Crown Of Fire (22 page)

He waited more than a minute, resting his forehead on clenched hands.

Nothing came.

Then he would have to wrestle with his conscience en route. Meanwhile, he did have orders.

Most of an hour later, he and two other Sentinels were testing ep-silon-fielded locks on the new brig's windowed door and every other escape route, logical and illogical. He'd also arranged for Terza to be watched clock-around from a guard station just outside the brig and by in-cabin monitors. Only the One knew what other compulsions her people had put on her, besides the watch-link.

As he stepped through the crew lounge, past a triple bunk that workers were bolting to a bulkhead, the door to his own forward quarters slid open. Shel stepped away from the hatch and stood aside. Two med attendants came steering a medical litter up the port passway. Firebird lay on the litter, unconscious under the regen arch. He lingered at the hatchway, watching the meds squeeze alongside a newly installed forward berth in his cabin. Marks on the deck and bulkhead showed where other furnishings had been removed.

"I want medical monitors at my bridge station," he said, eyeing her face. A faint flush warmed her cheeks, and those delicate features never quite relaxed, but carried a hint of her determined spirit. He wanted to protect her, not take her to—

"Installing them next, sir." The meds raised the green-and-white arch, rolled his bond mate onto the new berth, then set about installing the arch in its new position. "Barely room to swing this aside, sir."

"We'll manage," he told them.
For five days, until we get to the rendezvous point and aboard a bigger ship.

Back out in the passway, Sentinel pilots hauled duffels into assigned cabins, singles reconfigured as doubles.
Sapphira's
redundant life-support suites would support them, and he wanted every combat-trained Sentinel on board to crew RIA ships. According to his orders, he would command the attack cruiser
North Ice,
the fighter-carrier
Weatherway,
and their complement of RIA-equipped scouts, bombers, and fighters.

He flexed his hands and stepped onto the bridge. Pilot, nav, shields, and sensor/com officers were already there, running preflight checks, cross-programming the escorts' navigating computers.

A tone sounded on
Sapphira's
com board. The Sentinel running checks touched a tile.
"Sapphira,
Lieutenant Mercell at Sensors."

Danton's voice came through clearly. "If General Caldwell's on board, send him back to the command center. All haste." "On my way," Brennen called, already jogging.

Lee Danton gestured toward a wall screen. "We're getting a picture from . . ." He stared a question at the nearest controller, whose headset dangled from one ear.

"Satellite outsystem, sir."

The governor frowned, drawing his eyebrows down almost to touch at center. "We've got an unauthorized rollout at Sitree Air Base."

Brennen eyed the screen. Sitree was twelve hundred klicks west-southwest of Citangelo. Well within striking range, three long-range fighters had been rolled out of their hangars and were being serviced.

"According to Sitree Command, they're being fueled and fitted by Marshal Burkenhamn's order," said the controller, "but Burkenhamn insists the order didn't originate in his office. Not that he can remember."

"The Shuhr could've had him authorize any number of things." Brennen cast a glance around the command center. "Sir, you'd better go to full alert."

"Gambrel Base is scrambling regular crews to fighters," Governor Danton assured him. "But how many ships did the Shuhr throw at Sun-ton?"

Brennen silently raised three fingers.

Danton touched his collar mike. As he called for a second-stage alert, Brennen sprinted back into the corridor.

Tel Tellai glared at a tri-D image. He couldn't believe this Codex propaganda! Firebird, dead by Burkenhamn's hand? And Caldwell, sheltering a woman who carried his child?

Ridiculous.

". . . as proof Caldwell's treachery started months ago," the Codex commentator intoned, "proving again that Netaia's former lieutenant governor has been a covert leader of the Federacy's attempt to enslave the Netaian systems. His Grace the Regent is in emergency session with the Electorate, considering a declaration of war. A further announcement is anticipated at any moment."

Another electoral meeting, called without him—illegal!

Tel strode across his study and poured a glass of mitana, an eden-fruit liqueur. Rogonin's loyal commentator had to be lying. Surely De-vair Burkenhamn hadn't killed Firebird, not after all she had survived at the Hall of Charity.

He sent a servitor to bring his remote CT link, then tried to ring the base. Again he was told Firebird could not be reached.

So he paced his portrait-lined library. Caldwell never would have been unfaithful, any more than Firebird could have been. Yet the unknowing Netaian would react with savage insistence that the Angelo dynasty had been cuckolded.

