City on Fire (Metropolitan 2)

by Walter Jon Williams

  “If I wished to make displays of this sort,” Aiah says, “a public relations agency would charge tens of thousands of dinars in plasm fees alone. You can’t claim, as with the life extension treatments, that you spend years creating these things, and that the plasm required is therefore small. I know how much plasm it costs to light up the sky.”

  Order of Eternity pauses, again searching for words. Behind her, two women lie in their niche, their eyes closed, dreaming in the soft light. One of them is twisted, her small embryo body looking like a grotesque doll that has been placed by the other’s pillow.

  “We do not entirely understand the phenomenon,” says Aiah’s guide. “The displays are not something we create consciously. And yet we live in harmony with plasm, and plasm is a constant of our world— it underlies all matter, all reality, and it reacts to the humans who use it, views the world through their perceptions as if through a lens. It knows things of which no human is consciously aware ... and sometimes it creates things without a human consciously willing it.”

  A grin spreads across Aiah’s face. She has to admit that Order of Eternity had her going for a moment. Don’t try to fool one of the Cunning People, she thinks. We’ll see who’s the passu here.

  “You’re saying that nobody creates these things? Nobody sticks them up in the sky?”

  “Plasm is our life, our breath,” the dreaming sister says, “and we live in harmony with its motions and bind to it our souls. Plasm is a higher order of reality— it both creates reality and alters it. It would seem that plasm sometimes reflects our meditations, but it does so without our direction.”

  “And without running through your meter.”

  The dreaming sister simply shrugs. “Apparently so. Here is our accumulator.”

  Aiah follows the sister into a circular room and realizes she is beneath the copper dome. Slits in the dome’s base let in Shieldlight, and it glows on a carved screen that holds a small plasm accumulator. The screen is of some kind of dark wood and features intricate carvings similar to those on the building’s exterior, a profusion of faces and bodies and floral displays, humans and plants and creatures all laced together, caught in a complex moment of transformation.

  There are arched gaps in the screen that allow access to the accumulator, and Aiah steps through one. The accumulator comes only to Aiah’s waist, but Aiah can see her reflection in its polished bands of black ceramic and copper.

  “You’re not the first to wonder about us,” says the dreaming sister as Aiah walks a circuit around the accumulator. “Every so often someone from the ministry will come by. She will examine the meter, perhaps subject our building to inspection, and then go away. Nothing is ever found.”

  “There’s a war going on. Plasm is precious.”

  “Plasm is always precious,” correcting, “but we have become aware of the war, yes. The movement of plasm ... the patterns of use ... the resonance of violence within our hearts as we dream ... yes,” she nods, “we are aware of the war. The last time we felt such disturbance was eighty-nine years ago, but that war did not last long. We would have to remember two hundred fourteen years for a conflict of similar duration and intensity, and then the fighting was terrible. This building was converted to a hospital, and we sisters were confined to a small part of it.”

  “What was the war about?” Aiah asks. Her knowledge of Caraqui history doesn’t go back that far.

  The dreaming sister pauses and gazes at Aiah through the lacework screen. A shaft of light dropping from the dome gleams on her cropped hair.

  “Ignorance,” she says.

  Aiah leaves the screen area and walks to the control panel. It is silver metal and very old, its edges scalloped in a fluid pattern that is dimly familiar to Aiah, perhaps from old college classes on architectural history.

  She looks at the dials and switches. The accumulator is topped up with plasm. A heavy black plastic knob sets a rheostat to provide the building with a smallish hourly amount that, divided between two hundred and fifty-six Dreaming Sisters, makes a tiny, truly insignificant dose of plasm for each, an absurdly small amount.

  There are other devices on the control panel, clocks and timers, the function of which does not seem immediately apparent. “What are these?” Aiah asks.

  “We tend to lose track of time during our meditations. The timer cuts off our plasm so that we will know to take meals, clean the building, have meetings, and so on.” She tilts her head like a bird. “All is in order?

