Crown Of Fire (20 page)

Could be.
She couldn't afford to think in those terms yet. Resting her recall pad against the regen arc, she keyed up her list of official charities, side by side with a compilation of Netaian industries that had cooperated with Governor Danton.

Muirnen Rogonin made a chopping motion with one hand, and his servitor hastily waved off the media link, choking out the irritating new song. He wished it hadn't taken his people three days to recognize its deadliness and how far such songs might travel before they were stopped.

But now he had a prisoner.

She stood on the inlaid petitioners' floor below his desk, wearing a baggy, unflattering low-common dress and wrist restraints. Her left eye twitched above a floral tattoo.

"Clareen Chesterson," he said slowly. "If you will cooperate, this interview will be far less uncomfortable."

She adjusted her stance, straddling an inlaid inner-world orbit. "I have nothing to say, Your Grace. I have done nothing wrong."

Rogonin raised one eyebrow. "Is that so? I have here," he said, raising one sheet of hard copy, "testimony of a subtronic trace. A transmission was sent from Prince Tel's residence to yours on the twenty-third of this month. Again," he said, sliding another sheet to lie on top of the first, "a high-commoner willing to swear he saw you the next day, going into Tellai's town apartment less than an hour before Lady Firebird entered."

"That has nothing to do with Your Grace's accusation."

"I think it has." He popped a mint under his tongue to cool and burn and soothe him. "Here is another testimony, stating that you were seen entering the Tellai estate on two other occasions. Prince Tel is known for unconventional monarchist views."

"That has nothing to do with me, Your Grace."

"Is that so?" His new friends had warned him that if she'd collaborated, the Sentinels would have voice-commanded her, making her truly unable to reveal information, even under pharmaceutical or physical persuasion.

Here she stood, though, an instigator of the Federatization he feared.

He regretted that harsh steps were necessary. He dreaded the purge that must come. It soiled his regency, it soiled his House, but for Ne-taia's sake, he would not back down. He would build new prisons with the Angelo moneys he still leveraged, as regent. . . .

From behind her, near the Coper Rebellion mural, Talumah purred, "She is afraid, when you question her."

Her head whirled toward the voice, and she stared—either at Talumah or the mural, worked in jewel dust over a translucent screen.

"Give us what we want." Rogonin rose out of the day office's chair. "Identify Lady Firebird as the writer of that vile, juvenile ditty. If you do, we will free you. If not—" He laced his fingers across his mid-section. "You will vanish from Citangelo."

Clareen Chesterson clenched her crossed hands. She gritted her teeth, looking as if she wished she could rip off her wrist restraints and jump him.

Hinnana Prison was full of the likes of her. He also had detention facilities at Sander Hill Station and under the palace. As of yesterday, he also had new allies who surely could convince her to confess.

"Talumah, escort our musical guest downlevel. Send Burkenhamn in on your way out."

Terza sat in the dank new downlevel observation post, a long, thin chamber between storerooms, stuffed with eavesdropping gear the crew members had brought from Three Zed. She tugged a sleeve of her awkward House Guard uniform. It rode up her arm with a will of its own, instead of following her motions like sensible clothing.

Micahel was headed southwest by superspeed commercial transport, and Talumah was uplevel with the regent. Momentarily alone, she wondered if Talumah had already altered her alpha matrix, either shipboard or since she arrived here. Her father had a reputation for making plans within plans. Maybe her upbringing included subtle pushes toward rebellion.

Or was this growing urge to escape simply the unstable Shirak personality, as her old supervisor Juddis Adiyn called it? Tallis was doomed, the Federacy about to fall.

Think in one straight tine!
she commanded herself—
escape!
Moda-bah Shirak might guess that his daughter could try to defect. Or, more sinister, he might be pushing her toward defection. If her alpha matrix had been twisted, she wouldn't remember. That also was standard procedure.

Maybe she, too, was being maneuvered into position to destroy Brennen Caldwell's bond mate, without her knowledge or consent.

She covered her abdomen with both hands. If she killed Lady Firebird, Caldwell would never—never—help her escape.

But she had to get to him, even if that was exactly her father's intention.

Out in the north corridor, footsteps passed. Terza peered through the storage room in time to see Talumah pass, escorting a manacled woman.

Netaia's seizure was beginning.

