City on Fire

FIFTEEN

It is the Caraqui Medal of Merit, and Aiah, prominent in her civilian suit, stands amid a line of uniforms to receive it. Constantine, Minister of War, walks affably down the line, pinning medals on chests and chatting with the soldiers.

Aiah’s forehead prickles: the video lights are hot. Constantine’s plan to expand her fame is gathering speed.

Earlier Aiah’s apartment was invaded by a hairdresser, a manicurist, and a cosmetician. Their job is to make her exciting and glamorous for the video cameras. “The planes of your face aren’t going to show up on video,” the cosmetician tells her.

“I don’t have any planes in my face.” With irritation.

“You will when I’m done with you,” the cosmetician says; and now Aiah is to get a new face painted on at the commencement of every work shift. It’s an interesting face, Aiah has to admit, if not quite hers—the face of an experienced adventuress, ambitious and powerful, and not a young woman madly trying to keep up with her own schedule. It’s the face of someone Aiah wouldn’t mind becoming, if opportunity ever permits.

She also has to admit that she could probably learn to enjoy the pampering.

More video lights glare at her. Constantine arrives, pins the medal delicately to her lapel, and bends to kiss her cheek. “Congratulations,” he says.

She is receiving the medal for her actions at Fresh Water Bay and Xurcal stations on the day of the countercoup. At her insistence, Davath will postumously be given the same decoration.

Constantine hands her the satin-lined case with Davath’s medal. Its gold and enamel gleam in the lights of the video cameras.

“This decoration is postumously awarded to your colleague Davath, who died heroically in a skirmish near Xurcal Station on the day the Provisionals attacked,” Constantine says.

Aiah clears her throat and takes the decoration from Constantine’s hand. “He died to save me and the others in my party,” she says. “I will keep it in trust for his family.”

If she can ever find them, that is. Their half-world is in occupied Caraqui.

At least she didn’t flub her lines.

The cameras linger on her as Constantine passes to the next soldier. Aiah keeps her back straight and tries to think heroic thoughts.

All that comes to her mind is the hope that her family will never see this.

The Crystal Dome, joyless, deep in its armored shaft. Second shift. Constantine reports to the full cabinet. The dolphin Aranax is conspicuous on his couch, next to Randay, the hapless new Minister of Public Security, who is trying to build a new police force from the defeated, demoralized remnants of the old.

Aiah is not here to speak herself, a fact for which she is grateful. Rohder will be making a presentation, and Aiah, as his superior, is here to support him. With luck she won’t have to talk at all.

Constantine’s summary is almost entirely devoted to the war situation: he describes new mercenary units recruited, the amount paid for each, the number of Caraqui recruits sent to the Timocracy for training—for they are trying to rebuild the Caraqui army, cheaper than mercenaries in the long run—and gives an estimate of enemy strength.

The figures, taken together, are staggering. When the Keremaths ruled Caraqui, they did so with a large, inefficient police force, a small but vicious secret police, and an army of under two divisions. Now, just to hold its ground, the new government controls dozens of divisions assembled into corps, and corps gathered into armies, and even the armies are joined to make two “grand armies,” each holding different parts of the front.

The original Keremath army would be lost in all of this.

Aiah finds the numbers fantastic. The finances are beyond imagining—so many tens of millions here, so many billions there. But apparently there is wealth to be found, because no one, not even the banker-president Faltheg, seems to think the sums incredible.

Constantine, in midspeech, raises his eyes to Sorya across the table. “My colleague Sorya has sent reports to the effect that the enemy has ceased to recruit new forces, even though their present strength is not sufficient to win the war for them. This may indicate that their financial benefactors have reached their limits. No doubt her report to us will go into greater detail on this matter.”

Sorya nods gravely. “Yes, Minister.”

Constantine looks over his shoulder at Aiah and Rohder, then turns back to the triumvirate. “I would like Mr. Rohder, who works for the Plasm Enforcement Division as head of the Technical Resources Department, to make a presentation concerning his new techniques for plasm generation.”

