City on Fire (Metropolitan 2)

by Walter Jon Williams

  PROVISIONALS DENOUNCE DIRECTOR OF PED

  “AIAH IS CONSTANTINE’S ASSASSIN,” SAYS KEREHORN

  “MURDER CLIQUE” CONDEMNED

  After the speeches are over, Aiah walks to the offices of the PED— they are on her way, and she might as well check on the next shift’s operations. When she goes to fetch a file she finds Constantine in the secure room, a stack of files on the desk in front of him. His skin is drawn taut over his face, and there is a haunted look in his eyes, as if he is gazing into an agony from which there is no escape.

  Aiah’s mouth goes dry as she sees him, but his attention snaps to her as soon as she steps within his sight, and there is no way to withdraw... so she presses the day’s code into the pad, opens the barred gate, enters, closes it behind her.

  Constantine does not speak, but watches her as she walks to the file drawer she wants, unlocks it, slides open the bronze-fronted door on its silent bearings, and finds the folder she needs. She takes the file, closes the drawer, and makes her way out. Her nape hair crawls beneath his steady gaze.

  There was hatred in the twist of his lip, she saw. Hatred and contempt.

  Though whether for her, or himself, or the world itself she cannot tell.

  FEARS OF RENEWED FIGHTING

  BOTH SIDES STOCKPILE MUNITIONS

  Constantine embraces her, a fierce hug that drives the breath from her lungs. Then Aldemar, the copper transference grip already in her hand, gives her a gentler embrace. The briefest sensation of plasm tingles on Aiah’s skin. Aldemar seats herself, closes her eyes, focuses.

  Constantine’s eyes burn into hers. “Come back,” he says, voice low, an earthquake rumble in Aiah’s bones. Aldemar tilts her head back, stiffens, throws out an arm. A surge of plasm startles Aiah, and she takes in a breath....

  And expels it in another place. Warm, humid darkness surrounds her, strangely strung with holiday lights. The air smells of decay, brackish water, fecal matter. A generator’s hum is oppressively loud in the enclosed space.

  A little gray man approaches, strung lights glowing in his huge eyes. He takes a cigar out of his mouth and speaks in a rasping voice. “I’m Sergeant Lamarath,” he says. “Remember me? Welcome back to Aground.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Many of the twisted in Aground, Aiah observes, are carrying guns— part of the payment, she suspects, for the risk Lamarath is taking here. The ominous half-human figures, shadows coiled around oiled weapons, are visible here and there as she takes a brief tour around the floating half-world.

  Constantine has sent loyal Cheloki soldiers, Statius and Cornelius, to secure the place ahead of time, though they admit there isn’t much to be done. “If we’re attacked by the Escaliers or anyone else,” Statius says, “this place won’t hold out two minutes. Mages could set it alight or just smash it to pieces. And if anyone gets a heavy weapon down here and starts pumping shells into this junkyard, it’ll come apart.”

  Aldemar is standing by, Aiah knows, to teleport her away in case things go wrong, but the problem is how to let Aldemar know when it’s necessary. The protocols of the negotiation state that neither side is to send mages into the area, and that any signs of telepresence are to be taken as hostile. Statius and Cornelius have been provided with a radio, but it hasn’t been tested— they daren’t broadcast for fear the Provisionals would pick up the signal.

  There is, as it happens, a telephone. The Agrounders have hijacked some phone lines, and Aiah, because a call to unoccupied Caraqui would almost certainly not go through, has been given a number in Gunalaht she can call if an emergency threatens.

  Aiah appreciates all the effort on her behalf, but suspects that in a genuine emergency none of them would be worth a half-dinar.

  Aiah is again taken on a tour of Lamarath’s arcane headquarters, marine superstructure mated with surface vehicles and stray bits of portable housing, then strung with red holiday lights. The meetings themselves will be conducted where Aiah first met Lamarath, in his shielded office with its locked metal cabinets and massive desk. Aiah’s nerves chill at the sight of the serpentine Dr. Romus still hanging from his hook. Romus smiles at Aiah from his brown homunculus face, his wreath of tentacles waving hello; Aiah stammers through a greeting.

