Crown Of Fire (13 page)

He spread his broad hands. "Please, let me explain why I called you here."

She nodded formally.

"Governor Danton has just asked me to offer back your fighter-rated status in the restored Planetary Navy."

He couldn't have immobilized her more effectively with a shock pistol. After four or five seconds too long, she found her voice. "Marshal, I'm ... I have commitments. I couldn't accept a military position here."

"I'm not sure I understand Danton's request." Burkenhamn half smiled. "He asked in confidence, and I must assume your bodyguard is also sworn to silence."

"Yes, but—"

"Your husband's name was also on the request," said Burkenhamn. "Governor Danton implied that this has something to do with our general assumption that Sentinel forces are being assembled for a possible strike."

"Oh," she said softly, and her mind whirled forward. If she were fighter-rated, she and Brenn could each fly into fielding range. That would give them the combined power of two RIA units. "Maybe the Federates would like to have all Federate worlds represented, even an occupied one, in any case," she suggested. She couldn't confirm his guess. He wasn't directly involved, and officially, no such order existed yet. "What fighter, sir?"

"The governor sent down simulator training materials for something called a Thyrian Light-Five. Are you familiar with it?"

"I've seen them. Federate cockpits are engineered to standard specs." But every fighter would respond differently. She would need sim time.

"Very well." He rested his elbows on the desk. Old habits made her answer his gesture by coming to seated attention. "I would also like to take Danton's request one step further. I want to offer you a field promotion ... an honorary title, more or less. If you accept, it will become public knowledge."

One of her hands did an involuntary flutter in her lap. "Go on," she murmured.

"Your discharge has already been canceled, by my order. I want to offer you the rank of second commander, subject to eventual approval by the First Naval Council."

She felt her eyes widen. That was a full rank, probably three years of service, above the first majority.

"I will present it to the electors as a symbolic gesture." His stiff back relaxed. "If Netaia can only send one soldier against Three Zed, we should be proud to send our best. Firebird, you acquitted yourself honorably at Veroh."

"Sir," she managed, "thank you, but from the standpoint of Netaian honor, I failed miserably at Veroh."

"I disagree." He leaned away from her. Trying to look casual, she guessed. "Governor Danton only asked that I get you rated for that particular fighter, which would automatically make you Federate personnel. If you prefer, you may accept the rating at a lower rank."

Firebird took a closer look at his cobalt-blue uniform. Sure enough, the Federate slash had been added over his breast. "You know me too well for that, Marshal."

"Yes, I do. You were one of the few high achievers who consistently gave more than necessary. If you accept my offer, that will only improve Netaia's standing with Regional command. As a transnational citizen, you will represent both Citangelo and the Federacy."

How thrilling! But. . .
This promotion feels like a temptation, Mighty Singer. Is it?
"Appointing me commander of whom?" she asked carefully. "Sir, I have family commitments. I will not choose to leave my children to serve a tour of duty." Leaving them for a little while was hard enough.

Burkenhamn leaned against one armrest of his chair. "You've seen heirs take honorary positions."

"Well, yes." Here on base, she had trouble thinking of herself as an heir. Heirs who wanted to wear a uniform were given an empty rank and a few speeches to make. Wastlings trained at the Naval Academy. They saw front-line combat and died.

"Your real experience would be valuable in a training and liaison capacity. . . and, yes, in our reserve defenses. Tallis is letting us reestablish an active force, but I'm only a figurehead. You'd be more effective in that role, especially after your confirmation. I've made arrangements for heirs' occasional reserve schedules. I would find it a pleasure to do that for you."

Firebird's mind sprinted ahead. What if civil war erupted? With a military rank, she might actively shorten the conflict. She could only imagine the ballads that might be sung about the wastling who saved Netaia.

"Marshal Burkenhamn," she said solemnly, "for two years, I've suffcred whenever I thought of you. I owe you a debt of honor."

Burkenhamn extended his hand. "Then you accept?"

His fingers surrounded her palm. She gripped the edge of his hand with her fingertips. "Yes, Marshal. Thank you."
Second Commander.
Picturing three gold moons on her cobalt blue uniform collar, she couldn't help smiling.
Commander Caldwell!
Or would they call her
Angelo?

