======================

======================
Burning Bright
by Melissa Scott
======================

Copyright (c)1993 by Melissa Scott


e-reads
www.e-reads.com

Science Fiction


---------------------------------
NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by
the original purchaser. Duplication or distribution of this work
by email, floppy disk, network, paper print out, or any other
method is a violation of international copyright law and subjects
the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment.
---------------------------------


         *Part One*
         *Day 30*
_High Spring: Parking Orbit,_
_Burning Bright_
       Quinn Lioe walked the galliot down the sky, using the
shaped force fields of the sails as legs, balancing their draw
against the depth of gravity here in the planet's shadow. Stars
glowed in the mirror display in front of her; spots of dark haze
blocked the brilliance of sun and the limb of the planet, so that
she could see and read the patterns that gravity made in the
vacuum around her. The low-sail, under the keel of her ship,
vibrated in its cup: the field calibration had slipped badly on
the journey from Callixte to Burning Bright, would have to be
adjusted before they left orbit. She sighed, automatically easing
the field, and widened the cross-sails' field to compensate.
Numbers flickered across the base of the mirror as the ship's
system noted and approved the changes; she felt the left cross-


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (1 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

sail tremble under her hand, as its draw approached the illusory
"depth" of hyperspace, and shortened it even before the warning
flashed orange and red across her screen. The galliot continued
its easy progress as though there had been no chance of grounding.
       "Beacon," she said to the ship, to traffic control waiting
somewhere ahead of her in the parking pattern, and a moment later
a marker flared in the mirror's display, ahead and slightly to the
left of the galliot's course. She sighed, wanting to hurry,
wanting to be done and parked and free for the five days or more
that it would take to recalibrate the fields, but disciplined
herself to safe and steady progress. The galliot crept forward,
sails beating slowly against the weak currents of hyperspace that
were almost drowned by the local gravity. Her hands rested lightly
on the controls; she felt the depth of space in the pressure of
the sails, saw the same numbers reflected in the slow swirl of the
currents overlaid on the mirror's mimicking of reality.
       At last she brought the galliot to a slow stop almost on
top of the unreal marker, and shortened the sails until the system
gravity took over, drawing the ship neatly into the designated
space. She smiled, pleased with her precision, and kicked the
lever that lit the anchor field. Lights flared along the mirror's
base -- familiar, but nonetheless satisfying -- and the ship said
sweetly, "On target. Anchorage confirmed."
       "Nicely done," a familiar voice said, and Lioe glanced over
her shoulder in some surprise. She hadn't heard Kerestel enter the
pilot's dome, had thought he was still back in cargo space sorting
out what had and hadn't gone on the drop. _And, to be fair,
cleaning up after the bungee-gars_.
       "Thanks," she said aloud, and ran her hands across the main
board, closing and snuffing the sail fields. She set the anchor
field then, watched the telltales strengthen to green, and turned
away from her station, working her shoulders to free them of the
night's -- _morning's_, she corrected silently, _it was the
beginning of the new day on Burning Bright_ -- painstaking work.
"How's it look back there?"
       "Bungee-gars," Kerestel said. He leaned against the
hatchway, folding his arms across his chest. His hands and bare
arms were still reddened from the embrace of the servo gloves he
used to move the canisters that held the cargo safe during the
drop to the planet's surface. "Gods, they're a grubby lot."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (2 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

       Looking at him, Lioe bit back a laugh. As usual, Kerestel
was wearing a spacesuit liner, this one more battered even than
usual, the long sleeves cut off at the shoulder to make it easier
to work the servos. He had stopped shaving two days into the trip -
- _also as usual_ -- and the incipient beard had sprouted in
goatish grey tufts. The hat that marked him as a union pilot --
this one a beret of gold-shot grey brocade, pinned up on one side
with a cluster of brightly faceted glass -- perched, incongruously
jaunty, on his balding head.
       Kerestel had the grace to grin. "Well, you know what I
mean. And Christ, the pair of them couldn't make up their minds
what was to go in the drop -- if they had minds."
       Lioe nodded, and turned to the secondary board to begin
shutting down the mirror. Bungee-gars, the hired hands who rode
the drop capsules down out of orbit to help protect particularly
valuable cargoes from hijacking after landing, were generally a
difficult group to work with -- _you have to be pretty crazy to
begin with, or desperate, to take a job like that_ -- and the two
who had come aboard on Demeter had been slightly more bizarre than
usual. "What I don't care for," she said, "is running cargo that
needs bungee-gars."
       "You got a point there," Kerestel said rather sourly, and
Lioe allowed herself a crooked smile. Cargoes that needed bungee-
gars were valuable enough to hijack in transit as well as at the
drop point, and the free space between the Republic and the Hsaioi-
An was loosely patrolled at best, with no one claiming either
jurisdiction or responsibility. She shook the thought away --
there had been no sign of trouble, from Callixte to Demeter or
after -- and keyed a final set of codes into the interpreter.
Overhead, and across the front of the dome, the tracking overlays
began to fade, first the oily swirls that showed the hyperspatial
currents, and then the all-but-invisible blue-black lines that
showed the depth of realspace. The stars blazed out around them,
suns strewn like dust and seed, tossed in prodigal handfuls
against the night where the plane of the galaxy intersected the
mirror's curve. Then the shields that cloaked sun and planet
vanished, and the brilliance drowned even the bright stars. Lioe
blinked, dazzled, and looked away.
       "But if they'd only make up their mind," Kerestel said, and
Lioe frowned for a second before she realized he was still talking


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (3 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

about the bungee-gars. "You probably felt it, Quinn, they kept
changing which capsules were going, so by the time they'd decided,
the whole ship was unbalanced. I'll bet money that hasn't helped
the low-sail projector."
       "I didn't feel we were off alignment," Lioe said. "She
handled fine, and the projector didn't feel any worse than when we
left Demeter. You did a good job, Micky."
       She saw Kerestel's shoulders relax, subtly, and realized
that he had been looking for that reassurance all along. She hid a
sigh -- she liked Kerestel well enough, liked his ship even
better, but his insecurities were wearing -- and said, "Speaking
of which, have you scheduled the repairs?"
       "Yes." Kerestel's face brightened. "The yard says they can
take us into the airdock tomorrow, and they'll tear down the
projector right away. The whole thing, including recalibration,
ought to take about eight days. Not bad, eh?"
       "Not bad," Lioe agreed. _Not bad at all, especially when it
happens over Burning Bright_. "I thought I'd take off, go
planetside," she said, carefully casual. "You're not going to need
me up here."
       Kerestel frowned slightly, said, after a heartbeat's pause
that seemed much longer, "You're going Gaming, right?"
       "That's right." Lioe bit her tongue to keep from adding
more. _This is Burning Bright, heart of the Game, where the best
clubs and the best players -- the greatest notables -- live and
work. I'm not missing this chance. Chances like this are only once
a lifetime_ --
       "It's a game, Quinn," Kerestel said.
       "And it's one I'm very, very good at," Lioe retorted. She
grinned, forced a lighter tone. "Christ, Micky, it's not like I'm
quitting."
       "One of these days, though," Kerestel muttered, and Lioe
reached across to touch his shoulder.
       "Not likely, and you know it. Piloting's a steady living,
and I'm not stupid." _I had to work too hard to get the
apprenticeship, coming out of Foster Services; I'm not giving that
up anytime soon_. But that was none of Kerestel's business; she
forced the smile to stay on her lips, said, "All I'm saying is, I
think I'm going to spend the repair break planetside. All right?"
She could force the issue, she knew -- they were both union, and


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (4 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

the union gave her the right to move off the ship anytime it was
anchored in orbit for more than five days -- but she liked
Kerestel too well to use that lever unless she had to. _And
besides, he's getting old, one foot on the retirement line. I
don't want to hurt his feelings_.
       Kerestel nodded, reluctantly. "All right," he said, and
then made himself sound more enthusiastic. "And good luck with the
Game."
       It was those efforts that made him worth working for, even
if he was getting old and querulous. "Thanks," Lioe said, and
retreated to her cabin to collect her belongings.
       It didn't take her long to pack: her jump bag was easily
large enough to hold a couple of changes of clothes, plus her
Gameboard and the thick plastic case that held the half-dozen
Rulebook disks. She seized a hat at random, this one black, with a
wide brim, shrugged on a jacket -- her favorite, heavy blue-black
workcloth with a flurry of Game pins across the lapels -- and
tapped into the local comnet to find a taxi-shuttle to take her
across to the customs station. Kerestel was nowhere in sight when
it arrived, and she hesitated, but called her good-byes into the
shipwide intercom. There was no answer; she shrugged again, caught
between hurt and annoyance, and pulled herself through the
transfer tube to the taxi.
       The landing check was strict and time-consuming. The
officer on duty went over her papers with excruciating care, and
ran the Rulebooks through a virus scan twice before grudgingly
allowing her to carry them onto the surface. She made the orbiter
with only minutes to spare, and collapsed into her seat, resolved
to sleep for as much of the descent as possible.
       She woke to the unfamiliar noise of air against the
orbiter's hull, sat up in her harness to see fire rolling across
the viewport. The orbiter bucked and fought the sudden turbulence,
and then they were down into the atmosphere. Servos whined
underfoot and in the cabin walls, reconfiguring wings and lifting
surfaces, and the orbiter became a proper aircraft, banking easily
against the heavy air that held it. The engine fired, a coughing
explosion at the tail of the taxi, and the craft steadied further,
came completely under control. Lioe released the breath she hadn't
realized she'd been holding, and craned her head to look out the
viewport again.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (5 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

       "We'll be landing at Newfields in about fifty minutes," the
steward said, from the front of the cabin. "It's day thirty of
High Spring, the end of High Spring -- that's day ninety-four of
our four-hundred-day year. Burning Bright has a twenty-five-
standard-hour day, and you should program your chronometers
accordingly. If you are keeping Greenwich Republican time, the
GRTC factor is eighty-eight B-for-bravo one hundred fifty-two.
Ground temperature is twenty-three degrees. If you need any
assistance, or further information, please feel free to ask. Your
call buttons are on the cabin wall above your head."
       No one seemed to respond, and Lioe turned her head back to
the window. Clouds flashed past beneath them, thin wisps that only
partly obscured the glittering water. Burning Bright was mostly
water; the main -- the only -- landmass was largely artificial,
the new land built on the inner edges of the giant atoll's
original islands, guarded from floods by a massive network of
dikes and storm barriers. The city of Burning Bright -- city and
planet shared a name; the two were effectively identical -- was
one of the great engineering achievements of the nonaligned
worlds: _even in the Republic, and even in Foster Service
schools_, Lioe thought, _you learn that mantra_. And it was pretty
much true. In all the time she'd spent in space, piloting ships
between the Republic and the nonaligned worlds and Hsaioi-An,
she'd never been anyplace that was at all like Burning Bright.
       "Can I get you anything?"
       Lioe looked up to find the steward looking down at her,
balancing easily against the movement of the orbiter, one hand
resting on the back of the empty couch beside her. She shook her
head, but smiled. "I can't think of anything, thanks."
       The steward nodded, but didn't move. "I couldn't help
noticing your pins."
       Lioe let her smile widen, grateful she hadn't had to set up
this encounter herself. "I saw yours, too." She glanced again at
the pair of Game pins clipped just below the company icon: one was
the triangle-and-galaxy of the Old Network, but the other was
unfamiliar. "Local club?" she asked, and was not surprised when
the steward shook his head.
       "Actually, it's a session souvenir," he said. "It was a
Court Life variant, run by Ambidexter about five years ago."
       "I think I saw tapes of that," Lioe said, impressed in


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (6 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

spite of herself. The steward didn't look old enough to have been
playing at that level five years ago. "That was the one that
featured Gallio Hazard and Desir of Harmsway, right? The one that
really made Harmsway a Grand Type."
       "That's right." The steward glanced quickly around the
cabin, then lowered himself into the couch next to her. "I'm Vere -
- Audovero Caminesi."
       "Quinn Lioe." They touched hands, awkward because of her
safety harness.
       "You wouldn't be the Lioe who wrote the Frederick's Glory
scenario," Vere said.
       "As a matter of fact, I am."
       Vere grinned. "That was a great session. There's been a lot
of talk on the net about it; I'm still trying to find someone at
the club who'll run it. Are you going to be doing any Gaming while
you're here?"
       The conversation was going just the way she'd hoped it
would. Lioe said, "I was hoping to. I don't know the clubs,
though."
       Vere spread his hands. "I can give you some names, if you'd
like."
       "I'd appreciate it."
       "There are really only three clubs that are worth your
while," Vere said, lowering his voice until she could just hear
him over the noise of the engines. "Billi's in the Old City,
Shadows under the Old Dike in Dock Road District, and the Two-
Dragon House, in Mainwardens'." He grinned suddenly. "I think
Shadows is the best of the lot -- it's where I play, so take it
for what it's worth."
       Lioe smiled back. "What's the setup like?"
       "They're all about the same, really," Vere answered. A
chime sounded from farther forward in the compartment, and he
lifted his head to look over the seatbacks for the source. Lioe
followed the direction of his gaze, and saw a call light flashing
above one of the seats. Vere grimaced, and pushed himself to his
feet, but leaned down to finish what he had been saying. "Shadows
has newer machines, but they're not state-of-the-art. Billi's was
that maybe four, five years ago. Two-Dragon is pretty standard
stuff, a little older than Shadows."
       "Thanks," Lioe said, and Vere smiled down at her.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (7 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

       "Don't forget me if you run an open session."
       "I'll keep you in mind," Lioe said, and meant it. She would
be needing good players, if she managed to persuade a club to let
her lead sessions, and anyone who could play for Ambidexter was
good enough for her. It was just a pity Ambidexter himself was no
longer in the Game.
       She turned her head to the viewport again, was startled to
see how far the orbiter had dropped. The water was no longer just
a blue haze, had gained a crumpled texture, and flecks of white
dotted the metallic surface. Burning Bright City was just visible
in the distance, if she craned her neck, but mostly hidden by the
orbiter's nose. The craft banked sharply then, showing her nothing
but the brilliance of the sky, and when it steadied onto the new
heading, Burning Bright lay spread out beneath the orbiter's wing.
It seemed very small at first, an island split in three by a
forked channel, but then the orbiter banked again, losing
altitude, and she began to make out the smaller landformed islands
that made up the larger masses. Most of them were thickly settled,
furred with brick-red buildings, light glinting occasionally from
solar panels and interior waterways. Only the high ground at the
outer edges of the islands remained relatively uncrowded. She
frowned idly at that, wondering why, and the speakers crackled at
the front of the cabin.
       Vere said, "I've just been informed that we are starting
the descent to Newfields. We should be on the ground in about
fifteen minutes."
       The orbiter canted again as he spoke, and when it came
level again, Lioe was looking at a scene she recognized. Twin
lakes lay to either side of a piece of land like a small mountain,
falling steeply to the sea on one side and more gently into
settled country on the other. That was Plug Island, where the
first-in settlers had first dammed the shallow lagoon to create
more land for their growing city. Double headlands cradled each of
the lakes; the desalination complex and the thick white walls of
the tidal generating stations that closed each lake off from the
sea gleamed in the sunlight. Outside the generating stations'
walls, surf bloomed against the storm barriers that defended the
Plug Island lagoons; it frothed as well against the base of the
cliffs to either side. They were coming into Newfields. Even as
she thought it, the orbiter rolled a final time, then steadied


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (8 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

into the familiar approach. They flashed over the clustered houses
of the Ghetto where the off-worlders, and especially the hsai,
lived -- still on the inner edges of the island, overlooking the
land, away from the sea -- and then dropped low over the
administrative complex. The orbiter touched down easily on stained
and tire-marked pavement, and she leaned back in her couch, no
longer watching the blocks of warehouses that flashed past beyond
the empty field. _Not long now_, she thought, _not long. I'll find
a room in the Ghetto, and I'll call some clubs, and I'll have a
Game to run_. She smiled, losing herself in a dream.
--------
         *Day 30*
         _High Spring: The Hsai Ambassador's_
_House, in the Ghetto, Burning Bright_
       The ambassador to Burning Bright knelt in his reception
room, facing the hissing screen. A few check-characters crawled
across the blank grey space; the ambassador frowned, seeing them,
and glanced over his shoulder at the technician who knelt in front
of the control board.
       "Sorry, Sia Chauvelin," the technician murmured, and his
hands danced across his controls. The characters vanished, were
replaced by a single steady glyph: the link was complete.
       Chauvelin glanced one last time around the narrow room, at
the plain black silk that lined the walls, at the low table with
the prescribed ritual meal -- snow-wine; a tray of tiny red-
stained wafers, each marked in black with the graceful double-
glyph that meant both good fortune and gift; a molded sweet, this
one in the shape of the _nuao_-pear that stood for duty -- laid
out in the faint shadow of a single perfect orchid in an equally
perfect holder carved from a natural pale-purple crystal. His own
clothes were equally part of the prescribed ritual, plain black
silk coat over the pearl-grey bodysuit that served humans like
himself for the hsai's natural skin, a single knot of formal
ribbons tied around his left arm, the folded iron fan set on the
bright carpet in front of him. He glanced a final time at his
reflection in the single narrow window, checking his appearance,
and found it acceptable. It was night out still, the sun not yet
risen; he suppressed a certain sense of injustice, and glanced
again at the technician. "Is everything ready?"
       "Yes, Sia Chauvelin."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (9 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

       "Then you may go." Chauvelin looked back at the screen,
barely aware of the murmured response and the soft scuffing sound
as the technician bowed himself out and closed the door gently
behind him. The remote was a sudden weight against his thigh,
reminding him of his duty; he reached into the pocket of his coat
to touch its controls, triggering the system. The hidden speakers
hissed for a moment, singing as the jump-satellite bridged the
interstellar space between the local transmitter and an identical
machine on maiHu'an, and then the screen lit on a familiar scene.
Chauvelin bowed, back straight, eyes down, hands on the carpet in
front of him, heard a light female voice -- human female --
announcing his name.
       "Tal je-Chauvelin tzu Tsinra-an, emissary to and friend-at-
court for the _houta_ of Burning Bright."
       Chauvelin kept his eyes on the fan, dark against the
glowing red of the carpet, staring at the five _n-jao_ characters
of his name carved into the outer guard. There was a little
silence, and then a second voice answered the first, this one
unmistakably hsaia, inhuman and male.
       "I acknowledge je-Chauvelin."
       Chauvelin leaned back slowly, raising his eyes to the
screen. Even expecting it, the illusion was almost perfect, so
that for an instant he could almost believe that the wall had
dissolved, and a second room identical to his own had opened in
front of him. The Remembrancer-Duke Aorih ja-Erh'aoa tzu Tsinra-an
sat facing him in a carved chair-of-state, hands posed formally on
the heads of the crouching troglodyths that formed the arms of the
chair. His wrist spurs curved out and down toward the troglodyths'
eyes, their enameled covers -- done in a pattern of twining
flowers, Chauvelin saw, without surprise -- glowing in the warm
lights.
       "This person thanks his most honored patron for his
acknowledgment," he said, in the hsai tongue that he prided
himself on speaking as well as any jericho-human, any human born
and bred inside the borders of Hsaioi-An. "And welcomes him with
service."
       Ja-Erh'aoa made a quick, ambiguous gesture with one hand,
at once accepting and dismissing the formal compliments. The
stubby fingerclaws, painted a delicate shade between lavender and
blue to match the enameled flowers of the spur sheath, clicked


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (10 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

once against the carved head, and were still again. Chauvelin read
impatience and irritation in the movement, and in the still face
of the human woman who stood at ja-Erh'aoa's left hand, and braced
himself for whatever was to follow.
       "I would like to know, je-Chauvelin, what you meant by this
report."
       For a crazy second, Chauvelin considered asking which
report the hsaia meant, but suppressed that particularly suicidal
notion. The Remembrancer-Duke had shifted from the formal tones of
greeting to the more conversational second mode, and Chauvelin
copied him. "My lord, you asked for my interpretation of what the
All-Father and his council should expect from the elections. I
gave you that answer."
       "You recommended that we support, or at least acquiesce in,
Governor Berengaria's reelection." Ja-Erh'aoa's hand moved again,
the painted claws clicking irritably against the troglodyth's low
forehead. "Am I mad, or do I misremember, that she supports the
Republic quite openly?"
       Chauvelin winced inwardly at the mention of memory -- ja-
Erh'aoa implied that he had implied an insult -- and said, "It is
so, my lord." He kept his voice cool and steady only with an
effort: he had known that this would become an issue of
_an'ahoba_, the delicate game of status and prestige, but he had
counted on ja-Erh'aoa's support.
       "Then why should we not stand in her way?"
       _I gave you my reasons in my report, my lord_. Chauvelin
suppressed that answer, and saw the faintest of rueful smiles
cross the human woman's otherwise impassive face. He said aloud,
"My Lord, the other candidates are not safe. They either have no
backing among the people who matter" -- _or among the people in
general, but that's not something a hsaia would understand_ -- "or
are too young and untried for me to suggest that Hsaioi-An place
any trust in them."
       "It is not expedient that we support Berengaria," ja-
Erh'aoa said flatly.
       "Then, my lord, it is as though my report was never made."
Chauvelin sat back slightly, folded his hands in his lap.
       "Unfortunately," ja-Erh'aoa said, "your report has become
common knowledge in the council halls. I have suffered some --
diminishment -- because of it. It is even being said, je-


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (11 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

Chauvelin, that you are too close to the _houta_ on Burning
Bright, and would perhaps benefit from a different posting."
       "Do you question my loyalties, lord?" Even as he said it,
Chauvelin knew that was the wrong question, born from the sudden
cold fear twisting his guts. It was too direct, put ja-Erh'aoa in
a position where he could only answer yes -- and he himself was
too vulnerable to that accusation to risk angering his patron. No
_chaoi-mon_, citizen by impressment, could risk that, particularly
not when he was born on Burning Bright and served now as
ambassador to that planet. He silenced those thoughts, kept
himself still, hands quiet in his lap, face expressionlessly
polite, with an effort that made the muscles along his spine and
across his shoulders tremble slightly beneath the heavy coat. He
made himself face ja-Erh'aoa guilelessly, as though no one had
touched his one vulnerable spot, pretended he did not see the
Remembrancer-Duke's fingerclaws close over the troglodyths' heads.
       "No one questions your fealty, je-Chauvelin," ja-Erh'aoa
said, after a moment. "However, it is as well not to cause even
the hint of a question."
       _Bad, very bad_, Chauvelin thought. He bowed again,
accepting the rebuke, and said, "As my lord wishes."
       "I would also see to your household, je-Chauvelin," ja-
Erh'aoa said. "I am concerned that this report has traveled so far
outside my knowledge, and yours."
       Chauvelin lifted an eyebrow at him, stung at last into
retort. "My household is well known to me, save the guest I
entertain at your command, my lord."
       There was another little silence, ja-Erh'aoa's hands slowly
tightening over the troglodyths' heads, thumbclaws perilously
close to their carved eyes, and Chauvelin braced himself to offer
his humblest apologies. Then, quite slowly, ja-Erh'aoa's hands
loosened again, and he said, with apparent inconsequence, "How is
your guest, Chauvelin?"
       "The Visiting Speaker is enjoying the pleasures of the
planet," Chauvelin answered, conventionally. _In point of fact,
the Visiting Speaker Kuguee ji-Imbao aje Tsinra-an, cousin of the
Imperial Father, is spending most of his nights attending parties
and most days sleeping off the effects of Oblivion. Even so, I may
have underestimated him -- or at least his household_. He made a
mental note to make a second investigation of the half-dozen


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (12 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

attendants who had arrived with ji-Imbaoa.
       "You will convey our greetings," ja-Erh'aoa said, and
Chauvelin bowed again.
       "As my lord wishes."
       Ja-Erh'aoa nodded, pushed himself up out of the chair-of-
state, at the same time gesturing to the woman behind him. She
said, in her clear voice, "The audience is ended."
       Chauvelin bowed again, more deeply, hands on the floor,
straightened slowly when the click of the room door was not
followed by the static of a broken connection. Eriki Haas tzu
Tsinra-an, ja-Erh'aoa's First Speaker, looked back at him without
expression, came slowly forward to kneel on the carpeting in front
of ja-Erh'aoa's empty chair. Chauvelin lifted an eyebrow at her.
       "What's made this report so different from all the others?
My lord knows what I think of Berengaria." He used tradetalk, the
informal creole that was the common language of human beings in
Hsaioi-An, and Haas's severity melted into a rueful grin.
       "What makes it different is exactly what he said: somebody
leaked it before it could be edited for the council. And my lord's
right, you should check on how that happened."
       "I fully intend to," Chauvelin said. "This is not the most
opportune time to have a visitor."
       Haas nodded. "The problem is, the je cousins have been
getting a lot of attention at court lately -- Norio Mann is a je
Tsinra-an, and he's been the All-Father's favorite son since the
petro strike on Hazuhonae. And the cousins are doing everything
they can to consolidate their position."
       Chauvelin nodded back, wishing -- not for the first time --
that communications between the court on Hsiamai and the worlds
outside Hsaioi-An were a little more frequent. "If I had known --
" he began, and bit off the words. The rivalry between je and tzu
lines of the imperial family -- between cousin and direct-line
family -- was ongoing; if he couldn't anticipate particular events
and shifts in favor, he should at least have made sure nothing in
his report could have affected the Remembrancer-Duke's position in
that struggle. _But I didn't count on his dumping ji-Imbaoa on me.
Or his household_.
       Haas smiled sourly. "For some reason, Tal, they've decided
to pick on you -- you are in an anomalous position, after all. And
my lord is vulnerable through you, don't forget."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (13 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

       "I don't forget," Chauvelin said.
       "Good."
       "Tell me this," Chauvelin said, and in spite of his best
efforts heard the anger in his voice. "Do you want me to retract
my report? It's my best advice -- my lord never used to prefer a
political lie to common sense, but I am at my lord's command."
       "No." Haas waved one hand in a hsaii gesture, negation and
apology in one. "What's done is done. But you might look for some
way to reaffirm your loyalties in public, Tal. My lord would find
it helpful."
       "I'll do that," Chauvelin said, a new, cold fear warring
with the anger. He had earned his place on Burning Bright, earned
the right to return to his homeworld, a favor almost never granted
to _chaoi-mon_, and that did leave him open to just this
accusation, that he favored his origins over the imperial clan
that had adopted him.
       Haas looked at him from under lowered lashes. "My lord is
vulnerable through you," she said again.
       "The threat was clear the first time," Chauvelin said.
       "I hope so," Haas murmured, and ran a finger along the
elaborate enameling that decorated the cover of her implanted
wrist spur. The picture wavered and died. Chauvelin swore, and
reached for his own remote, closing down the local connection.
Check characters flickered across the screen, and then the wall
went dead, a blank grey space at the end of the room.
       Chauvelin sat staring at it for a long moment, mastering
his anger, and the fear that anger masked. _So my lord will throw
me to the wolves_, he thought, testing the idea, and found he
could view it without great surprise. _So I will find a reason for
him to have to keep me, and I think I will begin with finding
something, or something more, to discredit ji-lmbaoa. Not that
that will be that hard, or particularly unpleasant_. He pushed
himself slowly to his feet, wincing a little at the ache in his
knees. Outside the window, the sky had lightened visibly, the sky
even to the west, over the city, showing clear signs of dawn.
There was no point in going back to bed -- the conference had been
scheduled at ja-Erh'aoa's convenience, and he himself had other
appointments later in the day. Better to eat -- _assuming the
kitchen staff is awake, which they had better be_ -- and then take
steps to deal with this.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (14 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

       He returned to his own rooms to change clothes, discarding
the unflattering bodysuit and heavy coat with a sigh of relief.
One of the servants -- the hsai preferred living beings to
mechanicals; service given and received in kinship was the glue of
their society, and this morning Chauvelin was oddly comforted by
his place in the hierarchy -- had laid out everyday clothing,
shirt and plain trousers, and a less formal coat of green brocade.
The fabric was of Burning Bright weave, shot through with strands
of the iridescent pearl-silk rendered from the discarded shells of
the sequensa after the more expensive paillettes had been cut, and
he hesitated for a moment, wondering if it would be more tactful
to wear something less obviously identified with his world of
origin, but then shrugged the thought aside. The damage was done;
it was better to pretend he hadn't heard about the rumors. And
besides, the cool drape of the fabric was a reassuring luxury. He
slipped it on, running one hand down the unshaped lapel just for
the feeling of the heavy silk under his touch, and left the room.
       The sun was fully up now, the rising light pouring in
through the seaward windows, casting long shadows toward the city
below the Ghetto cliff. The breakfast room, overlooking the
gardens that dropped in terraces toward the cliff edge and the Old
City, was pleasantly shadowed, only the food tables softly lit by
the stasis fields. Chauvelin smiled with real enjoyment for the
first time that day, and crossed to the tables to pour himself a
cup of flower-scented tea.
       "Sia Chauvelin."
       He turned to face the speaker, recognizing his steward's
voice, and saw a second person, jericho-human rather than hsaii,
standing beside the steward, so close and so exactly even in the
doorway that their shoulders touched. The woman was part of ji-
Imbaoa's household, and Chauvelin set the tea aside untouched.
       "Yes?"
       "My lord wishes to speak with you," ji-Imbaoa's servant
said, her voice completely without expression.
       "The Visiting Speaker has only just returned from the
city," the steward murmured, under lowered lashes. Her fingers
curled with demure humor as she spoke.
       Chauvelin lifted an eyebrow, his mind racing. _What the
ninth hell could ji-Imbaoa want, at this hour, when he's bound to
be hung over, or still drunk, if I'm particularly unlucky? I


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (15 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

should change to wait on him, but I'll be damned if he deserves
the honor_ -- "The Visiting Speaker will have to pardon the
delay," he said, and indicated the informal coat.
       "My lord will excuse," ji-Imbaoa's servant said, still
without expression.
       "As the Visiting Speaker wishes," Chauvelin said, and could
not quite keep the irony from his voice. "Iameis" -- that was his
steward, who bowed her head in acknowledgment -- "you'll join me
for breakfast after this. We have some things to discuss."
       "Yes, Sia," the steward murmured, and stepped aside.
       Chauvelin looked at the other woman. "Lead on."
       He let her conduct him through the ambassadorial palace, as
was proper, for all that he knew the building far better than she
ever would. She stayed the prescribed two paces ahead of him and
slightly to his right, unspeaking, and Chauvelin watched her back,
rigid under the black tunic, and the short swing of her left arm.
A conscript's mark was tattooed into her biceps, just below the
fall of the cap sleeve. Chauvelin felt his eyebrows rise,
controlled his expression instantly. _Why would anyone be stupid
enough to trust ji-Imbaoa with pressed servants? Loyalty can only
be created by favor, not by fear -- though some of my own first
masters were no joy to serve, but nothing like him_. He filed the
observation for later use, and braced himself as the woman came to
a stop outside the door of ji-Imbaoa's suite. They were
technically Chauvelin's own rooms, by virtue of his rank as head
of the ambassadorial household, but Chauvelin himself rarely used
them, since any visitor of higher rank could usurp them. Ji-lmbaoa
had taken particular pleasure in moving his household into the
rooms, and Chauvelin had had to keep a sharp grip on his temper to
keep from betraying the existence of a second group of rooms. Ji-
Imbaoa would have been happy to move in there, at the expense of
his own comfort, just to win a few points in _an'ahoba_.
       "The ambassador Chauvelin," ji-Imbaoa's servant announced
to the invisible security system, and the carved and lacquered
doors swung open.
       The Visiting Speaker Kuguee ji-Imbaoa je Tsinra-an stood in
the center of the suite's reception room, feet firmly planted on
the silk-weave carpet that lay before the chair-of-state. _At
least he hasn't chosen to take the chair_, Chauvelin thought, and
suppressed his anger as he saw the mud on ji-Imbaoa's feet, caked


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (16 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

between the claws and trampled into the carpet. It was a familiar
way of showing power, but Chauvelin added it to the Visiting
Speaker's account: the carpet was too beautiful to be treated as
part of _an'ahoba_.
       "_Ts'taa_." The word was untranslatable, carrying contempt
and impatience and a concise statement of relationship, superior
to inferior. Chauvelin raised his eyebrows, hoping that ji-Imbaoa
had finally made a mistake -- he and the Visiting Speaker were too
close in the hierarchy for that to be anything but a deliberate
and deadly insult -- and realized with regret that ji-Imbaoa was
addressing the woman servant.
       "You are careless, and slow, and I am diminished by your
habits." Ji-Imbaoa glanced sideways then, toward Chauvelin, and
added, "_Chaoi_ have so much to learn."
       He had used the shortened term, the one that had once meant
"slave." The woman's shoulders twitched once, but she mastered
herself, and bowed deeply. "I abase myself. I beg my lord's
forgiveness."
       Ji-Imbaoa waved a hand in dismissal, and the woman turned
away, but not before Chauvelin saw the bright spots of color
flaring on her cheekbones. _It's not wise -- it's downright stupid
-- to abuse your servants to get back at your enemies_. He said,
in his most neutral voice, "And yet the All-Father commends the
practice."
       Ji-Imbaoa's head lowered, suspiciously, but he said
nothing. Chauvelin waited, running a quick and appraising glance
down the Visiting Speaker's mostly humanoid body. Fingerclaws and
spurs were painted a vivid red, the spurs protected only by a
small cap of filigree-work. The bright ribbon clusters that flowed
from bands around his upper arms, forming his only clothing, were
badly crumpled, and Chauvelin glanced lower. The salmon-pink tip
of ji-Imbaoa's penis was only just visible at the opening of the
genital sheath: still drunk enough to relax some inhibitions, but
sobering.
       "I've summoned you because I've been hearing worrisome
news," ji-Imbaoa said abruptly. _News you should already know
about_, his tone implied.
       Chauvelin murmured, "Indeed?" They were close enough in
rank to omit honorifics in informal speech, and ji-Imbaoa had used
the common forms.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (17 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

       Ji-Imbaoa's hands twitched, as though he regretted his
choice, but he could not change modes without losing face. "You
have an agent in the city, a _houta_, Ransome, it's called."
       "Ransome is under my patronage, yes," Chauvelin answered.
"He's been _min-hao_ for some years." The gap between _houta_,
nonperson, and client-kinsman was vast; Ransome needed the respect
and protection of _min-hao_ status.
       Ji-Imbaoa flicked his fingers, dismissing the difference.
"Decidamio Chrestil-Brisch is showing a great deal of interest in
him. I wonder why."
       _And so do I_, Chauvelin thought. He said aloud, "There are
a number of reasons that Damian Chrestil might be interested in
Ransome, not least that Ransome's an imagist of some note in the
city."
       "That may be," ji-Imbaoa said, "but what I have seen is
that Damian Chrestil -- or that woman, his whore -- wants very
much to lure your agent back into the Game. Why would that be?"
       "I don't know," Chauvelin said.
       "Such pressure against an agent of yours, I'd think you'd
want to know what's going on. They leave lures on all the nets,
hints and pressures. It's not like Damian Chrestil to care about
the Game -- "
       "Cella, his mistress" -- Chauvelin laid the lightest of
stresses on the word -- "is a well-known Gamer, however, and
Ransome was a notable for a long time."
       Ji-Imbaoa flicked his fingers again. "I think it's worth
investigation."
       Chauvelin sighed. "So do I."
       "And I also think," ji-Imbaoa went on, as if the other
hadn't spoken, "that it would be worth doing what Damian Chrestil
wants, if only to find out what's going on."
       "If it seems a reasonable risk," Chauvelin said softly. "I
don't send my people into difficult situations unprepared."
       "Of course, if he can tell you what they want," ji-Imbaoa
said, equally softly, "it wouldn't be necessary."
       "As you say." Chauvelin got a grip on his temper with an
effort, knowing his anger was sharpened by fear. "Will that be
all? I have business this morning -- "
       Ji-Imbaoa cut him off with a gesture. "There is one other
matter. This Ransome: you say he's not _houta_ but _min-hao?_"


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (18 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

       "Yes." Chauvelin gave no other explanation, uncertain where
this would lead.
       "Then there is a matter of charges lodged against him on
Jericho, which are actionable if he is _min-hao_."
       "At the time, he was _houta_, and served sentence on
appropriate charges," Chauvelin said. _Not now_, he thought, _not
now, of all times, to bring that up. Christ, it was fifteen years
ago, and he spent time in jail; that ought to be over and done
with_. But it had been a matter of _an'ahoba_, a game that Ransome
played with regrettable skill and no status to match it -- _and I
should have known this would come up at the worst possible time. I
can deal with it_.
       "The larger matters still stand, in court record." Ji-
Imbaoa made a small gesture, almost of satisfaction. "But I trust
you will handle these matters appropriately."
       "Of course," Chauvelin said, in his most colorless voice.
_Twice in one day -- that's twice someone's threatened me, and
it's not yet midmorning. Not one of my better days_.
       "I am sure," ji-Imbaoa said, and gestured polite dismissal.
Chauvelin bowed his thanks, and let himself out into the hallway.
       He made his way back to the breakfast room through
corridors that were slowly filling with people, responding
mechanically to the respectful greetings of his household. _Three
things_, he thought, _three things I have to do. Find the
weaknesses in ji-Imbaoa's household so that I can counter his
threats, find out who leaked this report of mine, and then find
out why Damian Chrestil wants Ransome back in the Game. And why it
should worry ji-Imbaoa so much. Which means I will have to talk to
Ransome: it doesn't do to have him keeping secrets from me_. He
paused in the door of the breakfast room, mentally reordering his
list, then went in to give orders to the waiting steward.
--------
         *Day 30*
         _High Spring: Canal #291, Fisher's_
         _Isle District, Burning Bright_
       Damian Chrestil woke to sunlight and the steady sway of the
john-boat against the forward mooring. The stern tie had parted in
the night. He was certain of it even before he stopped blinking,
and moved his head out of the thin bar of sunlight that shone in
through the gap between the snuggery's canvas top and the side of


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (19 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

the boat. He was angry even before he remembered what lay next to
him in the bunk. It was his fault, the stranger's -- he had been
the one to place the stern tie -- and he propped himself up on one
elbow to study the situation, and the body beside his. He couldn't
remember the stranger's name, nor very clearly why he had picked
him up the night before; whatever had been interesting or
endearing had vanished with his clothes. _Slumming, certainly_ --
and the stranger turned over onto his side, dragging the thin
sheet with him. That was quite enough, especially now that the
inevitable headache was starting behind his eyes. Damian kicked
away the rest of the sheet and reached for his discarded clothes,
wriggling awkwardly into briefs and shirt and trousers. The
stranger -- _whoever he is_ -- was lying on top of the storage
compartments. There was nothing useful in them, not in a borrowed
boat, but Damian added the extra inconvenience to his account
anyway, and crawled out of the snuggery to deal with the stern
tie.
       Luckily, he had had the sense to pick a quiet lay-by. The
john-boat was swinging only sluggishly, the soggy impact of the
hull against the piling barely audible over the gentle slap of the
water, not even enough to bruise the paint. He made his way aft
along the sun-warming decking, and as the boat swung in against
the pilings, caught the dangling ring and made the tie fast. He
stood there for a moment, balancing automatically against the
deck's gentle heave, and blinked up at the sky and the white-hot
light. The john-boat lay at the bottom of a blue-toned canyon.
Shadowed factory buildings rose six stories high along either bank
of the canal, their unlit windows showing only blank glass. This
was not a deliveryway; there were no lesser docks or vertical line
of gaping doors beneath an overhanging cranehead. It was just a
traffic alley, not much used -- it might even once have been a
natural stream, by the gentle curve of its banks. The rising sun
was pouring down from the near end of the channel, a wedge of
almost solid light that turned the murky water to liquid agate. No
one was moving on the narrow walkways that ran alongside the
factories; no one else was tied up to the mossy pilings, or tucked
under the cool shadow of the piers. He made a face -- the heavy
sun was doing nothing for his headache -- and went forward again,
shielding his eyes from the shards of light that glinted off the
water.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (20 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

       The stranger was still asleep in the snuggery, face now
turned to the empty pillow beside him. Damian Chrestil squatted in
the entrance to the cavelike space, staring into air turned honey-
gold by the worn cover, and felt a detached malevolence steal over
him. Why should _he_ sleep, when Damian himself was awake, and
feeling unpleasing? There was nothing in the round face and
showily muscled body that aroused the least compassion; his thin
mustache was intolerable. _I must give up slumming_, he thought,
and leaned sideways to release the lock that held the cover's
frame erect. He caught the nearest hoop as the wind took it,
guiding it down onto the deck. The frame folded neatly, as it was
supposed to, with only a soft creak from the well-oiled mechanism,
and the cover collapsed into a rumpled U-shape at his feet. The
stranger slept on.
       Damian stood for a moment longer, glaring down at him,
automatically tugging his own thick hair into a neat queue. He
remembered perfectly well _how_ he'd acquired the stranger -- he
was a bungee-gar, and C/B Cie., the holding group that managed the
Chrestil-Brisch import/export interests, had successfully received
a shipment of red-carpet, the fungus that fed the family
distilleries. Red-carpet was expensive enough on its own,
especially on a world that had few native sources of alcohol,
valuable enough to justify employing bungee-gars, but it had also
served to cover the two capsules of lachesi that had traveled with
the declared cargo. Oblivion was made from lachesi, and Oblivion
was legal inside the Republic, but the Republican export taxes on
drugs were deliberately high. Evading those duties not only
increased his own profits, but allowed him to do favors for two
important parties, one in the Republic, the other in Hsaioi-An.
And that was how Burning Bright had survived free of control by
either of the metagovernments: the web of favors given and
received that made it entirely too dangerous for strangers to
interfere in Burning Bright's internal politics. It was never too
early to start collecting favors, either, not when he intended to
be governor in five years.
       The stranger shifted uneasily against the mattress, drawing
Damian out of the pleasant daydream. His head was really throbbing
now -- _Oblivion and bai-red rum, not a wise combination_ -- and
he wondered again why he'd invited the stranger aboard. He was
decent-enough looking -- a dark man, young, canalli dark, with


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (21 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

coarse waves in his too-long hair, heavy muscles under the skin,
and buttocks Damian could vaguely remember describing as "cute" --
but not cute enough, not with that silly mustache shadowing his
full mouth. He hadn't been that good a fuck, either: if the
previous night's performance had represented his sexual peak, his
future partners were in for some serious disappointment. Damian
slipped his foot under the sheet, flipped it nearly away. The
stranger rolled over, groping blindly for it, mumbling something
that sounded regrettably like _darling_, and fetched up with his
shoulder resting on the edge of the boat. Damian Chrestil smiled
slowly, and stepped onto the bunk beside him, his feet sinking
only a little way into the hard foam of the mattress. He dug his
foot under the stranger's rib cage, saw him start to roll away
automatically. The stranger's eyes opened then, a sleepy and
entirely too cocksure smile changing to alarm as Damian tipped him
neatly out of the boat. Instinct kept him from yelling until he
surfaced again.
       "What the hell -- ?"
       "Rise and shine." Damian smiled, some of his temper
restored, and turned his attention to the mess in the snuggery.
       The stranger trod water easily, shaking his hair out of his
eyes, but knew better than to try to climb back aboard. "What'd I
do?" he asked plaintively, and pushed himself a few strokes
farther down the channel, out of reach of the cargo-hooks racked
along the gunwales.
       Damian paused, the stranger's clothes in one hand. He had
them all now, except for one crumpled shoe, and he found that
almost in the instant he realized it was missing, tucked in
between the mattress and the bulkhead. He rolled them all together
into a compact ball, and tossed it, not into the canal as he'd
intended, but up onto the walkway between the pilings. It was not,
after all, entirely the stranger's fault.
       "I have work to do," Damian said.
       For an instant it looked as though the stranger might
protest, but Damian scowled, and the other lifted both hands in
dripping apology, the water drawing him down for an instant.
       "Fine." The stranger stopped treading water, lay back, and
let the current take him, exerting himself only when he spotted
the splintering ladder nailed to one of the piers.
       Damian turned away, his mood lifting, and stepped out onto


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (22 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

the narrow bow platform to loosen the tie there. His headache was
fading now, in the morning air, was just an occasional pang behind
his eyebrows. He could hear splashing as the stranger hauled
himself up out of the canal, but did not bother to watch, walked
aft instead and loosed the stern tie. He pushed hard against the
piling, edging the stern toward the main current, and stepped down
into the shallow steering well to hit the start sequence. The
engine whined, then strengthened as the solar panels striping the
deck woke to sunlight and began feeding power to the system,
supplementing the batteries. The john-boat had already caught the
main current, was drifting stern first toward the shadow of the
factories. He swung the wheel, felt the rudder bite, tentative at
first, then more solid as the propellers came up to speed, and
eased open the throttle. The john-boat slowed even as the stern,
the steering well, slipped into the wall of shadow. He felt the
sudden chill on his shoulders, was blinded, looking out into the
light, and then the propellers hit the speed that counteracted the
current. The boat surged back into the sunlight, the water churned
to foam in its wake. On the walkway, the stranger was shivering
even in the sunlight, stamping his feet to let the worst of the
water run off before he pulled on his clothes. Damian Chrestil
wondered again, briefly, precisely who he was, and opened the
throttle further, letting the pulse of the engine reverberate
between the factory walls.
       It was good to be back on the canals again, if only for a
few hours, and he gave himself up to the pulse of the steering bar
and the kick of the deck beneath his feet. You never really lost
the skill, once learned; would always be able to run a john-boat,
but it was good to feel the old ease returning. He grinned, and
gave his full attention to the delicate job of bringing the boat
out of the alley and into the feeder canal that led down to the
Factory Lane and the Inland Water. There wasn't much traffic yet,
none of the swarming mob of gondas that would fill the lane and
the service canals in an hour or so, carrying midrank workers to
their supervisory jobs. The water buses that carried the ordinary
workers to the assembly lines had been and gone, were tied up in
the parking pools along the edge of Dry Cut to wait for the
evening shift change. He reversed the propellers, cutting speed,
and slipped the john-boat into the buoyed channel, bringing it
neatly into line behind a barge piled high with shell scrap.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (23 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

       A light was blinking amber in the center of the control
panel, had been for a few minutes, since before he left the feeder
canal. He eyed it irritably, but knew he could not ignore it any
longer. "Check-in," he said, and the screen lit, the compressed in-
house iconage skittering into place in the tiny display. He
scanned it quickly, still with half an eye on the traffic in the
channel, saw nothing that required his instant attention. He was
about to switch off when the string of messages vanished, and a
second message replaced them: _Jafiera Roscha received third
endangerment citation; please instruct_.
       Damian Chrestil stared at the message for a long moment,
all his attention focused on the tiny characters, and had to
swerve sharply to avoid a channel buoy. He knew Roscha, all right:
one of C/B Cie.'s better john-boat drivers, competent, aggressive,
not one to ask awkward questions when she had a job to do. She was
also what the canalli politely called accident-prone, except that
she usually caused the accidents. He shook his head, said to the
speaker mounted just below the screen, "Check in, direct patch to
the wharfinger. Authorization: Damian Chrestil."
       There was a moment of silence as the system hunted for an
unused uplink, the hissing static barely audible over the engine
and the rush of water along the hull, and then the day dispatcher
said, "I'm sorry, Na Damian, but Na Rosaurin's on another line.
Can I give her a message, or will you hold?"
       "Give her a message," Damian said. "Tell her to find Roscha
and bring her in. I want to talk to her. And get me a copy of this
endangerment complaint."
       "Absolutely, Na Damian." The dispatcher's sharp voice did
not change, but Damian could imagine the lifted eyebrows. "I'll
pass those messages to Na Rosaurin, and put out a call for
Roscha."
       "Thanks, Moreo," Damian said, and added, to the system,
"Close down."
       The system chimed obediently, and a string of icons
flickered across the screen, their transit too fast to be read.
Damian glared at the now-empty screen for a moment longer, then
made himself concentrate on the increasing traffic as he came up
on the buoy that marked the turn onto the Inland Water. He would
deal with Roscha later.
       The Water, the massive deep-water channel that bisected


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (24 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

Burning Bright, was as crowded as ever. Enormous cargo barges
wallowed along in the main channel, warned away from the faster,
lighter john-boat traffic by lines of bright-orange buoys. Dozens
of tiny, brightly painted gondas flashed in and out of the double
channels, day lights glittering from their upturned tails. Damian
swore at the first to cross his path, matching his words to the
jolting rhythm of the swells, and felt the john-boat kick as it
crossed the gonda's wake. He lifted his fist at the gonda driver,
and got a flip of the hand in return. He swore again, and swung
into the lane behind a seiner, its nets drawn up like skirts
around the double boom. It wallowed against the heavy chop --
Storm was only two days away, and the winds had already shifted,
were driving against the current, setting up an unusual swell. The
seiner's holds were obviously full: on its way back from the
sequensa dredging grounds off the Water's Homestead Island
entrance, Damian guessed, and throttled back still further to
clear its heavy wake. It was likely to be the last cargo they'd
see for a few weeks, until Storm was past.
       Even at the slower pace, it didn't take long to come
opposite the mouth of the Straight River, and he slowed again to
thread his way sedately through the bevy of smaller craft that
swarmed around the entrance. The main wharfs loomed beyond that,
massive structures filling in the bend in the bank between the
Straight and the channel that led to the Junction Pool and the
warehouse districts beyond. He felt a distinct pang of regret as
he edged the john-boat into the channel that led to his own docks -
- _if not for business, and if not for Roscha in particular, he
could have spent more of the day on the Water_ -- and transformed
it instantly into anger. It was time Roscha learned her lesson:
that was all. He edged the john-boat between the barges tied up at
MADCo.'s end-of-dock terminal, and let himself drift down easily,
nudging the boat along with short bursts of power, to fetch up
against the worn padding almost directly beneath C/B Cie.'s
antique ship poised against a flaring sun. A familiar face looked
down at him -- Talaina Rosaurin, one of the wharfingers -- and a
couple of dockers ran to catch the lines.
       "Morning, Na Damian. I've the day's plot set up, and
Roscha's on her way in," Rosaurin said.
       Damian nodded in acknowledgment, and leaned sideways to
catch the webbing that covered the fenders. He held the john-boat


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (25 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

steady with one hand and tossed the stern rope up onto the dock.
The nearest docker caught it, began automatically looping it
around the nearest bollard. "Thanks, Rosaurin. Finish the tie-up,
will you?"
       It was not a request. The wharfinger nodded, and dropped
onto the bow.
       "I'll take a look at the plot as soon as I've seen Roscha,"
Damian went on, and swung himself easily up onto the dock. "Send
her in as soon as she gets here."
       "Right, Na Damian," Rosaurin said, but Damian was already
walking away.
       His office was in a corner of the main warehouse, insulated
from the noise and smell of the moving cargoes by a shell of
quilted foam-board, and well away from the wharfingers' station at
the end of the pier. He threaded his way past the gang of dockers
busy at the cranes unloading the barge that had brought the drop
capsules in from the Zone, and glanced sharply into the open cargo
space. He was moderately pleased to see that only two capsules
remained to be brought onto the dock, and made his way past a
whining carrier into the shadows of the warehouse. A pair of
factors looked up at his entrance, and the taller of the two
touched his forehead and came to intercept him, leaving the other
to preside over the newly opened drop capsule.
       "I'm sorry, Na Damian, but there's some minor spoilage in
this shipment."
       "How lovely." Damian bit back the rest of his response,
said instead, "Finish checking it and give me a report. Is it TMN
again?"
       The factor nodded. "I'm afraid so."
       "I need to talk to them," Damian said, and continued on
toward the office. The door opened to his touch, reading his
palmprint on the latch, and admitted him to the narrow lobby,
empty except for the secretary pillar that guarded the inner
doorway. The sphere that balanced on the truncated point of its
slender pyramid glowed pale blue, tinged with green at the edges;
threads of darker blue danced in its center, shaping a series of
brief messages. At least two of the code-strings signaled longer
messages backed up in the system -- probably from his siblings, if
they were sent here -- but he stepped past the pillar into the
inner office.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (26 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

       Behind him, the secretary said, in its cultured artificial
voice, "Na Damian, you have messages waiting."
       "Oh, shut up," Damian Chrestil said, and closed the door
behind him.
       He kept clean clothes in storage here, and there was a
small but comfortable bath suite tucked into one corner of the
space. He showered and shaved, washing away salt and sweat and
with it the last holiday feeling of freedom, took two hangover
capsules, and dressed quickly in the shirt and trousers and short
jacket that he found in the storage cell. He spent a little extra
time coaxing his thick mane of hair into a kind of careful
disorder; he was vain about his hair, thick and naturally gold-
streaked brown, and the fact that it looked good long did
something to make up for the way the fashionable long coats sat
lumpishly on his thin body. Willowy was good, scrawny was not, and
he was forced to dress accordingly.
       He returned to the inner office, and settled himself at the
apex of the chevron-shaped desk. The smaller secretary globe --
really just an extension of the larger machine in the lobby --
chirped softly at him, and he swung to face it.
       "Well?"
       "You have mail in your urgent file."
       "Well, isn't that pleasant," Damian said. "How many items?"
       "Two."
       "Print them." Damian Chrestil ran his hand over the
shadowscreen to light the various displays set on and in the
desktop, then leaned back in his chair as the tiny mail printer
whirred to life. It buzzed twice, chuckled briefly to itself, and
spat a sheet of paper with an all-too-familiar pattern. Damian
took it, scowling down at the dark-blue border marks of a formal
Lockwarden complaint sheet, and scanned the sharp printing.
Roscha, it seemed, had excelled herself -- or had she? He read the
complaint a second time, more carefully, then set the sheet aside,
frowning. The complainant's name was unfamiliar, but he was a
journeyman member of the Merchant Investors' Syndicate, and the
MIS was particularly hostile to C/B Cie. It would be nice to know
just what, or even who, had persuaded the man to file a formal
complaint: the threat to throw him off the cliff face was not, on
balance, a likely cause, at least not in a bungee-gar bar like the
Last Drop. He fingered the shadowscreen again, putting the


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (27 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

complainant's name into a basic inquiry program, and glanced at
another screen, this one filled with the running reports from the
factors working on the cargo they'd collected the night before.
Roscha would have to learn better, however; for a start, she could
pay her own fines.
       "Na Damian," the secretary said. "Jafiera Roscha is here."
       Damian paused, flicked a spot on the shadowscreen to mute
the various displays. "Send her in."
       The door opened almost at once, and a woman stood for an
instant outlined against the lobby's buttery light. She was tall,
and exquisitely built, her waist narrow between perfectly
proportioned breasts and hips. Snug trousers and a dock-worker's
singlet only emphasized that perfection; the light jacket that
trailed from one hand was a shade of indigo that matched her eyes.
Damian had forgotten -- he always forgot, remembered again each
time he saw her -- just how striking she was, and despite the
previous night felt a stirring of interest in his groin. Roscha
came forward into the light, the corners of her wide mouth drawn
down in an attempt neither to smile nor frown, and Damian slid the
complaint across the desktop at her.
       "What the hell was this?"
       Roscha took it warily, studied the printed message, her
eyes flicking back and forth between the paper and the other's
face. Somehow, despite the hours she spent on the Water, she had
kept her skin dazzlingly fair, the color of coffee cream; her red
hair flamed against her shoulders, held out of her eyes by a strip
of black ribbon. More black bands -- braided ribbons or strips of
leather -- circled each wrist, and Damian recalled himself sternly
to the business at hand.
       Roscha set the paper carefully back on the edge of the
desk. "I guess I had too much to drink last night."
       "I guess you should be more careful where you drink,"
Damian answered.
       Roscha shrugged, looking rather sullen. "There were a bunch
of us, celebrating, and enough of us making noise. I don't know
why they picked on me."
       "Just accident-prone, I guess," Damian said.
       Roscha looked away, not quickly enough to hide the flash of
anger. "I just got carried away. I'm sorry."
       "I don't pay my people to get carried away," Damian


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (28 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

Chrestil said. "I pay you to do your job, and do what I tell you.
Not to go around collecting complaint sheets." He glanced down at
the slip of paper again. "Do you even know this man?"
       Roscha looked at the intricately patterned carpet, visibly
mastering her temper. "By sight, mostly, and I know the name --
he's in the Game, I've seen him playing on the nets. I did know he
works for the MIS."
       "Do you know what he does for them?"
       "Works for one of the factors, I think," Roscha answered.
"Computer jockey."
       "Ah."
       In spite of his best efforts, there was enough satisfaction
in Damian's voice that the wary look in Roscha's eyes faded to
something more like curiosity. Damian glared at her, and she met
his stare with a stony face.
       "They give you a choice," he said, after a moment. "Pay the
fine, a hundred and fifty _real_, or take it to court. You'll
pay."
       There was another little silence, Roscha's too-large mouth
thinning slightly, and then she said, without inflection, "I don't
have that much in my account."
       Damian looked at her for a long moment, and she returned
the stare unflinching. A little color might have touched her wide
cheekbones, but it was hard to tell. "All right," he said, and ran
his hand over the shadowscreen. The second printer, the one loaded
with draft forms, chirred softly under the desktop, and spat a
slip of soft paper. "Here, give this to Rosaurin, she'll give you
a voucher -- and I'll stop you twenty-five _real_ a paycheck to
cover it. Agreed?"
       "Agreed." Roscha still looked grim, but the tight set of
her mouth eased a little.
       Damian nodded, and slid the draft across the desktop toward
her. Roscha took it, pocketed it without looking at the faint
printing. "Right, then," Damian said, and the woman turned away,
accepting that dismissal. Even before the door had closed behind
her, Damian reached for the shadowscreen, raising the priority of
his inquiry about the MIS complainant. A member of the Merchant
Investors, even a low-ranking one, who was also a computer jockey
and who was around his warehouses often enough for Roscha to
recognize him by sight, was a man who would bear watching. It just


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (29 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

might explain how local Customs had come to question a shipment of
his last month. On the whole, he thought, it was worth paying
Roscha's fine -- he might not even bother taking all of it out of
her check.
       He sighed then, and turned his attention back to the
waiting messages. As he'd expected, his eldest sibling,
Altagracian, the Chrestil-Brisch Pensionary, was at the top of the
list. Damian scanned the curt message -- _call at once_ -- but
dumped it into a holding file without answering. Chrestillio
always overreacted; he could wait a little longer.
       The secretary chimed again, and said, "There is an incoming
message under your private and urgent code. Do you wish to
accept?"
       Damian frowned, but none of his siblings had that set of
numbers. "Yes. Put it on the main board."
       The central panel of the unimpressive triptych on the far
wall -- _I should commission something better_, he thought, not
for the first time -- slid apart to reveal the main screen, and a
moment later the connect codes streamed across the black glass.
The Visiting Speaker Kuguee ji-Imbaoa looked out at him, heavy
body framed by the curtains of an enormous bed.
       _Ambassador Chauvelin does well for himself_, Damian
thought, and hid a grin. He said aloud, "Good morning, Na Speaker.
I trust everything's well with you."
       "Na Damian." The Visiting Speaker was making an effort to
be polite, unusual for him. Damian Chrestil waited warily.
       "You had some concerns about one of the ambassador's
agents," ji-Imbaoa said abruptly, and Damian glanced involuntarily
at the security telltales embedded in the desktop.
       "Na Speaker, our conversation was rather more secure -- "
       "I have taken precautions," ji-Imbaoa interrupted. "My end
of this transmission is safe."
       The hissing accent made the words even more of a rebuke,
and Damian frowned, looking again at the security readout. "So is
mine, but it's not a chance I like taking."
       "You had been concerned about this agent, this Ransome," ji-
Imbaoa went on, and Damian resigned himself.
       "Yes. I was and am." _And I've been trying my damnedest to
get him back into the Game and off the main nets. The bastard
spends too much time on the nets, he's bound to see what I've done


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (30 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

to move the lachesi_ --
       "I have told Chauvelin that you want Ransome back in the
Game," ji-Imbaoa went on, "and that I believe Ransome should do
what you want -- so that we can find out what you are up to, of
course."
       "Christ." Damian controlled himself with an effort, said
only, "Don't you think that's a little obvious, Na Speaker?" _And
what if he actually does find out?_
       "I rely on your bait to be good enough." Ji-Imbaoa
inspected his fingerclaws, a smug and satisfied gesture.
       "As I relied on you to get him off the nets," Damian
snapped. "Na Speaker, if you want this cargo that you've invested
so heavily in to get where it's supposed to be going, Illario
Ransome has to be distracted."
       "I do not understand why he is so important." Ji-Imbaoa sat
down abruptly on the bed, flicked claws in impatient dismissal.
       _Because he's the best netwalker I've ever seen. And he
plays politics_. Damian said aloud, keeping a tight rein on his
temper, "Illario Ransome is brilliant on the nets. He is also an
imagist, he taps all the nets, all of them, he goes trawling for
images for his story eggs, and he remembers everything. He's the
only person who would be at the right place at the right time to
spot the paper trail, and the only one who has enough outside
information to put the pieces together. Does that make it clear?"
       There was a little silence, and then ji-Imbaoa looked away.
"Still, you should have what you want. He should be distracted,
investigating your Game."
       "I hope so." Damian paused, considering. It might work, at
that, might give him the time he needed to -- adjust -- the
customs nets to accept his new cargo. If Ransome did as he was
told, of course, and if Cella's scenarios were enough to catch his
eye ... But Storm was coming, too, and the first few days of
Carnival were celebrated on the nets, as well as on the streets.
The two things together might be enough to let him get away with
it. "Have you gotten the destination codes?"
       "I am still waiting," ji-Imbaoa said. "I will pass them on
to you as soon as I have them, you need not worry."
       _I always worry_, Damian thought, but said, "All right. The
sooner the better, though, Na Speaker, because without them I
can't get this cargo into Hsaioi-An." He paused, seeing annoyance


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (31 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

in the sudden clenching of ji-Imbaoa's hands, made himself add,
"Thanks for dealing with Ransome, though."
       Ji-Imbaoa's hands relaxed. "We are in this together, Na
Chrestil. Now, I have had an active night, and wish to sleep."
       "Sleep well, then," Damian answered, and cut the
connection. He leaned back in his chair, ran his hand across the
shadowscreen to close down the link. The triptych slid slowly back
into place over the now-empty screen, and he stared at it for a
moment. _I wonder what it would cost me to commission Ransome to
do a piece to replace it?_ he wondered, and grinned at the
thought. _It might keep him busy for a while, and he'd be furious:
it's an insultingly minor job. Hell, it might be worth asking just
to see the look on his face_. He fiddled with the shadowscreen,
filing the thought for later consideration, and touched another
icon to bring up the rest of his mail. The secretary, programmed
to be helpful, appended a to-do list as well. Damian considered it
for a moment, and succumbed to temptation. Rosaurin wanted him to
approve the next week's shipping plot, and that was much more fun
than the painstaking records-melding that needed to be done. He
pushed himself away from his desk and out the door before he could
change his mind.
--------
         *Day 30*
         _High Spring: Ransome's Loft,_
_Old Coast Road, Newfields,_
_Above Junction Pool_
       Ransome half sat, half lay in the chair that conformed
itself to his thin body, barely aware of the shifting cushions
that held him exactly where he wanted to be. Images filled the air
around him, ghostly yet substantial-seeming, all but blocking out
the cityscape spread out below the loft windows. The windows
dimmed again, cutting out the sunlight -- they had been dimming
steadily since sunrise, following the house programming -- but
Ransome did not notice, lost in the flickering narrowcasts that
held and surrounded him. The implants set into the bones at the
outer edges of his eye sockets caught and amplified the
conflicting signals; his wire gloves, thin and flexible and warm
as blood, let him sculpt the space around him, defining each
unreal volume according to his whim. The offerings of half a dozen
different narrownets danced in the air around him: Gamers to his


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (32 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

left, four different sessions played out in as many different
venues, three old, pretaped, the fourth a late-night session that
had dragged on into the morning. Faces and streets and shadows,
culled illegally from the Lockwardens' security systems, wove in
and through the other images, overlaying them with a bizarre
patchwork of morning light and shade. The matching audio murmured
on a dozen channels from the speakers at the base of the room's
walls, backing the images with the solidity of sound. His
attention was fixed on a single image, floating overhead, at the
apex of the cone of light and noise: flickering market glyphs from
the port computers spun in delicate linkage, legitimate public
numbers and private taps combined into a single database, strings
of numbers combined into a dazzling three-dimensional shape that
had a weird organic beauty all its own.
       He let the shapes wash over and around him, put out his
hand to draw in another narrowcast band. The air glowed briefly
amber, control icons sparking in the system space that he had
placed within easy reach, and then cleared again. A woman's face
appeared, a mask of white paint and strong black lines and the
vivid red of her mouth; he watched for a moment and pushed it
away, to one side of the dancing market numbers. For a brief
instant, his hand seemed to sink into the image, marring its edge,
and then it moved, obedient to his touch. He reached again into
the control space, found the symbols and the tool he wanted, and a
second image, identical to the delicate, complex shape that was
the graphic representation of the elaborate transformational
database overhead, appeared in the air in front of him. He chose
another tool, the wires of his gloves growing faintly warmer
around his hands in confirmation of the choice, and then reached
for the shape. He wrapped his hands around it, squeezed gently,
compressing it, until it hung in a space no more than a dozen
centimeters in diameter. Some of the delicacy had vanished in the
compression, become little more than texture. He frowned, and
reached for a second tool, used its all-but-invisible point to pry
the numbers apart, untangling the channels, until the various
strands were distinct again.
       He lay back against the shifting cushions, studying the
image, set it slowly rotating in front of him. The shape derived
from those twining numbers would be the main focus of one of his
story eggs, a commission for a Syndic of the Merchant Investors, a


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (33 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

woman who lived and died by the movements of the trade that
created the numbers coiling in the air in front of him. He reached
for the face that hung in the air beside it, brought it down,
until the strands of numbers slowly writhed behind the mask, like
DNA beneath the skin. It was interesting, but not, he thought,
what was needed now; it detracted from the bizarre beauty of the
shifting numbers. He banished the face with a wave of his hand,
leaving only the intertwining numbers, bronze and green and all
the shades of metal, floating in unreal space. He smiled,
contemplating it, and reached into the control space to preserve
the image in one of the dataspheres waiting linked to the main
consoles. The sphere would store both the algorithm that
transformed the numbers to this graphic and the formulae for the
connections to the financial nets -- even the private ones, one of
which had been donated by the client -- that provided the raw
data. All that remained was to set the image into a proper casing,
and that was already waiting, ready on the shelf: a smooth, pale
green egg the color of old, well-weathered copper, with streaks
and spills of stronger green, and the ghost of the metal showing
through. He smiled, savoring the satisfaction of a job well done,
and closed the particular volume.
       A voice that had been speaking from one of the floor-
mounted receivers for some time now, he realized belatedly, was
calling his name.
       " -- Ransome, I know you're there. I can see your taps."
There was a brief pause, and then, reluctantly, "It's important, I-
Jay."
       Ransome sighed, suddenly aware that it was morning and that
he had been awake most of the night, and that it was Chauvelin
himself who was making this connection, not one of the apparently
numberless ambassadorial servants. He muted the remaining images
with a wave of his hand, and reached into control space to connect
himself with the communications channel. "I'm here."
       "About time."
       The familiar face, elegant and worn and lined beneath the
brown hair just going cloudy with grey, bloomed in the air above
him. Ransome winced, and moved it to a less dominating position.
"I was working," he said, and winced again at the defensive note
in his voice. "What is it?"
       Chauvelin smiled slightly, sourly, a faint quirk of one


