City on Fire (Metropolitan 2)

by Walter Jon Williams

  Drumbeth picks up a small hammer— it is clear crystal, with a silver handle— and raps once on a side of the crystal pyramid before him. The glass table sings, a clear bell-like sound that hangs in the air, its hovering presence almost physical; and Aiah hears answering chimes, bits of the Crystal Dome resonating to the song of the long table, then answering each other, and Aiah feels her long bones answer as well, a tremor deep in her limbs...

  Everyone falls silent.

  “Let us begin,” Drumbeth says, and after the song of the Crystal Dome his mild voice seems harsh.

  CRIME BOSS MEETS WITH GOVERNMENT IN EXILE

  KEREMATHS AND GREAT-UNCLE RATHMEN SEEN IN CONFERENCE

  There are lengthy reports on other subjects first. When she finally has a chance to speak, Aiah finds her audience polite and reasonably attentive. Some— Constantine, Drumbeth, Sorya, and Hilthi— even seem interested. Hilthi, the former journalist, gazes down through crescent-shaped reading glasses as he jots into an open notebook with his gold pen. Gentri, the Minister of Public Security, seems far too interested— his own police plasm squads are suffering by comparison.

  “In conclusion,” Aiah finishes, “the figures amount to this: we have brought almost three thousand Handmen and associates to justice. The Plasm Control Board, as a result of our actions thus far, will be able to sell no less than thirty-five thousand monthly megamehrs of plasm to the public. That is enough plasm to lift the Aerial Palace and sail it to Mount Chukhmarkh—” A few eyes lift to gaze at the distant volcano, which peaks blue on the horizon. “Or,” she says, “put another way, the Plasm Enforcement Division, in less than three months, has just added another four hundred and eleven million dinars to the treasury for this year alone.”

  Around the table, Aiah sees chins lifting, a little abstract look entering the eyes. Yes, she thinks. Money. Think about it.

  “With every day we continue our work,” she adds, “that figure increases.”

  Constantine begins a round of polite applause. Aiah nods, relieved to have the formal part over with, and asks for questions.

  Drumbeth folds his arms and frowns. Behind him, visible through the dome, a pair of eagles spire high on the Palace thermals.

  “How badly has the Silver Hand been damaged?” he asks.

  “In one sense,” Aiah says, “not at all.”

  Drumbeth’s frown deepens. Gentri permits a smile to ghost across his face.

  “There are an estimated two hundred thousand Handmen in Caraqui,” Aiah says, “along with perhaps a half a million known associates who work alongside them without necessarily being formal members of the organization. Of this total, we’ve arrested not quite three thousand, an insignificant number compared with the total.”

  “Seven hundred thousand,” Drumbeth mutters. “That’s an army.”

  “However,” Aiah says, “we have arrested much of their leadership, or driven them into exile or underground. We’ve probably confiscated a much larger percentage of their plasm than we’ve arrested of their membership— we have seriously damaged their business, and we’ve made it a much more dangerous business to be a part of. Without plasm, their power is much reduced.”

  “And ours,” Constantine says, “becomes greater.” He clears his throat, as clear a call for attention as Drumbeth’s rap with the crystal hammer. “I have said,” he says, “that so much plasm in the hands of criminals is a danger to the state, and Miss Aiah’s division was created in response to that danger. There are seven hundred thousand of them— that’s five times the size of our army and our hired soldiers together— and who knows how much plasm they can summon among them.”

  “Enough to get their chief out of prison,” Hilthi mutters, “or was money used instead?”

  A huge plasm advert, flashing overhead, gives Hilthi’s face a greenish cast.

  “The young lady’s work is commendable,” Parq says, “especially in one so young," and proudly strokes his silky beard as if he was himself to be commended for saying such a thing.

  Drumbeth’s eyes turn toward Aiah. “Reinforce success,” he says. “That is an army maxim. What can we do, Miss Aiah, to reinforce yours?”

  Gentri permits himself a cynical little sneer. “Money, I expect, and more personnel,” he says.

