“I want you to devote yourself to working your theories out in practice. I will provide you with all necessary support, with aerial surveys and as much computer time as you deem necessary.”
Rohder draws on his cigaret as he absorbs this, and lets the cigaret dance in the corner of his mouth as he replies.
“And what do you plan to do with this plasm if I can generate it for you?”
“Ah ...” A laugh rolls out of Constantine’s massive chest. “That is the critical question, isn’t it?” He leans even closer, lowers his voice in intimacy. “If it’s made available to other departments, then it will simply be diverted into fulfilling the other ministers’ agendas. I wish to preserve any plasm generated by your theories for other work— other transformational work.”
Rohder absorbs the word transformational with a little frown. “What sort of work do you have in mind?”
“Have you read my book Freedom and the New City?”
“Sorry. No.”
“Are you familiar with Havilak’s Freestanding Hermetic Transformations?”
“Yes.” Rohder nods. “Improving the plasm-generating efficiency of structures that already exist by altering their internal structures through magework. It’s an old idea, far older than Havilak.”
“Of course.” Conceded with a smile. “That part of my work is just a popularization.” “But even after the hermetic transformations, all you get is more plasm. What do you plan to do with the surplus?”
“Plasm is wealth,” Constantine says, and then shrugs. “What does one do with wealth? Spend it, if you’re a fool— and most governments are foolish in the long run. Invest it, if you’re conservative, in such a way as to live off the dividends and never disturb the principal. But if you’re very wise, and possess a certain daring in your spirit, you use it to generate more and more wealth. The very existence of such a stockpile of wealth is transformational, especially in a place like Caraqui, which is so poor.”
Rohder leans back and contemplates Constantine from amid a cloud of cigaret smoke.
“You have a habit of not fully answering my questions,” he says. “Assuming all this comes to pass, and assuming you manage to keep your job, you will have an enormous reservoir of plasm, and you will be in charge of it— so what do you intend to do with it?”
Constantine holds out his hands, smiling gently. “Truly, I am not trying to be evasive," he says. “The fact is that all actions have unforeseen consequences. It will be decades before this pool of plasm even exists, and in that time Caraqui will, I hope, have changed for the better. I can answer your question only in the most general terms.”
Rohder regards him from unblinking blue eyes.
“Very well,” Constantine says. “I will speak generally, then— I would use this fund to accomplish what the political transformation, by that time, had not. Sell plasm to provide education and housing and medicine for our population generally, clean and replenish this abused sea on which we sit, perform other work of ...” He smiles. “Of an exploratory nature. Transformation is very difficult in our world— it takes tremendous resources to build anything new, because one must disrupt the life of the metropolis by settling everything and everyone that is displaced, and tear down the old thing and build the new. But with plasm— with enough plasm— all things can be done. And the geography of Caraqui makes it easy— slide an old barge out, a new barge in, and the disruption to life and the economy is all the less.” His face turns stern, like one of the Palace’s bronze eagles sniffing the wind. “I confess that my ambition is such that I will not leave the world in the same condition as I found it. Reading your Proceedings, I sensed a similar scale of thought. Will you not join me in uniting our dreams and bringing them to reality?”
“I will give it consideration,” Rohder says, and reaches in his pocket for another cigaret.
Constantine produces an envelope and slides it across the table. “This is my offer. I hope you will do me the courtesy to consider it.”
Rohder picks up the envelope and looks at it as if he does not know what it is. Then he crumples it absently, and puts the ball of paper in his pocket with one hand while he lights the cigaret with the other.
Constantine watches this, the gold-flecked eyes glittering with amusement. “If you have finished your meal,” he says, “perhaps you would like a tour of the city on my boat? You may see these barges for yourself, observe how you can transform our entire world with a few engineers, some cranes, and a handful of workmen....”
CRIME LORD DENOUNCES "NEW CITY TYRANNY”
Aiah says good-bye to Rohder and then watches as the man shambles to the waiting aerocar. Wind flutters Aiah’s chin-lace. Constantine leans close, speaks over the whine of turbines. “I hope I may be optimistic.”