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (34 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:08 AM]
======================

corner of his long mouth. "I need to talk to you -- not on the
nets. The Visiting Speaker has come up with some interesting
information you and I need to discuss."
       "Fuck the Visiting Speaker," Ransome said, and Chauvelin's
smile widened into something approaching humor.
       "A privilege not likely to be granted." Chauvelin's smile
vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "Tell me something, why
would Cella Minter want you back in the Game?"
       Ransome blinked, wondering where this question had come
from, and what it really meant. Cella he knew, both as Damian
Chrestil's mistress and as an accomplished Gamer, but only from a
distance. "I've no idea," he said, and then, because it was
usually best to tell Chauvelin the truth, "I didn't know she
wanted me back Gaming."
       "So ji-Imbaoa says," Chauvelin said, and held up a hand,
forestalling any answer from the other. Ransome grinned, and let
him continue. "And so it looks to me, too, looking at the nets. I
tied in to some of the club gossip boards. There's a lot of talk
about Ambidexter, and usually Cella hinting in the background that
he ought to come back to show people how his templates are
supposed to be played."
       Ransome shrugged, felt his face go wooden. "Ambidexter's
dead -- "
       In spite of himself, the words came out bitter, and it was
the bitterness that Chauvelin answered. "You're not dead yet. I
don't have time for self-pity, I-Jay, I need your help."
       Ransome lifted both eyebrows, a deliberate imitation of
Chauvelin's gesture. "You must be desperate." He paused then,
shook his head, shaking away the bad temper that was becoming a
habit with him. "I'm sorry. I don't know why Cella would want me
on the Game," he said again. "Unless it's something Damian
Chrestil wants?"
       "I'd say that was highly likely," Chauvelin murmured.
"Which raises the question of why he would want it. And that is
something I don't want to discuss on the nets."
       Ransome made another face, though he had to admit the
wisdom of it. He himself was not the only netwalker on Burning
Bright, or the only imagist who tapped unlikely lines looking for
good sources. "I suppose you'll want me to come to you."
       "Yes." Chauvelin's tone blended forbearance and the


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (35 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

resignation of an adult dealing with a child. "I think that would
be best."
       Ransome laughed, gestured apology, miming the hsai gesture
that linked wrist spurs. The scars where his implanted spurs had
been removed touched briefly, an odd, unpleasant feeling; he
jerked his hands apart without finishing the movement. Chauvelin
said nothing, did not move at all, as though nothing had happened,
and Ransome said, "I'll be there in an hour." He knew he sounded
curt, made himself add, by way of further apology, "It'll take me
a while to pull myself together. I was up all night working on a
commission."
       Chauvelin nodded. "May I see?"
       "It's a private commission," Ransome said, with genuine
regret -- Chauvelin was one of the very few whose opinions
mattered to him -- then grinned suddenly. "But I've done something
for you, I'll show you when I get there."
       "That will be the first good thing that's happened all
day," Chauvelin said. He gave a twisted smile, as though he
regretted the admission, and said, in an entirely different voice,
"In an hour, then." He cut the connection before Ransome could
respond.
       Ransome sighed, staring at the still-busy images without
really seeing them, then brought his chair upright. The net taps
whirled around him, readjusting themselves to his position, but he
waved them away, then closed both fists to shut down the system.
Glyphs and code-strings flickered past, too fast to be understood
at more than the subliminal level, and then the pictures vanished.
Ransome sighed again, stretching, feeling the long night's work
claw at his back, the old familiar ache in the bones and tendons
of his hands. He peeled off the tight gloves, wincing a little,
and set them aside. His chest was tight, catching in his ribs; he
could hear the fluids at the base of his lungs, a harsh rasp that
cut each breath too short for comfort. He reached instinctively
for the cylinder of Mist, flipping it backwards to unfold the
facemask, but stopped abruptly. The red light glowed under the
trigger button, warning him that he had taken a dose within the
last two hours. He stared at it for a second, his mind forming a
curse to override the fear, then made himself set it aside.
       "Input," he said aloud. "Housekeeper systems." The words
caught in his chest, the lack of air catching him by surprise. He


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (36 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

coughed, hard, the spasm driving painfully deep. His mouth filled
with phlegm that tasted like bitter copper; he spat it into a
sheet of tissue, and saw the familiar thick white laced with a
froth of red. That was answer enough. "Cancel," he whispered,
voice harsh and strange to his own ears, but the room responded
calmly.
       "Input canceled."
       Ransome scowled, hating the sickness, hating the fact that
his systems remembered that choked voice as his own, and pushed
himself up out of the chair. The injector lay on the shelf where
he kept the story eggs' shells. He went to get it, feeling the too-
familiar giddiness, laid the cold tip against the veins of his
neck as he had been taught, where the skin was more or less
permanently reddened from the injections, and pressed the trigger.
The machine stung once, painfully, and he imagined he could feel
the drug spreading like cold fire under his skin. The doctors
swore it was a hallucination, a common side effect. It felt real
enough, and he stood for a long moment, waiting, eyes fixed on
nothing, as the chill spread through his chest and down his right
arm, and the pain eased and his breath came easier, the rattling
in his lungs fading slightly. It had been three years since the
maintenance drugs, the ones that had kept the white-sickness at
bay, had failed him, as he had known they would: five to seven
years, he could expect the injections to work, and then he was
dead.
       Ransome stuffed the injector into his pocket, made himself
shower and shave and find a clean shirt and jerkin, going through
the motions until the fear and anger had retreated again. White-
sickness was common in hsai space, a common killer of jericho-
humans; it was also incurable, though onset and death could be
delayed for decades with the right drugs. It was just his bad luck
to have shared a cell with a carrier, back on Jericho. _My mistake
to have been on Jericho at all, to have worked for the Chrestil-
Brisch in the first place_... He shook the thought away, and
glanced for a final time in his mirror. He was looking haggard --
_too little sleep; nothing new_ -- but the hectic flush from the
injection still burned on his cheeks, two ugly, fake-looking spots
of red. The black jerkin and trousers and the loose white shirt
had been meant to complement his usual bone-white pallor. He
suppressed the instinct to rub his face, to scrub the red away,


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (37 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

and reached instead for the handful of carved stones waiting on
his workbench. He slipped those into his pocket, and left the
loft, double-sealing the palmprint lock behind him out of habit.
       His flat was one of a dozen in a converted warehouse,
purchased cheap by one of the artists' cooperatives now that most
cargoes moved through the new Junction Pool cargo lifts rather
than the long way around, from the ramps at Dry Cut along the Old
Coast Road that skimmed the cliff edge. The old warehouse
districts were no longer convenient, or profitable; the buildings
that had not been converted to other uses -- ght manufacture,
particularly, and in this district the embroiderers' shops that
made the embellished fabrics that were Burning Bright's primary
export product -- stood empty, their windows cracked, frames
emptied by last year's Storm. The lift was occupied, as usual --
there were enough heavy-materials workers in the building to
ensure that the single lift was always in use or out of order --
and Ransome made his way down the side stairs. It had been a fire
access once, running along the outside of the building, and the
outer wall was pierced at intervals by narrow panels of wire mesh.
The air that flowed in was soft and heavy with the salt smell of
the canals, and warm with the promise of Storm. There were more
signs of approaching Storm in the corners of the stair, or at
least of the Carnival that took up most of the two-week period: a
raki bottle stood empty on each landing, and the lowest level,
where the walls were solid to prevent unauthorized access, stank
of urine. Ransome made a face, and stepped carefully over the
puddles to unlock the gate.
       The alleyway was crowded with denki-bikes and two- and
three-wheeled velocks, the latter chained to anything substantial
enough to defeat a standard wirecutter, the denki-bikes clustered
around the charging bollards, a blue haze showing where the
security fields intersected. Ransome reached cautiously into the
tangle of cables and locks to free his own machine, and winced as
the fizzing security stung his fingers. Then he backed the bike
out of the tangle -- for once without setting off someone else's
security system -- checked the power reserve, and climbed aboard.
The machine was woefully underpowered, for his taste, but it was
serviceable, and better than the tourist-trolleys. He edged the
throttle forward -- the bike whined and shivered -- and let it
carry him sedately into the traffic stream.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (38 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

       He took the short road to the Ghetto where Chauvelin lived
with most of the rest of Burning Bright's noncitizen residents,
skirting the cliff edge above the delivery basins of Junction
Pool, then cutting straight through the industrial zone past the
spaceport at Newfields. A column of smoke and steam hung in the
distance, the winds slowly bending and fraying it to nothing:
someone was saving money on launch costs, flying chemical rockets.
The pilots who ran the orbital shuttle would be cursing, Ransome
thought, and smiled.
       The ambassadorial residence stood on one of the highest
points in the Ghetto -- on all of the Landing Isle, the largest
piece of the original landmass: the hsai liked heights, and most
of Burning Bright's inhabitants didn't care. The household staff
had been told to expect him. Ransome paused at the gate only long
enough to identify himself -- most of Chauvelin's household knew
him by sight, after nearly fifteen years in the ambassador's
service -- and then a pair of hsai servants came out of the main
house to meet him. The male took the denki-bike, and the hsaii --
Chauvelin's steward Iameis je-Sou'tsian, Ransome realized with
some surprise -- bowed politely.
       "Sia Chauvelin has asked me to bring you directly to the
garden," she said, in tradetalk, and Ransome answered in low mian-
hsai.
       "I'm honored by the courtesy." _And very surprised by it_,
he added silently. _What the hells is going on, to make me rate
this treatment?_ He followed without question, however -- he knew
better than to ask that question -- and je-Sou'tsian brought him
through the sudden cool of a service passageway, bypassing the
main house, and led him out as suddenly onto a path that ran
between tall walls of flowering hedge. Ransome blinked,
momentarily confused, then oriented himself. This was the maze, a
part of the garden derived from hsai tradition, and one that
Chauvelin rarely used. Je-Sou'tsian followed the turns without
hesitation, however -- _maybe it is true_, Ransome thought, _that
there really is only one pattern in use on all the worlds of
Hsaioi-An_ -- and let them out through a red-lacquered gate onto
the carefully landscaped lawn of the upper terrace. Chauvelin was
waiting a few meters away, seated comfortably in the shade of a
bellflower tree, a luncheon tray beside him and a data manager
resting in his lap.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (39 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

       "Na Ransome is here," je-Sou'tsian said, and the ambassador
looked up with an abstracted smile.
       "Ransome. Join me, why don't you?" To je-Sou'tsian, he
added, "Thank you. That'll be all."
       "Yes, sia," the steward answered, bowing, and backed away.
       Ransome made his way down the terraced slope, stepping
carefully around the elaborately casual plantings. He was very
aware of the ambassador's residence looming behind him, the
sunlight polishing the white-stone walls and glinting off the long
windows. It felt unpleasantly as though someone were watching him,
and he seated himself deliberately on the wall that overlooked the
lower terrace. Chauvelin glanced up at him, gave a quick smile,
and Ransome smiled rather wryly in return. If it had been the
cliff wall, overlooking the hundred-meter drop to the Old City, he
would never in a thousand years have settled himself there,
especially with Chauvelin sitting less than two meters from him,
and they both knew it.
       "So good of you to come," Chauvelin said, with only the
lightest note of irony.
       Ransome let his smile widen. "I was working," he said.
"What is this about Cella, and the Game?"
       "That's the very question I'd like you to answer,"
Chauvelin said.
       Ransome spread his hands -- a human gesture, not hsai, and
deliberately so. "I don't know. I've been out of the Game for
three years, I barely pay attention to the Game nets except when
I'm trolling for images. I don't know what Cella wants -- except
that if she wants it, Damian Chrestil probably wants it, too."
       Chauvelin nodded slightly, though Ransome could not be sure
if the movement was a response to his words or to something on his
screen. "I need to know why. Ji-Imbaoa came in this morning -- "
       "Sober?" Ransome murmured, with just the right note of
shock, and allowed himself a brief smile when the word surprised a
laugh from Chauvelin.
       "Mostly so. At any rate, he came to me complaining that
Damian Chrestil is interested in you, via Cella -- he knows you as
my agent, so don't ask -- and demanding to know why. When I
checked him out, I found the same thing: lots of agitation to get
you back into the Game, and usually Cella's at the back of it. I
want to know what's going on."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (40 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

       "I told you," Ransome began, and Chauvelin nodded.
       "I know you've been working. A commission for Syndic
Leonerdes, and that big installation for the governor. But I need
to know what's going on, I-Jay. Ji-Imbaoa -- well, I won't bore
you with hsai politics."
       "Bore me," Ransome said.
       Chauvelin grinned, sobered instantly. "Suffice it to say
that ji-Imbaoa has more influence than he should, and he wants
this done. And that's the other thing I want to find out: why the
hell should he be so worried about Damian Chrestil?"
       Ransome shrugged one shoulder. "Maybe they had a bar fight,
their tastes seem similar enough. Though I don't think Damian
Chrestil drinks quite so much."
       "Let me put it this way," Chauvelin said, and his voice was
suddenly devoid of all expression. "Ji-Imbaoa is worried enough to
remind me that, since I made you _min-hao_, you could still face
charges in Hsaioi-An, for lese majesty."
       "Lesser treason," Ransome murmured, through lips grown
suddenly stiff and unresponsive, "but still treason."
       "Just so."
       They sat in silence for a long moment, the only sounds the
faint whistle of the seabirds and the whine of a denki-bike
passing in the street. Ransome slipped his hand into his pocket,
found the handful of carved stones he had collected, turned them
over one by one. He had been glad to be tried as _houta_ back on
Jericho; insults up the social scale, from person to person or
from _min-hao_ to a person, could be construed as a kind of
treason, and the sentences for that were more severe than they
were for theft. Insults by _houta_, on the other hand, were "no
more than the barking of dogs," or so the hsaii judge had said
through the human translator, and therefore didn't count against
him. Unfortunately, the hsai had a very long memory for insults.
       He slipped one of the stones out of his pocket, fingering
the delicate features without really looking at them. His eyes
traveled instead beyond the lower terrace, beyond the Straight
River, where he thought he could see the bow of the Crooked River,
dividing the Old City from the Five Points District. It was a
trick of the light, he knew that, of the hazy sunlight and the
water-heavy air, that turned all distances vague and soft-edged,
drowned in a blue-grey haze like a watercolor wash. Even so, his


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (41 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

mind filled in the outlines, drew a second steely curve beyond the
more solid line of the Straight. Five Points proper, the five
projecting pieces of cliff edge where the descendants of the city
founders lived, lay beyond that curve, invisible, tantalizing, and
the third of the points belonged to the Chrestil-Brisch. He had
been there once, years ago -- before Chauvelin, before Jericho,
before he'd even thought of leaving Burning Bright, when he had
still thought he could play certain games without penalty even
though he'd been born poor canalli, child of a Syncretist
Observant, playing games on equal terms with the second child of
Chrestil-Brisch....
       He put that thought aside. Cella Minter was nudging him
back into the Game, and the hand behind her was Damian Chrestil's:
that was what mattered now, that and whatever hsai politics
Chauvelin was tangled in. Chauvelin had been adopted into the tzu
Tsinra-an, and was relatively a modernist and a moderate even
within the moderate faction that dominated the court. But where he
stood in the greater conflict that lay behind the factional
quarrel, Ransome had never been completely sure. Hsaioi-An wanted
to control settled space -- the hsai needed to control settled
space, because their culture could not admit that other species
equalled their own; the whole elaborate fiction of adoptions and
legal kin-species had been set up to allow the hsai to pretend
that other beings were really a part of their own species.
Chauvelin had embraced that fiction, heart and soul, or he
wouldn't be here.
       But he had been careful, all the years Ransome had known
him, never to say whether he supported the wider definition of
kinship, one that would eliminate the concept of _houta_ and
replace it with an acknowledgment of a basic kinship between all
intelligent species, or the older, more conservative version. Most
conscripts Ransome had known supported the old, narrow definition:
why should others get for nothing what they had worked so hard to
win? That sort of selfish self-aggrandizement wasn't Chauvelin's
style -- but then, it was equally unlike Chauvelin to keep silent
even about risky political beliefs. More likely, Chauvelin had
thought of himself as hsaie for so long that it no longer occured
to him to think of himself as involved in that debate. Chauvelin
had made one thing very clear. If Ransome didn't serve Chauvelin's
interests, Chauvelin would no longer be able to protect him. That


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (42 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

knowledge had a sour taste, and he looked away, stared over his
shoulder toward the shimmering towers of Newfields. Even at this
distance, he heard a rumble like distant thunder, and squinted
skyward in spite of knowing better, looking for the pinpoint light
of an orbiter already long out of sight. He looked back, dazzled --
the sun was starting the decline over the highlands, turning the
sky to a white haze -- and saw Chauvelin looking at him.
       "The sound of money," Ransome said, and deliberately turned
his back on the port. Chauvelin lifted an eyebrow, visibly decided
the comment did not deserve an answer, and returned his attention
to the data manager that rested on his lap. The subject was
clearly closed, or else, Ransome thought, even Chauvelin was a
little ashamed of himself for this one. He watched Chauvelin work
for a little longer, the long hands busy on the input strip, the
grey-brown hair fading even more in the afternoon light, the
slight, faintly quizzical hint of a frown as he studied something
on the screen. Ransome did not like being ignored, did not like
being ignored after being threatened, said, not quite at random,
"Do you think it's wise to annoy Damian Chrestil?"
       "Why not?" Chauvelin's voice sounded bored, his eyes still
on the screen in front of him, but Ransome got what he was looking
for, the subtle shift of expression that meant the ambassador was
listening closely.
       "He's not a fool," Ransome said. "Or a child. They say
he'll be coopted to the Select next year."
       "Is that what they say?" Chauvelin did not move, but
Ransome smiled to himself, hearing the slight change in tone. He
had confirmed something that Chauvelin had suspected -- and a seat
among the Select, the elite advisory council that handled much of
Burning Bright's foreign policy, was the first step toward
becoming governor.
       "Among other things." Ransome lowered his eyes to look at
the carved head, pinching it between his fingers, glanced up
through his lashes to watch Chauvelin's response.
       "Well, that's what I pay you for," Chauvelin said. "And for
finding out what in all hells Damian Chrestil wants." He leaned
back in his chair, stretching long legs in front of him, and
touched the manager's screen. The machine shut itself down
obediently, its chime muted in the heavy air. He was wearing a
hsaie greatcoat over plain shirt and trousers, a sweep of unshaped


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (43 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

river-green brocade that set off the weathered ivory of his skin.
His hands were starting to betray his age. Ransome looked down at
his own fingers, saw the same lines and shadows starting, tendons
and bones starkly outlined under the roughened skin. Not that he
was likely to see the end of the process: by the time he reached
Chauvelin's age -- and there were not ten years between them -- he
was likely to be dead.
       "Among other things," he said again, putting aside the
familiar recognition, and tilted his head toward the terrace,
toward the hardscaping he himself had designed. Chauvelin nodded,
acknowledging the point, and by coincidence a breath of wind shook
the bellflower tree beside him, bathing them both in its musky
perfume. _It would have been a nice effect_, Ransome thought, _if
I could've planned it_.
       Chauvelin set the data manager aside on the stones of the
wall, leaned back in his chair, taking his time. The sunlight cast
a delicate pattern of shadow over him, pouring down through the
bellflower's fan-shaped leaves and striking deep sparks of color
from the draped greatcoat. Even in the shadow, the lines that
bracketed his mouth and fanned from the corners of his eyes were
very visible. The crows'-feet tightened slightly, a movement that
might become either a smile or a frown, and Ransome bit his tongue
to try to copy the other's silence, to keep from speaking too
soon. The bellflower's leaves rustled gently, and another orbiter
rumbled skyward.
       "I have to know what he's up to," Chauvelin said at last.
"You're the best chance I have for that."
       _Do you mean ji-Imbaoa, or Damian Chrestil?_ Ransome
wondered. _Or both?_ He sighed, looked down at the sculpted head
that still rested in the palm of his hand. _I would have done this
anyway, regardless of threat or flattery -- or love or whatever it
is that's between you and me, Tal Chauvelin. For the love of this
game that's better than anything the Game has ever produced_. "All
right," he said, easing himself off the terrace wall, and reached
into his pocket for the rest of the handful of carved stones.
Chauvelin looked up, one eyebrow rising slightly.
       "You said you had something to show me?"
       Ransome nodded. "Hold out your hand."
       Chauvelin extended one long hand, both eyebrows lifting
now, and Ransome opened his fist, letting the stones -- grey-


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (44 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

silver, a shower of frozen mercury -- fall into the other's palm.
Several of them bounced away before Chauvelin could catch them,
but he made no move to gather them, sat staring at the four that
remained in his hand. Ransome watched him turn the carvings, roll
them curiously beneath one probing finger, then lean to pick up
the ones that had fallen, one by one, until he had them all. The
delicate faces, some white as the hazy sky, one dark as slate, the
others grey and silver, stared at nothing with knowing,
provocative eyes. Chauvelin nodded once, silent approval, looked
up at the other man.
       "I thought I'd pave your paths with them," Ransome said,
and, slowly, smiled.
       There was another little silence, and then Chauvelin nodded
again, this time in agreement. "How soon can you have it done?"
       "And in place?" Ransome paused, thinking. The idea of
paving the paths was new, had come to him on the denki-bike ride
from his loft; he hadn't even begun to work out the quantities he
would need, or the time it would take for an automated workshop to
fabricate them from his models. "A week, probably -- no, Storm's
coming, everyone will be working on Carnival stuff. A week and a
half, two weeks, probably. Give or take a couple of days."
       "I want them in place by my party," Chauvelin said.
       Ransome frowned for an instant; he had forgotten how late
it was, that tomorrow was the last day of High Spring, and the
date of Chauvelin's annual grand reception. "I don't know," he
said involuntarily, and Chauvelin nodded.
       "I know. But I'm willing to pay double costs, and a rush
bonus on top of it, if you can find a way to get it done."
       "I can try," Ransome said, absurdly pleased by the demand.
There were a few places that might be able to do the production
run on this kind of notice -- stonecrafters didn't get too much
extra business for Storm, unlike most artisans -- and Chauvelin's
own gardeners could handle the installation.... This was one of
the things he liked without reservation about Chauvelin: when he
played patron, he did it in grand style. _And the money wouldn't
hurt, either_.
       "I mean it," Chauvelin said. "Post the costs on the house
net, I'll authorize the draft."
       "I'll do it," Ransome said, and added, knowing the
workshops, "if I can."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (45 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

       Chauvelin nodded, smiling slightly, and Ransome turned
away, not waiting for the steward to take him back out through the
maze, walking up through the garden toward the house and the well-
watched passage to the street.
--------
         *Part Two*
         *Evening, Day 30*
_High Spring: Shadows, Face_
_Road, Dock Road District_
_Below the Old Dike_
       Lioe started for Shadows just after sundown, riding the
tourist-trolley to the elevators at Governor's Point, then one of
the massive cars down the cliff face to Governor's Point Below.
The cab stand was empty; when she consulted the information kiosk,
fingering worn keys while her other hand rolled the old-fashioned
ball that grated in its socket, she estimated Shadows was about
twenty kilometers away. She hesitated, wondering if she should try
one of the other clubs the steward -- _Vere, his name was, Vere
Caminesi_ -- had mentioned, but when she checked the kiosk again
Shadows was the closest. She sighed, punched in the codes that
would alert the velocab companies to a waiting fare, and lowered
herself onto a stone bollard that seemed to exist to keep the cabs
from getting too close to their prospective passengers. It was
getting cool, would be a chill night, by her standards, and the
breeze that swept up from the southeast raised goosebumps even
under her jacket. It carried the faint tang, damp and salty, of
the sea that was never far from anyplace in Burning Bright;
brought with it too a whiff of heavy foliage from household
gardens, the delicate mustiness that rose from basements, and even
a momentary sharp taste of the oil that tainted the Inland Water,
gone as quickly as it had come. She cocked her head, listening,
but could not hear the dull polyphony of the bell buoys that
tolled to mark the channel. She knew she should not be surprised --
at this point she was almost as far inland as one could be and
still stay on the Wet side of the Old Dike -- but she was oddly,
vaguely, disappointed.
       The cab appeared a few minutes later, the whine of its
motor audible well before it turned the corner. Lioe rose to her
feet, slinging the bag that held her Rulebooks and Gameboard more
securely over her shoulder, was aware of the driver's frank stare


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (46 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

as he keyed open the door to the passenger compartment.
       "Evening, pilot." He had a young voice, a cheerful voice,
that went oddly with the lined and weathered face. "Where you
bound?"
       Lioe had almost forgotten she was wearing the hat, this one
a small toque, suitable for Gaming, that marked her as a pilot of
the Republic. "A place called Shadows," she said. "I'm told it's
on Face Road, at the center of the Dike in Dock Road District?"
       She was reciting the address from memory -- no house
numbers here, but all the buildings had names and were then placed
within the district according to the nearest landmarks -- and was
relieved when the driver nodded.
       "You're a Gamer, then."
       "That's right." Lioe levered herself into the narrow pod.
It smelled of smoke and fish, an odd, unfamiliar combination,
stronger as the low door closed behind her.
       "It's a good club, Shadows," the driver said. "Or so they
tell me. I'm a home Gamer, myself." The engine whined as he stood
on his pedals to get the cab moving again.
       Lioe leaned back cautiously against the thin padding,
feeling the vibrations of the little motor through the soles of
her feet. The cab swung left in a gentle arc that brought them out
into a larger trafficway -- not a busy street, only a few other
vehicles, velocabs and pushcarts, moving between the bollards that
marked the edges of the road. They swung left again, the driver
hesitating for an instant to gauge the faster stream of traffic on
the wider street, and then standing hard on his pedals to bring
the cab up to their speed. The cab slid neatly into a gap between
another velocab and an empty flatbed carrier belching steam, but
Lioe was looking at the shape that soared above the street,
cutting off the sky. The Old Dike was festooned with lights,
strings and streamers of them flashing in sequence to warn off
wandering helio pilots, but they only seemed to intensify the
black mass of the wall itself. More light like fog flowed along
its top, fading into the sky at least a hundred and fifty meters
above them. Lioe shook her head, amazed and wondering, and the
driver shot her a look of triumph.
       "It's something, isn't it? That's the Old Dike. The first-
in people built it to reclaim the Old City."
       Lioe nodded, still staring, barely aware of the other


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (47 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

vehicles now crowding the road. "What's that on top?" she asked,
after a moment. "Another road?"
       "That's Warden Street," the driver answered. "Runs all the
way along the Dike, from Lockwarden Point to the Governor's House.
There's good shopping up there, the best shops in town for
fashion, if you're interested."
       "Maybe," Lioe answered. It must've been one hell of a
project, building that, she thought, even if Burning Bright's
first-ins were a different breed from the usual first settlers.
Burning Bright had never been intended to be anything but an
entrepot -- could never have been anything else, at least under
human settlement, given the minuscule landmass -- and the first
settlers had all been merchants and bankers, bent on turning the
planet's favorable position astride the main hyperspace channel
between the Republic and Hsaioi-An into solid profit. And they'd
certainly done that: despite the best attempts of worlds like Ky
and Attis/Euphrosyne, Burning Bright remained the busiest
transshipment point for goods going from one metagovernment to the
other. Even in the first years, the settlers would have had the
capital to bring in the best technicians to build the Dike.
       Traffic was picking up, more and more vehicles cramming the
road, and crowds flowed along the walkways outside the brightly
lit shops. Only the foodshops seemed to be open, but light and
bright snatches of music spilled from their doorways, clear notes
like plucked metal strings. She heard laughter as well, over the
constant rumble of the crowd and the traffic, looked instinctively
to see a woman caught in the blue-white light of a store's display
window, her head thrown back, hair spilling in untidy curls around
a lined, handsome face. Her skirt -- no one wore skirts in the
Republic, except for ethnic festivals -- was starred with little
mirrors, reflecting the store's lights like chips of diamond. And
then the cab was past her, and Lioe resettled herself against the
padding, wondering what she had seen. A shape flashed through the
pedestrians, a man's head and shoulders moving with unnatural
quickness above the people surrounding him, and then he shot
between two men and a bollard, darting into the traffic stream on
a battered bicycle. No one used bicycles much in the Republic,
either.
       The road rose ahead of them, and Lioe was suddenly aware,
over the noise of the crowds and the snarling rush of the assorted


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (48 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

vehicles, of the dulled, steady tolling of a buoy bell. She leaned
forward a little, and the driver said, before she could ask,
"We're coming up on the Straight now."
       There were more bicycles in evidence on this stretch of
road, and on the high-arched bridge, as well as cabs and three-
wheeled cycles and a handful of the motorized denki-bikes. Most of
the cabs and human-powered vehicles turned right or left onto the
street that paralleled the as-yet-invisible river. As the driver
stood on his pedals again to coax the cab up the steep rise, Lioe
began to understand the reason. She could guess why there didn't
seem to be many fully motorized craft on Burning Bright -- fossil
resources were scarce and inaccessible, electrics were still
impractical for heavy loads, and solar was even less practical on
something as small as a velocab -- but it was still strange to
feel the cab wavering from side to side as the driver added his
muscle power to the engine's whining output. Strange, and somehow
improper. Lioe was glad when the cab reached the top of the arch,
and started the long glide down.
       Across the bridge, the streets were quieter. The buildings
turned blind faces to the road, and there were few pedestrians.
Once or twice the cab crossed a wider street, both times with
trees or flowers growing in a center island, framed by soft
lights, and Lioe caught a glimpse of figures moving in that pastel
radiance. More often, the cab flashed over the low hump of a
bridge, and she saw shards of light reflected from the canal water
less than two meters below. The driver -- he had caught his
breath, after the bridge -- said, "This is Dock Road -- Dock Road
District, that is."
       "Mmm." Lioe glanced from side to side, staring at the blank-
walled buildings. Most of them seemed to be four or five stories
high, made of something dark that might have been poured stone.
Nearly all of them had lighter inclusions: a band across the
front, or outlining a door, or defining the corners of the
building, but there were no windows, or at least nothing she
recognized as a window. She had thought the on-line guides had
said that Dock Road was primarily a residential district, but
these looked more like factories or warehouses than any house she
had ever seen. And then the cab swept past a building with all its
windows open, shutters folded back against the empty dark stone of
the facade, a gate open too into a courtyard where people swarmed


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (49 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

around a blue-lit fountain, and music spilled out into the quiet
street. She craned her head as they slid past, and out of the
corner of her eye saw the driver smile briefly over his shoulder.
       They pulled up outside Shadows a little before the
nineteenth hour. The club was a more ordinary building, three
stories high with bricked-in windows and a brightly lit sign over
the door, in a neighborhood full of buildings that had visible
windows and doors that locked with metal grills. There was a food
bar on the nearest corner -- and a heavyset bouncer leaning his
chair against the wall outside the entrance, so she shouldn't have
to worry too much -- and some kind of shop across the street, its
display windows shut down for the night. She paid the driver what
he asked and added the tip the guides had said was appropriate,
then turned toward the club's well-marked door. The cab's motor
whined behind her as the driver pulled away, but she did not look
back.
       After the glittering strangeness of the rest of the city,
Shadows was refreshingly ordinary, another Gaming club like a
hundred others she'd seen on other worlds. The door was painted
with the images from hundreds of Gaming pins -- conferences,
competitions, specific sessions and scenarios, most of the Grand
Types and even a few faces that had to be local favorites -- but
before Lioe could study them more closely, the door swung open
onto a narrow hall.
       The carpet was worn, with a few squares of a brighter shade
of moss to show where the worst damage had been replaced. The
white-painted walls were mostly empty, except for a few display
boards and a Gameboard under glass. The displays were of sessions
that had attracted attention on the intersystems nets, and Lioe
gave a mental nod of approval. There weren't many -- there
couldn't be many, if Shadows was as new as the steward Vere had
said, and it was a good sign that the club hadn't tried to inflate
its reputation by adding displays of merely local interest. The
Gameboard, the gleaming screen below it said, had belonged to the
club's founder, Davvi Medard-Yasine. Lioe didn't recognize the
name.
       The hallway ended abruptly in a softly lit lobby, walled on
three sides with multiscreen virtual-display-in-real-time
wallboards. Only four of the screens were displaying the broadcast
bands, and two of those showed the same session, but telltales


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (50 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

glowed green on a few of the others, and the couches opposite
those boards were occupied by people whose faces were hidden
behind the mirrored mask of their shades. Telltales flickered on
the temples of the shades, too, indicating that they were tuned to
a narrowcast from one or more of the wallboards. There were
smaller, lower-resolution VDIRT tables scattered around the rest
of the lobby, but not many of them were occupied yet. They would
be busy later, Lioe knew, when the main tanks filled up and Gamers
needed to kill a few hours between sessions. That is, if Shadows
was like every other club in human-settled space. She glanced one
last time at the session playing on the screen overhead -- it was
a Court Life variant, familiar iconography identifying Count
Danile and the Lady Hannabahn, but it was impossible to follow the
scene without the direct-line voice feed -- and turned her
attention to the checkroom that controlled access to the club's
session rooms. A young man was sitting behind its counter,
Gameboard balanced in front of him, but he looked up quickly as
Lioe approached.
       "Can I help you, pilot?"
       "I hope so. Do you do temporary memberships?"
       "We do." The young man touched keys on a terminal tucked
out of sight below the lip of the counter. "It's forty _real_ a
week -- we have a ten-day week, you know -- and you get all
privileges except priority for limited-access sessions."
       "So I can run sessions, if anyone's interested," Lioe said.
       "Yes, no problem." The young man consulted his terminal
again. "Can I get your name?"
       "Quinn Lioe."
       The young man looked up sharply. "The Lioe from Callixte?"
       "That's right."
       "I admire your sessions a lot." His clear complexion was
slowly turning a delicate pink, and Lioe watched in fascination.
"We just got a good tape of the Frederick's Glory session,
downloaded from MI-Net a couple of days ago. It looks wonderful."
       "Thanks," Lioe said.
       "Are you going to be running any sessions while you're
here?" the young man went on.
       "I hope so," Lioe answered. "I was wondering who I should
talk to about it."
       "The night manager," the young man said, and touched keys


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (51 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

on a different machine. "She can help you -- and we're having a
slow week right now, with Storm coming up."
       "Storm?" Lioe had heard the term half a dozen times since
landing, hadn't had the chance to ask what was meant.
       "Yeah. It's our fifth season, lasts twenty days, about.
There're so many big storms every year about this time that it
makes more sense for things to shut down. So we hold Carnival." A
tone sounded softly under the counter, and the young man turned
away to touch some hidden control. The door to the inner rooms
swung open.
       Lioe turned, her idle question already forgotten, and found
herself facing a tall, grey-haired woman, who held out her hand in
greeting.
       "Na Lioe? I'm Aliar Gueremei, _dit_ Lia."
       Lioe murmured a greeting, and clasped the fingers extended
to her. Gueremei was weather-beaten, as though she'd been in
space, but more so, her brown skin crossed with a web of fine
lines and faint, bleached freckles. She wore coarse workman's
trousers, but with an expensive-looking and impractically wide-
sleeved jacket over it, clasped at the waist with a circle that
glittered with tiny iridescent disks. Even if sequensa were less
expensive on Burning Bright, where the shells were seined and cut
into tiny perfect shapes, they would never be cheap, and Lioe
found herself revising her assumptions about Shadows and Burning
Bright's Gamers.
       "Come on into the back," Gueremei went on. "I know your
work, from the nets, and I'm delighted you thought of coming here.
Can I ask where you heard the name?" She palmed open the door as
she spoke, and gestured for Lioe to precede her into the inner
hallways.
       "The steward on the inbound shuttle -- orbiter, I mean --
recommended you," Lioe said, "and then of course your name is good
on the Game nets."
       Gueremei nodded, though whether in agreement or thanks Lioe
could not be sure. "Were you looking to run sessions while you
were here -- how long are you staying, anyway?"
       "Probably about five days," Lioe answered. "The ship I was
piloting for is down for repairs, recalibration of the sail
fields. And, yes, I would like to run a session or two."
       Gueremei nodded again. "I'll be frank with you," she said,


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (52 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

as she led the way quickly through a maze of corridors. "We'd be
very interested in your running something here. I've seen your
Frederick's Glory scenario -- and the Callixte board summaries, of
course, the ones that went with the award -- and a couple of
others, and I'm very impressed."
       "Thanks," Lioe said again, and waited. This was familiar
territory, like the white-painted walls filled with quick-print
sheets of network downloads, the padded doors and one-way glass
windows that gave onto the session rooms, the banks of food-and-
drink vendors tucked into every available alcove. Gueremei, or
Shadows through Gueremei, wanted something, and the praise was
just a prelude.
       Gueremei touched another doorplate, this one badged with
the Gameops glyph, and ushered Lioe into a crowded and comfortable
office. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon, and there was a thin,
dark-red stick smoldering in a holder on top of the VDIRT table
that served as a desk. The chairs were Gamer's chairs, designed
for long hours of relative immobility, and when Lioe lowered
herself into the nearest one at Gueremei's absent invitation, she
felt more at home than she had since she'd come to Burning Bright.
       Gueremei settled herself on the other side of the VDIRT
console, and unearthed a workboard from the mess of faxsheets,
quick-prints, Rulebooks and supplements, and a couple of expensive-
looking Gameboards. She touched keys, peering down at the tiny
screen, then looked back up at Lioe. "As I said, Shadows would be
very interested in hosting you. There was word on the Callixte
nets you had a new scenario in the works."
       _So that is the way things are going_. Lioe smiled, and
said, "Yes, I've been working on a new scenario -- Rebellion
variant with Psionics overtones, set on Ixion's Wheel."
       "Baron Vortex's prison planet," Gueremei said, testing the
words. "That sounds hard to pull off."
       Lioe shrugged. "I'm using one of the rival claimants as a
primary focus. I think that gives them enough firepower to stand a
chance."
       "Interesting." Gueremei glanced down at her workboard
again. "If you were willing to give us an exclusive deal for the
duration of your stay -- and copies for later use, of course --
we'd be willing to offer you twenty percent of the special-session
fees."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (53 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

       "That's a generous offer," Lioe said automatically,
temporizing while she sorted out the implications. It wasn't a bad
deal at all, but twenty percent of fees was the standard rate, and
if Shadows wanted to buy a copy of the scenario, they ought to pay
more. "Still, I'd like a little more if you want to keep the
scenario for your own use -- either a higher percentage, or,
better still, a flat purchase fee."
       "That's hard to come up with when we haven't seen the
scenario," Gueremei said. "We might be able to offer a slightly
higher percentage, though, maybe as much as twenty-five percent."
       "That really doesn't cover what I'd make from the nets,"
Lioe answered. "I'd need at least thirty-five."
       Gueremei glanced down at her board again, shook her head
with what looked like genuine regret. "I don't have the authority
for that. What if you run the session here first, we'll give you
twenty percent of the fees, and you'll be under no obligation to
stay with us beyond tonight. If it's good, I'm sure Davvi -- Davvi
Medard-Yasine, our principal owner -- will want to purchase more
rights."
       _And you'll have the prestige of having run the first
session, whatever happens_, Lioe thought. Still, it seemed
worthwhile; it would be a nice bit of extra money, and there was a
good chance she could sell the scenario afterwards. She nodded,
and said, "What about players?"
       Gueremei consulted her board, then touched the input strip
to light a second screen under the surface of the VDIRT table.
"Actually, we've a very respectable crowd in tonight. How many
slots will you have?"
       "Eight. Six-player minimum."
       Gueremei nodded. "I can get you eight players, all rated A
or higher. That's MI-Net rated, by the way."
       Lioe nodded back, impressed in spite of herself. MI-Net was
the toughest of all the Game nets, demanded the most from its
players. "Then I'm willing. Twenty percent of the take, up front,
and no strings."
       "Agreed," Gueremei said, and, quite suddenly, smiled. "I'm
looking forward to this, Na Lioe."
       "So am I."
       Gueremei fingered the workboard's input strip again,
studied the results. "Room five is free for the night. It's a


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (54 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

standard tech setup, Gerrish table, standard Rulebooks already in
place, and we've got all six editions of _Face and Body_ backed up
on a separate datalink, so you get instant access when you need
it."
       "That sounds good," Lioe answered. She could feel the edges
of her disks through the thin fabric of the carryall, wanted
suddenly to get to work again. "When can I load in?"
       "Anytime," Gueremei said, and pushed herself back from the
table. "I'll get you started, then I'll see who's free to play."
       "Excellent," Lioe said, and followed the other woman from
the room.
       Gueremei led her through a second set of hallways, and then
out into a wider corridor where one wall opened onto a central
courtyard. There were more VDIRT tables set out under the
carefully tended trees. Lioe tilted her head, curious, and saw
light reflecting from a glass dome that enclosed the courtyard. A
group of players, perhaps half a dozen, were clustered around a
bank of food-and-drink vendors: probably on intermission, she
thought, and turned her attention to her own scenario. It was
solid; if the players were halfway competent, it would go well. If
they weren't -- well, she would have to trust to luck and her own
improvisational talents.
       Gueremei stopped in front of a door marked with horizontal
silver bands on a deep, brick-colored background, and laid her
hand on the touchpad beside the lock. The mechanism hissed softly,
and the door popped out from the frame. She tugged it open, and
motioned for Lioe to precede her into the dimness. Lioe did as she
was told, and swung her carryall onto the massive VDIRT table that
dominated the space. She found the room controls, set into a
dropboard at the session leader's seat, and touched the keys that
brought up the lights. The room was just as it should be, banks of
blank-faced processors, telltales red or unlit, and she settled
herself in the heavily padded chair. The chair shifted under her
weight, squirming against her as the oilcushions adjusted
themselves to her body, but she was only dimly aware of the
movement, concentrating instead on the panels that opened to her
touch. She checked the air and temperature -- _comfortable and
stable_ -- and folded that board away, reaching for the table
controls. The VDIRT display came to life under her fingers, the
tree of lights that defined the library and display connections


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (55 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

slowly changing from red to orange to yellow, and for a moment a
faint haze of static filled the air above the center of the table.
Lioe smiled, seeing that, imagining it filled with her own images,
and touched keys to tune the system to her own specifications. A
red light flashed instead, and glyphs filled the smaller, monitor
screen.
       "I need a password," she said.
       "Sorry." Gueremei pulled herself away from the doorframe
where she had been leaning, came around the table to lean over
Lioe's shoulder. She touched keys; the screen, as usual, showed
nothing but placeholders, but Lioe looked aside anyway, out of old
habits of politeness. "I'm setting up a temp account for you,"
Gueremei went on. She worked one-handed, like a lot of older
Gamers, using chord-keys to speed her input. "You can set your
password now."
       Lioe hesitated for a moment, then typed a single word:
_hellequin_. The letters hung on the screen for a moment, and
Gueremei lifted an eyebrow.
       "What's it mean? If you don't mind my asking."
       Lioe shrugged one shoulder, already regretting the impulse.
It was no more than superstition that made her use that name; she
should have known better. "It's my full name. Quinn's the short
form." _It was the only name I could remember when the Foster
Services people found me, the only thing I have that isn't
theirs_.
       "So." Gueremei nodded, and touched another sequence of
keys. "Like Harlequin, right? You're all in," she added, and
stepped aside.
       "Thanks," Lioe said, and was glad to concentrate on the
larger screen that windowed under the tabletop. Familiar glyphs
and query codes filled the blank space, laid out in an outline
form as familiar to her as the hyperspatial maps of a star
system's deeps and shallows. She spilled the rest of her disks out
onto the table's smooth, slightly spongy surface, and began
slotting Rulebooks and databoards into the waiting readers. On the
screen, glyphs changed shape, queries smoothing into
acknowledgment as the VDIRT systems found the data they required
and forged the links between them. More lights flared on the wall
systems, the machines whirring slightly as they came on-line.
Faces and shapes, familiar icons, began to appear in the haze of


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (56 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

static.
       "That's Desir of Harmsway," Gueremei said abruptly, and
Lioe looked up in some surprise. "And Gallio Hazard. You did know
they were local Types?"
       "Yes," Lioe said, and wondered why it mattered. Notables
generally didn't mind other people using their character templates
-- that was one of the definitions of a notable, someone whose
characters were played by a lot of different people.
       Gueremei's smile widened. "I think I'll definitely sit in
on this session." Lioe looked at her questioningly, and Gueremei
turned away. "Oh, don't worry, there's no problem. It's just
they're Ambidexter's templates, and he hasn't played in years."
       _And in a situation like that_, Lioe thought, _I bet
there's one hell of a debate about how to play those characters.
Oh, well, too late to change now_. She looked back at the screen,
saw the stand-by symbol fade, indicating that file transfer was
complete. The planning form for session parameters was flashing in
the screen, and she touched a key to submit the various
supplemental rules she preferred to use. Those slots lit, and
vanished from the screen, leaving her with the bare bones of the
situation. It was a convention of the Game that Baron Vortex, the
villain who opposed the Rebellion and wanted to make himself
Emperor, was involved in secret psionics research; it was also a
convention that he controlled the prison world of Ixion's Wheel,
from which no prisoner had ever escaped. She had combined the two,
made Ixion's Wheel the center of the Baron's illegal research
project -- aside from the ethics involved, psions were illegal on
the worlds of the Imperium -- and then given the Golden claimant
to the Imperial throne, Royal Avellar, a good reason to get
himself sent to Ixion's Wheel. Avellar was a secret telepath, one
of the last four survivors of a clone-group who had shared a
telepathic link; and the one person who could restore his power,
the electrokinetic Desir of Harmsway, was a prisoner in the
research sections there.
       "It looks good," Gueremei said, and Lioe jumped at the
sound of her voice. An instant later, one of the printers whirred
to life, spat a piece of paper, and Gueremei retrieved it. "I'll
get you some players, then."
       "Thanks," Lioe said. Her eyes were on her screens before
the door closed behind the other woman.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (57 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

       Most of the relationships in the Game were familiar,
formalized; everyone who played knew the characters and their
backgrounds, and the pleasure of a session came from seeing how
well a player could perform within those constraints. About half
the characters on Ixion's Wheel were drawn from someone else's
scenarios: Harmsway and Gallio Hazard from Ambidexter's sessions
of five years ago; Avellar from an old, old session that everyone
had said was wonderful, but no one had used; Lord Faro and Ibelin
Belfortune from a session she herself had played on Demeter a few
months before, whom she had salvaged from certain death because
their templates were more interesting than her players had been
capable of making them. The rest -- the telekinetic Jack Blue,
unofficial leader of the prison population; the Rebel technician
Galan Africa, who hated blood telepaths, with good reason; the
research scientist Mijja Lyall, part of the prison staff, living
in fear that someone would discover her own low-level talent and
transfer her to the experiment -- were her own creations, but she
had been careful to tie them to familiar places and characters
within the larger Game. She studied the numbers for a moment
longer, balancing skills and quirks and basic numbers, then
touched the keys that dumped the templates to the system. A light
flashed, confirming her choice, and she turned her attention to
the setting.
       She had a good library with her, settings she'd laboriously
compiled through her years of travel, walking through the various
cities on all the worlds she visited with her palmcorder in her
pocket, waiting for just the right combination of light and space,
of architecture and atmosphere and attitude, that would make a
perfect place in some Game. Ixion's Wheel had been harder to find
than most, and she had had to transform her stored images more
than usual, to get the harsh world suggested by the planetary
statistics.
       Frowning a little, she pulled her shades from the carryall,
plugged the datacord into the socket on the temple, and touched
the keys that opaqued the heavy lenses and displayed the image
directly in front of her eyes. She touched more keys, and the
statistics for Ixion's Wheel hung in blank space: a hot planet,
desert-dry except for sparse bands of grassland to the north and
south. The prison complex lay just south of the dry line, in the
softer desert; the port lay to its north, just far enough away


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (58 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

from the complex to seem unreachable. She had already pulled
images for the prison -- mostly from government buildings on
Ardinee, a cheerless place if she'd ever seen one -- but the port
was less defined. And there wasn't much time; she would have to
fall back on her old standby for hot planets, images taken on
Callixte itself, her home base.
       She pulled that file, let it open, the images blossoming in
front of her eyes. Plain, flat-fronted buildings painted in sweeps
of shocking pastels floated against a multitude of skies. She
picked a dozen buildings at random, pulled a port-and-city blank
from a general pattern file, and began fitting the buildings into
the open spaces of the map. A town, a port town, took shape behind
the shades, outlines only at first, as she moved the buildings
like the pieces on a chessboard, shuffling them for maximum
effect. She rotated the image until she was seeing it edge-on, to
view the skyline; then, as satisfied as she would be with this set
of images, touched the controls to fill in the rest of the
buildings. She chose a sky as well, the hot, thunder-hazed blue of
Callixte's summer, and was pleased with the vivid splash of the
painted walls against that metallic background. She replaced that
sky with a storm, and watched the light bleed away into an ominous
luminosity, the ramparts of cloud looming over the low roofs. It
was good, an effect to be stored for later, but the first sky was
the one she wanted now. She recalled it, and filled the empty
space around the town with a generic grassland. It would do --
nothing unique, and maybe not as good as some of her efforts, but
it would do.
       "That's very nice," Gueremei said, and Lioe jumped.
       "I didn't hear you come in." She worked the toggle that
cleared her shades, then dumped the cityscape to the main library.
       "Sorry," Gueremei said, not sounding particularly
repentant. "I've got a cast for you."
       "Thanks," Lioe said, and held out her hand for the disk.
Gueremei slid it across the table, and Lioe slipped it deftly into
the last reader.
       "You should be pleased," Gueremei went on. "I had to turn
some people away. I've pulled you a good group, though, if I do
say so myself. Roscha's a handful, sometimes, but she's a damn
fine player, and she likes the scenario outline. I think she'll
behave. Savian's a Republican, of course -- " She stopped


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (59 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

abruptly, bit off a laugh. "But so are you. I'd forgotten."
       "That's all right." Lioe smiled, and did her best to hide
the excitement welling up in her, making her movements too quick
and clumsy.
       "So you'll be used to the style," Gueremei went on, as
though the other woman hadn't spoken. She came around the curved
side of the table, leaned over Lioe's shoulder to strike a chord
of keys. "This is what I've done."
       A secondary window bloomed in front of the main datatree,
displayed a double list of names. Lioe stared at it blankly,
matching unknown names to the characters opposite. Roscha --
Jafiera Roscha, who could be a "handful," according to Gueremei --
would be playing Galan Africa: _not a bad part for a
troublemaker_, Lioe thought. _At least there should be enough meat
in it to keep her happy_. Savian, Peter Savian, the other
Republican, would play Lord Faro -- and a name seemed to leap out
at her from the foot of the list: Audovero Caminesi, cast as the
telekinetic Jack Blue.
       She highlighted the name with a touch, and looked up to see
Gueremei nod.
       "He volunteered," she said, "and I like his style. You said
you'd met." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was
oddly formal. "Does this meet with your approval, Na Lioe?"
       "It looks fine to me," Lioe answered, and swept the disks
she had prepared for the players into an untidy stack. "Bring them
in."
       Gueremei nodded, stepped back to work the door controls.
The door sagged open, and at her gesture the players filed into
the room, carryalls and cased Gameboards in hand. Lioe looked up
from her screen to watch them file in and take their places at the
players' seats around the curved side of the table. A big bearded
man came first, followed closely by a slimmer, hard-faced man with
the silver disks of implant lenses gleaming in both eyes. They sat
side by side, the bearded man grinning at something, and a young
man in a supportchair followed them in. His thin wrists were heavy
with jeweled bracelets, and there were more jewels in his ears.
The silver-eyed man pushed one of the chairs away from the table,
and the other eased his supportchair into the new space, murmuring
thanks under his breath. A handsome, hook-nosed woman with an
expensive Gameboard followed him, and then Vere, still in his


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (60 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

steward's uniform, as though he'd come directly from Newfields. He
glanced at Lioe with a smile that hoped for recognition, and Lioe
grinned back at him, grateful for something like a familiar face.
The striking red-haired woman behind him raised an eyebrow at the
sight, her dark blue eyes, the color of the sea seen from near
orbit, flicking up and down in insolent assessment. Lioe cocked an
eyebrow at her, still smiling, and was rewarded by a faint,
betraying flush of color: _not used to someone taking up her
challenge_, Lioe thought, and filed the notion for later use. A
slim man, with Asian eyes and implanted hsai spurs on both wrists,
followed her, bony face expressionless. Lioe's attention was
caught by the spurs -- _is he hsaia, jericho-human, or adopted, or
does he just admire the hsai principle of kinship?_ -- but pulled
her thoughts sternly away. Politics had no place in the Game. That
was only seven, and Lioe frowned. It would be hard to eliminate
any of the characters -- easier to be rid of two than one -- and
she glanced sharply at Gueremei, then back at the cast list. All
the names were filled, so they were still one short.
       "I've decided to sit in myself," Gueremei said. "I play
under Fernesa -- Gameop's privilege."
       _A mixed favor_, Lioe thought. Gueremei would be good --
you didn't get to be a Gameop without being at least a double-A
player -- but it was also a little unnerving, having her on-line
for the first session. "Suit yourself," she said aloud, and
Gueremei settled herself in the remaining chair.
       "All right," Gueremei said, not loudly, but all attention
shifted instantly to her. "This is Quinn Lioe, everyone, who wrote
the Frederick's Glory scenario some of you played last week. Na
Lioe, let me introduce your players. Peter Savian -- "
       That was the bearded man, sitting so close on her right
that he could extend a hand, Republican-fashion. Lioe murmured a
greeting, met and matched the pressure of his grip, and saw a new
amusement gleam for an instant in his dark eyes.
       " -- Kazio Beledin -- "
       The man with the implant lenses touched his forehead, a
formal gesture that went badly with his crumpled, brightly dyed
and patched shirt and dock-worker's trousers.
       " -- Alazais Mariche -- "
       The hook-nosed woman nodded very seriously, her fingers
playing over the controls of her expensive equipment.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (61 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

       " -- Vere you know, and Serenn Imbertin -- "
       "_Dit_ -- everyone calls me Imbertine," the young man in
the supportchair said. Lioe nodded in acknowledgment, wondering if
the chair were a permanent necessity. It was hard to tell -- he
was thin, certainly, but not wasted -- and it was none of her
business, in any case.
       " -- Garet Huard -- "
       The man with the hsai spurs looked up from his Gameboard to
nod a greeting. He didn't have a hsai name -- most adoptees used
some hsai forms -- and Lioe wondered again what the connection
was.
       "And Jafiera Roscha," Gueremei finished.
       Lioe nodded to the redhead, startled again by the contrast
between the woman's striking beauty and the aggression in her
face.
       "It's good to meet you," Roscha said, her voice low and
unexpectedly musical.
       "Thanks," Lioe said. She looked around the table, feeling
the familiar excitement building in her, and said, "Na Gueremei
has outlined the scenario to you, I assume?" Most of them nodded,
but she continued anyway. "This is a Rebellion/Psionics variant,
set on the prison planet of Ixion's Wheel. Baron Vortex has,
unknown to anyone until now, been running a secret research
project in the prison complex, trying to find a way to bring psis
of all types under his personal control. You are all part of that
project, either as prisoners or as part of the prison staff. One
of you, however, has an ulterior motive: you have come to rescue
an old friend and antagonist, now a prisoner, and in order to
escape yourself you will all have to work together." She smiled
then, and most of the players grinned back, even Roscha softening
slightly, caught up in the preliminaries of the Game. "Assuming no
one wants to back out, I have casting disks and the scenario
supplements."
       No one did. Lioe felt her smile widen even as she tried to
control it, and looked down at the display to check the cast list
a final time. She dealt the disks around the table, and slid the
session supplements after them. Huard, with his hsai spurs, would
play the key role, Royal Avellar, potential if distant claimant to
the Imperial throne; she wondered for a moment if he were really
jericho-human, and if he was, what it would do to his play. Savian


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (62 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

would play Lord Faro, Beledin the half-mad vampire Ibelin
Belfortune -- a good choice, given the visible chemistry between
the two men -- and Vere would play Jack Blue. Imbertine and the
hook-nosed woman, Mariche, would play Gallio Hazard and Desir of
Harmsway -- not easy parts, requiring a lot of coordination, and
Lioe hoped they had played together before. Roscha would play the
technician Africa, and Gueremei would play Mijja Lyall. That was
an interesting choice -- Lyall was superficially a minor
character, but could become pivotal if played right -- and Lioe
gave a little nod of approval. She fiddled with her own controls
as the players slid disks and supplement boxes into their
Gameboards, and linked the boards to the VDIRT table's main
systems, bringing the prison complex into focus just above the
tabletop. She kept it dim, the outlines vague and colors dulled,
but she saw her players glance warily at it, assessing the
setting. Savian ran a fingertip along the ridge of bone below one
eye -- there was a scar there, Lioe saw, faint as a thread against
his brown skin -- and studied the displays on his screen. Mariche
busied herself with a pull-out input strip, typing something into
her Gameboard, her face still and intent as she studied the
shifting numbers.
       "Is everything clear?" Lioe said at last, when the first
flourish of activity slowed, and there were nods and mumbled
agreement from the players. Even Roscha looked almost eager. Lioe
glanced at her main boards a final time -- everything was ready to
go, all the linkages in place and the libraries on line -- and
looked back at her players, excitement coursing through her. This
was what made the Game worthwhile, all of them gathered for the
one purpose of playing her scenario -- She put the thought aside
and said, "Then let's go."
       She reached for her own shades, settled the temples on her
ears. The broad double screen, dipping almost below her
cheekbones, stayed black for a moment, and then she adjusted the
controls so that she was watching her players through one
completely transparent lens and watching the Game they would
create in the other, darkened lens. Savian lifted a half-helmet,
settled it very deliberately on his head. The matte silver backing
hid eyes and nose, but his mouth, framed by the neatly trimmed
beard, remained visible and expressive. Most of the others wore
shades similar to her own; bands of black or grey plastic covered


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (63 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

half their face, turning them into icons of justice. Imbertine
leaned back in his chair, hands caressing the bright stones of his
bracelets. Looking more closely, Lioe could see the thin cables
that connected each one to the sockets of his Gameboard. She
smiled to herself, unable to resist prolonging the moment, then
touched her controls to bring a scene slowly into shape in the
players' view. The buildings of the prison complex, blank grey
walls, a single row of slit-windows visible just below the tops of
the buildings, grew more solid in the air above the tabletop. The
same image was reflected in her shades. She touched controls
again, and wind swirled around the buildings, driving great sheets
of sand against the prison's force dome.
       "Welcome to Ixion's Wheel."
--------
         *Evening, Day 30*
         _High Spring: Ransome's Loft,_
_Old Coast Road, Newfields,_
_Above Junction Pool_
       Ransome sprawled in his chair, caught in his web of images
that all but blocked out the cityscape spread out below the loft
windows. A solitary firework burst into a flower of golden rain --
someone on the far side of the Water getting a head start on Storm
-- and he watched it fall and fade into a last trail of sparks,
ignoring the dancing images. Most of them were Game nets -- he was
trying to do what Chauvelin wanted -- but his heart wasn't in it.
There was nothing new in the Game, had been nothing new for years,
only the same sterile repetitions, theme and variations all gone
stale with overuse. His eyes stole to the image sitting alone to
the left of his chair, a direct feed from one of his dataspheres.
The last of the tiny stone heads looked back at him, a faint, sly
smile on its carved mouth. Idly, he reached into a secondary
control space, flicked on the controls that would allow the Imani
Formstone Works to produce copies of his originals. The head
looked back at him, caught now in a maze of numbers and
guidelines. It had taken him most of the morning to find a
workshop that would admit it could do the job in the time required
-- and the hefty surcharge, twice what the job should actually
cost, was the only reason the shop manager had agreed at all. But
the ambassadorial accounting system had accepted the charges, and
he was left to deal with the Game. Voices babbled from the floor


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (64 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

speakers, no channel given priority; Ransome made a face at the
noise, but did not bother to adjust the tuning.
       A light flashed in communications space, and at the same
time an identifying glyph crackled in the air overhead. Ransome
sighed, recognizing the image -- knowing too well that the caller
was the kind who did not give up -- and muted his images with a
wave of a gloved hand. With the other hand, he reached into the
main control space to connect himself with the communications
channel. "What the hell do you want, Sanci?"
       "About fucking time, Ransome."
       There had been no delay. Ransome sighed again, shoved the
familiar face -- sharp chin framed by a short and tidy beard, eyes
always slightly narrowed, as though he were looking into a bright
light -- to one side of the Game net images. "What do you want?"
       "Have you been tracking the Game nets -- the Old Network,
by any chance?" Sanci smiled. "You might want to tune in."
       "I doubt it," Ransome said.
       Sanci's smile widened, and Ransome realized the other man
was tracking his net hookups. "Someone's playing with your toys."
       "What channel?"
       "The mainline feed out of Shadows."
       Ransome shoved Sanci's image farther to his left, reached
into control space to fiddle with the icons hanging there. He
opened a connection to the Old Network, not even thinking of the
costs. Shadows was easy to find, its distinctive icon flashing to
signal an interesting session in progress, and he brought it on-
line, feeding the image into a small space directly in front of
his eyes. Figures moved in an unfamiliar, cell-like room,
altogether too like Jericho's prison system. He reached for the
session precis even as he recognized two of the templates. Lord
Faro was an old favorite, and so was Ibelin Belfortune, and if
they both were there ... He flicked the precis into prominence,
skimmed quickly through the screen. Desir of Harmsway's name
seemed to leap out at him.
       "Who's running this?" he said aloud, and felt rather than
saw the malice in Sanci's look.
       "I knew you'd be interested in this one. And it's not a
fill-in-the-background session, either. That's Ixion's Wheel
you're looking at."
       _I put those characters on Ixion's Wheel to keep them out


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (65 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

of other people's hands. And Desir of Harmsway is my character, my
property -- more than that, my creation. Who the hell does this
session leader think s/he is, using my persona in a session?_
Ransome bit back his instinctive reaction -- Sanci didn't deserve
the satisfaction -- and said again, "Who is it?"
       Sanci sighed, rather theatrically. "Woman named Lioe, out
of the Republic. She did the Frederick's Glory scenario everyone
was so hot about."
       Ransome said, "She's good, or so I hear." His hands were
busy in the control space, expanding the picture, so that hand-
high figures moved in a cube of space half a meter square.
       "Good enough?" Sanci murmured, still with that knowing
smile, and Ransome managed a shrug.
       "It's possible, I suppose. I don't follow the Game that
closely these days."
       Sanci sneered, but said nothing. Ransome hesitated, wanting
to lie, to deny that he would follow this scenario now that it had
been brought to his attention, but knew that Sanci would recognize
the truth -- knew too that Sanci would probably try to trace the
taps, and blocking him was hardly worth the trouble. _But I'll be
damned if I'll thank him for this_. "Good-bye, Sanci," he said
instead, and flicked away the other man's image. The movement cut
the communications channel as it sent the bearded face spinning,
so that it turned end over end three times before it disappeared.
       The gesture had done something to soothe his feelings, but
Ransome was still frowning when he sat up fully. The image-shell
shifted with him, so that he looked down at the narrowcast from
Shadows as though it were a desktop screen. He banished the rest
of the images with a quick gesture, brought up the sound until he
could follow the dialogue in the little world that hung in the air
in front of him. One did not forget the Game, not when one had
spent as much time in its worlds as he had done, but one did get
out of practice. He scowled at the characters, reading the
iconography of clothing and _Face/Body_ numbers, and reached into
control space to tap the session leader's display bar. In the
Game, Belfortune and Lord Faro whispered together, fearful of
interruption, and a familiar figure moved through the hall behind
them, deliberately eavesdropping. _Avellar_...
       He studied the string of glyphs and numbers that bloomed
along the base of the main image, skimmed quickly through the


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (66 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

overlapping screens to confirm what he suspected. The overall
shape of the Game was almost as familiar to him as the layout of
his studio, and it was easy to see where this scenario would fit
into the whole. It was ostensibly a Rebel scenario, but it was
tied both to the Psionics variant and the Rival Claimants offshoot
of the Court Life Game -- _and all of that done through Avellar
and Desir of Harmsway, who was my character, and the situation
between them was my invention_ -- Ransome reached out to expand
the image, drawing out the details. Some of the players were old
friends, old rivals in the Game -- Peter Savian he'd known for
years, and Kazio Beledin; Imbertine was another familiar name, as
was Roscha, though he'd never met the latter off-line. But they
were players, not session leaders: it was the leader who'd chosen
to play with these characters -- _my characters, and it should
have been my Game. This Lioe's got nerve_.... He rolled the name
over in his mind, recalling the little he'd heard. She was a
notable-in-the-making, or so everybody said, a pilot out of the
Republic, off Callixte, which was a good introduction in the Game
... and her first name was Quinn, Quinn Lioe. He hesitated for a
moment, running down the list of friends who still followed the
Game and who would give information, and reached into control
space to open another line. The Game session still swam in front
of him, the characters murmuring to each other, and he pushed it
aside to make room for the new image.
       A disk of static appeared, a hazy oval that flickered
through so many colors so quickly that the eye could only read it
as grey: the system had made contact. "Hally?"
       A face took shape, forming from the disk itself, so that it
became a mask hanging in space, a face thin and rather fine
beneath the canalli weathering. Earrings gleamed in both ears, and
a fine chain -- a datawire, Ransome guessed -- ran from one
particularly elaborate stud to a jewel-rimmed socket at the inner
corner of his right eye. The iridescent strand seemed to glow
against his pale brown skin. "Ransome?" Thin, delicately arched
eyebrows rose in surprise, then contracted into a frown. "I'm
watching a Game," Hally Ventura said, and broke off, seeing the
face in his own screens.
       "From Shadows?" Ransome asked, and was answered by a brief,
lopsided smile.
       "That's right. So what do you want to know about her, I-


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (67 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