  Aiah’s temper flares, quickened by plasm-energy, but she bites down on her anger and any intemperate reply. “Time,” Aiah says, “most of all. We are all new to our job, and we are improving day to day. But yes— money and personnel will help us, of course. As will better salaries— though our people are proving to be extraordinarily dedicated, very few are experienced in this sort of work. We can’t afford to hire the people who are, so we hire others and hope to train them.”

  “As the Plasm Enforcement Division is one of the few branches of government actually earning wealth for the state,” Constantine suggests, “I think any increase in its budget would be money well spent.”

  Gentri leans forward and passes a hand over his balding head, smoothing into place strands of hair that are no longer there. “Perhaps I should point out once more,” he says, “that the plasm squads of the police already have a mandate to find plasm thieves. Though I compliment my colleague Aiah on her accomplishments, nevertheless I feel constrained to remark that my own ministry contains all the expertise and specialists necessary for this job. Not only that, but my department has sufficient personnel to arrest people without the necessity of calling out foreign mercenaries to break down doors and arrest citizens in their beds.”

  Plasm snarls in her nerves and Aiah begins to reply, but Constantine looks up at her and gives a little flicker of his eye, and her reply dries up on her tongue. She settles for a glare at Constantine instead, and he smiles in answer and turns to his colleagues.

  “Our respected colleague makes a telling point.” Hilthi nods, and looks down at the notebook he’s opened on the table. “I have viewed foreign newscasts, and they show little of our government but pictures of soldiers hauling citizens off to be shot. They make it look as if we’ve unleashed the military on our people.”

  “The soldiers are a convenience,” Constantine says. “It is the fault of no one here, but it is a fact that the Silver Hand and their associates have made inroads into our political and police structure. If we used local forces, I fear our quarry would be alerted, and would escape ahead of time. Our soldiers— military police, most of them, brought into the country after the coup to keep order, and not assault troops or anything dangerous— have not been corrupted. Perhaps it would look better on video,” he smiles, “if we were simply to equip them with different uniforms and make their soldierly aspect less obvious.”

  “May I make another point with regard to the government’s use of mercenaries?” says Colonel Radeen, the War Minister. He is a dark-haired, dapper man in a tailored uniform. He had commanded the Second Brigade when it stormed the Aerial Palace during the coup, and was rewarded with leadership of the armed forces. He holds a lit cigaret between his thumb and two fingers, like a pointer, and for the present keeps it aimed at the Shield.

  “The Keremaths degraded the regular armed forces,” Radeen says, “and used the mercenary Metropolitan Guard to keep themselves secure. This did army morale no good, of course, and eventually contributed to the disaffection that led to the Keremaths’ overthrow.

  “But now ...” Radeen shakes his head. “I fear that we are slipping into the same situation. Army troops— my own brigade, in fact— captured the Palace, but it isn’t my brigade that guards the Palace now ... The security of the government is now in the hands of a mercenary unit— and furthermore, a mercenary outfit that has a long record of service with a single member of the cabinet.” His hand tips his cigaret, slightly, in Constantine’s direction.

  “I do not question my colleague’s loyalty to the triumvirate,” Radeen adds, again with a tip toward Constantine, “or that of the soldiers in question. But I do question appearances, and it concerns me how the morale of the army will be aff
ected.”

  “I should think,” Hilthi says, looking up from his notebook, “that our regard for the army should be apparent in our decision to double its size and to promote large numbers of officers. Did that not have a beneficial effect on morale?”

  “Naturally,” Radeen says. “The officers were much gratified at the signs that the previous policy of neglect was being reversed.”

  “Good,” Hilthi says. “I’m happy to hear that our budgetary excess had some good effect. Because if spending all that money didn’t work, we could reduce the army to its original size.”

  Radeen reacts to this with a thin smile, as if he’s decided to treat Hilthi’s remark as a joke.

  Drumbeth turns to Radeen. “We are satisfied with the performance both of the regular army and our hired troops,” he says. “While the armed forces are rebuilding, the security of the government is best guaranteed by a highly trained, professional unit such as that commanded by Colonel Geymard.”

