True, Aiah thinks, and clouds lift a little from her heart. “We might be able to free military mages for more important work.”
“Exactly!”
“I will tell Constantine,” Aiah says. “In the meantime, go back to the secure room and keep safe.”
“May I send Heorka to the shelters to find our mages?”
“Yes. Go ahead. Find out how many are willing to assist us, and then call in a report to me in the military command center.”
“Very good, miss.”
Feeling less hopeless now that she has something to offer, Aiah hangs the headset on its hook and looks up. Constantine is in conference with Colonel Geymard, the Garshabi professional whose mercenary soldiers have fought on Constantine’s behalf ever since the Cheloki Wars. Geymard is an erect, crop-haired man in battle dress, with a lined, weathered face and cold ice-blue eyes. It was his brigade that dropped from the sky to confront the Metropolitan Guard of the Keremaths, and now his unit, reinforced, defends the Aerial Palace.
“… and mortars in place,” he says. “I’m setting men on the rooftops around the Palace—the Palace overlooks the roofs, so they’ll be of limited use to the enemy, but when the enemy comes for us we’ll be able to set up a kill zone.”
“I need you to send a detachment to rescue Triumvir Hilthi. Armored vehicles, I think—drive through some of those police roadblocks, liberate the streets around the Palace so that more of our folk can join us. And then you need to take the triumvir to Broadcast Plaza so that he can make his appeal to the people.”
“If you will give me his location, I will arrange it.”
Constantine and Geymard make the necessary plans while Aiah sips coffee, and then Geymard leaves to give the orders. Aiah stands up, says “Minister,” but Constantine waves her back to her seat.
“In a moment, if you please. I have business more urgent.”
He takes a headset and tries to contact the Marine Brigade. Whoever answers puts him on hold, and Aiah can see Constantine trying to control his impatience, lips pressed to a thin line, free hand clenching and unclenching in his trousers pocket. Eventually he picks up another headset. “Put me through to somewhere else in the Marine Brigade. Try—” He tilts his head to one side as he thinks. “Try the gunboat maintenance pool.” A grin spreads wide as someone answers.
“Sergeant Krang?” he repeats. “I am pleased to be able to speak with you. This is Constantine, the Minister of Resources.” His grin broadens and amusement lights his eyes, another of those lightning shifts of mood, from trucu-lence to pleasure, that take Aiah’s breath away. “I am very well, thank you for asking. How are you?” Another pause, and Constantine’s eyes glow with delight. His grin beckons everyone in the room to share in his relish of this conversation.
“I am sorry about the sciatica,” he says, “and I hope the new treatments will be effective. The reason I call is to discover if you have been attacked. Some part of the Second Brigade has been trying to overthrow the government that you Marines helped us install a few months ago.”
The light in his eyes turns somber as he listens to the answer, and his grin fades. Aiah’s rising hope falls. “I see,” Constantine says. “Is there anyone to argue the other case? Anyone who speaks for the government?”
Another long pause. Constantine begins to fidget, his thick fingers idly spinning a gold-plated pen on the polished tabletop, watching it bob as it whirls in silence…” And the troops are not inclined? That is good.” He frowns. “Is there anyone I can send to you? Obvertag. Very good… Will you do me the favor of remaining on this line, Sergeant Krang? I thank you.”
He looks up, gestures at an aide as he covers the mouthpiece. “Get me Colonel Obvertag. He is deputy advisor to—” “Dead,” Sorya says.
Constantine looks at her, brows lifted. “Yes?”
“We tried to contact him early in the game,” Sorya says. “He was valuable—brought the Marines to us before, after the Keremaths forced him to retire for the crime of being an efficient officer. But his… widow …” A little smile flashes catlike teeth. “His widow said some officers visited him earlier today, in hopes he would join them, and when he refused them there was a scuffle, and he was killed. A bungle, apparently—they hadn’t meant to harm him, but when he began to call them avaricious incompetents and greedy fools, they defended their honor and professionalism by filling him full of lead.”
“You did not tell me this before?”
