Walter Williams - City on Fire

“Yesterday.”

“Is there anything we can do about it?”

“I will have Belckon send someone to Jabzi to have what are usually described as ‘full and frank discussions,’ but I suspect their government has already made up its mind and is unlikely to alter its position anytime soon.” He scowls and allows an edge of anger into his voice. “I would hate for the Provisionals to get a new sponsor at this point, just as they’re losing their old ones.”

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?

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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.