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hawsers, which are made fast; Constantine leaps from the boat to the jetty,
then helps Aiah out of the boat and onto the mesh-steel surface. The jetty
rocks under their weight.
The guard boat doesn't come to a mooring, just waits in the canal with its
engines idling, and in the relative silence Aiah can hear the ominous throb of
helicopters echoing off the tall buildings, and looks up to find them, with no
success all she can find is a shaggy hermit hanging in a canvas sling fifteen
stories up. He sways in the wind. Aiah glances at Constantine to see him
gazing up as well, a thoughtful frown on his upturned face.
"Army on maneuvers," he says. "Civilians wouldn't fly that many copters at
once." He looks down, shrugs. "Readiness is best, I suppose. Though Radeen
has complained of insufficient funds for fuel.
They climb the battered steel stair to the road surface above. A woman with a
video camera records their arrival: a ministry employee, Aiah notes, not
media. A man stands next to her with a boxy microphone on a telescoping
stick. It's for history, then, not for broadcast if the experiment doesn't
work, then no embarrassed explanations will have to be offered, and the
recordings will probably be quietly tossed down some Palace oubliette.
Rohder, in a red windbreaker and an orange hard hat, stands near another of
the gilt-lotus bridges, conferring with a group of helmeted engineers. Others
call obscure orders into boxy handheld radios made of heavy black plastic.
Constantine is content to let them do their business uninterrupted. He raises
his collar against the blustery wind, then turns to Aiah.
"How do we fare with the amnesty?
"Enough people have turned themselves in to keep ministry teams busy for the
next three weeks, repairing and installing meters," Aiah says. "It is
difficult to say how much plasm reserves will be increased, but I suspect the
amount will be considerable.
Constantine is amused. "That will be a nice tidbit to drop at the next
cabinet meeting." He sidles closer, gives her a covert look. "I have not seen
any information on our friend Gentri.
Exasperation plucks at her nerves. "Nothing, Minister," she says. "He works
long hours, he seems to be faithful to his wife, his record is clean. His
name has not come up in any interrogation. And I have little time to pursue
any investigation, not when I have a department to run and the investigation
is so private I can have no help.
"There have been complaints lodged. That where the Silver Hand is absent or
ineffective, the police have been filling the vacuum. Extortion, strong-arm
work for loan sharks or local bosses . . . Perhaps only fear of the Hand
was keeping the police out of the crime business.
Aiah shrugs. "Gentri may not be a part of it probably is not, unless we can
find money going to him. Unless it's got to do with plasm, it's not our
mandate anyway.
"Perhaps you could find someone close to Gentri who, for a consideration,
might be persuaded to make reports. ...
She looks at him, annoyance tautening her vocal cords. "I'm not a spy!" she
says. "I'm not suited for this, and I have other work!
He frowns, draws a little away from her. "As you wish," in tones both cold
and silky.
Anxiety hums through Aiah. She wants to follow him, offer him further
explanations, further excuses, an apology. But then her moment of distress is
followed by another of stubborn anger, and she decides, The hell with it.
What else could I tell him?Constantine, eyes narrowed, seems to detect her
defiance, and he walks off to confer with Rohder, leaving Aiah alone. The
helicopter throbbings seem a little farther off and disappear into the
background noise of traffic. Wind sluices between the tall buildings, and
Aiah shivers in her wool jacket.
The group of engineers around Rohder breaks up. Curved antennas bob as people
shout commands into their radios. Police stop traffic on the bridges and
police boats move into position to block the canal, because if one of the
cables breaks it could whip into a boat and kill somebody. Aiah moves back,
stands at the entrance of the tower-topped building, a cool alcove of polished
copper engraved with the district's lotus design.
What else could I have told him? Aiah demands of herself.
A fine spray dots the walkway in front of her alcove. The hermit pissing into
the wind.
Hydrogen engines cough into life, and their barking roar echoes off the
buildings. Winches roll; the huge cables straighten, then grow taut.
Engineers peer at the bridges as the structures begin to creak they are built
to expand and contract as needed, at least within limits, but nothing has
moved these structures in the centuries since the buildings were erected, and
though everything has been cleaned and greased there is nevertheless anxiety
that the bridges may not behave. Other engineers peer into bulky brass
viewfinders set atop portable tripods: they are determining the distance
between the buildings.
The wind moans around the cables, a baritone hum that rises occasionally to a
shriek. Nothing anchors these buildings on their pontoons, nothing but the
hugeness of their own inert mass and the mass of the other structures to which
they are moored. Although the winches are slowly drawing in cable, it's
impossible to estimate by eye whether the buildings are moving closer or not.
Elsewhere, out of sight, other cables are being slacked as these are drawn in.
The men at the viewfinders shout into their radios, and the winches grind to a
stop; there is the sound of banging from the bridges, and then Rohder is
waving his arms and the engines rumble to a stop. The sound of helicopters
beats surprisingly loud in the sky.
Aiah walks out of the alcove and looks up no copters, but letters flaming red
against the dull gray clouds: The Provisional Government orders the public to
behave in an orderly manner.
Provisional? Ridiculous. And what has there been but calm? Who is wasting [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]