City on Fire (Metropolitan 2) (42 page)

Sorya nods gravely. “Yes, Minister.”

Constantine looks over his shoulder at Aiah and Rohder, then turns back to the triumvirate. “I would like Mr. Rohder, who works for the Plasm Enforcement Division as head of the Technical Resources Department, to make a presentation concerning his new techniques for plasm generation.”

Rohder stubs out his cigaret with a doleful glance of blue-eyed longing at the ashtray, then stands to make his presentation. Like Constantine’s, it is brief and to the point: the altered positions of so many buildings, the massing so many gross tons, so much plasm generated in excess of expectations, worth so many dinars at current rates. The current rates for plasm are high— the war has almost tripled them— and Rohder’s profits are much more impressive than they would be in peacetime.

Hilthi, scribbling with his gold pen, raises a hand and waits to be recognized— the lifelong habits of the journalist are hard to break, even though he’s now one of those in charge of the meeting. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with your technical terms,” he says. “Could you define these ‘fractionate intervals,’ these ‘resonances’?”

Rohder— casting another longing glance at the ashtray— answers by analogy: the fractionate interval is like a radius, only smaller; the resonance effect is the result of mass placed at fractionate distances and multiples of fractionate distances, the result of which is a modest but definite increase in plasm generation, on the order of 10 percent.

Hilthi looks surprised. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of this technique,” he says.

Constantine explains how Rohder’s theory is new, but has been thoroughly tested and found sound. Hilthi’s eyes widen. “This is revolutionary!” he says. “We can increase plasm generation by how much?”

“Theory suggests as high as eighteen percent,” Rohder says, “but we have only rarely achieved twelve.”

“Why aren’t these techniques known?” Hilthi asks.

Constantine gives a catlike smile. “The history of Mr. Rohder’s theory is very complicated— suffice it to say that human society is constructed so as to resist new ideas, and I resisted it myself”— he turns and bows toward Aiah— “until Miss Aiah insisted I look at the matter more closely.”

Aiah feels blood rise to her cheeks, but she returns the nod with a professional smile. Constantine turns back to Hilthi and continues.

“May I point out that this increase in plasm is just going into the general plasm supply? I would like to establish a special fund for it— a kind of bank account for the extra plasm Mr. Rohder’s techniques create— to assure that for the present the plasm is used for the war effort, and afterward for tasks of vital national interest, particularly rebuilding.” He looks at the triumvirate, attempting with hooded eyes and masklike countenance to disguise his particular interest in this issue. “Shall we call it the Strategic Plasm Reserve? Shall I put it in the form of a motion?”

The motion passes, and Constantine sips at a glass of water to hide a smile of triumph. It has always been his concern that this new source of plasm would just be frittered away, as politicians so often manage to do with almost any public resource. It has always been his greater object to establish a huge fund of plasm under his direct control, to use it for purposes of transformation far beyond that which the triumvirate would ever think likely, or even desirable.

The war, Aiah thinks, is transforming things in profound ways. Before the emergency, the Strategic Plasm Reserve would have been the subject of prolonged debate. Now it is passed without comment.

Other ministers make presentations. Sorya gives an intelligence briefing concerning the Provisionals’ sources of finance. President Faltheg, who in addition to being triumvir is still Minister for Economic Development, dons his spectacles to report on changes in the tax code made necessary by the war— the simplifying, the closing of loopholes and exemptions— and the amounts these measures are expected to raise.

“How long can the war go on?” Hilthi asks.

Faltheg removes his spectacles so that he can better view his colleagues. “At current spending rates, for at least three or four years before we run into trouble. Caraqui’s economy is not a complex or sophisticated one— there is no single industry that is vital, no particular crucial technology. Despite bruising, despite a fifth of our metropolis either under occupation or uninhabitable, our economic infrastructure is still intact.”

“I have found,” Constantine adds, “that war economies are remarkably resilient, all things considered.”

The others— excepting Sorya— look thoughtful, uncertain whether to consider this good news or not.

The report by the unfortunate Randay, new head of the police, is little but a sad litany of endless trouble; the others, understanding, look at him with sympathy.

