City on Fire

ELEVEN

The command center is alive with tension, as if there were an invisible thread of burning plasm connecting everyone in the room. Constantine stands before the map wearing one of the golden-and-ceramic headsets, but when he sees Aiah enter he speaks a few words into the mouthpiece, then strips off the headset and moves—swiftly, with that incredible certitude of movement—to fold her in his arms. Weariness falls on Aiah at that instant, and for a moment her knees threaten to give way.

Constantine absorbs the extra weight, and then she feels him stiffen with tension. The bristle on his chin scratches her cheek—he hasn’t shaved. “There’s blood on you,” he says. “Are you hurt?”

“No. We ran into police. One of my people was killed.” She swallows. “He was a hero. Davath.”

“Are you hurt at all?”

“Not really, no. Some scrapes.” And, of course, the knowledge that one of her people was gunned down while she did nothing but watch.

“Thank you for sending Arroy to get me out,” Aiah says. “I don’t know what became of Ethemark.”

Constantine flakes dried blood from her chin. “It wasn’t Ethemark’s fault,” he says. “We had to cut off plasm to all mages who weren’t actually fighting, and in our haste we didn’t realize that it would leave you vulnerable. The battle over Xurcal started before we were ready, there was already a fight going on over the aerodrome, and we were exhausting our plasm supplies. All nonessential plasm use had to be cut.” Constantine’s fingers idly stroke her hair, and Aiah wants to melt into him, fuse with his comforting warmth…

“Sir.” An aide. “Hilthi on the line for you.”

“The war will not wait,” Constantine says. He kisses her forehead. “Get a shower, some rest—there are showers in the room adjacent, and cots in the shelters.”

Aiah is sufficiently exhausted that she finds herself in her own apartment, in her own shower, before she realizes that she has put herself in danger in the event the building is shelled or rocketed again. The realization drifts through her mind like a cloud, light and without effect. She is too tired to care, and, wrapped in a towel, collapses onto her bed and is asleep the instant she closes her eyes.

Some hours later she comes screaming awake, every nerve jangling, certain there has been shooting or an explosion. Her eyes gaze into the darkened room in search of an enemy while her heart hammers in her throat. And then the communications array chirps again, and she realizes that it’s only the phone. She picks up the headset with shaking hands, and it takes a long time to settle the earpieces over her ears.

“Aiah?” It’s her grandmother’s voice.

“Nana?” The voice from her past is disorienting: for a moment she thinks she’s back in Jaspeer.

Old Galaiah’s voice is stern. “We’ve all left messages! We’re frightened to death!”

“I’m sorry,” Aiah says. She brushes tangled curls from her eyes and tries to remember if she saw the message light when she returned to her apartment. “I’ve been… out in the fighting. But I’m back, and I’m safe.”

“When you hear the all-clear,” Galaiah says, “I want you to go out and get food. Get it now, before there’s rationing, ne? Bulk food—rice is good, or dried noodles, because vat curd will spoil and you can’t trust that the refrigeration will stay on. Otherwise flour, any kind. Condensed or powdered milk—goat’s milk is best. And canned vegetables and fruit—don’t eat the fruit, you can trade it for other stuff later, because it willbecome very valuable. People will pay anything for the taste of a peach, you’d be surprised… Hey, are you listening?”

“Yes, Nana.” Overwhelmed by all the detail.

“Just rice, with a little extra protein from eggs or meat, will last you a month. You can live for months that way if you have to, ne?”

Galaiah’s instructions go on, explicit and detailed, and Aiah listens, first in confusion and then in growing understanding, because she remembers Galaiah has gone through this before, years of war, when the Metropolis of Barkazi was broken.

Her grandmother, Aiah realizes, is passing on useful skills. It’s what she’s always done.

“Nana,” she says. “This fighting won’t go on long. It’s not a war, it’s a coup, and—”

“That’s what we thought.”

The retort brings Aiah up short. “Yes, Nana,” she says.

Her handwriting is out of control—it’s like the Adrenaline Monster has her by the wrist—but she writes it all down anyway on the pad she keeps by her bed, then thanks the old lady and asks her to call everyone else in the family and tell them she’s all right.

