City on Fire (Metropolitan 2) (32 page)

The command center is alive with tension, as if there were an invisible thread of burning plasm connecting everyone in the room. Constantine stands before the map wearing one of the golden-and-ceramic headsets, but when he sees Aiah enter he speaks a few words into the mouthpiece, then strips off the headset and moves— swiftly, with that incredible certitude of movement— to fold her in his arms. Weariness falls on Aiah at that instant, and for a moment her knees threaten to give way.

Constantine absorbs the extra weight, and then she feels him stiffen with tension. The bristle on his chin scratches her cheek— he hasn’t shaved. “There’s blood on you,” he says. “Are you hurt?”

“No. We ran into police. One of my people was killed.” She swallows. “He was a hero. Davath.”

“Are you hurt at all?”

“Not really, no. Some scrapes.” And, of course, the knowledge that one of her people was gunned down while she did nothing but watch.

“Thank you for sending Arroy to get me out,” Aiah says. “I don’t know what became of Ethemark.”

Constantine flakes dried blood from her chin. “It wasn’t Ethemark’s fault,” he says. “We had to cut off plasm to all mages who weren’t actually fighting, and in our haste we didn’t realize that it would leave you vulnerable. The battle over Xurcal started before we were ready, there was already a fight going on over the aerodrome, and we were exhausting our plasm supplies. All nonessential plasm use had to be cut.” Constantine’s fingers idly stroke her hair, and Aiah wants to melt into him, fuse with his comforting warmth...

“Sir.” An aide. “Hilthi on the line for you.”

“The war will not wait,” Constantine says. He kisses her forehead. “Get a shower, some rest— there are showers in the room adjacent, and cots in the shelters.”

Aiah is sufficiently exhausted that she finds herself in her own apartment, in her own shower, before she realizes that she has put herself in danger in the event the building is shelled or rocketed again. The realization drifts through her mind like a cloud, light and without effect. She is too tired to care, and, wrapped in a towel, collapses onto her bed and is asleep the instant she closes her eyes.

Some hours later she comes screaming awake, every nerve jangling, certain there has been shooting or an explosion. Her eyes gaze into the darkened room in search of an enemy while her heart hammers in her throat. And then the communications array chirps again, and she realizes that it’s only the phone.

She picks up the headset with shaking hands, and it takes a long time to settle the earpieces over her ears.

“Aiah?” It’s her grandmother’s voice.

“Nana?” The voice from her past is disorienting: for a moment she thinks she’s back in Jaspeer.

Old Galaiah’s voice is stern. “We’ve all left messages! We’re frightened to death!”

“I’m sorry,” Aiah says. She brushes tangled curls from her eyes and tries to remember if she saw the message light when she returned to her apartment. “I’ve been ... out in the fighting. But I’m back, and I’m safe.”

“
When you hear the all-clear,” Galaiah says, “I want you to go out and get food. Get it now, before there’s rationing, ne? Bulk food— rice is good, or dried noodles, because vat curd will spoil and you can’t trust that the refrigeration will stay on. Otherwise flour, any kind. Condensed or powdered milk— goat’s milk is best. And canned vegetables and fruit— don’t eat the fruit, you can trade it for other stuff later, because it will become very valuable. People will pay anything for the taste of a peach, you’d be surprised... Hey, are you
listening
?”

“Yes, Nana.” Overwhelmed by all the detail.

“Just rice, with a little extra protein from eggs or meat, will last you a long time. You can live for months that way if you have to, ne?”

Galaiah’s instructions go on, explicit and detailed, and Aiah listens, first in confusion and then in growing understanding, because she remembers Galaiah has gone through this before, years of war, when the Metropolis of Barkazi was broken.

Her grandmother, Aiah realizes, is passing on useful skills. It’s what she’s always done.

“ Nana,” she says. “This fighting won’t go on long. It’s not a war, it’s a coup, and—”

“
That’s what
we
thought.”

The retort brings Aiah up short. “Yes, Nana," she says.

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
hermit
? He’s been saying
things
about you.”

“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 a shower 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.

The Supreme One has declared the rebellion to be treason against Heaven. For confirmation call any temple or 089-3857-5937.

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.

THE BUILDING DOES NOT FALL TO THE FIRST BLOW OF THE WRECKING BALL.

A THOUGHT-MESSAGE FROM HIS PERFECTION, THE PROPHET OF AJAS

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
station
I sent Geymard’s soldiers against Radeen’s
troops
, caught them in marching order, and mauled ’em— vehicles burning on the bridges, soldiers killed or scattered, what was left went running back to Radeen, two motorized companies toasted to cinders, a morale-booster for the rest of the Second Brigade.
That
was the battle you heard over your heads.”

“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 prematurely, 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 he has 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.”

“And plasm?”

“The plasm station at military headquarters still works for them. Xurcal is useless. We doubt that the morale of Radeen’s troops is high— we have reports of desertions. But they are getting plasm beamed to them from abroad— from Lanbola principally— and Radeen can keep his tanks topped up, alas.” He shrugs. “I have asked the diplomats to do what they can, but in the meantime I’m going to finish it.”

He points to the map. “Arviro will leave a force to hold the aerodrome,” he says, “but he is disengaging the balance of the Marines and sailing them to Government Harbor. Geymard is readying an assault from the direction of the Palace. And soon—” He holds his hands out, then claps them together. “Bang, we’ll hit Radeen from both sides at once, and that will finish it.”

Aiah looks up at him. “That simple?”

Constantine favors her with a cynical smile. “Nothing is that simple. Combat is, by its nature, volatile. We can’t tell what Radeen will do, whether he will surrender or try to fight. But what will happen in the end, yes, is a clap of the hands and an end to the rebellion, and Caraqui will wake from this episode as if from a bad dream, and blink and gaze at the world and wonder how it is that so many things have changed. Ah . . .” His head tilts up as he observes a newcomer, eyes focused over Aiah’s head.

Aiah turns to see Sorya approaching, walking with her confident, catlike stride. Her green eyes turn in Aiah’s direction, and she acknowledges Aiah’s presence with a close-lipped, superior smile. Then she turns to Constantine and— Aiah has never seen this before—salutes.

“My boss,” Sorya says, “the Minister of State Belckon, has lodged protests with the governments of Barchab and Lanbola for supporting the rebels with plasm. Barchab professed ignorance, and has agreed to shut off the plasm supply at once and also to supply us with plasm on request, at their usual rates. The Lanboli situation is more complex— their president is a figurehead only, and their party chairman is visiting another metropolis, and the foreign minister is at a meeting of the Polar League... Mr. Belckon doesn’t seem able to find anyone to complain to, other than some clerks.”