City on Fire m-2

by Walter Jon Williams

  Alfeg still seems taken aback by this intelligence, but Aiah is already considering the consequences. Jabzi’s previous official reaction to events in Caraqui—their banning the Mystery of Aiah video—had backfired, increasing both Aiah’s celebrity and demand for the video. Perhaps Jabzi’s new action could be turned to similar account.

  Aiah probably couldn’t make much of any espionage in the Barkazil Division, but if it were ever discovered that Jabzi had gone so far as to support the Caraqui Provisionals…

  They fear Barkazil freedom so much, Aiah thinks, that they try to suppress it half a world away.

  A useful slogan to keep in reserve.

  Amusement tugs at Constantine’s lips as he observes Aiah’s reflections. He puts a hand on her shoulder. “Politics tomorrow, Miss Aiah,” he reminds. “Celebration today.”

  Aiah laughs. “You’re right.” She cocks an ear to the music, then grins at Constantine. “Do you dance the koola?”

  Constantine answers gravely. “I have not had that pleasure.”

  “If you’re going to go to Barkazil parties, you should know the dances.”

  He holds out his arms. “I am willing to be instructed.”

  Constantine learns the dance quickly, even the strange, unpredictable rhythmic elision, a kind of sideways musical hiccup, that Barkazils call “the slip.” A tigerish smile settles onto his face as he gains confidence, and he settles powerfully into the movements, as if he were projecting himself into the dance, making it an instrument of his will, a proud extension of himself into the world.

  “You’ve been practicing in secret,” Aiah says.

  “I have not practiced. But I have observed. This isn’t the first koola danced at this reception.”

  “I congratulate you on your observational powers, then.”

  “Thank you—”

  There is a moment of suspense during “the slip”—the dance hangs suspended for an instant, then begins in another place. Aiah and Constantine gracefully manage the transition.

  “Thank you very much,” he finishes. A secret smile crosses his face. “I hope I will be able to sharpen my observational powers, as—in your company, I hope—I will have a unique chance for observation beyond the ordinary.”

  “Yes?”

  His smile broadens. “Second quarterbreak, second shift today—a hundred twenty days to the minute after you discovered the first flaw in the Shield—our rooftop detectors revealed that a small eyelet, less than two paces across, opened overhead, remained open for seventy-five seconds, and then closed. In ninety days’ time, I hope you will join me for an excursion through the eyelet I expect will open at that time.”

  The music, and the world with it, gives a sideways lurch.

  Aiah missteps. The universe spins in her head, and her knees go rubbery. Constantine catches her before she falls.

  He braces her shoulders within the span of one powerful arm and walks her off the dance floor. “Perhaps I should have mentioned this at another time,” he says.

  “It happened, then,” Aiah says. A strange little laugh froths up in her like bubbles in champagne. “It happened and I didn’t make it up and it wasn’t a hallucination and nobody planted it in my mind.” Relief sings through her, and she feels the flight of her soul, as if it is soaring telepresent over the world.

  “It actually happened,” she repeats, drunk with sudden joy and wonder.

  “And it will happen again,” Constantine says. He touches her cheek, turns her head toward him, kisses her for a long, warm moment. “We will share that—we will be the first in millennia to bear a message outward.” He straightens, and Aiah sees anger smouldering in half-lidded eyes. “The worlds you have seen beyond the Shield are our right, and we will tell them so.”

  “Did you hurt yourself?” Esmon has rushed up, a look of concern on his face. “Did you twist an ankle?”

  “I’m fine.” She gives the groom a hug, presses herself to the beaded jacket, and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “Just a little mishap, that’s all.”

  “Careful now.” Esmon grins. “It’s bad luck if people get hurt at my wedding.”

  Aiah shifts weight onto her legs, finds they will hold her. Constantine keeps a protective hand on her elbow. Aiah glances up at him.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “I think our luck may have changed.”

  LIVE FOREVER?

