C. S. Friedman - In Conquest Born

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IN CONQUEST BORN
C.S. FRIEDMAN
Copyright © 1986 by C.S. Friedman.
ISBN: 0-88677-198-6
e-book ver 1.0
To my parents and my brother, whose pride makes it all worth doing.
For ease of comprehension in the English text, all Braxin words have been rendered in the Basic Mode
regardless of context.
One
BEGINNING:
1
He stands like a statue, perfect in arrogance. Because his people love bright colors he wears only gray
and black; because they revere comfort, he is dressed uncomfortably. His people are flamboyant, and
display their bodies with aggressive sexuality; he is entirely concealed by his costume. Tight-fitting gloves
and boots cover his extremities and a high collar conceals his neck. His skin is as pale as human skin can
be, but even that is not enough—cosmetics have been layered over his natural complexion until a mask of
white conceals his skin from the prying eyes of commoners. Only his hair is uncovered, a rich mass of true
black, as eloquent as a crown in proclaiming his right to power. It is moderate in length because another
people, enemy to his own, wear their hair long; his beard and mustache are likewise traditional— the men
of that other race do not have facial hair.
He is very tired. And he will not show it.
The tiny shuttle spirals downward, from the orbiting Cita-del to the center of Braxi's largest continent.
Inside there is only one compartment; Vinir shares it with his servant, who operates the vehicle. For the
lesser man's benefit he main-tains the image of racial superiority which is as much a part of him as the
black and gray he always wears and the ancestral sword at his side. Let the servant observe that he is not
tired—he is never tired—the situation does not exist which can tire him. Now and then he catches the man
glanc-ing at him, when he thinks he is not being observed. What is he wondering now? Vinir muses. Is the
man human after all? Or perhaps: Can it be true that we are members of the same race? The answer
to either question will, hopefully, be negative.
"If you desire to sit. Lord. . . ."
"I am content."
In truth, he is exhausted. His nation, embracing war at every opportunity, is less than efficient during
peacetime, and in such periods the government is the most crippled of all. This day was bad enough, trying
to sort out domestic prob-lems without the excuse of military priority to use when it was convenient. Then,
just as the Kaim'eri were about to leave, Miyar chose to introduce the current Peace for review. That
meant at least a tenth of dreary emotional confrontations and a thorough rehashing of historic precedent
before they could even begin to discuss the real issue: when—and how— the current treaty with Azea
should be broken.
Fools! Vinir thinks. Someday the moment will be right, so unexpected or so profitable that we will
know, simply know, the time has come. That's how we've always functioned—why-pretend that it's
different?
It is very late. Vinir is grateful when the shuttle slows to a perfect landing outside his house. He nods his
approval to the pilot and steps with false vitality down from the shuttle. Not long now, and then he can rest.
The Mistress of his House is waiting, as is her custom, to greet him as he passes through the forehouse
and into the great entrance foyer which separates public edifice from pri-vate domain. She has a cut-gold
vial in one hand and a cord of rings in the other, and hands him the former without word. He removes the
stopper from the vial and drinks its contents. Immediately the mild restorative begins to take effect; he feels
the exhaustion of the day loosen its hold on him.
"Records?" she asks.
He nods. "I'll go over them."
She spills the handful of golden rings into his upturned palm. In the old days it was his custom to review
the state of his household each night when he returned to its confines; now, with peace slowing his work to
a painful crawl, there are nights when he lacks the energy to give it the attention it deserves.
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 Braxana, not even between the sexes, ,and he feels more comfortable
knowing he has con-firmed 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 Braxana. Momentarily he regrets the law which forbids the
presence of a lift or transport in any Braxana house. A pointless complaint. That law and others like it
guarantee physical activity and Vinir has often supported them; never-theless, 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 Braxana 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 breathtaking. 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 Braxana are flawless in beauty,
unequaled in arrogance, tireless and without emo-tional 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 Braxana dialect. "Person-ally, 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 Braxana," 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 Braxana 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 con-ceived by
his people are lost before or during childlbirth, and so pregnancy is more a cruel deception than a hope or
prom-ise, 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 condi-tioning 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 Braxana 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 stillbirth. A pure Zarvati child! How magnificant it might be, how great it
might become! And a man's only son should be outstanding.