Jay?"
       "What do you know?"
       "About what everyone does. She's been a name on Callixte,
everyone says a notable-to-be. And she's a pilot, union pilot,
also works out of Callixte for that. Angele up at the port says
her ship's in for repairs, and she's come to play. People've been
at her to quit space, go into the Game full time, but she's not
been interested."
       "Piloting's a good job," Ransome said. "I'd think twice
before I quit."
       Hally shrugged. "She's very, very good at the Game." His
eyes shifted, looking at something outside his own display. "Look,
I-Jay, I want to watch this session. Was that all?"
       "I just thought, if anyone knew anything, it would be you,"
Ransome said, and was rewarded by a quick smile: the apology was
acceptable. "Thanks, Hally."
       "Not at all," Hally answered, and the hanging mask
dissolved into the oval of static. Ransome cut the connection.
       The Game session floated back in front of him, expanded at
a gesture to display its full detail. Belfortune sat with his head
in his hands, answered, low-voiced, Lord Faro's questions. The
tension between them was palpable: the players' affair had been
over for years, but its memory still informed their play. Mijja
Lyall, the scientist/technician, watched uneasily, her gaze
flickering between the two men and the metal face that hung on the
wall overhead. Baron Vortex, the Game's great villain, was
overseeing this himself.
       Ransome frowned, reached for the library icons, and had to
shuffle access spaces until he found dead storage. It had been a
long time since he had gone looking for his template libraries. He
flicked them back into the working volume, searched the most
recent issues until he found Lord Faro's listing. He had forgotten
that Faro had become one of the Baron's henchmen -- that had
happened almost two years ago, just after he'd quit the Game. He
leaned back in his chair, the images tilting around him, and saw
another firework flare through the pattern of the Game. _You
couldn't ask for better_, he thought, and reached for a hand-held
remote to summon the drinks tray.
       The machine trundled over, the lid sliding back to give
access to the freezer compartment. Ransome chose abstractedly,


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (68 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

opened the container, his eyes still on the session unfolding in
front of him. Faro was clearly torn between his loyalty to Baron
Vortex -- a loyalty bought with fear and the promise that Faro's
lost estates would someday be returned -- and his -- _love?
desire?_ -- for Belfortune. Belfortune clearly shared both passion
and fear, and Baron Vortex watched from the wall. Lioe was
handling him well, he admitted grudgingly. Too many leaders made
the Baron too villainous right from the start; Lioe was keeping
him just reasonable enough -- though still with that edge of
madness -- that it seemed suicidal to oppose him.
       Abruptly, he wanted to be there, at Shadows, watching
firsthand -- or, better still, to be in the control booth with
Medard-Yasine. It was the first time in three years that he'd
actually wanted to attend a Game, and his lips quirked upward as
he realized that at least he now had an excuse for doing what
Chauvelin wanted. He closed both fists, shutting down the system --
in the corner of his eye, glyphs tumbled headlong as the slaved
machines ran through their shutdown procedures -- and reached for
a stand-alone com-unit and punched codes that would cycle through
the helicab companies until he found one that could respond. It
took perhaps two minutes, the bar of light flashing in front of
him, not quite blocking his sight, and he spent the time searching
for his jacket and the cylinder of Mist he was forced to carry.
The com-unit beeped at him before he found the red-banded tube,
and he scrabbled impatiently for the hand-held unit.
       "How can we be of service?"
       It was a machine voice, or so the telltale at the base of
the unit said -- it would have been impossible to tell from the
sound alone. Ransome curbed his impatience, and smoothed his tone
to be as emotionless as possible. "I need transport to the helipad
closest to Shadows -- Face Road, by the center of the Dike in the
Dock Road District. I think that's Underface."
       "Just a moment, please." There was a little silence, not
even the hiss of static, while Ransome scanned the cluttered space
of his loft for the missing cylinder, and then the machine said,
"Yes, Underface is closest. Your location code is Warehouse?"
       "That's right." The cylinder was lying on the shelf beside
the shell for the Syndic's egg.
       "Thank you. Your helicab will arrive at the Warehouse
helipad in fifteen minutes."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (69 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

       "Thanks," Ransome said, in spite of himself, in spite of
knowing it was a machine, and broke the connection. He collected
the cylinder, shoved it and his credimeters into the pocket of his
jacket, and left the loft.
       It took him almost fifteen minutes to reach the helipad --
the computers were scrupulous in their calculations -- and he
barely had time to catch his breath before he heard the soft beat
of the muted rotors. Somewhat to his surprise, there was a live
pilot, who grinned cheerfully at him as she popped the passenger
hatch.
       "To Underface, right? Going to Shadows?"
       _Does everyone on the planet know about this fucking game?_
Ransome wondered. "Yes, to Underface -- and, yes, to Shadows,
too."
       The pilot nodded, closing the hatch behind him. "I hear
there's one hell of a session in progress there. You're like the
fifth person I've dropped there in the last two hours."
       "Really." Ransome settled into the center seat, the most
comfortable of the three, and adjusted the door controls so that
the whole panel went transparent, an enormous curved window on the
city spread out below the cliff face.
       "Yeah." The pilot manipulated her controls, and the helicab
lifted easily, pivoting toward the cliff edge and the descent to
Underface. She was on-line, Ransome saw, bound into the cab's
systems so that her arms and legs seemed to end in the black boxes
of the control consoles; more wires, a complex, braided band of
them, fell from the junction box at the base of her skull. Her
hair was shaved around that connection, but the rest of it fell in
a scarlet tail from an untidy topknot. "I wish I wasn't working."
       "You're a Gamer, then?" Ransome asked, and saw, too late,
the pins studding her left sleeve. MI-Net, Court Life V, Vimar
Nessen's Game, RedApple, Old Network, and dozens of others: she
was a Gamer, all right, and a committed one.
       She didn't seem offended, however, just shrugged that
shoulder to make the pins glitter in the light from the instrument
panel. "That's right."
       "So what have you heard about this Lioe?" Ransome asked.
This wasn't his style at all -- this was the kind of information
he preferred to find on the nets -- but the chance was too good to
pass up.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (70 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

       The pilot shrugged again, both shoulders this time. "What
haven't I heard, really? Frederick's Glory got an A-double-star on
Callixte, which those judges don't hand out like candy, and she
wrote it. She's supposed to just be running a sample session for
Davvi tonight, but what everyone's saying is that it's turning out
to be something kind of special." She looked sideways, into the
space that showed her the passenger camera view. "What I heard
from one woman was, she's pulled one of Ambidexter's characters
out of storage, playing him as a major character."
       Ransome nodded, caught up in spite of himself in the old
habits of the Game. "Desir of Harmsway. I was watching for a while
on the nets."
       "_Sha-mai_." The pilot's curse was more admiring than
anything. "Ambidexter's going to murder her. Very God, I wish I
wasn't working."
       Ransome gave her a bitter grin. If he'd ever wanted
confirmation of how the white-sickness had changed him in the past
three years, he had it now -- not that he'd really needed it. Even
a year ago, before the disease really took hold, she would have
recognized him as Ambidexter, even if he hadn't been in the clubs
for a year or so before that.... He shook the thought away,
annoyed that he'd even acknowledged it, made himself pay attention
to the pilot.
       "That's assuming Ambidexter's still around, of course," she
went on, quite cheerfully. "There was talk he was dead, not long
back."
       "I don't think so," Ransome said, with involuntary pique,
and the pilot shrugged again. The helicab banked sideways into the
airpath that paralleled the Old Dike; its lights, and the glow of
the shops on Warden Street, filled the cab's interior with patches
of bright color.
       "The work on the nets under that name hasn't been very like
him, that's for sure."
       Ransome drew breath for an indignant response -- _how dare
she accuse me of not being myself?_ -- and stopped suddenly,
wondering if this was Cella's doing. It wouldn't be unlike her, to
whisper that he was dead, that his work was not his own. He opened
his mouth, trying to figure out how to phrase the question, but
the helicab tilted again, and he realized that the pilot's
attention was once again on her craft. After a moment, his mouth


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (71 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

twisted into a wry smile. That would be very like Cella, to assume
that the rumor of his death would bring him back onto the nets --
_and it would have worked, too, if I hadn't been so busy with
other things_.
       The helicab tipped again, responding to wind or air
currents or an unseen traffic signal, and the door panel was
filled with the city lights. Ransome stared, caught once again by
the breathtaking beauty: the tidy geometry of the well-lit squares
and canals of Dock Road, bounded by the twin lines of the Straight
to the north and the Crooked to the south. In the distance, the
broad triangle that was the landformed extension of Mainwarden
Island jutted into the Water, dividing the massive stream into two
channels. A line of light ran from apex to base, broke slightly at
the edge of the low cliff that rose to Mainwarden Island proper:
Compass Road, where the Lockwarden Society had their main offices.
The Society's certification officers, the elite of the Wet
Districts around the Water, generally lived in the tidy, decent
neighborhoods to either side of that main thoroughfare. The Great
Island light blazed at steady intervals from the tip of the
Extension, directing the all-but-invisible traffic that filled the
Water even at this hour.
       "Coming down," the pilot said, her voice distant and
professional again. The helicab straightened and slowed to hover,
almost motionless. Ransome craned his neck to see through the
lower curve of the door, and could just make out the blue
concentric lines of the helipad below them. One band of light
blinked, as though something had moved across it, and a moment
later another one did the same. _Kids, probably_, Ransome thought,
and in the same instant a strong white light flashed from the
cab's underbelly, all but drowning out the landing lines. Ransome
saw a last small figure scramble over the low barrier. The pilot
smiled, and the helicab began to sink delicately toward the
ground. They touched down almost without a thud, and the credit
reader unfolded itself from the wall of the passenger compartment,
beeping politely but insistently. Ransome fed his card through the
reader, winced slightly when the total was presented, but touched
the confirmation code without further protest. The door opened,
and Ransome swung himself out onto the brightly lit pavement. The
cab lifted away as soon as he was clear, trailing a diminishing
cone of light.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (72 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

       It was not a long walk from the Underface helipad to
Shadows, but Ransome felt his lungs clog and falter, stopped in
the mouth of a half-enclosed courtyard to breathe from the
cylinder of Mist. He grimaced at the bitter taste, grimaced again
as the drug took hold, the cold pain clearing his lungs. He waited
a moment longer, listening to a strand of distant music, a single
violo drawn against the night, that floated down from somewhere
above him, closer to the base of the Dike. The pain faded, and he
kept walking. Shadows appeared out of the darkness a few minutes
later, all its windows unshuttered and blazing with light, a
suppressed excitement humming in the air around it. Even the food
shop across the intersection seemed quiet by comparison, both the
bouncers, conspicuous in their rusty black jerkins and studded
wristbands, sitting comfortably in chairs just outside the
doorway, a thermoflask on the ground between them.
       There was no trouble gaining admission to the club, despite
the crowd that overflowed from the main lobby into the access
hall. Most of them wanted only to maintain their view of the large
display screens, and were perfectly willing to let Ransome past as
long as he showed no desire to linger. He fetched up against the
far wall, beside the little office. The dreamy-eyed woman behind
the counter only reluctantly took her attention from the display
board balanced in her lap.
       "What can I do for you?"
       "Is Davvi here?"
       The abrupt request raised her eyebrows, and then she
frowned, visibly searching her memory to match the face in front
of her. Ransome smiled, unable to keep the expression from turning
sour, and said, "Tell him Ambidexter's here."
       The dreamy eyes widened almost comically. "At once,
N'Ambidexter. It's good to see you back again."
       A few of the Gamers close to the desk heard the name even
over the direct-input sound from the room systems, and turned to
look. Ransome met the stares blandly, and turned his attention to
the displays overhead. In the screens, Gallio Hazard confronted a
figure he didn't recognize, an enormously fat man in prison
clothes. Bricks and stones, a halo of debris, floated in the air
around him, and Ransome realized that the fat man was a
telekinetic.
       "She is good, isn't she?" Davvi Medard-Yasine had come


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (73 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

quietly through the door that led to the session rooms, and smiled
at Ransome's shrug.
       "So far, yes," Ransome answered. "Look, Davvi, I need a
favor."
       "You can ask," Medard-Yasine answered, but his smile
widened.
       "I want to watch, up close. Can you get me into the control
room?"
       "I figured," Medard-Yasine said. "Come on."
       He led the way through the door and into the depths of the
club. These hallways were less crowded, but in nearly every side
room a group had gathered around the VDIRT tables, and the same
tiny figures moved in each tabletop display. The central courtyard
was busier than Ransome had ever seen it, groups standing three
deep at the larger tables there. Security was standing outside the
control room, a thin unsmiling woman with specialists' badges on
her shoulders, and the Gamers who had ventured into this area gave
her a wide berth. They clustered at the far end of the hall, where
someone had hooked a trio of series-linked Gameboards into a
datanode, dividing their attention between the display screens and
the door that led to the control areas. Medard-Yasine ignored
them, said something quietly to Security, who nodded and stood
back from the door controls. Ransome waited while Medard-Yasine
keyed the entrance codes, looking politely down the hall away from
the keypad. The people on the edges of the group looked back at
him, frankly curious, and a couple of them put their heads
together, murmuring to each other. Ransome smiled then, and a
woman in the front row nudged the man next to her. Her voice
carried quite clearly: "That's Ambidexter, I'm sure of it."
       "You've been found out," Medard-Yasine said cheerfully, and
pushed open the door.
       Ransome followed him into the control room, crowded with
Gamers and display equipment. A massive VDIRT table, twice as
large as most club models, dominated the room; the scenario played
in the air above the tabletop, the images almost solid enough to
block out the real objects behind them, and the virtual screens in
the tabletop itself glimmered with technical displays. Ransome
glanced quickly at them, skimming the lines of symbols, looked
away again to scan the crowd. Most of the Dock Road notables were
here, all right -- and there were maybe a dozen of them; Dock Road


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (74 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

was a Gamer's ghetto, especially around Underface -- and the
flickering tie-in lights on the wall consoles meant that a lot
more people were tapping in through MI-Net. He looked sideways, at
Medard-Yasine, and saw a faint, feline smile of satisfaction on
the other man's face. Ransome touched his forehead in
acknowledgment, and turned his attention to the Game.
--------
         *Interlude*
         _Game/varRebel.2. 04/_
_subPsi. 1.22/ver22. 1/ses 1.26_
       They crouched in the uncertain shelter of the cargo bay,
hearing the clatter of boots on the walkways to either side. The
overhanging shelves, piled high with crates, gave some cover, but
they all knew that if the Baron's guards came out onto the center
catwalk it would take a miracle to keep from being seen. Galan
Africa/JAFIERA ROSCHA worked frantically at the powerpack of their
only heavy laser, trying to mate a salvaged blaster cell into the
nonstandard housing. Mijja Lyall/FERNESA crouched at his side,
unable to concentrate on either the gun or on Jack Blue/VERE
CAMINESI, who sprawled gasping against the nearest stack of
crates. His bulk had displaced the lowest one slightly, and Gallio
Hazard/IMBERTINE gave the whole stack a wide berth, kneeling well
clear of its line of fall, his pistol drawn and cocked. He had
laid the fresh clip on the decking beside him, ready for use. Lord
Faro/PETER SAVIAN and Ibelin Belfortune/KAZIO BELEDIN crouched as
always a little apart from the rest, Faro a little ahead of the
wild-eyed Belfortune, as though he could somehow protect him.
       "Where the hell is this contact?" Desir of Harmsway/ALAZAIS
MARICHE hissed, his light pistol already drawn and ready. "Come
on, Avellar, you can explain this one, too."
       Avellar/GARET HUARD ignored him, went to kneel on the
warped flooring beside Jack Blue. "How is it?" he said, as much to
Lyall as to Blue, but it was the telekinetic who answered.
       "Not so good." Blue's voice was thin and wheezy, and Lyall
shook her head, reaching into the much-depleted medical kit.
       "If you weren't so damn fat," Harmsway sneered, and Blue
frowned sharply. A cracked piece of the floor tiling snapped loose
and flung itself at Harmsway's face. He ducked away from it, but
it still struck him a grazing blow along one cheekbone, raising a
thin line of blood. Avellar snatched the falling tile before it


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (75 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

could hit anything else.
       "That's why I'm so damn fat," Blue said. The mass a
telekinetic could move was directly related to his/her body
weight; that he could throw even a kilogram, exhausted as he was,
was the direct result of his obesity.
       "Save your strength," Avellar said to Blue, and looked at
Harmsway. "The ship is there, Desir, and my contact's waiting. Go
right ahead."
       Harmsway looked longingly at the cargo door, just twenty
meters away across the width of the warehouse. It was even open,
the ship's hatch gleaming in the loading lights, and he could feel
that the last barrier was sealed only with a simple palm lock, the
kind of thing he could open in his sleep ... if he could only get
there. His lips thinned, and he looked away.
       "Avellar." Lyall's voice was suddenly sharp with fear, and
Avellar swung to face her.
       "I think -- " Lyall began, then shook her head. "No, I'm
sure. They've brought in a hunter."
       Harmsway swore, and Hazard looked back over his shoulder at
him.
       Africa said, as if he didn't really want to know, "Hunter?"
       "Another telepath," Blue said. "One who specializes in
sensing out his own kind."
       "How close?" Harmsway demanded, and Lyall shook her head
again.
       "I can't tell. He -- she -- it's shielded."
       Avellar's lips tightened, and he looked at the two men who
stood apart from the rest. Faro shifted his position slightly,
almost in spite of himself, putting himself between Avellar and
Belfortune. Belfortune did not seem to notice, but his free hand
rose to the stained bandage on his left shoulder, pressed hard as
though that would ease the pain. Avellar lifted a hand and looked
instead at Africa. "How's it coming, Galan?"
       The technician shrugged, his hands never slowing on the
balky connection. "We won't know until I try to use it. I think
I've got it."
       Avellar grimaced, looked back at Belfortune. "Bel."
       "Let him be," Faro said. Belfortune passed his hand over
his face, then reached for the gun he had laid beside him on the
tiles. He still would not meet Avellar's eyes.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (76 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

       "Bel," Avellar said again. "We need you."
       "There's nothing I can do." Belfortune spoke flatly,
without lifting his eyes from the floor. His useless left hand was
tucked into the front of his jacket, held as if in a crude sling.
       "Bullshit," Harmsway said. "That's fucking bullshit, and
you know it. Just because you don't like thinking you're one of
us, just because you and him" -- his free hand swept out to
indicate Lord Faro, who lifted an arrogant eyebrow in response --
"have had the Baron's favor, you don't want to admit what you are.
You could get us all killed, or you could save us. You're a
vampire, damn you, and right now that could save all our lives."
       Belfortune's good hand closed convulsively over the gun,
and he brought it up in a single smooth motion, leveling it at
Harmsway. Harmsway stared back at him unmoving, handsome face set
in his mask of habitual contempt. Avellar stirred, but said
nothing after all.
       "I'm not a vampire," Belfortune said after a moment, and
the gun's muzzle wavered and fell. "Yes, I'm psi, I've never
denied it -- "
       "Like hell," Harmsway said.
       Belfortune swept on as though he hadn't spoken. " -- but
I'm only an interference maker. All I can do is fuck up somebody
trying to use their psi. I can't stop them. I can't take their
power away."
       "But you can." Lyall's voice was very soft, but they all
heard her. "The tests were conclusive, I was there, I ran them.
When you want to, you can stop all psi use cold."
       "And then what?" Belfortune asked. He smiled bitterly,
without a trace of humor. "That's the part no one ever asks about,
do they, Mijja? Because what happens is they die. I take their
power, and they die without it."
       "Bel." Faro's voice was gentle, as though there was no one
else near them, and all the time in the world.
       "You know what happens." Belfortune's voice scaled upward,
toward hysteria. "You know how they die. Oh, God, the taste of it
in my mind -- "
       Faro reached out to him, but Harmsway cut him off. "Jesus
Christ. It's a hunter. And if you don't kill him, we're dead."
       "Shut up, Desir," Avellar said. He looked at Belfortune.
"Bel -- "


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (77 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

       Belfortune shook his head. "I can't, Avellar. Not won't. I
can't do it."
       "Let it be," Faro said, with unexpected authority. He and
Avellar locked stares for a moment, and then Avellar turned away.
       "Ready," Africa said, and held out the laser. Hazard took
it warily, slipped his pistol and its spare clip back onto his
belt.
       "What do we do now, Avellar?" he said.
       "Without Belfortune -- " Lyall began, and broke off with a
gasp.
       Avellar took a deep breath. "We have to get on board the
ship. And if the Baron's brought in a hunter, they'll know where
we are any minute now. We'll have to fight."
       "What a wonderful plan," Harmsway jeered. "And how typical
of your planning. Damn you, Royal, why didn't you leave me here?"
       Avellar looked at him, face absolutely without emotion. "I
told you once, I need you, need your talent. I can't take the
throne without your help."
       Africa looked up as though he'd been stung, and Hazard
spoke quickly, cutting off anything the technician might have
said. "But to fight, Royal?"
       Jack Blue said, "He's right, Avellar. The odds aren't in
our favor."
       Avellar looked at Belfortune. "You hear them, Belfortune.
It's your choice."
       "I can't," Belfortune said, his voice little louder than a
whisper. "I can't."
       "He's found us," Lyall said. Her eyes were closed, face
furrowed with concentration as she brought her minimal telepathy
to bear on the problem. "He's at the east entrance, and the chase
squads are joining him."
       "Oh, shit," Harmsway said. "Shit, shit, shit." He flung
himself out from under the shelter of the shelves, started down
the corridor toward the eastern entrance. Overhead, a light
fixture exploded in a shower of sparks; to his left, a cargo robot
spun awkwardly on its treads, and started toward the entrance as
well. Fat sparks gathered around him, snapped from his fingers and
flickered away from him across the metal shelves and the walkways
overhead as he tapped into and overloaded the cargo bay's
electrical systems. He turned down the first side corridor, and


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (78 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

vanished.
       "Desir -- !" Avellar began, closed his mouth over whatever
he would have said. "Hazard, get after him, get him back if you
can."
       Hazard nodded. "But not for you, Royal," he said, and
started after the electrokinetic, the laser still gripped in his
hands.
       Avellar looked down at Belfortune, who still crouched
against the cases. "Damn you to hell, Belfortune," he whispered.
"Give me a reason I shouldn't kill you now."
       Belfortune did not answer, did not even seem to hear, and
Faro said, "You pushed him too hard, Avellar, you and Harmsway. If
you'd given me time -- "
       Avellar stared at him for an instant, but then nodded,
acknowledging the rebuke. "All right," he said, "get moving, all
of you. Head for the hatch."
       "We can still back him up," Africa said.
       Blue shook his head, said, in a voice suddenly as old and
tired as he looked, "He's dead, man. They're both dead. They'll be
on him in a minute."
       As if to underscore his words, the whine of laser fire
sounded from somewhere near the east entrance, followed a moment
later by the distinctive crack as an electrokinetically induced
overload destroyed a laser's powerpack.
       Avellar winced. "All we can do now," he said, "is get to
the ship."
       "He's right," Blue said, and hauled himself to his feet,
steadied by Lyall and Africa. "Let's go."
--------
          *Game/VarRebel.2.04/subPsi.1.22/ver22.1/ses1.27*
       Harmsway moved through the corridors in a hailstorm of
electricity, glorying in a strength and skill he hadn't known he
possessed. Lights exploded overhead, spilled streamers of fire
from the open circuits; he caught and shaped that inchoate power
into bolts, and flung them in the faces of the Baron's troops as
they moved to engage him. Outside the sphere of his influence,
lights flickered, control panels flashing yellow and red as he
overloaded the system. He felt it, reached out to compensate,
groping for access to the main power grid.
       The first laser bolt spun him sideways into a stack of


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (79 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

crates. He caught himself against their metal sides, electricity
crackling unheeded from his hands, turned to point at the soldier,
using his finger as focus and guide for his power. Stored
electricity leaped from the nearest output node, flashed along his
arm and across the intervening meters to strike the laser's
powerpack. It blew in a sheet of flame, and the soldier fell,
screaming. Harmsway caught his breath, aware of a new pain in his
chest, tried to flex his shoulder and failed, and shrugged the
other shoulder and kept walking, back toward the east entrance
where the hunter had been waiting.
       There were more of the Baron's guard waiting around the
next corner, crouched behind the shield of a heavy gatling.
Harmsway took a deep breath that burned in his lungs,
concentrated, and reached out for the gun's control circuits. The
guards fired in the same instant, a brief hail of lead before
Harmsway found the gatling's electronics and destroyed the system.
They had barely had time to aim, but two of the bullets struck his
hip and leg. He staggered against the nearest stack of crates,
tried to take a step, and fell, sliding against the bare metal
until he was barely sitting, propped up against the crates. The
first of the two surviving soldiers leveled his laser. Harmsway
fought back the pain, and reached for the nearest output node. He
drew power from it, but his side and leg burned and throbbed, and
the electricity streamed out uncontrolled, writhed across the
intervening metal of the floor like a fiery snake. The soldiers
fell back for a moment, but then the second man, better protected
by the gatling's smoking carcass, raised his laser again. There
were more soldiers coming up the corridor behind him, and an
airsled rode in their midst: the Baron himself was coming to see
the end of the hunt. Harmsway braced himself to die.
       Hazard rounded the last corner at that moment, and the
soldiers swung instinctively to cover him. He took in the
situation at a glance -- Harmsway down, blood and burned flesh
everywhere, the soldiers with leveled lasers and the rest of the
troop coming up behind them -- and started to raise his heavy
laser for the last time.
       "Don't shoot," a whispering voice said from the airsled's
closed cabin, and Hazard froze. Harmsway made a small, painful
sound, but the voice went on anyway, as though no one had spoken.
"Hazard, you're not a fool. Put down your gun, and I'm sure we can


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (80 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

come to some agreement."
       Hazard hesitated, the muzzle of the gun wavering slightly --
to fire was suicide, his and Harmsway's, but the speaker was Baron
Vortex, and his word could never be trusted.
       "Your friend is badly hurt, maybe dying," the voice went
on. "But he could be saved. Put down your gun, Gallio Hazard, and
I'll see that he lives."
       "And me?" Hazard asked, with a short laugh.
       "And you," the voice agreed. "Both of you will live."
       "Why?"
       "You're running short of time," the voice murmured, with a
note like amusement, and Hazard shook his head.
       "Why?" he said again.
       "I need telepaths," the voice said. "Electrokinetics of
Harmsway's talent are rare, to say the least; he may even be
unique. You were not badly treated here, and if you cooperate, you
can live quite well -- you both can live quite well. Is Avellar's
rebellion worth that much to you?"
       Hazard hesitated for a moment longer, then, very slowly,
laid his laser on the tiles, slid it hard toward the waiting
soldiers. "All right," he said. "We surrender."
       "Excellent," the voice purred, and changed instantly to a
snap of command. "Medics, see to that man. You, guard, search this
one properly."
       Hazard lifted his hands, and submitted to the search,
watching over the soldiers' shoulders as a medical team swarmed
over Harmsway's unconscious body, loaded it into a medsled, and
sped away. The nearest soldier prodded him, and he forced himself
to move, walking back toward the entrance and the long trek back
to the prison complex.
--------
         *Game/varRebel.2.04/subPsi.1.22/ver22.1/ses1.28*
       There were only two guards by the cargo door, both staring
nervously toward the sound of Harmsway's attack. They were
sheltered by the hatchway, not an easy shot at all, and Avellar
paused in the shelter of the final rack of crates, considering
them cautiously. After a moment, he beckoned to Africa. The man
frowned, but slipped forward to join the rebel leader.
       "You're the best shot of all of us," Avellar said, leaning
close, his voice an almost soundless whisper. "Can you take them?"


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (81 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

       Africa frowned. "Not with a pistol."
       Avellar made a face, but eased back into the shelter of the
crates. After a moment, Africa followed, still frowning.
       "Let me," Faro said.
       Avellar shook his head. Before he could say anything, Jack
Blue interrupted.
       "I can draw them out, Avellar. Leave it to me."
       Avellar looked uncertainly at him for a moment -- a fat
man, wheezing, leaning awkwardly on Lyall's shoulder -- but slowly
nodded. "If you can lure them out here..."
       "We can take them," Africa said. "Can't we, Faro?"
       Lord Faro nodded, snapped the last power cell into the butt
of his pistol.
       "Do it," Avellar said.
       Blue closed his eyes, frowned, and let himself sink cross-
legged onto the tiled floor. Slowly, the frown eased away from his
heavy features, and his hands lay lax on his thighs. A few moments
later, something stirred in the corridor to their right: it
sounded like someone walking, the heavy, uncertain footsteps of a
wounded man.
       Lyall said, almost in the same moment, "They're buying it."
       The first of the guards peered out of the hatchway, put up
his faceplate to listen more closely. Africa leveled his pistol,
but Lord Faro laid a restraining hand on his arm.
       "Wait for the other one," he said, very softly.
       Africa nodded, lowered the pistol again.
       Blue was sweating lightly now, forehead furrowed in
concentration. In the corridor, the footsteps faltered, something
metal fell with a clatter, and then the footsteps picked up again,
more slowly. The guard cocked his head to one side, listening,
then pulled the faceplate down again. Avellar held his breath,
afraid to move. Very slowly, Lyall crossed her fingers, closed her
eyes, and played out her minimal power the way a fisherman plays a
line, easing out a tendril of curiosity to draw the guard toward
the strange noises. The guard held up his hand at last, and
beckoned to his partner. The second guard came up to the edge of
the hatch, but stopped just inside the heavy frame. Africa
breathed a curse: the hatchway still blocked their shot.
       "Wait for it," Faro murmured, the words almost a mantra.
"Wait for it."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (82 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

       The guards stood still for a moment longer, visibly
conferring via the helmet links. Then the first guard started
toward the sound of the footsteps, and the second man moved out of
the hatchway to cover him.
       "Now!" Avellar said.
       The others fired almost as he spoke. The second guard fell
without a sound, crumpling back into the hatchway. The first guard
spun around, staggered by the shot, but fought to keep his feet
and bring his laser to bear. Africa fired again, and this time he
went down.
       "Did he warn the main party?" Avellar demanded, looking at
Lyall.
       The telepath shook her head. "I don't think so."
       "Then let's go," Avellar said. He looked down at Blue, who
was slowly opening his eyes, extended a hand to help him to his
feet. Faro did the same, and together they pulled the telekinetic
upright. Belfortune stepped forward without a word, took Avellar's
place. He winced when his share of Blue's weight hit him, but made
no sound.
       "Let's go," Avellar said again, and started across the open
corridor toward the hatch. The others followed, Africa still with
his laser at the ready, but nothing moved to stop them.
       They crowded into the narrow space, and Avellar laid his
hand against the sensor panel that regulated access to the
freighter's cargo lock. There was a soft click, and then a high-
pitched tone.
       "Royal Avellar," he said distinctly, and waited. A
heartbeat later, the cargo lock creaked open. Familiar people,
familiar faces, were waiting inside the lock, and Avellar allowed
himself to relax for the first time since they had left the prison
complex.
       "Thank God you made it," a well-remembered voice said, and
Avellar grimaced, relief and chagrin equally mingled in his face.
       "Danile. I didn't get him."
       "I know." The man -- greying, thin, a long, heavily
embroidered coat thrown over expensively plain shirt and trousers -
- looked back at him gravely. "But you're safe, and alive, and
well out of this place. And the rest of you, too." His eyes swept
over the others, stopped when he saw Faro. "So." The word was
little more than a hiss. "You found something you wanted more than


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (83 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:09 AM]
======================

your lands, Faro?"
       Faro glared back at him, then deliberately reached out to
touch Belfortune's wounded shoulder. "Yes. And I've paid, Danile.
I can't go back to the Baron now."
       There was a little silence, broken by one of the crew
saying urgently, "Sirs..."
       Danile nodded. "All right, Faro. All of you, we have to
hurry. We're cleared for departure, let's go while we can."
       There was a ragged murmur of agreement, and the group began
to move further into the ship, following Danile and Avellar. The
cargo door slid shut behind them, closing off their last view of
Ixion's Wheel.
--------
         *Evening, Day 30*
         _High Spring: Shadows, Face_
_Road, Dock Road District_
_Below the Old Dike_
       There was a little silence after the session ended, the
images fading slowly from the VDIRT table, and then a murmur of
satisfaction, of pleasure, before the applause began. Ransome
joined with the rest, but long before they'd finished, he was
pushing his way through the crowd to Medard-Yasine's side. "I want
to meet her, Davvi."
       Medard-Yasine looked blank for a moment, then visibly
pulled himself out of the Game universe. "So long as you're not
planning to kill her, I-Jay. I want her working here."
       Ransome gave his crooked smile. "No, I wasn't planning on
it. She did a pretty good job with that scenario." _Better than
pretty good; it was her players who held her back. God, wouldn't I
love to play a session, show them all how it should be done_... It
had been a long time since he had felt that way about any of the
Game versions, and his smile widened for an instant.
       "Can I quote you?" Medard-Yasine said.
       "Maybe. Once I've met her."
       Medard-Yasine laughed. "Come on, then."
       The players were gathering in one of the larger lounges,
where food and drink were already set out for the players -- on
the house, Gueremei said loudly. Medard-Yasine nodded his
agreement, and moved off with only a quick word of apology to
supervise the house staff. Ransome stood just inside the door,


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (84 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

content to watch from a distance for now, matching names and real
faces to voices that had become oddly familiar. Savian and Beledin
he had recognized instantly, despite the new implants glimmering
in Beledin's eyes, and seeing them standing with their arms around
each other, he guessed that their old affair might rekindle for
the night. A thin, olive-skinned young man in a steward's jacket
stood blinking for a moment in the doorway, the mark of his shades
prominent on his nose, and Beledin detached himself from Savian's
hold to embrace the newcomer. _Jack Blue?_ Ransome wondered, and
the steward's voice confirmed it. Huard he knew also, admitted
grudgingly that the man had done a good job within conventional
limits, as had Mariche. He searched the crowd for an instant
before he found her, was not surprised to find her hooked up to
another terminal, waiting to see if her ratings had changed.
Imbertine -- _who did better than I expected, given the others'
conventional play_ -- floated in his chair at her side, rubbing
his wrists as though the bracelets chafed him. Ransome allowed
himself another quick smile -- Mariche had always been overly
concerned with rankings. That left Roscha -- _Galan Africa_ -- and
Lioe. He looked again, and realized that the stunning redhead
talking to Huard must be one of the players. _Roscha, then -- and
it's a shame her mouth is that hair too big, or she'd be perfect.
So where's Lioe?_
       Even as he thought it, the door from the session room
opened again, and a tall, lanky woman came into the room. She was
dark, her skin the color of old bronze, and her face was made up
of stark planes, a severe and sculptural beauty. A pilot's hat, a
small one, just a narrow toque with a knot of spangled fabric
wound around it, hugged her close-cut hair. Then someone called to
her, a voice out of the crowd congratulating her on the session,
and she turned to face him, her expression breaking into a smile
that shattered the stony beauty and gave her instead a vivid
plainness. Ransome caught his breath -- he hadn't expected that,
had expected a woman with looks like that to use them, to stay
always grave and expressionless, to fear the sudden change -- and
in that moment someone spoke his name.
       "Having fun, I-Jay?"
       He looked down and down again, to the upturned face and
half-bared breasts of a tiny, perfect woman. She smiled up at him,
well aware of and comfortable with his regard, and Ransome was


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (85 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

unable to keep his own smile in return from twisting slightly out
of true. "Oh, enormously," he said. "Are you here professionally,
Cella, or are you here to play?"
       If the barb touched her, she gave no sign of it. "To play --
or to watch, rather. It was nice of you to drop in, I-Jay, after
all this time. But then, somebody was playing with your toys."
       She kept her tone light, masking the insult, but Ransome
was not deceived. "Why do you care if I'm out of the Game?"
       Cella laughed at him, a lovely, practiced sound. "We've
missed you, I-Jay, missed Ambidexter. Though with this Lioe
around, that may be less of a problem. She does very well with
your templates, don't you think?"
       "Well enough," Ransome said. _But I'm better_. He
controlled the impulse to boast, said instead, "Have you been
playing much lately, Cella?" He knew perfectly well that she had
been, that her most recent session had been panned by most of the
nets as too political, and that the one before that had gotten an
A rating on- and off-world -- _and did she deliberately blow a
session, set it up so you couldn 't miss the politics, just to try
to lure me back on line?_ It didn't seem likely -- one did not
waste a session that way, not if one was serious about the Game --
but he couldn't shake the sudden suspicion.
       "Oh, I've been running a session or two," Cella said. "But
we've all missed your input."
       "I'll have to see if I can remedy that," Ransome said
slowly, and was not reassured by Cella's blinding smile. _I'm
doing what you want, Chauvelin, but I'm not at all happy about it.
At least I've got an excuse. Except that Lioe's good, good the way
I was, and I don't think I'd've missed her play_.
       "I'll look forward to it." Cella touched his arm lightly,
and slipped away into the crowd. Ransome watched her make her way
between the groups of much taller men and women, a tiny, opulent
shape in rich violet silk, her blue-black hair piled in braids
interwoven with strands of the same clear color. She paused to
speak briefly with one of the other Gamers, and then vanished
among the crowd. Ransome stared a moment longer, wondering what
she and Damian Chrestil were up to this time, then resolutely
looked away.
       "I-Jay!" Beledin was waving to him from across the room. "I
should've known you'd come."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (86 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

       Ransome made his way to join the other, allowed himself one
genuinely mischievous smile before he smoothed his expression.
"Hello, Bel. It was a good session."
       Beledin nodded. "It was."
       "That's what I always liked about you, Bel," Ransome
murmured. "No false modesty."
       Beledin ignored him, gestured to the two men standing with
him. "You know Peter, but I don't know if you've met Vere?"
       Ransome started to shake his head, looking at the steward's
jacket, then frowned, a vague memory teasing him.
       "Audovero Caminesi, _dit_ Vere," the young man said with
prompt courtesy.
       "Illario Ransome." Ransome held out his hand, still
frowning. "Have we met?"
       "I played a tenth-run session of yours a few years ago,
back when you -- when Ambidexter was still working out of Two-
Dragons," Vere answered, and took the other's hand.
       Ransome nodded, unable to sort him out from the hundreds of
other players, and took refuge in present truths. "It was a good
session, quality play, tonight. I liked what you did with Jack
Blue -- did you set the weight, or was it a given?"
       "Player's choice," Vere answered. He shrugged, trying for
nonchalance. "I figured he'd need all the help he could get,
playing with Grand Types, and the heavier he was the more powerful
he was."
       "Makes sense," Ransome said. In spite of himself, in spite
of everything he'd ever said about the Game, it was too easy to
get caught up in the old interests. He shrugged one shoulder,
annoyed at himself for no reason, and looked away.
       The servers had already been around with the drinks tray.
Savian drained the last of his glass, and lifted a hand to wave to
someone in the crowd. "Na Lioe! There's someone here you should
meet."
       "Peter." Beledin frowned quickly at him, at the emptied
glass, and looked at Ransome. "I-Jay. She's good -- "
       "Trust me," Ransome said, and turned to face the woman as
she emerged from the crowd.
       Lioe looked warily from Savian to the stranger, aware of
undercurrents but uncertain of their meanings. The stranger smiled
back at her -- a gaunt, white-faced man with deep lines that


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (87 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

bracketed his mouth, turning his expression crooked -- and said,
"I'm pleased to meet you, Na Lioe."
       Lioe nodded, waiting for the name, and the stranger's smile
broadened.
       "I'm Illario Ransome."
       "Na Ransome." Lioe held out her hand, and the stranger took
it, his grip neither testing nor condescendingly weak, still with
that crooked smile.
       "He's Ambidexter," Vere said, and for an instant sounded
all of twelve years old. Ransome gave him a fleeting, amused
glance, and the younger man flushed to the roots of his hair.
       "You left some good characters," Lioe said, mildly annoyed
by his treatment of her player. "It's a shame you quit the Game."
       There was a sudden silence, spreading from her words, and
she was aware of Savian's open grin, daring her to say more.
Beledin kicked his friend just above the ankle, not gently, but
the Republican ignored him. Ransome stared back at her for a long
moment, and then, slowly, the crooked smile widened, became real
and unexpectedly appealing. The whole shape of his face changed,
gaining sudden lines and hollows; his coarse grey-streaked hair
fell untidily into his eyes. He pushed it back impatiently, as
though he were no longer conscious of the movement, said, "I
mightn't've done, if there'd been sessions like this to play in. I
enjoyed watching."
       "Thanks," Lioe said. _I will not apologize for playing your
characters_.
       "I'll be looking forward to seeing more of your work,"
Ransome said.
       "That's high praise, from Ambidexter," Savian murmured.
       Ransome cocked an eyebrow at him, but did not answer. Lioe
said, with deliberate nonchalance, aiming for exactly the tone she
would have used with anyone, "Thanks. You should come and play
sometime."
       The expressive eyebrows rose even higher. Lioe met the
stare blandly, and, quite suddenly, Ransome laughed. "I might, at
that. It was a pleasure to meet you, Na Lioe."
       "And you," Lioe said, and couldn't keep a hint of irony out
of her voice. She was already speaking to his back, however; she
was sure he heard, but he made no response. "I think," she added,
mostly under her breath, and was rewarded by a rather nervous


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (88 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

giggle from Vere.
       "Would you like some _methode?_" Beledin said hastily, and
Lioe nodded.
       "So that's Ambidexter," she said, and accepted the glass
that Beledin held out to her. The liquor was thick and fizzy, and
cheaply sweet. She took a careful swallow, waiting for their
answers.
       "Indeed it is," Savian said.
       "He's a good player," Beledin said. "Nobody's matched his
Court templates, outside the Grand Game."
       "Harmsway's a great character," Vere agreed.
       Once diverted into the Game, they could go on for hours.
Lioe glanced away from the conversation, searching for Ambidexter -
- Ransome -- among the crowding bodies. He was not a tall man, and
it took her a minute to find him. He was standing with Gueremei
and the man who had been pointed out to her as Davvi Medard-
Yasine, Shadows' primary owner -- standing between the two of
them, so that he seemed to be holding court, the other two dancing
attendance. _Does he do that on purpose?_ she wondered. _It's
obnoxious -- but he does do it well_. "Why did he quit gaming?"
she asked, and the others looked at her in surprise.
       "Ransome, you mean?" Beledin asked, and Lioe nodded.
       "Sheer pique," Savian said, with a wicked grin.
       "Give it a fucking rest," Beledin said. He looked back at
Lioe, shrugged one shoulder. "He said he was bored. And he's got
his story eggs to keep him busy."
       There was a note of constraint in his voice, the faintest
hint of something unspoken. Lioe cocked her head, wondering how to
ask, and Savian said, "They're easier than real people."
       Beledin scowled, opened his mouth to say something, and
Savian held up both hands. "I'm not being bitchy, that's the
truth. I think he got tired of trying to bully his players into
doing what he wanted." There was something in his voice -- a
certainty, maybe -- that silenced Beledin.
       "So what did Ambidexter want?" That was Roscha, emerging
from the crowd like the avenging angel in a popular film. Lioe
caught her breath, impressed in spite of herself -- in spite of
being all too familiar with the type, of having written the
template for the type -- by the streetwise swagger and the
striking figure.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (89 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

       "He said he enjoyed the session," Vere said.
       Roscha whistled softly. "From him, that's a compliment and
a half."
       "So what does he do?" Lioe asked. "Now that he doesn't
play."
       Roscha shrugged -- clearly, the world outside the Game
meant nothing to her, Lioe thought, not sure if she admired or was
annoyed by the attitude -- and Beledin said, "He's an artist, an
imagist, actually. He makes story eggs."
       "What are those?" The others looked rather oddly at her,
and Lioe smiled broadly to hide her embarrassment. "I don't know
them." _And I dare you to comment, either_.
       Beledin gestured, shaping a sphere, an ovoid, about twenty
centimeters long, miming a size and weight that would be
reasonably comfortable in the hand. "It's ... they have these
pictures in them, like a holofilm loop, that tells a story --
suggests it, more like. You look through a lens at one end to see
the display. They're really neat, the ones I've seen, very
stylized, so you do a lot of guessing." He stopped, shrugged. "I'm
just a musician, though. I don't know much about it." There was
frustration in his voice, as though he was still looking for the
words to describe what he'd seen.
       Savian said, all trace of malice or mischief gone from his
tone, "They really are spectacular, some -- most of them. I saw
one, it was just a plain, black metal case, smaller than usual,
something you could put in your pocket, but when you looked into
it, it was as though you were looking into a Five Points palazze.
It was all golden lights, and carved furniture, and jewels, and
velvets, and you could just see two figures moving through that
setting, in and out of the clutter of things. You could turn the
egg, rotate it, I mean, and you could see more bits and pieces of
the scene, but you could never be quite sure what the two were
doing, whether it was courtship, seduction, or one of them trying
to escape. And you never could see the end of the scene, either,
no matter how hard you tried." He shook his head. "It was very --
well, sensual, more than sexy, but ambiguous, too, so you couldn't
be comfortable with it." He paused, tried a smile that carried at
least some of his former detachment. "I don't think Ransome likes
you to be comfortable."
       _I can believe that_, Lioe thought, glanced again through


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (90 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

the crowd. Ransome had moved away from Gueremei and Medard-Yasine,
was standing for that moment a little apart from all the rest, a
glass of _methode_ in one hand, the other deep in the pocket of
his plain black trousers. For just an instant, his face was
without expression, held nothing but its lines and a bone-deep
exhaustion. Then someone spoke to him, and Lioe saw his face
change, take on a mask of detached amusement. _So that's where
Savian got it_, she thought, and had to hide a grin, deliberately
turning her back to Ransome.
       "That was a great session, Na Lioe."
       Lioe turned to face the speaker, a stocky, dark-haired man
with a horus-eye tattoo on one cheek, half concealing the delicate
data socket.
       "Thanks," she said, and Gueremei, coming up behind the man,
cleared her throat gently.
       "I don't think you've met Davvi -- Davvi Medard-Yasine, our
main owner."
       Lioe murmured something, and Medard-Yasine grinned, rather
sheepishly.
       "Sorry, Na Lioe, I've seen enough of your work on the
intersystems nets that I feel as though I know you. But it was a
great session tonight."
       "I enjoyed it," Lioe said, and waited.
       "I wonder," Medard-Yasine began, and turned a shoulder to
the other players, deftly easing her away from the others, "if
you'd consider coming to a temporary agreement with us here at
Shadows. I understand from Lia that you're only on planet for half
a week?"
       "Five days at minimum," Lioe said, and then remembered that
Burning Bright kept a ten-day week. "The ship I'm crewing for is
in dock for recalibration of the sail projectors, so I'm dependent
on the dockyards. They told my boss it would take five to eight
days."
       Medard-Yasine nodded. "Would it be presumptuous to assume
you meant to spend most of that time gaming?"
       "This is Burning Bright," Lioe said, with a smile to take
the sting out of her words. "I'd call that a reasonable
assumption. Yes, I was hoping to get in as many sessions as
possible."
       "After tonight's session," Medard-Yasine said, "we'd be


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (91 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

interested in anything else you might have ready to run. We'd be
willing to offer twenty-five percent of the fees, and free machine
time to prepare any new ideas."
       "That's very generous," Lioe said, and meant it. Most
Gaming clubs made a good proportion of their income from the fees
they charged for use of the club's equipment. A session could be
outlined easily enough on a Gameboard, but fine-tuning the details
took the raw power -- and often the more extensive libraries --
available through the clubs. It had cost her over a hundred
credits to complete just the prison segments of Ixion's Wheel.
       "We're very interested," Medard-Yasine said.
       Lioe grinned. "Would this be an exclusive deal?"
       "We'd want it that way," Medard-Yasine agreed.
       "I see." She hadn't really meant much by that, was just
buying time, but Medard-Yasine's thick brows drew together
slightly.
       "We'd also be prepared to pay an exclusive-use fee, for
Ixion's Wheel, on a time-limited basis."
       "You are serious," Lioe said, smiling, and Medard-Yasine
nodded. His face was completely without expression, and Lioe
realized for the first time that he meant to buy her -- her
presence at the club, as a session leader -- and her scenario,
whatever it cost him. It was an unfamiliar feeling, and somewhat
unsettling; she wondered if she had been selling herself short,
back on Callixte. That was an unpleasant thought, and
unproductive; she dragged herself back to the business at hand.
"What kind of a time period?"
       "The length of your stay," Medard-Yasine said promptly.
"Or, since you're not sure how long that will be, a week -- ten
days. We're prepared to offer you five hundred _real_, over and
above your cut of the session fees, and of course the free machine
time, on a second-priority basis, if you'll let us have an
exclusive license on Ixion's Wheel for the next ten days. And, of
course, if you'll run at least five sessions for us."
       Lioe hesitated, juggling numbers in her head. She could
expect to clear about fifty _real_ per session, if Shadows' fees
were in line with the rest of the club system's; that plus the
five hundred would pay all her bills at the transients' hostel,
and the machine time would let her explore some ideas that had
been nagging at her for most of the trip, ideas that sprang


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (92 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

directly from Ixion's Wheel.... She curbed her enthusiasm. It also
meant that someone else would be running her scenario several
times a day, without her having any control at all over how it was
handled. But then, most of those players would be household Gamers
anyway, people who couldn't handle the scenario without a highly
interventionist session leader, not at all the kind of players she
wanted to be bothered with anymore. "What if it turns out that
people want to play more than five sessions, and my schedule lets
me handle it?" she asked, still playing for time.
       Medard-Yasine said, "From what you've told me, I don't know
how likely that is." He grinned, and looked suddenly years
younger. "With Storm coming -- the Carnival, that is -- I'd expect
you to want to see some of the celebration. Frankly, I don't
expect my full-timers to do much work, this time of year."
Gueremei gave a short bark of laughter, and Medard-Yasine gave her
a conspiratorial glance. "But if you do find time to give us some
extra sessions, I'll match whatever you make from fees."
       Lioe nodded. "All right," she said. "It sounds like a good
deal. I'm willing to try it."
       "Excellent," Medard-Yasine said, and smiled again. "I'll
draw up a contract, and you can drop by anytime tomorrow -- "
       "Anytime?" Gueremei said, and Medard-Yasine grimaced.
       "All right, anytime after noon. I'll have a voucher for the
fees waiting then, too."
       "It sounds good," Lioe said. "I'll see you then."
       "It's good to have you in the house," Medard-Yasine said.
"Even if it's only for a few days." They clasped hands again, and
then he and Gueremei moved away.
       Left to herself, Lioe took a careful step backward, away
from the crowd of Gamers. She was flattered by Medard-Yasine's
praise, flattered and startled and suspicious in about equal
measures, and she wanted time to think. It wasn't that she
disliked the noise and the babble and the flying cross-talk that
surrounded her, compliment and critique and commentary filling the
air around her, but it distracted her, made her feel almost too
much at home. Her decision wasn't irrevocable -- she could always
refuse to sign the contract the next morning -- but she felt the
sudden need to sit down somewhere quiet and work out what she'd
done. Nothing but good, seemingly: a damn good session, a
contract, even a compliment from Ambidexter, which, after she'd


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (93 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

used his character without permission, was an accomplishment
indeed. From what the others had said, Ambidexter had a reputation
for being possessive -- _and I probably wouldn't 've done it if
I'd realized he was still around_.
       She scanned the groups of players, looking again for
Ambidexter -- _Ransome_, she corrected herself, _Illario Ransome_ -
- but the thin figure had vanished. _Out of sight, or gone?_ she
wondered, and the stab of disappointment was unexpectedly keen.
_Why the hell should I care? Except that he was -- is? --
Ambidexter, and he complimented my play. That's reason enough for
any Gamer. But ... I want to talk to him again_.
       "So."
       That was Africa's voice, at her elbow, and Lioe turned, was
vaguely startled to see Roscha's striking face instead of the
session's icon. Roscha went on, apparently unaware of the other's
surprise, or so used to it as to be immune to the effect.
       "Did he make you a decent offer?" She held out a glass of
_methode_ as she spoke, added, "I saw you weren't drinking."
       "Thanks," Lioe said, and accepted the tall glass. The wine
was comfortingly familiar, and she drank with pleasure.
       "So will you be working here?" Roscha asked.
       Lioe lifted an eyebrow, and the other woman stared back,
unimpressed and still curious. "We're -- negotiating," Lioe said
after a moment, and Roscha grinned, not the least abashed.
       "Shadows is a good club, and the play's quality. You ought
to think about it."
       "I am thinking about it," Lioe said, and laid the lightest
of stresses on _thinking_. The party was winding down around her,
session participants and observers alike edging toward the door.
She glanced sideways to call up the implanted chronometer's
display -- one of the minor conveniences that came with a pilot's
job -- and saw without surprise that it was past local midnight.
Savian and Beledin stood close together near the far wall; even as
she watched, Beledin smiled, and touched the other man's shoulder,
easing him toward the door. He caught her eye, and the smile
widened to a grin, and then they were gone. Vere was nowhere in
sight, nor Imbertine; Mariche was deep in conversation with a
handsome, greyhaired man, who leaned close, resting a tentative
hand on her waist. Huard stood next to a full-bodied woman with
gold flowers painted on her dark skin and hsaii ribbons woven in


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (94 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

her hair. Even as Lioe watched, the woman reached up to touch
Huard's face, the flowers glittering in the cold light.
       She looked away politely, feeling vaguely jealous -- why
should she be the only one going home alone? -- and Roscha said,
"If you're interested, I know a good after-hours bar. After that
session, I owe you a drink."
       Lioe glanced curiously at her, wondering if she really had
heard a double invitation, and what she would do about it if she
had. Roscha was a striking woman, there was no doubt about it, the
strong sexy curves well displayed by the plain workcloth trousers
and the thin knit shirt beneath the worn jerkin. More than that,
though, she was something familiar, a kind of Gamer Lioe knew and
understood, and all of a sudden she was hungry for just that
familiarity. "Thanks," she said. "I'll take you up on that."
       Roscha's smile in return was dazzling. "It's the least I
can do. You gave me a great character."
       _I didn't choose you, unfortunately_, Lioe thought, _and
Africa's pretty conventional_. She mumbled something in answer,
and looked around for Aliar Gueremei. The older woman was standing
with a group of Gamers on the far side of the room. Lioe lifted a
hand to catch her eye, and started toward her, but Gueremei waved
her away, her expression at once amused and approving. Lioe waved
back, and turned toward the door. Roscha followed her from the
room.
       The hallways were less crowded than they had been, but
players still clustered in the courtyard, busy at the food bars
and in the lobby. A few of them called congratulations; Lioe
nodded back, called polite responses, and felt the sense of
satisfaction growing in her. She had done well, and she deserved
the praise. Outside Shadows, the street was quiet, only dimly lit
by the cool spheres at each intersection, and Lioe checked in
spite of herself. The food shop seemed all but deserted, the
orange light behind its open door like the glow of a banked fire.
Music no longer spilled into the street, and even the bouncers had
disappeared.
       "The club's down toward the Straight," Roscha said, and
Lioe jumped a little.
       "How are the streets, this late?" she asked.
       Roscha shrugged, looking rather surprised at the question.
"Not bad -- not in this quarter, anyway." She tossed her head to


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (95 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

send her thick hair tumbling back over her shoulders. "Come Storm,
of course, everybody will be out all night, but I don't know if
that makes you any safer."
       _True enough_, Lioe thought, _true on any planet. But I
wonder if your definition of "safe" matches mine_. "That's the
Carnival, right?" _Keep her talking, and see what it is she wants.
Since I think I could want her too_.
       "Yeah. The winds have already shifted, you can feel it, but
the weather people aren't predicting anything yet. There'll be
fireworks tomorrow night -- the Syncretist Congregations are
sponsoring that -- and a big display on Storm One, that's day
after tomorrow. There's a lot going on -- people have scheduled
stuff for the whole three weeks."
       There was an amusement in her voice that Lioe couldn't
translate. Was it because the city had scheduled events for the
whole period, as though there was a chance that nothing would
happen? Or was it just that she thought Storm was funny? Vaguely,
she remembered reading stories of floods and damage, docks and
whole waterfront neighborhoods washed away. Burning Bright City
nestled inside the circling islands as if it lay in the bottom of
a bowl; let a storm into that confined space, and wind and water
would wreak havoc. She shivered, thinking of Callixte's summer
storms, the blue-black clouds marching along the horizon,
lightning striking fires to scour the central plains. She couldn't
quite imagine that force unleashed on a city -- a crowded city --
or with the force of the sea behind it. _Maybe all you can do is
laugh_.
       "The Syndics parade is tomorrow night," Roscha went on, and
Lioe dragged her attention back to the conversation. "That's on
the Water."
       "Parade?" Lioe asked.
       "Yeah. They run barges -- the big, flat-bodied ones, set up
pageants on them." She grinned again, a look of pure mischief, and
Lioe wondered just how young she was. "They do all the fittings
outside of Mainwarden Island -- that's the big island, sits
astride the southern end of the Water?"
       Lioe nodded.
       "They try to keep the presentations a big secret," Roscha
said. "When I was a kid, we used to sneak out there, try and see
them ahead of time. It's Beauties and Beasts this year -- that's


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (96 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

the theme. You should get yourself a costume, if you go."
       "I'm not much one for dressing up," Lioe said doubtfully,
and Roscha sounded a little subdued when she answered.
       "I could recommend a good costumer."
       Lioe looked sideways at her, and Roscha looked away, as
though she'd said something wrong. "Thanks," Lioe said, but the
other didn't answer. Lioe sighed slightly. She wasn't much one for
costume, had never really learned how to play those games:
Carnival wasn't part of Callixte's heritage, and Foster Services
hadn't wanted to offend the Neo-pagans by encouraging its client-
children to mask at Samhain.
       They walked on in silence, through the dimly lit streets,
passing from the pool of light that marked each intersection to
the brief edge of almost-dark where the first light ended and the
next did not quite reach, then into the light again. The
neighborhood was not very different from the one where Shadows
lay, the same flat-fronted, oddly decorated, anonymous buildings
that could be shops or houses or factories; the same tiny parks
and gardens, half hidden behind grillwork and brick walls; the
same sudden bridges arching over an all-but-invisible canal. Lioe
found herself concentrating on them anyway, trying to drown her
sudden awareness of Roscha walking next to her. The cold, blank
walls with their cryptic patterns, bands of lighter stone against
the dark main body, were no help at all; she imagined she could
feel the heat of the other woman's body, a subtle radiance in the
night air. She looked up, looking for the stars, for that
distraction, but the star field was drowned in the city lights. A
moon showed briefly over her right shoulder, an imperfect oval
just past or not quite full; ahead -- to the north, beyond the
Straight and the Junction Pools -- a shuttle rose like a firework
from Newfields, a familiar and comforting flare of light and
almost invisible cloud. She was not surprised when Roscha's hand
brushed her own.
       She closed her hand around Roscha's fingers, felt calluses
under her touch, calluses across Roscha's palm and on three of the
fingertips, all sensed in a single rush of sensation, and then she
slipped her hand, still awkwardly twined with Roscha's, into the
pocket of her trousers. Roscha's knuckles rested against her
thigh; the sudden movement pulled Roscha sideways a little, so
that she stumbled, and made a small noise like a laugh, and their


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (97 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

shoulders touched. Lioe smiled, said nothing, too aware of the
warmth and weight of the other's touch to speak. Then Roscha's
hand wriggled in hers, loosened and shifted its grip to shape a
familiar code. _Sex?_ the shifting fingers asked, and Lioe moved
her own hand to answer, _Yes_.
       _Plain or fancy?_
       Either.
       Latex?
       _Nothing oral without it_. Lioe felt Roscha pull away
slightly, knew her own answer had come too quickly, and looked
sideways to see Roscha looking at her with an expression that
hovered between amusement and irritation. "Well, you don't know
where I've been, either," she said aloud, and Roscha's anger
dissolved in a shout of laughter. She flung her head back, the
light from the intersection gleaming in her hair, and Lioe
couldn't help laughing with her.
       "Your place or mine?" Roscha asked, after a moment, and
Lioe shrugged.
       "I'm staying in a hostel in the Ghetto," she said. "You're
welcome, but it's a long way."
       Roscha laughed again, more quietly. "I live on my boat. I
drive a john-boat for C/B Cie., deliveries and stuff. The tie-up's
not far -- as long as you don't mind a boat."
       "Your place, then," Lioe said, and they walked on. Roscha
freed her hand from Lioe's pocket, slipped it around the other
woman's waist; a heartbeat later, Lioe did the same. She was very
aware of the gentle pressure of Roscha's hand against her skin,
and at the same time the texture of Roscha's stiff jerkin under
her hand. It felt a little like thick leather, but the surface was
oddly patterned, like scales. She squeezed Roscha's waist, trying
to feel her body under the jerkin, and felt Roscha's fingers
tighten in answer against her shirt. It was not satisfactory, to
be touched, and to feel so little in return; she squeezed Roscha's
waist again, and then released her, sliding her hand and arm up
under the skirts of the jerkin so that her hand now rested
directly against the thin shirt. Its weave was loose; she prodded
experimentally at it, working one finger into the fabric so that
she could feel warm skin, and Roscha jerked and gave a stifled
giggle.
       "That tickles."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (98 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

       "Sorry," Lioe said, and stopped poking, but she did not
take her hand away.
       They reached the edge of the Straight at last, a broad
stretch of road, quiet now, only a few bicycles and a single
flatbed carrier visible along its length. The Old Dike loomed in
the distance, towering over the housetops. The noise of the
carrier's engine echoed oddly between the housefronts and the
water; a bicycle whispered past, tires singing against the
pavement. Lioe caught a glimpse of the rider's face stern with
concentration as he flashed under the nearest streetlamp. They
crossed the trafficway cautiously, mindful of bicycles, and Roscha
stepped up onto the wide poured-stone ledge that edged the river.
Lioe copied her, more cautiously, and looked down to see the water
black beneath her, shadowed from any glint of light by the stone
wall that was its bank. Bollards, low iron things with rounded
tops like fantastic mushrooms, sprang up at regular intervals
along the wall, one or two with a coil of bright yellow safety
line looped around them. Roscha led the way along the ledge, Lioe
following a little more slowly -- the wall was broad, but the
black emptiness beside and beneath her, and the low rush of the
water, were enough to encourage caution -- and stopped beside a
bollard that carried a double loop of safety line around its base.
       "Here we are," Roscha said, and nodded at a rope ladder
that was hooked into two of the holes drilled into the bank. Lioe
looked down rather dubiously, was reassured to see the soft glow
of a steering lamp. In its dim light, she could see most of
Roscha's boat, a long, narrow shape, blunt at both ends, with an
arched section at the bow that vanished into the shadows. The deck
glowed gold directly under the lamp, and a solar strip glittered
softly. Roscha frowned absently down at the boat, one hand buried
in a pocket, and a few seconds later Lioe heard the faint double
chime of a security system disarming itself. "I'll go first,"
Roscha said, and let herself down the ladder without waiting for
Lioe to agree.
       Lioe lifted an eyebrow at that, but waited until the other
woman had reached the deck before easing herself onto the unsteady
ladder. It took her a moment to find her balance, but then she had
it, and lowered herself cautiously onto the deck. Roscha was
waiting to steady her, and Lioe accepted the support for a few
seconds, until she caught the rhythm of the boat in her feet and


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (99 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

legs. She nodded to Roscha -- the boat moved less than she had
expected, but it was a jerky movement, unpredictable -- and Roscha
released her, moved forward to the shelter and crouched on the
deck to release a hidden latch. A section of the deck came up in
her hand, revealing a short ladder and a dim, red-toned light.
Lioe grinned, even though she knew perfectly well why any boatman -
- _or pilot, for that matter_ -- kept red lights in the sleeping
quarters, and came forward to join her. Roscha smiled and said,
"After you."
       The cabin space was mostly bed, a thin mattress on top of a
good-sized platform that probably concealed storage space. Lioe
sat on the edge of the mattress -- there was no room for two to
stand in the narrow stairwell, and the arched ceiling kept her
from standing upright except in the very center of the cabin --
while Roscha secured the double-doored hatch behind them, and
turned at last to face her. One hand was in her pocket still: the
security system chimed again, resetting itself, and the red light
strengthened slightly. In the comparative brightness, Lioe could
see more details, the crumpled blankets and the cases of disks,
Rulebooks and session supplements, mounted on the bulkhead just
above the bed. Roscha slipped out of her jerkin, hung it on a hook
mounted beside the hatch, and seated herself on the mattress
beside the other woman. Lioe smiled and reached for her, and
Roscha reached back. They kissed, lips meeting and parting, slow
and awkward until they'd settled on who would lead. Lioe leaned
into Roscha's strong embrace, let herself be held and touched,
Roscha's callused fingers fumbling under her clothes to free her
breasts, pinching her nipples into stiffness. And then they were
scrambling with clasps and zippers and catchtape, struggling to
get all the way onto the bed without letting go, either one of the
other, until they were lying nearly face to face, legs tangled,
thigh to crotch. Lioe leaned back a little to let Roscha's hand
between her legs, to let the deft fingers slide between her labia,
circling and searching and teasing in the thick wetness until she
found the right stroke. Lioe buried her face against the other
woman's shoulder, riding her hand and the rhythm of the boat until
she came. Roscha came a few minutes later, driving her crotch
against Lioe's thigh, and they lay tangled, breathing hard, until
finally Lioe shifted her shoulders so that she could lie flat,
displacing most of Roscha's weight sideways onto the mattress.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (100 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

Roscha mumbled something, already half asleep. Lioe craned her
neck awkwardly to look at her, caught between amusement and
chagrin -- _no particular sense of prowess, I didn't_ do
_anything_ -- but it was late, and there was no place she needed
to be. She shifted again, freeing herself from the uncomfortable
parts of Roscha's embrace, and let herself relax toward sleep.
--------
         *Part Three*
         *Early Morning, Day 31*
_High Spring: The_
_Chrestil-Brisch_
_Palazze, Five Points_
       It was very late by the time Damian Chrestil came home to
bed, a bored helio pilot lifting him from the Junction Pool
helipad up and over the light-streaked mass of the Old Dike to the
Chrestil-Brisch compound on the headland that was the third of the
original Five Points. Most of the lights were out in the narrow
buildings, only faint security lights glowing behind the arches of
the first floor. The second and third stories, solid walls of dark
stone broken by unlit slit windows, looked ungainly, top-heavy,
without light to give them balance. Only the ring-and-cross of the
landing pad glowed blue through the darkness, and the helio pilot
landed them with the rotors barely moving, balancing the weight of
the passenger pod against the gas in the lifting cells. Damian
nodded his approval -- _no need to wake everyone in the house_ --
and let himself in through the security ring, raising his hand in
greeting to the single human being sitting sleepily at the center
of the glowing banks of controls. Like all the Five Points
families, and most of the other groups that dominated Burning
Bright's commerce, the Chrestil-Brisch had good reason to employ a
private police force. It was a matter of pride that theirs was
smaller than many. The guard nodded back, and said, "Na Damian,
there's a visitor waiting in your suite. She's on your admit
list."
       Damian lifted an eyebrow at him. The only woman the guard
would describe as a visitor whom he would let into his rooms was
Cella, and he couldn't imagine what she would be doing here. Her
regular nights were the fourth, fourteenth, and twenty-fourth. "Is
there a message?" he asked, and the guard shook his head.
       "No, sir. She just asked to be let in."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (101 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

