City on Fire

Constantine watches this with a benign smile.

“Excuse me, sir,” Alfeg says.

Constantine gazes down at him. “Yes?”

“I thought I’d mention that we seem to be having no trouble at all recruiting replacements for the Barkazil Division. We’ve got swarms of applicants—more than we can use. We’ll have our pick of some very good men.”

“Splendid,” said Constantine. “Carry on.”

“But I feel I should mention—” Alfeg searches for words, then decides simply to say it. “If the government should ever decide to raise another Barkazil Division, or to expand the current division to a full three brigades, I would have no trouble finding recruits.”

Constantine’s eyes narrow as he considers this. “The military budget is due for reduction, not expansion,” he says. “But if the need should arise, I will bear this news in mind.”

Alfeg makes an effort to conceal his disappointment. “Yes,” he says. “Thank you, sir.”

“One other thing.”

“Sir?”

Constantine speaks quietly, a little abstractedly, like a teacher giving a well-worn lecture to his students. “You should consider that a number of your recruits will almost certainly be spies, most likely from Jabzi, who will be inserted into the Barkazil Division with the intention of discovering whether our recruits will be used to subvert the arrangement whereby the Barkazi Sectors are partitioned. Or perhaps these spies will even be there to subvert us.”

Aiah sees Alfeg’s astonished stare and knows it probably mirrors her own. “You know this?” he says. “Do you have any—anything concrete?”

“I note simply that Jabzi, which had formerly maintained only an honorary consul just over our border in Charna—a local fellow who operated more as a tourist agent than a diplomatic representative—is now upgrading their presence to that of a full embassy, with a staff of over sixty people. Why should they do that in a metropolis half a world away, with which they do so very little trade? I assume that the entire purpose of this establishment is to keep an eye on what Miss Aiah and the Barkazil Division are doing here in Caraqui.”

A kind of resigned amusement dwells in Constantine’s eyes, as if he could not expect anything better from his fellow creatures.

“And though / know that the threat you pose to Jabzi is small,” he says, “perhaps nil, I also assume that by the time this new embassy finishes its reports, you are going to be a fullblown menace to the security not just of Jabzi, but of the world. The jobs of those sixty people depend on your being a menace, and as far as they are concerned, you will be a menace.”

“When,” Aiah wonders thoughtfully, “did you discover this?”

“Yesterday.”

“Is there anything we can do about it?”

“I will have Belckon send someone to Jabzi to have what are usually described as ‘full and frank discussions,’ but I suspect their government has already made up its mind and is unlikely to alter its position anytime soon.” He scowls and allows an edge of anger into his voice. “I would hate for the Provisionals to get a new sponsor at this point, just as they’re losing their old ones.”

Alfeg still seems taken aback by this intelligence, but Aiah is already considering the consequences. Jabzi’s previous official reaction to events in Caraqui—their banning the Mystery of Aiah video— had backfired, increasing both Aiah’s celebrity and demand for the video. Perhaps Jabzi’s new action could be turned to similar account.

Aiah probably couldn’t make much of any espionage in the Barkazil Division, but if it were ever discovered that Jabzi had gone so far as to support the Caraqui Provisionals…

They fear Barkazil freedom so much, Aiah thinks, that they try to suppress it half a world away.

A useful slogan to keep in reserve.

Amusement tugs at Constantine’s lips as he observes Aiah’s reflections. He puts a hand on her shoulder. “Politics tomorrow, Miss Aiah,” he reminds. “Celebration today.”

Aiah laughs. “You’re right.” She cocks an ear to the music, then grins at Constantine. “Do you dance the koola?”

Constantine answers gravely. “I have not had that pleasure.”

“If you’re going to go to Barkazil parties, you should know the dances.”

He holds out his arms. “I am willing to be instructed.”

Constantine learns the dance quickly, even the strange, unpredictable rhythmic elision, a kind of sideways musical hiccup, that Barkazils call “the slip.” A tigerish smile settles onto his face as he gains confidence, and he settles powerfully into the movements, as if he were projecting himself into the dance, making it an instrument of his will, a proud extension of himself into the world.

“You’ve been practicing in secret,” Aiah says.

“I have not practiced. But I have observed. This isn’t the first koola danced at this reception.”

“I congratulate you on your observational powers, then.”

“Thank you—”

There is a moment of suspense during “the slip”—the dance hangs suspended for an instant, then begins in another place. Aiah and Constantine gracefully manage the transition.

“Thank you very much,” he finishes. A secret smile crosses his face. “I hope I will be able to sharpen my observational powers, as—in your company, I hope—I will have a unique chance for observation beyond the ordinary.”

“Yes?”

His smile broadens. “Second quarterbreak, second shift today—a hundred twenty days to the minute after you discovered the first flaw in the Shield—our rooftop detectors revealed that a small eyelet, less than two paces across, opened overhead, remained open for seventy-five seconds, and then closed. In ninety days’ time, I hope you will join me for an excursion through the eyelet I expect will open at that time.”

The music, and the world with it, gives a sideways lurch.

Aiah missteps. The universe spins in her head, and her knees go rubbery. Constantine catches her before she falls.

He braces her shoulders within the span of one powerful arm and walks her off the dance floor. “Perhaps I should have mentioned this at another time,” he says.

“It happened, then,” Aiah says. A strange little laugh froths up in her like bubbles in champagne. “It happened and I didn’t make it up and it wasn’t a hallucination and nobody planted it in my mind.” Relief sings through her, and she feels the flight of her soul, as if it is soaring telepresent over the world.

“It actually happened,” she repeats, drunk with sudden joy and wonder.

“And it will happen again,” Constantine says. He touches her cheek, turns her head toward him, kisses her for a long, warm moment. “We will share that—we will be the first in millennia to bear a message outward.” He straightens, and Aiah sees anger smouldering in half-lidded eyes. “The worlds you have seen beyond the Shield are our right, and we will tell them so.”

“Did you hurt yourself?” Esmon has rushed up, a look of concern on his face. “Did you twist an ankle?”

“I’m fine.” She gives the groom a hug, presses herself to the beaded jacket, and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “Just a little mishap, that’s all.”

“Careful now.” Esmon grins. “It’s bad luck if people get hurt at my wedding.”

Aiah shifts weight onto her legs, finds they will hold her. Constantine keeps a protective hand on her elbow. Aiah glances up at him.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I think our luck may have changed.”

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