Terza Shirak sat at a servo table, staring out the window, feeling like a neglected pet—or a breeding animal. Her father's apartment had several sleeping rooms off a short hall, but she spent much of her time in this south-facing dining area. Her appetite had returned with a vora-cious vengeance. Ever since leaving the Golden City, she'd done nothing but swell. Others might not notice the signs of her pregnancy, but to her they were becoming obvious. She felt like one of the ceremonial kiprets that her overzealous ancestors used to fatten and then butcher for sacrifice. She missed her station in Adiyn's laboratory, her womb-banks to tend, her cultures to fertilize and check. She had loved achievement, exercising her own small control over the next generation. She missed the Golden City.

She glanced down. The only visible mark of her. . . pregnancy (she still hated the word) . . . was the tight fit of her clothing, especially her shirts. But its chemical effect on her brain astonished her. Though her lather still frightened her, she felt a growing sense of familial identity, of pride to be called by his father-name. If he'd shown any sign of returning that pride, she would be sleeping easier. Also, the mundane touch of human skin had become almost a fetish, the softest, most appealing texture imaginable. She kept close control on that notion. Preoccupation with the physical was vulgar.

She pressed both hands to her middle. For all the discomfort she would have to endure, she wanted some return . . . some assurance that her embryo would thrive.

Her
embryo? Half the chromosomes, maybe. But the zygote, like all subadults, belonged to Three Zed colony.

She felt less certain of that every day. Making a gestational mother of her had been Modabah Shirak's mistake, if he hoped to maintain her objectivity.

Maybe he didn't. Maybe he meant to sacrifice her. Again she thought of the half-witted creatures her ancestors took to Ehret's great temple.

Cautiously, she looked around the dining area and lounge. One of her father's dozen lackeys bent over the servo, ordering a preprogrammed Netaian specialty. Another stood close to the view window, reading something on a recall pad. Across the living area, on a long animal-hide lounger, her father sat with another stranger, who was describing Netaia's cultural museums.

If the man could have guessed Modabah's intentions for the contents of those museums, he might not have come to this apartment. But once inside, under voice-command to speak freely, he might as well deliver the artworks.

She frowned, pitying all Netaians. Juddis Adiyn had remained on Three Zed, but he would travel here sooner or later. Once her people had the Sentinels' RIA technology in hand, they could take control of Netaia's resource base.

Then Adiyn could expand his staff and set about modifying the planet. Three Zed retained centuries-old genetic weapons that had already sterilized one world of human life, but her grandfather's long plan had been superseded by Adiyn's. Here, Terza might be ordered to assist in the release of other agents, viral organisms that would infect all Netaians, turning them into carriers for whatever genes Adiyn selected.

Early die-off would come first, naturally. Their altered descendants wouldn't need to fight another war, like the one that devastated Ehret. That had been a hard lesson.

Brennen Caldwell, who would give them the key RIA technology, had been carried in some starbred mother's womb. Lady Firebird had been a noblewoman's child, though not a cherished offspring. How could these "nobles" sentence their own named youths to die, simply to preserve their wealth? It was bad enough in the Golden City, where inferior or dangerous youngsters
must
be eliminated.

Mustn't they? Now she wondered if she could still approve even that. Infecting an entire world's population, even with an eye to their descendants' immortality, no longer sounded generous.

She had to hope Micahel succeeded in the Great Hall and took Caldwell down. If that option failed, her father might use her next—to dangle as bait.

Micahel reported to his father's apartment after stopping midtown for a noon meal. Netaian food, fresh and varied, did impress him.

Modabah sat slumped over the servo table, eyeing its inset blue-screen. He must have sent Terza and his crewers away. Only Talumah sprawled on the lounger.

"So," said the Eldest, "no fatalities reported at the Rogonin ball. Did you have an off night?"

"I accomplished what I set out to do." Micahel straddled a stool, putting the sun at his back. "I tested his defenses. They had more support than I expected."

"What about Caldwell's powers?"

"He actually reacted as a thirty-two would," Micahel admitted. "I could have lulled him. He didn't even see me arrive. He was
dancing"
he sneered. "Making love in public. If Talumah had gotten closer, he'd be ours."

"So it's Talumah's fault?" Modabah swept one hand over inset controls, darkening the bluescreen. "I'm still surprised you didn't leave a few bodies."

"Too much support," Micahel repeated. He'd been grabbed by a huge Netaian man—a long-faced, balding military type—and flung bodily toward a wall. He'd barely stopped his flight in time to keep from being knocked senseless. He had fled, irked to find Talumah outside and unhurt.

"How did they stop you?"

He would not mention the big Netaian. But he would have revenge.
All right, I had, an off night.
Micahel switched to subvocal speech, with its implied subservience and layers of emotional overlay.
They were waiting for us. They were prepared.