Hilthi frowns at his notes and without thought puts his gold pen behind one ear. “This is of particular concern,” he says. “We desperately need qualified law enforcement in Caraqui. I agreed reluctantly to the proscription lists only on the understanding that they were accurate and contained the names only of hardened criminals, and now I receive reports that this was not the case, that a percentage of those named had no criminal records whatever.

“The Dalavan Militia are a constant presence in our streets, and their reputation is deteriorating— every day I receive protests concerning their brutality, the arbitrary nature of their actions, reports of the Militia extorting funds from businesses, or walking into stores and helping themselves to expensive presents, acting like common gangsters....”

Parq strokes his silky beard and speaks in his deep, reassuring voice. “Teething pains,” he says. “Our priests are making every effort to weed out the bad elements, and we are growing more professional by the day.”

“The Militia was never meant to be more than a temporary expedient,” says Hilthi. “But now it seems as if it will continue its activities indefinitely.”

“We have heard the Minister of Public Safety,” Parq says. “Our police are in chaos. Imported military police are expensive. Yet it is our duty to keep order. Who can do it but the Militia?”

Hilthi’s eyes look down the table for support and alight on Aiah. Panic throbs in her heart at his question. “Miss Aiah,” he says, “can’t your PED do something in this situation? You have a remarkable record of success.”

Aiah bites down on her alarm.
I already have enough impossible jobs
, she thinks. “We were created to handle plasm thefts only,” she says, “and that’s what we’re set up to do.”

“But we are in a position to alter your mission,” Hilthi says.

“We can’t police the entire metropolis,” Aiah says. “We’re not big enough. We’d have to start from scratch— we’d be in a worse position than Mr. Randay.”

“Besides,” Constantine adds, “there is the expense. The Dalavan Militia are all volunteers, and serve at no cost to the state. Were we to add a force the size of the Militia to the public payroll in addition to the large and expensive force of mercenary soldiers for which the Treasury is now responsible...”

“
Impossible,” says Faltheg the banker. “Besides, the police already
have
a budget.”

“I concur,” said Constantine.

Hilthi sighs, throws up his hands. “I want these abuses to cease,” he says.

Aiah, relief flooding her at this escape, finds herself looking at Constantine, whose head is turned toward the triumvirs at the head of the table. There is a smile of cold satisfaction on Constantine’s face, and Aiah wonders why it should be there, what there has been in this matter of the Militia that has pleased him.

She doesn’t get a chance to ask, and by the time the meeting is over, she has forgotten to.

VOTE LIBERAL COALITION— FOR DEMOCRACY AND FREEDOM!

After the meeting Aiah takes a bite of lunch, then returns to her office— and there, as she turns into her receptionist’s office, is the feeling again: a lift of the heart, a surge of warmth through the soul. Another visitor from home waits in Aiah’s reception area, a blaze of scarlet and gold among soberly dressed job-seekers. Aiah drops her briefcase and folds the short, sturdy woman in her arms. “How are you?” she says. “How is everyone?”

Khorsa busses her on both cheeks. “Very well. Esmon and I are going to be married next month.” Esmon is one of Aiah’s many cousins.

“Congratulations! I know you’ll be happy.” Aiah looks at the hopefuls waiting for their interviews, all of whom are trying not to look curious, a difficult act because they’ve probably never seen a Barkazil witch before. Khorsa’s long dress is alive with color, and she wears a red turban decorated with gemstones set among geomantic foci.

The hopefuls, Aiah thinks, will just have to wait a little longer for their interviews, and she tells her receptionist to hold all her appointments. Then she fetches her briefcase and shows Khorsa into her office.

“You’re the second Barkazil face I’ve seen this week,” Aiah says as she drops into her office chair.

“Well,” Khorsa says, a dubious look in her eye, “I may not be the last.”

“Are more of the family coming to look for work? I need people with specific skills, you know, and I don’t think many of the family would qualify.”

“More than that,” Khorsa says. “I’m afraid, well, it’s a religious thing.”

“Oh?”

Khorsa should know religion if anyone does: she and her sister run the Wisdom Fortune Temple back in Aiah’s old neighborhood of Old Shorings. The temple is a place where people come for small magics in hopes of healing the sadness and misfortunes that come with being human, and Barkazil, and Jaspeeri, and living in a place like Old Shorings. Khorsa deals with plasm; her sister Dhival goes into trances and talks to spirits.

