might have been the foolish fashion in which he died.” He glances up at the map, reflected coordinates glittering in his eyes, and then turns to his assembled staff.
“Several of the Marines’ officers, including their brigadier, ordered them to embark and head for Government Harbor,” he tells them, “but the soldiers have the scent of them and do not like it, and have so far refused. But neither will they declare for us, and I must find someone to bring them over. Do we have someone here willing to make the journey? Preferably a Marine, or someone else who will know their people?”
The uniforms glance at each other. A youngish man, bull-necked and bespectacled, steps forward. “I’ve served with the Marines. Gunboats and bellyachers, both.”
“Your name, Captain?”
“Arviro, Minister.”
Constantine nods. “Very good, Captain Arviro. May I ask—I realize this is a delicate question, but—when you served with the Marines… did they
The captain considers this question. “My platoon gave me a party when I married, so I suppose they liked me well enough. There are always discipline problems, even in a good unit, but I don’t think I gave them cause to hate me.”
Constantine straightens and looks down at the officer, his voice like an incantation, magic to work his will on the world. “I will give you a boat, then,” he says, “and an escort. I would have you go to the Marine compound, talk to the soldiers, and bring them back to the government. Arrest any rebel officers—if they resist, you may shoot them—then report to me.”
The captain nods, very serious, oblivious to any notion of high drama. “Very good, sir.”
“In the absence of any loyal senior officers,” Constantine says, “you may consider yourself the commander of the Marine Brigade. But you will have to win the brigade to you, and that will not be easy.” He looks at Arviro with steady eyes. “It is not given to many officers to earn their command this way.”
The captain blinks behind his spectacles. “Yes, Minister. I’ll do what I can.”
“I will write an order confirming your authority, and then arrange for an escort with Geymard when he returns.”
The captain hesitates for a moment, then speaks. “Beg pardon, Minister, but Marines will
Constantine is surprised. “Are there Marines in the building?”
“There’s an honor guard at the Ministry of War. It’s only a squad, but they have combat gear available. Besides, if we’re seriously opposed, we’ll be killed no matter what our force, and if there’s only light opposition or none, the squad and the boat’s crew should suffice.”
Constantine nods. “Very well. Let me write out your orders, and then I will leave you to your work.”
As he bends over a sheet of paper and picks up his golden pen, one of Sorya’s aides approaches to murmur in Constantine’s ear. Understanding glimmers in his eyes, and as he presents the captain with his orders, urgency underlies his voice.
“I have received word that planes are landing at the aerodrome and discharging troops. So your first task, on taking command of the Marines, is to move to the aerodrome and retake it.”
The captain nods. “Very good, sir.”
Arviro leaves and Constantine looks after him, a thoughtful frown on his face. He turns, looks at the others, and murmurs, “Well, between Sergeant Krang, Captain Arviro, and the late Colonel Obvertag, we may be able to throw a fistful of diamond dust in our enemies’ gears.” He looks up. “How many combat mages do we have available? We may be able to create some mischief among these troop transports as they land.”
Aiah glances up sharply—perhaps this is the time she should mention her mages in the shelters.
“More are reporting, sir.” Another aide. “Perhaps a dozen, though not all are trained.”
“And sufficient plasm for them?” He turns and glances at Aiah, sitting alert in her chair. “Miss Aiah, I believe I need you now.”
Aiah puts down her coffee—she has almost emptied the cup, she sees, all without realizing she had been drinking—and rises. “Yes, Minister?” But Constantine is already in motion, his broad back to her, and she has to trot to keep up.
Words fly to her lips, the words she’s been wanting to speak this last hour. “Minister,” she says, “I’m sorry about Gentri. You were right and—”
He dismisses her apology with a wave of one big hand as he dives into the tunnel that leads to Plasm Control. The passage is claustrophobic despite the cheerful brass fixtures and vermilion carpet: Aiah can sense the huge plasm reservoirs on either side, the vast weight of the concrete and armor, holding back the infinite patient power of the sea…
“It is not your fault that Gentri was clever,” Constantine says. “I suspected something, and Sorya could not find an answer, and I asked you to help… I had not the right to expect you to find a thing when the experts could not.”
“But
Constantine booms out the door at the end of the tunnel, and the vast space that is Plasm Control swims into giddy perspective. People sit intent before banks of glowing dials and brass levers. The icon to Two-Faced Tangid glowers down at them with red electric eyes.
Poised like a dancer with one foot turned out, Sorya stands leaning against a console, intent in conversation with Captain Delruss, the stocky engineer who had given Aiah her first tour of the palace. Constantine and Aiah approach.
“These reinforcements landing at the aerodrome,” Constantine begins. “Our friends in the Timocracy did not warn us that these people were mobilizing?”
Sorya looks disturbed. “I have heard nothing.”
Delruss—born and raised in the Timocracy of Garshab—speaks in a soft voice. “We are very good at operational security. Possibly the destination was kept secret until the units were actually in flight. So unless someone very high up was sympathetic to the current government here, or had a friend here he wished to warn, it isn’t surprising you were caught off guard.”
“Who is paying for them?” Sorya wonders. “I do not think that Radeen or Gentri have that kind of money, and the soldiers of the Timocracy do not move without ready coin.” Her eyes narrow. “I suspect our neighbors. Lanbola does not love us, nor does Charna. Barchab wants the Keremaths back, but their government is so disorganized I doubt they could keep something like this secret.”
“We shall find out in time,” Constantine says. “But until then we need to deal with the soldiers themselves. Sorya, I think we need to make their landing considerably less pleasant.”
Pleasure glitters in Sorya’s green eyes. “May I have free use of the available mages?”
“So long as security here is not imperiled, yes. At the very least, try to crater the runways.”
Sorya gives an elaborate, ironic bow. “Your servant, sir.”
As Sorya glides away, Constantine turns to Delruss. “How much plasm can we call on? Can we afford to go on the offensive?”
“We’ve ordered all the plasm stations in the city to cease non-emergency use and to prepare to send us any stored plasm beyond that required for station defense, but three have not responded. We have thrown emergency switches to take them off the well, but these did not answer properly and have probably been sabotaged. Four other plasm stations reported that police tried to talk their way past security, but were turned away by the military police guards without violence.”
“So the other stations probably made the mistake of letting the police inside?”
“Very possibly.” Delruss looks apologetic. “There was no alert, of course. No reason to suspect them.”
Constantine’s eyes light with calculation. “Three stations,” he muses. “And of course the Second Brigade’s own headquarters plasm. That isn’t enough to breach our defenses, but it can raise a lot of mischief and will probably be supplemented with plasm purchased abroad. If our enemies can afford foreign troops, they can certainly afford foreign plasm. But—” He smiles. “They tried to take seven plasm stations and got only three. They
