City on Fire

should have checked with them as soon as she arrived.

She drops her coffee cup into the saucer, splashing warm droplets on the tabletop in her haste, and reaches for one of the headsets. She settles the earphones around her ears and flicks the gold-plated switch that opens the line; rapidly she punches the number for her department on the twelve-key pad.

The ringing signal sings in her ears for some time, and then there is a click, the answering words “Enforcement Division” spoken in a whispering voice that suggests the speaker is afraid enemies might be lurking just around the corner.

“Ethemark,” Aiah says. “This is Aiah.”

“It’s Miss Aiah!” Said to a third party. Then, to Aiah, “Miss Aiah, what’s happening?”

“An attempted military coup. Is everyone all right?”

“First thing we knew of it, a helicopter fired a rocket right into the clerical office. Marberta and Grundlen were killed, and some others were injured by debris.”

“Great Senko.” Aiah sighs. Marberta and Grundlen were clerks, an older woman with children to support and a young twisted man just out of school, working to earn money toward a college degree. Aiah had hired them both personally.

There is no reason in the world why either of them had to die.

“I sent everyone else down to the shelters,” Ethemark says, “but since the explosion triggered the sprinkler system, Heorka and I stayed behind to try to save the paperwork and files. We’ve been hiding in the secure room; it seemed the safest place. And the sprinkers turned off in a few minutes—I think they lost pressure, with all the fires in the building.”

“There doesn’t seem to be anything happening right now,” Aiah says. “You should probably go back to the secure room. Maybe I’ll join you in a while.” She looks up at the uniforms clumping beneath the big illuminated map. “There doesn’t seem to be anything happening here.”

“Miss Aiah, who is behind this?”

“Radeen, apparently. And probably Gentri.”

“Radeen.” Ethemark’s tone turns bitter. “I doubt he is staging this for the benefit of the twisted.”

“I doubt it,” she says, a sensation of weariness ghosting through her. Agendas, she thinks; everyone has an agenda.

But at least Ethemark’s is where she can see it.

Unlike Radeen’s.

“Miss Aiah, we want to fight.” Ethemark’s sudden volume makes Aiah wince: she twists the volume knob on the headset.

“I’m a mage,” Ethemark continues, “and so are many people here. I’m sure we will all be willing, the entire department, to do our part.”

“You’re not a military mage,” Aiah says. “And neither am I.”

“There are some things we can do, even if we’re untrained! We’re telepresence specialists, most of us… we can scout the enemy if nothing else.”

True, Aiah thinks, and clouds lift a little from her heart. “We might be able to free military mages for more important work.”

“Exactly!”

“I will tell Constantine,” Aiah says. “In the meantime, go back to the secure room and keep safe.”

“May I send Heorka to the shelters to find our mages?”

“Yes. Go ahead. Find out how many are willing to assist us, and then call in a report to me in the military command center.”

“Very good, miss.”

Feeling less hopeless now that she has something to offer, Aiah hangs the headset on its hook and looks up. Constantine is in conference with Colonel Geymard, the Garshabi professional whose mercenary soldiers have fought on Constantine’s behalf ever since the Cheloki Wars. Geymard is an erect, crop-haired man in battle dress, with a lined, weathered face and cold ice-blue eyes. It was his brigade that dropped from the sky to confront the Metropolitan Guard of the Keremaths, and now his unit, reinforced, defends the Aerial Palace.

“… and mortars in place,” he says. “I’m setting men on the rooftops around the Palace—the Palace overlooks the roofs, so they’ll be of limited use to the enemy, but when the enemy comes for us we’ll be able to set up a kill zone.”

“I need you to send a detachment to rescue Triumvir Hilthi. Armored vehicles, I think—drive through some of those police roadblocks, liberate the streets around the Palace so that more of our folk can join us. And then you need to take the triumvir to Broadcast Plaza so that he can make his appeal to the people.”

“If you will give me his location, I will arrange it.”

Constantine and Geymard make the necessary plans while Aiah sips coffee, and then Geymard leaves to give the orders. Aiah stands up, says “Minister,” but Constantine waves her back to her seat.

“In a moment, if you please. I have business more urgent.”

He takes a headset and tries to contact the Marine Brigade. Whoever answers puts him on hold, and Aiah can see Constantine trying to control his impatience, lips pressed to a thin line, free hand clenching and unclenching in his trousers pocket. Eventually he picks up another headset. “Put me through to somewhere else in the Marine Brigade. Try—” He tilts his head to one side as he thinks. “Try the gunboat maintenance pool.” A grin spreads wide as someone answers.

“Sergeant Krang?” he repeats. “I am pleased to be able to speak with you. This is Constantine, the Minister of Resources.” His grin broadens and amusement lights his eyes, another of those lightning shifts of mood, from trucu-lence to pleasure, that take Aiah’s breath away. “I am very well, thank you for asking. How are you?” Another pause, and Constantine’s eyes glow with delight. His grin beckons everyone in the room to share in his relish of this conversation.

“I am sorry about the sciatica,” he says, “and I hope the new treatments will be effective. The reason I call is to discover if you have been attacked. Some part of the Second Brigade has been trying to overthrow the government that you Marines helped us install a few months ago.”

The light in his eyes turns somber as he listens to the answer, and his grin fades. Aiah’s rising hope falls. “I see,” Constantine says. “Is there anyone to argue the other case? Anyone who speaks for the government?”

Another long pause. Constantine begins to fidget, his thick fingers idly spinning a gold-plated pen on the polished tabletop, watching it bob as it whirls in silence…” And the troops are not inclined? That is good.” He frowns. “Is there anyone I can send to you? Obvertag. Very good… Will you do me the favor of remaining on this line, Sergeant Krang? I thank you.”

He looks up, gestures at an aide as he covers the mouthpiece. “Get me Colonel Obvertag. He is deputy advisor to—” “Dead,” Sorya says.

Constantine looks at her, brows lifted. “Yes?”

“We tried to contact him early in the game,” Sorya says. “He was valuable—brought the Marines to us before, after the Keremaths forced him to retire for the crime of being an efficient officer. But his… widow …” A little smile flashes catlike teeth. “His widow said some officers visited him earlier today, in hopes he would join them, and when he refused them there was a scuffle, and he was killed. A bungle, apparently—they hadn’t meant to harm him, but when he began to call them avaricious incompetents and greedy fools, they defended their honor and professionalism by filling him full of lead.”

“You did not tell me this before?”

She looks at him with a degree of patience. “It has been a complex day, Constantine. A few things, now and again, may escape my memory.” She rises, tugs her tunic into place. “I will go to Plasm Control. We should organize a counterattack soon, just to see how good these rebels are.”

Constantine uncovers the mouthpiece. “I regret to inform you that the rebels have killed Colonel Obvertag. Shot him down in his own apartment, in front of his wife. You may confirm this simply by calling her. Will you share this news with your comrades?” Pause. There is a glow of triumph in his eyes.

“Thank you, Sergeant Krang. Please leave this line open and return to it when you have confirmed Obvertag’s assassination to your satisfaction. I hope I may use you as a conduit to the other Marines.” He flicks the switch that places the sergeant on hold, glances over the line of uniforms in the room.

“That may swing things our way—if the Marine Brigade loved anyone, it was Obvertag. His last service to us