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.