Whatever amusement he had garnered from the other's discomfort regarding his appearance was rapidly fading in the face of his arrogance. When they arrived, Lamos made a great show of sealing the door and activating the soundproofing. The sarcasm went unnoticed. N'How may I serve you, Magnificent One?" |If Zatar was irritated by his use of the ironic mode, he didn't show it. "I volunteered to deliver this message because of all the Kaim'eri, I was closest to your planet at the time it was composed. I was with our tactical forces on Garran," he explained, and his voice mode-impatience-indicated that he was in a hurry to return, and would not tolerate pointless delay. "And quite frankly, I'm appalled. Is that suitable dress for the forehouse?" 'What, this?" Lamos stroked the velvet of his robe lovingly; the gesture was obscene and he knew it. It pleased him to annoy this man, who came to his House crowned with arrogance and obnoxious physical perfection and dared to criticize his lifestyle; for that was what the Kaim'era had come about, he was certain. "This? It's soft, and it's comfortable. And I like bright colors." 'We all do! That's the point: an image of personal sacrifice to support our power base." He gestured toward the other's garment impatiently. "What does it matter what we prefer? We have an image to maintain, Lamos. You can wear what' you like in your own rooms, tradition permits that. But not out there, where aliens might see you." Lamos folded his hands disdainfully in front of him. "Your traditions don't interest me." X'They support the structure of our society." XLamos shrugged. "That's no concern of mine." h'Isn't it? You're happy enough to live at the expense of the state, Lord Lamos. What would happen if suddenly the government didn't support your indulgence? Would you be so smug then?" He pointed to the other's hands in frank incredulity. "This is beyond indulgence. This is beyond personal pleasure. We do notH display our skin before commoners-" 'Ah." Lamos glanced at his hands as he stroked the palm of one with the forefinger of the other. "It bothers you that my hands are naked." The dark eyes smoldered, but Zatar's voice was calm. "We've all seen men ungloved, if that's what you mean. You didn't invent sexual diversity, you know. Must you make this harder than it has to be?" Again Lamos shrugged. He was beginning to enjoy himself. "I've done nothing." ,'Exactly the problem." 'Kaim'era, there are no laws in question here-only some vague and outdated customs which I happen not to care for. I'm no commonblood, you know. You can't just... push me around because you don't like my style. Legally, you have nothing on me." There! It was said. `'This is true. And I haven't come to criticize you personally, although you certainly inspire it. The point is this: the Kaim'erate has given formal consideration to your right to live as you're doing, and we have decided that it's not within our power to pass official judgment on you-you, personally." *Smugly, Lamos waited. 'However, we have decided that assuring the image of future generations is within our jurisdiction. And so, on behalf of the Kaim'erate of the B'Saloan Holding under Braxi/Aldous, I am here to inform you that you will be required to turn over your son to a more traditional House, in order that he might receive the upbringing which is his birthright." (Lamos paled. "What?" tZatar's expression was unreadable. "I think you heard me." .'You can't be serious. Theyl can't be serious. Give up my son? It's unheard of!" . Zatar waited. 6'I won't have it! I won't!" The Kaim'era's voice was loaded with quiet threat. "Shall I tell the others that you mean to oppose our decision?" :'No... no, I didn't mean that." 'Then I should perhaps tell them you mean to oppose our right to make such a decision." 'Yes... I mean, no!" Lamos was alarmed. Nowhere in Braxin history was there a precedent for anyone successfully standing up to the Kaim'erate. The rulers of Braxi, notoriously suspicious regarding the motives of their own kind, never failed to ally when their power was threatened. For Lamos to oppose them would be folly, if not outright suicide. 'Kaim'era Zatar, you don't understand..."He searched for the proper words, but at last had to settle for, "He's my son." :It was Zatar's turn to smile. Lamos was panicking. To lose a son... was there any way to capture that horror in mere words? One's lifesblood, the offspring of pleasure, a creature to mold and cherish, the hope of decades, of numberless fruitless attempts at conception! The filthiest peasant was still permitted to raise his own sons, or to seek such where they had been abandoned. The need to raise a child was as basic a human drive as... as... well, as any other which the Braxana respected! 'Kaim'era Zatar... please tell me this is not true." The disdain dropped from his voice and he found that he had adopted a formal mode. "I cannot believe that the Kaim'erate would make such a decision." 'What you choose to believe is of no consequence. The fact remains. You may submit to our order, or file formal opposition." "'Surely there is something else I can do." The Kaim'era's expression was cold, as was his voice. "I know of nothing." <The absolute mode which Zatar employed frightened Lamas even more than his words. "But surely something..." He swallowed his pride. "I could... reform my image?" 2'It's too late for that." X'Nonsense!" He exploded in anger-an acceptable display of emotion, he knew. (Ar, he was starting to think like them!) "That's the problem, isn't it? Well, it can be fixed." He waited breathlessly for the Kaim'era to answer; Zatar was painfully slow in doing so. "They wouldn't believe you." ,'I could demonstrate-" 'You can't demonstrate that type of commitment, Lord Lamos. Now, I'm on a tight schedule; it isn't Peacetime, you know. I'm supposed to bring the child to Braxi before I go back to Tactical. Can we cease arguing the merits of this decision and get on with it?" Who was it said that to kill an only son was to emasculate the father? Was this not much the same thing, at least as far as Lamos was concerned? "Kaim'era..." The pleading tone of his voice horrified him, but he made no move to disguise it. Better to humiliate himself in front of this man now than have all the Kaim'eri laughing at him for the rest of his life. 'The decision was made," Zatar said sternly. "To oppose it now, even to modify it, would require an advocated case. That would mean someone putting his reputation on the line for you. I'm not willing to do it." H'But if I could prove my sincerity-" 'How? Be realistic, Lamos. How can you prove anything like that?" 'There must be some way. Lord-Kaim'era-I appeal to you as a Braxana! As a man." As a father-he was about to say, but that was dangerous; he didn't know Zatar's reproductive status. Zatar's expression changed slowly, from one of disinterest to a look of thoughtful consideration. "I can think of one way," he said finally, "although I can't guarantee the Kaim'eri's response to it." >'Of course not, of course not!" 'Much of the Braxana image, you know, is based on physical attributes. It strikes me that if you enrolled in one of the military training programs on Garran, this would certainly be a powerful statement regarding your intentions." JLamos' eyes widened in alarm. The Garranat House of War existed to turn men into soldiers, with little concern for their comfort. Located in one of the most desolate corners of the Holding, it was notorious for weeding out those who lacked the stamina for battle by breaking them in training. J(Better a commoner's death on Garran, it was said, 4than a weak sword in war.) The fact that fully half of the system was devoted to military analysis and tactical command was of little comfort to Lamos, as was the fact that most of the Braxana who entered the House of War breezed through the initial training with ease and dignity. Those were men who thrived on discomfort, and who were-he admitted sulkily-in better shape than himself. It was reasonable to assume that they could complete the training in a few zhents, and be no worse for wear. With him it might take years-and unpleasant ones, at that. But his son! N'Is this really necessary?" he managed. 'Not at all. As a matter of fact, you'd have to convince them to accept the move at all, and that would require an advocated case. The alternative is much simpler. So if you'll bring out your son, I'll take him with me and end the matter." He looked around. "Where is he?" 'I'll do it," he said hurriedly. "Ar knows, I'll regret it-but I'll do it. Great Kaim'era, say you'll advocate this for me, I beg of you." 'I've made a commitment to Tactical, at the House. This would require too much time on Braxi. I don't know, Lamos." 'I have a planet out by the Border." Lamos spoke quickly, lest the Kaim'era should make a negative decision before he could convince him to do otherwise. "A pretty little thing which was a colony of Fenda, before we wiped out Fenda. It's a nice little place for a vacation now and then... I would be honored if you would accept this, in return for this favor." He held his breath as Zatar considered. It was a good bribe; all Braxana had the means to purchase planets, but real estate by the War Border was rare and owning it imparted considerable status. And it was a blessed nice planet, too. $'Get the records." With undignified haste Lamos summoned his Mistress and bade her fetch the proper documents. When she returned with the rings he pulled out a reader and quickly dropped them, one after the other, onto it. Zatar observed the screen in silence. Surely the planet would please him! It was a lovely piece of property, a little low on the gravity scale perhaps, but the location was beyond reproach. "Agreed. I will attempt to convince the Kaim'erate to accept your proposal." Lamos was breathless with relief. "I can't express my gratitude to you, Kaim'era." ^'Transfer of ownership would be most eloquent." 'Of course!" He nodded to S'vethe, who opened a line to the local Central Computer relay, which admitted their voice-codes and gave them access to the proper records of ownership. Lamos dictated adjustments. The computer recorded and filed them, and sent out a copy of the transaction to the Central Computer itself. It was official. 'Very good." Zatar nodded his approval. "Now, if you'll excuse me, it's three days to Braxi, and then some to handle this business." 'I'm grateful for your time, Kaim'era." There was no doubt about it, Zatar had saved him from a bad situation. The future wasn't all that attractive, but at least he'd retain his offspring. That was what mattered, to a true Braxana. "Your presence has done my House great honor." He noticed S'vethe staring at him in amazement, but what matter? She was only a woman, and only half-Braxana. This was between the Lords of Braxi. "See him out, my Mistress," he said in his most dignified tone. Wordlessly, she obeyed. Nor did she glance at the Kaim'era as she led him out, Zatar noted, or speak to him as they descended the main staircase. The Kaim'era sensed that she was teeming with questions, all of which would have to go unanswered-unless Lamos was willing to satisfy her curiosity, which was unlikely. He wondered if she would ever learn enough of what had transpired to tell Lamos that the Kaim'erate didn't have the power to take his son away. Doubtful. 8When the great doors shut behind him, before he entered his shuttle, he took a flatrendering from inside his tunic and opened it. Smiling slightly, he read. VTo Kaim'era Zatar, son of Vinir and K'siva: 8These are your instructions regarding Lord Lamos, as confirmed after debate on this, the eighth day of the fifth zhent, '97 after the Coronation of Harkur. It is the decision of this body that Lord Lamos must embark immediately upon a course of action designed to bring him more in line with the traditional Braxana image, both physically and emotionally. Since we have no laws which permit us to dictate such action, we ask that you employ more subtle means to achieve this end. You are free to use whatever threats, bribes, and/or coercion you deem necessary, in the certainty that the Kaim'erate will back you. DIt would please us greatly to see Lord Lamos enrolled in some regular regimen of mental and physical discipline, such as that employed by the military training schools. Whatever action he does take, it is considered highly desirable for him to believe that he takes it of his own free will. \The Kaim'eri of the Holding under Braxi/Aldous Present: 109 $In affirmation: 91 In negation: 3 "In abstention: 14 Absent: 18 nZatar laughed softly. Then, with the deed to his new planet nestled snugly on the index finger of his right hand, the Kaim'era boarded the shuttle which would take him back to Garran. Harkur:X We must assume that the thought-processes of human and non-human differ so greatly that without direct mental contact there can be no true understanding between the two. Eleven The ice-plains of Derleth were bleak and gray that mom-ing, as they were every morning beneath the fog-laden canopy which comprised the atmosphere. Here and there the light of a tired sun fell on some ice-formation and a flash of brightness signaled a ray of hope; then a particle-cloud filled the gap and made the celestial grayness whole again. And the sun, if anything so ineffectual could truly be called a sun. was content once more to filter its light through the omnipresent gray of Derleth and give its warmth, not to the planet's surface, but to the insulating cloudcover. It was a planet that truly deserved to be devoid of life. Yet life was there; not human life, it is true, but a form of being whose nature did not yearn for light or comfort. It is true that they were somewhat human in form, these natives, though protective fur covered their limbs and their extremities had evolved to meet the challenge of eternal ice. Yet they were clearly not human, for what creature of that designation would shrug at the sight of true sunlight and praise the return of the everpresent grayness, as these creatures did? hBut all this was very subjective. Azea had discovered life on Derleth a mere Standard Year ago and had not yet investigated the nature of local anatomy. Bipedal life of human proportion had been known to develop independently, and perhaps Azea avoided close examination of the issue deliberately. It would be difficult to look at the natives of this bleak and terrible place and feel any kinship with them, or with their aspirations, no matter how human science made them appear. It was far, far preferable to believe that underneath the ice lay evidence of local evolution than to accept that human stock had been placed on Derleth, as elsewhere, to evolve in response to local conditions. This morning the wind was calm, for which the lone traveler in the wastes was grateful. dThe ice-plains were not on the equator; there, where the warmth of Derleth's weak sun was concentrated, the planet was almost habitable. Instead they stretched across the western hemisphere just south of that livable zone, bordered by impassable mountains on three sides. It took a native half a year and a tremendous amount of luck to cross the plains alone, alive. And it was assumed that no one but a native could manage the feat. Of the twenty fersu who had departed from the mountain village with this traveler, ten remained. All that was necessary was for the woman herself to reach the far mountains; how many of her supportive team of native animals came with her was inconsequential. The lone traveler-who was not a native-stopped to review her body temperature. BShe had spent nearly half a year on the ice, cold and without human company. The latter didn't bother her as much as others had anticipated; she had never been a social creature and was just as content to be left alone with her thoughts for a while. But the all-pervading cold of the wasteland exhausted her, and the bleak grayness filled her days with an intolerable boredom which was as dangerous as the ice itself. NI must not only come out of this alive,. she reminded herself, :I must come out of this sane. Azea had made overtures to the fur-clad natives of Derleth and had received the kind of response that gave ambassadors nightmares. Yes, Derleth would be happy to deal with Azea, happy even to swear loyalty to that foreign empire and offer their unpopulated lands as a base of operations for future imperial expansion. All these things would Derleth do and more, in celebration of the wonder of discovering that there was life beyond the omnipresent canopy. And as soon as Azea sent them a worthy representative to work out the details, they could get started. To the natives of the ice-planet the issue, of course, was simple. Their own young, in order to earn the right to live on the ice-fields, first had to prove that they could master them. And so one by one they crossed the southern wasteland, and one by one found death or renown somewhere along the journey. This also must be done by these strangers from beyond the gray sky. Since the Derlethans assumed that all societies functioned along similar guidelines-as those on Derleth did-they did not understand the necessity of explaining their customs to the Azean visitors in their midst. Each ambassador in his turn was taken to the eastern mountains and shown the deadly expanse of ice, glimmering unevenly in the filtered sunlight. The Derlethans assumed that one of them would offer to make the crossing, and were confused when none did. The ambassadors, on the other hand, didn't understand what they had done-or not done-while standing on that mountain-peak to rate the designation "unworthy." But Azea prided itself on its diplomatic skills and had the experience of a thousand populated planets to draw on. It soon became clear what the Derlethans expected, and just as clear that only a madman would go along with them. The Empire searched, finally finding sportsmen who would take on the challenge. Derleth turned them away. This was not a game, the natives insisted; the one whom they accepted among them must be an individual trained for leadership, not exceptional endurance. Else how could they know that the Azean race was worthy of their attention? 4The situation was aptly summed up by the last ambassador to leave Derleth, who noted that the stubbornness of primitive peoples regarding their absorption into the Empire was in direct relation to how much the Azeans made fools of themselves while establishing diplomatic relations. ^And the Director of Diplomacy looked elsewhere. Who would be willing to face cold tedium and alien carnivores in service to the Empire? Taking into account that such people had already joined the ranks of Azean diplomats, ver Ishte was not optimistic. But he kept up the search and at last found a volunteer, a young part-alien woman enrolled, against all tradition, in Azea's Academy of Martial Sciences. She was willing to go; that was of course the most important thing. Though she appeared frail, her record bore witness to exceptional stamina and a fiercely competitive nature. She had been trained, as all persons in the command program were, to adapt to any planetary conditions and to function well in the most primitive of situations. Derleth would certainly require both skills, and in excess. bAll she asked in return was temporary Diplomatic status, which carried with it Imperial sanction. Ver Ishte shrugged and made out the proper records. The Council of Justice lodged some kind of formal protest which the Director of Diplomacy promptly deposited in the permanent exit file. This was his department and the only person who could order him around was the Director of StarControl herself, or, on rare occasion, the Emperor. And so the young woman was titled Temporary Ambassador and received the coveted "Imperial" with which to prefix her name. She quickly won over the Derlethans despite the handicap of being a female amidst a patriarchal society, so much so that they held her back for thirty days while the worst of the weather passed over the plains. She was given unlimited hersu; she chose twenty. She was offered unlimited provisions; she chose instead to fill her sled with the means of hunting native game, recognizing that any attempt to pack a half-year's provisions for her and the animals would be futile. She harnessed the animals as she had learned in the icelands of Luus Five, explaining to the Derlethans, when they asked, why this formation would prove most effective in the crossing. They neither agreed nor disagreed; the technique would prove its worth by getting her across the ice-plains before the winter's cold made even breathing deadly, or demonstrate its failure by her death. tAnd so she departed from the eastern heights. It was a comment upon her relationship with the Empire that as many people hoped to see her die in the alien cold as prayed for her success. If Anzha lyu sought to master Derleth's wasteland, it was as she had mastered other terrains-by submitting to them. When she lacked food she hunted; when she was tired of traveling she erected a semi-permanent camp and waited until the motivation to continue returned. Neither pursuit was easy or pleasant; the game was rare, well-camouflaged, and dangerous, and to stop and rest for a day could be deadly in the cold which mimicked warmth as it lulled the unwary traveler to sleep the Long Sleep-as the natives labeled death. But it would be folly to hurtle forward and expect to keep up the pace for half a Derlethan year. Determination could substitute for endurance for a while, but in that long a stretch even determination would wear thin. She chose instead to take her time, moving quickly when she could and accepting delay when she had to. Her advisors at the Academy had approved of this approach once they came to understand that the greatest enemy along this route was not cold, but boredom. Day after day wore on with hardly a break in the cloud-cover. Pale gray faded into dark gray and back again as the Derleth day-cycle continued. Sometimes she dreamed of death and it was warm and welcoming; on those nights she shook herself awake and saw to some menial but comforting task, such as maintenance of her weaponry or repair of her furs. And she was alone with her thoughts, which she had not been for twenty years. 2This is all that matters,& she told herself. rThat I've been given temporary Imperial status and that I will serve the Empire as no one else could have done. The precedent is all that matters. The people I'm serving will not forget-falthough the Council of Justice might like them to. &In the long days of endless gray she did not ask herself if she was happy, or even satisfied, with her present lot in life. She had learned never to probe so deeply, lest she come in touch with the layer of pain which, after all these years, was still so near to the surface. I am, she recited. I strive to enter the military. That's the sum total of my existence. I won't look beyond it. ZHer dreams spoke otherwise, as though the featureless regularity of the gray-lit plains had become a canvas to her inner vision. Surrounded by the ice of her waking day, she lay entrapped by surrealistic images that stormed her dreaming mind with reminders of hungers too long suppressed, needs too powerful to lie peacefully submerged within her. They were human hungers but they were unacceptable ones, and they had been cruelly but necessarily denied satisfaction in the waiting game she had learned to play. Azea did not hunger for blood, therefore she would discipline her vengeance. Azea did not thirst for sensation, therefore she would channel her sexual energies elsewhere. I am Azean,< she repeated, and she forced herself to fit that mold despite the price her dreaming mind exacted from her for it. The time would come she could do what she wished. But that time was not now, and so dreams were her only possible outlet in a world where moderation defined nationality. 0Yet even those visions began to weaken, submitting at last to the everpresent gray which was the soul of Derleth. There came a day when she tried desperately to recollect the nightmarish images, to bring some variety, if not to her world, then to her thoughts. But the dreams, like all else, faded into the eternal gray, and their images were lost as the tedium of Derleth became more and more overpowering. VShe suffered from frostbite, but not so excessively that it hindered her progress. Azea could regenerate what died in the cold, provided she survived to get back there to have it done. As for her hunting, telepathy made that as easy as it could ever be in this desolate wasteland. At times she seduced her prey to spearpoint, and at other times cast out mental tendrils over the ice in search of life; there was usually none. At least, she thought, when there's nothing to hunt I don't have to waste time and energy trying to ferret something out. The days became shorter. Although she had kept count of them, that number was a theoretical thing; the winter-length day was more real in terms of her inner calendar. Soon the storm-winds would come and the blizzards of Derleth would slow traveling to a crawl. If she didn't reach the far mountains by then she probably wouldn't do so at all. 2And then the kisunu came. jIt is curious that in the face of danger the telepath dreamed of love. It was a foreign concept to her and not one she fully understood; whatever memories of human affection she retained from her youth had been blocked from conscious recall by that same process which dealt with her period of trauma. Certainly her recent life, filled with the scorn of her fellow students and the everpresent hatred of Azea's Council of Justice, was not the place to learn of such gentle emotions. But in her sleep she lay in another world, cradled in the arms of a man who was marked with her own alien stigma-the blood-red hair of an unknown heritage. "I know you face an unknown and possibly terrible future," he whispered, "I know you're more accustomed to hatred than respect, and have been raised to be ignorant of more gentle human interaction. But know now-and remember when the pain becomes too great-that one man cared deeply enough for you to call you mitethe.j You know my language. You know what the word means." And as she reached to embrace him she awoke suddenly to cold darkness, and to the scent of death. Kisunu. Her mind had touched a carnivorous instinct and applied the proper Derlethan label. Kisunu-the ice-killers. Wolf-like predators who hunted in packs and who, needing little food to fuel them for long periods of running, were capable of hunting down and patiently driving to despair any creature unfortunate enough to come across them. tThey were intelligent. Anzha classified them instantly with her telepathic sensitivity and was unnerved by her conclusion. They were chaotic in nature and lacked any physical structures to stand as monuments to their intelligence, but despite this they could not be classed with common animal life. They had a culture; Anzha sensed she would not understand it, but there was something in them which tasted of more than simple pack mentality. @And they were very, very hungry. She built a fire; they backed away warily, but displayed none of the instinctive fear one might associate with such creatures. Two reasoning species on the same planet? It was rare, but not unheard of. NBut why hadn't the Derlethans told her? 2Perhaps they didn't know. Impossible, she corrected herself. One couldn't evade these creatures without comprehending that they had more than animal intelligence. Yes, the Derlethans knew. And those who understood survived the half-year journey through the heart of kisunu territory. rAgain she reached out a tendril of thought; quickly she drew it back, burned by the touch of animal hunger and the promise of a mind so alien that no human could hope to understand it. Very well, she thought. FI will speak the universal language. She chose a bow from among her possessions and lined up arrows, heads imbedded in the snow, before her. Yellow eyes regarded her with unblinking intensity and the creatures took one or two steps backward, alert and ready. It was clear they expected her to aim. It was fortunate she didn't have to. With one motion she lifted the bow and left fly a well-feathered shaft; it embedded itself in the torso of a surprised kisunu and evidently lodged itself in a vital organ. The creature howled shortly and fell; blue-black blood stained the snow in splotches and his death cry resonated in the gray emptiness. DShe waited, tense, for a reaction. fAnd they studied her. They now knew how fast she could move, and if they were indeed capable of advanced reasoning they would know just how accessible those upright arrows were. I will take you with me, Anzha's action promised, not one or two but many. And who will be the first to come at me, in that case? vOne by one they turned away from her, still wary but with their attention focused elsewhere. Each went up to his fallen fellow and laid his great teeth against that one's hide, then each ritually gave way to the next, and he to the one after, and so on until all members of the pack had performed the ritual action. HThis confirmed Anzha's suspicions, for mere animals do not indulge in death-rites. And starving animals more often eat their dead than revere them. The gesture of the kisunu seemed almost deisgned to say, "Although I starve, I will not eat my kind. This sets me above the beasts of the ice." Hasha, she thought. >Predators with moral instincts. &She set a circular fire about her camp and hoped they would be unwilling to cross it. The Derlethans had given her skins filled with flammable powder and now she understood the reason for it, for no fuel gathered from this desolate place would burn as brightly; the native branches which occasionally broke through the ice were good for heating dinner but would scarcely frighten a high-grade predator. dBut morning would come and she would have to move on, and if the kisunu would not let her do so she would surely die. Not that day perhaps, but later, when food and fuel ran out and she was at their mercy. She would have to deal with them tonight-establish some kind of working relationship that would allow her to continue. The western mountains couldn't be far off now; surely if she could buy a few days' time she could reach them. ZShe walked over to where the frightened hersu were huddled. With a telepath's hand she calmed them, and then with surface analysis chose the two most paralyzed by fear. They would do her the least good in the days to come and should be the first to go. With a steady hand she removed their harnesses. RIt seemed to her the kisunu were smiling. She placed a mittened hand behind each of the animals and pressed against them, thinking threat as loudly and as primitively as she could. They bolted forward in blind terror and jumped the fireline; by the time they were free of her imposed fear they had fallen, and the hungry kisunu made short work of their gentle but muscular bodies. 