The Daimong clique run by Sagas scored another, if less violent, coup: they managed to hijack a convoy of foodstuffs from one of the Kulukrafs’ warehouses and drive it into their own neighborhood, where they left the vehicles open for the entire district to plunder over the course of a long night.
Resistancecelebrated these victories, and the heroes and martyrs of the secret army. Though Sula, as usual, transmitted only fifty thousand copies from the Records Office broadcast node, paper likenesses were now nearly ubiquitous: stuck on lampposts, sitting on tables in restaurants, piled in drifts in doorways. People read them openly on trams, at their desks at work, or while eating breakfast in cafés while the official video news nattered away over their heads.
It didn’t take the Naxids long to realize that cliques were directing operations, and they struck suddenly, intending to decapitate the entire leadership in one coordinated operation. But they hadn’t reckoned with the cliques’ cozy relationship with some of the higher figures in the police and judiciary.
All clique leaders were warned well in advance, and when the Urban Patrol and the Legion of Diligence smashed down the door of Sergius Bakshi’s shabby little office, they found no one there and all computer data logs zeroed out. In fact, the only person the Naxids managed to arrest was the captain of a Virtue Street crew who had been too drunk to check his messages and didn’t know the Naxids were after him.
Casimir was flattered when his own arrest warrant was issued—he hadn’t thought he was important enough. He didn’t mind having to shift again into a series of safe houses, but was vexed at having to give up his Chesko clothing and his apricot-colored car. He wasn’t used to being inconspicuous, and he didn’t enjoy it at all.
Sula, in contrast, had grown used to being inconspicuous, and so was jolted to discover her own face on the wall video as she bought take-out coffee and pastry one morning. She felt the blood burning her face as she ducked her chin into her collar and hustled back to the safe house, casting nervous glances over her shoulder.
Casimir was barely awake, his arms and legs draped over the edges of the narrow bed when she walked in. She dropped their breakfast on the table and ordered the wall video on, changing channels until she found her face again.
It was a picture taken from an earlier news item, showing her being decorated after the Battle of Magaria. She was in full dress, standing braced as Fleet Commander Tork put the medal around her neck.
“A reward of three thousand zeniths,” the news reader said in a chiming Daimong voice, “is offered for the false Lady Sula.”
Her heart gave a sudden lurch, and she sat down heavily on the bed as her knees gave way.
Thefalse Lady Sula? she thought. How could they possibly have found out about Caro?
“False?” came Casimir’s deep voice. He laughed. “They can’t admit they’ve made a mistake, can they?”
“A mistake?” Sula put a hand over her hammering heart, then felt a flash of anger as Casimir laughed again. She glared at him in rage.
“They think you’re an imposter!” Casimir explained. “They’ve been saying all along that the real Lady Sula died in an explosion, right? Soyou’ve got to be a phony!”
Sula stared at him. Stars flashed in her vision, and she realized she’d forgotten to breathe. She filled her lungs and turned back to the screen, her mind whirling.
Caro could stay dead, she thought. She hadn’t risen from the Sola River, sediment dripping from her golden hair, to strike her down. The deadly secret of her past would stay locked away.
Casimir leaned forward and put his arms around her. “Don’t worry,” he said in her ear. “It’s not so bad, living underground. I’ll be able to keep you company.”
She managed an edgy laugh. “I’vebeen living underground,” she said. “I’ve been dodging for months.”If not years …
She knew she would have to abandon her little apartment. Too many people there knew her. She would have to retrieve theju yao pot and the various munitions she’d secreted in the furniture…in fact, it would be best to send one of her own trucks, with a false bill of lading, to pick up everything, in case her apartment was already staked out. And a heavily armed extraction team, in the event anyone tried to intervene.
The communal apartment would have to be abandoned as well, she realized, and she was about to message Macnamara and Spence to tell them they had to leave. Then an idea burst in her mind like a missile flaring in the void.
“We can’t let them get away with this,” she said, thinking aloud. “We’ve got to respond.”
Casimir was amused. “What do you want to do? Bomb the broadcast station?”
“Not a bad idea,” she replied. “But no—I’m thinking of something more public even than that.”
She had to argue them into it. Macnamara was appalled, but he was her subordinate, someone to whom she could give orders. Casimir needed more work, but eventually Sula managed to appeal to the impish rebel in him, and he began to think her idea a vastly amusing one.
