City on Fire (Metropolitan 2) (26 page)

Even the columns of smoke, rising here and there about the city, are dispersed by the wind in an orderly manner.

The Raptor Wing, headquarters of the largest and most powerful government departments, is pockmarked with shell and rocket holes, and several areas seem to be on fire. The Owl Wing has suffered as well. Aiah thinks of her people working inside when the coup started, and her fists clench in anger.

“
I think it is safe to say that the Aerial Brigade has declared for the Provisional Government,” Constantine observes. He frowns, but does not seem overly troubled. “That means the aerodrome will be in enemy hands, and that means they can fly in reinforcements whenever they like. If they
have
reinforcements, of course. We shall see.”

The boats wait in the darkness near the Palace, under cover of overhanging pontoons that support government office buildings. Constantine sits with his legs hanging over the edge of the bow and watches the fight with interest. He would like to get into the Palace, but would prefer not to be killed while doing so, either by attackers or by defenders who fail to recognize him.

Aiah stands near him, feeling useless. She paces back and forth, kicking at the spent cartridge casings that litter the deck and dabbing at her cut face with her ruined scarf. Adrenaline surges through her, little bodily earthquakes readying her for flight or combat; but nothing is going on, and the surges leave her only with jitters and sweats.

There are roadblocks set up on the bridges leading into the Palace, but it is not clear whose roadblocks they are— people in uniforms and carrying weapons all look remarkably similar, whichever side they are on. Whoever they are, they watch the aerial bombardment with every appearance of indifference, as if they too were obeying the Provisional Government’s orders to behave in an orderly manner.

“They’re all waiting to see what happens,” Constantine says. “If enough people line up on one side or another, the other will surrender, and then they won’t have to fight.”

He has decided not to contact the Palace by radio, because it might alert the rebels to his location. So he has sent Khoriak off into one of the local office buildings to make a phone call.

The phones are safe. The Avians, in their political wisdom, long ago demonstrated their concern for secure communications by installing the main telephone switches for the whole capital district in the lower depths of the Aerial Palace.

Something happens. There is a flashing in the air near the lead helicopter, and reports. Aiah’s heart leaps into her throat as she turns to watch. The helicopter begins firing all its rockets rapidly, as if in a hurry to leave . . . and then another helicopter, two places behind in the queue, suddenly gives off a series of loud bangs. It is shedding rotors, as if an invisible hand has stuck itself into the whirling rotor blades— a hand, Aiah knows, of plasm. Fragments of blades fly out over the city, each one death for anyone they strike, and then the copter pitches down, its whirling tail rotor giving a corkscrew motion to its fall. There is a crash as it drops into an apartment building, then a number of explosions as munitions and fuel begin to detonate.

The lead helicopter slews off to the side, making good its escape. The next helicopter in the queue fires off all its weaponry at once, without moving any closer: rockets hiss through the air, some striking the Palace, others hitting somewhere in the city. Then suddenly all the helicopters are firing and the air is full of snarling, random death, the rockets like a nest of angry snakes striking at anyone within reach. Aiah’s nerves leap with each explosion.

The helicopters flee in disorder; six, eight, twelve of them. “I think we can say their degree of commitment to the counterrevolution is limited,” Constantine observes with a smile. A distant crash rings out from one of the helicopters, and it begins belching smoke and losing altitude. A wave of anxiety pours through Aiah as she sees it drop: they are enemies, but she doesn’t want them to die.

The helicopter trails smoke over the horizon. Aiah can’t tell whether it has crashed or not.

Constantine rises to his feet, brushes dirt from his trousers. “This would seem to be an opportunity,” he says. “If Khoriak doesn’t return soon, he may have to make his way back alone.” He tilts his head up as if listening to an invisible speaker. “Ah. Yes. Here he comes.”

He
is
listening to an invisible speaker, Aiah realizes. Telepathy. She wonders how long Constantine has been receiving information this way.

Khoriak arrives, coming down a rusted iron ladder from a passageway above.

“All set,” he said. “Use the southwest gate. They’re expecting us.”

“Sorya’s cleared the helicopters out,” Constantine says. “We can expect no trouble.”