She looks at him with a degree of patience. “It has been a complex day, Constantine. A few things, now and again, may escape my memory.” She rises, tugs her tunic into place. “I will go to Plasm Control. We should organize a counterattack soon, just to see how good these rebels are.”
Constantine uncovers the mouthpiece. “I regret to inform you that the rebels have killed Colonel Obvertag. Shot him down in his own apartment, in front of his wife. You may confirm this simply by calling her. Will you share this news with your comrades?” Pause. There is a glow of triumph in his eyes.
“Thank you, Sergeant Krang. Please leave this line open and return to it when you have confirmed Obvertag’s assassination to your satisfaction. I hope I may use you as a conduit to the other Marines.” He flicks the switch that places the sergeant on hold, glances over the line of uniforms in the room.
“That may swing things our way—if the Marine Brigade loved anyone, it was Obvertag. His last service to us might have been the foolish fashion in which he died.” He glances up at the map, reflected coordinates glittering in his eyes, and then turns to his assembled staff.
“Several of the Marines’ officers, including their brigadier, ordered them to embark and head for Government Harbor,” he tells them, “but the soldiers have the scent of them and do not like it, and have so far refused. But neither will they declare for us, and I must find someone to bring them over. Do we have someone here willing to make the journey? Preferably a Marine, or someone else who will know their people?”
The uniforms glance at each other. A youngish man, bull-necked and bespectacled, steps forward. “I’ve served with the Marines. Gunboats and bellyachers, both.”
“Your name, Captain?”
“Arviro, Minister.”
Constantine nods. “Very good, Captain Arviro. May I ask—I realize this is a delicate question, but—when you served with the Marines… did they like you? I understand that one may be a fine officer, taut and meticulous, and nevertheless not have the soldiers in love with you, so if you answer in the negative I will not hold it against you.”
The captain considers this question. “My platoon gave me a party when I married, so I suppose they liked me well enough. There are always discipline problems, even in a good unit, but I don’t think I gave them cause to hate me.”
Constantine straightens and looks down at the officer, his voice like an incantation, magic to work his will on the world. “I will give you a boat, then,” he says, “and an escort. I would have you go to the Marine compound, talk to the soldiers, and bring them back to the government. Arrest any rebel officers—if they resist, you may shoot them—then report to me.”
The captain nods, very serious, oblivious to any notion of high drama. “Very good, sir.”
“In the absence of any loyal senior officers,” Constantine says, “you may consider yourself the commander of the Marine Brigade. But you will have to win the brigade to you, and that will not be easy.” He looks at Arviro with steady eyes. “It is not given to many officers to earn their command this way.”
The captain blinks behind his spectacles. “Yes, Minister. I’ll do what I can.”
“I will write an order confirming your authority, and then arrange for an escort with Geymard when he returns.”
The captain hesitates for a moment, then speaks. “Beg pardon, Minister, but Marines will not be gratified to see me escorted to them by foreign mercenaries. If I could arrange for an escort of Marines…?”
Constantine is surprised. “Are there Marines i
n the building?”
“There’s an honor guard at the Ministry of War. It’s only a squad, but they have combat gear available. Besides, if we’re seriously opposed, we’ll be killed no matter what our force, and if there’s only light opposition or none, the squad and the boat’s crew should suffice.”
Constantine nods. “Very well. Let me write out your orders, and then I will leave you to your work.”
As he bends over a sheet of paper and picks up his golden pen, one of Sorya’s aides approaches to murmur in Constantine’s ear. Understanding glimmers in his eyes, and as he presents the captain with his orders, urgency underlies his voice.
“I have received word that planes are landing at the aerodrome and discharging troops. So your first task, on taking command of the Marines, is to move to the aerodrome and retake it.”
The captain nods. “Very good, sir.”
Arviro leaves and Constantine looks after him, a thoughtful frown on his face. He turns, looks at the others, and murmurs, “Well, between Sergeant Krang, Captain Arviro, and the late Colonel Obvertag, we may be able to throw a fistful of diamond dust in our enemies’ gears.” He looks up. “How many combat mages do we have available? We may be able to create some mischief among these troop transports as they land.”
