Metropolitan

by Walter Jon Williams

  Aiah picks up her gift cake and walks down the building’s worn steel steps to street level. A weary sense of tragedy fills her; this is going to be worse than what happened to Henley, and the dreary inevitability of it all sends a wave of sadness drifting through her nerves.

  She walks to the apartment that Khorsa and Esmon share. It’s a nice place, with a proper balcony instead of a scaffold, big enough for a nice pocket garden planted with squash, onions, chilies and herbs. Esmon is there, looking much his old self after expert plasm treatments — there’s a little bruising visible on his face, and the bridge of his nose has a new hump on it, but he greets Aiah with a smile and invites her in. He cuts pieces of the chocolate cake for Aiah and himself, and asks if she’s heard from Gil. She says she has.

  Esmon stretches out on the sofa while Aiah tells him more or less what she told Khorsa. She’s halfway through her story when there’s a knock on the door, and then her brother Stonn enters along with Esmon’s brother Spano. Cold suspicion wriggles its way up Aiah’s spine.

  “Thanks for doing what you could,” Stonn says. He’s a practiced felon, with powerful arms and shoulders and tattoos on his biceps. Mostly he’s a thief, but he’s strong enough to have occasionally hired out as muscle for some of Old Shorings’s Fastani gangsters.

  “I didn’t think anything would come of it,” Stonn says. “Don’t worry, we’ll deal with it anyway.”

  “What are you going to do?” Aiah demands. She looks from one to another in alarm.

  The men shrug. “We’ll take care of it,” Stonn says.

  “Take care of Guvag, you mean.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Stonn.” Pointing at him. “You’ll lose.”

  There’s a resentful glimmer in Stonn’s eyes. “Not if we do it right.”

  Stonn is hopeless; Aiah should have known that. She turns to her two cousins. “It’s the Operation,” she says. “They’re professionals. They have soldiers who do nothing but kill people. You two have never been involved with anything like that, you’ll get chopped down for nothing.”

  Esmon and Spano look at each other uneasily. “Stonn says we can wait for him outside his club,” Spano says.

  “There are longnose Operation types in and out of there all the time. You think they’re not going to notice three Barkazils standing in a doorway waiting for them? Including a man they just dropped the shoe on?”

  “I can get a gun,” Stonn says.

  “You think they don’t have guns?”

  “We don’t have to go to the club,” Spano adds. “We can find out where he lives.”

  Aiah’s frustration boils over, and she tells them exactly how foolish this all is — and that of course only confirms them in their course.

  “What else can we do?” Spano demands. “They beat up my brother, ne?”

  “All right,” Aiah says, standing, “fine. But don’t do anything till you hear from me. Nothing.” She looks at Esmon. “You promise?”

  “What are you going to do?” he asks.

  She looks at him, anger curling her lips. “I’m going to take care of it,” she says.

  DRUG DEALERS SENTENCED!

  PAY WITH LIVES FOR THEIR UNSPEAKABLE CRIME

  Let Justice be Served!

  The anger lasts halfway to Terminal, and is then replaced by anxiety. What, exactly, is she going to do? This isn’t the sort of situation in which she can improvise and hope to get away with it. And if the Operation traces her to the factory, then Constantine can kiss his whole plan goodbye.

  By the time the New Central Line drops her off at Garakh Station near Terminal, she has a scheme halfway put together. As she walks up the station steps into Shieldlight, she brushes her hair forward around her face and puts on a pair of shieldglasses. With luck, the Barkazil businesswoman in the gray suit and lace won’t be connected with the Barkazil girl in the yellow jumpsuit who fried the face off a local resident a couple weeks ago.

  From a public phone she calls Constantine’s accommodation number and leaves a message telling him she won’t need a ride from her job. Constantine’s workmen, accustomed to her presence, let her into the factory when she knocks on the door, then go on about their business.

  Aiah’s had her most recent lessons here: the plasm is free, even if the equipment is still primitive. There aren’t any proper workstations yet, but improvised stations have been jacked into the tap while the real equipment is being assembled. Aiah swabs dust off one of the cheap plastic-and-metal chairs and seats herself. The console consists of a sawed-off plastic plank with gauges and dials cemented on it with a gummy white adhesive. Aiah pulls her chair to it and picks up the dusty copper t-grip that’s been sitting here since her last lesson.

