Part 45 (1/2)
”You were a Probe for the Inst.i.tute.”
The shame . . . ”Yes.”
”You worked the conditioning on Anzha lyu Mitethe.”
He tried to hold back the answer but it came, obedient to the other man's overpowering will. ”Yes.”
”And designed it.”
He nodded, miserable.
”What was it? All of it, Feran!”
The words rushed out, a tidal wave of guilt and memory. ”They wanted to know her racial background.” He was chocking on his own voice, but somehow continued. ”They were certain that studying it would help them find at least one of the genetic sequences they wanted.”
”What did you do?”
”I . . . made sure she would keep moving. I cut her off from human contact. I cut short capacity for Touch Discipline. I instilled a long range Dominant Tendency.”
”Which is what?”
”A goal. An intent. It colors everything, so that you serve it without knowing.
You want other things, other goals-but only because when you have them it will bring you closer to That.”
”The conditioned purpose?”
He nodded helplessly.
”And in her case-what?”
”To keep moving, to be restless, to want . . . to find her people. To discover the alien source of her genetic background. In support I instilled progressive zeymophobia, fear of being planet-bound. We didn't know she'd wind up in the fleet! We wanted to make certain she would travel-”
The Pri'tiera reached down and pulled him to his feet, a hand in his collar. The power of his revulsion was so intense that it was painful to receive, and Feran cringed before the onslaught. ”You! You don't deserve life, Azean! You are the darkness we try to avoid-you! You are everything we feared in the infancy of our tradition, so terribly that we were willing to sacrifice our own children to see that you never came among us.” His face darkened. ”And what about your children, Probe?”
Not that! ”What about them?”
”You killed them.”
Tears came to his eyes as he nodded. ”Two.”
”Psychic?”
He nodded.
”And the others?”
No, no. ... ”There is only one other,” he managed.
”Alive?”
”D'vra's child.”
”Alive?”
”Yes.” He choked on the admission.
”And psychic, I suppose. No, don't answer me-I see it in your face. So it enters our Race at last, despite all our efforts. Now tell me, Azean: what mercy do you think you deserve? What weakness do you see in me that you think I would grant you life after all you've done?”
He released Feran suddenly and the Probe fell heavily to the floor, broken.
There were tears in his eyes-of terror, of shame-and he wept as they flowed down his face, mourning the death of his Braxana ident.i.ty.
Zatar had planned this from the beginning. Now that Feran was forced to face the truth, he could see that. First there had been the incident with the almonjeddei, followed by hints that he now recalled . . . how many traps had Zatar set for him, letting the tensions build until they were nearly intolerable, choosing that moment to break him?
Zatar looked down at him as he wept. Finally, in a voice as cold as death itself, he demanded: ”What was your purpose in coming here?”
”I was sent to spy on you.” The Probe's voice was hollow, automatic, ”They knew I would come to be of value to you, and that you would involve me in Border negotiations. I was to broadcast your plans. . . .” He shook his head, his expression pained. ”But it didn't even work,” he whispered. ”They put me against her. How could I permit any contact? She would kill me-”
”What else?”
He was struggling with himself now, trying to stop the flow of self-d.a.m.nation, incapable of exerting any conscious control over the terrible outpouring. ”I was to procure a purebred Braxana for them, so they could obtain a psychogenetic profile. That was my Dominant Tendency-” He stopped suddenly and his eyes widened in fearful understanding as seemingly unrelated motives fit themselves into a large pattern.
”D'vra,” he whispered, horrified.
Even his most Braxana hungers had not been his own; they had been instilled in him for a purpose, for the purpose, and his natural desires had developed to fit that mold. Was any thought his? Had he ever done anything that did not have, somewhere, the mark of the Inst.i.tute upon it?
He was speechless. Drained. He knew suddenly why such care was taken to see that a telepath never learned the full extent of his conditioning. To do so removed all pretense of free will-and a creature without free will was not a man, only a tool made of flesh and blood, with no more initiative than a House computer and considerably less freedom. Desolated, he bowed his head in shame. There was no hope left, not even fear, only an emptiness of purpose that left him s.h.i.+vering before the force of the man who had stripped him of his humanity.
The Pri'tiera seemed satisfied. ”Understand this:” His voice was emotionless, not compa.s.sionate by any means but no longer overtly threatening. ”I had to break you, there was no other way. It was clear you were sent here to fulfill the Inst.i.tute's purpose; I had to find out what that was, and there was only one way to do it. I've known about you for years, Feran, ever since I found your name in the Inst.i.tute's files. As for your relations.h.i.+p with the Starcommander, that was only hinted at in the files themselves-li Pazua was careful to see that no one could learn the details of their conditioning- but when I watched the two of you interact at the conference table, I knew. You are a resource I need to tap, Feran, and in order to do that I must own you. If you submit to me, I will use you. But the choice is your own-which I daresay is more freedom than the Inst.i.tute ever gave you.” His voice was quiet, but his command was absolute. ”Decide.”
He wanted freedom, and he wanted his pleasure, but he knew now that those things were tainted for him. Looking up, he raised his arms-though the weight of his training pressed downward upon them, screaming blasphemies at his betrayal of The Cause-and extended his hands toward Zatar, palms open. And he spoke his Name, softly-not the one li Pazua had given him, but the one he had chosen for himself years later, the one which was his True Name in a way that no sounds of Azea could ever be. It was the ultimate submission a man could make.
Slowly Zatar's hands came down and clasped his wrists tightly, in the ritual of acceptance. It was like a warm blanket that came down over Feran and soothed his hurt, until the guilt receded and the pain was less and he was at last able to meet the man's eyes again. A terrible weight was gone from him which had been worse than any slavery, for self-hate is more merciless than any human master.
”I choose not to mark you,” Zatar told him. ”Go back to your House and work on controlling your power. You're free of the past, now; I've broken that bond.
And I'll send you women who won't talk, until you're in control again.”
Feran bowed his head. ”I am yours,” he whispered. And then, from the depths of his being, came words he had never expected to say-but they were the truth, and he let them come.
Softly: ”Thank you.”
Harkur: In order to make the most of the future, we must first comprehend the past.
Twenty-Three.