  Dials, Aiah thinks, can be rigged to show far less plasm than really exists. To prove it would involve taking apart the mechanism and metering the plasm lines, but Aiah thinks she can demonstrate the sisters are cheating without going to that much effort.

  “I see nothing unusual,” she says.

  Order of Eternity turns and walks through the arch on her silent bare feet.

  “There is a political philosophy about plasm,” Aiah says, following, “called New City. Do you know of it?”

  “No,” over her shoulder, “and I do not in any case believe that it is new. I have lived over four hundred years,” she says in her young girl’s voice, “and I have yet to see a new thing. And of course the world is far older than I, and has spun upon its axis many millions of times since last a new thing stood upon it.” The dreaming sister pauses before one of the carved allegories, The Architect, a noble-looking man with a protractor and a pair of dividers.

  “The Ascended Ones isolated us here,” the sister says. “We do not know why, or where they are now, or whether the Shield shall ever fall. We are a limited people, on a limited world, and we are condemned to wait. True freedom is denied us— the most unlimited thing in the world is plasm, and even that cannot penetrate the Shield.”

  Wrong, Aiah thinks, remembering dancing figures in velvet blackness, but she holds her tongue.

  “We are condemned endlessly to repeat ourselves,” says Order of Eternity, “in a world of limited choice. Over years, over thousands of years, all things return. That is why we meditate upon these figures,” touching The Architect, “which we call imagoes. All human possibility, all activity and type and form, are symbolized in these images.”

  “How many imagoes are there?” Aiah asks, recalling that she has seen duplicates.

  “Eighty-one.”

  Another Grand Square. The Dreaming Sisters are consistent in their numerology.

  “This one,” the sister says, “The Architect ... a lofty-looking fellow, isn’t he? But in our meditations, this imago represents failure. Because though an architect will build his dream, and his heart will thrill to the sight of the image that he held in his mind rising floor by floor in the world of the real, nevertheless the world will work its will upon dream. The brilliant new creation will grow old, and crumble, and one day join the architect himself in the dust. And so ... failure.”

  “Are all your imagoes failures?” Aiah asks.

  “By no means. Some are wise, and have learned to accept the constraints of the world.”

  Aiah looks at The Architect and folds her arms. “No change,” she says, “no improvement, nothing new.”

  “No permanent change. No lasting improvement.”

  “Your philosophy sounds very much like despair.”

  In the dim light the sister’s blue eyes are chips of dreaming ice. “Not despair,” she says. “Acceptance. You will concede a difference?”

  “And if the Shield is penetrated?” Aiah asks. “If someone gets outside your world of limitations, into the world of the Ascended— what happens to your philosophy then?”

  As Aiah speaks she feels the throbbing acceleration of her heart, feels her feet grow distant, sees her vision contract, narrow to the merest point of photon contact with the dreaming sister. The universe seems to wait for the answer.

  “Perhaps nothing will change at all,” says Order of Eternity. “Humanity may carry its limitations with it— perhaps the imagoes rule our actions beyond the Shield as they do beneath it. Or perhap
s everything will change— who can say?”

  I have been beyond the Shield. That is Aiah’s next line. But now, the moment come, blood singing in her ears and her mouth dry with terror, she can’t say it. It is not as if she brought anything back, nor learned anything while she was there.

  It is not as if the Dreaming Sisters claim to know what is beyond the Shield, or have any particular gift in interpreting what Aiah saw there. It is not as if what Aiah saw there resembled the imagoes she has seen here in the sisters’ building. It is not as if the Dreaming Sisters do not disclaim any responsibility for the aerial displays, including the gray-skinned dancer that Aiah recognized as the Woman who is the Moon. There seem to be no answers here.

  It is not as if the Dreaming Sisters are not, in some way, stealing plasm.

  The throbbing tide of blood recedes from Aiah’s ears. Her vision clears.

  She will postpone the moment.