"They'll be prepared at the Hall of Charity," his father pointed out.

There, we expect them to be prepared. A kill is easier than a capture.

You could wire the headpiece,
Ard Talumah insisted from across the room. Micahel glanced toward the lounger. Talumah hadn't even opened his eyes. All along, he'd wanted to redesign the confirmation tiara with miniature explosives, sensitive to body heat. Blowing the woman's head off by remote would terrorize Netaia. With Sentinels so nearly involved in its government, that could throw all sorts of suspicions. Possibly set a large Federate element against Thyrica.

"No," Modabah called over his shoulder. "Not the tiara. Standing close, Caldwell could sustain injuries."

"She's mine, Talumah." Micahel shifted. Sun on his back, even weak winter sun, felt strange. "With the lady dead and Caldwell in shock, with the side entrance covered . . . we'll take him." The public press could be counted upon to sear images on the public mind, images that would prepare Netaia for its regent's capitulation to Modabah. Micahel grabbed a bottle off the servo counter, poured a glass of joy-blossom wine, and raised it. "And this time, we'll keep him."

Talumah sat up on the lounger. "Then I have another contribution. One of my suppliers just dropped off a multifrequency disruption grid. I think you could use it."

Firebird's simulator screen faded to gray, and she exhaled hard, relieved to know she hadn't lost all her reflexes.

Someone stood beside her booth, and she felt a welcome presence. She refocused her eyes on the real world.

"Second Commander," Brennen said gently. "Congratulations. Marshal Burkenhamn reported back to Governor Danton while I was still there." He extended a hand, and she grasped it, leaning on him to unfold herself out of the booth. "What are your orders?" he asked.

"For the moment, I'm only rated to start training again." She hadn't wasted a minute, either. She pulled her hair out of the catch at the nape of her neck. "But step by step," she murmured, "we're getting closer to Three Zed."

—And its planetary fielding team. No matter how thoroughly she trained, fielding operators could attack the areas of an interloper's mental matrix that responded with the deepest torments of fear.

Still, she had some confidence in her ability to endure terror. She'd already faced the darkest side of herself. What was left to fear?

Firing on friendly forces, for one thing. Or if they couldn't terrorize her, they could try to drive her insane. If she had to lay down her life there, so be it. But if they stole her sanity. . .

Better not to think about that. She peeled out of the heavy life suit Danton's people had issued for sim use. "And you?" she asked.

Brennen reported on Danton's fusion memo.

"Sounds to me," she said as she returned the life suit to an adjoining locker, "that he took it rather calmly."

"He's nervous." Brennen glanced out the nearest door. Beyond several other sim booths that were closed down for use, Firebird spotted one of their plainclothes guards.

"The Shuhr haven't missed a chance," Firebird said. "It could be an exciting rehearsal."

"They haven't seriously tried yet," Brennen answered. "When they do, we'll know."

She frowned. "I want a bath before the rehearsal."

He slid one finger under his collar. "Actually, so do I."

They hurried back to the apartment.

Shortly, a large car with base markings pulled up outside the housing unit, and Shel and Uri escorted them to the vehicle. Four Tallans in ash gray uniforms, sidearms prominent on their belts, rode along this time. Two additional cars served as outriders on each side. Brennen sat silently, watching the roadside pass.

He'd sent a decoy car ten minutes ahead. Along Port Road traffic flowed smoothly, with no sign of any disturbance.

He frowned. His agents still had no luck finding the Shuhr's nest. Shirak and his compatriots could hide and shield themselves too well to be found that way. They must be lured in.

He glanced up at the clear sky. There was probably enough Federate force deployed here to prevent a suicide strike, even if more Shuhr arrived with an attack group.

No, the confrontation would be personal, and he guessed he knew when it would come.

At the Hall's security blockhouse stood a line of groundcars, their doors marked with House insignia. From several vehicles marked with the crimson Angelo-starred shield, staffers unloaded long, stiff bundles, covered trays, and crates and boxes of all sizes. Uniformed security guards examined the bundles.

Firebird stepped out of the base car between Shel and Uri. A line of servitors steered laden carts toward the tunnel entry while Enforcers in city black stood sentry. The servitors stepped aside and let her group board the lift.

As an inquisitive child, Firebird had explored the downlevel tunnel while others thought she was obediently discussing Charities with her Discipline group. She hurried along, sensing Brennen's disquiet as they passed storerooms, sacristies, and vestries. He too must be badly distracted if the narrow tunnel was bothering him.