Rohder stubs out his cigaret with a doleful glance of blue-eyed longing at the ashtray, then stands to make his presentation. Like Constantine’s, it is brief and to the point: the altered positions of so many buildings, the massing so many gross tons, so much plasm generated in excess of expectations, worth so many dinars at current rates. The current rates for plasm are high—the war has almost tripled them—and Rohder’s profits are much more impressive than they would be in peacetime.

Hilthi, scribbling with his gold pen, raises a hand and waits to be recognized—the lifelong habits of the journalist are hard to break, even though he’s now one of those in charge of the meeting. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with your technical terms,” he says. “Could you define these ‘fractionate intervals,’ these ‘resonances’?”

Rohder—casting another longing glance at the ashtray—answers by analogy: the fractionate interval is like a radius, only smaller; the resonance effect is the result of mass placed at fractionate distances and multiples of fractionate distances, the result of which is a modest but definite increase in plasm generation, on the order of 10 percent.

Hilthi looks surprised. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of this technique,” he says.

Constantine explains how Rohder’s theory is new, but has been thoroughly tested and found sound. Hilthi’s eyes widen. “This is revolutionary!” he says. “We can increase plasm generation by how much?”

“Theory suggests as high as eighteen percent,” Rohder says, “but we have only rarely achieved twelve.”

“Why aren’t these techniques known?” Hilthi asks.

Constantine gives a catlike smile. “The history of Mr. Rohder’s theory is very complicated—suffice it to say that human society is constructed so as to resist new ideas, and I resisted it myself”—he turns and bows toward Aiah—“until Miss Aiah insisted I look at the matter more closely.”

Aiah feels blood rise to her cheeks, but she returns the nod with a professional smile. Constantine turns back to Hilthi and continues.

“May I point out that this increase in plasm is just going into the general plasm supply? I would like to establish a special fund for it—a kind of bank account for the extra plasm Mr. Rohder’s techniques create—to assure that for the present the plasm is used for the war effort, and afterward for tasks of vital national interest, particularly rebuilding.” He looks at the triumvirate, attempting with hooded eyes and masklike countenance to disguise his particular interest in this issue. “Shall we call it the Strategic Plasm Reserve? Shall I put it in the form of a motion?”

The motion passes, and Constantine sips at a glass of water to hide a smile of triumph. It has always been his concern that this new source of plasm would just be frittered away, as politicians so often manage to do with almost any public resource. It has always been his greater object to establish a huge fund of plasm under his direct control, to use it for purposes of transformation far beyond that which the triumvirate would ever think likely, or even desirable.

The war, Aiah thinks, is transforming things in profound ways. Before the emergency, the Strategic Plasm Reserve would have been the subject of prolonged debate. Now it is passed without comment.

Other ministers make presentations. Sorya gives an intelligence briefing concerning the Provisionals’ sources of finance. President Faltheg, who in addition to being triumvir is still Minister for Economic Development, dons his spectacles to report on changes in the tax code made necessary by the war—the simplifying, the closing of loopholes and exemptions—and the amounts these measures are expected to raise.

“How long can the war go on?” Hilthi asks.

Faltheg removes his spectacles so that he can better view his colleagues. “At current spending rates, for at least three or four years before we run into trouble. Caraqui’s economy is not a complex or sophisticated one—there is no single industry that is vital, no particular crucial technology. Despite bruising, despite a fifth of our metropolis either under occupation or uninhabitable, our economic infrastructure is still intact.”

“I have found,” Constantine adds, “that war economies are remarkably resilient, all things considered.”

The others—excepting Sorya—look thoughtful, uncertain whether to consider this good news or not.

The report by the unfortunate Randay, new head of the police, is little but a sad litany of endless trouble; the others, understanding, look at him with sympathy.

Hilthi frowns at his notes and without thought puts his gold pen behind one ear. “This is of particular concern,” he says. “We desperately need qualified law enforcement in Caraqui. I agreed reluctantly to the proscription lists only on the understanding that they were accurate and contained the names only of hardened criminals, and now I receive reports that this was not the case, that a percentage of those named had no criminal records whatever.