  “Thank you,” she says politely. “I think I’ve seen everything I need, for the moment.”

  Order of Eternity turns and pads away without a further word. Aiah follows. Tremors flutter through her. She feels as if she’s just fought a battle.

  It is not clear to her whether she’s won or lost.

  Imagoes float past on either side. Women lie in their dimly lit alcoves, limbs splayed as if their dreams had caught them unawares and dropped them in their tracks. The flagstone path winds up, down, curves left and right.

  Aiah stops dead as an image strikes her like a thunderbolt. Her mind reels.

  “What... ?” she can only gasp.

  Order of Eternity stops, hesitates, returns. “This imago? It is The Shadow.”

  Aiah has already read the inscription. “I know this person,” she says.

  Sorya stares at her, carved in stone. She wears a high-collared gown that floats off her figure into the background, softening the outlines of her form, making it indistinct. In one hand is a dagger.

  Aiah raises a hand, hesitates, touches the cold stone face. Sorya’s lips seem to curl in contempt at Aiah’s confusion.

  Order of Eternity studies the portrait, head cocked. “The Shadow is she-who-follows, she who pursues the great so closely that she is invisible in their shadow.”

  “Until she strikes,” Aiah says. A chill shivers down her spine.

  “Just so.”

  Aiah’s hand drifts along the line of Sorya’s chin. Dry rough stone, nothing more. No dust to indicate recent polishing, no cracks or weathering to testify to age. No tingle of plasm to indicate that magic was at work, or that a plasm-glamour has been placed on this image.

  “How old is this carving?” Aiah asks.

  The dreaming sister narrows her eyes as she looks at the stone figure. “This was not the face it bore when last I saw it,” she says. “The figure is no more than three or four days old.”

  Aiah turns to her in surprise. “Someone carved a new face?” she asks.

  “Oh no.” Order of Eternity shakes her head. “The figures ... change ... from time to time. Like the aerial displays, it is another consequence of our meditations, not willed by us. Say rather that the plasm itself, perceiving an imago active in the world, makes the alteration of its own accord.”

  Aiah strives to wrap her mind around this idea. "So Sorya— the original of this figure— Sorya has become an imago?”

  “You misunderstand.” The dreaming sister turns on Aiah the cold gaze of her indifferent blue eyes. “Sorya— if that is this lady’s name— has always been an imago, one or another of the eighty-one. So have I. So have you. Not always the same imago, because our nature is not immutable, nor does our role in life remain constant. If Sorya’s face has appeared here, it is because she, and the imago of which she is an image, has become important, or powerful, or somehow key to a critical situation.”

  They’re tricking me, Aiah thinks. This is some kind of manipulation; they found out I’m frightened of Sorya and changed the statue while this woman kept me busy— they’re in my head! Panic flashes through her. They’re manipulating my thoughts!

  But Order of Eternity’s aloof blue gaze is calm—hardly friendly, but not menacing either— and Aiah’s panic fades. She’s familiar enough with plasm that if she were being attacked, she’d know it.

  They are manipulating her, yes. But they didn’t need to get into her head to do it; all that was necessary was that they had seen The Mystery of Aiah on video.

  Aiah looks at Sorya’s statue again, gives a remote nod. “Interesting,” she says. “I’m surprised, after all these years, you do not more clearly understand the phenomenon.”

  “It is not our goal to understand phenomena,” says the dreaming sister. “We strive to live simply and in consonance with plasm. That is all.”

  Aiah follows Order of Eternity to the entrance. Whore is drowsing on her mattress, and Aiah’s bodyguards, and the inspection team, are clearly showing their impatience. Aiah thanks Order of Eternity for her time, then pushes her way out the heavy door.

  She turns to the leader of the inspection team. “Anything?” she asks.

  “The meter’s fine. No sign of tampering.”

  “Tomorrow I want you to come back and put monitors on every plasm cable leading to this pontoon. Have a mage make certain there aren’t any hidden plasm cables under the surface of the water.”