“You do what I tell you,” Galaiah says.

“Yes, Nana.”

“Do you know about this hermit? He’s been saying things about you.”

“Nana, I have to go. I’ll call you when it’s over.”

“You do what I say!”

“Tell everyone I love them. Good-bye.”

Aiah presses the disconnect button and puts the headset on its hook. Waves of adrenaline keep shuddering through her. She listens carefully, but can detect no sound of fighting, no aircraft, no shells falling, no rockets.

Her brief rest has only made her aware of how tired she truly is. She brushes hair back from her face and depolarizes the windows, wincing away from bright Shieldlight. The low clouds have broken up to let pillars of light shine down—it’s like the gods are using searchlights—and one such light-pillar causes raindrops on the window to glow like diamonds. A short distance away a black cloud releases rain on the city.

Then, in an instant, an image forms across the sky, a huge face scowling down on the city, and Aiah recognizes the image as Parq in his Mask of Awe, even though it is canted at an angle in the sky and is obviously aimed at nearby Government Harbor. Letters surround the face, and Aiah cranes her neck to read them.

The Supreme One has declared the rebellion to be treason against Heaven. For confirmation call any temple or 089-3857-5937.

Smart, Aiah thinks. Any soldier near a telephone can confirm that the message isn’t just propaganda. Parq was making it hard for any Dalavan soldier to continue fighting for the rebellion.

There was something to be said for panic after all.

Aiah rises and goes into her front room, reaches for the t-grip she’s left plugged into her plasm source, and triggers it.

Nothing. Domestic plasm use has been switched off.

She might be needed, she thinks.

She finds clean clothes and heads for the command center.

Uniformed staff mass quietly beneath the illuminated map, which now displays much more information: large areas of the city glow a friendly blue, and the angry pink areas held by the enemy are reduced to three—the aerodrome, Government Harbor, and Xurcal Station.

“The rebels are holding on there,” Ethemark says. “I don’t know why. All I know is what I’m overhearing.” His goggle eyes narrow. “The map is misleading as far as the aerodrome is concerned. I think we’ve recaptured it, mostly if not completely, but they haven’t changed the map.”

Ethemark still sits in the back of the command center, presumably because no one has thought to ask him to leave. He bends wearily over the long table in front of him, chin resting on his folded arms, a cold cup of coffee in front of him. Aiah finds a chair and coffee and sits next to him.

“There’s a morgue set up here now,” she says. “I’ve just come from it. Davath is there, and our two others that were killed in the rocket attack.”

“Ah.”

She rubs her face. Little jitters of adrenaline jump through her nerves, and contrast strangely with the bone-weariness trying to drag her into sleep. “Davath was a hero. He saved our lives. I’d like to contact his family.”

“He has a mother still alive, I know. Somewhere in a half-world. I’ll have to find out where.”

She looks around. Very little seems to be going on.

“Has Constantine asked us for anything?”

“No. We’re just—”

And at this point Constantine enters with Sorya. She is still in the smart uniform that looks as if it were pressed three minutes ago, and he is still in his cords and leather jacket. Even if Constantine hasn’t had time to rest or change his clothes, his body seems charged with power, and he moves like a monarch surveying his realm. Pleasure glows on Sorya’s delicate blonde features, and her cap is tilted at a confident angle. Suddenly, as if a switch has been turned, the room comes alive: the background hum of conversation grows louder; people begin to bustle on errands; others approach Constantine with news and queries. He listens to them, nods, makes brief replies, his lips turned up in a secretive half-smile.

The atmosphere in the room seems lighter. It’s as if everyone can sense the tide turning, that all the news from this point on will be good.

Constantine takes one of the ceramic-and-gold headsets, speaks briefly, and gives some orders. He speaks with Sorya and she leaves for Plasm Control, almost skipping. He puts the headset down, sees Aiah waiting in the back of the room, and moves to join her.

“I hope you are refreshed,” he says.

“A blast of plasm and I’ll be fine.”

He considers, head atilt. “In a few hours perhaps. We haven’t the plasm to spare at present.”

Weariness enfolds Aiah’s mind like a swaddling of soft foam. “I understand,” she says. She looks up at the map. “Things seem much the same.”