       "How charming."
       Damian turned away, made his way down the echoing corridors
toward his own suite of rooms. The palazze's floors were
seamarble, quarried from the uninhabited, and uninhabitable,
Midseas Islands; his footsteps sounded hollow on the green-veined
stone, and he found himself stepping lightly, trying not to wake
the distant echoes. The automatic lamps lit at his approach,
fretted globes held in fantastic sconces, and closed down again
after he had passed, so that he walked in the center of a moving
tunnel of light. His private rooms were at the northwestern corner
of the palazze, where short domed towers sprouted like mushrooms,
looking out over the old city toward the rising mass of the
Landing Isle and Newfields. As he approached them, the security
board outside the main door lit, and chimed softly for his
attention. The lights glowed green and yellow among the wide
leaves and thick clustered fruit of the frieze of sea grape carved
around the doorway, spelling out a familiar pattern. Even so,
Damian Chrestil slid his hand into his pocket, curled his fingers
around the familiar shape of his household remote, feeling for the
control points by instinct. He trusted Cella as much as he trusted
anyone, but it was as well to be prepared. He palmed the device,
cutting off the system's programmed announcement of his presence,
and let himself into the suite.
       Cella was waiting in the reception room, as he'd known she
would be, in the corner of the room under the arches that held up
the main tower. Moonlight poured in through the window on her
left, draping her with the shadow of the fretwork tracery outside
the window, drawing blue fire from the seabrights scatter-sewn
across her fractal-lace overskirt. Behind her, the Old City was
spread like a faded carpet, the regular lights of square and
street broken by the darkness of the distant reservoirs and the
unlit lines of the Straight and the Crooked rivers and the velvet
texture of the parklands. She was wearing a violet bodice above
the lavender and silver lace, dyed raw silk cut close to her full
breasts, rising and sweeping outward to expose her shoulders;
braids of the same clear violet were woven into the glossy black
of her hair. The double light, the moonlight and the city lights
behind her, rounded even further the lavish curves of her body.
Damian Chrestil caught his breath as she turned to smile at him,
and saw the faint pulsing light of an orbiter rising over her


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (102 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

shoulder from the pens at Newfields. It was perfectly timed, it
had to have been timed, and he knew he should laugh, tease her for
it, but the effect was too perfect, good enough to convince even
him. Then she took a step forward, and he saw from the look on her
face, the uncalculated, crooked grin so different from her usual
cool smile, that effect was the last thing on her mind. He
blinked, but touched the remote to light the wall lamps and opaque
the windows, and said aloud, "What brings you here, Cella?"
       Her grin widened. "You told me," she said, "you told me you
wanted Ransome back on the nets, and by the very God, he's back."
       "So?" Damian was suddenly very tired, not in the mood for
games or the Game. "So you're good. I knew that, it's what I pay
you for."
       Cella tilted her head at him, still smiling, but turned
away toward the sideboard bar. She ran her hands across the carved
border of lions and deer, fingers working deftly on the disguised
controls, and then extracted bottles and two ice-lined tumblers.
She poured two drinks, _ardente_ cut with the sweet-and-sour syrup
distilled from sugarwort, and brought one across to him. The ice
in the tumblers cracked sharply as the warmed _ardente_ hit it.
She said, over the random noises, "But I didn't do it, Damiano. He
came back on his own."
       Damian lifted an eyebrow at her, and settled himself on the
long, low chaise, deliberately stretching out his legs to keep her
from sitting beside him. Cella smiled, not the least put out, and
seated herself demurely in a willow-work chair opposite him. She
might, from her expression, have been the perfect salarywife
greeting her corporate husband.
       "I've been trying to lure him in, get him interested -- I
even botched a scenario on his account -- but he's been too damn
careful." She grinned suddenly, lopsidedly, an expression as
unexpected as her attempts at respectability. "Or at least too
busy with those story eggs of his. I was beginning to think you'd
do better to commission one, Damiano."
       "But he came back," Damian said. "Do stick to the point,
Cella, I'm tired."
       One eyebrow flickered up in mute but pointed question, but
Cella said only, "That's right. He came back because there's a new
notable in town, and she had the temerity to play one of his Grand
Types. And she did it well, too. So I think Na Ransome will have


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (103 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

his mind on the Game for at least a week -- that's how long this
woman is going to be here. Or maybe longer. When I left, he was
buying Rulebooks, and I haven't heard of him doing that in years."
       "So." Damian sipped at his drink, considering her news, and
slowly allowed himself to smile. The Game, or at least the new
notable, would keep Ransome busy in the Game nets, and he could
slip the lachesi quietly into the system, and ship without
interference from the Republic, local Customs, or Chauvelin. It
seemed that ji-Imbaoa's interference hadn't roused anyone's
suspicions after all. "Tell me about this new notable."
       Cella shrugged, a calculated indifference. "I don't know
much. She's a Republican, union pilot -- from Callixte, or at
least she plays out of Callixte's nets. Her ship's supposed to be
in dock-orbit for repairs, and she's planning to spend the time
gaming. Decent-looking woman, if you like them thin and stern. And
a damn good session leader."
       "Find out about her," Damian said. "Politics, background --
whatever."
       Cella nodded. "Ransome was really interested," she said. "I
haven't seen him in a club in years, he won't let it rest at just
one session. He'll be busy with this scenario for the rest of
Storm, at least."
       "Not bad," Damian Chrestil said, and allowed his approval
to color his voice. He considered the invitation that he knew was
waiting in his files, added, "Are you working tomorrow -- I mean,
tonight?"
       Cella frowned slightly, slipped a hand into the folds of
her skirt to consult a scheduler hidden somewhere out of sight.
"Tonight, no. Why?"
       "Chauvelin is having his annual night-before-Storm party,"
Damian said. "I'd like you to accompany me."
       Cella paused, shrugged slightly. "All right. Our usual
arrangement, I assume?"
       "Of course."
       "All right, then."
       "Excellent," Damian said.
       "Not bad," Cella answered, "not bad at all." She set her
now-empty tumbler aside, and came to sit next to him, pushing his
legs out of her way. "All things considered, I think I have every
right to be pleased."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (104 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

       "For whatever it was you did," Damian said. He eyed her
almost warily, recognizing the mood. It was neither drink nor
drugs, but the solid high of an unexpected success, and he would
reap the benefits of it, whether he liked it or not. She smiled
down at him, well aware of her own excitement and his lack of
immediate response, and ran two fingers up the inside of his
thigh. It was a touch that rarely failed to rouse him; he laid one
hand flat against her breast, and felt her nipple already stiff
against the palm of his hand, easily discernible through the rough
silk. She had done the job he wanted, however she'd done it, and
her choice of coin was sex: sex of her choice, for her pleasure,
at her whim. He caught his breath as her hand moved higher,
brushed past his groin, and came to rest flat against his lower
belly, a steady, urgent pressure. Not that it was a difficult
payback -- _a hard one, maybe_ -- but it was unavoidable, if he
wanted to keep their tacit agreement. Cella's smile widened, as
though she'd read his thoughts, and she slid an expert hand under
his clothes, ending all possibility of protest.
       He woke in his own bed the next morning, to sunlight and
the steady shrilling of an alarm. He swore, wondering for a bleary
instant why Cella let it sound, then reached across the empty bed
for the remote. The time was flashing on the far wall, the red
numbers almost drowned by the bright sunlight: almost the ninth
hour. He had slept through at least two earlier wake-ups. _No
wonder Cella hadn't waited_. He sat up, wincing -- he wasn't hung
over, but he functioned badly on fewer than six hours' sleep --
and touched the remote again. His fingers slid clumsily over the
rounded surface. It was a pretty thing, shaped like a wide-web
node with a single broad leaf wrapped around it, carved from a
brown stone so dark that it looked almost black except in direct
sunlight, but this morning the carving distracted him. He found
the proper control points at last, launched the program that
displayed his schedule on the far wall below the chronometer's
numbers. The ninth hour was given over to the weekly breakfast
meeting with his siblings.
       He swore again, checked the time -- less than a quarter
hour, barely enough time to shower and shave and dress, much less
find a wake-up pill -- and forced himself out of bed. Neither the
shower nor the pill Cella had kindly left for him helped much, but
he managed to dress with reasonable care, and made his way to join


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (105 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

the others. He was not the last to arrive, and Chrestillio --
Altagracian Chrestil-Brisch, the family pensionary and titular
head of the family by virtue of being firstborn -- nodded at him
from his place at the head of the long table. Bettisa Chrestil-
Brisch, known as Bettis Chrestil, the family's representative to
the Five Points Bank, did not look up from the workboard where the
night's downloaded trade figures were playing.
       "Good morning," Damian Chrestil said, keeping his voice
suitably subdued, and crossed to the sideboard to pour himself a
cup of coffee from the intricate silver brewer. The coffee was cut
half-and-half with milk from the Homestead Island farms -- even
the Chrestil-Brisch couldn't afford to import coffee in bulk --
and he added a toffee-colored crystal the size of his little
fingernail from the sugar bowl. Sugar was expensive, too -- most
of the sugarwort crop went to the distilleries -- but there was no
point in being stingy this morning. He collected breakfast as
well, a wedge of soft, mild cheese, a few thin, chewy slabs of
docker's bread, and a spoonful of sour preserved fruit. There was
fish sausage as well, and a bowl filled with half a dozen hard-
boiled eggs, their shells painted with swirls of dye, but he
ignored them both, and seated himself opposite Bettis Chrestil.
The sunlight, mercifully, was behind him; it streamed into the
room, casting shadows across the polished and inlaid tabletop and
onto the olive-and-gold paneling. The carnival scenes that filled
the central medallion of each panel looked bleached in the strong
light.
       "Has anyone seen the weather?" Damian asked.
       Bettis looked up from her board. "About what you'd expect,
this time of year. There's a depression to the southeast, but
there's no saying if it'll strengthen, or come this way."
       Chrestillio said, "The street bookmakers are saying it's at
forty-to-one to hit at all, at any strength, but I hear that's
dropping."
       _And the street bookies would know_, Damian thought. _They
know as much and more than the weathermen, but then, they have
more to lose_. The canalli bet on the weather with the same
passion that he himself played politics.
       "I'm sorry I'm late," a new voice said, and Damian looked
up to see the last of his siblings standing in the doorway. She
came fully into the room, a broad-shouldered, broad-hipped woman


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (106 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

in the grey-green coveralls that anyone wore to visit the
distillery, and a whiff of the mash came with her, a sour odor
almost thick enough to taste. Damian winced, and Calligenia
Chrestil-Brisch finished stripping out of the heavy coveralls and
dropped them in the hallway outside the door. She closed the door
behind her, leaving the clothes for a household cleaner, said, "I
got caught up in some stuff at the plant."
       "Problems?" Chrestillio said, and Calligan Brisch shook her
head.
       "Not really. We were doing preliminary slow-down for Storm,
and there was a minor hassle with one of the big vats. About what
you'd expect, this time of year."
       Chrestillio nodded, satisfied, and Damian took a cautious
sip of his coffee, trying to drown the last of the smell.
       "Did you get that shipment in, Damiano?" Calligan went on,
and turned to the sideboard. She filled a plate -- a little of
everything, cheese, sausage, bread, a couple of the eggs, a
healthy spoonful of the preserved fruits -- and came to take the
final place at the table. Looking at her, at all of them, Damian
was struck again by the resemblances between them. Not that they
precisely looked alike, beyond a general similarity of coloring --
Chrestillio and Calligan Brisch had both gotten their mother's
build, big, broad-shouldered people, while he and Bettis Chrestil
took more after their slimmer, fine-boned father -- but there was
a certain something, the shape of the long nose and the quirk of
the wide mouth, that marked them unmistakably as siblings. He
shook himself out of the reverie, and made himself answer her
question.
       "Yes. There was some minor spoilage in one of the batches
of red-carpet -- TMN again."
       "I think we ought to cut ties with them," Calligan Brisch
said, and reached for a saltcellar. Bettis Chrestil slid one
across to her, still not taking her eyes from the workboard.
       "We probably should," Damian agreed. "Unless they give us a
real break on the next few batches." _And anyway_, he added
silently, _they've served their purpose. I've got enough
information on their codes to fake a shipment from them, and that
will help the lachesi get through_.
       "What I'd like to know," Chrestillio said, "is why the
Republicans have been sniffing around our warehouses again."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (107 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

       "Not here, surely," Bettis said.
       "No," Chrestillio said.
       "On Demeter, right?" Damian said, with all the innocence he
could muster. "I think it was TMN they were after -- another
reason to drop them, I guess."
       "You heard about it, then?" Chrestillio asked.
       "I got your message yesterday," Damian said. "I'm sorry I
didn't get back to you, but I did have time to look into the
matter, and from what our factor tells me, they were looking for
something in the TMN shipment that came through yesterday." _Was
it only yesterday? It feels as if it were years ago_. He shook the
thought away. Republican Customs-and-Intelligence had certainly
been tipped off to the lachesi that had traveled with the red-
carpet; the only real question was, by whom, and the factor would
deal with that. But C-and-I had no proof; it would be safe enough
to begin the next stage of the transfer. In fact, the sooner the
better.
       "As you say," Bettis murmured, "another good reason to
sever ties with TMN. I've never understood why you dealt with them
in the first place, Damiano. They've got a reputation for shady
dealing, buying smuggled goods and the like."
       _That was why I started dealing with them_. Damian curbed
his tongue, said mildly, "They were cheap, and they're brokers for
a growers' union that -- until last year, anyway -- was reliable,
gave us a quality product. I agree, I think they've outlived their
usefulness."
       Chrestillio said, "I'm still concerned that C-and-I was
down on one of our houses, Damiano."
       "It wasn't us they were after, but I agree," Damian said.
"I'll make sure it doesn't happen again."
       Chrestillio shook his head. "Not good enough. Are you
running shadow cargoes, Damiano?"
       Damian hesitated, not sure how he wanted to answer this --
_of course I am, but I'm not sure you want to hear that_ -- and
Chrestillio went on, "We do a lot of business with the Republic. I
don't want to screw up our good relations there."
       "We do a lot of business in Hsaioi-An, too," Damian said,
sure of his ground in this well-worn argument. "We need to keep on
good terms with them, too."
       "But I don't want to do it at the expense of our Republican


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (108 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

connections," Chrestillio said.
       "They could make it pretty difficult to get the red-carpet
if they wanted to," Calligan Brisch said. "We have stockpiles, of
course, and they will get us through Storm, but they won't last
long after that. And the distillery will need a few weeks to get
back up to speed."
       "To put it bluntly," Chrestillio said, "what do we get out
of this, in return for this risk?"
       "What risk?" Damian asked, and suddenly realized that his
siblings knew, or guessed, more than he'd intended. _Not that it
should surprise me. But I didn't expect them to challenge me quite
so soon_. "What I'm hoping to get is permission to trade directly
with Highhopes and the human settlement on Nan-pianmar. I'm doing
a favor for certain persons, and those worlds lie within his
sphere of influence."
       "It would be nice not to go through the Jericho brokers,"
Bettis said, "but do you really think they'll allow it?"
       Damian grinned. "Frankly, I think it's a long shot, but the
-- the main person with whom I'm dealing has invested status in
the question, and it'll be worth his while to buy us off. And
ours, too. And he will be indebted to us."
       "Well?" Chrestillio looked at the others.
       "As long as it doesn't screw up my production schedules,"
Calligan Brisch said. "Otherwise, it sounds like a chance worth
taking."
       Bettis nodded. "I agree. Our investments in the Republic
can stand a little scandal."
       Chrestillio nodded. "All right. But I don't want trouble on
Demeter."
       "There won't be," Damian answered, and kept himself from
crossing his fingers under the tabletop, as though he were a child
again. _And there shouldn't be any trouble, not if ji-Imbaoa gets
me the codes he's promised. With Ransome off the nets, or at least
busy with the Game, there's no one else on the hsai side who can
spot what's happening, and I know there aren't any traces on
Demeter that will lead to me. TMN can fend for itself. And if I
win -- never mind the trading rights, there will be people on both
sides deep in debt to me_. He smiled to himself, and reached for
the dish of preserves.
--------


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (109 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

         *Day 31*
         _High Spring: Shadows, Face Road,_
_Dock Road District Below the Old Dike_
       Lioe settled herself at a console in one of the club's
workrooms, her fingers moving easily over the controls, probing
the club's extensive libraries for ideas for a new scenario. It
would be nice to pursue some of the ideas from Ixion's Wheel --
particularly Avellar's bid for the throne, dependent as it was on
the same psionics that had been banned throughout the Imperium.
Avellar, tied to his surviving clone-siblings by a telepathic
link, was potentially a fascinating character, though she would
have to find a player who could be relied on to avoid Gamer angst.
_Ambidexter could do it_, she thought, _if he was still playing_.
She shook that thought away. Ambidexter was no longer a player;
there was no use pining over what might have been. Avellar's bid
for the throne would provide the most interesting resolution to
the unstable political and emotional balance within the Game
itself; his plot had ties to all the other versions and variants
of the Game, could pull it all together into one final, complete
scenario that would take years to run. She could see how it could
be structured, how to use Avellar to bring in each strand of the
Game, all the plots that had evolved and mutated from the original
scenario -- they were linked anyway, so intermingled that a
schematic of the Game looked more like a snarled web of string
than a normal variant tree. But Avellar, or, more precisely,
Avellar's bid to take the throne, could untangle it all, and bring
the situation to a final resolution.
       And that, of course, was the problem, and the main reason
she would never float that grand scenario. To follow that line
would mean coming dangerously close to the end of the Game. About
the only convention that was held sacrosanct by every Gamer was
that no scenario could be allowed to tip the balance between
Rebellion and Imperium: to change that would be to change the Game
itself. _It wouldn't be the end, not really_, a voice whispered,
_just the start of a new Game_, but that was almost as
unacceptable. She had been told, years ago, when she was just
starting out in the Game, that she had too much of a taste for
endings. She sighed, and touched the key sequence that would load
another file into her Gameboard -- Shadows had given her unlimited
copy privileges -- and got the double beep that warned her that


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (110 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

the datasphere was reaching capacity. She sighed again, released
it from the read/write slot, and fumbled in her carryall until she
found the case of disks she had bought that morning. She fitted a
new one into place, touched keys again, and saw the monitor screen
shift to the familiar transmission pattern.
       She leaned back in her chair, watching the patterns change,
and wondered what she would do for another scenario. Ixion's Wheel
was fun, but neither last night's session nor any of the off-line
test sessions back on Callixte had been quite what she wanted.
There was always somebody who wouldn't play the templates the way
they were written, or something to throw off the balance she had
imagined. Maybe a different set of players would do better, or
maybe a different scenario -- something in the Court Life variant,
say, secret rebels working at court -- would give her what she was
looking for, would give her the perfect session that no one would
ever want to rewrite.
       She turned her thoughts away from that impossibility -- the
point of the Game was that everything could be rewritten, that the
main points of the evolving story could only be arrived at by
concensus, the acceptance of large numbers of one's peers -- and
flipped a secondary screen to the in-house narrowcast. One of the
house notables was running Ixion's Wheel already, and she paused
for a moment, touched keys to bring up the audio feed.
       " -- but can you be trusted to support the Rebellion, my
lord?" a voice said, and she winced, and flipped the screen away.
She hadn't expected the players to be very good, playing in a low-
level session like this one, but that was the kind of Gamer
dialogue that she particularly disliked.
       She called up another set of menus, but let them sit
untouched, staring at the complex symbol strings. Just at the
moment, none of them were terribly interesting. She sighed again,
and touched keys to move out of the Game systems and into the
regular communications net. It was probably past time to check her
temporary mailbox; it would be just like Kerestel to call to see
how she was doing, and to worry if he received no answer. She
touched codes, frowned for a moment at the mailbox prompt, and
then searched her bag until she found the slip of foil with the
account numbers printed on it. She typed them in, followed it with
her password, and the screen went blank for an instant before
obediently presenting her with a list of messages. As expected,


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (111 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

Kerestel had called -- twice -- but at least the second message
confirmed that they would be staying on Burning Bright for a full
ten days. She dispatched a quick acknowledgment -- _at least he'll
know I'm all right, and checking my mail_ -- and called up the
third message. The sender's code was unfamiliar. She wondered for
an instant if Roscha had sent some kind of note -- that sort of
gesture didn't seem to be at all her style -- and then the screen
windowed again on the short printed message:
       I ENJOYED YOUR SCENARIO, AND WOULD LIKE TO TALK MORE ABOUT
IT. WOULD YOU BE INTERESTED IN COMING TO A PARTY TONIGHT AT THE
HSAI AMBASSADOR'S WITH ME? I THINK YOU MIGHT FIND IT INSTRUCTIVE.
RANSOME.
       Lioe studied the note for a moment, trying to work out the
implications. It was flattering that Ransome/Ambidexter had
thought enough of the scenario to extend this invitation, and if
sex was intended, she wasn't entirely sure she'd say no -- _but I
really don't think I like the word "instructive." And why is the
hsai ambassador inviting him to parties, anyway?_ She left the
message hanging on that screen, touched her keyboard to move onto
a general data net. A chime sounded and glyphs flashed, warning
her that any charges from this node were her personal
responsibility. She sighed, and hit the accept button, though she
touched a second series of keys to post a running total at the
base of the screen. The screen went dark for a moment, then
presented her with another series of menus.
       Burning Bright's datastore was indexed according to an
unfamiliar system. She wasted perhaps five minutes and ten _real_
learning how to phrase her questions, but at last found the hsai
ambassador's public file. He was human -- _and I probably oughtn't
be surprised at that; the hsai do tend to staff their embassies
with adopted members of the local species_ -- but not jericho-
human, not born inside the borders of Hsaioi-An. What was unusual
was that he had been born on Burning Bright, one of the select few
who had been coopted for adoption into the hsai kinship system.
Lioe stared at that information for a moment, wondering how it
must feel to come back to your homeworld after all this time --
over thirty years, if his age was correct, and he had been coopted
in his twenties, like most _chaoi-mon_. She shook herself then,
seeing the list of honors that followed his name: membership in
the imperial family, half a dozen different awards for merit,


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (112 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

including a personal letter from the Father-Emperor himself.
Whatever he had felt about cooption at the time, Tal Chauvelin had
adapted, and flourished. And there were reasons to accept
cooption, after all. Lioe frowned slightly, remembering the last
big series of hsai cooption raids. She had just begun piloting
then, and the risk had been real enough, even on the fringes of
the Republic, that she had had to consider what she would do if
she were faced with that choice. The hsai wanted to join the
entire galaxy in kinship, according to their own phrase, and,
however you felt about it personally, they did live up to their
side of that philosophy. _Chaoi-mon_ were, by law and custom, full
members of hsai society, fully part of the elaborate system. Given
a choice between that and death, or at best a few years in a
holding pen while the metagovernments squabbled over repatriation,
becoming _chaoi-mon_ was not that bad an option. And if you came
from a poor world, either in the Free Zone or on the fringes of
the Republic, or even from a poor sector of a good world, it was a
definite step forward.
       However, Chauvelin's background didn't tell her why Ransome
was invited to his party, or why Ransome would invite her. She
skimmed through the rest of the file, and found nothing useful.
Ransome's public file was short, and heavily edited: it made no
mention of his Gaming career, and concentrated on a list of the
awards he had won for his story eggs and other image
installations. He had been born on Burning Bright, held Burning
Bright citizenship, but the only remotely personal piece of
information in the file was the note that his parents had been
Syncretist Observants, minister/administrators of Burning Bright's
peculiar religion. She hesitated, wondering if it was worth her
while to try to hack the system -- there had to be other records
available somewhere -- but then smiled, slowly. There was, of
course, an even simpler way to answer her question: ask him
directly.
       She flipped herself out of the datastore -- the charges
read fifty _real_, and she made a face at the total -- and back
onto the main communications net, transferring Ransome's mailcode
from the message that still waited on the secondary screen. There
was another brief pause, and then the communications screen lit
and windowed.
       "Na Lioe. I see you got my message."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (113 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

       Lioe leaned back in her chair to look at the face in the
screen. Ransome was looking even paler than he had the night
before, and a hectic flush stained his high cheekbones. _But then,
I probably don't look so great myself, after last night_. She had
not slept well on Roscha's boat. She put that thought aside, said
aloud, "I did. I was wondering why."
       There was a little pause, and Ransome said, "Why what?"
       "Why you invited me," Lioe answered. _And why you were
invited in the first place_.
       Ransome grinned. "I told you, I like your play, and I think
you might find hsai politics amusing -- maybe even useful. Are you
committed to a session tonight?"
       "No." Lioe hesitated, unsure of the right move. _But I want
to go, she realized abruptly. I've never seen real hsai society,
just the jericho-humans who broker for them. And most of all, I
want to find out more about Ransome_. "Yes," she said slowly.
"Yes, I'd like to come. How do I get there -- and how formal is
this, anyway?"
       "Moderately," Ransome said. "I'll meet you at the
Governor's Point lift station at eighteen-thirty, and we can ride
together -- if that's agreeable to you."
       "Thanks," Lioe said. "I'll be there."
       "Until tonight, then," Ransome said, and cut the
connection.
       Lioe stared at the empty screen for a moment longer, then
made herself begin closing down the systems. From what she had
seen of Burning Bright, "moderately formal" here should probably
be translated as "strictly formal" in Republican terms. Nothing in
her carryall -- nothing in the storage cells back on the ship, or
indeed left behind in her one-room flat on Callixte -- fit that
description; she would have to find the local shop district, and
hope she could pick up something appropriate. She hesitated then,
her fingers poised for the final sequence. The cab driver had said
something about Warden Street, the street that ran along the top
of the Old Dike, being a center for fashion. Why not go there,
especially when she had money to spend? Less than she had before
she'd gone into the datastores, but still enough to afford a few
more indulgences. She smiled to herself, and finished closing down
the system.
       She paid her fee at the main desk in the lobby, and found


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (114 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

her way to the nearest waterbus stop. Roscha had tried to explain
the local transit system before she'd dropped Lioe off on the
canalside south of Shadows, and so far the hurried explanation
seemed to make sense. She bought a regular ticket -- she didn't
want to indulge in express buses, not when she was planning to buy
clothing -- and when the bus arrived, seated herself in the stern,
under the faded brick-red awning. The bus was crowded, and slow,
stopping every two hundred meters or so to take on more passengers
or to drop someone off, and for once Lioe let herself enjoy the
scenery.
       The canal was filled with traffic, from covered barges half
again as long as the waterbus to the narrow, high-tailed passenger
boats that Roscha had called gondas, to one- and two-person skids.
Most of the people riding skids were young, standing barefoot on
the platform, skimming in and out of the traffic trailing a plume
of spray. One bright-red craft cut close enough to the bus to send
water spraying across the open passenger compartment, and Lioe
joined in the general shout of anger. A woman at the head of the
bus pitched a piece of fruit after the skid's driver, hitting him
neatly in the back of the head, and the other passengers
applauded. The woman stood and bowed, like an actor, and Lioe saw
the mask sitting on the bench beside her, a grinning devil-face,
the gold and black vivid against the faded grey of the seats.
       At the next stop, a gaggle of children in school uniforms,
black high-collared smocks open over a variety of shirts and
trousers, climbed aboard; they vanished one by one as the bus
wound its way up the canal toward the Crooked River. At last the
bus turned onto a much broader canal, this one paralleling the Old
Dike, so that they moved between a narrow embankment, and the
houses shouldering each other for place beyond it, and the immense
bulk of the Dike itself. Even in the daylight, with the sunlight
to soften it, it was an impressive sight, towering over the
traffic, bicycles and three-wheeled carts and denki-bikes and the
occasional heavy carrier, that moved along the embankment at its
foot. The stone of its face had faded from its original near-
black, and the salt stains had all but vanished, replaced by the
softer faded lavender and grey-green of rock-rust. Lioe leaned
back, trying to see Warden Street at the top of the wall, but she
could only hear it, the traffic moving in counterpoint to the
noise of the street at its base.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (115 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

       The canal widened perceptibly, and the banks were crowded
with low-slung barges, their open decks piled high with crates and
boxes. Shoppers, men and women alike in loose shirts and trousers,
many of them barefoot on the sun-warmed stones, moved along the
banks with string sacks balanced on each shoulder, calling to each
other and to the merchants on the barges. The barge tenders seemed
to sell anything, Lioe saw with amazement. There was one stocked
with food, set up like any land-bound store with neat aisles and
display cases; tied to its stern was a much smaller boat that
seemed to be filled with rags. A couple of adolescents were pawing
through the piles. As Lioe watched, one of them straightened with
a crow of delight, and slung a salvaged cape around his thin
shoulders, striking a dramatic attitude. Farther on, a closed
barge sold custom masks, a white, unpainted face peering from each
of the tiny portholes. It was an unsettling effect, and Lioe
looked away quickly.
       The bus stopped three times in the market basin -- Warden
Mecomber's Market, the signs read, in Burning Bright's old-
fashioned, legible script -- and the passengers climbed out in
droves, calling to the driver as they went. As the bus pulled away
from the final stop, only Lioe and a trio of musicians, two
towheaded young men who looked like siblings and a stocky, flat-
faced woman, remained. The musicians huddled together, talking in
low voices, their cased instruments tucked between their feet. The
woman, sketching phrasing and tempo in the air, had beautiful
hands.
       The bus moved more slowly now, and the tone of its engine
deepened, as though it were fighting a new current. Lioe glanced
over the side, curious, but the oily water slid past, apparently
unchanged. Then she heard a new rushing noise -- not so new, she
realized; she had been hearing it since the market, but the babble
of voices had kept her from realizing what it was. The bus slanted
in toward the left-hand bank, the embankment side, and the
driver's voice crackled in the speakers.
       "Crooked Underpass, people. End of the line."
       Lioe followed the musicians up onto the bank, and stopped
short, staring at the Dike. Directly ahead of her, the embankment
ended in a woven iron railing; beyond that, water spurted from a
hole in the Dike, a short, meter-long fall to the river below --
not a hole, she realized instantly, but a tunnel. The Crooked


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (116 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

River had to pass through the Dike -- she had known that, but it
hadn't quite sunk in to her consciousness -- and this was the
mouth of the tunnel that carried it. _The tunnel probably has
hydro generators in it, too_, she thought, striving for some kind
of perspective. _Burning Brighters don't seem to waste power_.
Beyond the railing, the water roared, and a segment of the
spectrum danced in the spray. She stared for a moment longer, then
made herself look away.
       She rode the elevator up the face of the Dike -- it was a
closed car, and she wasn't entirely sure if she was glad or sorry -
- and passed through the elevator station and into a blaze of
noise and color. She blinked, startled, checked instinctively, and
nearly ran into someone. Warden Street was mobbed, people jostling
shoulder to shoulder along the walkways and spilling out into the
street, so that the trolley sounded its two-toned whistle almost
continually, and still barely moved more than a few meters at a
time. A group of musicians -- not the trio from the bus -- were
playing on a wooden platform that looked temporary, the stinging
sound of steel strings ringing over the crowd, but the singer's
words were lost in the general uproar. Lioe blinked again,
realized that she was becoming a traffic hazard, and made herself
start walking.
       The crowds here were better dressed than they had been on
the streets below. Here most of the people, men and women, wore
either the full-skirted, nip-waisted coats or loose, unshaped
wraps of some silky fabric that seemed to float in the air around
them, trailing strange perfumes. Quite a few wore strands of
bells, silver or gold or enameled in many colors, slung from
shoulder to hip, and Lioe found herself eyeing them curiously,
wondering if the style would suit her. The shop windows were
enticing, holograms revolving in the thick display glass, showing
off clothes more improbable even than the Republic's highest
fashion, the prices flickering discreetly just below the items. A
few of the older buildings had real windows, with real goods in
the boxes behind them. Lioe slowed her step to stare, not caring
if that betrayed her as a foreigner -- the neat hat would do that
anyway, marked her as a pilot and a Republican on any human-
settled world -- and realized that the prices in these windows
were sandwiched in the glass itself, faint opalescent numbers
visible only from a certain angle. She couldn't begin to guess how


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (117 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

much such a display would cost, but she suspected the shops made
more than enough to cover their expenses. Still, one of them was
bound to have what she needed.
       She found what she was looking for at last, in a smaller
store toward the center of the Dike, a place crammed with racks of
the full-skirted coats and the silky wraps, and a pile of skirts
made of reembroidered lace, each pattern in the lace itself
redefined by an overlay of colored shapes cut from sequensa
shells. She fingered that fabric cautiously, admiring its
elaborate beauty, but knew better than to buy. She wouldn't know
how to wear a skirt, how to make herself look good in it, but even
so, she sighed for the lost possibility. She bought a coat
instead, this one straight-bodied, a rich gold-on-gold brocade
embroidered at the neck and shoulders with gold beads and leaf-
shaped paillettes of gold-dyed sequensas. It looked good, she had
to admit as she looked at herself in the shop mirror, the
counterwoman hovering in the background, good enough to make her
reckless. She bought a shirt as well, a loose tunic of the
floating silk dyed a darker mustard color, and a thin scarf
bordered with more sequensas and gold embroidery. It took
everything that was left of the voucher from Shadows to pay for it
all, but she shrugged away the thought that she was doing it to
impress Ransome. This was easy money, easy come and easy go, to be
spent on indulgences like this. _And if I want to impress somebody
with it, well, I'll just call Roscha. I might do that anyway_. She
passed the last of the vouchers over the countertop, watched the
woman feed them one by one into the bank machine. _I think I'll do
just that -- and if I need money, there's always Republican C-and-
I. Kichi Desjourdy's station chief here, and she always paid well
for information. There's bound to be enough stuff going on here
that would interest her_. She watched the counterwoman wrap the
clothes into a tidy bundle, accepted it with thanks. Certainly
there should be enough happening at this party of Ransome's. She
tucked the bundle under her arm, and stepped out of the shop to
catch the trolley back toward Governor's Point and her hostel in
the Ghetto beyond.
--------
         *Evening, Day 31*
         _High Spring: The Hsai_
_Ambassador's House, in the_


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (118 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

_Ghetto, Landing Isle Above_
_Old City North_
       It was evening in Chauvelin's garden, and Damian Chrestil
stood with his back to the terrace wall, looking inward toward the
house. It was almost as large as a midsize palazze, the sort that
cousins of Five Points families built in the districts below the
Five Points cliffs. The white stone glowed in the twilight, very
bright against the purpling haze of the sky; the open windows were
filled with golden light, spilling a distant music into the
cooling air. In the gap between the southern wing and the main
house, he could just see a blue-black expanse of ocean, reflecting
a rising moon in a scattering of light like foam. He looked away
from that, made uneasy by the sight of open water -- the sea
should be viewed from the security of the barrier hills, or from
an open deck, not glimpsed like this across a garden -- and found
the lesser moon, just rising, riding low beneath a bank of cloud.
The larger moon was well up, and all but invisible, just a faint
glow of pewter light behind the thickening clouds. The street
brokers were saying it was thirty-to-one that the storm that was
building to the south would hit the city, but no one was taking
odds on strength.
       The distant rumble of an orbiter, lifting from Newfields,
caught his attention, drew his eyes west just in time to see the
spark of light dwindle into a pinpoint no brighter than a star,
and vanish in the twilight. The sky behind it was streaked with
cloud and layered with the orange and reds of the sunset, the
distant housetops outlined against it as though against a sheet of
flame. The sound of the takeoff hung in the air, undercutting the
drifting music. It was nothing special, and he looked away, back
toward the crowd of people filling the terrace. One of them -- a
woman, tall, face thin and sculpturally beautiful, the lines of
her bones drawn hard and pure under skin like old honey -- had
heard the orbiter too, was still staring upward as though she
could pick out the light of its passage from among the scudding
clouds. There was some expression behind that still face,
knowledge, perhaps, that was no longer hunger, and Damian caught
his breath in spite of himself, watching her watch the orbiter's
flight. Then there was a movement in the crowd beside her, and she
turned away, her face breaking into movement, the stone-hard
beauty shattering into a sort of vivid ugliness. Ransome smiled


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (119 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

crookedly at her -- they were of a height -- and drew her away
with him toward the house. As she turned, Damian saw the hat slung
over her shoulder, dangling from a spangled scarf that from this
distance looked as though it had been woven from the sunset sky. A
short grey plume flowed like a cloud from the hat's crown. _So
that's the pilot_, he thought. _She'll certainly bear watching_.
       "I see you've spotted her. That's Lioe."
       Damian looked down and down again, smiled in spite of
himself at Cella's delicate face turned up to him. She was a tiny
woman, barely tall enough to reach his shoulder; even her eight-
centimeter heels did not bring her chin above his armpit. She was
beautifully dressed, as always, this time in a sleeveless bodice
the color of bitter chocolate that hugged breasts and hips and
gave way to a swirling skirt embroidered at the hem with a band of
pale copper apples. The almost-sheer fabric emphasized perfect
calves and elegant ankles. Her breasts swelled distractingly above
the jerkin's square neckline.
       "Have you found out anything more?" Damian asked.
       Cella smiled. She had painted her lips and cheeks and nails
to match the new-copper apples on her skirt, a cool metallic pink
barely paler than her skin. "Not much. She's from Callixte -- born
there, apparently, not just works from there. She's a notable by
anyone's reckoning, and the people on the intersystems nets like
her a lot. If she's political, she's a Republican, but that's a
big if. Between piloting and the Game, I can't see that she's had
much time for politics. She did know Kichi Desjourdy when
Desjourdy was on Falconsreach, but I can't trace anything more
than just knowing each other. Desjourdy's a Gamer, after all, and
a class-four arbiter."
       Damian nodded thoughtfully. Kichi Desjourdy was the new
Customs-and-Intelligence representative to Burning Bright, a
clever woman, and therefore dangerous. And that made any
connection between her and this Lioe a dangerous one. "Do you
think this -- this whole thing, meeting with Ransome and all --
could be some kind of setup?"
       Cella shook her head. "Not with his consent, anyway. I'm
quite certain they met at the club -- that that was their first
meeting, and that it wasn't staged in any way." She paused then,
and her smile took on a new edge. "I did find out one thing
interesting, though. She spent last night with one of yours,


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (120 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

Damiano. A john-boat girl called Roscha."
       "Did she, now?" Damian said, softly. _Trust Roscha to be
more trouble_. "Why didn't I hear about it?"
       "No one knew you were interested," Cella said. "I didn't
know you were interested, until last night."
       "They're sleeping together?"
       "I would say so." Cella shrugged. "I would."
       "Charming." Damian stared out into the crowd, did not find
the pilot, turned slowly so that he faced back toward the cliff
and the Old City spread out beyond the lower terrace. Most of the
lights were on now, the sky faded to a thick and dusty purple, and
the pattern of the lights in the lower garden echoed the play of
light from the city below, disrupted only by the figures moving
along the silvered stones of the pathways. Neither Ransome nor
Lioe was anywhere to be seen.
       "I could introduce you," Cella said. "I've met her."
       Damian glanced down at her, surprised less by the offer
than by its timing, and she nodded to the window above them. A
woman stood silhouetted in the golden light, a newly familiar,
broad-shouldered shape with a hat slung across her back. She was
looking in at the party, standing quite still, and Damian
hesitated, tempted. _It would be interesting to speak to her
directly, get some feel for what she was like_ -- He shook his
head, not without regret. It was much safer to keep his distance,
just in case she did turn out to have some connection with C-and-
I. "No, not right now, I think. But keep an eye on her, Cella. I
want to know exactly what she's doing."
       "All right," Cella said, and sounded faintly surprised.
       Damian looked away from her curiosity, back toward the
lower terrace, and his eyes were caught again by the grey-and-
silver stones that covered the paths. The more distant paths
seemed to glow in the last of the light, and the nearer ones,
closer to the cool standard-lamps, caught the blue-toned light and
held it, odd shadows playing over their surfaces. He frowned,
curious now, and walked away, down the steps to the graveled paths
of the lower terrace. Cella followed a few steps behind, but he
ignored her, stooped to examine the stones. A dozen, a hundred
tiny faces looked back at him, all smiling slightly, as if they
were amused by his surprise. He caught his breath, controlled his
instinctive revulsion -- _how could anyone stand to walk here, if


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (121 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

they saw those looking back at them?_ -- and said, "Ransome's
work, I take it?" His voice sounded strange to him, strained and
taut, but Cella didn't seem to notice.
       "I would say so."
       "They are," Damian said, with precision, "very strange men,
he and Chauvelin." He paused, and shook his head. "I suppose I had
better pay my respects to the ambassador." He did not wait for her
response, but started back across the terraces toward the
ambassador's house.
       Chauvelin greeted his guests in the main hall. The long
room was lit as though by a thousand candles, light like melted
butter, like curry, pouring from the edges of the ceiling across
the polished bronzewood floor, gilding everything it touched. It
turned the ice statue on the buffet -- a sleek needle-ship poised
on the points of its sailfields -- to topaz, set deeper red-gold
lights dancing in its heart like the glow of invisible reactors.
Chauvelin smiled, seeing it, and made a mental note to thank his
staff. They had done well in other things, too: the heavy bunches
of red-streaked flowers that flamed against the ochre walls, the
food, the junior staff -- jericho-human, _chaoi-mon_ and hsai
alike -- circulating among the guests to diffuse tension and keep
the conversation and the wine flowing with equal ease. Je-
Sou'tsian had the unenviable task of keeping an eye on ji-Imbaoa,
but she seemed to be handling it without undue strain. She had
chosen to wear her full honors, and the clusters of ribbon flowed
from her shoulders almost to the floor. Perhaps it was not the
most tactful of gestures, Chauvelin conceded -- _ji-Imbaoa has
fewer hereditary honors than she_ -- but he couldn't bring himself
to reprove her. In any case, ji-Imbaoa seemed unaccountably sober,
and in control of himself. There should be no trouble until later,
if at all.
       Satisfied that everything was at least temporarily secure
in that quarter, Chauvelin looked away, searching the crowd for
Ransome. He owed him thanks, as well as money, for the stones that
paved the garden paths, and he was more than a little surprised
that the imagist hadn't already collected. He found him at last,
standing by the arched hallway that led in from the garden, and
lifted a hand to beckon him over. Ransome raised a hand in answer,
but glanced back over his shoulder, toward the tall woman who
followed at his heels. Chauvelin lifted an eyebrow -- he had


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (122 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

thought that he knew most of Ransome's friends and proteges -- but
made no comment as the two made their way across the crowded room.
The woman was striking, not at all in Ransome's usual line -- his
taste in women, such as it was, ran to flamboyant Amazons like
LaChacalle -- and she wore her clothes, Burning Brighter clothes,
by the familiar cut and fabric, with the bravado born of
unfamiliarity. Then he saw the way Ransome was watching her -- she
was even with him now, moving shoulder to shoulder with him
through the room -- and felt the touch of an unfamiliar pain. That
intensity of gaze should be for him, not this stranger, and he
resented the shift in Ransome's attention. He put that thought
aside, frowning slightly at himself, as Ransome approached.
       "Sia Chauvelin."
       The tone even more than the choice of title was a warning
that Ransome was in one of his more playful moods, capable of
almost any mischief. Chauvelin nodded warily, said, "Good evening,
I-Jay."
       "I'd like to introduce someone to you," Ransome went on,
still in the light tone that Chauvelin had learned to distrust,
and motioned to the woman at his side, not quite touching her
shoulder. "This is Quinn Lioe, one of the better Gamers I've seen
in years. I'm enjoying my return to the Game much more than I'd
expected."
       "Na Lioe," Chauvelin murmured, and the woman answered,
"Ambassador Chauvelin." Her voice was deep, soft and rather
pleasant, the clipped Republican vowels adding a tang to her
words.
       Ransome smiled, but it did not quite match the expression
in his eyes. _Anger?_ Chauvelin wondered. _Or triumph?_ "I'm very
grateful to you, Sia," the imagist went on. _Look what I found in
the Game_, his expression implied.
       Chauvelin made himself keep his expression neutral, though
his mouth wanted to twist as though he'd bitten something sour.
The woman Lioe -- _the pilot Lioe_, he realized abruptly, seeing
the hat hanging at her shoulder -- recognized that there was some
undertone of passion here; she was watchful, but uninvolved, her
face set in a serene and stony calm. _Whatever Ransome thinks he's
doing_, Chauvelin thought, _Lioe will have her own ideas_. The
recognition steadied him; he said, "I still owe you part of your
fee."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (123 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

       Lioe lifted an eyebrow in mute question, glancing from one
to the other, and Chauvelin said, "I-Jay was good enough to hurry
a commission for me -- the stones on the paths in the lower
gardens." He took a petty pleasure in emphasizing Ransome's
subordinate position.
       "Was that your work?" Lioe said, and Ransome nodded, still
grinning. Lioe nodded back, her expression still serene. "Yes, I
can see you don't like people to be comfortable."
       There was a little silence, and Chauvelin wanted suddenly
to cheer. Ransome said, "Why should they be? I'm not." He paused
again, and added, striving for the earlier lightness, "Who have
you been talking to, anyway?"
       Lioe smiled slightly. "Other Gamers."
       "I should've expected that," Ransome murmured.
       "I still owe you money, I-Jay," Chauvelin said, riding over
whatever else either one of them might have said. "You must have
had workshop fees."
       Ransome nodded. "Oh, I've submitted the bills, have no
fear. But I think the result was worth it."
       "It is spectacular," Chauvelin agreed, and, to his
surprise, Lioe nodded.
       "The faces are very beautiful," she said. "It must have
changed your garden completely, Ambassador."
       "It did," Chauvelin said.
       "For the better, surely," Ransome said.
       "I think so," Chauvelin said, and smiled. "Certainly it was
a change."
       His eye was caught by a sudden movement, a subtle gesture
from across the room. He looked toward it, past Ransome's
shoulder, and saw je-Sou'tsian standing a little apart, one hand
lifted in mute appeal. Ransome saw his eyes move, controlled the
impulse to look, said instead, "I don't want to monopolize you,
Sia."
       "Not at all," Chauvelin said. "But something seems to have
come up." He nodded toward je-Sou'tsian, and Ransome glanced over
his shoulder.
       "Ah, the Visiting Speaker's arrived?"
       "My honored guest the Speaker has been here since the first
arrivals," Chauvelin said, not without irony. "Na Lioe, it was a
pleasure to meet you. I hope I'll have the pleasure again."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (124 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

       She murmured something inaudible in response, but there was
an amusement lurking in her gold-flecked eyes. Chauvelin bowed
over his clasped hands, hsai fashion, and moved away.
       Je-Sou'tsian bowed slightly at his approach, but her hands
were still, suppressing whatever she was feeling.
       "What is it, Iameis?" Chauvelin said, and kept a smile on
his face with an effort of will.
       The steward's hands moved slightly, shaping anger and
apology. Her fingerclaws, gilded for the occasion, glowed in the
buttery light. "I'm sorry to have troubled you," she said, her
tradetalk even more precise than usual, "and indeed I wouldn't
have if it hadn't been Sia Ransome you were speaking with, but
several members of the Visiting Speaker's household have asked
permission to use the intersystems link. They've also asked that
our technicians not oversee the linkage."
       Chauvelin bit back his first response, knowing he was on
firm ground here. "I'm hurt that the Speaker's people should imply
distrust of my household, knowing as I do the Speaker's respect
and friendship. You may tell them that, word for word."
       Je-Sou'tsian bowed again. "I will do so, with pleasure."
       She started to back away, but Chauvelin said, "Iameis. Is
there anything else?"
       The steward hesitated for a heartbeat, then gestured
negation, the movement solid and decisive. "No, Sia. But I thought
that should be nipped in the bud."
       Chauvelin nodded. "I agree. Keep an eye on them, Iameis."
       "Of course, Sia." Je-Sou'tsian bowed again, and backed
away.
       Chauvelin stared after her, furious at ji-Imbaoa for trying
such an obvious and infantile trick. _What can he think he'll gain
from that? And why in all hells does he have to do it now, when I
can't do anything about it?_ The answer was too obvious to be
considered, and he made himself put it out of his mind, turning
away to greet a stocky man who served on the board of the Five
Points Bank. He answered mechanically, his mind on ji-Imbaoa, and
on Ransome and his new friend, and was not sorry when the banker
excused himself, heading for the buffet. He stood alone for a
moment, found himself scanning the crowd for Ransome. The imagist
was standing near one of the windows that overlooked the garden,
Lioe beside him, tall against the glass. Her coat blended with the


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (125 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

golden light caught in the mirrorlike panes, drawing her into the
reflections like a ghost; in contrast, Ransome was looking pale
and interesting. It was hard to tell, these days, if it was
deliberate or inevitable. Chauvelin suppressed the worry,
reminding himself that he could always query the medsystems
records if he really wanted to know. But whatever the cause, the
look worked: Ransome had dressed with millimetrically calculated
disorder, plain-slashed jerkin hanging open over equally plain
shirt and narrow trousers, his unbrushed boots a well-planned
disgrace. He made a perfect foil for Lioe's severe elegance, and
Chauvelin felt again a stab of jealousy. _Who in all hells is she,
that Ransome should behave like this?_
       "Good evening, Chauvelin," a familiar voice said, and
Chauvelin turned without haste to bow to Burning Bright's
governor.
       "A good evening to you, Governor."
       Kasiel Berengaria nodded back, the gesture as much of a
concession as she would ever make to hsai etiquette. She was a
stocky, broad-bodied woman, comfortable in a heavily embroidered
coat and trousers; a massive necklace of Homestead Island pearls
made a collar around her neck, and held a seabright pendant
suspended just at the divide of her full breasts. The skin exposed
there was weathered, like her coarse, salt-and-pepper hair, and
the short hands with their broken nails. "I haven't seen the
Visiting Speaker tonight, Chauvelin."
       Chauvelin picked his words carefully, well aware of the
amusement in her mismatched eyes. One was almost blue, the other
green-flecked brown: a disconcerting effect, and one he was
certain she enjoyed. "The Visiting Speaker has been holding court
in the inner room, Governor. I'm sure he'd be glad to see you."
       Berengaria made a face. "I doubt it. Or at best, no happier
to see me than I am to see him."
       Chauvelin smiled in spite of himself. "Quite possibly."
       "You have had an interesting time of it, with him in your
household."
       "Interesting is a good word," Chauvelin said. He and
Berengaria were old adversaries, almost friends by now; she
preferred the Republic to Hsaioi-An, but Burning Bright before
both of them. It was a position he understood perfectly, and he
had always admired her skill.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (126 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

       "One hears that the je Tsinra-an are rising in favor at
court," Berengaria went on.
       "One of them made a decent profit for the All-Father on
Hazuhone," Chauvelin said. She would already know at least that
much; there was no point in denying it. He shrugged, carefully
casual. "I must say, I doubt it will last."
       "One hopes not," Berengaria said. "And not just for your
sake."
       She didn't have to say more, and Chauvelin nodded in
agreement. The je Tsinra-an, having been out of favor for years,
were attempting to rally other groups who had stood aloof from
court politics by advocating a return to the old, hard-line,
imperialistic policies of two generations ago. Unfortunately, now
that Hsaioi-An and the Republic were trading freely, or at least
relatively freely, through the merchants on entrepot worlds like
Burning Bright, both sides would suffer from a change in attitude.
And Burning Bright and her fellow entrepots would suffer most of
all.
       "The All-Father knows perfectly well where his bread is
baked," Chauvelin said aloud, and hoped it was true.
       "I hope so," Berengaria said, in unpleasant, unintended
echo. "Whatever else happens, Chauvelin, I'd be very sorry if you
were a casualty."
       "I don't intend to be," Chauvelin answered. His mouth was
dry, and he smiled to hide the sudden fear.
       "Good," Berengaria said. She smiled back, but the
expression did not touch the lines around her mismatched eyes. "It
would be very dull without you." She nodded, and turned away into
the crowd.
       Chauvelin watched her go, turning her words over in his
mind. It was not a good sign that Berengaria had heard rumors of
power shifts between the factions in Hsaioi-An, and even less good
that she was expressing concern for his future. _And I wonder, did
I hear a hint that she might offer sanctuary, if things get bad?_
There would be a price, of course -- _and probably a high one_ --
but it was an option to keep in mind. At least Ransome was, for
once, doing what he was told: that might buy enough time to deal
with ji-Imbaoa. They said, on Burning Bright, that Storm brought a
change in luck -- he could remember, dimly, his mother buying
lottery chances on the first day of Storm, hoping to bring money


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (127 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

into the household. _I have to hope that's true_.
       Ransome made his way through the maze of smaller rooms off
the main hall. Chauvelin's household had thrown them open as well,
knowing the space would be needed. Ji-Imbaoa was holding court in
the largest of these, and Ransome paused at the door for a brief
moment, glancing in past the crowding guests. He had lost Lioe
some while back, to a conversation with the novelist LaChacalle,
and hoped to find her -- _though probably not here_. The Visiting
Speaker was popular with certain groups on Burning Bright, most
notably and most obviously the ones who traded heavily with Hsaioi-
An, and he was surrounded by their representatives, but Ransome
hardly thought that a Republican pilot would be likely to join
them. The members of ji-Imbaoa's own household stood watchfully at
the Speaker's shoulder, and at the edges of the room. Their
ribbons, short strands of red that fell barely to their waists,
were vivid against the sea-green panels. It was an elegant
display, and one that deliberately overshadowed Chauvelin's less
formal presence.
       He had looked too long. Across the room, the Visiting
Speaker lifted his hand in acknowledgment, and beckoned for
Ransome to approach. It was not a request. Ransome hid a scowl,
and started toward ji-Imbaoa. The crowd made way for him, a few
people murmuring his name. Overhead, false lightning flickered
through holographic clouds, and Ransome couldn't resist a quick
look to see how the installation was doing. He had made the image
canopy for Chauvelin a few years before; so far, he thought, it
seemed to be holding up well.
       "_Tso-eh_, Ransome," the Visiting Speaker said, granting
the courtesy of a formal greeting. He continued in tradetalk,
however, lifting his voice a little to be sure that the fringes of
the group could hear. Conversations faded at that signal, and
Ransome was suddenly aware of all eyes intent on him. Ji-Imbaoa
was making this a matter of prestige, and for Chauvelin's sake --
_and my pride, too_ -- he could not afford to make mistakes.
       "I'm told you made this display?" Ji-Imbaoa gestured to the
image in the dome overhead, where half-hawk, half-human figures
now swirled through the gaps in the clouds, riding the illusory
lightning.
       "That's right," Ransome answered, and forced himself not to
mimic the hissing accent, the heavy emphasis on terminal


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (128 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

sibilants.
       "It's very striking," ji-Imbaoa said, without looking up.
"But when will you come back to Hsaioi-An and show your talents
there?"
       Ransome pretended to glance up at the dome, not really
seeing the roiling clouds, controlled his anger with an effort. Ji-
Imbaoa had threatened him with prosecution if he returned to
Hsaioi-An; this was a particularly clumsy maneuver. He looked back
at the Visiting Speaker, said politely enough, "Probably when such
a generous commission is offered me. Do you think your _t'ueanao_
would be interested, Na Speaker?" He deliberately used the word
that meant more than just family or household unit, that carried
connotations of political rank and power as well, and saw from the
sudden convulsive clenching of ji-Imbaoa's hand that the
implications had struck home. Chauvelin was still a member of the
tzu line; Ransome carried some of the same prestige by virtue of
his patronage.
       Ji-Imbaoa mastered his annoyance instantly, though the
fingers of his free hand were still crooked slightly, and the red-
painted fingerclaws rapped gently against his thigh. "Perhaps we
shall," he said. "I am sure such a -- thing -- would please my
dependents. You would come if we asked?"
       Ransome bowed slightly, perfectly aware of where this game
could lead if not precisely judged. He could not let himself be
trapped into a commission, even if it meant seeming to back down.
"If the price were right, and the time were convenient, and I were
committed to no other business, yes, of course, Speaker." He
paused, then added, "And, of course, assuming that all issues of
freedom could be resolved. Some people take offense at images when
none is intended; it seems -- safer -- to settle that ahead of
time, than risk displeasing anyone."
       Ji-Imbaoa showed teeth in an approximation of a human
smile. The expression was delicately close to the bared teeth of
insult, but not quite; Ransome admired his control even as he bit
back anger. "I'm sure we could work out appropriate compensation,"
the Visiting Speaker said, and looked away, lifting a hand to
beckon another guest. The woman turned toward him at once, and ji-
Imbaoa took a few steps to meet her, bringing the group's
attention with him. Ransome hesitated for a moment longer, tempted
to protest this dismissal, but made himself turn away.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (129 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

       Lioe was standing just inside the doorway. "Were you having
fun?" she asked, and Ransome made a face.
       "How much of that did you hear?" He touched her shoulder
lightly, easing her out into the more dimly lit hallway. The walls
here were painted a deep red, the rich color of wine held up to a
light. Golden vines coiled along the ceiling just below the hidden
lights.
       "Most of it, I think. I gather he doesn't like you."
       "Not much," Ransome agreed. Lioe kept looking at him, one
thin eyebrow lifted in an expression that reminded him suddenly of
Chauvelin, and he touched her shoulder again, steering her toward
one of the side rooms. It was little more than an alcove, pillared
walls painted in a coppery brown, the pillars themselves painted
with more delicate vines, the lighting concealed in thick clusters
of sea grapes that dangled from the heads of the pillars. Bench-
seats had been built into the side walls, and the space between
the central set of pillars on the rear wall had been turned into a
display recess. The shelves were filled with odd objects, and
Ransome was startled to recognize one of his own story eggs among
them.
       "All right," Lioe said, "why doesn't this Visiting Speaker
like you?"
       Ransome hesitated again, then grimaced. "I'm not trying to
put you off, I just don't know where to begin."
       Lioe laughed. "You make friends easily, I see."
       Ransome smiled back. "All right. For one thing, he and
Chauvelin are from opposite factions, and Chauvelin has been my
patron for years. For another -- " He stopped, took a breath.
"When I was younger, I worked for a local company, worked in
Hsaioi-An, on Jericho, and I got into trouble there. I offended
some people as well as breaking a few laws, but because I was only
_houta_ then they couldn't do anything about it -- the insults, I
mean. They enforced the laws. Now that I'm _min-hao_, though, they
can take notice of those insults, and ji-Imbaoa -- aside from
being personally stupid and therefore an irresistible target -- is
closely related to someone with a serious grudge against me."
       "That does explain a lot," Lioe said, after a moment. She
cocked her head to one side, clearly reviewing his conversation
with the Visiting Speaker. "Given all that, though, was it wise to
antagonize him?"


