In Conquest Born, page 49
He shut his eyes for a moment, letting the rage settle, trying to think. “We have to act. I have to do something—soon. Call in the fleet commanders: Benex, Sirin, Tuvir . . . and Herek. We’ve got a Peace, thank Azea for that; one bit of luck in our favor. It can last a few zhents more, while we work out some plan of action. As for her. . . .”
He smiled to himself. “I forget, sometimes, the full extent of my arsenal. For the war, we will summon warships. As for the warrior . . . we will summon her maker.
“Call Feran to me.”
When Feran answered his Master’s summons, he was disturbed to find Zatar aloof and restrained; and when the Probe tried to read his surface mind for cause of it, he found his query turned aside with a skill that was alarming.
How could a man who had never lived with psychic awareness manage so perfect a shield? Was mere strength of will enough? He had been teaching the Pri’tiera the basics of telepathic discipline, but that was mere theory, meaningless to the non-sensitive; he had never expected Zatar to internalize it.
If you were psychic, he thought, in addition to everything you already are, no man could stand against you.
“Welcome,” the Pri’tiera said, but there was no welcome in his voice—only tension, finely tuned and carefully controlled. “I have some news that I think will interest you.” Some news that I know you fear, his surface thoughts added.
“I am the Pri’tiera’s servant.”
Of course. The dark eyes were watching him, ready to assess his reaction to news that was clearly disturbing.
“I have located Anzha lyu Mitethe,” he said simply.
The skies swirled about Feran in maddening chaos—and were still, and he managed a small measure of control. “Where? Doing what?”
“Plotting the downfall of Braxi.” He gave that a moment to sink in, then withdrew the scout’s missive from his tunic. And read it.
Then silence.
At last Feran spoke, his voice an unsteady whisper. “What will you do?”
“What I must. The planet will die; there’s no other way. Even now my fleets are being prepared for the effort; we’ll find a way to cross the Barren Zone, and then we’ll crush this world and its fledgling colonies. Not a single native will survive, I assure you. Which takes care of the immediate threat to our security.” He looked at Feran, his gaze so intense that the Probe had to turn away. “But it doesn’t address the real problem.”
“Anzha lyu.”
“As long as she’s free to roam the galaxy at will, Braxi is in danger.” He saw panic stirring in Feran, and nodded his approval. There was only one solution; the Probe wasn’t likely to welcome it. “As for what to do about her, the portrait has changed all that. Her bloodline is as precious to Braxi as my own. If I kill her now, knowing that, I may undo all my work. Braxi would turn against me; the common people are not yet so loyal to me that they would allow me to desecrate their history; even the military might have second thoughts after I cut short their proudest bloodline. No, I can’t kill her—but I can and must neutralize her. She must cease to be a threat, and that’s where you come in.”
“What do you want me to do?” he stammered, fearing the answer.
“I have no illusions that my fleet will be able to find her, much less capture her. Only a mind attuned to her own could second-guess her intent as finely as would be required, or call to her across the vast distances involved. Only a mind that shares her background could pry her loose from her dream of conquest, and bring her back to Braxi.
“She would kill me,” Feran said quickly. His voice was thick with fear. “Have you taken that into account? Her hatred of me is only second to that which she reserves for you. She would kill me in an instant if she had the chance, and you’re giving her the perfect opportunity! How can I serve you if I’m dead?”
“You fear death,” he observed.
“Don’t you?”
“Not in the same way. I fear defeat more. Which is why I must take certain risks, in order to negate her advantage.”
He paced for a moment, thoughtful, then addressed Feran anew. “How will she react, do you suppose, when she learns the truth of her heredity?”
It pained him to answer, to remember. “The child I . . . adjusted . . . could not come to terms with such a thing. I know that.”
“And now?”
“Who can say? You can’t design a person, Pri’tiera. You can only design his tendencies, then let him follow his own course. If your foresight was good, if your planning was adaptable, if the environment is amenable to your intentions, you may get something like what you wanted.”
“And in her case?”
He chose his words carefully. “I see, in her actions, the results of what we did. I also see many choices open to her that we didn’t anticipate. She’s much stronger than she was, stronger than we ever thought she could be. Not just in power. In stability. Li Pazua thought she would go insane,” he confided. The memory was rank within him. “That suited his purposes, so we made our plans accordingly. As she reached adulthood, the programming would take effect. Denied human contact, national identity, even the limited comfort of a planetary home, she would be driven forth in a desperate search for something to give her ties to the rest of humanity. That was the plan. What actually happened was something else again.”
“You never foresaw her fleet service.”
“I foresaw a frightened child, fleeing some inner darkness that she couldn’t comprehend—which I had put there,” he said defiantly, as though daring the Pri’tiera to pass judgment on him. “Li Pazua envisioned a woman wholly dependent on him, whom he would support financially and otherwise as she searched throughout the galaxy for the information he wanted so badly—the information you now control. You must understand, he believed in racial memory. If somewhere in her psyche the key to her past was in hiding, it stood to reason that emotional duress might unearth it. Desperation does strange things to the mind.”