“On the contrary.” Constantine smiles and perches on the table. “We’re about to finish it, I think. You turned the tide at Xurcal Station.”

Aiah blinks at the map. “They’re still holding it.”

“Only because I permit it. It’s the anvil on which I am beating the Second Brigade.” He laughs, and the deep, familiar rumble lifts Aiah’s heart. “While you and your teams were isolating Xurcal, Geymard and I were prepositioning troops to storm the place. Radeen either observed our preparations or realized Xurcal was vulnerable, because he sent a detachment out to reinforce the station. So instead of attacking the station I sent Geymard’s soldiers against Radeen’s troops, caught them in marching order, and mauled ’em—vehicles burning on the bridges, soldiers killed or scattered, what was left went running back to Radeen, two motorized companies toasted to cinders, a morale-booster for the rest of the Second Brigade. That was the battle you heard over your heads.”

“It didn’t seem so one-sided from my perspective,” Aiah says.

Constantine looks at her, and there is a hint of sadness in his glowing eyes. He reaches out, strokes her cheek with the back of his hand. “It was hard fighting, yes,” he says. “I had to commit my own people premature, and it cost us. But afterward I realized I could use Xurcal as bait, and so I declined to take it, even though its plasm was exhausted and many of the police guarding it were deserting. I set Geymard’s people about the place in ambush, and sure enough Radeen took the bait. Sent a reinforced battalion to Xurcal, and we sprang the trap and wrecked Radeen’s whole force… A few we allowed to escape to Xurcal, so that their appeals for help may tempt Radeen to send another force to its doom, but he seems to have learned his lesson, too late for him…”

He turns to the map, gestures. “Meanwhile, the enthusiastic Captain Arviro has been assaulting the aerodrome with the entire Marine Brigade. A bit ponderously—no tactical elegance, and more casualties than I would have liked—but with great spirit. Radeen’s mercenaries were pushed out of the aerodrome buildings, but they withdrew to other buildings overlooking the runways, and now the two forces are glowering at each other, neither able to make use of the ’drome—and that is satisfaction enough, for the present. And so there we are—mercenaries and Marines stalemated at the aerodrome, Xurcal ours whenever we wish it, and Radeen still in Government Harbor with a battered force.”

“And plasm?”

“The plasm station at military headquarters still works for them. Xurcal is useless. We doubt that the morale of Radeen’s troops is high—we have reports of desertions. But they are getting plasm beamed to them from abroad—from Lanbola principally—and Radeen can keep his tanks topped up, alas.” He shrugs. “I have asked the diplomats to do what they can, but in the meantime I’m going to finish it.”

He points to the map. “Arviro will leave a force to hold the aerodrome,” he says, “but he is disengaging the balance of the Marines and sailing them to Government Harbor. Geymard is readying an assault from the direction of the Palace. And soon—” He holds his hands out, then claps them together. “Bang, we’ll hit Radeen from both sides at once, and that will finish it.”

Aiah looks up at him. “That simple?”

Constantine favors her with a cynical smile. “Nothing is that simple. Combat is, by its nature, volatile. We can’t tell what Radeen will do, whether he will surrender or try to fight. But what will happen in the end, yes, is a clap of the hands and an end to the rebellion, and Caraqui will wake from this episode as if from a bad dream, and blink and gaze at the world and wonder how it is that so many things have changed. Ah…” His head tilts up as he observes a newcomer, eyes focused over Aiah’s head.

Aiah turns to see Sorya approaching, walking with her confident, catlike stride. Her green eyes turn in Aiah’s direction, and she acknowledges Aiah’s presence with a close-lipped, superior smile. Then she turns to Constantine and—Aiah has never seen this before—salutes.

“My boss,” Sorya says, “the Minister of State Belckon, has lodged protests with the governments of Barchab and Lan-bola for supporting the rebels with plasm. Barchab professed ignorance, and has agreed to shut off the plasm supply at once and also to supply us with plasm on request, at their usual rates. The Lanboli situation is more complex—their president is a figurehead only, and their party chairman is visiting another metropolis, and the foreign minister is at a meeting of the Polar League… Mr. Belckon doesn’t seem able to find anyone to complain to, other than some clerks.”

