City on Fire (Metropolitan 2) (3 page)

“We find ourselves in the Owl Wing,” Constantine says. Irony glints in his voice as he steps around the big table. “Those windows” — gesturing— “are supposed to be the eyes of an owl.”

Aiah is tall, but Constantine is taller, broad-shouldered, with powerful arms and a barrel chest. His skin is blue-black, and his hair is oiled and braided and worn over the left shoulder, tipped with the silver ornament of the School of Radritha. He is over sixty years of age, but plasm rejuvenation treatments have kept his body young and at the peak of health. His face is a bit fleshy, a suggestion of indulgence that serves to make him more interesting than otherwise, and his booted feet glide over the thick carpet without a sound.

The deep voice rolls on, imitating the clipped delivery of a tour guide. “We also have the Raptor Wing,” he says, “the Swan Wing, with its luxury apartments, and the Crane Wing. . . .” His eyes never leave hers, his intent mind almost visible behind them, clearly considering subjects more vital than a verbal tour of the palace.

The voice trails off as he comes within arm’s reach. There is a touch of caution in his fierce glance, a sense again of something withheld. A decision, perhaps. Or judgment. Or both.

“May I ask why you are here?” he says.

Aiah’s heart is a trip-hammer in her throat. Mistake, she thinks, mistake.

“To work, I suppose,” she says.

He smiles, and Aiah concludes it’s the right answer. A sudden wave of relief makes her dizzy.

He opens his arms and folds her in them. His scent swirls through her senses, and she realizes how much she’s missed it.

Absurd to care so much, she thinks. Constantine is a great figure, a part of something huge, much bigger than even he— he does not belong even to himself, let alone to her.

Aiah tells herself this, and sternly.

But her lecture has nothing to do with her longings. Her longings are self-contained, and happy within themselves.

Through the embrace Aiah can feel Constantine’s weight shifting slightly, a sign of restlessness. He is not a notably patient man. She releases him, steps back.

Still he watches her, fierce intelligence afire within the gold-flecked brown eyes. “The police?” he says. “Were they after you?”

“Yes," she says, then, “No. Maybe.” She shrugs. “They knew I was a part of it somehow, but I don’t know if they could prove it. They had me under surveillance.”

“You got away without trouble?”

“I got away." She hesitates. “I had some help. I think. It was easier than I expected.”

“What of your young man? Gil?”

She straightens her shoulders, steels herself against the threat of sorrow.

“Over,” she says.

“And your job at the Plasm Authority?”

“I wired them and told them I was taking time off.” She shrugs. “I don’t know why I didn’t resign outright.”

There is amusement in his glance. “You are cautious, Miss Aiah. Wise of you, not to quit until you discover if you have a new job waiting.”

She looks at him. “And do I?”

“I think I have one that will suit your talents.” He puts his hands in his jacket pockets and begins to prowl around the table, his restless movement an accompaniment to the uneasy movement of his thought.

“
You know that the last government was worse than bad,” he says. “They were corrupt beyond . . . beyond
reason
.” He waves a big hand. "Even granted that they were thieves, that they wanted only enrichment and perquisites . . . the scope of larceny that they permitted,
against their own metropolis,
was
irrational
. The amount of plasm stolen is staggering. It constituted a vast plundering of their own power, a threat to the security of their own state of which they seemed unaware. Well.” He plants a fist on the table and looks at Aiah with a defiant glare. "Well,
I
am not so blind, not so unaware. The theft of this most singular public resource must stop. But what force do I have to enforce any new edicts—or even the old ones?”

He shrugs, adjusts the position of one of the gold ashtrays, begins to pace again. “My soldiers are not suitable to police work. The local authorities are as corrupt as their former masters, and it is hopeless to expect anything from them until years of reform have done their work. For this purpose I must build my own police force, my own power base. But the New City movement here is limited to a few intellectuals, a few discussion groups—I have no cadre, no organized group of followers ready to step into place. And ...” He looks up at Aiah, eyes challenging hers, and she feels ice water flood her spine.