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (130 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

       "Probably not," Ransome admitted. "But he really is
irresistible."
       Lioe shook her head, but she was smiling. "I hope you and
your patron get along."
       Ransome winced, remembering their earlier conversation.
"I'm sorry about earlier," he said. _It was because Chauvelin's
been pushing me, pushing me back into the Game when that's the
last thing I want to waste my time with_ -- But that was not
something he could say aloud. "Do you do your own backgrounds, for
the Game?"
       Lioe nodded, obviously glad to accept the change of
subject. "Yes. I carry a recorder when I go planetside. A lot of
times I stumble into places that I can use later. When I can get
time on the club machines, I do some manipulations, of course, but
most of the time I can't afford it. That's the good part about
this deal with Shadows. I've got all the time I want, and the run
of their libraries."
       "For ten days," Ransome said. That wasn't nearly enough
time, not for any real work.
       Lioe shrugged. "I have a contract with Kerestel."
       Ransome stared at her with a certain frustration, wondering
how she could stand to work part-time, only when there was time
available on club machines, only when she wasn't piloting -- how
she could stand to stay confined, stuck inside the boundaries of
the Game, where the ultimate rule was, _never change anything?_ He
opened his mouth, searching for the right words, and saw her pick
up the story egg, hold its lens to her eye. He remembered that one
well -- an early work, filled with flames and a figure made of
flame that shifted from male to female and back again with the
fire's dance -- and closed his mouth again, wondering what she
would say.
       "Is this yours?" Lioe asked, after a moment. She set the
egg carefully aside, as though she thought the mechanism was
something delicate. Her voice was without emotion, without
inflection, polite and unreadable.
       "Yes," Ransome said, "it's one of mine."
       "How do you do that?" Abruptly, Lioe's voice thawed into
enthusiasm. "How do you pull it all together?"
       "Do you mean mechanically, or how I structure the images?"
Ransome asked.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (131 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

       "Yes -- both, I mean." Lioe grinned again, looked slightly
embarrassed. "Sorry, I don't mean to hassle you."
       "No!" Ransome had spoken more sharply than he had intended,
shook his head to erase the word. "No, you're not hassling me. I
like to talk about my work." _And anything to get her away from
the Game_. "It's a lot like finding settings for Game sessions,"
he said, and heard himself painfully casual. "I spend a lot of
time on the nets. I've got a pretty complete tie-in in my loft,
and a good display structure. I pull clips off the nets, break
down the images, then rebuild them into the loops for the eggs."
       "That must take a lot of storage," Lioe said.
       "But only linear, that's cheap enough," Ransome answered.
"Look, it's easier to show you what I do than it is to talk about
it. Would you like to go back to my loft, look at the system? I've
got some things in progress, you could see how everything fits
together -- you could even play with the machines, if you'd like."
       Lioe gave him a measuring look, and Ransome felt himself
flush. "No strings attached. This is not an unsubtle way of
getting you into bed."
       Lioe smiled. "I wasn't really worried about it." She laid
the lightest of stresses on "worried."
       "Will you do it, then?" Ransome asked, and did his best to
hide his sudden elation at her nod. Maybe, just maybe he could
show her what was so wrong with the Game, why it was a waste of
any decent talent -- she was good at the Game, good enough that
she should have a try at something else, something that would last
beyond the ephemeral quasi-memory of the Game nets. He shook those
thoughts away. Time enough for that if she was interested, if she
cared about anything beyond the Game. "I was wondering," he said
aloud, and Lioe glanced curiously at him. "You've got a great
reputation on the Game nets. Why haven't you gone into it full-
time, become a club notable? You could make a living at it,
easily."
       Lioe looked at him for a long moment, obviously choosing
her words with care, and Ransome found himself, irrationally,
holding his breath. "Two reasons," she said at last. "One,
piloting's a better living. Two -- the second reason is, I can't
see making it my life." She shrugged and looked away, embarrassed.
"It's a game. It's only as good as all its players."
       _Yes, and that's most of what's wrong with it_, Ransome


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (132 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

thought. _But there's so much else out there, besides the Game.
What the hell were your parents thinking of, to send you into
piloting?_ There was no answer to that, and he curbed his
enthusiasm sharply. "Let me show you my setup," he said, and
started out of the room.
       The second moon was setting over Chauvelin's garden,
throwing long shadows. Beyond the garden, fireworks flared in
silent splendor over the Inland Water, great sprays of colored
light that rivaled the moon. Damian Chrestil stood in a darkened
embrasure, one of the archways that looked out onto the upper
terrace, idly tugging the curtain aside to watch the departing
guests, filing by ones and twos along the path that led to the
street. His eye was caught by a familiar figure: Ransome, and the
pilot was with him. That was a good sign -- Ransome should stay
preoccupied with the nets, with the Game, with Lioe to distract
him -- and he smiled briefly.
       "So you see it's going well." Ji-Imbaoa slipped into the
embrasure beside him, gestured to one of his household, who bowed
and backed away.
       Damian let the heavy curtain fall back into place,
effectively cutting off any view from the garden. He was blind in
the sudden darkness, heard ji-Imbaoa's claws chime against a
crystal glass, a faint, unnerving music. "So far," he said.
       "Chauvelin has accepted that it is important, and Ransome
will do what he tells him," the Visiting Speaker went on. "I
should think that conditions would be ideal."
       Damian's eyes were beginning to adjust to the dimness. He
could see ji-Imbaoa outlined against the faint light from the
hallway; he shifted slightly, his shoulder brushing the curtains,
and a thin beam of moonlight cut across the space, drawing faint
grey lights from the Visiting Speaker's skin. "Conditions will be
ideal," Damian said, "once I have the codes."
       Ji-Imbaoa gestured unreadably, only the fact of the
movement visible in shadow behind the moonlight. "It takes time to
get those, time and a certain amount of privacy. I will have them
for you tomorrow, I am certain of that."
       _I was expecting them tonight. Ransome won't be distracted
forever, and C-and-I is sniffing around on Demeter. I don't have
time to waste on this, I need to move the cargo now_.... Damian
bit back his irritation, said, "I hope so, Na Speaker. The longer


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (133 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

I have to wait for them, the more risk to all of us."
       "Tomorrow," ji-Imbaoa said again, and there was a note in
his voice that warned Damian not to push further.
       "All right," he said, but couldn't resist adding, "Tonight
was such a good chance. I'm just sorry we missed it."
       Ji-Imbaoa made a hissing sound, but said nothing.
       "Until tomorrow, then," Damian said, cheerfully, and
slipped out of the embrasure before the Visiting Speaker could
think to stop him.
--------
         *Part Four*
         *Day 1*
_Storm: Ransome's Loft, Old Coast Road,_
_Newfields, Above Junction Pool_
       Lioe woke slowly, blinking in the light that seeped in
through the filtered windows. She lay still for a moment,
remembering where she was, then cautiously pushed herself upright.
The door to Ransome's bedroom was still closed, but the light was
on in the little kitchen, and she could hear the last gasps as an
automatic coffee maker completed its cycle. She glanced sideways,
checking the time, and made a face as the numbers flashed red
against the stark white wall. Almost noon, and she was committed
to a midafternoon meeting at Shadows, reviewing her scenario for a
group of club session leaders.
       She reached for her shirt and trousers, the loose silky
tunic incongruous at this hour of the morning, and dressed
quickly, then went into the kitchen alcove. The coffee maker was
obviously on a standard program: the tiny pot held barely enough
for a single mug. She hesitated for an instant, but poured herself
some anyway. That emptied the pot, and she searched cabinets, the
little room as compulsively ordered as a ship's galley, until she
found the box of makings and set another pot on to brew. She
folded up the bed as well, but could not remember where Ransome
had kept it; she left it sitting against the wall, and went back
to the computer setup that dominated the working space. She
touched one of the secondary keyboards lightly, but did not bring
up the system, remembering instead what she had done the night
before. It had been like the best parts of the Game, the
preparation, hunting through the nets and libraries and her own
collection of filmed scenes until she found just the right image --


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (134 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:10 AM]
======================

_or the image that can be adjusted, manipulated, until it has
exactly the impact you wanted, that will conjure upjust the right
responses from your players, and they can take that knowledge and
run with it_.... Except, of course, that Ransome's work stopped
there, before the others, any others, entered the picture. He set
up the image, calculated the effect, but didn't stay to finish the
job. Or else he assumed he had finished his job, that the effect
would be what he intended. She shook her head, not sure if she
even really believed in that sort of confidence -- _or is it
arrogance?_ -- and turned away from the computers, touched the
window controls to clear the treated glass.
       The city stretched out below her, a breathtaking view over
the housetops toward the Inland Water. The sky above the city was
milky white, sunlight filtered by clouds, but light still glinted
from the solar panels and on the murky water of the Junction Pool
at her feet. It was busy, barges and lighters of all sizes snugged
up to the multiple docking points that lined the Pool's edges. One
of the largest ships, broad-beamed, its deck piled high with the
familiar scarred-silver shapes of drop capsules, was moored at the
foot of a cargo elevator. As she watched, fascinated -- pilots
rarely got to see where their cargoes ended up -- a crane swooped
down, delicately picked up two of the capsules, and added them to
the neat pile growing in the elevator's open car.
       She finished the coffee before the crane operator finished
loading the elevator, and looked sideways again, checking the
time. Past noon, and it would take almost an hour to reach Shadows
-- more, if she understood right, and the Storm celebrations had
already begun. She looked again toward Ransome's door, blinking
away the chronometer's numbers, wondering what she should do. It
seemed rude just to leave, but it might well be worse to wake him.
Of course, she could always leave a note. She looked around,
searching for a notepad/printer or pen and paper, and the door to
the bedroom opened.
       "Good morning," Ransome said. _He looked tired_, Lioe
thought, _more tired than she would have expected_. "I see you
found the coffee."
       "Yes, thanks," Lioe answered. "I made a second pot."
       "Thank you," Ransome said, and stepped into the kitchen.
"I'm glad you found the makings, most people I know drink tea." He
came back out into the loft's main room, mug of coffee in one


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (135 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

hand, a polished spherical remote in the other. His hand moved
easily over the steel-bright surface, and the display space in the
center of the room flashed into life. Lioe looked away, vaguely
embarrassed, from the loop she had compiled the night before.
       "That's really quite good," Ransome said.
       "Beginner's work," Lioe said, more roughly than she had
intended. In the display space, a metal-skinned woman transformed
herself into a bird, the fingers elongating into feathers, hair
into the crest of a hawk, body melting and shrinking into a
compact and vicious form, rose and turned and swooped on something
invisible, then landed, body beginning to turn again into a
woman's even as she fell the last few meters, until the
silverskinned woman sat again on a bench in the sun, inspecting
her long, bony feet. Even in the light from the window, the forms
were clear and vivid.
       "Certainly," Ransome said. "Everybody starts off with this
kind of thing. But it's got promise. You could do something with
it."
       Lioe looked suspiciously at him, but he was staring at the
images, watching the loop run its course one more time. It wasn't
often one heard judgment and praise so neatly balanced; there was
something in his tone that let her believe his words. "Thanks,"
she said. She sounded stilted, even to herself, and added, "And
thanks for letting me play with your equipment. I really enjoyed
it."
       Ransome touched the remote again, and glyphs flashed in the
air around him. From where she stood, Lioe could only see enough
to recognize the drop-to-storage sequence. "You should try it
again. I'm serious, you have a knack."
       "Thanks." Lioe looked at the chair, the wire gloves
discarded on the stand beside it, but made herself look away.
"I've got to be at Shadows, though. I'm committed to a training
group for their session leaders."
       "For Ixion's Wheel?" Ransome asked, and Lioe nodded.
       "They're paying me," she said, and didn't know quite why
she felt so defensive.
       Ransome grinned. "Well, that's a good reason, there. But
don't you ever get sick of the Game?"
       "No," Lioe said, automatically, and then, because Ransome
had been honest with her, added, "It's not like I do it for a


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (136 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

living."
       "You could," Ransome murmured.
       Lioe made a face. "I suppose. But I like piloting, which is
a steady income, unlike Gaming, and -- " She stopped abruptly,
acknowledging what he had said. "And, yes, I think I'd be bored --
well, not bored, exactly, but the Game, the scenarios never seem
to resolve anything."
       Ransome nodded. "Ixion's Wheel comes pretty close, from
what I saw."
       Lioe smiled, and didn't bother to deny it. "It could be the
start of something. I think Avellar could pull the whole Game
together into one really big scenario, but I know damn well no
one's going to want to play that."
       She stopped then, knowing how she sounded, but Ransome
nodded again, more slowly, his expression remote. "A scenario that
concentrated on Avellar's bid for the throne -- you're right, that
would pull everything in, wouldn't it? Rebellion, Psionics, Court
Life ... it would be worth playing. And Ixion's Wheel really sets
it up. Have you started work on it?"
       "No one wants to change the Game," Lioe repeated. "Not that
drastically, anyway."
       Ransome sighed. "You're probably right, which is why I
stopped playing. It's a pity, though."
       _It's the nature of the Game_. Lioe said instead, "I
suppose. But, listen, I do have to leave, if I'm going to make
this meeting on time. Thanks again."
       "My pleasure," Ransome said, automatically. "You know where
the helipad is?"
       "I know where the tourist-trolley stops," Lioe answered. "I
can't afford helicabs."
       "All right," Ransome said. "Are you running any sessions
yourself today?"
       "Tonight," Lioe answered. She looked back, her hand on the
main latch. "Why?"
       "I thought -- " Ransome paused, then gave a wry smile. "I
thought I might see if there were any places left. Like I said the
other night, it's been a long time since I've seen a scenario that
made me want to play."
       "Shall I hold Harmsway for you?" Lioe asked.
       "Why not?" Ransome's smile changed, became openly


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (137 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

mischievous. "I don't think that part was played to its
potential."
       Lioe smiled back, flattered and apprehensive at the same
time. Ambidexter in the scenario, playing his own template: it was
a thought to conjure with, and to strike terror into the souls of
lesser players. It was also a challenge, and she did not turn down
a challenge. "I'll do that. And thank you again for a fascinating
evening." She let herself out into the hallway, not quite hearing
his murmured reply.
       Left to himself, Ransome went back into the narrow kitchen,
rummaged in the cold storage until he found a package that
promised to cook in three minutes. He fitted it into the wall-
mounted cooker, and made himself open the container once the timer
sounded. The spicy pastry smelled good, but his appetite did not
return; he forced himself to finish it anyway, standing at the
counter, and turned his attention back to the main room and the
empty display space. Lioe's hat was sitting on the folded bed,
forgotten in her hurry. He sighed, and hoped he would remember to
return it that night.
       The hawk-woman had been a good image, for someone who'd
never worked with more than the Game's more limited editors, and
Lioe had been quick to sense the difference in form between the
Game images and the image loops that filled a story egg. It was
just too bad she was so caught up in the Game ... He crossed to
the windows, staring down on the city. It would be Carnival
already in the Wet Districts, the streets and canals busy with
costumed figures. It would be Carnival on the nets as well, and
that might be the best time to look into just why Damian Chrestil
wanted him back in the Game.
       He turned back to the display space, spun his chair into
place at its center, but hesitated, slipping on the wire-bound
gloves. It would be Carnival, all right, but that didn't mean that
his usual net projection wouldn't be recognized. He crossed to the
shelves where he kept the shells of the unfinished eggs, searched
among the clutter until he found the mask he had bought two years
before, for a party he could no longer clearly remember. It was a
plain white mask, of the three-quarters size that left only mouth
and chin free, a standard form, eyebrows and cheekbones and nose
all coarsely modeled from the dead white plastic. He contemplated
it for a moment -- it had always been an affectation of his not to


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (138 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

mask, to walk the streets and nets at Carnival as himself -- but
this was not the time for that. He set the mask carefully on one
of the imaging tables, and switched on the cameras. Lights flared,
crisscrossed, catching the mask in a web of stark white beams. He
turned back to the display space, and saw the mask's image
floating in the air above his chair, waiting to be remade.
       He fingered the remote to dim the windows, and the image
grew correspondingly stronger as the competing daylight faded. He
set the remote aside, pulled on the remaining glove, and settled
himself in his chair. The servos whirred softly, tilting it and
him to the most comfortable position; the image moved with him,
floating in the air within easy reach. He studied it for a moment
longer, then reached tentatively into another image bank to pull
out a series of other faces. He found one with a mouth he liked,
bleached that image to match the mask's absolute lack of color,
then patched the two together, bringing the mouth and chin from
the new image to cover the missing parts of the original mask. He
studied the result for a moment, then ran his hand over the
compound image, deepening the modeling of mouth and chin so that
it matched the mask. He cocked his head to one side, then drew the
corners of the mouth down into a parody of tragedy's mask. He
tilted the eyes down as well, filled the empty holes with absolute
black, and dumped the resulting image to main memory. It was not
at all his usual style: no one on the nets should recognize it as
him.
       He reached into control space to change modes, rewriting
his usual identification-and-projection package to display the
newly created mask, and flipped the whole system to Carnival mode.
Now all identification inquiries would automatically be ignored --
this was the only time of year when that routine would not get one
dumped from the nets in short order -- and a secondary program
would deflect any attempt to trace the point of origin. He smiled
then -- he was going to enjoy this after all -- and flipped
himself out onto the nets.
       The nets were crowded with ghostly shapes, a cheerful
anarchy overriding the narrowcast lines and filling the unreal
echo of the city with light and sound and sheets of brilliant
color. Scenes like the loops of a story egg filled a number of
nodes: rather than simply projecting an image, many of the maskers
had chosen to create a brief repeating scene, and let that


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (139 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

represent them to the world. Ransome let himself drift for a
while, slipping from one system to the next with the ebb and flow
of the crowds. A few groups and systems still tried to keep to
business-as-usual, pale geometrics and strings of symbols
competing with the gaudy loop-displays of the revelers, but they
were easily overwhelmed. Some of the Carnival displays were
elaborate, a sphere of scenery enclosing a character or two --
often Grand Types from the Game -- so that Ransome had either to
bypass that particular node or move through the ongoing scenario.
Near the Game nets, it was easier to go through than to try to
find a way around the miniature worlds; he let himself slide
through like a ghost, ignoring the spray of words and images that
greeted any stranger, idly tracking the Grand Types that appeared.
There were quite a few Avellars, as well as the inevitable Barons
and Ladies: _Lioe should be pleased_, he thought, and turned his
attention toward the port systems.
       If Damian Chrestil wanted him back in the Game, it was all
but certain that the Game was not really important, was only a
blind -- and certainly he'd found nothing during his time on the
Game nets to indicate otherwise -- which made it well worth his
time to see what was happening on the various nets that served the
port and the traders who depended on the port for their living. He
dimmed his own image further, so that he saw his mask floating
ghostly through a Bower of Love that currently filled a transfer
node. It was a striking image, the death-white mask drifting
expressionless, incurious, through the flower-draped temple where
an improbably well-endowed man and woman were locked in vigorous
and detailed sex, and he touched the capture sequence to record
the moment. It would make an interesting story egg, someday, but
he made himself turn away once the capture was complete and follow
the multiple channels into the port systems.
       There were fewer Carnival images here: more off-worlders
used the port nets, and there weren't many Burning Brighters who
dealt with them who could afford to give up a day's trade. Still,
an Avellar walked through a segment of corridor, striding hard as
though it was work to keep up with the moving tiles; another Grand
Type, the Viverina, braided tiny human skulls into her long hair.
Ransome frowned, trying to remember the scenario that had spawned
the image, but couldn't place it. The Judge Directing presided
over a node that gave entrance to a merchant bank. The serene face


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (140 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

was semitransparent, and Ransome recognized familiar features
behind the cloaking Carnival image. He adjusted his own
projection, allowing his familiar on-line presence to show behind
the floating mask, and slipped into the node.
       The Judge Directing turned to face him, the ster serenity
melting to a more familiar grin, and codes flashed through the
display space, weaving a private link-in-realtime. "Ransome. I
didn't expect to see you masking."
       "Neither did I," Ransome answered, truthfully. Guyonet
Merede was a Gamer as well as a banker, and a former patron who
owned several of his earlier story eggs. "But it seems to have
worked out well."
       "It's a nice image," Merede said. He was older than he
looked behind the Judge's face: the projection's stony beauty
reminded Ransome for an instant of Lioe's face in repose.
       "Thanks," he said. "I wonder if you could do me a favor,
Guy. I need access to the raw feed from the port computers -- the
unsorted line, the one that carries the general traffic." If
Damian Chrestil wanted him on the Game nets, it could only be to
keep him away from some other part of the greater system. C/B Cie.
was an import/export firm, and that most likely meant smuggling.
And the best way to track that down was to sift the day-to-day
chatter and hope that, despite the sheer volume, he could find
some hint of an irregular shipment, something that didn't match
the more public records. _And if I can't find it, well, there are
other places to look, political games he could be playing, and I
won't have wasted much time. But I'm betting it's a doctored
cargo_.
       Merede was silent for an instant, his face gone very still,
and then he said, cautiously, "You know I can't do that, I-Jay."
       _You've done it before_. Ransome said aloud, "I just need
to pull some numbers for a piece I'm working on. It's a commission
for the MIS, and I need some strings for background. I thought I'd
tie part of the loop to the trade balance."
       It was an easy lie, and plausible, but to his surprise
Merede shook his head. "I'm sorry, I-Jay. If it weren't Carnival --
but we've had some complaints recently, people saying stuffs been
pulled out of the raw feed that should've stayed confidential. I
just can't do it."
       Ransome nodded. "I can see that. I guess I can rig what I


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (141 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

need some other way." He did his best to look thoughtful, glad of
the mask that screened his features. "Who's been complaining,
anyway?"
       Merede glanced down at something out of camera range. "The
Five Points Bank's merchant division -- you know, the exchange-
rate people? -- and a couple of importers, Ionel Factor and C/B
Cie., and one of the private captains."
       _Who I just bet is connected to the Chrestil-Brisch, too_.
Ionel Factor was closely tied to the Chrestil-Brisch -- Ionel
dealt in off-world spirits, and therefore, inevitably, was tied to
the Chrestil-Brisch distillery and their various wholesalers --
and Bettis Chrestil was head of the merchant division's steering
group. "You think there's anything in it?" he said aloud, and
Merede shrugged.
       "We haven't seen anything on our screens, and we tap pretty
carefully. I suppose it could be a very directed probe, but --
between you and me only, Ransome -- I think they're overreacting."
       "I'll keep it quiet," Ransome said. "Thanks anyway." He
touched the key sequence that released the private linkage, and
let himself drift deeper into the port nets. He adjusted his
presence, making the mask opaque again, so that his identity was
completely hidden except to the most determined probe, and shifted
the scale slightly. To a cursory scan, he should look like a
bounce-echo from the chaos on the public nets, a common enough
phenomenon at this time of year. Satisfied, he let himself slide
further into the system, looking for an interface of commercial
and customs data.
       It took him over an hour to find that node -- it shifted,
as did the codes that guarded it -- and another hour to prove to
himself that it was unusually well guarded. None of the usual
sources would provide a key, and that left Selasa Arduinidi, who
was one of the better security consultants in the business and, on
the shadow nets, a reliable data fence. She had a name as a
netwalker, too, prided herself on knowing how to access any part
of the net, but when he finally tracked her down, she shook her
head in disgust.
       "I've been fighting with that one for two days now, I-Jay.
I haven't cracked it yet. You'll have to get legit codes for that
one, I'm afraid."
       "Nobody's telling -- or selling," Ransome answered. He


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (142 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

stared at her icon floating in the air in front of him, a huge-
eyed owl perched in a glowing tree branch that seemed to grow
directly out of the lines of the net itself. "What's going on,
Selasa?"
       "I don't know," Arduinidi answered, but there was something
in her voice, a subtle admiration that belied her words.
"Somebody's up to something, that's for sure." She broke the
connection before he could ask anything more.
       _Somebody like Damian Chrestil_, Ransome thought, sourly.
The deeper he tried to probe, the more likely it seemed that the
Game was just a blind, and that Damian Chrestil was hiding
something. From the way his own probes were being blocked, it
seemed to have something to do with run cargoes. _But if that's
all, why is ji-Imbaoa involved?_ Politics and smuggling: the two
did not often overlap, but when they did, it was a particularly
volatile mix. _Which is what I will tell Chauvelin myself_, he
thought, and began to extricate himself from the maze of the
port's multinet. It would be easy enough simply to shut down his
system, but then the automatics would take over the shutdown
procedures and leave a clear trail back to his loft. Better to do
things slowly, and make sure he wasn't followed.
--------
         *Day 1*
         _Storm: The Hsai Ambassador's House,_
_in the Ghetto, Landing Isle Above_
_Old City North_
       Chauvelin sat in his office at the top of the ambassador's
residence, staring into the desktop displays without really seeing
the multiple screens. The hazy sunlight poured in through the
slightly curved windows, dulling the displays; he hit the key that
brought the glyphs and numbers and the harsh strokes of hsai
demiscript to their greatest brightness, but did not dim the
window glass. He could see the first signs of the approaching
storm on the horizon beyond Plug Island, a thicker bank of clouds
like fog or a distant landfall. The weather service still said
that bank was only an outrider, and the real storm behind it would
not arrive for days, but Chauvelin could feel it waiting, a
brooding, distant presence. The street brokers had it at twenty-to-
one to hit within the next five days, though the pessimists were
hedging their bets by excluding lower-category storms. Chauvelin


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (143 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

sighed, and leaned back in his chair. If nothing else, the storm
was already starting to interfere with the connection to the jump
transmitter orbiting the planet, the one that carried the
communications link with Hsaioi-An. On the one hand, the erratic
reception was a good excuse to keep ji-Imbaoa from using the house
transmitters without one of Chauvelin's own household present,
ostensibly to monitor the machinery. On the other, he was under no
illusion that this would keep ji-Imbaoa from finding some way to
contact his patrons in Hsaioi-An, nor would it prevent the
Visiting Speaker from dealing with someone on planet. And it
annoyed the Visiting Speaker. Chauvelin allowed himself a quick,
private smile. That also had disadvantages, but it did give him a
certain sense of satisfaction.
       A chime sounded in his desktop, a discreet, two-toned
noise, and Chauvelin glanced down in some surprise. He had left
instructions that he was not to be disturbed, and je-Sou'tsian was
usually scrupulous about obeying him. He touched the icon, and the
tiny projector hidden in a disk of carved and lacquered iaon wood
lit, forming a cylindrical image. JeSou'tsian bowed to him from
the center of that column of light.
       "I'm very sorry to interrupt you, Sia, but Na Ransome is
here, and says he needs urgently to speak with you."
       Chauvelin lifted his eyebrows, but nodded. "All right, show
him into -- no, bring him up here. Without any of the Visiting
Speaker's people seeing him, if you can." If Ransome had come in
person, and not on the nets, it was bound to be something
important.
       "Yes, Sia," je-Sou'tsian said. "I'm sorry, but I'm not sure
that some of the Speaker's household didn't meet him as he came
in." Her voice trailed off, and she gestured apology.
       "That's all right, it can't be helped," Chauvelin said.
"But bring him up here."
       "At once, Sia," je-Sou'tsian said, and her image vanished
from the cylinder. The empty rod of light retreated into its base,
and a string of lights played across a secondary screen: the
steward and Ransome were on their way. Chauvelin ran his hands
across the shadowscreen, closing down some programs and putting
others to sleep, watched as the multiple screens beneath the
desktop copied his movements. A few moments later, the door slid
open, and je-Sou'tsian appeared in the arched opening.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (144 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

       "Sia, Na Ransome is here."
       "Thanks," Chauvelin said, and gestured for the other man to
come in. Ransome did as he was told, settled himself comfortably
on the corner of the desk. Chauvelin smiled slightly, but said
nothing: the seat would prove its own punishment.
       "What is it?" he asked, and Ransome smiled back at him.
       "You've been suckered," he said bluntly -- _and with
entirely too much enjoyment_, Chauvelin thought. But that was his
own fear speaking, not his intellect.
       "How so?"
       "I did exactly what you wanted," Ransome said. "I've gone
back into the Game, I've trawled the Game nets, every one of them
at least twice, and there's nothing going on -- except Lioe's
scenario, of course. But nothing, absolutely nothing, that
involves Damian Chrestil. But when I went onto the port nets, into
the commercial systems, I found a lot of blocks that didn't used
to be there."
       "Such as?" Chauvelin kept his tone strictly neutral, buying
time. He had been half expecting something like this, some new
revelation of wheels within wheels, but not from the port
district. He frowned slightly, readjusting his thoughts to add
money and shipping to the already volatile political mix. It
didn't make sense, not yet -- the Chrestil-Brisch were supposed to
favor the Republic, not Hsaioi-An -- but if Ransome was being shut
out of the port computers, then there had to be an economic
motive.
       "For one thing -- " Ransome paused, laughed shortly. "This
is at best unethical, by the way, if not actively illegal."
       "I'm not surprised," Chauvelin murmured.
       Ransome nodded again, conceding the point. "It's not
usually very hard to get someone to give you an address and an
access code for the raw datafeed from the port computers -- you
know, the ones that control the warehouse records for individual
firms, scheduling, all that sort of thing." He shrugged. "Too many
people know about it, and there are always plausible reasons to
want access. And of course, a lot of people owe me favors."
       "Of course."
       "But today, when I tried to get those codes, first of all
no one was selling them -- and I've never seen that happen,
somebody's put the fear of Retribution into the shadow-walkers


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (145 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

like I've never seen -- and then no one I know would give me
anything. Now, that's happened before, especially after someone's
scored a coup, but no one has, that I've heard, and I hear these
things." Ransome paused, all the humor gone from his voice. "What
I did find out was that some companies complained that information
had been copied from those feeds, and used against them. And when
I got names, they were all tied to Damian Chrestil."
       "Who were they?" Chauvelin asked.
       "C/B Cie. itself, Ionel Factor -- they import wines and
spirits, and they've got ties to the Chrestil-Brisch distillery
business -- and one of the FPB's steering groups."
       "Let me guess," Chauvelin said. "The merchant division, the
one that Bettis Chrestil heads?"
       "Got it in one." Ransome smiled sourly. "But what exactly
it all means is beyond me."
       _And me_, Chauvelin thought. _At least for the moment_. He
looked down at the empty screens under the surface of the desktop,
debating whom to query -- _Eriki Haas, certainly, once we're in
phase and if the transmitter is reliable enough, just to see what
connections ji-Imbaoa has with Damian Chrestil or C/B Cie_. The
chime sounded again beneath the desktop. He frowned, more deeply
this time, and touched the icon flashing in the shadowscreen. The
projector lit, and je-Sou'tsian bowed from within the cylinder of
light.
       "I apologize again for disturbing you, Sia, but the
Visiting Speaker is on his way to your office."
       _That's all I need_. Chauvelin said, "All right, Iameis,
thank you."
       "Wonderful," Ransome murmured, a crooked smile on his face.
       "Quite." Chauvelin leaned back in his chair, deliberately
closed the last of the sleeping files. There was nothing he could
do to stop ji-Imbaoa -- the Visiting Speaker was technically head
of the ambassadorial household during his visit, and no doors
could be shut to him -- but he did not have to welcome him. The
shutdown codes were still flickering across the screens when the
door slid back and ji-Imbaoa strode into the room.
       "So, Chauvelin," he said, "your agent's here. I want to
talk to him."
       "As you wish," Chauvelin said, spread his hands in a
deliberate gesture of innocence. "I didn't want to trouble you


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (146 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

until I was sure it was worth your time."
       Ji-Imbaoa's fingers twitched -- _annoyance?_ Chauvelin
thought, _or fear?_ He did not move, but felt himself suddenly,
painfully tense, waiting for the Visiting Speaker's next move.
       "What have you found? Have you gone back to the Game?"
       Ransome hesitated, visibly choosing his words with care,
and Chauvelin wondered for a moment if the other might have
learned discretion. He need not have worried, however. Ransome
said, "Yes, Na Speaker, I've been back to the Game, and found very
little of interest."
       "Then surely you haven't looked very hard, or very long,"
ji-Imbaoa snapped. "Particularly since you have only been looking
for two days."
       "I don't need any more than that to tell you there's
nothing there," Ransome said.
       Chauvelin said, "If Na Ransome says he's found nothing in
the Game, then there's nothing to be found."
       Ji-Imbaoa glanced back at him, fingers still twitching with
unreadable emotion. "Then why should Damian Chrestil go to so much
trouble to get him back into those nets? It must have to do with
the Game."
       "Na Ransome thinks it's a distraction," Chauvelin said.
"That Damian Chrestil's real interests lie elsewhere."
       "Don't you think you're being overelaborate?" ji-Imbaoa
interrupted rudely.
       "Perhaps the Visiting Speaker is being underelaborate,"
Ransome murmured. "After all, he isn't used to the complex
dishonesties of our local politics."
       He had used the hsai word that linked dishonesty and
foreignness, so that the statement hovered delicately between
compliment and insult. Chauvelin said, "I think Na Ransome's
assessment is plausible, Sia."
       "And I tell you it is unlikely," ji-Imbaoa said. "I tell
you, on my name and my fathers', this must be pursued, and pursued
through the Game."
       Chauvelin kept his face impassive with an effort, torn
between anger and elation. Ji-Imbaoa had made it a direct order,
one that Chauvelin could not directly disobey, but at the same
time he'd made it equally clear that there was something important
at stake. "Very well, Sia," he said aloud. "Na Ransome will remain


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (147 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

with the Game a little while longer."
       "Until he finds what Damian Chrestil wants," ji-Imbaoa
said.
       "So be it," Chauvelin said. Behind ji-Imbaoa's shoulder,
Ransome rolled his eyes.
       "You must do more," ji-Imbaoa said, and turned to face the
imagist.
       "I do my poor best," Ransome murmured, and bowed, too
deeply for sincerity.
       Ji-Imbaoa ignored that, and glanced back at Chauvelin. "I
expect to be kept informed."
       "As you wish," Chauvelin said, and the Visiting Speaker
lifted a clawed hand to signal the door. It slid open obediently,
and ji-Imbaoa stalked out, his ribbons flurrying behind him.
       Ransome said, even before the door had fully closed again,
"Pity everything else isn't so docile."
       "You'd better have meant the door," Chauvelin said, without
heat.
       "What else?" Ransome darted him a suddenly mischievous
glance, said, "Am I to keep on with the Game, then? Or would you
rather know about the larger nets?"
       "Both," Chauvelin said. "You heard him. I need you to be
visible on the Game nets, to be sure he knows you're doing what he
ordered."
       "That won't be too difficult," Ransome said.
       "You've changed your tune." In spite of himself, Chauvelin
felt a stab of jealousy, remembering the way the other had looked
at the pilot, Lioe, the night before.
       Ransome gave him a rueful smile. "She's good," he said.
"And she's wasted in the Game."
       Chauvelin said, more abruptly than he'd intended,
"Whatever. But I do need you to be seen in the Game."
       "I've said I would," Ransome said. He pushed himself off
the corner of the desk. "But, damn it, Damian Chrestil is up to
something that has nothing at all to do with the Game."
       "I believe you," Chauvelin said. "I'm doing what I can to
find out what."
       "That would make sense," Ransome said. He lifted his hand
to open the door, paused with the gesture half completed. "Do you
want me to keep on the port nets?"


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (148 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

       Chauvelin nodded. "If you can, yes, but the main thing's
the Game. I think you're right, but ji-Imbaoa's forced my hand."
       Ransome nodded abruptly. "I know, I'm sorry. I'll do what I
can." He finished his gesture, and the door slid open.
       Chauvelin watched him leave, watched the door slide shut
again behind him. _As long as you stay on the Game nets, as long
as you're conspicuously doing what ji-Imbaoa wants, then I've got
a little time_. He reached for the shadowscreen, recalling one of
the chronometers, and checked the transmission pattern between
Burning Bright and maiHu'an. He had just missed a window: the two
planets would not be in phase for another twenty hours. _Not until
tomorrow, then_, he thought, _and tomorrow afternoon at that_. For
a moment, he considered using the more complicated -- and
expensive -- emergency channels, but rejected the thought almost
at once. The Remembrancer-Duke would never sanction the expense.
But tomorrow he would send a message to Eriki Haas, and find out
if, and how, the je Tsinra-an were connected to the Chrestil-
Brisch. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ocean and the
distant cloud bank without really seeing them. There were too many
possible connections right now, but with any luck Haas would be
able to narrow them down, and then ... He smiled slowly. Then ji-
Imbaoa would have to regret the way he had behaved. _Maybe_, he
thought, _maybe the old superstitions are right, and my luck will
change with Storm_. He glanced down at the shadowscreen again, and
touched icons to shift to another mode. It was time to start
asking questions of his own.
--------
         *Day 1*
         _Storm: Shadows, Face Road, Dock Road_
_District Below the Old Dike_
       Lioe blinked even in the filtered sunlight that filled the
inner courtyard, set her workboard down beside an unoccupied
datanode, and turned her attention toward the food bars in the
corner. She fed one the last of her free cash, and chose a box of
thick rice and seacake from the cheaper half of the menu. She
chose a bottle of medium-priced water as well, and carried the
food back to her table. It had been a long session, and a
rewarding one; the session leaders had been excited by the
scenario, eager to follow her suggestions, and genuinely
interested in preserving her intentions for the session. It was a


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (149 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

new experience, being taken that seriously: _on the whole_, she
thought, _I think I like it_.
       She triggered the self-heating unit, waited the required
thirty seconds while the little charge cycled, and opened the box.
The steam that rose from the mix of rice and onions and chunks of
palmweed and the flower-shaped seacakes was thick and appetizing,
smelling of salt broth and the smoky oil that preserved the fish.
There was a tiny dish of sweet mustard as well, but she had
learned that it was far more mustard than sweet and should be
approached with caution. She spread a pinpoint of the condiment
over the first of the seacakes, and tasted warily. It was spicy,
cutting the oil, but not so hot that it brought tears to her eyes.
She hadn't realized quite how hungry she had become, caught up in
the intricacies of the Game, and she ate with relish, pursuing the
last grains of rice around the bottom of the box. Both rice and
seacakes were ubiquitous on Burning Bright, the staple of
everyone's diet -- the rice grown in the tidal shallows, the
seacakes processed at sea from the bits and pieces left over after
the more expensive fillets and chunks were set aside -- but she
had not been on planet long enough to get tired of the salt-and-
smoke flavors.
       She reached for the datacord then, plugged her workboard
into the unoccupied node, touched keys to activate the unit and
call up the night's schedule. Somewhat to her surprise, the
session hadn't filled yet, but then she remembered that it was the
first night of Storm, the first night of the Carnival. It wasn't
that surprising, after all, but it was a shame that she wouldn't
be making as much money from the session fees as she had hoped.
Unless, of course, she could fill the session herself ... She
tilted her head to one side, considering. She had reserved
Harmsway for Ransome, as he'd asked, and Savian and Beledin had
signed up to play Lord Faro and Belfortune again -- _I'd like a
second chance at him_, Beledin had said, when she had met him in
the hall on her way to the session leaders' meeting -- and a
couple of unfamiliar names filled other slots, but no one had
signed up for Jack Blue, or Mijja Lyall, or Avellar. Lioe frowned,
seeing that. She had expected the unfamiliar names to fill last --
and neither Jack Blue nor Lyall was a well-known template -- but
she would have assumed that Avellar would go quickly. An inexpert
Avellar would throw off the balance of the entire scenario; she


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (150 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

needed someone good in that spot, if the session was to work at
all.
       "Quinn. I've been looking for you."
       The voice was familiar, but Lioe couldn't quite place it.
She looked up, still frowning, and felt the frown dissolve as she
looked up at Roscha. "I've been around," she said. "Are you
playing tonight?"
       Roscha's wide mouth widened further in a grin that showed
perfect teeth and heightened the impossible cheekbones. "I hope
so. I just got off work, and they told me there were still places
left for tonight's session."
       Lioe looked down at the little screen, juggling choices.
Roscha was good, all right, but volatile; there had been moments
in the first session when she'd amply justified Gueremei's
description of her as "difficult." On the other hand, that
volatility might make for a very interesting key character. "How
would you feel about playing Avellar?" she said slowly. "The other
real option is Jack Blue -- Lyall's open, too, but that doesn't
strike me as your style."
       "Avellar." Roscha's voice caressed the name. "Hell, yes,
I'd like to play him -- or her, if you'll let me play the she-
clone."
       Avellar, by Game convention, was actually a four-person
clone, the survivors of a larger clone that had been partially
destroyed some years before, in the clone's childhood. It provided
an explanation for the character's limited telepathy; it also gave
players who didn't like crossing gender lines further options.
Lioe shrugged. It made no difference in the context of the
scenario; she was just a little surprised that Roscha, of all
people, would choose not to cross gender. "If you want, sure," she
said. "I don't have any problem with that." She touched keys, and
watched the program add Roscha's name to the list of players.
       "Great." Roscha ran a hand through her hair, dislodging the
strip of indigo silk that confined it, and impatiently rewrapped
it, tossing the red curls out of her eyes. "I was wondering. I see
you've eaten, but you've got some time before the session starts.
Would you like to go down to the Water, and see the Beauties and
Beasts?"
       Lioe frowned, knowing she'd heard the term before, and
Roscha said, "The Syndics' parade, I mean. It's well worth


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (151 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

seeing."
       Lioe looked back down at the screen, at the two slots that
remained. Both of them were important -- she prided herself on
never having written a scenario that included unnecessary
characters -- and she hated to think she would have to run them
from a distance. On Callixte, of course, she had a list of people
she could call at short notice, fellow players and session leaders
who were glad to fill in in exchange for a rebate on session fees,
but here she would have to rely on the club's resources. She
hesitated then, and touched keys on the workboard to find an
outgoing communications channel. "I'd like that," she said, "but
there's one thing I have to do first."
       "Sure," Roscha said easily, and seated herself in the chair
opposite, where the unfolded screen blocked her view of the other
woman's hands on the keys and controls.
       Lioe nodded her thanks, her attention already back on the
Game. When Kichi Desjourdy had been Customs-and-Intelligence's
representative on Falconsreach, she'd been known to sit in on Game
sessions on a fairly regular basis. Lioe herself had relied on her
as a player as well as an arbiter. _Maybe, just maybe_, Lioe
thought, _she could help me out now_. Desjourdy was good; she'd be
an excellent choice either for Jack Blue or Lyall. She touched the
final sequence, one of Desjourdy's private codestrings, letting
her know it wasn't business, and dispatched the package into the
communications system.
       Carnival had not taken over ordinary communications yet. A
few thin images, a masked face, a dancing, six-armed figure,
drifted across her screen, while the connect codes blinked behind
them, and then the screen lit fully, driving out the last of the
Carnival ghosts. Kichi Desjourdy looked out of the little screen,
the office wall behind her distorted by its limited projection.
_Desjourdy herself looked normal enough_, Lioe thought, _but with
Desjourdy it was sometimes hard to tell_. The Customs-and-
Intelligence representative had a round, rather ordinary face,
with only the silvery disks of two triple datasockets set into the
bone at the corner of each eye to set her apart from most net
workers. At the moment, none of the sockets were in use, and Lioe,
who had seen Desjourdy bristling with cords, was oddly grateful.
       "Quinn," Desjourdy said. "It's good to see you. I've been
hearing a lot of talk about you on the Game nets." Her voice was


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (152 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

clear and true, an elegant soprano, and Lioe was struck again by
the mismatch of voice and face.
       "Thanks," she said. "That was sort of what I was calling
you about."
       "Oh, yes?"
       "I've got a session going tonight," Lioe said, "and I'm
short. I need a player I can rely on. Are you free?"
       Desjourdy laughed. "I never know whether I should be
flattered or not when somebody asks me like this. Is this for
Ixion's Wheel?"
       "Yes."
       Desjourdy's smile widened. "Well, that one I can't turn
down. Who is it, anyway?"
       "There are two slots still open," Lioe answered. "Jack
Blue, the telekinetic, leader of the prison population, and Mijja
Lyall, who's a secret telepath and a member of the research staff
at the prison."
       "Put me down for Jack Blue," Desjourdy answered promptly.
"He -- is it he? -- sounds interesting. Can you flip me a copy of
the template?"
       "Sure." Lioe touched keys to call the file from storage and
duplicate it for transmission. "Are you ready?"
       "Line's open and ready."
       "Sending," Lioe said, and waited while icons formed and
shifted at the bottom of the screen.
       "All set," Desjourdy said, and in the same instant the
icons vanished. "What time does the session start?"
       Lioe glanced at her reminders list. "At twenty hours."
       "I'll be there," Desjourdy said. "And thanks, Quinn. I owe
you for this."
       "I think I owe you," Lioe answered and closed down the
connection.
       "Who was that?" Roscha asked.
       Lioe glanced at her warily, wondering if she had heard a
possessive note in the other woman's voice, but Roscha's
expression was merely curious. "A woman I know from Falconsreach,
a Gamer. I told you I was short a couple of people." _And I'm
still short one player, for Lyall_. She touched keys again to call
up the list, to add Desjourdy's name, and was startled to see that
someone had already signed up for Lyall. It was not a name she


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (153 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

knew, but at least it solved the problem. She added Desjourdy's
name to the list, and closed down the system.
       "Are you still interested in going down to the Water?"
Roscha asked, and Lioe shrugged.
       "Why not?" She knew she sounded less than enthusiastic, and
added, "I would like to see the procession."
       "Leave your board," Roscha said, pushing herself back from
the little table. Lioe glanced at her curiously, and Roscha made
an embarrassed face. "If there's going to be any trouble, it'll be
tonight, kids steaming -- you know, a gang of them runs through
the crowd, grabs at whatever people're carrying? That doesn't
often happen down here, it's more something they do up in Dry Cut,
or over on Homestead, but you don't want to take chances."
       "Right," Lioe said, allowing the skepticism to color her
voice, but she left her Gameboard and most of her credit and cash
with Gueremei.
       The streets were already crowded, the sun low on the
horizon, so that the buildings cast long shadows and only the open
plazas were still bathed in amber light. Nearly everyone was
masked, faces obscured by strips or full stiffened ovals of beaded
lace, or completely hidden by fantastic, beak-nosed half-masks
painted in every color of the rainbow. A few, men and women in
seemingly equal numbers, simply painted their faces, the aged-
ivory complexion that was common on Burning Bright making a
perfect backdrop for the delicate sprays of color. Gold flowers
climbed one woman's neck and cheek, appeared again at her bare
shoulder, a golden vine winding languidly down to her wrist and a
hand that bloomed like a bouquet, each knuckle sprouting a tiny,
perfect rose. Her clothes were otherwise ordinary, a sleeveless
vest and docker's trousers, and Lioe caught herself staring at the
brilliant contrast, wishing she had her recorder with her. In one
of the plazas, a trio of drummers in black, shapeless robes and
grotesque masks like the skulls of birds beat a complex almost-
tune, the high-pitched hand drum weaving a stuttering, offbeat
counterpoint to the steadier, full-toned notes of the larger
drums. A slim man in black -- _in Avellar's black and gold_, Lioe
realized, and felt a thrill of absolute delight run up her spine,
_Avellar's black and gold and Avellar's face for a mask_ -- paused
to listen, and then pushed the mask back on his head, reaching for
something inside his jacket. He pulled out a slim silvered pipe,


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (154 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

began improvising against the beat of the drum. The hand-drummer
nodded to him, beckoned him with a movement of head and chin, and
the group -- a quartet now, for as long as the spirit seized them -
- played on. A pair of women, their blank silver masks topped with
fantastic turbans, flowers and leaves dripping from braided coils
of iridescent fabric, danced with them for a moment, then darted
away, the metal and glass that weighted the hems of their enormous
skirts flashing in the last of the sunlight.
       "You should mask," Roscha said. "I want to mask."
       Lioe hesitated, uncertain, and Roscha caught her arm.
       "Come on, Gelsomina was tied up in the public cut not more
than an hour ago. If we hurry, she might still be there."
       "I don't know," Lioe said, but let herself be towed through
the busy streets. Roscha paused at the first canal bridge, looking
right and left as though searching for a scent, then started left
along the bank. This was a narrow waterway, barely wide enough for
two gondas to ride side by side, and the embankment was equally
narrow, so that she had to step carefully to keep up with Roscha.
She dodged another Avellar -- a woman this time, but with the same
familiar features shaping the hard-faced mask, the corners of this
one's mouth drawn down in a frown that was almost tragedy -- and
nearly ran into a street vendor, his cart folded to its minimum
width. She murmured an apology, and saw Roscha beckoning from the
bend in the bank ahead of them.
       The streetlights were starting to come on -- the sun must
be down by now, Lioe realized, though it hardly seemed to make
much difference in the shadowed streets -- and their light fell
into the canal's dark water. A boat, a small barge with its mast
unstepped and laid from bow to stern, lay at the center of one
pool of light, and a woman looked up at them from the boat's low
deck. She was dressed as the Viverina, rich purple robe
embroidered with dragons, sleek black wig that fell almost to her
knees, skulls with bright red eyes braided into that mass, and she
was laughing at them from behind the painted mask. Dozens, a
hundred masks and piled cloth that must be costumes filled every
available centimeter of the deck; masks hung from the horizontal
mast, crowded cheek to cheek along its length, and still others
dangled from the crossbar of the Viverina's spear.
       "Gelsomina," Roscha said. "Are you still selling?"
       "Since you're here, I suppose so," the Viverina answered.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (155 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

She was older than Lioe had guessed at first, about sixty, but
straight as the spear she carried. "What will it be, something
from the Game?"
       "Yes, if you have it," Roscha answered, and the woman
beckoned to her.
       "Well, come aboard, then." She looked up at Lioe, tilting
her head inside the painted mask. "And you too. Are you here for a
mask?"
       "I don't know," Lioe began, and Roscha answered for her.
       "Yes, probably." She dropped down onto the deck -- not a
long drop, not much more than a meter -- and the boat rocked under
her. Gelsomina kept her balance effortlessly, and beckoned for
Lioe to follow. Lioe hesitated, but lowered herself more carefully
onto the unsteady planks. The boat rocked anyway, and she steadied
herself against the mast. It shifted under her hand, and the faces
danced, seeming almost alive in the streetlight's glow.
       "These are beautiful," she said, and didn't quite realize
she'd spoken aloud until Gelsomina bowed to her.
       "Thank you. But then, I enjoy my work."
       "Do you have any Avellars left, Na Mina?" Roscha asked, and
Gelsomina shook her head.
       "No, child, not a one. There's some off-worlder doing a
scenario with him at the heart of it; I sold my last one before
noon."
       "Damn," Roscha said, and then, belatedly remembering her
manners, "Na Mina, this is a friend of mine, Quinn Lioe. She's the
one who wrote that scenario."
       "I've heard a lot about you," Gelsomina said. She tilted
her head to one side, studying Lioe from behind the mask. "What
were you looking for, do you know?"
       "Thanks," Lioe said, and heard her own uncertainty in her
voice. "I didn't really have anything in mind. I've never been on
Burning Bright during Storm." She scanned the rows of masks in the
hopes of finding something, and, to her surprise, one face seemed
to leap out at her from the row crowded on the mast. It was a full
mask, with a heavy, elaborately braided wig covering the back of
the head. One half of the face was plain, smooth, a bland
collection of planes and angles, pleasing enough, but nothing out
of the ordinary; the other was deformed and distorted like the
carvings on a ritual mask, the cheek eaten to the bone, the mouth


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (156 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

drawn down by a scar like a sneer, the eye hidden by a painted
patch. And the rest of the scars were decorated, too, layered with
color so that they became almost an abstract painting of a face.
Lioe reached out to touch it, drawn and repelled at the same time,
and Gelsomina nodded.
       "That's from one of LaChacalle's novels -- Helike, from
_The Witch-Vizier_. Do you know it?"
       "I'm afraid I don't," Lioe answered, and didn't know if she
was glad or sorry. The new name, the last name on the session
list, had been LaChacalle. "Is LaChacalle a Gamer?"
       Gelsomina shrugged one shoulder. "She used to be. I haven't
seen her much lately -- she quit about when Ambidexter did. They
were old friends."
       "She's playing tonight, I think," Lioe said. "Or someone
with that name is, anyway."
       "There's only one of her," Gelsomina said.
       "What about Hazard?" Roscha asked, and Gelsomina shook her
head.
       "No, but I do have Cor-Clar Sensmerce. I remember you used
to play her."
       "Thanks," Roscha said, and Gelsomina turned to the lines of
masks, running her staff idly along the rows until she found the
one she wanted.
       "There you are. It's twenty _real_. Or we can make a
trade."
       Roscha stopped, her hand on the purse inside her belt.
"What trade?"
       "You needn't sound so suspicious," Gelsomina said. "Are you
going to watch the parade?"
       "We were, yes," Roscha answered, and despite Gelsomina's
words still sounded wary. Lioe grinned, and then wondered if she
should be more cautious.
       "I'd rather watch it from the Water, myself, with all the
stock aboard," Gelsomina went on, "and I wouldn't mind having some
younger bodies to help me get this cow down to the canal mouth.
I'll trade you each a mask, and bring you back to your club -- is
it Shadows you're playing at? as close as I can get, then --
before the session starts."
       Roscha relaxed visibly. "That would make life easier."
       Lioe shrugged. "Can we get back in time?"


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (157 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

       "When is the session?" Gelsomina asked.
       "Twentieth hour," Roscha said, and looked at Lioe. "It
shouldn't be a problem. The parade starts at dark -- seventeenth
hour."
       Lioe glanced sideways, checking the time, and shrugged
again, willing to let herself be overruled. "If you're sure, why
not? It should be worth seeing."
       "It always is," Gelsomina answered. "There's nothing quite
like our Carnival, not anywhere in human space."
       _Or anywhere at all_, Lioe thought. Under Gelsomina's
instructions, she and Roscha stowed most of the masks and costumes
that cluttered the decking in the storage cells that ran along the
gunwales, but left the ones that lined the mast. Then Roscha freed
the mooring lines while Gelsomina took her place in the steering
well. Lioe, knowing nothing of boats, crouched beside the mast and
waited to be told what to do. The motor coughed and caught,
settled almost instantly to a steady purr. Roscha shoved them free
of the embankment, and the barge swung out into the channel,
heading toward the Inland Water.
       The people on the banks were moving toward the Water, too,
knots and groups of them in bright matching costumes, a few who
walked alone, families with strings of children going hand in hand
under an elder's watchful eye. There were more boats on the canal,
too, some smaller than Lioe had seen before, little more than a
shell with a racketing motor slung over the stern, and, of course,
the inevitable mob of gondas. A Lockwardens' patrol boat moved
silently through the crowd, its flashing light sending blue
shadows across the water and along its own black hull. The
civilian craft all carried bright lights at stern and bow -- the
littlest shells had handlights rigged to the motors -- and even as
Lioe noticed that, lights blossomed along the sides of Gelsomina's
barge. They were directed outward, shielded from the boat's
occupants, but Lioe could see their brilliance reflected in the
water. It was a beautiful effect, the shape of the barge outlined
in light, but she guessed it was as much precaution as decoration.
There would be a lot of traffic on the canals tonight: it was a
good time to be visible.
       Horns sounded as they came up on the wide feeder channel
that carried local traffic down to the Water, and Lioe jumped as
Gelsomina sounded their own horn in answer. The barge swung over,


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (158 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

stately, Roscha standing ready in the bow, boatpole in hand to
fend off any unwary craft, and then Gelsomina had tucked them
neatly into the line of traffic. The canal was jammed with barges
and gondas, and here and there a bigger commercial boat -- heavy
barges and seiners in about equal numbers -- loomed above the
crowd, their sides dripping with strings of chaser lights. A heavy
barge swayed past, set Gelsomina's boat rocking in its wake, the
strings of lights dipping into the water as it heeled over
slightly to avoid a passing gonda. Its open deck was crowded with
people of all ages, from babies in flotation suits to old men and
women in support chairs. _Families of the regular crews?_ Lioe
wondered, but it was too noisy to ask.
       Blatting one-note trumpets sounded from the walkways that
lined the shore -- children, mostly, carrying the brightly colored
horns that were a full meter long, taller than some of the
children who sounded them -- and were answered by another clutch
of children on the heavy barge's deck. Other boats took up the
sound, and Lioe covered her ears, wincing, until the boats had
passed and the shore children had admitted defeat. People called
to each other, their words drowned in the general din, and a man
dressed all in bells danced on a bollard, the clanging all but
inaudible as Gelsomina's barge slipped past only a few meters from
the wall. A disk of light swept across the crowd, and Lioe looked
up to see the familiar shape of a hovering security drone scanning
the crowd. The Lockwardens' insignia was picked out in lights on
its stubby wings. A cheer, ironic but not hostile, rose from the
crowd as the light touched them.
       Farther up the canal, there were whoops, and then a splash,
the sound distinct and chilling even in the uproar. Lioe turned
her head sharply, even though it had been too loud to have been a
child, saw Roscha's body a tense shadow against the shore lights.
Then, as suddenly, she saw her relax as two drones flung their
lights onto the source of the sound. Caught in that double disk of
light, a dripping boy hauled himself back onto a fingerling dock,
shaking water from the ruined feathers that decorated his mask. He
shook his fist at another boy, but a third grabbed his shoulders,
and hustled him away. One of the drones followed the group for a
moment longer, then turned away, taking the light with it. As the
bright circle swung briefly aimless along the buildings that
fronted the canal, it hit a doorway where a man and a woman were


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (159 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

locked in blind embrace, her skirt rucked up to her waist, and
flashed away again. Lioe blinked, not sure if she'd seen the woman
reaching not for her partner but for his wallet, but there was
nothing she could do about it if she had.
       The feeder widened suddenly as it opened onto the Water.
Gondas were clustered in flotillas along either bank, filled and
overfilled with masked and costumed figures, standing shapes
balanced precariously against the chop where the two currents met.
The Water itself was black and empty, except for a few speeders
that carried the blue lights of the Lockwardens; another
Lockwardens' speeder, throttled back so far that it barely made
headway against the chop, moved along the line of gondas, a tall
man calling instructions from the pilot's well.
       "Which way?" Gelsomina called from her place in the stern,
and Lioe saw Roscha look right and left before she answered.
       "It looks clearer down toward the Warden's Channel."
       "Right." The boat swung left as Gelsomina answered, pulling
out around the mob of smaller boats, and Lioe felt rather than
heard the beat of the engine strengthen as they picked up speed.
       "Do you see a buoy?" Gelsomina called.
       "No, not yet -- wait." Roscha leaned precariously out over
the bow, one hand clinging tight to the mast. "Wait, yes, past
that seiner there's a free point."
       Gelsomina did not answer, but Lioe felt the boat surge
again, as though she'd opened a throttle. The barge passed two
more ships -- another barge filled with people costumed from the
Game, several Avellars among them, and then a seiner, its nets
spread to let a horde of children climb to a better view -- and
then started to slow. They were almost on top of it before Lioe
saw the mooring point. Roscha had had it in view long before,
however, and caught it easily with the boatpole's hooked end.
Gelsomina saw the movement, the swoop and jerk of the pole against
the shore lights, and reversed the engines. The barge slid neatly
up to the orange-painted buoy, coming to an almost perfect stop
against its scarred sides. Roscha looped a cable into place,
tugged twice to snug it home. Flares blossomed in the distance,
toward the entrance to the channel.
       "They're coming," Roscha called, and Gelsomina pulled
herself up out of the steering well, came to sit on the unstepped
mast. Lioe seated herself beside the older woman, careful of the


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (160 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

masks and the barge's unpredictable roll, and Roscha joined them a
moment later, tucking the boatpole neatly under their feet. A
larger Lockwardens' boat, a slim needle of a ship twice as long as
a gonda, slid past down the center of the channel, a tail of spray
gleaming behind it.
       "In that compartment there," Gelsomina said, "you'll find a
bottle of raki."
       Roscha grinned, and rummaged in the shallow space until she
had found the bottle and three small, unmatching cups. She poured
a cup for each of them, and came back to sit beside Lioe.
"Health," she said, and the three touched cups.
       They did not have to wait long for the parade to appear.
Lioe sipped cautiously at the bitter drink -- it tasted of anise,
a flavor she didn't like -- and looked south again just as another
flare blossomed in the darkness over the Warden's Channel. A trio
of speeders, all with Lockwardens' lights and markings, swept into
view, and another group of three followed more slowly, peeling off
to take up stations just inside the line of spectators.
       "Soon now," Gelsomina said, and Roscha said, "Mommy..." She
caught a five-year-old's whine so perfectly that Lioe laughed
aloud.
       "Five more minutes," Gelsomina said.
       Lioe looked south again, still smiling, toward the light at
the point of Mainwarden Island, and saw a dark shape eclipse the
light. _The parade?_ she thought, and Roscha whooped beside her.
       "There they are!"
       Gelsomina fumbled in the folds of her costume, and produced
a slim set of night glasses. She laid her staff aside and used
both hands to work the focusing buttons. Lioe narrowed her eyes at
the dark platform, wondering how anyone would be able to see
anything on that distant deck. And then a giant figure unfolded
itself from the barge, a woman in a full skirt and low-cut bodice,
a giantess with a crown of blue-white stars, and more stars draped
and scattered across her dress. She stood for a moment, a sketch
in light and shadows, and then spotlights came on, revealing her
full glories. There was a gasp from the crowds on the banks and on
the boats to either side, and then shrill applause. It had to be
some kind of puppet, Lioe knew, an enormous automaton that swept
into an astonishingly graceful curtsy as the sound of the cheers
reached it, but the illusion was nearly perfect. The face was


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (161 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

serenely beautiful, elegantly proportioned; as Lioe watched, the
features shifted, rearranging themselves into a gentle smile.
       "Oh, they're not going to like that," Gelsomina said. "Half
the crowd will miss the lighting."
       "No, look," Roscha answered, pointing as the spotlights
faded again, leaving the giantess wreathed in her own lights. "Oh,
very nice."
       Gelsomina nodded, fumbling again with her glasses.
       "It must be, what, ten meters tall," Lioe said, and Roscha
nodded.
       "Between ten and twelve. Whose is it, Na Mina?"
       "Who pays for them all?" Lioe asked.
       "Civic groups," Gelsomina answered, not taking her glasses
from her eyes. "That's Estens there -- one of the Five Points
Families, Na Lioe. They, the Five Points Families, I mean, and the
Merchant Investors Syndicate, the Five Points Bank, cartels like
Yardmasters and Fishers Co-op, and the Lockwardens, of course,
each one sponsors a barge. Once a group's bought the framework,
it's just a matter of dressing it each year."
       "It's a way of proving your importance," Roscha said.
       Gelsomina went on as though she hadn't spoken, lowering the
glasses into her lap. "I used to dress for Yardmasters, a long
time ago, and then for the MIS. Before it got so political."
       Lioe nodded, not really understanding, and a second barge
swept into view. This one carried a massively muscled male shape,
naked except for a blue-and-gold loincloth and heavy golden
bracelets running from its wrists almost to its elbows. Its head
was the head of a bull, the horns tipped with gold as well, and
its body glittered in the spotlight, as though its skin were
sheathed in some kind of faintly mottled coating, a gold
iridescence like tiny scales. It threw back its head as the
crowd's noise reached it, massive mouth opening in a silent roar,
and beat the air with its fists.
       "Five Points Bank?" Roscha said, and Gelsomina nodded.
       "More money than sense. But that's always been their
problem."
       "It looks," Roscha said slowly, frowning, "you know, it
looks almost hsaia, with that skin. I wonder if they meant it?"
       "I doubt it," Gelsomina said. "I heard talk about this.
They hired Marrin Artisans to come up with a new way to make the


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (162 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

sheathing, out of sequensas -- rejects and scrap, mind you, but
still. You can imagine what that cost." She stared at the figure
for a long moment, and added, grudgingly, "Still, it does look
pretty good from here."
       "It still looks hsaia to me," Roscha said. "And the FPB
does a lot of business with Hsaioi-An."
       "And that," Gelsomina said, "is what's wrong with the
parade these days. Remember the year the Five Points Families each
did one of the Four Judges? That started it, once their candidate
got elected that year. Everything's got a political angle, some
kind of message -- even when you don't mean it to, somebody's
going to see it. The old days were a lot better."
       Roscha looked away, her expression at once embarrassed and
mulish in the dim light, and Lioe said hastily, "Who's that
coming?"
       Gelsomina adjusted her glasses again, focusing on the third
barge that was just coming into view its deck still empty of its
puppet. "MIS."
       _Merchant Investors' Syndicate_, Lioe translated, and
leaned forward a little. On the distant deck, a dark figure lifted
its head, rose forward as though to its knees, and hung there for
a moment, an indistinct shadow against the thin bank of light that
was the far bank of the Water. Lioe caught her breath, heard a
shocked murmur from the people filling the seiner to her right,
and the same questioning noises from the crowd on the bank behind
her. Gelsomina smiled faintly, said nothing. Then the figure
straightened fully, and the lights came on, revealing a shape in a
nipwaisted coat and the blood-red shoulder-cape-and-hood of
Captain Rider. She was a familiar template in the Game, one of the
heroic almost-pirates who defended the Scattered Worlds against
the Imperium, and Lioe waited eagerly for her to lower her hood.
The puppet lifted both hands -- light glinted from the ring,
Captain Rider's seal, worn on its right forefinger, and Lioe
smiled at the careful detail -- and slipped the hood back. There
was something not quite right about the face, though, something
unfamiliar, added or taken away from the template. Lioe frowned,
puzzled, and realized that the puppet's eyes didn't match, one
blue, one brown. Behind her, the crowd cheered.
       "Holy shit," Roscha said, "that's Berengaria."
       "More politics," Gelsomina said, but did not sound


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (163 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

particularly displeased this time.
       "The governor?" Lioe said.
       Roscha nodded, grinning, and raised her voice to carry over
the cheers and shrill whistles from the crowd. "She's one of
theirs, the MIS's, I mean. And they're proud of her."
       "She's favored them enough, you mean," Gelsomina said.
       _For all she hates politics_, Lioe thought, _she knows a
lot about what's going on_. Still, it was a clever move,
associating Governor Berengaria -- who from all accounts supported
Burning Bright's freedom from both the metagovernments, and leaned
to the Republic, her friends said, only because they were less of
a threat than the Hsaioi-An -- with Captain Rider, protector of
the Scattered Worlds. _Not subtle, admittedly, but clever_.
       "And Rider's not what you'd call a Beauty," Gelsomina went
on, her voice rising, querulous.
       "She's surely not a Beast," Roscha answered, and Lioe
intervened again.
       "What is the rule?"
       "There isn't really a rule," Gelsomina said, grudgingly.
"Not written down, anyway. But the tradition is to alternate the
pageant barges, a Beauty and a Beast, and the figures are usually
taken from mythology. Not from the Game."
       "The Game's a kind of mythology," Lioe said mildly,
overriding something Roscha started to say, and after a moment the
john-boat pilot subsided.
       "Oh, I know," Gelsomina answered. "It's just -- oh, very
God, I hate getting old. You always end up sounding like your own
mother."
       Lioe grinned and saw Roscha relax even further. "Who
designs the puppets?" she asked at random, hoping to turn the
conversation even further, and saw a fourth barge pull into view.
       "Who's that?" Roscha demanded.
       Gelsomina worked her glasses, shook her head. "Can't tell
yet."
       On the distant deck, a figure unfolded, barely rising out
of a crouch before the spotlights struck it. A dancing satyr
leered back at the crowd, goat-legged, rude horns jutting from its
forehead and implied beneath its gilded fig leaf; it was crowned
with oak and ivy, golden acorns -- _they must be the size of
melons_, Lioe realized, _too big to span in my cupped hands_ --


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (164 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

and carried a double flute. The cheers were less than
enthusiastic, to her surprise, and she looked at Roscha.
       "It's been done before," Roscha said, and Gelsomina shook
her head.
       "It's Soresin, too. I expected better, after what I heard
they spent this year."
       Then, quite suddenly, the satyr began to move. As though it
had heard the comments, it thumbed its nose to each bank in turn,
still grinning, then lifted its flute to its thick lips. It began
to play, and, seconds later, the sound reached the watching crowd,
a thin, seductive melody that carried the urge to dance and weep
in the same quick, minor-keyed strain. A moment later, the puppet
began to dance to its own piping, the movements timed so perfectly
that for a long moment Lioe forgot the barge, forgot that it was a
puppet, and saw only the ghost of an abandoned god dancing against
the horizon.
       "Now that's more like it," Gelsomina said, and her words
were nearly drowned by the cheering from the shore. On the seiner
next to them, some of the people were dancing, sketching the same
quick steps to the satyr's music. Lioe glanced toward them, saw a
young man clasp a woman's hands and swing her in a sweeping
circle. She leaned back, eyes closed, bright skirt flying, her
long hair tumbling loose from a Carnival crown of braids, brushing
the decks. She came upright laughing, and Lioe looked away from
the wild abandon in her face.
       "If that doesn't take all the awards," Roscha began, and
her voice trailed off into nothing.
       Gelsomina nodded, but her expression was less certain.
"Everything for puppetry, certainly."
       The barge that followed Soresin's dancing satyr carried
another female puppet, this one tall and very slim, dressed in a
short, one-shouldered tunic and carrying a spear nearly as tall as
the puppet itself. Light flared from the fingers of her free hand;
she touched the spear's point, and fire ran up and down the shaft.
It was impressive, but after the dancing satyr anything would have
been an anticlimax.
       The next barge carried a stooped and cloaked figure, red
lights glowing like eyes from the shadows within its hood --
"Imbriac," Gelsomina said, "one of the Five Points Families" --
that received no more than polite applause, and the next was a


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (165 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

crowned man, very handsome, sponsored by a fishing cooperative
called Tcheirin Sibs. The next barge slid into view, its puppet
already outlined against the lights of the distant shore, a
stooped and crooked figure, one shoulder higher than the rest. The
lights came on, revealing the twisted body, the sneering scowl of
one of the Game's grand villains, the Baron's henchman Ettanin
Hasse. The puppet stood for a long moment, only its head moving as
it looked from side to side, mouth still twisted in contemptuous
amusement, and then, quite slowly, it lifted a mask to its face.
The mask was perfect, ordinary, a man's face without deformity;
the puppet set it into place, and straightened fully, the crooked
shoulder and twisted body easing away. There was a murmur,
approving and uneasy all at once, before the applause. The puppet
lowered the mask again, and sank back into its first character.
       "That," Gelsomina said, "was Chrestil-Brisch."
       "That takes guts," Roscha said. "Considering that's what
most people think of them anyway."
       Lioe glanced at her, and Roscha shrugged. "They've got a
reputation for being, well, chancy. You're never really sure where
you stand with them -- or so they say."
       Lioe looked back toward the line of barges to watch the
next group of puppets mime their reactions against the starless
sky. There were only three more -- a female shape with a fan, from
a popular video series; something with the head and shoulders of a
dragon, beautiful but incomprehensible; and, last and best,
neither Beauty nor Beast, a shape that seemed to be made of glass
and mirrors, each curve of its body turned to facets and angles.
It barely moved -- "too fragile to move much," Gelsomina said --
but it threw back the spotlights in a storm of white fire. It was
all too much, and Lioe found herself strangely glad when the last
of them slid past. Gelsomina sighed, and motioned for Roscha to
release the mooring.
       They made their way back to Shadows by the quickest route,
up the Crooked River to the turnoff below the Old Dike, then back
through the maze of canals to the Liander canal just south of
Shadows. The streets were quieter here -- most people were still
on the Water, or in the streets and plazas along its banks -- and
Lioe was not sure if she was relieved or worried to see a security
drone sail past overhead.
       "I appreciate your help," Gelsomina said. "It's nice to see


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (166 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

the parade from a decent viewpoint." She had pushed the Viverina's
mask back onto her forehead to see while she steered, but the wig
was still in place, the skulls clattering against each other.
       "Thank you," Lioe said. "I didn't -- I don't know what I
was expecting, but that was just incredible."
       Gelsomina smiled. "And I owe you masks, too. Roscha, do you
want Cor-Clar?"
       "Yes, and thank you," Roscha answered, and reached with
unerring speed for the rich brown-skinned mask.
       "And you, Na Lioe?" Gelsomina asked.
       Lioe shook her head. "I can't decide. They're all gorgeous,
and I don't know who I want to be."
       "Well, you're not leaving empty-handed," Gelsomina
declared. "We had a bargain." She turned slowly, leaning on the
Viverina's stick, running her gaze along the masks still hanging
from the unstepped mast. They looked back at her, their colors
mellowed in the amber light from the embankment. She smiled then,
and reached out with her staff. "Take that one."
       "If you're sure, Na Gelsomina," Lioe began, and the woman
nodded.
       "Take it. I insist."
       "Thank you," Lioe said, helplessly, and loosened the mask
from the clips that held it. It was made of stiffened lace,
roughly formed to the shape of a human face, with a single six-
millimeter stone of clear faceted glass set above the mouth like a
beauty mark. The web of lace, black and faintly metallic, looked
almost transparent in the light. "Thanks," she said again, and let
Roscha pull her up onto the embankment. She looked back once, to
see Gelsomina -- the Viverina again, her mask pulled down into
place and staff in hand -- standing beside the row of masks that
looked almost alive in the amber light.
       "We've got some time," Roscha said. "Do you want to stop
for coffee, or something?"
       Lioe looked sideways, found a patch of grey stone that
would let her see the chronometer's numbers. In a little more than
an hour she would have to start the night's session, and she shook
her head decisively. "No. I want to get back to Shadows." She was
aware suddenly that Roscha was frowning, added a belated, "Thanks
anyway."
       Roscha shrugged one shoulder. "Suit yourself."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (167 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

       "Some other time," Lioe said, and got no answer. They kept
walking through the patches of light and shadow that filled the
streets, pools of light puddling in the intersections, shadow
creeping back at the middle of the blocks, where the streetlights
did not overlap. Distant music wound through the darkness, fits
and snatches that she could almost weave into a tune. She tilted
her head to one side to listen -- she didn't even quite recognize
the instruments, except for the heavy bass and the thin whine of
metal strings from a violo -- and started when Roscha's hand
brushed her own.
       "Hey, I'm sorry," Roscha said, in an affronted voice and
Lioe shook her head.
       "I'm sorry, you just startled me. That's all."
       There was a moment of silence, and then Roscha looked away.
"I'm sorry," she said again, in an entirely different tone.
       "It's all right," Lioe said, and did not move away when
Roscha reached for her hand again. They walked on hand in hand,
their footsteps echoing on the paving, and then Roscha pulled away
again. Lioe bit back annoyance -- she didn't need this, not before
a session -- but said nothing. _Whatever's wrong with her, she'll
have to get over it on her own; I don't have the time to nursemaid
her_. Then, in spite of herself, she gave a rueful smile. _Why are
my one-night stands always more complicated than they should be?_
--------
         *Evening, Day 1*
         _Storm: The Chrestil-Brisch_
_Palazze, Five Points_
       Damian Chrestil stood on the wide balcony that ran along
the base of the palazze's roof, watching the fireworks that
bloomed over the Wet Districts and the Inland Water. Each burst
drew a murmur of appreciation from the other guests, watching from
the open doorways farther down the roof, but he enjoyed the annual
display too much to share it. The bursts of red and gold flared
like flowers, drowning the stars and the starlike lights of the
distant buildings. He would rather have been watching from the
Water itself, where the sky rained golden fire with each
explosion, but Chrestillio had asked -- _and we all agreed, in
some perverse fit of compliance_ -- that they all attend the
family's party as a show of solidarity. Customs-and-Intelligence
was still asking questions about the Demeter shipment, and it was


