Crown Of Fire (12 page)

The bourree had nearly ended. He steered her toward the refreshment table and her father, glad to escape, wondering if he'd accomplished anything.

Scarcely pausing after the bourree, the conductor swept up his baton and directed the opening chords of Firebird's favorite triplette. Those chords sang irresistibly.
You belong here. You are one of us. You were born to this.

She seized Brennen's hand and tugged him toward the dance floor. "I assume," she murmured, "you watched the first triplette?"

His arm slipped around her waist, warm and steady, and he gripped her hand. "And I assume you haven't forgotten how."

"Not at all."

"Then close your eyes. Visualize dancing with someone very smooth."

The smoky-sweet tendril threaded into her mind. She back stepped onto the floor as if Brennen were leading. She felt him follow, felt his warmth press close. In her mind, he led her left in an arc (
Watch out for other couples, Brenn!).
His legs moved close to hers, perfectly synchronized.

Was this a dream, or was it really happening? Her eyes flew open, and she felt her cheeks cramp with the effort of smiling so broadly. Other couples had taken the floor, but several backed to the edge, standing, watching them.

"Concentrate, Mari," he whispered.

She grinned.

Shel didn't have to use Sentinel skills to see the rapture on Firebird's face. Her own memories wrenched her. She was no dancer, but years ago she and Wald had joined an open-hand drill club. Already pair-bonded, they relished the grips and the throws, the strikes and blocked punches. It had been very much a dance—

A newcomer distracted her. This young man, wearing velvette knickers and cascades of ruffles on his pale green shirt, seemed ostentatious even for a Netaian aristocrat.

Then Shel caught a momentary blurring of his aquiline features.

Without hesitating, she sent Brennen a cautionary quest-pulse.

He paused in his dance step and followed her pointing finger toward the stranger, now standing at the dance floor's edge.

For one second, Shel clearly saw the intruder's curly black hair and a sharp, cleft chin—and the startled look in Brennen's eyes. Clutching Firebird's hand, he backed off the dance floor.

Shel picked a path that positioned her between Firebird and the newcomer. She reached into her ball gown's wide belt, seized and palmed her dart pistol, and slipped closer. Deadly risks didn't bother her. When the inevitable happened, she would simply join Waldron.

Brennen's pulse thundered. Cringing like a helpless ES 32 facing his executioner, he shielded his mind, and Mari's, with minimal energy. It wasn't hard to fake panic for Micahel's sake.

Firebird clung to Brennen's hand. Uri sprinted toward them, and several women craned their necks to watch Uri. Two false servitors set down their trays and headed for exits, cutting off someone's escape. Brennen's handclasp shifted to a vise grip. He backed toward one of the windowed doors.

As the orchestra played on, her pulse did a full symphonic accelerando.
Where?
she thought at Brenn.
Where is be?

Uri whipped an interlink from a pocket. Firebird followed Brennen's stare. At the back of her mind, his emotions had gone to knife-edge. With Muirnen Rogonin stood a thin young man in elegant knickers, staring back at her. He smiled, showing teeth. He didn't seem to see Shel, edging toward him around knots of socialites, or notice the servitors who had moved to the glass doors along the colonnade.

"Micahel Shirak. Side door. Now." Uri's hand went to Firebird's waist.

Aghast, she hustled to the nearest open door. This was the man who had murdered her niece—her nephews—their parents. She let Brenn tug her out into a chilly evening, but her hands clenched into fists. He led down three marble steps off the porch, then aside, out of the brilliant lumibeams on a glistening lawn. Uri took up a post near the door.

Over here,
she urged silently.
This way, Shirak. One good shot with a dart pistol, and we have you.

"You're not going back in there," she muttered to Brennen. "Not until somebody gets blocking drugs into him."

He drew his short-barreled pistol.

"Stay out here, Brennen," said Uri.

She seized Brenn's hand. "He'll shoot to kill, Brenn. It's your family he attacked."