“And you?” The dark eyes studied him for reaction. “What did you think of that?”
“I obeyed orders,” he snapped. “That was programmed into me. What I believed then is irrelevant; the point is, we failed. She didn’t suffer quietly. She didn’t fall apart. Most important, she didn’t turn to li Pazua for support. She made her own destiny, in ways none of us would have anticipated. So you ask me, what will happen when she finds out that the Race she hates is her own? My answer is that she should fall apart, unable to cope—or she should go running back to the Institute, so Li Pazua can have his answer. But she won’t. She doesn’t need him any more. She doesn’t need any of us.”
“What does she need?” he demanded.
He hesitated; even now, years later, the memory of that child’s mind was overwhelming. “Consummation of a self-hatred so intense that all the Probes in the Institute couldn’t alter it. It took me years just to redirect it, and you see the result. That’s why I say, she has no way to deal with news like this. None.” He shuddered. “I suspect there’s a good chance that when a link is demonstrated between herself and her enemies she may well identify with them—and in that case, everything we did to save her from herself may be undone, and quickly.”
“She would die?” he pressed.
Feran looked away. After a long and painful silence he ventured, “That would be the most merciful end.”
“And what if the hatred were consummated?”
He looked back, startled. “But that would take the destruction of Braxi—of you—of herself, once she learns the truth.”
“What if it were redirected?” he asked evenly.
Suddenly Feran understood—and feared. “Not at this point. She would crush me if I tried, do you understand that? Programming the mind of a child is one thing. Inserting suggestions into the mind of a Functional Telepath is suicide!”
“And your commitment to serve me?”
“Pri’tiera, there are things that have passed between Anzha lyu and me which you simply can’t understand, things that make it impossible for her to accept any kind of probic contact.”
“Don’t underestimate me,” Zatar warned him. “I know the full extent of your work, including the details you never told me. Yes, even what you did to her sexuality. I don’t doubt that she’d jump at the chance to kill you—I would myself, under the same circumstances. For now, just answer my question. What would happen if her destructive tendencies were channeled elsewhere?”
“Toward whom? I see why you would want to do it, but I don’t see how it could be done.”
The Pri’tiera’s voice was low and even, a sharp contrast to the intensity that poured forth from his surface mind. “What if she understood that you weren’t responsible for what you did? What if she placed the blame where it really belonged—on those who gave you your orders, taught you your techniques, manipulated your emotions? What if the Institute became her enemy?”
It took him a long time to remember what it meant to be innocent of motive; it was a concept alien to the Braxaná mind, which punished doer and planner alike. “I might, then, be spared.” He spoke softly. “Is that what you want? Turn her against the Institute so she’ll go back there to fight them—start her all over again in some new vendetta? I don’t know if I can do that.”
“But if you did,” he persisted, “there would be an end for you, at least. You’ve learned to live with the memory of what you did to her, but you’ve never really come to terms with it.”
“I would be doing it all over again,” he said bitterly. “Taking away her certain victory and giving her an empty dream in its place.”
“Listen to me.” Stepping forward, the Pri’tiera grasped him firmly by the shoulders; emotion, strong and unbridled, flowed through the contact. “I am sending you out there. I have no other way to reach her. All other things aside, I must get control of her—or Braxi is doomed, Feran, do you understand that?”
“She’ll never submit to you. The kairth—”
“Is ended! Haven’t you realized that? She abandoned the endless battle for one that promised victory, and I say, put it in those terms again. Promise her vengeance. Promise her consummation of that hatred which has ruled her life. I give you that power.”
“What do you mean?”
“I will destroy the Institute. I’ve intended to for years, for military reasons, but I’ll do it now, in her name.”
He was stunned. “But how—”
“My means are my own secret. It will be blamed on her, never fear; the Peace will remain intact until I choose to break it.” Emotion poured forth from him in torrents—hatred, determination, hunger. “I can’t leave her out there; she’ll destroy Braxi if I do. I must reel her in, and for that the Institute will be my bait. As for the rest. . . .” He released him, suddenly shielded. “She’s no longer simply an enemy. Knowing her bloodline changes everything.”
Feran caught the undertone to his words and whispered, “You want her.”
“How could any man not want her? She’s the woman my ancestors sought, when they chose their mates to strengthen the Tribe. Braxaná have fought for her kind, died trying to possess her, waged war and moved nations—how could I fail to feel desire for such a woman, when she embodies everything my people value?”
The mental block, slowly slipping, was suddenly reestablished. “But that’s beside the point,” he said coldly. “I must have her, and only you can bring her to me. As for what happens once she gets here, that’s my concern, not yours.”
“If I can stop her,” Feran said quietly, “and if she lives—if I live—do you really think she’ll come to you? After everything?”
“Because of everything. Yes, Feran. She’ll come. I can’t say what will happen after that, but when I tender her an invitation sealed with the Institute’s lifeblood, I have no doubt that she’ll accept. And after that. . . .”
His words faded into silence, rich with conflicting emotions.
“She has my Name,” he said at last. Then his mind focused back toward the workroom, and the painting it contained. He let Feran share the image, and all the thoughts which it inspired.