Another face appeared over the projector, again no spokesman, but Lee Danton himself. Sipping the perfumy liqueur, Tel stalked back to his media block. According to Danton, Rogonin's announcement was proof of the regent's treachery, not Caldwell's. Firebird was not dead, he insisted. Burkenhamn had been sent to the Federate base, ordered by Rogonin's mercenaries—there was some confusion on that point— to murder Firebird. The offworld woman had been impregnated against her will with cells cultured from an unidentified donor's skin, using a well-known
in vitro
technique. She had been granted asylum.

Had Shuhr agents told Rogonin's office that the unwilling "donor" was Caldwell? It was possible. He'd been their prisoner.

My fault.
Tel passed a hand over his eyes.
And Phoena's.

Additional imagery followed. It appeared to have been recorded inside a military base, and the image bounced as if it had been made with some kind of hidden equipment. Even now, certain panels were obviously blurred for transmission. There was Burkenhamn, pressing toward Firebird. She looked considerably less pale than Tel might have expected. A garbled shout from behind the pickup brought in guards. Sentinel Mattason made a spectacular flying intercept. Two Federates seized the huge marshal. Imagery shifted to show a tall, black-haired woman with a strikingly sharp chin leaving the room under guard. "Bravo!" shouted Tel.

"Lady Firebird took no further injury and is resting comfortably. We return you to scheduled programming," said an unprofessional voice, some tech maybe, at the Codex studio.

Tel shoved his liqueur aside, rang for cruinn and sank onto his most comfortable lounger, pondering his next move in an increasingly dangerous field game.

His footman broke into his thoughts. "Prince Tel, the Countess Es-merield and Duke of Kenhing are here."

Tel sprang to his feet.

The slender dark blond woman swept past his servitor, wearing thrown-on clothing. Her hair and face were lovely for not having been coifed or shaded. "Dismiss your servitor," she ordered, panting. Kenhing followed several paces behind her. Immaculately dressed in dark green, he looked startlingly like his brother Daithi. It had to be his hair, waving slightly out of control, that emphasized the resemblance.

Kenhing had seemed mildly sympathetic to Firebird's cause, back in the electoral chamber. Still, he wore his dagger. Tel clasped a little blazer deep in his pocket. He nodded over Esme's shoulder at his footman, who stalked out. Tel's hidden security staff could defend him against this pair, although if Esme had come from the palace, Shuhr "mercenaries" might have tampered with her, just as they had obviously brainset Burkenhamn. "What is it?" he asked, willing her to be sincere. "Kenhing, I thought you were in an emergency meeting."

"It ended half an hour ago."

Esme glanced around his library, at the volumes his fathers had collected and the portraits he'd purchased and painted. "Prince Tel, something is wrong with Father. He isn't acting at all like himself."

"We have also been assured," the duke said stiffly, "that Citangelo Base is about to be destroyed by our new so-called allies. Allies the Electorate did not call to Netaia, nor were we consulted about allying ourselves with them."

"Allies that Governor Danton just accused of setting Marshal Burkenhamn against Lady Firebird?" Tel demanded, clenching his pocketed blazer. "Allies who destroyed a city on Thyrica?"

Kenhing frowned. "We're in danger, Tellai."

Tel stepped closer. "Why did you come to me?"

"My staff tells me you recently raised a security force—"

"And you're Lady Firebird's friend," Esme interrupted.

"You want me to rescue your father." Tel stared down the countess, loathing the idea.

One heartbeat later, he guessed this was exactly how Caldwell had felt, four months ago when Tel asked him to rescue Phoena. The realization wrenched his gut.

Esme tilted her chin. The redness in her eyes brought out their green fire. "I know Father treated you shabbily. Please help us anyway. They'll destroy Citangelo, and he won't listen to reason."

Kenhing raised one hand as if in entreaty, but he seemed reluctant to lift it too far. "Tellai, I never would tell you this, except that I need you to trust me ..." Trailing off, he glanced at Esme.

She straightened her shoulders. "I can be trusted with secrets, too, Kenhing."

The duke tucked his thumbs into his belt. "You will recall that my wastling brother Alef vanished some years ago. Lady Firebird was suspected of involvement."

Tel raised his head. "And?"

"She
was
involved, Tellai. I overheard a conversation. This is the first time I have ever mentioned it. I never incriminated her, nor Lord Bowman, when the incident was investigated. There are times to look the other way and times when we must act. Tonight, we have no choice." Straightening his tunic, he added, "Esme says there is talk of leveling your estate."

Tel whirled toward the countess. "Who said this?"

"Father's mercenary." Esme glanced from Tel to Kenhing. "Moda Shirak, or whatever his name is. The man with the cruel eyes. You're right, Kenhing. If Alef is alive somewhere, I don't care. In fact, I'm glad."