Up a stair, through the broad narthex, then down a long straight aisle. Nearly thirty people already stood at the foot of the sanctum. She didn't see Muirnen Rogonin, but she did spot midnight blue figures at several stations.

"Good." First Lord Erwin straightened slightly, and his voice rang out in the nave. "Here you are at last. Gather close, please."

Shel led to the front. Firebird mounted five steps to the stage-like sanctum, then glanced back again. Servitors worked in teams, using telescoping booms to hang wide streamers of scarlet velvette from the sloping side balconies and spiraling them around gilded columns. Twenty-two of those pillars lined the side aisles, then pierced the balconies, to split treelike and form limbs of gold tracery.

Other men and women, at least twenty of them, sat and watched the servitors. More Federates, she realized.
Thank you, Governor.
Shel and Uri had unquestionably dropped their shields to listen for any hostility, too. But in Brennen she still sensed the faint underlying panic.

Gold,
she understood. The nave was full of it.

Memories leaped out as if they'd hidden between pews, images that had remained lost to him until this moment.

. . . Golden corridors, with ceilings that arched close overhead. A lanky, black-haired man with lashless eyes walked at his elbow. . . .

... A tiny black room with pitted walls, its door a glossier black shadow. A single white lamp hung over his head, and he lay on a narrow black shelf. . . .

. . . Another face, younger, eyes brimful of hate. A firm mouth, a cleft chin . . .

Micahel.

His throat constricted, and breath came hard. He'd studied chapters and chapters of scripture that he once could've called instantly to mind. He'd come across one that must have been a favorite, from the number of marginal notes he'd made:

I will be with that remnant.

I
will refine and test them as meteor steel

And make them a sword in my hand.

Loose sword,
he found in his own penmanship,
useless. Effective only in His hand.

He had to fall into the Holy One's power when terror unbalanced him. He could not fight these irrational fears alone. Deliberately, he relinquished himself—and the situation—to One whose strength was broad and deep.

Then he could breathe more easily. He eyed the high golden ceiling with a practiced eye. During this rehearsal, his own forces would run a final surveillance from assigned positions—at exits, or seated where they could wield scanning imagers, behind tapestries.

He would have that ceiling, those tapestries, and every individual who entered the Hall thoroughly checked. Intercepting an assassin "incoming" would be the ideal scenario.

Catching one during the ceremony—an agent with enough tricks and abilities to penetrate his perimeter—might be dramatic, but at this point the idea had considerably less appeal.

Firebird faced forward again. Ornately carved seating boxes surrounded the sanctum's main stage. Behind them, in corners along the front wall, two musicians sat at banks of keys, panels, foot pedals, levers, and sliders. The Hall's organum wall could drown out a full choral orchestra or fill the nave with soft, meditative strains. She wished she'd been consulted on the choice of music. . . .

Then she changed her mind. Distracted by a favorite march or air, she might stop paying attention. It would take only a moment to unbalance their fragile trap and let Micahel Shirak take his bait.

She sidestepped closer to Brennen and frowned up at the statuary. She couldn't remember, because she had never noticed, how much of a part the graceless Netaian faith had played in Phoena's confirmation. It hadn't mattered back then. Centuries ago, the Netaian government deliberately corrupted its people's faith. Now it mattered very much.

The stooped first lord read a few lines, then set down his recall pad. Firebird listened, reluctantly impressed, as he recited her lineage from Conura I to her mother without glancing at the pad. "... who bore to Netaia four daughters: Carradee Leteia Authra, Lintess Chesara Solve, Phoena Irina Eschelle, and Firebird Elsbeth, Lintess and Phoena now deceased."

Firebird barely remembered Lintess. The family had lost her in a childhood accident, but even then, Firebird suspected Phoena. If only she'd been stopped as a youngster and disciplined. How might their lives have been different?

Firebird would never know.
Only one Path,
her instructor had said,
can be walked or understood.

First Lord Erwin turned to her, and she shook off memories. "You who stand in the sanctum to be confirmed, tell your name and your lineage, and your right to stand here."

She cleared her throat and raised her head. "I am Firebird Elsbeth," she said, "and you have told my lineage."

"Yes, good." The ceremonials director stepped forward. "But keep your body straight ahead. Try that again."

Firebird compressed her lips, came to military attention, and repeated her line.

"Better." The director stepped back. "All right. Continue, Baron Erwin."