Outside, it was cold midmorning. Muirnen Rogonin stood behind his day desk and listened to Devair Burkenhamn abase himself. The marshal stood at the flaming, inlaid sun's center, at rigid attention. "Your Grace," he concluded, "I am oath-bound to come to you in time of conflict. You called, so I must offer my services."

Here was one more traitor to Netaia's lasting grandeur. . . but this traitor would be of use. No Sentinel would have dared to put voice-command on First Marshal Burkenhamn, the way they got to Clareen Chesterson. Behind Burkenhamn, almost invisible against the older mural—of Conura First's victory over the outsystem invaders—stood another one of Rogonin's new House Guards. Rogonin returned the man's slight smile. Burkenhamn—with his size and strength, and Firebird's trust—would make an ideal assassin.

He returned his attention to the beefy marshal, who looked rather like a target standing at the center of all those inlaid orbits. "Thank you for your timely arrival. I assume this is a difficult gesture for you to make."
You still want her back in the palace, don't you, Burkenhamn? She'll be there, all right. Lying in state, thanks to you.
"I want you to deliver messages to the occupation governor and Commander Angelo."

Burkenhamn barely inclined his massive upper body.

"First, you will need a strategic briefing." He beckoned another one of his new employees away from his post by the east window. They had promised him Burkenhamn would remember nothing from what they

were about to do, except having been brought to their new observation post. Rogonin did not want Netaians carrying memories of their foul treatment. Burkenhamn's suicide would be honorable, too. Rogonin would slip him a dagger in custody after they arrested him for murdering Firebird.

tutti

for the whole ensemble

Ard Talumah called Terza into the south storage room. "Look over what I've done," he ordered. "I need to send Micahel some intelligence." Then he stepped out.

Lying unconscious on a dusty, marble-topped table, Devair Burken-hamn looked like a monument carved from stone. Terza focused for access, probed for the breach Talumah had left, and slipped through.

Twisted threads of Burkenhamn's alpha matrix, linked with recently inserted suggestions, showed how subtly Talumah had blocked the memory of interrogation, preparing the marshal to return to full consciousness only when taken inside their observation post. Deep beneath Burkenhamn's consciousness, bird's-nest knots of thought and emotion would be Talumah's preparation for betrayal, murder, and finally suicide.

Talumah was a master.

Again, she wondered—had he already done this to her? Shipboard, or just moments ago, between her arrival in the storeroom and her first glimpse of Burkenhamn? Talumah could have rethreaded her entire alpha matrix after calling her in, and she would remember only the sensation. She turned inside herself, trying to see if anything felt different.

She found it only when she slipped behind her secret shield. Talumah had prepared her, too, for the attack. Trembling, she made sure Talumah really had left her and Burkenhamn alone. To be absolutely safe, she raised her inmost shields once more. Then she examined the preparatory locus in Burkenhamn's alpha matrix, where Talumah had subverted volition at the deepest possible points. As terrified as she was, not knowing exactly what Talumah had just done to her, she knew she must try to thwart Firebird's murder. That was the only way she could get Caldwell's sympathy and help.

With utmost care, because this kind of work wasn't her specialty, Terza loosened the critical locus like a knot. She didn't dare do more. If Talumah caught her meddling, her father would take her alpha matrix apart thread by thread, then blast her out the nearest airlock. This effort would be her signature, her proof to Caldwell that she'd tried, at least, to circumvent their murderous plans.

She could do nothing for herself. She only hoped Caldwell still was capable of detecting what she'd just done to Burkenhamn.

But did she really want to defect? What would it accomplish, what would it prove?

In that one reluctant thought, Terza found her own proof. Her father must've once wanted to plant her among the Federates, maybe to assassinate Caldwell. Now he had other plans for her. He'd ordered Talumah to create new doubts as to whether she wanted to defect.

Then Talumah would have watch-linked her already. The transport that brought them here surely carried the requisite gear. Talumah and Modabah would be able to monitor all her uppermost, unshielded thoughts.

All right, father.
She formed the words clearly, desperately glad she'd shielded herself before tampering with Burkenhamn's alpha matrix. /
am not deceived, but I will serve you.

Carefully controlling all further thought, she shook back her hair, straightened the uncomfortable sleeves once more, and shut off the restraint table's immobilizing field. She angled a hand to use voice-command. "Open your eyes and sit up."

