In Conquest Born, page 2
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 Braxaná, 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.
He 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 Braxaná. Momentarily he regrets the law which forbids the presence of a lift or transport in any Braxaná 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 Braxaná 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 breath-taking. 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 Braxaná 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.
“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 Braxaná 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.”
“You have something in mind, I gather.”
He 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 Braxaná,” 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 Braxaná 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 childbirth, and so pregnancy is more a cruel deception than a hope or promise, never discussed, rarely acknowledged, and sometimes genuinely forgotten.
“Alive . . .” he whispers.
“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 Braxaná 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 still-birth. A pure Zarvati child! How magnificent it might be, how great it might become! And a man’s only son should be outstanding.
“Lady,” he says softly. Braxaná 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.
With 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 battle-ground 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. . . .”
He 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 Braxaná 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 lifeform 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 lyu Tukone and Suan lir 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.
The 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.
Mother and father are investigated.
Darmel lyu 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 lyu, 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.
Be 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.
The child will not be Azean, they are warned.
She 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.
The child will not be, can never be a citizen of the Empire.
Her parents pale, but they persist.
The 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.
These 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.
Viton: 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 prime-file: Dialogues) 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 helplessness 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.
