long, oval tub that would have been ample for one. The scented water floats over Aiah like a milder version of the plasm fire that Constantine has called to aid her pleasure. The stress knots in her neck and shoulders, which had already begun to loosen their grip over the last few hours, are dissolved entirely by soap, scent, and Constantine’s powerful hands. Aiah dries her hair, then puts on her little red dress while in the other room Constantine calls Aldemar on the phone.
“She is the only person who knows we’re here,” he says as he hangs up the headset. “If something happened to her, I would be embarrassed to find a way back to Caraqui.”
He gives Aldemar a few minutes, and then slides open the patio door to let her plasm sourceline enter. A cool breeze floats in, along with the sound of traffic. He and Aiah fall into one another’s arms, Aiah pressing herself to his massive chest, his ruffled shirt against her cheek. She closes her eyes, wanting to prolong the moment, and keeps them shut as the power snarls around her.
“I brought you back to my apartment,” Aldemar says as Aiah blinks at the surroundings. She sits on a sofa with her feet up, elegant as possible considering she is dressed in a bathrobe with her hair wrapped in a kind of turban.
Aiah turns to her. “Thank you,” she says. “That was wonderful of you.”
“These days I seem to be using my talents mostly to move spies and munitions about,” she says. “I’m pleased to use my abilities in the service of love. And I would be happy to do so again.” She casts a skeptical look at Constantine. “//the two of you ever have another free moment.”
Constantine bends to kiss Aldemar’s hand, then her cheek. “Thank you,” he says.
Aldemar looks at Aiah. “We’ll have lunch soon, yes?”
“Of course.”
Constantine straightens, sighs. A kind of weight seems to settle onto his shoulders, and a distant crash of artillery rattles the windows. “And now,” he says, “we must return to our lives.” A kind of resentment enters his face. “Our military, militarized lives.”
Aiah’s heart sinks. She had not wanted a reminder.
Criminals and war and refugees and horror.
The windows rattle again.
Time to go back to work.
POLAR LEAGUE OFFERS MEDIATION GOVERNMENT CONSIDERS OFFER
Aiah and Constantine hold hands as they walk down the corridors of the Swan Wing. There is a thoughtful look on Constantine’s face.
“Karlo’s Brigade…,” he says, and his voice trails off.
“Yes?” She is mildly surprised at this choice of subject.
“Do you suppose, being Barkazils, that they have a relationship with Landro’s Escaliers on the other side?”
“I don’t know.”
“It occurs to me that we might make use of it somehow. Landro’s Escaliers are in the line, holding the Corridor between Lorkhin Island and Lanbola. And if they could be persuaded to switch sides…”
“Constantine,” Aiah points out, “they’re from the
“Yes, I know. Garshab’s mercenaries pride themselves on honoring their contracts, and up till now they’ve been fighting very well for both sides, against people they know and have trained alongside.”
“Exactly.”
“But there are ways to slip contracts with a clear conscience—that’s what small print is
“Good luck.” Skeptically.
“And to that end, I think it is time you became more prominent.”
Alarm brings warmth to Aiah’s cheeks. “Minister?” she says.
“You have succeeded very well in avoiding celebrity till now. Perhaps it is time people became aware of you.” “No!” Aiah is appalled.
“Celebrity is a weapon,” Constantine says. “You should learn to use it.” “I don’t want it.”
“The likes of Parq will find it much harder to remove you from the PED once you are well-known and appreciated here in Caraqui.”
She looks at him. “Why don’t we find someone else to be famous?”
Constantine continues as if he had not heard. “We will make you the most prominent Barkazil in the world.”
“I don’t want it. And besides, it’s ridiculous. Who’d be interested in
Constantine smiles. “You underestimate the power of modern media, video in particular.” His heavy hand pats her shoulder in a gesture meant to be reassuring. “Don’t worry,” he says with a white smile. “I will handle it all.”
FIFTEEN
It is the Caraqui Medal of Merit, and Aiah, prominent in her civilian suit, stands amid a line of uniforms to receive it. Constantine, Minister of War, walks affably down the line, pinning medals on chests and chatting with the soldiers.
Aiah’s forehead prickles: the video lights are hot. Constantine’s plan to expand her fame is gathering speed.
Earlier Aiah’s apartment was invaded by a hairdresser, a manicurist, and a cosmetician. Their job is to make her exciting and glamorous for the video cameras. “The planes of your face aren’t going to show up on video,” the cosmetician tells her.
“I don’t
“You will when I’m done with you,” the cosmetician says; and now Aiah is to get a new face painted on at the commencement of every work shift. It’s an
She also has to admit that she could probably learn to enjoy the pampering.
More video lights glare at her. Constantine arrives, pins the medal delicately to her lapel, and bends to kiss her cheek. “Congratulations,” he says.
She is receiving the medal for her actions at Fresh Water Bay and Xurcal stations on the day of the countercoup. At her insistence, Davath will postumously be given the same decoration.
Constantine hands her the satin-lined case with Davath’s medal. Its gold and enamel gleam in the lights of the video cameras.
“This decoration is postumously awarded to your colleague Davath, who died heroically in a skirmish near Xurcal Station on the day the Provisionals attacked,” Constantine says.
Aiah clears her throat and takes the decoration from Constantine’s hand. “He died to save me and the others in my party,” she says. “I will keep it in trust for his family.”
If she can ever find them, that is. Their half-world is in occupied Caraqui.
At least she didn’t flub her lines.
The cameras linger on her as Constantine passes to the next soldier. Aiah keeps her back straight and tries to think heroic thoughts.
All that comes to her mind is the hope that her family will never see this.