Aiah glances up sharply—perhaps this is the time she should mention her mages in the shelters.
“More are reporting, sir.” Another aide. “Perhaps a dozen, though not all are trained.”
“And sufficient plasm for them?” He turns and glances at Aiah, sitting alert in her chair. “Miss Aiah, I believe I need you now.”
Aiah puts down her coffee—she has almost emptied the cup, she sees, all without realizing she had been drinking—and rises. “Yes, Minister?” But Constantine is already in motion, his broad back to her, and she has to trot to keep up.
Words fly to her lips, the words she’s been wanting to speak this last hour. “Minister,” she says, “I’m sorry about Gentri. You were right and—”
He dismisses her apology with a wave of one big hand as he dives into the tunnel that leads to Plasm Control. The passage is claustrophobic despite the cheerful brass fixtures and vermilion carpet: Aiah can sense the huge plasm reservoirs on either side, the vast weight of the concrete and armor, holding back the infinite patient power of the sea…
“It is not your fault that Gentri was clever,” Constantine says. “I suspected something, and Sorya could not find an answer, and I asked you to help… I had not the right to expect you to find a thing when the experts could not.”
“But this…” I am to blame, she wants to say, but her tongue trips on the words.
Constantine booms out the door at the end of the tunnel, and the vast space that is Plasm Control swims into giddy perspective. People sit intent before banks of glowing dials and brass levers. The icon to Two-Faced Tangid glowers down at them with red electric eyes.
Poised like a dancer with one foot turned out, Sorya stands leaning against a console, intent in conversation with Captain Delruss, the stocky engineer who had given Aiah her first tour of the palace. Constantine and Aiah approach.
“These reinforcements landing at the aerodrome,” Constantine begins. “Our friends in the Timocracy did not warn us that these people were mobilizing?”
Sorya looks disturbed. “I have heard nothing.”
Delruss—born and raised in the Timocracy of Garshab—speaks in a soft voice. “We are very good at operational security. Possibly the destination was kept secret until the units were actually in flight. So unless someone very high up was sympathetic to the current government here, or had a friend here he wished to warn, it isn’t surprising you were caught off guard.”
“Who is paying for them?” Sorya wonders. “I do not think that Radeen or Gentri have that kind of money, and the soldiers of the Timocracy do not move without ready coin.” Her eyes narrow. “I suspect our neighbors. Lanbola does not love us, nor does Charna. Barchab wants the Keremaths back, but their government is so disorganized I doubt they could keep something like this secret.”
“We shall find out in time,” Constantine says. “But until then we need to deal with the soldiers themselves. Sorya, I think we need to make their landing considerably less pleasant.”
Pleasure glitters in Sorya’s green eyes. “May I have free use of the available mages?”
“So long as security here is not imperiled, yes. At the very least, try to crater the runways.”
Sorya gives an elaborate, ironic bow. “Your servant, sir.”
As Sorya glides away, Constantine turns to Delruss. “How much plasm can we call on? Can we afford to go on the offensive?”
“We’ve ordered all the plasm stations in the city to cease non-emergency use and to prepare to send us any stored plasm beyond that required for station defense, but three have not responded. We have thrown emergency switches to take them off the well, but these did not answer properly and have probably been sabotaged. Four other plasm stations reported that police tried to talk their way past security, but were turned away by the military police guards without violence.”
“So the other stations probably made the mistake of letting the police inside?”
“Very possibly.” Delruss looks apologetic. “There was no alert, of course. No reason to suspect them.”
Constantine’s eyes light with calculation. “Three stations,” he muses. “And of course the Second Brigade’s own headquarters plasm. That isn’t enough to breach our defenses, but it can raise a lot of mischief and will probably be supplemented with plasm purchased abroad. If our enemies can afford foreign troops, they can certainly afford foreign plasm. But—” He smiles. “They tried to take seven plasm stations and got only three. They attempted to bring all the army with them and got only a single brigade of infantry and the Aerial Brigade, which seems to be somewhat less than enthusiastic. At least one of the triumvirs is still at large, and their attempt to murder me was foiled by Sorya.” He puts a large, warm hand on Aiah’s shoulder. “And they have not had Miss Aiah to provide a well of plasm vast beyond reckoning, as we did in our own strike. And that is where they are at a disadvantage.” At his words, Aiah feels a welling of pleasure that wars with the despair in her heart.