“The Dalavan Militia are a constant presence in our streets, and their reputation is deteriorating—every day I receive protests concerning their brutality, the arbitrary nature of their actions, reports of the Militia extorting funds from businesses, or walking into stores and helping themselves to expensive presents, acting like common gangsters…”

Parq strokes his silky beard and speaks in his deep, reassuring voice. “Teething pains,” he says. “Our priests are making every effort to weed out the bad elements, and we are growing more professional by the day.”

“The Militia was never meant to be more than a temporary expedient,” says Hilthi. “But now it seems as if it will continue its activities indefinitely.”

“We have heard the Minister of Public Safety,” Parq says. “Our police are in chaos. Imported military police are expensive. Yet it is our duty to keep order. Who can do it but the Militia?”

Hilthi’s eyes look down the table for support and alight on Aiah. Panic throbs in her heart at his question. “Miss Aiah,” he says, “can’t your PED do something in this situation? You have a remarkable record of success.”

Aiah bites down on her alarm. / already have enough impossible jobs, she thinks. “We were created to handle plasm thefts only,” she says, “and that’s what we’re set up to do.”

“But we are in a position to alter your mission,” Hilthi says.

“We can’t police the entire metropolis,” Aiah says. “We’re not big enough. We’d have to start from scratch—we’d be in a worse position than Mr. Randay.”

“Besides,” Constantine adds, “there is the expense. The Dalavan Militia are all volunteers, and serve at no cost to the state. Were we to add a force the size of the Militia to the public payroll in addition to the large and expensive force of mercenary soldiers for which the Treasury is now responsible…”

“Impossible,” says Faltheg the banker, “Besides, the police already have a budget.”

“I concur,” said Constantine.

Hilthi sighs, throws up his hands. “I want these abuses to cease,” he says.

Aiah, relief flooding her at this escape, finds herself looking at Constantine, whose head is turned toward the triumvirs at the head of the table. There is a smile of cold satisfaction on Constantine’s face, and Aiah wonders why it should be there, what there has been in this matter of the Militia that has pleased him.

She doesn’t get a chance to ask, and by the time the meeting is over, she has forgotten to.

VOTE LIBERAL COALITION—FOR DEMOCRACY AND FREEDOM!

After the meeting Aiah takes a bite of lunch, then returns to her office—and there, as she turns into her receptionist’s office, is the feeling again: a lift of the heart, a surge of warmth through the soul. Another visitor from home waits in Aiah’s reception area, a blaze of scarlet and gold among soberly dressed job-seekers. Aiah drops her briefcase and folds the short, sturdy woman in her arms.

“How are you?” she says. “How is everyone?”

Khorsa busses her on both cheeks. “Very well. Esmon and I are going to be married next month.” Esmon is one of Aiah’s many cousins.

“Congratulations! I know you’ll be happy.”

Aiah looks at the hopefuls waiting for their interviews, all of whom are trying not to look curious, a difficult act because they’ve probably never seen a Barkazil witch before. Khorsa’s long dress is alive with color, and she wears a red turban decorated with gemstones set among geomantic foci.

The hopefuls, Aiah thinks, will just have to wait a little longer for their interviews, and she tells her receptionist to hold all her appointments. Then she fetches her briefcase and shows Khorsa into her office.

“You’re the second Barkazil face I’ve seen this week,” Aiah says as she drops into her office chair.

“Well,” Khorsa says, a dubious look in her eye, “I may not be the last.”

“Are more of the family coming to look for work? I need people with specific skills, you know, and I don’t think many of the family would qualify.”

“More than that,” Khorsa says. “I’m afraid, well, it’s a religious thing.”

“Oh?”

Khorsa should know religion if anyone does: she and her sister run the Wisdom Fortune Temple back in Aiah’s old neighborhood of Old Shorings. The temple is a place where people come for small magics in hopes of healing the sadness and misfortunes that come with being human, and Barkazil, and Jaspeeri, and living in a place like Old Shorings. Khorsa deals with plasm; her sister Dhival goes into trances and talks to spirits.

