City on Fire (Metropolitan 2)

by Walter Jon Williams

  While her covert activities are exhilarating, the situation at work sends despair sighing through Aiah’s veins. Togthan is running the department in all but name, and once Aiah’s plasm allowance runs out, she reasons, there will be very little point to staying, save her desperate, dwindling faith in Constantine, that and her stubbornness, a refusal to admit that it had all been a hideous mistake.

  She decides that when she finally runs out of plasm, mere days from now, she will resign.

  Perhaps it’s just as well, she thinks. It’s only a matter of time before the identity of the Golden Lady will be revealed. All it will take is for someone to backtrack her sourceline to the Palace, or for a clerk to go over her plasm records and wonder why she is consuming so much of her allowance all at once.

  Ten days into the Campaign of Purification, as she prepares to leave the office at the 16:30 shift change, her receptionist puts through a call from General Ceison in Lanbola.

  “Miss Aiah,” he says, “something curious has occurred. I wonder if it might be possible to speak privately.”

  “Yes.” It has never been wise to send confidential information through the Palace switchboards, and it is doubly unwise now.

  “I will be on the roof of the headquarters building in... will 16:50 be too soon?”

  “I can manage 16:50.”

  Aiah finds the compass bearing to the Lanbola headquarters in her directory, calls the plasm control room, and arranges to have plasm delivered to her apartment and the use of a plasm horn set at 040 degrees true. She returns to her rooms, sits near a plasm connection, holds the t-grip in her hand.

  Something curious. She presses the trigger.

  The plasm sings a song of welcome in her veins. Aiah pauses for a moment to hear magic’s song of creation, destruction, and desire, the song of sheer reality running along her nerves. And then she lets herself surge along the Palace’s plasm lines and speed from the scalloped bronze horn on the roof.

  The horn directs her on course 040, beaming plasm on a bearing to Ceison’s headquarters. Aiah pushes her consciousness slowly out along the beam, over the flat surface of Caraqui, the war’s great ruined scar that lies across the metropolis, then over the taller cityscape of Lanbola that falls below her as the world curves away. The clouds are low and dark and full of rain, and the plasm beam wants to fire straight through them; with an effort of will Aiah curves the beam, keeping it and her sensorium below cloud cover. Below, clouds and rain have darkened the city sufficiently for it to be illuminated by stormlights.

  Rain drifts like a shroud over Lanbola’s government district, the proud white buildings erected by the Popular Democrats. Aiah dives like a questing falcon, finds the party headquarters building, and discovers Ceison standing quietly near a sandbagged mortar emplacement, wearing a hooded rain cape and calmly puffing a pipe. Delicate drops of rain cling to his mustache.

  Aiah reaches toward Ceison with tenuous mental tendrils. Ceison stiffens, his lean face turning alert. He takes the pipe from his mouth and holds it, hand cupped around the bowl, by his side.

  —General? Can you hear me?

  —Yes.

  Ceison’s mental voice sounds much like his speaking voice, reasoned and deliberate, possessing an undemonstrative kind of authority.

  —You wished to speak with me?

  —Yes, miss.

  Ceison ducks farther into his hood as a gust of rain pelts down, frowns as he assembles his thoughts.

  —Two days after your visit here, he begins, we had a visit from the War Minister. And he passed on a warning very similar to the one you gave us.

  Surprise floats through Aiah at this news.

  —Go on, she sends.

  —I thought, well, it is good that you and the minister are in accord. But yesterday I received another visit from the War Minister, with very specific instructions, and I thought I should speak with you for... for purposes of coordination.

  —What were the instructions?

  —Karlo’s Brigade is to move at 02:00 tomorrow into Caraqui, and occupy certain sites: bridges, plasm stations, and several local headquarters of the Dalavan Militia. The Escaliers are to remain behind to make certain Lanbola remains calm.

  Somehow Aiah is not surprised: comprehension falls solidly into place, as if the parts of the puzzle had already been assembled in her mind, and only needed Ceison’s words for her to become aware of them.

