City on Fire (Metropolitan 2)

by Walter Jon Williams

  Constantine stands tall amid the crowd, splendid in his black velvet jacket, brilliant white lace, and a glittering diamond stickpin in the shape of the fabled sea horse. He moves as easily amid the Barkazil throng as he does anywhere else.

  Aiah holds his arm, pleased that on a private occasion such as this there is no necessity of maintaining in public the formal relationship of the minister and his subordinate: they can be together as conspicuously as they like.

  “Esmon looks splendid.” Constantine nods toward Aiah’s cousin, who stands in a jacket of glittering jet beadwork that contrasts with both his billowing lace and the foolish grin on his face.

  Aiah smiles. “He’s always had a highly distinctive style sense.”

  Especially since he’s been seeing Khorsa, who almost certainly bought this coat and any other fine clothes Esmon may have brought with him.

  “He will take up residence here in Caraqui?”

  “He already has.”

  “Does he have a job yet?”

  Aiah cocks an eyebrow at him. “Do you have a vacancy?”

  “I don’t have one in mind, no. I don’t know what your cousin can do,” amusement invading his face, “unless it’s to model new uniforms for the military.”

  “I’m sure he’d do that very well,” Aiah says. “But until that opportunity arises, I’m sending him around to various government departments, along with my letter of recommendation.”

  “I’m sure that will obtain him a position.”

  The fact is, Aiah knows, that though Esmon is one of her favorite relatives, and a perfectly charming man, he isn’t suited to do anything in particular; his last job, before he was laid off almost a year ago, was as a janitor in a home for the elderly.

  Aiah waits for a few seconds to see if Constantine will make a point of offering Esmon a job, but he doesn’t; and she long ago promised herself not to ask Constantine for special favors for friends or relatives.

  Alfeg approaches and asks her to dance, and she steps onto the floor with him. He is technically a fine dancer, but the spirit is not quite there; he thinks about it too much. At one point she catches the look he gives her— awed, worshipful— and it makes her cheeks flame.

  He really believes, she realizes, what Charduq the Hermit has been saying. He truly believes she is an incarnation of Karlo or some other immortal, one of the Old Oelphil guardians of her people. It isn’t just a game; it isn’t just a notion he’s been playing with— Alfeg really believes it.

  No wonder the dance doesn’t feel quite right. He’s almost afraid to touch her.

  At the end of the dance, Alfeg returns Aiah to Constantine, who she finds chatting with her sister Henley. Henley is gesturing with her hands— lovely hands, long and graceful, once crippled by an Operation street lieutenant and then made even worse by arthritis, hands which Aiah, over the last months, arranged to have repaired.

  Henley catches Aiah looking at her hands. She flushes, smiles, breathes the words, “Thank you.”

  Aiah takes one of Henley’s hands and presses it. “I’m happy I was able to help,” she says.

  Constantine watches this with a benign smile.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Alfeg says.

  Constantine gazes down at him. “Yes?”

  “I thought I’d mention that we seem to be having no trouble at all recruiting replacements for the Barkazil Division. We’ve got swarms of applicants— more than we can use. We’ll have our pick of some very good men.”

  “Splendid,” said Constantine. “Carry on.”

  “But I feel I should mention—” Alfeg searches for words, then decides simply to say it. “If the government should ever decide to raise another Barkazil Division, or to expand the current division to a full three brigades, I would have no trouble finding recruits.”

  Constantine’s eyes narrow as he considers this. “The military budget is due for reduction, not expansion,” he says. “But if the need should arise, I will bear this news in mind.”

  Alfeg makes an effort to conceal his disappointment. “Yes,” he says. “Thank you, sir.”

  “One other thing.”

  “Sir?”

  Constantine speaks quietly, a little abstractedly, like a teacher giving a well-worn lecture to his students. “You should consider that a number of your recruits will almost certainly be spies, most likely from Jabzi, who will be inserted into the Barkazil Division with the intention of discovering whether our recruits will be used to subvert the arrangement whereby the Barkazi Sectors are partitioned. Or perhaps these spies will even be there to subvert us.”

