City on Fire

In his suite afterward, Constantine is full of plans and speculations about the Shield and the path that Aiah has found through it. He wonders whether to do something spectacular—a plasm display, perhaps—that will call immediate attention to their presence, or to spend the first several missions simply reconnoitering. He considers the possibility of putting some manner of detector through the gap—“in orbit,” as he puts it—and then bringing it down on the next trip.

A touch of resentment enters Aiah’s mind at this energetic speculation. It was her vision, she thinks, it is one of the things that made her special, and here is Constantine, usurping her place with all his plans.

Not that she had ever been able to develop any plans of her own, she admits.

She wonders whether to raise the subject of Taikoen, to tell Constantine that he and the ice man have been seen, and she decides against it. It would be too dangerous for Romus, she thinks. Let more time go by, she concludes, so that it won’t be so certain that this last visit of Taikoen’s was the one that was observed.

A few hours later, after bed, Aiah snaps upright in the grip of the Adrenaline Monster. She sits gasping on the bed, pulse thudding in her ears, an invisible claw around her throat. Ears strain for the rain of artillery. Hot tears spill down her face.

She jumps as she feels Constantine’s warm hand on her back.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.” She swabs with a hand at the sweat that limns her throat. “Sometimes I wake up like this.”

She senses him sitting up. His hand strokes her bare back. “How often?” he asks.

“I don’t know, I—” She gulps air and decides to stop being brave. “Often,” she says. “Every sleep shift, usually more than once. I haven’t had a decent sleep in… in months. It’s the plasm that keeps me going.”

She can sense his calm scrutiny, draws strength from it, calms her flailing heart.

“I’ve known soldiers to develop this condition,” he says. “Restful sleep isn’t a survival trait for people in combat, so their adrenal glands compel them to remain alert with an occasional burst of adrenaline or norepinephrine.” “Is there a cure?” she asks.

His deep voice returns after a thoughtful silence. “Deep magic. Someone very talented will have to adjust your adrenal gland in a very subtle way. But that sort of thing is closer to an art than a science—it can easily go wrong. Still, if you wish, I will try to find a specialist.”

“I don’t know,” she says, and rubs her face. “I’ve been hoping it will go away by itself.”

“It may not.”

She lets her head droop between her knees. “Let’s talk about it later.”

“Can you sleep now?”

Terror still trembles in her limbs. Aiah doubts it will permit her any rest. “I can try,” she says.

Constantine seems to fall asleep almost at once. Sheltering in the curve of one of his arms, Aiah rests her head on his shoulder and tries to sleep.

With little success. She is still perfectly awake when Constantine’s steward wakes them at the beginning of the new shift.

FALCONS OF FREEDOM ALDEMAR’S EXCITING NEW CHROMOPLAY OPENING SOON!!!

Aiah floats through the reception in Chemra, nodding graciously to one world-famous person after another, as if she were Meldurne playing host to high society in one of her chro-moplays. Wrapped in a sheath of gold moire silk, Aiah plays the Golden Lady, knowing what will attract the attention of these people and what will not. The gold silk contrasts favorably with the room’s decor, which leans to polished brass rails and pale green glass and is dominated by man-sized standing lamps with green glass petals that unfold like tulips.

The background buzz of conversation brightens with applause as Aldemar enters. The reception celebrates the premiere of Falcons of Freedom, her new chromoplay, which Aiah and the others have just seen. It isn’t precisely an inspired piece of work, Aiah judges, but neither was it as bad as Aldemar had made out. She has overheard the conversation of some relieved distribution executives who seem to think it will make a decent profit.

Aldemar passes through the room with a glittering professional smile on her face. Aiah busses her on both cheeks as she passes, hears the actress’s low voice say, “Let’s talk later,” and nods in answer as Aldemar passes on to chat with the distributors Aiah had overheard earlier.

“You’re the Golden Lady, aren’t you?”

Metallic silver irises glitter strangely at Aiah in the green-tinged light. It’s Phaesa, who’d had her irises altered for a chromoplay decades ago, and who subsequently made them her trademark.

Aiah’s mother was a huge Phaesa fan. She will be thrilled to hear of this encounter.

Aiah takes the extended hand. “Aiah,” she says.

“Of course.” The silver irises flicker over the room. “Are you without an escort?”

“I’m with Olli, but he needed to speak with someone—a banker, I believe.”

“How discourteous of him. But that’s Olli for you—obsessed with the business.” Phaesa’s hands close firmly about Aiah’s arm. “And I’m sure you don’t know anyone here. Do you need that drink freshened?”

Aiah allows herself to be towed into Phaesa’s wake. Another green tulip glass of white wine is pressed into Aiah’s hands. She sips, sees her reflection in the intent, glittering irises.

“Everyone in our business is talking about the Golden Lady,” Phaesa says. “It’s a part every actress is salivating over.”

Olli, her producer, had told Aiah there would be moments like this, and had provided her with ammunition in the form of the appropriate response, which Aiah promptly chambers and fires.

“Unfortunately,” she says, “I have no power over who gets the part.”

“I’m sure Olli would consider your wishes.”

“I will mention your name, if you like.”

A smile touches Phaesa’s lips. “Yes. Thank you.”

Aiah gazes into the unearthly silver eyes and finds herself wondering out loud, “I wonder if the Golden Lady can have silver eyes?”

“I can change them,” Phaesa says.

/ can change them, Aiah thinks.

Of course.

It is one of those moments in which Chemra, and perhaps the whole world, seems to snap into perfect focus.

/ can change them, Aiah’s mind chatters. / can be younger. I can be thinner. I can be smarter…

“I wonder,” Phaesa continues, “if we might have luncheon at some point.”

“I’m not in Chemra for long, unfortunately.” Aiah says. “I have a whole government department to run, and it’s more than a full-time job.”

“But still—”

“Miss Aiah?” One of the waiters rescues her. “A call for you, from Caraqui. A gentleman named Ethemark, who says it is urgent.”

Aiah looks sidelong at Phaesa. “My apologies. I’d better take this.”

Phaesa puts a hand on her arm. “I’ll talk to you later, then.”

“Certainly.”

Aiah follows the waiter to a phone booth with sides of stained-glass green shoots and yellow flowers. “We’ve switched the call here,” he says, and bows as he hands her the headset of brass wire and green ceramic.

“Thank you.” Aiah shuts the door and carefully puts the headset on over her ringlets.

“Yes? This is Aiah.”

Ethemark’s deep voice rumbles in her ears. “Miss Aiah? We have a situation here. I thought you should be informed.”

“Yes?” The connection is bad, with an electric snarl fading in and out, and the conversation outside is loud. Aiah cups her hands over the earpieces to smother the sounds of the reception.