Sorya
, Aiah thinks. That’s who’s been talking to him.

Unexpectedly, the knowledge makes her feel safe.

CHAPTER NINE

Constantine comes into the Palace command center laughing, his deep voice booming out like an echo of the bombardment. It is not relief, Aiah suspects, but a kind of homecoming: Constantine has been from necessity a commander, a great one, and war is a thing like home. Sorya greets him with a kiss.

“
It is Radeen behind this,” she says. “The Second Brigade is with him— his old command— they are on their way to Government Harbor. The First Brigade and Marines are in their barracks, I am told— not that the First Brigade matters in any case, since it has not recovered from its mauling in
our
coup. And there is word of police roadblocks going up here and there, so Gentri or someone high in his ministry is also a part of it.”

“Radeen the Minister of War,” Constantine says. “Trying to do what Drumbeth has done. And Gentri ...” He utters the shadow of a sigh. “Gentri, well, too late.”

Guilt stabs Aiah to the heart. If she had investigated Gentri properly, if she had simply done what Constantine had asked, then perhaps all this would not be happening...

Her head swims, and she gropes her way to a chair and collapses into it. The others in the room pay her no heed, a fact for which she is deeply grateful.

The white glow of video monitors burns down on everyone, outlining cheekbone and brow, casting eyes into shadow. Sorya glides to a chair, sits in it, flicks a bit of fluff off her uniform tunic.

“I had a little advance warning,” she says. “They have done a more than competent job of keeping their plans secret— better than we did in our time, truly, but then their conspiracy is smaller. I managed to keep the assassins off your neck, but not Drumbeth’s.”

Constantine glances sharply at her. “He’s dead?”

“Yes. Killed in that ceremony reopening the bridge over Martyrs’ Canal ... was standing with all his aides in the middle of the span when a mage attacked with a power blast ... They’re all dead.” She shrugs. “I could save one of you, not both. It was not plasm I lacked, but personnel. We didn’t have enough mages on duty.” A superior, amused light glitters in Sorya’s eyes. “Forgive me for concluding you were the indispensable one.” Her tongue visibly fondles the irony in this phrase. She tosses her hair, gives her lilting laugh. “You may have me indicted if you wish.”

Constantine’s brooding eyes gaze up at a blank video monitor. “Drumbeth dead. That is ill news. He could carry a good many soldiers and officers with him.”

“Pfah.” Disdainfully. “Soldiers and officers are readily bought. . . here and elsewhere.”

The voices are swallowed by the vast silence. They are deep in the Aerial Palace, in a cavernous command center tucked amid the giant brass-and-black-ceramic plasm accumulators and capacitors, the conduits of command nestled in perfect union with the font of military and magical power. The room is paneled in dark wood and lit by fluorescents set in long, scalloped brass chandeliers. On three walls are paintings of scenes from the military history of Caraqui, such as it is. Oval video monitors are mounted high on all sides, mostly set to outside views of the Palace, dull views of bridges and roadblocks, here and there a pockmarked wall or a wisp of smoke.

A map of the metropolis and its environs, three times Aiah’s height, occupies one wall. The map is painted on translucent plastic and is divided into sectors, with colored lightbulbs behind each sector to show whether it is held by friendly or enemy forces. Friendly is blue, neutral is white, and the enemy shows as a pale pink stain, blotches of a bad complexion.

Most of the city is white, there being no information one way or another. But the only blue light on the map is the Aerial Palace, and there is more pink than blue.

The Avians built the map decades ago, precautions against a war that never happened. It has waited unused till now.

Tables and chairs are set up in front of the display. Elaborately styled telephone headsets, white ceramic with gold wire and gold ear- and mouthpieces, are placed at intervals along the table. A silver vase filled with red carnations sits on one of the tables. In the back of the room are two carved wooden doors, set in brass frames, that lead to a communications center. A side door leads down a short passage directly to the plasm control room, with its glowing dials and its icon to Two-Faced Tangid.

Constantine paces as he thinks, hands locked behind his back, eyes shifting from the map to the video monitors to Sorya. Aiah watches in silence. Everything is collapsing into war and ruin, and it is all her fault.

