“Karlo’s Brigade…,” he says, and his voice trails off.
“Yes?” She is mildly surprised at this choice of subject.
“Do you suppose, being Barkazils, that they have a relationship with Landro’s Escaliers on the other side?”
“I don’t know.”
“It occurs to me that we might make use of it somehow. Landro’s Escaliers are in the line, holding the Corridor between Lorkhin Island and Lanbola. And if they could be persuaded to switch sides…”
“Constantine,” Aiah points out, “they’re from the Timocracy!”
“Yes, I know. Garshab’s mercenaries pride themselves on honoring their contracts, and up till now they’ve been fighting very well for both sides, against people they know and have trained alongside.”
“Exactly.”
“But there are ways to slip contracts with a clear conscience—that’s what small print is for—and perhaps we can find Landro’s Escaliers an exit.”
“Good luck.” Skeptically.
“And to that end, I think it is time you became more prominent.”
Alarm brings warmth to Aiah’s cheeks. “Minister?” she says.
“You have succeeded very well in avoiding celebrity till now. Perhaps it is time people became aware of you.” “No!” Aiah is appalled.
“Celebrity is a weapon,” Constantine says. “You should learn to use it.” “I don’t want it.”
“The likes of Parq will find it much harder to remove you from the PED once you are well-known and appreciated here in Caraqui.”
She looks at him. “Why don’t we find someone else to be famous?”
Constantine continues as if he had not heard. “We will make you the most prominent Barkazil in the world.”
“I don’t want it. And besides, it’s ridiculous. Who’d be interested in me?”
Constantine smiles. “You underestimate the power of modern media, video in particular.” His heavy hand pats her shoulder in a gesture meant to be reassuring. “Don’t worry,” he says with a white smile. “I will handle it all.”
That’s just what I’m afraid of, Aiah thinks.
FIFTEEN
It is the Caraqui Medal of Merit, and Aiah, prominent in her civilian suit, stands amid a line of uniforms to receive it. Constantine, Minister of War, walks affably down the line, pinning medals on chests and chatting with the soldiers.
Aiah’s forehead prickles: the video lights are hot. Constantine’s plan to expand her fame is gathering speed.
Earlier Aiah’s apartment was invaded by a hairdresser, a manicurist, and a cosmetician. Their job is to make her exciting and glamorous for the video cameras. “The planes of your face aren’t going to show up on video,” the cosmetician tells her.
“I don’t have any planes in my face.” With irritation.
“You will when I’m done with you,” the cosmetician says; and now Aiah is to get a new face painted on at the commencement of every work shift. It’s an interesting face, Aiah has to admit, if not quite hers—the face of an experienced adventuress, ambitious and powerful, and not a young woman madly trying to keep up with her own schedule. It’s the face of someone Aiah wouldn’t mind becoming, if opportunity ever permits.
She also has to admit that she could probably learn to enjoy the pampering.
More video lights glare at her. Constantine arrives, pins the medal delicately to her lapel, and bends to kiss her cheek. “Congratulations,” he says.
She is receiving the medal for her actions at Fresh Water Bay and Xurcal stations on the day of the countercoup. At her insistence, Davath will postumously be given the same decoration.
Constantine hands her the satin-lined case with Davath’s medal. Its gold and enamel gleam in the lights of the video cameras.
“This decoration is postumously awarded to your colleague Davath, who died heroically in a skirmish near Xurcal Station on the day the Provisionals attacked,” Constantine says.
Aiah clears her throat and takes the decoration from Constantine’s hand. “He died to save me and the others in my party,” she says. “I will keep it in trust for his family.”
If she can ever find them, that is. Their half-world is in occupied Caraqui.
At least she didn’t flub her lines.
The cameras linger on her as Constantine passes to the next soldier. Aiah keeps her back straight and tries to think heroic thoughts.
All that comes to her mind is the hope that her family will never see this.
