City on Fire

hand high, apparently cast with the table surface in one huge piece. Hilthi and Parq flank Drumbeth, Parq in full clerical dress, with his soft gray mushroom-shaped hat atop his handsome head, and each has his own group of functionaries in support.

Constantine sits in the next tier of officials, with the uniformed War Minister, Colonel Radeen, across from him. Aiah sits among other subordinates behind Constantine, perched on the white leather sling of one of the tube chairs. Sorya, in silken green and orange, sits behind Belckon, the elderly, white-haired Minister of State, a dignified individual who might well have been chosen simply because he looked so much like a soothing, accomplished diplomat. Conspicuous among the eleven other ministers are Aranax on his couch, the little twisted embryo Adaveth, and another with twisted genes, rocklike Myhorn, a massive creature who Aiah knows is female only through once having heard her speak. The large number of assistants makes the big crystal room seem close.

Drumbeth picks up a small hammer—it is clear crystal, with a silver handle—and raps once on a side of the crystal pyramid before him. The glass table sings, a clear bell-like sound that hangs in the air, its hovering presence almost physical; and Aiah hears answering chimes, bits of the Crystal Dome resonating to the song of the long table, then answering each other, and Aiah feels her long bones answer as well, a tremor deep in her limbs…

Everyone falls silent.

“Let us begin,” Drumbeth says, and after the song of the Crystal Dome his mild voice seems harsh.

CRIME BOSS MEETS WITH GOVERNMENT IN EXILE

KEREMATHS AND GREAT-UNCLE RATHMEN SEEN IN CONFERENCE

There are lengthy reports on other subjects first. When she finally has a chance to speak, Aiah finds her audience polite and reasonably attentive. Some—Constantine, Drumbeth, Sorya, and Hilthi—even seem interested. Hilthi, the former journalist, gazes down through crescent-shaped reading glasses as he jots into an open notebook with his gold pen. Gentri, the Minister of Public Security, seems far too interested—his own police plasm squads are suffering by comparison.

“In conclusion,” Aiah finishes, “the figures amount to this: we have brought almost three thousand Handmen and associates to justice. The Plasm Control Board, as a result of our actions thus far, will be able to sell no less than thirty-five thousand monthly megamehrs of plasm to the public. That is enough plasm to lift the Aerial Palace and sail it to Mount Chukhmarkh—” A few eyes lift to gaze at the distant volcano, which peaks blue on the horizon. “Or,” she says, “put another way, the Plasm Enforcement Division, in less than three months, has just added another four hundred and eleven million dinars to the treasury for this year alone.”

Around the table, Aiah sees chins lifting, a little abstract look entering the eyes. Yes, she thinks. Money. Think about it.

“With every day we continue our work,” she adds, “that figure increases.”

Constantine begins a round of polite applause. Aiah nods, relieved to have the formal part over with, and asks for questions.

Drumbeth folds his arms and frowns. Behind him, visible through the dome, a pair of eagles spire high on the Palace thermals.

“How badly has the Silver Hand been damaged?” he asks.

“In one sense,” Aiah says, “not at all.”

Drumbeth’s frown deepens. Gentri permits a smile to ghost across his face.

“There are an estimated two hundred thousand Handmen in Caraqui,” Aiah says, “along with perhaps a half a million known associates who work alongside them without necessarily being formal members of the organization. Of this total, we’ve arrested not quite three thousand, an insignificant number compared with the total.”

“Seven hundred thousand,” Drumbeth mutters. “That’s an army.”

“However,” Aiah says, “we have arrested much of their leadership, or driven them into exile or underground. We’ve probably confiscated a much larger percentage of their plasm than we’ve arrested of their membership—we have seriously damaged their business, and we’ve made it a much more dangerous business to be a part of. Without plasm, their power is much reduced.”

“And ours,” Constantine says, “becomes greater.” He clears his throat, as clear a call for attention as Drumbeth’s rap with the crystal hammer. “I have said,” he says, “that so much plasm in the hands of criminals is a danger to the state, and Miss Aiah’s division was created in response to that danger. There are seven hundred thousand of them—that’s five times the size of our army and our hired soldiers together—and who knows how much plasm they can summon among them.”

“Enough to get their chief out of prison,” Hilthi mutters, “or was money used instead?”

A huge plasm advert, flashing overhead, gives Hilthi’s face a greenish cast.

“The young lady’s work is commendable,” Parq says, “especially in one so young,” and proudly strokes his silky beard as if he was himself to be commended for saying such a thing.

Drumbeth’s eyes turn toward Aiah. “Reinforce success,” he says. “That is an army maxim. What can we do, Miss Aiah, to reinforce yours?”

Gentri permits himself a cynical little sneer. “Money, I expect, and more personnel,” he says.

Aiah’s temper flares, quickened by plasm-energy, but she bites down on her anger and any intemperate reply. “Time,” Aiah says, “most of all. We are all new to our job, and we are improving day to day. But yes—money and personnel will help us, of course. As will better salaries—though our people are proving to be extraordinarily dedicated, very few are experienced in this sort of work. We can’t afford to hire the people who are, so we hire others and hope to train them.”

“As the Plasm Enforcement Division is one of the few branches of government actually earning wealth for the state,” Constantine suggests, “I think any increase in its budget would be money well spent.”

Gentri leans forward and passes a hand over his balding head, smoothing into place strands of hair that are no longer there. “Perhaps I should point out once more,” he says, “that the plasm squads of the police already have a mandate to find plasm thieves. Though I compliment my colleague Aiah on her accomplishments, nevertheless I feel constrained to remark that my own ministry contains all the expertise and specialists necessary for this job. Not only that, but my department has sufficient personnel to arrest people without the necessity of calling out foreign mercenaries to break down doors and arrest citizens in their beds.”

Plasm snarls in her nerves and Aiah begins to reply, but Constantine looks up at her and gives a little flicker of his eye, and her reply dries up on her tongue. She settles for a glare at Constantine instead, and he smiles in answer and turns to his colleagues.

“Our respected colleague makes a telling point.” Hilthi nods, and looks down at the notebook he’s opened on the table. “I have viewed foreign newscasts, and they show little of our government but pictures of soldiers hauling citizens off to be shot. They make it look as if we’ve unleashed the military on our people.”

“The soldiers are a convenience,” Constantine says. “It is the fault of no one here, but it is a fact that the Silver Hand and their associates have made inroads into our political and police structure. If we used local forces, I fear our quarry would be alerted, and would escape ahead of time. Our soldiers—military police, most of them, brought into the country after the coup to keep order, and not assault troops or anything dangerous—have not been corrupted. Perhaps it would look better on video,” he smiles, “if we were simply to equip them with different uniforms and make their soldierly aspect less obvious.”

“May I make another point with regard to the government’s use of mercenaries?” says Colonel Radeen, the War Minister. He is a dark-haired, dapper man in a tailored uniform. He had commanded the Second Brigade when it stormed the Aerial Palace during the coup, and was rewarded with leadership of the armed forces. He holds a lit cigaret between his thumb and two fingers, like a pointer, and for the present keeps it aimed at the Shield.

“The Keremaths degraded the regular armed forces,” Radeen says, “and used the mercenary Metropolitan Guard to keep themselves secure. This did army morale no good, of course, and eventually contributed to the disaffection that led to the Keremaths’ overthrow.

“But now…” Radeen shakes his head. “I fear that we are slipping into the same situation. Army troops—my own brigade, in fact—captured the Palace, but it isn’t my brigade that guards the Palace now… The security of the government is now in the hands of a mercenary unit—and furthermore, a