City on Fire

Who is chasing us? Aiah wonders.

She will know soon enough, she thinks.

CIVIL WAR IN CARAQUI? FIRING HEARD FROM DIRECTION OF PALACE

The Provisional Government orders the public to behave in an orderly manner.

The words float in the sky above the Aerial Palace, and oddly enough, despite the battle that is going on, even the participants seem to be following orders. An orderly queue of helicopters floats in the air near the Palace, each waiting its turn to attack. The lead helicopter methodically fires rockets and cannon into the Raptor Wing— there is a hiss, a flat slapping boom that echoes off nearby buildings, a flash of fire and smoke—and then, once ammunition is gone, it heads back to the aerodrome to rearm, after which it will presumably take its place at the end of the queue.

Even the columns of smoke, rising here and there about the city, are dispersed by the wind in an orderly manner.

The Raptor Wing, headquarters of the largest and most powerful government departments, is pockmarked with shell and rocket holes, and several areas seem to be on fire. The Owl Wing has suffered as well. Aiah thinks of her people working inside when the coup started, and her fists clench in anger.

“I think it is safe to say that the Aerial Brigade has declared for the Provisional Government,” Constantine observes. He frowns, but does not seem overly troubled. “That means the aerodrome will be in enemy hands, and that means they can fly in reinforcements whenever they like. If they have reinforcements, of course. We shall see.”

The boats wait in the darkness near the Palace, under cover of overhanging pontoons that support government office buildings. Constantine sits with his legs hanging over the edge of the bow and watches the fight with interest. He would like to get into the Palace, but would prefer not to be killed while doing so, either by attackers or by defenders who fail to recognize him.

Aiah stands near him, feeling useless. She paces back and forth, kicking at the spent cartridge casings that litter the deck and dabbing at her cut face with her ruined scarf. Adrenaline surges through her, little bodily earthquakes readying her for flight or combat; but nothing is going on, and the surges leave her only with jitters and sweats.

There are roadblocks set up on the bridges leading into the Palace, but it is not clear whose roadblocks they are—people in uniforms and carrying weapons all look remarkably similar, whichever side they are on. Whoever they are, they watch the aerial bombardment with every appearance of indifference, as if they too were obeying the Provisional Government’s orders to behave in an orderly manner.

“They’re all waiting to see what happens,” Constantine says. “If enough people line up on one side or another, the other will surrender, and then they won’t have to fight.”

He has decided not to contact the Palace by radio, because it might alert the rebels to his location. So he has sent Khoriak off into one of the local office buildings to make a phone call.

The phones are safe. The Avians, in their political wisdom, long ago demonstrated their concern for secure communications by installing the main telephone switches for the whole capital district in the lower depths of the Aerial Palace.

Something happens. There is a flashing in the air near the lead helicopter, and reports. Aiah’s heart leaps into her throat as she turns to watch. The helicopter begins firing all its rockets rapidly, as if in a hurry to leave… and then another helicopter, two places behind in the queue, suddenly gives off a series of loud bangs. It is shedding rotors, as if an invisible hand has stuck itself into the whirling rotor blades—a hand, Aiah knows, of plasm. Fragments of blades fly out over the city, each one death for anyone they strike, and then the copter pitches down, its whirling tail rotor giving a corkscrew motion to its fall. There is a crash as it drops into an apartment building, then a number of explosions as munitions and fuel begin to detonate.

The lead helicopter slews off to the side, making good its escape. The next helicopter in the queue fires off all its weaponry at once, without moving any closer: rockets hiss through the air, some striking the Palace, others hitting somewhere in the city. Then suddenly all the helicopters are firing and the air is full of snarling, random death, the rockets like a nest of angry snakes striking at anyone within reach. Aiah’s nerves leap with each explosion.

The helicopters flee in disorder; six, eight, twelve of them. “I think we can say their degree of commitment to the counterrevolution is limited,” Constantine observes with a smile. A distant crash rings out from one of the helicopters, and it begins belching smoke and losing altitude. A wave of anxiety pours through Aiah as she sees it drop: they are enemies, but she doesn’t want them to die.

The helicopter trails smoke over the horizon. Aiah can’t tell whether it has crashed or not.

Constantine rises to his feet, brushes dirt from his trousers. “This would seem to be an opportunity,” he says. “If Khoriak doesn’t return soon, he may have to make his way back alone.” He tilts his head up as if listening to an invisible speaker. “Ah. Yes. Here he comes.”

He is listening to an invisible speaker, Aiah realizes. Telepathy. She wonders how long Constantine has been receiving information this way.

Khoriak arrives, coming down a rusted iron ladder from a passageway above. “All set,” he said. “Use the southwest gate. They’re expecting us.”

“Sorya’s cleared the helicopters out,” Constantine says. “We can expect no trouble.”

Sorya, Aiah thinks. That’s who’s been talking to him.

Unexpectedly, the knowledge makes her feel safe.

NINE

Constantine comes into the Palace command center laughing, his deep voice booming out like an echo of the bombardment. It is not relief, Aiah suspects, but a kind of homecoming: Constantine has been from necessity a commander, a great one, and war is a thing like home. Sorya greets him with a kiss.

“It is Radeen behind this,” she says. “The Second Brigade is with him—his old command—they are on their way to Government Harbor. The First Brigade and Marines are in their barracks, I am told—not that the First Brigade matters in any case, since it has not recovered from its mauling in our coup. And there is word of police roadblocks going up here and there, so Gentri or someone high in his ministry is also a part of it.”

“Radeen the Minister of War,” Constantine says. “Trying to do what Drumbeth has done. And Gentri…” He utters the shadow of a sigh. “Gentri, well, too late.”

Guilt stabs Aiah to the heart. If she had investigated Gentri properly, if she had simply done what Constantine had asked, then perhaps all this would not be happening…

Her head swims, and she gropes her way to a chair and collapses into it. The others in the room pay her no heed, a fact for which she is deeply grateful.

The white glow of video monitors burns down on everyone, outlining cheekbone and brow, casting eyes into shadow. Sorya glides to a chair, sits in it, flicks a bit of fluff off her uniform tunic.

“I had a little advance warning,” she says. “They have done a more than competent job of keeping their plans secret—better than we did in our time, truly, but then their conspiracy is smaller. I managed to keep the assassins off your neck, but not Drumbeth’s.”

Constantine glances sharply at her. “He’s dead?”

“Yes. Killed in that ceremony reopening the bridge over Martyrs’ Canal… was standing with all his aides in the middle of the span when a mage attacked with a power blast… They’re all dead.” She shrugs. “I could save one of you, not both. It was not plasm I lacked, but personnel. We didn’t have enough mages on duty.” A superior, amused light glitters in Sorya’s eyes. “Forgive me for concluding you were the indispensable one.” Her tongue visibly fondles