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (168 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

important that they look as though they trusted each other, and
weren't worrying about anything. The fireworks slackened, the
breathing space before the finale, and Damian glanced over his
shoulder toward the guests who lined the balcony. About half of
them were masked, all from the Five Points Families: the Old City
did not mask, preferred more refined pastimes, but the real power
had never needed refinement. Damian smiled at the thought, nodded
to a thin woman -- _she was something in the bank_, he thought --
who lifted her glass to him, and looked away.
       The finale caught them all by surprise, and there was a
collective gasp as the first burst flowered into an enormous spray
of red that turned to gold and then fell in streamers of light
toward the distant Water. Another shell burst into a flare of
purple brightening to pink, and then another, and another, so that
the balls of light hung for a moment on a trail of gold fire like
flowers on a stem. Even as they fell, dissolving into a shower of
sparks, four more shells flew up, trailing thin lines of flame,
exploded into flat sheets of light. From the Water, Damian knew,
it would be as though the world were frozen for an instant by that
crack of light, and he sighed for what he was missing.
       In his pocket, the house remote buzzed softly, a tingling
vibration against his thigh. He swore under his breath, and
reached for it, cupping his fingers over the control points. The
message vibrated against his hand: _urgent message, come at once_.
He swore again, but the code was his highest priority. He glanced
over his shoulder again, saw no one watching, and turned the
remote to touch the control combination that released the gate to
the outside stair. It was in shadow, and everyone's attention
would be on the finale for at least half an hour. He looked again
toward the Water -- red and green halos flared around a golden
center -- and made himself turn away.
       The staircase spiraled down the outside of the palazze,
with only a single entrance before the ground level. He twisted
the remote again to release that lock, and let himself in past
impassive human security to the third floor's secondary hall. The
corridor connected with his own rooms; he made his way there, the
lights growing brighter at his approach, dimming as he moved away,
let himself into the suite. Lights were blinking on the
communications console, but he paused long enough to clear the
windows completely before he crossed to the control board and


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (169 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

entered the security codes. The little screen sprang to life, but
Damian ignored it, tilted the boxy display so that he could see at
least some of the fireworks through the window beyond it.
       In the screen, ji-Imbaoa glared at him, claws tapping
somewhere out of sight. "Your plans are starting to unravel," he
said, without preamble.
       Damian Chrestil lifted an eyebrow at him -- _how did I come
to join forces with him?_ -- said aloud, "Weren't you able to get
the codes?"
       Ji-Imbaoa waved away that question. "They are coming. There
has been some trouble with the transmitter; I've had to go through
the commercial links. But that is not the issue."
       "Forgive me, Na Speaker, but I thought precisely that was
the cause of this delay," Damian said.
       "The codes are on their way," ji-Imbaoa said again. "Do you
doubt me?"
       Damian bit back his anger, waved a hand in apology. "No. I
don't doubt they'll get here." _Eventually_.
       "I accept the apology."
       It was only a formal phrase, effectively meaningless, but
Damian felt his hackles rise. He controlled his temper with an
effort, and said, "Then, Na Speaker, what's happened to upset
you?"
       "Ransome," ji-Imbaoa said. "He has concluded that the Game
is a blind, and he is encouraging Chauvelin to look elsewhere."
       Damian frowned at the screen, a cold knot forming in the
pit of his stomach. If that was true, if Ransome was back on the
port nets, and with Customs-and-Intelligence still asking
questions about the shipment from Demeter, it would be only too
easy to track down what was really going on. _Easy for Ransome,
anyway_. He took a deep breath, trying to banish fear, and ji-
Imbaoa went on.
       "I have taken steps to forestall him, but I don't know how
long it will last."
       "Good," Damian said, and then considered. "What did you
do?"
       "The only thing I could do," ji-Imbaoa answered. "I have
made it a matter of honor and prestige that Ransome continue with
the Game -- I have wagered my name and my fathers' that there will
be something there for him to find. I trust that it's so."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (170 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

       _Do I care about your fathers' names?_ Damian ran his hand
through his hair, tried to consider things calmly. "There are
things for him to worry about, yes," he said, "and I can arrange
for him to find some more political material." _I think. If Cella
can get time_. "But under these circumstances, Na Speaker -- let
me put it plainly, if you don't get me those codes, tonight or
tomorrow, this deal will fall through. At a high cost to both of
us, money and prestige alike."
       "Let me remind you," ji-Imbaoa said, his hands suddenly as
still as Damian had ever seen them, "that you have significantly
more to lose than I."
       "I've done all that I promised," Damian answered, and left
the rest unsaid.
       "I'll get you the codes," ji-Imbaoa said. "But you will
have to keep Ransome busier." He cut the connection before Damian
could reply.
       Damian swore at the blank screen, slapped the controls with
more force than was really necessary. But ji-Imbaoa was lord and
master of Highhopes, and if the jericho-human colony there was
going to trade with Burning Bright without the interference of the
brokers backed by the tzu Tsinra-an, they had to work through ji-
Imbaoa. And ji-Imbaoa had to get his share of the profits. The
system shut itself off, and he stood for a moment staring at the
sky beyond the long windows. The last shells made a curtain of
fire, sheets of gold and red that frayed to long streamers against
the invisible stars, but he barely saw it, lost in calculations.
If Ransome wasn't distracted by the Game, his own security was
probably inadequate: he paid well, employed the best experts, but
Ransome was a superb netwalker in his own right, and he knew too
many people within the systems. If he couldn't crack the security
wall himself, he would know someone who could give or sell him the
keys. Damian tapped his fingers against the case, winced at the
echo of ji-Imbaoa's gesture. He'd increase security -- _it's a
good thing I thought to organize a blockade of the port feed
already, but I'll have to do something more. And I can't transfer
the lachesi to the transshipment group without those codes_.
Still, it would be better if Ransome stayed in the Game.
       The door chime sounded then, and the remote buzzed gently
against his thigh. He frowned -- _no one should know I'm here_ --
and touched the code that threw the security feed onto the small


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (171 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

display. Cella was waiting in the hall, demure in a sheer
overdress. Damian's frown deepened, and he touched the controls
that released the lock.
       "They're starting to wonder where you are," Cella said,
without preamble.
       "Damn them," Damian said, and then, "Which them, anyway?"
       "Your siblings, mostly," Cella answered, and Damian made a
face.
       "I'd better go up, then."
       "I do need to talk to you," Cella said.
       Damian Chrestil looked at her. "I hope it's good news. I've
not been having a pleasant evening."
       Cella smiled wryly. "I'm afraid not."
       Damian sighed. "Well?"
       "I suppose it's good and bad, at that. I stopped in at
Shadows before I came here. Lioe -- Ransome's pilot -- is running
a session tonight, and I wanted to look over the play list. The
good news is that Ambidexter himself is back in the Game -- he's
even playing Harmsway -- but the bad news is that Kichi
Desjourdy's also part of the session. And as best I can discover,
it was Lioe herself who asked her to play."
       Damian's hand closed convulsively on the pocket remote, and
there was a squeal of protest from the mechanism. He released it
hastily, and Cella went on.
       "Desjourdy is known as a Gamer, but I thought you ought to
know."
       "Damn," Damian said softly, as much to himself as to Cella,
and he stared into space for a long moment, trying to order his
thoughts. The sky beyond the windows was very black, the fireworks
over: _no inspiration there_, he thought, and turned his eyes
away. "This Lioe," he began, "is she still seeing Roscha, or was
it a one-night affair?"
       Cella shrugged. "I don't know. Roscha was slated to play
Avellar, but Lioe seems very taken with Ransome. And he with her,
for that matter."
       "So." Damian shoved his hands into his pockets again,
running his fingers over the remote's smoothly indented surface as
though it were a talisman. _If I can get Roscha to watch Lioe --
Roscha's done that kind of job before, she can certainly handle it
-- then I can be sure to find out if she contacts Desjourdy


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (172 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

again_. He touched the remote's control points again, and the
image in the display screens shifted, became a memo board. He
leaned over the keyboard, typed a quick message into the
wharfingers' computers -- CONTACT JAFIERA ROSCHA 2 STORM AM, SEND
HER TO MY OFFICE AS SOON AS SHE ARRIVES -- and set it loose on the
main systems. _And if all else fails, she can deal with Lioe, and
I can get Ransome out of the way_. "Can you get a transcript of
this session for me?"
       Cella blinked, startled. "Yes, of course. It'll be on all
the Game nets by three this morning if not before. Why?"
       "I just want to see how they behave," Damian said vaguely.
_I want to see if Roscha thinks she's competing with Ransome, and
I want to see how good she is at it. Because if she has any grudge
against him, I can make good use of it_. "Dump it to my private
system as soon as you can get a copy, please."
       "I'll do that," Cella said.
       Damian Chrestil smiled crookedly. "Then let's rejoin the
party."
--------
         *Interlude*
         _Game/varRebel.2.04/_
_subPsi. 1.22/ver22.1/ses4.24_
       They crouched in the uncertain shelter of the cargo bay,
hearing the clatter of boots recede along the walkways to either
side. The overhanging shelves, piled high with crates, gave some
cover, but they all knew that if the baron's guards came back out
onto the center catwalk it would take a miracle to keep from being
seen. Galan Africa/ALEMO TOMSEY frowned over the power pack of
their only heavy laser, working methodically to mate a salvaged
blaster cell into the nonstandard housing. Jack Blue/KICHI
DESJOURDY sprawled gasping against the nearest stack of crates,
hand against his chest as though it pained him. Mijja
Lyall/LACHACALLE crouched at his side, one hand on his wrist, as
though somehow knowing his pulse rate could help. Blue's great
bulk had displaced the lower crates slightly, and Gallio
Hazard/HALLY VENTURA edged out of its line of fall, his pistol
drawn and ready. He knelt cautiously in the shelter of a second
stack of crates, laid a fresh clip on the floor beside him, and
settled to wait. Lord Faro/PETER SAVIAN and Ibelin
Belfortune/KAZIO BELEDIN crouched as always a little apart from


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (173 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

the rest, Faro a little ahead of the wild-eyed Belfortune, as
though he could protect him.
       "We're still waiting for this contact," Desir of
Harmsway/AMBIDEXTER said. "Well, Avellar? What happened this
time?"
       "How can I know?" Avellar/JAFIERA ROSCHA answered.
"Something's gone wrong, obviously." She smiled suddenly. "I say
we press on, Desir, unless you want to go back."
       Harmsway looked away, made a face of disgust. Avellar's
grin faded, and she went to kneel on the warped flooring beside
Jack Blue. "How is it?"
       "Not so good." Blue's voice was thin and wheezing, and,
behind his back, Lyall shook her head. She reached into her much-
depleted kit, came out with a slim injector, but hesitated, and
did not lay it against the telekinetic's arm.
       "If you weren't so damn fat, you wouldn't be in this bad
shape," Harmsway snapped. "Christ, what a waste."
       Blue frowned, his eyes losing their focus for a moment. A
cracked piece of the floor tiling snapped loose and flung itself
at Harmsway's face. He ducked away from it, but too late, and the
tile's sharp edge drew a thin line of blood along one cheekbone.
Avellar snatched the tile out of the air before it could strike
anything else.
       "A waste to bring me," Blue said, mimicking Harmsway's
precise voice. "You didn't bring me, little man -- "
       "Shut up," Avellar said, and was obeyed. "Save your
strength," she added, and looked at Harmsway. "The ship's right
there, Desir, just waiting for us. Go right ahead."
       Harmsway looked longingly at the cargo door, only forty
meters away across the width of the warehouse. It was even open,
the ship's hatch gleaming in the loading lights, and he could feel
that the last barrier was sealed only with a palm lock, the kind
of thing he could open in his sleep ... if he could reach it. His
lips thinned, and he looked away.
       "Avellar." Lyall's voice was suddenly sharp with fear, and
Avellar swung to face her.
       "I think -- " Lyall began, then shook her head. "No, I'm
sure. They've brought in one of the hunters."
       Harmsway swore, and Hazard looked back over his shoulder at
them all.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (174 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

       Africa did not look up from his work, his hands still busy
with the laser. "Hunter?"
       "Another telepath," Blue said. "The kind that specializes
in hunting down his own kind."
       "How close?" Harmsway demanded, and Lyall shook her head
again.
       "I can't tell. He-she-it's shielded."
       "All right," Avellar said. "No one use anything,
telekinesis, telepathy, electrokinesis, anything at all, unless
there's no other choice." There were murmurs of agreement from the
others, and she looked at Africa. "Galan?"
       The technician shrugged, his hands never slowing on the
balky connection. "I don't know. Even if I get it hooked up, I
can't make any guarantees."
       Avellar grimaced, and for the first time looked at
Belfortune. "Bel."
       Faro shifted his position slightly, putting himself between
Avellar and Belfortune. "Let him be."
       "Bel," Avellar said again.
       "I can't do it," Belfortune said flatly, without lifting
his eyes from the floor.
       "Oh, that's a lie," Harmsway said, soft and deadly, "a lie
and you know it, Belfortune. That's what bought the Baron's favor,
bought you a lover and almost anything you wanted, just as long as
you learned to use your power. Tell me, is it true the Baron liked
to watch while you killed them?"
       "Jesus, Desir," Hazard said, and was ignored.
       Belfortune looked up slowly, met Harmsway's glare for the
first time unflinching. "Yes. It's true."
       "Then you can stop the hunter," Avellar said.
       "It won't do any good," Belfortune said. "Where else could
we be, but in one of the cargo bays? All it'll do is buy you
time."
       "That'll be enough," Avellar said.
       "But if it isn't -- " Lyall began, and closed her mouth
over what she would have said.
       Avellar answered her anyway. "If it's not enough, then we
fight."
       "Brilliant," Harmsway jeered. "How clever of you, Royal."
       "Shut up, Desir," Hazard said. "Avellar. Belfortune's


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (175 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

right, much as I hate to admit it."
       Avellar nodded. "We need a diversion, I agree. But to make
it work, we have to get rid of the hunter." She looked back at
Belfortune. "Well? Will you do it?"
       Belfortune closed his eyes for a moment, pain etched deep
in his face, then nodded. "Oh, yes. What's one more?" Lord Faro
reached out to touch his shoulder.
       "Then we'll need to distract the rest of the searchers,"
Avellar said.
       "No, really?" Harmsway murmured.
       "Yes, and you're just the man to do it," Avellar answered.
She smiled briefly, daring him. "This bay is right next to the
main computer nexus, Desir. Think what you can do with that."
       Harmsway said, "But why should I, Royal? Give me one
reason, after everything you tried to do."
       There was a little silence, and then Avellar looked at him,
her face absolutely without emotion. "I told you then. I'm telling
you now. I need you, need your talent, to make up for what I lost
when my sibs -- my twins, the rest of the clone, the rest of me --
were killed. I can't take the throne without you."
       "To hell with you," Harmsway said, and there was an odd,
gloating note in his voice.
       "I need you," Avellar said again. "I came here for you,
didn't I? I did what you couldn't do, I broke you out of the
Baron's prison because I need you. Isn't that enough?"
       "Maybe if you went down on your knees," Harmsway said, "but
not before."
       "For God's sake," Hazard said. He pushed himself to his
feet, grabbed Harmsway roughly by the shoulder, and swung him to
face the others. "If you don't do it, Desir, we're going to die."
       Harmsway lifted an eyebrow at him. "I'm surprised at you --
"
       "I want out of here," Hazard said. "We can sort out the
rest of it once we're free, but right now, getting off planet is a
hell of a lot more important than Avellar or the goddamn throne."
       "I won't work with her again," Harmsway said.
       "So what?" That was Jack Blue, hoisting himself to his
feet. "It won't be as good, Avellar, but maybe I can do something
if this shit won't."
       Avellar nodded her thanks, still watching Harmsway, who


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (176 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

smiled bitterly.
       "All right. I'll do it -- if only to spare your talents,
Jack."
       "Too kind," Blue said, and achieved a passable imitation of
Harmsway's sneer.
       "There's only one thing," Faro said. "How close do you need
to be to a -- a subject, Bel?"
       "I don't really know," Belfortune said. "A few meters,
probably closer." He looked at Lyall. "Any ideas, Doctor?"
       Lyall shook her head. "I wasn't involved in that part of
the project. I would think within two meters."
       Belfortune laughed softly to himself. "Do you know who it
is? Which hunter?"
       "No," Lyall answered. "I told you, it's shielded."
       "You'll need support," Avellar said.
       Belfortune shook his head, and Faro said, "I'll go with
him. One's enough."
       Avellar nodded. "Good luck, then, both of you."
       Lyall said, "The hunter's coming closer. Moving along the
east wall, toward the entrance there."
       "Careful," Africa said. "You don't want to tip him off."
       Lyall shook her head, and Blue said impatiently, "She's not
strong enough. Nobody can hear her, not unless they're right on
top of her."
       "Let's go, Bel," Faro said gently, and Belfortune nodded.
Faro reached down and pulled the other man to his feet.
       "Take an extra power pack," Hazard said, and handed his
last spare to Faro.
       "Thanks," Faro said, and he and Belfortune stepped out into
the corridor. They turned left at the first cross corridor,
heading east, toward the entrance and the searching hunter.
       Avellar looked at the others. "Dr. Lyall, tell me when the
hunter's dead."
       Lyall winced, but nodded.
       "And the rest of us?" Harmsway demanded.
       "We wait," Avellar answered, grimly. "Be ready to act when
Lyall gives the word."
--------
         *Game/varRebel.2.04/subPsi.1.22/ver22.1/ses4.25*
       Faro and Belfortune moved warily through the corridors,


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (177 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

ready to duck under the shelter of the cargo racks at the first
sign of patrolling guards. To their surprise, however, the racks
and catwalks were empty, and they reached the eastern wall without
incident.
       "What now, Bel?" Faro began, stopped abruptly at the look
on Belfortune's face.
       Belfortune was staring into the middle distance, pale eyes
vague, unfixed, pupils dilating. He ran a hand delicately along
the bare metal skin of the cargo bay's exterior wall, a gesture
unnervingly like a caress, and began to walk, slowly, a faint
smile curving his lips. Faro, who had seen this before, this
stalking hunger, shivered convulsively, but kept his place at
Belfortune's shoulder, gun drawn and ready, the spare power pack
ready to hand.
       "Come to me," Belfortune whispered. "Come here, you, I feel
you walking there, come to me now...." The words trailed off into
a hissing murmur, rising and falling with his slow breath. He
could feel the hunter's presence, a vague warmth beyond the cold
wall, allowed his own hunger to rise to match that warmth, played
out his desire as a fisherman plays a line, a thread of appetite
disguised as curiosity. He could feel the hunter's presence more
clearly now, and recognized the man, had considered him a friend,
but his unleashed hunger accepted that knowledge only as a way to
make the bait more attractive. He leaned against the thin metal of
the wall, flattening himself against the cool surface as though he
could feel the hunter's body against his own, and let the tendril
of thought unfold. He felt the hunter take the bait, felt him turn
his attention toward the faint, stray presence, the oddity that
must be investigated, and kept tight control of his own power,
letting the hunter's own curiosity draw him nearer. Belfortune
could almost see the slight frown, the familiar lines of his face;
he pressed himself harder against the wall, willing the hunter
closer. And then, at last, he was close enough. Belfortune smiled,
let himself go at last, and felt the hunter's whole body jerk
convulsively as he realized he was no longer free. Belfortune felt
him struggle and tightened his grip, felt the sudden terrified
release as the hunter's shields failed, and tasted the hunter's
power, his strength and his cunning and the delicate flavor of his
mind. He drained him, not bothering to savor it -- there was no
time for such niceties, and it had been too long since the last


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (178 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

one, anyway -- and saw/felt, in the last moment of double vision,
the hunter's body slumping to the ground just on the other side of
the wall. He slid down the wall with it, sucking the last dregs of
life, and crouched there for a moment, breathing hard.
       Faro looked away, swallowing bile, unwilling to watch the
sated hunger turn to disgust in Belfortune's eyes. "Tell them it's
done," he said, and a whispering voice said, from the end of the
corridor, "Tell who what, Faro?"
       Faro spun, gun leveled, even as he knew it was useless, and
felt as much as heard the snap of a laser bolt. He ducked
instinctively, but the shot had been meant as a warning only.
       "Hold your fire," the voice said. It came from the closed
cabin of an airsled that blocked the corridor behind them.
Soldiers -- soldiers in the black uniforms of Baron Vortex's elite
troops -- flanked it, their lasers lowered and ready. Belfortune
shook his head, trying to drive away the cloying satisfaction,
made a small, pained noise of despair. The voice went on, as
though no one had spoken. "Faro, you're not a fool. I think we can
come to some agreement."
       Faro hesitated, the muzzle of his gun wavering slightly --
to fire was suicide, his and Belfortune's, but the speaker was
Baron Vortex, and the Baron could never be trusted.
       "I find you useful," the voice went on, "just useful enough
to salvage from this mess. Put down your gun, and I'll let you
live."
       Faro dredged a laugh from somewhere. "To what end?"
       "I told you, I find you useful," the voice said. "You can
return to your previous employment."
       "Not much better off than the prisoners," Faro muttered,
said more loudly, "What about Bel?"
       "Ah." There was a note like amusement in the Baron's voice.
"For him, there is a price."
       "Well?" Faro said.
       "I asked you before, tell who what," the voice said. "But I
think I know that. Where are they, Faro? Where are Avellar and the
rest?"
       "Faro," Belfortune said, and the word was ambiguous appeal.
       Faro glanced down at him, at the renewed sanity in the pale
eyes, saw him start to pull himself to his feet, clinging to the
wall of the cargo bay, looked back at the Baron's airsled and the


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (179 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

flanking soldiers. He let the gun fall to his side.
       "Your lands and your lover," the voice whispered. "You can
still have them both. Is Avellar's rebellion worth that much to
you?"
       "I don't know for sure," Faro said. "She -- they were back
toward the middle of the bay, heading for a ship."
       He paused, hoping that would be enough, a large enough
betrayal, saw the nearest soldier raise his laser, and waited for
the Baron to pronounce the sentence.
       "Put down your gun, Faro," the Baron said at last, and Faro
laid the pistol on the floor tiles, kicked it toward the line of
soldiers. Two of them came forward, slinging their rifles, and
Faro let them drag him forward, stood quite still as they ran
their hands roughly over his body, then locked his wrists together
behind his back. Another pair dragged Belfortune to his feet, and
did the same to him.
       Flame flared overhead, bursting from the shattering light
fixtures, and raw electricity leaped like lightning from the power
nodes. One of the soldiers fired reflexively at the snapping
currents, and screamed as the laser's power pack exploded in a
sheet of flame.
       "Harmsway," Belfortune said, and the pale eyes were
suddenly alive again.
       "Get them out of here," the Baron ordered. "The rest of
you, come with me."
--------
         *Game/varRebel.2.O4/subPsi.1.22/ver22.1/ses4.26*
       "The hunter's dead," Lyall said, and in spite of her best
efforts the disgust showed in her voice.
       Avellar nodded, hiding the same repulsion. "Then let's get
on with it." She looked at Harmsway. "It's your show now, Desir."
       Harmsway nodded, allowed himself a smile of pure pleasure.
"So we need a diversion," he said aloud. "And the computer center
is right behind these walls." He turned in a full circle, scanning
the racks until he found a power node, and went to crouch beside
it, laying one long-fingered hand gently over the input jack.
There was a faint crackling, and then he had matched the current
precisely. He closed his eyes, and let his consciousness wander
out into the bay's power grid. There was a faint humming, and a
haze of blue light, all but invisible, formed around his hand. He


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (180 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

could feel the pattern of the electrical systems, and of the
computers and other instruments that fed off it, could almost see
their regularity like lines against his eyes. He felt his way into
the grid, merging himself with the flow of power until he was all
but invisible, a faint surge of current that was still within the
tolerances of the port computers. He found the access port, and
teased it open, then slipped cautiously into the alien space
within the network.
       He had the electron's view, current flashing on or off, and
he hung for a moment, disoriented, trying to match that image with
what he knew must be hidden in the computers. The lights blinked
on and off, too fast to follow even in his heightened state, tuned
perfectly to the flow of the currents; he stared a little longer,
still trying to analyze the workings, and heard, very distant,
Lyall's cry.
       "My God, it's the Baron. He's found them."
       At the same moment, someone touched his shoulder, and he
opened his eyes to see Hazard bending over him.
       "Desir. Blow the system, we've got trouble."
       Harmsway was already moving within the distant system,
calling power from various nodes. Throughout the building,
terminals flickered and died; across the complex, screens wavered,
the sudden drain triggering backup power supplies. Harmsway kept
pulling, drawing power to himself, letting the minuscule energies
collect and build, feeding on themselves.
       "Hurry, Desir," a voice said -- Avellar's voice, he
thought, but he could not be sure.
       The process could not be hurried, not if he was to do it
right. He blocked all thoughts of the Baron, all fear,
concentrating on the energy around him, tracing an escape route in
his mind. He felt it cross the threshold at last, and released it,
let the surge blast through every circuit in the system, and let
the same wave of power carry him back into the grid that fed the
cargo bay. He felt overloaded systems crash, felt the surging
power flare at every node, and in a heartbeat redirected that
power, away from the local nodes into everything electrical near
the eastern entrance. He opened his eyes, and heard the flat, hard
crack of explosions from the far side of the bay.
       "The port computers are down," he said. "They shouldn't be
able to stop lift-off."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (181 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

       "And it should give them something else to worry about,"
Avellar said. Fire sirens whooped in the next building,
underscoring her words. "Let's go."
       They made their way quickly through the last corridors,
dodging between the half-full cargo racks. At each exposed power
node, Harmsway paused to send another wave of power through the
building's systems. He could feel the network overloading under
his manipulations, knew that he was literally burning out their
defenses as he used them, but the explosions behind them seemed to
mean that it was working.
       There were still two guards at the door that gave access to
the ship's hatch, both staring nervously toward the sounds of
Harmsway's attack. They were sheltered by the hatchway, not an
easy shot at all, and Avellar paused in the shelter of the final
stacks of crates, considering them cautiously. After a moment, she
beckoned to Hazard. He frowned, but slipped forward to join her.
       "You're our best shot," Avellar said, her voice an almost
soundless whisper. "Can you do it?"
       Hazard shook his head. "They're too well covered. Why the
hell didn't they run for the fighting?"
       "Be glad they didn't just close the access door," Avellar
said with a grin, and eased back into the shelter of the crates.
       "You're going to have to do something quick," Harmsway
said. He was sweating, breathing hard, as though he'd been lifting
heavy weights. "I'm draining the grid, and the wiring isn't going
to take this abuse much longer."
       "The Baron's still back by the door," Lyall said. Her eyes
were closed, and Jack Blue steadied her, guiding her with a hand
on her shoulder. "But you've only delayed him."
       "I can draw the guards out," Blue said. "Leave it to me."
       Avellar considered him for a moment -- a fat man, still
wheezing a little, but no longer leaning on the others -- and
nodded. "If you can get them out into gunshot, we can take them."
       Hazard nodded, snapped the power pack out of his pistol,
checked the power remaining, and snapped it in again. "I've got
about a dozen shots left. That should be enough."
       "It ought to be," Harmsway said, and managed a grin.
       "It'll have to be," Avellar said. She looked at Blue. "Do
it."
       Blue closed his eyes, frowning slightly, and a moment later


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (182 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

they all heard something stir in the corridor to their right. It
was a faint noise, as though someone trying to be careful had
brushed against an imperfectly balanced crate, but one of the
guards heard it and looked up warily. Blue's frown deepened, and
there was a quick patter of footsteps, as though someone had
darted across a corridor into cover. The guard peered out of the
doorway, put up his faceplate to listen more closely.
       "They're buying it," Africa said, and leveled his pistol.
       Hazard laid a restraining hand on his arm. "Wait for the
other one."
       Africa nodded, lowered the pistol again.
       Blue was sweating lightly now, his forehead furrowed in
concentration. In the corridor, there was another stirring, and
then the distinctive click of a power pack snapping home into a
pistol butt. The guard cocked his head to one side, listening,
then pulled his faceplate slowly down again. Avellar held her
breath, her own pistol ready at her side. There were no more
noises from the corridor, a silence that seemed somehow ominous,
more dangerous than the sounds had been. The guard held up his
hand, and beckoned to his partner. The second guard came up to the
edge of the hatch, but stopped just inside the heavy frame. Africa
swore under his breath: the hatchway still blocked his shot.
       "Come on," Hazard muttered. "Come on, now."
       The guards stood still for a moment longer, obviously
conferring via the helmet links. Then the first guard started
toward the sound of the footsteps, and the second man moved out of
the hatchway to cover him.
       "Now!" Avellar said.
       The others fired almost as she spoke. The first guard fell
without a sound, sprawling on the warped floor tiles, but the
second guard fired back blindly, dodged back toward the access
door. Africa and Hazard fired at the same moment, and the guard
went down.
       "Did he get out a warning?" Hazard demanded, looking at
Lyall.
       "It doesn't matter," Avellar said, impatiently. "Let's go."
She started across the open space without looking back.
       Hazard glanced over his shoulder, saw Harmsway reaching
across to steady Jack Blue, and smiled in spite of himself. They
crowded into the narrow space between the doorway and the ship's


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (183 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

hatch, and Africa fiddled with the controls to bring the door down
behind them. Avellar nodded her approval, and laid her hand
against the sensor panel that controlled access to the freighter's
cargo lock. There was a soft click, and then a high-pitched tone.
       "Royal Avellar," she said, and waited. A heartbeat later,
the cargo lock creaked open. Familiar people, familiar faces, were
waiting inside the lock, and Avellar relaxed for the first time
since they had left the prison complex.
       "Thank God you made it," a well-remembered voice said, and
Avellar sighed.
       "Danile." She smiled then, careful not to look back at the
others, particularly Harmsway. She had risked everything to get
him back, and she had at least freed him from the Baron's prison.
The rest -- his return to her rebellion, his proper place at her
side -- would come, in time. He owed her that, and he would
eventually pay.
       "We have to hurry," Danile went on, "so everybody, get
inboard now." The hatch sealed itself as he spoke, closing off
their view of the cargo bay. "It's chaos back there, there's
nothing they can do to stop us. But we have to go now."
       There was a ragged murmur of agreement, and the group began
to move farther into the ship, following Danile and Avellar.
Underfoot, the ship's main power plant trembled, building toward
blast-off and freedom from Ixion's Wheel.
--------
         *Part Five*
         *Day 2*
_Storm: Roscha's boat, Public Canal #419,_
_Dock Road District_
       Lioe woke to the noise of distant traffic and the easy
motion of the boat against the sluggish current. She turned her
head away from the bars of sunlight that crept in through the gaps
in the shutters, lay still for a moment, remembering where she
was. She was meanly glad that Roscha was nowhere in sight. Not
that it hadn't been fun -- and after Roscha's performance in the
session, especially; it was one of the best character readings
Lioe had seen -- but in the cold light of morning, she found
herself wondering exactly why she'd done it. She shook the thought
away -- it was a little late for regrets, and anyway, it _had_
been fun -- and crawled out of the low bunk. The bathroom was


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (184 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:11 AM]
======================

tiny, and smelled of aggressive cleaning; she washed quickly, the
water tasting flatly of chemicals, and found her clothes hanging
on the bulkhead beside the low stairs that led up onto the deck.
She pulled on shirt and trousers and the loose vest, slung the
mask that Gelsomina had given her around her neck, and pushed open
the double doors. She had left her hat somewhere, she realized,
either at Shadows or at Ransome's loft, and she made a mental note
to look for it later.
       The sunlight on the deck had an odd cast to it, a sickly,
uncertain tone, and Lioe glanced toward the sky. It was almost
white, hazed with clouds as it had been for the past two days, but
when she looked south, toward the mouth of the Inland Water,
darker clouds showed between the housetops. An erratic little wind
was blowing fitfully, sending bits of trash skittering along the
embankment above the boat, and Lioe felt the hairs rising on the
back of her neck.
       "Oh, there you are," Roscha said. She made her way forward,
stepping easily over the solar panels set into the decking. "I was
just coming to wake you. It looks like that storm's going to hit
us after all, and I've got a call from the wharfinger to report at
once to the main dock."
       "That's too bad," Lioe said.
       "I don't see why I couldn't make it to Roche'Ambroise for
the puppet shows," Roscha went on. "That is, if you still want to
go."
       One of the local artists' cooperatives was giving its
annual free show that afternoon. It was supposed to be a
spectacular event, a combination of athletics, mime, and robotics,
and Lioe had said she would like to see it. "I don't want you to
go to any trouble," she began, and Roscha frowned.
       "Look, if you don't want to go, no problem." Her tone
implied the opposite.
       "It's not that," Lioe said, impatiently. "Yes, I want to
see the show, but you've got this call -- "
       "It shouldn't be anything serious," Roscha said, and gave a
fleeting grin. "I haven't done anything. They probably just need
help securing the barges. I should be able to make the show."
       "Fine," Lioe said. _If you don't, I can enjoy it by
myself_. "Where do you want to meet?"
       "They do the show in Betani Square, right off the Hartzer


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (185 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

Canal," Roscha answered. "Why don't we just meet there,
midafternoon? By the fountain."
       "Fine," Lioe said again. The sunlight faded, and she
glanced up, to see a thicker strand of cloud turning the sun to a
disk of bronze. "How bad is this storm going to be?"
       Roscha shrugged. "Not bad, I'd say. The street brokers are
saying a category two at most. That's not anything to worry
about."
       _By whose standards?_ Lioe wondered, squinting again at the
sky. The sun was back, but the clouds looked darker than before.
Still, Roscha was the native; if she said it wasn't that bad, it
shouldn't be. "I'll see you at the fountain in Betani Square at
fifteenth hour," she said aloud, and reached for the rope ladder
that led up to the embankment.
       Roscha nodded. "Will you help me cast off?"
       "Sure." Lioe climbed easily up onto the broad stones,
unhooked the ladder, and let it drop. Roscha caught it as it fell,
folded it neatly into a well on the deck.
       "Ready for the cables?" Lioe asked, and Roscha nodded
again.
       "I've already switched over."
       Lioe unhooked the double-headed cables from the power nodes
at the base of the bollard. Roscha caught those as well, guiding
them back into their housings, and took her place in the steering
well. Lioe released the bow and stern lines, tossed them onto the
deck, and stood watching while Roscha shoved the boat away from
the embankment, and fed power to the engine. She was out of
earshot before Lioe realized she hadn't asked how to get to
Roche'Ambroise. She laughed, and started back toward Shadows,
where food and her mail would be waiting.
       The streets were still busy with costumed figures, despite
the impending storm. A cloaked trio was visible in the window of a
restaurant, masks set aside to let them eat; a bedraggled pair --
male and female? no, two women -- were obviously on their way home
after a long night of revelry, the skirts of their straight gowns
hiked up to make walking easier, their feathers drooping. Yet
another indistinct shape wrapped in a cloak lay sound asleep under
a bench in one of the little parks, mask tucked under its head for
a pillow. Others were just starting the day -- another Avellar, a
striding Baron Vortex, an odd shape like an egg with trousers that


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (186 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

everyone else seemed to recognize -- and Lioe was suddenly glad of
Gelsomina's mask. It made her feel less alien, among the bright
maskers, more as though she belonged on Burning Bright. _And I
want to belong here_, she realized suddenly. _I'd like to be a
part of this_. She shook the thought away as impractical, left her
mask hanging around her neck where it couldn't tempt her, and kept
walking.
       As she came up on the Underface helipad, she saw the lights
flashing to warn of an incoming flight, and then recognized the
figure sitting on the bench at the edge of the pad. _At least I
can ask him about my hat_. "Good morning, Ransome," she called,
and the man on the bench lifted a hand in answer. He did not
speak, and Lioe wondered if she'd offended him. He looked up as
she approached, met her eyes fully, and she was shocked by his
pale face and the brown shadows like ugly bruises under his eyes.
       "Jesus, you look awful," she said, and bit her tongue as he
managed a wry grin.
       "Tactful."
       There was something wrong with Ransome's voice; even the
one word came thin and breathless, as though he had been running.
"Are you all right?" she began, and realized in the same instant
what it had to be. White-sickness was most common in Hsaioi-An,
among jericho-humans, but it was not unknown in the nonaligned
worlds, or in the Republic. And this was white-sickness, no
question about it: like all pilots, she'd had enough basic medical
training to recognize the symptoms.
       Ransome read that recognition in her face, and his grin
skewed even more. "I have what I need at home," he said, and Lioe
had to lean closer to catch the strangled words. "The doctors
changed the medication; I'm not as stable as I used to be. So I
got caught short again."
       Lioe nodded, wordlessly, hearing the voice of the school's
medical trainer droning in her mind. _White-sickness -- pneumatic
histopathy, also known as lung-rot or_ uhanjao, _drown-yourself,
in Hsaioi-An -- is classified as a dangerous condition less
because it is fatal, which it is, than because it is contagious
until treated. Once proper treatment is begun, the danger of
infection is over, but the damage to the victim is irreversible.
Most planets require a certificate of treatment before customs
will admit an infected person; pilots are advised to adopt the


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (187 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

same precaution_. There had been more -- details of how death
occurred, how and why simple organ transplants inevitably failed,
the mechanisms by which the disease altered the lung tissue,
slowly dissolving it into a thick white mucus, so that the patient
drowned in body fluids even as the lungs themselves stopped
working -- but she did her best to push that aside. "Do you want
me to come with you?" she said cautiously, and did her best to
keep her voice normal.
       Ransome looked for a moment as though he would refuse, but
then made a face. "Yes," he said, and then, with an effort, "Thank
you."
       "No problem," Lioe said, and seated herself on the bench
beside him. But it was a problem, it was a hell of a problem, and
she found herself filled with an irrational fury. _How could he be
sick -- how dare he? -- just when she'd found_ -- She stopped
abruptly, closed off that line of thought. _Found what? You barely
know him, except through the Game. Just because he showed you the
imaging system he uses doesn't mean that he'd want to teach you --
or that you could learn, or even that you want to_.
       The sound of rotors overhead was a welcome relief, and she
squinted up into the hazy clouds. The helicab dropped easily
toward the pad, balancing the weight of the machine against the
lift of the rotors and the gas in the envelope. The two pods were
fully inflated, one to each side of the passenger compartment, so
that the cab looked rather like a rodent, both cheeks filled with
scavenged food. The unseen pilot brought it down carefully,
setting it precisely in the center of the bright-blue guidelines,
and the passenger door opened. Lioe stood, uncertain whether to
offer her hand, and Ransome pushed himself to his feet. He climbed
into the cab, and Lioe followed him, pulling the door closed
behind them.
       "You're going to Warehouse?" the pilot said, and Ransome
nodded.
       "That's right," Lioe said aloud, and wasn't sure she'd done
the right thing until she saw Ransome's fleeting smile.
       The helicab rose slowly, rotors whining, and the whole
machine shivered suddenly in a gust of wind. The pilot corrected
it instantly, adjusting power and lift, glanced apologetically
over his shoulder.
       "Sorry, people. It's going to be a rough ride."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (188 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

       "'S all right," Ransome murmured.
       "The storm?" Lioe asked, as much to distract the pilot as
anything, and was not surprised when he nodded. The braided wires
that connected him to the cab bobbed against his neck.
       "Yeah. The dispatcher's saying we'll probably have to shut
down this afternoon."
       Lioe leaned back in her seat. Through the transparent door
panel she could see the Dock Road District spread out beneath her,
buildings clustered around tiny spots of green that were the open
plazas, and crowding shoulder to shoulder along the banks of the
myriad canals. "I think this is the first time I've seen this in
daylight," she said, in some surprise, and saw Ransome smile
again.
       As they rose above the cliff edge, approaching Newfields
and the Warehouse helipad, the wind caught them, jolting the cab
sideways before the pilot caught it. Lioe braced herself against
the safety webbing, watching the muscles of the pilot's arms tense
and relax as his hands moved inside the sheaths of the on-line
controls. His lips were moving, too, and she guessed he was
talking to his dispatcher, warning other pilots about the winds.
He took the approach to Warehouse very carefully, and Lioe was
grateful for it: the helicab shuddered and bounced, but finally
dropped the last meter or so onto the hard paving. The credit
reader unfolded from the cab wall, beeping for payment.
       Ransome reached for his card, but Lioe got there first.
"Pay me back," she said, and ran her own card through the slot.
She managed not to wince at the total -- about twice what she had
expected -- and hit the key that confirmed the payment. The pilot
opened the passenger door, and they climbed out onto the pad. The
helicab started to lift as they crossed the low barrier, and Lioe
flinched as grit stung her face and bare arms. Ransome turned away
from it, one hand cupped over his mouth and nose, did not move
until the cab had lifted out of range.
       "Do you want a velocab?" Lioe asked, tentatively, more to
make sure he was all right than to get an answer to her question,
and was relieved when he shook his head.
       "No. It's not far to the loft." He sounded a little better,
and Lioe let herself relax.
       The streets were all but empty of pedestrians here, and
only a few heavy carriers rumbled past, stirring the drifted dirt


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (189 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

and sand. A fickle wind was blowing, a warm wind that carried an
occasional hint of a chill at its heart. Lioe shivered at its
touch, glanced again to the sky, but saw only the same hazy
clouds, the sun a hot white disk behind them. It felt like the
afternoon winds on Callixte, the summer wind that brought the big
storms down onto the plains, and she found herself walking warily,
as though too quick a movement would trigger lurking thunder.
Ransome glanced curiously at her, then looked away.
       They turned the last corner onto a street shadowed by the
buildings to either side, and Ransome led her past a tangle of
denki-bikes, their security fields humming at an annoying pitch,
to the access stair that ran along the side of the building.
       "Isn't there a lift?" Lioe asked involuntarily, but Ransome
didn't seem offended.
       "There is, but it's in use." He nodded to the main doorway,
where a red flag drooped, moving only sluggishly in the breeze.
       "Oh." Lioe followed him up the stairway, past the Carnival
debris, broken bottles, a cluster of stained and ragged ribbons at
the base of the stairs, another bottle on the landing; the
crumpled papers and stained foils from a packet of Oblivion lay on
the landing outside Ransome's door. He stepped over them without
looking, and Lioe did her best to follow his example.
       The loft was pretty much as it had been when she'd left it,
nothing changed except the pile of clothes on the floor outside
the bedroom door. Her hat was sitting on the folded bed. _Was it
only yesterday that I left it?_ she thought, said aloud, "Can I
get you anything?"
       Ransome was already heading for the tiny bedroom, said over
his shoulder, "Coffee?"
       "Right." Lioe went into the kitchen. She filled the machine
and set it running, came back out into the main room just as
Ransome emerged from the bedroom. His eyes looked slightly
unfocused, and there were two spots of red on his cheeks that
spread as she watched, as though he were blushing deeply.
       "I appreciate your coming back with me," Ransome said. His
voice already sounded better, less choked. "I wasn't sure I'd be
able to talk the pilot out of taking me to a clinic."
       "Should you have gone to a clinic?" Lioe asked. "Should you
go to a clinic?"
       Ransome grinned. "No, I told you, I had what I needed here.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (190 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

They couldn't've given me anything different."
       Lioe nodded, watching him. "Are you all right?" she said
slowly, and Ransome looked away.
       "For the moment." He sighed, turned back to face her. "As
you probably already figured out, I have white-sickness -- it's
under treatment, so you don't need to worry -- but I've had it for
a while, and the system's slipping out of equilibrium."
       _Which translates as, you're starting to die_. Lioe said,
"I'm sorry," and cringed at the inadequacy of the words.
       Ransome went on as if he hadn't heard, his tone so matter-
of-fact that she winced at the unvoiced pain. "I have five to
seven years, or so they tell me, so it's not an emergency."
       _Except that you can't be much more than forty, and you
ought to live another forty years_. Lioe said again, "I'm sorry."
       "So am I." There was a little pause, and then Ransome
achieved a kind of smile. "Do you want some coffee?"
       "Sure, thanks," Lioe said, glad of the change of subject,
and Ransome disappeared into the kitchen. He returned a moment
later with two steaming mugs. Lioe took hers with a murmur of
thanks, sipped cautiously at the bitter liquid.
       "There's something I've been wanting to ask you," Ransome
said, and his voice was carefully casual, so that Lioe glanced
back at him warily. "Especially since last night's session."
       "Oh?" Lioe paused, and then shrugged. "Go ahead, I guess."
       "What the hell were your parents thinking of, to let you
become a pilot?"
       Lioe blinked, completely taken aback by the question. It
was not at all what she'd been expecting -- _though what I was
expecting I don't know -- _and she didn't quite know how to
answer. She opened her mouth, stopped, closed it again. "I was
good at it," she said at last, and heard the annoyance in her
voice.
       Ransome spread his hands, almost spilling his coffee. "I
didn't mean to pry. It's just that you've got an artistic sense, a
talent for the Game, and for imaging. I'm surprised you didn't get
a chance to pursue it -- I'm surprised nobody picked up on it."
       "No, it's all right," Lioe said. _And after what you've
told me, I'm not sure I have the right not to answer_. She ordered
her thoughts with an effort. "I was raised by Foster Services, on
Callixte. They steered me toward the union certificate program,


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (191 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

and when I won one of the scholarships -- well, you know how hard
they are to get. I wanted to take it, at least to prove I was as
smart as the docents had always said."
       Ransome nodded. "Your parents died?"
       Lioe shrugged. "I don't know. I don't remember much about
it -- I pretty much don't remember anything before the Service
creche -- but what they told me was, a couple of people found me
in an abandoned house near the port district, Mont'eranza, it's
called. I was undernourished, but otherwise unhurt, and about six
years old, as best the medical people could tell. So I ended up
with Foster Services."
       "And the Game," Ransome said. "Your scenario's good, near
brilliant, in fact."
       "Thanks." Lioe grinned. "I'd still like to take this
situation a little further, though, pull it all together. Can you
imagine what that would do to the Game?"
       Ransome nodded, his tone quite serious. "It would be
enormous fun while it lasted, though, wouldn't it?"
       "I'm not eager to be lynched afterwards," Lioe said.
"Besides, I'd have to set it up now, change this scenario a
little."
       "Do it," Ransome said. Lioe looked at him, startled, and he
said again, "Do it. And let me play Avellar."
       "Not Harmsway?"
       Ransome shook his head. "Avellar."
       _God_, Lioe thought, _that would be a brilliant bit of
casting, and if anybody could pull it off, give me the setup I
need for Avellar's Rebellion_ -- She smiled, realizing that she
had already given the scenario a title. "When I run it again," she
said, slowly, "you can have Avellar, if you want him. But I'm not
sure about making the changes."
       "If you won't," Ransome said, "I will."
       She lifted an eyebrow at him, not sure she believed him,
and his smile widened. "I'll do it, you know," he said.
       "I believe you," Lioe answered.
       "You needn't sound quite so worried," Ransome said. He
paused, looked back toward the windows. The clouds had thickened a
little since they had come in, turning the sky the color of milk,
and the shadows had vanished. Lioe moved to join him, staring down
into the Junction Pool. It was even more crowded than it had been,


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (192 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

seemingly hundreds of barges tied up two deep at the piers, and
smaller craft darted like beetles among them. She wondered briefly
if Roscha were somewhere among them.
       "There was something else I wanted to ask you," Ransome
said. "How did you happen to pick Harmsway for the scenario? Did
Cella Minter -- or anyone -- mention him to you?"
       Lioe blinked again, startled, and shook her head. "No. I'd
worked up the scenario before I got here. We didn't expect to
spend any time on planet; we lost calibration in one of the sail
projectors en route from Demeter, and had to lay over to reset it.
I'd kind of forgotten that they were local Types when I showed the
scenario." Ransome nodded, still looking out the window, and Lioe
frowned. _My turn to ask questions, I think_. "Why? Who's --
Cella, did you say?"
       "Cella Minter." Ransome paused. "You may have seen her at
Chauvelin's party the other night, a tiny woman, absolutely a
perfect beauty. She's Damian Chrestil's mistress, when he isn't
chasing something else."
       Lioe paused, trying to remember, could vaguely recall a
tiny woman with copper-colored braids woven into sleek, jet-black
hair. She had been startlingly beautiful, seen from across the
room, and more than a little intimidating. "So who's Damian
Chrestil? Any connection to C/B Cie.?"
       There was a little silence, and Ransome looked at her. "He
_is_ C/B Cie. Decidamio Chrestil-Brisch is his full name, he's
head of C/B Cie. Did you, your ship, bring in a cargo for him?"
       "It was a C/B Cie. cargo, yes," Lioe said. "Why?"
       "Because Damian Chrestil has been trying to keep me out of
the port nets for two days now," Ransome said, anger and glee
mixed in equal measures in his voice. "And maybe, just maybe, you
can help me figure out why."
       "I don't quite see the connection," Lioe began, and Ransome
cut in.
       "What were you carrying?"
       "I don't want to be overly delicate about this," Lioe said,
"but why do you want to know? We're supposed to keep our mouths
shut about what we carry. General union rules."
       Ransome nodded. "Sorry." He took a deep breath, gestured,
spilling coffee, and set the mug aside, scowling. "Look, it's like
this. Chauvelin's my patron. We've known each other for years -- "


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (193 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

       "I remember," Lioe said. She could still see the little
room in Chauvelin's monumental residence, light gleaming off the
story egg, the first one she'd seen. _Chauvelin is your patron,
and Chauvelin's rival the Visiting Speaker hates you, quite
personally_.
       "I've done various kinds of work for him," Ransome went on,
and there was a distinct note of pride in his voice. "I'm good on
the nets, very good, and I occasionally do some research for him."
       "The charge is usually common netwalking," Lioe murmured,
and remembered, too late, that Ransome had been in jail. To her
surprise, he laughed.
       "True. Anyway, I've been -- walking the nets for him
lately, because the damn Visiting Speaker got it into his head
that Damian Chrestil was up to something in the Game. When I
checked it out, sure, he wanted me back in the Game, back
involved, but there wasn't anything really happening. It was all
just a blind. So I started wondering what Damian Chrestil really
wanted, and I haven't been able to get into the port nets at all.
So you see why I'd really like to know what you were carrying."
       Lioe shrugged. "Red-carpet, according to the manifest. En
route to a distillery here. We had a couple of bungee-gars on
board."
       "Is that normal?"
       "Depends," Lioe said. "I wouldn't think red-carpet was
quite that valuable, but it's close enough, I guess."
       "Who was the shipper?"
       Lioe frowned, pulling names from her mental files. "A
company called TMN, I think. They weren't much."
       "I bet it's smuggling," Ransome muttered, as much to
himself as to her. "There's no other reason to keep me out of the
port nets, except that he hasn't rechristened the cargo yet. Damn
it, if I could just get in!"
       Lioe eyed him warily. It seemed overelaborate to her, a lot
more complicated than simple smuggling would need to be -- _and
I've seen enough smuggling combines at work to know that simple's
the way to go_. "So why should the Visiting Speaker be worried
about it?" she asked aloud.
       "I wish I knew," Ransome answered. He stopped suddenly,
eyes wild. "But I do know, I just had it backward. Ji-Imbaoa
doesn't want to know what Damian Chrestil's up to, he already


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (194 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

knows that because he's involved in it. What he wants is me out of
the way, me and Chauvelin, so that he can gain favor with whatever
it is they're smuggling."
       "That sounds a little complicated," Lioe said when it
became clear that some answer was expected of her.
       "But that's it," Ransome said. "I'm sure of it. Ji-Imbaoa's
a je Tsinraan, and they need to consolidate their position with
the All-Father. Chauvelin's a tzu Tsinra-an, he'd stop him on
principle, regardless of what the cargo is. And Damian Chrestil's
an ambitious little bastard; he's got lots of friends in the
Republic, but not many in Hsaioi-An. But if the je Tsinra-an owed
him a favor, that would give him some substance over the border,
and that kind of connection there translates to power here, on
Burning Bright. It makes good sense."
       "If you say so," Lioe said, and didn't bother to hide her
own uncertainty.
       "Trust me," Ransome said. "Look, this has to be what's
going on -- Christ, won't Chauvelin be pleased, it's the perfect
excuse to get rid of ji-Imbaoa -- but I have to talk to some
people."
       "Netwalking?"
       Ransome shook his head. "I've tried that already. But there
are some people up at the port who still owe me favors, and I
think it's time I called them in."
       "How are you feeling?" Lioe asked, pointedly. Ransome
looked blank for a moment, then laughed.
       "Fine. Look, I need to do this now, before it's too late,
but I wanted to know, were you serious about this scenario?"
       Lioe hesitated for an instant -- it would mean the end of
the Game as she knew it -- but then nodded firmly. "I'd like to
work it out."
       "Do you want to use my systems?" Ransome asked. "It's a
little more private than Shadows would be, and I've got most of
the library disks you'd need. We could talk about it when I got
back, you could show me what you need to have happen to set up the
new scenario."
       Lioe thought for a moment. It would be easier, working here
-- more privacy, fewer interruptions from players and would-be
session leaders who had questions about Ixion's Wheel -- but she'd
already made plans for the day. "I'm supposed to meet Roscha.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (195 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

We're going to see a puppet show in Betani Square."
       "So work here anyway; if I'm not back by the time you have
to leave, come back when you've finished. I can give you a key,
just in case I'm not back by then -- though God knows I should be -
- but if I'm not, let yourself in and make free with the systems."
Ransome grinned. "You should know where things are by now."
       "All right," Lioe said. "We'll do this."
       "Great." Ransome rummaged in a drawer without result, then
stood scanning his shelves before he came up with a flat black
rectangle about the size of a dice box. He handed it to her, and
Lioe took it cautiously, feeling for the almost invisible
indentations.
       "Upper left is for the stairs," Ransome said, "upper right
is the main entrance, center is the loft door, lower right calls
the lift -- when it's free."
       Lioe nodded.
       "Then I'm off," Ransome said. "I probably won't be back
before you have to leave, but I'll see you after the show, all
right?"
       "I'll be here," Lioe said, and shook her head slowly as the
main door slapped shut behind him. _How do I get into these
situations?_ she wondered, then grinned. Maybe Burning Bright was
the home of the Game precisely because its own politics were as
baroque as those of the imaginary Imperium. _Let's see if I can
come up with something as complex for Avellar_. She found the room
remote, and touched its gleaming surface, darkening the windows
and bringing up the display space. She pulled on the wire-bound
gloves and settled herself in the massive chair, wriggling a
little as the cushions shifted beneath her, accommodating her
weight. She reached into control space, touching virtual icons,
and found a copy of her scenario waiting in storage. She defined a
space, called it into those new confines, and sat for a moment,
staring at the tree of symbols. Then she touched the first icon,
and began to work.
--------
         *Day 2*
         _Storm: C/B Cie. Offices, Isard's Wharf,_
_Channel 9, Junction Pool 4_
       Damian Chrestil stood at the back of the plotting shed at
the end of Isard's Wharf, watching the display table. A model of


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (196 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

Burning Bright's oceans, spread to scale on a virtual globe,
floated above the tabletop; the shapes that represented C/B Cie.'s
various ships ghosted through the mirrorlike surface, the codes
that represented their cargoes and destinations flickering to life
at a gesture from some one of the attendants. The coiled shapes of
the blossoming storms, a grand procession of them sweeping up the
trade winds from the shallows below the equator, marched over the
surface, interdicting great sweeps of sea. Most of the company's
ships were already in port, or within a day's journey, but a few
were still well out to sea, and the wharfingers studied them
carefully, murmuring to each other. They and their assistants each
carried a smaller plotting tablet and a delicate, gold-tipped
wand. As they gestured at the model, circling it like acolytes to
adjust symbols and times and weather forecasts in search of the
most economical arrangement, they reminded Damian of some
mysterious and primitive cult. Behind him, the windows rattled in
the rising wind, and one of the assistants glanced nervously
toward the cloud-white sky. On the model, a tight spiral of cloud
was poised south and east of the entrance to the Inland Water.
       "Have they made any guesses as to when the storm barriers
will go up?" Damian asked, and the senior wharfinger, Rosaurin,
shook her head.
       "They're hedging."
       "So what else is new?" Damian murmured. He glared at the
model as though it could provide answers on its own, then shook
his head. "I think we're cutting it too close with the short-haul
boats. Have them ride it out south of the storm track." He
gestured with his own control wand, highlighted a grid mark on the
model.
       Rosaurin nodded slowly. "I'd rather get them home, but
you're right, we can't risk it. Not when they can't give me an
estimate of when they'll raise the barriers."
       Damian nodded back. The triple line of barriers lay at the
bottom of the channel, were raised as the storm approached. They
would hold back the worst of the storm surge, and protect the
city, but once they were in place, no ships could enter the
channel. They had all agreed, himself, the wharfingers, and the
short-haul captains, that it was worth taking one more trip to the
seining grounds before Storm set in. Now the captains, at least,
would have to live with the consequences. Still, they were


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (197 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

experienced people, with good crews, and the boats were solid,
well equipped. _They should be all right_, he thought, and turned
his mind away.
       "Na Damian?"
       He turned, to find one of the younger dockers in the
doorway, a thin young man with close-cut blond hair that almost
disappeared against his scalp. "Well?"
       "You wanted to be told," the docker said warily. "Roscha's
called in. She'll be in the channel in about ten minutes."
       "Right," Damian said, and couldn't keep the satisfaction
from his voice. "Can you take care of the rest of this, Rosaurin?"
       The wharfinger nodded. "I'll put together a final plot for
your approval."
       "Do that," Damian said, and left the shed.
       Because of the approaching storm, there were perhaps twice
as many ships tied up to the mooring points as usual, and the dock
was littered with lines and spare gear. Damian stepped carefully
through the clutter, and let himself into the outer office. The
secretary pillar was, for once, clear of messages. He smiled
rather bitterly -- _this once, I would have liked to have
something waiting, preferably from ji-Imbaoa_ -- and went on into
the inner room, seated himself behind his desk. The workscreen lit
obediently, sensing his presence, but he ignored the flickering
prompts, debating whether or not he should call the Visiting
Speaker himself. _Not just now_, he thought, and touched keys to
call up his security files. The check files were all in place --
_or not quite all_. He frowned, studying the origination codes
that the security programs had preserved for him: _Ransome, almost
certainly, and that means I'll have to do something about him. Or
about ji-Imbaoa_. He put that thought aside with regret -- he'd
gone too far to back out now -- and the secretary chimed
discreetly.
       "Na Damian, Roscha is here."
       Damian touched the shadowscreen to hide the security
programs. "Send her in."
       Roscha appeared in the doorway almost at once, her perfect
figure obscured by a loose jacket knotted at her waist. "You
wanted to see me, Na Damian?"
       "Yes." Damian paused for an instant, assessing how best to
approach the question. "I hear you've been sleeping with this new


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (198 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

notable, Lioe."
       Roscha blinked -- whatever else she had on her conscience,
she hadn't expected this -- and said, cautiously, "We've seen each
other a couple of times, and I played in a couple of her sessions.
I only met her three days ago."
       "You played a session with her last night," Damian went on.
       Roscha nodded.
       "The C-and-I rep was part of that Game, too, am I right?"
       "Yes," Roscha said again, and waited.
       "I gather they knew each other, Lioe and Desjourdy?"
       "Yes." Roscha drew the word out to two syllables, frowning
now. "Look, Na Damian -- "
       "Are they just old friends, fellow Gamers, what?" Damian
interrupted her. "Or has Lioe worked for her?"
       "Jesus." For the first time, Roscha looked worried. "I
don't think so, Na Damian. I was there when she -- when Quinn
invited Na Desjourdy to play this session. Quinn said she was
short a player, and all they talked about was the Game.
Desjourdy's on the Game nets a lot, she's a rated arbiter."
       "And she works for Customs-and-Intelligence," Damian said,
but more gently. He paused, studied her from under his lashes.
"I'm a little worried, Roscha. This Lioe's been hanging around
with Ransome, too, and Ransome's no friend of mine." He saw from
the quick, involuntary grimace that Roscha had noticed that
attraction, too, and was less than comfortable with it. "Lioe and
Desjourdy, Lioe and Ransome -- it just doesn't add up well."
       "I guess not," Roscha said, slowly.
       Damian hid his sudden pleasure. _It's working, she's
starting to think just the way I want her to, to think that maybe
Lioe is a C-and-I agent_. "So what I'm asking is, did you notice
anything after the session? Any conversations, anything that might
mean she was passing information to Desjourdy?"
       Roscha shook her head. "No. They just talked about the
session afterwards, and then -- then Lioe came back to the boat
with me. I dropped her off this morning when I got your message."
She stopped suddenly. "Boss, I ran into Tamia Nikolind on the
docks coming in. She said she saw Lioe going off with Ransome this
morning, taking a helicab out of Underface."
       "Damn." Damian scowled, realizing he'd spoken aloud. That
was the last unfortunate coincidence -- in fact, it was too


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (199 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

perfect to be a coincidence. One way or another, the two of them,
Lioe and Ransome, had too many pieces of the puzzle to be allowed
to go to either Chauvelin or Desjourdy. _In fact, that's probably
the only thing I've got going for me right now: they'll have to
decide which one to alert first_. He touched the shadowscreen to
distract himself, making meaningless patterns on its surface.
_I'll have to get them out of circulation, one way or another, and
it's too late for niceties. Lioe's not important enough; security
can find me plenty of "friends" who can dump her in a canal, and
no one will think twice about it, but Ransome ... Ransome's
another matter. But I can deal with that later_. "Were you
planning to see Lioe again?" he asked.
       "Yes. We were going to the puppet shows, over on
Roche'Ambroise. I was planning to meet her there."
       Damian took a deep breath, put on his most sincere face. "I
need you to do something for me," he said. "I need -- I want you
to break your date. I know I've no right to ask you to do it, but
I need to keep an eye on her. And I don't want to get you into any
trouble." That was true enough, even if the trouble was bigger
than Roscha would think. "But I want some people of mine to watch
her, and the puppet show is a good place for them to find her. Can
you -- will you do this?"
       "Ransome and Desjourdy," Roscha said. She smiled, without
humor. "Hells, I told her I might not be able to make it. All
right, Na Damian. I told her we'd meet by the fountain, there in
Betani Square. She's been wearing one of Gelsomina's lace masks. I
thought you should know."
       "Thanks, Roscha," Damian said. _Thank you more than I ever
intend to tell you_. Instinct kept him from offering to pay her
fines after all. "I want you to stay here, at the docks -- there's
enough work, God knows -- but I want you visible the rest of the
day. I don't want you out of call until" -- he paused, calculating
-- "until after midnight."
       Roscha frowned, hesitating over her next question. "You're
not -- she won't be hurt?"
       Damian managed a tolerant smile. "This isn't the Game,
Roscha. No, I just don't want you to be vulnerable if she -- or
Desjourdy, really -- gets pissy about my keeping an eye on her.
Because my security is going to be pretty obtrusive this time. You
don't need any extra hassle."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (200 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

       "Thanks, Na Damian," Roscha said, low-voiced, and Damian
nodded.
       "Get on back out there, and try to stay visible for the
next eight or nine hours."
       Roscha nodded, visibly reassured, and backed out of the
little office. Left to himself, Damian stared for few moments
longer at the empty screens glowing in the desktop, then touched
keys to summon his security files. _Lioe and Ransome_... On
balance, it wasn't very likely that Lioe was actually an agent for
Republican Customs-and-Intelligence; she was too active a Gamer,
and too busy a pilot, too, according to the records he'd obtained
from the Pilots' Union, to be employed by C-and-I as well. But she
did know Desjourdy rather well, by everyone's reckoning, and she
had gone home this morning with Ransome. It wasn't a risk he could
afford to take.
       He had more options in dealing with her than with Ransome.
The imagist would have to be handled with care, because he himself
couldn't afford to antagonize Chauvelin -- _not yet, anyway, but
if ji-Imbaoa does even half of what he's promised_... He made
himself concentrate on the immediate problem. Ransome would have
to be taken out of circulation temporarily, but couldn't be
killed, or even too badly damaged: that meant kidnapping, and then
the question of where to keep him. Damian ran his fingers over the
shadowscreen, slaving it temporarily to the household systems in
Five Points. The palazze was closing down for the storm, topping
up the batteries, workmen ordered to bring the shutters in over
the massive windows; the summer house, out in the Barrier Hills
behind the Five Points, was shut down completely, all systems on
standby, doors and windows sealed against the storm. Damian
considered it for a moment, then nodded. The house was reasonably
well sheltered, tucked into the side of a hill well above the
water, and clear of the stand of trees that topped the ridge. It
had stood through worse storms: _an ideal place to keep Ransome_,
he thought. _And Lioe, too, I suppose. If nothing else, once the
storm starts, they'll be stuck there until it passes_. He nodded
to himself, and touched the shadowscreen, detaching himself from
the house systems and recalling his security programs. He culled a
picture of Ransome -- a publicity photo, a recent one, that showed
all the lines in the imagist's thin face -- from the main systems,
and then used his C/B Cie. ID numbers to gain access to the union


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (201 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

files. It was a little galling to think that Ransome could
probably get the same information without codes, either netwalking
or through one of his friends, but at least he could get Lioe's
photo. He dumped both of the images into a minidisk, the kind that
would fit either a pocket system or an implanted reader, and after
a moment's thought added the security codes that would unlock the
summer house. He tucked them into his pocket, and went looking for
Almarin Ivie.
       He found the security chief in his office, a big man who
dwarfed his desk and the constantly changing displays on the walls
behind him. The tiny space was dark, lit mainly by the blue-toned
flicker of the displays, but Ivie touched controls as the door
opened, focusing a faint halo of warmer light on the space before
the door.
       "Na Damian," he said, and rose hastily to his feet. "What's
up?"
       Damian waved for him to be seated again, found the guest's
chair, and spun it into position opposite the desk. "I need you to
do something for me."
       "Whatever," Ivie said, with a sincerity that Damian always
found slightly unsettling. He killed that uncertainty -- this was
the time to appreciate his subordinates' fervor -- put the thought
aside and slid the minidisk across the desk. Ivie caught it
easily, the button of plastic disappearing in his thick fingers,
and said, "For me?"
       Damian nodded, and waited while Ivie slipped the disk into
the reader tucked at the base of his left wrist spur. "I need
these people taken out of circulation for a while," he said. "The
woman -- her name's Lioe, Quinn Lioe -- I don't really care how
you do it as long as we're not connected with it in any way.
Ransome has to be handled with care: I don't want him killed, or
damaged too badly, but I want him out of circulation for at least
the next half-week. The summer house is empty, and I've given you
the system codes. Can you do it?"
       Ivie looked almost offended for an instant, but the
expression passed across his flat face almost as fast as it had
appeared. His heavy hands moved over a shadowscreen with
surprising delicacy, and he said, "It looks as though Ransome is
up in Newfields now, talking to people. I don't find the woman. At
least not at first look." His fingers danced over another set of


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (202 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

controls, and he went on, "I've got a trace going through the Game
nets -- she's the Gamer, right?"
       _Does everyone know her reputation?_ Damian wondered,
irritably. "That's right."
       "I've got some people in Newfields now, and I'll put them
on him," Ivie went on, fingers still working. "I'll send them to
the summer house once they've secured him." He stopped then,
looked impassively at Damian. "I'd like a little more guidance
with Lioe, Na Damian."
       Damian sighed. He had been hoping to avoid this decision,
had hoped, even knowing better, that Ivie would make it for him.
"If you can secure her without killing her, I'd prefer it.
Murder's messy, even at Carnival. But if you can't get her to come
quietly, I'd rather have her dead."
       Ivie nodded calmly. "All right."
       "There's one other thing that may help you," Damian said.
"One of my people was supposed to meet Lioe at the puppet show in
Betani Square, over on Roche'Ambroise. They were to meet at the
fountain, half an hour before the show."
       Ivie nodded again. "Good. That is a help. If we don't get
her before that, we'll get her there."
       "I leave it in your capable hands," Damian Chrestil said.
--------
         *Day 2*
         _Storm: The Hsai Ambassador's House,_
_in the Ghetto, Landing Isle Above_
_Old City North_
       Chauvelin waited in the transmission room, leaning over the
technician's shoulder to study the hissing screens. The
technician, jericho-human, small and square-built, looked back at
him reproachfully.
       "I'm doing the best I can, Sia."
       Chauvelin nodded, gestured an apology. "I'll leave you to
it, then." He stepped backward, but couldn't bring himself to
leave the little room, stood instead still staring at the static
that coursed across the screens. It was awkward enough at the best
of times, contacting the Remembrancer-Duke's household on
maiHu'an, given the time corrections between the two planets;
during Storm, when the first link of the long connection, the
transmission between the planet and the relay satellite, was


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (203 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

notoriously unreliable, it was all but impossible. _But I really
don't have much choice. Whatever ji-Imbaoa is up to, it has roots
in Hsaioi-An_.
       "Got it," the technician said, and hastily corrected
himself. "Sia, I've established the link. The Speaker Haas will be
on-line directly."
       "How stable is the connection?" Chauvelin asked.
       The technician shrugged. "About what you'd expect this time
of year, Sia. But I can patch it through to the reception room.
That won't make any difference."
       Chauvelin nodded. "Do that, then. And thank you."
       The technician ducked his head in acknowledgment, not
moving from his position in front of the multiple control boards.
Chauvelin nodded back, and went on past him into the reception
room. There had not been time to make the formal preparations, but
then, this was not a formal call. Nonetheless, he laid the thin
cushions, black-on-black embroidery, the geometric patterns
dictated by a thousand years of tradition, in front of the low
table, and poured two cups of the harsh snow-wine. The warning
chime sounded as he set the cups on the table, and he knelt on the
cushions, settling himself so that he faced the massive screen.
The grey static faded as the last of the check characters crossed
its surface, and Eriki Haas tzu Tsinra-an looked out at him. She
knelt on identical cushions in front of an identical table; only
the cups that held the wine were different, marked with the _n-
jao_ characters of her name. The fan that marked her rank was
folded in her hand, and Chauvelin wished for a brief instant that
he had changed into hsai dress for this meeting. But it was too
late for those regrets, and he bowed his head politely.
       "Tal je-Chauvelin," Haas said, acknowledging his presence,
and Chauvelin looked up.
       "Sia Speaker. It's good of you to speak with me on such
short notice."
       Haas gestured quickly, the fluttering of the fingers that
meant a hsaii wished to be informal. "I accept that things have
gotten complicated. Let's dispense with ceremony."
       Chauvelin allowed himself a soundless sigh of relief, and
went on in tradetalk. "Complicated is a good word. I need your
help, Sia -- I need information."
       "If I can get it, of course," Haas said. "What can I do?"


