Free Crown Of Fire by Kathy Tyers

enemy. . . her prey. She almost pitied him. Like Caldwell, her destiny had been determined before she was born. Her life had been choreographed by others, and now even her body wasn't her own—or her mind! What had her father just done to her, there in his stateroom? She knew enough about memory blocks to know one had been placed. She dug as deeply as she could manage, wishing she could escape this predicament.
    A new thought brought her head up. What if the disquieting new theory was true? RIA technology was disturbing enough, but another rumor had surfaced just before they left Three Zed. It was suggested that Caldwell had developed some terrifying new epsilon skill, something that killed Testing Director Dru Polar. Now it wasn't just justice that required them to take him down. There was also fear—
    But that rumor couldn't be true, to her way of thinking. Caldwell had already been epsilon-crippled by the time Director Polar died . . . and besides, it was dangerous to harbor seditious thoughts and fears. Her father might send quest-pulses up and down the corridors, checking the thought life of others on board.
    But would Caldwell help her escape? The idea would not go away. What if somehow she could shield her fetus from her supervisor's inevitable experimentation, even deliver it offworld? Give it—give her—a life in some other place, where she might grow up happy and unafraid . . .
    Her? That disgusting fifty-day tissue blob had become female in her mind?
    Stop! she commanded herself, panicking. Don't even think such things!
     
    The Shiraks' landing shuttle set down in a rural area not far from Netaia's capital, three hours after local midnight. Within two more hours, Micahel Shirak stalked into Ard Talumah's topside apartment and took a good look around.
    Netaians did not live underground. Outside Talumah's windows, stars glimmered, distorted by a blanket of air. It wasn't as thick or as moist as Thyrica's, but it still looked eerie to Micahel's senses. Inside, poorly cured duracrete was daubed with orange paint. The apartment smelled musty and was furnished with cheap sling chairs.
    At least it was half a klick away from the elegant midtown flat where a dozen of his father's lackeys were unpacking. As soon as they arrived, one of Modabah's crewmen called Talumah to get a preliminary report, since he'd been living on-site. Couched in his answer was the offer of a spare room, and after eleven days in close quarters with his father, who was constantly dithering about his half-made plans—and too close to that pitiful, pregnant half sister—Micahel jumped at the offer, even though he barely knew Ard Talumah.
    Micahel's late trainer had called Micahel a renegade, with unpredictable tactics that made him almost a liability. Maybe he shouldn't cultivate Ard Talumah, but he didn't care shef'th about the long-standing ill will between his and Talumah's families. Talumah's deep mind-work specialty put him outside the Shiraks' chain of command. That made them more or less equals.
    As for this survey mission, those ludicrous options, and the shifts in policy from his grandfather's regime to his father's, Micahel only cared that he would see Brennen Caldwell stripped of any RIA intelligence he still remembered, or had relearned, and then lulled in a creative manner. He prided himself on artistry.
    He glared at an electronic ceiling grid. "What's that?"
    Ard Talumah waved a hand, dismissing his concern. "It's taken care of." He pointed at a subtronic device that sat on a scarred table. "Local enforcement looks in now and then. This shows what they want to see." To Micahel's surprise, he used the Federate trade speech, Old Colonial.
    "They spy on their citizens?" Talumah was probably right to use Colonial, in case someone might be listening. The rich, ancient tongue of Ehret could give them away.
    Talumah nodded. "Here in Citangelo, they do. They can only check one in ten thousand, but the risk is enough to keep some people in