  Parq, she knows now, had been set up for a great fall. Constantine had encouraged him to run wild, to set his mobs loose on the metropolis, to abuse his every authority; and now Constantine would bring him down with the support of every other element in the state.

  The only question now, she thinks, is Constantine’s ultimate purpose. Is he doing this all on his own, with the intention of setting himself up as Metropolitan, sole commander of Caraqui; or is his goal somehow more modest?

  Ceison’s mental voice brings Aiah’s thoughts back to the present.

  —Do you concur in this program, Miss Aiah?

  The answer is clear enough. In any struggle of Constantine against Parq, she must support the former, whatever else Constantine’s move may imply.

  —Yes, Aiah sends. And furthermore I want to be with you when you move. Do you have camera crews on hand?

  —Of course.

  Cameras naturally accompany any military movement: their feed is used to help military mages orient themselves, project their animas and magic to the places where they are most needed.

  Rain beats down steadily. Ceison empties his pipe, shifts it to a pocket.

  —I want a camera crew with me at all times. I want us to be able to give the video news proof that the Barkazil Division and I are a part of this.

  —Yes, miss.

  —I will arrange to be here, in person, first shift tomorrow.

  —Very good, miss.

  —I want you to paint a new name on the side of the vehicle that I am to use. It will be called the Golden Lady. Understood?

  Ceison’s eyes widen in surprise. The existence of the Golden Lady has not, it appears, entirely escaped his attention.

  —I want you to see if you can find an artist, Aiah continues, who can paint a golden lady on the vehicle. Large as you can.

  With an act of will she causes her anima to fluoresce, and Ceison shields his eyes against her brightness.

  —This is what I want you to paint. Do you understand?

  —Yes, miss.

  Aiah permits the image to fade. Ceison lowers his hand and blinks his dazzled eyes.

  Aiah’s ectomorphic sensorium observes Ceison, standing in the pouring rain with water sluicing off his hood and cape.

  —Better get inside, she sends. We can’t afford to have you down with pneumonia at a time like this.

  Ceison smiles.

  —Thank you, miss. I will see you first shift.

  Aiah touches the off button and feels Lanbola fade from her vision. Plasm sings a song of triumph in her ears.

  The Golden Lady will do her part to end the terror, she thinks. And she will be seen to do her part.

  COMMERCE COUNCIL PROTESTS CAMPAIGN OF PURIFICATION

  “UNREST BAD FOR BUSINESS,” SPOKESMAN SAYS

  RELAYS COMPLAINTS OF EXTORTION

  PARQ DENOUNCES “BANKERS AND BLOODSUCKERS”

  Her pilot takes Aiah to Lanbola through a lightning storm, the aerocar flying through great flashing sheets of electric fire that turn everyone in the cabin into pale, glittering-eyed ghosts. Green voltaic flame streams from the car’s stubby wings as it descends, and dances like a thing alive along the instrument panel.

  The aerocar touches down on the landing pad, and the pilot pulls his headset off. His forehead is beaded with sweat. “I don’t want to do that ever again,” he says.

  Aiah looks at him. Her mind was fully occupied during the flight; she had appreciated the spectacle, but her thoughts were elsewhere. “Were we in danger?” she asks.

  “I would not have wanted to be knocked into
a building,” the pilot breathes.

  “Glad we weren’t.” Her mind is already on other things.

  She steps from the aerocar into pelting rain and blazing video light: the camera crews she’d requested are here to record her arrival. Her guards are prepared for combat, wearing bulky bulletproofs and carrying weapons openly; and Aiah herself is dressed practically, in boots, pants, and waterproof jacket.

  Ceison offers her an umbrella and salutes. “Everything’s ready, miss,” he says.

  “Thank you. Let’s get out of the rain.”

  Armored vehicles jockey for place in the huge nearby garage, filling the air with unburnt hydrocarbons. The carrier Golden Lady is decorated impressively, with a fierce, fiery woman, hair ablaze, pointing ahead to victory with a commanding expression on her face. Aiah asks to meet the artist, and compliments him. “Can you paint me another copy of this?” she asks. “Put it on cardboard or something, so I can have it in my apartment? I’ll pay you for your work.”

