Constantine absorbs this. Rapid calculation glows in his eyes like a furious heat.
“The next decision is a political one,” he says. “I will need to see the triumvirate.” He turns to Aiah. “We will need you as well,” he says. “Get the latest figures on our plasm expenditure and report to the Crystal Dome at once.”
“Sir.” It is General Arviro, anguish plain on his face. “My Marines,” he says. “They’re behind enemy lines. Without a breakthrough to reinforce them…”
Constantine nods. “Yes,” he says. “I understand. I will raise the issue at the meeting.”
BATTLE RAGES ACROSS CARAQUI FRONT
PROVISIONALS HOLDING AGAINST GOVERNMENT ASSAULT
“It is not an insuperable position,” Constantine says. “We are likely still to win—we’re in a much better position than we were yesterday, and the Provisionals in much worse. Many of their units have been wrecked. But pressing the war will take time, and casualties on both sides—and among the civilian population—will be formidable.”
“Vengeance now!” Parq cries. “Invade Lanbola at once!” His face is gaunt, and his eyes are hollow. He laughs, tugs at his disordered beard. “Why do we bother to discuss this?” he says. “The Dalavan Guard is being wiped out even as we continue this pointless discussion. We must rescue them!”
“General Arviro has asked me to mention the Marines,” Constantine says. “They remain behind enemy lines. Many of them are cut off, and they are only lightly armed. Evacuating them will be risky, and we cannot supply them by teleporta-tion forever.” He looks at his notes. “Knowing this situation might arise, we have made plans for the invasion of Lanbola. Our mobile reserve alone can accomplish it within a day, should the triumvirate so order. We hope to be able to arrest most of the government as well as the Provisionals.”
“I will not support the invasion of another metropolis,” Hilthi retorts. “Hegemonism is insupportable at any time, for any reason. This war with the Provisionals is the natural price we pay for our centuries of misrule.”
“And the Lanbolan artillery?” President Faltheg speaks hesitantly. “Can’t they be said to have opened a war against us? How can we fight this without an invasion?” He shakes his head. “We could file another protest… I suppose.” He looks at Hilthi. “Mr. Hilthi? Do you have a suggestion?”
Hilthi looks troubled, but makes no reply.
Constantine turns to Aiah. “Miss Aiah?”
Aiah testifies as to the availability of plasm. Caraqui’s reserves have been cut in half by the first day of the offensive, and the ability of the government to support their assaults is fading.
Faltheg turns to Constantine. “Your recommendations, Minister?”
“I do not offer this advice lightly,” Constantine says. “But it seems to me that there would be far less suffering, less damage, if we went into Lanbola and ended the war at its source.” He gives an uneasy shrug. “The political problem of what to do with Lanbola,” he adds, “may be dealt with afterward.”
Aiah looks at her hands. It is the wrong move, she thinks, but she can’t explain why. And she has no acceptable alternative.
“Make them pay!” Parq says. “Make them pay for our suffering! Their wealth can make Caraqui a paradise!”
Hilthi sits stiffly in his chair, his eyes locked with Constantine’s. “I will not be a part of a hegemonist government,” he says. “I will not countenance the looting of another metropolis. If I am outvoted in this, I will resign.”
Faltheg’s tongue runs round his lips. He sighs heavily. “I must reluctantly agree with Triumvir Parq and Minister Constantine. The Lanbolans’ actions are intolerable.”
“You will have my resignation before the shift is over,” Hilthi says. “I will go into opposition.”
Constantine turns to him. “Triumvir, I am sorry about this, and I hope you will reconsider. But may I ask you to delay this action for another day or two? Disarray in the government now will only encourage our enemies.”
Hilthi hesitates, then nods. “I will do as the minister suggests.”
Aiah turns to Sorya, sees the triumph glittering in her green eyes. This is what she has wanted all along, and Aiah wonders if she has somehow managed it all.
The meeting ends. As they head back to the command center, Constantine takes Aiah’s arm. “I would like to use Karlo’s Brigade in the assault on Lanbola. They are near the border, ideally placed, and they are not yet committed to the bridgehead.”
It is, Aiah thinks, the only way to save Landro’s Escaliers and the others in the bridgeheads.
“Yes,” she says. “But I want to talk to Ceison personally.” “I will arrange it.”
And so, a half hour later, she finds herself talking to Brigadier Ceison, and giving him her personal assent to the invasion, along with her best wishes for its success.
Within another two hours, Karlo’s Brigade spearheads the assault into Lanbola, moving deep inland without opposition while assault troops are landed by helicopter on enemy buildings to seize control of the seat of government. Other airborne units engage and capture the Lanbolan artillery.
Within twenty-four hours, its political leadership dispersed or under arrest, the army of Lanbola surrenders without ever having left the vicinity of its barracks.
A day later, the Provisionals have collapsed and the war is over, and Constantine—because there was no one else, no one at all—has taken Hilthi’s place in the triumvirate.
TWENTY-TWO
Sea Mage Motor Craft—Take a Voyage to Victory!
The golden letters burn for a moment in the sky, a garish display, complete with a Marine striking a heroic pose in a motorboat. The sight makes Aiah want to cheer. Not because the Sea Mage company had contributed to the last, triumphant campaign, though they had, but because the plasm advert is there at all.
Peace. The price of plasm has fallen, and the sky is filled with the reassuring fires of commerce.
Another blaze floats up into the sky, happy people dancing with bottles of Snap! in their hands.
“Has the advertising improved in the last months, that you are so entranced?”
Constantine’s question turns Aiah away from her terrace window. “I would rather see that ad every minute for the next week,” she says, “than have the sky filled with artillery rounds.”
Constantine concedes the point. “Yes. I quite agree.” He pats the sofa cushion next to him. “Would you join me?”
She does so, leaning back against the warmth of his massive body. His puts an arm around her shoulder.
Outside, the sky blazes with the lights of peace.
On the table before them are the recordings of Aiah’s meeting with Holson and Galagas. The plastic casings are broken open, and the cellulose tape cut into coiled shreds by Aiah’s scissors. Tomorrow Aiah will throw the fragments out with the rubbish.
It will not be quite as simple to dispose of the memories of how those recordings were made. She is not as easy, leaning against Constantine’s strength, as once she had been.
/ shall guard my own back in future. Aiah had made that promise in anger; but now, soberly, she was keeping it. Sixteen bodyguards had been put on the payroll at the PED, and were now undergoing training in the Timocracy: in the meantime, when she left the Palace, she was accompanied by soldiers from Karlo’s Brigade.
“Are you pleased to find yourself a triumvir?” Aiah asks.