Constantine considers this, his hooded eyes alight with calculation. “Lanbola is also where the rebels’ mercenaries diverted, once we closed our aerodrome.”

“And where their Provisional Government is broadcasting from,” Sorya adds.

Aiah looks up at Constantine in surprise. This is new to her, but she can tell from Constantine’s expression that he’s known this for some time.

“The absence of senior officials may not be coincidental,” Constantine says. “They may be delaying any response while waiting to see how Radeen fares.” He fingers his unshaven jaw and considers. “Please give my compliments to Minister Belckon,” Constantine says, “and suggest to him this: perhaps he should hint that if the government of Lanbola should choose to disarm these mercenaries who have so inconvenienced them by landing at their aerodrome, the arms would find a ready buyer in Caraqui—or perhaps the weapons could be added to Lanboli stocks instead. Either way, Lanbola will enrich itself at the expense of the rebels.”

Sorya laughs, and bobs Constantine a compliment with a little tug of her chin. “I will suggest it to Mr. Belckon,” she says. “In fact, I will suggest as much as I can, in hopes of keeping him sufficiently busy that he fails to realize that he is the senior minister here.”

Constantine lifts his eyebrows. “He is senior?”

“State is superior to Resources, yes. Technically he may place himself in command…” Her lip curls, and she gives a disdainful glance at the command center staff. “If anyone will obey his orders, that is.”

Constantine gives her a serious look. “I think we should avoid any suggestion that he make the experiment.”

Sorya’s green eyes glitter from beneath the shiny brim of her cap. “There is an easy way to prevent these little disputes.” She glances around the command center, at the people standing ready, waiting for orders, at soldiers bent over maps and pressing headsets to their ears. She leans close to Constantine’s ear. “You are in command here,” she says. “Declare yourself triumvir. Or better yet, Metropolitan. No one will stop you.”

“No.” Constantine’s response is instant, and Aiah’s heart gives a jump at its vehemence. His teeth flash in an angry snarl, and then he visibly exerts command over himself, and repeats himself more calmly, “No.” He adds, “I am a foreigner here. I would find no support among the population.”

Aiah looks at Constantine, and wonders if this is true.

“Pfah.” Sorya snaps her fingers to dispose of this argument. “Drumbeth held office because it was believed he controlled the army—but he was deluded, and now the army’s killed him. The loyal half of the army will tear itself to bits subduing the disloyal half. The police are in a state of insurrection—they cannot keep civil order. The only way anyone can hold Caraqui now is with mercenaries, both soldiers and military police; and if you are the soldiers’ paymaster, the metropolis is yours, and the people will sing your praises to the Shield for restoring order and beating down these little matchstick military men who would trample them.”

Constantine listens, but resentment still burns in his half-closed eyes. “No,” he says. “I will not.”

And then Sorya’s own anger flares—her spine stiffens as color flames in her face, and Aiah takes an involuntary step back at the savagery of her look, at the memory, all truces are temporary. But then Sorya swallows her fury as visibly as Constantine had swallowed his, and after a moment of thought she gives a shrug, and her tinkling laugh rings out.

“As you wish,” she says, “but you had best start thinking about Drumbeth’s replacement in the triumvirate, because if you believe Hilthi and Parq can hold this place together, you are as deluded in your thinking as Drumbeth and Radeen.” She laughs again, the sound a little shrill, and then draws herself up and salutes, fingertips touching the brim of her cap, and with a moment’s mocking smile strides away.

Aiah looks at Constantine, at the hidden calculations flickering through his face. She realizes she has been holding her breath, and lets it out.

What exactly just happened? What is going on? The words fly through her mind, and she wants to repeat them to Constantine, but an aide approaches, and she never has the chance to speak.

“Sir?” the aide says. “May I interrupt? We have reports of enemy movement at the aerodrome.”

Constantine’s reaction is immediate, but there remains an abstracted look in his glittering eyes that demonstrates his mind is elsewhere, still appraising this last moment with Sorya.

“Do we know their axis of movement?” he asks.

“Not yet. But they’re requisitioning transport and getting ready to move out.” There is a moment’s uncomfortable pause, and then the aide offers, “Our mages could harass them as they load up.”