  The artist is a young man, and blushes easily. “I’d be happy to, miss. And no need for payment.”

  “Of course I’ll pay you. It’s not your regular job, is it?”

  He colors gratefully and Aiah moves on, greeting as many of the soldiers as she can. When Ceison tells her it’s time to move, Aiah joins the Golden Lady, and the vehicle commander hands her a pair of headphones and shows her how to stand in the hatch. Her guards file into the interior. The camera crews keep Aiah in their sights as the Golden Lady jerks, belches fumes, and lurches for the exit on its six solid-steel wheels. Enjoying this, Aiah breaks into a grin, and forgets to adopt for the cameras the stern expression of the Golden Lady painted onto the side of her vehicle.

  Outside the rain has ended, though water still pours from drain spouts and fills the gutters. Shieldlight is breaking through dark cloud, and the stormlights are flickering off. The vehicle lurches into a higher gear and Aiah lowers herself behind the armored hatch combing to cut the chilling wind.

  The convoy picks up speed once it gets on the Sealine Highway and rolls across the Caraqui border at 06:10, receiving waves and salutes from puzzled soldiers guarding the customs station. Columns begin to split from the main body, aiming for different objectives. Well before 06:30, Ceison reports to Aiah that the first objectives have been seized, and that complete surprise has been achieved.

  In brilliant Shieldlight, at 06:45, Aiah’s column rolls to a halt in front of the district militia headquarters, and soldiers and camera teams spill out. Aiah’s guards tug at her trouser legs to bring her down out of the hatch and behind the vehicle’s armor, but she insists on remaining in plain view, where the cameras and population can see her.

  There is no resistance, no bullets, no plasm blasts, and the soldiers occupy the building without so much as a protest from its puzzled sleep-shift occupants.

  And, when the militia members begin turning up for work at 08:00, they are quietly arrested and disarmed. Seized militia records provide names and addresses of those not present, and army combat teams move to their apartments to confiscate any weaponry they may possess.

  But by that point Aiah has shifted to a local plasm station, where her PED identification gains entrance and where she can commandeer an antenna, dive into the well, and provide magical support for her soldiers. Since, commanding a station, she has practically unlimited plasm at her disposal, she crafts a blazing golden anima to fly above the streets and soar to her soldiers’ aid.

  At 08:00, while the Golden Lady cruises above the city, Constantine appears on radio and video to announce that he and the president-triumvir, Faltheg, have ordered the army to suppress disorder and to disarm and disperse the Dalavan Militia. The sumptuary laws are summarily repealed. The reconstituted police forces, now ready under Randay, the Minister of Public Security, will assume all responsibility for public order.

  When she hears the news some hours later, Aiah reflects that she had almost forgotten about Randay and the restructured civilian police. She has her doubts about how much better the new police will prove than the old, but concludes they could hardly do worse than the militia.

  Within another hour, the camera teams are delivering their raw video to broadcast stations, where the Golden Lady’s identity is revealed for the first time.

  There is remarkably little violence. The Dalavan Militia is used to pushing around helpless civilians, is short of competent magical support, and has received very little training. Its few members who attempt resistance prove hopelessly naive about the amount of firepower that can be generated by a well-trained, well-equipped combat team, and are either immediately blown from existence or so intimidated by the formidable response that they immediately surrender.

  By 12:00, the situation is well in hand, and Aiah leaves the plasm station and returns to the Aerial Palace. She will dismiss Togthan, fire every person he appointed, rehire the twisted people he had forced her to send away.

  When she arrives, she discovers she is famous. Her image has been playing on the video for hours. Togthan accepts his dismissal stonily, and many of his hires have either left already or not bothered to report to work, saving her the bother of firing them.

  Parq, from his refuge in the Grand Temple, issues bulletins denouncing the other two triumvirs, and then— when the other two insist that he leave the Grand Temple for a meeting— sends his resignation instead.

