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A cold breeze wafts across her nape.
Aiah doesn't know if Rohder has the authority to give her orders or not. He
isn't her immediate boss, but his rank is so high that he might well have
authority over her without her even knowing it. She calls tabulator control
and tells him she's been called to a meeting and is logging out early. The
baby's shrieks are so loud she can barely make out the controller's responses.
She heads for the building's hydraulic elevators, and their peculiar liquid
motion makes her nervous stomach queasy.
Rohder's on the 106th floor, which is under reconstruction; walls are torn
down or have craters punched in them, bricks and concrete blocks are stacked
in piles, there's plastic draped over everything, and temporary scaffolding
shores up the ceiling and walls. Despite the disorder the only sound here is
the concrete dust grating beneath Aiah's shoes. She has the feeling no one has
actually worked on any of this for some time.
Even if Rohder doesn't seem to have a real job anymore he's still senior
enough to rate a corner office. The receptionist's desk and chair are covered
with an undisturbed layer of concrete dust, but the door beyond is open. Aiah
can smell Rohder's cigarets before she enters. There are monumental statues,
ten stories tall, set on the corners of the building, shining bronze
hawk-nosed human figures staring down at the city with slitted eyes. They're
supposed to be the Angels of Power or something. The windows in Rohder's
office give a glorious view of two corner statues' stern profiles turned out
to the city below. Rohder, insignificant by comparison, sits behind an
enormous bronze-fronted desk covered with a design of rays, a desk that seems
to diminish rather than enhance his majesty. He looks as if he's wearing the
same ill-fitting gray suit as when Aiah first met him. A cigaret, naturally,
hangs from the corner of his mouth.
He looks up at her with his rheumy blue eyes, and for a moment he seems not to
recognize her. Then he nods, stands, and brushes cigaret ash off his
chin-lace, i see you made it through what used to be my department,' he says.
'You wanted to see me?'
'I wanted to talk to you about Terminal.'
The old lavatory is walled off, Aiah reminds herself. The structure is being
tapped now, so even if Rohder finds it, he won't find this huge potential well
just sitting there. He won't be able to prove it isn't tapped and metered
legitimately.
No need to be afraid, Aiah thinks, but as she steps forward she feels insects
crawl along her nerves.
Rohder's carpet is covered with plastic sheeting that crackles under Aiah's
heels. There is a huge padded chair in the corner of the room, she sees, with
copper t-grips on the wide arms. He can access plasm right from here, from a
seat that gazes out from two sides of the building.
And there are maps layered atop Rohder's desk, she sees, each anchored on its
corners by a brimming ashtray. She recognizes every map.
'Just how do you get down to that old pneuma station?' Rohder asks. it's
(dangerous down there,' Aiah says. 'I'll guide you if you like.'
'Ah.' Rohder's hands wander in and out of his jacket pockets, fail to find
cigarets, discover them instead in a drawer. 'Well, that's kind of you, but I
thought I might as well do it from here, just use telepresence.'
Terror creeps slowly up Aiah's spine. 'Ah,' she says.
Rohder lights the new cigaret off the old. His ruddy complexion and baby-blue
eyes provide a startling contrast with his wrinkled face, every line of which
is mercilessly revealed by the shieldlight flooding through the big windows.
It's all down to how good Rohder actually is, Aiah knows. If he can find the
structure of the old plastics plant, he can map it, but only if he's good
enough to project an anima through solid matter, an act that requires a series
of complex skills in which Aiah has no real experience but which seem
intimidating enough in theory: to develop a sensorium that can sense in ways
that a human could not, sense difference in mass, in materials, to tell bricks
from bedrock from steel, to translate all of this into knowledge, and of
course to navigate without losing one's path.
But Rohder is good. Mengene said he was a real wizard. Aiah reaches up into
her cuff-lace and clasps her wrist with one hand in order to keep herself from
trembling.
'Uhh,' Rohder reminds, 'where exactly do I need to look?'
Aiah leans over the desk and looks over the maps, tries to trace her route.
Plants her finger firmly on the map to keep the hand from shaking. 'Here,' she
says. 'South side of the street. I don't remember the number of the building.'
Rohder screws up his face. 'But there's public access leading in?'
The law is fairly firm on the subject of sending one's anima into 'private
domestic space' various kinds of complicated official permissions are
required but Rohder's allowed to move through what the law defies as a
'public access', meaning in this case the hallways, stairs and corridors of an
apartment building.
'I'm not entirely certain of the technicalities,' Aiah says, 'but I suppose
it's public'
Rohder draws on his cigaret and looks moodily at the map. 'Perhaps it would be
easier,' Rohder says, 'if I just quartered the district through the air. Any
signs of large plasm use could be traced to their source.'
'Wouldn't it most likely be legitimate?' Aiah says. 'How many thousands of
people are using plasm at any given moment?'
'In that district?' Rohder mused. 'Very few would be using the goods in any
quantity. It's a working-class neighborhood with very little local industry.'
And very few, Aiah thinks, beaming plasm from transmission horns disguised as
billboards. She is aware of sweat gathering at her nape.
'Did you need anything else?' she asks.
'Hm?' He's already lost in thought. 'No,' he says, 'I don't think so. Thank
you.'
Aiah leaves, feet crunching on concrete dust. She considers dashing down to
the lobby, calling the number Constantine gave her, giving Dr Chandros an
emergency message.
And then cold fear runs through her veins like ice as she realizes that would
be a bad idea. She might already be under investigation. Creepers from the
Authority's Investigative Division might be tracking her, either in person or
through an anima. This could be a trick by Rohder designed to make her panic
and do something foolish.
She returns to her office, sweat cooling on her nape. Somehow she gets through
the day.
When she leaves, the hydraulic elevator feels hot and close and seems to take
forever to reach the ground floor. And then, having rushed from the building
as fast as she's dared, she has to wait a few endless minutes at the curb,
because her ride isn't here. When the Elton pulls up, she doesn't wait for
Martinus to open her door for her, but dives through the rear door and
confronts a startled Con-stantine. It's safe to talk in here: the car has a
bronze collection web that would disperse the anima of anyone trying to get
inside.
'The Jurisdiction is going to conduct a search for plasm thieves in the
Terminal area,' Aiah says. 'You've got to shut down the factory.'
Constantine's brows knit. 'What sort of search?'
The car's acceleration tugs at Aiah's balance, and she sways and then settles
into her seat.
'Anima search,' Aiah says. 'Aerial, to look for large-scale plasm use, and
underground, to try to find untapped structures. I just found out.'
'When is this going to happen?'
Aiah hesitates. 'Who knows?' she says. 'Tomorrow, most likely, but it could be
underway already heavy plasm use would stand out more during second shift
than during first. And if you're firing it off that rooftop ...'
'Find a public phone,' Constantine tells Martinus.
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