"Lady," he says softly. Braxana are rarely gentle; this is one of those times. "There aren't words, even in
our lan-guage, 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 di-rectly 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
Braxana 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 mo-ment of silence
serves in place of invocation. But contempla-tion 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 tempera-ture near absolute zero, but
nonetheless hostile to that life-form 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 vegeta-tion 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 com-ing, for Azean genetics was only in its birth-pangs when the planet made its
first harsh demands. Many died while wait-ing. But as a statement of success or failure there is ulti-mately
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 other-wise 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 Iyu Tukone and Suan Iir 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 cele-brating concluded,
the pair obediently proceeds to the nearest Center for Analysis and Adjustment to have it tested. What-ever
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 offi-cer, 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 Iyu Tukone is an Imperial Servant with the highest Security clearance. He is a transcultural
scholar with a spe-cialty 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 special-izes 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 Iyu, 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 tam-pered 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 primefile: 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
nelplessness 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.
Surely, my sister, you remember those zhents. Each day I hurried from my job to our
compartment, where I waited until long past midnight. Only then did I dare to walk the streets for a
while, when few were about. It was calming. You used to warn me of the danger, but better at that
point a brutal death than another man like Jenar.
One night, as I walked by the Tuel waters, I saw a figure ahead of me on the beach. His back was to
me. I almost turned back and ran, but something in his posture held me still, something that marked him as
different than any man I'd ever seen.
His broad shoulders were draped in a dark gray cloak, his legs and feet encased in high black boots.
Where one hand was visible I saw a glove of the same color. What fool, I thought, wears such clothing in
mid-summer?
Then it struck me. For only those of Braxana blood, the upper class, cover themselves so completely and
in so little color. Fearful, I had just decided to run from the place when he turned to me.
Hair blacker than shadow framed his pale face. His fea-tures were magnificent, deeply chiseled like an
ancient sculp-ture, his body fine and his bearing arrogant. There are no words, my sister, to capture the
beauty of his face and body, nor its effect upon me. I tried to turn away, as law de-manded, tried to drop
my eyes from his, but it was impossible.
I wanted him.
The traitor's brand on my forehead burned shamefully as he came toward me. Who was I to desire this
harshly beauti-ful youth, this man bred for beauty? Though he had the right to put me to death for it, I stared
at him. Let my eyes, at least, drink of what the rest of me can never taste.
A slender sword swung at his side as he approached me—a Zhaor, I guessed, the traditional weapon of
the Braxana. He walked slowly, with the grace of born nobility, a motion so fluid and beautiful that it hurt to
watch. And closing the collar of his cloak was the Seal of the Kaim'erate.
A Lord. I remembered, as he closed the distance between us, to fall to my knees, but I couldn't bear to
take my eyes from him.
There was an eternity of silence as he regarded me. I saw anger in those dark eyes—not at me, but the
fury which had driven him to this place—Sulos, the sector of poverty.
"Who was the traitor?" he asked, his voice devoid of all emotion.
"My mother," I answered. The words nearly caught in my throat.
"Her name."
"Shyerre, my Lord."
His brow furrowed in thought. "I don't recall the case. Refresh my memory, little one."
"She attempted to . . . leave Braxi for Aldous, to serve the Holding in space."
"There was enough alien blood in her that she could have passed for Aldousan?"
"She believed so, my Lord."
"With what name have they doomed your future, little traitor?"
"Ni'en, my Lord." Never had the name been so painful before.
"Conceived in treachery—yes, I see. Stand, woman. Why do you stare at me?"
I remained on my knees—my fear would be less obvious. "You're very beautiful, my Lord," I whispered.
