City on Fire (Metropolitan 2)

by Walter Jon Williams

  Constantine’s reaction is fast: he launches Geymard’s mercenaries straight at Government Harbor, hoping to pin the Second Brigade before they can move. Geymard’s men encounter only a rear guard, but it’s a rear guard that’s well fortified and takes some digging out. Mages burn plasm as they battle back and forth overhead. Columns of smoke stand above the Popular Assembly.

  But the invading mercenaries, when they move, don’t head south toward Radeen, but instead race east; and Radeen doesn’t head toward the aerodrome, but northeast. Aiah tracks their course on the map, and sees the paths will eventually cross: Radeen should meet his mercenaries just south of Lorkhin Island. And beyond Lorkhin Island is the Metropolis of Lanbola, where Kerehorn waits with the rest of the Provisional Government. Perhaps they are giving up and retreating off the map entirely.

  Constantine takes no chances: he hurls everything he’s got at Radeen’s group, reasoning that though the rebel mercenaries are better fighters, they are useless without Radeen’s political direction. The Marines and Geymard’s soldiers harry their retreat, and mages hurl thunderbolts at their heads. Radeen’s units have been hit hard already in the battle over Xurcal, and their retreat turns into a shambles— wrecked vehicles sending out columns of smoke, troops abandoning arms and vehicles and fleeing into the surrounding buildings, others surrendering the first chance they get.

  Popular vengeance now turns the retreat to nightmare. The Caraquis, till now held in check by their fear of rebel arms, fly into a frenzy once they realize the rebels are trying to run. Their rage brought to a boil after listening to speeches by Parq or Hilthi, ordinary people try to build barricades against Radeen, fling brickbats, incendiaries, and filth from rooftops or open fire with weapons long hidden from the authorities. Aiah hears reports of trucks being attacked by mobs, of soldiers who try to surrender but who are instead torn to pieces, and their weapons then seized to use against their comrades.

  Half an hour after the retreat begins, the Second Brigade dissolves under the assaults, and its leaders—Radeen, Gentri, and their officers— are only saved by their mercenaries, who send a detachment into the rout to pluck them from the talons of the mob.

  There is a pause while Constantine gives out orders to shift the line of attack against the mercenaries, and then suddenly the communications arrays light as new reports come in. There is a hush in the room. “Confirmation!” someone shouts into a mouthpiece. “We need confirmation!”

  “Assign a mage to it,” Constantine says, his voice a soft rumble audible only in the sudden hushed silence. There is a quality to his words that causes a shiver to run up Aiah’s spine.

  People wait frozen in place, statues silvered by video light. Then the hushed words, “It’s confirmed.”

  Aiah holds her breath. There is a clicking as gold-filigree control buttons are pushed, click click click.

  Pink lights glow on the northeastern corner of the map, then advance toward the heart of the city. Click, click, click, whole districts falling to an unknown enemy. Three plasm stations, Aiah thinks; four. Undefended except by lightly armed military police.

  “Ohh, heart of Senko,” Ethemark moans.

  A final click and Lorkhin Island glows pink. Aiah thinks of the huge buildings there, sentinel towers looking down on the city, towers soon to be ringed with guns. An alien fortress.

  “Tell Geymard and Arviro to cease their pursuit and regroup,” Constantine says. “We don’t want them running headlong into that before they’re ready. Mages are to cease action till we get more plasm.” He looks at Sorya.

  “Contact the Timocracy. I think we’re going to require two divisions at least, with support elements. And tell Barchab we will need their plasm as soon as possible.” He turns to another aide. “I need an estimate of how long it will take to repair the aerodrome. We will need to land heavy troop carriers there.”

  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.

  CHAPTER 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 recognizes the Nimbus Twins, freq
uently 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 is 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 with 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, she adds mentally, 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— “ 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 useless, conniving, 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.