City on Fire (Metropolitan 2) (59 page)

“
What... hideous... treachery
....” Constantine’s eloquence deserts him as he watches the impediments multiply, one after another. Aiah watches him roar, pump fists into the air, pace manically back and forth. There is a mad desperation in his eyes; he is reliving, Aiah thinks, some nightmare from his past, from Cheloki, some other plan that failed. Engineers work frantically on the bridge. Officers are shouting words like “utmost” and “at all costs.”

“Done,” someone reports.

“
Roll them
!” Constantine cries, and communication techs bend over their boards to give the orders.

Constantine sags, fists planted on a table, head bent. The nightmare, for the moment, has been averted. Aiah feels an impulse to walk over and comfort him.

But he thinks of her first. His head comes up, and then he turns to Aiah, straightens, and walks over to her. “I would like your agreement at this point,” he says. “Karlo’s Brigade has been in reserve all day. I would like to send them across the bridge and have them finish this war once and for all.”

“Yes,” Aiah says. “Of course.” She rises, and blackness invades her vision. She sways from sheer weariness, reaches a hand toward her chair for support. “I want to go to them.”

Constantine’s hand closes firmly on her shoulder. “Do not, I beg you,” he says. “You will contribute nothing to their effort, and your presence will only distract them. After things have settled, perhaps, a visit would be in order.”

Her will is not strong enough to resist. “May I speak to General Ceison on the phone?”

“Of course. If he can be found.”

He can’t: apparently the brigade is already in motion. Aiah sits. Weariness swims through her mind.

“Miss?” Aiah looks up to find a smiling, white-jacketed steward looking down at her. “May I get you a sandwich? A salad? Coffee?”

Aiah wonders how many shifts it has been since she last ate.

“All three,” she decides.

The steward smiles. “Right away, miss.”

Aiah watches the video while she eats and forgets to taste the food. Some of the images are being fed in from the bridgehead, showing vehicles filled with soldiers rolling out of the bridge-tunnel into newly won territory. And then, directly in front of the camera, someone flashes into existence from out of nothing, popping right onto the roadway. He is small and slight, shaggy-haired, with strange tall ears, and he carries a long glittering blade. He looks about, bewildered, for a second, and then one of the armored vehicles rolls him down.

Aiah stares for a moment at the strange, fated apparition. A teleport gone wrong, she thinks; someone popped a twisted person right into the war, armed only with a
big knife
.

Other, more jittery, images come from the front itself. The door is no longer open— the enemy have used the delay to reorganize their defense— but a strong push should finish them.

And then artillery begins to rain down on the bridgehead. A storm of plasm fire unfolds. Aiah can sense the attack losing momentum.

No!
she thinks. Not now.

Constantine stands transfixed below the video images, big hands flexing helplessly at his sides. The nightmare is enfolding him again.

The vehicles rolling into the bridgehead slow, come to a halt. The bridge-tunnel itself is being hit repeatedly. Aiah watches as the attack’s momentum fades.

And then she looks up as Sorya, in her green uniform, comes striding into the command center. She is grim-faced, and flanked by a pair of aides. Without giving Aiah a glance, Sorya walks to Constantine and speaks without hesitation.

“Most of that gunfire directed against the bridgehead,” she says, “is not from the Provisional forces— most of their stuff has been suppressed. The firing is from the Lanbolan army, their regular forces. They’re firing at us from over the border, trying to seal off our breakthrough.”

In the sudden silence, Aiah can see calculations flickering through Constantine. “The rest of their army?”

“Latest report says they’re on alert, but in their barracks. But the Lanbolan government has also released its plasm reserves to the Provisionals....They’re beaming staggering amounts across the border to the enemy mages. We’re going to have to expect much more powerful sorcery to be directed against us.”

Constantine absorbs this. Rapid calculation glows in his eyes like a furious heat.

“The next decision is a political one,” he says. “I will need to see the triumvirate.” He turns to Aiah. “We will need you as well,” he says. “Get the latest figures on our plasm expenditure and report to the Crystal Dome at once.”

“Sir.” It is General Arviro, anguish plain on his face. “My Marines,” he says. “They’re behind enemy lines. Without a breakthrough to reinforce them....”