He smiled slightly. "So I've been told. Yet the women of my Race can find no desire for me, little one,
only duty. And I respond poorly to duty."
Duty? What duty to a Race but that of the Braxana females to bear purebred children? By Taz'hein, not
purebred. . . .
He looked at me and laughed. He must have known my thoughts, because he nodded to me in answer.
Braxana. Pure.
I lowered my eyes.
I felt his hands on my shoulders, and he lifted me to my feet. When he drew me against him I trembled,
not from fear of him, but from hunger.
"You want me," he observed, amused. "Do you know, I ran out on the Kaim'eri Yiril, Vinir, and Sechaveh
today. They tried to feed me women. In refusing, I've insulted the image of three of the most powerful men
in the Holding, my father among them. Because none of those women could desire more than the favor of a
Lord, or the child of a Braxana—one more duty completed, that much closer to freedom. What pleasure
should I seek with them?" He laughed softly, but there was pain beneath it. "They believe me impotent.
Good. That's synonymous with harmless to my people. Let them keep that delusion—it gives me freedom."
He kissed me, then—just that, and yet so much. I've been used and discarded in less time than he took to
savor that kiss. Weakly, warmly, I wondered if the sensuality of the Braxana' was perhaps more than
legend.
"Where can I taste you?" he asked.
The question surprised me—where did one have to go? Our wanderings had brought us to an isolated bit
of Braxi, car-peted by fine natural grass and lit by the light of the Citadel shining across the Tuel waters.
What more could he want? I looked at him, puzzled.
"Little fool!" He was smiling. "The Braxana sleep with their women."
Involuntarily, I shuddered. To be at the mercy of a male in one's most vulnerable time, to have no escape
from his demands . . . to sleep with a man!
Truly, I thought, the Braxana are still barbarians.
We sought such a place.
And yet, when I awoke in the morning alone, I was surprised at how I could miss his warmth beside me,
his arm confining and yet protecting me.
By my cheek were forty sinias in silver—the upper-class custom of a gift for pleasure. Spare change no
doubt for him; more money than I would ordinarily see in a year. Handling the coins lent an aura of reality
to an anonymous encounter that now seemed little more than a dream.
I would have given it all back to sleep with him again, my sister.
I stepped over the landlord's body on the way out; the fool had tried to sneak in to rob the Lord's cloak.
He had met his end before he remembered that the Braxana' sleep with their Zhaori close at hand. And,
smiling, I remembered discover-ing the truth in the legend, that no passion exceeds that of a Braxana who
has just killed.
Two—three zhents later, I think. You were on assignment that night, preparing to leave for work, when
he arrived. Did you notice him? Could you fail to? He wore our clothes, he'd painted his hair, he had come
without his sword, but could such beauty be disguised? You passed him in the hall that night as you went
out; can I believe you didn't notice him?
Without words, without questions, I ran to his arms when he entered, and therein found a welcome.
In his embrace that night, by his will, I told him of my past. I'll not lead you to believe, my sister, that he
dealt with me tenderly, or even kindly. When the Braxana have such emotions they crush them. But he
displayed curiosity, so I spoke. How sweet it was to have a man listen, regardless of his motives! He told
me, in return, of the affairs of state, of battle and politics, and of his Race, living to hate, living for pleasure
but not knowing any longer how to seek it. I understood little of it, or even why he told me such things.
Perhaps it was to get across to me the loneliness I sensed beneath it all, an emotion no Braxana would
lower himself to admit to.
Dawn came at last and he gathered his clothes. I knew there would be emptiness when he had gone, and
also knew that nothing I could say or do would keep him there, or cause him to come back. Such pain was
new to me. Needing to speak, afraid to reveal my train of thought, I asked for his name.
"Zatar," he said. "They call me Zatar the Magnificent, an attempt at sarcasm. Someday they'll say it and
mean it."
