City on Fire (Metropolitan 2)

by Walter Jon Williams

  Sorya’s laugh tinkles out. “Superhuman prescience, of course.” A touch of ice enters her tone. “I wish my foreknowledge extended to the point of predicting a fat chromo-play contract like yours.”

  Aiah turns to face her. “You don’t need the money.”

  “No, not really, though money of course is always useful.” Sorya tilts her head, considers. “But I could use the publicity. That’s the problem with being in the secret service— no one ever knows how splendidly you do your job.” She shows her delicate, pearly teeth. “Constantine restarted his career with Lords of the New City. You may do well with your Golden Lady chromo— you may even ascend in Barkazi, who can tell?”

  “Who can tell?” Aiah echoes.

  Sorya touches her tongue to her teeth in languid amusement, and then gives a meaningful look in the direction of Constantine’s door. “And with both of us being goddesses— well, practically goddesses— I wonder what that makes our mutual lover.”

  “He was a god before we were, according to some.”

  “But did he make use of those people?” Scorn narrows her green eyes. “They were a resource— admittedly a mind-impoverished one— and he threw them away. Something could have been made of them, with proper direction. In contrast,” nodding as if awarding Aiah a point, “you’ve done very well with your moldy old hermit.”

  “I work with the material I’m given,” Aiah says, deadpan.

  Sorya seems immune to Aiah’s irony. “My prophet has the advantage of mobility— she can travel about, make converts, acquire donations. I expect the faith to be in the black within two or three years.”

  “Well done.” One goddess to another.

  Sorya glances across the room at Adaveth, Belckon, and Faltheg, and scorn glitters in her green eyes. “I do not understand why Constantine allows himself to be fettered to those... people.” Some residual caution has clearly replaced one description with another. “I would sweep away the lot,” she says, “and both I and the metropolis would be the better. But rather than taking control, Constantine prefers to let events narrow his choices and impel him in the direction he would have taken all along. He rules with one eye toward the history books, and concerns himself with what they will say when he is dead. He wants them to credit him with good intentions.” She shrugs.

  “Ah well,” she says, “that way his hand is not seen in events, though it makes for more confusion than one would desire....” She smiles, pinches out her cigaret with finger and thumb. “He will go where he wishes, but he lets others choose the time. He sacrifices initiative for deniability. I prefer to shape things directly, and will take the responsibility for success and failure both.”

  She turns to find an ashtray for her cigaret, and Aiah wonders how much to trust Sorya’s judgment in this: that Constantine has somehow desired the constant crises since his arrival in Caraqui, and has preferred to let others create them... and, Aiah now adds, has put others in a position to solve these crises for him. Taikoen has solved certain problems, it occurs to her, and now— a shiver goes up her spine— perhaps she is to solve the problem of Taikoen.

  And take the blame if anything goes wrong.

  Sorya drops her cigaret into the ashtray and turns back to Aiah, a delicate smile on her lips. Aiah’s mind is still cautiously palpating this new vision of Constantine. She doesn’t wish to accept Sorya’s views of Constantine, but on the other hand she knows it is a logical enough view and that it fits with the facts, if also with Sorya’s prejudices....

  But the proof will be before her today. If Constantine supports Sorya’s provocations in Charna, it will demonstrate he has desired such a thing all along.

  Suddenly the door opens and Constantine appears, all smiles and apologies. “I am truly sorry,” he says. “There was a matter of some urgency having to do with....” He waves a hand. “But what does it matter? We must deal with Charna.”

  As the others file into Constantine’s office, Aiah wonders if only she notices the t-grip sitting plainly on a side table, its cable still plugged into the socket— the t-grip that Constantine had undoubtedly used to project himself to Taikoen’s next victim and to put the hanged man in control.

  But perhaps Aiah is the only one who notices, because the others are concerned solely with Charna. Sitting around Constantine’s spacious ebony desk, the other triumvirs insist that they have no reason to support Charna’s new government, let alone back a demented invasion threat. Belckon also speaks out strongly on the intermetropolitan repercussions of being associated with Charna’s junta and its reckless behavior.

