City on Fire (Metropolitan 2)

by Walter Jon Williams

  Elections slogans are everywhere. Vote New City ... Dalavan Party for Peace, Virtue, and Victory ... Mariath for the Assembly ... New City NOW.

  Then she notices other graffiti unconnected with the elections, painted on the slab sides of the pontoons that support the apartment buildings— could gangs be marking their turf even here?— but as she looks closely she sees that the graffiti consists of repetitions of geomantic foci, particularly the White Horse and the Quadromark, one believed to be a warding sign and the other a sign to attract good luck.

  The people here are trying to keep the war away. Drop the shells somewhere else, the marks are saying. We’ve got too much luck to be in danger.

  It’s all nonsense, of course, popular magic without foundation in the real world of plasm science. The marks are a sign of how superstition can swarm into the world in times of uncertainty.

  But it’s happening even in well-off neighborhoods like this one, a sign of how far the war has penetrated.

  Suddenly the day seems less bright.

  The boat slows and turns into a side canal. The long shining buildings fall behind, and here brown-brick apartments and warehouses crowd up close to the water, overhanging the canal and bridging it in places. The old, rusting bridges are encumbered with structures— shops and even small houses— that hang off them like barnacles. In these narrow watery corridors the turbines rumble loudly. Laundry floats overhead like faded artificial clouds, and swarms of noisy gulls circle. The White Horse and the Quadromark are displayed here as well, on pontoons crowded with other graffiti of a purely local interest.

  Aiah sees two groups of Dalavan Militia, neither of them doing anything in particular, just drinking beer and strolling in packs along the quays. Each Militia member, Aiah sees, carries a staggering amount of firepower. An assault rifle over one shoulder, often with a sawtooth bayonet glinting in Shieldlight; a submachine gun under one arm; two or three pistols stuck into waistbands or holsters; knives big as short swords stuck into boots or jammed into cartridge belts.

  Aiah can see her guards exchange looks of contempt. No serious soldier, she thinks, needs so many weapons, and no real policeman does either. All the weaponry is just to impress the neighbors, and each other.

  Put these people up against the Provisional army and they’d fade into the mist.

  The boat passes a stockyard and its adjacent slaughterhouse, pens packed with miniature beeves and sheep with wool the color of industrial grime. The smell is ghastly, but the swarms of gulls are thriving. Animal smells drench the air— wet wool, dung, blood, steam, offal, and a pungent chemical stench that probably has to do with how hides and wool are processed.

  Aiah feels her gorge rise and turns away from the sight.

  The Society of the Simple is nearby, still within smelling distance. It sits amid the grim old buildings on an ancient rust-streaked pontoon. The squat structure is gray granite, with a leaded roof and a central bell-shaped dome of gleaming copper. The granite is overlaid with thousands of carvings woven together into an endless, complex knot that covers the whole building: vine leaves that turn into serpents, faces of pop-eyed demons and monsters leering out of the centers of flower blossoms ... thorny brambles, ferns, trees with interwoven branches and bearing a dozen different kinds of fruit. Comic, grotesque figures hang out of carved buildings, waving papers or bottles or pigeon legs. Other buildings are ablaze, and little humans leap from the flames to their deaths. Half-hidden by the complex tracings, guns and armored vehicles can be seen. Dead women and babies hang on the bayonets of grinning soldiers, while tall, robed humans with faces of angelic serenity watch unmoved.

  Everyone and everything woven together, unable to escape the vines, the brambles, the knots. It’s like one of their plasm displays carved into stone. Aiah examines the exterior carefully as the boat approaches, but sees no figures that resemble those she has seen beyond the Shield.

  A pier floats in the water on empty metal drums, and above it a rusting metal stair rises to the Dreaming Sisters’ home. A pair of Aiah’s guards bound up the stairs to check for sign of ambush, and find none. Aiah follows at a more sedate pace, still studying an intricate pattern of carved quincunxes...