8I have made you an offering, she thought, and I'll make more if I have to. And none of you need die for this. Is it enough? Apparently it was, for as the kisunu finished eating (and she noticed they divided the animals evenly among them) they withdrew to a safe distance and stretched out on the snowy surface, to nap or to wait as each one desired. It was the first of many long nights during which she would not sleep. They did not leave her in the morning; she had hoped they would, but not really expected it. Again she sent out mental tendrils among them, and again drew them back quickly. The hunger evident in their surface minds was less demanding, but it remained. It was only a matter of time, then: a single woman and eight passive fersu could not hope to stand against an entire pack of carnivores, intelligent or no. There might have been some hope for her through her telepathic skills, but the kisune mind was evidently so alien that she would not be able to hold on to it long enough to establish control. .Because there was nothing better to do, Anzha repacked the sled and hitched the fersu up to it once more. To her surprise the kisunu parted before her, encouraging the progress of the sled by lack of interference. Not one to question small favors, she headed dutifully westward. Previously she had napped while traveling. Now she dared not do so. The ice-fields were smooth and without crevasses, the armor-barked branches which breached its surface exceptions rather than the rule. It was a very different place than the cracked-glacier surface of Luus where she had done a terrain internship. This, in its way, was almost more dangerous, for on Derleth there was no need for the constant alertness that kept one's mind occupied and fought back the edge of madness. She allowed herself to smile. There was little risk, now, of seeing boredom drive her to insanity. A little more risk of being eaten, perhaps, but that was in many ways a preferable death to slow torture by unending gray tedium. 6'Yes," she said aloud, surprised to find herself talking. "I should be grateful to you. You've spared me something very terrible, without even knowing it." And for the first time in that half-year, human laughter resonated in the ice-laden wastelands. 'Such a polite enmity, my gentle escorts! The Braxins would like you." She was talking as much to herself as to them, discovering that any human voice-even her own-was welcome in the gray emptiness. "They make a ritual of enmity, and devise rules by which to control hostility and drag it out for the lengthiest possible enjoyment." ZShe looked over the pack, a good thirty strong if not more. She had no desire to count them. "A race, then. I think we understand each other. I will feed you for as long as I can and you'll play escort while I do. And the question is, which comes first-the western mountains or the last of the hersu?" (But long before that, she thought, I'll be walking. FTime enough for that when it comes. She camped before nightfall and built a small fire, saving most of her flame-dust for when she might need it later, to drive back death. Then, acting as though nothing in the world had changed since yesterday, she slaughtered another of the sled-animals and spent an evening rendering it into its component parts. With the rich organ meats she fed herself and the remaining hersu, upon whose strength she was coming to depend more and more. The majority of the meat she flung to the waiting pack. r'Your share," she muttered, watching the ritual division. It surprised her, in the days to come, just how strong the hersu were. Not until there were only four left did she need to start lightening the sled, a painful task, since everything in it was vital to survival. The kisunu could run long days on little food, and so were satisfied to lope along beside her in the rapidly shortening days. She fed them when she sensed their hunger, and she fed the hersu regularly, lest they be too weak to carry her forward; herself she fed only when she had to, and sometimes less often than that. Over and over she repeated, HAzean medicine can undo all of this. So she bribed the predators to keep their distance and sacrificed her own strength for forward motion, in the desperate hope of getting home. Sometimes she slept. She tried not to, but exhaustion would beat her down until she awoke suddenly, finding she had napped without knowing it. The days dragged on without end and hunger was a constant companion. She ceased to look for the mountains; they had become a dream of the past, something which stirred in her memory but which took too much effort to identify. An eternity had passed on the ice and the rhythm of it, chilling and regular, had finally conquered her. Too soon only a pair of hersu remained, and they could not pull the sled without killing themselves in the process. Resigned, Anzha strapped those items of vital necessity to her back, improvising leashes for the frightened animals and continued, determined, on foot. The yellow eyes of her enemies seemed to be filled with derision. It had only been a matter of time all along, they taunted. In the still of the Derlethan night she heard the words as though they had been spoken, and in the voice that spoke them there was no inflection she recognized, nor any hint of a language she could relate to. tEach night when she camped she cast forth her thoughts in search of possible game; each night the ice-fields proved barren of any life outside of her own hostile gathering. If a snowsnake had moved in the distance she would have tried to hunt it, trusting to her guardians' sense of amusement to let her do so, but there was not even that. If the kisunu did not eat her they would not eat at all-and that left very little room for bargaining. HSoon the last of the hersu was gone. 'This is it, my friends." She had gotten used to the presence of the pack and talked to the kisunu with some regularity. Painfully, she looked out over the ice fields. Half a year... it was a much longer period of time than she had thought possible; when one lived it day by day without variation it became an eternity. "This is it..." |Far to the west, the cloudcover broke. She had come to turn away from the brilliant flashes of sunlight, for their promises were empty and hope, in this wasteland, was only cause for torment. But as light danced over the ice-fields she stiffened, seeing something in the distance which had passed out of her imagining. Then the clouds closed overhead and the mountains passed into grayness again. 8She found she was trembling. |'Hasha..." she whispered, and in that nearly forgotten name was a link to a people she had lost all hope of ever seeing again. They would be waiting for her there, along with the natives, spread out in a band along the foothills to welcome her wherever she happened to arrive. It was within sight-and it was beyond hope. The kisunu would never let her get that far, and even without them she doubted she could walk the distance without sustenance. THave you come all this way to give up now?( she asked herself. Remember that the issue is not your own life, which you never wanted, but the revenge you hope to earn. Remember that all that matters about Derleth is the Imperial sanction granted you and the influential people who will owe you favors. That's all this ever was.< The kisunu were watching her. Her people would be waiting at the mountains with food; that was the ultimate irony. A short journey westward and she could feed these predators until they burst. If only she could make them understand! She reached out with her mind, and once more she touched something so alien that she could not endure the contact, but instinctively withdrew. No. She gritted her teeth and tried again. This time she touched a kisune soul and held onto it. Alien awareness flooded her being and she shook with the strain of maintaining the link. Then, with great suddenness, there was no contact at all. "Damn!" It was going to be harder than she had assumed. At the Institute they trained certain instinctive responses into the telepathic subconscious; one of them, Distinction Discipline, was automatically cutting off her access to the kisune minds. The Institute's intentions were good; the Discipline was meant to interfere any time a telepath became so engrossed in another personality that he began to lose his own, or when a telepath reached out to a mind so alien that any contact would be harmful. f'But a lot of good that does me now," she muttered. She would have to override a Discipline-and that had never, to her knowledge, been done. JShe closed her eyes and concentrated. Anzha lyu was not a Probe; she did not have the ability to deal with abstract thought without the aid of visualization. Perhaps a Probe could have contacted the kisunu without damage, able to absorb kisune thought-patterns without the need for more familiar images. Anzha lyu could not. Nor could she anticipate the reaction of one of these creatures to a mental invasion such as she was about to launch, and if their minds were alien to her, hers was equally so to them. .But it is that or death<, she reminded herself grimly. Deliberately she opened herself, pulling down all her natural defenses and leaving nothing to stand between her and the subject of her telepathy. Then, tentatively, she reached out toward the kisune she had approached before. $Again there was a terrible feeling of foreboding, and like a sliding wall something in her mind started to break off the contact. She struggled against it. Its strength was tremendous, but her will was no small thing. Soon she had lost awareness of the kisune altogether, caught up in an internal struggle for conscious mastery of her telepathic potential. She held back a wall-she bound a struggling animal-she frayed a tightening noose. All these images and more, until she lay panting on the floor of her inner mind, secure in the knowledge that she was strong enough to do the one thing the Institute sought to make impossible-attempt telepathic suicide. HAgain she reached out to the kisune. This time there was no interference. She was astounded to realize how much of that had been due to her training, and how little was due to any personal unwillingness to mindshare with an alien. With her training stripped away, she faced the predator's mind as she would a new frontier, dangerous and seductive, deadly and fascinating-a challenge; no more, no less. 0The kisune welcomed her. She hunted on the ice-field as it glowed with qualities she could not name, radiating heat in minutely small bits which her yellow eyes interpreted. Through her paws she could analyze vibrations from a long day's running distance, and could tell through that wonderfully sensitive tactile ability what was in the distance, and how far. Through means of an organ whose function she did not understand she sensed the presence of life, and distinguished between edible and inedible, intelligent and unreasoning, as easily as an Azean would distinguish between red and green. She found no color sense as such; what was the point? On the ice-plains there was no color, only the varying intensity of infra-red radiation which laid out before her eyes a landscape of wondrous variety, a subtle and wonderful place where the ice glowed for having been trod upon and bodies darkened to white as they died. She did not share her own senses with the kisune; she was embarrassed by their paucity. How could she have called this place tedious, a place so filled with wonders? Had the sky in truth been monotonous? Now it radiated distinctions of density and degrees of warmth, and was as rich to her kisune senses as a sunset would be to human eyes. Had the planet been uniformly cold? Sensory threads in the white-furred coat saw as well as felt minute variations in temperature so that there was warmth in the breeze, chill in the still air, waves of variety pouring forth from every warm-blooded thing which one ate, or accompanied, or mated with. XShe knew the kisune hunger for what it was, remembering the feeding. How good it would be to feel that again, not only renewed strength but the ecstacy of absorbing living warmth and watching it radiate through her system-of having her own body transparent to her life-sight-of sharing the boundless pleasure of feeding with one's pack-mates. What stronger bond could there be in the universe, and what richer world to inhabit? 2Motionless upon the ice, the fur-clad woman whom Azea had sent to Derleth sat quietly on the cold white plain, surrounded by kisunu. She had ceased to monitor her metabolism and it slowed to the rhythm of the kisune system. Her hands were limp by her sides and her eyes closed, as if nothing she could ever see or touch would again be of consequence. She was, in all things and in all ways, silent and still. jIn the distance, sunlight kissed the planet. Such warmth, though momentary, was painful to the heat-sense of all the creatures of Derleth. Those who saw it strike turned away from it, grateful when it passed for the return of that quiet regularity which allowed them to enjoy the subtle beauty of their world. At the western edge of the great ice-plain, within sight of the bordering mountains, a pack of thirty-five kisunu sat in silence. One by one they arose, and one by one turned westward. Then, as if it were one individual creature, the entire pack set off toward the mountains, under the rich cloud-canopy of Derleth. It would take them many days to get there. But the Kisunu could run far on little food and had all the patience in the world; thus it was that day after day the pack drew closer to the foothills... where the aliens, presumably, were waiting. In the distance, for a moment, the sun flashed silver on the ice-field. 'How many?" ver Ishte muttered. 'Thirty-six," the local agent told him. And then, after double-checking: "One of them's human." Praise HashaF! the Ambassador thought fervently. They were clearly visible now, and if he looked carefully ver Ishte could pick out individual animals. They were each as long as a man was tall, or more so, and carried a good deal of body weight on slender but well-muscled legs. 'Is this normal?" he asked in Derlethan. "Some kind of escort-?" ~The natives did not answer him. They had fallen to their knees. He could pick her out now, a tiny figure staggering to match the kisune pace. Her walk was uneven and spoke of pain-some injury, no doubt. His first instinct was to run forward to meet her. His second, that of self-preservation, kept him from doing so. 4'Anzha lyu..." he whispered. ~She had come to the foot of the first rise and laboriously began to climb. Now that he could see her face he discovered it was that of a stranger. Patches of dead white covered its surface, which had aged twenty years, it seemed, in three. Her eyes glowed with a cruel fervor which was at once more and less than human. <She felt her gaze upon him and raised her eyes to meet his. There was suffering evident in them such as he could only begin to guess at. Her cheeks were hollow with hunger and dark circles underscored her gaze; if he had imagined a manifestation of Death it could not have looked worse. She seemed to struggle with her thoughts, as though fighting to recall the nature of human language. "Feed them," she whispered finally. 'Anzha lyu-" ,"Feed them, damn you!" He waved hurredly to his own agents and they ran back to the shelter to get meat for the ice-killers. 'I... promised them." She seemed to be struggling for each word, as though it were an effort to think in human terms at all. She looked at the kneeling Derlethans. "As well you should..."she whispered. The men came back with meat and threw it to the kisunu. The starving animals waited until it had all been set before them and then, as was their wont, divided it into thirty-six portions. The last they left behind as they exited, each with his own rightfully earned share, seeking the silence of the ice-field and the privacy of the pack presence in which to share the joy of eating. The young woman did not stir until they were gone. Nor did she wish to be approached. Only when the kisunu had passed from sight did she take another step forward, weakly, as if she meant to join the human company but lacked the strength to make the climb. Ver Ishte went to her, half-running and half-sliding, and came to her as she fell. As soon as he touched her he sensed what was so desperately wrong. Z'By the Firstborn," he murmured, and rather than lifting her as he had meant to do, he sat by her side and cradled her in his arms. She resisted, as a wild animal will do, but only for a moment. Then with a low cry she buried her face in the fur of his coat and clutched at him in terror, and in need. He held her for some time like that, sensing that this was something she needed more than food and warmth if he was to bring her home again. And she held him tightly until she could pull herself no closer, desperately absorbing the essence of humanity from him through the closeness, fighting to reestablish her connection to their mutual species. Slowly, gradually, the frightened whine which issued from her throat became a human sobbing; tears, which the kisunu do not shed, began to squeeze frozen from her eyes. BAnd the world was gray once more. Harkur: Never underestimate man's ingenuity in masterminding his own destruction. Twelve To Kaim'era Lord Zatar, Zarvati, son of Vinir and K'siva From the Elders of the Holding 8The Elders respectfully remind you that it is required of each purebred Braxana male that he sire four registered purebred children during his lifetime. While we recognize that you are still young in age, your involvement in the War forces us to consider the possibility that you may not enjoy the full life expectancy of the Braxana'. Therefore we urge you to deal with your reproductive responsibility as soon as possible. Attached you will find a list of purebred Braxana" women who have not yet borne their quota. We hope you will consider this request in light of your military interests and do your part in maintaining the number and thus the power of our Race. * * * The Braxana estate on Karviki sprawled across acres of lush territory, richly purple in the fading red sunlight. The main house was an odd mixture of traditional Braxana (or Neo-Barbaric, as some critics called it) and the local architectural styles. Zatar regarded it for a long while before approaching. It disturbed him in a way he did not fully understand. Many Braxana designed their homes to incorporate foreign elements (his own tended toward Aldousan) but the mark of the Master Race was always dominant. Not so here. The primary impression was one of glass: glittering, fragile, worked in patterns of rose and blue between gleaming stone arches. Not true glass, he knew, nor a modern substitute, but the aurastone native to this planet. Viewed from inside, it would shatter the sun's ruby light into a kaleidoscope of star-like fragments. Beautiful... but vulnerable. He had a warrior's distaste for any House guarded by such insubstantial walls, but was not surprised to see it. Given its owner, it was appropriate. 4He glanced at the letters he had brought with him; one was a flatrendering of the Elders' message, which he had perused so often that the plastic was noticeably worn. The other was a message from Yiril, which he held in his hand a moment longer, re-reading it in the dying sunlight. Kaim'era Zatar-lt means what you think it does. Make your choice with care. 'I can guess," he said quietly. 'Tell me." & "The Kaim'era is no doubt familiar with my record." How could he describe the situation without condemning himself? "My talon was the first to breach the Suraan front, and we led the attack on Zerenk'ir and Fri. Our territorial gains in this sector have been numerous-'' Until recently, he admonished himself, and stopped his recital suddenly, embarrassment clogging his throat. You are like a schoolboy, listing your accomplishments in the hope of delaying punishment.T Or of earning sympathy? The thought was repulsive. "My recent record... has not been so impressive." Were there no better words? "I'm sure the Kaim'era knows the details." 'Losses-erratic, unexplained, inexcusable. Defeat under circumstances which should have guaranteed victory. Punctuated by triumphs every bit as brilliant as those we have come to expect of you. And that is the problem, Commander Herek. If this were simply the case of a warrior past his prime... well, there are ways to deal with that. But it doesn't seem to be the case. Yes, when we look for the fruits of your excellent reputation, we are often disappointed. But if we seek for evidence of the decline of a great mind, we are equally frustrated. .'Garran has sorted through every file connected with your progress, and all our computers have failed to come up with a pattern to explain your losses. So: I've come here to investigate, Talon-Commander. Both you, and your circumstances. To determine the cause of your recent defeats, and take whatever action is necessary to correct the problem. The House of War will abide by my decision. Any questions?" If he had leveled a neural stun at Herek, he could not have left him more speechless. Was it possible that the Braxana-so quick to punish, so blind to the concept of innocence-would work to save him and his reputation, rather than simply replacing him? It was incredible; he could not accept it. He had feared a confrontation such as this for so long that he no longer had any realistic concept of his value as a commander. He could only wonder why Zatar was bothering, and offer lamely, "How can I serve you?" R'I need access to your files-public, private, the things you sent to Garran and especially the things you didn't. I'm. willing to bet that somewhere on this ship is the information I need to establish a pattern; it isn't in the House of War's computer, hence it must have been edited out at this end. I'll want scannerlogs, composites, any and all material that pertains to the battles in question. And unlimited computer access, to run the analytic matrices. That's a start. I will want you to search your own memory, painful though that may be; I want to live those battles with you until I can see, through your eyes, just what happened. Somewhere there is a key element that Tactical has failed to isolate; we must find it if we are to understand how the enemy has managed to better you. Now: satisfy me as to your own endeavors. You've looked into the possibility of a single strategist masterminding the majority of your defeats?" 'I have, Lord Commander." That would have been the easiest course: identify the enemy, analyze his tactical preferences, and develop a plan to neutralize them. "The Azean system for determining tactical authority is somewhat chaotic, but I've managed to work out who was responsible for what in each of the battles in question. There is no common thread there, I regret to say." Zatar nodded. "That agrees with Garran's research. What about spies? Informants? A leak in your communications network?" Herek had investigated all that, to the point of issuing false orders in the hope of manipulating such a leak to his advantage. But the five fully prepared warships who met him off Yusudru made it clear that this was wasted effort. However they did it, the enemy seemed to know his plans. Just as the strange Azean had known when Sezal would fire upon him... xHe must have looked startled, for Zatar asked, "Commander?" 'A report from my First Sword... he came against a fighter who managed to evade him by anticipating his attack." Wasn't that what had happened in each one of those fateful battles-that the enemy had known, somehow, what Herek had planned to do? F'Please continue," Zatar urged him. T'That's all. It seemed unnatural to him-" 4Just as those battles did.t He looked up at the Braxana and offered, stunned, "There is` a pattern. But how do we determine its source?" 'One thing at a time. Is this pilot's confrontation in your records?" 'Of course. Along with a composite analysis of the fighter in question." 