City on Fire

Silver Hand is vulnerable, that they can be broken. It is a way of building trust in the new regime, a way just like all the other methods, only more visible. And like the other ways, it will take a generation or more. Building a nation is slow work, one has to think in long spans of time; but that works against instinct, because in politics one always reaches for a solution, and the only realistic solution in Caraqui is that if you do this now, your grandchildren may be happy.”

Aiah steps forward, touches his arm. “I think you may be underestimating the strength of your argument.”

He looks at her, a glow in his eyes, and puts his hand over hers. “Possibly I am. But still, the problem is wealth, and how to get it. And that is why your Mr. Rohder is important. He can increase the wealth of the nation, and in a short space of time; and then the problem becomes one of conserving the wealth, keeping the government from pissing it all into the canals…”

Constantine laughs, and Aiah laughs with him. And then he shakes his head. “And it is not up to me. I am but a voice in the government. I must persuade, and I must persuade for the next thirty years.”

“You’re doing pretty well so far.”

He shrugs. “I have the PED, yes. I have given it to you, because I can trust you to carry on with it.”

The keys on Aiah’s office commo unit are stainless steel, ranked in a gleaming, efficient array. Here in her bedroom the commo keys are silver, and set amid a polished fruitwood setting, a design of interlocking sigmas that climb into a third dimension through clever use of trompe l’oeil.

Aiah wonders if living amid this type of ornate luxury is changing her, even if the luxury is not precisely hers.

She remembers Rohder’s extension number perfectly well, and punches the number onto the silver keys of her commo array. Through her gold-and-ivory headset she hears the clatter of relays, and then the ringing signal.

“Da. Rohder.” The voice is breathy, distracted, cigaret-harsh. Aiah finds herself smiling at the familiar sound.

“Mr. Rohder? This is Aiah.”

There is a moment’s silence. “I am surprised to hear from you,” Rohder finally says. “Why is that?”

Aiah hears the sound of Rohder pulling on a cigaret, then the exhalation. “The Authority police seem to think you are a criminal,” he says. “They have questioned me repeatedly. Perhaps I am under suspicion myself.”

“They would be pretty foolish to think that.”

“You embarrassed them.” There is a little pause. “And you embarrassed me.”

A pang of conscience burns in Aiah’s throat. “I’m sorry if that’s the case,” she says. “I hunted plasm thieves for you. And I found them, too.”

“Yes, you did. Which makes your other behavior even more surprising.”

Time, Aiah thinks, to change the subject. She is tired of dwelling on her sins.

“Perhaps I can make it up to you,” she says. “I head the Plasm Enforcement Division now, in Caraqui.”

Rohder takes a meditative draw on his cigaret. “Caraqui, yes. People are being shot there, I believe, by foreign mercenaries. I have seen it on video.”

Aiah winces. The executions of the first few Handmen were widely publicized, to demonstrate to the population that the Silver Hand was no longer immune to justice.

But the publicity didn’t stop at the borders. Now all most people knew about Caraqui was that Constantine’s government was employing firing squads.

“I—it wasn’t my idea to shoot them,” she says. “They are gangsters, of course.”

“Were,” Rohder corrects. “And if you ever engage in the sort of activities in Caraqui in which you seem to have engaged here in Jaspeer, you could be shot, too.”

Aiah feels herself harden at the implied accusation. “You don’t know what I did in Jaspeer, Mr. Rohder.”

“True.” After a moment’s thought.

“The fact that I helped you take down some Operation plasm houses should show you what side I’m on.”

“Perhaps.”

“Since my department started its work just a few weeks ago, we’ve put the hammer on ninety-one plasm houses in Caraqui and arrested over three hundred people, many of them high-level Operation types. There are another sixty-odd plasm houses we’ll move on in the next few weeks, once investigations are completed. I wonder, Mr. Rohder—how many plasm houses has the Jaspeeri Plasm Authority taken down since I left?”

There is a long silence, filled only by the meditative drawing on a cigaret.

“Perhaps you have a point, Miss Aiah,” he says.

Aiah plunges ahead. “My boss, the Minister of Resources Constantine, has read your books. Proceedings, I mean. All fourteen volumes. And he thinks they, and you, are brilliant, and wants to meet you.”

There is another silence, then, “He must be a fast reader.”

“He would like to arrange a personal meeting to discuss your work. You would be picked up by aerocar, taken to Caraqui, lodged in the Aerial Palace for the duration of your stay, and returned by aerocar. Your fee would come to two thousand Jaspeeri dalders.”

“That is remarkably attractive.”

Aiah smiles. “Constantine makes attractive offers to those whose work impresses him. Is there a time when the visit will be most convenient?”

There is a hint of humor in Rohder’s reply. “Well, I seem to have little occupying my attention at present. Though I suppose it would be best if I came to Caraqui on a weekend, just for appearances. And also for appearances’ sake I will decline the fee, lest someone conclude that I am being paid for… well, past services rendered, and not a lecture.”

“Perhaps I could arrange for the aerocar to fetch you this Friday? Service shift, after work hours?”

Arrangements are made. A glow of triumph warms Aiah’s heart.

Things are progressing.

She hangs her headset on the hook, leans back on the pillows she’s propped up on her bed, and considers what to do next. Perhaps she could go down to the operations center and see how the shift’s activities are advancing. Several arrests have been scheduled for midway through sleep shift.

But no. Ethemark is in charge this shift. Aiah would just be in the way.

She wonders if there’s anything on video worth watching.

The truth is, outside of her work and the few hours each week she spends with Constantine, she has no life in Caraqui. What she has seen of the metropolis does not attract her, and though she’s grown familiar with parts of the city through telepresent surveillance work, most of her physical knowledge of Caraqui is confined to the carpeted, paneled labyrinth of the Aerial Palace.

It occurs to her that she could use a few friends. Perhaps she should try to recruit a few.

There is an urgent knock on the door, and then the door chime, the soft tone repeating itself over and over again as Aiah’s visitor leans on it.

There is no reason for anyone to behave this way. If there’s a situation in the department, someone can call. It’s certainly faster than running all the way over from the Owl Wing.

Aiah puts her eye to the peephole. She doesn’t see anyone.

Reflexes honed in her old neighborhood remind her not to open the door.

“Who’s there?” she calls. “Ethemark.”

Ethemark, too short to be visible through the peephole. Aiah opens the door, sees herself reflected in her deputy’s goggle eyes.

A cold hand touches Aiah’s neck at the expression on Ethemark’s face.

“What’s happened?” “Great-Uncle Rathmen. He’s gone.” “Gone? How?”

“Teleported out of his cell, apparently. Right out of the secure unit.”

Cold anger clenches Aiah’s fists. “Somebody’s been paid off.”

“Very likely. I’ve got a boat waiting at the northwest water gate.”