City on Fire m-2

by Walter Jon Williams

  He looks around the room, at the aides, soldiers, and technicians standing in stunned silence. “You have all done very well,” he says. “This—” He waves at the map. “This is the fault of no one here, but the result of treachery—” His voice booms on the word, and he shakes a fist at the map. “Treachery on the part of certain criminals in Lanbola, who will, with their friends, soon be brought to account.” There is a strange wild light in his eyes, something fierce and feral. “That,” he says, “I can guarantee.”

  Taikoen, Aiah thinks. A memory of the blood-splashed walls of her apartment flashes before her eyes, and she tastes bile in her throat.

  Suddenly Constantine is in motion, marching from the table toward Aiah in the back of the room, the crowd parting before him like the sea. His glance is fixed on the double doors behind Aiah, but he hesitates as he nears her, then steps toward her.

  “Do you know how to get ahold of Rohder?” he asks.

  Aiah looks at Constantine in surprise. Rohder hasn’t crossed her mind since the rebellion began.

  “I know where his apartment is,” she says. “I don’t know whether he ever made it back there. The fighting blew up right around him, and he might be injured or in prison somewhere.”

  “He was well last I saw him. Call his apartment. We’ll need every drop of plasm we can generate, and I want him back on the project. He can call on unlimited manpower and as much computer time as he needs.” “Yes, Minister.”

  Constantine gives a frowning look at the door. “As for me, I must call Hilthi and Parq and summon them here. I cannot fill this political vacuum forever, for all that Sorya thinks I can.”

  “Good luck.” She stands, makes the Sign of Karlo over his forehead. His look softens.

  “Thank you,” he says, and makes his way out.

  Aiah turns back to the room, the hushed people going about their work. Sorya stands by the big table, a pair of gold-and-ivory headphones worn over her peaked cap as she tries to reach someone in the Timocracy, and she glances at the map with a complacent look as she puts a cigaret in her mouth and flicks her platinum lighter. As the little flame brightens Aiah hears Sorya’s words again, Declare yourself triumvir. Or better yet, Metropolitan.

  Aiah’s hand flies to her mouth in shock.

  Declare yourself triumvir. That’s what this is about.

  Aiah’s blood turns chill.

  Sorya has arranged it all somehow. The countercoup is, in some sense, hers.

  Probably she did not conspire with Radeen and Gentri and Great-Uncle Rathmen, no. But she had to have known at least some of their plans. She allowed their coup to take place, careful to preserve only those people she needed. She was able to save Constantine from assassination, but not Drumbeth. She and certain loyal people were on hand in the Palace in order to respond.

  All truces are temporary. Sorya’s principal maxim.

  How else could she advance, except in a world of chaos? Who needs a political intelligence department in a time of peace and relaxed tension? But in a time of madness and war, Sorya will become indispensable.

  And when Constantine rises, Sorya will follow in his wake. Until, in the end, she no longer needs him, and then…

  Sorya’s green eyes flicker across the room, and Aiah looks abruptly down at the floor so that Sorya won’t see the terrible knowledge behind her eyes…

  What can she do? Aiah wonders. She bites her lip.

  In the humming silence, no answer comes.

  TWELVE

  Aiah asks for a meeting with Constantine, but doesn’t get one till the next day, and then it turns out to be in a basement room, and with a swarm of other people.

  There is a conference room in Constantine’s suite of offices, but its huge bay window faces Lorkhin Island and any rocket batteries or artillery that might soon be placed there, and so the meeting is held deep in the Palace, in a lounge intended for maintenance workers. The furniture is cheap plastic and the walls vibrate to the sound of generators and compressors in adjacent rooms. Taped to the bare walls are pinups of seminude women, some faded with age. Aiah even recognizes the Nimbus Twins, frequently seen cavorting on her brothers’ walls when she was growing up.

  Constantine’s department heads sit impatiently in the plastic chairs and glance frequently at their watches. Constantine has called this meeting, and he is late.

  There is little conversation. Aiah feels her eyelids droop. Her abbreviated sleep seems a long time ago.

