The Liberal Coalition, the party to which President Faltheg has lately attached himself, takes less than 8 percent of the vote, and a host of smaller parties split the rest.
Faltheg, presumably concluding from the totals that he had failed to kindle the enthusiasm of the electorate, resigns his post as president of the triumvirate—to his relief, Aiah suspects—though he remains one of the triumvirs, and also continues as Minister for Economic Development, a post for which he has genuine ability.
Constantine becomes president of the triumvirate, first among the three alleged equals. With his own party, Faltheg’s, Adaveth’s, and as many of the smaller parties as he can tempt to his side with promises of rewards and offices, he reforms the cabinet and government. He promises on taking office that martial law will be relaxed in stages and the normal processes of justice and government resumed.
On the day following the Caraqui elections, the government of Adabil falls as its parliament discovers a gap in the budget twenty-two billions wide. The new government is much less hostile to Caraqui, and much less friendly to the Provisionals.
Other neighbors, Aiah trusts, are taking note.
Negotiations with the Polar League continue, and Lanbola and compensated demobilization is much discussed. The envoy Licinias returns and is cordially received. When he meets Aiah, he bows in his courtly way and expresses his pleasure at meeting the Golden Lady.
“I am very pleased to see you here,” she says. “I hope you negotiate for us a hundred-year peace.”
He looks doubtful. “I will do my best,” he says. “Certainly things seem to be falling President Constantine’s way—I am pleased I was wrong in my predictions of a stalemated war. But Constantine’s swift passage to power may have left turbulence in his wake—dangerous whirlpools, I fear—and these may yet prove troubling to his state.”
Aiah can only hope that Licinias remains a poor prophet.
HANDMAN FOUND DEAD IN LOUNGE BAR
FRIENDS ALLEGE “PARTY SICKNESS”
“Oh, no. I’m not disappointed.”
Aldemar is a sufficiently good actress that Aiah can’t really figure out whether she is telling the truth or not.
“It’s a shame,” Aiah says. “I wouldn’t mind having the world thinking I look as good as you on screen.”
Aldemar, acting as her own producer, has lost the bidding war for a chromoplay based on the story of the Golden Lady. Aiah, delicate golden headset pressed to her ears, is calling from her apartment to express condolences.
“They would have made it a sequel to the chromo I just finished,” Aldemar says, “and it would have been as dreadful as the first.”
“It’s not very good?” Aiah is dismayed. Aldemar has sent her tickets to the premiere, which is taking place in Chemra. A visit to Chemra would also give her a chance to visit her agent, a man she’s never met.
“It had promise, but they wrecked it in the editing.” There is resignation in Aldemar’s voice. “Don’t worry—if you come for a premiere, I won’t make you watch the whole thing. You can slip out early and go to the party.”
“If you can watch it,” Aiah says bravely, “I can.”
“You’ll be luckier with your production,” Aldemar assures her. “You’ve got more money behind it, and Olli is a first-rate producer. He always does a high-class production.”
There is a moment’s pause. “You’ll get quite a bit of money, you know.”
Aiah will, in fact, receive a sum that, as a girl in Old Shorings, she would have thought beyond her wildest imagination. If she is not quite able to consider herself rich, she can certainly consider herself very, very lucky.
“With some competent management,” Aldemar says, “the money should keep you comfortable for the rest of your life.”
“I’ll keep myself in less comfort,” says Aiah, “because I’m going to give half the money to charities for refugees here in Caraqui.”
“That’s admirable.”
“They did all the suffering, and I got all the glory. It’s their story, too, and they deserve some of the profits.”
“In that case,” Aldemar says, “it’s more important that the money you keep be handled well. I can introduce you to some good money managers—they’ve made me a lot over the years.”
“Thank you, yes,” Aiah says. “It’s not a world I know much about.”
Her world, she thinks, is beginning to overlap with others in interesting ways. Requests for interviews, people who want her as a speaker at various functions, the continuing demands of her job… She needs a manager for everything, she thinks, not just her money.
Perhaps she can talk Constantine into allowing her an assistant.
THE GOLDEN LADY
A SPECIAL DOCUMENTARY—THIRD SHIFT ON CHANNEL 51!
“There is someone to see you.” Aiah’s receptionist Anstine, unusually pale, slides into Aiah’s office and quietly closes the door behind him.
“Yes?” Aiah says, looking up from a desk overflowing with documents relating to her department’s budgetary health. It’s an unusual visitor who actually prompts Anstine to enter her office, when he can just call her on the intercom from his desk.
Anstine bites his lip. “He—I think it’s a he—he says he knows you. He gives his name as Doctor Romus.”
The talons of the Adrenaline Monster dig into her back and Aiah starts upright, all at the sudden thought of Aground, of sudden death and terror. She looks into Anstine’s eyes and sees a look of concern cross his face at her reaction.
“Oh. Well,” she says. “Send him in.”
Anstine looks dubious, but leaves without comment. Aiah looks down at the documents covering her desk—all that postponed wartime paperwork catching up—and takes a long breath to calm her trip-hammer heart.
The war is over. Why does the Adrenaline Monster still lurk in her tissues, ready to rake her nerves with his chemical claws?
The door opens and Romus glides in, feathery tentacles fluttering around his little brown face. “Miss Aiah,” he says in his reedy voice, “I am honored to make the acquaintance of the Golden Lady.”
Aiah rises and tries to look at the unearthly figure without flinching. She represses an urge to shake hands: Romus has no hand to shake. She wonders if she should offer him a chair.
“I’m relieved you survived,” she says. “Ethemark has been trying to find people from Aground, but there are so many refugees, so many transit centers…”
Romus coils his lower body before Aiah’s desk and rears his head to her level. “I think most are dead,” he says. “The mercenaries killed everyone they could find, whether they were armed or not. Most of the able-bodied died trying to protect their families, and none had my gift of hiding.”
Sorrow floats through Aiah’s mind even as her body jitters to the Adrenaline Monster. Your fault, a voice whispers. She resumes her seat, and Romus curls his upper body into a fishhook to keep his face level with hers. “I wish,” she says, “things were different.”
No trace of sentiment glimmers in Romus’s yellow eyes. “Sergeant Lamarath knew the risk he was taking,” he says. “He agreed willingly.”
Aiah looks at him. “And what did he agree to, exactly?”
“He asked for money, medicine, and weapons, and he got them. He—we, for I advised him—felt it was a gamble worth taking.”
“And the other people who died? Did they think the gamble was worth taking?”
“For us,” Romus says, “all life is a gamble. The war could have killed us all without anyone ever knowing. The militia could have got us afterward. It could even have been an inhabitant of Aground who betrayed your mission—we tried to keep it a secret, but in a place like that it was impossible.”