  Radeen decides, Aiah concludes, upon a tactical readjustment. “I spoke to appearances only,” he says. “The appearance of Geymard’s men is not good; nor is the appearance of mercenaries battering down the doors of our citizens.”

  “We do not intend for this situation to last indefinitely,” Hilthi says. He looks to the other triumvirs for agreement. “After the state of emergency is over, and Caraqui returns to normal, we anticipate that the use of mercenaries will be scaled back.”

  “There is no reason,” says Gentri, “not to scale them back now. My plasm squads—”

  Constantine looks at Gentri, a little smile curling his lips, eyes alight with the anticipated sparring to come. “May I inquire of my esteemed colleague how many Handmen his plasm squads have of late arrested?” he asks. “And how much plasm has been returned to the state?”

  Gentri strokes his little mustache. The rotating Crystal Dome has placed the tall gray spires of Lorkhin Island behind him, so that it looks as if his bald head has suddenly sprouted winged granite buildings. “Until recently,” he says, “the Silver Hand was given a degree of political protection by the Keremaths. My squads cannot be held accountable—”

  “I mean only since the Hand’s protection was abolished,” Constantine says, “I wonder if my colleague can provide me with statistics concerning—”

  “Our record-keeping doesn’t distinguish between arrests of Handmen and others,” Gentri says. “Allow me to reassure my colleague that my police place Handmen under arrest all the time. Nearly every day, I should imagine.”

  “Can my colleague give me any names?” Constantine asks. “Any specific charges? Anything?”

  “Our record-keeping—” Obstinately.

  “I ask only,” Constantine says, “because most of our Enforcement Division’s records of the Handmen originally came from your police files. Miss Aiah’s units and your own, on the day the amnesty ended, had much the same information about the Silver Hand. But she seems to have been much more effective against the Silver Hand, even though she had to create her organization from scratch.”

  “I dispute that!” Gentri snaps.

  “Ah. Well.” Constantine gives a languid smile and draws from his jacket a piece of paper. “Fortunately I have some estimates,” he says, and opens the paper. He looks up at the other ministers. “You see,” he says, “when Mr. Gentri’s police raid an illegal plasm house, they have to call on workers from the Ministry of Resources— from my ministry— to wire the illegal plasm source into the system and to install meters to regulate it. And since the meters are read regularly, I have access to excellent data concerning just how much plasm my colleague’s experts have returned to the state. In fact,” his catlike smile widening, “I had all these meters read just yesterday, to make certain my statistics are up to date.”

  Gentri licks his lips. “I have not seen these data,” he says. “How do I know—”

  Constantine’s reply is smooth. “You may send your own people to read the meters, and correct me if I am in error.” He looks at the piece of paper. “Like my colleague,” he says, “I do not have the total number of Handmen arrested by the police for plasm theft— but I do have the total number of those whose meters my workers were called upon to install or adjust, and a cross-check with Enforcement Division computers records the total number of correspondences as ...” He smiles, flashing white teeth. “Three. Three Handmen arrested by the plasm squads in the seven weeks since the end of the amnesty. Returning to the state a total of one hundred fifty kilomehrs monthly, or about nineteen million dinars per year. Roughly one-tenth what Miss Aiah has accomplished with far fewer resources.”

  Gentri gives Constantine a stony look. “I am certain there have been more arrests than three,” he says.

  Constantine shrugs. “Double the number, if you like. Triple it. There remains”— a laconic smile dances on his lips— “something of a contrast.”

  “Our mandate is broader than containing the Silver Hand. We don’t just arrest Handmen— our concerns are far more wide-ranging than that.” Gentri takes a breath. “For instance,” he says, “just today we have begun a new campaign against a long-standing source of plasm theft: the illegal settlements called half-worlds.”

  Aiah starts as Ethemark clamps a webbed hand on her thigh. “The half-worlds,” he whispers. “Did I not warn you?”