Esme had seen Micahel's infamous father? Tel wondered what kind of fears she'd been living under, with Shuhr haunting the palace.

Save Rogonin?

Save Phoena?
Brennen hadn't scorned him but had gone to Three Zed. If Brennen could go to that planet, Tel might dare step into an occupied palace.

He ran his fingers through his hair. If the Shuhr threatened his own estate, he must not risk his servitors making multiple trips into the countryside, trying to save possessions.

But he must alert Danton. He'd seen what the Shuhr did to Sunton.

"Thank you," he told them both. "We won't have much time."

Her cheeks flushed. "Do you think you can do anything?"

"I will try." He motioned Kenhing and Esme to a lounger.

He rang for Paudan, gave a few orders, then paused to think. Firebird had finally admitted that Sentinels had infiltrated palace staff. Had they all left the grounds when she and Caldwell moved out?

Yes. If Shuhr were there now, all Sentinels had left. Maybe he could enlist a few of them at the Federate base. He could disguise them in Tellai livery.

He called the base again. "This is Tellai," he told the man who answered. "I need to speak with any one of the Sentinels. This is a Shuhr-related emergency."

Terza sat in a close, bare cell with the familiar dull scent of recycled air, watched by two keen-eyed Sentinels. Grim thoughts taunted her.
You thought he would value you. Already you've been ignored. They don't want you at all. He doesn't want your daughter, either. Traitor. Useless traitor. Do away with yourself, quickly.

At least they'd let her change out of that uncomfortable palace uniform.

The door opened. Her guards saluted someone in the hall.

Caldwell stepped inside, followed closely by the Sentinel she'd identified as his bodyguard. "I apologize that we haven't been able to speak with you sooner, Terza," he said. "We're going to move you. Since you believe you might be watch-linked, we're going to ask you to wear a sensory hood set to an entertainment display. You could help us by concentrating on it."

There was a presence to that man, an empathy, that was utterly different from anyone she'd ever known. She would've expected a former captive to be angrier, more vengeful.

A third Sentinel steered a mobility chair into the room. On its seat was a hood like ones she'd seen used for personal recreation. It had an eyepiece, earphones, and sensory pads on both sides of the nose.

She helped them adjust it for comfort, then took a seat on the mobility chair. When they switched on the hood, the eyepiece went opaque. Instead of her bare holding cell, she saw the view from an open-air mountaintop, a jagged horizon that seemed to stretch on forever. Pale blue sky darkened to azure overhead, and there was a scent of woodsmoke and . . . was that intoxicatingly sweet odor wildflowers?

"We just lost your sister," said a voice in Micahel Shirak's flight helmet.

"What do you mean, lost her?" he demanded, dancing on his rudder panels.
Just a little closer, Federate...

He had penetrated Sitree Base with six of his father's voice-commanded lackeys. Only two had fighter experience. He sent the other four, loaded with incendiaries, into the other hangars. Four black smoke plumes rose behind him.

Evidently Sitree Base already had two fighters out on patrol. One was hot on his tail.

"Watch-link's still functioning," said his father's voice. "But they put a sensory hood on her. She's cooperating with them."

"Can she? Really?" Micahel sneered.

Modabah probably was in the new observation post under the palace's central public zone. "We've been trying to trigger suicide. So far, she's resisting. I'm not sure how. As long as we have her in link range, we can keep trying. But the sensory hood could mean they're taking her shipboard. If so, they could be headed—"

"To Three Zed," Micahel interrupted, firewalling his throttle as his left wingmate blasted the second pursuer. Caldwell, taking off with Terza, couldn't beat Modabah's messenger to Three Zed, not even if he launched quickly. . . but he might give Micahel a close race.

He wouldn't leave Netaia's atmosphere at all if Micahel got to Citangelo in time.

He vectored east, followed by his wingmates. They had taken off in three armored HF-class fighters, fully fueled and warhead-loaded. That weighted them for the deepest possible penetration at Citangelo.

"I'm turning you loose," said his father's voice. "We'll have to break a second-rate captive to get that RIA information. Crater Citangelo Base. Kill them both . . . what?"

The helmet voice became an unintelligible buzz. Micahel cruised east, accelerating over the midland corridor's irrigation grid, leaving a roiling wake of turbulence in thin clouds.

Modabah's voice came back. "Lift-off," he exclaimed. "One armored transport and four fighter escorts just cleared Citangelo. Cancel the base attack. Engage that transport. You're authorized to destroy, Micahel. I wash my hands."

