City on Fire

world beyond. The question involves the imago’s destination—will she surpass her teachers and achieve mastery, or will she find herself with no singular gift, her talent and art lost amid the great clutter of the world. Satisfaction or frustration—the imago promises one or the other, but does not resolve the matter within itself.”

Aiah frowns, looking at herself in the improbable act of balancing a pair of beakers. “There are other carvings of this figure, yes?” she says.

“Oh yes. The imagoes are repeated throughout our building.”

“Is my face on all of them?” Inaction looks blank. “I don’t know.” “May we look? I’m curious.” “If you like.”

Aiah follows Inaction down the stone corridor. Sorya appears as The Shadow no less than three times, and Aiah recognizes no one else but herself. No Constantine, she thinks in surprise. Her own face is repeated a half-dozen times, and she feels as if she has entered a hall of mirrors improbably constructed of stone.

For once Aiah catches Inaction in an expression of surprise. “Perhaps,” the dreaming sister says, “you have become important.”

PEACE TALKS CONTINUE; PROGRESS UNCERTAIN

PROVISIONALS DENOUNCE GOVERNMENT’S “UNREALISTIC CONDITIONS”

The oval screen of Rohder’s computer is framed in a polished copper case chased with ornamental scallops and speed lines designed to make the viewer think that the screen, or at least data, is zooming from place to place with mighty efficiency. The ornament fails to convince anyone familiar with the ways of computers. The chief efficiency of the speed lines and ornamentation is to attract Rohder’s floating cigaret ash.

Rohder, Aiah, and Constantine sit before the screen and watch crude images, gold on gray, blink and shimmer as Rohder’s model of his work slowly moves pictured pontoons and barge outlines into new, ideal configurations. The computer is in the midst of a ponderous, labored dialogue with another, larger computer elsewhere in the Palace, for which it relies on data: Aiah thinks of prisoners laboriously transmitting messages from one cell to the next by beating on pipes. Gears hum, needles click back and forth on the computer’s yellow dials. Then there is silence as the final image lumbers up on screen, and the dials drop to the neutral position.

Rohder taps the screen with a nicotine-stained finger. “I’ve got about as far as I can with the current crews,” he says. “I started at a central location and moved outward, but as I expanded, the area to be covered increased geometrically, and in order to continue the work effectively at the current rate, I’ve got to increase my workforce by an order of magnitude.”

Constantine considers this, then nods. “It will pay for itself,” he says. “Send me a budget and I’ll sign it.”

Rohder nods and lights a new cigaret off the old. Aiah briefly considers taking advantage of Constantine’s generous mood to ask for an increase elsewhere in the PED, but she decides that this expansion will cause enough administrative headaches for the present.

One of the few benefits of Caraqui’s state of war is that many of the necessary government expansions and contractions have been accomplished without the usual amount of paperwork. But Aiah knows the paperwork will catch up sooner or later, and then there will be nothing but paper, pay slips, requisitions, and signatures for weeks and months, and possibly ever.

Constantine turns his eyes from the computer and asks the question that has brought him here. “How many days of full-out offensive can you give me?”

“Can you give me an approximate time frame? When do you intend to begin?”

There is a flicker in Constantine’s eyes as he considers how much of his schedule he is willing to entrust to Rohder, or even to speak aloud.

“Before your new crews can make a difference,” he says.

Rohder nods, looks at Aiah. “The figures won’t change that much, then.”

Aiah answers Constantine’s question. “Three days of full consumption using domestic resources only,” she says. “If our neighbors fulfill their commitments, we will be able to extend the offensive for another day, possibly two.”

Constantine nods. “Well,” he says. “We must hope to make a breakthrough early. A soldier cannot advance without a mage clearing the enemy ahead of him, and he can only hold an area if enemy mages are kept off his neck.”

“We’ve had some unanticipated side effects,” Rohder says. “Do you have a minute?”

“Of course.”

Rohder taps keys, the screen flickers and the computer makes a grinding noise as it gets up to speed, and then the crude images are replaced with columns of figures, gold on gray.

“There would seem to be a synergistic effect to the multiplication of plasm through the fractionate interval theory,” he says. The rest of the department has taken to referring to fractionate interval theory as FIT, but Rohder prefers the older, more elaborate term.

“This”—he taps figures again with his knuckle—“this is the predicted increase of plasm, by district, in line with theory… and this,” tapping again, “the initial increase. It is less than predicted, because the methods we used to move structures were less than ideal, and our estimates of the composition of the structures themselves were in most cases approximations. But now—note this third set of figures. These are very recent, based on meter readings conducted within the last two weeks.”

Constantine looks into the screen, columns of numbers reflected in his eyes. “Some are larger,” he says.

“In some cases,” Rohder says, “larger than theory predicts.

There must be another mechanism working here, something we have not previously observed. Since fractionate interval theory has never been tested on such a large scale before, some unanticipated results are to be expected, but this…” He taps the screen again. “This is different. Two weeks ago, some new effect was introduced.”

“Maybe it’s cumulative,” Aiah suggests. “You get a certain amount of mass into this configuration and then the effect multiplies.”

Rohder draws on his cigaret, lets the smoke drift slowly past his lips while he continues to contemplate the figures. “Could be,” he says. “We’re basing this only on meter readings, and the meters are not really designed to produce the more sensitive data we need to understand the phenomenon. However, I think I can promise you considerably more plasm for your Strategic Plasm Reserve than you anticipated.”

Reflected columns of gold figures glitter in Constantine’s eyes. “May we keep this information between us?” he says. “I see no reason to inform the government when all these figures are so preliminary.”

Rohder shrugs. “You’re the boss. But allow me to point out that if this phenomenon continues, and if you can postpone your offensive for a few months, I’ll be able to keep it going for a lot longer. Perhaps as much as a week.”

Constantine gives a minute shake of his head. “Not possible. There are time-dependent considerations.”

Aiah looks at the screen and feels a fist gently tighten on her throat. Those considerations have to do with the six days left on the Escaliers’ contract.

But Constantine is absorbed by another thought entirely. “After the war, I want to dedicate the Plasm Reserve to work with Havilak’s Freestanding Hermetic Transformations… and possibly even more.”

“Atmospheric generation?” Rohder’s watery blue eyes gaze thoughtfully at Constantine.

“Yes.”

“You’ll need some highly trained people.” “You’re talking about building things out of air?” Aiah asks.

Constantine nods. “Hermetics transforms one thing into another, base matter into food, say, or plastic. Why not a freestanding, plasm-generating structure assembled—reassembled really—out of thin air?” He shrugs. “It’s not a new idea… There are mages who specialize in such transformations, in places inaccessible or dangerous for people. Reactor cores, say.”