A gust of wind tossed the fayya trees as Brennen pulled his hand out of her grip.

"If you go back, I'm going with you," she declared. "If he attacks, we might have to use fusion."

Finally, Brennen focused on her. "We can't do that in public."

She shook her head. "If your life's at stake, your orders mean nothing to me."

Firebird felt an unspecific rumble she'd learned to interpret as Brennen thinking quickly. Then he said, "Come on, then. Both of you."

Firebird eased along the exterior wall, back toward an open glass door. Capture if possible, kill if necessary. . . .
Come on, Shirak,
she thought at him.
Here we are. It all comes down to this.
She shivered.

Uri's shoulders went stiff. He shook his head and looked to Brennen.

Shel hurried out the door. Instantly, she turned toward them. Brennen backed against Firebird as if hiding her behind his body.

Shel reached them a moment later. "He got away," she said. "He ran out through the main entry, and we lost him."

Firebird drew a quick breath. "Did our people miss a door?"

Shel shook her head. "One's down. Shock pistol."

Was Micahel doubling back, then? Behind the curtained windows, richly dressed silhouettes stalked back and forth. "Hiding?" Firebird whispered. "Or gone?"

Straining to listen, she heard the soft buzz of small hovercraft approaching out of the south, probably more reinforcements from Governor Danton.

Uri stepped into the lights and held perfectly still.

"I can't tell," Shel said flatly. She turned her back and stared out into the night, on guard.

Firebird flattened her lips in frustration, then seized her skirt. The hem had turned dark with moisture from the lawn. Her feet felt clammy. "Good try, Shel," she said.

Brennen caught her hand. "Now we know they have camouflaging skills. We only suspected it before. We'll be able to seal the Hall of Charity better than this."

"He didn't even try to attack," said Firebird. "So what was he doing here?"

The hovercraft descended toward the festival square on the palace's south side. "I suspect," Brennen answered, "he came to check on me. On my disablement. The last time I saw him—"

"And you were dancing," she interrupted. "Linked with me. A thirty-two could do that."

"Ye-es. I didn't notice him until Shel alerted me," he admitted. To her surprise, she felt embarrassment behind his irritation. "If he was testing me, I probably passed—thanks to you."

She wriggled her damp toes, which were growing painfully cold. "We should report this to Danton's people. For us, the ball is over."

"We should do more than report." Brennen glanced up at the white marble facade. "This is no good anymore. Too many entrances, too many spies. We've made our statement. You do belong here, but I think they've found out we're too well guarded. Staying here any longer would only put you in unnecessary danger from Rogonin."

"You're right," she admitted, though it made her feel wistful. "We'll go back to the base and stay there—until tomorrow afternoon's rehearsal." She glanced up at the private wing's windows. She couldn't bear to walk past her old doors once more, knowing it could be the last time. "I'll have Paskel send over our things."

Light-years from Netaia on the Sentinels' sanctuary world, Carradee Angelo grasped her nephew's round little hand and counted off fingers. "One, two, three." Three days ago, Master Dabarrah had sent her request to Three Zed, diplomatically couched as an offer to open talks at a neutral site. Assuming it reached that system, and assuming someone might deal with her request, how many days would it take for a response to come back? Transport time, minimum, from here to Three Zed, was reportedly nine days. "Well, Master Nearly-a-Prince Kinnor Caldwell, it looks as if we shall need your toes." She reached for one foot. He shrieked with laughter, lacking and kicking.

Anna was probably right, though. Any response to her request would probably be deceitful.

Oh, my Kessie. Little Iarlet. Is someone holding you tonight? Do you sleep in medical stasis somewhere... or are you holding an angel's hand, exploring the hills of paradise?
Every day the searchers found no trace, it was easier to believe there'd been a tragedy.

Little Kiel sat in the crook of Daithi's arm, nestled in the adjustable bed. Today, the scanbook gleaming on Daithi's lap was
Mattah,
the Sentinels' holy text. '"Dee," Daithi exclaimed, "listen to this. I've found another triple name for the deity. 'The Wisdom, the Love, the Power,' " he read. "How does that match the Shaliyah?"