  The man nods. “Yes, miss.”

  And then one of the other members of the team gives a gasp— “Look, miss!”— and Aiah’s gaze follows his pointing finger to the front door, to the huge cast bronze of Entering the Gateway.

  A shiver of fear runs down Aiah’s back.

  The figure on the door has changed. Where formerly the woman entering the door was facing forward, with the back of her head to the viewer, now she has turned her head to face over her right shoulder.

  There is a sweet, knowing smile on her lips.

  And the face is Aiah’s.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “I observe,” says the Excellent Togthan, “that you have hired two more genetically altered mages.”

  “Have you seen their qualifications?” Aiah asks.

  “Impressive, surely,” Togthan shrugs, “but hardly unique. There were other mages fully as qualified.”

  “I hired them as well,” Aiah points out.

  “But still, in view of our understanding that the personnel of the PED would reflect the composition of our metropolitan population....” Togthan lets his words trail off while he sips his coffee, and then places the cup in its saucer with a delicate porcelain chime.

  Aiah tastes at her own coffee while composing her answer. Togthan has been a presence in her office for three weeks. He has done little on his own other than announce a daily prayer meeting at the start of second shift— a few people attend, Aiah is told. Togthan appears at most of the important meetings, and he has asked to see the applications of all the new hires; but he has, till this moment, offered no comment on the way the department is being run.

  Togthan’s lack of activity had not made Aiah any easier with his presence. She had dreaded the moment that she knew would come.

  And now Togthan sits in her office, sipping coffee and directly challenging her decisions. Politely and smoothly, but then one can afford to be polite if one is in a position of strength. One of the triumvirs is behind him, and Aiah cannot be certain of her own support.

  “My impression is that we are better reflecting the composition of Caraqui,” Aiah says. “Aside from some clerical staff, these are the only two of the twisted that have been hired.”

  “I would not desire the population to grow offended by this department,” Togthan says. “There is much prejudice against the polluted flesh.”

  “I am sure,” unblinking, “that the wisdom of the people’s spiritual leaders is capable of mitigating any prejudice on the part of the ignorant.”

  “It is the wish of the triumvir and Holy, Parq, that the hiring of the polluted flesh cease entirely.”

  Aiah sips her
coffee again and frowns. “The triumvir’s requests shall of course be respected,” she says. “But in order that there be no more misunderstandings, I wonder if he will put his wishes in writing?”

  Togthan tilts his head and favors Aiah with a reproving stare. “On this issue you may consider my words to be those of the Holy. Written communication is scarcely necessary.”

  So this is how it’s done, Aiah thinks.

  Up till now she’s only been on the other end of this issue. Back in Jaspeer it was scarcely necessary that anyone actually compose directives that Barkazils not get good housing outside their own neighborhoods, or good jobs practically anywhere. She’d never known how these things were decided... and now here she is, one of a pair of privileged people nodding in their civil way, sipping coffee out of fine porcelain, and deciding the fate of people whom they may never meet.

  “Very well,” Aiah says. “I understand.” And she thinks, Time to talk to Ethemark.

  TRIUMVIR FALTHEG JOINS LIBERAL COALITION,

  ENDORSES PARTY GOALS

  Ethemark’s huge eyes darken as Aiah relates the substance of her conversation with Togthan, and he exchanges uneasy glances with Adaveth, the twisted Minister of Education.

  “I would resign,” Aiah offers, “but I can’t think what good it would do. I would be replaced with someone friendly to Parq.”

  Little folds appear in specific locations around the small man’s eyes— expressions of concern, Aiah has learned, and thought— and then he looks up at her. “He has not asked you to dismiss any of us?”

  “No. I would resign in that case, and as publicly as I could.”

  Ethemark’s coffee sits untouched by his elbow. They are meeting in Aiah’s apartment, where Aiah can control security, and where they are well away from the eyes of Parq’s spy.

  “And,” Ethemark continues, “he hasn’t put his own people forward?”