Micahel shifted his hand on the Netaian fighter's control stick, arming a missile. From this range, his beyond-visuals couldn't pick up Cald-well's launch plume—but no transport could outrun heavy fighters. Not far.

The winter sun dropped in the southwest as the Angelo footman Tel knew as Paskel opened a side gate of the palace grounds. "I don't think the Shuhr have been here long enough to find all entry points," he murmured, "and we put down remote surveillance, but that might not last."

"Only gardeners use this gate," Tel said, waving Esme, Kenhing, and a column of liveried men and women through the vine-draped arch. Five Sentinels had appeared at his estate twelve minutes after he called the base. He reinforced them with ten armed Netaians. "We expected to need Esme's personal codes to open this."

One Sentinel, Thurl Hoston, had warned him: Either they would surprise the Shuhr agents, in which case this would seem all too easy or they would be taken captive and subjected to terrible violations. Tel had given all his new guards the option of backing down. Two did.

As Tel walked, he glanced up at the private wing's dark windows. So Firebird really had gotten Alef Drake offworld. He should've known! She had amazing courage.

The next time he was at Hesed, he would ask her permission to tell Alef's brother Daithi, Carradee's husband, what she had done.

Paskel shook his head, huffing as he kept up. His tight curls looked limp and sweaty. "The sensors on this side of the main building should remain down for six more minutes," he said. He pumped his arms as if jogging. "Palace staff is in turmoil. We're accustomed to taking orders from nobility, but something plainly has happened to the regent. The countess"—he nodded respectfully toward Esme—"left a message with her personal girl, which I intercepted. We lacked a leader, Prince Tel. Thank you for coming."

Tel glanced aside at Kenhing, who walked with his chief guard, Pau-dan. Kenhing might have sheltered Firebird's old offense, but obviously, he didn't dare to take responsibility this afternoon.

The footman, Paskel, halted the group at the edge of the grove of drooping evergreens. Tel checked the time lights at his wrist. They had four minutes to get inside.

Paskel strode up the lawn, up the colonnade steps, and spoke to a sentry. The crimson-liveried House Guard, sworn to defend the Angelo family, marched with Paskel to one of the huge white columns. He vanished behind it, and did not reappear.

Evidently the invaders hadn't yet taken time to mind-bend palace servitors. No wonder Paskel and the others had rallied around Esme. The sentry probably had agreed to turn his back.

Sure enough, Paskel peered around the column and flicked his fingers.

The group sprinted almost to the colonnade, then slipped in through a small side door. Paskel led down granite stairs into a corridor. "We need your Sentinels now," he murmured. "Stay on this side of the first door. That's the next surveillance zone."

Tel waved the Thyrians forward. Paskel was right—within a room's width or so, the Shuhr could detect other minds. Only the five Sentinels could shield their approach from the invaders and hope to surprise them.

Almost indistinguishable from Tel's own employees, all wearing black and indigo now, the other Sentinels crowded around Sentinel Hoston. "The intruders set up an observation post," Paskel explained. "Behind the fourth door on the left there is a storeroom. Behind that is a long chamber, directly below the palace's communication office. They tapped in between levels."

"Any other way out?" Hoston asked.

"Yes." Paskel pantomimed a long, invisible swath in the air. "The inner chamber can also be accessed by way of a second storeroom behind it, which connects with the next corridor south."

"We'll split up." Hoston looked hard at Tel. "Send your people to the next corridor. Paskel, can you show them the right door?"

The big servitor nodded. To Tel's surprise, he slid a blazer out of his white cummerbund.

Sentinel Hoston eyed Kenhing and Esme. "If we don't make it through that second door into the chamber, be ready for a violent counterattack. Noncombatants should wait in the stairwell." He raised a blazer, then donned a breath mask. "We're going to use gas." His voice came muffled through the mask. "Stay well back until we signal."

Tel nodded, wanting to help storm the chamber but knowing that was as unrealistic as when he'd wanted to enter Three Zed with Firebird. He didn't have the strength—epsilon, physical, or emotional—to carry a fight to this enemy.

Paskel led the Netaians toward the second passway, then the Sentinels moved out. As they passed the first door, Tel pulled a deep breath.

Twenty meters down the corridor, the Sentinels filed through a door on the left and out of sight.

Something touched Tel's hand. He looked into Esme's wide green eyes and turned his hand to grip hers. "Countess, you should be in the stairwell. We both should. Those people are professionals."

As they backed into shelter, she didn't pull her hand away. "Do you think they can—"

He heard three blazer shots, then scuffling noises. Finally, a
whump.
Full of dread, he tugged her back several more paces. The Sentinels would've warned them if that gas might spread, wouldn't they? Some chemicals broke down or dissipated quickly—

He peered out. One Sentinel reappeared at the door, slightly disheveled, her mask in one hand. She beckoned.

