In Conquest Born, page 29
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.”
“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.”
The tube opened on a residential level which had been given over entirely to the needs of the Braxaná. Yiril and Sechaveh led their companion to the proper room.
“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.
“You know the formulas I’ve been taking?”
She 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.”
“And you’ll want the skin bleached back?”
“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 Braxaná 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 Braxaná 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?”
“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 Braxaná 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 Braxaná 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.”
“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 powertriad, as we are: Vinir, Lerex, and Saloz.”
“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.”
“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 when as if emphasizing that he had not said if “—they’ll see the opportunity for what it is. We can talk then.”
“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?”
“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 Braxaná by implanting an explosive in one of their number?’—Skyve”
Zatar laughed. “Ah, so instead he subjects me to unnecessary surgery. Much better.”
“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 our advantage, but what’s in it for them?”
Her second-in-command asked, “Are you going to negotiate it, then?”
“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.”
She 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?”
He 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.”
There 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.
“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 animals 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.
His 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
Truce 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.”
“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 Braxaná 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 Braxaná 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-Braxaná 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 Braxaná 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 Braxaná 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 Braxaná 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.