EXPLOSION IN LANBOLA
STOCKPILED MUNITIONS EXPLODE
LANBOLA CLAIMS SABOTAGE, DENIES MUNITIONS MEANT FOR PROVISIONALS
The Crystal Dome, joyless, deep in its armored shaft. Second shift. Constantine reports to the full cabinet. The dolphin Aranax is conspicuous on his couch, next to Randay, the hapless new Minister of Public Security, who is trying to build a new police force from the defeated, demoralized remnants of the old.
Aiah is not here to speak herself, a fact for which she is grateful. Rohder will be making a presentation, and Aiah, as his superior, is here to support him. With luck she won’t have to talk at all.
Constantine’s summary is almost entirely devoted to the war situation: he describes new mercenary units recruited, the amount paid for each, the number of Caraqui recruits sent to the Timocracy for training—for they are trying to rebuild the Caraqui army, cheaper than mercenaries in the long run—and gives an estimate of enemy strength.
The figures, taken together, are staggering. When the Keremaths ruled Caraqui, they did so with a large, inefficient police force, a small but vicious secret police, and an army of under two divisions. Now, just to hold its ground, the new government controls dozens of divisions assembled into corps, and corps gathered into armies, and even the armies are joined to make two “grand armies,” each holding different parts of the front.
The original Keremath army would be lost in all of this.
Aiah finds the numbers fantastic. The finances are beyond imagining—so many tens of millions here, so many billions there. But apparently there is wealth to be found, because no one, not even the banker-president Faltheg, seems to think the sums incredible.
Constantine, in midspeech, raises his eyes to Sorya across the table. “My colleague Sorya has sent reports to the effect that the enemy has ceased to recruit new forces, even though their present strength is not sufficient to win the war for them. This may indicate that their financial benefactors have reached their limits. No doubt her report to us will go into greater detail on this matter.”
Sorya nods gravely. “Yes, Minister.”
Constantine looks over his shoulder at Aiah and Rohder, then turns back to the triumvirate. “I would like Mr. Rohder, who works for the Plasm Enforcement Division as head of the Technical Resources Department, to make a presentation concerning his new techniques for plasm generation.”
Rohder stubs out his cigaret with a doleful glance of blue-eyed longing at the ashtray, then stands to make his presentation. Like Constantine’s, it is brief and to the point: the altered positions of so many buildings, the massing so many gross tons, so much plasm generated in excess of expectations, worth so many dinars at current rates. The current rates for plasm are high—the war has almost tripled them—and Rohder’s profits are much more impressive than they would be in peacetime.
Hilthi, scribbling with his gold pen, raises a hand and waits to be recognized—the lifelong habits of the journalist are hard to break, even though he’s now one of those in charge of the meeting. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with your technical terms,” he says. “Could you define these ‘fractionate intervals,’ these ‘resonances’?”
Rohder—casting another longing glance at the ashtray—answers by analogy: the fractionate interval is like a radius, only smaller; the resonance effect is the result of mass placed at fractionate distances and multiples of fractionate distances, the result of which is a modest but definite increase in plasm generation, on the order of 10 percen
t.
Hilthi looks surprised. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of this technique,” he says.
Constantine explains how Rohder’s theory is new, but has been thoroughly tested and found sound. Hilthi’s eyes widen. “This is revolutionary!” he says. “We can increase plasm generation by how much?”
“Theory suggests as high as eighteen percent,” Rohder says, “but we have only rarely achieved twelve.”
“Why aren’t these techniques known?” Hilthi asks.
Constantine gives a catlike smile. “The history of Mr. Rohder’s theory is very complicated—suffice it to say that human society is constructed so as to resist new ideas, and I resisted it myself”—he turns and bows toward Aiah—“until Miss Aiah insisted I look at the matter more closely.”
Aiah feels blood rise to her cheeks, but she returns the nod with a professional smile. Constantine turns back to Hilthi and continues.