Mistress Anna had spoken of the three ways God showed himself. "The Speaker... I suppose that would be Wisdom."

"I got that far," said Daithi. "But the other two don't fit quite as well."

"Power," Carradee mused. "That would have to be the Voice, wouldn't it? But that would leave Love as the Word, and . . . no, I think I have those backward. The Word they expect—the personal incarnation—is supposed to come in power. Some of their teachers say He will destroy evil wherever it exists. Some of them think the prophecies refer to more than one person, but one in particular." What a tremendously complex, majestic entity this god of theirs seemed to be. There would be no end of learning about Him, even if she lived forever.

Kiel gurgled loudly and reached for Daithi's chin.

"What would you know about that, little man?" Daithi asked his nephew.

Kiel babbled again. Carradee laughed, heart-happy. Like her girls, these babies spoke in full, unintelligible sentences long before their lips and tongues could form words. "Daithi," she said, "everything we've read, everything they've said about this deity rings true, even when I don't understand. There is a magnificence here, a grandeur beyond anything mere humans could have imagined." She laid Kinnor on the bed. Instantly he took off, scooting toward his brother and uncle. "They say there's a leap to make, trusting and blind," Carradee reflected. "I feel like leaping today."

Daithi dropped the scanbook on his bed sheets in time to save Kinnor from a tumble. "So do I," he said. "So does Kin, obviously."

Carradee pulled Kinnor back to her shoulder and rocked to her feet. Kin gurgled and kicked, demanding to be set back down. "I'll speak with Master Dabarrah," she said.

"Aaaaah!" That was Kiel's voice behind her.

She turned around quickly. "What did you do to that child?"

"Nothing," insisted Daithi. "He just bellowed. I don't think he's in pain."

Carradee eyed her nephew. The little boy did look blissfully happy. She smiled at her beloved husband and daredevil nephew. These twins were exceptional . . . something about them, perhaps their latent psionic abilities.
But no one will ever take my girls' place
—
except, maybe, you.
She found it amazingly natural to talk to someone she couldn't see, couldn't even comprehend. "We'll be back in a few minutes with Master Dabarrah," she told Daithi and Kiel. "Won't we, Lord Kinnor?"

The Inisi system, near the counterspinward edge of the Federate Whorl, had collected the usual amount of debris—long-dead prospecting probes, defunct satellites, and trash jettisoned by uncaring freighters or passenger haulers. Second Lieutenant Aril Maggard slipped into her seat on
Babb's
crowded bridge and entered a tick mark at one corner of her com console. Major Charin Dunn had just relieved another search ship. Her crew of eight was buoyant, expectant. The diplomatic shuttle that Governor Danton had sent to Inisi, with the little Angelo girls and their servants on board, had carried emergency supplies for several weeks. Even after this long, it was quite possible that the transport crew and its passengers were alive, stranded by a malfunction, unable to answer hails.

Babb
lurched as her pilot fired braking thrusters. "Almost on sector," he announced.

Aril activated her scanners and leaned over her tracking board. "Hang on, little ones," she whispered. "We'll find you."

Esme Rogonin lingered, watching musicians pack oddly shaped gear. Her father strolled back down the short flight of entry stairs, having seen their final guests through the doors. When she last checked the time, it had been just after three hundred. She hated to see the evening end. This had been almost pure pleasure. Even the Caldwells' indecorous exit kept her blissfully entertained.

Her father took her hand. "You were lovely tonight, Esme, and so gracious. Your mother and I are extremely proud."

She patted his arm. "I hope you got what you wanted from Lady Firebird. Dancing with Prince Tel was not what I came for."

Smiling, her father kissed her fingertips. He looked so grand in white. "We shall see," he said. "She disrupted a triplette for no reason I ever saw, and she has not returned to her rooms. Furthermore, we seem to have picked up a number of false servitors. The House Guard will be busy tonight, checking records."