"Is it true you have another?" I had heard, of course, of the Braxana True Name—in superstitious
tradition, given only to trusted intimates. I knew that to ask for such a confidence invited death by the
Zhaor. I had only meant to ask if such things really existed. But he misunderstood.
Anger almost crossed his brow, but it was replaced by a look of weary pain. "I'm not very Braxana, I
suppose, after all," he whispered. "I've confided enough to you this night to set my plans back considerably.
. . . What's power over my soul, compared to that?"
I had no time to protest or explain. To hold the Name of a Braxana' is the greatest responsibility a woman
can know. But the giving of a Name between the sexes must be smothered in pleasure, and so I was
silenced.
"I'm leaving," he said quietly. "Perhaps it's fitting that I should have shared my Name so, at least once,
first. But why it should be you . . . no, don't answer. I'm thinking aloud."
He was silent, then, and seemed to wish the same of me, but I couldn't oblige him. "Where will you go,
my Lord?"
"To Azea, little one."
"Azea! But how—"
"Shh! Listen, and seal your lips against speech. Even my father doesn't know this. I've been studying the
enemy for years now. I can speak their tongue without accent, think like them, move like them. My
cosmeticists have dyes and drugs which will bleach my hair and keep my beard from growing. Skin dye will
bronze my skin. It's not unplanned, you see."
"You'll go among them?"
He nodded. "I'll defeat them at their own game—assimi-lation, a fancy word for intrigue."
"To what end, my Lord?"
His eyes grew hard and cold, the way they were on the night I had met him. "Power, pretty one. An
interstellar Holding at my beck and call. The game is theirs, now, but after this venture, Zatar the
Magnificent will start writing his own rules."
I feared him then—his anger, his hatred of his own kind and his passionate need for them—feared his
possible fail-ure, and even more, his success.
He slipped a heavy gold ring from his left index finger, where it fit snugly over his glove. He toyed with it
as he spoke. "I've stolen enough of my father's poison to commit an assassination, or die trying. What's life,
without power? I'm Braxana, born to rule. And I will—despite that whole pack of fools!"
He placed the ring in my hand and gently folded my fingers over it. "Little traitor, I cannot take ownership
of you. We may never meet again. But a token of ownership is Just Cause for refusing a man, and I know
what you've been through at the hands of my sex. The ring is Braxana; men will wonder at it, but none will
question its use. Will you wear it?"
I nodded, afraid of that last kiss because its end meant he would leave me. "You'll come back," I
whispered when he had done, "and I'll wait for you."
He pried himself loose from my arms. "You're Braxin, Ni'en, don't forget that," he said sternly. "Let's not
err as our enemies do. Find some pride in your heritage. Life is meant for pleasure, not dead memories."
He left me then. Yes, dear Lord, but what if memories bring pleasure?
I knew I was being followed before I saw the guard. I had heard the footsteps pacing my own, I had
seen the shadows staying an even distance behind me.
I fingered the spot where Zatar's ring lay on a gold chain, hidden beneath my shirt. I tried to remain
steady, tried to keep walking. All the while I kept glancing back, trying to determine the nature of this threat
without being obvious about it.
Then I saw, and I knew.
The sash of bright blue, embossed with the Seal of the Kaim'erate. Central Guard! I stopped, turned to
face them, fell to my knees, lowered my eyes. What else could I do?
There were three in all and I trembled as they approached, fearing for my life—and worse. The pain of a
stun twisted deep in my nervous system, driving me into darkness; his Name moved silently across my lips,
almost as a prayer.
Darkness. Then intense hunger—pain—a point of light in the distance. Voices about me: male, Braxana
accents. Pain again, severe pain, and descent back into darkness.
I longed for death.
"Is she awake?"
Cold water hit my face and I awoke, shuddering. A dun-geon? My hands in shackles, pinned to the wall,
my body dripping wet in the dank, still air? What ancient nightmare was this. . . .
Before me stood three Kaim'eri. One was older than the others, with the same facial structure as Lord
Zatar, but much crueler in expression. One was middle-aged, with a face not incapable of mercy. The third
I recognized even from Zatar's sparse description, and I instinctively knew that he was the one responsible
for the primitive barbarity of my surroundings.