  The door, twice Aiah’s height, is of thick timbers with a trompe l’oeil relief of polished cast bronze stapled onto it, a relief in the shape of a door, and a young woman, seen from the rear, stepping through it. Superficially, tall and thin and with long hair in ringlets, the woman could be Aiah, or any of ten million other women. Above the relief are graven words, Entering the Gateway, in an old-fashioned, round-bellied script that Aiah has only seen in venerable inscriptions like this one.

  There seems no doorbell or knocker, so Aiah finds a piece of the design— a border pattern of oak leaves— that curves conveniently in the form of a handhold, and gives the door a firm tug.

  Although the door is heavy, it opens smoothly. Inside there is a bare room a half-dozen paces square— gray flags, gray stone walls, a groined arch overhead with a globular electric lamp dangling on an iron chain. Two simple arched doorways on either side lead to corridors. In an arched alcove in the back of the room a young woman lies on a mattress. She wears a simple gray knee-length shift and watches without expression as Aiah’s party enters.

  Aiah’s nerves prickle as she realizes that the woman is wired to a plasm well. Even though there are no visible signs that the dreaming sister is working any magic here, she’s broadcasting signals of power perfectly recognizable to anyone who spends her days working with plasm.

  Aiah’s guards are trained to recognize the signs as well, and fan into the room in case there’s any threat of violent sorcery. The three-man inspection team, suspecting nothing, follows Aiah through the door. Aiah approaches the woman, who— reluctantly, it seems— sits up to receive her. A wire trails out of her mouth, her connection to the plasm well. The woman— nun? postulant? Simple Person?— is copper-skinned and black-haired, with the hair kept severely short in a bowl-shaped bob. She’s thin and waiflike and looks about sixteen years old. Her feet are bare, and her leg and armpit hair are unshaven.

  The dreaming sister removes the plasm connection from her mouth and holds it in her hand. The wire ends in a simple curved piece of copper metal, with a gleaming little copper ball on the end, an appliance like some people use for cleaning their tongues.

  “May I help you?” the woman asks.

  “My name is Aiah. I work with the ministry.” She shows her ID. “We’d like to examine your plasm meter.”

  “It’s behind a door around back. The meter readers normally don’t bother us.”

  Aiah looks over her shoulder at the inspection team, and their leader nods. “We’ll find it,” he says, and they push back out through the door.

  Aiah turns back to the young woman. “Is there someone in charge I may speak to?" she says. “We’re here for more than a meter reading.”

  The woman’s disinterested expression does not change. “May I ask what this concerns?”

  “You’ve got a license for a plasm accumulator, and we’d like to see it. And there’s also . .. something more complex. Is there someone I can speak to?”

  The woman’s lips give a little twitch of resignation. “Very well,” she says. Her brown eyes glance over each of the bodyguards in turn. Disdain enters her voice. “The gentlemen with the guns can wait here," she says. Aiah sees her guards bristle, and she turns to them and tells them to stay.

  If the Dreaming Sisters turn out to be defrauding the government of plasm, she realizes, she’ll need more than these few guards to deal with this place. A battalion may be more in order.

  The dreaming sister, without looking back, has already drifted down one of the corridors, and Aiah is forced to hurry after her. The corridor follows a series of seemingly random curves, with other corridors intersecting at intervals, and the pathway rises and falls as well. The interior of the building, Aiah realizes, is as much a maze as the carved ornament outside.

  Th
e dreaming sister walks without once looking back, as if she doesn’t care whether Aiah is following or not. Her bare feet don’t make a sound.

  Occasionally one of Aiah’s pumps skids out from under her— the flags beneath her feet have been polished slick by generations of bare feet.

  The corridor is mostly plain gray stone, lit every so often by hanging globular electric lamps. At intervals there are arched alcoves, each equipped with a mattress, a bolster, and plasm connections. Some of the alcoves are empty, some have women lying in them, each with a copper connector in her mouth, eyes closed or dreamily half-closed. Each has hair cropped short and wears only a gray cotton shift; each looks surprisingly young— Aiah sees no one who looks over twenty. Sometimes the sisters share mattresses, in pairs or threes or more, a pile of dreamy bare limbs and cropped heads. The women strewn atop mattresses might suggest the languid aftermath of a particularly strenuous orgy, but somehow the effect is strangely sexless: even lying in piles the women do not seem particularly aware of one another, of their surroundings, or for that matter of Aiah and her guide walking past them down the corridor. It seems more as if they are all addicted to the same narcotic, the juice of poppies perhaps, and are being stored on shelves until it is time for another dose.

