In Conquest Born, page 7
Just as her patience was reaching its end, the door behind the secretary slid open. Governor li Dara smiled broadly as he saw her. “Starcommander! I thought I heard someone out here. Please come in.”
Without a glance at the desk she swept up her orders and followed him. “Your staff—” she began.
“Shh. Not here.” He led her down a long corridor, to an office at the end. When they were inside, he made sure the door was well sealed behind them. Only then would he speak.
“I’m really sorry about that. They’re usually good, you know, but your rank must have been just too tempting. Kir Lao speaks perfect Azean and is outstandingly efficient—anything else, I’m afraid, was strictly for your benefit. Ver?”
“Please.” The drink was standing ready and she accepted a steaming cupful from him. She looked over the office, a simple room decorated in what she thought was a poor mixture of Azean and Darian. A glance out the window revealed a public demonstration on the street below. “Azeans go home,” read one sign, and others had longer slogans which included such descriptive passages as “imperialistic parasites” and “alien filthmongers.”
“Nice place you have here,” she commented.
He followed her gaze out of the window and grimaced. “They don’t actually rebel, you know, and the Treaty of Conquest gives them the right to assemble . . . like that.” He looked up at her. “It goes without saying we’re not popular here.”
“I gathered that.”
He sighed. “Which, of course, is nine-tenths of the problem. The standard list of things to do when one suspects there is a spy amongst the natives is invalid in this case. One wrong move, one overtly imperialistic gesture, and we just might lose this planet as a passive base.”
“We could simply obliterate it.”
He laughed, on the assumption that she was kidding him, then stopped when he saw her face. Surely, he hoped, she’s not serious. “I’d be out of a job,” he offered.
She gave him a faint smile. “Then it’s out of the question.” She looked out over the horizon. “No, I’m well aware of what this planet is worth as a base of operations, and equally aware of how easily we could lose it. That’s why I was sent. Do you know exactly what a transculturalist is, Governor?”
He nodded. “We have a few working for us here. Translators, mostly.”
She shook her head. “It’s far more complicated than that. Simple translation can be done by computer. But in each language there are words and concepts that don’t have a direct counterpart in any other. A transculturalist is one who can take the abstract ideas contained in one language and express them effectively in another. Which requires, of course, a complete understanding of both cultures. The primary job of a transculturalist is obviously translation. But there are other skills.”
She turned away from the window and faced him. “My specialty is Braxin-Azean exchange, which only a handful of people have mastered. StarControl sent me here in the hope that I could reason out where your spy is likely to be hiding.” She smiled indulgently. “This in addition to your other efforts, of course.”
“Yes, of course.” He obviously had his doubts about the approach but wasn’t going to admit it. “If you’ll tell me what you need in the way of facilities. . . .”
“A private office, standard computer access, a staff of . . . say three people, preferably Azean, answerable only to me.” She recalled her reception. “Make that definitely Azean. And for a start, a copy of the customs records for the past eight Standard Days. I want to see who’s been coming and going here. Starcontrol never should have left the ports open—” She waved his objection to silence. “Yes, I know, we can’t infuriate the locals. Did you say in your request that you had a copy of the transmission?”
“I do.” It was on top of the desk and he gave it to her, a thin celchip recording and its printed translation. She ignored the written text and slid the clear chip into place in the desk’s decoder. The clicks and whirs of an interstellar code came forth from the speaker.
“I see,” she said thoughtfully. “It is the Eman code, which is very strange because Braxi hasn’t used it for years. And the augmentation—” She leaned over the desk to read it.
“StarControl said something about that. I can’t pretend to understand.”
“Simply that for reasons involving the science of interstellar communication, it was very likely we’d pick this up. I can’t believe they didn’t know that.” She sipped her ver. “Not like them at all. The Braxins are many things, but rarely are they careless.” She shrugged. “But then, that’s why I’m here. Have you translators?”
“Dari-Azean transculturalists.”
“Even better! I’ll need the services of one. And a guide.”
“I’ll get you one. For any place in particular?”
“Yes.” She looked out the window, as if by studying the faces of the demonstrators she would unearth some clue. “I want to see this blood-ritual, this Hyarke. I have a feeling. . . .” She looked back at him and laughed, lightly. “But I won’t bore you with that until I have some more to go by. I should warn you now, even in war I tend to operate on hunches.”
“Your record speaks for itself.”
“Sometimes I think it’s the only way to second-guess them,” she mused. “As if they act in response to primal instincts, rather than reason.”
He took a last drink of his ver and collapsed the cup. “There’s a Hyarke in Toul tonight, now that I think of it, and I might have someone here who could take you, if I catch him before he goes off duty. Will you excuse me for a moment?”
“Please,” she responded, waving her assent. When he was gone she went over the problem in her mind, and she laughed softly.
“One Braxin somewhere on this very large planet,” she reflected, “and no real clues. Well, it could be worse.”
She thought about that for a few minutes and then admitted, “But I don’t see how.”
