Braxi-Azea - In Conquest Born Part 9

Inside, he knew-but on the surface, no part of his Braxin self would admit that something psychic had touched him, marking him.

But that child . . . that G.o.d-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 partic.i.p.ated 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.

More 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.

They 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 para- lyzed him and in his depression he could seek no pleasure.

For 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 a.n.a.lyze 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.

He 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 barba- rism 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.

I 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.

1 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 amus.e.m.e.nt- 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-partic.i.p.ation. 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.

If 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 partic.i.p.ate 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 partic.i.p.ate, 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 a.s.sume 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 a.n.a.logy 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.

A 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 pa.s.sed 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.

Varik 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. . . .

Varik 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.

"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 d.a.m.ned 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 amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Shem'Ar shemit-Ar't!" he transmitted-a 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."

"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?"

He 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 bargaining with you is at best a meager source of amus.e.m.e.nt. Pray to your G.o.ds in the name of your mother that heaven provide an answer; for nothing short of that will save you."

He 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 partic.i.p.ated 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, wis.h.i.+ng 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.

"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 s.h.i.+p toward home.

If you lose . . ." he shrugged. "Given the Hyarke, that will settle our problem."

"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."

"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 ident.i.ty 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.

"I'm your opponent," she said softly.

That was it, then-a child! They wanted him, Varik, to do the Hyarke with a child!

In 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 amus.e.m.e.nt of the Azean Empire?

He slammed his fist into an office door and it shattered before the force of the blow.

"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 was 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.

If 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 a.s.surances vou want.

They want you to fight a child. They must know something about her you don't. Your advantages are obvious-reach, 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. That for the indignity of pitting him against a child.

He 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!