'Compiled by-?" ('First Sword Sezal." x'Excellent. I'll want to see it-and him. You'll arrange it?" VHe bowed. "Of course, my Lord." Muscles were relaxing now that had been knotted for days-since he'd learned of Zatar's assignment to the Sentira. The flood of tension from vhis body left calm in its wake, and with it hope. "I am the *Commander's servant." X'Yes." The Braxana nodded. "And a good one." nHe gave the compliment a moment to sink in, then added, <'I do not intend to lose you." HIt was hard to keep the men in line. At first they were merely sullen; hostility surfaced now and again, but on the whole things were quiet. *Then the storm began. Who is this man, anyway? What right has he got to march in here and take over? Questions Sezal himself had asked. How could he hope to answer them? Just what in Ar's name is a Lord Commander? What's Herek going to do now-wait upon him hand and foot? Who's in charge when we're under attack, that's what I want to know! Herek and Zatar were in constant conference-sharing notes, feeling their way around an awkward relationship. It was not yet necessary for the pilots to be briefed. When it was time to fight, they would be told who was doing what. Wouldn't they? He's a groundling, a blessed useless aristocrat. Put him out there in the Void and he'll go crazy. What's he doing here? They were his own thoughts, sometimes his own words. It was hard to silence men when they spoke the truth. He's fine on flatscreen, but has he ever been on a warship before? What does he think will happen when we come up against the enemy? Does he expect everyone to wait while he consults his maps and his charts and whatever blessed else he's got going on in there? He could only remind them that Zatar was Braxana, he was their ruler, he had the right to kill them at will. It quieted them, but only briefly. For they were afraid. Not of his power, but of the man himself. They saw him in the corridors and were stunned by his physical perfection. They came into the gym and saw him working out there, his woolen costume stretched tight against his flesh as he drove himself on and on without stop, managing feats of strength that Sezal's men could only dream of. And there lay the crux of the matter. Zatar played upon their deepest insecurities, causing them to reevaluate who and what they were. They were used to being valued above all others; now someone new had been added to the top of the social ladder. They had lived in a world without class distinctions; now, inspired by the presence of a fullbred Lord, some of them recalled their lower-class origins and cursed the name that had awakened bad memories. They were strong men in their own right, but when they saw his strength they wondered at their own relative weakness; when they stood before him the very slightness of build which made them successful pilots seemed a badge of shame, a less than masculine framework. Easier to curse him, then, to recite over and over the list of his limitations. He has never fought. He wouldn't know how to fight. He is a rich and spoiled Lord who will take one look at the War and turn tail for home. You would certainly never catch him out there in the Void, with nothing but a forcefield between him and the enemy! It gave them some comfort, to put it in those terms. Sezal found that he could not silence them. He managed to confine the worst of such outbursts to small, enclosed areas. The pilot's quarters, mostly. And that should have made them safe. tBut he remembered what Herek had said, and he was afraid. ~The Braxana have ways of knowing what goes on, even in private. Were they being watched? Had Zatar in fact heard their outbursts? Was he biding his time until he could invoke the demon of Whim Death to thin their ranks, or was he planning a more subtle vengeance? dLike all good Braxins, they feared for themselves. He$ feared for Herek. With a sign of exasperation, Zatar turned the starmap off. The pattern of losses defied analysis. Battle after battle had been reconstructed for his study, yet he was no closer to finding an answer than he had been on Garran. PAnd yet... the feeling that something was wrong, here, that some unspoken rule had been broken, grew stronger with each passing shift. There was no reason for it that he could put his glove on, but the more he watched the interplay of swordship and fighter, the more he observed gunships laboriously dragging themselves into position and warships, the gods of interstellar battle, coming in behind them, the more he was certain that something was amiss. Take Kley-or rather, take the battle which had preceded the loss of Kley. It was the custom of both sides to focus their attention on centers of civilian population: people could be conquered, empty space could not. Besides, in the vastness of the War Border it was almost impossible to locate the enemy, much less come insync with his frame of reference. Or so Garran had always believed. "The key word was almost. He called up that battle again and watched it unfold, brow furrowed in thought. The enemy had come upon them unawares, striking at the talon's vulnerable flank. A long and bloody confrontation followed, in which numerous swordships and even a gunship were damaged; Herek and his men fought well, but they were hard pressed to correct their initial disadvantage. By the time the Azeans broke off their offensive, a good part of the talon's mobility had been damaged. Swordships were vital to a planetary campaign: they alone could withstand the inferno of atmospheric friction, fighting natural gravity and dodging the best efforts of a land-based defense system to lay waste to choice targets, then fleeing too swiftly for outsync instruments to get a fix on them. Gunships were for space stations, blockades, the rare but deadly outsystem battles; it was on its swordships that a talon depended when a grounded target must be convinced to surrender. Herek had been concerned about the risk of going ahead with the Kleyan campaign-his log made that clear-but had decided to risk it. His swordship capacity had not been critically damaged. The Kleyan offensive had been coordinated with the efforts of two other talons, so that Azea's attention would be elsewhere when he struck. To delay his attack would lose him that advantage. He made certain he had sufficient firepower to destroy a planet-he had, ten times over-and sent out scouts by the hundred to comb the nearby Void for shipsign. Nothing. Reports from the Lyrellan system indicated that the bulk of Azea's fleet was there, and he knew that Talon-Commanders Rejik and Kamur would keep them occupied. It was all arranged. Now there was only Kley itself... And disaster. Because the Azeans were waiting, five motherships and a horde of fighters, waiting to prey on the Sentira's weakened forces. A smaller number of ships could not have defeated Herek, and even these five could not have done so had they not known, with frightening accuracy, the speed and angle of the talon's approach. By the time the battle had begun, it was already over. It was the first of many nightmares, a harbinger of the zhents to come... and the beginning of the end for the Holding's greatest Commander. nSo where in Ar's name was Azea getting its information? (He dismissed the starmap display, called up a composite image of Sezal's recent adversary. The First Sword's analysis of the fighter had been both thorough and disturbing. He had stripped the ship of its only nonvital mass, but still could not explain its alarming capacity. Nor was he content with that result. To cut the basemass down to absolute minimum, he had removed both the emergency grounding gear and the fighter's small store of rations. A pilot's survival often depended upon his ability to land on a planet and wait for assistance; that Azea might have discarded these things seemed highly improbable. But then, everything about this fighter was. He smiled, but did not answer. You'll see. He opened fire upon the enemy, testing it for opposition. There was none. Given that the Azean fighter had proven itself capable of taking out a swordship in the moment that it fired, its inactivity was reasonable proof that its pilot was no longer in control. Excellent. The field absorbed his fire, glowed briefly, then dispersed the energy. Dismantling it would require extreme precision. Too weak an offense, and the forcefield would simply disperse it. Too sustained, and it would overload. They needed that perfect balance: enough to damage the generator, not enough to make it self-destruct. ^The pilot, of course, could awaken at any time. DAnd then there was the mothership... d'Go," Zatar said, transmitting an attack sequence. Carefully, carefully: fire just so, this strength, this rhythm, a little bit more than the forcefield can handle and then ease up, ease up quickly! and feed ever so little energy in for the final blow- tEXTERIOR FORCEFIELD DISPELLED, the computer informed him. 4'Well done," he whispered. ,'What now, Commander?" He noted that Sezal's voice was unsteady; either he had been badly damaged by their flight, or he had looked at the rising risk factor. It could have been pain or fear in his voice; the result was the same. L'Now we take him," Zatar said lightly. Silence. No comment was necessary. He knew the pilot's thoughts as well as if they were his own. ZHe must be crazy. He can't mean what he said. *But he did. They had to have that ship in order to know what they were fighting, and therefore it had to be boarded. While in Voidflight. At a risk factor so great than any sane man would have turned back long ago, under circumstances that would render the boarder defenseless. vHe hesitated only a moment, then shut down his outer field. No response. With steady hands he checked the controls of his personal forcefield. In theory, it would protect him from the Void; in practice, it paid to make certain. But everything appeared to be in order. He reached across to his shipseal and unfastened it, letting the air bleed out. A tingling on his skin: that was the forcefield, using his body's conductivity as a template for activity, stabilizing itself against the pull of vacuum. The recycler clicked into Voidmode; now it would not only supply fresh air for him to breathe and maintain his body temperature, but it would monitor his infield pressure as well. He thought of all the things that a nonpermeable forcefield might accomplish, and wondered that man had ever braved the Void without one. To face the Void with nothing but a layer of matter between one's self and the killing vacuum-that was a terrifying thought. He checked the controls one last time, then cracked the cockpit open- xAnd chaos, black and malignant, assaulted his eyes and mind. The superluminal Void. A secret world which nature had not meant man to see, it was a reality no human mind could grasp. An infinity of darkness in which reason defied observation-an emptiness so absolute that the mind fought to deny its existence. Where movement was lacking, the unconscious mind created it. Darkness crawled, writhed, twisted across the eyes and pierced the unwilling brain, driving back rational thought in favor of sensory chaos. There was noise, but it defied description-noise that blinded, noise that choked, a black, hollow sound that filled the universe with its emptiness. The senses mixed and merged, each seeking in the other some genuine stimulus to serve as an anchor in the eternal Nothing-and failing. The mind floundered, lost in chaos... and welcomed fear as a concrete thing, a familiar sensation in a universe gone mad. 'Commander?" Zatar closed his eyes, tried to focus on the sound coming from his halfhelm. "Commander:. Do you require assistance?" He managed to find his voice. "No," he murmured. No one must see him like this. "I'm all right." I must be.. "Cover me: I'm going." >By feel alone he found the safety line; he hooked it to the harness of his forcefield as the computer brought him closer to the enemy. LOCKSYNC, it informed him at last. The Azean ship was an arm's length away, and appeared to be hanging motionless beside his own. He tried not to look at the chaos which surrounded it as he set his own ship for thrust compensation. It would do what it had to in order to maintain its position relative to the Azean vessel; if luck was with him-and if the enemy pilot did not recover too soon-he would be able to board the enemy ship and lock its computer insync with his own. That was the theory, anyway. How few times had it been done? Focusing his vision upon the enemy's hull, he eased himself out of the swordship. He had Voidwalked before, but never at such speeds; the theory was the same, but the risk was much greater. He was careful not to look into the Void as he worked his way over to the enemy ship, ran a support line over one of the fireports, and anchored himself to it. `If the pilot comes to now... not a pretty picture, he thought. He searched for the shipshell release, panicked for a moment when it wasn't where he had expected to find it. Wasn't Azean technology supposed to be the mirror image of his own? Then he remembered the reverse principle, shifted to the far side of the hull, and searched there. After a moment he had it. Application of pressure, just so, released the safety catch... it was similar to the ships he had trained on. There was a moment's delay, then the fighter split open. And he had access. pThe pilot was slumped against the far side of the ship, blood staining his face around the eyes, ears and mouth. The bioscan indicated recent death. Zatar looked closer, realized that he was in fact a she-and then saw something which made his blood freeze in his veins, which did more to unnerve him than all the powers of the Void combined. VWith a trembling hand he touched the cord which was wound around her helmet. Since the forcefield ended at the helmet's surface, he was able to lift it without difficulty. tRed and silver. He looked at it for a moment, then tucked it into his harness. Then, trembling, he turned his attention to the computer. The implications of what he had seen were sunshattering in magnitude; it took effort to push them aside for the moment, to fix his attention on what he was supposed to be doing. He knew computers-he was fluent in Azean-he had trained for such a moment and was as prepared as a man could be. Still, it took long minutes for him to convince the fighter's guiding brain to accept locksync with his own ship, mostly because he did not know the pilot's security code. But eventually he had it. The fighter accepted his guidance-or rather, Sezal's-and even as he worked his way back to the welcome security of his own tiny vessel, they began to turn away from the enemy, lowering the risk factor considerably. When he was safely ensconced in his swordship once more, Zatar broadcast an ALL'S WELL to Sezal. And put his hand to his forcefield harness, where the cord was safely hidden, and wondered if he hadn't lied. NThe First Sword's voice was strange; he seemed stunned by what had happened. "Prepared to intercept the Sentira, Lord Commander. I have a course vector ready for you." ,He reviewed it-and flinched. Yes, they would have to endure considerable deceleration. Not as bad as the trip out, to be sure, but no pleasure cruise. P'Acknowledged," he told him. "Initiate." JThis time he had much to think about. First there was pain. Then light: shadows against a brilliant background, slowly resolving into color and form. Gradually his sense of self returned to him, and with it the omnipresent Braxana concern. P'Where am I... who is with me?" His throat was raw, and pain consumed his speech; the most he could manage was a whisper. Red-hot needles were piercing every limb, fires raging in every joint. He had thought, in his last conscious moments, that he could not possibly suffer more. He had been wrong. 'Fevak, son of Seras, chief medic of the Sentira." The voice was low and even, with just a tremor of nervousness. Didn't the Braxana kill those who witnessed their weakness? "You're in Surgical, in a private chamber. Can you see?" He took a deep breath before answering, and forced his voice to be strong despite the pain. "Yes." 'Good. There was some superficial damage to the eyes; I believe we corrected it." He recalled bursts of random light that had almost restored him to consciousness, and nodded. It hurt to move. "Anything else?" P'Minor internal damage. It's all been taken care of. Your eyes were the last, and the hardest. I'd like to test you for sensory reception as soon as you feel up to it." .It was acceptable for a Braxana to be wounded in battle, and there was no shame attached to medical treatment, but the battle was over now, and it was not acceptable to indulge in convalescence. Gathering his strength and his courage, Zatar forced himself to sit up; the agony was such that a return to darkness would have been welcome. But he could make out the medic's face, and was pleased to note the look of astonishment his movement had inspired. "What's my present condition?" he asked. 'Frankly, incredible. You shouldn't even be alive, much less conscious." There was awe in his voice. Good, Zatar thought; from here it would spread through the ship. "Your body is a mass of bruises, inside and out. I think we fixed up the worst of it, but you're going to be uncomfortable for a good long while." 'I am a warrior," he answered. Let him make of that what he wished. He could see the room now, hastily rearranged for his comfort. His clothes had been cleaned and were laid out beside him. Behind them, on a hook, was a loose black robe of some soft-surfaced fabric. 'Your clothing took its toll," the medic explained. "There's a reason that pilots dress as they do. Under pressure such as you experienced, every fold of cloth is hyperabrasive. I recommend some more moderate attire until you're done healing." Now that his vision was finally in focus, he could see the damage the medic was talking about. Dark purple stripes scored his legs, arms, and torso, and bloody lines-now bandaged with clearflesh-marked the places where folds of thick woolen cloth had been driven into his skin. He would have to spend some time undergoing forced regeneration if he wanted to recover without scars. TDrawing a deep breath for strength, he forced himself to his feet. Alone, he would certainly have fallen; in the presence of another man, he could not afford to do that. It took all his strength to maintain his balance while the room swirled around him at dizzying speed. "How is Sezal?" he asked. 'In bad shape, but he'll live. He was dressed for the ride, and we got to him in time. Some damage, but nothing we can't correct. I restricted him to bed for the time being. In your case," he said dryly, "I lack that option." pHe focused on reaching for his clothing-hands burning, room swaying, but image was the ultimate master. Then he had it, and somehow managed to get himself into the tight gray garments without help. It would have hurt a lot less to wear the robe, but that wasn't an acceptable option. "How long since the battle?" 'You've been out for two days," the medic said quietly. "Some of that because of sedation. Herek's been asking after you at regular intervals. He'll want to see you as soon as you're up to it." 'Of course." There was a glass jar by the side of the bed. The medic picked it up and opened it. "I thought you might need this." Skinwhite. Opaque-that was good. He normally used more translucent cosmetics, but this would hide the discoloration. A glance in the mirror told him just how bad his condition was, and he applied the thick white cream as much for his own peace of mind as for anyone else's benefit. Perfect: between that and his clothing, he appeared remarkably undamaged. "You'll tell Herek I'm ready to see him." 'Here?" "'In my quarters." V'But the healing-" Zatar's glare cut him short. "Of course, my Lord. May I recommend that you schedule some time for regeneration? The damage is not yet fully corrected." 'Your advice is noted," he told him. "For now, have Herek meet me in my quarters. And inform Sezal that he is welcome, as well." ~'He's in very bad shape," the medic protested. "He needs rest." 'All the more reason to invite him. The choice must be his. You understand me?" 'Of course, Lord Commander." The look in his eyes spoke volumes. You should not be walking. You should not even be moving. There is a strength in you beyond what is rightfully human. "As you wish." Two days of constant worry had taken their toll on Herek. The color of his face had yellowed, giving his markings an even more animal cast. There were lines about his eyes and mouth that had not been there two days before, which spoke of sleepless nights and endless tension. Had he feared that Zatar would die? It would seem so, for his face as he entered the room was a mask of utter astonishment. "My Lord," he muttered, and he lowered himself to one knee, in ritual homage. "You are well?" 'It would seem so." He allowed a moment for that to sink in, then asked, "You've studied the fighter?" Herek stood. "We have. It wasn't what we expected-or rather, it was, but more. It wasn't just the grounding equipment that had been removed." <'Communications," Zatar mused. >Herek was startled. "You know?" 'I guessed." TWhat need has that kind for a transmitter?& "Tell me details." "'The system was stripped of certain key facilities. Signal augmentation, relay input... they're working on a complete analysis now. Enough hardware missing to drop the fighter's basemass below its normal range. Although to accept such a handicap... I just can't understand it." Zatar did, but said nothing to enlighten him. Now was not the time; there were political ramifications to what the Conqueror had done, and he wanted them firmly in hand before he revealed the truth. \This, too, would ultimately serve his purpose. 'It's not necessary to understand it," he counseled. "It's been done; it remains for us to respond effectively. And we mustn't assume that because the equipment is missing, the fighter was out of touch with its mothership." $Just the opposite.r "It's more than likely that they compensated elsewhere." j'They must have," he agreed, but his expression said How? 'As for the rest of it: You've been fighting one enemy, Herek, though the truth has been obscured by your circumstances. The Starcommander of the Conqueror is your nemesis; analyze his strategy, and you will find the key to victory. And there'll be other benefits, as well. When we attributed the Conqueror's battles to other commanders, we were handicapped in analyzing their work as well. Garran certainly has its analytic work cut out for it," he mused. 'With all due respect to House of War," Herek dared, "I've begun such work myself. When you first mentioned your suspicions to me-" 'No need to excuse yourself, Talon-Commander. I commend your initiative, and your skill. I have no doubt that you will be able to adapt to this new information, and adjust your plans accordingly." Trembling slightly, Herek bowed his head. "Of course, Lord Commander." You are mine,r Zatar thought. It was an excellent start. "I had hoped-" YOU HAVE A VISITOR, the computer informed him. In confirmation, the portal chimed. 'Who is it?" $FIRST SWORD SEZAL. 'Let him in." *The door hissed open. nSezal was a mass of bruises, even as Zatar was, but he bore his wounds with naked pride, having no cosmetics to disguise them. His eyes were rimmed in red but they were alert, and if his face tightened in pain as he forced himself across the room that was only to be expected. Unlike Zatar, he was merely human. 'My Lord," he whispered. There was awe in his voice, a depth of emotion as new to him as it was to Zatar. Perhaps it was the memory of what the Braxana had done, and against what odds, that overwhelmed him; perhaps it was simply the unflawed visage which the Braxana presented, bruises masked by makeup and a body that refused to acknowledge pain. Either way, the image had its desired effect. BPainfully lowering himself onto one knee, he extended his arms in the manner required by the rites of formal submission. "It is an honor to serve you," he said. It was worth all the pain to receive such a gesture. Pain was but temporary; the loyalty of such men as these was priceless. Zatar approached Sezal, moving with a grace that belied his suffering, and set his hands about the pilot's wrists. "You don't know what you're offering," he warned him, "but that which you understand, I accept." He released his wrists without saying the ritual words: 2I choose not to bind you. Sezal didn't know that his gesture of submission, inspired by the passion of the moment, made him Zatar's property according to Braxana tribal law. And there was no reason to tell him; that he was moved to do it in the first place was enough. 'You'll be going back to Garran?" Herek asked quietly. There was a hint of regret in his voice. 'Back to Braxi," Zatar corrected. He helped Sezal to his feet, though he barely had the strength to do so. "After sending a full report to Garran, of course. But I have things at home that require my attention." Such as research. Politics. Planning. vWhat would you say if you knew that your enemy was psychic? v'Will you be returning to the Border?" Herek asked quietly. He looked at the Talon-Commander, read his expression for what it was and smiled. You are mine, he thought. JYou and the pilots-you and your crew. 'I will," he promised them. "In my own ship. When the time is right." 2The future was beckoning. Viton:| The relationship between hatred and desire is this: That they are born of the same passionate source; that, being observed, they are often confused; and that each one intensifies the other. Fifteen 1 Sila opened the door noisily, that the Kaim'eri might be warned of her entrance. 'Ah, what timing! Zatar, your Mistress is unequaled in her choice of servants." 'I pick them out myself, you know that, Sechaveh-or you should. Have some wine." The delicately built Duveix woman knelt before him, extending the jeweled tray with its three full glasses. Sechaveh removed one and nodded her toward Yiril. "The air of fragility appeals to me." FZatar smiled. "I thought it would." ,'Am I so predictable?" His dark eyes were eloquent over the rim of his goblet as he sipped the wine. "Sometimes." |They took the moment to taste the vintage and comment in low voices upon its quality; not until the woman had left and the soundproofing was reset did they take up their conversation again. 'I'm with you," Sechaveh said. "For my own reasons, of course. And I don't necessarily approve of your methods. But I'll support you." ZZatar raised an eyebrow in Yiril's direction. tThe Kaim'era shrugged. "Who am I to defy the great Zatar?" >'I want more than that, Yiril." 'What can I give you? You show me plans based on superstitious fears. You tell me how you'll manipulate fools. I have to ask if that's enough." 'The time is right." Zatar put his glass down and pushed it away from him, the motion underscoring his modal intensity. "Century after century the Kaim'eri have considered alternative structures for our government. If there's a change to be made, it must be made soon. Before our numbers are too few. Before we're so weakened that the Holding rises against us. Then it will be too late." 6'All agreed-many, many times over. But Zatar, there still has to be a man willing to bring the issue up for a vote, and enough men willing to sacrifice their own power to avert a catastrophe that might not come in their lifetime. You tell me they can be manipulated psychologically. I tell you that they're selfish-and in any battle on Braxi I have utter faith that the latter quality will triumph." 'And I agree. Therefore they must believe that the restructuring is necessary for them personally. Now, not later." p'There are still a lot of Braxana left," Sechaveh said dryly. "Even at an average loss of fifty percent per Plague season we have centuries to go before the Kaim'erate is depopulated." 'Just so." Zatar nodded his agreement. "But I contend that there are other dangers facing us besides racial extinction." V'Equally threatening?" Yiril asked sharply. N'In many ways more so. Now consider: a lone monarch such as Harkur has power that other men can never equal-and also more responsibility. That, I think, is the crucial point. So far we've been thinking of a Braxana figurehead position as something only favorable for the person gaining that position, something any man would want. But I contend there's a reverse side to the issue, and that's the part I mean to play upon." 'The Braxana aren't known for cowardice in the face of responsibility." 'But they're cowards when it comes to facing the truth-certain truths, at least. Watch this." THe reached over to the wall and flipped a panel open. "How long since we've received a complete military report in session?" he asked, fitting a chip into the input slot. The other two, startled, looked at each other. Now until that moment had they realized that the standard mapped presentation had recently been abandoned, and that the messengers delivering military news had been, if more dramatic, also more vague. f'Right." He swung back into position. "Watch this." The lighting in the room dimmed and a starmap took shape before them. Fully half the room was taken up by the three-dimensional display, with points of light proportionately placed in the darkness to represent stars and thin colored fog, red and blue respectively, to represent the territory held by Empire and Holding. "The War Border five zhents ago." He tapped the controls and the fog shifted slightly. "Four." Again. "Two." The red crept slowly forward like a living thing, engulfing the cooler space before it. "Last zhent." He let that sink in for a moment, then: "Our last report." 0The two were speechless. 'Yiril?" z'I can see why this wasn't presented to us," he said quietly. 