Constantine’s head snaps suddenly toward the aide—clearly he has decided to dismiss Sorya from his mind and to deal with the current problem first. “Our plasm reserves aren’t sufficient,” he says. “Wait till they start to move—they’re more vulnerable on the march anyway. And if they wish to abandon the aerodrome, I am willing to hand each one of them a pneuma ticket personally, so long as they leave.” He smiles at his own joke.

“But where are they going?” he wonders. “Reinforcing Radeen at Government Harbor, perhaps. I will tell Arviro to shift his mobile forces to prevent it.” He turns to Aiah and gives a satisfied smile. “They are showing more initiative than I expected, but I think this will not change things to any great degree. If the mercenaries truly expose themselves in a move of this nature, our mages will tear them apart.” He puts a hand on Aiah’s shoulder. “I will speak to you later.”

“Good luck, Minister,” Aiah says.

He flashes a smile, then heads toward the table and his waiting aides.

“He is very confident,” Ethemark says. Aiah’s nerves give a little leap—she had forgotten the tiny man at her elbow.

She sits down. The scene between Sorya and Constantine replays itself through her mind. Declare yourself triumvir. Or better yet, Metropolitan. And Constantine declined.

“I think he was right,” Ethemark says, as if he were reading her mind. “If he took power now, he could keep it only with force.”

Aiah’s mouth is dry. “I think I’ll get some coffee,” she says.

Aiah gets her coffee and waits, watching the map, as Arviro slides part of the Marine Brigade into the gap between the aerodrome and Government Harbor and waits for Radeen’s mercenaries to walk into his trap. But there are sudden reports that Radeen’s Second Brigade is not waiting for reinforcements, but piling into their vehicles. Arviro now stands in danger of being caught between two enemy forces.

Constantine’s reaction is fast: he launches Geymard’s mercenaries straight at Government Harbor, hoping to pin the Second Brigade before they can move. Geymard’s men encounter only a rear guard, but it’s a rear guard that’s well fortified and takes some digging out. Mages burn plasm as they battle back and forth overhead. Columns of smoke stand above the Popular Assembly.

But the invading mercenaries, when they move, don’t head south toward Radeen, but instead race east; and Radeen doesn’t head toward the aerodrome, but northeast. Aiah tracks their course on the map, and sees the paths will eventually cross: Radeen should meet his mercenaries just south of Lorkhin Island. And beyond Lorkhin Island is the Metropolis of Lanbola, where Kerehorn waits with the rest of the Provisional Government. Perhaps they are giving up and retreating off the map entirely.

Constantine takes no chances: he hurls everything he’s got at Radeen’s group, reasoning that though the rebel mercenaries are better fighters, they are useless without Radeen’s political direction. The Marines and Geymard’s soldiers harry their retreat, and mages hurl thunderbolts at their heads. Radeen’s units have been hit hard already in the battle over Xurcal, and their retreat turns into a shambles—wrecked vehicles sending out columns of smoke, troops abandoning arms and vehicles and fleeing into the surrounding buildings, others surrendering the first chance they get.

Popular vengeance now turns the retreat to nightmare. The Caraquis, till now held in check by their fear of rebel arms, fly into a frenzy once they realize the rebels are trying to run. Their rage brought to a boil after listening to speeches by Parq or Hilthi, ordinary people try to build barricades against Radeen, fling brickbats, incendiaries, and filth from rooftops or open fire with weapons long hidden from the authorities. Aiah hears reports of trucks being attacked by mobs, of soldiers who try to surrender but who are instead torn to pieces, and their weapons then seized to use against their comrades.

Half an hour after the retreat begins, the Second Brigade dissolves under the assaults, and its leaders—Radeen, Gentri, and their officers—are only saved by their mercenaries, who send a detachment into the rout to pluck them from the talons of the mob.

There is a pause while Constantine gives out orders to shift the line of attack against the mercenaries, and then suddenly the communications arrays light as new reports come in. There is a hush in the room. “Confirmation!” someone shouts into a mouthpiece. “We need confirmation!”

“Assign a mage to it,” Constantine says, his voice a soft rumble audible only in the sudden hushed silence. There is a quality to his words that causes a shiver to run up Aiah’s spine.