  Aiah sees Alfeg’s astonished stare and knows it probably mirrors her own. “You know this?” he says. “Do you have any— anything concrete?”

  “I note simply that Jabzi, which had formerly maintained only an honorary consul just over our border in Charna— a local fellow who operated more as a tourist agent than a diplomatic representative— is now upgrading their presence to that of a full embassy, with a staff of over sixty people. Why should they do that in a metropolis half a world away, with which they do so very little trade? I assume that the entire purpose of this establishment is to keep an eye on what Miss Aiah and the Barkazil Division are doing here in Caraqui.”

  A kind of resigned amusement dwells in Constantine’s eyes, as if he could not expect anything better from his fellow creatures.

  “And though I know that the threat you pose to Jabzi is small,” he says, “perhaps nil, I also assume that by the time this new embassy finishes its reports, you are going to be a fullblown menace to the security not just of Jabzi, but of the world. The jobs of those sixty people depend on your being a menace, and as far as they are concerned, you will be a menace.”

  “When,” Aiah wonders thoughtfully, “did you discover this?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Is there anything we can do about it?”

  “I will have Belckon send someone to Jabzi to have what are usually described as ‘full and frank discussions,’ but I suspect their government has already made up its mind and is unlikely to alter its position anytime soon.” He scowls and allows an edge of anger into his voice. “I would hate for the Provisionals to get a new sponsor at this point, just as they’re losing their old ones.”

  Alfeg still seems taken aback by this intelligence, but Aiah is already considering the consequences. Jabzi’s previous official reaction to events in Caraqui— their banning the Mystery of Aiah video— had backfired, increasing both Aiah’s celebrity and demand for the video. Perhaps Jabzi’s new action could be turned to similar account.

  Aiah probably couldn’t make much of any espionage in the Barkazil Division, but if it were ever discovered that Jabzi had gone so far as to support the Caraqui Provisionals....

  They fear Barkazil freedom so much, Aiah thinks, that they try to suppress it half a world away.

  A useful slogan to keep in reserve.

  Amusement tugs at Constantine’s lips as he observes Aiah’s reflections. He puts a hand on her shoulder. “Politics tomorrow, Miss Aiah,” he reminds. “Celebration today.”

  Aiah laughs. “You’re right.” She cocks an ear to the music, then grins at Constantine. “Do you dance the koola?”

  Constantine answers gravely. “I have not had that pleasure.”

  “If you’re going to go to Barkazil parties, you should know the dances.”

  He holds out his arms. “I am willing to be instructed.”

  Constantine learns the dance quickly, even the strange, unpredictable rhythmic elision, a kind of sideways musical hiccup, that Barkazils call “the slip.” A tigerish smile settles onto his face as he gains confidence, and he settles powerfully into the movements, as if he were projecting himself into the dance, making it an instrument of his will, a proud extension of himself into the world.

  “You’ve been practicing in secret,” Aiah says.

  “I have not practiced. But I have observed. This isn’t the first koola danced at this reception.” />
  “I congratulate you on your observational powers, then.”

  “Thank you—” There is a moment of suspense during “the slip”— the dance hangs suspended for an instant, then begins in another place. Aiah and Constantine gracefully manage the transition.

  “Thank you very much,” he finishes. A secret smile crosses his face. “I hope I will be able to sharpen my observational powers, as— in your company, I hope— I will have a unique chance for observation beyond the ordinary.”

  “Yes?”

  His smile broadens. “Second quarterbreak, second shift today— a hundred twenty days to the minute after you discovered the first flaw in the Shield— our rooftop detectors revealed that a small eyelet, less than two paces across, opened overhead, remained open for seventy-five seconds before it closed. In four months’ time, I hope you will join me for an excursion through the eyelet I expect will open at that time.”

  The music, and the world with it, gives a sideways lurch. Aiah missteps. The universe spins in her head, and her knees go rubbery. Constantine catches her before she falls.