“I hope so, too.”
She had enjoyed watching the two operate, Constantine seductive and manipulative, Rohder alternating intense interest with total, blank-eyed opacity. Aiah had found herself wondering if Rohder’s detachment, his total withdrawal from the world, was a strategy. A way of not acknowledging the things he didn’t want to deal with.
How would the Cunning People rate this? she wonders. Who is the passu, and who the pascol? Turbines whine as they rotate in their pods. Suddenly there is the presence of plasm, crackling in the air like ozone, and Aiah’s nape hairs stand erect as the aerocar springs from the Palace’s pad and jets toward the Shield. The aerocar is a wink of silver in the distance before its trajectory begins to arc toward Jaspeer.
“Now,” she says, “we will find out how bored he truly is.”
Constantine looks at her. “Bored?”
“If he is bored enough in Jaspeer— if he is fed up enough with the pointlessness of his life there— he will come.” Her eyes follow the aerocar on its way across the world. “He only chased criminals with me because he was bored,” she says.
Constantine’s eyes narrow as he absorbs this. “I wish you had told me. It would have made it easier to deal with him.”
“I only realized it just now.”
“Ah.” There is an amused glint in his eye, and he puts an arm around her. His laugh comes low in her ear. “That is your gift, I think, to drive away the boredom of old men. Where was I before I met you? Stewing in my penthouse, occupying myself with trivialities— writing my memoirs over and over in my head, as old men do when there is nothing else to occupy them. And then—” he laughs again, a rumble she feels in her toes— “and then here was Miss Aiah, in the expensive new suit she’d bought just to impress me, with her plans to sell me a treasure trove of plasm she’d just happened to acquire, in hopes I would use it to make her rich and myself the master of the world ...”
He pushes back the corkscrew ringlets of her hair and kisses her neck. “Thank you,” he murmurs as his arms go around her, “for giving me all this.”
She presses her body to his, hesitant because they are in public, an open landing pad with a dozen people standing by. But his lips find hers, and she shudders with sudden desire, all thought of the onlookers gone.
“Do you have an appointment now?” he asks.
“A thousand.”
“Cancel them.”
She smiles. “Yes, Minister.” With a sudden sweep of his arms he picks her up bodily— she laughs from the thrill of it, her gawky legs dangling— and carries her through the long public corridors of the Aerial Palace, past a hundred staring faces, and does not set her down until he reaches his suite, where he carries her into the bedroom and places her, delicately as if she were a piece of fine porcelain, upon the rose satin spread.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Perhaps Aiah should be grateful for the fact that Constantine cannot resist a gesture. After he carries her off through the corridors, things change.
It is hard to say exactly how. People react to Aiah differently— she catches a speculative look here, overhears an expression there, and sometimes she observes mere puzzlement, as if people are trying to understand just where she fit
s in, or what it is that Constantine sees in her.
She can’t blame them. It is not as if she has not speculated along these lines herself.
On occasion she finds the difference an unpleasant one. People condescend to her, assuming that she is merely Constantine’s plaything and knows nothing, or they try to use her as a conduit to reach him. Sometimes she has to administer a sharp correction.
Constantine himself is almost a daily presence: there are meetings, working lunches, reports commissioned and given. He drives and exhorts, setting an example of furious activity; he works on fifty things at once, somehow balancing them all, keeping them all filed within his capacious mind.
And yet, in their private moments together, he is somehow able to forget all business. He has learned from somewhere— the School of Radritha?— the art of relaxation. In her company he is happy to linger over a meal, or speculate about the implications of Rohder’s theories, or spin absurd theories about sorcery, society, or life beyond the Shield.
Every so often, sleep shift, she finds Constantine in the secure room, or discovers, looking at the log, that he was there the previous shift. Then she knows to avoid him, for when his thoughts are on Taikoen he is abrupt, uncivil, and distracted, and Aiah doesn’t know how to help, how to resolve the forces that are driving him.
