first three boats before she finds her consciousness swiftly dumped into her apartment again. Another mage has cut her sourceline. Quickly she shuts off the plasm before the enemy mage manages to track her to the Palace.
She checks her meter to discover how much plasm she and Khorsa have consumed.
At this rate, she thinks, the fun can’t last long.
MILITIA ON RAMPAGE POPULACE COMPLAINS OF VIOLENCE HOSPITALS FILLING WITH VICTIMS
The next day is more sobering. The Dalavan Militia numbers in the hundreds of thousands, and Aiah’s attacks were but a pinprick. There are hundreds of militia actions going on at once around Caraqui, and none of Aiah’s attacks seem to have attracted the attention of the video news writers, whose works feature nothing but discouraging images of militia depredations.
Once in her office, she tries to call Constantine, but is informed that he’s in a meeting. He doesn’t return her call, or any of her calls on subsequent days. Nor does she see him, or receive so much as a memo. Unlike President Faltheg, who appears on broadcasts every so often to make a hesitant, unconvincing defense of the government’s position, Constantine is rarely mentioned in the news, and seems to be hovering somewhere below the surface of public attention.
And while Constantine leaves Aiah in a vacuum, the situation both in the Palace and the streets grows worse. Togthan informs Aiah that he will be taking Ethemark’s place as her second-in-command; and he also presents her with a list of people to be hired in place of those she had been forced to dismiss.
Aiah manages to delay the implementation of this last procedure by insisting on a personal interview with every new hire, so that she knows how to best assign them. It is a depressing task, because they are generally less qualified than the people she’d been forced to dismiss. Many of them seem to have been included on the list solely because they have a close relative in the Dalavan Militia.
Outside the Palace, heavily armed groups of militia prowl the streets and canals. Shops owned by genetically altered people are vandalized or looted, as are pawnbrokers and moneylenders, who, in the terminology of the Campaign of Purification, are now declared “usurers” and “bloodsuckers.” Regional offices of the Altered People’s Party, the political organization of the twisted, are sacked; and offices belonging to several other parties are vandalized or attacked.
But the twisted swiftly recover from the surprise of the first day’s onslaught. Many acquired arms and military skills during the war, and their mages are not entirely without ability, or without plasm. Bloody battles are now waged in the darkness below the city as the inhabitants of the half-worlds try to defend their homes.
Aiah does what she can. She rearranges Khorsa’s schedule so that she works third shift and can fly against the militia during work shift, while Aiah is in her office.
Three days into the purification campaign Aiah observes the first graffito sprayed onto the side of a building:
If only the Golden Lady’s plasm weren’t running out.
The stockpiled plasm allowance is being consumed fast, and by the end of the first week the Golden Lady is put on a strict ration.
After a few days, the news programs report an increase in sightings of the Golden Lady, and Aiah and Khorsa realize that they are not responsible for some of these appearances. Other people are finding the Golden Lady inspiring, and are using her image in resisting Parq.
While her covert activities are exhilarating, the situation at work sends despair sighing through Aiah’s veins. Togthan is running the department in all but name, and once Aiah’s plasm allowance runs out, she reasons, there will be very little point to staying, save her desperate, dwindling faith in Constantine, that and her stubbornness, a refusal to admit that it had all been a hideous mistake.
She decides that when she finally runs out of plasm, mere days from now, she will resign.
Perhaps it’s just as well, she thinks. It’s only a matter of time before the identity of the Golden Lady will be revealed. All it will take is for someone to backtrack her sourceline to the Palace, or for a clerk to go over her plasm records and wonder why she is consuming so much of her allowance all at once.
Ten days into the Campaign of Purification, as she prepares to leave the office at the 16:30 shift change, her receptionist puts through a call from General Ceison in Lanbola.
“Miss Aiah,” he says, “something curious has occurred. I wonder if it might be possible to speak privately.”
“Yes.” It has never been wise to send confidential information through the Palace switchboards, and it is doubly unwise now.
“I will be on the roof of the headquarters building in… will 16:50 be too soon?” “I can manage 16:50.”
Aiah finds the compass bearing to the Lanbola headquarters in her directory, calls the plasm control room, and arranges to have plasm delivered to her apartment and the use of a plasm horn set at 040 degrees true. She returns to her rooms, sits near a plasm connection, holds the t-grip in her hand.
The plasm sings a song of welcome in her veins. Aiah pauses for a moment to hear magic’s song of creation, destruction, and desire, the song of sheer reality running along her nerves. And then she lets herself surge along the Palace’s plasm lines and speed from the scalloped bronze horn on the roof.
The horn directs her on course 040, beaming plasm on a bearing to Ceison’s headquarters. Aiah pushes her consciousness slowly out along the beam, over the flat surface of Caraqui, the war’s great ruined scar that lies across the metropolis, then over the taller cityscape of Lanbola that falls below her as the world curves away. The clouds are low and dark and full of rain, and the plasm beam wants to fire straight through them; with an effort of will Aiah curves the beam, keeping it and her sensorium below cloud cover. Below, clouds and rain have darkened the city sufficiently for it to be illuminated by stormlights.
Rain drifts like a shroud over Lanbola’s government district, the proud white buildings erected by the Popular Democrats. Aiah dives like a questing falcon, finds the party headquarters building, and discovers Ceison standing quietly near a sandbagged mortar emplacement, wearing a hooded rain cape and calmly puffing a pipe. Delicate drops of rain cling to his mustache.
Aiah reaches toward Ceison with tenuous mental tendrils. Ceison stiffens, his lean face turning alert. He takes the pipe from his mouth and holds it, hand cupped around the bowl, by his side.
—General? Can you hear me?
—Yes.
Ceison’s mental voice sounds much like his speaking voice, reasoned and deliberate, possessing an undemonstrative kind of authority.
—You wished to speak with me?
—Yes, miss.
Ceison ducks farther into his hood as a gust of rain pelts down, frowns as he assembles his thoughts.
—Two days after you visit here, he begins, we had a visit from the War Minister. And he passed on a warning very similar to the one you gave us.
Surprise floats through Aiah at this news.
—Go on, she sends.
—I thought, well, it is good that you and the minister are in accord. But yesterday I received another visit from the War Minister, with very specific instructions, and I thought I should speak with you for… for purposes of coordination.
—What were the instructions?
—Karlo’s Brigade is to move at 02:00 tomorrow into Caraqui, and occupy certain sites: bridges, plasm stations, and several local headquarters of the Dalavan Militia. The Escaliers are to remain behind to make certain Lanbola remains calm.
Somehow Aiah is not surprised: comprehension falls solidly into place, as if the parts of the puzzle had