Esme couldn't be bothered by servitor problems. She yawned. What a grand night—even her formal introduction to Netaia's most notorious wastling, a woman still technically sentenced to die if she lingered in Citangelo. Esme couldn't wish death by lustration on anyone. "I thought she was actually quite civil."

As rain spattered the tall windows, her father leaned back in a tired stretch. "She's biding time. She'll live up to her reputation, child. You'll see."

"She's pretty." Esme sniffed. "And spirited. I almost like her."

"She stands between us and the life we cherish, Esmerield. Between you and a fortune."

Firebird blinked hard. Why was the bedroom window over
there?

Then she finished waking up. She lay beside Brennen on a bed half the size of Phoena's, in a bare off-white room. Late last night, base staff had escorted them to a small apartment with a view of the new Memorial Arch. This really was necessary, she guessed. Their first attempt to catch a Shuhr had failed. Their enemies were moving, and it wasn't difficult for starbred individuals to infiltrate palace staff.

She stretched, then looked across the pillow into Brennen's blue eyes. "Good morning," he said. "Could you manage an early start?"

"Something urgent?" she asked, feeling bleary. She could use one more hour of sleep, even though she had promised to drop in on Marshal Burkenhamn. "About last night, I suppose."

"Governor Danton wants to speak with me." She felt his regret like a warm cloth wrapped around her shoulders. "I suspect his call woke you up."

Firebird yawned. The electoral schedule makers had decreed that she should rest this morning, and for once she liked their choice. This afternoon there would be a rehearsal for her confirmation. "Ask for extra guards today." She heard Shel and Uri talking in the front room.

"I'll do that."

She threw off the gray bedcover and dropped her legs toward the floor.

Brennen busied himself in the freshing room. Firebird gazed out toward the spaceport and a rain-washed winter morning. An early passenger craft roared in, one of the flattened-oval Federate landers—dropping toward the field, bringing more people into Citangelo.

And more Shuhr?

Frowning, she fingered the coarse curtain. Defeating the Shuhr at Three Zed would require fusion, RIA, and everything else the Federacy could throw at them. Fusion still was the weak link in that chain, and she hated being the weak part of anything. While Brennen spoke with Lee Danton, she intended to sit in a lounge and do some more experimenting. Then they could speak to Burkenhamn together.

A guard waved their shuttle to a parking area near the new three-level command building's entry. As Shel steered into a slot, Brennen spotted the massive projection dish he'd seen on their first day on Netaia. The scaffolding had been peeled away, revealing a honeycombed parabola, part of a new civic particle shield.
One more response to the Sunton catastrophe,
he observed. Downtown and in the suburbs, Danton's people were building more projectors.

Was Three Zed also bracing for war? he wondered. He left Firebird in a lounge, and an aide took him into the occupation governor's office.

Lee Danton stood at the side of his desk, in front of one of the broad windows. He rolled a cross-space message cylinder between his hands. An auxiliary bluescreen gleamed alongside his memfiles, and its glow cast a bluish light on the right side of his angular face. "Come in," he said.

Catching an uneasiness, Brennen dropped his epsilon shields. He and Danton had worked together during early occupation. He'd foiled four attempts on Danton's life before the angry Netaian separatists realized it was no use trying. He and Danton respected each other. Now either the governor believed in Brennen's disablement or he wasn't trying to hide his tension.

Pretending ignorance, Brennen took a wide stance at midfloor. "Good morning, Governor. Tell me how I can serve you."

Danton dropped the message roll onto his desk. "Sit down, Brennen. You can see I'm somewhat nervous."

Brennen took a side chair near the memfiles. "I hope I can reassure you."

"Mm." Still standing, Governor Danton touched the message roll. "Four hours ago, my aide received a scan cartridge by special courier. According to cover information, the original was sent to Regional command from Thyrica."

Now he was thoroughly puzzled. "Yes?"