  Gentri opens a folder and glances at a paper inside. “Since my colleague is so fond of statistics, let me furnish him some. First shift today my police entered two illegal settlements, those called Hog Sty and Dark Eighteen by their inhabitants. We arrested eight major plasm thieves, and dispersed over six thousand illegal settlers. At least a score of wanted fugitives were found among their number and a warehouseful of stolen property was recovered, along with thirty or more vessels believed to have been stolen.” He smiles and folds his arms triumphantly, like a conqueror. “I think we may say the operations were a success. Many more are planned.”

  Ethemark’s fingers dig into Aiah’s thigh as he whispers fiercely to Constantine, “Do something!”

  Constantine glances over his shoulder at Ethemark, frowns lightly with a shake of the head, then turns back to Gentri.

  “I congratulate my colleague on his successful and well-planned operations,” he says. “May I ask him how much plasm will be recovered?”

  “It’s too early to say. Several illegal taps were discovered.”

  “I asked because the Plasm Enforcement Division had of course considered raiding the half-worlds, but concluded that it wasn’t cost-effective at the present time.”

  “I disagree.” Gentri’s response is instantaneous.

  A new voice speaks up. “With all humility and deference to my esteemed colleague the glorious Gentri,” says Prince Aranax, “who spreads his wisdom over our gathering like a god spreading a refreshing shower over the land, I myself, humble slave of fortune though I am, must in the most submissive fashion beg to disagree with the position he has so wisely maintained before this august gathering.”

  The others watch Aranax with a mixture of anticipation and impatience. Aiah wonders how long he can string these sentiments out.

  “The half-worlds,” Aranax says, “degraded though they may be in the eyes of Caraqui, nevertheless share the watery realm with my own lowly and miserable race. Such brilliantly planned and executed operations as envisaged by the ever-sagacious Gentri are bound to cause a disruption among my own unworthy kind, and I must implore and entreat my colleagues to spare my wretched and undeserving people the confusion necessarily caused thereby.”

  “I agree with my esteemed colleague the minister and Prince Aranax,” says Adaveth, the gray-skinned embryo. “The half-worlds are the last refuge of the poor and desperate. Any police actions directed against them would cause great hardship.”

  “And they would gain the state little but instability,” adds the giant Myhorn in her strangely feminine voice. “As Constantine has said, they are hardly cost-effective.”

  Hilthi, scribblin
g in his notebook, gives a sharp glance over his spectacles at Constantine. “What do you mean, colleague?” he asks.

  Constantine makes an equivocal gesture with one big hand. “Most of the half-worlds steal small amounts of plasm, true. They also steal fresh water and electricity, once again in insignificant amounts. And other things.”

  “But all together,” Gentri says, “the amount is far from insignificant.”

  “No doubt.” Constantine brushes the objection aside. “Still, no one lives in the half-worlds from choice. These communities exist because there is nowhere else that will have them.”

  “Or because the police are looking for them,” Gentri says.

  “Conceded. But my colleague speaks of dispersing six thousand inhabitants. May I ask where he expects these people to go?”

  Gentri’s tone clenches his teeth. “The settlements,” he says, “were illegal. Where the inhabitants go is not our concern, provided they find a legal residence.”

  “Where do the inhabitants have to go but other half-worlds? And once those are cleaned out, they will have no place to go but the streets, where they cannot help but create disturbances, and even a riot or two.” He turns to Hilthi. “How will the video broadcasts regard that? It is one thing to turn military police loose on the likes of the Silver Hand— it is regrettable, but most viewers will concede its necessity, given their threat to the state and a certain ... reluctance ... on the part of the proper authorities— but to set swarms of police loose on the most defenseless of our citizens, those on whose behalf we hope to create the revolution, to deprive them of shelter and set them out on the streets—”

  “I object to these provocative descriptions!” Gentri shouts. “Swarms of police! Defenseless citizens! Reluctant authorities! My colleague is attempting to turn a perfectly legal police action into some grotesque act of brutality!”