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (204 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

       "I want to know what kind of connections there are between
ji-Imbaoa and Damian Chrestil -- Decidamio Chresti-Brisch, head of
the import/export company C/B Cie.," Chauvelin said bluntly. "Or
any connections between the je Tsinra-an and C/B Cie.,
particularly if any of C/B Cie.'s clients are also _houta_
dependents of the je Tsinra-an."
       Haas paused, one hand busy with the notepad fastened to her
belt, out of sight beneath the loose, semiformal coat. "This could
be difficult to do discreetly, Tal. What does it matter?"
       "I don't care about discretion," Chauvelin began, and bit
back the rest of his words. He said, more carefully, "There isn't
time for discretion. I have reason to think that the Visiting
Speaker and Damian Chrestil are working together here on Burning
Bright, not as enemies, and I think that their real connection is
something in Hsaioi-An. The last thing my lord would want is to
see Damian Chrestil elected governor of Burning Bright."
       "Do you think that's likely?" Haas asked, but her hand was
busy again, transferring notes to the household computers.
       "I wouldn't bother you if I didn't," Chauvelin said, and
Haas waved her free hand in apology.
       "I'm sorry, Tal. It's just -- the je Tsinra-an have been
making real inroads at court in the last week, and my lord is
eager not to antagonize them."
       "My lord's existence annoys them," Chauvelin said dryly. "I
don't think he would care to do much about it."
       Haas grinned in spite of herself. "I know." She looked down
at the tabletop, and Chauvelin guessed that there was a screen
concealed in its surface. "I'll see what I can find out for you.
C/B Cie. does a lot of business on the jericho-human worlds, and
on Jericho itself, for that matter."
       "Which worlds?" Chauvelin asked.
       "I know," Haas said, with a touch of impatience, "over half
of them are client-bound to the je Tsinra-an. I'll find out." She
looked down again, ran her hand over a control bar hidden in the
table's carved edge. "I'm glad you called me, Tal. This could be
something important."
       _Certainly it's important to me_, Chauvelin thought. He
said, "I'd appreciate an answer as soon as possible."
       "I'll do what I can," Haas answered. "Between your weather
and my ignorant staff -- well, I'll do my best."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (205 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

       _No one of lesser rank than yours is allowed to blame her
staff for failures_. Chauvelin bowed again, more deeply. "Thank
you for your help, Sia Speaker."
       "Thanks for the information, Tal," Haas answered, and
signaled for her system to break contact.
       Chauvelin touched his own remote to close down his end of
the transmission, leaned back on his heels to watch the characters
cascade across the screen. If there was a connection between the
je Tsinra-an and the Chrestil-Brisch -- more specifically, between
ji-Imbaoa and Damian Chrestil -- and if he could prove it, then it
should be possible to parry ji-Imbaoa's threats. And if the
connection went deep enough, it might be sufficient to discredit
the entire je Tsinra-an. That was probably too much to hope for,
he knew, and he sighed as he pushed himself up off the low
cushions. _A nice thought, but not to be counted on_.
       A chime sounded gently from the speaker set into the wall
beside the door, the red pinlight flicking on as well, and
Chauvelin touched the remote again to establish the connection.
"Yes?"
       "I beg your pardon, Sia," je-Sou'tsian said, "but there's
something that needs your urgent attention."
       Chauvelin lifted his eyebrows at the blank space, but
answered the tone as much as the words. "I'll be in the breakfast
room in three minutes."
       "Thank you, Sia," je-Sou'tsian answered, and the pinlight
faded. Chauvelin sighed -- _I wonder what new disaster I'll have
to deal with_ -- and let himself out of the reception room.
       Je-Sou'tsian was ahead of him in the breakfast room, the
curtains half-drawn across the long windows. Beyond them, beyond
her shoulder, Chauvelin could see the distant wall of cloud, a
little higher on the horizon now, dark against the milk-white sky.
The garden looked subdued in the dimmed light, only the stone
faces in the paths still reflecting the minimal sunlight.
       "Your pardon, Sia," je-Sou'tsian said again, and Chauvelin
dragged his eyes away from the approaching storm.
       "It's all right," he said. "What's happened?"
       "The Visiting Speaker has not come home today." There was a
tension in the set of je-Sou'tsian's hands and arms that made
Chauvelin frown even more deeply.
       "It's later than he usually stays away, certainly, but is


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (206 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

it important?"
       "Sia, I don't think his household knows for certain where
he's gone. At least none of the ones left here. And they are
worried, if only because they don't know what's happening."
       _Have I left things too late?_ Chauvelin suppressed the
stabbing fear, said, "So what happened, do you know?"
       Je-Sou'tsian made a quick gesture, one-handed, the
equivalent of a shrug. "As best I can tell -- and I'm reading
between the lines for much of this, Sia -- the Visiting Speaker
left the house last night just after dark, saying he wanted to
experience the Carnival. His household expected him back sometime
this morning, but he hasn't arrived, and they haven't had word
from him. By midday, his chief of household was worried enough to
ask me if I had heard anything."
       "Who does he have with him?" Chauvelin asked.
       "That's what worries me," je-Sou'tsian answered. "Only two
people, ji-Mao'ana and that jericho-human, Magill."
       _The Speaker's secretary and his head-of-security_.
Chauvelin sighed. "And that's all you know?" It was unfair, he
knew, and je-Sou'tsian gave him a brief, reproachful glance.
       "Sia, I've only just found this out. The chief of household
only just spoke to me. And naturally I was reluctant to pursue
things any further without knowing what you wanted me to do."
       Chauvelin gestured an apology. "I'm sorry, Iameis, you were
right." He paused for a moment, fingers tapping nervously against
his thigh. "Still, it's Carnival. Things happen during Carnival. I
think you should make discreet inquiries, Iameis, just to make
sure nothing's happened to him. Check his usual haunts, and the
Lockwardens. No need to inquire at the clinics and hospitals yet,
they'd've notified me if a stray hsaia was brought in."
       "The Lockwardens?" je-Sou'tsian said.
       Chauvelin nodded. "Ask -- with discretion, mind you -- if
there have been any complaints or queries. I just want them to be
aware that we are looking for him." _And that way, if I've
miscalculated, if he's not working with Damian Chrestil, I'll have
been seen to do my duty in protecting him_.
       "Very well, Sia, I'll get on it at once." Je-Sou'tsian
bowed again, and backed toward the door.
       "Thank you, Iameis," Chauvelin said. "You've done well."
There was no formal way to respond, but he saw from the sudden


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (207 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

movement of her hands, quickly suppressed, that she had heard, and
was pleased.
       Chauvelin made his way back through the corridors and
coiling stairs to his office at the top of the house. The light
that streamed in through the curved windows was as milky as the
clouds, heavy with the promise of the coming storm. He ignored it,
locking the door behind him, touched the shadowscreen to bring up
his communications system even before he'd seated himself at the
desk, resolutely turning his back on the clouds to the south. A
screen lit beneath the desktop; he touched the shadowscreen again,
calling the codes that would connect him with Ransome's loft, and
waited for the screen to clear. If anyone could track ji-Imbaoa,
it would be Ransome.
       The screen stayed blank, the call codes scrolling
repeatedly across the base of the screen. Chauvelin let them
cycle, waiting, long after he was sure Ransome would not answer.
_Of all the times for Ransome to be away from his loft_...
Chauvelin killed that thought, burying his fear with it, and tied
his system into the Game nets. Half a dozen Harmsways were
playing, but none of them was Ransome. Chauvelin swore again,
freed himself from the Game, and touched keys to set up a new
program. The communications system would access Ransome's loft
every half hour -- he hesitated, then changed the numbers, making
it every quarter hour -- until someone answered. _And that is all
I can do. I've done everything; now I have to wait_. It was not a
pleasant thought, and, after a moment, he flipped part of his
system back to the Game nets. If nothing else, he could distract
himself in their baroque conventions.
--------
         *Day 2*
         _Storm: Old Field Administration Building,_
_Newfields, on the Landing Isle by Dry Cut_
       Ransome waited in the narrow reception room, lit by the
long windows that ran like stripes from floor to ceiling and by
the thin blue glow of the secretary system. Beyond the windows he
could see the cliff face, and the cold grey-green sea beneath it,
the strands of foam bright against its choppy surface; he shivered
once, and turned his back on the hypnotic waters. The office was
on the north side of the building, away from the approaching
storm; as he'd come in, a horde of workers had been drawing


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (208 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

shutters across the southern windows. It was not like Arduinidi to
make him wait. _It just proves how hot I am -- if I weren't,
Selasa wouldn't make me wait here like this, while she decides if
she can afford to see me. Or_, he realized suddenly, _while she
finds out if I've been seen, coming here_. That was not a pleasant
thought, and he reached into his pocket to touch the datablock
that nestled there. It was not a good habit to get into and he
took his hand away, fingers tingling. _Maybe, just maybe I
should've quit after I talked to the factors at Bonduri Warehouse,
they told me enough to be able to tell Chauvelin what's going on_ -
- He put the thought aside as unprofitable. He was here; it was
too late to turn back.
       The secretary chirped discreetly on its pedestal, the blue
light strengthening slightly. The affected mechanical voice said,
"N'Arduinidi will see you now."
       In the same instant the inner door slid open, a soft chime
drawing his attention. Ransome rose to his feet, and stepped
through the doorway into Arduinidi's office. It was as if he had
stepped from Storm into High Summer, and he stood blinking for a
moment, disoriented. Light, the hot sunlight of full summer,
poured through the windows, falling from a clear and brassy sky; a
faint breeze stirred, bringing with it the smell of the summerweed
that choked the cliffs in warm weather and the acrid undertone of
the port. Very distantly, he could hear the slow slap of the waves
against the cliff face and the screech of metal from the port. It
was an illusion, of course -- holoimages inside the false frames
of the windows, carefully controlled ventilation and a scent
mixer, subtle sound effects -- but even knowing that, Ransome
found himself relaxing in the summer warmth.
       "It's very good," he said, and Arduinidi smiled at him from
behind her desk. She was a big woman, tall and broad-shouldered,
short hair further restrained by a band of metal disks. A single
wire fell from it, running down her forehead to the socket at the
corner of her left eye; her earrings were in the shape of an owl,
her on-line icon.
       "Thanks," she answered, but her tone was less than
enthusiastic. "You're a very chancy item right now, did you know
that?"
       Ransome managed a smile, did his best to hide the sudden
chill that ran up his spine. "I'd kind of gathered that, yes."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (209 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

       Arduinidi glanced down at her desktop. "You were followed
here, and there's talk just coming in about a disturbance at the
Bonduri Warehouse -- somebody beat up a factor, it looks like.
That wasn't you, was it?"
       Ransome shook his head. "Not my style." _Not my style at
all. It sounds like someone's getting desperate_.
       "But I'll bet it had something to do with you," Arduinidi
said.
       Ransome hesitated, but there was little point in lying to
her. Arduinidi was not only one of the better network security
consultants on planet, she was also one of the more reliable data
fences, and a superb netwalker in her own right. Nothing happened
on the nets that she didn't know about. "Something," he said
aloud. "More to do with Damian Chrestil."
       "I told you before," Arduinidi said. "I don't know anything
about it."
       _Meaning he's put the fear of Retribution into all of you_,
Ransome thought. "Selasa," he said, and managed to make his tone
faintly teasing. Arduinidi lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing. "I
know you," Ransome went on. "You're worse than I am about a
blocked access. It wouldn't be like you not to get into the port
feeds, especially after someone warned you off. I want that data."
       Arduinidi looked at him. "I'm not that stupid," she said.
"You may do this for fun, I-Jay, but half my business comes from
my reputation. Even if I had the information -- if -- I wouldn't
sell it. And doubly not to you."
       "I know what it is," Ransome said, "what it has to be. If I
tell you what you found, will you give me a yes or no?"
       Arduinidi shook her head. "No dice. How would you know
whether to believe me, anyway?"
       "Because, as you say, your reputation is your business."
Ransome looked at her, weighing his next words. His only choices
were money or a threat, and he would never have enough money to
make it worth her while. "I'm prepared to make sure that your
legitimate clients find out about your second job, Selasa. If it
comes to that."
       "You're fucking crazy," Arduinidi said.
       Ransome shook his head. "I want that data."
       "You push it, and I won't deal with you," Arduinidi said
flatly. "I'll make damn sure you don't walk my nets again, make


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (210 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

sure no one buys from you, make sure no one deals with you at all.
Do you really want to risk it?"
       _Stalemate_, Ransome thought, _because she can do it_. He
hid his despair, said, "Can you afford to risk word getting out
that you're the best data fence on planet?"
       Arduinidi sat silent, nothing moving on a face gone
suddenly like stone.
       "I'm willing to settle for a yes or no," Ransome said
again. "That's all I need, Selasa. That's all Chauvelin needs."
       "Hah." Arduinidi's mouth twisted, as though she'd tasted
something sour. "I should've guessed he'd be behind this." She
sighed. "All right. What is it you think you know?"
       Ransome took a deep breath, felt congestion drag at the
bottom of his lungs. _Not now_, he thought, and knew he should
have expected it. He put that fear aside, knowing he could wait a
little longer to breathe the Mist, said, "Damian Chrestil is
smuggling something -- Oblivion, I think -- into Hsaioi-An, to
receivers on Jericho and Highhopes, and he's doing it for ji-
Imbaoa and the rest of the je Tsinra-an, who have the receivers
for clients."
       Arduinidi paused for a moment, then, reluctantly, nodded.
"Yes. So far as the smuggling goes, that is. I don't deal in hsai
politics." She gave a short, humorless bark of laughter. "And it's
lachesi, not Oblivion."
       "What's the difference?" Ransome said.
       Arduinidi shook her head. "Lachesi is -- mostly -- legal,
it's just the spite laws that keep the Republic from exporting it
to Hsaioi-An. Oblivion is restricted. So Damian Chrestil stays on
the good side of general opinion, if not the law." There was a
sneaking note of admiration in her voice.
       "I see," Ransome said, and heard the same note in his own
voice. _And it would work, too: a lot of the Republican merchants
have been lobbying for years to dissolve the spite laws, and
wouldn't feel too bad seeing them broken_. "Thanks," he said, and
heard the congestion tightening his voice. "There's just one more
thing -- " He pointed to the datanode, eyebrows lifted in
question, and was not surprised when Arduinidi shook her head.
       "Not from my nodes. I've done a lot more than I like, I-
Jay, don't push it."
       Ransome nodded, gave her a rueful smile. "It was worth a


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (211 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

try."
       "I hope you think so tomorrow," Arduinidi said. Ransome
looked sharply at her, and she gave him her sweetest smile. "I'm
pissed at you, Ransome. Remember that."
       "I expect I'll be in no danger of forgetting," Ransome
said, and Arduinidi nodded.
       "I'd be careful, if I were you."
       "Thanks a lot," Ransome said. Behind him, the door slid
open; he turned and left the office, aware of her eyes on his back
the whole while. He paused for a second in the outer office,
glancing wistfully at the secretary pillar, but red lights glowed
all around the base of the data drives, warning him from trying to
make contact. He made a face, even though he'd expected it, and
the outer door swung open, ushering him out of the office.
       He made his way back through the hallways toward the main
stairs -- not the elevator today, not if Damian Chrestil's people
were feeling desperate enough to risk attacking a warehouse factor
in broad daylight; there was too much chance of being caught in a
closed space, with no room left to run. _Which really brings up
the next question_, he thought. _What do I do now?_ The main thing
now was to get the information, his own reconstruction of Damian
Chrestil's plan, to Chauvelin; once that was done, Chauvelin could
be counted on to deal with Damian Chrestil. It sounded simple
enough, and he paused in a corner to chord the last bit of
information, Arduinidi's confirmation, into his datablock. The
little machine chirped softly, confirming the record, and he
smiled wryly. However, contacting Chauvelin could prove difficult.
       He took the side stairs down to the second floor, paused on
the balcony to look down into the building's open lobby. As he'd
feared, a pair of men in docker's clothes were standing by the
main entrance; a woman whom he recognized as belonging to C/B Cie.
warehouse security was standing beside the main information kiosk,
one hand cupped loosely over the controls. He frowned, narrowed
his eyes, but couldn't see if she was using a tap. _All the more
reason to hurry_, he thought, and turned left, walking along the
short end of the building, staying close to the wall where he was
less likely to be seen from the lobby floor. There were no public
terminals here, and a quick scan of the directories showed no
names he knew. That left the general mail system, with its kiosks
on every floor at each corner of the building. He lengthened his


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (212 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

stride, found the nearest kiosk, luckily unoccupied. It was set
into a small alcove, partly screened by a sculpture of panels of
sequensa-covered fabric, and he began to hope that he might have
time to contact Chauvelin after all.
       He glanced over his shoulder, saw no one except a secretary
at the far end of the corridor, and quickly fed cash slips into
the system. This was no time to use his money cards: it would be
like shouting his presence to everyone who might be watching. He
had just enough; the system lit and windowed, and he slid the
datablock out of his pocket. The jacks and cords were standard,
and he plugged the thin wire into the mail system's receivers. It
wasn't perfect -- for one thing, he had far less control over who
would ultimately receive the information than he would if he were
able to use the regular networks -- but it would have to do. He
touched the codes that would connect him with the ambassador's
house, and the system flashed back at him: CONNECTION NOT
POSSIBLE, PLEASE TRY AGAIN.
       "Fuck it." Ransome stared for a fraction of a second at the
little screen, hit the codes again. The screen went blank, and
then the same message flickered into view. He'd been suckered: the
woman at the main kiosk wasn't bothering to tap the mail system;
instead, she was interrupting it, blocking any transmission that
he tried to make, and she was bound to be tracing his location at
the same time. He stared at the screen, feeling the seconds slip
away. It was too late to get away, his own mistake had seen to
that; the only thing he could hope for was to dump the information
somewhere where Chauvelin could find it. Maybe his home systems,
if he couldn't reach Chauvelin himself in time. He killed that
sense of panic, forcing himself to think clearly, dredged the
emergency codes out of his memory. He had bartered for them almost
two weeks ago, eons on the nets, but they were Lockwardens' codes,
and the Lockwardens were notoriously conservative. He typed them
in, making himself work carefully: he would only get one chance,
if that. The screen went blank again, then lit, presented him with
an open channel. He suppressed a cheer, and hit the codes that
would dump the entire contents of the datablock to a holding node,
one of a thousand secure datastores that laced the nets. The block
whined softly to itself, the seconds ticking past, and then the
screen cleared. He started to type a mailcode, allowing the
datastore itself to transfer the information to Chauvelin, but


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (213 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

heard footsteps on the stone floor behind him. _Too late_. He
touched a second series of illegal codes, saw the screen fill with
trash, effectively destroying his trail. Lights flickered across
the datablock, warning him that its contents had been permanently
erased. He sighed, and heard a woman's voice behind him.
       "Na Ransome."
       He turned slowly, not wanting to provoke anything, and
found himself facing a wiry woman -- not the one who had been
working at the kiosk in the lobby. She had a palmgun out and
ready, half hidden by her hand and body, invisible to anyone
working in the offices along the corridor. A much bigger man stood
just behind and to her left, screening her still further from the
offices. He wore a bulky coat that could hide a dozen weapons.
Ransome looked to his own left in spite of himself, in spite of
knowing better, and saw another pair -- dockers, this time --
moving toward him along the cross corridor.
       "Someone wants to talk to you," the woman went on, her
voice low and even.
       "Someone like Damian Chrestil?" Ransome asked, but she
didn't flinch.
       "Someone." She beckoned to him with her free hand, the
palmgun still leveled. "Someone who prefers to keep this tidy. If
you'll step this way."
       Ransome hesitated, but there was no real choice. _I'm too
old -- and not sick enough yet -- for a suicide leap, and I was
never good at fighting_. He spread his hands, showing empty palms,
and stepped carefully away from the mail kiosk.
       "Search him," the woman said to one of the dockers, and
Ransome submitted to the rough and efficient search. She stepped
past him then, unplugged the datablock, and stood studying the
kiosk screen for a moment. Ransome saw her frown over the hash of
random characters and touch a few keycodes before she shook her
head and pocketed the datablock. _At least she wasn't able to
trace the destination codes_, he thought, and felt a flicker of
hope revive.
       "Nothing here," the docker said, and she nodded.
       "I hope you'll come quietly, Na Ransome."
       "I'm not stupid," Ransome answered. _This is how the game
is played; you cut your losses and hope for your connections to
save you. Please God, Chauvelin will try to contact me, will sort


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (214 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

through the net stores when he can't_ -- He pushed that thought
aside, pushing away panic with it. But this had happened before;
he'd done his best, and sacrificed himself, and ended up
abandoned. _That was Bettis Chrestil, twenty years ago. Chauvelin
is different. I can rely on him. I have to rely on him_. The fear
was a taste of metal in his throat.
       "Walk with him," the woman said to the big man, who nodded
unsmiling and took Ransome's arm. Ransome felt the muzzle of a
palmgun touch his side briefly, felt the plastic warm against the
inside of his elbow. The big man had a grip like iron; there was
no hope of pulling free. _All I can do now is wait_, Ransome
thought, and let them walk him slowly down the stairs and across
the lobby. No one looked twice at them, and a part of Ransome's
mind had to admire their efficiency.
       "I hope Damian Chrestil pays you what you're worth," he
said, experimentally, and the big man's hand closed painfully on
his arm, grinding the palmgun into his elbow.
       "Do stay quiet," the woman said, conversationally, and
turned her head to murmur something into a hand-held com-unit. As
they passed through the main doors, a heavy passenger carrier, its
rear pod sealed tight, windows darkened, pulled up in front of
them. The door of the sealed compartment sighed open, and the
woman said, "In there, please."
       There was no point in a struggle, and no chance even if
he'd wanted to. The big man leaned into him, putting him off
balance, and as Ransome stumbled, the woman tripped him neatly, so
that he practically fell into the darkened pod. He righted himself
instantly, steadying himself with both hands against the padded
seats, but the big man pushed in after him, palmgun now displayed,
forcing him back against the pod's wall. The door closed behind
the big man almost as soon as he'd cleared the frame, and the
carrier slid away from the curb.
       Ransome leaned back against the cushions, knowing better
than to move too quickly. The big man settled himself opposite
him, moving with the rocking of the carrier, sat comfortably, with
the palmgun resting on his knee. Ransome eyed it for a moment, but
knew better than to think of attack. He could hear the rasp of his
breathing even over the purr of the carrier's motor, felt the
familiar pain tugging at his lungs. "Hey," he said, and his voice
cracked even on the single word. He made a face, hating the


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (215 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

weakness, hating to have to ask, said again, "Hey. I need to take
some medicine. It's in my pocket."
       The big man looked at him for a long moment, his face
utterly without expression. "All right," he said at last. "Which
pocket?"
       "Jacket. Left-hand side."
       "Go ahead."
       Ransome reached for the cylinder of Mist, making himself
move at half the speed he wanted, slid the squat cylinder from his
pocket, and started to hold it up even with the big man's eyes.
The man leaned forward instantly, caught Ransome's wrist before he
could finish the movement.
       "Don't make trouble."
       Ransome shook his head, did his best to suppress the cough
that threatened to choke him. The big man eyed him warily, then
released him, leaned back against his cushion. Ransome unfolded
the mask, set it against his mouth and nose, and touched the
trigger. The cold mist enfolded him, drove away even the fear for
a brief second; he leaned back, eyes closed, and let the drug fill
his lungs. He'd betrayed another weakness, he knew, something that
they could use against him, and for a moment the fear rose with
the thick mucus to choke him. He made himself breathe slowly,
until the worst of the fear passed and he was left with the
lethargy of the drug. He let himself fall into it, repeating his
thoughts like a mantra. He would wait: there was nothing else he
could do, and the situation might change. And in the meantime, he
would wait.
--------
         *Day 2*
         _Storm: Betani Square, Roche'Ambroise_
       Lioe made her way through the fringes of the crowd that
filled one end of Betani Square, pressed as close as possible to
the stage where the puppeteers would be performing. It was less
crowded by the fountain, but not by much; a dozen or more children
in varying degrees of costume were playing on the edges of the
three-lobed basin, and several more were splashing in the shallow
water, parents -- or at least parental-looking figures -- watching
from the sidelines. There was no sign of Roscha. Lioe scowled --
_I knew she wouldn't be able to get away_ -- but walked around the
fountain's edge until she was certain the other woman had not


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (216 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

arrived. She looked sideways, poising the chronometer's numbers
against one of the bands of darker stone that crisscrossed the
square's paving, dividing it into diamonds. There were still a few
minutes until the show was supposed to start. She sighed, and
resigned herself to wait.
       A line of bollards marked the square's legal limits, twenty
or thirty of the low mushroom shapes running along a line of dark
paving that seemed to mark the top of the short flight of stairs
that led down to the canal. A handful of people were sitting
there, mostly in ones and twos, some staring toward the distant
stage, more looking out toward the water or toward the smaller
canal that formed part of the square's southern edge. Lioe glanced
around again, and seated herself on the bollard nearest the
fountain. She could see well enough, could see all the likely
approaches, from the waterbus stops on the canals or from the
nearest helipad, and at least she could be relatively comfortable.
_Besides, I don't think she's coming_.
       Lioe tugged her jacket closed against the wind. It wasn't
cold, but it had picked up even in the half hour since she'd left
Ransome's loft, was blowing steadily now, from the south and east.
The air smelled odd, of salt and thunder, and the children's
shouts fell flat in the heavy air. She glanced over her shoulder
toward the mouth of the Inland Water, saw only the housetops on
the far side of the canal. The last forecast she had seen had
predicted the storm would strike around midnight, and she looked
around again for a street broker. To her surprise -- the brokers
had seemed to be everywhere for a while -- there were none of the
bright red-and-white umbrellas in sight.
       Music sounded from under the stage, distorted by distance
and wind and the thick air. Lioe rose to her feet with the others,
and saw the first of the puppets move out onto the platform. It
was a massive construct, maybe two and a half meters tall, and
nearly as broad; fans unfurled from what should have been the
shoulders, and a crest of bronze feathers rose from the stylized
head. More of the feathers appeared below the fans, and wings
parted to reveal several small, white-painted faces. They were set
slightly askew, Lioe saw, and jagged cracks ran down their
centers, detouring around the long noses. As she watched, the
first of them split open, revealing an animal shape too small to
recognize. Intrigued, Lioe moved toward the platform, circling


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (217 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

south toward the smaller canal, where the crowd was thinner, to
try to get a better view. It was a bird, or something with
delicate, arching wings and a glittering, peacock-blue body. She
edged farther into the crowd as the second face split, revealing
what seemed to be a model of the local solar system, and the
entire assemblage leaned sideways, elevating the fans and turning
the feathered crest into an almost architectural arch. There was a
person inside that structure, Lioe realized suddenly, a single
human being at the center of the spines and wings and the
delicately made creatures; each precisely controlled movement set
changes flowing through the puppet's outer layers. But what did it
mean? It was not like any puppet she'd ever seen, or even
imagined, and she stood staring, trying to puzzle out a story,
some purpose, from the complex metamorphosis.
       "Na Lioe?"
       The voice was unfamiliar, but polite. She turned to face a
thin, plainly dressed man with a plain, unmemorable face.
       "It is Na Lioe, isn't it?"
       Lioe nodded. "Yes." She kept her voice and face
discouraging, but the man nodded anyway.
       "I thought it must be you. Roscha said you'd be here. She
asked me to tell you, she's running late." He gestured toward the
street that led away from the square, running along the edge of
the smaller canal. "She said she'd meet you at the Mad Monkey,
instead of here."
       Lioe glanced down the street -- the sign was there, all
right, a grinning, contorted holoimage dancing above a doorway at
the far end of the street, where the canal turned left, away from
the street itself -- and looked back at the stranger. He was
dressed like a docker, all right -- dressed much like Roscha
herself, for that matter, dockers' trousers and a plain vest under
a loose, unbelted jacket. "When?"
       The man shrugged, looked sideways as though to call up his
chronometer. "She said she'd be there at fifteen-thirty -- by the
sixteenth hour at the latest."
       Lioe glanced sideways herself, saw the numbers flash into
existence against the dark paving: _almost sixteen hundred
already_. "Thanks a lot," she said, and the man nodded.
       "No problem." He turned away, already looking for a better
vantage point among the crowd.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (218 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

       Lioe watched him go, wondering just who he was. He looked
vaguely familiar -- _maybe someone from Shadows_, she thought, and
looked back at the stage. The puppet seemed to be melting into the
platform, dozens of indistinguishable little mechanisms churning
frantically around its edges. The operator was doing the splits
within the confining mechanism. The crowd murmured, sounding both
awed and approving. _I must have missed something_, Lioe thought.
_I don't understand at all_. She looked again toward the Mad
Monkey, wondering if Roscha was there yet, and if she could get
food and/or drink. The sign looked like a bar's, the monkey
dancing in the air, very bright in the shadowed street. _And even
if it isn't, it might be more fun than watching the puppets.
Mechanical perfection palls after a few minutes, in my opinion_.
She eased her way out of the crowd, and started down the narrow
street.
       She had not traveled more than a dozen meters before she
realized that she was being followed by a nondescript man who
looked like another docker. She glanced back, wondering if she
could turn back toward the square, slip between the back of the
stage platform and the storefronts that defined the square, and
saw a second person detach himself from the knot of people beside
the curtain that screened the back of the stage, effectively
cutting off her escape. She swore under her breath, wishing that
she were armed -- wishing that she'd carried even a pilot's tool-
knife -- and with an effort kept herself from looking around
wildly. They were between her and the fringes of the crowd; she
could shout, but none of the people watching the puppet show could
reach her before the two men did. _I'll pretend I haven't seen
them_, she decided, _keep walking and hope I can get to the Monkey
before them -- if that's safe. The man who said he was from
Roscha, he must've been one of them, set this up_... She shoved
her hand into her pocket, closed her fist over thin air so that it
made what she hoped would look like a dangerous bulge, and kept
walking. _I'll try the Mad Monkey, and then the cross street, and
if it comes to it, I'm not carrying much cash and it's not a good
place for rape_ --
       A third man stepped out of a doorway ahead of her, hands
deep in the pockets of his jacket. Lioe stopped, took an
instinctive step sideways and back, toward the edge of the canal.
       "Na Lioe," the third man said. "There's someone who wants


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (219 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

to see you."
       "Like hell," Lioe answered. She drew breath to scream, and
the man freed his hand from his jacket, displayed a palmgun.
       "Yell and I'll shoot."
       Lioe released her breath cautiously, glanced back toward
the square. Sure enough, the two strangers -- and a third, the man
who had spoken to her about Roscha -- were coming toward her,
blocking her escape in that direction. She took another step
toward the canal, turning so that she could see all of them. "What
do you want?"
       "There's someone who wants to talk to you," the leader said
again. "If you come quietly, no one will get hurt."
       Lioe took another slow step backward, toward the canal
edge, so that she stood barely half a meter from the bank. She
could swim, that had been bullied into her in Foster Services, but
the current was fast, and the far bank was not distant enough to
offer an escape. "Not likely," she said aloud, fighting for time.
"Come any closer, and I'll scream -- and if you shoot me, nobody's
going to be talking to me."
       There was a little silence, and a quick exchange of
glances, and then the leader raised his palmgun. "Last chance.
Come quietly, or I will shoot."
       _Shit_. Lioe froze for a second, frantically weighing her
options. If she screamed, the leader would shoot -- she had no
doubt about it, and at this distance, he could hardly miss. He was
too far away to try to jump him, get the gun away from him, and
even if he weren't, there were the others to consider -- probably
armed, too. That left the canal, her only -- and not very good --
choice. _Unless I want to go with them_. She rejected that thought
even before it was fully formed. _I don't even know why they want
me, who this mysterious someone could be -- unless this is
Ransome's doing, his weird intrigue rebounding on me?_ She pushed
that thought aside as irrelevant, said carefully, "Wait a minute,
now."
       The leader relaxed slightly, the palmgun's muzzle wavering
just a little. It was all the chance she was going to get. Lioe
flung herself blindly backward, into the canal's murky water.
Fleetingly she heard one of the men shout, and she hit the water
hard, shoulder and hip, throwing a great plume of spray. She
righted herself under the cold surface, risked opening her eyes


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (220 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

for just an instant. The water, salt and oil and chemicals, stung
miserably, but she saw light above her, and oriented herself
against it. The current was strong, as she'd hoped and feared, and
she let it take her, sweeping her down toward the junction where
the canal turned south, away from the street. Already her lungs
hurt her; she let out a little of her air, exerting herself only
to keep herself parallel with the surface, and risked another
glance into the dirty water. The surface glimmered just above her,
tempting her with air and light, but she made herself stay down,
trying to put a meter or so of water between her and the palmgun's
projectiles. She let out a little more air, darkness gathering at
the edge of her vision, and could hold her breath no longer.
Gasping, she broke the surface, flinging her hair out of her eyes,
and heard the flat crack of the palmgun from the nearer bank.
Someone shouted, but she dove again, striking out strongly across
the canal. The current clutched at her, rolling her sideways and
down, then back in toward the canal bank. She floundered in
momentary panic, eyes opening in spite of the pain, and clawed her
way back to the surface. She was at the corner, where the canal
narrowed and the water ran the fastest, rolling and folding over
itself. She forgot about the gunmen in her struggle to free
herself from the current's pull. For a terrified moment she
thought she'd failed, that she would be pulled under and drowned,
and then the water flung her with bruising force against the first
of a set of pilings. She cried out in spite of herself, choked on
a mouthful of the salty water, and struck the pilings again. This
time, she grabbed for them, her hands sliding in the slimy mess of
waterweeds, and then she worked her fingers into the dripping mat
and clung, head above water, the current still dragging at her
clothes and body. Her face burned where she had struck the piling,
pain like long lines of fire running from cheek to jaw, and the
corner of her mouth stung painfully. Her shoulder hurt, too -- _it
was the same shoulder each time_, she thought, with a crazy
feeling of injustice. She'd fallen hard on her left shoulder when
she went into the canal, and now it was her left shoulder that had
hit the piling. She caught her breath, flailed her feet against
the piling until she found something -- it felt like a metal band,
or an old mooring ring -- and braced herself against it. It had
all happened so fast, she hadn't had time to kick off her shoes.
       She looked back down the canalside, saw the four men


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (221 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

huddled together, staring along the canal in her direction. She
froze for a second, new fear shooting through her, and realized
that they couldn't see her after all. The bend in the bank
protected her, at least a little bit, and at this distance she
would be no more than a dark dot against the dark water. That was
reassuring; she tightened her grip on the piling, and began to
look for a way out of the water. This was a one-bank canal, with a
single pedestrian embankment on the opposite side. Above her
stretched blank formestone walls, banded with darker blocks of
stone; the nearest window was a good ten meters above her head.
The current swept past her, tugging her body away from the piling:
_not a place to try and swim_, she thought, and turned her
attention to the wall. The pilings stretched the length of the
house row, and there seemed to be a break in the walls beyond
that. _Maybe if I can work my way down to that break, I can just
climb out_, Lioe thought, _or even just get out of the worst of
the current, and swim to the embankment. If it weren't for the
current, I could do it, no problem_.
       She looked back down the canal, ready to duck out of sight
if the would-be kidnappers were looking in her direction, but they
were standing close together, one of them with his hand cupped to
his head as though he held a portable com-unit. They seemed to be
distracted, or as distracted as they were likely to get, looking
back toward the stage. Lioe leaned out cautiously into the
current, reached for the coat of waterweed that fringed the next
piling. There wasn't much above the water, and she leaned out a
little farther, reaching beneath the surface to grope for the
matted weeds. She found them, dug her hand into the slimy surface,
the individual strands slipping slack between her fingers. They
were covered with a gelatinous coating that made her shiver even
as she tightened her grip, pulling back as hard as she could. The
weeds stayed fast to the piling. She took a deep breath and
released her grip on the first piling, reaching for the second,
letting the current toss her against it. She tightened her hold,
breathing hard, ignored the new pain where her knee had scraped
the formestone wall, and reached for the next piling to try again.
       She inched her way down the canal wall, groping from piling
to piling, her hands slimed and green from clutching the weeds.
Their air sacs burst and oozed a sticky ichor, staining her hands
despite the running water; her face burned where the salt hit the


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (222 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

cuts, and her waterlogged clothes dragged heavy on her limbs. She
hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should finally get rid of
her shoes, but she would have to walk once she made the bank, and
she was getting close to the open space between the buildings. She
started to smile, but winced as the expression jarred her scraped
face, and reached for the next piling. She grasped the ring of
waterweed -- it seemed thinner than the others, but solidly
attached -- and let go. The waterweed came away in her hand as the
current caught her, whirling her away from the bank. She flailed
for a moment in panic, then got herself under control. The current
was not as strong here on the straight of the canal. She brought
herself abreast of it, angled in slowly toward the bank.
       The space she had been aiming for turned out to be one of
the tiny canalside parks, neatly paved, with low umbrella-shaped
trees growing in tubs and a wide strip of open ground filled with
extravagant white flowers. There was a gonda landing as well,
three steps leading up out of the water, and a mooring ring on the
wall, and Lioe clung to that for a moment, grateful to feel solid
land under her feet, before she dragged herself up onto the bank.
       A woman was sitting under the nearest umbrella-tree, on the
edge of the tub, a paper parcel open beside her, the remains of a
meat pie strewn on the ground for the local cats. Her head came up
sharply as Lioe staggered up onto the bank, and Lioe hastily
lifted her hands to show them empty of weapons.
       "It's all right, I'm not going to hurt you. Somebody tried
to mug me."
       The woman swallowed whatever she was going to say, swept
the last crumbs off her lap. She was a big woman, tall and heavy-
set, dressed in the dark robe that belonged to the Four Judges.
Lioe saw the tall headdress and mask of the Prospering Judge set
aside on the tub's edge beside her. "Are you hurt?" the woman
asked, and came forward briskly.
       Lioe shook her head, was suddenly grateful for the other's
steadying arm. "Not really, just cuts and bruises." She looked
down, saw her knee raw and scraped through the ripped trousers. "I
went into the canal, back toward Betani Square."
       "Jesus," the woman said. "The current's murder there. You
were lucky." She shifted her grip, taking more of Lioe's weight,
said firmly, "Come on. You'll want to talk to the Lockwardens."
       "Lockwardens?" Lioe echoed, and then remembered. They were


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (223 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

the local police, responsible for the locks and storm barriers as
well as the usual laws.
       "Our police," the woman answered. "You're an off-worlder,
then?"
       Lioe nodded.
       "The bastards will pick on strangers," the woman said, with
a kind of dour satisfaction. "Come on, it's not far."
       Lioe let the stranger half lead, half carry her across the
courtyard, suddenly too tired, too drained to care if she were
part of the group. The woman paused by her tree, stooped with
surprising grace to collect her mask, and Lioe realized with a
sudden pang that she had lost the mask Gelsomina had given her. It
was a strange thing to bother her, but her eyes filled with tears,
and she stood shivering for a moment, mouth trembling painfully.
       "Easy now," the big woman said. "Not far."
       The nearest Lockwardens' station wasn't far, barely forty
meters along a narrow side street. It occupied the corner of one
of the larger buildings, and all its windows blazed with light.
The door stood open, men and women in uniforms that Lioe didn't
recognize hurrying in and out, clutching workboards and datablocks
and even sheafs of paper. Someone exclaimed, seeing their
approach, but Lioe was too tired and too cold to care. She let
herself be led into the station, and then into a side room, unable
to focus on the questioning voices that surrounded her. Someone
eased her into a chair -- a warm, well-padded chair -- and then
wrapped her hands around something warm, held it to her lips. She
sipped obediently, and recognized the flat, bitter taste of
antishock drugs beneath the sweet tea. In the distance, she heard
the soft chirping of a medical scanner, and looked up in
confusion.
       "Finish the tea," a new voice said, and she did as she was
told. Someone else -- she was aware of him only as a pair of long-
fingered, rather beautiful hands -- wrapped the edges of a heated
cocoon blanket closed around her. She had been sitting in it, she
realized, and she huddled into its stiff embrace, letting its
creeping warmth seep into her, drying her clothes. The tea was
starting to work; she looked up, feeling more alert than she had
before, and saw a spare, grey-haired woman sitting on the edge of
a table opposite her. She herself was sitting in the only chair.
       Even as she realized that, a male voice said, "Let me take


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (224 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

a look at your face."
       She turned her head obediently, winced as the long fingers
probed the cuts on her cheek and jaw. The man -- he wore a medic's
snake-and-staff earring -- winced in sympathy, and reached for the
supply box that lay open at his feet.
       "Close your eyes," he said, and laid a delicate mist of
disinfectant over the entire side of her face. The stuff stung for
a moment, and then a sensation of coolness seemed to spread across
her jaw. She felt an applicator dab quickly at each of the cuts --
it hurt, but remotely, the pain reaching her from a distance --
and then the medic said, "All right, you can look now."
       Lioe opened her eyes, to see that the woman was still
staring at her. Lioe's identification disks and the contents of
her belt purse were spread out on the tabletop beside her.
       "So, can you tell me what happened, Na Lioe?" The hard-
boned face was not unfriendly, but Lioe found herself choosing her
words with care.
       "A bunch of guys tried to kidnap me, pulled a gun on me --
this was on the little street that runs away from Betani Square,
where the Mad Monkey is. I ended up jumping into the canal to
escape, and I got kind of banged up."
       "Kidnap?" The woman's voice sharpened. "The woman who
brought you in said you'd been mugged. Why would someone want to
kidnap you?"
       "Because -- " Lioe stopped abruptly. _I'm not fully sure
why, but it's bound to have something to do with Ransome, and
Damian Chrestil and the cargo that I helped bring in, and the
hsai, or at least hsai politics. And even if I did know what was
going on, I don't know how much I can afford to tell you:
Ransome's in this up to his neck, and he's a Burning Brighter
working for the hsai_. She shrugged, feeling more bruises on her
arm and shoulder. "I don't know. It was what they said -- "
       "Why don't you tell me about this from the beginning?" the
woman said, not ungently. "My name's Telanin. I'm the chief of the
station." She looked at the medic, who nodded.
       "Let me just get you another cup of tea," he said. "And
then I want to look at your knee."
       "Thanks," Lioe said. Her clothes were drying nicely in the
cocoon's steady warmth; only her shoes stayed cold, squishing
slightly when she moved her toes, and she loosened the cocoon's


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (225 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

lower edges to kick them off. She took the mug the medic held out
to her, sipped cautiously, and wasn't surprised to taste more of
the bitter restoratives beneath the minty tea. It wasn't as sweet
as the first mug. The medic set her shoes aside to dry under the
orange-red glow of a drying rack, and pulled the cocoon aside to
begin working on her leg.
       "About what happened?" Telanin said, and Lioe dragged her
attention back to the other woman.
       "Sorry." She pulled the cocoon closer around her body,
buying time. "I was supposed to meet someone in Betani Square to
watch the puppet show, but she didn't show up. She had to work
this morning; I had a feeling she wouldn't be able to make it. So
I stayed to watch the show anyway, and this man came up to me,
said he had a message from Roscha -- that's the woman I was
supposed to meet. He said she wanted to meet me at the place
called the Mad Monkey, and went off. I waited a little bit, but I
was getting bored with the show, so I decided to see if she was
there, at the Monkey, I mean. A couple of guys followed me away
from the square, and there was a third man waiting in the street --
he was the one with a gun." _And he said "someone" wanted to talk
to me. But if I mention that, she'll want to know why this
mysterious someone would go to this much trouble over me_.
       "Did any of them say anything, say what they wanted?"
Telanin asked. Her hand was resting on the control pad of an
ordinary-looking noteblock, Lioe saw, and she chose her words very
carefully.
       "Something about coming quietly, I think. It happened
pretty quickly."
       Telanin's fingers shifted almost imperceptibly, recording
the answer. "So they didn't say anything else, nothing about
kidnapping?"
       Lioe shook her head, contrived to look sheepish. "I guess I
overstated it."
       Telanin nodded. "What about this woman you were meeting,
this Roscha? Did you see her?"
       Lioe shook her head again.
       "How well do you know her -- what's her full name?"
       "Jafiera Roscha." Lioe paused. "We met at one of the Game
clubs, Shadows, a couple of days ago. I'm only on planet for few
days while my ship is in for repairs, but I'm a Gamer, and I've


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (226 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

been spending my time in the clubs."
       "So you don't know her well?" Telanin persisted.
       "She's a Gamer," Lioe said again, and was suddenly aware of
how ridiculous she must sound. _We've played together, I've seen
her play my characters -- yes, I know her very well, and not at
all. About like I know Ransome_. She shrugged, helplessly, and the
other woman nodded.
       "Jafiera Roscha's known to us, though she's never been
involved in the bash-and-grab gangs. But it's worth checking out,
see if she set you up. She hasn't been asking you about your
movements, whether you carry cash, anything like that, has she?"
       Lioe shook her head.
       Telanin nodded again. "We'll check her out, though. It
seems odd they'd use her name, otherwise. How many people knew you
were meeting Roscha today?"
       "I don't know," Lioe said. "We talked about it in the club
last night. We weren't making any secret of it, so probably a lot
of people heard."
       "Probably." Telanin gave a rather sour smile. "Look, I have
to say I don't think this was a kidnap attempt. I hate to admit
it, but this kind of bash-and-grab isn't uncommon during Carnival,
especially when off-worlders are involved. A couple of canalli
manage to lure a stranger into a dark alley, demand money and
movables at gunpoint, and run. We'll check it out, see if Roscha's
involved, and I'll ask you to look at our files, see if you can
pick anyone out of the visual database -- " She smiled again, more
genuinely this time. "It's set up a lot like the _Face/Body_
books. You shouldn't have any trouble finding them if they're in
there. But I don't know how much chance we have of finding them.
You were lucky."
       There was a little murmur of agreement from the medic, who
had finished spreading a film of selfheal over the cuts on her
knee. "Lucky twice," he said aloud. "The current's dangerous at
that corner."
       Telanin nodded in agreement. "We'll do what we can," she
said again, "but with this storm coming in, frankly, we've got to
concentrate on that. Our investigation won't get started properly
until it's past, and by then, the trails will be pretty cold."
       "I understand," Lioe said. "Hell, I wouldn't mind seeing
these guys in jail, but, as you say, I was lucky. They didn't get


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (227 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

anything, and I'm not hurt." She managed a quick grin. "I don't
want to push my luck."
       Telanin smiled back, and Lioe thought she looked faintly
relieved. "I'll have you look through our database, then, and sign
a complaint, and then I'll have one of my people fly you back to
your hostel. Are you up in the Ghetto?"
       "Yes," Lioe said, "but that's not necessary -- "
       Telanin held up a hand, cutting off any further protest.
"Just in case I'm wrong, and your first feeling was right," she
said. "Besides, a lot of the helicab companies are going to be
shutting down soon, and you don't want to be taking the buses. Not
the way you're going to be feeling."
       "I'm all right," Lioe said, but it was only a token
protest. She freed herself from the cocoon. Her clothes were all
but dry, only a few damp spots remaining, but she was faintly
sorry to give up the warm embrace. She followed Telanin out of the
little room, the medic close on her heels. The public parts of the
station were crowded and noisy, half a dozen men and women leaning
over a single console and its harried operator, another group
clustered around a display table. Lioe couldn't see all of the
image that floated above the polished surface, but she could see
enough to guess that it was a model of the neighborhood. Telanin
touched her arm, turning her over to another woman, this one
darkly elegant even in the Lockwardens' bulky uniform, and Lioe
let herself be led away to the database.
       She looked through the files under the dark woman's
tutelage, and, as she had expected, found nothing. About halfway
through, a young man appeared with the complaint form. Lioe
skimmed through it -- she was mildly surprised to see that it was
real paper, not a noteboard and disk -- and signed her name in the
necessary places. When she had finished, she followed the dark
woman back again through the chaos of the main rooms and out onto
the helipad, where a helicab stood waiting, the Lockwardens'
markings muted. She looked back once, from the doorway, to see
Telanin staring down at the tabletop display. By chance, one of
the Lockwardens stepped aside, so that for a brief moment Lioe saw
the full display. As she'd guessed, it was a model of the area
around the station, but that neighborhood transformed by water and
fire. Then another Lockwarden moved in front of her, blocking her
view. Lioe shivered -- _if that's what could happen, I'll be glad


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (228 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

to be on high ground_ -- and climbed meekly into the helicab. The
pilot nodded a sympathetic greeting, and the cab rose easily into
the unsettled air.
--------
         *Day 2*
         _Storm: C/B Cie. Offices, Isard's Wharf,_
_Channel 9, Junction Pool 4_
       Damian Chrestil sat in the serene gold-tinged light of his
office, the plans for a new long-haul carrier floating in the
desktop screens in front of him. It was an elegant design, with
ample cargo space, but surprisingly narrow-beamed, so that it
would be half again as efficient as the larger long-haul craft in
the current fleet. Even so, he had trouble forcing himself to
concentrate, to keep his mind on the minutely detailed
calculations sketched in the margins. Ivie -- or at least his
people -- were somewhere out there, searching for Ransome and
Lioe. _I should be hearing something soon_, he thought, and made
himself look down again at the model that hung in the illusory
space within the desktop, rotating slowly in response to a command
he did not remember giving. He touched another key to stop it,
called up the specifications for the power plant, and stared at
the numbers for a long moment without really seeing them.
Something -- sand or gravel, it sounded like -- rattled against
the wall of the office, carried by the rising wind.
       _Enough of this_, he thought, and touched keys to banish
the gleaming images. They disappeared in a flurry of shutdown
codes. He pushed himself away from the desk, and walked past the
twin secretaries into the darkened warehouse. The large doors were
shut, of course, but the side door was wedged open, letting in the
rush and the smell of the wind. The door itself vibrated against
its clips, jumping a little as each gust hit it. _Another two or
three hours_, Damian thought, and stepped out onto the wharf.
       The activity was less frantic than it had been earlier: the
barges and john-boats lay close to the docks, their heaviest
fenders in place and double lines securing them to the piers.
Damian nodded his approval, glanced up to see the power line that
ran from the warehouse to the plotting shed swinging wildly in the
wind. _Better see to that before it comes down on its own_, he
thought, and looked around for the nearest docker. A blocky woman
was crouched between bollards on the deck of the closest barge,


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (229 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

tapline attached to a test node, workboard on her lap, and Damian
lifted his hand to get her attention.
       "Where's Rosaurin?" he shouted, raising his voice to be
heard over the wind.
       "I don't know, Na Damian," the woman called back. "In the
shed, maybe?"
       Damian waved in answer, turned away.
       "Na Damian!" That was Rosaurin's voice, coming from the
head of the dock, beyond the plotting shed. Damian waved to get
her attention.
       "Over here!"
       Rosaurin came to join him, the wind whipping her short hair
and flinging the skirts of her coat wildly so that they seemed in
danger of tripping her. A smaller figure was visible behind her, a
tiny woman in loose trousers and a fitted coat, posed so
unobtrusively that for a moment he didn't recognize her. "It's
that hsaia, Na Damian -- I'm sorry, the Visiting Speaker. He's
here, and he insists you promised him a tour of the facilities."
       _Ji-Imbaoa. What would he be doing here, except to bring me
the codes? And Cella, too_. Damian Chrestil suppressed his
excitement and said, with what he hoped was convincing asperity,
"And at a time like this. Tell him -- I'll see him in my office,
you can bring him in there." Rosaurin looked warily at him, and
Damian smiled. "Don't worry, there won't be any tours. I'll deal
with him. And secure that cable, will you?"
       "Right, Na Damian. I'll bring him to your office."
       Rosaurin turned away, balancing herself against the
unsteady wind, made her way back down the wharf. Damian followed
her, more slowly, doing his best to hide his elation. There was no
other reason for ji-Imbaoa to visit the Junction Pool docks, no
reason except that he'd finally gotten the codes, and if he had,
and Ransome was off-line, held in the summer house, there would be
no one who could stop the transfer. Except -- maybe -- Lioe, and
she was being dealt with, too. He smiled then, unable to stop
himself, and Cella smiled back at him.
       "He came to the palazze," she said. "He said it was
important, so I brought him here. Your sibs don't know he was
there." She paused then, still smiling. "Do you want me to wait
with him?"
       Damian nodded, knowing he did not need to wait for an


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (230 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:12 AM]
======================

answer. He ducked through the clamped-open door into the shadows
of the warehouse, and stepped back into his office. He glanced
quickly at his reflection -- his hair was a mess, blown out of its
ties by even that short an exposure to the wind, and he tidied it
hurriedly -- and then settled himself behind the desk. He lit the
screens, calling up the plans he had been studying, and leaned
back in his chair to wait, struggling to keep himself from
grinning like a fool.
       "Na Damian," the secretary said, after what seemed to be an
interminable wait. "You have a visitor. The Visiting Speaker
Kuguee ji-Imbaoa. And Na Cella." The expensive voice module did a
fairly good job with the alien name.
       "Show them in," Damian said, and this time couldn't keep
the satisfaction out of his voice.
       He rose to his feet as the Visiting Speaker entered,
gesturing for him to take the guest's chair beneath the painted
triptych. "Welcome, Na Speaker, it's good to see you again."
       Ji-Imbaoa waved a hand, waving away the need for formality,
and Damian did his best to swallow his excitement.
       "Your woman was good enough to bring me here. Time is of
the essence now," the Visiting Speaker said. "We can neither of us
afford to waste any more time."
       In the background, Cella lifted one precise eyebrow, and
said nothing.
       "I've not been wasting time," Damian said.
       Ji-Imbaoa waved away the comment. "No matter."
       "No," Damian Chrestil said. "It does matter." It was a
risk, pushing him at this point, but he could not afford to let ji-
Imbaoa treat him like an employee. "I have been ready to fulfill
my part of the bargain. The delays come from your end."
       There was a little silence, ji-Imbaoa's hands closing
slowly on the arms of his chair. Damian waited, and, as slowly,
the hsaia's hands relaxed.
       "It is so," ji-Imbaoa said. "However, that delay has ended.
I have the codes."
       _It's as much of an apology as I'm likely to get_.
"Excellent," Damian Chrestil said, and held out his hand.
       Ji-Imbaoa ignored it. "I have gone to a great deal of
trouble to get this information. I had to contact my friends
through commercial linkages -- at great expense -- because


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (231 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

Chauvelin refused to allow me the use of the ambassadorial
channels. I think I should have some recompense for this."
       Damian swallowed his first response, said, with careful
moderation, "Na Speaker, surely that's one of the ordinary risks
of doing business."
       "I am not a business person," ji-Imbaoa said.
       _That's for certain_. Damian said aloud, "You expect me to
pay for your connect time to Hsaioi-An."
       The fingers of ji-Imbaoa's hands curled slightly, a
movement Damian had learned to interpret as embarrassment, but the
Visiting Speaker nodded. "I think it would be fair."
       Damian hesitated, looked down at his screens to cover his
uncertainty. This was part of the hsai power games, one more
attempt to jostle for status; he himself couldn't afford to lose,
and so drop lower than ji-Imbaoa, but he wasn't sure he was good
enough to win. The secretary chimed softly, signaling an incoming
message, and he seized gratefully on the excuse. "I'm sorry, Na
Speaker, I need to take that."
       "Shall I go?" Cella asked softly, and Damian shook his head
before the hsaia could take offense.
       Ji-Imbaoa gestured acceptance, and Damian leaned back in
his chair, touched the string of codes that activated the security
filter, translating spoken words to a stream of letters across the
bottom of the screen. A second set of codes flared, and he touched
a second key to cut in the family's decryption routines. The
screen lit at last, and Ivie's face looked up at him.
       NA DAMIAN.
       It was disorienting, watching Ivie's lips move without
sound, while the words scrolled past on the bottom of the screen.
Damian nodded. "I hope things went well? I'm with a visitor, so
you'll have to make it fast."
       Ivie nodded, in comprehension as well as agreement. I'M AT
THE SUMMER HOUSE NOW, he said. THE FIRST GUEST IS WITH ME. WE'VE
HAD A LITTLE TROUBLE WITH THE SECOND, BUT I HAVE HOPES THAT WE'LL
BE ABLE TO FIND HER AGAIN SOON.
       _So he's got Ransome, but not Lioe_. Damian said, "It's a
start, anyway." He looked back at ji-Imbaoa, the germ of an idea
forming in his mind. "I'm coming to join you myself, and I may be
bringing a guest of my own -- a colleague, rather. How's the
weather?"


