Her handwriting is out of control—it’s like the Adrenaline Monster has her by the wrist—but she writes it all down anyway on the pad she keeps by her bed, then thanks the old lady and asks her to call everyone else in the family and tell them she’s all right.
“You do what I tell you,” Galaiah says.
“Yes, Nana.”
“Do you know about this
“Nana, I have to go. I’ll call you when it’s over.”
“You do what I say!”
“Tell everyone I love them. Good-bye.”
Aiah presses the disconnect button and puts the headset on its hook. Waves of adrenaline keep shuddering through her. She listens carefully, but can detect no sound of fighting, no aircraft, no shells falling, no rockets.
Her brief rest has only made her aware of how tired she truly is. She brushes hair back from her face and depolarizes the windows, wincing away from bright Shieldlight. The low clouds have broken up to let pillars of light shine down—it’s like the gods are using searchlights—and one such light-pillar causes raindrops on the window to glow like diamonds. A short distance away a black cloud releases rain on the city.
Then, in an instant, an image forms across the sky, a huge face scowling down on the city, and Aiah recognizes the image as Parq in his Mask of Awe, even though it is canted at an angle in the sky and is obviously aimed at nearby Government Harbor. Letters surround the face, and Aiah cranes her neck to read them.
Smart, Aiah thinks. Any soldier near a telephone can confirm that the message isn’t just propaganda. Parq was making it hard for any Dalavan soldier to continue fighting for the rebellion.
There was something to be said for panic after all.
Aiah rises and goes into her front room, reaches for the t-grip she’s left plugged into her plasm source, and triggers it.
Nothing. Domestic plasm use has been switched off.
She might be needed, she thinks.
She finds clean clothes and heads for the command center.
Uniformed staff mass quietly beneath the illuminated map, which now displays much more information: large areas of the city glow a friendly blue, and the angry pink areas held by the enemy are reduced to three—the aerodrome, Government Harbor, and Xurcal Station.
“The rebels are holding on there,” Ethemark says. “I don’t know why. All I know is what I’m overhearing.” His goggle eyes narrow. “The map is misleading as far as the aerodrome is concerned. I think we’ve recaptured it, mostly if not completely, but they haven’t changed the map.”
Ethemark still sits in the back of the command center, presumably because no one has thought to ask him to leave. He bends wearily over the long table in front of him, chin resting on his folded arms, a cold cup of coffee in front of him. Aiah finds a chair and coffee and sits next to him.
“There’s a morgue set up here now,” she says. “I’ve just come from it. Davath is there, and our two others that were killed in the rocket attack.”
“Ah.”
She rubs her face. Little jitters of adrenaline jump through her nerves, and contrast strangely with the bone-weariness trying to drag her into sleep. “Davath was a hero. He saved our lives. I’d like to contact his family.”
“He has a mother still alive, I know. Somewhere in a half-world. I’ll have to find out where.”
She looks around. Very little seems to be going on.
“Has Constantine asked us for anything?”
“No. We’re just—”
And at this point Constantine enters with Sorya. She is still in the smart uniform that looks as if it were pressed three minutes ago, and he is still in his cords and leather jacket. Even if Constantine hasn’t had time to rest or change his clothes, his body seems charged with power, and he moves like a monarch surveying his realm. Pleasure glows on Sorya’s delicate blonde features, and her cap is tilted at a confident angle. Suddenly, as if a switch has been turned, the room comes alive: the background hum of conversation grows louder; people begin to bustle on errands; others approach Constantine with news and queries. He listens to them, nods, makes brief replies, his lips turned up in a secretive half-smile.
The atmosphere in the room seems lighter. It’s as if everyone can sense the tide turning, that all the news from this point on will be good.
Constantine takes one of the ceramic-and-gold headsets, speaks briefly, and gives some orders. He speaks with Sorya and she leaves for Plasm Control, almost skipping. He puts the headset down, sees Aiah waiting in the back of the room, and moves to join her.
“I hope you are refreshed,” he says.
“A blast of plasm and I’ll be fine.”
He considers, head atilt. “In a few hours perhaps. We haven’t the plasm to spare at present.”
Weariness enfolds Aiah’s mind like a swaddling of soft foam. “I understand,” she says. She looks up at the map. “Things seem much the same.”
“On the contrary.” Constantine smiles and perches on the table. “We’re about to finish it, I think. You turned the tide at Xurcal Station.”
Aiah blinks at the map. “They’re still holding it.”
“Only because I permit it. It’s the anvil on which I am beating the Second Brigade.” He laughs, and the deep, familiar rumble lifts Aiah’s heart. “While you and your teams were isolating Xurcal, Geymard and I were prepositioning troops to storm the place. Radeen either observed our preparations or realized Xurcal was vulnerable, because he sent a detachment out to reinforce the station. So instead of attacking the
“It didn’t seem so one-sided from my perspective,” Aiah says.
Constantine looks at her, and there is a hint of sadness in his glowing eyes. He reaches out, strokes her cheek with the back of his hand. “It was hard fighting, yes,” he says. “I had to commit my own people premature, and it cost us. But afterward I realized I could use Xurcal as bait, and so I declined to take it, even though its plasm was exhausted and many of the police guarding it were deserting. I set Geymard’s people about the place in ambush, and sure enough Radeen took the bait. Sent a reinforced battalion to Xurcal, and we sprang the trap and wrecked Radeen’s whole force… A few we allowed to escape to Xurcal, so that their appeals for help may tempt Radeen to send another force to its doom, but he seems to have learned his lesson, too late for him…”
He turns to the map, gestures. “Meanwhile, the enthusiastic Captain Arviro has been assaulting the aerodrome with the entire Marine Brigade. A bit ponderously—no tactical elegance, and more casualties than I would have liked—but with great spirit. Radeen’s mercenaries were pushed out of the aerodrome buildings, but they withdrew to other buildings overlooking the runways, and now the two forces are glowering at each other, neither able to make use of the ’drome—and that is satisfaction enough, for the present. And so there we are—mercenaries and Marines stalemated at the aerodrome, Xurcal ours whenever we wish it, and Radeen still in Government Harbor with a battered force.”