  Despite the tension and disagreement, Constantine seems perfectly at ease, almost lounging in his chair, a contrast to the others, who have to edge their chairs up to his desk to make their points. Despite the air of informality, Constantine is clearly controlling the meeting, indicating with a glance or a word who should speak next. Aiah can see Sorya’s face harden as one person after another speaks against her policy.

  “I beg to disagree,” Sorya says when Constantine finally allows her to speak. “These people, however inept, are among our few friends in the region. They must be supported— yes, and guided. A communique must be issued promising action on our part if Charna is attacked. As for this foolish invasion threat— well, the invasion will not happen. President Constantine can see to that with a single phone call.”

  Adaveth’s nictitating membranes slide partway over his eyes. “I beg to disagree with Madam Sorya’s premise. Charna is not our friend. Perhaps this Council of Colonels is the ideological ally of certain members of our government, but not all of us, and not our metropolis.” He leans forward, jabs the desk with a delicate hand. “I will utterly oppose any statement of support for Charna.”

  “And I,” says Faltheg. “These people are out of control.”

  Sorya’s lips press into a thin, white line. “What matters,” she says, “is power, and who has it, and who is willing to use it. If we do not support our friends, it will not matter how large our army may be, our word and our counsels will be ignored by everyone, and we will be seen as ripe for overthrow. For I remind everyone here,” tossing her head, “that we took power through force, and maintained ourselves through force, and if we do not show our willingness to use force to support our friends, compel neutrals, and punish our enemies, we will be seen as vulnerable by every pathetic little interventionist in the region; that this misapprehension is far more dangerous for us than any impression that we are dangerous, as our recent history has proved.”

  In the quiet chill that follows, Adaveth and Faltheg gaze at Sorya with the same cold expression on their dissimilar faces. Belckon polishes his spectacles. Constantine breaks the silence. “I will make the phone call that Madam Sorya proposes,” he says. “The best support we can give for anyone in our region is to help them extricate themselves from their difficulties. If Charna backs down, the crisis is over. And we will avoid making any official statements until the phone call is made.”

  “Never back down,” Sorya murmurs, scorn on her face, but she turns away, backing down herself.

  There is another long silence. Aiah looks at Geymard and Arviro, who are holding sheafs of documents about readiness levels and ammunition and fuel availability, and then down at the briefcase in her lap, with its latest statistics on the availability of plasm in case of military conflict... and feels a wave of thankfulness that the statistics will probably not be required.

  Constantine steeples his fingers, gazes frowningly over them at the members of his government. “I have also considered ways in which we may suppress the reckless behavior of our Charni friends— or my Charni friends, if you will it so. They are clearly unfamiliar with the proper mechanisms and conventions of government, and I would help them if I can— make them our friends, then, and responsible friends, too. So perhaps a delegation from our government to their government, a diplomatic and economic mission— clearly not military— to help Charna’s new government control their metropolis.”


  Adaveth suspiciously unveils a single eye. “A New City mission?” he asks.

  “I would rather it represented all our metropolis,” Constantine says. He smiles pleasantly over his fingertips, then looks at Sorya. “I thought Madam Sorya would serve as its head, remaining of course under Minister Belckon’s direction.” Alarm flashes into the others’ eyes, and Constantine speaks quickly. “This will unfortunately require her resignation from the Force of the Interior, where she has done such excellent work... but I know she desires a more public role, and head of this special mission would, of course, be a promotion.”

  Aiah can see the others working out the implications of this offer— and so is Sorya herself, who toys with the silver cuff buttons of her uniform jacket as she weighs this offer. On the one hand, she would be removed from her dangerous position as head of the secret service; on the other, she would serve as the principal advisor to a group of military officers already proven dangerously precipitate and headstrong.... Sorya looks up.

  “May I consider this offer before accepting, Triumvir?”