  Carvings are also placed at intervals along the corridors, under simple rounded arches of the same style as the alcoves and branching corridors. Each is a carved relief, like the exterior door, and tries to give the impression of looking through a window or doorway; each features a central allegorical figure, a man or woman in characteristic dress, carrying objects peculiar to them: a broom, a rattle, a machine pistol, a lantern. The name of each figure is carved into the arch overhead. The Apprentice, Aiah reads. The Gamester . . The One Who Stands Outside . . . Death . . . The One Who Drags Down.

  She wonders if in this dreaming cavern she is permitted to speak at all. “How many of you are there?” Aiah asks.

  “Two hundred fifty-six,” the sister replies. Aiah nods: in geomancy that is a Grand Square, a square of a square.

  “How long has this place been here?” Aiah asks.

  The sister looks over her shoulder at Aiah. Her eyes are dark and faraway, lost in the world of dreams.

  “Ten thousand years,” she says, in a voice that suggests, perhaps, that she does not care whether Aiah believes her or not.

  Surprise stops Aiah dead in her tracks by one of the alcoves. The dreaming sister lying there has twisted genes, but more than that, she is an Avian, one of the elite class, infamous for their cruelty, who ruled Caraqui before the Keremaths. Her face is thin and delicate, with huge half-lidded golden eyes and a raptor beak that looks as if it might easily bite her plasm connection in half. Her body is dainty and fragile, as if her bones were made of paper, and her hands, two taloned fingers and an opposable thumb, grow from atop the joint of the huge wing, soft brown-gold feathers barred with black, that is folded protectively over most of her body.

  “This is an Avian,” Aiah says in her surprise. The twisted woman is beautiful, Aiah thinks, but in the same way that a sculpture can be beautiful, or a piece of music. As an artifact, not as something human.

  She is glad that the Avian’s mind is elsewhere, that her eyes are not fully open to fix Aiah within their golden orbs.

  A touch of impatience enters the voice of Aiah’s guide. “We accept initiates of all races and conditions,” she says.

  “It’s illegal for her even to be here.”

  “Is that so?” A tone of perfect indifference. Aiah’s guide turns and begins to walk away, and Aiah follows reluctantly, casting glances over her shoulder at the Avian until the twisted woman is out of sight.

  Another figure walks toward them. She is petite and blonde, with creamy skin so pale it seems translucent and a scattering of freckles over her nose and cheeks. She seems younger, if possible, than Aiah’s guide.

  “You asked for someone in authority?” she says.

  Aiah hesitates. “I meant,” she says, striving for tact, “someone older.”

  The girl raises a bare foot and scratches her instep. “I am four hundred fifty-one years old,” she says. “My name is Order of Eternity. I am therefore senior to Whore.” Her bright blue eyes travel to the other sister. “Who is two hundred and .. . ?” Her voice trails off.

  “Two hundred fifty-eight,” says the first sister, whose name is apparently Whore. “I celebrated my Grand Square two years ago.”

  “Of course,” says Order of Eternity. “Pardon my lapse.” She smiles, balanced like a crane on one foot. “Thank you for bringing our guest. You may return to the door.”

  “Yes, Sister.” Whore turns and walks away, without looking back.

  Order of Eternity puts her foot back on the floor and returns her attention to Aiah. She is short and barely comes to Aiah’s chin. “I am the most senior of the sisters available. How may I help you?”

  If this is a joke, Aiah promises herself, I am going to have my police take this place apart stone by stone.

  But instead she looks after the receding form of the other sister. “Is her name really Whore?”

  “Oh yes.” Nodding. “When we enter the order, we take a name either reflecting the outside world, which we wish to overcome, or a name reflecting that toward which, in our new life, we aspire.”

