Part 29 (2/2)

Tradition again.

They walked through the forerooms of the Braxin half of the station, designed for the comfort of negotiation teams and the relaxation of their crews during long bouts of diplomacy. Until their arrival the place had been like a tomb; now, with a flurry of mechanical activity, it prepared itself for human occupancy. Dining halls furnished in the Braxana style opened as they approached, responding to the computer's a.n.a.lysis of their racial makeup. Other rooms, more suited to the common taste, followed. Everything was opulent, from the polished pseudowood of the furniture, inlaid with wires of silver and Aldousan whitecrystal, to the tapestries and arras that obscured the windowless walls. Gold thread glittered in abundance, adding a sense of archaic luxury to the high-tech, computer-run station-a typically Braxana touch.

Here there were rooms designed for pleasure: wide, plush couches, and baths filled with scented water offered a taste of luxury that few non-Braxana officers were familiar with. Whatever needs a war-weary crew might have, the station was prepared to satisfy them. Peace, after all, was unpleasant; peace negotiation doubly so. Here, between bouts of verbal combat, a s.h.i.+p's crew might find some comfort in the physical pleasures which Braxana culture encouraged.

A waste. Worse yet-an obscenity. Pa.s.sing through the elaborate corridors, Zatar was angered. It was no secret that negotiations were often called into being because one side or the other wished to avail themselves of a truce station's offerings. And who could blame them? These were the best facilities for a prolonged ground leave that the galaxy had to offer, presuming that one didn't require natural surroundings. It was all part and parcel of a system that accepted the war, rather than striving to end it. An elaborate farce, Zatar thought. And the worst thing was, both sides knew it was a farce. But who had the courage to defy tradition and change it?

Five of the Kaim'eri had come in disguise, posing as military, officers. As often as not such men were of part Braxana blood and thus their racially distinct appearance would be credible. Yiril and Zatar had appeared in too many newsrenderings to go unrecognized; thus both Kaim'eri wore uniforms that designated their true rank. But to have seven men of such stature at a supposedly routine peace conference would arouse suspicion-and enough suspicion would cause the whole thing to be called off.

In the Braxin antechamber a computer-operated mobile unit collected their weapons. It was designed to find all of them and would doubtless do so; they had tried often enough in the past to work it otherwise. The Braxana would be permitted to retain their Zhaori; the Azeans, likewise, their Peace Daggers. Zatar smiled a grim smile, thinking that for the first time in centuries of diplomacy one of those might actually be needed.

When they were done, and when, presumably, the Azeans were also disarmed, the doors which separated them from the conference room-and from each other-parted.

The room was like every other of its kind; circular in configuration, with a translator set mid-way between the two semicircular tables that filled most of its s.p.a.ce. The Braxin custom of proceeding from the center to the left in rank seating admirably complimented the Azean custom which proceeded to the right. Hence, as they sat, each man supposedly faced his equal.

The central seat on the Azean side, however, was empty.

It was Zatar's first impulse to mention it; it was his second, and by far the superior one, not to. After a split-second of surprise he recognized it for the cut it was, and smiled appreciatively. Often enough Azea had been made to wait for them. If anything, it was surprising that it had taken this long for Braxi's enemies to turn the tables and adopt their traditional rudeness.

After what Zatar was certain was a carefully chosen period of time-not quite long enough to drive the Braxins out in a rage, but almost-Anzha lyu Mitethe made her entrance.

It was the first time he had gotten a good look at her. She was a small woman of wiry strength; her seemingly frail build, far from implying weakness, seemed to be imbued with a tireless energy, which flooded the room at her entrance and dominated its interior. His imagination, or her telepathy? He didn't want to know.

She nodded acknowledgment of their presence. ”Kaim'eri.” then she took a closer look, and surprise became evident in her voice. ”Seven of you. I wasn't aware the K'ven mines were worth so much to you. I'm sure they're not worth that much to us.”

The Azeans who understood Braxin, which she had spoken, were clearly stifling their amus.e.m.e.nt. Zatar knew Braxana sensitivity all too well and admired the perfect aim of her scorn. And for that, he swore silently, if for nothing else, she would die.

The Starcommander sat, opposite and facing him. She had no notes nor recording apparatus, merely two hands which she folded in front of her. Leaning forward aggressively, she voiced her challenge. ”Azea has given these talks to me, and I may proceed as I see fit. I do not desire peace. I do not see any advantage for Azea to pursue peace at this time, conditional or otherwise. Therefore, I leave it to you-glorious Kaim'eri-to supply me with some reasoning to justify our all having come here.”

How careful, he admired, how fine. Such scorn, and even insult-but not a word of command, even accidental, to actually drive us from the room. He was always impressed by a command of language and more so now considering the source. A pity she had to die so soon. A pity.

”Braxi feels that the direct economic gain to both sides in the K'vai issue mandates an attempt at non-military settlement.”