"At this point," he said, "I make a rather long speech that my writers haven't finished. I end with the big question, Lady Firebird. Here it is. Will you stand ready ,to serve, should the high calling to which you are now declared an heiress ever fall to you?"

"And I answer," Firebird said firmly, "I live to serve Netaia." A five-year-old could master that declaration. During the ceremony, though, she meant to change a few words. From
live
to
hope,
and from
Netaia
to
Netaia's people.
She
hoped
to serve
Netaia^s people.
Small words were important.

"Then I reach around," said the director, "to the table, for the tiara. You will kneel."

Firebird back stepped into a deep curtsey. She took it deeper yet, then dropped one knee onto the carpet. Once steady, she dropped the other knee. This would be awkward in costume.

Baron Erwin pantomimed laying his hands on her head, sliding the tiara into place over her hair.

"In the holy names of Strength, Valor, and Excellence," intoned the baron—

Firebird jerked her head up. Baron Erwin droned on, asking a complex blessing in the names of all nine holy Powers. To Firebird, it sounded like a curse. She'd spent much of her life flaunting insignificant Netaian traditions. This no longer seemed insignificant.

She must speak with Baron Lord Erwin. Surely he could be reasonable about shifting a word here and there.

He finished.

"Questions?" asked the director.

Now,
urged a voice at the back of Firebird's mind.
Object!

She hesitated. She'd already disrupted Esme's ball. If she spoke up now, there could be a loud, unnecessary fight.

No. Now.

"May we talk about that blessing?" Firebird stared hard at the baron. "Later tonight?"

He nodded slightly, pursing his lips. "And I have a question for you, Lady Firebird. Do you intend to disrupt this ceremony and disgrace us, or have you finally accepted your role in Netaian society?"

"If there are disruptions," she said carefully, "they will not come from me or the Federates."

He glared at Brennen. "General, I demand your word of honor that your people will not use this solemn occasion to further their own agenda."

"The Federacy," Firebird interrupted, "asked that I accept this invitation. They will not—"

"General," snapped Erwin. "Your word."

Brennen's hand clenched down at his side. "I will protect Lady Firebird with my life if necessary. Otherwise, I will be silent and decorous. You have my word."

"See to it."

And maybe, just maybe, the Shuhr wouldn't show up. Brenn had mentioned putting a decoy team in the motorcade to the Hall.

The director stepped forward, clasping her hands over the front of her white gown. "After the recessional, we will motorcade back to House Angelo. There will be a formal luncheon. Lady Firebird, you will be given your heir name and make gifts to your chosen charities."

She nodded. Heirs had two middle names, and the second usually honored one of the Powers. She hoped the pageantry committee had been kind. She'd requested
Mari
instead.

"There will be time for all celebrants to rest after the luncheon," the director continued. "Dinner in the main hall for electoral families—"

Firebird was not looking forward to that.

"—and the day will end with the confirmation ball."

Finally, finally! Compared with other concerns, this was insignificant, but she still hoped to finish that dance with Brennen before heading to Three Zed. Let this trap spring successfully, and Rogonin wouldn't dare accuse her of sedition. She'd be a hero.

Don't forget,
she reminded herself.
Only the Electorate can save Ne-taia.

Riding back to base, she spotted five Enforcers on street corners. She'd never seen so much patrol activity.

Maybe His Grace was nervous.

She leaned against Brennen's shoulder. "I suppose they expect me to retire early that night, exhausted."

"You will be," said Brennen. "Or else you'll be shipboard."

"I wonder," she murmured, still later as she eyed a stack of luggage, delivered to their four-room apartment on base, "if our exalted ceremonials director or Lord Erwin have any idea who really might disrupt the ceremony."

"They'll be warned tomorrow night and informed of our precautions. No point frightening them any sooner than necessary."

Twice during Firebird's evening session with law advisors, who read her every regulation that concerned her conduct as a potential elector, she halted the proceedings. She hurried to the base lounge's CT link, called House Erwin, and asked to speak with the baron. The first time, he'd gone out to dine. The second time, he'd gone to bed.

At nineteen hundred?
His youth implant must've expired,
she fumed as she returned to the briefing room. Brennen raised an eyebrow. She shook her head, then turned to her second counsel. "Go ahead," she said. She still had all day tomorrow to reach Erwin.

When the counselors finally finished, she flicked the CT board again and found a call from Clareen Chesterson, the bassist. "Firebird," the singer said, "there's a sing at Nello's tonight. Can you get away?"