  WHY NOT??? NEW LOW RATES

  In his suite afterward, Constantine is full of plans and speculations about the Shield and the path that Aiah has found through it. He wonders whether to do something spectacular—a plasm display, perhaps—that will call immediate attention to their presence, or to spend the first several missions simply reconnoitering. He considers the possibility of putting some manner of detector through the gap—“in orbit,” as he puts it—and then bringing it down on the next trip.

  A touch of resentment enters Aiah’s mind at this energetic speculation. It was her vision, she thinks, it is one of the things that made her special, and here is Constantine, usurping her place with all his plans.

  Not that she had ever been able to develop any plans of her own, she admits.

  She wonders whether to raise the subject of Taikoen, to tell Constantine that he and the ice man have been seen, and she decides against it. It would be too dangerous for Romus, she thinks. Let more time go by, she concludes, so that it won’t be so certain that this last visit of Taikoen’s was the one that was observed.

  A few hours later, after bed, Aiah snaps upright in the grip of the Adrenaline Monster. She sits gasping on the bed, pulse thudding in her ears, an invisible claw around her throat. Ears strain for the rain of artillery. Hot tears spill down her face.

  She jumps as she feels Constantine’s warm hand on her back.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” She swabs with a hand at the sweat that limns her throat. “Sometimes I wake up like this.”

  She senses him sitting up. His hand strokes her bare back. “How often?” he asks.

  “I don’t know, I—” She gulps air and decides to stop being brave. “Often,” she says. “Every sleep shift, usually more than once. I haven’t had a decent sleep in… in months. It’s the plasm that keeps me going.”

  She can sense his calm scrutiny, draws strength from it, calms her flailing heart.

  “I’ve known soldiers to develop this condition,” he says. “Restful sleep isn’t a survival trait for people in combat, so their adrenal glands compel them to remain alert with an occasional burst of adrenaline or norepinephrine.” “Is there a cure?” she asks.

  His deep voice returns after a thoughtful silence. “Deep magic. Someone very talented will have to adjust your adrenal gland in a very subtle way. But that sort of thing is closer to an art than a science—it can easily go wrong. Still, if you wish, I will try to find a specialist.”

  “I don’t know,” she says, and rubs her face. “I’ve been hoping it will go away by itself.”

  “It may not.”

  She lets her head droop between her knees. “Let’s talk about it later.”

  “Can you sleep now?”

  Terror still trembles in her limbs. Aiah doubts it will permit her any rest. “I can try,” she says.

  Constantine seems to fall asleep almost at once. Sheltering in the curve of one of his arms, Aiah rests her head on his shoulder and tries to sleep.

  With little success. She is still perfectly awake when Constantine’s steward wakes them at the beginning of the new shift.

  FALCONS OF FREEDOM ALDEMAR’S EXCITING NEW CHROMOPLAY OPENING SOON!!!

  Aiah floats through the reception in Chemra, nodding graciously to one world-famous person after another, as if she were Meldurne playing host to high society in one of her chro-moplays. Wrapped in a sheath of gold moire silk, Aiah plays the Golden Lady, knowing what will attract the attention of these people and what will not. The gold silk contrasts favorably with the room’s decor, which leans to polished brass rails and pale g
reen glass and is dominated by man-sized standing lamps with green glass petals that unfold like tulips.

  The background buzz of conversation brightens with applause as Aldemar enters. The reception celebrates the premiere of Falcons of Freedom, her new chromoplay, which Aiah and the others have just seen. It isn’t precisely an inspired piece of work, Aiah judges, but neither was it as bad as Aldemar had made out. She has overheard the conversation of some relieved distribution executives who seem to think it will make a decent profit.

  Aldemar passes through the room with a glittering professional smile on her face. Aiah busses her on both cheeks as she passes, hears the actress’s low voice say, “Let’s talk later,” and nods in answer as Aldemar passes on to chat with the distributors Aiah had overheard earlier.

  “You’re the Golden Lady, aren’t you?”

  Metallic silver irises glitter strangely at Aiah in the green-tinged light. It’s Phaesa, who’d had her irises altered for a chromoplay decades ago, and who subsequently made them her trademark.