"Sechaveh is a loner and a sadist," he'd told me. "His parents fled the Holding to escape the Plague which
thinned the ranks of my Race. But they took it with them and Sechaveh was raised by aliens, ignorant of his
heritage.
"The man revels in destruction—peoples, planets, women. When they send him to war he returns with
slaves and riches, and leaves behind him the rubble which once was a world."
The older man paced as he spoke. "Woman, we will be plain. My son has disappeared. Where is he?"
My throat was dry. "Your. . . son, great one?"
"Zatar, you fool! Don't play games with me. I've had him followed for some time now; we know he was
with you the night before he disappeared."
Listen, and seal your lips against speech. . . .
I lowered my eyes, fearful. "He used me, glorious Kaim'era. Nothing more."
He struck me. I reeled under the blow, but the metal cuffs held me upright. I felt blood running in my
mouth, and didn't look at my wrists for fear of finding the same. This, then, was Vinir—and the third man
would be Yiril, whom Zatar had described as "the only Braxana capable of mercy."
I envied those peoples with an active god, to whom they might pray for death.
I won't pain you, my sister, with descriptions of the tor-tures I endured, modern pains that leave no scars.
Yiril forbade the others from disfiguring me—if I refused to speak, he said, or genuinely didn't know
anything useful, they would need me intact to act as bait for the wayward Lord.
Ni'Ar, it wasn't courage that sealed my lips. Ignorant though I was of the politics that moved these men, I
could clearly read the tensions between them. Sechaveh was rest-less, irritated by Yiril's restrictions. If I
spoke, if I ceased to have value to them, I would be turned over to him. And that I feared more than the
pain.
When was it that they cast me where they had found me, in the streets of Sulos? The three guards set to
watch me used me roughly before dropping out of sight, while my body still shivered in pain.
They would wait—wait for Zatar, son of Vinir and K'Siva, to return to the lower-class filth he so enjoyed.
They would kill us both, then; such was Yiril's suggestion. But I sus-pected, against all logic, that he knew
such a plan was doomed to failure. Why then did he offer it?
For two years, my sister, I suffered the attentions of my three captors. And you! You congratulated me
for such regu-lar attentions! Little did you know. . . .
At night Zatar's gift of gold slept by me, its chain about my neck. But no longer did I dare wear it during
the day. For often, without warning, the arm of a guard would drag me into an alley, or a darkened
doorway, there to sate whatever lust the moment had conjured, in a mockery of the privacy their masters
preferred.
Some nights when the pain became too great, I took Zatar's ring to the Tuel, and there wept. It was
conduct unbecoming a Braxin, but bless it all! A moment's betrayal, I knew, if carefully planned, might end
all of this. But I would not— could not—betray the one man who had seen through my shameful brand, to
the woman who suffered because of it.
And when I felt his hands lift me from the grass one night, when with tightly closed eyes I kissed him
once more, I knew from the touch of him that he was still cleanshaven; and as I felt the soft weight of his
hair fall upon my arm, I knew without looking that it was still white as snow.
"Fool," I whispered happily. "The first person that sees you will kill you."
"They tried, little one. Three Central Guards with stun. And Zatar with Zhaor. Hardly a challenge."
I laughed, and I cried, and I held him.
"They've hurt you," he said quietly.
"No. I have no bad memories—only pleasure."
He laughed, a lusty laugh that revived the most erotic of those memories. "I've not had a woman in nearly
two years," he told me. "Do you think you can handle that?"
I smiled. "I can try, my Lord."
And he is fresh from killing, I thought, as his embrace wiped all else from my mind. His hunger I could
sense, frustrated, powerful, demanding. What else is there to do with such a man but yield?
"I'm afraid, my Lord."
"You fear me?"
I pressed closer to him. "No. Not you."
"My father—the Kaim'eri?"
