Ninth City Burning (10 page)

He winces theatrically, sucking air through his teeth like someone observing a particularly bloody scraped knee. “That bad, was it?” he says, as if he's intuited yesterday's entire scene, at the same time grinning to himself and preparing another of his hair-raising treats.

“Do you mind if I ask
you
a question?” I say, not wanting to relive my blunder with Feeroy just now.

“Haven't learned much, have we?”

“What exactly are you eating?”

He pauses, the unappealing morsel almost to his lips, as though only now noticing its presence. “This? It's canned bread, toasted and spread with condensed milk. A favorite in the settlements. Looks wretched, I know, but I can't get enough of it.” He pops the milk-sodden bread into his mouth with a prestidigitatory flourish.

“You've been to the settlements?” I say, not caring anymore about the bread. The settlements and their place in the war effort—providing most of the food, raw materials, and soldiers necessary to keep the Legion running—feature only marginally in a standard Academy education, and what little we do learn is superficial at best. I've never met anyone who's actually seen the settlements in person. Tonight's mess is turning out to be rather more interesting than I'd expected.

“Originally from Giant's Run,” he says proudly. “That's Settlement 105 to you folks. Spent ten years guarding the fences before I ended up in the Legion. Guard's where I got the taste for crusty milk.”

“Crusty milk?”

“That's what we called it, anyway,” he says, making himself another. “Each settlement has its own name for the stuff. Milko, goo bread, soggies. In Settlement 361, they cook the milk first to brown it. In Settlement 89, they like to add peanut butter when they can get it. But just about everywhere has some version or other.”

I suppose that makes sense. Condensed milk has sugar and fat and protein, a great choice if you already don't get enough to eat. I glance down at my own half-finished meal. “You're with the censors, then,” I say to the man. No one else would have seen so much of the settlements.

“Censor Reggidel,” he says, extending his hand to shake. “I must say, Procurator Vinneas, it's a pleasure not to be the most hated man in the room for once.”

“All part of hospitality in Ninth City,” I say. “I suppose it's strange, going back to the settlements as a censor.”

“It's a unique perspective, that's for sure.” He chuckles. “We always thought we were really putting one over on you boys at the Principate, squirreling away warehouses full of grain and canned meat, then pretending we'd only barely made our quotas. No idea you had that all calculated in.”

“Is the corruption really that extensive?”

He chews, talking over his crusty milk. “Oh yeah. Just about everyone's pocketing something somewhere along the line. I don't blame them, though. All part of the process. I used to get my crusty on the black market.”

He's right, of course. Barter economies and black markets are practically inevitable given the system we've set up in the settlements. “Have you ever thought of doing things differently?” I ask.

“Sounds like you're going to hit me with some crazy Academy crap,” he says with another grin. “Let's hear it.”

“What if we were to authorize trade between the settlements? It would allow them to exchange their surplus, which would not only raise the local standard of living but increase overall production.”

“It'd never work,” Reggidel says dismissively. “For one thing, we don't have the infrastructure for it.” He sees me about to object, probably guesses I'm preparing to launch into an explanation of how easy it would be to create a rail system connecting the settlements, and says, “But that isn't the real issue. The real issue is you can't trade goods without transporting people, and you can't transport people without transmitting ideas. And once you start exchanging ideas, administering the settlements gets a lot more complicated. I lived in one of those junk heaps for thirty years, and believe me, if anyone there ever got wind of something like thelemity, it'd be chaos. We don't need that. Not with a war on.”

“But that's just what I'm getting at,” I say, excited now. “Our whole system is based around the premise that the settlements have to remain ignorant of the true nature of this war. But they're as much a part of it as we are. The more we tell them, the more they'll understand what's at stake and the more motivated they'll be to help.”

“That isn't how we've been doing things the last few hundred years, kid, and the old way's worked well enough so far. Haven't you heard? We're winning!” He crunches his last bite of crusty and claps me on the back, pushing back from his seat. “It may take another five centuries, but we'll have Romeo beat sooner or later. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to see about dessert.”

That's the standard position on this war of ours, the same whether you're listening to the official political channels or general popular
opinion: It'll take some time, but we're winning. We're doing everything right; it's going our way. All we have to do is stay the course, and we'll get there sooner or later.

But if everyone knew what I know, if they'd seen what I've seen, I doubt they'd be so sure.

T
he aftermath of any military action, no matter how small, involves a disproportionate amount of administrative drudgery, like righting a roomful of dominoes, and this incursion was no exception. Add in my experience at Feeroy's briefing to cap off the whole exhausting affair and I was poised on the brink of catatonia. But tired as I was, I couldn't sleep. I'd spent part of the evening reviewing data from the battle, comparing it to other engagements in the past, and what I'd learned did nothing to ease my mind. Back in my quarters, I could only lie awake, the same questions bubbling up again and again. Finally, I realized I would have to work the problem through, and there was only one person who could help me. Maybe one and a half.