  “You’ll be staying in the next room.” Statius opens an oval hatch to reveal a small room set up with a bed and a bedside stand. Bronze mesh is tacked to the walls, floor, and ceiling, reinforcing whatever shielding may already be present under the plaster. “This here,” opening another hatch from the office, “leads to a shielded back passage,” more bronze mesh, “which leads to an exterior hatch.”

  The hatch is scaled to Lamarath’s size, and Aiah and her guards have to bend low to exit into the darkness outside. “We’ve clamped a pipe here,” Cornelius says, revealing a vertical pipe whose lower end disappears into the black water below. “We’ve put a tank of air and a regulator down there, about three paces down,” Cornelius says, then looks up in sudden uncertainty. “We were told you know how to use them, yes?”

  Aiah bites her lip. “I’ve been underwater once or twice,” she says. And hadn’t enjoyed herself.

  “There’s a mask tied down there, a buoyancy harness, and a pair of fins,” Cornelius adds. “If you need to hide, you’ll have air enough for two hours if you don’t go any deeper and don’t expend any air swimming around.”

  “I’ll freeze,” Aiah says.

  “Well”— Cornelius shrugs— “it’s for emergencies only. If things really deteriorate, it’s better to risk hypothermia than to get shot.”

  “Hi, Miss Aiah!” says a cheerful voice. “Do you remember me?”

  Statius gives a little start, and curses under his breath: he hadn’t seen the boy sitting, a shadow in a deeper shadow, on the rusting deck plates.

  Aiah’s own nerves are in little better shape. “Hello, Craftig,” she manages.

  The boy stands, massive frame lurching upward, and Statius mutters something again and takes a step back. “The Sergeant said you were coming back,” Craftig says. “Are you going to be staying long?”

  Aiah considers this. “I’m just here to do some business,” she says. “When it’s over, I’ll go.”

  “If you get bored,” the boy says, “we can play checkers. I’m good at checkers.”

  “I’ll let you know if I have some time,” Aiah says, and then adds, remembering her last visit, “How’s the family?”

  Craftig tells her at length, not caring that she hasn’t met a single one of his kin. A few minutes into the narrative, Aiah hears Statius discreetly clear his throat.

  “Sorry about your uncle,” Aiah says, interrupting the chronology in midflow. “I’d like to stay and chat, but I have an important meeting coming up.”

  “With those Escalier guys?” Craftig says. “See you later, hey? Have a nice time while you’re here.”

  Aiah hears Cornelius sigh. “So much for security.”

  Aiah turns to him. “Better finish this in a hurry, then.”

  The delegation from the Escaliers are due in an hour or so. Aiah changes from the coveralls she’d worn during her tour into a gray wool suit, combs her hair, fluffs her lace. She puts on the priceless ivory necklace she’d received from Constantine, with its dangling Trigram. She wishes the room included a mirror so that she could make certain of the effect, then decides that a mirror would only make her insecure and she was better off without it.

  Instead of a mirror, she’d like a plasm connection. A jolt of artificial confidence is just what she needs right now.

  She steps into Lamarath’s office and reviews her files on Brigadier Holson and Colonel Galagas, the two officers she’ll be speaking with.

  Landro’s Escaliers were formed out of elements of the Fastani army when Barkazi fell. Now, fifty years later, they seem not to be as attached to the Fastani cause as Karlo’s Brigade are to the Holy League; otherwise, looking down the road, there might be trouble between the two. Landro, the original brigadier, was kill
ed in fighting in Morveg thirty years ago, though the brigade retains his name, out of both sentiment and convention.

  Holson, the current commander, was actually born in Barkazi, in the Jabzi Sector, the part of Barkazi first invaded by a neighbor intent on restoring order and civilizing, or recivilizing, the natives. Aiah thinks it is probably significant that, though Holson received a military education in Jabzi, he hadn’t joined its army or those of any of the other occupying powers. He had wanted to serve in a Barkazil force, and that was what he did, traveling thousands of radii to do it.

  Galagas was the fifth generation of his family to follow the military life. Aiah’s dossier was uncertain as to whether his grandfather had fought with the Fastani out of conviction or because it was the Fastani who happened to command most of the Barkazi army at the start of the civil wars.