3
He was posing as a Bloodletter, a ritual killer. Thus far his natural Braxin arrogance had aided his disguise; in any other strata of society it would have focused suspicion upon him, but in the tight circle of the Hyarke his Braxin nature was quite at home.
These were men who talked of gutted bodies at the dinner table, and whose palates were best lubricated by human blood. They carried the weapon of their trade with them at all times, long and slim and sharp on all its metal edges. About their necks they wore medallions with the single legend, “As is the blood, so is the man.” And they lived on top of society, needing only to ask for an item to receive it gratis, to mention a need and a dozen Darians would beg for the chance to fulfill it.
Varik was a capable man. The eight years he had devoted to learning Darian and to training in Hyarke combat had proven both successful and necessary. It was true that he lacked any insight into the blood-trance which allowed them access to their ultimate fighting capacity, but the ritual suited his violent nature and his superior Braxin musculature, despite the adaptive surgery which disguised it, gave him an edge which balanced the scales. And although the risk was high—one failure meant death—he found pleasure in the role he was playing.
Braxi was done with him, but he didn’t know it. He had been a rebel and it was considered too dangerous to merely execute him, for those groups which rose against the Braxaná—those few which were not crushed in their birthgiving—knew how to manipulate a martyrdom and would not hesitate to do so. So they had trained him for a higher purpose, removing him from his cultural context to aid in the destruction of Azea, and thus had made it clear to his compatriots that all men have a price: even Varik would serve the Braxaná. The others lost heart or nerve and were quietly murdered. Varik, seduced by the dual promise of adventure and elitism, was sent to Dari as a spy, in which capacity he had been successful. But the planet was also his tomb. Braxi’s intercepted message had been no accident; Varik had fulfilled his mission and was being discarded.
Azea would punish Braxi’s upstart.
4
Evening had come by the time Laun Set left the tavern. His body ached pleasantly from the attention of women and wine still fogged his thoughts, but his step was firm and even as he walked the Darian streets.
Night had fallen and darkness enveloped the city. Dari’s three moons were shrouded in cloud-cover and did little but cast long shadows across the street. From one of these, suddenly and silently, a human girl emerged.
“Out of my way, human!” He punctuated his command by spitting at her feet; nonetheless, she held her ground.
“Greetings of the Blood Night,” she said in ritual Darian.
He tried to dodge around her, but she remained in his way. He had a momentary vision of sweeping his ada into aggressive position and forcing her from his path, and he smiled at the thought of that moonlit blade etching a white path through her alien insides. But reality did not allow for such things; the humans, damn them, were not to be killed.
“Do you want something of me?” he asked finally. “Or is this some new sport?”
“I would like to talk to you.”
“I have nothing to say to your kind.”
He tried to push by her and in doing so brushed against her shoulder. As they came in contact he stopped, uncertain. Where had he been going, and why in such a hurry?
She moved away from him and the memory returned.
“You touched my mind!”
She nodded.
Against his will he was intrigued. “A telepath?”
She nodded. Her eyes were dark and wide and watched him closely as he considered. He’d had very little contact with humans and none with psychics. She was slight of build and appeared almost malnourished—hardly a threat to him. And she was clearly not Azean, for she lacked the height and golden skin of that accursed race. What was a moment of conversation, anyway?
“Talk.”
“Not here. In private.”
He laughed, loudly. “You have nerve, human! Very well. Since you speak my language, I’ll let you do it where you want. Follow me.”
With the practiced eye of a Bloodletter he analyzed her walk. She kept up with him despite the disparity in their sizes. No one has ever allowed her her natural pace, he observed. And that stiffness is not right for a child, human or no. And the look in her eyes—I have seen that in Bloodletters just before the Hyarke.
He took her to a dark quarter of the city and into an inn. His ada proclaimed his status and the inn’s owner jumped to serve him. Two women arose from their seats to offer themselves for his pleasure; one left a companion who nodded his understanding. Laun Set waved them away.
“Just a room,” he ordered.
Keys and directions were delivered to him. The human child, he noticed, was staying discreetly in the shadows. But as she walked across the lighted floor to follow him, a wave of exclamation marked their progress.
The room was small and was meant to be rented by the hour. Not until they were both inside with the door safely closed did he face her again.
Her eyes were wide and bright, the dark gray of unpolished steel. Her hair, the color of fresh blood, hung braided down her back. Her skin was so pale he would have been surprised to learn that she had ever been out in the sunlight.
“Now that you’ve done such wonders for my reputation,” he snapped, “what is it you want?”
She moved until she stood with her back against the door. “First things first, Bloodletter. All out in the open. I’m an Azean.”
He looked her over, then laughed unpleasantly. “No. I may not be human, but I know what Azeans look like.”
“Would you like to see my racial papers?”
He tightened. “Get out of here.”
She stayed where she was, her body blocking the door. “No. I want to talk to you, Bloodletter—but not under false pretenses.”
“If you’re Azean, I have nothing to say to you. So if you don’t leave, I will.”
He moved toward the door, but she refused to get out of his way. For a moment he nearly lost control and struck out at her. But he was not that much of a fool; to strike out at a child of Dari’s conquering race would be an invitation to political execution.