Tel led Esme and Kenhing through the uniform storeroom into a long, narrow chamber haphazardly crowded with subtronic gear, including three live observation screens and several unreadable consoles. The woman who'd waved them inside busied herself assisting another, who bent over someone leaning against the wall. It was Hoston, the senior Sentinel.

Paskel peered in from the south storeroom. "I can call for a staff med." He raised one hand. Tel spotted an interlink curled between his plump fingers.

Tel started to say, "Yes—"

"No." Hoston coughed, then explained, "There were only two of them down here. There must be more uplevel. Don't attract attention. We have biotape and topicals. It's . . ." He winced as his partner applied something to his chest, maybe a painkiller. "Just burned skin," he managed.

Esme backed out of the chamber, looking pale. "Stay with her," Tel murmured to one of his own men. "Don't let her tip them off."

The security guard nodded and followed her out.

"Look." An older Sentinel pointed. "That console was made by a Carolinian manufacturer." He moved his hand. "This display is from Inisi. That sensor array is Bishdan."

"Stolen," another Sentinel explained to Tel and Paskel. "Those are all Federate worlds that supply Regional command, Tallis."

Kenhing squeezed in alongside Tel. "Is that proof?" he demanded. "Proof of collaboration, admissible in electoral court?"

"Maybe not, but this certainly is." The Sentinel raised one of several recall pads. Tel squinted at the display. He couldn't read a word.

"Ehretan," the Sentinel explained. "That is our holy tongue of worship. Evidently
they
use it as their primary language. We have common ancestors. And that," he said slowly, "constitutes proof. So do these epsilon-fielded devices." He gestured toward the door. "If we hadn't caught this pair unaware, they would have sealed the room, and none of us could have gotten in."

Too easy,
Tel heard in his mind. It had been their only chance of success.

Kenhing turned aside. "Wait," he exclaimed. He picked up another recall pad and passed it along. "How many of these did they leave lying around?"

Sentinel Hoston drew out a cloth square, took the recall pad inside it, and thumbed it on. His fingers tightened on its edges. "This is even better. These are orders to someone who accompanied Burkenhamn to the base." He read phrases that put ice water in Tel's veins. " 'Burkenhamn will be quick—a simple strangulation, a blow to the head—break her neck . . . but it must be his doing, not yours. Do not interfere. . . .' " The Sentinel trailed off. "This is next: 'Micahel is prepping two crewmen for the clean-up mission. Don't worry—we'll be far out on the plains in less than three hours—' "

"I've called Citangelo authorities and suggested evacuation," Tel interrupted.

The Sentinel glanced up at him. "Well done. I'll call this in, too. But here is the incrimination. 'Rogonin is cooperating fully' " As Hos-ton's glance traveled down the screen, other Sentinels wheeled around and stared down at him. Tel wondered what Hoston had found. Something had brought up such a strong emotional reaction that he couldn't hide it, despite that infamous Sentinel emotional control.

Hoston pocketed the recall pad, though, so Tel refrained from asking further questions. Another Sentinel steadied Hoston on his feet.

"Will we recognize the Shuhr who are here?" Tel asked. "We mustn't harm innocent bystanders."

Paskel slid several thin tiles, printed with images, from inside his cutaway coat. "We've been using a camera recorder when we can. Several of our guests seem to constitute a core group. This appears to be the woman who defected." He laid a tile on the nearest console.

Tel had never appreciated servitors' cleverness or ubiquity quite as much as he did today. The dark-haired woman on the tile did look familiar from newsnet broadcasts.

So did the next image. It was the man she had killed on base.

The third image made his hands clench. "That's Shirak," he exclaimed softly. "Micahel Shirak, the assassin. I last saw him in gold." He passed the image to Hoston.

"Just so," said Paskel. "But he seems to answer to this one." He laid down the final image. The man resembled Micahel, somewhat older, with the same cleft chin and dark hair. "They call him Modabah, or Eldest. According to my sentry, he was down here for a little while, but he didn't stay long. He's with Rogonin in the main level private dining room." The big Netaian glanced up and north.

Moda,
Esme had called him.
The man with the cruel eyes.

Again the Sentinels exchanged glances.

Kenhing squared his shoulders, laying one hand on his dagger. "With this chamber secured, we should be able to get up there. Paskel, is the entire staff with you?"

"No." Paskel adjusted his cummerbund. "There are a few who can't imagine disloyalty in His Grace."

"Look," exclaimed one of Tel's own.