'Yes," Sechaveh agreed, "And I think a few messengers have much to answer for." 'Granted." Zatar regarded the starmap with a mixture of pride and affection. "But for the moment, ignore that problem. Because we've got one much more worthy of our attention. Kaim'eri, we are losing the War." ~'Exchange of Border territory is old news," Sechaveh protested. @'Very true. But look at this." He walked into the map and indicated a peninsula of red extending well through the Border and approaching true Braxin space. "Kaim'eri, I ask you this: how will Braxi react when for the first time in ten thousand years our secure inner border is breached?" lPensive silence; at last Yiril muttered, "Very badly." 'Let's be more specific. We've never lost a war. I contend we don't know how to lose a war." Sechaveh smiled. "And it follows therefore that the Braxana have a great emotional stake in keeping that from happening during their rule." Viril was less convinced. "The loss of a minor star or two-that is Birsule, isn't it? I thought so-is not in and of itself the loss of the Great War." 0'But they'll be afraid." PSechaveh nodded. "Oh, it's a vile omen." 'And it won't hurt that it happened without most of them knowing about it." 'So you can add to it the feeling of being out of control. It's still not enough." 'All right." The map faded and the lights came on. "What if the enemy were female?" VThere was a pause as that information was digested. Sechaveh darkened noticeably, ominously, but said nothing. Yiril broke the silence. "You mean that female Director of-" 'I don't. The lead ship among those due to break the Braxin border is commanded by a female, as is the whole move from start to finish. And there's more." He paused, savoring their tension. "She's a telepath. Fully Functional, to use the Empire's terminology. She's employed at least one psychic in the past, and may be planning to bring in even more. Kaim'eri, what we're facing here is a change in the very nature of the War! A change which will destroy us. I ask you, will that frighten them?" 'If it doesn't, I would question their sanity. But is it the truth, Zatar? Or convenient fabrication?" 'Unfortunately, it's the truth. I realize there have been psychics among the Azeans for centuries; why have they joined the fleet only now? I can't tell you that. But this I know: communication is the key to all transluminal warfare. We are limited only by the range of our instruments. What happens when the Azeans extend their range-to infinity? I say to you in all honesty, Kaim'eri, that this woman is the start of something which-if allowed to continue-will mean our defeat." Z'At the hands of a woman," Sechaveh muttered. J'Combine the loss of all power with the threat of the shem'Ar. Draw them a picture of the Holding on its knees to a woman. Bowing down to a psychic-we, who have killed our own children to keep that mutation from ever dominating us! If they don't fear that, Kaim'eri, then they aren't Braxana." 'It's a good scare," Yiril agreed. His voice was tense. "And it would seem that this woman knows it." Pleased that he understood, Zatar nodded. "That's the irony of it. In actual trade of territory across the lengthd of the Border we're in a stronger position than before. Did either of you notice that in the map? Did either of you think to ask? The concept of being defeated by a female-by a psychicz female-is so disturbing that it overwhelms your reasoning. I believe she's counting on that. I believe she's fighting to break into Braxin space for just that reason: because the move will dishearten us, giving her the psychological advantage. Her psychic abilities give her a unique advantage in that arena." He paused; the tension in the room was palpable. "She means to win the War, Kaim'eri. And given her nature, she could possibly do it." n'Who is she?" Yiril asked quietly. "I gather you know." 'Her name is Anzha lyu Mitethe. Daughter of Darmel lyu Tukone and heir to his insight. Technically non-Azean; she had the misfortune to inherit a gene-grouping from some foreign ancestor, and the racial authorities raised enough of a fuss to have her denied citizenship. A living paradox-and a dangerous one. I propose getting rid of her. Now. While it's still possible." H'Very good," Sechaveh agreed. "How?" N'I don't believe she can be killed at the Border. They're having a hard enough time trying to contain her forces; I don't think they'll be able to destroy the Conqueror itself. But StarControl enforces periodic ground leave on a regular basis. Eventually, Anzha lyu Mitethe will leave her ship." *'You propose a raid?" 'An assassination. Slip one man into the Empire, where they least expect a Braxin to be." 'Security is tighter than it once was," Yiril pointed out. "Because of you." 'I did it once, and I believe it can be done again. The Azeans are blind to the concept of racial impersonation. They don't live with the variety of humankind that we do; they're not accustomed to looking at strangers and trying to determine their origin. Their racial instinct dictates that anything which looks Azean and acts Azean is, in fact, Azean. The only risk would come in the presence of Security personnel, but that's a very small part of the overall picture. A necessary risk." `'You would go yourself," Sechaveh said suddenly. L'Of course. Who else could manage it?" Viril was clearly skeptical. "You were younger the last time. More adaptable. And you had less to lose." P'How long will it take?" Sechaveh asked. d'Two to three years, I estimate. That includes time to master the assimilation and an approach route that circles back around the Empire, to a lightly guarded border. Say three." 'Three years without an appearance at the Citadel," Sechaveh mused. "It would mean tremendous political loss." 'Kaim'eri-we're in this together, or not at all. Listen to what I propose: I'll go to the Empire and deal with this woman. You, in the meantime, have two to three years in which to work on the other Kaim'eri. Take control of the War advisory and its reports. Alter them if necessary! Play on your colleagues' fears. The threat's real enough, and falls in line perfectly with Braxana mythology. Most of these men are more superstitious than they would ever admit; I believe they can be manipulated through that weakness. 'We all accept that the current division of power is self-defeating. Offer an alternative-a small body of men to deal with threats of this magnitude. Figurehead positions, at first. What we need is to establish the precedent." R'And you, playing Savior of the Holding-" X'They would never elevate me alone; the Braxana mind doesn't think that way. There would have to be others to help me wield the power-the two of you-and an equal number of those opposed, to balance it. And one uncommitted Kaim'eri to give us a prime number. Seven in all. Does that sound reasonable?" 'A High Kaim'erate, in other words." Yiril was thoughtful. "We've considered it before, you know." 'Exactly. With you laying the groundwork and me supplying the catalyst, it could work." 'The threat is good," Sechaveh said. "The timing is certainly right. It would require the proper showmanship..." L'Ah, yes." Zatar resumed his seat; his eyes were shining as he picked up his glass again. "The necessary melodrama. How would this be for a climax, Kaim'eri-the terrible Anzha lyu Mitethe dying the Black Death right before our very eyes, in a Truce Station, with her people unable to help her?" XSechaveh smiled. "I'd say that might do it." 'Or nothing will," Yiril agreed. "If, as you say, the right ground were laid for it..." h'That," the young Kaim'era told them, "is your job." 2 $Dayshift was over. $Alone on the observation deck, Anzha lyu Mitethe regarded the star-studded blackness. On the level below, a room full of instruments measured the nature and extent of that empty vision. But they could not capture its majesty, she thought, more than this simple observation. Breathing deeply, she let her senses reach out into the darkness. Far off and to the right the consciousness of a planet's population radiated psychic warmth and she identified it: Ikn. Farther still, almost farther than she could reach, focused hostility marked the War Border. There: the familiar touch of her colleagues, well-intentioned but mired in tradition. And there, beyond them: points of violence in the darkness, singing of blood and death and the ecstacy of violence, surrounded by minds that could never share their music. Braxins. When the Conqueror came closer, she would be able to pinpoint specific identities, and begin to chart their locations; for now, there was only the welcome caress of their hatred, spread out across the stars. With a sigh, she limited her awareness to the ship. Ground leave was a necessity, but she would be glad to get back to the Border. Her stop on Adrish had done more harm than good. Hopefully, it had accomplished better things for her crew. She suspected that most of them felt the way she did, and would rather not leave the War at all. There was so much to do, and time was precious... 8A quick walk took her from the deck. The dayshift crew was settling into public rooms or private quarters, to eat or rest or amuse themselves as individual tastes would have it. She made her way through tubes and corridors to a door which beckoned "GYM II" and opened at her approach. It was hers. Not in fact, for the great ship's gyms were open to all, but in atmosphere. Its close confines had been dominated by the barbaric decor she had added-racks of bladed weapons, modern and antique, sharp and blunted; scores of feather-tipped projectiles and bows to give them flight; staves and slings and even some weapons alien to the Empire, as well as from all cultures within it. The interest which Yumada had encouraged had become an obsession; there was something in the games of death that suited her nature as no other pastime could. FShe chose a matched set of throwing daggers and the gym, obliging, supplied the proper target. They were from Rahn, the gift of a grateful people in return for her timely support. She smiled as she tested their balance. She had never publicized her hobby-she didn't have to. Merchants combed the galaxy for the bladed remnants of barbarism and sold the best of it, if not to her, to those who would seek to please her. The first dagger cut through the air and into the target, a hand's width from the center. She frowned. Slipping. The second was closer, but the third, overcompensating, split the edge of the small target and lodged in the wall. ('Not your best day." dShe turned to find her private medic leaning, smiling, against the portal. Reflexively she did a surface analysis-shallow good humor, underlying tension, something trying to communicate and not knowing how to start. Violence? Fear? No, that must be the weapon-associations, and her own frustration-not Tau. \'I've had better. Thought you had work to do?" >'I do. You're it. Can we talk?" 'Go ahead." V'Alone." That something inside him was looking for... an environment to inspire it. The gym wasn't right. What was, she couldn't read without violating telepathic etiquette. 'My rooms?" 'Fine." She studied his surface emotions as they walked. Hesitation, apprehension. Why? In many ways that little was worse than knowing nothing at all. Her personal seal on the door seemed redundant in light of the Conqueror's security and he had often remarked on it. Now he said nothing. Even his thought pattern projected an unnatural stillness; clouds, drawing together before the storm. Setting people at their ease had never been her forte. She waited. R'It's about the medical probe on Adrish." She said nothing. Her face, well trained, betrayed nothing more than politely concerned curiosity. 'As you know, the Adrishite Elders requested my counsel on an unusual autopsy. They thought my unique experience might be of value." 4'So you said at the time." D'I didn't complete the procedure." Her face darkened. "You should have told me this insystem. Stellar rank gives you the right-'' H'I wasn't stopped, Starcommander. I chose2 not to continue. The studies they showed me were enough to confirm certain unpleasant suspicions I'd had for some time, suspicions I dared not put to the test for fear the Elders would come to draw similar conclusions. And I wanted us to get away before I talked to you. I was..." BShe voiced his thought. "Afraid." 'Yes." He hesitated, his mind working loudly to find the right approach. "I think it will be clearer if I describe the case." 'Then please do." Overly polite? She would have to watch herself. X'The man was-had been-Seru Che-Li." He seemed to be watching her for a reaction, but she revealed nothing. "An outlaw whom they would have killed if they could have caught him. Ruthless, vicious-a cold-blooded killer with an explosive temper who prided himself on being wanted in every human system." &'I know the type." Too well. "Go on." 'He died five nights ago; the authorities found his body and arranged for an autopsy. What they discovered confused them. It was as though he had suffered a sudden injury to his brainstem; a number of functions necessary to maintain life had simultaneously-and mysteriously-ceased to work. Yet there was no damage to the brain. At least, no physicalX damage. They wanted to discuss with me the possibility that some psychological element was responsible. They wanted to know how that would be reflected in his physiology." n'They should have called the Institute for assistance." 'They did. It was the obvious course. And they were refused, or rather, delayed indefinitely. Which amounts to much the same thing. Your Institute isn't blind, Anzha. A man's mind doesn't burn itself out without good provocation. You tell me he died of fear, despair, even self-disgust, I'll show you signs of it in the chemical balance of his brain. Normal emotion doesn't kill without leaving any evidence. Telepathy, however, can." 'Accusation?" she snapped. Too fast, too defensive-she regretted it even as it was voiced. 'I've seen the records," he said quietly. "Leviren, Kei San, others. You killed them. I know." She was deathly still. "You've drawn some rather hasty conclusions." 'No. You weren't as careful at first, which leads me to believe that at least then it wasn't premeditated. I saw you with Leviren myself. Easy enough to call up an obituary when you have Imperial status: Sudden death, cause uncertain. The morning after we broke light for the Border. Then Arvaras-you had mentioned him to me, remember? After that one, you stopped talking. They got harder to trace, but never impossible. Once I had begun to connect such deaths with your ground leave, the rest came easily." 'There is no proof." Her voice was cold, belying the fire which those memories awakened. Damn you! she thought. "'I want to help." 0'It's not your concern." 8'I'm your assigned medic-it is my concern." :'There's nothing you can do!" >'Let me judge that for myself." 'Tau-" $'What do you want from me, Anzha? A triple-sealed affidavit attesting to my loyalty to you? I've been with you on this ship for five years now. I know what you're capable of. If you told me tomorrow that you had turned into some mythical creature that had to devour a human being a day to survive... Hasha knows, I'd probably help you hide the bodies. The good you've done is measured in planets,: the people you've helped in billions.X What are six individuals compared to that?" Taken aback by his vehemence, she quickly reappraised him. "I never realized you were so cold-blooded." 'Single-minded. That's why they picked me for this job, you know-anyone less stubborn than that you would have turned into your doormat before you let him get a good look at that damned precious anatomy of yours, much less your mind." pDespite herself she smiled; he was right. "Well struck." She took a moment to settle the tightness in her stomach and partially succeeded. LWhy do you want my confidence in this, she wondered. To help me-as if you really could? Or to learn my ways as they ordered you to do, so that Azea might have all my secrets? nThe last thought was unworthy of him and she knew it. Turning away to hide her discomfort, she offered quietly, "It wasn't meant to happen. It won't happen again. Let that be enough." R'And if charges are brought against you?" vShe was scornful. "Who would accuse me of civilian murder?" 'The first member of the Council of Justice who thought he could pin the charge on you." He waited. "Well struck?" He had sliced through her armor and emotion stirred in the wound. Longing, and frustration, and the need for human contact. With whom, if not him? He offered support. His concern seemed genuine. Why couldn't she accept it? 'You don't know what you're asking for." She caught the promise of defeat in her own voice, foresaw the collapse of those barriers which had always protected her from the judgment-and scorn-of others. 0'Try me," he challenged. She studied him inside and out, deeper than she had ever done before. His offer gave her the freedom to reach inside him, to evaluate his confidence, and she used the opportunity to uncover those facets of him which telepathic etiquette had previously cloaked in privacy. He met her with openness, and with frank display of his motives. Concern. Curiosity. Friendship. She tasted the last with care, and despite its alien tone it struck a responsive chord within her. I need to talk, she thought, @and here at least is acceptance.N More than that she would not consider. 'What do you know," she asked hesitantly, "of telepathic contact within the pairbond?" She could be no clearer than that without speaking of the matter outright, and expected only his confusion. Yet he seemed to understand what she meant. 'It's said that in the course of sexual contact, telepaths experience an extreme degree of linkage-with or without pairbonding," he stressed. He would accept her; that was the underlying message. If she lacked the pairbonding instinct which was an Azean's birthright, she would of course seek her pleasure elsewhere. He took it for granted. >She had never anticipated that. 'You know the process?" she pressed, relieved that she might not have to explain everything. vHe shrugged, but his eyes were focused upon her. "Hearsay." F'The Institute didn't prepare you?" *'Not regarding this." 'They should have. They should have expected-" She broke off, disturbed by the revelation. Why would they have neglected to explain such a crucial part of her background to him? Had they failed to anticipate that she would risk exposure in order to experiment... No, that wasn't like them. They were too thorough. Yet they should@ have briefed him on everything. Suddenly it all fell into place. They had wanted her bound to the Institute and this would have assured it. Unable to seek comfort among her crew, she would have had to turn to Llornu. Or bear the memories alone. Damn you, she thought-damn you all! She turned back to Tau; though her fists were clenched tightly in anger she forced her voice to be level, to make it clear that her rage was directed elsewhere. "Sit down," she said quietly. "I'll try to explain." He took a seat by the side of her desk and she sat on its edge across from him, her fingers playing nervously on its surface. "Soon after I received this command, when we stopped at Sheva to assemble an escort for the Kol-Sua entourage-you remember?" He nodded. "I was... propositioned by Ambassador Leviren. Prior to that time I had been careful to avoid any sexual involvement for fear of the political consequences, but on Sheva..." she sighed. "I accepted. He wanted me; it's hard to turn someone down when you can feel it directly like that. I had earned it, I told myself. I had denied one part of myself all my life, but now that the most difficult time was done with I could let go just a little. I accepted. 'He had a house on the outskirts of Venesacha and we went there: a quiet, secluded place where we could expect to be undisturbed. I remember touching the intensity of his anticipation, and experiencing it-and everything within him-more acutely than I ever had with a non-psychic. Excitement of any kind stimulates telepathic contact, sexual arousal most of all. For a telepath, pleasure is a shared experience; the barriers come completely down, and each party tastes the pleasure of both... I imagine. That's how it's supposed4 to be. I never found out. 'Because he died, Tau. When he held me-when I responded to him-he died." |She watched him for a moment, waiting for his response; when there was none she touched his surface thoughts, expecting revulsion, or pity-or both. She found only concern. It surprised her. F'I tried to determine what could have caused it," she said quietly, soothed by his apparent sympathy. "All I could think of was that the violence within me, revealed mind-to-mind with all the intensity of direct contact, was more than he could deal with. He opted out of life-simply ceased to exist. I convinced myself that was what happened and that a more violent man might succeed where he had failed. I sought one." 'Arvaras." F'Kei San. Others. It never worked." h'Aren't there ways to block contact in such a case?" 'It's called Touch Discipline," she said dryly. "I can't do it. Don't ask me why-I have no idea-I was never able to master it. My body is a conductor to thought, and the more tense I am the more it's true. My one failing. And a damned big one. N'I kept looking, though. I became convinced that the answer was to seek out the type of man whose own nature was so brutal that nothing I revealed would surprise him." 'Seru Che-Li." &'I spent a year researching the outerground to find the names of people who could track him down. When the time was right and we were due for ground leave I requested Adrish; I knew he was there," She shrugged, but the gesture was false in its lightness. "You know the rest." <'Same thing?" he asked gently. jShe nodded. She was trying to prevent the memories from affecting her voice, but she was unaccustomed to such deception and knew that the anguish wasn't fully hidden. "He's dead. They're all dead. Something in me killed them, and that something is going to keep on killing any time I try to... any time I try." 8'Maybe you can focus on it-" She shook her head vigorously, no. "We're denied any insight into the telepathic process. It's guaranteed by our conditioning, supposedly to keep us sane. No, I'm stuck. And I'll tell you something, Tau. I didn't inherit my libido from my Azean parents. Accepting this has been one of the hardest things I've ever had to do." She looked away from him, wondering if he noticed her trembling. Probably. "But if not Che-Li, then no one. The violence in him was like home to me. I can't imagine a mind more suited to my own." @'So what now?" he asked quietly. zShe stood, wrapping her arms around her. "I live. I serve the Empire. I go on." Her knuckles were white with the pressure of her self-embrace. "Reality, Tau. I have to live with what I am." .'And just let it hurt?" 4'Is there an alternative?" X'Can you even ask that? Of course there is." She looked at him a moment, considering it. "Yes," she said at last. "You could probably do it. But is it right to cure something that isn't unhealthy? To readjust sexual awareness just because it isn't immediately convenient? They would like that," she said suddenly. "They would like that very much. For which reason, if no other, I won't do it." "'You're certain?" &She looked down, pensive. The Council would applaud hormonic adjustment-and that alone was enough to decide her. "Yes," she told him. "Absolutely." XHe could feel the tightness in her; he moved to where she stood and reached to offer her contact. Seeing it, she flinched. "That's not a good idea right now," she muttered. 6He clasped a hand to her shoulder. A wave of pain and frustrated longing swept up the limb to his brain. Squeezing her shoulder, he thought supportive thoughts. She looked up at him. She wasn't crying; in the long years now behind her, she had forgotten how. But she was close to it. She put a hand over his and smiled. "I'll take it all out on Braxi," she promised. BHe nodded. "I'll hold you to it." 3 It appeared to be a merchant ship, but close inspection revealed it to be no such thing. First, it carried too much weaponry-and carried it in an obvious manner that seemed calculated to provoke hostility. Second, it carried no marks of licensing or point of origin. Last, it had not one but two exterior protective forcefields-which indicated that it expected to be shot at, and often. Yiril and Sechaveh looked dubiously at each other but cleared it to land. 2It seemed hesitant to enter the confines of the warship and came into the dock slowly, defensively. Not until it had to did it let the outer fields drop. The guards of the Sentira stiffened as the ship's surface split and a ramp slid forth. v'Do you think we should have warned them?" Yiril whispered. 'Not at all." A figure came to the top of the ramp and stood there, waiting for the inevitable inspection. 'Hold it right there-" an officer began, and then he looked at the Kaim'eri to see if his reaction was the correct one. He was startled to see the amusement with which they were regarding him and his hand, holding a stun, wavered. bYiril walked forward. "Kaim'era Zatar, I assume." 'If not, your security is less than effective." He, too, looked amused by the confrontation. A makeshift headband secured his nearly-white hair to his forehead. His shirt was loose and flowing and open to the waist, but he had supplemented it with a wide scarf and a pair of Lugastine dress-gloves, so no more of him showed than the crew of this ship should expect to see. He had even bought a cloak on the way back so that there was a cascade of fabric from his broad shoulders just as there ought to be-even if it was bright turquoise. Perhaps it was his costume which was so startling. Perhaps. More likely it was the golden face which radiated Braxana arrogance, a face free of facial hair but lightly scarred with the remnants of untreated burns. ~'I trust all that is artificial." Sechaveh indicated the scars. 'Oh, quite." The false merchant ship had resealed and was waiting for clearance. "Let them go," Zatar ordered. The officer in charge was confused; it took a repetition of the command by Sechaveh before he obeyed. 'Nothing personal," Yiril asked quietly, "but why are we not blasting him from the Void?" 'Because there's an explosive implant in my arm to which he has the trigger. Speaking of which, I need the ship's physician." 'Then why isn't he blasting you from the Void?" Sechaveh demanded. 'Because I didn't pay him in advance-really, Kaim'eri, this is hardly the welcome I anticipated." JThey escorted him past the guards, flanking him on both sides. The men about them were clearly bewildered. "We're not pressing you for what happened, you'll notice. There are quarters set aside for you on this ship, and we have a few women from your House here-and wine, and a cosmetologist-" H'And someone to remove the implant." 'And that. So recover at your leisure. Afterward we'll expect a full account." ~'Get me a physician and the cosmetologist and you can have it now." Yiril passed the request on to a guard and the man ran obediently off to find them. "Now tell me-what plans have you made?" They stepped into the transport tube and it began to descend. "We offered a diplomatic truce on tenday this zhent-today is the fifth," he added "-to discuss the possibility of a conditional Peace around the K'vai peninsula. Azea is mining there and stands to lose a lot if it's declared part of the Active War Zone. We've implied that it might, otherwise." 0'You haven't heard yet?" 