City on Fire (Metropolitan 2) (33 page)

Constantine considers this, his hooded eyes alight with calculation. “Lanbola is also where the rebels’ mercenaries diverted, once we closed our aerodrome.”

“And where their Provisional Government is broadcasting from,” Sorya adds.

Aiah looks up at Constantine in surprise. This is new to her, but she can tell from Constantine’s expression that he’s known this for some time.

“The absence of senior officials may not be coincidental,” Constantine says. “They may be delaying any response while waiting to see how Radeen fares.” He fingers his unshaven jaw and considers. “Please give my compliments to Minister Belckon,” Constantine says, “and suggest to him this: perhaps he should hint that if the government of Lanbola should choose to disarm these mercenaries who have so inconvenienced them by landing at their aerodrome, the arms would find a ready buyer in Caraqui— or perhaps the weapons could be added to Lanboli stocks instead. Either way, Lanbola will enrich itself at the expense of the rebels.”

Sorya laughs, and bobs Constantine a compliment with a little tug of her chin.

“I will suggest it to Mr. Belckon,” she says. “In fact, I will suggest as much as I can, in hopes of keeping him sufficiently busy that he fails to realize that he is the senior minister here.”

Constantine lifts his eyebrows. “He is senior?”

“State is superior to Resources, yes. Technically he may place himself in command...” Her lip curls, and she gives a disdainful glance at the command center staff. “If anyone will obey his orders, that is.”

Constantine gives her a serious look. “I think we should avoid any suggestion that he make the experiment.”

Sorya’s green eyes glitter from beneath the shiny brim of her cap. “There is an easy way to prevent these little disputes.” She glances around the command center, at the people standing ready, waiting for orders, at soldiers bent over maps and pressing headsets to their ears. She leans close to Constantine’s ear. “You are in command here,” she says. “Declare yourself triumvir. Or better yet, Metropolitan. No one will stop you.”

“
No.
” Constantine’s response is instant, and Aiah’s heart gives a jump at its vehemence. His teeth flash in an angry snarl, and then he visibly exerts command over himself, and repeats himself more calmly, “No.” He adds, “I am a foreigner here. I would find no support among the population.”

Aiah looks at Constantine, and wonders if this is true.

“
Pfah.” Sorya snaps her fingers to dispose of this argument. “Drumbeth held office because it was believed he controlled the army— but he was deluded, and now the army’s killed him. The loyal half of the army will tear itself to bits subduing the disloyal half. The police are in a state of insurrection— they cannot keep civil order. The only way
anyone
can hold Caraqui now is with mercenaries, both soldiers and military police; and if
you
are the soldiers’ paymaster, the metropolis is yours, and the people will sing your praises to the Shield for restoring order and beating down these little matchstick military men who would trample them.”

Constantine listens, but resentment still burns in his half-closed eyes.

“No,” he says. “I will not.”

And then Sorya’s own anger flares— her spine stiffens as color flames in her face, and Aiah takes an involuntary step back at the savagery of her look, at the memory,
all truces are temporary
. But then Sorya swallows her fury as visibly as Constantine had swallowed his, and after a moment of thought she gives a shrug, and her tinkling laugh rings out.

“As you wish,” she says, “but you had best start thinking about Drumbeth’s replacement in the triumvirate, because if you believe Hilthi and Parq can hold this place together, you are as deluded in your thinking as Drumbeth and Radeen.” She laughs again, the sound a little shrill, and then draws herself up and salutes, fingertips touching the brim of her cap, and with a moment’s mocking smile strides away.

Aiah looks at Constantine, at the hidden calculations flickering through his face. She realizes she has been holding her breath, and lets it out.

What exactly just happened?
What is going on? The
words fly through her mind, and she wants to repeat them to Constantine, but an aide approaches, and she never has the chance to speak.

“Sir?” the aide says. “May I interrupt? We have reports of enemy movement at the aerodrome.”

Constantine’s reaction is immediate, but there remains an abstracted look in his glittering eyes that demonstrates his mind is elsewhere, still appraising this last moment with Sorya.

“Do we know their axis of movement?” he asks.

“Not yet. But they’re requisitioning transport and getting ready to move out.” There is a moment’s uncomfortable pause, and then the aide offers, “Our mages could harass them as they load up.”

Constantine’s head snaps suddenly toward the aide— clearly he has decided to dismiss Sorya from his mind and to deal with the current problem first. “Our plasm reserves aren’t sufficient,” he says. “Wait till they start to move— they’re more vulnerable on the march anyway. And if they wish to abandon the aerodrome, I am willing to hand each one of them a pneuma ticket personally, so long as they leave.” He smiles at his own joke.

“But where are they going?” he wonders. “Reinforcing Radeen at Government Harbor, perhaps. I will tell Arviro to shift his mobile forces to prevent it.” He turns to Aiah and gives a satisfied smile. “They are showing more initiative than I expected, but I think this will not change things to any great degree. If the mercenaries truly expose themselves in a move of this nature, our mages will tear them apart." He puts a hand on Aiah’s shoulder. “I will speak to you later.”

“Good luck, Minister,” Aiah says.

He flashes a smile, then heads toward the table and his waiting aides.

“He is very confident,” Ethemark says. Aiah’s nerves give a little leap— she had forgotten the tiny man at her elbow.

She sits down. The scene between Sorya and Constantine replays itself through her mind.
Declare yourself triumvir. Or better yet, Metropolitan.
And Constantine declined.

“I think he was right,” Ethemark says, as if he were reading her mind. “If he took power now, he could keep it only with force.”

Aiah’s mouth is dry. “I think I’ll get some coffee,” she says.

Aiah gets her coffee and waits, watching the map, as Arviro slides part of the Marine Brigade into the gap between the aerodrome and Government Harbor and waits for Radeen’s mercenaries to walk into his trap. But there are sudden reports that Radeen’s Second Brigade is not waiting for reinforcements, but piling into their 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.