The monument shook itself. Burkenhamn rose, staring, his eyes processing only enough information for physical function. She dusted the back of his cobalt blue uniform with her crimson sleeve, then nudged him toward the observation post. Talumah sat finishing a late, elegant-looking cold lunch.
Tours, Talumah,
she subvocalized.

Talumah grasped the unseeing marshal's elbow. "Inside, large one," he ordered. Then he subvocalized to Terza,
Satisfied?

She nodded.

Today,
Talumah sent,
we show Caldwell that his God has a short reach.

Burkenhamn revived all in a moment, bending forward to stare at the nearest bluescreen. The post had three visual monitors, one currently showing the palace's north grounds, another displaying airspace over Citangelo. The third was blank.

Crooking one finger for Terza to follow, Talumah glided toward the opposite door. The storeroom that accessed this post from the north corridor was piled haphazardly with clear-wrapped uniforms in black, gold, and scarlet, moved out of the inmost room to make room for surveillance gear.

He handed her a recall pad.
The rest of your orders.
Then he slipped back out.

She sent the door shut, then touched the ON button and read.

Yes, Father.
Again Terza formed words with deliberate care. Behind her innermost shields, she wished Talumah weren't coming. Sending her alone onto the Federate military base would be foolish, though, even with new subliminal orders to leave the base. Her father was no fool.

The vision of Ard Talumah as a malformed embryo flitted across her mind. She dismissed it hastily and read on.

The message ended.

Nauseated, Terza squeezed the OFF panel. She frowned, covering another shielded reflection with surface gratitude. She should be thankful that Modabah meant to get her out of Citangelo before Micahel sent in his suicide pilots. Did he know—did he guess that her heart, betrayed by the workings of her own body, really had chosen against him?

He couldn't think otherwise. He'd just threatened to abort, torture, and callously dispose of her child. Short weeks ago, she had destroyed human embryos with no more remorse than he showed now.

Excellent, Father. I am ready. We will defeat the "Federates from our new base on Netaia. I would like a rural estate, south of here, near a river.

She dropped the recall pad onto a clothing stack, then strode back to the inner door.

"Ah," Ard Talumah said when she emerged into the observation post. "Here is our other escort, Marshal Burkenhamn. Terza," he added in a clipped, authoritarian voice. "The marshal is to deliver messages to Governor Danton and Commander Angelo Caldwell. We will see that he passes safely onto the base
and safely returns.
We are his Netaian escort, from families he knows well."

"Sir." Terza dipped her head to Burkenhamn. "I am at your disposal."

This is for you.
Talumah dangled a lens-shaped tri-D pickup, swinging like a lavaliere on a short golden chain.
A gift from His Grace. He wants a recording of Firebird's demise.

Then he slipped her a silvery injector. She made sure it was sheathed before pocketing it. She spotted a standard dart pistol tucked into Tal-umah's belt.

Well planned, Father. Well planned.

Talumah led out, his long face pointed confidently forward.
Here we come, speaker-god. Stop us if you can.

Terza followed Burkenhamn up the north corridor, then out an echoing white tunnel to palace garages. The heavy lavaliere lens pressed against her breastbone. The Netaian marshal slid behind the driver's seat of a palace groundcar as easily as a smaller man might move. His strength had to be tremendous.

Talumah joined him in front. Terza took the place behind Talumah, determined not to watch him too closely. They emerged near the spear-tipped gates and accelerated down into Citangelo. The city streaked past under a winter blue, late-afternoon sky.

Deep behind her shields, she let the thought rise: At the surface, she no longer wanted her freedom. But how deeply could her father affect her will? Somewhere in Modabah's web of counterplans, did he want Ard Talumah disposed oft And if so, why?

Did the law-bound Sentinels live like this? she wondered, still hiding her thoughts—each one suspecting all others? Or was their propaganda based on truth, and did their allegiance to a higher cause make them a truly different people?

Her daughter had little chance of reaching maturity if she returned to Three Zed. She would probably be aborted anyway, or euthanized, and her cells cloned as breeding stock. Yet the hereditary abilities of Modabah Shirak and Brennen Caldwell could've made that child great for either side. A treasure had been thrust into Terza's hands.