'No. But the message just went out. Your plan didn't allow for much extra time, you know; it's taken us this long just to get here from Braxi." BThe tube opened on a residential level which had been given over entirely to the needs of the Braxana. Yiril and Sechaveh led their companion to the proper room. f'Ah." Zatar lowered himself to the floor and relaxed into the thick pillows which covered it. "One of the nice things about dealing with Azea-side outlaws is that they've adopted certain points of our decor. Skyve's miserable little cruiser was the first thing I've been comfortable in since leaving Braxi." A man and a woman appeared in the doorway; he waved them in. Briefly they hesitated, but when he pulled up one sleeve to reveal the crude scar cutting across his arm the man came and knelt by him on that side, the woman on the other. R'You know the formulas I've been taking?" XShe nodded. "Your Mistress gave them to me." @'Excellent. Mix me a counteragent, and in the meantime I'll need this cut and colored." He ran his free hand through the long white strands. "And curled again." R'And you'll want the skin bleached back?" R'Above the neck. I can wait on the rest." He looked at the two expectant Kaim'eri, so careful not to ask questions, so obviously wanting information. But where to start? He had spent two years among peoples so alien that the sheltered Braxana would have no real understanding of what it meant to pass for one of them, nor comprehend why choice of culture often caused him to detour from the path he had chosen. He told them briefly of his travels, and the difficulties involved; of swinging a wide arc around the War Border and entering the Empire in a region where Braxi was no threat, thus security was minimal. He told them of Tirrah and the planets like it, where he had first contacted the Empire's rejected scum and realized their worth as a tool. Where he had practiced his Azean mask. Where one man, guessing that he was from the Holding, tried to work extortion on him-and died, not realizing that a Braxana thought nothing of killing a dozen people in a night to keep his secret safe. After that he spent money freely, and found that any further troublemakers were sold out to him long before they could take steps to safeguard the information. When he felt he had the act down right, he had moved onward, into the Empire. The lack of starlines meant that one could travel practically unobserved. He found it foolish but to his advantage. He didn't tell them of his stop on Llornu. If nothing else, the tension of that experience was such that he would rather not remember it. He had to have her medical records to mix a timed dosage of the poison, but there would be no chance of lifting that from the StarControl files, which held too many other things of value and were closely and carefully guarded. On Llornu, however, who anticipated theft? He counted on that as he forced his way into the Institute's file storage, and hoped it was enough as he searched for what he wanted. He had no illusions about the risk; any guard patrolling the grounds would be psychic and a moment's confrontation would bring the whole lot of them down on his head. His hands were shaking as he found what he wanted and beat a hasty retreat. The memory was still flavored with fear, and one he would rather not review at length. `In the long zhents that followed he had transmitted the information home by drone capsule, not wanting to trust either the time or vulnerability required for an augmented transmission. He sent a capsule and left immediately for a far planet, in case it had been observed. It never was. A runner from his House brought the formulas he needed and the chemicals he hadn't dared carry on him, and a smuggler, well-paid, got them to him. He waited. He mixed the poison, whose formula was as distinct to its victim as her fingerprints were: given her metabolism and blood chemistry he could anticipate the time of her death down to the tenth, if not closer. He waited, and he watched the military frequencies with the special equipment he had brought, until at last the order came. The Conqueror went to Adrish. He followed. His disguise was second nature to him by then, which it had to be if he was going to pass unnoticed by a prime telepath. He had heard that the thoughts of an assassin, focusing on a victim, were like a beacon of light to the mind trained to sensitivity; he hoped it was not true, or that he could find her distracted, or-by far the least likely-that he could manage the act without himself thinking of the consequences. But he was lucky. He found her in a dingy gaming house in one of the lesser neighborhoods where she was busy making arrangements with one of the local scum. So intent was she on whatever she was doing that he had no problem emptying the small vial into a glass waiting to be brought to that table. He stayed around long enough to see her drink it. Then he quickly hurried out, lest the intensity of his thoughts act as an alarm and notify her of his presence. His return to Tirrah, and thence to the Border, was unspectacular and he related it quickly, a bare sketch of necessary facts. Then he flexed his arm in question; the physician looked up from his work. "Almost done, Kaim'era." The implant had been deeper than expected and the local sterile-field generator could only handle so much area; he was proceeding cautiously. Zatar nodded. `'Now tell me," he said, "what went on on Braxi?" R'As much as one could ask for," Sechaveh responded. "We worked on every front and we seem to have gotten results. War reports were reworked to inspire maximum tension, and the Kaim'eri seem genuinely afraid of this woman of yours. Telos' news service-which Yiril controls-put out a report estimating a maximum of two generations before the number of Braxana is down to twelve thousand-which, given the fact that we always multiply the real figures times ten for the public, was quite a frightening prediction. The supposed author, by the way, was executed. They're getting very edgy about such things and it shows. We set off a Plague scare on the ninth moon of Dakra, which again set them to thinking. That little poet of yours threw in her sinias also. You should have heard the piece she did at the Sun Festival! We dredged up a few shem'Ari and rigged the trials for maximum effect. I would say that right now the Braxana reaction to the image of a dominant female is about as vehemently negative as it can get. So psychologically, the groundwork's been laid." Yiril continued. "We brought up the issue of reorganization and it was received very positively-particularly after the Plague scare and the news scandal. There's a general feeling that once we can't maintain the Kaim'erate we're inviting widespread revolution, and a desire exists to restructure before that time comes. Telos' move made them aware that we don't actually have to fall under-number to be in danger, as long as the public thinks we have. I think a good fourth of the Kaim'eri are ours already." b'We need three quarters for something like this." 'We'll get it. Sechaveh and I singled out a few Kaim'eri for leadership positions alongside us and brought them here, as you requested." ~'Good; they'll see it themselves. Have you told them anything?" 'Nothing specific. Three of them are an informal power-triad, as we are: Vinir, Lerex, and Saloz." 6'My own father? Marvelous!" 'It was Sechaveh's idea. He felt the rivalry between you was so well known that the others would never imagine you allying. Lerex and Saloz also have private property right by the War Border, which means if they try anything risky they'll be the first to lose by it. That'll make them a safe bet for the others. Lastly Delak, for the tie-breaking vote." R'Does he also have relevant real estate?" ('Quite a bit of it." 'Excellent. A prime number of men who can never agree. That will appeal to the Kaim'erate." 'They'll all be at the negotiations. When she dies-" and he stressed whenP as if emphasizing that he had not said if "-they'll see the opportunity for what it is. We can talk then." 0'I am pleased." He glanced at the physician, who had extracted a small chip from his arm and closed up the wound again. He looked puzzled. "What is it?" z'Writing, my Lord. In Braxin-a sort of primitive Basic Mode." 'Read it." 'It says-'Did you really think I would risk the indignation of the Braxana by implanting an explosive in one of their number?'-Sky ve" Zatar laughed. "Ah, so instead he subjects me to unnecessary surgery. Much better." P'Less risk, however," Yiril pointed out. 'Is there? Even an outlaw and a killer can have a sense of humor. And the humor of Tirrah can be deadly." He looked at the surgeon. "Send that off the ship and far away. I expect, eventually, it will explode." @Eventually, on schedule, it did. >They made ready for conference. 4 'What I can't figure out is why they want this treaty, anyway. It's clear why it would be to ourN advantage, but what's in it for them?" Her second-in-command asked, "Are you going to negotiate it, then?" h'I have little choice, Zeine. The Emperor wants peace. But once I've got enough authority at the Border I tell you it won't be this easy for them. It's a delaying tactic, that's all, and I'm tired of retiring from my offensives to-" Tau entered. "Hello." He was loudly in need of her attention. "What is it?" 'I need you to come to the medical level." His voice was tight. "Now." XShe read his fear, touched his intensity, and nodded. "Take over for me," she said, sliding out of her seat. She followed the physician into the nearest tube. "What is it?" XHe looked at her. He was trying so hard not to let his feelings overwhelm her that he was almost making it worse. "Not yet," he muttered. "In the lab. I'll tell you there." She followed him down through the corridors of the medical section and to the door of his private laboratory, which opened as they approached- -and the screams of something dying could be heard, but they were nothing compared to the waves of agony that beat against her, driving her back from the room. He had to take her arm and drag her forward, and in doing so he shared the pain himself. \'I thought you were being overcautious." There was sweat on his forehead as he tried to ignore the alien sensations he was picking up through her. "I really did. I'm sorry." VThere was a clear tank in the corner of the laboratory in which a small animal was-or had been. Now there was only a mound of seething blackness with the last terrible whimpers of something that had once been alive, and the emanations of an agony more intense than a creature could know and survive. |The Black Death. Anzha felt faint. "How long?" she forced out. v'In you? At least two Standard Days, maybe three." He was leading her to a table and she let him guide her, helpless to shut out the animal's pain because it came so close to having been her own. "I thought you were crazy," he told her, apologizing, "but I ran the samples through it anyway, any time you'd been off the ship. Its metabolism was faster than yours and its biochemistry such that the poison would act in it before it did in you." She lay down on the surface he indicated and shut her eyes. "What are the odds?" 'If it's still in your blood, good." He hesitated. "If it's lodged in muscle, which it well might be by now... I don't know. It's never been done before. There's never been enough advance warning." ^'Let's make it a first," she whispered tightly. His assistants were bringing him instruments. He had designed them under her direction and the ship had made them, but he had never used them and had hoped he never would have to. How was he going to find the damn stuff without radiation, which could spark the terminal mutation? He was glad that her own fears kept her cut off from his. THis hands worked quickly and automatically to attach the experimental instruments. No anesthetic; they all speeded the fatal reaction, he knew that. At least the creature was finally dead, although the poison wasn't yet in its inert phase. She would have only her own pain to deal with from now on. 'Tau?" 'What is it?" 'Do you have a more specific estimate on when this was due to strike?" 'Why?" <'I have a suspicion. Tell me." He nodded for his assistant to get the figure. "I wouldn't bet your life on it, Anzha." 'I don't intend to. Have it... have it translated into the Braxin calendrical system for me, would you?" :He did. "Tenday, eightzhent." 'Hasha..." 'What is it?" 'That's when they called the truce for. It's all making a terrible kind of sense, now. Tau, get me through this. I don't know who did this to me, but I don't appreciate his timing or his sense of humor one bit. Keep me alive to have it out with him." 'I'll do my best," he promised, and attached the first of the filters. She said something later, half-whispered, that he barely caught and didn't understand at all. For a moment he laid his hand on her forehead in the hope that she might project the thought, but apparently it wasn't meant for him-either that or she was past the point of telepathic subtlety. But the words stayed with him as he worked. "That's two..." 5 BTruce Station IV was typical of its kind, a featureless creation set in orbit around an unclaimed sun somewhere in the dark expanse of the War Zone. Now, as ships from both sides appeared to make use of it, its facilities became more obvious: the protective field which required Azean and Braxin frequency-codes, transmitted simultaneously, to unlock it; the dual-culture design of the satellite itself, with equal halves dedicated to the service of each of the starfaring powers, in equal proportion throughout but of entirely distinct design. Of all the truce stations this was the largest, and it easily held the seven warships that each side supplied for this meeting. 'Blessed waste of firepower," Zatar muttered. "Six of these could be off taking a planet somewhere." b'And then what would we do if the treaty failed?" He looked at Yiril in amazement. "Kaim'era, the treaty's not going to 'fail' unless we break it. But I know what you mean." He sighed, and turned back to the viewscreen. "Tradition is tradition." The Sentira pulled into place on the Braxiside deck and affixed itself with an energy lock. Two dozen Braxins came forth from the great ship, among them the seven Kaim'eri. The other warships were there for image only and would supply no negotiators-and the same was true, Zatar assumed, among the Azean ships. Tradition again. |They walked through the forerooms of the Braxin half of the station, designed for the comfort of negotiation teams and the relaxation of their crews during long bouts of diplomacy. Until their arrival the place had been like a tomb; now, with a flurry of mechanical activity, it prepared itself for human occupancy. Dining halls furnished in the Braxana style opened as they approached, responding to the computer's analysis of their racial makeup. Other rooms, more suited to the common taste, followed. Everything was opulent, from the polished pseudowood of the furniture, inlaid with wires of silver and Aldousan whitecrystal, to the tapestries and arras that obscured the windowless walls. Gold thread glittered in abundance, adding a sense of archaic luxury to the high-tech, computer-run station-a typically Braxana touch. Here there were rooms designed for pleasure: wide, plush couches, and baths filled with scented water offered a taste of luxury that few non-Braxana officers were familiar with. Whatever needs a war-weary crew might have, the station was prepared to satisfy them. Peace, after all, was unpleasant; peace negotiation doubly so. Here, between bouts of verbal combat, a ship's crew might find some comfort in the physical pleasures which Braxana culture encouraged. A waste. Worse yet-an obscenity. Passing through the elaborate corridors, Zatar was angered. It was no secret that negotiations were often called into being because one side or the other wished to avail themselves of a truce station's offerings. And who could blame them? These were the best facilities for a prolonged ground leave that the galaxy had to offer, presuming that one didn't require natural surroundings. It was all part and parcel of a system that accepted the war, rather than striving to end it. An elaborate farce, Zatar thought. And the worst thing was, both sides knew it was a farce. But who had the courage to defy tradition and change it? Five of the Kaim'eri had come in disguise, posing as military, officers. As often as not such men were of part Braxana blood and thus their racially distinct appearance would be credible. Yiril and Zatar had appeared in too many newsrenderings to go unrecognized; thus both Kaim'eri wore uniforms that designated their true rank. But to have seven men of such stature at a supposedly routine peace conference would arouse suspicion-and enough suspicion would cause the whole thing to be called off. ^In the Braxin antechamber a computer-operated mobile unit collected their weapons. It was designed to find all of them and would doubtless do so; they had tried often enough in the past to work it otherwise. The Braxana would be permitted to retain their Zhaori; the Azeans, likewise, their Peace Daggers. Zatar smiled a grim smile, thinking that for the first time in centuries of diplomacy one of those might actually be needed. :When they were done, and when, presumably, the Azeans were also disarmed, the doors which separated them from the conference room-and from each other-parted. The room was like every other of its kind; circular in configuration, with a translator set mid-way between the two semicircular tables that filled most of its space. The Braxin custom of proceeding from the center to the left in rank seating admirably complimented the Azean custom which proceeded to the right. Hence, as they sat, each man supposedly faced his equal. nThe central seat on the Azean side, however, was empty. It was Zatar's first impulse to mention it; it was his second, and by far the superior one, not to. After a split-second of surprise he recognized it for the cut it was, and smiled appreciatively. Often enough Azea had been made to wait for them. If anything, it was surprising that it had taken this long for Braxi's enemies to turn the tables and adopt their traditional rudeness. XAfter what Zatar was certain was a carefully chosen period of time-not quite long enough to drive the Braxins out in a rage, but almost-Anzha lyu Mitethe made her entrance. It was the first time he had gotten a good look at her. She was a small woman of wiry strength; her seemingly frail build, far from implying weakness, seemed to be imbued with a tireless energy, which flooded the room at her entrance and dominated its interior. His imagination, or her telepathy? He didn't want to know. She nodded acknowledgment of their presence. "Kaim'eri." then she took a closer look, and surprise became evident in her voice. "Seven of you. I wasn't aware the K'ven mines were worth so much to you. I'm sure they're not worth that much to us." The Azeans who understood Braxin, which she had spoken, were clearly stifling their amusement. Zatar knew Braxana sensitivity all too well and admired the perfect aim of her scorn. And for that, he swore silently, if for nothing else, she would die. 0The Starcommander sat, opposite and facing him. She had no notes nor recording apparatus, merely two hands which she folded in front of her. Leaning forward aggressively, she voiced her challenge. "Azea has given these talks to me, and I may proceed as I see fit. I do not desire peace. I do not see any advantage for Azea to pursue peace at this time, conditional or otherwise. Therefore, I leave it to you-glorious Kaim'eri-to supply me with some reasoning to justify our all having come here." How careful, he admired, Jhow fine. Such scorn, and even insult-but not a word of command, even accidental, to actually drive us from the room. He was always impressed by a command of language and more so now considering the source. A pity she had to die so soon. A pity. 'Braxi feels that the direct economic gain to both sides in the K'vai issue mandates an attempt at non-military settlement." 'Braxi has never placed economic welfare above militancy, in its entire history-short of some dishonest stories told at the diplomatic table, which we may discount. Kaim'era, I would rather fight you. You, I suspect, would rather fight us. Can't we cut through all the nonsense and get to the heart of whatever it is we're here for?" He felt like smiling, and after a moment's thought allowed himself to do so. How could it hurt to let the woman know that the workings of her mind were a refreshing change from that of her fellow nationals-in many ways, from that of the Kaim'eri themselves? In all of his recent wheeling and dealing he had thought of her only as a pawn in a wargame, a mistake he had made, a receptacle for poison, an undesirable element that was due to be crushed, with time and place the only variables. The Braxana mind tended to admire what could stand up to it; his was no exception. She pleased him. That, too, was a pity. <He had arranged a story to cover his offer, and now presented it. The nature of that presentation varied greatly from what he had anticipated, but that was necessitated by her openly hostile approach. Still, the man was a fool who could not adapt when necessity dictated. He improvised. And while he spoke, he watched her. She was listening, not to his meaning alone, but to the two or three underlayers which occasionally enriched his language. He made very certain he had control of them, which was difficult, as his mind was wandering to other avenues of thought. He was beginning to regret her death-not its necessity, which was absolute, but the means he had employed to assure it. The Black Poison was undoubtedly the most terrible death that man had ever devised, in that it reduced its victim to the level of a pain-maddened animal-or less-in his last moments, and forced all but the most suicidal of supporters to stand aside and be helpless observers to its devastating progress. And the more he conversed with this woman, the more he was able to admit it to himself: she was admirable, by Braxana standards. She deserved a cleaner death. (And it was too late. Inside his ear a tiny computer-access whispered the time at regular intervals. He spoke to her with one half of his mind and listened to it with the other. He knew the danger in that; her mastery of his language was outstanding and it was possible, just possible, that without his full attention given over to the conversation he might allow something of his mood to be revealed to her. He smiled to himself: that was the price you paid for the most complex human language in the galaxy, and for finding someone who could do it justice. And she could. Taz'hein, where did they find a woman like this? The time ticked off, the end drawing nearer. She countered his proposals with deft disdain. He had prepared enough material to last days, in case the poison was slow. But in refusing to grant him a single point, she ran through it all in less than a tenth. Which was almost time enough. He allowed himself to be redundant; moments were all he needed. And she, answering him, permitted it. *And nothing happened. 8He took stock of the possibilities, and inwardly flinched. It didn't show on the surface; nevertheless, she was a telepath; he was certain she picked it up. 4Casually her speech mode changed, moving into the Triumphant Mode for two words out of twenty. The moment passed; he glanced at his companions, then realized that none of them had noticed its importance. None of them, not even his two associates, were aware of the exact time for which this deadly demonstration was set, and thus the vocal trick which depended upon timing for its meaning went right by them. FBut what she was saying was clear: I know. You failed. And for the moment, I'm willing to conceal it. Did she know the price he would pay if there were public revelation of the situation? The Braxana tolerated many things but never, never humiliation. A Kaim'era who was humbled in front of the enemy would find his rank and title forfeit. The simple act of a public declaration on her part would be enough to strip him of what years of effort had created-a public image that suddenly was in jeopardy. Yet she played with him, and he was forced to play along, not knowing whether the end result was betrayal, or something more subtle from which he could salvage some face. They argued, they fought, they piled metaphor on insult and ran through all the modes of speech in an exercise of verbal complexity and deception. And when it was over, Zatar's mind was as exhausted as his nerves. HBut it was over. They broke off the truce in fury and each, appropriately, was then meant to storm off to his ship and clear the area within a tenth. The Azeans were satisfied-although they hadn't understood a word of the exchange, despite the translator-the Braxins, confused and dangerous. PI'm not looking forward to explanations, Zatar realized. But he paused as he left, standing opposite her across the width of the two tables. He lowered his eyes slightly, as minimal a gesture as a bow of respect might be reduced to and still exist. She smiled with equal care. When they had returned to the antechamber and the conference room doors had sealed shut behind them, the demands began. :'What was the point of this?" B'What happened in there, anyway?" nOnly Yiril-whose strength of purpose Zatar was coming to admire more and more-managed action. "Vinir, all of you-get on board. This isn't a safe place to talk anymore." He waved short their protests. "Another tenth and they can blow up this station, and us with it. Shipboard will allow us conversation enough." They obeyed him; his reasoning, all emotion to the contrary, was sound. Even Sechaveh went, doubtless afraid that in his current rage he would kill Zatar rather than get any useful information out of him. pThere was silence. Then Yiril looked at the younger man. ('It could be worse." 0'That's little comfort." 'It wasn't meant for your comfort. It was an assessment of fact." 'I know." *Another long silence. 'What happened?" XZatar shook his head. "I don't know, Yiril." ,'She took the poison." ,'I watched her do so." H'Perhaps the formula was incorrect." H'Perhaps." His speech mode said: No. JYiril sighed. "Well, that's what it was as far as the others are concerned. And perhaps Sechaveh, too-but I leave that in your hands. Getting a formula across two nations, and in secret-there's room enough for error there that I think we can save our project. For later, of course-much later." 2And thus you also save meb, Zatar thought. But it wouldn't do to thank him. 'Someday," Yiril said softly, "when it doesn't matter-if it ever doesn't matter-1 would like to know what happened in there." Zatar smiled faintly; he was relieved to see that amusement was still possible. "Someday," he promised in the Basic Mode. D'Are you coming back to the ship?" (He had hit a nerve. LYou know me better than I know myself.N He looked back at the door. "Not yet." 'Half a tenth-no more. We'll need the rest to get out of range." (He nodded. "I know." Then Yiril put a hand on his shoulder. "Shem'Ar," he warned, adorning the phrase with prefixes, suffixes, and variations in emphasis until it warned, admired, dominated, coerced and fretted-all at once. Zatar smiled. "Shem'Ar," he said in the Basic Mode: I know.: The older Kaim'era left him. Alone. *Why am I such a fool?T Zatar wondered. He shook his head again, as if to clear it. Thought was thick within him, unfamiliar emotions clogging what was usually a structured cognitive process. He had made an enemy, a skilled one; the thought of leaving her free among the stars was bitter. He wanted at least to understand her, to comprehend her motivations for sparing him what would have been certain political death, when he lay within her power. @And he knew she was still there. He turned back to the door. His weapons were still in the rack and he left them there; otherwise the doors wouldn't open. &He stepped forward. And it would certainly provide the latter. He looked into her eyes-gleaming, triumphant-and sensed the rare ecstacy there would be in orchestrating her death. lI could lose myself for a while in the killing of you, he thought. LBut one final barrier remained. And fear of that was so deeply ingrained in his Braxana soul that it took all his courage to raise his sword-hand and offer it to her. nShe was startled. "Do you know what you're asking for?" 0'I would know my enemy." 