tight-lipped little smile. “It’s much more true than most of
Aiah looks at Constantine. “What does Sorya say about this?”
Constantine’s answer is matter-of-fact. “Sorya is the head of the secret service. She doesn’t
The chromoplay drags on to its conclusion, and Aldemar gives a satisfied smile.
“Satisfied with the edit?” she says. “Other than the few rough spots?”
“Very well satisfied, thank you,” Constantine says.
“I told you Umarath would get the job done.”
Aldemar releases the second spool on the big commercial etching belt, picks up the red plastic belt, then puts it in its battered metal case.
“Who is this reporter?” Aiah asks.
“She’s not a reporter, she’s an actress,” Aldemar says. “Stacie used to be on
“So she didn’t actually interview any of these people?”
“Oh no. There wasn’t time. We had three units shooting picture, and Umarath put the whole thing together in the editing room.”
“It’s so… intrusive,” Aiah says. “And horrid. And all the facts are wrong, too.”
Constantine cocks an eyebrow at her. “Would you rather it told the truth? You must have broken a hundred laws working for me in Jaspeer.”
“That’s not what I meant. It’s showing me as a celebrity’s favorite fuck.”
“Oh no.” Aldemar shakes her head at this, and her reply is perfectly serious. “We would have been taking that tack if we’d mentioned you were Constantine’s lover
“This is too sophisticated for me.” Aiah shakes her head. “Politics is so…” She gropes for the right word. “So solipsistic.” She looks at Aldemar. “And so is show business. It can create a reality that has nothing to do with anything real.”
A touch of sympathy enters Aldemar’s tone. “If you do not like the resulting image, you may alter it in time —give an interview, release a statement, commission another documentary, whatever you like.” The sympathy fades. “But let the video do its work first. For the moment, communicate with the public only through the press assistant we will provide for you.” She smiles. “In time you may find that you like what this does for you. It will open a lot of doors.”
“But will I want to walk through them?” Aiah asks. Aldemar only shrugs.
“I think the video will do quite well for us,” Constantine says. “It plays right to the mind-set created by the other side’s propaganda—which, much to the annoyance of our government, has always maintained that I am the real power in Caraqui, and the triumvirate my puppets. This chromo is aimed straight at a target which I think it is almost certain to hit.”
Aiah looks at him darkly. “Landro’s Escaliers,” she says. Constantine’s expression is satisfied. “Indeed.”
SPIRITUAL RENEWAL PARTY
FOR VICTORY, FOR MORALITY, AND FOR THE HOLY, PARQ
Aiah’s computer terminal hums, and grinds, and wafts a scent of ozone; and then its oval screen displays the message:
SCAN NEGATIVE. INITIATE NEW SCAN?
The Dreaming Sisters are not to be found anywhere in the ministry’s plasm records, or anyway not as such— it’s not that there’s no record of them, but that they probably have some other, more official name used in the files. The Arch-Revered Order of Transcendental Plasm Suckers, or something…
Aiah shuts off her terminal, hearing that little disappointed whine of the gears cycling down, and then sets her receptionist, Anstine, to work on it. That, after all, is what he is for.
Half a shift later the file appears on Aiah’s desk. Society of the Simple, 100 Cold Canal. A modest name; a forbidding address.
Aiah opens the file, sees the totals, and frowns.
The huge aerial displays that Aiah has seen since her arrival in Caraqui used enough plasm to cost tens of thousands of dinars. Yet the Society’s bills are modest, a few hundred dinars each month.
Which leaves open two possibilities: either their building is so big that it generates all the plasm they need… or they’re stealing the stuff.
She presses the intercom button on her commo array and speaks a moment with Anstine, asking him if he’s
Aiah puts the headset over her ears and makes some more calls. A boat, a pilot, some bodyguards, and an inspection team.
“Tell the camera crew they may not come.”
If they’re plasm thieves, she’ll arrest the lot of them, whether they spend their days talking to the gods or not.
Parq’s spy, floating about her department, has not made her charitable toward the idea of religion.
If they’re not thieves, then maybe they’re something much more interesting.
Travel has become less pleasurable in the days since Aiah became famous. Since Constantine wants to keep her constantly in the news, camera crews follow her everywhere, and—as most of her travel consists of walking from her apartment to her job at the start of the day, and then taking the reverse path ten or twelve or sixteen hours later—the ministry, through her press spokesman, exerts itself to find newsworthy things for her to
When she accepted Brigadier Ceison’s polite invitation to dine with him and his staff, the video cameras followed along, and the next day stories appeared in all the media concerning Aiah’s important meeting with Barkazil military leaders. When Alfeg’s embryonic relief organization turned up a few indigent Barkazils in neighboring districts and persuaded them to move to Caraqui in search of employment, Aiah appeared on video handing them their dole cards. When Khorsa’s sister Dhival, imported for the occasion from the Wisdom Fortune Temple in Jaspeer, conducted for any interested members of Karlo’s Brigade “a traditional Barkazil religious service”—there of course existing in reality no such thing, religion in Barkazi being as chaotic as it was in most places on the globe—Aiah was on hand to clap her hands to the beat of the drums and nod approvingly as spirits of the air and the afterlife communicated their wishes through Dhival.
The routine business of her life is suddenly invested with the kind of portentous and highly artificial significance that only comes with heavy media exposure. Her appearances at cabinet meetings become “vital reports on the critical war situation.” Her briefings of PED personnel and military cops prior to raids on plasm houses are now considered “transmitting vital instructions to highly trained strike teams.” And any of her meetings with Constantine—often on thoroughly routine subjects—are now “a discreet rendezvous conducted in the citadel of supreme power.”
At least she can kiss him in public now, a fact of which she takes intermittent advantage.
Grooming takes up an ever-larger slice of her life. Every day begins with the ritual visit of the hairdresser,
