City on Fire

a way to sneak a sourceline in. And so Aiah, sensorium configured so as to see in the dark, plays plasm angel and hovers over Rathmen’s bed.

Back in the Palace’s big ops room, she feels her assistant touch her arm. She lets her telepresent sensations fade, nods, and hears a voice in her ear. “The soldiers are in the building.” She nods her comprehension.

Aiah returns her awareness to her anima, and the command center fades from her perceptions.

In a few minutes there’s a crash as the door goes down—with martial law there’s no particular reason to knock—and Great-Uncle Rathmen comes awake with a start. To him it must mean the crash he’s waited for the last eighty years, the sound that marks his assassination and the end of his reign.

“Police!” the soldiers shout. “Police!”

But it’s what Great-Uncle’s assassins would say, whether they were police or not. Looking many decades less than a hundred years old, he throws back the Sycar comforter and vaults over his drowsy wife to the closet at the other side of the bed. There he slides open the door and fumbles for a panel built into the back of the wall.

Tension jolts through Aiah at the sight. She hadn’t known the panel was there, nor what is on the other side of it. She’d expected him to jump for the plasm circuit set into the wall near his desk.

Number three wife is awake. “What should I do?” she screams. “What should I do?”

“Call Gemming!” Rathmen says, but all his wife does is shriek her question over and over.

Call Gemming, Aiah writes automatically, scrawling blindly in loopy handwriting on a pad balanced on her chair arm. Something else for the files. But her nerves are screaming, and she has no confidence that the writing, at the end of the episode, will even be coherent.

At least as agitated as Aiah, Great-Uncle Rathmen is having a hard time with his secret panel. His hands are shaking so hard that he can’t seem to work the mechanism. The soldiers are stomping down the hall, crying “Police!” The beams of their torches jitter into the room.

Rathmen finally tears away the panel by main strength. He reaches inside, and Aiah sees, with her plasm- enhanced vision, the tube of a weapon propped in the interior.

Aiah’s act is instinctual, like a parent swatting from her child’s hands the bottle of rat poison. She forms an ectoplas-mic hand faster than thought and slaps Great-Uncle Rathmen with it, knocking him away from the closet. There’s a strange unreality to it all—if she’d hit him with a real hand there would be feedback, her hand would sting and register the impact, but the hastily formed plasm hand isn’t configured to register sense impressions, and when Aiah sees Great-Uncle Rathmen flying across the room it seems as unreal as an image in a chromoplay.

With more deliberation, Aiah plants the insubstantial hand on his chest and pins him to the ground like an insect until the soldiers, a half-second later, storm into the room—weaponed, in full battle armor, faceplates lowered to guard against explosion or plasm blast. They are followed by a cameraman with a huge spotlight, providing a feed to the ops center. At this intimidating sight the third wife screams and cowers.

The officer flicks on the lights and everyone blinks. The woman on the bed even stops screaming. Aiah stifles a giggle—she’s the only one who sees how silly everyone looks. The captain marches up to Great-Uncle Rathmen, compares him with a chromograph he’s carrying in his file, and informs the Great-Uncle he’s under arrest.

Aiah dissolves her ectomorphic hand and the officer handcuffs his prisoner. The old Handman accepts this stolidly—reassured, apparently, that he won’t be assassinated, at least not yet.

Aiah concentrates on expanding her anima, configuring it into a recognizable human shape. The last time she did this, back in Jaspeer, she failed to provide the anima any clothing and delighted the witnesses more than she’d intended, but in this case she mentally sculpts a more abstract image—female-shaped, yes, but without any detail, like a weathered statue, or a smooth metal abstract. She wills the image to fluoresce, and the soldiers blink again as the room is flooded with golden light. Aiah looks at her reflection in the mirrored closet doors—a glorious figure of shimmering gold—and spares a few seconds to admire her handiwork.