'You won't survive it. Your people aren't made for such things!" ^'You assume weakness in me where there's none." `'None at all? I doubt that." But she leaned against the table so that she might reach his hand, and then grasped it with her own. "You're a fool, Kaim'era. This battlefield is mine." ,For a moment there was nothing: falseness, a moment of ease before the storm. An instant later the fabric of the universe burst apart within his mind. In the first few seconds it took all his strength not to go insane. Easy to give in,: her voice came soundlessly, fabandon all the senses, embrace the fluid darkness." :He fought the suggestions which seemed to plant themselves in his psyche. He struggled for a sense of self, and at last found it. He demanded understanding. The sharp, intangible life which surrounded him yielded before the strength of his summons. He called forth all the power of primitive tradition and challenged her in the name of the k'airth: \it is my right to know the nature of my enemy. ,Sky, and earth, and air sweet by his face. He fell, startled. The grass moved under his glove and he pulled his hand away, quickly, only to notice that it didn't move at all. Fascinated, he stroked it. The life that was within the fragile blades sang to him with simple, primitive existence, a song of being without thought to complicate it. Something was overhead; he turned to face the sky and saw a formation of birds winging toward him. He touched them, knew their hunger, felt the drive which forced them onward with senses unknown to man and in their endless migration, tasted the call of their mating and the joy of melody as it rang through their souls. .And she was before him. NHe stood. "What is this?" he whispered. 'What you demanded," she said, aloof. "An insight into my arsenal. Welcome to my world-or at least, to an image of it that our minds can share. Long enough for you to see the potential of what you face." 'You didn't expect this," he said, and he knew he had voiced her thought. 'Your will is very strong-your adaptability, atypical. Enjoy it for the moment you have it, Braxana." He reached into the earth and knew the hunger of the worms that burrowed there, saw the tunnels and caves and emptinesses of the planet's crust through the eyes and minds of the creatures that inhabited such places. He reached upward, outward, and felt the stars like a caress upon his mind. But not the stars themselves, no; the millions of living creatures who orbited those points of light, who formed with their cultural foci stars of emotion in the Void of thought. 2'Marvelous!" he breathed. rShe was amazed and he felt it. "You see nothing to fear?" 6'I see nothing but wonder." d'Your people don't feel that way," she challenged. 'Then my people are fools." He looked at her with new understanding, underscored by jealousy. "To live like this-" b'To taste it is wonderful," she interrupted. "To live with it involves more pain than you can imagine, in ways the non-psychic mind can't begin to grasp." @He ignored that. "What are you?" 'My person? This body?" She indicated herself with a graceful motion that would have seemed out of place if done by her physical self. "This whole world is a thing out of our imagining, which the power I have sustains for your discovery." 'It isn't real." 'It isn't material$. It's very real." "'But our bodies-" @'Are clasping hands across a conference table. How much time does a dream take? Thought takes less. This is real only to us, and only in the moment we live it." hHe closed his eyes and drank in the sheer psychic richness of his surroundings. It was easier with his eyes closed, with that much less to distract him. The land, and the sky... and her.F He could taste her hatred, flavored with just a touch of fear. She had expected him to break; well, he was not so simple a creature as to cringe from her power just because tradition would have it so. The potential of it was filling his mind with longing, and not just for the ability. For her, and everything she represented. For her hatred, which was an aphrodisiac to his kind. For the paradox of race that she was, and because she had bettered him. Most of all because she was a shem'Ar, and throughout history such females had driven the men of his tribe to their greatest hungers, and to their blindest passions. 0'Take care," she warned him. A command; she was being careless. Did his digression make her uneasy? If so, it was his first-and so far his only-triumph. Not willing to let the opportunity slip by, he approached her. Let her read his intent in his mind. She might be master of the psychic arts, but in the realm of human sexuality the Braxana had no rivals. Physical indulgence was as natural to them as breathing, and more necessary. Whereas she, raised in Azean surroundings- 'You're making a mistake." She seemed shaken, unsure of her own objections. Did he sense a response in her, a calling of hunger to hunger that defied her rational purpose? Enmity and passion were a combination much valued by the Braxana; the thought of tasting not only the pleasure of her body but the sharp bittersweet hatred of her mind stirred longing to new heights within him. zIt was a dream, was it not? And a dream had no consequences. He grasped her by the shoulders, and was stunned as a flood of sensory data overwhelmed him. He touched her-himself-their senses intertwined until he could barely tell one from the other. Yet their identities were distinct. He stroked her, feeling her flesh tremble beneath his touch as though it was his own. She was not unwilling, no, though clearly alarmed by his initiative. "You don't know what you're doing..." she whispered. Ah, but he did. He was tasting the pleasure of a woman while sharing his own, and that was an ecstacy undreamed of by his kind. `'Fool!" she told him, but she did not pull away. "You'll regret it..." But there was hunger in her, and it rose to the surface, enveloping him in the rich conflict of her desire... ... and then there was a feeling of being disconnected, somehow, as if his senses were shutting down... X... and in fear he drew himself back from her... T... and in darkness, absolute, he foundered. Where am I? Restatement: What am I? Thought without identity, being without focus. The time is endless. But the will is strong. Zatar,\ he thinks, and he notes the act of thinking. Zarvati:n the image of a bloodline, Plague-prone and beautiful. Son of VinirX (a tall and angry man, a proud leader) and K'siva  (who can command men with a motion and never chooses to, a flower among barbarians, a thing too soft and too lovely to last). He is. Whatever was reality for him-and at that moment he doesn't recall-it is no longer. There is no darkness, for the concept of darkness implies the existence of light, and light is simply not a reality. He cannot wonder what this place is, for that implies the concept of location and the existence of somewhere else; neither of these things is a truth to him. Only by sheer force of will has he recalled the integrity of his personality and now it is at a loss to anchor itself to the non-world it occupies. This is not acceptable. He casts about himself for something, anything, to grasp as a basis for reality. He reaches out with his mind for his body. Surely the two are connected somehow! But there is only the eternal nonexistence of his prison. Fear demands his attention, calling for him to submit and have done with struggling, but he refuses. I AM ZATAR he repeats, clinging to the only shred of identity left to him. A whisper of death passes through him and is gone. He is focused elsewhere, seeking the physical world that once he knew so well. But then a thought occurs to him and he stops to consider his purpose. In a reality where there is nothing but thought, then thought must be the key to any change. And pure thought is a thing of concepts, of abstract being, not crude reflections of material substance. He lets himself drift in the nothingness, trying to detect any variation in the world he has come to occupy. Again the thread of death touches him, and he grasps it, desperately locking himself to it. It has come from somewhere, and is going elsewhere.d Suddenly there is distance, location, movement. He follows it to its destination, which, to his horror, is all to familiar. Yet he is still so distant from it that even as he feels the wave of destruction wash over his own body there is nothing he can do to halt its progress. He is watching himself die. No,( he thinks sternly. I refuse. :The waves continue; that tenuous link which binds him to his material form is weakening, and behind him lies only the nothingness he has so recently escaped. He becomes intention: he is the will to live and he forces himself down the same path his doom has chosen. LIFE, he commands, forcing the requirement into the threads of his being over and over again, until at last the sullen blackness retreats from its alien stronghold and withdraws to those places in the human mind where such things are stored. He is exhausted and he rests, a thought anchoring him in the world of his body, another standing guard over his personal integrity. .An eternity passes, a moment too small to measure in human terms. He is aware of another mind besides his own, and remembers. Suddenly he is alert with excitement; if he means to know his enemy, then here, in a domain free from the bondage of wordly image, is the place to do so. She is trying to pull back from him, and there is a material association... she is trying to withdraw her hand from his to break the contact. He wants to hold on to her; he wants to explore this thing which is so alien to him and yet is a part of himself. But his holding instinct does not affect the body from which he has detached himself. He forces himself into the limb in question: he becomes his hand, wrapping his will around the muscles and tendons and experiencing handness so thoroughly that as the impulse to grab hold of her possesses him he is aware of the extremity responding. ,He maintains his grip. tThought in the darkness; an awareness of Other. She debates whether to break the contact by Discipline, which she has the strength to do. One mental trigger and the wall will slam down between them. He can only struggle with her for as long as she is willing to let him, and she debates now just how long that is. (I will know my enemy&, he demands again. ~ Very well,x comes the thought, and a whisper of acid hatred with it. ~ NAnd as deeply as you probe, so shall I. He sees her mind. It boils with violence and engulfs him in its hungry substance. Here is the hatred, and here the bloodlust, and here the despair, perfect in their purity and not yet adulterated by being filtered through the body's imperfect biochemistry. Like the winds of a storm her emotions batter at him and threaten to tear him loose from the mooring of his identity. Hatred-he welcomes it, embraces it as a familiar thing, passes through and beyond it unharmed. Fear of sexual inadequacy-he counters it with memories from his own youth, painful memories of genuine impotency, which he had hidden behind a mask of cynical humor and eventually genuinely forgotten. Frustration, in floods of painful intensity-but is it anything he is not himself familiar with? The assault has an end but not a termination, as though he has come to the center of a storm. All about his awareness the seething emotions swirl, while before him is something no less intense, but in quality quite different. He touches what no man of the Braxana has ever known: the essence of female being, rich and warm against his complimentary touch. If he had doubted his own masculinity he might be swept away by it, lost to his former self and changed enough so that when mind rejoined body the parts would no longer mesh properly. But he observes, and appreciates, and is apart from it. This, then, is Anzha lyu Mitethe-this storm of emotion spiced with a death wish, this power of female life unable to find expression in the world of solid things. 2She reaches for his Name. He has no idea why the thought comes like that, only that it does. For the first time he knows a fear so great that it threatens to cut short his exploration. Is it unreasoning superstition, or is there reality to his fears in a world of symbols, where thought is reality and the Name of his soul might well be the key to his existence? He remembers her words: Fas deeply as you probe, so shall I.R Is he that close to the center of her, then, that if she had a Name he would hear it? He forgets his fear in the fascination of discovery, and casts about himself to learn even more. And in that moment, when the decision is absolute and cannot be unmade, when he surrenders that part of himself which previously has only conquered, he passes not through the eye of the storm and back into its turbulence, but deeper into it. Here there is only mental silence, and the faint echo of his presence. &What is this place? he wonders, and then he knows: this is the part of her mind-sealed off from her introspection, which she herself has no power to see. The magnitude of it is awesome, and the quiet strangely unnerving. He wanders amazed through the secret avenues of her being. Here and there paths have been severed, reconnected elsewhere, forced to flow in a direction which was not their original intent. Potentials are cut short, others grafted to alien purpose, all by a human hand whose touch has left its mark in the woman's basic essence. A mark he knows. .He cannot assign it an identity; it is too difficult for him, untutored as he is, to connect this abstract feeling with a human name. But as certainly as he knows what the man has done, he recognizes that their paths have crossed. The touch is familiar-and its work is monstrous. He travels down paths of health and sees them cut short by a form of psychic surgery he can barely comprehend: he reads what has been done, and why, and is filled with an anger so terrible that it cannot be expressed in anything other than pure thought. FThis is the dark side of the power, he thinks, the agony that contradicts the life-song. This is the reason we have weeded out the psychic seed from our own inheritance. This... this foulness, I switched the opaque field on. It took a moment for the forcewalls to stabilize in color, but they settled at last on a glowing blue speckled with gold. Not unpleasant. Now that he had his desired privacy, my companion was much more at ease. With considerable pride he unwrapped the small bundle, peeling back first the silken cloth and then a metallic mesh that was wrapped inside it. The mesh parted to reveal a crystal in its natural state, unpolished but showing much promise in its size and rainbow hue. &I was aesthetically impressed but failed to understand the importance of it. Unfortunately, Braxana do not express ignorance; therefore I couldn't ask, "What is it?" as directly as I would have liked. After a moment I looked up at him, the elevation of one eyebrow indicating that I was intrigued enough to hear what he had come to say. I hoped that would include an explanation of the object's nature. H'It's a Uriese mindgem," he told me. @It stirred no memories. "Go on." \He offered it to me, and prompted, "Touch it." 0I did so, noting that its surface was smooth and slightly warm. That was all. My look of irritation at this little charade caused him to glance down from my eyes to my hand, and he started at the sight of my glove. "I'm sorry, Lord, but it needs to come in contact with the skin." 'Your audacity borders on obscenity." I was rather proud of that one. 0He paled but did not withdraw the stone. After a moment I took it from him and touched it carefully to the skin above one temple. I was startled, then, by a clear stream of thought that poured forth from it directly into my mind, and a shower of colors that filled my field of vision. For a moment I just watched, as visions of painful beauty danced before me. Then I removed the stone and the visions faded. <'It's contraband," he told me. 6I had guessed that. "It's psychic..." As soon as I spoke I regretted doing so-no one but a trained psychic would have recognized that intrusive thoughtstream for what it was. Fortunately for me, he seemed to attribute my understanding to Braxana omniscience and thought nothing of it. :'Does it... interest the Lord?" tI fixed my gaze upon him. "You mean, do I wish to buy it?" j'I would not be so bold as to set a price upon such-" 'How much?" ~'... if my Lord would consider perhaps sparing some information?" 6'What do you want to know?" 'It is said that Lord Feran has intimate knowledge of the ways of the Azeans, our enemy, having lived among them for many years." I looked angry. I really was, too. "I am a Braxana," I said in my coldest you-have-overstepped-your-bounds voice. 'I'm a writer, Lord. It's occurred to me that in your memories of Azea there might be material for an interesting cultural piece... the Sagdal news agency of Ganos-Tagat has indicated a strong interest in such work, and if you would but spare me a few of your memories of that people, I'm sure I could make something interesting out of it." "'And profitable." 'I would, of course, assign a portion of the profits to your House, although such income would be negligible in the face of your own riches." It would, but tradition was tradition. "Half", I said. The idea of the project intrigued me. It would be dangerous, of course, to indulge at length in recall, since so much of my background dealt with my psychic history and would incriminate me if revealed. But after so many years on Braxi it would be pleasant to reflect upon my past and see what emotions it awoke in me, now that I was truly Braxana. I would have been uneasy about undertaking such an indulgence alone, but being interviewed would impose a sort of structure upon the experience. $'Half," he agreed. I thought that was a bit fast considering I had just demanded fifty percent of his income, but at the time I chalked it up to his deference toward my Race and his desire to ingratiate himself to me. (Little did I know!) He gave me the mindgem and I wrapped it up again; although I wanted to taste it once more I didn't know what emotions were evident upon my face when it played its psychic song in my mind. Alas, image is everything. I put it away without trying it a second time. We made an appointment to meet at my House three days later. I went away feeling extremely pleased with myself, convinced that I had gotten the better of the deal on both counts. How little I understood! And how quickly I was to learn. BAND TWO R It was no problem to get information on Uri, the mindgem, or Ganos-Tagat, and in the days between our first and second meetings I requisitioned all of it from the Central Computer. Uri is a small planet in the Braxiside War Border. It doesn't support humanform life, nor does it have any alien life of comparable intelligence. The only thing on Uri of any interest to non-natives (besides spectacular sunsets) is the life cycle of the so-called almonjeddei, one part of which is spent in a crystalline container formed from fluids which are extruded from the creature's mating end. This chrysalis protects the metamorphosing creature from the hazards of the outside world, and permits no contact except in one respect. Microscopic tubes in the crystal house filaments of nerve-fiber, which occasionally reach the surface and allow a human psychic to share the color-dreams of the sleeping creature. Apparently for non-psychics there is only a feeling of unfocused pleasure. (Reading this, I was very glad I hadn't said anything in the Restaurant regarding the exact nature of my vision.) As with all things psychic, importation of the almonjeddei in any of its forms was punishable by death. xIt was unlikely, given the specifics of Braxi's atmosphere, that the creature would survive its awakening, but that wasn't due for at least ten local years anyway. The gem pleased me. It allowed me a peaceful psychic communion without any effort on my part, and there was next to no danger of exposure involved in using it. I was very grateful to Supal for bringing it to me and I was determined to supply him with useful information in return. PGanos-Tagat was a paired city united across the Dipa River on the far side of the globe; as I had suspected, predominantly third class. So it didn't surprise me when my writer showed up in a rainbow assortment of colors that would have caused brain damage in any optically oversensitive species. I welcomed him and offered him wine; he hesitated, then realized that the vintage in question was from a Tagattan winery, and accepted, smiling. I wondered what it was about Braxana wine that disturbed him. 'I'm ready to answer your questions," I told him. I was feeling particularly amiable, and was anxious to make him feel at ease. He took out styla and magnapad and then, with a last sip of the wine to stimulate his creativity, began a series of inquiries that were at best predictable and at worst extremely tedious. I was just beginning to wonder if this had been such a good idea after all when he finally came around to what I gathered was the main point of the interview. 'There's great interest in the question of Azean sexuality. Now, we know their propaganda-we know their ideals, and what they would like to believe about themselves. But how much of that is actually true?" Z'What, specifically, would you like to know?" ,'They are monogamous?" 'Entirely." ^'I think you can understand that most Braxins find that incredible. Azeans have one mate only for their entire lives. Can you say with any certainty that they're never bored?" XI shrugged. "I imagine they are, sometimes." p'But they don't seek experiences outside the pairbound?" \'Not sexually, no." I thought I saw what he was driving at-but I also felt that something else was there, something he was leading up to for which this was mere introduction. >'Pardon, my Lord, but how can that be? We're members of the same species, aren't we? And no Braxin would be capable of tolerating such continual frustration." I smiled. "They don't find it frustrating. You must remember that they redesigned their own race. The sex drive can easily be controlled through inwomb genetic manipulation. They really have no desire for sexual pleasure outside of the 'proper' circumstances." 'But they must have some... special outlet within the context of the pairbond." 'I don't know exactly what you're asking." In truth, his questions had become rapidly more obscure as we delved deeper into this particular subject. Did my interviewer have a taste for Azeans-was that it? ^'All human beings require variety," he offered. 'All human beings in their natural state," I agreed. "Azeans aren't the product of evolution, but of man's will." He chewed that over for a few silent moments. "Nevertheless," he insisted, "sexual desire is a basic human drive, and man's hunger for variety is hardly something that can be excised in a laboratory." I was amused by his insistence. Yes, I suppose to the native Braxin mind it's a very difficult thing to believe, but I had known too many Azeans to doubt it. "What do you suppose they do about it, then?" He was startled; clearly that was his question to ask. When he collected himself, he offered possibilities hesitantly, as if watching me for some cue that he was on the right track. 'Isn't there some sort of... ritual? To help, ah, postpone desire?" >'Is there?" I asked innocently. H'You lived among them, Lord, not I." 'True. But I must tell you that I never heard of any such thing." 'Not any kind of..." he faltered. It was becoming clear what his true interest was in all this and I was trying not to smile too broadly. "Is pairbonded pleasure so intense then that it's worth waiting for? That everything else pales in comparison?" ZI almost burst out laughing. The man evidently believed that the secret of Azean sexual moderation lay in some special pleasure that made the whole system worthwhile. The thought of two Azeans spending their spare time trying to perfect the sex act was almost more than I could take with a straight face. The fact that Azeans desired their mates in moderate doses and felt no longing for anyone else was hardly a mystery, but a simple combination of hormone cycles, olfactory impressions, and similar biochemical triggers which Azean science was perfectly capable of controlling. I did not, however, laugh out loud, but managed control as I said quietly, "I don't believe so, Supal." He did not look disappointed; that was the frightening thing. He looked almost angry, as though he felt I was holding something back from him. "It's common knowledge that the Azeans consider their sexual experiences superior to ours." 'I've never heard that." Indeed, the only people I ever heard brag like that were the Braxana. Ar, but he was persistent! "The nature of a lasting exclusive relationship is inherently different than that which exists between two people drawn together only for pleasure, and only for the moment." 'I can't tell you," I said frankly. "I've never had a lasting exclusive relationship." H'But you have known those who have." :Telepaths? Hardly! "I was kept very isolated, Supal. I had little contact with the purebred Azean community. I'm sorry, but I really can't help you on this." He seemed annoyed with me. I think that had I not been a Braxana he might have freely accused me of lying to him and demanded either the information he wanted or the return of his bribe. I could not, however, give him the first, and I had no intention of giving him the second. To my mind I had complied with our bargain perfectly. And I was growing tired of him, besides. Therefore I continued: "If you have no further questions for me, then I suggest we terminate this interview." But I felt sorry for him, so I added, "I really don't know where you're getting these rumors from, but I assure you there's no truth to them whatsoever." zHe tried to resurrect his warm, respectful smile, but I could sense the irritation just beneath the surface. "I thank you for your time then, Lord Feran. You've been of immense help to me." Smoothly lied, I thought. I returned the favor. "I'm sorry I couldn't answer all your questions more thoroughly, Supal. If you come up with anything else," (like a different subject matter, I thought) "you may come by." bThe minute I said that I regretted it; this feeling was confirmed by the gleam in his eye as he contemplated annoying me again. Taz'Hein, I thought, I might never be rid of him! But then reason intervened: why should he return, when clearly I either could not or would not tell him what he wanted to know? rSo I saw him out, and thought that was our final parting. Ha! BAND THREE Sechaveh explained to me once about guilt-how it's a pointless, invalid emotion, one of the most crippling and useless things which man in his folly ever created. Braxanci are immune to it (and to its brethren, regret and sorrow). Or at least, they try to be. When hand comes to glove, I'm afraid I'm less than purebred. The point is that I felt badly over what had happened that day. Whenever I touched the mindgem (not too frequently, for fear it would awaken my buried senses), I thought of him and of his determination to uncover this great Azean secret that he was so certain existed. He was a fool and an ignorant one, but I felt sorry for him. And since he gave me a thing of such value I regretted that I could not in turn satisfy his quest for knowledge. *There are times one is better off being a callous, mean son-of-a-slimemold, and this was one of them. Unfortunately, I didn't realize it at the time. 6Supal returned to my House three days later and sought audience with me; having given him permission to come I did not feel it was proper to turn him away. He had more information with which to stimulate my memory, and after quickly running through the demands etiquette imposed upon us got right down to business. "See, there is this book, Lord." He handed me a metallic plate barely larger than my palm, which I turned over and studied without determining its contents. I was so accustomed to the rings of the upper classes that I wasn't even certain my House had a reader for this. But I asked, and it did. It was sent. Meanwhile, he explained. "Bagar son of Kumust explains very clearly how the nature of Azean society mandates some form of sexual ritual to channel libidinous energies properly." I said nothing. My guilt was rapidly evaporating and my irritation resurfacing. The book-I call it that lightly, although it had the form-was a never-ending compendium of pseudopsychological tripe intended to convince the reader that beneath the calm, serene surface of Azean sexuality lurked a world of dark ritual and alien indulgence. As a brief example the following will do: "How is it that a people can so totally deceive not only their neighbors but, apparently, themselves as well? For it seems at first glance that the Azeans genuinely believe their protestations of "moderation," and are themselves convinced that their ancestors' science rid the race of its undesirable human traits-foremost among which was, of course, the constant human hunger for sexual stimulation. 