  Her mouth is dry. Somewhere in the factory a circular saw whines. Perhaps, she thinks, she ought to tell Constantine, get his help and assistance.

  No, she thinks. That’s not his job. He’s paying her for her knowledge, not to get him involved in some sordid family matter.

  Go, she decides. Do it now, before she comes to her senses.

  She takes her Trigram token from around her neck and puts it on the table in front of her, then drops the transference-grip into the waiting slot. There’s a mental snap! as the roar of power fills her senses, an instantaneous shift in perspective, as if she were half-blind before and has only now learned to see fully, to comprehend the essential structure of reality, the power that lies at the heart of the matter.

  A thousand Angels of Power sing in Aiah’s mind. She builds an anima and leaps from the building, flies under bright Shieldlight to Old Shorings, and from there to the Third Ward, the Jaspeeri neighborhood adjacent.

  Guvag, Aiah thinks, spends his time at the Shade Club on Elbar Avenue. And if he’s not there, she knows where he lives.

  Elbar Avenue is a cheerless, dingy little dog’s leg only one block in length, overshadowed by old brownstone buildings swathed in scaffolding and plastic. Aiah doesn’t understand how any of these places survived the last earthquake. The Shade Club is a small place, discreet, but underneath the chipped black paint of the club’s exterior Aiah can see the bronze sheathing that is supposed to keep it safe from plasm assault. The flyspecked window is checkered by a discreet bronze mesh.

  Power howls in her ears, urging her just to smash into the club, clear the place out with one great cleansing jet of flame. But that would be impossible — the bronze sheathing would suck her anima dry. With an effort of will Aiah carefully sinks her sourceline below ground, puts the umbilicus connecting her to the factory where it can’t be seen. She doesn’t want anyone backtracking her to her point of origin.

  Carefully she raises her anima to the window and peers in, adjusts her perceptions to the dim light. And there, sure enough, is Guvag — older and fatter than in his chromo-graphs, but clearly the same man. He sits in his shirtsleeves at a round table in the center of the room, a glass of liquor in front of him. A few of his cronies sit round the table, young men dressed with peacock extravagance or old men with expressionless, masklike faces. None of them seems to be engaged in anything in particular.

  All Aiah has to do, she thinks, is wait for Guvag to come out.

  Plasm growls impatiently in her ears. She might not have time, Aiah thinks; Constantine or Sorya could arrive at any moment. She expands the perceptions of her anima to include the street. The big Carfacin limousine, parked illegally near the fire hydrant, has to be Guvag’s. Might as well start with that. Aiah moves to the car, carefully sculpts ectomorphic hands, places them beneath the vehicle. Power pulses along her sourceline. The car trembles, rises, balances precariously. Aiah feels invisible back and shoulder muscles flex as she lifts the car to head height. Then, impatient, she wraps the entire car in a ball of power and fires it across the street like a round from a cannon.

  The club’s window explodes inward as the car’s massive, chromed front end drives through it. Tables and chairs spill amid a crash of shattered glass.

  Aiah fl
ies into the building through the gap in its bronze shield and sees Guvag, surprisingly fast for his bulk, already out of his chair and running.

  Aiah reaches out a thought like a slap, and Guvag reels. She seizes his collar in invisible hands, hauls him back to the table.

  Let him see her, she thinks. And she wills herself a body — not her own, she decides, but something much more impressive, a powerful, giant figure with hands like talons and the face of a raging animal. And aflame, alight with a fire that matches her rage.

  Fire’s reflection shimmers off the walls of the dingy club as her plasm body takes shape. Guvag, on his knees behind his table, stares at her with an expression of sick terror. His friends and servants have fled. Aiah looks at him with the keen, slitted eyes of a hawk.

  “Can you hear me?” she asks.

  Speechless, he nods. The tablecloth bursts into sudden flame and Aiah sweeps it away with her free hand.

  “You have made a mistake,” Aiah tells him. “The Wisdom Fortune Temple is under my protection. I want that understood.”

  “Yes!” he says. “I understand!” Her flame is scorching his face.

  “You do not know who I am,” Aiah says. “You will never know who I am. But if you do not keep out of Old Shorings, you will meet me again. Understand!”