  Aiah’s mother was a huge Phaesa fan. She will be thrilled to hear of this encounter.

  Aiah takes the extended hand. “Aiah,” she says.

  “Of course.” The silver irises flicker over the room. “Are you without an escort?”

  “I’m with Olli, but he needed to speak with someone—a banker, I believe.”

  “How discourteous of him. But that’s Olli for you—obsessed with the business.” Phaesa’s hands close firmly about Aiah’s arm. “And I’m sure you don’t know anyone here. Do you need that drink freshened?”

  Aiah allows herself to be towed into Phaesa’s wake. Another green tulip glass of white wine is pressed into Aiah’s hands. She sips, sees her reflection in the intent, glittering irises.

  “Everyone in our business is talking about the Golden Lady,” Phaesa says. “It’s a part every actress is salivating over.”

  Olli, her producer, had told Aiah there would be moments like this, and had provided her with ammunition in the form of the appropriate response, which Aiah promptly chambers and fires.

  “Unfortunately,” she says, “I have no power over who gets the part.”

  “I’m sure Olli would consider your wishes.”

  “I will mention your name, if you like.”

  A smile touches Phaesa’s lips. “Yes. Thank you.”

  Aiah gazes into the unearthly silver eyes and finds herself wondering out loud, “I wonder if the Golden Lady can have silver eyes?”

  “I can change them,” Phaesa says.

  / can change them, Aiah thinks.

  Of course.

  It is one of those moments in which Chemra, and perhaps the whole world, seems to snap into perfect focus.

  / can change them, Aiah’s mind chatters. / can be younger. I can be thinner. I can be smarter…

  “I wonder,” Phaesa continues, “if we might have luncheon at some point.”

  “I’m not in Chemra for long, unfortunately.” Aiah says. “I have a whole government department to run, and it’s more than a full-time job.”

  “But still—”

  “Miss Aiah?” One of the waiters rescues her. “A call for you, from Caraqui. A gentleman named Ethemark, who says it is urgent.”

  Aiah looks sidelong at Phaesa. “My apologies. I’d better take this.”

  Phaesa puts a hand on her arm. “I’ll talk to you later, then.”

  “Certainly.”

  Aiah follows the waiter to a phone booth with sides of stained-glass green shoots and yellow flowers. “We’ve switched the call here,” he says, and bows as he hands her the headset of brass wire and green ceramic.

  “Thank you.” Aiah shuts the door and carefully puts the headset on over her ringlets.

  “Yes? This is Aiah.”

  Ethemark’s deep voice rumbles in her ears. “Miss Aiah? We have a situation here. I thought you should be informed.”

  “Yes?” The connection is bad, with an electric snarl fading in and out, and the conversation outside is loud. Aiah cups her hands over the earpieces to smother the sounds of the reception.

  “There has been a coup in Charna,” Ethemark says, “one group of soldiers overthrowing another. The new government has declared its allegiance to the New City, and everyone seems to think it’s our fault. Koroneia and Barchab are making threats, and Nesca’s parliament has gone into executive session. The chairman of the Polar League has called the Emergency Committee into session.”

  “Great Senko.” Aiah closes her eyes while a long throb of sorrow rolls through her. Everything was finally going well—an architecture for peace being hammered into place, the new regime safely established at last, principles for demobilization created. And now the whole fragile structure was in danger of being kicked over.

  Ethemark continues. “I’ve been ordered to present a report on our plasm reserves to the triumvirate in just a few hours—23:30.”

  Aiah rubs her forehead and looks at her watch. Almost 22:00. “I’ll try to get there,” she says, “though I don’t think I’ll make it by 23:30. Can you have someone on duty charter an aerocar here, and leave a message at my hotel concerning how to meet it?”

  “What’s your hotel? Does it have a landing pad?”

  “The Plum. And I don’t know.”

  “I will find out and leave a message there.”

  Aiah peers through the stained glass, sees the crowd outside through shifting pastel colors. Her bodyguards and driver are outside the banquet room, and she’s going to need to say good-bye to Olli and Aldemar on her way out. Perhaps from the hotel she can call Constantine and find out what really happened, and who was behind the coup.