People wait frozen in place, statues silvered by video light. Then the hushed words, “It’s confirmed.”

Aiah holds her breath. There is a clicking as gold-filigree control buttons are pushed, click click click.

Pink lights glow on the northeastern corner of the map, then advance toward the heart of the city. Click, click, click, whole districts falling to an unknown enemy. Three plasm stations, Aiah thinks; four. Undefended except by lightly armed military police.

“Ohh, heart of Senko,” Ethemark moans.

A final click and Lorkhin Island glows pink. Aiah thinks of the huge buildings there, sentinel towers looking down on the city, towers soon to be ringed with guns. An alien fortress.

“Tell Geymard and Arviro to cease their pursuit and regroup,” Constantine says. “We don’t want them running headlong into that before they’re ready. Mages are to cease action till we get more plasm.” He looks at Sorya. “Contact the Timocracy. I think we’re going to require two divisions at least, with support elements. And tell Barchab we will need their plasm as soon as possible.” He turns to another aide. “I need an estimate of how long it will take to repair the aerodrome. We will need to land heavy troop carriers there.”

He looks around the room, at the aides, soldiers, and technicians standing in stunned silence. “You have all done very well,” he says. “This—” He waves at the map. “This is the fault of no one here, but the result of treachery—” His voice booms on the word, and he shakes a fist at the map. “Treachery on the part of certain criminals in Lanbola, who will, with their friends, soon be brought to account.” There is a strange wild light in his eyes, something fierce and feral. “That,” he says, “I can guarantee.”

Taikoen, Aiah thinks. A memory of the blood-splashed walls of her apartment flashes before her eyes, and she tastes bile in her throat.

Suddenly Constantine is in motion, marching from the table toward Aiah in the back of the room, the crowd parting before him like the sea. His glance is fixed on the double doors behind Aiah, but he hesitates as he nears her, then steps toward her.

“Do you know how to get ahold of Rohder?” he asks.

Aiah looks at Constantine in surprise. Rohder hasn’t crossed her mind since the rebellion began.

“I know where his apartment is,” she says. “I don’t know whether he ever made it back there. The fighting blew up right around him, and he might be injured or in prison somewhere.”

“He was well last I saw him. Call his apartment. We’ll need every drop of plasm we can generate, and I want him back on the project. He can call on unlimited manpower and as much computer time as he needs.” “Yes, Minister.”

Constantine gives a frowning look at the door. “As for me, I must call Hilthi and Parq and summon them here. I cannot fill this political vacuum forever, for all that Sorya thinks I can.”

“Good luck.” She stands, makes the Sign of Karlo over his forehead. His look softens.

“Thank you,” he says, and makes his way out.

Aiah turns back to the room, the hushed people going about their work. Sorya stands by the big table, a pair of gold-and-ivory headphones worn over her peaked cap as she tries to reach someone in the Timocracy, and she glances at the map with a complacent look as she puts a cigaret in her mouth and flicks her platinum lighter. As the little flame brightens Aiah hears Sorya’s words again, Declare yourself triumvir. Or better yet, Metropolitan.

Aiah’s hand flies to her mouth in shock.

Declare yourself triumvir. That’s what this is about.

Aiah’s blood turns chill.

Sorya has arranged it all somehow. The countercoup is, in some sense, hers.

Probably she did not conspire with Radeen and Gentri and Great-Uncle Rathmen, no. But she had to have known at least some of their plans. She allowed their coup to take place, careful to preserve only those people she needed. She was able to save Constantine from assassination, but not Drumbeth. She and certain loyal people were on hand in the Palace in order to respond.

All truces are temporary. Sorya’s principal maxim.

How else could she advance, except in a world of chaos? Who needs a political intelligence department in a time of peace and relaxed tension? But in a time of madness and war, Sorya will become indispensable.

And when Constantine rises, Sorya will follow in his wake. Until, in the end, she no longer needs him, and then…

Sorya’s green eyes flicker across the room, and Aiah looks abruptly down at the floor so that Sorya won’t see the terrible knowledge behind her eyes…

What can she do? Aiah wonders. She bites her lip.

In the humming silence, no answer comes.