Aiah had helped them out once, when Esmon was beaten by Operation thugs because Khorsa wouldn’t buy their bootleg plasm. Aiah had used twice-stolen plasm to deal with the situation—stolen once from the Jaspeeri authorities, and then again from Constantine—and she’d been terrified every instant.

“What sort of religious thing?” Aiah asks. “Would you like some coffee?”

“No thanks. Do you remember Charduq the Hermit?” “Charduq? Of course.”

Charduq, the fixture of Aiah’s girlhood, still—last she knew—on his fluted pillar at the Barkazi Savings Institute. She had waved at him, she remembers, as she fled the city. He was one of the last sights of home.

“I suppose I should start by saying that you’ve become sort of famous back in Old Shorings,” Khorsa begins.

Aiah is startled. “How?”

“Lots of people know what happened. The police interviewed anyone who had anything to do with you, and you have a large family, and… well, they talked.”

Alarms clatter through Aiah’s mind. “What did they say?” she asks carefully.

“Well, nobody really knows anything,” Khorsa says, “so they just make things up.”

“That’s comforting!” The alarm is getting louder.

“But they know you had access to illicit plasm. They know you used plasm to help the temple out when the Operation was after us, and they know you were involved with Constantine’s activities. They know the police were interviewing a lot of people about you, and they know that you’re here in Caraqui now, in what seems to be a pretty influential position.” She gestures with her hands, taking in the Aerial Palace, the Owl Wing, the view through Aiah’s windows of the city below, the plasm tap visible on the wall, available whenever Aiah feels the need…

“So they figure you ran the most brilliant chonah of the century,” Khorsa says. “Stole a whole well of plasm from the Authority while you were working there, gave it to Constantine’s revolution, got yourself rewarded with a place here.”

“It wasn’t that simple,” Aiah says. And it presupposes that Aiah knew all along what she was doing, which she didn’t—in her memories of that period she is far from purposeful, but is filled instead with anxiety, indecision, adrenaline, and terror.

“I’m sure it wasn’t,” Khorsa says. “But it’s all meat to the Cunning People, you know that. It’s exactly the sort of story we all want to hear, how one of us fooled the cops, fooled the Authority, fooled the Operation, fooled everybody, and got away with it and lived happily ever after. And of course the story of how you fought the Operation on our behalf got all exaggerated, with scores of Operation men lying dead in the street, and they’re saying you won the revolution single-handed and that you’re Constantine’s lover…”

Khorsa’s brown eyes absorb Aiah’s change of expression in this last remark, and she nods, half to herself, and says, “Well, perhaps not every story is an exaggeration.”

Aiah feels a flush prickling her cheeks. “So I’m a hero in Old Shorings. What’s it got to do with Charduq?”

“Quite simply, he’s saying that you’re the deliverer. That you’re an incarnate immortal, or the immortals sent you, and your purpose is to liberate the Barkazil people, and give us our metropolis and our power back…”

“Great Senko!” Aiah sags stunned in her chair.

“And he’s saying it to everybody,” Khorsa says. “Most won’t believe him, or won’t pay attention, but there are those who will listen. You’re going to be seeing a lot of Barkazils in the next weeks.”

“Alfeg?” Aiah wonders. “Could Alfeg be one of the people who paid attention to what Charduq was saying?”

“Old Chavan’s son?” Khorsa thinks for a moment. “It’s a devout family. Chavan is a big supporter of the Kholos Temple and the old Holy Leaguers—wish I had him at my services.”

“But a rich family like that—even if they are devout, one of them wouldn’t listen to some smelly old street sage, would he?”

Khorsa hesitates. “I don’t know enough about Alfeg to be able to say. But in my experience, a person will listen to anybody, provided he has the message one wants to hear.”