Thus, two days after the reward money had been put on her head—wearing her undress uniform, with the medals pinned over her heart—Sula walked into the Textile Market in Riverside to distribute the latest edition ofResistance to the startled vendors and their customers. She also brandished a printout of the previous morning’sSalvation, an official government broadsheet that prominently featured her face.
It was all for the benefit of the video camera carried by Casimir, who walked backward ahead of her, grinning hugely as he captured her morning walk. Carrying the news sheet with her picture put a firm date on the video, showed that even with a price on her head, she could walk safely and openly through a crowded street.
Though she was unarmed, Casimir’s squad of killers orbited her just outside camera range, walking in grim silence with guns displayed openly to prevent anyone from doing anything foolish to collect their three thousand zenith reward. Still, she had to force herself to walk slowly, to stop and smile at the vendors, to exchange a few words with the shoppers. She bought a vanilla drink from a beverage seller and refused to accept her change. She examined a bolt of silk, or something the vendor claimed was silk. She chucked a baby under the chin.
At the far end of the market, she turned, waved, and dived into a waiting sedan. She was eight minutes clear before the first of the Naxid squads arrived.
The next day’s edition ofResistance came with brief video clips, plus a number of stills, that documented Sula’s stroll. The faces of anyone she met or had spoken to were carefully blacked out.
We own the streets.That was the messageResistance was sending.
Three days later the Naxids did their best to proveResistance wrong.
The antimatter missile struck a little past noon, shortly after people had left work for their midday break. As she passed between buildings, riding behind Macnamara on his two-wheeler, Sula caught the flash, felt a touch of heat on her cheek even through the faceplate of her helmet.
The sky had turned in an instant to the color of milk. People on the street stood pale over stark black shadows. Sula gave Macnamara an urgent punch in the ribs.
“Stop! Pull over! Get into one of the buildings!”
People on the street were staring at the sky. The two-wheeler swerved through stunned, slowing traffic, raced between two parked vehicles, bounced hard over the curb, and weaved between pedestrians. Macnamara pulled to a stop before a pair of bright brass doors. Sula saw the reflection of her own startled face in the polished red marble of the building’s wall.
She slapped up her faceplate. “Take cover!” she shouted to anyone within earshot. “Take covernow !”
The two-wheeler’s gyroscopic stabilizers kept it upright as the two passengers sprang for the doors. They found themselves in a quiet haberdashery aimed at the Lai-own trade. Tall, well-dressed avians stared at them as the intruders barged into the showroom, eyes scanning for a place to hide free of flying glass.
“Take cover!” Sula kept shouting. “Take cover!”
So many bombs had exploded in the city that by now the Lai-own had the reflexes of veterans. Regardless of their fine clothing, they were down behind counters or under tables within seconds. Sula and Macnamara crouched on either side of the doors, their backs to the thick walls. Sula slapped her faceplate closed again.
People came running in from the street, looked wildly for cover, and ran into the store. There was a crash as someone stumbled over the two-wheeler; the two-wheeler remained upright, the pedestrian didn’t. The brilliant light outside had begun to fade.
Sula heard the shock wave coming, a rising rumble felt through the steel, concrete, and marble pressed against her back. She ducked her head between her knees and clasped her hands over the helmet.
The blast blew the brass doors open. The sound was a cosmic shout she could feel as a shiver in her bones and a slap of pressure against her ears, followed then by an absence of pressure that sent vertigo shimmering through her skull. Someone stumbled and fell across the doorway. There was a whirl of dust, and clothing on the racks swayed angrily. Objects tumbled from counters to the ground, the sound buried beneath the booming fury of the atmosphere.
Sula’s ears rang. She blinked up at the room. No glass had broken. There was a strange scent of heat and dust.
She thought it was over until she sensed something else rushing toward her and braced again. This time the shock came up through the floor, the wave moving through her viscera.
The slower moving ground wave, she thought.
The brass doors tried softly to close, but sprang back as they encountered the figure that had sprawled across the doorway. Sula reached for the fallen figure, a male Cree, took him by the arm and helped him crawl out of the doorway and get his back to the wall.
“Stay in cover!” she called. “There might be another one!”