City on Fire

“Done,” someone reports.

“Roll them!” Constantine cries, and communication techs bend over their boards to give the orders.

Constantine sags, fists planted on a table, head bent. The nightmare, for the moment, has been averted. Aiah feels an impulse to walk over and comfort him.

But he thinks of her first. His head comes up, and then he turns to Aiah, straightens, and walks over to her. “I would like your agreement at this point,” he says. “Karlo’s Brigade has been in reserve all day. I would like to send them across the bridge and have them finish this war once and for all.”

“Yes,” Aiah says. “Of course.” She rises, and blackness invades her vision. She sways from sheer weariness, reaches a hand toward her chair for support. “I want to go to them.”

Constantine’s hand closes firmly on her shoulder. “Do not, I beg you,” he says. “You will contribute nothing to their effort, and your presence will only distract them. After things have settled, perhaps, a visit would be in order.”

Her will is not strong enough to resist. “May I speak to General Ceison on the phone?”

“Of course. If he can be found.”

He can’t: apparently the brigade is already in motion. Aiah sits. Weariness swims through her mind.

“Miss?” Aiah looks up to find a smiling, white-jacketed steward looking down at her. “May I get you a sandwich? A salad? Coffee?”

Aiah wonders how many shifts it has been since she last ate.

“All three,” she decides.

The steward smiles. “Right away, miss.”

Aiah watches the video while she eats and forgets to taste the food. Some of the images are being fed in from the bridgehead, showing vehicles filled with soldiers rolling out of the bridge-tunnel into newly won territory. And then, directly in front of the camera, someone flashes into existence from out of nothing, popping right onto the roadway. He is small and slight, shaggy-haired, with strange tall ears, and he carries a long glittering blade. He looks about, bewildered, for a second, and then one of the armored vehicles rolls him down.

Aiah stares for a moment at the strange, fated apparition. A teleport gone wrong, she thinks; someone popped a twisted person right into the war, armed only with a big knife.

Other, more jittery, images come from the front itself. The door is no longer open—the enemy have used the delay to reorganize their defense—but a strong push should finish them.

And then artillery begins to rain down on the bridgehead. A storm of plasm fire unfolds. Aiah can sense the attack losing momentum.

No! she thinks. Not now.

Constantine stands transfixed below the video images, big hands flexing helplessly at his sides. The nightmare is enfolding him again.

The vehicles rolling into the bridgehead slow, come to a halt. The bridge-tunnel itself is being hit repeatedly. Aiah watches as the attack’s momentum fades.

And then she looks up as Sorya, in her green uniform, comes striding into the command center. She is grim- faced, and flanked by a pair of aides. Without giving Aiah a glance, Sorya walks to Constantine and speaks without hesitation.

“Most of that gunfire directed against the bridgehead,” she says, “is not from the Provisional forces—most of their stuff has been suppressed. The firing is from the Lanbolan army, their regular forces. They’re firing at us from over the border, trying to seal off our breakthrough.”

In the sudden silence, Aiah can see calculations flickering through Constantine. “The rest of their army?”

“Latest report says they’re on alert, but in their barracks. But the Lanbolan government has also released its plasm reserves to the Provisionals… They’re beaming staggering amounts across the border to the enemy mages. We’re going to have to expect much more powerful sorcery to be directed against us.”

Constantine absorbs this. Rapid calculation glows in his eyes like a furious heat.

“The next decision is a political one,” he says. “I will need to see the triumvirate.” He turns to Aiah. “We will need you as well,” he says. “Get the latest figures on our plasm expenditure and report to the Crystal Dome at once.”

“Sir.” It is General Arviro, anguish plain on his face. “My Marines,” he says. “They’re behind enemy lines. Without a breakthrough to reinforce them…”

Constantine nods. “Yes,” he says. “I understand. I will raise the issue at the meeting.”

BATTLE RAGES ACROSS CARAQUI FRONT

PROVISIONALS HOLDING AGAINST GOVERNMENT ASSAULT

“It is not an insuperable position,” Constantine says. “We are likely still to win—we’re in a much better position than we were yesterday, and the Provisionals in much worse. Many of their units have been wrecked. But pressing the war will take time, and casualties on both sides—and among the civilian population—will be formidable.”

“Vengeance now!” Parq cries. “Invade Lanbola at once!” His face is gaunt, and his eyes are hollow. He laughs, tugs at his disordered beard. “Why do we bother to discuss this?” he says. “The Dalavan Guard is being wiped out even as we continue this pointless discussion. We must rescue them!”

“General Arviro has asked me to mention the Marines,” Constantine says. “They remain behind enemy lines. Many of them are cut off, and they are only lightly armed. Evacuating them will be risky, and we cannot supply them by teleporta-tion forever.” He looks at his notes. “Knowing this situation might arise, we have made plans for the invasion of Lanbola. Our mobile reserve alone can accomplish it within a day, should the triumvirate so order. We hope to be able to arrest most of the government as well as the Provisionals.”

“I will not support the invasion of another metropolis,” Hilthi retorts. “Hegemonism is insupportable at any time, for any reason. This war with the Provisionals is the natural price we pay for our centuries of misrule.”

“And the Lanbolan artillery?” President Faltheg speaks hesitantly. “Can’t they be said to have opened a war against us? How can we fight this without an invasion?” He shakes his head. “We could file another protest… I suppose.” He looks at Hilthi. “Mr. Hilthi? Do you have a suggestion?”

Hilthi looks troubled, but makes no reply.

Constantine turns to Aiah. “Miss Aiah?”

Aiah testifies as to the availability of plasm. Caraqui’s reserves have been cut in half by the first day of the offensive, and the ability of the government to support their assaults is fading.

Faltheg turns to Constantine. “Your recommendations, Minister?”

“I do not offer this advice lightly,” Constantine says. “But it seems to me that there would be far less suffering, less damage, if we went into Lanbola and ended the war at its source.” He gives an uneasy shrug. “The political problem of what to do with Lanbola,” he adds, “may be dealt with afterward.”

Aiah looks at her hands. It is the wrong move, she thinks, but she can’t explain why. And she has no acceptable alternative.

“Make them pay!” Parq says. “Make them pay for our suffering! Their wealth can make Caraqui a paradise!”

Hilthi sits stiffly in his chair, his eyes locked with Constantine’s. “I will not be a part of a hegemonist government,” he says. “I will not countenance the looting of another metropolis. If I am outvoted in this, I will resign.”

Faltheg’s tongue runs round his lips. He sighs heavily. “I must reluctantly agree with Triumvir Parq and Minister Constantine. The Lanbolans’ actions are intolerable.”

“You will have my resignation before the shift is over,” Hilthi says. “I will go into opposition.”

Constantine turns to him. “Triumvir, I am sorry about this, and I hope you will reconsider. But may I ask you to delay this action for another day or two? Disarray in the government now will only encourage our enemies.”

Hilthi hesitates, then nods. “I will do as the minister suggests.”

Aiah turns to Sorya, sees the triumph glittering in her green eyes. This is what she has wanted all along, and