  But Aiah suspects she already knows.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “Well, honestly,” Sorya says, “what was I to do?” She shrugs her slim shoulders inside her uniform jacket. “Charna supported the Provisionals against us, and so, logically enough, we contacted people inside Charna who were opposed to the government—idealistic officers, as it happens, disgusted with their leaders’ corruption—and we encouraged them to, ah, do their utmost to alter the policy of their superiors. We provided them with a certain amount of cash and logistical support—they already had guns, being soldiers—but their plans took longer than anticipated to mature. Our war was over by the time they were ready.”

  She takes a breath, folds her manicured hands in her lap. “They’d risked their lives for us, and we encouraged them. Could I tell them, ‘Stop, we don’t need you anymore’? Or even worse, betray the people who trusted us, sell their names to their government?” She shrugs again. “So we limited our contacts and tried to keep informed. Any assistance we gave to them is deniable, and we now have a friendly government on our northern border. I can’t do other than consider this a positive development.”

  Faltheg gives Constantine a cynical look. “The fact that their junta is proclaiming the birth of a New City regime tends to cast something of a shadow on our claims of deniability,” says the late candidate of the Liberal Coalition.

  Aiah, still in her gold gown, kicks off her high-heeled pumps and flexes her toes in the soft carpet of the lounge. Despite crossing half the world in the fastest aerocar she could hire, she arrived too late for the cabinet meeting; but she was in time for an informal meeting afterward, a kind of postmortem on the Charna situation, in one of the private lounges in the Swan Wing.

  A curved bar, all dark exotic wood banded with brushed aluminum, sits in the corner beneath mirror and ranked crystal; plush burnt-orange furniture is grouped around a low glass-topped table. The Swan Wing’s solid-gold ashtrays wait on tables. The air is scented by the coffee that has been set brewing behind the bar, a fragrance that does not quite eliminate the. sour sweat of men who have been awake too long.

  The aged Minister of State adjusts his spectacles and looks at notes he’d made during the earlier meeting. “This has damaged us badly,” Belckon says. “Our neighbors know how to count. The Keremaths overthrown, Lanbola in
vaded and occupied, the government of Adabil fallen, however constitutionally, and now a violent coup in Charna. They can’t help but wonder who will be next.”

  Sorya sips mineral water from her crystal goblet. “Of the four chief supporters of the Provisionals,” she says, “three have been replaced by regimes hostile to the Provisionals and favorable to us. We have firmly established that other governments interfere with us at their peril. It will not hurt us in the long run to have our neighbors wary of us.” She gives her lilting laugh. “I wonder what Nesca’s premier is thinking right now.”

  Constantine gives Sorya a heavy-lidded glance. “What should Nesca’s premier be thinking?” he asks. “Are we engaged in anything deniable over there?”

  Disdain curls Sorya’s lip. “Nesca’s military, such as it is, remains loyal to its government. But both Nesca and its military are negligible and in matters involving real power may be discounted.”

  Belckon runs his hands through his hair, stifles a sleep-shift yawn. “I am disturbed,” he says, “that this convulsion should occur in a neighboring metropolis—apparently with our help, however deniable—and the triumvirate simply not know of it until it happens.” He glances across the table at Constantine and Adaveth. “Unless I am wrong in this assumption, and I was not informed while others were?”

  Translucent membranes slide over Adaveth’s goggle eyes. “It came as a surprise to me,” he says.

  “And to me,” Constantine echoes.

  A delicate smile touches Sorya’s lips. “I apologize, truly,” she says. “The fact is, contact with the Charni officers had been curtailed after war’s end, a single case officer was assigned, here in Caraqui because there was surveillance on our embassy, and he had other work… If I’d had detailed information or a definite date, I would have passed it on. It was a failure, I admit, but insofar as the result was favorable to us, hardly a catastrophic one.”

  There is a moment of silence. Sorya reaches for a cigaret, lights it with her diamond-and-platinum lighter, languorously breathes in smoke.