Part 27 (1/2)

”I don't believe she can be killed at the Border. They're having a hard enough time trying to contain her forces; I don't think they'll be able to destroy the Conqueror itself. But StarControl enforces periodic ground leave on a regular basis. Eventually, Anzha lyu Mitethe will leave her s.h.i.+p.”

”You propose a raid?”

”An a.s.sa.s.sination. Slip one man into the Empire, where they least expect a Braxin to be.”

”Security is tighter than it once was,” Yiril pointed out. ”Because of you.”

”I did it once, and I believe it can be done again. The Azeans are blind to the concept of racial impersonation. They don't live with the variety of humankind that we do; they're not accustomed to looking at strangers and trying to deter- mine their origin. Their racial instinct dictates that anything which looks Azean and acts Azean is, in fact, Azean. The only risk would come in the presence of Security personnel, but that's a very small part of the overall picture. A necessary risk.”

”You would go yourself,” Sechaveh said suddenly.

”Of course. Who else could manage it?”

Viril was clearly skeptical. ”You were younger the last time. More adaptable.

And you had less to lose.”

”How long will it take?” Sechaveh asked.

”Two to three years, I estimate. That includes time to master the a.s.similation and an approach route that circles back around the Empire, to a lightly guarded border. Say three.”

”Three years without an appearance at the Citadel,” Sechaveh mused. ”It would mean tremendous political loss.”

”Kaim'eri-we're in this together, or not at all. Listen to what I propose: I'll go to the Empire and deal with this woman. You, in the meantime, have two to three years in which to work on the other Kaim'eri. Take control of the War advisory and its reports. Alter them if necessary! Play on your colleagues' fears. The threat's real enough, and falls in line perfectly with Braxana mythology. Most of these men are more superst.i.tious than they would ever admit; I believe they can be manipulated through that weakness.

”We all accept that the current division of power is self-defeating. Offer an alternative-a small body of men to deal with threats of this magnitude.

Figurehead positions, at first. What we need is to establish the precedent.”

”And you, playing Savior of the Holding-”

”They would never elevate me alone; the Braxana mind doesn't think that way.

There would have to be others to help me wield the power-the two of you-and an equal number of those opposed, to balance it. And one uncommitted Kaim'eri to give us a prime number. Seven in all. Does that sound reasonable?”

”A High Kaim'erate, in other words.” Yiril was thoughtful. ”We've considered it before, you know.”

”Exactly. With you laying the groundwork and me supplying the catalyst, it could work.”

”The threat is good,” Sechaveh said. ”The timing is certainly right. It would require the proper showmans.h.i.+p. . . .”

”Ah, yes.” Zatar resumed his seat; his eyes were s.h.i.+ning as he picked up his gla.s.s again. ”The necessary melodrama. How would this be for a climax, Kaim'eri-the terrible Anzha lyu Mitethe dying the Black Death right before our very eyes, in a Truce Station, with her people unable to help her?”

Sechaveh smiled. ”I'd say that might do it.”

”Or nothing will,” Yiril agreed. ”If, as you say, the right ground were laid for it. .

”That,” the young Kaim'era told them, ”is your job.”

2.

Days.h.i.+ft was over.

Alone on the observation deck, Anzha lyu Mitethe regarded the star-studded blackness. On the level below, a room full of instruments measured the nature and extent of that empty vision. But they could not capture its majesty, she thought, more than this simple observation.

Breathing deeply, she let her senses reach out into the darkness. Far off and to the right the consciousness of a planet's population radiated psychic warmth and she identified it: Ikn. Farther still, almost farther than she could reach, focused hostility marked the War Border. There: the familiar touch of her colleagues, well-intentioned but mired in tradition. And there, beyond them: points of violence in the darkness, singing of blood and death and the ecstacy of violence, surrounded by minds that could never share their music. Braxins. When the Conqueror came closer, she would be able to pinpoint specific ident.i.ties, and begin to chart their locations; for now, there was only the welcome caress of their hatred, spread out across the stars.

With a sigh, she limited her awareness to the s.h.i.+p. Ground leave was a necessity, but she would be glad to get back to the Border. Her stop on Adrish had done more harm than good. Hopefully, it had accomplished better things for her crew. She suspected that most of them felt the way she did, and would rather not leave the War at all. There was so much to do, and time was precious. . . .

A quick walk took her from the deck. The days.h.i.+ft crew was settling into public rooms or private quarters, to eat or rest or amuse themselves as individual tastes would have it. She made her way through tubes and corridors to a door which beckoned ”GYM II” and opened at her approach.

It was hers. Not in fact, for the great s.h.i.+p's gyms were open to all, but in atmosphere. Its close confines had been dominated by the barbaric decor she had added-racks of bladed weapons, modern and antique, sharp and blunted; scores of feather-tipped projectiles and bows to give them flight; staves and slings and even some weapons alien to the Empire, as well as from all cultures within it. The interest which Yumada had encouraged had become an obsession; there was something in the games of death that suited her nature as no other pastime could.

She chose a matched set of throwing daggers and the gym, obliging, supplied the proper target. They were from Rahn, the gift of a grateful people in return for her timely support. She smiled as she tested their balance. She had never publi- cized her hobby-she didn't have to. Merchants combed the galaxy for the bladed remnants of barbarism and sold the best of it, if not to her, to those who would seek to please her.

The first dagger cut through the air and into the target, a hand's width from the center.

She frowned. Slipping. The second was closer, but the third, overcompensating, split the edge of the small target and lodged in the wall.

”Not your best day.”

She turned to find her private medic leaning, smiling, against the portal.

Reflexively she did a surface a.n.a.lysis- shallow good humor, underlying tension, something trying to communicate and not knowing how to start. Violence? Fear?

No, that must be the weapon-a.s.sociations, and her own frustration-not Tau.

”I've had better. Thought you had work to do?”

”I do. You're it. Can we talk?”

”Go ahead.”

”Alone.” That something inside him was looking for ... an environment to inspire it. The gym wasn't right. What was, she couldn't read without violating telepathic etiquette.

”My rooms?”

”Fine.”

She studied his surface emotions as they walked. Hesitation, apprehension.

Why? In many ways that little was worse than knowing nothing at all.

Her personal seal on the door seemed redundant in light of the Conqueror's security and he had often remarked on it. Now he said nothing. Even his thought pattern projected an unnatural stillness; clouds, drawing together before the storm.

Setting people at their ease had never been her forte. She waited.