  “Yes!” he shrieks. “Yes! I’ll leave your people alone!”

  Aiah releases him and he drops to the floor like a sack. She can see herself reflected in the bar’s mirrors, a hunched predator shape, an angel of fire and destruction. Her feet are melting through the bar’s plastic flooring. Guvag’s car, halfway through the window, rests on its nose. Aiah laughs, and the echoes of her mirth ring from the walls. She has never felt such glory in her life.

  “Goodbye, Guvag,” she says. “Remember that I can come back at any time.” She would like to stalk out in triumph, but she doesn’t dare touch any of the club’s bronze sheathing, so back in the factory she just unclamps her hand from the t-grip, and the distant reality of the shattered Shade Club fades from her perceptions.

  “Working already?” Constantine’s voice. He stands behind her, having arrived at the factory while she was occupied.

  Aiah licks dry lips. “Yes,” she says. “I was working on my telepresence techniques.”

  A tremor runs through her. She feels diminished, a tiny, insignificant figure compared to the flaming figure of vengeance, the Burning Woman, whose fiery existence she had just inhabited.

  “With success?” Constantine inquires.

  “I believe so.” Either she has just scared Guvag off, or she’s killed her entire family. Her display had been spectacular — if that plasm had been metered, it would probably have cost ten thousand dalders — and she hopes the thought of an enemy who can use plasm that extravagantly will cause Guvag to think twice.

  “Shall we do something a little more structured?” Constantine asks. He pulls up another of the cheap chairs, tugs at the knees of his gray slacks, sits.

  “All right.”

  Docilely, Aiah holds out her wrist, and Constantine takes it.

  STOKA SEVENTEEN

  The watch worn by those whose word is law

  Constantine’s guard Khoriak drives Aiah home in a little two-seater Geldan. She has him drop her off at the food market, and from there she makes a call on a public phone to Esmon’s apartment.

  “I’ve dealt with Guvag,” she says. “You shouldn’t be bothered from now on.”

  There’s a moment in which Esmon processes this, and then he says, “What do you mean? What do you mean you dealt with him?”

  “If he bothers you or Khorsa again, let me know. But he shouldn’t. You don’t have to do anything, understand?”

  “Ah . .. I suppose. But—”

  “And you’ve got to keep Stonn from doing anything stupid. That’s a lifelong task, I know, but if he moves on Guvag right now it could wreck everything.”

  “I’ll — talk to him.”

  Aiah hangs up, buys some soft drinks for the refrigerator and heads home.

  A memory of the Burning Woman flames softly in her mind.

  THE BLUE TITAN THREATENS...

  But the Lynxoid Brothers are Ready!

  See the new chromoplay now!

  Aiah hears the hiss of air and the little tug on her inner ear that signifies the car braking from its top speed of over 450 radii per hour. The InterMetropolitan pneuma to Gunalaht is a high-speed run, and the train spends more time in stations than it does in motion.

  Aiah places a bookmark in her text on plasm theory and waits for the deceleration. Regularly spaced soft glowing green lights, all that is visible through the window, shift from a constant blur to a slower, numerable pace. Then Aiah’s stomach leaps into her throat as the train drops out of the system and comes to a hissing halt at the station.

  The first thing she sees from the train window is a row of bright advertisements for casinos, all with that burnished golden color suggestive of luxury, each promising more spectacle, more indulgence, more ways to win than the last. She puts her book in her traveling bag — it’s heavy with Constantine’s coin — shoulders it, and steps off the train.

  She’d purchased a ticket for a metropolis a stop past Gunalaht. One of the little security procedures recommended to her by Martinus.

  She walks past the casino adverts, locates signs to a local train, and then realizes she needs to convert to the local money in order to pay the fare. She converts her money at one of a half-dozen kiosks that all seem to offer the same rate, then takes the local train to the stop nearest her bank.

  If she were a real big spender, she supposes, she could have taken a cab. She really doesn’t have the reflexes of a wealthy person yet.

  The bank is unlike anything she’s encountered, a large quiet room, softly carpeted, with silent people sitting at desks. Fluted white enamel pillars support an elaborate fan-vaulted ceiling. A white-gloved usher in a black velvet coat takes Aiah to the desk of a Mr. nar-Ombre. He has a voice so soft that she has to lean closely to hear him.