”Braxi has never placed economic welfare above militancy, in its entire history- short of some dishonest stories told at the diplomatic table, which we may discount. Kaim'era, I would rather fight you. You, I suspect, would rather fight us.

Can't we cut through all the nonsense and get to the heart of whatever it is we're here for?”

He felt like smiling, and after a moment's thought allowed himself to do so.

How could it hurt to let the woman know that the workings of her mind were a refres.h.i.+ng change from that of her fellow nationals-in many ways, from that of the Kaim'eri themselves? In all of his recent wheeling and dealing he had thought of her only as a p.a.w.n in a wargame, a mistake he had made, a receptacle for poison, an undesirable element that was due to be crushed, with time and place the only variables. The Braxana mind tended to admire what could stand up to it; his was no exception. She pleased him. That, too, was a pity.

He had arranged a story to cover his offer, and now presented it. The nature of that presentation varied greatly from what he had antic.i.p.ated, but that was necessitated by her openly hostile approach. Still, the man was a fool who could not adapt when necessity dictated. He improvised.

And while he spoke, he watched her. She was listening, not to his meaning alone, but to the two or three underlayers which occasionally enriched his language. He made very certain he had control of them, which was difficult, as his mind was wandering to other avenues of thought. He was beginning to regret her death-not its necessity, which was absolute, but the means he had employed to a.s.sure it. The Black Poison was undoubtedly the most terrible death that man had ever devised, in that it reduced its victim to the level of a pain-maddened animal-or less-in his last moments, and forced all but the most suicidal of supporters to stand aside and be helpless observers to its devastating progress.

And the more he conversed with this woman, the more he was able to admit it to himself: she was admirable, by Braxana standards. She deserved a cleaner death.

And it was too late.

Inside his ear a tiny computer-access whispered the time at regular intervals.

He spoke to her with one half of his mind and listened to it with the other. He knew the danger in that; her mastery of his language was outstanding and it was possible, just possible, that without his full attention given over to the conversation he might allow something of his mood to be revealed to her. He smiled to himself: that was the price you paid for the most complex human language in the galaxy, and for finding someone who could do it justice. And she could. Taz'hein, where did they find a woman like this?

The time ticked off, the end drawing nearer. She countered his proposals with deft disdain. He had prepared enough material to last days, in case the poison was slow. But in refusing to grant him a single point, she ran through it all in less than a tenth.

Which was almost time enough. He allowed himself to be redundant; moments were all he needed. And she, answering him, permitted it.

And nothing happened.

He took stock of the possibilities, and inwardly flinched. It didn't show on the surface; nevertheless, she was a telepath; he was certain she picked it up.

Casually her speech mode changed, moving into the Triumphant Mode for two words out of twenty. The moment pa.s.sed; he glanced at his companions, then realized that none of them had noticed its importance. None of them, not even his two a.s.sociates, were aware of the exact time for which this deadly demonstration was set, and thus the vocal trick which depended upon timing for its meaning went right by them.

But what she was saying was clear: I know. You failed. And for the moment, I'm willing to conceal it.

Did she know the price he would pay if there were public revelation of the situation? The Braxana tolerated many things but never, never humiliation. A Kaim'era who was humbled in front of the enemy would find his rank and t.i.tle forfeit. The simple act of a public declaration on her part would be enough to strip him of what years of effort had created-a public image that suddenly was in jeopardy.

Yet she played with him, and he was forced to play along, not knowing whether the end result was betrayal, or something more subtle from which he could salvage some face. They argued, they fought, they piled metaphor on insult and ran through all the modes of speech in an exercise of verbal complexity and deception. And when it was over, Zatar's mind was as exhausted as his nerves.

But it was over. They broke off the truce in fury and each, appropriately, was then meant to storm off to his s.h.i.+p and clear the area within a tenth. The Azeans were satisfied- although they hadn't understood a word of the exchange, despite the translator-the Braxins, confused and dangerous. I'm not looking forward to explanations, Zatar realized. But he paused as he left, standing opposite her across the width of the two tables. He lowered his eyes slightly, as minimal a gesture as a bow of respect might be reduced to and still exist. She smiled with equal care.

When they had returned to the antechamber and the conference room doors had sealed shut behind them, the demands began.

”What was the point of this?”

”What happened in there, anyway?”

Only Yiril-whose strength of purpose Zatar was coming to admire more and more-managed action. ”Vinir, all of you-get on board. This isn't a safe place to talk anymore.” He waved short their protests. ”Another tenth and they can blow up this station, and us with it. s.h.i.+pboard will allow us conversation enough.”

They obeyed him; his reasoning, all emotion to the contrary, was sound. Even Sechaveh went, doubtless afraid that in his current rage he would kill Zatar rather than get any useful information out of him.

There was silence. Then Yiril looked at the younger man.

”It could be worse.”

”That's little comfort.”

”It wasn't meant for your comfort. It was an a.s.sessment of fact.”

”I know.”

Another long silence.

”What happened?”

<script>