  And then the door booms open and Constantine enters. He greets everyone, grins as he inspects the pinups, and then sits on a waiting plastic chair. “I’ve just come from a meeting of the cabinet,” he says. “Minister Faltheg has been appointed triumvir and president in place of the late President Drumbeth.”

  People glance at each other, brows raised. Few seem to have heard of Faltheg till this moment. Aiah knows at least a little about him—she’d studied the cabinet members before making her presentation to them—but knowing his biography makes her even less certain what might qualify him to become a third of the government.

  Constantine sees the puzzled looks. “The former Minister for Economic Development,” he explains, “a banker and a worthy man.” A devil’s grin plucks at his lips. “It was felt that an image of stability and continuity should be projected. No more military people.” His grin widens, and he gives his subordinates a confiding wink. “And no controversial foreigners, either,” he adds. Low laughter sounds through the room.

  Besides, Aiah thinks, Faltheg was in the building.

  “I have been given the War portfolio as well as Resources,” Constantine goes on, “along with a brief to run this war, as long as it lasts, and extraordinary powers to mobilize war, economic, and plasm resources. Because I will not be able to give full attention to the Resources post, I am hereby appointing Secretary Jayg to run the department day to day in all matters not relating to the war.” He nods to one of his people, who smiles nervously at the news of this two-edged appointment.

  Constantine turns his intent gold-flecked eyes on Aiah, and she feels her nerves stammer. She knows that look by now.

  “Miss Aiah,” he says, “I am going to invest your department with extraordinary powers to increase the government’s plasm reserves by any and all means necessary.”

  Aiah stares at him. She has had her fill of impossible jobs lately. “Sir—”

  “Have you contacted Mr. Rohder?” Constantine asks.

  “No. I’ve tried several times, but he’s not answered.” A wave of guilt floods Aiah’s veins, and she gnaws her lip, wondering if she’d brought Rohder to Caraqui only to have him killed.

  “Then you must reassemble Rohder’s team,” Constantine says, “and recruit more members. I want that work to go forward with all possible speed.”

  “Sir—” She wants to protest, to announce to everyone here that she’s unqualified, already overwhelmed; but Constantine’s gaze is on her, and in the end she just says, “What about budgeting and so forth?”

  “Bring me a budget,” Constantine says, “and I’ll sign it.”

  The answer staggers her. “Yes, sir,” she says.

  “The cost of all civilian plasm use, with some obvious exceptions such as hospitals, food factories, and established religious institutions, will be increased,” Constantine says. “Our meter-reading teams will be sent out into the city, working double shifts until they can read every meter in Caraqui and we can begin billing at the new rate.” His eyes light on Aiah again. “Your department will be even more necessary now, because the increased rates will make bootleg plasm all that much more attractive, and more profitable to the Silver Hand.”

  “You make it seem as if this is going to be a long war,” says the newly promoted Jayg. He is a slight man, blond, with spectacles. Young, like so many of Constantine’s recruits. He wears a New City badge on his throat lace.

  “We must be ready for that possibility,” Constantine says. “Lorkhin Island is a strong position—huge buildings wit
h solid foundations, and overlooking the entire city. If our soldiers have to fight our way up each building staircase by staircase, it will take a long time and our casualties will of necessity be high. Much depends on how much plasm we can mobilize in the early days—if we have a significant edge in plasm, we can keep them off-balance and prevent them from fortifying themselves properly.” He looks from Jayg to Aiah. “You two bear the most responsibility here. I need results, and fast.”

  Oh, Aiah thinks, so the war is up to me.

  And, her thoughts continue, I have practically no department now. I’ve got to scrounge clerical workers from shelters and mages from war work.

  Bring me a budget and I’ll sign it. Now that will help.

  “The cabinet made a few other decisions that do not directly affect us,” Constantine says, and his face assumes a deliberate cast of neutrality. “Since our police force is at worst collaborating with the enemy and at best unable to function, Triumvir Parq will be organizing a citizens’ militia based around the various Dalavan temples. These militias will assist such police as remain in keeping civil order. Triumvir Parq will also be greatly expanding the Dalavan Guard, with the intention of producing high-quality combat units.”