  “Yes. Of course.” He looks at the others. “Perhaps I should make that phone call now, yes? Would you all like to listen?”

  Constantine is affability itself on the phone, but when coming to the point he is firm. “My government wishes you to know that we cannot support any threats of military action on your part. If you do this, you do it alone, and we will be unable to assist you in any fashion. Our country is too weary and too damaged by war to risk our hard-won peace in another conflict.”

  Which seems to bring the Charni to their senses swiftly enough. The rest of the conversation considers face-saving methods by which the Charni can back down from their threat.

  Constantine removes his headset. “And that is that,” he says. “May I offer you all some refreshment?”

  “You’re giving Sorya her own metropolis?” Aiah asks later, after the others have gone.

  Constantine looks at her levelly. “I am giving her a mission to Charna. She will be surrounded by a large delegation, few of whom will be her choice— most will be mine, and judging by the interest of Adaveth and Faltheg in the matter, they will want their own people there as well.” Amusement glitters in Constantine’s eyes. “Sorya will be in another metropolis, surrounded by spies hostile to her interests, and separated from her power base in the secret service, which itself will now receive a new head, my choice.” He laughs. “If Sorya makes herself the principal power in Charna, she will deserve her reward.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her,” Aiah says.

  He gives Aiah a wry look. “I would give her a challenge. This last attempt— this maladroit attempt to start a war— it was clumsy. Transparent.” He sniffs. “Beneath her, really.”

  Aiah doesn’t see how to respond to this save to return to her theme.

  “Sorya is dangerous.”

  “Danger is what I value in her.” His eyes soften, and he raises a hand to touch Aiah’s cheek. “And loyalty, dear Aiah, is what I most treasure in you.”

  Aiah looks up at him and wonders whether he would say that if he could read behind her eyes, if he knew what she was planning.

  And then she considers that if Sorya is right about Constantine’s approach to governing, perhaps it would be loyalty to deal with Taikoen.

  “Constantine,” she says, “you must finish Taikoen.”

  The warmth in Constantine’s eyes dies away. He takes his hand from her cheek.

  “That is not possible,” he says flatly, and turns away.

  “It is possible,” Aiah says, “and it must be done. Taikoen kept us all kicking our heels in the anteroom just now— and in a crisis— while you found him a new body. He’s out of control.”

  Constantine frowns out the window, feigning fascination with a plasm display for next shift’s episode of Durq’s Room.

  “Not now,” he says.

  “He’s been seen in the Palace. With you.”

  Constantine stiffens in surprise, gives Aiah a look over his shoulder. She shivers under his compelling eagle stare.

  “What has been seen?” he demands.

  “You have been seen, in this building, in... conference... with Taikoen. Constantine trafficking with a demon for a human soul. That’s what was seen. And it’s not far wrong.”

  Calculation stirs in Constantine’s eyes. “Who saw this?”

  Aiah’s mouth goes dry. She will not give up Dr. Romus; she does not want to be responsible for what might happen to the twisted mage if his name were mentioned.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she says, defying Constantine’s look, which declares, clear as the Shield, that it matters very much. “I managed to contain it for now. But the pieces are already there, for anyone intelligent enough to put them together. Three times, Taikoen was in the bodies of Handmen who were arrested, and whom he killed when he escaped....”

  Distaste curls Constantine’s lip. “I know. He demanded new bodies to replace the ones arrested.”

  “And there are rumors among the Handmen, rumors that you visit the prisons and interview people who are later released and die of the Party Sickness. All that is necessary for anyone to discover the truth is to put that rumor together with a few other facts, and....”

  He turns to face the window again, waves a hand. “Not now,” he says. “There is a crisis, and Taikoen may be needed.”

  “Do you visit the prisons, Constantine?”

  Constantine gazes at the window with narrowed, defiant eyes. “I don’t anymore. I did, at one point.... It seemed best to distract Taikoen with a succession of bodies, keep him occupied. Pay ahead, as it were, on his contract.”