“You,” he says. “You will build this force for me. You have found plasm thieves in the past, and in my service you were a plasm thief. I wish you to find these thieves and return their power to the service of the state.”

Aiah blinks at him across the table. She doesn’t know whether to laugh or simply to be appalled by the suggestion.

“Metropolitan?” she asks. “Are you sure it’s me you want?”

Cold amusement enters his glance. “Of course,” he says. “Why not?”

“I’m a foreigner, for one thing.”

“That’s an advantage. It means you’re not part of the corrupt structure here in Caraqui.”

“I’ve never done police work.”

“
You will have people, qualified people, to do the work for you. But I want you in
charge
. I need someone I can trust heading the department.”

“
I’m twenty-five years old!”
she says. “I’ve never run anything like this in my life.”

He gives her a sharp look. “You have worked within a government department concerned with plasm regulation. You know where it went right, went wrong. You studied administration at university.” He assesses her with his gold-flecked eyes, then nods. “And I have faith in your abilities, even if you do not. You have never disappointed me, Miss Aiah.”

“I wouldn’t know where to start looking for plasm thieves.”

Constantine bares his teeth. “Start looking in my office. My waiting room is full of people offering me bribes.” He smiles. “I will give you a list.”

“I —”

“
And the Specials— the old political police— their records should be valuable. The instant the fighting was over, Sorya led a flying squad to their headquarters to seize their files. The records belong to us now, and . . .” Constantine gives a feral smile. “They’re
very
useful.”

Aiah’s spirit sinks at the thought of Sorya, Constantine’s lover— or rather, his
official
lover.

“Would I have to work with Sorya?” she says. “Because...” Words fail her. “Well, I don’t think she likes me.”

A touch of cold disdain twists Constantine’s mouth. "It is in
both
your interests," he says, “to cooperate on this project.”

“Yes,” patiently, “I’m sure.”

Constantine’s restless prowling has brought him around the table again, standing next to Aiah. He picks up one of the gold ashtrays, holds it in both hands. “The government will announce an amnesty for plasm thieves,” Constantine says. “A month or so. It will take at least that long for you and your team to set up operations, consolidate your files, make a few preliminary investigations. And after that—” He smiles down at her, suddenly warm. “You have always exceeded my expectations, Miss Aiah. I have no reason to believe this will be different.”

Aiah sighs. “Yes," she says. “If that’s what you want.”

“Gangsters, Miss Aiah,” Constantine reminds. “What in Jaspeer you called the Operation. Here they are the Silver Hand, and they are a threat to us and to the New City, and they must be destroyed. Destroyed completely. And it is best to do it as soon as possible, before the Handmen make ...” He frowns. “Inroads. Inroads into the new structure.”

Aiah thinks of the Operation, the street captains with their stony, inhuman eyes and their utter, perfectly human greed. Their dominance was difficult to avoid; they had injured her family, and her hatred for them had burned long. Damn Constantine for reminding her.

“
I’ll do it, if that’s what you want,” Aiah says, “but only if you want it
really done.”

His brown eyes challenge hers. “I said
destroyed
. Did I not?”

She nods. Fists clench at her sides, nails digging into palms. “Yes,” she says. “I can do that.”

He looks down at the gold ashtray in his hands, and her gaze follows his. His massive hands and powerful wrists have twisted the ashtray, turned it into a half-spiral of yellow metal, all without visible effort. He holds it up and smiles.

“Too malleable,” he comments. “I find myself disliking the useless ostentation in this place more and more.”

Aiah looks at him. “I will bear that in mind, Metropolitan.”

A knowing smile dances about his lips. His arm flies out, and the ashtray gives a little metallic keen as it skids across the tabletop. It strikes another ashtray with a clang and knocks it to the carpet before coming to a halt, spinning lazily on the polished wood.

“I will find you an office,” Constantine says. He takes her arm, guides her to the door. “We can postpone discussions of salary, and so forth, for the moment. Budgets,” he smiles, “are in flux. But I will assign you an apartment here in the Palace. I want you close by.”

