Ethemark still sits in the back of the command center, presumably because no one has thought to ask him to leave. He bends wearily over the long table in front of him, chin resting on his folded arms, a cold cup of coffee in front of him. Aiah finds a chair and coffee and sits next to him.
“There’s a morgue set up here now,” she says. “I’ve just come from it. Davath is there, and our two others that were killed in the rocket attack.”
“Ah.”
She rubs her face. Little jitters of adrenaline jump through her nerves, and contrast strangely with the bone-weariness trying to drag her into sleep. “Davath was a hero. He saved our lives. I’d like to contact his family.”
“He has a mother still alive, I know. Somewhere in a half-world. I’ll have to find out where.”
She looks around. Very little seems to be going on.
“Has Constantine asked us for anything?”
“No. We’re just—”
And at this point Constantine enters with Sorya. She is still in the smart uniform that looks as if it were pressed three minutes ago, and he is still in his cords and leather jacket. Even if Constantine hasn’t had time to rest or change his clothes, his body seems charged with power, and he moves like a monarch surveying his realm. Pleasure glows on Sorya’s delicate blonde features, and her cap is tilted at a confident angle. Suddenly, as if a switch has been turned, the room comes alive: the background hum of conversation grows louder; people begin to bustle on errands; others approach Constantine with news and queries. He listens to them, nods, makes brief replies, his lips turned up in a secretive half-smile.
The atmosphere in the room seems lighter. It’s as if everyone can sense the tide turning, that all the news from this point on will be good.
Constantine takes one of the ceramic-and-gold headsets, speaks briefly, and gives some orders. He speaks with Sorya and she leaves for Plasm Control, almost skipping. He puts the headset down, sees Aiah waiting in the back of the room, and moves to join her.
“I hope you are refreshed,” he says.
“A blast of plasm and I’ll be fine.”
He considers, head atilt. “In a few hours perhaps. We haven’t the plasm to spare at present.”
Weariness enfolds Aiah’s mind like a swaddling of soft foam. “I understand,” she says. She looks up at the map. “Things seem much the same.”
“On the contrary.” Constantine smiles and perches on the table. “We’re about to finish it, I think. You turned the tide at Xurcal Station.”
Aiah blinks at the map. “They’re still holding it.”
“Only because I permit it. It’s the anvil on which I am beating the Second Brigade.” He laughs, and the deep, familiar rumble lifts Aiah’s heart. “While you and your teams were isolating Xurcal, Geymard and I were prepositioning troops to storm the place. Radeen either observed our preparations or realized Xurcal was vulnerable, because he sent a detachment out to reinforce the station. So instead of attacking the station I sent Geymard’s soldiers against Radeen’s troops, caught them in marching order, and mauled ’em—vehicles burning on the bridges, soldiers killed or scattered, what was left went running back to Radeen, two motorized companies toasted to cinders, a morale-booster for the rest of the Second Brigade. That was the battle you heard over your heads.”
“It didn’t seem so one-sided from my perspective,” Aiah says.
Constantine looks at her, and there is a hint of sadness in his glowing eyes. He reaches out, strokes her cheek with the back of his hand. “It was hard fighting, yes,” he says. “I had to commit my own people premature, and it cost us. But afterward I realized I could use Xurcal as bait, and so I declined to take it, even though its plasm was exhausted and many of the police guarding it were deserting. I set Geymard’s people about the place in ambush, and sure enough Radeen took the bait. Sent a reinforced battalion to Xurcal, and we sprang the trap and wrecked Radeen’s whole force… A few we allowed to escape to Xurcal, so that their appeals for help may tempt Radeen to send another force to its doom, but he seems to have learned his lesson, too late for him…”
He turns to the map, gestures. “Meanwhile, the enthusiastic Captain Arviro has been assaulting the aerodrome with the entire Marine Brigade. A bit ponderously—no tactical elegance, and more casualties than I would have liked—but with great spirit. Radeen’s mercenaries were pushed out of the aerodrome buildings, but they withdrew to other buildings overlooking the runways, and now the two forces are glowering at each other, neither able to make use of the ’drome—and that is satisfaction enough, for the present. And so there we are—mercenaries and Marines stalemated at the aerodrome, Xurcal ours whenever we wish it, and Radeen still in Government Harbor with a battered force.”
“And plasm?”
“The plasm station at military headquarters still works for them. Xurcal is useless. We doubt that the morale of Radeen’s troops is high—we have reports of desertions. But they are getting plasm beamed to them from abroad—from Lanbola principally—and Radeen can keep his tanks topped up, alas.” He shrugs. “I have asked the diplomats to do what they can, but in the meantime I’m going to finish it.”
He points to the map. “Arviro will leave a force to hold the aerodrome,” he says, “but he is disengaging the balance of the Marines and sailing them to Government Harbor. Geymard is readying an assault from the direction of the Palace. And soon—” He holds his hands out, then claps them together. “Bang, we’ll hit Radeen from both sides at once, and that will finish it.”
Aiah looks up at him. “That simple?”
Constantine favors her with a cynical smile. “Nothing is that simple. Combat is, by its nature, volatile. We can’t tell what Radeen will do, whether he will surrender or try to fight. But what will happen in the end, yes, is a clap of the hands and an end to the rebellion, and Caraqui will wake from this episode as if from a bad dream, and blink and gaze at the world and wonder how it is that so many things have changed. Ah…” His head tilts up as he observes a newcomer, eyes focused over Aiah’s head.
Aiah turns to see Sorya approaching, walking with her confident, catlike stride. Her green eyes turn in Aiah’s direction, and she acknowledges Aiah’s presence with a close-lipped, superior smile. Then she turns to Constantine and—Aiah has never seen this before—salutes.
“My boss,” Sorya says, “the Minister of State Belckon, has lodged protests with the governments of Barchab and Lan-bola for supporting the rebels with plasm. Barchab professed ignorance, and has agreed to shut off the plasm supply at once and also to supply us with plasm on request, at their usual rates. The Lanboli situation is more complex—their president is a figurehead only, and their party chairman is visiting another metropolis, and the foreign minister is at a meeting of the Polar League… Mr. Belckon doesn’t seem able to find anyone to complain to, other than some clerks.”
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.”