Walter Williams - City on Fire

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 invaded 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 “Of the four chief supporters of the Provisionals,” she says, “three have been replaced by regimes hostile to the Provisionals and favorable to us.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.

“It would seem,” Faltheg says finally, “that however this happened, we must decide how to react. Denial is possible, so we must deny.”

Sorya tosses her head, exhales smoke over her shoulder, picks a bit of tobacco off her lip. “Others may try to dislodge our friends in Charna, as they tried to dislodge us,” she points out. “We must make it clear that the new government has our support.”

“I would phrase it more diplomatically,” Belckon says. “To the effect, perhaps, that we support the right of any metropolis to change its government unhindered.”

“That should make our point well enough,” Sorya says, and gives her lilting laugh. “That,” she adds, “and all the guns in all the hands of all our soldiers.”

Later, Aiah walks barefoot down the silent, carpeted hall of the Swan Wing, her shoes dangling by their straps in one hand, the other hand in Constantine’s.

“I can tell you what will happen,” Aiah says. “Once Sorya has got us to announce support for the new government in Charna, she will stage-manage a confrontation—or perhaps she’s confident it will occur without her intervention. A countercoup, a threat of invasion from another metropolis, a wave of terror and assassination… some threat to Charna that will force us to respond. And once we respond, the confrontations will escalate, and those fine soldiers and all their fine guns, as Sorya calls them, will get used again, all for her purposes and not our own.”

Constantine looks down at her. “You know this?”

“I know Sorya’s style.” She answers his look with one of her own. “And so should you.”

His brooding eyes look inward. “Yes. Her pattern is there.”

They approach one of the bronze-and-glass compartment doors, and it slides open on silent ball bearings. They pass the door and it rolls shut: Aiah finds herself glancing behind, making sure they are secure from any snooping trail of plasm.

“The last time she had her way,” she says, “she started a war.” She holds his hand more tightly, looks up at him. “You said, once it began, that you needed her to help us win it.”

“Yes.” He nods. “And her service was invaluable, brilliant.”

“The war is won,” Aiah reminds. “She is a danger as long as she remains with the Force of the Interior. You know that.”

His chin lifts a little, and there is a glimmer in his eyes, as if reacting to a challenge. “She is dangerous, yes. But then,” pensively, “I admire Sorya most when she is dangerous. She is at her best then, superb. And…” He tilts his head, as if to consider the problem from another angle. “Removing her from her position would not necessarily make her less dangerous,” he says. “She knows much about me, about the war… a dangerous amount. She might be more dangerous on her own, given what she knows.”

“Don’t fire her, then,” Aiah says. “Pin a medal on her and promote her. A bigger department, a bigger budget, a bigger salary. Let’s see how dangerous she can be once she’s Minister of Education.”

Mock alarm enters his eyes. “You aren’t terrified by the idea of letting Sorya educate the next generation?”

“Post and Communications, then. Or Waterways.”

A mischievous smile touches Constantine’s lips. “Or let her exercise her humanitarian instincts as chairman of the Refugee Resettlement Commission.”

“As you like.”

Constantine gives a contemplative look. “I will give the matter more serious thought. All these proposals are amusing, but they would not make suitable use of Sorya’s talents, and she would see through the scheme at once. No, I must give her a promotion that would flatter her into accepting it.”

He gives an offhand wave to the invisible security man behind the elaborately framed mirror at the end of the hall, thumbs numbers on the gold twelve-key pad on the door to his suite, and presses the wing-shaped door handle.

Aiah steps into the silence of Constantine’s suite, listening to the whisper of the circulating air, and then Constantine’s voice comes low to her ear.

“That’s a very attractive gown. It suits you well.”

“Thank you. Aldemar recommended the designer. Hairdresser, too.”

His hand sweeps the hair back from Aiah’s ear, sifts through it as if assaying its worth.

“I would not have had you cut short your trip to Chemra. This crisis didn’t require your presence.”

She turns to him. “Well. I’m here now.”

He looks at her, reflective. “I think we may have an hour or two before the next crisis calls me away. But you must be tired.”

“I’m used to being tired.” She puts her arms around Constantine, presses herself to him, his lace fluttering against her cheek. “Since I have known you, I have never been anything but tired.”