Some of the soldiers shift nervously, take a firmer grip on their weapons. They can’t be sure whether this apparation is friendly or otherwise.

“Can you hear me?” Aiah says, and some of the soldiers clap hands over ears. She tries to speak more softly, and raises a fluorescent hand to point into the closet.

“There is a weapon in there. He was trying to get to it when I prevented him.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” the officer says.

She allows her image to fade as the officer peers cautiously into the closet. He reaches in with a gloved hand and pulls out the weapon, a short metal barrel with a functional black plastic grip and a metal stock telescoped to its shortest configuration. There’s a wire that runs from the gun into the hidden closet compartment.

“Shotgun,” the captain says. “Semiautomatic. Wired to a plasm circuit. I’m wearing insulated gloves, otherwise I’d be getting a dose of the goods right now.” He holds it up. “Felk, get a picture of this. And I’ll need an evidence bag.”

The weapon is a nasty one, enabling Great-Uncle Rathmen to smite his enemies with shot and plasm at once. It’s at least a dozen ways illegal, and mere possession of such a thing is enough to guarantee Rathmen a stretch in prison.

Triumph burns in Aiah’s mind. Her anima follows the soldiers as they seal the rooms, then march their prisoners to their waiting boats. Then Aiah thumbs off her t-grip, and the distant quay fades from her mind, is replaced by the busy ops center.

’With some help from Geymard’s mercenaries, the big ops room was finished by the deadline. Though some of the flooring isn’t yet in place, plasm and electric connections still snake over the floor, and the room smells strongly of paint, the place is at least functional. Banks of monitors glow down on the proceedings, and mages sway in their chairs, their eyes closed as they concentrate on telepresent sensations.

She looks down at the form propped on her chair arm, checks the wall clock, and logs the time she finished her part of the operation.

“Very nicely done, Miss Aiah.” Constantine’s voice rumbles in her ear. She gives a start, then turns to see him standing behind her chair.

“Thank you, Minister,” she says. She stands, stretches. Plasm’s fierce glow fires her cramped muscles.

Constantine’s eyes flicker along the rows of video monitors, pausing at each for a brief moment, then going on to the next. There is a pleased, ruthless little smile on his face.

“Your operations are going well. A few of your teams have got lost in crowded tenements, but your telepresent mages seem to have put them all back on the right track.”

“Colonel Geymard’s staff were a great help.”

“They will need the practice. Most of their operations for the foreseeable future consist of arrests. I have persuaded the government to import two more battalions of military police.” He folds his arms, looks at her seriously. “How much thought have you given to what happens to your prisoners after their arrest?

She looks at him. “Trial, conviction, imprisonment. But that isn’t my department’s problem, is it? We just gather evidence, make arrests, present the evidence to the prosecutors.”

“Yes, but interrogations of these people would be invaluable, both to your department and to others. The information could lead to many further arrests.”

“True.” She hadn’t considered interrogations, in part because her informers’ information has been so good, in part because she doubted the Handmen would talk, and more conclusively because she hadn’t the time or personnel.

“We can conduct interrogations, of course,” she says. “We have their dossiers, we have a good idea what questions to ask.”

“But you don’t have trained interrogation specialists. Other departments do.” “The police, you mean?”

“Yes, after their fashion…” He nods patiently. “Amateurish, and reluctant to deal with Handmen at all. One could have Colonel Geymard’s people do it, but they don’t know which questions to ask, and they’re not familiar with local conditions in any case.” As he gazes down at her his expression hardens, grows commanding. “It was the Force of the Interior, of course, that I meant.”

Distaste curls Aiah’s lip. “Sorya’s political police.”

“Yes.” He cocks his head and considers, weighing his thoughts. “I wish them to no longer be political police—I plan that soon there will be no more political prisoners, not once the remaining Keremaths and collaborators are dealt with. I wish the F.I. to become merely national police, with a mandate to deal with espionage and crimes against the state. And as the Silver Hand is the greatest organized force that