“As I have hers,” he whispered.
Harkur: Above all else, never underestimate the enemy.
TWENTY-SEVEN
He walks to the terrace, looks out into the early dawn. There, at that angle, the star of Llornu is rising. Not visible to the naked eye, not this morning, not from Braxi. He calls for a magnification field and waits while the proper forces align themselves in response to his summons. There . . . yes, he can see it now.
“How much longer?” he asks.
The House responds: .21 TENTH.
“Tell me when it happens.”
UNDERSTOOD.
He considers what he has done, and what is about to happen, and what the ramifications of it will be. He indulges his imagination at length, knowing the supposed danger of it.
Sense my thoughts, he dares the telepaths, taste my intentions, read my purpose. And stop me—if you can.
But the distance is too far and he knows it; no one can hear him, despite his powerful intent-focus.
The House of Zatar speaks:
IT IS TIME.
He smiles.
Nabu li Pazua awoke suddenly, convinced that something was wrong.
He surveyed his immediate surroundings with a master’s telepathic touch, hoping to discover the source of his alarm. In this small room, in the adjoining chambers outside, in this whole section of the building, there was nothing that might have disturbed his sleep. Perhaps his own stream of consciousness? He reviewed the dream which was only now fading from memory, and found in its content nothing to arouse suspicion. No, whatever had disturbed him was clearly external to his own person. And it was wrong.
He scanned the mental horizon for the source of his discomfort, found it in a stranger’s thoughts. There—a tendril of concentration so faint that it almost evaded his perception. He touched it with all his skill, seeking its source and purpose. Something to do with the Border, it seemed. No; he tested that possibility, discarded it. Someone connected with the Border, then.
Anzha? Could she be planning her revenge at last? In theory, her conditioning made such action impossible, but she had broken so many rules already—why not that one as well?
He opened himself to the foreign thoughtstream—so weak, so indecipherable—and overlaid it with Anzha’s own mental signature. To his relief, the two failed to match.
Feran? He tested that thought as well, though he seriously doubted that the Probe could span Holding and Empire without relay, and again the answer was negative.
That left no one—at least, no one li Pazua had ever heard of. From that direction, once could almost imagine a Braxin source. Except of course that there were no Braxin psychics.
Or were there?
He took what he knew of the Braxin mindset—and he knew a lot, having trained Ferian del Kanar for his defection—and he compared it to the alien thought. To his horror, he found that the two images were very similar.
All right, he told himself, be calm, think it out. A Braxin source (the distance alone made it incredible!) focused upon the Institute, or upon Llornu, or li Pazua himself. With what purpose? The contact was too weak for him to read that clearly, but one thing was painfully clear: it was hostility that had strengthened the signal, making it strong enough to reach across Holding and Empire and awaken him in the night.
Some kind of imminent attack? he ventured.
Yes.
It could be anything, provided it touched upon his person (or his cause, they were the same thing), and provided that culmination of the Braxin’s plan was in the immediate future. Only such a combination was capable of channeling surface thoughts to him with such intensity, perhaps without the sender’s approval.
Attack! They had prepared defenses, had never expected to need them. Li Pazua tried to calm himself enough to manage a cool, rational sending. To the first rung of Llornu’s special defense network: relay.
Five psychics were on guard, quickly roused from lethargy when he filled their minds with his warning. They would warn the others, spreading word in an instant with flawless precision, setting various plans in motion with far more efficiency than non-sentient technology could ever hope to equal.
He trembled, waiting.
~ Director? It was his relay captain, a skilled Communicant.
~ All stations alerted. That meant machines were scanning the heavens for activity, telepaths were searching the boundaries of thought for threat, computers were analyzing the psychefiles of Llornu’s current population. Would it be enough? Li Pazua wished he had some idea what kind of threat they were dealing with; it would narrow the search considerably. How much time did they have?
~ What is it we’re looking for? the relay team group-queried.
~ I don’t know! He paused, trying to give a name to that feeling which had crept with icy claws into the heart of him. Dread? Terror? ~ Hostile focus, manifestation expected shortly. Maintain full alert, telepathic and mechanical.
It could be an assassin, plotting li Pazua’s demise, which had worked its way into his awareness. Or a saboteur, preparing weapons of destruction. Even a political enemy, negotiating Llornu’s doom—any source that combined hostility with a Llornuan intent, focusing upon this moment in time . . . too many possibilities, too little information. Li Pazu a fumed at his own impotence.
He reached out for contact with the psychics in the defense center, the ones in charge of Llornu’s limited martial capacity. A Communicant was waiting to relay his consciousness to the operations center; he tapped into the man’s senses even as the head psychic announced his presence. So far, the system was working well.
Briefly, Nabu regretted his decision to ban StarControl from the system. They could have used Security’s help at a time like this. But that would have set a dangerous precedent, compromising Llornu’s autonomy. And once the veil of secrecy had been lifted, StarControl would hardly allow him to restore it. No, when Director ni Kahv had offered to fortify the Institute, Nabu had made the only choice possible. Who had ever thought that Llornu would come under attack?