  Aiah looks at the others as they absorb the fact that Parq is now building his own army and police force. She doesn’t know everyone well enough to know whether they are Dalavans, but whatever their convictions, nobody seems very pleased.

  “The cabinet,” Constantine says into the thoughtful stillness, “also decided that the registration of political parties may now begin, with the eventual intention of seating a new Popular Assembly. The only party forbidden to register is the Citizens’ Progressive Party of the Keremaths.”

  Jayg raises a hand. “Isn’t that dangerous? Isn’t the creation of political parties at a time of civil war likely to simply increase the level of disorder?”

  “It is hoped,” Constantine says, “that increasing the degree of popular representation will serve to draw large elements of the populace into the political arena, and toward a position of support for the government.” He gives a glittering, cynical politician’s smile. “In any case, Triumvir Parq is in the process of recruiting his own partisans, and others in the cabinet will not do less.” He stands, brushes his knees, affects an air of casual modesty.

  “Tomorrow I shall announce the formation of the New City Party of Caraqui. I would find it pleasing if some of you were to join it. But if you are not so inclined, it will in no way affect the conditions of your employment by my administration. And if you decide not to join the New City, I hope you will participate in the process in another way. But for now”—a sudden fire lights Constantine’s gold-flecked eyes—“we all have much work to do. Unless there are questions…?”

  Aiah has a thousand, but voices none of them; and no one else speaks either. After Constantine leaves, as she is gathering up her unused papers she overhears a pair of her colleagues.

  “I’m going to be first in line to join this party,” one man says.

  His friend seems surprised. “I didn’t know you were such a radical.”

  “I’m not. But I plan to keep my job.”

  A cynical chuckle. “Surely you don’t think Constantine will favor only members of his own party.” The tone is mocking.

  Aiah straightens and turns to them. They see her look and fall silent.

  “I really don’t think party membership will matter to him,” she says.

  One of them gives a little snort. “You’re his lover. You’ve got a different sort of job security.”

  Aiah’s cheeks burn. Her temper burns as well, flaring like wildfire—and seeing the blaze, the speaker takes a step back and turns pale as he realizes Aiah’s potential for revenge.

  “You people have lived under the Keremaths too long,” Aiah says. “You’re not used to politicians who aren’t petty little shits.”

  The room has fallen silent. Jayg adjusts his spectacles and gnaws his lip as he judges whether or not to intervene.

  Aiah turns on her heel and marches out before she says something else.

  There is a war to win. She’d better win it.

  “LANBOLA IS AND HAS ALWAYS BEEN NEUTRAL,” INSISTS MINISTER

  PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT CONTINUES MEETING IN LANBOLI OFFICES

  “Every plasm house we’ve found,” Aiah says. Gears click over as she presses keys: there is an electric hum, and the heavy barred secure room door swings open.

  “I want the complete list,” she says. “We’re going to have to take all the houses down now, whether we’re got our cases against the users properly prepared or not.”

  She goes to the files and unlocks a bronze-sheathed drawer. The drawer opens silently on smooth steel bearings.

  “How are we going to take them?” Ethemark asks. “We’ve always used soldiers, and now the soldiers are… busy with other things.”

  “We’ll hire new ones if we have to,” Aiah says.

  Bring me a budget and I’ll sign it. A company or two, she thinks, could do the job.

  Maybe she could wheedle a few troops out of Constantine. Lightly armed military police weren’t going to be much use in storming Lorkhin Island anyway.

  “Miss?” One of her assistants, rapping lightly on the thick steel-and-bronze door. “I’ve just got a call from Mr. Rohder.”

  Aiah’s heart eases as she realizes Rohder’s alive.

  “Is he here?” she asks.

  “Not quite,” the assistant says. “He’s in jail.”