  But Galagas, also, had not joined any regular army, and had instead stayed with this band of Barkazil mercenaries.

  That, Aiah thought, was important. Holson and Galagas, both talented officers, preferred serving with ethnic Barkazil mercenaries than with a regular army that would probably pay better and offer better security. Both were married to ethnic Barkazil women. Being Barkazil was important to them.

  They thought of themselves as Barkazil before they thought of themselves as Jabzil or Garshabis or whatever. And that, Aiah thought, was the key.

  They were willing to follow Aiah the Queen of Barkazi, or at least to think about following her.

  It wasn’t just that they were exploring their options. If they wanted to involve themselves in a bidding war between the factions, they could do it openly, negotiate through their agents in Garshab.

  No, it was treachery they were meditating— the deliberate betrayal of their current employers. The mercenaries supposedly had a professional code that prevented such things. They were betraying not only their employers but their profession.

  They were meeting with her because they wanted to. They were already convinced they wanted to switch sides— otherwise they wouldn’t be here at all.

  What Aiah should strive to do was, in essence, passive— she should not change their minds, but rather allow their preconceptions to model her behavior. She had to be whatever they wanted her to be, whether it was the Sorceress-Queen of Barkazi or the Dreaming Sisters’ Apprentice or a superheroine out of one of Aldemar’s films.

  “I don’t suppose I will be allowed to remain,” says a voice in Aiah’s ear. She jumps, puts a hand to her heart.

  “Sorry I startled you,” apologizes Dr. Romus in his eerie, reedlike voice. His wizened brown face looks more amused than apologetic.

  “I forgot you were here.”

  “Yes,” more amusement, “that happens more often than you’d think. I thought I should remind you I was here before your guests arrive.”

  “Thank you.” Aiah tries to calm her flailing heart. “I suppose you shouldn’t stay. Thank you for understanding.”

  Dr. Romus uncoils his forebody— thick as Constantine’s leg— and drops a loop to the floor, followed by the rest of him. He keeps his head raised, at Aiah’s level, as he progresses toward the hatch. His feathery tentacles are busy around the lock for a moment, and then, smiling, he opens the door and makes his way out.

  “Bye now,” Romus says. “See you later.”

  Aiah tries to focus on the dossier, but her concentration fails. In a few minutes, Cornelius comes in to tell her the delegates’ boat has been sighted— two green and one white light, as agreed. “Do you want to wait here?” he asks.

  Aiah shakes her head. “I should meet them.” She closes the dossier, opens a drawer of Lamarath’s desk, sees a pair of large cockroaches scuttle from the light.... She closes the door and decides she may as well leave the dossier on the desk.

  Outside, in the red glow of the strands of lights, Aiah waits on the rusting deck plates. There is a creak from the cables that support the swinging bridge that leads from the mooring. Aiah strains into the darkness, sees several shadows crossing the bridge, the first preceded by a tiny cherry-red glow. This proves to be a cigar clenched in the teeth of Sergeant Lamarath, who guides two men in uniform: Holson and Galagas.

  Aiah waits for the group to get off the bridge, then steps forward and holds out her hand. If they have come this far, taken this risk, she will at least walk across the deck to greet them.

  “General Holson. Colonel Galagas. Thank you for agreeing to meet me.”

  Holson is a big, broad man with a powerful neck and shoulders; his hair is cropped so severely that the rugged contours of his skull, reflecting red light, are plainly visible. His hand is large, his palm dry; as he clasps Aiah’s hand he looks at her with intent, unwinking eyes.

  Galagas is smaller, with a mustache. He is formally correct: he tucks his cap under one arm and bows slightly over Aiah’s hand as he takes it. Somehow he avoids clicking his heels.

  Formality covering nervousness? Aiah wonders. Perhaps he doesn’t even want to be here.

  “Would you follow me, gentlemen?” Aiah says. “I’ll take us to a place where we can talk.”

  Holson nods. Aiah turns to Lamarath. “Thank you, Sergeant,” she says. Lamarath grins and waves his cigar.

  “No problem, miss.”