She would guard that treasure if it cost her life. If the Federacy's new weapons might be used to turn the Golden City, like Sunton, into dust and rubble, then her child must not be there.

She thought of her lifetime's work—all those genetic samples—and Three Zed's armory, its records, its Ehretan artifacts—the treasures stolen from Federate worlds—must they be destroyed? Could she carry that burden?

She clenched one hand.
Of course not, Father.

Automatically braked by central guidance at the end of city-controlled roadway, the car slowed. Ahead, Terza saw massive energy-fence walls. She loosened her blazer in its holster.

Two Federate watchmen guarded each side of the base's tall main gate. Behind them, a fifth man sat half shielded on the gunner's seat of a huge new energy projector. A man in midnight blue stepped to Bur-kenhamn's side of the car, followed by one in Verohan pale blue.

Burkenhamn opened his windscreen to answer. "I need to speak with Governor Danton." He handed out an ID disk. "You may tell him I'm here."

A gust of breeze lifted the Sentinel's dark blond hair. He stared at the Netaian officer, then glanced in Terza's direction.

"My aides," Burkenhamn declared.

Terza slipped complacency into the suspicious Verohan's midbrain, letting Talumah deal with the Thyrian. He'd proved he could deceive Sentinels when he escaped the Hall of Charity.

The Sentinel rested his left hand on Burkenhamn's door. "One moment." He lifted a tiny subtronic device, backed away, and spoke rapidly. Terza caught the word
Burkenhamn.

Then they waited. Terza might have dashed past the guards to a cluster of gray buildings beyond the perimeter, but that energy projector looked capable of ground-to-air defense. It wasn't something she wanted to tackle.

The Sentinel removed his headset. "I'm to accompany you. Unlock a rear door, please."

Danton probably realized Burkenhamn was in danger, even on base. Terza rested her hand near her blazer as the Thyrian slid in.

Half a meter separated her legs from those of someone who had been raised to kill her kind on sight. She mustn't provoke the Sentinel, not this time. She must not make enemies.

Burkenhamn steered the vehicle toward the L-shaped main building.

Brennen reentered the base's command center after a quick break. Several Sentinels that had been withdrawn from palace infiltration stood at guard posts. He was pleased to see Firebird reclining in a mobility chair, studying the tri-D well with Governor Danton.

She glanced up at Brennen. "I'm barely moving.
Largo"
she joked feebly. "We're drawing up an evacuation plan for Citangelo's civilian population."

This was her transitional day, slowly working up to walking again. Brennen turned to Danton. "Any word from Marshal Burkenhamn?"

"On his way. Just passed the gate."

Burkenhamn saluted a quartet of door guards, two of whom stepped forward as he approached. "I must speak with Governor Dan-ton," he said calmly. "Direct me, please."

One in Tallan gray saluted again. "Follow me, Marshal."

Terza came behind Talumah and Burkenhamn, and though Terza was taller, the Sentinel guard paced her step for step. The other Federate guard followed.

How many minutes might I have to live?
she wondered, down deep. Then she thrust the thought aside and pointedly recited,
Get the drugs into Caldwell. Cover Burkenhamn while he kills Firebird. Get Caldwell off base.

Well planned, Father.

Their Tallan guide led down a soft-tiled hall, past doors on the left and right, all closed. The guide's home world, Tallis, would be struck— probably within fifteen days. Terza wondered if he had family.

Ahead, double doors stood open, guarded on both sides. Terza touched the tri-D pickup around her neck. Now it would record, though it wouldn't transmit, so far as she knew. Netaian transcorders were larger and heavier than this.

Striding in, staying on Burkenhamn's left, she took in the instrument panels, display monitors, and other accouterments of military power. Half a dozen Federate staff stood or sat at various stations, flanked by several uniformed Sentinels, undoubtedly the ones withdrawn from the palace—

Her sweeping glance snagged at the sight of a man she recognized from Three Zed. Caldwell had a slightly squared face, with one cheek faintly scarred and alert-looking blue eyes. He stood beside the Federate governor, near a tri-D well. His epsilon savor was plainly muted, weaker than she'd imagined. He wasn't as tall as she'd pictured him, either. . . nowhere near as tall as her brother. Slim shouldered, he retained the presence that had carried authority—but without the hard, arrogant edge that marked Three Zed's leaders.