6A close examination of the science of sexual mnemonics offers interesting insights into this seeming paradox. What if the indulgences practiced in Azean ritual release are genuinely forgotten between the times of their occurrence? Is it possible that complex subliminal symbology could be used to separate the daily (or "moderate") persona from that which is free to experience the full range of human excess? I looked at him in frank disbelief. It said much for his fanaticism that he misread me entirely. r'You see, I know. I know, Lord Feran. And surely you must have seen it going on around you, all those years you spent in the Empire. Surely you must have known something of their ways!" HI said it very slowly and very carefully, to make certain I was understood. "What this book proposes is nonsense. Totally unfounded, absolute nonsense. I have never seen anything that would allow for such rituals existing and I firmly believe that never in the modern history of Azea has anything been practiced which would even remotely resemble the ritualized indulgences this book talks about. Do you understand me?" 'I hear your words," he said sullenly. Apparently he had been convinced that his knowledge of the Great Azean Secret would be enough to get me to open up to him. "And I see you still won't talk to me." 'We have nothing to say to each other", I told him firmly. "And having determined that, I will now ask that you leave here, and take this... book with you." I flipped the plate disdainfully through the air and he caught it, angered by my stubborn denial of his convictions (not to mention my outright rejection of his presence). In fury he left me, and I thought I had seen the last of him. Certainly I hoped so. 2It was not to be so easy. zTwo days later I encountered him outside the Observatory in Kurat; it took just a moment to brush him aside, it's true, but the contact marred an otherwise bright day and I was moody for the rest of it. Soon his compatriots were appearing wherever I did and, far more annoying, insinuating themselves into the property adjoining mine, so that wherever I went and whenever I returned home I was treated to a brief summary of: 1) their sincerity, 2) their deserving natures, and 3) my own unfairness. Needless to say I was tempted to point out that "fairness" is not a particularly desirable trait among the Braxana, but I was certain that any conversation would only encourage them, so I said nothing. It finally reached the point where I couldn't stand it anymore. It wasn't only their presence, or their insistence on disturbing my peace (which I valued highly and worked to maintain), but the rank stupidity which they represented that I just couldn't stand witnessing over and over again. I asked them to leave. (They ignored me.) I threatened them. (They were frightened, true, but still didn't budge.) I was the One Possible Link between them and their imagined world of sexual mysticism, and they refused to leave me alone. Never talk to fanatics in the first place, or you may be stuck with them forever. \I even tried to find some legal loophole that would allow me to get rid of them, but to my surprise there was nothing useful. Finally, frustrated and angry (would that there were rituals to ease the strain of such emotions!) I turned to that bastion of Braxana intolerance: my father. DSechaveh has always welcomed me, more to irritate his purebred children, I think, than for any other reason. I'm never quite certain of his motives, therefore I'm usually wary when accepting advice from him. This matter was right in his glove, however, so I didn't hesitate to seek him out. I explained my problem as well as I could. (No specifics on the mindgem, no mention of my own emotional trauma, minus the kinder words and plus quite a few harsher ones.) Although as a son I shouldn't be turning to him for such things, he took a personal pride in keeping my Braxana side dominant-perhaps because it proved the superiority of his genes over my mother's. Whatever the reason, I told him all the parts of this story that were acceptably Braxana, and he assumed that was the whole of it. When I was done he smiled, the expression of a man who is never without an appropriate answer. "Simple," he told me. "You kill them." I wasn't quite sure whether he was answering me or trying to bait me; this is the usual state of our relationship. "Kill them?" J'You wear the sword," he pointed out. 'But how-" 'Draw and cut. Surely I don't have to explain killing to you, Feran." @I scowled. "I know how to kill." Do youP? his expression dared me. "Then do so." 'And the law?" $He laughed. "Law? What law? You're a member of the first class, Feran, fully halfbred and entitled to all the Braxana prerogatives. They bother you? Dispatch them! They irritate you? Dispatch them slowly, and exact your revenge. Don't worry about the law. Nobody's going to prosecute you; if someone tries, the Kaim'eri will cut him down as quickly and efficiently as your sword will cut through these pseudo-scientists of yours." He paused, then offered in a cloying tone, "I could take them out on Whim Death for you." 'No," I answered. "That's hardly appropriate." My father, invoke Whim Death on behalf of his offspring? Socially unacceptable, and I knew it. And he knew I knew. "No. I'll deal with it myself." rHe smiled, and I realized I had been tested. Walking me to the door, he offered me encouragement and a few effective cuts and thrusts which would disable an opponent without killing him immediately. Teach these men a lesson, he prompted, and show them once and for all that none of their kind will be tolerated. 4And learn a lesson myself? I thought. I thanked him and left, committing myself to nothing. I should have anticipated that he would counsel me toward violence-but then, so would any other traditional Braxana. So why did it bother me? Perhaps I resented his attempt to manipulate me because it implied I was no better than the mindless souls he usually practiced his influence upon. No, if Sechaveh was trying to force me to play a more violent role, then one thing was certain: I would search for an alternative. BAND FOUR I presented the matter to Lina. That's one of the first things you learn in Braxana society; when you have run out of ideas yourself, consult a woman. More specifically, consult your Mistress. I did so. We've never cared much for politics, Lina and I, so I was quite surprised when she responded to my narrative with a straightforward, "We can look into his motives," and proceeded to outline a course of action which depended upon an involved network of informants in the news and publishing industries. I must have looked as surprised as I felt, for she smiled. "It shouldn't take very long." It didn't. A mere tenth passed, during which time she must have waded through the whole of the Central Computer System, for the list of men she brought to me was connected to my tormentor by what seemed to me to be the most tenuous of ties. Nevertheless, she explained to me, one of these individuals was probably responsible for conning Supal into his recent course of action. 8'Can we find out which one?" 8Since I don't often play the political games-at least, not as viciously as my countrymen-Lina has never compiled the kind of records that would allow for that type of research. It requires a private spy network, for one thing, something that neither of us saw the need for. Until now. <'With help," she said at last. 'Whose?" &'Another Mistress." 0I had a sudden vision of all the Mistresses of our Houses collaborating in a giant network of domestic espionage... No. Even women don't trust each other that much. But still, the thought that while we men were at each other's throats the women who were running our Houses were cooperating in such a way seemed... well, unwholesome. "Go on," I urged her. &'Who do you trust?" V'In Kurat?" I asked, using the Ironic Mode. 'Let me rephrase: Who can I turn to? Conversely, is there a particular House you don't* want me to consult?" It came to me immediately, and I could feel that old familiar coldness settle in my insides as I said the name. "Zatar. Under no circumstances do we admit vulnerability to anyone connected with that House. You understand?" She did; she has lived with me long enough to know how nervous that man makes me, and offered a few other names for my consideration. A handful of one and a gloveful of the other, I told her. She could chose. jShe chose Darak. The name meant nothing to me. But we must have help from some quarter and she thought that his Mistress would have the information she needs. Go, I told her. Do it. RWe would have to chance the consequences. BAND FIVE BThe trail leads back to Sechaveh. My own father! Now that I consider it, it makes sense. That godblessed motherloving... how could he? How could he? NCalm, Feran. Calm. You know the way he operates. You know he enjoys manipulating people. Look at the way he treats his pureson, Turak; why should you be any different? Yes, but why... hHe set the whole thing up. The whole blessed thing! Why?\ To force me to kill? Would he really do that? Sechaveh? Of course he would. If not for my benefit, then for his own amusement. vThere's no question in my mind; I must deal with this matter without giving in to him. I didn't come to Braxi to be controlled by another man. I came here for freedom... and I will have it. There must be a way, somehow, to solve this problem without pleasing him. BAND SIX 6I believe I have an answer. I talked it over with Lina, and she agreed that it might work. She also added one thing: could it be that Supal's distaste for Braxana wine was indicative of an aversion to the drugs normally present in it? She postulated that these Friends of Azea (as she called them) might not only venerate the heights of ecstacy which that people supposedly achieved, but their legendary self-control as well. Priceless woman! If she's correct, then there may indeed be a way out of this. And I think I have found it. BAND SEVEN 6I invited Supal over today. ,He came promptly. His demeanor clearly indicated that he thought my invitation signaled a change of heart. And indeed-as far as he was to know-it did. ,I welcomed him warmly. fHe entered the room like a wary animal, made uncertain by my sudden amiability. Lying to a Braxana' is a serious offense; just how sure of himself was he? "You wanted to see me?" I sat down opposite him in one of the comfortable chairs of my inner study. I had brought him this far into the House to indicate the sincerity of my good will, which obviously reassured him. I offered him wine, but he wouldn't drink. He wasn't that sure of me yet. t'I must say you're persistent." I modeled myself after Zatar, who plays the lordly game better than anyone else I know. "You know, of course, that what you're seeking is no small thing." It hit him then: YES HE IS GOING TO TELL ME! was written in large letters across his face. I tried very hard not to smile. "I'm aware of that," he said, with an attempt at humility. Since he didn't feel it, it didn't come off too well. But I looked moved. 'The point of fact is, Supal, that there have been an lot of your people around lately-" 'I'll send them away. I'll get rid of them. Don't worry, Lord Feran, a tenth after I leave here they'll all be gone forever!" Good, I thought. p'Do you... do you want some kind of assurance of secrecy?" I laughed, striving for that knife-edged disdain that Zatar does so well. "Do not insult me, Braxin! What good are your vows, or anyone's, in such a matter as this? No, do what you will with them, but I will deal with you alone. Do you understand? Let me be more emphatic. If they ever bother me again, I will have you killed. Clear?" hHis eyes wide with awe/anticipation/fear, he nodded. 'Good. Then we can begin immediately. I assume you have no objections?" `No, no, he shook his head adamantly, not at all. 'Excellent." I picked up a calendar which I had prepared for this meeting, an ornate thing embellished with Ikna astrological motifs and various arcane runes that I half-remembered and half-didn't. Meaningless though they were, they looked impressive. I indicated that day with one finger. "We are here. The next appropriate day for a Great Union is... here." I indicated a date some zhents hence. I looked at him dubiously. "Do you really think you're up to this?" I asked, implying by my tone that I didn't. He nodded. R'Fiveday, twelvezhent. Can you remember?" 'Certainly, Lord." Then he looked confused. "What am I remembering?" 'Why, to be celibate, of course. Surely you don't think you can manage an Azean-style Union after a steady diet of women?" His eyes said clearly that he had, but manfully he swallowed his fears and agreed to that condition. 'Entirely celibate," I added. "Women, men, small boys, you name it." 'And, ah..." bI guessed his concern and waved it into the realm of inconsequential trivia. "Yourself? It doesn't matter in the same way. Of course, if you really mean to go about this right..." \He nodded, eyes wide. "Nothing. I understand." I'll give him this, he really meant to try. I threw in other lines of semi-mystical nonsense, but the crux of the matter had already been presented. For good sex, no sex. And we'd see how long he lasted with that. BAND EIGHT JI had hoped he would never come back. He did. N'The others have left you alone, Lord?" @I nodded. He looked lean and haggard, as if I had ordered him off food and water as well as women. "You have done well, Supal. Would you like something to eat?" To my surprise he accepted, but when the food came he merely picked at it. 'Have you been obedient to the rules I set forth?" I was certain he had but decided to rub it in. He nodded. He still had a zhent to go but had asked to see me, to work out some of the details of his upcoming Union. I must admit I thought the celibacy itself would be enough to drive him away. Given Braxin society, that's a pretty heavy burden. But no, here he was. A shapely woman came in carrying a tray of sweets. When I say shapely, perhaps I understate her; certainly her effect upon Supal was like a ton of bricks falling on him. His mouth gaped wide, and it took her (scented) fingers to stuff a candied fruit into it. Poor man! He was in pretty bad shape already. I would feel sorry for him when the aphrodisiacs in the food hit home. @'So how are you doing?" I asked. He was forced to swallow the fruit in order to speak. "Not well," he admitted. "The tension is just terrible... the frustration..." zI guessed that he had been denying himself any satisfaction at all, even that which he could manage alone. The slave popped another bit of fruit in his mouth. I was really enjoying myself. `'Do you think you can make it?" I asked gravely. "'Oh, yes, Lord!" His gaunt face animated with something akin to religious zeal. "And you will... that is to say..." He was too embarrassed to finish. z'When the time comes," I soothed him, "I will direct things." 'With whom?" That was clearly his concern in coming. I smiled. I had foreseen that. 'My Mistress, of course." I paused for dramatic effect. "Who else do you think I would trust with this?" His eyes wide, he nodded agreement. My slave popped another delicacy in his mouth, and lightly touched his neck as he ate it. I warned her off in a seeming fit of concern for my apprentice's welfare and she rose, pouting prettily, and stalked sinuously out. Poor Supal. I looked in his eyes as they followed her exit and saw his hunger clearly revealed. And if not there, certainly elsewhere. It was a good try. But I doubted he'd make it through the night. 6And if he did, I was ready. BAND NINE (Sixday, Twelvezhent. &Last night he came. zHe was a mere shadow of his former self, a lean and desperate man who sought to master his all-consuming eagerness as he bowed to me and we exchanged the ritual greetings of Braxana life. ^'We're all ready," I told him. "Come this way." bLina had helped me prepare the ritual room. Indeed, it had almost been worth this whole affair just to do the decorating. Picture: A moon entangled in the rays of the Braxin sun splayed in mosaic across the ceiling. Arrases worked in impressively meaningless arcane symbols covering all the walls save where the one door was located. Dualistic symbolism painted in vivid lower-class colors on the polished black floor. A table, with swept-crystal candleware and a matching goblet, and a smaller goblet with a sweetly smelling dark-red substance that looked suspiciously like blood. (It was actually semi-evaporated palla juice-not because it couldn't have been blood, but I felt that once we had begun to plan such a deception we might as well go all the way.) All in all, dark, impressive, dramatic. Supal sighed. Was it what he had expected? More, his face said. Not for nothing had I spent the last zhent reading all those ridiculous books! Lina was waiting for us and she gave Supal the smaller goblet to drink from. Shivering, he looked to me for support; I nodded gravely. He drank the sweet stuff slowly (it's hard to get down in that concentration). Lina had mixed in an anaph-rodisiac just in case our little game failed, so that he would have only himself to blame. I hoped it was a strong one. Then, solemnly, she undressed and I bade him do the same. He was trembling now, and it obviously took great self-control for him to lie down on the floor beside her, some distance away as the arcane symbols indicated. He waited, eyes shut in anticipation, on the cold black floor (I had refrigerated it) and I began the Ritual of Preparation. 'Know you who come here this day that there are two things which raise man above the level of animals, and they are these: his pleasure, and his discipline. For although animals mate they do not know a pleasure equal to man's, and they do not have the will or the strength to deny themselves consummation for the sheer pleasure of discipline. So, today, are these two Principles combined, when by an act of pleasure discipline is yielded up to consummation and the ecstacy of man will be complete." Lina helped me write that. I thought it was a bit overdone, but no more than similar ceremonies in those ludicrous books. Supal seemed to take it all in all right. Anything, I suppose, to justify all that celibacy. rI brought over the largest goblet of wine and gave some to Lina, my body between hers and Supal's so that he couldn't see she wasn't really drinking. Then I had him finish off the rest. 'What was it?" he asked a moment later, as its effects began to be evident. B'Drugs. Shh. They are necessary." He looked more nervous now, and rightly so. It was a mild hallucinogen, little stronger than that present in so many Braxana wines. But Supal didn't drink such wine. And he didn't expose himself to hallucinogens. And he wasn't going to like it. PBy now the suggestibility imposed by the drugs in the first goblet would have taken hold. I crouched by his side, a specter in gray and black, and tried to prepare him. 0'You will feel as if you're floating for a while, and that's fine. Don't worry about your body. It won't hurt itself, whatever it does." His eyes opened wide at that one. Yes, Lina had guessed right; this was a man who would willingly taste any experience except lack of control. 6If that was so, we had him. I went on to describe the contortions that might overtake him, and how he would watch his body go through them as if from a distance, floating in the sexual aether and experiencing growing excitement. He was more and more nervous, a condition magnified by his altered blood chemistry. Nervous side glances told me that he was beginning to see things. Now is the time, I thought. R'Then," I told him, my voice quiet, low-pitched in the mystical room, "when the two of you have passed each other in the aether and have each taken on the other's form-" 'What!?" He sat upright suddenly and grabbed me by the tunic front. "What do you mean?" xI feigned surprise. "I thought you knew. You said you knew." @'Knew what? Tell me, bless you!" I knew then that the drugs had hold of him, for he would never have spoken that way to me otherwise. 'Why, that you will experience this Union as a woman." Before he could respond to that outrageous concept, I added another. "There shouldn't be too many physical ramifications in your case, so I wouldn't worry about that..." Z'What? What ramifications? Worry about what?" X'Well," I said with seeming reluctance, "It is true that among the Azeans the sexes gradually come to resemble each other. But that's after many years of practicing the ritual," I added hurriedly, "and it rarely affects the primary sexual-" XHe had heard enough. He was trying to stand. '-characteristics." I acted concerned. "This isn't proper behavior." 'A god to your 'proper behavior'!" The drugs we had fed him were adding image to my words, making him feel as if the change were actually taking place, as if he were exchanging height, organ, shape, and all details of sex with my Mistress. 'But to experience a woman's pleasure!" I cried, seemingly dumbfounded. "Isn't that what you want? I thought you understood!" \With an effort of will he reintegrated himself; that is to say, he ceased to have the illusion that he was "blending" into my Mistress. "I thought I did, too, Lord Feran... I..." pHe shook his head and stumbled out of the room, grabbing his clothes as an afterthought, desperate to get away from my House before he was impressed with the persona of a woman. I could imagine the nightmarish images his drugged mind was supplying as he found his way to the door and out, naked, into the street. I waited for the computer to acknowledge his exit before I collapsed, laughing, on the floor. Lina joined me there, and we vented our energy in a fine display of Braxin sexuality. Not that experiencing pleasure from a woman's point of view is such a terrible thing; in my telepathic days, I did it often. But Braxins will be Braxins, I suppose. I doubt he'll be back. BOnly one thing bothers me. I go over these recordings, and everything makes sense-all except one detail. How did Supal get that mindgem in the first place? The Braxana Black Market is the only source for such a thing, and those people would never risk their lives for a lower-class patron. I looked up the planet's location. Maybe I shouldn't have. Maybe I should have left well enough alone. *Too late now, though. vUri's in the Active War Border. In a sector that Zatar controls. Which either means that some smugglers got through his defense network-unlikely-or that he's somehow involved in all this. fI'm going to try very hard not to think about that. Viton: \ Between natural enemies there is never peace. Seventeen *Anzha strode quickly from her shuttle to the Institute. She was in no mood for delay-not for savoring the planet's aura, admiring the magnificent scenery, or reconsidering her actions. She was angry, and barely contained herself. Woe betide the man who set that torrent loose! Familiar steps and familiar halls; life went on, but the Institute never changed. She sent a brief thought ahead to warn him of her coming-a token courtesy-and then arrived only moments after it had faded from his mind. h'Admission," she told the door. "Anzha lyu Mitethe." There was a pause; the Director gathering his thoughts, no doubt. Finally the door pinged clearance and slid open, admitting her to the inner sanctum of the so-called monarch of telepathy, Nabu li Pazua. RShe neither smiled nor bowed. "Director." 'You honor me, Starcommander." A surface thought chided her for her unexpected arrival. "What business brings you this far from the War Border?" In answer she removed a thin packet of documents from her half-jacket, opened it, and spilled its contents onto his desk. "I think you know." bHe looked at the papers and shrugged; his surface thoughts were running a lightyear a minute but she couldn't catch any of them. He was too guarded for that. "Ah. Your request?" \'Just so. It was refused. I want to know why." He indicated one of the documents. "You have my reasons right here." l'I have a standard rejection form. That's not enough." t'You're assuming complexity of motive where there's none." 8'And you're stalling. I requested the services of an omnicultural Communicant. I went through the proper channels. You turned me down. I want to know why." He tapped a stence briefly against the top of his desk, a parody of non-telepathic thoughtfulness. "The Institute isn't required to supply you with personnel. And I'm not required to give you reasons." FHe could feel her trying to control herself, not quietly and not well. "This is true." Her voice and mind were rich with threat but she said nothing more, waiting. r'All right." The confrontation must be, so let it. "It was our decision that since as a Functional Telepath you're fully capable of transcultural communication, it was pointless to expend another mind merely to satisfy your desire for redundancy. There's nothing that Siara ti can do that you can't, and better." 'I'm only one person," she pointed out. "There's a limit to how many jobs I can handle." 'Then recruit physicals. We're not a supply house for StarControl personnel, you know." 'There isn't a physical in the galaxy who can do what Siara ti can," she said coldly. "Having the skill myself, I understand that." 'Your relative isolation from telepathic kind has given you a strange view of our relationship to the physical world. There are perhaps ten thousand of us in an Empire with millions of times that many people-and I'm sure I need hardly remind you that there are no true telepaths native to areas outside the Empire. Most of them stay with the Institute and serve its cause, hoping someday to change those numbers. You chose to leave; very well, that was your option. But now you seem to think you can recruit psychics regardless of our needs, our> purposes. Well, you're wrong." 'Isn't the War important? Isn't that cause enough to spare a few people?" 'I haveL spared a few people. I've given you five psychic-receptives-against my better judgment, I might add. But they wanted to go, so I let them. Now two of them are dead." b'I regret that. But such things happen in a war." L'War isn't my concern! Psychogenetics is. I have a responsibility to breed, protect and train as many human psychics as I can. I defy my own purpose when I send them out to die. You've wasted your time in coming here, Anzha lyu. The answer is no." DShe tried to explain. "Director, the War is changing. We've gotten closer than ever before to the Braxiside Border as a direct result of having these psychics. With them, I can send scouts and fighters far beyond the Conqueror's scanner-range. With a Communicant, I could manage even more." 'You told me this when you were first assigned to the Conqueror. And again, when you applied for each psychic. Once I could see the truth of it. But your progress has slowed, Starcommander; how do you explain that?" VShe darkened. "The enemy's changed. Zatar-" She stopped suddenly, unwilling to let him share her emotions. The anger. The hunger. He would misinterpret that, reading it as weakness. When in fact it was just the opposite. Her determination to bring Zatar down was her strength, her emotional refuge, the passion that fueled her very existence. The fact that li Pazua would stand between her and her victory was incomprehensible. Inexcusable. Unacceptable. b'He knows what I'm doing," she said softly. There was awe in her foremind, and rightly so; what other Braxin could have managed to second-guess a psychic? "He understands. He's learning to work around my telepathy. He makes plans that have no meaning, takes action designed to confuse a psychic. All with the intensity of purpose that usually indicates sincerity. I need another mind that can read him. One that isn't bound by my..." passions? "...limitations." v'And your enemy won't simply adjust for the new personnel?" She shut her eyes, hating him. "Probably. But it would take time." 