“Minister,” she says. “My department has mages in the building. Not trained for military work, but—”
“How many?” Constantine’s response is immediate.
“A dozen or so. I should be getting a report very soon.”
He nods briskly. “We will see if we can put them to use.”
He leans closer to Aiah and speaks in a low rumble. “In the meantime, I need you to organize some ministry employees—form teams—and get out into the city. Find the plasm connections to those three stations, and cut them. Destroy them, so that they cannot be repaired with any ease.”
Aiah’s heart gives a lurch. “I—” She hesitates. She will need maps, she thinks, equipment for manipulating plasm connections. Boats. How many teams? And Constantine wanted the plasm connections destroyed—how? Demolitions? No—not unless Constantine can give her people who know how to use them.
Acetylene torches, she thinks. Close the switches and weld them shut.
Constantine’s eyes, cold and commanding, glitter down at her.
“Yes, Minister,” she says.
He nods. “Very good. You may draw what you need from our ministry supplies here in the Palace. Take food from the cafeterias—you may be gone for some time.”
Aiah’s head whirls. “Yes.”
He looks at her gravely, and to her immense surprise sketches the Sign of Karlo over her forehead with his thumb.
“At once, Miss Aiah,” he says, his voice surprisingly gentle, and turns away.
CHELOKI RECOGNIZES CARAQUI REBELS
DENOUNCES “CONSTANTINE’S ILLEGITIMIST METHODS”
Marine engines rumble in the darkness beneath the city. The combined reek of floating garbage and floating humanity is clenched in the bac
k of Aiah’s throat like a fist.
The boat’s spotlights carve a misty tunnel in the darkness. Rusting hulls, strange scaffoldwork, misshapen bodies, and dully glittering eyes loom on either side. The boat is passing through one of the uncharted half-worlds, a far more primitive place than Aground, a randomly assembled collection of human and nautical rubbish. Edged by the spotlights, perceived only in fragments, the rusting barges and silent, unresponsive people have a nightmarish jigsaw quality, eerie fragments assembled at random in some huge, unguessable formation.
It had taken several hours for Aiah to assemble her teams—to find them in the shelters, to persuade them to volunteer, to locate the necessary equipment, and to plan the operation on ministry maps laid out over the tables in the Operations Room. And all the while the situation outside was changing, the balance of power shifting as more elements entered the volatile situation……
Sorya’s team of mages failed to significantly damage the mercenary units landing at the aerodrome—they were well guarded by their own mages—but she succeeded in cratering the runways to prevent further reinforcements. The incoming mercenaries were forced to divert their flights to neighboring Lanbola, where it is presumed they will be interned. Hilthi was plucked from his hideout by Geymard’s troops and delivered to Caraqui’s broadcast center, where radio and video began to air his appeals to the population. And to everyone’s surprise the third member of the triumvirate, Parq, phoned in from his office in the Grand Temple. He had survived a brawl between his guards and police sent to arrest him, and several people had been killed. He had thought the plot aimed against himself alone—perhaps initiated by a band of religious dissidents—and had only belatedly discovered the extent of the countercoup.
He was declaring for the government, he said, and was mobilizing his Dalavan Guard and would soon be making a broadcast on his own Temple-owned communications channels.
Constantine seemed pleasantly surprised by this. In view of Parq’s history of treachery, he clearly had anticipated a great deal of bargaining before the triumvir chose one side or another; but apparently the assassination attempt had frightened him—“He cannot be encouraged by the thought that our opponents find him dispensable,” as Constantine remarked—and Parq was now firmly in the government camp, even if his Dalavan Guard was a lightly armed joke.
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