City on Fire

The room projects out from the Palace and gives Aiah an exemplary view of the world-city, the buildings and towers and water-lanes that go on forever, unbroken to the flat ocean horizon. One of the green aerial tramcars floats in midair between two distant towers. I am on the water, she thinks, having to remind herself of the fact…

The sky blossoms with a giant plasm-image, the stern face of the actor Kherzaki hovering over the Caraqui, his expression commanding. An advertisement for the chromoplay Lords of the New City, based on Constantine’s early life and career. Fire-petals unfold beside the image, become words burning in air.

See it now…, the sky commands.

An advert, Aiah wonders, or a command from the ruling triumvirate? Should it be See it now… or else?

The door opens behind her, and she gives a start and spins, a brief giddy disorientation eddying through her inner ear… and as the whirling stops the false, burning mage in the sky is replaced with the real Constantine, a far more dangerous commodity. He looks almost respectable in modest white lace, black pipestem pants, and a black velvet jacket, and Aiah knows right away that her having come here is a mistake. Her heart sinks.

He doesn’t love her. They had been lovers, yes, but that was an accident, the chance result of a combination of unre-producible circumstances, a particular time, a particular place, a particular urgency… If he gives her anything it will be because of some horrid sense of obligation, not because he wants her here, or has any real use for her.

“Miss Aiah,” he says, and approaches. The voice is baritone, a rumble that vibrates to her toes. Aiah remembers—remembers in her nerves, remembers deep in her bones—the way he moves, the sense of power held barely but firmly, consciously, in check, strength mixed oddly with delicacy.

“We find ourselves in the Owl Wing,” Constantine says. Irony glints in his voice as he steps around the big table. “Those windows”—gesturing—“are supposed to be the eyes of an owl.”

Aiah is tall, but Constantine is taller, broad-shouldered, with powerful arms and a barrel chest. His skin is blue-black, and his hair is oiled and braided and worn over the left shoulder, tipped with the silver ornament of the School of Radritha. He is over sixty years of age, but plasm rejuvenation treatments have kept his body young and at the peak of health. His face is a bit fleshy, a suggestion of indulgence that serves to make him more interesting than otherwise, and his booted feet glide over the thick carpet without a sound.

The deep voice rolls on, imitating the clipped delivery of a tour guide. “We also have the Raptor Wing,” he says, “the Swan Wing, with its luxury apartments, and the Crane Wing…” His eyes never leave hers, his intent mind almost visible behind them, clearly considering subjects more vital than a verbal tour of the palace.

The voice trails off as he comes within arm’s reach. There is a touch of caution in his fierce glance, a sense again of something withheld. A decision, perhaps. Or judgment. Or both.

“May I ask why you are here?” he says. Aiah’s heart is a trip-hammer in her throat. Mistake, she thinks, mistake.

“To work, I suppose,” she says.

He smiles, and Aiah concludes it’s the right answer. A sudden wave of relief makes her dizzy.

He opens his arms and folds her in them. His scent swirls through her senses, and she realizes how much she’s missed it.

Absurd to care so much, she thinks. Constantine is a great figure, a part of something huge, much bigger than even he—he does not belong even to himself, let alone to her.

Aiah tells herself this, and sternly.

But her lecture has nothing to do with her longings. Her longings are self-contained, and happy within themselves.

Through the embrace Aiah can feel Constantine’s weight shifting slightly, a sign of restlessness. He is not a notably patient man. She releases him, steps back.

Still he watches her, fierce intelligence afire within the gold-flecked brown eyes. “The police?” he says. “Were they after you?”

“Yes,” she says, then, “No. Maybe.” She shrugs. “They knew I was a part of it somehow, but I don’t know if they could prove it. They had me under surveillance.”

“You got away without trouble?” “I got away.” She hesitates. “I had some help. I think. It was easier than I expected.”

“What of your young man? Gil?”

She straightens her shoulders, steels herself against the threat of sorrow. “Over,” she says.

“And your job at the Plasm Authority?”

“I wired them and told them I was taking time off.” She shrugs. “I don’t know why I didn’t resign outright.”

There is amusement in his glance. “You are cautious, Miss Aiah. Wise of you, not to quit until you discover if you have a new job waiting.”

She looks at him. “And do I?”

“I think I have one that will suit your talents.” He puts his hands in his jacket pockets and begins to prowl around the table, his restless movement an accompaniment to the uneasy movement of his thought.

“You know that the last government was worse than bad,” he says. “They were corrupt beyond… beyond reason.” He waves a big hand. “Even granted that they were thieves, that they wanted only enrichment and perquisites… the scope of larceny that they permitted, against their own metropolis, was irrational. The amount of plasm stolen is staggering. It constituted a vast plundering of their own power, a threat to the security of their own state of which they seemed unaware. Well.” He plants a fist on the table and looks at Aiah with a defiant glare. “Well, / am not so blind, not so unaware. The theft of this most singular public resource must stop. But what force do I have to enforce any new edicts—or even the old ones?”

He shrugs, adjusts the position of one of the gold ashtrays, begins to pace again. “My soldiers are not suitable to police work. The local authorities are as corrupt as their former masters, and it is hopeless to expect anything from them until years of reform have done their work. For this purpose I must build my own police force, my own power base. But the New City movement here is limited to a few intellectuals, a few discussion groups—I have no cadre, no organized group of followers ready to step into place. And…” He looks up at Aiah, eyes challenging hers, and she feels ice water flood her spine.

“You,” he says. “You will build this force for me. You have found plasm thieves in the past, and in my service you were a plasm thief. I wish you to find these thieves and return their power to the service of the state.”

Aiah blinks at him across the table. She doesn’t know whether to laugh or simply to be appalled by the suggestion.

“Metropolitan?” she asks. “Are you sure it’s me you want?”

Cold amusement enters his glance. “Of course,” he says. “Why not?”

“I’m a foreigner, for one thing.”

“That’s an advantage. It means you’re not part of the corrupt structure here in Caraqui.” “I’ve never done police work.”

“You will have people, qualified people, to do the work for you. But I want you in charge. I need someone I can trust heading the department.”

“I’m twenty-five years old!” she says. “I’ve never run anything like this in my life.”

He gives her a sharp look. “You have worked within a government department concerned with plasm regulation. You know where it went right, went wrong. You studied administration at university.” He assesses her with his gold-flecked eyes, then nods. “And I have faith in your abilities, even if you do not. You have never disappointed me, Miss Aiah.”

“I wouldn’t know where to start looking for plasm thieves.”

Constantine bares his teeth. “Start looking in my office. My waiting room is full of people offering me bribes.” He smiles. “I will give you a list.”

“And the Specials—the old political police—their records should be valuable. The instant the fighting was