Aiah stares for an endless moment at the wall above Khorsa’s head, and then the frustration in her heart boils over. “What am I to do with these people?” she demands. “Even with the expansions my department has less than a thousand people. Most of the jobs require specific skills. Any Barkazils throwing up their lives to come to Caraqui are likely to be the ones with nothing to lose… They’re just going to end up on the dole here, and the dole in Caraqui is far worse than the dole in Jaspeer.”

“Not everyone will be without skills,” Khorsa says. “Alfeg isn’t.” Her calm eyes hold steady on Aiah. “Neither am I,” she adds.

Aiah looks at her. “You’re here to apply for a job?” “Yes.”

“You have it if you want it. But what about the Wisdom Fortune Temple?”

“We have enough trained assistants to take my place, at least for a while.”

Despair wails in Aiah’s nerves. “You don’t believe Charduq, too, do you? I can assure you that I’m not an immortal.”

Khorsa considers this. “I don’t know if it’s necessary that you know,” she says.

Aiah turns away. “I don’t like this game,” she says.

“The Cunning People need something,” Khorsa says. “The heart went out of us when the Metropolis of Barkazi was destroyed. Even though that happened three generations ago, we still live like refugees. You’re a hero to our people—you can change things.”

“It’s a delusion,” Aiah says. “And when nothing comes of it, everyone’s going to be hurt.”

Khorsa looks at her fixedly. “Is what you—you and Constantine—is what you’re trying to accomplish in Caraqui delusional?”

“I hope not.” Aiah again turns away from the intent glimmer of expectation in Khorsa’s eyes. “If Caraqui fails, however, it won’t be my fault. But if every hope the Cunning People hold for me turns to ashes, whose fault will it be? Who will they blame?”

“Different questions,” Khorsa says, “with different answers.”

Aiah tastes bitterness on her tongue. “I somehow doubt they will hold Charduq responsible.”

Khorsa’s voice is soft. “They are coming. I cannot say how many. But they are coming, whether you want them or not.”

“Go back to Jaspeer. Tell Charduq to shut up.”

“He won’t.”

Aiah waves a hand. “Then tell him the time isn’t ripe! Tell him to wait!” She represses a snarl. “Damn it, if I’m an immortal, he ought to do what I tell him!”

A hint of a smile glimmers across Khorsa’s face. “I can tell him that, I think.”

She is half the world away from her large and troublesome family, Aiah thinks, and now they pursue her, larger and more troublesome than she ever imagined they could be.

She notices a new folder on her desk, and knows it contains the results of the security scans performed in the pre-break. She grabs the folder, opens it, pages savagely through it until she comes to Alfeg’s file.

Clean, she discovers; no police spy, no contacts with the government of Jaspeer. No one’s agent… save maybe, in some sense, Charduq’s.

Right, Aiah thinks. You’re a rich boy—it’s time to spend some of Daddy’s money.

“You’re hired,” Aiah says. “Congratulations.”

Alfeg looks at her with a questioning expression, eyebrows lifted. “You sound as if you resent the fact you’re hiring me,” he says.

“There are some services I wish you to perform,” Aiah continues, “in addition to those covered by the job.”

A frown crosses Alfeg’s bemused face. “I’m sorry? There are conditions to my getting the job?”

Aiah places her palms firmly atop Alfeg’s file on her desk. “Not officially,” she says.

“Ah.” He blinks at her for a moment, touches his chin-lace in a self-conscious way, then nods. “What do you wish me to do?”

“Do you know Charduq the Hermit?”

The knowing smile dances across Alfeg’s face, a smile that suggests he and Aiah share a secret.

“Yes,” he says. “I’m familiar with him.”

“He’s a lunatic,” Aiah says, and watches Alfeg’s self-satisfied little smile twitch away. “He’s telling stories about me that aren’t true, and he’s trying to persuade Barkazils to give up their lives and come to Caraqui.”

“Ah—he’s—,” Alfeg stumbles. Aiah holds out a hand.

“Let me finish, please,” Aiah says. “Since it seems I can’t stop him from talking, and since it would appear that some Barkazils, at least, are coming—and mostly those who have little to lose, I suspect—I want you to establish an organization for their reception. Help find them work, a place to live, that sort of thing.”