There are two dozen people in the command center, though several of them, like Aiah, seem to have no particular job to do. Half of them are in uniforms, and the rest are civilians, mostly clerks. Sorya is perfectly at home in her tailored green uniform, and sits with one polished boot thrown up on a table while jotting in a notepad on her lap. Constantine stands in front of the city map, his eyes brooding on the symbols, gauging times, distances, forces.

“What of the cabinet?” Constantine asks.

“You and the Minister for Economic Development seem to be the entire cabinet at this point," Sorya says. “He was in his office when things started— Faltheg is a banker and of limited use in this crisis, but I have him in the communications center trying to rally people to us. He has tried to contact the other ministers, but I suspect they are under arrest, in hiding, or with Colonel Radeen.”

“Hilthi? Parq?”

“The aide I sent to call Hilthi said there was no answer at his residence. I have not sent anyone to go in person. The young gentleman who phoned Parq could only get a secretary, but was told there had been shooting in the Grand Temple, so I suspect the comforts of religion are to be denied us." She laughs and tosses her head. “It was you and Drumbeth they were afraid of. You and he they wasted plasm over. They knew who could stop them, and who could not. They knew the journalist had no army, and that Parq’s Dalavan Guard is a collection of pensioners in splendid uniforms.”

“We’ve lost the aerodrome. And Government Harbor will be gone soon.”

My fault
, Aiah thinks dully.

Constantine looks up at the map. “How about Broadcast Plaza?”

“The guards report no disturbances.”

“We have how many people there— half a company?”

“A little less than that.”

“They should be reinforced. If we have radio and video, then we have a way to inform the people that resistance is possible.”

Sorya gives a cynical laugh. “How many guns do the people have?”

“
People
, I remind, make up the army. Perhaps they do not know what their commanders are about, and would refuse if they knew.”

“Ah.” Sorya shows teeth. “Yes.”

“Miss Sorya.” It is one of her aides, a smart young man in one of her green uniforms. “I have a call from Hilthi. Shall I switch it to your phone?”

“Put it on the speakers.” She takes one of the headsets from its hook, sweeps her long hair back, settles the gold earpieces on her ears, and speaks into the conical golden mouthpiece.

“Mr. Hilthi,” she says. “This is Sorya. Do you know what is going on?”

“They tried to kill me!” Electronic distortion mars Hilthi’s voice as it booms from overhead speakers. The voice mingles excitement and anger with sheer resentment at the assassins’ effrontery. Constantine winces, motions to turn down the volume.

“Are you safe now?” Sorya asks.

“I suppose so. We’re at ... another place. The police came to my home to arrest me, but I told them no and ... there was violence.” A tremor shakes Hilthi’s voice. “My bodyguards killed all the police, and moved me to a safer location.”

My fault,
Aiah thinks. Gentri’s men. If she had only done as Constantine had asked...

Constantine gestures at Sorya for the headset, and she passes it to him. He doesn’t bother donning it, just holds the mouthpiece to his lips.

“This is Constantine. I’m very pleased you are safe, Triumvir.”

A howl of feedback whines from the speakers. Constantine claps his hand over the mouthpiece and the sound ceases.

“What is going on?” Hilthi asked.

“Radeen is trying to overthrow the government. He has one brigade of the army and at least some of the police. Drumbeth is dead, but I am in command here in the Palace.”

“Radeen.” There is a thoughtful pause. “What can I do?”

“Are you near Broadcast Plaza? That would seem to be your natural place in an affair like this. If you could get on video and issue a proclamation . . .”

Hilthi leaps on the chance. “Yes! But we’ve seen roadblocks everywhere.”

“I will send soldiers to escort you, Triumvir, but I need to know where to send them.”

There is a moment of silence. “How can I be certain you are not behind this?”

Constantine laughs, teeth flashing in amusement. “Sir— don’t you think I’m more competent at this sort of thing than Radeen? If I wished you harm, believe me when I say that you would be harmed.”

There is silence.

“Besides,” Constantine says, “you are the only member of the triumvirate known to be alive. I am willing to place myself under your orders and do as you command.”