their addresses and the names of their close kin. I want them by the beginning of work shift tomorrow.”
Aiah’s mouth goes dry. Her hand, holding her rain hood closed beneath her chin, begins to tremble. “Yes, Metropolitan,” she says.
He does not correct her use of his old title. Instead he looks at the rubble of the building. His tone turns meditative. “And another list, I think. Every Handman in your files. Names, pictures, current addresses.” He looks at her sharply. “But
INTERFACT PURCHASES WORLDWIDE NEWS, DATAFILES
THE
There are three bombings in the next wave. Three Hand-men are killed, along with their families. Three Handmen from the list of ten that Aiah had prepared. The explosions are carefully controlled, and there are no other casualties.
After this, the bombings cease entirely.
Aiah concludes that Constantine’s message has been received.
She does not watch the video for days, in order to avoid any pictures of dead children, but she finds, regardless, the dead haunting her dreams, a sad and silent procession, gazing at her with drowned, frozen, reproachful eyes.
EIGHT
Weeks pass.
The Plasm Enforcement Division hones its moves, gathers more data, makes more arrests against increasingly powerless, increasingly desperate opposition. Mercenaries, now dressed in more politically acceptable Shield-gray uniforms instead of full combat gear, continue to storm the bastions of the Silver Hand.
Even the police begin to do their bit, rounding up Hand-men on one charge or another. Not major figures, scarcely anyone ranked above brother, but every arrest helps.
The firing squads continue in their work, though the executions are no longer publicized, and terse press releases—providing just names and the crimes of which the Handmen were convicted—are given out instead. It is not work of which anyone is particularly proud.
Aiah hears more and more reports of Handmen and their associates who have decided to leave Caraqui and seek a life elsewhere. The knowledge gives her nothing but satisfaction.
Other Handmen turn up with growing frequency in byways and canals, all dead by violence. Aiah follows these cases in hopes that they may turn out to be a sign that the Hand has turned on itself, is warring over the remains of its power in the absence of its leadership, but the available evidence suggests this is not so. The members of the Hand are too terrified of the government to spend time fighting each other. These bodies are the result of private vengeance, citizens no longer afraid of the Handmen and considering themselves free to act without fear.
Aiah supposes that she can’t approve. But neither, she decides, can she much blame the citizens for turning on their persecutors.
She spends a certain amount of time compiling a dossier on Gentri. There is little to discover beyond what is in the public record. She spends some time surveilling him through telepresence, but it’s impossible to monitor him when he’s at work in the heavily shielded Palace, and otherwise his life seems unexceptional—he works long hours, returns to his family on his off shifts, and if he spends time skulking with Handmen and Keremaths it’s when she’s not looking. She doesn’t feel comfortable peering in at him this way, and is wary of the consequences should she be discovered.
This is Sorya’s sort of work, anyway.
Rohder arrives in Caraqui, and there is a party to welcome him, but afterward Aiah sees him only rarely, at weekly meetings in which he reports to her and Constantine. He spends his time closeted with engineers and plasm theorists from the university.
Eventually Aiah and her entire division hit the wall. Everyone is exhausted, arrests fall off, mistakes are made that result in the wrong doors being bashed in, the wrong people arrested, military police wandering down the wrong corridors, the wrong canals. Aiah prevails upon Constantine to declare a ten-day amnesty in which people are encouraged to report to the government any stolen plasm they may possess without fear of retaliation, and during which she and her department can catch up on their sleep.
Unlike the first amnesty, this one produces results. Aiah has the impression that people are relieved to give their stolen plasm back. “Apparently the guilty knowledge of all that plasm has been weighing heavily upon the thieves’ consciences,” Constantine remarks. Then a devil’s smile dances along his lips, and he adds: “That or the weekly lists of the defunct.”
It is the fifth day of the amnesty, and Aiah is beginning to regain an interest in things other than surveillance, arrests, and stolen moments with Constantine. Early second shift she’d actually phoned her mother—voluntarily!— and spent an hour talking with her.
“There’s some dirty hermit saying
“I’m not interested,” Aiah says. “I want to talk about Henley.”
Henley is Aiah’s sister, and Aiah has a plan for her. Ten years ago Henley had been crippled by an Operation street lieutenant who had broken her hands—just for the fun of it—and afterward arthritis set in, and Henley’s budding career as a graphic artist had come to an end.
“I want to buy her some plasm treatments,” Aiah says. “Straighten the bones, erase the arthritis. I can afford it now.”
Arrangements are discussed, and Aiah hangs up with an unusual feeling of righteousness. Then the com unit chimes, with Constantine calling to invite her to a picnic of sorts.
“Rohder has finished his calculations and has called in some engineers, and is going to be shifting some buildings about. Would you like to attend? Food and drink will be available on my launch should you desire refreshment.”
The day is blustery, with deep gray clouds scudding low and threatening possible rain, so Aiah wears a blue wool suit with red piping, a red scarf to add extra color, and boots with modest heels, and clips her hair back so it won’t blow in the wind. She takes a hooded windbreaker along in case it rains, and shieldglasses in the event the clouds clear.
Constantine meets her at the water gate and smiles as he hands her into his boat. He is dressed casually, cords and a leather jacket—much more the rogue than the minister, and the more attractive for it.
“You look lovely, Miss Aiah. Would you care for a glass?”
The wine bottle is already uncorked and waits in a silver bucket. Constantine pours her a glass, hands it to her with a flourish, and then takes the helm of the launch himself. The turbines purr under his command as the black composite prow rises and cuts the water. His big hands handle the wheel with a fine delicacy, fingertips transmitting the boat’s vibration up his arms. He handles the boat with supreme skill: the liquid in Aiah’s wineglass trembles only slightly as he accelerates onto the Khola Canal and cuts a neat path through the traffic.
Martinus the bodyguard is on board, his black, bone-plated face expressionless as he looks out for any possible attackers. Two other guards also keep a silent watch, and a guard boat follows, with a half-dozen others on board. Telepresent mages are probably on hand as well.
Aiah looks at the guards and considers how one is never allowed to forget power, either its reality or its consequences.
Another power launch whips past on an opposite course, providing a blast of wind and the sight of laughing,
