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would like to get into the Palace, but would prefer not to be killed while
doing so, either by attackers or by defenders who fail to recognize him.
Aiah stands near him, feeling useless. She paces back and forth, kicking at
the spent cartridge casings that litter the deck and dabbing at her cut face
with her ruined scarf. Adrenaline surges through her, little bodily
earthquakes readying her for flight or combat; but nothing is going on, and
the surges leave her only with jitters and sweats.
There are roadblocks set up on the bridges leading into the Palace, but it is
not clear whose roadblocks they are people in uniforms and carrying weapons
all look remarkably similar, whichever side they are on. Whoever they are,
they watch the aerial bombardment with every appearance of indifference, as
if they too were obeying the Provisional Government's orders to behave in an
orderly manner.
"They're all waiting to see what happens," Constantine says. "If enough
people line up on one side or another, the other will surrender, and then they
won't have to fight.
He has decided not to contact the Palace by radio, because it might alert the
rebels to his location. So he has sent Khoriak off into one of the local
office buildings to make a phone call.
The phones are safe. The Avians, in their political wisdom, long ago
demonstrated their concern for secure communications by installing the main
telephone switches for the whole capital district in the lower depths of the
Aerial Palace.
Something happens. There is a flashing in the air near the lead helicopter,
and reports. Aiah's heart leaps into her throat as she turns to watch. The
helicopter begins firing all its rockets rapidly, as if in a hurry to leave .
. . and then another helicopter, two places behind in the queue, suddenly
gives off a series of loud bangs. It is shedding rotors, as if an invisible
hand has stuck itself into the whirling rotor blades a hand, Aiah knows, of
plasm. Fragments of blades fly out over the city, each one death for anyone
they strike, and then the copter pitches down, its whirling tail rotor giving
a corkscrew motion to its fall. There is a crash as it drops into an
apartment building, then a number of explosions as munitions and fuel begin to
detonate.
The lead helicopter slews off to the side, making good its escape. The next
helicopter in the queue fires off all its weaponry at once, without moving any
closer: rockets hiss through the air, some striking the Palace, others hitting
somewhere in the city. Then suddenly all the helicopters are firing and the
air is full of snarling, random death, the rockets like a nest of angry snakes
striking at anyone within reach. Aiah's nerves leap with each explosion.
The helicopters flee in disorder; six, eight, twelve of them. "I think we can
say their degree of commitment to the counterrevolution is limited,"
Constantine observes with a smile. A distant crash rings out from one of the
helicopters, and it begins belching smoke and losing altitude. A wave of
anxiety pours through Aiah as she sees it drop: they are enemies, but she
doesn't want them to die.
The helicopter trails smoke over the horizon. Aiah can't tell whether it has
crashed or not.
Constantine rises to his feet, brushes dirt from his trousers. "This would
seem to be an opportunity," he says. "If Khoriak doesn't return soon, he may
have to make his way back alone." He tilts his head up as if listening to an
invisible speaker. "Ah. Yes. Here he comes.
He is listening to an invisible speaker, Aiah realizes. Telepathy. She
wonders how long Constantine has been receiving information this way.
Khoriak arrives, coming down a rusted iron ladder from a passageway above.
"All set," he said. "Use the southwest gate. They're expecting us.
"Sorya's cleared the helicopters out," Constantine says. "We can expect no
trouble.
Sorya, Aiah thinks. That's who's been talking to him.
Unexpectedly, the knowledge makes her feel safe.
NINE
Constantlne comes into the Palace command center laughing, his deep voice
booming out like an echo of the bombardment. It is not relief, Aiah suspects,
but a kind of homecoming: Con-stantine has been from necessity a commander, a
great one, and war is a thing like home. Sorya greets him with a kiss.
"It is Radeen behind this," she says. "The Second Brigade is with him his old
command they are on their way to Government Harbor. The First Brigade and
Marines are in their barracks, I am told not that the First Brigade matters in
any case, since it has not recovered from its mauling in our coup. And there
is word of police roadblocks going up here and there, so Gentri or someone
high in his ministry is also a part of it.
"Radeen the Minister of War," Constantine says. "Trying to do what Drumbeth
has done. And Gentri. . ."He utters the shadow of a sigh. "Gentri, well,
too late.
Guilt stabs Aiah to the heart. If she had investigated Gentri properly, if
she had simply done what Constantine had asked, then perhaps all this would
not be happening... .
Her head swims, and she gropes her way to a chair and collapses into it. The
others in the room pay her no heed, a fact for which she is deeply grateful.
The white glow of video monitors burns down on everyone, outlining cheekbone
and brow, casting eyes into shadow. Sorya glides to a chair, sits in it,
flicks a bit of fluff off her uniform tunic.
"I had a little advance warning," she says. "They have done a more than
competent job of keeping their plans secret better than we did in our time,
truly, but then their conspiracy is smaller. I managed to keep the assassins
off your neck, but not Drumbeth's.
Constantine glances sharply at her. "He's dead?
"Yes. Killed in that ceremony reopening the bridge over Martyrs' Canal.. .
was standing with all his aides in the middle of the span when a mage attacked
with a power blast. ... They're all dead." She shrugs. "I could save one of
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