Constantine nods. “Yes,” he says. “I understand. I will raise the issue at the meeting.”

BATTLE RAGES ACROSS CARAQUI FRONT

PROVISIONALS HOLDING AGAINST GOVERNMENT ASSAULT

“It is not an insuperable position,” Constantine says. “We are likely still to win— we’re in a much better position than we were yesterday, and the Provisionals in much worse. Many of their units have been wrecked. But pressing the war will take time, and casualties on both sides— and among the civilian population— will be formidable.”

“Vengeance now!” Parq cries. “Invade Lanbola at once!” His face is gaunt, and his eyes are hollow. He laughs, tugs at his disordered beard. “Why do we bother to discuss this?” he says. “The Dalavan Guard is being wiped out even as we continue this pointless discussion. We must rescue them!”

“General Arviro has asked me to mention the Marines,” Constantine says. “They remain behind enemy lines. Many of them are cut off, and they are only lightly armed. Evacuating them will be risky, and we cannot supply them by teleportation forever.” He looks at his notes. “Knowing this situation might arise, we have made plans for the invasion of Lanbola. Our mobile reserve alone can accomplish it within a day, should the triumvirate so order. We hope to be able to arrest most of the government as well as the Provisionals.”

“I will not support the invasion of another metropolis,” Hilthi retorts. “Hegemonism is insupportable at any time, for any reason. This war with the Provisionals is the natural price we pay for our centuries of misrule.”

“
And the Lanbolan artillery?” President Faltheg speaks hesitantly. “Can’t they be said to have opened a war against us? How can we fight this
without
an invasion?” He shakes his head. “We could file another protest... I suppose.” He looks at Hilthi. “Mr. Hilthi? Do you have a suggestion?”

Hilthi looks troubled, but makes no reply.

Constantine turns to Aiah. “Miss Aiah?”

Aiah testifies as to the availability of plasm. Caraqui’s reserves have been cut in half by the first day of the offensive, and the ability of the government to support their assaults is fading.

Faltheg turns to Constantine. “Your recommendations, Minister?”

“I do not offer this advice lightly,” Constantine says. “But it seems to me that there would be far less suffering, less damage, if we went into Lanbola and ended the war at its source.” He gives an uneasy shrug. “The political problem of what to do with Lanbola,” he adds, “may be dealt with afterward.”

Aiah looks at her hands. It is the wrong move, she thinks, but she can’t explain why. And she has no acceptable alternative.

“Make them pay!” Parq says. “Make them pay for our suffering! Their wealth can make Caraqui a paradise!”

Hilthi sits stiffly in his chair, his eyes locked with Constantine’s. “I will not be a part of a hegemonist government,” he says. “I will not countenance the looting of another metropolis. If I am outvoted in this, I will resign.”

Faltheg’s tongue runs round his lips. He sighs heavily. “I must reluctantly agree with Triumvir Parq and Minister Constantine. The Lanbolans’ actions are intolerable.”

“You will have my resignation before the shift is over,” Hilthi says. “I will go into opposition.”

Constantine turns to him. “Triumvir, I am sorry about this, and I hope you will reconsider. But may I ask you to delay this action for another day or two? Disarray in the government now will only encourage our enemies.”

Hilthi hesitates, then nods. “I will do as the minister suggests.”

Aiah turns to Sorya, sees the triumph glittering in her green eyes. This is what she has wanted all along, and Aiah wonders if she has somehow managed it all.

The meeting ends. As they head back to the command center, Constantine takes Aiah’s arm. “I would like to use Karlo’s Brigade in the assault on Lanbola. They are near the border, ideally placed, and they are not yet committed to the bridgehead.”

It is, Aiah thinks, the only way to save Landro’s Escaliers and the others in the bridgeheads.

“Yes,” she says. “But I want to talk to Ceison personally.”

“I will arrange it.”

And so, a half hour later, she finds herself talking to Brigadier Ceison, and giving him her personal assent to the invasion, along with her best wishes for its success.