There was no guarantee Kizabel would be up so late, but I figured my odds were good enough. She's never had much regard for normal sleep cycles, and lately she's been disappearing into her workshop at extremely odd hours and with very little thought for her regularly scheduled duties and coursework.

Her workshop was sealed when I arrived, a dull metal slab blocking the high threshold, but I'd only been standing outside a moment when a voice said, “Why
hello
, Vinneas. How
are
you? It's been
ages
!” The reflection looking back at me from the metal wall was hazy and indistinct but definitely not mine.

“I'm doing fine, Lady,” I said. “Is Kiz in?”

“Of course she's
in
,” said the voice, the reflection placing hands on hips in a pose of profound exasperation. “She's
always
in, except when she's off gallivanting with you and that eques boy. And ever since the two of you became so
important
, all she does is loaf around here being a reclusive,
antisocial crank, never mind that it's two in the morning and everyone decent is in bed.”

“Do you think I could speak to her? It's kind of urgent.”

“Why
certainly
, Vinn, I'm just supposed to keep you busy while she straightens up a bit”—the voice paused, the shadow leaning to the side as though listening to something just out of view—“oh, and it seems I wasn't to let you know I'm stalling. Oops! But honestly, Vinneas, it's disgraceful in here. It's just like I'm always telling her—” Another pause. “All right, all right,” Lady said with a sigh. “Come in, Vinneas.”

With that, the metal door drained away, granting me access to the tall expanse of Kizabel's workshop. It's a cavernous metal bay, like the belly of some monstrous steel beast. The far wall, which opens onto a nearby testing floor, is flat and bare, but just about every other surface is covered in all manner of junk, ranging in size and complexity from huge stone monoliths to tiny and arcane filigrees of wood and metal, all organized according to some principle I've never quite been able to fathom. There is a large area devoted entirely to books, thick tomes and unbound pages in towering stacks and cascading shelves. Another wall is lined with mirrors of every shape and description, and as I passed these, I saw Lady Jane walking beside me where my reflection should have been.

Lady is Kizabel's instara, a thinking artifice used as a sort of spectral assistant. Most instari aren't quite as eccentric as Lady, and Kizabel swears she should have scrapped her long ago, but it's obvious Kiz is fond of her, not to mention that Lady is a marvel of irrational mechanics. I ought to know—I helped design her. Physically, she's an exact replica of Kizabel—or perhaps it's better to say she has all Kizabel's features. Lady doesn't much care for Kizabel's sense of style, however, preferring instead a series of irreverent costumes she changes with her mood. That night she was dressed in a set of old-fashioned pajamas, a sleeping mask pressed to her forehead and her long black hair tied in a ponytail.

Kizabel, meanwhile, stood by one of her cluttered tables, bobbed hair pinned tight to her scalp, work overalls splattered with a glowing blue substance that seemed to fade even as I watched. “This had better be important,” she said, and though she sounded angry, her expression was ever so slightly guilty. Only then did I take in the greater-than-usual level of destruction around her workshop. A full row of shelves had been split down the middle, its contents scattered in all directions. Several of Lady's
mirrors also exhibited signs of disturbance—chips missing and patterns of spidery fractures. Along the far wall, I noted what appeared to be the imprint of a gigantic foot.

“So,” I said, glancing pointedly at the wreckage, “what'cha been up to?”

“Nothing!” Kizabel shouted much too quickly. “I mean, just slaving away for those ungrateful equites. You know. Imway needs someone to patch up his precious FireChaser.”

“Yes, I'm still hearing about his encounters with the unincorporated peoples.” Imway's first official mission, and his resultant wall-punching frustration, has been the source of much amusement for Kizabel and me. “He can't figure out why they won't just follow orders after he went to all the trouble of capturing them.”

Having fun at Imway's expense is perhaps the easiest way to brighten Kizabel's mood, but that night her smile morphed into a sneer halfway through. “Well, you two must have plenty of time to chat about it while you're off being hotshots together,” she said. “So what are you doing here? Things getting dull up there in Command?”

“Quite the opposite. I need your help.” I waited until the metal door had solidified into place behind me before laying out everything that had happened at yesterday's briefing.

“Are you even allowed to tell me this stuff?” Kizabel asked when I was done. She looked concerned, though more over the problems my story raised than my reckless leaking of privileged information.

“I'm making an executive decision to bring you onto the case.”

“I just wish we knew how Romeo was making these incursions in the first place,” she mused. The blue stains on her overalls were gone now, and she had unzipped the front and tied the sleeves at her waist, revealing a white T-shirt underneath. “Our countermeasures at the Front should make it impossible for hostiles like that to get anywhere near us. It's like they're appearing out of nowhere.”

“That's the thing,” I said. “I've been looking into it, and I think I've found a pattern. Nothing that explains how the attacks happen—but maybe
when
they happen.”

“Really?” Kizabel had given up being indignant with me by then. She's never been able to listen to an interesting problem without getting excited.

“I was hoping you and Lady could help me work it out.”