"The cartridge contained an eyes-only memo concerning research that has been conducted at Hesed House and at Sentinel College, regarding a phenomenon they're calling 'epsilon fusion.' "

Caught off guard, Brennen reached toward Danton's auxiliary bluescreen. Then he saw the pulsing red light on its control surface. He jerked back his hand.

"What is it?" Danton stepped closer.

Embarrassed, Brennen inhaled slowly. "Forgive me. I came back from Three Zed with some illogical fears. Red light is one of them." At the back of his mind, he was already thrusting down wounded pride, examining his mental state for too much self-confidence.
Power and might are in your hand,, Holy One. No one can stand against you.

"I could cover the panel."

Unshielded, Brennen felt Danton's embarrassment like a fainter echo of his own. "No, I'm all right. It just startled me."
My peace is in you, Eternal One, and you are my power.
Sentinels were trained in emotional control.

He placed his thumb over the indicator light.

The memo was indeed eyes-only, thank the One. "It's our best chance to strike back against Three Zed," Brennen said after skimming the address and heading codes.

"You and Lady Firebird."

"Yes."

Danton took a step closer. "Now I see why you both might have to leave on a moment's notice. Go ahead, read. Then you'll know what we're free to discuss."

Brennen scanned quickly. The memo explained that the fusion phenomenon seemed to rise out of Firebird's oddly polarized epsilon carrier wave. It did not say she'd killed two assailants, but it mentioned concern that the Shuhr could have taken genetic specimens from Princess Phoena, and that they might breed individuals capable of this kind of fusion.

That research was one more reason Brennen dreaded those sealed orders. In light of those programs, he might be ordered to sterilize Three Zed down to bare rock. His ancestors had already destroyed one world.

He turned back to Danton. "You didn't call Firebird in."

Danton stroked his chin. "I'm half afraid to."

"It doesn't happen accidentally." Brennen pointed out the paragraph that explained its near-fatal effects on Firebird Mari. Missing was any mention of the scar tissue accumulating cell by cell inside the ayin complex at the middle of her brain. Naturally, the Federacy worried less than he did . . . about that and about the self-focus that had seemed to infect her when she put on that confirmation costume. He'd paid dearly for his own self-reliance. He wanted to spare her from that kind of disciplining.

"I would hope," said Danton, "that by using RIA, coupled with this other development, the Federacy can move quickly against Three Zed."

"As soon as we know how to take down their fielding team, we can get close enough to slip effective payloads past their particle defenses."

"Finding that out is half of your mission here, as I recall."

"Besides getting a handle on their long-range plans."

"And appeasing Councilor Kernoweg's crusade to see Netaia covenant to the Federacy. I don't suppose your Shuhr hosts exactly took you on a tour of their fielding unit," Danton observed.

Brennen heard and felt the good humor creeping back into Dan-ton's mental stance. "If they did," he confessed, "I've forgotten."

Danton winced. "Understood. I was hoping that your disablement is ... somewhat less than is being publicly reported."

It wasn't really a request for information, and Brennen didn't volunteer any. Until they had a Shuhr captive, he would not tell one more soul his actual ES rating. "Thank you, Lee. I wish I could tell you I'm fine, but I'm not... as you just saw." He slid his thumb off the pulsing red light.

Danton stroked his chin. "With the kind of power this fusion report implies, no other authority in Federate service will be able to control you and Lady Firebird. Some will want to separate you."

"Lee, the same vows that protect you from capricious use of an RIA apparatus—"

Danton cut him off. "Sometimes those vows are no control over your people. You do swear loyalty to your kindred above loyalty to the Federacy."

Brennen studied the governor's face, feeling no hint of sympathy. "That is the vow," he agreed.

Silence dampened the air. The Federacy barely trusted his people. That had been one major argument against revealing RIA to the Federacy, and this new development made him and Firebird, personally, into potential threats.

"We could demonstrate fusion at your convenience."

The governor exhaled. "Thank you, that won't be necessary. How can I facilitate your strike at Three Zed?"