Alfeg takes a moment to process this. “Will I be receiving any funds for this project?” he asks.

“No,” Aiah says. “None but what you can raise yourself.”

“I—” He blinks.

“And you’ll have to do it in your spare time,” Aiah says, “because you’ll be starting here right away, and we’re all working shifts-and-a-half.”

Alfeg clears his throat. “Is this some kind of test?” he asks.

“No.”

He stares at Aiah, searching her expression for a clue which Aiah refuses to give. Then, after a long silence, he gives an uncomfortable tug to his collar and turns away. “I’ll do it,” he says.

“Thank you.” Briskly. She hands him a paper. “Your office will be Room 3224, which you’ll share with one or two others. You’ll be in Ethemark’s division—report to him tomorrow at 08:00, start of work shift, for orientation and assignment. Your badge will be waiting at the reception area, northwest gate.”

“Yes. Ah.” He licks his lips, stands. Aiah rises from behind her desk and shakes his hand.

“And if I hear from any indigent Barkazils,” Aiah says, “I’ll refer them to you.”

His head gives a little jerk.

“Yes,” he murmurs, “of course.”

It’s an arrest, one like many others. The suspect is a midlevel plasm seller, probably not a Handman but one of their cousins, whose plasm tap is in a secret room in the back of his apartment. He has been having a party for several days, looks like: there are empty bottles and used glasses everywhere, and the acrid tang of cigar smoke fills every room. There are two girls here, obvious professionals despite their youth, and no sign of the plasm seller’s wife and children.

Aiah, playing plasm angel, hovers invisibly in the room, along with a pair of her colleagues. They seem redundant: there is no sign of traps or resistance, and the suspect is so drunk he can barely walk.

The military cops cuff his hands behind his back and prop him up while they pat him down. He’s wearing only underwear, and looks terrible: pale, unshaven, with deep circles beneath his eyes and patches of sweat on his undershirt, as if forty-eight hours of hangover had caught up with him all at once.

The girls stand naked in the corner, under guard. One modestly crosses her arms over her breasts, the other merely lets a cigaret hang from her lips, drinks from her little bottle of whisky, and watches the soldiers with contempt. They are both licensed prostitutes, each with her official yellow card, and though Aiah suspects at least one card misstates an age, suspicion is not quite enough given the department’s wartime urgency, and the two will be released as soon as the apartment is properly secure.

One of the military cops comes out of the bedroom carrying a pair of the suspect’s trousers. He and his colleagues try to maneuver the drunken suspect into them, a little comical dance… and then the suspect’s head explodes.

Aiah stares in shock. The police stagger back, swabbing blood and brains off their faceplates. Red spatters the breasts of the whisky-drinking whore. The suspect drops like a rag doll, leaving a wide streak of blood on the wallpaper behind, and then a cold voice whispers across Aiah’s thoughts.

—You interfere overmuch with my pleasures, lady.

Ice shivers Aiah’s bones. Her teeth chatter. But Taikoen does not speak again—he is gone—and Aiah slowly breathes out, summons her scattered thoughts, and makes visible her anima in the cousin’s apartment. She knows what she must do.

“Did anyone see what happened?” she says, and begins the official investigation that she hopes will never point in the right direction.

Afterward, Aiah’s had enough.

She takes off, her anima aimed straight up, rising fast as a bullet away from all this, from death and squalor and endless grinding duty. The city fades, a flat plain of brown and gray and green spread like a lily pad over its level sea. Get enough height, she thinks, and you’d never see the war. She tunes her senses to the air, feels its cool, burning touch as if it were her physical body climbing like a rocket, as if she were feeling the burning wind on her cheeks. She penetrates a layer of scattered white cloud and watches it fall away beneath her, become part of the increasingly abstract landscape below, a new bright element added to its jigsaw.

