EXPLOSION IN LANBOLA
STOCKPILED MUNITIONS EXPLODE
LANBOLA CLAIMS SABOTAGE, DENIES MUNITIONS MEANT FOR PROVISIONALS
The Crystal Dome, joyless, deep in its armored shaft. Second shift. Constantine reports to the full cabinet. The dolphin Aranax is conspicuous on his couch, next to Randay, the hapless new Minister of Public Security, who is trying to build a new police force from the defeated, demoralized remnants of the old.
Aiah is not here to speak herself, a fact for which she is grateful. Rohder will be making a presentation, and Aiah, as his superior, is here to support him. With luck she won’t have to talk at all.
Constantine’s summary is almost entirely devoted to the war situation: he describes new mercenary units recruited, the amount paid for each, the number of Caraqui recruits sent to the Timocracy for training—for they are trying to rebuild the Caraqui army, cheaper than mercenaries in the long run—and gives an estimate of enemy strength.
The figures, taken together, are staggering. When the Keremaths ruled Caraqui, they did so with a large, inefficient police force, a small but vicious secret police, and an army of under two divisions. Now, just to hold its ground, the new government controls dozens of divisions assembled into corps, and corps gathered into armies, and even the armies are joined to make two “grand armies,” each holding different parts of the front.
The original Keremath army would be lost in all of this.
Aiah finds the numbers fantastic. The finances are beyond imagining—so many tens of millions here, so many billions there. But apparently there is wealth to be found, because no one, not even the banker-president Faltheg, seems to think the sums incredible.
Constantine, in midspeech, raises his eyes to Sorya across the table. “My colleague Sorya has sent reports to the effect that the enemy has ceased to recruit new forces, even though their present strength is not sufficient to win the war for them. This may indicate that their financial benefactors have reached their limits. No doubt her report to us will go into greater detail on this matter.”
Sorya nods gravely. “Yes, Minister.”
Constantine looks over his shoulder at Aiah and Rohder, then turns back to the triumvirate. “I would like Mr. Rohder, who works for the Plasm Enforcement Division as head of the Technical Resources Department, to make a presentation concerning his new techniques for plasm generation.”
Rohder stubs out his cigaret with a doleful glance of blue-eyed longing at the ashtray, then stands to make his presentation. Like Constantine’s, it is brief and to the point: the altered positions of so many buildings, the massing so many gross tons, so much plasm generated in excess of expectations, worth so many dinars at current rates. The current rates for plasm are high—the war has almost tripled them—and Rohder’s profits are much more impressive than they would be in peacetime.
Hilthi, scribbling with his gold pen, raises a hand and waits to be recognized—the lifelong habits of the journalist are hard to break, even though he’s now one of those in charge of the meeting. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with your technical terms,” he says. “Could you define these ‘fractionate intervals,’ these ‘resonances’?”
Rohder—casting another longing glance at the ashtray—answers by analogy: the fractionate interval is like a radius, only smaller; the resonance effect is the result of mass placed at fractionate distances and multiples of fractionate distances, the result of which is a modest but definite increase in plasm generation, on the order of 10 percent.
Hilthi looks surprised. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of this technique,” he says.
Constantine explains how Rohder’s theory is new, but has been thoroughly tested and found sound. Hilthi’s eyes widen. “This is revolutionary!” he says. “We can increase plasm generation by how much?”
“Theory suggests as high as eighteen percent,” Rohder says, “but we have only rarely achieved twelve.”
“Why aren’t these techniques known?” Hilthi asks.
Constantine gives a catlike smile. “The history of Mr. Rohder’s theory is very complicated—suffice it to say that human society is constructed so as to resist new ideas, and I resisted it myself”—he turns and bows toward Aiah—“until Miss Aiah insisted I look at the matter more closely.”
Aiah feels blood rise to her cheeks, but she returns the nod with a professional smile. Constantine turns back to Hilthi and continues.
“May I point out that this increase in plasm is just going into the general plasm supply? I would like to establish a special fund for it—a kind of bank account for the extra plasm Mr. Rohder’s techniques create—to assure that for the present the plasm is used for the war effort, and afterward for tasks of vital national interest, particularly rebuilding.” He looks at the triumvirate, attempting with hooded eyes and masklike countenance to disguise his particular interest in this issue. “Shall we call it the Strategic Plasm Reserve? Shall I put it in the form of a motion?”
The motion passes, and Constantine sips at a glass of water to hide a smile of triumph. It has always been his concern that this new source of plasm would just be frittered away, as politicians so often manage to do with almost any public resource. It has always been his greater object to establish a huge fund of plasm under his direct control, to use it for purposes of transformation far beyond that which the triumvirate would ever think likely, or even desirable.
The war, Aiah thinks, is transforming things in profound ways. Before the emergency, the Strategic Plasm Reserve would have been the subject of prolonged debate. Now it is passed without comment.
Other ministers make presentations. Sorya gives an intelligence briefing concerning the Provisionals’ sources of finance. President Faltheg, who in addition to being triumvir is still Minister for Economic Development, dons his spectacles to report on changes in the tax code made necessary by the war—the simplifying, the closing of loopholes and exemptions—and the amounts these measures are expected to raise.
“How long can the war go on?” Hilthi asks.
Faltheg removes his spectacles so that he can better view his colleagues. “At current spending rates, for at least three or four years before we run into trouble. Caraqui’s economy is not a complex or sophisticated one—there is no single industry that is vital, no particular crucial technology. Despite bruising, despite a fifth of our metropolis either under occupation or uninhabitable, our economic infrastructure is still intact.”
“I have found,” Constantine adds, “that war economies are remarkably resilient, all things considered.”
The others—excepting Sorya—look thoughtful, uncertain whether to consider this good news or not.
The report by the unfortunate Randay, new head of the police, is little but a sad litany of endless trouble; the others, understanding, look at him with sympathy.
Hilthi frowns at his notes and without thought puts his gold pen behind one ear. “This is of particular concern,” he says. “We desperately need qualified law enforcement in Caraqui. I agreed reluctantly to the proscription lists only on the understanding that they were accurate and contained the names only of hardened criminals, and now I receive reports that this was not the case, that a percentage of those named had no criminal records whatever.
“The Dalavan Militia are a constant presence in our streets, and their reputation is deteriorating—every day I receive protests concerning their brutality, the arbitrary nature of their actions, reports of the Militia extorting funds from businesses, or walking into stores and helping themselves to expensive presents, acting like common gangsters…”
Parq strokes his silky beard and speaks in his deep, reassuring voice. “Teething pains,” he says. “Our priests are making every effort to weed out the bad elements, and we are growing more professional by the day.”
“The Militia was never meant to be more than a temporary expedient,” says Hilthi. “But now it seems as if it will continue its activities indefinitely.”
“We have heard the Minister of Public Safety,” Parq says. “Our police are in chaos. Imported military police are expensive. Yet it is our duty to keep order. Who can do it but the Militia?”
Hilthi’s eyes look down the table for support and alight on Aiah. Panic throbs in her heart at his question. “Miss Aiah,” he says, “can’t your PED do something in this situation? You have a remarkable record of success.”