Daily the mercenary teams continue their work, the anonymous powerboats slipping out at odd hours, returning with cargoes of Handmen for the prisons. The Silver Hand grows smarter and begins to fortify their plasm houses with bronze mesh and massive armored doors, but it doesn’t help them— the locations were betrayed before the Handmen ever began taking precautions, and thoroughly scouted in the days since. Arrests continue.
Fear of the firing squads makes the Handmen desperate, and when the storming parties arrive they try to defend themselves with the plasm available to them— but Constantine’s mercenaries, and their supporting mages, are professional enough to evade these hasty attacks.
Interrogation reports continue to arrive on Aiah’s desk, along with the occasional request to release Handmen for use as informers.
The soldiers continue drawing lots to discover who will make up the firing squads. Aiah finds grim satisfaction in hearing that the Handmen’s insurance companies have long since canceled their policies.
Six weeks after his escape, Aiah sees a video report of a failed assassination attempt on Great-Uncle Rathmen. The three shooters, Silver Hand types, are all dead. Two of the names are familiar: Aiah’s group had arrested them, and Sorya had asked them to be released as informers.
Deniability has been maintained— no one could connect the Caraqui government to this action. Pity, however, that Sorya had not chosen better instruments.
Aiah takes some comfort, though, in the fact that Constantine has not made use of Taikoen. Though she finds evidence of the creature’s activities elsewhere.
I committed the crime with Luking, but he died. He got the Party Disease, and I hope he didn’t give it to me.
There it is in one of her prisoners’ transcripts, a strange remark in the course of the narrative. The interrogator apparently found this avenue worth pursuing, but the interrogator’s questions are never provided, and the narrative simply continues.
The Party Disease must be new. It’s where you just go mad trying to have fun. You drink and pop pills and chase women and go to the clubs, you do it nonstop till you’re dead. Luking died of it, and I know three other people who died.
Apparently the interrogator found this too bizarre to be worthy of any further questioning, because the narrative then returns to more conventional paths, a list of crimes and accomplices and where the accomplices might be found.
The Party Disease. Enough Handmen had died of it for them to start talking.
Aiah pushes the matter out of her mind. She doesn’t want to know where Taikoen has left his footprints.
And then, after her department has been in existence for three months, Aiah is asked to make a report to the cabinet.
TRAMCAR SCANDAL WIDENS
EX-KEREMATH MINISTER BROUGHT IN FOR QUESTIONING
She hates talking before an audience.
Aiah marshals her statistics, her facts, her anecdotes. She memorizes the faces and biographies of cabinet members. Charts and handouts are prepared.
She barely sleeps the shift before her presentation, and she takes a jolt of plasm beforehand, burns off the fatigue toxins and gives herself a dose of courage, a fervid high that sings through her veins. She hopes it will last the day.
Constantine fetches her from her office, along with Ethemark and two assistants to carry the charts. The polished-copper elevator doors open, and Aiah’s heart leaps as, inside the mirror-and-red-plush birdcage, she sees a twisted man, a cripple— no, not a twisted man; a dolphin— a dolphin sitting in a kind of mobile couch on wheels, pushed by a pair of human assistants. The couch is beautifully constructed, a polished frame of brass, and the cushions are upholstered with a colorful pattern of bright orchids.
“Most precious and gemlike greetings to you, illuminous Prince Aranax,” Constantine says.
Aiah has met Aranax once before, when she and Constantine slipped into Caraqui on a scouting mission. Since then Aranax had been named Minister of Oceanautics, a reward for dolphin cooperation in the coup.
Aranax’s beaklike face is fixed in a permanent grin, and his voice is a strange nasal drone. His skin is pinkish-white and covered with scars and open sores. He wears a streamlined vest with many pockets. There is a strange scent in the air, a mineral-laden salt-sea tang.