  Formalities are dealt with: she gives the codes Constantine provided her, gives her signature and chop, asks for the balance. Nar-Ombre’s computer whirrs for a few seconds and produces a total. 200,141.81. A few days’ interest to the good.

  “Thank you,” she says, and feigns a few seconds’ hesitation. “Does anyone else have access to the account?” she asks.

  The banker consults his records. “We provided the codes to the gentleman who established the account, a Mr. Cangene. We have a signature and chop on record for him.”

  Aiah represses a smile. Constantine ought to know better than to try to make her his passu.

  Not that she wouldn’t have done it herself, in his place.

  “In that case,” Aiah says, “I would like to withdraw the money, and open another account in my name alone.”

  Mr. nar-Ombre’s expression implies he hears requests like this every day, and perhaps he does. “There is a penalty for closing this type of account, I’m afraid,” he says. “And a fee for opening another.”

  “I understand,” Aiah says. She hefts her shoulder bag. “I’d like to make a deposit as well.”

  Mr. nar-Ombre’s long fingers reach for his computer. “Very good, miss,” he says.

  A few more days’ interest will offset the penalties, she concludes. When she leaves the bank, she asks the usher for his recommendation as to a hotel, and when she goes there, she takes a cab.

  Learn to live well, she thinks.

  She manages her entire day in Gunalaht without entering a single casino. If she’s not going to be Constantine’s passu, there’s not a lot of point to becoming the passu of an entire state.

  GRADE B PLASM LEAK IN KARAPOOR!

  HUNDREDS INJURED!

  DETAILS ON THE WIRE!

  Again, that incredibly fast work: over the weekend Aiah spent in transit to and from Gunalaht, the factory has been readied for use. A row of workstations has been built inside the completed c
ollection web, each with a comfortable padded chair and a pair of oval video monitors, side by side like a pair of eyes, to provide an outside feed. A metal shed roof now covers the whole installation to protect it against any attempts to drop the factory’s ceiling, and the high windows have been taped so thoroughly that almost all outside Shieldlight has been cut off.

  Aiah’s lessons in plasm use will take place here from now on. Unlike the plasm at Constantine’s apartment, the goods here are free.

  Three men are using the workstations, hands clasped around copper t-grips, eyes closed, concentration etched into their faces. Two are Jaspeeris, surprisingly young and with bad skin, but they’re neatly dressed in quiet gray, like the uniforms of an elite school, an effect that only makes them seem younger. One whispers inaudibly to himself as he dips the well, his upper body swaying left and right in response to some secret inner pulse. The third is older and black-skinned and looks Cheloki: he has a hard face, a hawk nose placed like a sword between his eyes, and may well be a veteran of Constantine’s wars.

  Through the as-yet-untaped windows of the office, Aiah glances out at the truckload of sandbags just arrived in the loading bay, then turns to Constantine and lifts an eyebrow. “Who are you planning on attacking, exactly?” she says.

  He glances up from his desk. “Sorya said you were curious.”

  He doesn’t seem upset by the thought, but just to play it safe Aiah says, “Who wouldn’t be?”

  A trace of a smile plays about Constantine’s lips. “You don’t need to know the answer.”

  “It’s obvious enough you’re planning some kind of war.”

  “I’m planning a change,” Constantine says. “An evolutionary transformation. And it should come cheap at the price.” He stands, flexes burly shoulders. His burning eyes are fixed on the workstations.

  “Nothing changes in our world,” he says, “because the cost of change is so enormous. Not the least is simply the cost of space. Consider what’s needed simply to build a new building. There will be something on the site already, so the old building must be purchased, and all the people living or working there moved. All those displaced people will have to go somewhere else, at enormous cost, and even if the builders manage somehow not to pay the displacement fees, somebody will. So every new structure is a drain on the economy before it even starts. Few banks can afford to finance such an effort unless it’s guaranteed by the government or the central bank, and that just adds another layer of complexity to the whole problem. Jaspeer can afford a new Mage Towers perhaps every dozen years. Nothing can be transformed in any significant way, because the cost of transformation is just so high. So most people can’t put up new buildings, just remodel old ones, but that means accepting the older buildings’ design limitations, the way they’re tied into the infrastructure.