“There’s no mystery about me!” Aiah protests when she sees the direction the chromoplay is taking.
“There is now,” Constantine says, a purposeful light in his eyes.
Aiah sits on a sofa between Constantine and Aldemar, her hands clutching theirs. The two veteran performers are amused as she shrinks away from the journalist’s attempts to “solve” her.
The reporter interviews various figures from Aiah’s life in Jaspeer, including Charduq the Hermit, still on his pillar, who cheerfully proclaims her the redeemer of the Barkazi, a claim that Khorsa’s sister Dhival, in full sorceress getup, is all too happy to confirm—she has talked, she says, to spirits on the matter, and they confirm Charduq’s assessment. Old chromographs from Aiah’s school career are displayed, and some of her teachers from the prep school to which she’d won a scholarship are interviewed, teachers willing to testify as to her brilliance. Aiah remembers the praise during her girlhood as being far less fulsome.
“Aiah’s family declined to be interviewed,” the narrator reports, managing to imply they fear Aiah’s disapproval and vengeance. Aiah is relieved beyond words… the very thought of her mother babbling away on video is terrifying, and Senko only knows what she would say. But if the family actually had been approached—which Aiah is inclined to doubt, as she has heard nothing from them—they had closed ranks against the outsider.
Aiah had broken Jaspeeri laws, and her family knew it. No indictments had ever been filed, but there was no sense in giving the prosecutors information.
The section on her life in Caraqui is a hash of suggestion and demented fantasy. Aiah can’t even take it seriously enough to shrink from the image presented. There are hints of her great influence in the councils of power. “Aiah has single-handedly broken the gangsters’ control of the Caraqui economy and their hold on the people,” the chromo intones, and follows with jittery camera shots of police actions and of disheveled Handmen being led off to justice. Images of Karlo’s Brigade are mixed with suggestions that they are soldiers loyal not to the regime but, personally, to Aiah. There are pictures of Barkazil neighborhoods, which Aiah recognizes from Jaspeer, but they are ingeniously mixed with images from Caraqui to suggest that a large Barkazil community is in place here, and that Aiah is their unquestioned leader. Supposed Barkazil immigrants, allegedly drawn to Caraqui by Aiah’s personal magnetism, are shown being welcomed by Caraqui officials.
“She is our commander,” Alfeg says. He looks quite natural and comfortable on camera. “She fights for her people, her nation. We are here to serve her.” Two of the departmerit’s total of four Barkazils, looking far less comfortable than Alfeg, sit in the background and nod stiff agreement.
“Aiah has transformed this metropolis,” Khorsa confirms. She has forgone her witch dress and appears in the conservative gray suit of the professional mage and member of the PED, albeit with one of her glittering jeweled foci pinned neatly to her lapel.
“I can’t think of another person,” she says, “who could have so totally destroyed such a huge, malevolent, and emplaced organization as the Silver Hand.”
“I haven’t destroyed it,” Aiah points out, but Aldemar hushes her.
There is a short diversion from the chromo’s relentless pursuit of its subject while the narrator embarks on a brief biography of Great-Uncle Rathmen and points out that his money is financing the current insurrection.
And then Khorsa is back, smiling brightly. “Of course Aiah is Constantine’s lover,” she says.
“No!” Aiah cries in horror.
Constantine glances at her sidelong, and a smile touches his lips. “If I can put up with this,” he says, “you can.”
Aiah watches with increasing dread as the chromo plunges into her relationship with Constantine. That few of the details are correct doesn’t make it any less horrifying.
“He was besotted by her the first time he saw her,” reports a talking head, alleged to belong to one of Constantine’s friends. “She’s his secret general—his good luck.”
“What is the point of this?” Aiah demands.
“It will make you interesting,” Constantine says. “Few will care about some shadowy figure in the Caraqui government, but revealed as my lover you will become the focus of millions.”
Aiah sinks hopelessly into her seat. “I don’t suppose there is any point in protesting,” she says.
“Well,” Aldemar offers, “it’s true. The gist, anyway. You are lovers, after all. And you do chase criminals, and you are a Barkazil.” She gives a tight-lipped little smile. “It’s much more true than most of my publicity.”
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 want publicity. Whereas publicity, the more sensational the better, is exactly what is required for you.”
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 Metro Squad—ever watch that? She phoned in her performance from Chemra.”
“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 first. But the image we chose for you is that of the secret mastermind operating behind events. The sex is a validation of your status. It’s not that you’re important because you’re Constantine’s lover, it’s that being Constantine’s lover confirms the fact that you’re important.”
“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.”