“Salutations to the godlike and immortal Constantine,” Aranax says. The first consonant of Constantine’s name is pronounced as an inhaled click.
The elevator doors threaten to close, and one of Aranax’s human assistants jumps to turn the brass knob that locks them open.
“Desolate though I shall be without your presence,” Constantine says, “I would not trouble your wisdom nor interrupt your sagacious meditations. Melancholy though I shall be in my desperate isolation, I shall with hope and fortitude await another elevator.”
Aranax snorts through the nostrils atop his bald head. “Truly would I chide myself for inconveniencing such a glorious one as the ever-brilliant Constantine. I hope you will condescend to share this conveyance with me, you and your perfect assistant, the sublime Miss Aiah.”
Constantine and Aiah step into the elevator, their knees up against Aranax’s couch, and Aranax’s assistant turns the knob to allow the doors to close, then sets to the top floor the eagle-claw control lever. There is no room for Ethemark or the others, and they will have to catch up later.
Aiah, her heart throbbing as she tries to frame a properly formal response to Aranax’s invitation, casts a longing glance over her shoulder as the polished-copper doors close behind her.
“Your Illumination gives me great honor,” she manages, “in remembering our brief acquaintance.” All-too-brief, she thinks, the more extravagant the adjective the better, but too late to say it.
“Who would not remember even the briefest acquaintance with the exalted Miss Aiah?” Aranax replies effortlessly. “Warrior mage, and conqueror of the Silver Hand?”
Aiah blinks. “Your Illumination does me far too much credit,” she says.
The flowery language is customary among dolphins, as are the old-fashioned titles, echoes out of some ancient romance. A human prince— assuming you could even find such a thing in the post-Metropolitan world— would be a rare thing indeed, but all dolphins seem to be titled: somehow they manage a society with all nobility and no commoners.
With Aranax in it, the elevator has become a glittering miniature palace, complete with ministers, functionaries, and royalty on his divan. Aiah wonders if all dolphins sat in such state once, before the wars that subdued them, and before human civilization expanded over the Sea of Caraqui and the world’s other bodies of water.
The passengers swoop upward along the slight arcs dictated by
the Palace’s geomantic relationships. Constantine and Aranax engage in an ornate conversation about monetary supply and the Bank of Caraqui, and between them the elaborate language and abstruse subject matter combine to make the discussion completely unintelligible.
Being a high official, Aiah thinks, means having these sort of conversations all the time.
The elevator doors open into a circular room, and the party makes its way past deferent guards up stairs to the glittering Crystal Dome, where the cabinet meets. The dome is set atop the Palace like an insect eye gazing out at the sky, a sparkling webwork of bronze and crystal that slowly rotates above the world-city, providing the cabinet with spectacular views of the metropolis they govern. The long table, the chairs, and the tables are marvels of gleaming cantilevered tubes and faceted jewel surfaces. How it all survived the fighting is a mystery to Aiah.
Drumbeth sits at the head of the long crystal table, first among the triumvirate’s equals, looking down the table with his slitlike, impassive eyes. Before him, on the surface of the table, is set a small pyramid of crystal a hand high, apparently cast with the table surface in one huge piece. Hilthi and Parq flank Drumbeth, Parq in full clerical dress, with his soft gray mushroom-shaped hat atop his handsome head, and each has his own group of functionaries in support.
Constantine sits in the next tier of officials, with the uniformed War Minister, Colonel Radeen, across from him. Aiah sits among other subordinates behind Constantine, perched on the white leather sling of one of the tube chairs. Sorya, in silken green and orange, sits behind Belckon, the elderly, white-haired Minister of State, a dignified individual who might well have been chosen simply because he looked so much like a soothing, accomplished diplomat. Conspicuous among the eleven other ministers are Aranax on his couch, the little twisted embryo Adaveth, and another with twisted genes, rocklike Myhorn, a massive creature who Aiah knows is female only through once having heard her speak. The large number of assistants makes the big crystal room seem close.
City on Fire (Metropolitan 2) Page 16