The Shield alone stands above her, barring her ascent—luminescent source of light and life for the world; impenetrable, energy-devouring barrier to the tens of billions crowded on the curved surface below—and as she gazes up at it, a cold anger settles into her. This is what has created her world, this barrier put by the Ascended in the path of humanity, allegedly as a punishment for sins that have only grown more obscure in the ages since. It is carefully sited, this Shield: a little higher, Aiah’s teachers told her in school, and objects could be put into an elliptical path that would circle the globe without falling—more evidence, if any were needed, that the Ascended Ones didn’t want anything or anyone sharing their realm.

The Shield’s pearly luminescence brightens, grows hot, becomes blazing white. Its power roars in Aiah’s transphysi-cal ears, and she knows it for an enemy. Matter that touches the Shield is annihilated, transformed into bursts of X rays. Plasm, the most powerful terrestrial force, vanishes as if it never were, anima-probes dissolving on contact, giving no information to the mages below and leaving them with nothing but bills for the plasm wasted. Nothing can touch the Shield and survive.

The sensation of wind is long gone—atmosphere is thin up here. Anger drives Aiah ever upward. Kill me, then, Aiah thinks at the Shield. Annihilate me and prove what a bastard you are.

The blazing whiteness of the Shield consumes her senses. She can feel its heat, its enmity. She knows it is near, and prepares for the touch of annihilation…

And then she is through it to someplace else, a place both of darkness and blazing light. To her astonishment she sees the Shield curving away beneath her, a perfect white sphere, its snarling energies intact.

Her staggered senses perceive mostly blackness—an emptiness so vast, so infinite, that she finds her own reactions, her very being, contrasted into insignificance. And there are structures, spidery things of silvery metal, each flying in the absolute silence of the void, rolling up toward the Pole… Without scale she can’t tell how large they are, but she suspects they are huge, each capable of containing a metropolis, despite their appearance of fragility… One, she counts, two, three, four, six, ten; many.

A spherical incandescence burns in the sky, white and angry as the Shield, a perfect sphere of raging light. It fixes the silvery surfaces of the flying structures in its glare, limning their surfaces with merciless precision, and it reflects as well off another spherical body, a green little marble with wisps of white cloud and strange, unnaturally brilliant splashes of blue. Part of it, a black unlit crescent, is in shadow.

One, Aiah thinks in staggered wonder, is the long-lost Sun, and the other the Moon.

And then another dimension infuses Aiah’s perceptions, as if a transparent sheet had been laid over the void, a sheet painted with another layer of actuality. The Sun, she sees, is also a person, a man who dances within the sphere of eternal flame. He wears a full sleek beard with the tip curled up, and a red conical hat with its peak pointed forward; there is a glowing sphere in one hand, and a silver rod in the other. He moves, stepping precisely but without hurry, an enigmatic smile on his lips, through a dance with no beginning and no end.

There is another dancer, Aiah sees, who is the Moon, a woman with gray skin—not mere pallor, but actually gray, gray as slate. Her black hair falls free in ringlets, and she wears a red flounced skirt and jeweled toe-rings on her bare feet. She, too, is dancing; Aiah suspects it is the same dance as the man in the Sun, the man who is the Sun—but if so, her long dark eyes never seek those of the dancing man, though her lips bear the same equivocal smile.

Aiah’s perceptions seem to shift again, and all the structures are gone, and with them the brilliant spheres, and even the Shield with the world below it; Aiah sees only dancers, some of them not even remotely human, stepping across the sky in an unhurried progression, a dance to the rhythm of eternity, to a music that has lasted for an age……

And then there is a snap, a sizzle, a flare in Aiah’s mind that fills her vision with molten silver and her ears with white noise; and she finds herself, breathless, in her chair in the op center, the t-grip in her hand, and looks down at the controls that show her broadcast horn still pulsing power, firing plasm straight at the Shield, where, presumably, it is being consumed.

She switches it off.

The Shield had briefly opened, she thinks, a tiny hole, and by chance she had flown through it, giving her a glimpse of what lies beyond; and then it had cruelly shut behind her, snapping off her plasm tether, returning her to her own world, to the war that is Caraqui.