  Holson gazes uneasily over the floating half-world as he follows Aiah toward the hatch. “How many people live in these places?”

  “Millions, if you count them all.”

  Holson looks unhappy. “And here they are, in our security zone. I had no idea these places existed. These people are a danger.”

  Aiah pauses, one hand on the open hatch, and looks at Holson. She doesn’t want to inadvertently cause some kind of horrid persecution of those who live in the half-worlds.

  “These people are a danger only if you destroy their homes,” Aiah says. “Then they will be in your security zone, and you won’t want them there.”

  She lets Holson chew that over for a few seconds, then enters the hatch and leads the delegates to Lamarath’s office. She offers them drinks, coffee flask, and snacks from a table made ready for them.

  Galagas pours coffee for his superior. “Sorry I don’t have any Barkazi Black,” Aiah says. “I have a cousin who works at the factory, but his last shipment was delayed by the war.”

  This is not true— the cousin exists; the shipment does not— but Aiah wants through this genial lie to establish some kind of connection here, invoke the tribal longings of her audience....

  Galagas hands coffee to Holson. “What’s his name?” he asks.

  “Endreio. Endreio the Younger, actually.”

  Galagas pours coffee for himself. “I have a cousin there myself. Franko. And my grandfather was a director there, before the war.”

  The factory was a strong point for the Fastani during the fighting, Aiah knows. The Battle of the Coffee Factory was one of the early bloodbaths.

  Galagas sips his drink. “My grandfather said the coffee never tasted the same after they rebuilt the factory.”

  “My grandmother says the same thing.” Which, it happens, is true.

  Holson looks at her and runs a hand over his cropped head. “Is all your family from Old Oelph?” This being the district with the coffee factory, now part of the Metropolis of Garkhaz.

  “My maternal line is Oelphil. My father’s might be, it’s hard to say....” She looks at Holson. “Your name was originally Old Oelphil, ne? There was Holson the Praefect back in Karlo’s time....”

  “He is supposed to be an ancestor.” Holson looks a little skeptical as he says this, probably so that Aiah won’t think he’s boasting by claiming descent from one of the Old Oelphil families, those who, according to the legend, had agreed to be reincarnated over and over again as protectors of the Barkazil people.

  Of course, the records from the time of Senko and Karlo have not survived, and anyone can claim descent from anyone else.

  “Would you like to sit down?” Aiah invites.

  She sits behind Lamarath�
��s desk. Squares her shoulders, folds her hands on top of the desk.

  Holson and Galagas sit. Galagas sits bolt upright, plainly uncomfortable, but Holson’s bold gaze challenges Aiah.

  “And you look different than on video,” he says.

  “The light here,” she says, gesturing at the fluorescents, “is less flattering.”

  “You’re younger than I expected.”

  Aiah allows herself what she hopes is an enigmatic smile. “I’ve come a long way,” she says.

  “And where do you plan to go?”

  “Farther. Barkazi, if things work out.”

  Skepticism narrows Holson’s eyes. “And what will you do in Barkazi?”

  He is pushing, she thinks. She suspects he will not respect her unless she pushes back.

  “What I do,” she says, “depends on what kind of support I can acquire in the meantime. Right now there are only two Barkazil military units in the world, and they are fighting on opposite sides of a war that has nothing to do with Barkazi. I like to solve my problems one at a time, and that’s the problem I’d like to start with.”

  “You want Barkazil military units?” Holson says. “For what? Any attempt to liberate Barkazi with two brigades is naive.”

  Aiah looks at Holson and hopes the surprise she feels shows on her face. “Did I say I wanted to invade Barkazi? I’m not interested in bloodbaths. But see, now....”

  She leans forward, narrowing the distance between them. “If we can join forces,” she says, “then my government will be very grateful, both to me and you. Their gratitude has already extended to settling Barkazil refugees here, to establishing a Barkazil community. And if we wished to try to alter the situation in Barkazi, the government here would help us. Whereas....” Aiah looks at Holson for a moment, and then at Galagas. “Well, you know your employers best. What sort of gratitude would you expect from them? You’d be lucky if you got a bonus on your way back to the Timocracy.”