  “If this brings you down,” Aiah says, her voice turning hard, “you will have lost everything you have worked for, and you will still be in bondage to Taikoen.”

  He looks at her over his shoulder again, plasm displays glittering in his eyes. “Contain it. There is no proof. It is deniable. I need Taikoen now, as I need you.”

  “It is not as containable as you think. Even a rumor can wreck you.”

  “Enough!” Fury storms in his voice. “I will not hear any more of this!”

  Constantine roars from the room, the door crashing shut behind him. Aiah stares after him. Frustration claws at her nerves. And then she looks about in surprise.

  I have driven him out of his own office, she thinks. She drifts toward the side table with the t-grip sitting atop it, brushes the grip with her fingertips. No charge tingles through her nerves; Constantine has switched the plasm off. Her reflection gazes back at her from the polished ebony table.

  Taikoen has also driven Constantine away, she thinks, not just from a room, but from the life that he had led. Constantine had tried to work himself up to killing Taikoen, and he’d failed and run, and is still running. Perhaps it is the one great failure of his life, Aiah muses. A failure that he still cannot face.

  Aiah takes in a breath, lets it out. Someone, she thinks, is going to have to face Taikoen on Constantine’s behalf.

  Startled, she gazes out the window at her own face. It is her image carved in plasm, ten stories tall, looming over the city... and then it fades, replaced by the image of a burning building, of windows shattering as rockets explode nearby... and then Aiah’s image is back, gazing with intensity into the eyeless sockets of a skull wreathed with strawberry leaves.

  It is one of the Dreaming Sisters’ plasm displays... but this one is huge, covering half the sky. The sober, evolving images are all of carnage and destruction: buildings in flames, staring corpses, armored vehicles poised over stacks of burning bodies. It’s like all the horrors of the late war condensed into a few seconds, with Aiah somehow woven into it, as if she were somehow key to all the terror... and it’s sad, not simply in the way that images of war are sad, but in the way a composition can be sad, or a chromoplay; it inspires sorrow not as a polemic about war, but as a work of art. Tears sting Aiah’s eyes, and she feels an ache deep in her throat.

&n
bsp; The rolling images fade, leaving behind only a lingering representation of Aiah’s face, gazing out over the city with a stricken look that Aiah knows is mirrored on her own, real face, a portrait of her staring at her portrait, half in fear and half in wonder.

  ARMIES STAND DOWN

  CHARNI SPOKESMAN CLAIMS “MISUNDERSTANDING”

  “I got your message,” Aiah tells the woman called Whore.

  Whore raises eyelids heavy with dreaming, and with a languid hand she takes the copper plasm contact from her lips. “We sent you no message,” she says, “but we are pleased to see you here. If you will follow me, I will take you to Order of Eternity.”

  Aiah tells her guards to wait in the lobby while she follows Whore into the sisters’ stone maze. As she passes through the first doorway she finds a pair of carved images gazing at her in the glow of the hanging lamps, dim light and trompe l’oeil artistry giving the faces a disturbing air of life. She knows the faces, Sorya and herself, The Shadow and The Apprentice, confronting each other across the corridor, one with a knife and the other looking up a recipe.

  A metaphor, she admits, adequate to describe their relationship.

  She approaches an alcove where a dreaming sister lies, and Aiah’s nerves sing in surprise as the woman’s eyes open and turn to face the visitor. It is as startling an effect as if one of the imagoes’ eyes had opened. As Aiah continues through the corridor, the sister puts her plasm contact down, rises from her couch, and with a soft slap of bare feet on cool stones begins to follow Aiah along the winding path.

  Another imago appears, The Architect, with Constantine’s stern face and powerful body superimposed on the image of the man holding the protractor and a pair of dividers, and with a shiver Aiah remembers that The Architect’s meaning is failure— noble aspirations gone wrong, crumbled into dust.

  In the next alcove two sisters lie dreaming. As Aiah passes their eyes open, one set dark and one light, they turn to Aiah with an identical incurious gaze, and after she walks past they rise and follow.