  Adaveth is recalled to the government— not to the cabinet, but to take Parq’s place as triumvir. Sweet irony, Aiah thinks, that Parq should be replaced by one of the polluted flesh.

  Ethemark returns to the department late in the day. She cannot read the expression in his face, but she hears the anger still in his voice.

  “You knew,” he says. “You knew this would happen.”

  “I didn’t know,” Aiah says, and then adds a comforting falsehood. “I only hoped.”

  He nods, reserving his judgment, and passes on.

  In the days to come Aiah discovers that video is intermetropolitan in nature and does not stop at borders. Her image finds its way around the world. Aldemar, calling a few days later, is the fifth person offering to buy the exclusive rights to base a chromoplay on her story. Many more calls come from journalists.

  She hires an agent in Chemra to deal with it all.

  She has to decide what she wants from fame before she can decide how to handle it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “You should have trusted me, Triumvir,” Aiah says.

  Constantine’s dreamy eyes contemplate columns of brilliant bubbles rising in golden liquid. He holds the crystal glass to the light that streams in the windows of his limousine, observing the way the crystal casts rainbows on the vehicle’s interior, and when he speaks his voice seems to drift into the car from far away.

  “Do you remember, that time we spent together in Achanos, I spoke of my grandfather?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  The facets of the crystal dapple Constantine’s face with little rainbows. A thoughtful frown touches his lips, and he touches a button that causes a slab of bulletproof glass to rise between the passenger compartment and the driver and bodyguard in the front seat.

  “Do you remember when I spoke of my grandfather’s abdication? How he put his enemies in power, and arranged for them to fail, and then came back with everyone’s blessing to resume his place as Metropolitan— do you remember that?”

  The memory floats to the surface of Aiah’s mind. He had told her, she thinks, exactly what he would do, and furthermore he had, when he first warned her of Parq’s rise, bade her to remember Achanos. She had thought, instead, he was trying to manipulate her through the memories of a moment of love.

  “Yes,” she says. “I remember.”

  Constantine’s eyes drift from the glass to Aiah. “I told you then what I planned, near as I dared.”

  “But that was when the war was still in progress,” Aiah says. “You had made plans for Parq even then?”

  “Of cou
rse. I had always intended, from the first, even before war came upon us, to deal with Parq exactly as I have.”

  Knowledge of these deep-laid plans darkens the complexion of Aiah’s thought. What, she wonders, is his plan for her?

  The limousine, part of a convoy with guards fore and aft and mages floating overhead on invisible tethers, turns to cross a canal. Shieldlight winks off the spiderweb supports of the suspension bridge; below the canal glitters greenly. The hum of the contra-rotating flywheels set between the driver’s and passengers’ compartments grows louder.

  “But why?” Aiah asks. “Why put Parq in power in the first place? He was treacherous even during the revolution, and no credit to the government afterward.”

  Constantine sips his wine and lets it hang on his palate for a long moment, savoring it, a reward of success.

  “Because,” he says finally, “following the fall of the Keremaths, there were always a number of alternatives that presented themselves, and one of them was the concept of theocracy. The Dalavans are potentially a great power here, two out of every five people, and if they united behind Parq’s alternative, behind a theocratic concept, they could overpower any opposition. Theocracies, when they are not corrupt, are always vicious, always trying to impose their moral absolutes on an imperfect humanity. But they always sound attractive— their language seduces, like ecclesiastical architecture, music.... Why not form a government of godly, disinterested people? Why not let them direct society in harmony with divine inspiration? Why not make people good? And so, on this promising moral premise, we find the coercive powers of the state united with the coercive powers of faith— people must be made good, the state must make them so when religion cannot; and if one is not good, one is not merely disobeying a custom or a law made by mortals, one is defying the universal truths behind the operation of the universe, one is opposing all that is true, all that is divine, and so the penalties must be savage for such willful perversity, such obstinacy in the face of revealed truth....”