His hand is very warm on her arm. Close by, she thinks, yes.

“Congratulations on your revolution, Metropolitan,” she says.

Constantine opens the door. “We have had only a change in administration,” he says. “The
revolution
is yet to come.”

"Congratulations, anyway.”

“Thank you,” he says, and smiles as she passes through the door.

LIFE EXTENSION

WHAT’S WRONG WITH LIVING FOREVER?

REASONABLE TERMS—PRIVACY ASSURED

Constantine leaves Aiah to underlings who don’t quite know what to do with her. But by the end of first shift Aiah has an office in Owl Wing. It has a receptionist’s office (sans receptionist), a rather nicely finished metal desk complete with bullet holes, and a communications array that doesn’t work. An Evo-Matic computer sits in the corner, brass with fins, but it requires a three-prong commo socket and the office isn’t wired for them. The plastic sheeting tacked up over the window booms with every gust of wind.

The carpet is nice, though. Gray, with black patterns that look like geomantic foci.

From this office she will direct a team that as yet does not exist, that has no history, no personnel, no records, no budget; but which nevertheless is charged with a task of awesome complexity and importance.

Gathering plasm. The most important element of power, because it can do anything.

Mass
transformed is
energy
—the most fundamental difference is not one of matter, but of perspective. And mass, in the right configurations, can
create
energy.

That’s plasm.

And the science of configuring mass so as to produce plasm is geomancy. And because plasm exists in a kind of resonance with the human will, it can be used to create realities— create almost anything the human mind can conceive. Cure disease, alter genes, destroy life, halt or reverse aging, creep into the human mind to burn every neuron or, more subtly, to turn one emotion into another, to create love or hate where neither existed before. Plasm can knock tall buildings down, move objects from one place to another, build precious metals from base matter. Or create base matter from nothing at all.

In Constantine’s system of thought, plasm is the most real thing in the world. Because it can make anything else real, or it can take something that exists and uncreate it.

Making something real from nothing would now seem to be Aiah’s job.

Create a police force.

What kind of magecraft is necessary for that? Absurd.

Aiah tries, sketching idly on paper, to make plans. It’s usually easy enough to find out who the big thieves are, but discovering where they keep the goods is another matter.

You have always exceeded my expectations.

After a few hours, she wants to spit the words back in Constantine’s face.

She throws down her pen, stands, paces the carpet while the plastic rattles in the wind.

Welcome to Free Caraq
— she thinks. Why is it up to her to fill in the missing letters?

And then Sorya is standing in the door, and Aiah’s heart leaps.

“Hello, missy.” Sorya walks into the room and holds out Aiah’s bag. “This was brought from your hotel.”

“Thank you.” Aiah takes the offering. The cinders in the back of her throat make her cough.

Deliberately, Sorya’s green eyes rove the room. There is a languid smile on her lips. She is balanced like a dancer, hips cocked forward, blond-streaked hair framing her face. She usually clothes her panther body in brilliant colors, apricot or green silk, the coiled muscle and curve of breast and hip garbed brightly as a flower . . . but at the moment she wears a green uniform with no insignia, a faded military greatcoat with brass buttons thrown over her shoulders like a cape, a peaked cap set with deliberate nonchalance on the side of her head. Not a flower, but something else.

A mage, a potent one. A warrior, a general. Powerful and intent on growing more so.

“We paid you well for your services in Jaspeer,” she says. “I was under the impression we had said good-bye.”

“The cops were after me.”

“That was careless of you.” She arches an eyebrow.

Sorya turns, walks to the door, pauses deliberately, and looks at Aiah over her shoulder. “Let me take you to your suite in the Crane Wing.”

Aiah clears her throat, finds her voice. “Don’t you have a more important job to do?”

Sorya gives a lilting laugh. “I am providing orientation to a valued colleague. Please come.”

Aiah follows. Sorya leads Aiah down a corridor with a shallow outward curve, a design feature presumably intended to enhance plasm creation.