  He braces her shoulders within the span of one powerful arm and walks her off the dance floor. “Perhaps I should have mentioned this at another time,” he says.

  “It happened, then,” Aiah says. A strange little laugh froths up in her like bubbles in champagne. “It happened and I didn’t make it up and it wasn’t a hallucination and nobody planted it in my mind.” Relief sings through her, and she feels the flight of her soul, as if it is soaring telepresent over the world.

  “It actually happened,” she repeats, drunk with sudden joy and wonder.

  “And it will happen again,” Constantine says. He touches her cheek, turns her head toward him, kisses her for a long, warm moment. “We will share that— we will be the first in millennia to bear a message outward.” He straightens, and Aiah sees anger smoldering in half-lidded eyes. “The worlds you have seen beyond the Shield are our right, and we will tell them so.”

  “Did you hurt yourself?” Esmon has rushed up, a look of concern on his face. “Did you twist an ankle?”

  “I’m fine.” She gives the groom a hug, presses herself to the beaded jacket, and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “Just a little mishap, that’s all.”

  “Careful now.” Esmon grins. “It’s bad luck if people get hurt at my wedding.”

  Aiah shifts weight onto her legs, finds they will hold her. Constantine keeps a protective hand on her elbow. Aiah glances up at him.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “I think our luck may have changed.”

  LIVE FOREVER?

  WHY NOT???

  NEW LOW RATES

  In his suite afterward, Constantine is full of plans and speculations about the Shield and the path that Aiah has found through it. He wonders whether to do something spectacular— a plasm display, perhaps— that will call immediate attention to their presence, or to spend the first several missions simply reconnoitering. He considers the possibility of putting some manner of detector through the gap— “in orbit,” as he puts it— and then bringing it down on the next trip.

  A touch of resentment enters Aiah’s mind at this energetic speculation. It was her vision, she thinks, it is one of the things that made her special, and here is Constantine, usurping her place with all his plans.

  Not that she had ever been able to develop any plans of her own, she admits.

  She wonders whether to raise the subject of Taikoen, to tell Constantine that he and the ice man have been seen, and she decides against it. It would be too dangerous for Romus, she thinks. Let more time go by, she concludes, so that it won’t be so certain that this last visit of Taikoen’s was the one that was observed.

  A few hours later, after bed, Aiah snaps upright in the grip of the Adrenaline Monster. She sits gasping on the bed, pulse thudding in her ears, an invisible claw around her throat. Ears strain for the rain of artillery. Hot tears spill down her face.

  She jumps as she feels Constantine’s warm hand on her back.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” She swabs with a hand at the sweat that limns her throat. “Sometimes I wake up like this.”

  She senses him sitting up. His hand strokes her bare back. “How often?” he asks.

  “I don’t know, I—” She gulps air and decides to stop being brave. “Often,” she says. “Every sleep shift, usually more than once. I haven’t had a decent sleep in... in months. It’s the plasm that keeps me going.”

  She can sense his calm scrutiny, draws strength from it, calms her flailing heart.

  “I’ve known soldiers to develop this condition,” he says. “Restful sleep isn’t a survival trait for people in combat, so their adrenal glands compel them to remain alert with an occasional burst of adrenaline or norepinephrine.”

  “Is there a cure?” she asks.

  His deep voice returns after a thoughtful silence. “Deep magic. Someone very talented will have to adjust your adrenal gland in a very subtle way. But that sort of thing is closer to an art than a science— it can easily go wrong. Still, if you wish, I will try to find a specialist.”

  “I don’t know,” she says, and rubs her face. “I’ve been hoping it will go away by itself.”

  “It may not.”

  She lets her head droop between her knees. “Let’s talk about it later.”

  “Can you sleep now?”

  Terror still trembles in her limbs. Aiah doubts it will permit her any rest. “I can try,” she says.

  Constantine seems to fall asleep almost at once. Sheltering in the curve of one of his arms, Aiah rests her head on his shoulder and tries to sleep.