"Not beside you, no."
"Kurat, then? Its dungeons?"
In answer, I shuddered.
"Then we'll crush them, my little one—them and their creators."
The autocarriage slowed as we approached his home, a second-eon mansion. He helped me out, holding
me close as we came to the door.
"Your palm," he said. "The House knows my hand."
Obediently I put my hand on the doorplate. A second's hesitation—then the door opened, revealing a
guard.
"Lord Zatar!"
"My father's in council now, is he not?" I was pulled past the bewildered guard.
"He is, but—my Lord!"
Zatar ignored his confusion and drew me quickly through the forehouse. The enormity of the building was
overwhelming; the power of the man who owned it was beyond my comprehension. Through the tightness
of Zatar's grip I could feel his rising tension, his exhilaration as he strode toward a confrontation with his
father. He had chosen this moment with care and it was with calculated forethought that he chose to kick
open the doors to the last conference chamber, overriding the portal mechanism with simple primitive force.
The heavy wooden panels fell aside with a bang and he entered, taking me with him, accompanied by
indignant smoke and the sputter of damaged circuitry.
To say that they were surprised would be an understatement.
There were five of them, all Kaim'eri, three of whom I already knew and feared. Until a moment ago
their Zhaori had been set aside in an opulent weapons-rack, but as the doors fell aside they claimed their
swords with Braxana-swift reflexes. Only when they saw the cause of the intrusion did they relax
somewhat.
Vinir's face, however, was livid with fury. "So now you're back," he hissed.
Zatar bowed, the very master of arrogance. "My father. Glorious Kaim'eri! I return to you on the wings
of triumph." His voice dripped hatred and hinted at sarcasm as only the complex speech modes of the
Braxana dialect can do. I tried to fade into the shadows; the looks my former captors were directing at me
could have nailed me to the wall had they had substance. I trembled. In answer, his grip on me tightened.
Yiril was the first to collect himself. With a low chuckle of amusement he pulled his chair back into place
and sat. "Well, Zatar. Is this the new fashion you intend for the Holding to adopt?"
His hair, of course, was still straight, although we had dyed its color back and made some attempt at
styling it properly. And he was cleanshaven, although we had bleached the bronze from his skin. (How
delicious it had been, with him playing Azean at the height of pleasure!)
His eyes sparkled as he chose not to answer. "Please sit, Kaim'eri."
"What do you want with us?" Vinir snapped. He alone remained standing while the others, still armed,
regained their seats.
"I bring you news—good news. The Azean Interrogation Officer Darmel lyu Tukone is dead. Of our
poison. By my hands."
There was silence. Vinir sat, clearly stunned, trying not to show it.
"That would explain—" one of the other Kaim'eri began, astonished.
"Quiet," Yiril ordered. He looked at Zatar; his face was unreadable. "The Empire's been trying not to let
that news out. We've heard rumors, though, which this would explain. If so . . ." he smiled carefully, ". . .
you are welcome."
Zatar grinned. "Thank you."
"Very dramatic." Sechaveh shifted position, laying his sword on the table with a clatter. "Now what?"
Zatar took a step forward, drawing me with him. "My inheritance, father."
The hatred with which Vinir regarded him was, nonethe-less, tempered with respect. "All right," he said
finally. "Granted, you've earned some recognition. A House of your own, your own finances, adult legal
status. All well and good."
And I? Servant, even slave, I knew, if he would have me.
But then Vinir's face darkened and he pointed at me. "And this common filth? Mistress of it all?"
摘要：

INCONQUESTBORNC.S.FRIEDMANCopyright©1986byC.S.Friedman.ISBN:0-88677-198-6e-bookver1.0Tomyparentsandmybrother,whosepridemakesitallworthdoing.ForeaseofcomprehensionintheEnglishtext,allBraxinwordshavebeenrenderedintheBasicModeregardlessofcontext.OneBEGINNING:1Hestandslikeastatue,perfectinarrogance.Beca...

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