And something in her expression impressed him, more so when he realized what it was.
She would be doing the same thing even if the law didn’t protect her, he realized.
“You’ll listen to me,” she said firmly. “And then I’ll go. But by Hasha, you’ll hear me out first!”
He glared. “I spit on your Firstborn.”
“I know. That’s irrelevant.”
He studied the raw nerve in her eyes and knew he could respect that. “All right,” he said finally. “I’m listening.”
She smiled; there was cruelty in the expression. “I’m hunting a man, Bloodletter, and I want your help. A Braxin, here on Dari.”
He laughed derisively. “I’m not interested in your Azean—”
“Posing as a Bloodletter.”
A cold stillness settled over them.
“That’s not possible.”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“No. An alien in the Circle . . . it couldn’t happen.”
She shrugged. “As you wish.”
“He’s fought?”
“At least once since I’ve been here. And he didn’t feel inexperienced.”
“You . . . sensed this?”
“Oh, yes. I focused on him days ago.”
“Can’t you find him the same way?”
She shook her head. “There’s a difference between picking up a combination of Braxin psychology and active violence, and knowing exactly where it’s coming from. I can only focus on him in the first place because of an . . . affinity . . . I have for his mindset. Telepathy has its limitations, and my training is far from complete.”
“So. The Azeans need our help.”
“No, Bloodletter. Not the Azeans. Only myself.” She took a deep breath, and he thought he could feel the intensity within her: his imagination, of course. “I’m hunting. And I need local assistance.”
Laun Set considered. The thought of working with a human was repellent to him, but the alternatives were loathsome. A human fighting Darians in the Circle defiled the proud Hyarke tradition. And as vehemently as he detested Azea, Laun Set knew that under Braxin rule the Hyarke would be the first thing to go. No—better Azea than that.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked at last.
“Listen.” She smiled her triumph, and in that moment looked nothing like a child. “I’ll tell you.”
5
“I have that information for you, Starcommander.”
Torzha looked up from her lists. “Thank you—just leave it with me.”
Two days. Two local, very long, useless days. She had seen a Hyarke and her most basic question had been answered—she was certain the Braxin would have some connection with that ritual. No other subculture on the planet offered what that one did to one raised among the enemy; of that she was certain. Then again (she thought for the hundredth time), Braxi could have been cunning enough to anticipate her and to do the unexpected. No. Cunning, yes—but also vain. A Braxin would never pose as a passive, downtrodden nonhuman. Everything about the Hyarke appealed to the Braxin mentality and it would be the first place a Braxin spy would choose to assimilate. But that still left the whole planet. . . .
Her office was busy tracking down the names of all Dari’s Bloodletters, along with their vital statistics. It was not an easy job. There was no central register to which these men belonged, and, in addition, their population changed nightly as the Hyarke continued to take its toll. One man she had suspected had died while she considered his records. And for that matter, did they know for a fact that the Braxin wasn’t already dead?
Unsurprisingly, the customs lists had been of no use whatsoever. She had asked for clarification on one entry, more out of curiosity than anything else.
“We couldn’t get much on her,” the secretary continued. “The Institute has her files locked up tight.”
“That’s all right. This will be fine. Thank you.”
When he left, she glanced idly through the notes; then stopped, her eyes narrowing. She started to read more carefully. The child had come from the Institute with Medical Clearance—somehow Director li Pazua had convinced officials that a journey to Dari was required for her mental well-being. Yet she had come alone, a mere child on a hostile planet. Potential ratings high, intellectually and otherwise. Transcultural ratings in seven combinations—well, that was to be expected from a telepath-in-training. Parents high in Security . . . the great Darmel lyu Tukone, no less. They were poisoned by Braxins when she was six. (She remembered the incident, did not remember there being a child. Then again, hadn’t there been some scandal with that pair? Yes, and over a child.) Then she had suffered from psychosomatic blindness, for five years, ending—
Torzha read the date again, startled. Twenty days ago? But the Institute on Llornu was ten days’ travel from Dari—that would mean she had regained her sight and immediately begun traveling here.
And she had been seen at a number of Hyarke rituals.
With sudden determination Torzha closed the folder and called her assistant back in. “Find out the exact whereabouts of this . . .” she consulted the file “. . . Anzha lyu. And get me cosmetics, a wig, clothing, et cetera. Bad enough being human here, without being Azean also.”
He bowed his respect and left to obey. She leaned her elbows on the desk and mused: unrelated? She doubted it.
6
Dawn cast long shadows across the Circle. The packed earth had been dampened the night before and now was ready for combat.
Safe behind her dark complexion and Suakkan clothing, Torzha surveyed the crowd.
Row after row of Darian flesh filled the stands, fidgeting in impatience. Here and there a human sat—Rahnese, on vacation; Ikna, doing sociological research. There were a few Azeans present who had been stationed on the planet long enough to know how to act—or at least, they thought they did. The seats next to them were left empty until there were no other seats left to fill.
