Walter Williams - City on Fire

Constantine continues to direct his gaze out the window—it is as if his mind were worrying over another problem entirely—but his answer shows he had been paying attention. “Will you have your ops room completed by the time you commence active operations?”

“That is hard to say.”

He turns to Aiah and places his hands on the surface of his desk. It is a beautiful piece of furniture, ebony, inlaid with gilt and mother-of-pearl.

“Let me know when the deadline approaches, and if necessary I will assign more people to you. The repairs to the Palace are crucial to the physical safety of the government and its workers, and should take precedence.”

There is a gentle knock at the door, followed by the appearance of Constantine’s secretary, a Cheloki named Drusus. “President Drumbeth wishes to see you, sir,” he says, and Drumbeth is in the room before Aiah and Constantine have more than half-risen from their chairs.

The president of the triumvirate is a small man, but he is made taller by erect military posture and bushy gray hair. Though he resigned from his colonelcy after the coup, he wears his blue suit as if it were a uniform. The coup that overthrew the Keremaths was his creation, and he had been intelligent enough to make Constantine a part of it, and of the government he formed afterward.

He shakes Constantine’s hand briskly. “I was passing by your office,” he says, “and thought I would take the opportunity to speak with you.”

Drumbeth’s impassive copper face and slit eyes are impossible to read, and Aiah concludes that his unresponsive face must have served him well in his previous post as director of military intelligence.

Constantine introduces Aiah. “Miss Aiah was giving a report on her progress in establishing her department,” he says.

“I would be interested to hear it,” says Drumbeth. He takes a chair without being invited, and nods at Aiah. “Please continue, miss.”

Aiah is near the end of her presentation, but for the triumvir’s benefit she begins again from the start. His narrow eyes watch her impassively as she speaks. Occasionally he interrupts to ask a pertinent question.

“Very good, Miss Aiah,” he concludes. “You seem to have done well for someone”—his slit eyes flicker for a moment—“for someone so young.”

Aiah is conscious of heat rising to her face. “Thank you, sir.”

Drumbeth turns to Constantine, then seems to remember something. “Ah—it occurs to me to ask you,” he says, “about some prisoners you have ordered released from our jails.”

Constantine gives him an expectant look. “Prisoners?”

“A commissioner of the Special Police—Anacheth. One of his subordinates, Commander Coapli, and a general of the former regime’s army, Brandig. The worst kind of men the old regime had to offer, torturers and killers. After you interviewed them, you ordered them all released from the Metropolitan Prison.”

A cold finger touches Aiah’s spine. These are Taikoen’s victims, the men Constantine was feeding to his creature.

“Ah,” Constantine says. “I recall now. I released them after I received their medical reports. They were all in the last stages of a fatal illness, and it seemed needless cruelty to keep them confined. In fact, I believe Anacheth and Coapli have already died.”

Drumbeth nods. “So I have been told. It was Coapli’s death, reported on the news, that made me wonder how he had come to be released from prison.”

“I hoped,” Constantine says, “to be able to set a better example of humanity than our predecessors.”

“That was good of you, I suppose.” Drumbeth’s tone implies indifference to the fate of Anacheth and his minions.

“Also,” Constantine adds, “I did not want it said that we secretly murdered them while they were in custody.”

Drumbeth nods agreement, but as he nods he continues to speak. “But nevertheless you are Minister of Resources, not Security, and you aren’t among those authorized to order the discharge of prisoners.”

“I apologize if I exceeded my authority,” Constantine says. “Since my Cheloki had arrested these people in the first place, and in view of the great challenges facing Gentri and the safety ministry, I thought it was easier simply to order them released myself.”

“That will no longer be necessary,” Drumbeth says. His voice is firm: Aiah sees an officer here, used to command. “Gentri now has a firm enough command of his department. If there are people whom you wish to have released on humanitarian grounds, call my attention to them, and after a review I will order their discharge.”

“You are busy enough. I would not want to trouble you with these minor matters.”

“Then don’t.” Drumbeth’s voice remains indifferent. “But if criminals are to be released, I wish it to be with my knowledge, or with Gentri’s.”

Constantine nods gracefully. “As you wish, Triumvir.”

Drumbeth tilts his head. “By the way—I wonder if you have seen the early news reports?”

Constantine looks at him with grave curiosity. “I have not had the opportunity.”

“There are stories in several media of a decision made at yesterday’s cabinet meeting concerning the fate of the Qer-wan Arms Company. The reports are unanimous in indicating the government’s decision to sell. In fact, my office has already been contacted by firms wishing to tender a bid.”

Constantine nods. His usual dramatic tones and extravagant gestures are suppressed: he sits upright at the table, and speaks in a lowered tone. “Such eagerness would indicate that the sale of the company, complete with its current set of government contracts, should provide the government an excellent source of revenue.”

“That may be true,” Drumbeth says. “But the fact remains that, contrary to the news reports, the government has not as yet decided the fate of the company, and may not decide to part with a resource so vital to its security.”

“Guns and ammunition,” Constantine says, “are available in quantity, and for rather better prices, in many other places.”

“So you said yesterday,” Drumbeth says. “It isn’t my intention to renew the debate, but instead to note my concern at reports of the inner workings of our cabinet now appearing in news reports.” A glint, steely in Shieldlight, appears in Drumbeth’s narrow eyes. “It would seem that someone is attempting to manipulate the situation through selected leaks to the media.”

A ghost of a shrug rolls through Constantine’s shoulders. He continues to hold his gestures to a minimum, and Aiah wonders if he is afraid he might give himself away with one of them. “It is to be expected, I suppose,” he says. “If they are to have wider participation in government, as we seem to agree they should, the public must be educated in such matters.”

“Educated,” Drumbeth says. “Not manipulated. Forcing the government’s hand this way will not be tolerated, and if I can discover the offender he may find that some of his most cherished projects—” His slitted eyes glance for a deliberate moment in Aiah’s direction. “His most cherished projects,” he continues, “will be vetoed, or given to someone else.”

“I’ve been a neglectful host,” Constantine says. “May I offer you coffee? Tea? A glass of brandy perhaps?”

“Some other time,” Drumbeth says, rising. “I have a full shift ahead of me.”

“Damn the man!” Constantine cries after Drumbeth leaves. He hammers a heavy fist into his palm. “He is—” The words jam in his throat, and instead he waves the fist at the door. “This is unsupportable! Dressing me down in front of a subordinate!”

Aiah shrinks from the storm of anger. “I wouldn’t call it dressing down …,” she says.