  “Was she a whore on the outside?”

  The dreaming sister shrugs. “Possibly. Probably not. It doesn’t matter.”

  Aiah turns to Order of Eternity, looks down at her impossibly young face.

  “You don’t look four hundred,” she says.

  There is a girlish lilt to the dreaming sister’s voice. Even her voice box seems not to have matured.

  “Our life is healthy and free from stress,” she says. “We spend our days in touch with plasm, which is the lifeblood of the world. There is no reason for us to age.”

  “If you sold your techniques,” Aiah says, “you could make millions.”

  A shrug again. “If we cared for millions,” says Order of Eternity, “we would.”

  A cynical little demon tugs at the corners of Aiah’s mouth. “I can’t think of many religions that don’t care about money.”

  “Are we a religion?” Order of Eternity cocks her head ingenuously and gives every impression that she has never considered this question before in her life. “I think not,” she concludes. “We have no congregation, no worshipers. Though some of us have private devotions, we do not as a group offer obedience or sacrifice to any particular gods or immortals. We live simply, according to the rules of our order, and contemplate that which exists— is that religious?”

  “Most people would think so.”

  “Then they are confusing natural life with religion. It is a comment on how unnatural their life has become. Would you like to walk with me?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she begins to stroll down the corridor. Aiah shortens her own long-legged strides to match the other woman’s.

  Aiah frowns. “You’re living on a rusty old barge in the middle of the sea, and you’ve got electricity and sewer and plasm connections... is that natural? Shouldn’t you be living in a cave on a mountaintop somewhere?”

  “Simplicity,” says Order of Eternity, “is not the same as discomfort. Why recline on a sharp rock when there is a mattress near to hand?”

  “Living isolated, in a place like this, hardly seems natural.”

  “It is natural for us. We make no claim for anyone else.” Order of Eternity looks up at Aiah and gives a puzzled frown, wrinkling her freckled nose.

  “What is the purpose of your being here, exactly?”

  “I’m from the Ministry of Resources. I’m here to examine your plasm use and check your accumulator.”

  The sister gives a little nod, as if confirming an inward supposition. They walk past an arch containing a relief, Entering the Gateway, similar to that on the front door. The long-haired woman pushing open the door is of stone, not of bronze, but otherwise it is the same
figure.

  “We do not employ significant amounts of plasm,” the sister says, “because we strive not to use it. We strive only to live in mutual awareness with plasm, to use it as a vehicle for an apprehension of the fundamental reality of this world.”

  “You use it to extend your life and youth,” Aiah points out.

  Order of Eternity nods. “When our bodies are damaged, we strive to repair them.”

  “When a doctor uses such techniques, his plasm bills are very high.”

  “When a doctor uses such techniques,” says Order of Eternity, “his techniques are intrusive and hasty. He must repair the damage of years, and do it in a matter of hours. We, on the other hand, have years, decades sometimes, to attune our bodies to the ways of health. A doctor cannot afford to spend years working on a single patient, but we can. My name is not chance-chosen— we attempt to live according to the order of eternity, not to the needs of the moment. Years of meditation makes us aware of our bodies and their needs in ways that are uncommon outside these walls. We can become aware of wrongness— illness— years before anyone outside would think to bring the matter to the attention of a doctor. At such times only a small effort is required to correct the problem. Our plasm use is therefore subtle, and our usage small.”

  Order of Eternity’s path takes her through an arch on the right, opposite a relief titled The Archon, a man in a long robe holding a multibranched candlestick, or perhaps a stylized tree... Dragging her eyes away, Aiah follows the dreaming sister.

  “There are also your aerial displays to consider,” she says. “I have seen them, and they are impressive.”

  A wistful smile crosses the sister’s youthful face. "I have not seen the displays in centuries. Not since I came to the Society when I was a girl.”

  “Someone here arranges them.”

  “We all do, in a way. . . .” Order of Eternity’s voice trails away as she searches for words. “These displays. . . they are a glimpse into our meditations, but they are only a side effect. We seek to live in accord with plasm, the greatest creative power in the universe, and sometimes actual creation takes place.”