'It seems to me that while you're busy designing a new kind of war, you're also creating a new kind of enemy. Isn't that self-defeating?" HIt was so close to the philosophy of the k'airth that she was startled to hear it from him. How much had she been broadcasting during their argument? "Director, this War's a race. Little by little we're pushing closer to the Holding; when we get there, all the rules will change. Every new element, be it psychic or strategic, buys us that much more time, advances us that much further. He isn't psychic himself; there must` be a limit to how much he can second-guess us!" 'Your own subsidiary images cause me to wonder if that's true. But regardless, I'm afraid I still have to refuse this request. I have many responsibilities, some of which outweigh this one. And one of them is to protect the psychic community." 8'Am I a threat to it, then?" 'Two psychics have died in your service. That's fact. I'm not willing to lose any more." 'Is2 it your choice to make?" p'In Siara ti's case, yes. He's young; I'm sure sure the War sounds very exciting to him. I doubt he comprehends the reality of what you're asking him to do. Or the risk. Two deaths is enough,Z Anzha lyu. Be satisfied with what you have." She touched his surface mind, smiled at what she found there. "Are you really upset over those deaths, Director? Or does it bother you more that the ones who still live might transfer their allegiance from the Institute to me?" She had hit a nerve; he was quick to conceal it, but not quick enough. NYou are the start of a dangerous trend!" his surface mind told her. Then his control was back. "You imagine yourself to be more important than you are. You offer the excitement of war; I offer training. Here at the Institute a psychic can reach his or her maximum potential. In the long run-" 'Do you really believe that?" she interrupted. "Can you look at me and still think it? Out there, that's where the power comes from! From having to deal with humans whose minds are closed to you. From being alone in the Void until your mind screams for contact-from skimming whole planets with your thoughts, hungering for the touch of a familiar soul. Not here, in this spoon-fed environment where you try to nurture strength by fulfilling our needs. Power like mine doesn't grow unless it has to-and mine has had to. The very existence of your Institute inhibits the talent you're after." lShe let that sink in, then told him, "I offer you the War, the ultimate testing-ground. Send Siara ti to me and he'll become stronger than you ever dreamed possible. I guarantee it." 'Very dramatic," he said dryly. "And I don't doubt that you've discovered your own fulfillment in combat. And found new ways to focus your talent. But your limitations are still the same, here or elsewhere." H'Are they?" Her eyes gleamed, and anger was evident in her foremind. "Are they really? Let me demonstrate. Director, just what sort of talent we're arguing about." XShe launched an assault on his mind slowly, so that he might have warning and find no recourse in the excuse of surprise. Even as he withdrew to cut himself off from her, he felt his eyes, alien things, widening in astonishment. This was in violation of the most basic tenets of Telepathic Etiquette! dShe pushed the release forms toward him, a remarkable display of motor control; it was hard to do anything with one's body while exerting that much power. "Sign them, Director.'' ~ I will not! bHe tried to build walls for himself while staring her down, but could not. One by one his physical senses shut down, allowing him to concentrate on the deadly battle within him. ~ JHave I overestimated myself, Director? PShe was trying to move his body as though it were her own and he was fighting to stop her. And losing. Mental claws tore at the walls he erected even as they were begun, until he battled merely to lay down a foundation for the struggle. Distinction Discipline, he begged his memory. The key patterns snapped into place and he began to withdraw into the dark isolation of self-only. Then she followed him there-followed him there!-and destroyed the flowing pattern which had promised salvation. -4You can't hide from me. Director. I'm too strong. I'm stronger than you ever meant me to be, and perhaps stronger than you thought any of us could become. 8He was seeing again, but only as a spectator to the vision she had activated within his eyes. She saw through her own eyes and controlled him. Not possible! 0'Yes." She wanted him to hear her so she heard for him, letting him share the sensation. Inside he was still struggling, but his will, overpowered and afraid, was succumbing at last to her battering strength. "So much of what you taught us was wrong. Abandon the physical senses to concentrate on the mind. Nonsense! Integrate the two and both are strengthened. You learn that when you have no alternative." His hands clenched, then unclenched-her doing. He couldn't stop it, slow it, lessen it. His body was hers to command. This wasn't possible! 'Why not?" she demanded. "If my body were strong enough, I could force you physically. I might manipulate your intellect through reasoning if my debating skills were outstanding. Why is this so unexpected? There isn't a man or woman who could stand up to me if I were determined enough-receptive, telepathic, or otherwise. Not if you can't." She pushed the request toward him. "Sign it, Director." ~ under duress- 'Your own propaganda will be your undoing. One telepath can't control another, remember?-Sign it." He fought as his hand reclaimed the stence, fought as he pulled the forms toward him. Fought desperately as she squeezed the signature out of him, calling his own mind into collusion with hers to make the mark perfectly his. He fought, and he lost. ^'Thank you, Director. I knew you'd see reason." (Like a fist holding a rag from which water had been wrung she relaxed and released him, and like a damp rag he fell to the desk before her, emptied. She refolded the documents and tucked them back inside her half-jacket. "I'll expect Siara ti Lann at Base Twelve in ten Standard Days." 0'And if he's not there?" 'You've released him already. If you interfere with StarControl now, I'll have you up on trial for treason. And you know as well as I do how many people in the Empire want you there. Including myself; it would give me access to your private psychefiles, and the notes on my conditioning. So don't tempt me." Again her thoughts grew dark. "And if I ever have reason to suspect that my conditioning-or that of my psychics-is interfering with my work, I assure you I will burn this Institute to the ground and its precious records with it. Do you understand me?" It was all he could do to nod; his body felt numb, and was slow in responding. ^'That's all, Director. Once more, I thank you." She left his office as she had entered it: a whirlwind of mad, half-disciplined energy. Exhausted, Nabu nursed his injured mind. They had always been impressed by her potential, but this exceeded their wildest dreams. If only it were under control! 8What about her conditioning?& he asked himself. 4Is that still functioning? It was hard to judge. They had taken in an outcast child and had raised her to hunger for the stars. They wanted something, and had wagered that she could find it. If things had gone according to plan she would be traveling now, supported by the Institute, wandering from planet to planet until she found the information that would satisfy them. They had instilled zeymophobia in her for that reason, so that she might never be comfortable enough on any surface to settle down and abandon her quest. Who could have foreseen that she would join the military? By sending her to the Border fleet, StarControl had destroyed the environment required for her conditioning to function properly; who could say what would happen to it under the present circumstances? The first break had already been made: by treating Nabu as she had, Anzha had made it clear that her conditioned dependence upon the Institute was no longer operative. How much else had been similarly annihilated? His confidence badly shaken, the Director of the Institute forced himself to face an unpleasant truth. 4We've lost control of her. Harkur:: The Braxana are wrong if they think that they will never be intolerant toward human indulgences. They simply have not yet encountered one that offends them. Eighteen DMy name is Venari. It's a meaningless thing, a collection of syllables whose combination has been applied to me. When it's called, I come; when others speak it, visions of me are called to mind. But it has in itself no meaning. I have in myself no meaning. I exist. I live. I serve. Venari. JMy memory extends back nearly a year. I'm told that I was in a terrible accident once, and that my mind has blocked that part of my memory, to keep me from reliving the pain. Perhaps I malfunctioned. In any case, I've lost not only the memory of that terrible day but of all days before it. My life is fifteen zhents old; of my soul, who can say? I speak seven languages but have no memory of having learned them. I have skills no one taught me and every day I am aware of memories nearly coming to mind that were supposedly lost forever. I have dreams. This is my most common dream: I am in a small starship speeding through the Void. The image comes of a knife slicing the substance of that darkness, of myself plunging through the wound. There are instruments all about me, upon which my life depends. An image comes of gold hands over a control board, dancing. There is a weight over me, and also an exhilarating sense of joy, of coming triumph. I laugh, wildly. Then fire bums about me suddenly-fear envelops me. I have a glimpse of a golden egg, to match the hands, freefloating in the Void. I strive to reach it. .And I awake, screaming. &I'm learning not to scream. When that half-state comes where I am still in the dream but no longer entirely so, I stifle my cries with the terror of my days and the memory of what's done to me when this dream is made public. That's usually enough. The memory is a strong one. Identity: the mirror, conjured, reveals a human woman with the mark of the foreign-born strong upon her. Prehensile toes, nails that are better called talons, a broad face splayed out in horizontal features that make a mockery of the cleanly chiseled details of the Braxana, by whom I am surrounded. I am tall-too tall-spare in the chest and hips, and so dark that I could slip unseen from shadow to shadow. When I'm cut, the interior of my flesh is pink-white, like theirs, as if my color were makeup and could be easily removed. Sadly, I observe this often. Which brings me to the next point of identification: I am a slave in the House of Sechaveh. Some primitive peoples believe in a variety of afterlives; my Mistress has told me of these things. They're based upon the concept that some god-or goddess-has taken the time and trouble to remain in the human sphere of affairs and oversee the eternity of the immortal soul. I imagine this would be terribly boring, for a being that was truly omnipotent. So, for the sake of variety, said deity devises a series of distinct and memorably atmospheric subafterlives. One of these, though it's called by many names, is recognized by all believing peoples as a place of eternal suffering. What that suffering is, no one is quite sure. What they are certain of is that this place has a Master, whose pleasure it is to concoct new varieties of human anguish for the diversion of the creator-god in charge. I have met this man. In fact, I serve him. They say that Sechaveh's character was formed in his childhood, when he was ruled by women and made to suffer for his parents' arrogance. I don't believe this. The mind freely imagines many terrible things, and none of them, not even in their most fearsome intensity, could turn out the sort of being that Sekav, son of Lurat and M'nisa, became. Of course, I'm prejudiced. I am a woman. I don't know what men think of him and I imagine I will never find out. I wonder sometimes if the Braxana could really approve of him, they who speak of the right to pleasure and revere their own women above the men of all other races. Sechaveh's not like that. He's different, and knows it, and as a sign of that difference he bears a different name, the one the aliens gave him. But the Braxana use it, and perhaps they really do consider him one of them. To me they are very different. But then, I am his. ,I've become disturbed recently over my identity. The formula of it is cut and dried, nothing to question, every bit of it in its proper place. Yet there's a piece missing. I have never thought of my life as a puzzle, but more and more I wonder about those missing years. What sort of person would I be now if I remembered my entire past? Such memory doesn't seem to be a positive thing. Whenever my words or actions lead my Master or Mistress to believe that a fragment of memory has surfaced I'm punished soundly and then made to undergo such treatment as will erase it entirely. But that never completely works. I don't tell them that; after undergoing such pain as Sechaveh's fertile imagination supplies and then spending days in drugged hypnotreatment, I'm in little mood to inform them that the whole process failed. But fail it does, more and more as I'm subjected to it. It's as if I'm building up an immunity to the process, or perhaps my memories are finding ways to circumvent Sechaveh's surveillance, and only gradually succeeding. VThis is why I try not to wake up screaming. Despite all this speculation, it was more than likely that I would go to my dissolution without ever unveiling the mystery of my past. But then He came... ah, I shudder to think of it!... and the world changed in an instant. He had come back from the War for a time. Who can say why? There are as many Conditional Peaces as there are stars in the Braxin sky; perhaps one of them encompassed his region, his command, or his ships. Maybe concern for his House brought him back to his native moon, or repairs on his vessel made it possible for him to leave the front for a vacation. Who can say? I had been sent forth on some errands that day, and was running behind schedule. As I hurried down a lunar thoroughfare, anxious to reach my House at the appointed time, my thoughts were not upon the road. And so it was I ran into him, and the impact sent me sprawling. My first reaction was fear. Almost all the residents of Zhene were high-born. What would my punishment be, for daring to inconvenience a Braxana? But then I looked up, and saw Him, and the fear gave way to wonder. It is not enough to say that he was beautiful, for beauty is common among the Braxana, and I had long ago become accustomed to it; judging between the Lords of Braxi would be like judging between the gods themselves. But I was used to my Master's features, harsh and unyielding, twisted by years of anger. Had a slave inconvenienced him as I had just done to this stranger, rage would have quickly deformed his features into a hideous mask. This man showed no anger, sought no vengeance. He even seemed-could it be?-amused by the encounter. 'On your feet, woman." I struggled to obey, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. Praise the gods for my alien skin, which hid my blushes in its darkness! His presence unnerved me in a way I didn't understand, yet which was not unpleasant. He stepped closer as he looked me over, and touched a gloved finger to my face, tilting it upward until I looked directly into his eyes. His delicate nostrils flared, and I was as uncomfortable as always with the awareness that the Braxana sense of smell, animal-acute, can pick out a thousand chemical messages which other humans cannot consciously detect. bWhatever he saw in me pleased him, for he smiled. :'Whose are you?" he asked me. A voice out of memory-it startled me, made the words slow in coming. "S... Sechaveh's, Lord." I saw his medallion, corrected myself: "Kaim'era." B'And your name?" His voice was rich, melodic... and familiar. An island of memory in the wasteland of my past. Stunned, I choked out an answer. "Venari, Kaim'era." <He looked me over, and I trembled. With heat? With fear? Yes, and with a thousand other reactions that had no place in my present life. "Forgive me..." I began. B'Does he take pleasure with you?" PMy face burned in shame. "No, Kaim'era." 'Ah. Predictable, given Sechaveh. But a waste." His fingers caressed my face, brushed my neck and breast, left fire in their wake. "I'll borrow you for the night, if he agrees. Would that please you?" I could feel my legs shaking, and wondered how long they would support me. "I... as you wish, Kaim'era." 'Tell him, then. I'll come to him tonight, to make a formal request. To taste what he doesn't have the sense to desire." A moment more, I knew, and I would surely collapse. "Your name, Kaim'era? Who shall I say-" 'Zatar." The name was familiar, a fragment from my missing past. Stunned, I nodded, bowed, backed carefully away from him. My only hope was that my legs would support me long enough for me to get away safely. He wanted me! I exulted, as I broke into a run for home. And beneath that a growing certainty: $I knew him before. I was punished when I returned home; my Mistress saw to it personally. Sechaveh demands perfection from his women, a curious thing from a man who considers women by their very nature incapable of perfection. That day it suited his whim that the more primitive physical tortures be applied, and so I was whipped soundly, and rather than recover soon after, as more modern punishments allow, I was forced to take my bleeding flesh to bed with me and learn to live with the pain. I did not speak to him of Zatar; I would not mix such pleasure-or promise of pleasure-with the torment of Sechaveh's service. And I was afraid that his name, like all other fragments of memory that had returned to me, would be cause for further "treatment." But I dreamed of him. How I dreamed! That marvelous face drew close in illusion, and, free of my pain in a world of my own devising, I reached for him. The mystery of Man was to be revealed to me, a mystery that concerned me even more than that of my identity. But even as my hands reached for him, I awoke with a suddenness that told me I had not done so by accident. TThere were voices in the distance, coming from the forehall. Loud voices, and hostile. I crept from my mat and looked out into the hallway adjoining my sleeping quarters; no one was about. With care I crept toward the central House. The closer I came, the more I could hear of what was transpiring. It was him; the timber of his voice had awakened me. Again I was struck with its familiarity. I held my breath as I listened. ^'... and done with this nonsense," he was saying. 'This 'nonsense,' as you put it, is my own affair. According to the bargain we made-" 'Informal." *'But binding! She is my slave, Zatar-and for the million I've paid out, she'd better remain so. I don't want her tasted." :'That is the most senseless-" H'I don't have to explain myself to you. We made a bargain. It cost me enough that it should be kept. The woman is my property and I don't want her tasted. That is my pleasure, and like it or not it has precedence over yours. I've listened to your request. I've heard your arguments. The answer is no." My heart was pounding. A millon? Had he paid a million sinias for me, or spent them doing... what? Their anger spent, they were too quiet for me to hear them. I stayed where I was until the footsteps sounded on the wooden flooring, until the door shut and locked behind him. Alone. I was alone again, as always. 6I will not have her tasted. He had wanted me. I leaned against the wall, ignoring the pain from my whip-scored back, eyes shut tightly against the flow of tears that I felt was imminent. The nights I had lain awake tormented by doubt-the days I had wasted on futile questions! No man had wanted me. No man had ever> wanted me. Suddenly that was revealed to be, no, not the natural state of things, but the result of countless bribes and maneuverings. Why, Kaim'era Sechaveh-why? I forced myself to return to my room, to close myself away in that space that was my only refuge. I managed to choke forth a single word; if two had been required, I don't think I could have managed them. 'Mirror." The appropriate space glossed over with reflected light. I stood before it. With trembling hands I let my shift fall over my shoulders and drop from my body. How many times had I looked myself over, wondering what was so wrong with me that I had never inspired a man's desire, or even received one's anonymous lust? Now it was with a different eye that I saw myself. Was this body so displeasing? I ran my hands over it and had to answer: no. There was nothing wrong with me that wasn't also wrong with other women. That is to say, before the Braxana, what alien or commoner can be beautiful? We are all flawed when compared to them. But as alien humans went, I was well-proportioned-if not generously, nevertheless sufficiently for a man's interest. Yet in the fifteen zhents of my current identity no man had wanted me, demanded me, or, as happens so often in the ranks of slaves, simply taken me. And now I knew this was no coincidence. To be sure, I had suspected it. Chastity is alien to Braxin society, but still one is hesitant to imagine a conspiracy of such an immense scale as was active here. Had he bribed every man on this moon to leave me alone-and was that why I had always been kept on Zhene, never taken to surface? I was chilled by the truth as the pieces fell into place. On the moon there would be a limited number of men, all of them settled in Braxana Houses or themselves of the Master Race. Such could be bribed, and clearly had been so. Oh, toward what end had he designed this misery! 0I sobbed myself to sleep And dreamt. >Golden hands dancing over controls labeled in an unseen tongue. The glory of the Void without obstruction, the perfection of planned action becoming reallity. ,A hand on my shoulder. *I turn about suddenly-who could be here with me, sharing my dream and my death and my loneliness? Zatar. Not right, not right. Something about him doesn't belong here, and I shield the controls with my body as if he would harm them. He tries to draw me to him; I am torn between my sworn duty and the fire which suddenly burns to life in the private recesses of my body. Sparks begin to play across the control board. I scream: "No! Not yet!" The end is too early, too early! I try to break free of him, to smother the growing flames, but his grip is firm and his caress undeniable. The fire grows about us, in me. I am screaming, and cannot say just what is the cause of it. <I awoke. By my side sat a figure dressed in sleeping-robe and nightgloves. It took me a moment to recover my bearings, and to identify the figure as Sil'ne, Sechaveh's Mistress. My heart still beating wildly, my face flushed with the heat of my dream, I tried to pull myself together. j'I heard you cry out," she said quietly. "The dream?" 6I nodded, then shook my head no. "A dream. Not that one." I shivered with the force of unaccustomed falsehood; a day ago I would not have dared lie to her. 'Tell me." I feigned embarrassment; it was close enough to the truth. "I dreamed of Zatar," I whispered. 'Ah." She stood. "They're allies, you know. Things may change..." She looked closely at me, no doubt noting the signs of frustrated longing which were written all over me. "Do you need to be drugged?" she asked. R'No," I said meekly. "I'll be all right." P'Sechaveh wouldn't like to be awakened." I shuddered. That had happened once, and I had barely survived his wrath in the morning. "I know, Mistress. I'll be careful." She watched me for a moment as though analyzing my own reaction to those words. I had lied but evidently lied well; with a nod at last she left me, and the darkness-and the longing-closed in again. ^In the morning I was summoned before my Master. PI trembled as I approached the door to his library, where I had been instructed to meet him. "Venari," I whispered. The computer digested that and then parted the door. I entered, eyes lowered, and abased myself. He watched in silence, then rose from his seat behind the library console and walked over to me. In size and power he towered over me. "Kaim'era Zatar has requested you." &I looked up hopefully. It was the first deception I had ever practiced upon my Master; he must never know that I had overheard their confrontation. He smiled, an expression not without cruelty. "My answer was no." Realizing that he had called me here so he could relish my disappointment, I let the anguish of the night before wash over me again. The misery, the fear, the uncertainty-it was all mine once more. My expression, reflecting that inner turmoil, pleased him immensely. He waited a short while longer in silence, making it clear to both of us that I did not dare defy him. dAt last he turned from me. "Go back to your work." I did so. `I dreamed the new dream often after that, but I learned not to cry out in my longing as I had once learned not to cry out in fear. Both could be fatal in this House and I had no wish to die. Sil'ne questioned me occasionally but seemed satisfied that I hadn't dreamt of the golden egg again, which seemed to comprise the sum total of her concern. At night I tried to sleep long enough to know the consummation of Zatar's embrace, to have that satisfaction, if nowhere else, at least in my dream-state-but the anguish and memory associated with my desire never failed to awaken me, and my last thought was never of him, but of the golden egg whose very meaninglessness was painful to me. LSo my life passed for many, many days. BIt was Sil'ne's custom to change our duties periodically, so that from time to time we would be working different parts of the House and its grounds. I think she did this partly to save us from Sechaveh, for he never knew quite where to find us when wrath overtook him; by the time she had fetched us he had usually calmed down somewhat. He hated her for it, but he hated her for everything: she was a woman, and therefore an enemy. If he could have done without her services he would have; Braxana custom being what it was, however, he didn't have that option. The balance between them was extraordinarily tense: she, determined to maintain an acceptably traditional House, he, determined to vent his whims upon that entity regardless of consequences. I would rather have died than be in her gloves. Some time after Zatar's visit-but no more than tenths later as far as my soul was concerned, for I dreamed of him nightly-I was assigned to the forehouse. There, while picking up after an emotional and somewhat messy business meeting, I heard a bit of conversation from the outer hallway that burned itself immediately into my awareness. *'... your Azean doing?" ~'As I planned. Did you anticipate otherwise? I have no doubts-" @A door hissed shut as they entered a conference chamber, and the House's automatic soundproofing concealed the rest of their conversation. I listened for a while longer, in case they should emerge again, but eventually I was forced to return to my work, and ponder their words in silence. :An Azean in Sechaveh's House? I could not imagine it. Why would one be here? Where would he be kept? What use would be made of him in this private place, that could not be accomplished better elsewhere? Even Sechaveh's penchant for torture seemed too trivial a use to make of one of the enemy. A captured Azean would have useful military information, wouldn't he? Why would he be sold-or given-to one individual? jThe question distracted me from my work, and in the days that followed I realized I was going to have to do something about finding an answer. Surely the matter was simple enough; I had only to ask the House computer for whatever information it had on the matter, and work deductively from that point. I waited until one day's work took me into the library, bided my time until all others had left the room, and approached the console. "Sechaveh's House,$ I instructed it. >Population statistics, by race.l Such information should be available even to a slave.