“May I point out that this increase in plasm is just going into the general plasm supply? I would like to establish a special fund for it—a kind of bank account for the extra plasm Mr. Rohder’s techniques create—to assure that for the present the plasm is used for the war effort, and afterward for tasks of vital national interest, particularly rebuilding.” He looks at the triumvirate, attempting with hooded eyes and masklike countenance to disguise his particular interest in this issue. “Shall we call it the Strategic Plasm Reserve? Shall I put it in the form of a motion?”
The motion passes, and Constantine sips at a glass of water to hide a smile of triumph. It has always been his concern that this new source of plasm would just be frittered away, as politicians so often manage to do with almost any public resource. It has always been his greater object to establish a huge fund of plasm under his direct control, to use it for purposes of transformation far beyond that which the triumvirate would ever think likely, or even desirable.
The war, Aiah thinks, is transforming things in profound ways. Before the emergency, the Strategic Plasm Reserve would have been the subject of prolonged debate. Now it is passed without comment.
Other ministers make presentations. Sorya gives an intelligence briefing concerning the Provisionals’ sources of finance. President Faltheg, who in addition to being triumvir is still Minister for Economic Development, dons his spectacles to report on changes in the tax code made necessary by the war—the simplifying, the closing of loopholes and exemptions—and the amounts these measures are expected to raise.
“How long can the war go on?” Hilthi asks.
Faltheg removes his spectacles so that he can better view his colleagues. “At current spending rates, for at least three or four years before we run into trouble. Caraqui’s economy is not a complex or sophisticated one—there is no single industry that is vital, no particular crucial technology. Despite bruising, despite a fifth of our metropolis either under occupation or uninhabitable, our economic infrastructure is still intact.”
“I have found,” Constantine adds, “that war economies are remarkably resilient, all things considered.”
The others—excepting Sorya—look thoughtful, uncertain whether to consider this good news or not.
The report by the unfortunate Randay, new head of the police, is little but a sad litany of endless trouble; the others, understanding, look at him with sympathy.
Hilthi frowns at his notes and without thought puts his gold pen behind one ear. “This is of particular concern,” he says. “We desperately need qualified law enforcement in Caraqui. I agreed reluctantly to the proscription lists only on the understanding that they were accurate and contained the names only of hardened criminals, and now I receive reports that this was not the case, that a percentage of those named had no criminal records whatever.
“The Dalavan Militia are a constant presence in our streets, and their reputation is deteriorating—every day I receive protests concerning their brutality, the arbitrary nature of their actions, reports of the Militia extorting funds from businesses, or walking into stores and helping themselves to expensive presents, acting like common gangsters…”
Parq strokes his silky beard and speaks in his deep, reassuring voice. “Teething pains,” he says. “Our priests are making every effort to weed out the bad elements, and we are growing more professional by the day.”
“The Militia was never meant to be more than a temporary expedient,” says Hilthi. “But now it seems as if it will continue its activities indefinitely.”
“We have heard the Minister of Public Safety,” Parq says. “Our police are in chaos. Imported military police are expensive. Yet it is our duty to keep order. Who can do it but the Militia?”
Hilthi’s eyes look down the table for support and alight on Aiah. Panic throbs in her heart at his question. “Miss Aiah,” he says, “can’t your PED do something in this situation? You have a remarkable record of success.”
Aiah bites down on her alarm. / already have enough impossible jobs, she thinks. “We were created to handle plasm thefts only,” she says, “and that’s what we’re set up to do.”
“But we are in a position to alter your mission,” Hilthi says.
“We can’t police the entire metropolis,” Aiah says. “We’re not big enough. We’d have to start from scratch—we’d be in a worse position than Mr. Randay.”
“Besides,” Constantine adds, “there is the expense. The Dalavan Militia are all volunteers, and serve at no cost to the state. Were we to add a force the size of the Militia to the public payroll in addition to the large and expensive force of mercenary soldiers for which the Treasury is now responsible…”
“Impossible,” says Faltheg the banker, “Besides, the police already have a budget.”