“Well,
I'm
happy to help,” said Lady Jane. She had exchanged her
pajamas for recreational gear and commenced alternately jogging in place and stretching her hamstrings, as though in preparation for vigorous exercise. “If Kizabel is going to insist on holding a grudge, you and I can just ignore her.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kizabel said, sighing resignedly. “Let's have at it. You want something to drink? It'd be tea. I'm never touching aquavee again.”

“She only stopped puking about two hours ago,” confided Lady between knee lunges.

We were up all night and well into the following afternoon, testing theories, looking at the data from every angle. Lady is a wonder with heavy calculations (and, incidentally, word games), and she worked the numbers cheerfully while jumping rope and doing ostentatious, one-armed push-ups. By the time we had finished, I was pretty confident about our findings, and what we'd found was grim indeed. Curator Ellmore was the logical outlet for our concerns: She could inform Command of what Kizabel and I had discovered without making us any new enemies. And since I knew she would be at supper tonight, I dragged myself here to enjoy some exquisite food I barely have the stomach to swallow.

When the Curator finally gets up to leave, I abandon my plate of uneaten pie and melted ice cream and hurry after her. “Curator,” I say, catching up to her in the hall, “I need to speak with you. In private.”

“How fortuitous,” she says. “I need to speak with you as well, and I was just on the way to my office.”

I don't stop to wonder what business the Curator might have with me. As soon as we're alone, I launch into the discoveries Kizabel and I have made, explaining everything in a rush, feeling somehow that if I don't say it all now, I won't ever get the chance.

Kiz and I have learned two important things about yesterday's attack. The first is that, like all incursions behind our main lines, this one is somehow connected to a major battle at the Front. That was the pattern I had noticed and wanted Kizabel's help parsing out: Whenever the Front sees heavy fighting, we at the rear experience a corresponding attack not long afterward. It wasn't an easy connection to prove, in part because the lag in communication with the Front means we only ever learn about the fighting there
after
the corresponding attack here has already occurred, but the pattern is very real. We've got the data to prove it.

The second thing we learned is that Imperator Feeroy was wrong about Romeo's never changing tactics. Kizabel and I looked at battles going back
for years, and when we compared the enemy's behavior to the battle two days ago, it was pretty clear the “lingering” Feeroy described was actually a shift in objective. Romeo never intended on hitting our production facilities—he
wanted
to engage our defenses.

All of which points to one very disturbing conclusion: This isn't the war of attrition we thought we were fighting. Something about it has changed. We'll be able to repair most of the losses incurred during this most recent battle in a matter of months, meaning that if Romeo's goal was really to weaken our defenses, he's almost certainly planning to hit us again, and soon. Whatever success we had in the other day's action, it's too soon to declare victory. This incursion was only the beginning.

“Very compelling,” Curator Ellmore says when I've finished. We've been in her office for nearly an hour now, and it's become apparent little if anything I've said has surprised her. “And what actions would you recommend?”

“We should evacuate all cities and settlements we don't have the resources to secure and consolidate our forces until our defenses have been fully restored.”

The Curator nods, closing the folder with my report inside. “I advised the very same thing this morning at my meeting with Command. Unfortunately, Princept Azemon decided to follow Imperator Feeroy's recommendation to increase production as a means of bolstering our damaged defenses. The other Principates will do the same.”

“But we're spread too thin as it is! We can't possibly expect—”

Curator Ellmore holds up a hand, as though to say there's no use debating what we both already know. “I will make sure the Princept sees your report, but I'm afraid the decision has already been made.” The Curator has never looked particularly old to me, though she must be well past eighty. Now, though, I see the lines of worry deepen on her face.

Before I can say anything else, there's a faint chirp in the air just beside the Curator's ear, and she says, apparently to no one, “Yes, thank you. Send him in.”

Behind me, the door to Curator Ellmore's office opens, and Censor Reggidel steps in. “Good evening, Curator,” he says, taking a seat. “I see you've already brought the boy.” He glances at me, reads the befuddlement on my face, and says, “And you haven't told him yet.” He shrugs. “I thought he would have guessed.”

“Guessed what?” I ask.

“You've been promoted, Vinneas,” the Curator says with a resigned smile. “Imperator Feeroy requested you specifically as part of his new initiative. He's put you with the censors. Full senior status. Quite the honor,” she adds dryly. “The position carries a rank equivalent to centurio.”

I glance at Reggidel, then back to Curator Ellmore. “All of this was decided today?”

Curator Ellmore gives me a long look, and it's all I need to understand what's happened. Imperator Feeroy has classified me as an obstacle, so he's getting rid of me. He brought me onto active duty in the Legion, then promoted me to a post it should have taken years of hard work to achieve—an honor, as the Curator said, but one that will keep me well away from anything happening at Command—all so he could ship me off on the pretense of rewarding merit when what he really wants is to put me at a safe distance, someplace where I won't be able to undermine him.

I get the idea that Reggidel has worked out all of this as well and finds it hilarious. “Welcome to the censors, boy,” he says with an avuncular grin. “Looks like we've got a new most hated man in the room.”