  CRIME LORD SEEN IN LANBOLA MEETS WITH KEREHORN

  Rohder and his entire crew had been arrested by police who’d turned up too late to assist in the attempt on Constantine’s life. After waiting in jail for over a day without being charged, or fed, they’d put all their money together in order to bribe a jailer into letting Rohder make a phone call.

  “I can’t say, miss,” the answering officer says when she calls.

  “You can’t confirm you’re holding these people?” Aiah asks.

  “I can’t say.”

  Aiah taps a pencil impatiently on her desk as she strives for clarification. “You can’t say because you don’t know, or because you decline to answer?”

  “I…” The officer gropes for a response. “I can’t say,” he says finally.

  “We know you’re holding them,” Aiah says. “Please don’t try to deny it.”

  “All right.” The officer agrees amiably enough. Aiah restrains the impulse to sigh audibly into the mouthpiece.

  “Can you tell me,” keeping a grip on her patience, “if any charges have been filed against them?”

  “No. We haven’t received any instructions.”

  “Whose instructions do you need?”

  “Captain Albreth.”

  “Is he available? May I speak to him?” “No. He made the arrest, but he’s been out of touch since then.”

  “I suggest you let them go,” Aiah says. “They’ve committed no crime that you know of, you’ve held them for over twenty-four hours without a charge being filed, and your Captain Albreth may be dead or in jail himself for all you know.”

  “Well,” the officer says. “I don’t know if I have the authority—”

  “Let me speak frankly, sir,” Aiah says. “The coup against the government has failed. Gentri and Radeen and the others are either dead or in hiding. Their forces have fallen apart. The Palace is now in a position either to reward its friends or punish its enemies. Now, sir—which of the two are you?”

  “I’ll have to talk to some people about this,” the officer says.

  Aiah decides that the time limit on her patience has expired. “If you are a friend of the administration, you will let these people go,” she says. “If you are an enemy, I’ll come down with a company of soldiers, and I’ll free my friends. And if I have to shoot every policeman in the place to do it, that’s what I’ll do.” She pauses to let this sink in, then adds, “The choice, of course, is yours.”

&
nbsp; “I…” She can feel the officer struggling. “I’ll have them released,” he finally says.

  “I’m happy that reason has prevailed,” Aiah says. “Have Mr. Rohder call me when he’s set free.”

  She hangs the headset on its hook and observes Ethemark looking at her meditatively, nictitating membranes half-closed over his eyes. When she returns his gaze, his eyes clear and he turns away.

  “You’ve changed,” he says.

  “Not just me,” she says. “Everything is different now.” A man died in my arms, she thinks. He died to save me. One death, among so many, that she must not allow to be in vain.

  NEW CITY PARTY FORMED

  CONSTANTINE PROMISES “VICTORY AND LIBERTY”

  Finally. Finally. Finally she will see Constantine alone.

  He has moved his office to a part of the building facing away from Lorkhin Island, into a place in the luxurious Swan Wing. In the anteroom, bodyguards, soldiers, and messengers loiter on a priceless Kivira carpet and scatter cigaret ash on sofas glittering with gold and silver thread. All the windows have been polarized against both light and observation, but a chandelier, all chiming teardrop crystal, provides light enough.

  Aircraft drone overhead. They are bringing in mercenaries from the Timocracy, just as other aircraft are bringing other troops into Lanbola to reinforce the invaders’ strong point at Lorkhin Island.

  Plasm sings in Aiah’s head like a chorus of angels. A few hours ago she was exhausted, both from work and from her inability to get proper rest—during the course of a single shift’s sleep, random bursts of adrenaline would bring her awake at least two or three times. Sometimes the chemical alarm occurred in response to something happening—a crash of shellfire or a fire gong—but often as not she was awakened completely at random, as if something in her mind had concluded it was too dangerous to let her sleep for long.

  But the plasm circuits in her department have finally been turned on so that she can now surveil target plasm houses, and the first thing Aiah did was to get her t-grip and bathe in the stuff, burning away fatigue toxins, burnishing her mind, filling her nerves and heart with energy.