"Walter Jon Williams - Metropolitan - 02 - City On Fire" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Walter John)

LIFE EXTENSION WHAT'S WRONG WITH LIVING FOREVER? REASONABLE TERMSЧPRIVACY ASSUREDConstantine leaves Aiah to underlings who don't quite know what to do with her. But by the end of first shift Aiah has an office in Owl Wing. It has a receptionist's office (sans receptionist), a rather nicely finished metal desk complete with bullet holes, and a communications array that doesn't work. An Evo-Matic computer sits in the corner, brass with fins, but it requires a three-prong commo socket and the office isn't wired for them. The plastic sheeting tacked up over the window booms with every gust of wind.
The carpet is nice, though. Gray, with black patterns that look like geomantic foci.
From this office she will direct a team that as yet does not exist, that has no history, no personnel, no records, no budget; but which nevertheless is charged with a task of awesome complexity and importance.
Gathering plasm. The most important element of power, because it can do anything.
Mass transformed is energyЧthe most fundamental difference is not one of matter, but of perspective. And mass, in the right configurations, can create energy.
That's plasm.
And the science of configuring mass so as to produce plasm is geomancy.
And because plasm exists in a kind of resonance with the human will, it can be used to create realitiesЧcreate almost anything the human mind can conceive. Cure disease, alter genes, destroy life, halt or reverse aging, creep into the human mind to burn every neuron or, more subtly, to turn one emotion into another, to create love or hate where neither existed before. Plasm can knock tall buildings down, move objects from one place to another, build precious metals from base matter. Or create base matter from nothing at all.
In Constantine's system of thought, plasm is the most real thing in the world. Because it can make anything else real, or it can take something that exists and uncreate it.
Making something real from nothing would now seem to be Aiah's job.
Create a police force.
What kind of magecraft is necessary for that? Absurd.
Aiah tries, sketching idly on paper, to make plans. It's usually easy enough to find out who the big thieves are, but discovering where they keep the goods is another matter.
You have always exceeded my expectations.
After a few hours, she wants to spit the words back in Constantine's face.
She throws down her pen, stands, paces the carpet while the plastic rattles in the wind.
Welcome to Free CaraqЧshe thinks. Why is it up to her to fill in the missing letters?And then Sorya is standing in the door, and Aiah's heart leaps.
"Hello, missy." Sorya walks into the room and holds out Aiah's bag. "This was brought from your hotel.Ф
"Thank you." Aiah takes the offering. The cinders in the back of her throat make her cough.
Deliberately, Sorya's green eyes rove the room. There is a languid smile on her lips. She is balanced like a dancer, hips cocked forward, blond-streaked hair framing her face. She usually clothes her panther body in brilliant colors, apricot or green silk, the coiled muscle and curve of breast and hip garbed brightly as a flower . . . but at the moment she wears a green uniform with no insignia, a faded military greatcoat with brass buttons thrown over her shoulders, a peaked cap set with deliberate nonchalance on the side of her head. Not a flower, but something else.
A mage, a potent one. A warrior, a general. Powerful and intent on growing more so.
"We paid you well for your services in Jaspeer," she says. "I was under the impression we had said good-bye.Ф
"The cops were after me.Ф
"That was careless of you." She arches an eyebrow.
Sorya turns, walks to the door, pauses deliberately, and looks at Aiah over her shoulder. "Let me take you to your suite in the Crane Wing.Ф
Aiah clears her throat, finds her voice. "Don't you have a more important job to do?Ф
Sorya gives a lilting laugh. "I am providing orientation to a valued colleague. Please come.Ф
Aiah follows. Sorya leads Aiah down a corridor with a shallow outward curve, a design feature presumably intended to enhance plasm creation.
"I've been appointed head of the Intelligence Section," Sorya says.
"Drumbeth's old job?Ф
"Colonel Drumbeth was military intelligence. I'm civilian, under the Ministry of State.Ф
Aiah feels a tightness in her chest. "Head of the Specials, then." The old political police, infamous for their torture and brutality.
"We are going to be renamed the Force of the Interior, I believe." Sorya throws the words carelessly over her shoulder.
"The commanders of the Specials will be debriefedЧthey are valuable only for their information, and once that is extracted, I expect they will be tried and shot." She flashes a cold smile over her shoulder. "Their crimes were real enough, and the population expects no less.Ф
Sorya comes to an elevator, presses a button. The elevator door is polished copper, and Aiah can see her distorted reflection looming over Sorya's shoulderЧtall skinny body, brown skin, corkscrew hair pulled back in a practical knot. A gangling, hovering, uncertain form, quite the opposite of Sorya, with her perfect body, her exotic dress, her dancer's poise and ruthless assurance.
"Your principal duty will consist of intelligence gathering," Sorya says. "I trust you will share any intelligence with my department.Ф
Aiah gropes for an answer. "I will if my minister consents," she says.
Her minister is Constantine, or so she presumes. Let him take the heat, one way or another.
The elevator doors scroll open, revealing an interior of mirrors and velvet plush. Aiah and Sorya step inside. The elevator control handle is brass and wrought in the shape of an eagle's claw closed about a glittering crystal egg. Sorya sets the handle to the desired floor and the elevator begins to move. Then she leans one shoulder against the mirrored wall as she regards Aiah from beneath the brim of her cap.
"You have put yourself in a dangerous position," she says.
A cold river floods Aiah's spine. The elevator, moving unevenly along its shaft, causes little flutters in Aiah's inner ear.
"Are you a danger to me, madame?" she asks.
Sorya's mouth lights with a cold, cynical little smile. "Why should I concern myself with your destruction? I have repeatedly told you that I have never borne you any animosityЧwhether you care to believe this is scarcely my concern. Besides"Чshe gives a lazy shrugЧ"I reserve my power for dealings with the great and for enhancing my own scope of actionЧit would be a contemptibly small exercise to destroy you, and I have no inclination to think myself either small or contemptible. Give me credit for pride at least, Miss Aiah.Ф
There is a delicate chiming chord that hangs in the air for a moment. The elevator comes to a stop and the doors open. Sorya reaches out a hand, twists the brass knob that locks the doors open, and turns to Aiah again. Her brows are lightly furrowed, as if she were contemplating a minor problem.
"I mean only that Constantine's friends, speaking generally, do not live long. Those who do not have their own share of greatness do not survive for long in the company of the great.Ф
Aiah steels herself, holds Sorya's gaze. The elevator seems very small. "You have told me this before," she says.
"And you had the sense to follow my advice," Sorya says. "You took our money and went your way. But now ..." She shrugs again. "You are in the line of fire. Do not claim you were not warned.Ф
"Line of fire?" Aiah says. "The fighting is over.Ф
Sorya slits her eyes. "The fighting is never over," she says. "All truces are temporary. All wars are the same war, with occasional pauses for readjustment. War and politics are different facets of the same phenomenon, which is the conflict of human will, the will for power, for greatness, for enlarged scope. . . . The rest, the medium through which one will challenges anotherЧwar or peace, law or politics-Чthat is mere mechanics." Her green eyes glitter. "Learn that if you wish to survive.Ф
Aiah takes a breath, clears her throat against the smell of cinders. "Do you think there will be a war?Ф