In Conquest Born, page 13
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.
Ebre came before his liege and knelt. “Majesty. May I speak?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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 Directorship.”
“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.
Pezh 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 to 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.
She 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 somewhat 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.
Officers 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.
Closing 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?”
She took a deep breath, for courage.
“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 Braxaná, 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 Braxaná wine. Perhaps some other—”
“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 Braxaná 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 Braxaná 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.”
Half delirious, he murmured, “I will kill him. I have to. There’s no other way. . . .”
A 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.
Which 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.
“And you made a fool of yourself in front of whom? Not he 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. 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 Braxaná 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!”
“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 Braxaná 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.”
