City on Fire

vehicles. Arviro now stands in danger of being caught between two enemy forces.

Constantine’s reaction is fast: he launches Geymard’s mercenaries straight at Government Harbor, hoping to pin the Second Brigade before they can move. Geymard’s men encounter only a rear guard, but it’s a rear guard that’s well fortified and takes some digging out. Mages burn plasm as they battle back and forth overhead. Columns of smoke stand above the Popular Assembly.

But the invading mercenaries, when they move, don’t head south toward Radeen, but instead race east; and Radeen doesn’t head toward the aerodrome, but northeast. Aiah tracks their course on the map, and sees the paths will eventually cross: Radeen should meet his mercenaries just south of Lorkhin Island. And beyond Lorkhin Island is the Metropolis of Lanbola, where Kerehorn waits with the rest of the Provisional Government. Perhaps they are giving up and retreating off the map entirely.

Constantine takes no chances: he hurls everything he’s got at Radeen’s group, reasoning that though the rebel mercenaries are better fighters, they are useless without Radeen’s political direction. The Marines and Geymard’s soldiers harry their retreat, and mages hurl thunderbolts at their heads. Radeen’s units have been hit hard already in the battle over Xurcal, and their retreat turns into a shambles—wrecked vehicles sending out columns of smoke, troops abandoning arms and vehicles and fleeing into the surrounding buildings, others surrendering the first chance they get.

Popular vengeance now turns the retreat to nightmare. The Caraquis, till now held in check by their fear of rebel arms, fly into a frenzy once they realize the rebels are trying to run. Their rage brought to a boil after listening to speeches by Parq or Hilthi, ordinary people try to build barricades against Radeen, fling brickbats, incendiaries, and filth from rooftops or open fire with weapons long hidden from the authorities. Aiah hears reports of trucks being attacked by mobs, of soldiers who try to surrender but who are instead torn to pieces, and their weapons then seized to use against their comrades.

Half an hour after the retreat begins, the Second Brigade dissolves under the assaults, and its leaders— Radeen, Gentri, and their officers—are only saved by their mercenaries, who send a detachment into the rout to pluck them from the talons of the mob.

There is a pause while Constantine gives out orders to shift the line of attack against the mercenaries, and then suddenly the communications arrays light as new reports come in. There is a hush in the room. “Confirmation!” someone shouts into a mouthpiece. “We need confirmation!”

“Assign a mage to it,” Constantine says, his voice a soft rumble audible only in the sudden hushed silence. There is a quality to his words that causes a shiver to run up Aiah’s spine.

People wait frozen in place, statues silvered by video light. Then the hushed words, “It’s confirmed.”

Aiah holds her breath. There is a clicking as gold-filigree control buttons are pushed, click click click.

Pink lights glow on the northeastern corner of the map, then advance toward the heart of the city. Click, click, click, whole districts falling to an unknown enemy. Three plasm stations, Aiah thinks; four. Undefended except by lightly armed military police.

“Ohh, heart of Senko,” Ethemark moans.

A final click and Lorkhin Island glows pink. Aiah thinks of the huge buildings there, sentinel towers looking down on the city, towers soon to be ringed with guns. An alien fortress.

“Tell Geymard and Arviro to cease their pursuit and regroup,” Constantine says. “We don’t want them running headlong into that before they’re ready. Mages are to cease action till we get more plasm.” He looks at Sorya. “Contact the Timocracy. I think we’re going to require two divisions at least, with support elements. And tell Barchab we will need their plasm as soon as possible.” He turns to another aide. “I need an estimate of how long it will take to repair the aerodrome. We will need to land heavy troop carriers there.”

He looks around the room, at the aides, soldiers, and technicians standing in stunned silence. “You have all done very well,” he says. “This—” He waves at the map. “This is the fault of no one here, but the result of treachery—” His voice booms on the word, and he shakes a fist at the map. “Treachery on the part of certain criminals in Lanbola, who will, with their friends, soon be brought to account.” There is a strange wild light in his eyes, something fierce and feral. “That,” he says, “I can guarantee.”

Taikoen, Aiah thinks. A memory of the blood-splashed walls of her apartment flashes before her eyes, and she tastes bile in her throat.

Suddenly Constantine is in motion, marching from the table toward Aiah in the back of the room, the crowd parting before him like the sea. His glance is fixed on the double doors behind Aiah, but he hesitates as he nears her, then steps toward her.

“Do you know how to get ahold of Rohder?” he asks.

Aiah looks at Constantine in surprise. Rohder hasn’t crossed her mind since the rebellion began.

“I know where his apartment is,” she says. “I don’t know whether he ever made it back there. The fighting blew up right around him, and he might be injured or in prison somewhere.”

“He was well last I saw him. Call his apartment. We’ll need every drop of plasm we can generate, and I want him back on the project. He can call on unlimited manpower and as much computer time as he needs.” “Yes, Minister.”

Constantine gives a frowning look at the door. “As for me, I must call Hilthi and Parq and summon them here. I cannot fill this political vacuum forever, for all that Sorya thinks I can.”

“Good luck.” She stands, makes the Sign of Karlo over his forehead. His look softens.

“Thank you,” he says, and makes his way out.

Aiah turns back to the room, the hushed people going about their work. Sorya stands by the big table, a pair of gold-and-ivory headphones worn over her peaked cap as she tries to reach someone in the Timocracy, and she glances at the map with a complacent look as she puts a cigaret in her mouth and flicks her platinum lighter. As the little flame brightens Aiah hears Sorya’s words again, Declare yourself triumvir. Or better yet, Metropolitan.

Aiah’s hand flies to her mouth in shock.

Declare yourself triumvir. That’s what this is about.

Aiah’s blood turns chill.

Sorya has arranged it all somehow. The countercoup is, in some sense, hers.

Probably she did not conspire with Radeen and Gentri and Great-Uncle Rathmen, no. But she had to have known at least some of their plans. She allowed their coup to take place, careful to preserve only those people she needed. She was able to save Constantine from assassination, but not Drumbeth. She and certain loyal people were on hand in the Palace in order to respond.

All truces are temporary. Sorya’s principal maxim.

How else could she advance, except in a world of chaos? Who needs a political intelligence department in a time of peace and relaxed tension? But in a time of madness and war, Sorya will become indispensable.

And when Constantine rises, Sorya will follow in his wake. Until, in the end, she no longer needs him, and then…

Sorya’s green eyes flicker across the room, and Aiah looks abruptly down at the floor so that Sorya won’t see the terrible knowledge behind her eyes…

What can she do? Aiah wonders. She bites her lip.

In the humming silence, no answer comes.

TWELVE

Aiah asks for a meeting with Constantine, but doesn’t get one till the next day, and then it turns out to be in a basement room, and with a swarm of other people.

There is a conference room in Constantine’s suite of offices, but its huge bay window faces Lorkhin Island and any rocket batteries or artillery that might soon be placed there, and so the meeting is held deep in the Palace, in a lounge intended for maintenance workers. The furniture is cheap plastic and the walls vibrate to the sound of generators and compressors in adjacent rooms. Taped to the bare walls are pinups of seminude women, some faded with age. Aiah even recognizes the Nimbus Twins, frequently seen cavorting on her brothers’ walls when she