Aiah had helped them out once, when Esmon was beaten by Operation thugs because Khorsa wouldn’t buy their bootleg plasm. Aiah had used twice-stolen plasm to deal with the situation— stolen once from the Jaspeeri authorities, and then again from Constantine— and she’d been terrified every instant.

“What sort of religious thing?” Aiah asks. “Would you like some coffee?”

“No thanks. Do you remember Charduq the Hermit?”

“Charduq? Of course.”

Charduq, the fixture of Aiah’s girlhood, still— last she knew— on his fluted pillar at the Barkazi Savings Institute. She had waved at him, she remembers, as she fled the city. He was one of the last sights of home.

“I suppose I should start by saying that you’ve become sort of famous back in Old Shorings,” Khorsa begins.

Aiah is startled. “How?”

“Lots of people know what happened. The police interviewed anyone who had anything to do with you, and you have a large family, and ... well, they talked.”

Alarms clatter through Aiah’s mind. “What did they say?” she asks carefully.

“Well, nobody really knows anything,” Khorsa says, “so they just make things up.”

“That’s comforting!” The alarm is getting louder.

“But they know you had access to illicit plasm. They know you used plasm to help the temple out when the Operation was after us, and they know you were involved with Constantine’s activities. They know the police were interviewing a lot of people about you, and they know that you’re here in Caraqui now, in what seems to be a pretty influential position.” She gestures with her hands, taking in the Aerial Palace, the Owl Wing, the view through Aiah’s windows of the city below, the plasm tap visible on the wall, available whenever Aiah feels the need...

“So they figure you ran the most brilliant chonah of the century,” Khorsa says. “Stole a whole well of plasm from the Authority while you were working there, gave it to Constantine’s revolution, got yourself rewarded with a place here.”

“It wasn’t that simple,” Aiah says. And it presupposes that Aiah knew all along what she was doing, which she didn’t— in her memories of that period she is far from purposeful, but is filled instead with anxiety, indecision, adrenaline, and terror.

“
I’m sure it wasn’t,” Khorsa says. “But it’s all meat to the Cunning People, you know that. It’s
exactly
the sort of story we all want to hear, how one of
us
fooled the cops, fooled the Authority, fooled the Operation, fooled
everybody
, and got away with it and lived happily ever after. And of course the story of how you fought the Operation on our behalf got all exaggerated, with scores of Operation men lying dead in the street, and they’re saying you won the revolution single-handed and that you’re Constantine’s lover...”

Khorsa’s brown eyes absorb Aiah’s change of expression in this last remark, and she nods, half to herself, and says, “Well, perhaps not
every
story is an exaggeration.”

A flush prickles Aiah’s cheeks. “So I’m a hero in Old Shorings. What’s it got to do with Charduq?”

“Quite simply, he’s saying that you’re the deliverer. That you’re an incarnate immortal, or the immortals sent you, and your purpose is to liberate the Barkazil people, and give us our metropolis and our power back...”

“Great Senko!” Aiah sags stunned in her chair.

“
And he’s saying it to
everybody
,” Khorsa says. “Most won’t believe him, or won’t pay attention, but there are those who will listen. You’re going to be seeing a lot of Barkazils in the next weeks.”

“Alfeg?” Aiah wonders. “Could Alfeg be one of the people who paid attention to what Charduq was saying?”

“
Old Chavan’s son?” Khorsa thinks for a moment. “It’s a devout family. Chavan is a big supporter of the Kholos Temple and the old Holy Leaguers— wish I had him at
my
services.”

“But a rich family like that— even if they are devout, one of them wouldn’t listen to some smelly old street sage, would he?”

Khorsa hesitates. “I don’t know enough about Alfeg to be able to say. But in my experience, a person will listen to anybody, provided he has the message one wants to hear.”

Aiah stares for an endless moment at the wall above Khorsa’s head, and then the frustration in her heart boils over. “What am I to
do
with these people?” she demands. “Even with the expansions my department has less than a thousand people. Most of the jobs require specific skills. Any Barkazils throwing up their lives to come to Caraqui are likely to be the ones with nothing to lose ... They’re just going to end up on the dole here, and the dole in Caraqui is far worse than the dole in Jaspeer.”