Brennen relaxed into his chair. "My orders are sealed. I'm assuming they are to strike, but I will open them only when we have that prisoner."

Danton stared off into space for several seconds. "Is Lady Firebird fighter-rated for Federate ships?"

"No. She and I would fly together. Thyrian fighter-trainers are notoriously underpowered, but—"

Danton leaned toward his com panel. "Maybe," he said, "I could give you one more option." He touched the panel. "Major Harthis, give me Marshal Burkenhamn's office."

Firebird sat in the third-floor observation lounge, ignoring the view. She was distracted by wondering what Governor Danton wanted with Brennen.

Hearing footsteps, she looked up. Beyond a cluster of angular, upholstered chairs, a man came striding up the corridor. He wore Netaian cobalt blue trimmed in red. In the next instant, she caught a red glitter on his collar, the ruby stars of a first major—her own former rank in what seemed like another life. She'd been so proud to wear that uniform.

He marched into her lounge. Shel sprang up.

Firebird rocked onto her feet. Even if she'd been in uniform, she couldn't have saluted. She'd been dishonorably discharged as soon as the Netaian Planetary Navy learned she was captured instead of killed at Veroh. She was lucky they hadn't court-martialed her, too. Evidently her electoral trial sufficed for all offenses.

"Lady Firebird," said the major, "Marshal Burkenhamn wants to speak with you. I'll take you downlevel to his office."

Shel stepped forward. "Is that office secure, Major?"

"Yes. You're also welcome to escort her, naturally."

Firebird glanced from one to the other. Of all places on Netaia, this base was probably the safest for her. Still, it was good to see that Shel took nothing for granted.

They rode the lift back downlevel. As she walked up the corridor with the major on one side and Shel on the other, she composed a formal apology. If ever she felt guilty about betraying Netaia during the Veroh war, Burkenhamn's was the face she'd seen. At Tallis, he had helped save her life by refusing to endorse a proposed execution—and she'd promptly snubbed him by taking Federate transnationality.

He'd accepted a position under the occupation government, so maybe he wasn't entirely anti-Federate.

A windowed door, lettered NETAIAN FORCES—MARSHAL BURKENHAMN, slid open. "He'll see you immediately." The major stroked a panel on the clearing room's desk, and a second door opened.

Firebird glanced at Shel, squared her shoulders, and walked in.

Behind a red-grained leta-wood desk, Devair Burkenhamn was rising to his feet. Something whirred on his desk top, spewing hard copy. The silver fringe of hair behind his ears seemed thinner than before, and she saw deeper lines between and over his eyes. He extended a huge hand, and she clasped it over piles of scan cartridges, chip stacks, and more hard copy, the typical flood of administrative busywork.

"Good morning, sir. You asked to speak with me."

He sat down, and as she took the opposite chair, she flattened her hands in her lap. Marshal Burkenhamn must make the first move in this new, awkward game. She'd always been his student and very junior officer.

Though he was one of the few Netaians whose body couldn't tolerate anti-aging implants, he remained superbly trim, his broad shoulders looking as solid as ever. "Lady Firebird," he began, then he paused. If he'd addressed her as "Major," she might've expected a reprimand. But calling her by her title seemed conciliatory. "I said this last night, but I mean it sincerely. Welcome back."

She hated to humble herself like this, but she had to. "Marshal, the last time we faced each other, I—"

Burkenhamn waved a broad hand. "I wish to discuss the future, not the past. Would you be so kind as to say nothing about previous events?"

Relieved, Firebird sat straighter. "As you wish, sir. I would like to be numbered among those who support you wholeheartedly."

Burkenhamn smiled sidelong. "That is refreshing to hear. I tried to help with the . . . disturbance last night. I'm afraid I accomplished noth-ing."

She hadn't read a follow-up report yet. "Thank you for trying, Marshal." Oh, the memories this man's long face and rich baritone brought back! "I'm sure you made an impression."