  With little success. She is still perfectly awake when Constantine’s steward arrives with breakfast them at the beginning of the new shift.

  FALCONS OF FREEDOM

  ALDEMAR’S EXCITING NEW CHROMOPLAY

  OPENING SOON!!!

  Aiah floats through the reception in Chemra, nodding graciously to one world-famous person after another, as if she were Meldurnë playing host to high society in one of her chromoplays. Wrapped in a sheath of gold moiré silk, Aiah plays the Golden Lady, knowing what will attract the attention of these people and what will not. The gold silk contrasts favorably with the room’s decor, which leans to polished brass rails and pale green glass and is dominated by man-sized standing lamps with green glass petals that unfold like tulips.

  The background buzz of conversation brightens with applause as Aldemar enters. The reception celebrates the premiere of Falcons of Freedom, her new chromoplay, which Aiah and the others have just seen. It isn’t precisely an inspired piece of work, Aiah judges, but neither was it as bad as Aldemar had made out. She has overheard the conversation of some relieved distribution executives who seem to think it will make a decent profit.

  Aldemar passes through the room with a glittering professional smile on her face. Aiah busses her on both cheeks as she passes, hears the actress’s low voice say, “Let’s talk later,” and nods in answer as Aldemar passes on to chat with the distributors Aiah had overheard earlier.

  “You’re the Golden Lady, aren’t you?”

  Metallic silver irises glitter strangely at Aiah in the green-tinged light. It’s Phaesa, who’d had her irises altered for a chromoplay decades ago, and who subsequently made them her trademark.

  Aiah’s mother was a huge Phaesa fan. She will be thrilled to hear of this encounter.

  Aiah takes the extended hand. “Aiah,” she says.

  “Of course.” The silver irises flicker over the room. “Are you without an escort?”

  “I’m with Olli, but he needed to speak with someone— a banker, I believe.”

  “How discourteous of him. But that’s Olli for you— obsessed with the business.” Phaesa’s hands close firmly about Aiah’s arm. “And I’m sure you don’t know anyone here. Do you need that drink freshened?”

  Aiah allows herself to be towed into Phaesa’s wake. Another green tulip glass of
white wine is pressed into Aiah’s hands. She sips, sees her reflection in the intent, glittering irises.

  “Everyone in our business is talking about the Golden Lady,” Phaesa says. “It’s a part every actress is salivating over.”

  Olli, her producer, had told Aiah there would be moments like this, and had provided her with ammunition in the form of the appropriate response, which Aiah promptly chambers and fires.

  “Unfortunately,” she says, “I have no power over who gets the part.”

  “I’m sure Olli would consider your wishes.”

  “I will mention your name, if you like.”

  A smile touches Phaesa’s lips. “Yes. Thank you.”

  Aiah gazes into the unearthly silver eyes and finds herself wondering out loud, “I wonder if the Golden Lady can have silver eyes?”

  “I can change them,” Phaesa says.

  I can change them, Aiah thinks.

  Of course.

  It is one of those moments in which Chemra, and perhaps the whole world, seems to snap into perfect focus.

  I can change them, Aiah’s mind chatters. I can be younger. I can be thinner. I can be smarter...

  “I wonder,” Phaesa continues, “if we might have luncheon at some point.”

  “I’m not in Chemra for long, unfortunately.” Aiah says. “I have a whole government department to run, and it’s more than a full-time job.”

  “But still—”

  “Miss Aiah?” One of the waiters rescues her. “A call for you, from Caraqui. A gentleman named Ethemark, who says it is urgent.”

  Aiah looks sidelong at Phaesa. “My apologies. I’d better take this.”

  Phaesa puts a hand on her arm. “I’ll talk to you later, then.”

  “Certainly.”

  Aiah follows the waiter to a phone booth with sides of stained-glass green shoots and yellow flowers. “We’ve switched the call here,” he says, and bows as he hands her the headset of brass wire and green ceramic.

  “Thank you.” Aiah shuts the door and carefully puts the headset on over her ringlets.