Within another two hours, Karlo’s Brigade spearheads the assault into Lanbola, moving deep inland without opposition while assault troops are landed by helicopter on enemy buildings to seize control of the seat of government. Other airborne units engage and capture the Lanbolan artillery.

Within twenty-four hours, its political leadership dispersed or under arrest, the army of Lanbola surrenders without ever having left the vicinity of its barracks.

A day later, the Provisionals have collapsed and the war is over, and Constantine— because there was no one else, no one at all— has taken Hilthi’s place in the triumvirate.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Sea Mage Motor Craft— Take a Voyage to Victory!

The golden letters burn for a moment in the sky, a garish display, complete with a Marine striking a heroic pose in a motorboat. The sight makes Aiah want to cheer. Not because the Sea Mage company had contributed to the last, triumphant campaign, though it had, but because the plasm advert is there at all.

Peace. The price of plasm has fallen, and the sky is filled with the reassuring fires of commerce.

Another blaze floats up into the sky, happy people dancing with bottles of Snap! in their hands.

“Has the advertising improved in the last months, that you are so entranced?”

Constantine’s question turns Aiah away from her terrace window. “I would rather see that ad every minute for the next week,” she says, “than have the sky filled with artillery rounds.”

Constantine concedes the point. “Yes. I quite agree.” He pats the sofa cushion next to him. “Would you join me?”

She does so, leaning back against the warmth of his massive body. His puts an arm around her shoulder.

Outside, the sky blazes with the lights of peace.

On the table before them are the recordings of Aiah’s meeting with Holson and Galagas. The plastic casings are broken open, and the cellulose tape cut into coiled shreds by Aiah’s scissors. Tomorrow Aiah will throw the fragments out with the rubbish.

It will not be quite as simple to dispose of the memories of how those recordings were made. She is not as easy, leaning against Constantine’s strength, as once she had been.

I shall guard my own back in future
. Aiah had made that promise in anger; but now, soberly, she was keeping it. Sixteen bodyguards had been put on the payroll at the PED, and were now undergoing training in the Timocracy: in the meantime, when she left the Palace, she was accompanied by soldiers from Karlo’s Brigade.

“Are you pleased to find yourself a triumvir?” Aiah asks.

Constantine pauses a moment to consider. “There is less interference in my work,” he says, “but the company is not as congenial. In truth, I would prefer to take the place either of Faltheg or Parq, and to leave Hilthi in place.” His voice deepens as it grows thoughtful. “In the past it was others who made the compromises, while I resisted and spoke of principle; but now I must compromise my own beliefs, and make certain my people follow my lead....” A kind of self-disgust enters his words. “A particularly nasty compromise has just been made.” His arms fold around her, and he murmurs urgently into her ear. “I beg you, do not go outside without guards for the next week or ten days. The city may not be safe.”

The warning tingles along Aiah’s nerves. She pulls free of his embrace and glances over her shoulder, sees him looking at her somberly. “The war is over,” she says. “Why should there be danger now?”

Constantine’s gaze is directed toward the terrace window, where the sky blazes with one bright advertisement after another. “The war is over,” he says, “but the shape of the peace is uncertain.”

“You are a triumvir, one third of the government. Minister of War and of Resources. You can’t enforce order in the streets?”

His eyes shift away, and he rubs his jaw with one uneasy hand. “Not when I am opposed from within the government.”

“Parq, then,” Aiah judges. “Because I can’t see Faltheg behind any sort of violence.”

Constantine looks at her, eyes narrowing. “I cannot confirm your suppositions. But guard yourself— and if you are given an order, follow it.”

“There is no one who can give me an order but you.”

Again he looks uneasy. “That is not quite the case,” he says.

She will have to talk to Ethemark, she thinks. And if the orders are unacceptable, she can resign.

But what kind of threat, she wonders, is that resignation? Who, besides Constantine, would care? Who, besides herself, would lose? No one gives a damn, she learned long ago, about the high and noble principles of a girl from Old Shorings. She will just be replaced by one of Parq’s people, and that would deliver the PED right into the hands of his organization.

Constantine’s burning eyes hold her. “Do as your orders bid you,” he says. “I will do what I can for you, but it will take time. Remember our time in Achanos, and give me your trust.”