“I concur,” said Constantine.
Hilthi sighs, throws up his hands. “I want these abuses to cease,” he says.
Aiah, relief flooding her at this escape, finds herself looking at Constantine, whose head is turned toward the triumvirs at the head of the table. There is a smile of cold satisfaction on Constantine’s face, and Aiah wonders why it should be there, what there has been in this matter of the Militia that has pleased him.
She doesn’t get a chance to ask, and by the time the meeting is over, she has forgotten to.
VOTE LIBERAL COALITION—FOR DEMOCRACY AND FREEDOM!
After the meeting Aiah takes a bite of lunch, then returns to her office—and there, as she turns into her receptionist’s office, is the feeling again: a lift of the heart, a surge of warmth through the soul. Another visitor from home waits in Aiah’s reception area, a blaze of scarlet and gold among soberly dressed job-seekers. Aiah drops her briefcase and folds the short, sturdy woman in her arms.
“How are you?” she says. “How is everyone?”
Khorsa busses her on both cheeks. “Very well. Esmon and I are going to be married next month.” Esmon is one of Aiah’s many cousins.
“Congratulations! I know you’ll be happy.”
Aiah looks at the hopefuls waiting for their interviews, all of whom are trying not to look curious, a difficult act because they’ve probably never seen a Barkazil witch before. Khorsa’s long dress is alive with color, and she wears a red turban decorated with gemstones set among geomantic foci.
The hopefuls, Aiah thinks, will just have to wait a little longer for their interviews, and she tells her receptionist to hold all her appointments. Then she fetches her briefcase and shows Khorsa into her office.
“You’re the second Barkazil face I’ve seen this week,” Aiah says as she drops into her office chair.
“Well,” Khorsa says, a dubious look in her eye, “I may not be the last.”
“Are more of the family coming to look for work? I need people with specific skills, you know, and I don’t think many of the family would qualify.”
“More than that,” Khorsa says. “I’m afraid, well, it’s a religious thing.”
“Oh?”
Khorsa should know religion if anyone does: she and her sister run the Wi
sdom Fortune Temple back in Aiah’s old neighborhood of Old Shorings. The temple is a place where people come for small magics in hopes of healing the sadness and misfortunes that come with being human, and Barkazil, and Jaspeeri, and living in a place like Old Shorings. Khorsa deals with plasm; her sister Dhival goes into trances and talks to spirits.
Aiah had helped them out once, when Esmon was beaten by Operation thugs because Khorsa wouldn’t buy their bootleg plasm. Aiah had used twice-stolen plasm to deal with the situation—stolen once from the Jaspeeri authorities, and then again from Constantine—and she’d been terrified every instant.
“What sort of religious thing?” Aiah asks. “Would you like some coffee?”
“No thanks. Do you remember Charduq the Hermit?” “Charduq? Of course.”
Charduq, the fixture of Aiah’s girlhood, still—last she knew—on his fluted pillar at the Barkazi Savings Institute. She had waved at him, she remembers, as she fled the city. He was one of the last sights of home.
“I suppose I should start by saying that you’ve become sort of famous back in Old Shorings,” Khorsa begins.
Aiah is startled. “How?”
“Lots of people know what happened. The police interviewed anyone who had anything to do with you, and you have a large family, and… well, they talked.”
Alarms clatter through Aiah’s mind. “What did they say?” she asks carefully.
“Well, nobody really knows anything,” Khorsa says, “so they just make things up.”
“That’s comforting!” The alarm is getting louder.
“But they know you had access to illicit plasm. They know you used plasm to help the temple out when the Operation was after us, and they know you were involved with Constantine’s activities. They know the police were interviewing a lot of people about you, and they know that you’re here in Caraqui now, in what seems to be a pretty influential position.” She gestures with her hands, taking in the Aerial Palace, the Owl Wing, the view through Aiah’s windows of the city below, the plasm tap visible on the wall, available whenever Aiah feels the need…
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