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (232 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

       Ivie shrugged. DETERIORATING. IF YOU'RE GOING TO BE MORE
THAN AN HOUR OR TWO, I WOULDN'T FLY, BUT THEY TELL ME THE ROADS
SHOULD STAY OPEN UNTIL DARK.
       "Good enough," Damian said. "I'll be there directly." He
touched the sign-off key, and watched the picture dissolve, then
looked back at ji-Imbaoa. "I've had to do some improvisations of
my own," he said bluntly, "thanks to your delays. And suffer some
inconveniences. Illario Ransome is off the nets right now, but
only because I am holding him in my family's summer house. I think
that is equal to your expenses in getting the codes."
       Ji-Imbaoa nodded slowly. "Ransome is your prisoner."
       "To put it bluntly, yes." Damian watched him, aware that
something had changed, but not certain what it was. It was as
though the rules had changed, or even the game itself. Cella was
watching him with renewed intensity, as though she'd sensed the
change, too.
       "I would like to speak with him," ji-Imbaoa said. "I will
give you the codes there, once we are at this house of yours."
       Damian shrugged. There was no reason not to do it, as far
as he could see; the nets were too well shielded for work to be
interrupted by any but the worst storms, and he could access them
from the summer house as well as anywhere. "All right," he said.
"I'll call my flyer. I assume you have staff with you?"
       Ji-Imbaoa gestured agreement. "My secretary, and one
guard."
       Damian looked at Cella, who was still watching him with
that same unnerving fixity of purpose. "Do you want to come, too?"
From the look in her eyes, it was a pointless question.
       "Yes," she answered, gently. "If you don't mind."
       "Fine." Damian Chrestil opened a working channel, typed in
a quick series of commands, and waited half a second for the
confirmation. "The flyer will be waiting for us at Commercial
Street in ten minutes."
       The wind had eased a bit by the time they reached the
Commercial Street helipad, but the first fringes of rain had
overspread the city. It fell in huge drops that left wet irregular
circles the size of a man's hand on the dusty pavement. Damian
ignored it as he shepherded the others into the heavy flyer, but
ji-Imbaoa hissed irritably to himself, and the other hsaia, ji-
Imbaoa's secretary, huddled himself into an incongruous plastic


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (233 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

overcoat. The jericho-human Magill, who handled security, flipped
up the hood of his coat, but made no comment. Cella followed
demurely, moving through the rain as though she didn't feel it.
The passenger compartment would seat only four in comfort, and
Damian seized the excuse with some relief.
       "I'll ride with the pilot," he said, raising his voice over
the noise of the engines, and let the compartment's door fall
closed without waiting for an answer.
       The pilot didn't look up as he climbed into the control
pod, already deep in her rapport with the machine, hands and feet
encased by the controls, but one of Ivie's men was riding in the
copilot's space. He scrambled to his feet as Damian opened the
hatch, moved back to the jumpseat that folded down from the
compartment wall.
       "Thanks, Loreo," Damian said, and took his place beside the
pilot. "How's it look, Cossi?"
       The pilot shrugged one shoulder, her attention still on the
displays that filled the air in front of her, visible only through
her links. "Not too bad. The rain's fading, and on the screens it
looks like we'll have some better air for the next forty minutes
or so." She looked down at her controls again, and Damian hastily
fastened himself into the safety webbing. "I have clearance from
the tower," Cossi went on, "so I can lift whenever you're ready,
Na Damian."
       Damian touched the intercom button, opening the channel to
the passenger compartment. "We're ready to lift, Na Speaker.
Please be sure you're strapped in, this could be a rough ride." He
took his hand off the button without waiting for an answer, looked
at Cossi. "Ready when you are."
       The flyer lifted easily, jets whining as it rose past the
warehouse fronts and through the lower levels of sky traffic. As
Cossi had predicted, the winds did not seem to be as strong as
they had been, though the flyer dipped and shuddered. Damian clung
to the edge of the hatchway, peered out the tiny window toward the
Old Dike and the cliffs that marked the edge of Barrier Island.
Even in the grey light, it was easy to make out the five
projecting bits of cliff face that were the Five Points; he could
even see the sparkle of lights behind the rows of windows. The
Soresins' palazze looked busy, a swarm of servants and robohaulers
clustered around an ungainly-looking cargo flyer, unloading


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (234 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

supplies for the family's annual first-big-storm party. Behind
him, Loreo laughed softly.
       "Looks like the party's on."
       Damian nodded. "Pity we can't make it."
       The flyer lifted further, looking for a clearer path
through the updrafts off the Barrier Hills, and for the first time
Damian had a clear view of the sky to the south. Wedges of grey
clouds piled over and on top of each other, steel-colored
overhead, shading to purple at the horizon; their edges met and
meshed, deforming under the pressure of the wind. The light that
came in through the flyer's forward screen and windows was dull,
lifeless, dim as twilight. The flyer banked sharply, heading south
past the last of the hills, and Damian caught a quick glimpse of
the mouth of the Inland Water. The storm barriers were up at last,
three ranks of dark, wet metal closing off the channel, and the
waves were starting to break against them, grey-green walls of
water streaked with skeins of foam that were startlingly white in
the dim light. Damian shivered, thinking of a childhood visit to
Observation Point just before a storm. The low, hemispherical
building, set on the southernmost point of Barrier Island, on a
spur of land that curved out into the sea, had obviously been
built to withstand the worst hurricanes, but he had never
forgotten the sight of the surf pounding at the base of the
cliffs, throwing spray and stones ten meters high. At the height
of a bad storm, the man in charge had said, boasting a little but
also stating simple fact, the waves broke completely over the
station for hours at a time.
       "We're going to have to land from the southeast," Cossi
said, breaking into his train of thought. "Otherwise we'll be
crosswise to the wind."
       "Go ahead."
       Damian braced himself as the flyer bucked, dropped several
meters, but then Cossi had made the turn, and the flyer steadied
slightly, riding with the wind instead of against it. They dropped
lower, and Damian saw the scrubby trees bent even farther into the
hillside by the wind. The family's landing strip gleamed ahead of
them, the rain-darkened pavement outlined by double rows of tiny
blue lights. The flyer fell the last few meters with a roar of
jets, and then they were down, Cossi converting the drop smoothly
to forward momentum. The braking fans rose to a scream, and died


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (235 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

away as the flyer came to a stop, directly on the markers.
       "Nicely done," Damian said, and meant it.
       Cossi smiled, in genuine pleasure, then turned her
attention to the difficult task of prying herself out of the
control links. "Do you want me to wait for you, or do I head back
to the city?" she asked, still working herself free of the
controls.
       "There's no point in your flying back," Damian said. "Put
the flyer under cover -- the hangar's rated to stand a class three
-- and then you can either wait it out here or take a groundcar."
       "I'll wait," Cossi said.
       Damian nodded, and swung himself out of the pilot's
compartment. The others were already standing on the rain-
spattered pavement, ji-Imbaoa still hissing to himself, his
household clustered miserably at his back. Cella was standing a
little apart, a little behind them, her eyes downcast, hiding that
unnerving smile. Damian managed a smile in return, wondering what
she was up to, and waved them on toward the house itself. He could
see Ivie waiting in the doorway, light blazing behind him.
Shutters covered the windows; he glanced hastily over his shoulder
and saw Loreo by the door of the domed hangar, guiding Cossi and
the flyer inside.
       "No word yet on the second guest," Ivie said softly as
Damian approached, and stood aside from the door.
       "You can give me the details later," Damian answered, and
went past him into the house. He could feel the floor trembling
under his feet, and knew that the household generators were
already at speed, ready to cut in when the power grid went down.
       The others were waiting in the main room, the glass that
formed the viewing wall now covered by heavy wood and steel
shutters. Damian paused at the top of the short stairs, blinking
in the unexpectedly warm light of a dozen hastily placed standing
lamps. He had never been in the house during Storm, had never seen
the shutters from the inside, the almost-black panels cutting off
the view. It was an alien, disorienting sight. One of Ivie's
people had set up a pair of service trays and activated a mobile
bar, and most of the group, four men and a pair of women, were
clustered either by the food or in front of the communications
console. The largest of the screens was tuned to the weather
station, and Damian caught a quick glimpse of a redscreen report


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (236 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

before one of the women moved, cutting off his view. Ransome sat a
little apart from the others in one of the large armchairs,
leaning back, a glass of deep amber wine on the table beside him.
He seemed very much at his ease, despite the third woman who stood
against the far wall, palmgun in hand, and Damian hid a frown.
Then he saw the slight, nervous movement of Ransome's hand, one
finger slowly tracing the lines of the carved-crystal glass, and
the way his eyes roved from point to point when he thought no one
was looking.
       "So," ji-Imbaoa said, too loudly. "Ransome is here. And
your prisoner?"
       Ransome smiled, and lifted the glass of wine in ironic
salute. "Not a guest, Na Damian?"
       Damian came down the last two stairs, ignoring both of
them, snapped his fingers to summon the bar. It rolled over to
him, wheels digging into the carpet, and he poured himself a glass
of raki. "Help yourself, Na Speaker, we're informal here. Will you
see to him and his household, Cella?" He looked at Ransome, barely
aware of Cella's politely murmured answer. "You were becoming an
inconvenience, you know. This seemed a -- reasonable -- way to
handle the situation."
       Ransome's smile widened, became briefly and genuinely
amused. "I suppose I should tell you that you won't get away with
this."
       "I don't see why not," Damian said, deliberately brutal.
"This isn't the Game." He had the satisfaction of seeing Ransome
flinch.
       "Na Damian." Ji-Imbaoa turned away from the mobile bar, a
tall cylinder in one hand. "I have the codes for you, but there is
a favor you could do me in return."
       _A favor?_ Damian barely managed to keep himself from
raising his eyebrows in sheer disbelief. _That is a change of
tune, from the hsaia who was trying to bully me into a subordinate
position not an hour ago. You only ask favors from your
superiors_. "If I may," he said, carefully casual, and gestured
toward the door behind him. Shall we talk in private?"
       "That might be well," ji-Imbaoa said.
       Damian led the way into the side room, fingering his remote
to switch on the lights. Shutters covered the single window, but
he could hear the sudden drumming of rain against the walls. He


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (237 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

gestured toward the nearest chair -- the room was set up as a
communications space, with heavy, comfortable chairs and complex
machinery lining the walls -- and said, "What is this favor?"
       Ji-Imbaoa suppressed a gesture, seated himself with a kind
of heavy dignity. "Ransome, I would imagine, becomes a liability
to you once this is over."
       Damian shook his head. "Not necessarily. He's a known
netwalker, I can prove he's been stealing information. If he tries
to go to the Lockwardens, I can bring an equally strong complaint
against him."
       "Still, Chauvelin will know," ji-Imbaoa said.
       "Chauvelin doesn't like me anyway," Damian Chrestil said.
_I wish you'd come to the point_.
       Ji-Imbaoa looked away, said, as though to empty air, "I
might be able to help with the situation."
       _I don't need your help, thank you_, Damian thought. He bit
his tongue, and waited.
       "And it would be doing me a favor." Ji-Imbaoa said the
words reluctantly, almost as though they were being pulled out of
him. "There is a matter of face between my family and this
Ransome, the matter of an insult which could not be acknowledged
then, but is lesser treason now. If you will give him into my
custody, we -- my kin and I -- will be able to settle this. And I,
and they, will be in your debt."
       Damian made himself look down at his hands to hide his
sudden elation. _To have ji-Imbaoa, and, more than that, his
entire family, indebted to me -- in exchange for Ransome. Not much
of a trade, an arrogant netwalking imagist -- or should that be an
image-making netwalker? -- for the friendship of an equally
arrogant fool. But ji-Imbaoa has powerful relations, they could be
very useful to me. I've no illusions, Ransome's no friend of mine,
but can I afford to do it? He's Chauvelin's client, after all ...
But if it means connections in Hsaioi-An, a deep connection to the
je Tsinra-an, can I afford not to?_ He said, slowly, "I can't give
you an answer now. There are practical considerations involved --
"
       "Chauvelin will not be ambassador much longer," ji-Imbaoa
said. "There is already pressure on the All-Father to remove him
from this post."
       And that would make an enormous difference, Damian thought,


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (238 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

if it's true. If Chauvelin were no longer a factor, there'd be no
reason not to do it. He had a sudden image of Ransome at
Chauvelin's eve-of-Storm party, sitting on the wall of the garden
he had designed, the paths paved with thousands of delicate faces
spread out at his feet, a mocking half-smile playing on his lips
as he watched the other guests recognize what they were walking
on. Not a lovable man, certainly. _Brave enough -- and I do
respect that -- but this is a risk you take when you play
politics_. He nodded slowly, looked back at ji-Imbaoa. "If I can
do you this favor," he said, "I will."
--------
          *Day 2*
          _Storm: Transient Hostel #31, The Ghetto,_
_Landing Isle at the Old City Lift_
       The Lockwarden pilot set the cab down on the helipad just
beyond the lift complex that ran down the cliff face into the Old
City, balancing the light machine against the gusting winds. He
was obviously skilled, but the ride was rough, and Lioe was glad
to be on the ground. The pilot insisted on escorting her to the
door of the hostel. Lioe made only a token protest, grateful for
his support, and did her best to ignore the concierge's smirk at
her arrival, clothes torn and under Lockwarden escort. The smile
turned to a frown of concern when he saw the white patches of
selfheal on her face, and he came out from behind the counter to
meet her.
       "Na Lioe? Are you all right?"
       "Na Lioe got mugged," the Lockwarden said, politely enough,
but Lioe found herself wincing a little at the suggestion.
       "I'm all right," she said. "I just need to change clothes."
       "You look like death," the concierge -- Laness, his name
was -- said, and shook his head. "You go on up to your room, and
I'll send a supply cart. Do you need anything in particular?"
       "Something to eat," Lioe said, and was surprised by the
intensity of her hunger. She turned to the Lockwarden. "Thanks for
getting me here."
       "No problem," the pilot said easily, and let himself out.
       "You go on up," Laness said again, "and I'll send a cart."
       "I'd appreciate it," Lioe said. She rode the narrow lift up
to the third floor -- the first time she'd been back to her rented
room in three days; most of her spare clothes were at Shadows --


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (239 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

and let herself into the narrow room. It was small, but
comfortable, and it had its own temperature controls. She turned
up the heat to drive away the lingering damp of the canal, and
stripped off her crumpled clothing. _I need to call Ransome, find
out what's going on_, she thought, _but I want to be in shape to
cope with him_. She showered, not too quickly, letting the hot
water wash away the fear and stiffness and the last faint green
stains from the waterweed. The supply cart was waiting for her
when she had finished, one of the covers pushed back slightly to
release the steam. She dressed quickly, scrambling into her last
spare pair of trousers and a loose, Reannan-knit pullover, and
pushed back the lid of the cart. The food was good, standard local
fare, fish cakes and rice and a quick-fry of vegetables, and
Laness had included a bottle of the resinous local wine. She
poured herself a glass, and wolfed a couple of the fish cakes
straight from the cart, then turned her attention to the
communications table. She seated herself in front of it, dragged
the supply cart into easy reach. There were three messages from
Kerestel waiting in storage. She hesitated, feeling guilty, but
none of them were marked urgent. She ignored them, and called up
the cheapest of the local communications nets. Its prompt
flickered into view, and she punched in Ransome's mailcode. There
was a fractional hesitation, and then the familiar message:
TERMINAL IN USE, PLEASE TRY LATER.
       She smiled and reached for the cart again, one
unacknowledged worry assuaged. At least Ransome was all right, and
could probably explain what was going on, who had tried to kidnap
her and why. _And in the meantime_, she thought, _I think I'll
start carrying my work knife again_. She pushed herself away from
the terminal, went to rummage in her bag for the knife. It was
meant to be used as a survival tool, and was classified as such
when it passed through customs, but the longer of the two blades
made an effective weapon. She slipped it into her pocket, turned
back to the terminal. There was a repeat function; she found it
after a moment's search, and hit the codes. This time, the screen
stayed dark, codes flickering across its base; after half a
minute, a new message appeared: INTENDED RECEIVER NOT RESPONDING,
CANCEL YES/NO. Lioe made a face, but hit YES. The screen
flickered, and a moment later presented her with the list of
charges. She ignored it, staring past the numbers. _Someone was on


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (240 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

the circuit only a few minutes ago_, she thought, _so where the
hell did he go? Unless it was someone calling him?_ She hesitated,
then tried again. There was no answer except the cancellation
prompt.
       She closed the system, wondering if she should wait and try
again, or if she should go back to Ransome's loft and see if there
were any messages waiting there. That made the most sense,
especially since she had Ransome's key, but she had to admit that
going back out on the streets didn't particularly appeal to her.
_Which is silly. There's no reason to think that these people --
whoever they are -- will try anything in the port district; more
to the point, and more likely, there's no reason to think the
hostel is all that safe_. She stood frowning for a moment, and the
communications table buzzed, the screen displaying the intercom
symbol. Her frown deepened, but she reached across to touch the
flashing icon.
       "Yes?"
       "Na Lioe." Laness sounded oddly hesitant. "There's a woman
to see you. She says her name is Roscha. Shall I send her up?"
       _Roscha? What the hell is she doing here?_ "Is she alone?"
Lioe asked. _And if she isn't_, she wondered suddenly, _are you in
a position to warn me?_
       "Yes, Na Lioe."
       "I'll come down," Lioe said, and cut the connection before
anyone could protest. She made her way down the side stairs rather
than the lift, and paused just inside the doorway to scan the
lobby. Roscha was standing by the concierge's counter, her
beautiful face looking oddly forlorn as she watched the lift
entrance. There was no one else in sight. Feeling rather foolish,
Lioe took her hand off the button of the work knife, and stepped
out into the lobby.
       "Quinn!" Roscha turned at the sound of the other woman's
footsteps, her eyes going instantly to the patches of selfheal.
"Are you all right?"
       "Yes, fine," Lioe said, irritably, and made herself stop.
"It's just cuts and bruises," she said. "Listen, did you send
someone to tell me you were at someplace called the Mad Monkey?"
       "No." Roscha shook her head, sending the red hair flying.
"No, I didn't, and the Lockwardens have been talking to me
already. What happened?"


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (241 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

       Lioe looked over her shoulder, saw Laness leaning against
his counter, listening shamelessly. "Over here," she said, and
drew Roscha away into the shelter of the pillars that defined the
common entertainment center. No one was there, the VDIRT consoles
empty, and she turned back to face Roscha. "Maybe you can tell
me," she said. "This man came up to me, called me by name, and
said you'd given him a message to be passed on, to meet you at
this place called the Mad Monkey."
       "I know it," Roscha muttered, and waved a hand in apology.
"I'm sorry, go on."
       "When I tried to go there," Lioe said, and heard her voice
tight and angry, "I was followed, and someone stepped out of a
doorway carrying a gun. He said somebody wanted to talk to me, and
I was to come quietly. Do you have any idea who that somebody
might be?"
       "No." Roscha shook her head, stopped abruptly. "Do you work
for C-and-I?"
       "What?" Lioe blinked, irrationally offended by the
question. "No, I'm a pilot. And I'm a Gamer. I don't need to work
for Customs."
       "Na Damian -- Damian Chrestil thinks you do," Roscha said,
slowly. "And you've been hanging out with Ransome, who's not
exactly clean when it comes to politics." There was a fleeting
note of malice in her voice that vanished almost as soon as Lioe
recognized it. "And Na Damian went out of his way to make sure I
had an alibi for this afternoon."
       "So you think Damian Chrestil is behind this?" Lioe asked.
       "You don't sound that surprised," Roscha answered,
bitterly.
       "I'm not, exactly. Ransome -- " Lioe stopped abruptly. _How
the hell do I know who to trust, if I can trust you, or anyone?
You work for C/B Cie., which is the same thing as working for
Damian Chrestil, and Ransome isn't answering his calls. What the
hell am I supposed to do now?_ "Why should I tell you?"
       Roscha made an angry sound that was almost laughter.
"Because I don't like being jerked around. Because I don't like
being used to set somebody up -- especially you, somebody I've
been sleeping with, somebody I like. Somebody as good as you are
in the Game." Her voice cracked then, and she looked away,
scowling. "Na Damian lied to me, and he used me, and he maybe


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (242 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

would've murdered you, and it could've been my fault. I'll be
damned if I'll let him do that to me."
       There was something in her voice, the street kid's -- _the
canalli's_ -- ancient, bitter grievance that made Lioe nod in
spite of herself. "All right," she said slowly, "I believe you."
       Roscha nodded, silent, still scowling.
       "I need your help," Lioe went on, more slowly still, a
voice screaming reproaches inside her head. _Are you crazy? She
still works for C/B Cie. Even someone as Game-addicted as Roscha
is isn't going to give up a good job for a total stranger. She
could be setting you up again_. She shook the thoughts away. _I
have to have help, and the only other person I can trust is
Ransome. And he's not answering. I have to take a chance, and
Roscha's my best shot. She's a good actor, but I don't think
anyone's that good. I think she meant exactly what she said I
hope_. "I need to find Ransome, he's the one who really knows
what's going on. Can you get me back to his loft? It's back at
Newfields, where the cliffs overlook the Junction Pools."
       "I know where it is," Roscha said. She nodded, her face
grim. "Na Damian's going to be looking for both of us now -- I was
supposed to stay on the docks until midnight. I guess I don't need
an alibi now." She smiled wryly, but shrugged the thought away. "I
borrowed a denki-bike, we can take that."
       "In this weather?" Lioe said. The thought of riding one of
the unstable little two-wheeled vehicles in the same winds that
had tossed the Lockwardens' helicab across the sky was not
appealing.
       Roscha glanced toward the window beside the door, shrugged
slightly. "It's not raining yet."
       "Right," Lioe said. She looked toward the concierge's
counter, where Laness was pretending to be absorbed in the tourist
display-tapes. _No harm in providing a little insurance_, she
thought, and walked over to join him. "Laness," she said, and the
man looked up in an unconvincing flurry of surprise.
       "What can I do for you, Na Lioe? Is everything all right?"
       "Yes," Lioe answered. _So far_. "I need you to do me a
favor," she went on. "I have to go out, but after what happened
earlier, would you -- if I'm not back here tonight, or if I don't
call you, would you give the Lockwardens a call?"
       "Of course, Na Lioe," Laness said. His eyes widened


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (243 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

slightly, his whole being torn between enjoyment of the Game-like
intrigue and concern for a guest. "But, Na Lioe, if there's any
chance -- what I mean is, with the storm predicted for tonight, if
anything happens to you, the Lockwardens are going to have enough
to do."
       "That's all right," Lioe said. _Or at least it can't be
helped_. "I'm not really worried, not really expecting anything.
But if I'm not back, and you don't hear from me, I want you to
call them."
       Laness nodded. "I'll do that," he said, and added,
awkwardly, "Good luck."
       Roscha's denki-bike was parked outside, under the shelter
of a news kiosk's awning instead of in the racks outside the
hostel's door. The wind -- a warm wind, unpleasantly warm -- sent
dust and a few errant pieces of trash whipping along the pavement;
across the road, a pair of women struggled with a storefront
banner, fighting to fold the heavy cloth. Up and down the street,
wooden shutters had been clamped into place across the larger
windows, and there was a line out the door of the single grocer's
shop. "It looks bad," Lioe said, involuntarily, and Roscha
shrugged.
       "It's always like this when a storm's coming. They say it's
only going to be a class two." She reached into the bike's
security field, expertly touching the release codes. "Let's get
going before the rain starts."
       The streets were all but empty in the port district, most
of the workers already heading home to secure their own property.
Shutters covered most of the upper-floor windows, and there were
storm bars across the warehouse doors. Lioe leaned close against
Roscha's back, felt the denki-bike shudder each time they turned a
corner. A few drops of rain were falling as they turned the last
corner and pulled into the alley beside Ransome's loft. Lioe
winced as the first huge drops hit her face, looked toward the
building's entrance. The red flag was still out, whipping
frantically against its stays, and she wondered if its owner had
just forgotten to take it in. Still, the stairs weren't difficult,
and at least she knew where they were. She reached into her pocket
for the lockbox, and closed her fingers gratefully over its
smoothly dented surface. _At least I didn't lose it in the canal_.
She started toward the stairwell, motioning for Roscha to follow.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (244 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

The other woman straightened from hooking her bike to the
recharging bollard, gave the connector a last tug, and came to
join her.
       "Where away?"
       "Upstairs," Lioe answered, and laid the lockbox against the
stairway door. It clicked open, and she stepped into the sudden
darkness. It smelled odd, sour and rather yeasty, and Roscha made
a small noise of disgust.
       "Better watch your step."
       "What is it, anyway?" Lioe turned to secure the door behind
them. A tiny light came on as she refastened the latch, casting a
sickly glow over the landing.
       "Someone's been chewing strawn," Roscha answered. "There'll
be a cud around here somewhere."
       "What's strawn?" Lioe started up the stairs, avoiding the
shadows.
       "It comes out of hsai space, makes you feel very calm,"
Roscha answered. Lioe could hear the sudden smile in her voice as
she added, "Not something I indulge in much."
       "I guess not." Lioe paused outside Ransome's door, fumbling
with the lockbox until she found the depressions that released the
lock. The lights were out, just as she'd left it, the big window
open to the city view. Dark clouds, almost purple, filled the left
side of the window; the sky to the right was still only grey.
"Ransome?"
       There was no answer, and she hadn't really expected one,
but she called his name once more before crossing to the display
space. Lights flashed along the base of the main console,
signaling at least a dozen messages waiting. She frowned, puzzled
now as well as worried, and touched keys to retrieve the latest. A
secondary screen lit, displayed a string of hsai _n-jao_
characters. _Chauvelin?_ she wondered, and touched keys again to
scroll back to the first message.
       "He hasn't even gotten the shutters down," Roscha said, and
Lioe looked back at her. "If you were looking for Ransome," Roscha
went on, "he hasn't been here. He'd've put storm shutters up, the
way that sky is looking."
       "Damn." Lioe looked around, saw nothing that looked as
though it could cover the enormous window. Her hat was still
sitting on the folded bed, and she realized that she had left it


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (245 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

behind that morning as well. "Can you take care of it, please?"
       "Sure," Roscha said, sounding slightly surprised, and
crossed to the window. She ran her hand along the left-hand side
of the frame until she found an all-but-invisible panel. She
popped that open, studied the controls for a moment, then turned a
dial. There was a shriek from outside the window, unoiled metal
reluctant to move, and then the shutters began to lower themselves
into place, creaking and groaning along their track.
       Lioe reached for the room remote, touched keys to bring up
the lights, and then turned her attention back to the messages.
The first message in the queue was flashing on the screen: _more
n'jao characters_, she thought, but these looked different from
the first ones she'd seen. Frowning now, she split the screen,
recalled the last message. Sure enough, the characters were
different, forming an entirely different pattern. She knew only a
few _n'jao_ glyphs, mostly trade-related -- like most Republicans,
her dealings with the hsai were generally done through a jericho-
human broker, and none of these were familiar.
       "Do you know any _n'jao?_" she asked, and Roscha came to
look over her shoulder at the screen.
       "A little. I can't read that, though."
       Lioe glanced back at her, saw the delicate eyebrows draw
down into a thoughtful frown.
       "Wait a minute, though." Roscha reached out to touch one
tripart character in the first message. "I think that's the
ambassador's name-sign. And I think these are repeats -- message
repeats." She indicated another set of symbols.
       "Chauvelin?" Lioe asked.
       "I saw it on a crate once, when we handled some diplomatic
shipping out," Roscha answered. "I'm sure that's what it is."
       "I'm not surprised," Lioe muttered. She touched more keys,
searching for a main directory, and wished she had had more time
to learn Ransome's idiosyncratic systems.
       "Why not?" Roscha asked. "Look, what's going on?"
       "I wish I knew," Lioe answered. She took a deep breath,
made herself look away from the screens crowded with useless
information. "What I think is happening -- what Ransome said was
happening -- is that Damian Chrestil and the hsaia Visiting
Speaker are probably smuggling something, mainly to get Damian
Chrestil some political advantage in Hsaioi-An, which he could use


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (246 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

here."
       Roscha nodded. "That makes sense. He wants to be governor."
       "Chauvelin and the Visiting Speaker are enemies," Lioe
continued, "members of rival factions -- and the Visiting Speaker
doesn't much like Ransome, either -- so there's a hsai dimension
to this, too."
       "_Sha-mai_." Roscha shook her head. "It's a mess, but it
does make sense."
       "I'm glad it makes sense to someone," Lioe said. She
fiddled with the shadowscreen again, found the main directory at
last, and ran through it hastily, searching for translation
programs. There was only one, and it was really only for
transliteration. _Ransome certainly speaks tradetalk, and probably
a couple of modes of hsai_, she thought, but copied the two
screens to its working memory anyway. The prompt blinked for a few
seconds, and spat strings of letters. She recognized Chauvelin's
name, and, in the second message, a string of numbers that looked
like routing codes. She studied those numbers, cocking her head to
one side. They were certainly routing codes; in fact, they looked
like the kind of codes that gave access to commercial data
storage. _I wonder what Ransome keeps in that kind of safe space_,
she thought, and copied the codes to a separate working board.
       "I think," Roscha said slowly, "I think that means that
Chauvelin's been looking for him." She pointed to the first
message, her fingertip hovering just above the screen. "And it
looks like it's been repeated -- what's the time check, anyway?"
       Lioe touched keys. "That message has been repeated every
quarter hour for four hours. The last one arrived about forty
minutes ago." _Does that mean he got the message and is with
Chauvelin?_ she wondered. _Or did Chauvelin just give up?_
       "Do you think he got the message?" Roscha said.
       Lioe shook her head. "There's only one way to find out."
Roscha looked at her, and she smiled wryly. "Call Chauvelin and
ask."
       "Yeah, but do you think he'd answer?"
       Lioe shrugged. "I've no idea." She reached for the
workboard, typed in a string of codes, an inquiry first, to
Ransome's own directories, and then into his storage. To her
surprise, the codes to contact the hsai ambassador were held in
open storage; she copied them to the communications system, but


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (247 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

hesitated, wondering if she should send them. _What do I say,
anyway? "I'm so sorry to bother you, Ambassador, but is Ransome
with you?" How do I explain why I'm calling, if he's there,
without getting him into trouble? More important, what do I say if
he's not?_ She touched the final key before she could change her
mind. _I can always just say he told me he might be there. I don't
have to tell a jericho-human -- no, not even a jericho-human, a
conscript,_ chaoi-mon -- _anything of what's going on_. The
handset chimed softly, from beside the working chair, and at the
same time the secondary screen displayed connect symbols.
       "What the hell?" Roscha said.
       "I'm calling the ambassador," Lioe answered, and crossed to
pick up the handset. The green telltale was lit at the base of the
set, indicating a machine on the other end of the connection. "I
want to know if Ransome's there." She touched the connect button
before Roscha could say anything, heard a delicate mechanical
voice in her ear.
       "Hsaie house. May I help you?" A moment later, the voice
repeated the same message in tradetalk.
       "I'm trying to contact Illario Ransome," Lioe said.
       "Who may I say is calling?"
       _So he is there_. Lioe felt a sudden surge of relief, a
kind of deflation, and said, "Quinn Lioe." She heard her voice
flat and irritable in the handset's reflection.
       "One moment, please."
       "He's there?" Roscha demanded, and Lioe shrugged.
       "He seems to be -- " She broke off as the handset clicked,
flipping over to the new connection.
       "Chauvelin."
       The voice was familiar from the ambassador's party, low and
crisp, with only a hint of the hsai accent. Lioe froze, not
knowing what to say, what she should do, and Chauvelin said, "Na
Lioe?"
       "I'm sorry to have bothered you, Ambassador," she said. "I -
- I was looking for Ransome, he said he might be with you." _Maybe
that wasn't the best phrasing_, she thought, _but it's the best I
could do on short notice. Things must be bad, if Chauvelin himself
is talking to me_.
       "I've been looking for Ransome myself," Chauvelin said.
"Are you at his loft?"


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (248 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

       There was a certainty in his voice that made Lioe think the
call had been traced. "Yes." _No point in lying: even if he hasn't
traced it yet, he will_.
       "Has he been there, do you know?"
       "I don't know," Lioe said. It was a safe answer; better
still, it was the truth. "Is there anything wrong?"
       There was a little pause, just enough to make her sure he
was lying. "No, not at all. But I would like to talk to him as
soon as he returns."
       "I'll tell him that," Lioe said, and waited.
       "It's important," Chauvelin said. There was another pause,
barely more than a hesitation, and then the ambassador went on, "I
was expecting a message from him. Did he leave anything for me?"
       Lioe shook her head, then remembered it was a voice-only
line. "Not that I've seen." She glanced quickly at the console,
double-checking the messages displayed on the screen. "No,
nothing." She hesitated herself, wondering how much she could say,
then said, "I was expecting to find him here. I'm a little --
concerned."
       "So am I." She could almost hear a kind of wry smile in
Chauvelin's voice. "If you hear from him, please tell him to
contact me."
       "I'll do that," Lioe said, and broke the connection.
       "So what happened?" Roscha asked.
       Lioe shrugged, looked back at the massive console, at the
symbols and code-strings filling the screens. "Ransome isn't
there, as you heard, and Chauvelin badly wants to talk to him."
       "That doesn't sound good," Roscha said. "What about
hospitals, or the Lockwardens?"
       "I bet Chauvelin's already done that," Lioe said, "but it
couldn't hurt to check again." _Or could it? What if he wants to
keep this quiet?_ She shoved the thought away. "How are you on the
nets?"
       Roscha shrugged. "Good enough to find that out, anyway."
       In spite of everything, Lioe grinned. "Can you take care of
it? There's something I want to check."
       Roscha reached for the handset. "All right."
       One screen winked out, slaved to the handset; Lioe ignored
its absence, stared at the routing codes displayed on her
workboard. She was still learning her way around Burning Bright's


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (249 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

nets, but this sequence looked straightforward enough. The header
codes indicated a secure node, but the numbers following should be
the owner's own codes. She ran her hands over the shadowscreen,
recalling the main directory, and set the system scanning for a
node that matched the header codes. She could hear Roscha's voice
in the background, rising in inquiry, flattening out with each
inaudible answer, but she ignored it, her eyes fixed on the
screen. If this didn't work, she would have to try netwalking,
personally checking the likely nodes. Then the screen lit,
displaying a gaudy logo, a shield banded in blue and gold, with a
scarlet dragon coiling over it, and presented her with a list of
options: ADD, SUBTRACT, RETRIEVE, NEW FILE, CHARGES. She hit
RETRIEVE, and her screen filled with symbols, scrolling past too
fast for her to read. She touched the shadowscreen to dump the
information to Ransome's local system -- somewhat to her surprise,
there was no request for a further password -- and waited until
the key bar flickered green again. She banished the connection,
and turned her attention to the workscreen, scrolling back to the
beginning of the file.
       "Nothing at any of the hospitals," Roscha said, and came to
peer over her shoulder. "But a friend of mine at C/B Cie. says Na
Damian's gone off with a hsaia -- it was somebody important, he
said, so it could be the Visiting Speaker -- and Almarin Ivie,
he's head of security, has been sent off to look at something at
the family's summer house."
       "Look at this," Lioe said. She gestured to the screen,
heard the repressed excitement in her own voice. "Damn it, how did
he get all of this?" The outline was complete -- _maybe a little
iffy in courtroom eyes, especially when so much of it was gathered
netwalking, but certainly enough to use. Enough to blackmail
Damian Chrestil with, and enough to make Damian Chrestil willing
to do -- what? Kill him?_ She pushed the thought away. _That
seemed the least likely result, if only because a well-known body
would be hard to explain, and Chauvelin would be likely to ask
awkward questions. But certainly to keep him out of action for a
few days. Especially since Damian seemed to be ready to transfer
the lachesi to its new "owners."_
       "So Na Damian was smuggling lachesi for clients of ji-
Imbaoa's," Roscha said, slowly. "I think I worked that pickup."
       "I brought it in," Lioe said. "Damn, that's why we had


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (250 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

bungee-gars on board. I didn't think red-carpet was worth that
much trouble."
       Roscha laughed softly. "What a fucking mess. Na Damian is
going to be really pissed when he realizes we know what's going
on."
       "I think he already is," Lioe said, and touched the patches
of selfheal starring her face. "That has to be what this was all
about." _He was willing to kill me, too -- not eager, so I suppose
I should be grateful, but willing_. She shivered, looked over her
shoulder in spite of herself toward the shuttered window and the
locked door. _Which means we need some kind of a defense, and not
just physical_. "You said Damian Chrestil went off with the
Visiting Speaker?"
       "It looks like it," Roscha said. "And if N'Ivie's at the
family summer house, then I bet that's where Ransome is. It's
remote enough to keep somebody out of circulation for a while.
Especially with the storm."
       Lioe nodded, aware for the first time of the steady slap of
rain against the shutters. Every so often, a stronger gust smacked
against them, a sharp sound like a handful of nails thrown against
the metal plates. "All right," she said. "How safe are we here?"
       Roscha shrugged. "Na Damian has plenty of people in the
port," she said. "If he wants -- well, if he doesn't care about
publicity, we're not safe at all."
       "How much do you think he cares about publicity?"
       "I don't know." Roscha looked back at the screen, at the
careful outline. "If that's what's been going on, it could mean
the governorship. I wouldn't care a whole lot, in his shoes."
       Lioe nodded at the answer she had expected. "Do me a favor,
make sure everything's locked, as secure as you can make it. And
see if Ransome owns any weaponry."
       "All right," Roscha said, and sounded faintly dubious. "But
-- "
       Lioe looked back at the chair, Ransome's working space
inert, invisible around it. "I've got an idea," she said. "And if
it works, we shouldn't need guns."
--------
         *Day 2*
         _Storm: The Chrestil-Brisch Summer House,_
_the Barrier Hills_


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (251 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

       Ransome waited in the sunken main room, staring at the
glass of wine that stood untouched on the table beside him. His
back ached with the effort of holding himself relaxed and easy
against the chair's thick cushions; he was aware, painfully aware,
of the rising noise of the rain and the murmuring conversations
among the Chrestil-Brisch thugs standing by the display console.
He was equally aware of the woman who held her palmgun with the
comfortable stance of the expert, but kept his eyes away from her.
The wind howled outside the shutters, and he wondered when the
storm would hit its peak. Not that the storm was much of an
advantage, but at least it limited their actions as much as his.
_And I bet I know what favor ji-Imbaoa wants. Chauvelin warned me
I shouldn't push him. The only question is, will Damian Chrestil
sell me out?_ Ransome smiled then, put the glass to his lips to
cover the expression. _And why shouldn't he? If he wins -- and
he's winning so far -- he has nothing to lose_.
       "Na Ransome."
       It was Damian Chrestil's voice: the younger man moved so
quietly that Ransome hadn't heard him approach. He turned, setting
the glass aside, contents untasted, forced a calm smile of
greeting. "Na Damian."
       Damian Chrestil snapped his fingers, and one of the heavy
chairs trundled over to join them. At another gesture, the woman
with the palmgun withdrew a little, resting her back against the
shutters that covered the enormous window. Ji-Imbaoa made a
slight, impatient movement of his fingers, but moved away toward
the display console and the twin serving carts. Ransome, watching
with what he hoped was a convincing show of incurious distaste,
saw the other hsaia, ji-Imbaoa's secretary, present a plate of
food. Cella said something to him, turned him away toward the
shuttered windows. She glanced over her shoulder, and met
Ransome's look with a quick, triumphant smile. It was gone almost
as soon as he'd seen it, but Ransome felt the chill of it down his
spine.
       "There are a couple of things we need to get settled,"
Damian Chrestil said, and Ransome looked back at him a little too
quickly.
       "If you let me go, give me a ride back to the city and an
apology," Ransome said, trying to cover his nervousness, "I
suppose I'd be willing to ignore all of this." He gestured with


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (252 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

all the grace he could muster to the woman with the gun.
       Damian smiled. "That really wasn't what I had in mind."
       _Somehow I didn't think so_. Ransome smiled back, the
muscles of his face stiff and unresponsive, felt congestion
tugging at his lungs again. He ignored that -- _maybe it will go
away, ease off on its own the way it sometimes does_ -- and said
aloud, "It's a generous offer."
       "So's mine," Damian answered, and the smile vanished
abruptly. "I understand from my people that you dumped the
contents of a datablock into the nets, into storage somewhere. I
want that material."
       Ransome spread his hands. "I don't hear an offer."
       "Ji-Imbaoa tells me there are still some charges pending in
Hsaioi-An," Damian Chrestil said. "He wants you back, to face
them. I don't care either way, but I want that data."
       Ransome froze, felt himself go rigid, as though he'd been
turned to stone. He remembered the hsai courts, the hsaia judge --
"_insults from_ houta _are as the barking of dogs; it's fortunate
you are of no status_" -- most of all the dreary grey padding,
walls and floors and ceiling, that was the hsai prison, months and
months of grey cells and grey clothes and grey men, and finally
the numbing grey fog of the first bout of white-sickness. _That's
twice the Chrestil-Brisch have done this to me_, he thought, and
could see the same fine shape, Bettis Chrestil's face imposed for
an instant on her brother's features. _I can't go back. I don't
want to die there, in that grey place_.... "If I give you the
data," he said slowly, despising himself for the concession, "you
won't turn me over to ji-Imbaoa."
       Damian nodded.
       "What, then? You'll just let me go?" Ransome let his
disbelief fill his voice, and caught his breath sharply, just
averting a coughing fit. He tasted metal, the tang of it at the
back of his throat, and swallowed hard, willing the sickness away.
       "Why not?" Damian shrugged with deliberate contempt. "Once
the -- product -- is transferred, there's nothing you can do."
       "The lachesi, you mean," Ransome said, and, after a moment,
Damian nodded.
       "That's right."
       "Chauvelin won't be pleased," Ransome said, and Damian
shrugged again.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (253 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

       "Chauvelin won't be in a position to do anything about his
displeasure for very much longer. The tzu Tsinra-an are losing
face by the day, they won't be in power much longer. And then
Chauvelin won't be able to do a damn thing to help you."
       Ransome sat very still, kept his face expressionless with
an effort. It was true; if the tzu Tsinra-an lost their dominant
position at the court on Hsiamai, then Chauvelin would go down --
_and I'll go with him. I can't go back to Hsaioi-An. I don't want
to die there, I know what that would be like, I saw it happen_. He
controlled his fear with an effort, made himself reach for the
wine. He sipped carefully, but did not really taste the faint
sweetness. "So if I tell you where the data is, you won't turn me
over to him." He nodded to the Visiting Speaker, still standing by
the food carts. "What guarantee do I have that you won't get the
data and still hand me over?"
       "You don't. But you don't have another choice," Damian
Chrestil answered. "I tell you -- I'll give you my word -- that if
you give me the data, you can go free."
       "Your word," Ransome said, in spite of himself, remembering
Bettis Chrestil. She had given her word, too, and it had been less
than useless. Damian Chrestil gave his sister's humorless smile.
       "I don't care if you believe me or not," he said. "This is
the only deal you've got. Tell me where you stashed the data, or
I'll give you to ji-Imbaoa, now."
       _It is the only deal, and worse than no choice at all_.
Ransome stared at him for a long moment, unable to come up with
any alternatives. _Whatever I do, I lose, because I don't believe
him for a second when he says he'll let me go. I'm only prolonging
it, and losing any bargaining power I might have -- but I can't
give up without some fight_. "All right," he said slowly. "I'll
retrieve it for you." He hadn't expected that attempt to work, and
was not surprised when Damian shook his head, refusing the gambit.
       "Tell me the codes."
       "They're in my loft, in the mail systems there," Ransome
said. "You'll find a message in _n'jao_ there, a string of codes.
That accesses the secure storage." Damian frowned, started to say
something, and Ransome held up his hand. "The program I used, I
don't know the access numbers myself, or even where the data ended
up. It's a random dump, to whoever had space open at the time. But
the retrieval codes are in my mailbox."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (254 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

       Damian nodded then, beckoned to one of his people, a thin
woman with a pilot's calluses on her wrists. "Cossi, you've done
this before. I need to get some information out of his mailbox."
       Cossi shrugged. "Can you give me a key?"
       "Well?" Damian said.
       Ransome hesitated, then reeled off the string of numbers.
       "Right, Na Damian," Cossi said, and turned away. Ransome
watched her walk to the nearest netlink and settle herself at the
workstation. For a crazy moment, he hoped that she didn't know
what she was doing -- she was a pilot, after all -- but then he
saw the way her hands moved across the shadowscreens, and that
hope died.
       He looked away, not wanting to watch, but could still hear
the steady click of the machines as Cossi worked her way onto the
nets. This was it: there was no hope left, and he could expect to
choke to death in a hsai prison.... He heard his breath whistling
in his lungs, and this time reached for the cylinder of Mist.
There was no point in pretending anymore, no point in trying to
hide his weakness. He'd played his best hand, and he'd lost. He
laid the mask against his face, inhaled the cool vapor. Damian
Chrestil watched him, his thin face expressionless. Ransome
refolded the mask with deliberate care, and slipped the cylinder
back into his pocket.
       "Na Damian," Cossi said. "I'm being blocked."
       "What?" Damian looked up sharply, frowning.
       "I'm being blocked," Cossi said again. "Somebody's pulled
that system off-line. There's no way I can access it."
       Damian looked back at Ransome, his thin eyebrows drawn into
a scowl. "Well? I thought we had a bargain."
       Ransome spread his hands, did his best to hide his sudden
elation. Someone was in the loft, Chauvelin, maybe, or -- better
still and most likely -- Quinn Lioe. And if Lioe was there, and
had changed the system settings, then maybe he had a second
chance. "Everything was on-line when I left it. Maybe the storm's
knocked it off."
       Cossi's hands danced across the multileveled controls.
"Nothing else is off, Na Damian. I think someone's reset."
       "Lioe," Damian Chrestil said, and Ransome felt the last
hope die. "It's Lioe, isn't it? You gave her a key to your loft,
and told her what was going on."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (255 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

       Ransome shook his head. "I didn't tell her anything," he
lied. "She's a Gamer, and a Republican, at that. She doesn't give
a shit about politics."
       "You brought her to Chauvelin's party," Damian said, soft
and deadly.
       Ransome shook his head again. "Yeah, I tried to get her
interested in something outside the Game -- she's good, too good
to be stuck in the Game all her life -- but she doesn't care. All
she wants to do is play the Game."
       There was another little silence, and then Damian Chrestil
shook his head. "No. Nobody ignores politics like that."
       "Gamers do," Ransome said, desperately.
       "Not even Gamers." Damian Chrestil beckoned to Ivie. "Get
in touch with your people up at the port. Send some over to
Ransome's loft and see what they find." He looked back at Ransome.
"I suppose he has security in place, so be careful."
       "Fuck you," Ransome said. If Lioe was at the loft, if she
had the sense to find the key that would let her retrieve the data
-- and she must have, if she'd blocked access to the mail system --
then there was still a chance. _If Lioe can figure out what to
do_. He put that thought aside. There was still nothing he could
do but wait, but things were looking fractionally better than they
had.
--------
         *Day 2*
         _Storm: The Hsai Ambassador's House,_
_in the Ghetto, Landing Isle Above_
_Old City North_
       Chauvelin stood at the only unshuttered window, watching
the wind-driven rain sweep through his garden. The bellflower
trees bent until their branches dragged along the ground, stirring
the human-faced pebbles into new patterns, their flowers blown
away in gusts with the wind. A few early flowers were flattened,
their petals frayed to nothing against the ground. The clouds
streamed in, dark overhead, darker still, almost black, to the
south, so that the light was dimmed, filled with an odd,
underwater quality. Ransome was not at his loft.
       Chauvelin grimaced, annoyed with himself, at his inability
to concentrate on anything except that useless fact, and turned
away from the window to consider the double-screened workboard


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (256 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

that lay on the wide table. Both screens displayed the transcript
of the last transmission from Haas, the last that had come in
before the transmitter went down for the duration of the storm, a
fragmentary, garbled mess that defied the computers. He frowned
again, and made himself pick up a stylus, fitting his fingers into
the pressure points to change the mode. It was obvious that Haas
had found at least some of what he had expected -- connections
between the je Tsinra-an and the Chrestil-Brisch, clients of the
je Tsinra-an who did most of their business through C/B Cie. --
but the overall sense of the message was so mangled that there was
little he could do. Even the standard phrases certifying Haas's
authority and authorizing him to act in her name for the
Remembrancer-Duke had come through poorly, though there, at least,
they had the Forms of Protocol to fill in the gaps. At least he
could use that authority, if he had to.
       And maybe he could do more. Ransome was missing; the
inquiries he'd put out on the nets had brought no results, and
Lioe seemed -- said she knew nothing. Ji-Imbaoa certainly knew,
certainly held some of the keys to this situation. If the
transmission could be edited properly, he could force ji-Imbaoa's
household to cooperate with him. He highlighted one section of the
message, deleted the intervening words and nonsense, tilted his
head to one side to study the result. The phrasing was a little
stilted, but no worse than in many official documents. He finished
the rest of it, editing carefully, and studied the result. The
document now gave him the temporary rank necessary to resume
control of the ambassadorial household, and therefore of ji-
Imbaoa's household as well, on the grounds that ji-Imbaoa's
carefully unspecified actions had cast a shadow on the reputation
of his superiors. There was only one problem with using it: ji-
Imbaoa would inevitably query it to the Remembrancer-Duke himself,
and not enough of the original message survived for Chauvelin to
be sure that his patron would back him in such a drastic action.
He set the stylus aside, ran his finger over the glowing
characters at the foot of the screen, tracing the stylized _n'jao_
characters that symbolized Haas's authority. He could use this
authority successfully, of that he was quite certain, but possibly
at the cost of his career. _Is Ransome worth it?_
       Chauvelin sighed, touched controls at the base of the
workscreen to produce a paper copy and transfer the original to


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (257 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

storage. _Is he? It's taken me most of my life -- nearly thirty
years -- to earn this rank, starting from nothing, as a conscript,
less than nothing. Even the strictest hsaia codes acknowledge that
it isn't always possible to protect one's proteges_. Flashes of
memory broke through his guard: Ransome newly paroled, all in grey
still, the canalli brown of his skin faded to ivory; Ransome in
his bed, the unexpected, wiry strength of his thin body; Ransome
laughing at a party, a handful of birds, the centerpiece of a
story egg, dancing in his palm; Ransome sitting on the garden
wall, holding out a handful of carved stones. _And Ransome with
Lioe, too, the way he watched her_. He picked up the printed
sheet, rolled it carefully in the prescribed fashion,
concentrating on the task so he wouldn't have to think. _If I use
this, and I'm wrong -- or even if I'm right and it's inexpedient --
I will lose the ambassadorship. And probably my other ranks, too;
there will be need to make an example of me. I'm not ready, yet,
to make that choice_.
       He tucked the cylinder of paper, the ends neatly folded
over on themselves, into the pocket of his coat, and turned back
to the window. It was raining harder now, hard enough that the
rain formed a solid curtain, completely concealing the Old City in
the distance below the cliffs, veiling the paths of the lower
terrace. A few yard lights glowed through the rain, outlining the
steps that led from one plateau to the next. He grimaced, thinking
of Ransome's sculptures, and looked away.
       "Sia?" Je-Sou'tsian spoke from the doorway, excitement in
her voice, and Chauvelin turned sharply.
       "Well, Iameis?"
       "Sia, I think we've found the Visiting Speaker, or at least
traced where he went."
       "Good." Chauvelin reached for the cylinder of paper,
touched it like a talisman. "Where?"
       "He was with Damian Chrestil," je-Sou'tsian said. "He and
his people, ji-Mao'ana and Magill, went to the C/B Cie. docks, and
they left with him in a flyer. They headed southeast, our
informant says, but I can't contact the Speaker at the Chrestil-
Brisch palazze." She paused, and made a formal gesture of apology.
"I regret we haven't located him more exactly, but I thought you
would wish to know."
       "So," Chauvelin said softly, and nodded. "Yes, I want to


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (258 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

know." _This changes everything. He is acting irresponsibly, and
he's dealing with, maybe making a deal with, a_ houta -- _Damian
Chrestil is still not a person, in the law's view -- and this can
be construed as dishonoring his patron. That will give me just
enough claim to the honorable position that Haas and my lord can
afford to protect me_. He slipped the rolled paper from his
pocket, touched it to lips and forehead in the ritual gesture. "As
you must know, I received a last transmission from maiHu'an before
we lost contact with the satellite. In it, I was granted this
commission, which I now execute."
       Je-Sou'tsian bowed her head, crossed her hands on her
chest, spurs downward, claws turned inward to her own body in
ritual submission. "I will bear witness, Sia."
       Chauvelin nodded. "In it, I am authorized to act as head of
household, lesser father, under the authority of the Father-
Emperor, father of all clans." The ritual phrases came
surprisingly easily to his tongue, for all that it had been years
since he had last used them. "This commission supersedes all
earlier claims of rank and privilege, and will do so until it is
renounced or revoked."
       "I hear, my father," je-Sou'tsian said, "and I witness. And
I obey even to the price of my life."
       "So be it," Chauvelin said, and laid the rolled paper
ceremoniously on the table. "Now." He paused, sorting out what
needed to be done. "I want you to proclaim this to the household.
Take a couple of our security people with you, just in case."
       "I don't think the Visiting Speaker's household will cause
any trouble," je-Sou'tsian said. "Not all of them are fond of
him."
       Chauvelin smiled. "I can't say I blame them. All right, do
what you think is best about security. But I want his rooms
searched, particularly for papers, disks, datablocks, anything
that could prove the link with Damian Chrestil -- also for
anything that might tell us where he is. Keep your people on that,
as well, highest priority."
       "Yes, Sia." Je-Sou'tsian paused, seemed about to say
something more, then turned and slipped away. Chauvelin stared
after her, suddenly aware of the roaring of the wind beyond the
window. If he could just find either Ransome or ji-Imbaoa -- _when
I find them_, he corrected silently, not daring to think of the


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (259 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

consequences if he did not -- he would have the tools he needed to
act. But for now, all he could do was wait.
--------
         *Day 2*
         _Storm: Ransome's Loft, Old Coast Road,_
_Newfields, Above Junction Pool_
       Lioe walked the Game nets, calling files from the
libraries, moving from one familiar nonspace to the next. Images
flickered in the air in front of her, bright against the dark
shutters; below and to her right, where there was no danger of
accidentally intruding into that space, hung Ransome's outline of
Damian Chrestil's plan. From time to time she glanced at it,
comparing its form to the Game scenario taking place in the
working volume in front of her. The basic shape looked good, and
she reached for images to complement it, trawling now through less
familiar news nets and more sober datafields. She found the images
she wanted after some trouble -- Damian Chrestil's face, a news
scan that covered the arrival of the Visiting Speaker, an old
still of Chauvelin, looking younger than he had at the party --
and dragged them one by one into space occupied by the _Face/Body_
program. The program considered them and produced a string of
numbers; Lioe dragged those numbers into the working volume, and
smiled at the result. The images attached to the character
templates were not -- quite -- the original faces, but they were
close enough to be recognized, and that was all that mattered. _In
some ways, it was almost a shame the scenario would never be
played_, she thought, studying the convolutions that formed a
neat, red-branched tree in front of her eyes. _Damian Chrestil's
plot makes for a wonderful Game incident. Too bad it's only made
for blackmail_.
       "No luck finding guns."
       Roscha's voice seemed to come from a distance, and Lioe
shook her head, refocusing to look through and past the crowding
images. She reached into control space to switch off her vocal
link, said to Roscha, "Then there's nothing?"
       "Not quite nothing," Roscha said with a lop-sided grin, and
slipped a hand into the pocket of her jacket. She brought out a
cheap plastic pistol, displayed it with a shrug. "This is mine. On
the other hand, it's only six shots, and it's not supposed to be
reloadable. I've had it modified, and I've got another magazine,


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (260 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

but I don't know how well it will work."
       "Wonderful," Lioe said.
       "What are you doing?" Roscha asked. She was frowning at the
control spaces, as though she was trying to make sense of the
carefully focused images.
       "My -- our -- way out," Lioe said. _I hope_. "I've pulled
together a Game scenario, merchant-adventurers variant, a _jeu a
clef_. I've put this whole situation into a Game -- and used their
faces -- and I'm going to put it on the nets. If Damian Chrestil
doesn't back down, leave me alone and let Ransome go, I'm going to
let it run. The scenario will show up in four hours -- in fact, I
think I'll tell Lia Gueremei to expect it -- and it will be sent
on the internets as well. He'll never get rid of it, and he should
have a hard time explaining why it fits what's been going on so
extremely closely."
       "He will be pissed," Roscha said.
       She didn't sound entirely pleased, and Lioe looked sharply
at her. "I wasn't thinking," she said. "Look, I don't want to get
you into trouble. If you want, you can leave now. I won't mention
you."
       Roscha looked momentarily embarrassed. "No. I'm not
leaving. Who'd watch the door? Anyway, the storm's pretty bad."
       "Not that bad," Lioe said, reaching for the nearest weather
station reports. Air traffic was not recommended, but the roads
were still open.
       "I don't want to take the bike, and I'm not leaving it,"
Roscha said. Face and tone were abruptly serious. "I don't want to
leave, Quinn. Don't worry about me."
       Lioe stared at her for a moment longer, then slowly nodded.
"I'm trusting you," she said.
       Roscha smiled, and turned away, settling herself against
the wall by the door. There was an intercom panel there, Lioe
noticed, and for the first time became aware of a rush of street
sounds -- rain and wind on pavement, once in a great while the
slow whine of an engine as a heavy carrier crawled along the
street -- that formed a counterpoint to the sounds from the net.
"I've rigged the intercom," Roscha said. "At least that way we can
hear them coming."
       _If they come in the front door_, Lioe thought. "Great,"
she said aloud, and turned her attention back to the images that


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (261 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

surrounded her. The scenario was complete, and again, she felt the
pang of regret that no one would ever play it. All that remained
was to put it on the nets, neatly packaged and ready to unfurl
itself four hours from now. She had done this kind of programming
before, though only for frivolous reasons, a birthday present, a
joke; still, the basic technique remained the same, and the
routines she used had proved impervious to the best attempts to
corkscrew them open. _At least, they were impervious on Callixte_.
She ignored that thought, and reached into the control space for a
new set of tools. Ransome's gloves were warm against her hands,
the wires tingling gently to confirm each movement.
       She set a nonsense algorithm to work, let it spin its hash
into the working space, then shaped the jumbled nonsense into a
solid plate, turned it back in on itself, so that the algorithm
constantly rebuilt, reinforced itself. It formed a virtual capsule
that sealed the scenario away from the rest of the nets. She
prodded at it, testing the system, and when she was satisfied with
its solidity, began the trigger mechanism. The timer was easy, a
standard commercial program tied to the algorithm; it would cancel
the nonsense run in three hours and fifty-seven minutes. Three
minutes later, the last of the nonsense wall would disappear,
tidied away by the net's housekeeper routines. At last she
finished, and spun the entire structure in virtual space in front
of her, shaping the external presentation. The emerging image
glittered as it turned, became a shape like a golden dodecahedron,
each hexagonal facet marked with her Gamer's mark. That would get
people's attention, if nothing else did. If Damian Chrestil didn't
capitulate, it, and her growing reputation, would ensure that
Gamers would copy the program to every corner of the nets. If he
did give in, and she pulled the scenario -- _not that hard, since
I have the key algorithm; there won't be too many copies to track
down_ -- she would lose a little status, but that was a small
price to pay for survival. _And maybe not even that_, she thought
suddenly. _Suppose I do what Ransome suggested, float the scenario
for Avellar's Rebellion. No one could say I didn't live up to the
advertising then_...
       But that was for later. She took a deep breath, reached out
with her gloved hand, copied the dodecahedron, and shoved it into
the place that was the entrance to the nets. It floated away from
her, picking up speed as it went, until it vanished in a flash of


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (262 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

black. _One away_. She copied the program and scenario again and
pushed it out onto the nets, did it again and again until there
were at least a dozen copies loose on the nets. Only then did she
lean back a little, and reach into control space for the
communications system.
       She opened a space, but did not drag the connect codes into
it, staring at the static-filled volume for a long moment. Then,
reluctantly, she reached into the directory, rifling its files for
Damian Chrestil, or the family's summer house. She found a code
for the latter, and dragged it into the communications space
before she could change her mind. There was a long pause, while
codes streamed across the space -- unusually long, nearly thirty
seconds -- and then the codes vanished, to be replaced by a man's
head and shoulders. It was an unfamiliar, ugly face, white-skinned
and broad-featured, and for a crazy instant Lioe thought of giants
in the story tapes she'd viewed as a child.
       "Can I help you?" the giant asked, in a voice as heavy as
his features, and Lioe dragged herself back to the present.
       "I want to talk to Damian Chrestil," she said. "My name's
Lioe."
       The giant closed his mouth over whatever he had started to
say, and looked down at something out of the camera's vision.
"Just a minute, Na Lioe. I'll see if he's free."
       "If you're trying to set up a trace, don't bother," Lioe
said. "I'll tell you where I am. I'm in Ransome's loft, and I've
found what he found. You can tell Damian Chrestil that, too."
       The giant's expression did not change. "I'll do that, Na
Lioe," he said, and his face vanished, to be replaced by what was
meant to be a soothing hold pattern.
       "You heard that," Lioe said over her shoulder, and Roscha
answered quickly.
       "Yeah. But I haven't heard anybody in the entrance yet."
       "If I take too long -- " Lioe began, and stopped abruptly.
_If he doesn't come to talk, decides to send his people after us
instead, what then? I suppose if he doesn't show up in a couple of
minutes, I can cut the connection, we can head back to the port,
try again from there_ --
       The communications space cleared abruptly, and she found
herself looking at Damian Chrestil. She'd only seen him once
before, at Chauvelin's party, and was surprised again at how young


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (263 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

he was. _No older than me, if as old. Let's hope I can play this
as well as he has_.
       "Na Lioe," Damian said. "I'm glad to finally get to talk to
you."
       "I didn't think talking was what you had in mind."
       Damian Chrestil shrugged. "If you'd come quietly ... But
that's old business. What can I do for you?"
       "You're holding Ransome," Lioe said bluntly, and hoped she
was right. "I want him back."
       "You want him?" Damian's face creased suddenly into an
urchin's grin. "I didn't think he was yours, too."
       Lioe sighed, ostentatiously refraining from an answer.
       "I'm afraid that's not possible right away," Damian went
on. "I have business in train which I don't intend to see
interfered with. Na Ransome will stay with me until it's
finished."
       "I don't think so," Lioe said. "If he's not released -- and
if you don't call off the goons you've got chasing me -- I will
spread this entire business deal onto the nets, Republican as well
as Burning Brighter, and into Hsaioi-An if I can manage it."
       There was a little silence, and Damian Chrestil said
slowly, "I know the nets. I can kill this before it starts."
       Lioe shook her head. "Not on the Game nets. The Game nets
run different protocols, different rules, they serve a different
clientele. I've put a new scenario in motion, Na Damian. It's a
merchant-adventurer's variant, primed for release in four hours,
and it's based on what you've been trying to do, from smuggling
the lachesi to the high politics." She reached into her working
space, dragged another copy into the communications space, peeled
back the shell to reveal the tiny, perfect -- and perfectly
recognizable -- characters contained in its center, held by the
red webbing of the scenario's outline. "All this has to do is come
to someone's attention in C-and-I, or, I would imagine, in the
Lockwardens or the governor's office, or even back in Hsaioi-An,
and you're screwed. And there are enough Gamers in all those
places that it's bound to happen."
       Damian Chrestil shook his head. "Not necessarily. I admit,
we may not be able to break that shell, but my people can contain
the scenario as soon as it's open. It won't get that far,
certainly not far enough to cause me trouble. So let's talk


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (264 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

reasonably."
       "Once the scenario's opened, you'll never stop the spread,"
Lioe said. "You know how Gamers are, we copy things. We share
variants we like, sessions we've played, work by people we admire.
And my name means something in the Game. Once that shell opens,
half the Gamers on the nets will have made a copy for their own
use -- once they realize it's a _jeu a clef_ even more of them
will want it. How are you going to stop that, Na Damian?"
       There was a little silence, and in it Lioe could hear a
kind of choked laughter. _Ransome_, she realized, and hid her
delight.
       "All right," Damian Chrestil said. "I'm prepared to
negotiate. You're not invulnerable, Na Lioe, you crewed the ship
that brought the lachesi, and that could be made to look bad for
you."
       "Possibly," Lioe said.
       "Easily enough done," Damian Chrestil said. "But I'm
willing to make a deal." He did something with controls that were
out of her line of sight; an instant later, the view within the
communications space widened, so that she was looking into a
comfortably furnished room. The wall behind him was black -- not a
wall at all, she realized abruptly, but the same kind of shutter
that covered Ransome's windows. Lioe tugged at the edges of her
view, expanded it so that she could see the details more clearly.
Half a dozen men and women waited at a polite distance, all in
dockers' clothes, tough-looking people who looked like older, less
beautiful versions of Roscha. The Visiting Speaker stood a little
apart from them, feet planted wide apart, arms crossed on his
chest, the fingers of the one visible hand working restlessly. A
tiny, pretty woman -- _Cella_, she realized -- sat on the arm of a
chair to the hsaia's right. Ransome was sitting in a comfortable-
looking chair, just outside the pool of amber light from an
overhead lamp, but as she watched, he pushed himself to his feet
and came to stand by Damian Chrestil. Damian looked over his
shoulder, his fine eyebrows drawing together in a frown, but he
did not order the other man away.
       "Yes, this concerns you, Ransome. Join the party, why don't
you?"
       "Thanks," Ransome said, and smiled.
       Damian Chrestil looked back into the display space. "Since


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (265 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

you're not a political animal, Na Lioe, I would assume you don't
really care whether or not the lachesi gets through to my buyers
in Hsaioi-An."
       "Or even about your chance of being governor," Ransome said
gently, his eyes fixed on Lioe as though he wanted to convey a
message.
       Lioe nodded. "All I care about is your goons off my back, a
job to go back to, and Ransome's freedom. That's pretty simple, Na
Damian."
       "I can perhaps do better," Damian Chrestil said. He paused,
not looking back over his shoulder toward the Visiting Speaker,
but the hsaia straightened anyway, both hands now poised to
display claws and wrist spurs.
       "We have an agreement, Damian Chrestil," ji-Imbaoa said.
"If you fail to honor it -- "
       Damian turned on him. "You haven't yet done what you and I
agreed. I'll fulfill my contracts, all right -- this time -- but
you can go to hell." Behind him, the flat-faced giant made a
gesture, and the dockers shifted position suddenly, so that they
encircled the Visiting Speaker and his staff. Cella slipped easily
from her place, out of the armed ring. The jericho-human made an
abortive grab for a weapon hidden under his coat, and a thin woman
leveled her palmgun at him.
       "Enough, Magill," ji-Imbaoa said, and looked at Damian.
"Very well. I have no choice. But I will ruin you for this. You
and yours will never do business in Hsaioi-An again -- "
       Ransome said something then, in hsai, not tradetalk, and
the Visiting Speaker was abruptly silent, hunching into himself as
though into feathers. Ransome looked back into the communications
space. "As I said to him, Chauvelin may be able to offer other
connections, Na Damian. You see, I'm willing to negotiate, too."
       "But will Chauvelin?" Damian Chrestil asked.
       "Ask him," Ransome answered.
       There was a little silence, and Lioe, still held in the
chair's gentle embrace, the nets wound around her like a cocoon,
held her breath. If this could work, if they could come up with a
bargain --
       "Be my guest," Damian Chrestil said, and gestured to the
controls.
       "Traitor," ji-Imbaoa said, almost conversationally, and


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (266 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

turned his back on them all.
       Ransome grinned, and reached for the control spaces. Static
fuzzed a tiny circle at the edge of Lioe's viewing volume. She
winced, and looked away from it, but did not adjust her own
controls. An image formed, slowly at first, then flicked
completely into adjustment. Chauvelin looked out at them, one
eyebrow raised in arrogant question, and Lioe tugged at the image
until it was as large as the other.
       "Na Chauvelin," Damian Chrestil said, with a fleeting and
twisted smile.
       "Na Damian," Chauvelin acknowledged. "What interesting
company you keep." He looked at Ransome. "I've been looking for
you, I-Jay. I trust you're well?"
       Ransome nodded. "Well enough."
       Damian Chrestil cleared his throat. "I think we've achieved
stalemate," he said. "Each of us has something the others want,
and, thanks to you, Na Lioe, we have a time constraint as well."
       "How so?" Both of Chauvelin's eyebrows rose.
       "I've put a new Game scenario onto the nets," Lioe said
bluntly. "In four hours -- less than that, now -- it'll be
released, and every Gamer on the nets will want a copy. It's a
_jeu a clef_, Ambassador, based on Na Damian's deal with the
Visiting Speaker. If Damian Chrestil doesn't back off, guarantee
my safety and let Ransome go, I'll let it run." She paused,
couldn't resist adding, "I do think it will play."
       Chauvelin was silent for a moment, his face expressionless,
then looked at Ransome. "Will it work?"
       "It's fucking brilliant," Ransome answered, and the
amusement in his voice had a slight note of hysteria. "Oh, it'll
work, all right, no question."
       A faint expression of distaste flickered across Chauvelin's
face, vanished as he looked back at Lioe. "I wish you had seen fit
to trust me with this information, Na Lioe."
       "Why the hell should I?" Lioe retorted. "I'm a Republican,
you're hsaia -- and I don't know you. Why should I trust my neck
to you?"
       "If I may interrupt," Damian Chrestil said. "I think I can
offer us all a way out."
       "Why not?" Lioe said, and heard Ransome laugh.
       Chauvelin said, "Go on."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (267 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

       "Na Lioe says she wants to be left alone -- my goons off
your back, you said, and your job to go to. And Ransome back,
which is what Na Chauvelin wants, too." Damian Chrestil looked
directly at Chauvelin, his voice gone suddenly deadly cold. "Am I
right in thinking you'd also like to see the Visiting Speaker's
influence curbed a little, N'Ambassador?"
       Chauvelin nodded once.
       "Then this is what I'm offering," Damian Chrestil said.
"You, N'Ambassador, will allow this shipment to proceed. Neither
you nor Na Ransome will interfere with it -- why should you care
what happens to my money and clients, so long as ji-Imbaoa, and
the je Tsinra-an, are taken down a few notches? In return, I won't
act for the Visiting Speaker, or ask any awkward questions about
his disgrace. As for you, Na Lioe, I want you to withdraw this
scenario of yours, and to keep quiet about all of this. And I'd
like you to stay away from Republican C-and-I at least until the
statute of limitations runs out on any possible smuggling charges
from that direction."
       _I'm a pilot. That's impossible_. Lioe started to protest
aloud, but Damian Chrestil held up his hand.
       "In return, I'm willing to offer you my sponsorship to
remain on Burning Bright, as a citizen. I daresay you can find
work as a notable, in the Game clubs, but if you can't, or if you
don't want to -- if you want to follow Ransome's example -- I'll
provide you with a stipend, to continue until the statute runs
out."
       _To stay on Burning Bright. To live as a notable, as a
Gamer, my income guaranteed_... Lioe took a deep breath, fighting
for calm. This was the last thing she had expected, something
outside of all possibility, that she would play this game, and
win, and be offered this reward.
       "That's very good, Damian," Chauvelin said, and there was
real admiration in his voice.
       "Thank you. I think it serves all our needs," Damian
Chrestil said.

       _Maybe not mine_, Lioe thought, indignant. _There's my
piloting -- I like my work -- and, my God, there's Kerestel. I
can't just leave him without warning_. But there were plenty of
pilots in the replacement pool, good ones, too. It was not


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (268 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

impossible, not impossible at all. _Will he keep his word? Will I
find his goons still on my tail, or wake up dead some morning? Do
I care? I could stay on Burning Bright, stay in the Game; most of
all, if Ransome will teach me -- and I think he will -- I can see
what else there is, beyond the Game. He and I can put an end to
the Game, and see what happens then_.
       "I can agree to this," Chauvelin said.
       Damian nodded. "Na Lioe?"
       She nodded, slowly. "I agree. But I want the money."
       "Wise move," Ransome said. He was smiling again, without
amusement. "And I'll agree, because the rest of you do. But you
owe me something for it, Damian."
       Damian Chrestil shook his head. "No. You're getting
something already. You're getting yourself an apprentice, someone
you can pass your skills to before you die. I think that's reward
enough for anyone."
       There was another silence, and Lioe held her breath, sure
that Ransome would reject the offer, reject the reminder that he
was going to die -- _reject me_. Then, quite slowly, Ransome's
smile changed, became more real. "You are good, Damian," he said.
       "I'm not Bettisa," Damian Chrestil answered, and there was
an odd regret in his voice, as well as certainty. There was a
little pause, and Ransome nodded.
       "All right. I'll agree."
       Lioe let out the breath she had been holding, leaned back
and let the chair tilt with her, the images moving around her to
hold their relative positions. It was done, it would work -- _and
I will stay on Burning Bright, and in the Game. And I'll have my
chance, at last, to do something no one will want to change_.
--------
         *Day 2*
         _Storm: The Chrestil-Brisch Summer House,_
_the Barrier Hills_
       Damian Chrestil watched the net symbols fade and then the
flicker of lights and symbols as the communications console shut
itself down. It was the best he could do -- _not very good_, he
acknowledged silently, but at least he would be able to salvage
something from the mess. _And I won't have to deal with ji-Imbaoa
anymore_. He turned away from the machine, did his best to ignore
Ransome, watching with his sly smile from the sidelines, and


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (269 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

beckoned to Ivie. The flat-faced man came over quickly, his hands
still curled in his pockets, caressing at least one weapon.
       "Na Damian?"
       Ivie was well trained, Damian thought sourly, but no one
was well trained enough to keep from sounding just a little
uncertain about this situation. "Escort the Visiting Speaker into
the game room," he said. "And take his people with him. Be sure
you search the jericho-human, though."
       "A pleasure," Ivie answered, and turned away. He sounded
confident enough once he'd been given something definite to do,
Damian thought, and touched his remote to summon the drinks cart.
He busied himself with its contents, careful to keep it and
himself out of the way of Ivie's people, and saw without really
looking that Cella and Ransome were being equally cautious. Cella
stood well apart from the rest, still with a drink untasted in her
hand, her expression remotely interested, as though she were
watching someone else's Game. Damian read disapproval in her face,
and looked away from it. On the far wall, the weather screen
flickered soundlessly, showing the storm from various
perspectives. He could hear the wind even through the heavy
shutters, a numbing, constant wail that rose and fell
monotonously. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ivie say
something to the Visiting Speaker, too soft and polite to be
heard. Ji-Imbaoa tossed his head angrily, turning away as though
he would have preferred to ignore the security specialist, and
Damian Chrestil braced himself to intervene. Then, abruptly, ji-
Imbaoa's resistance vanished; he made a curt gesture of agreement,
and followed Ivie toward the door. Two of the guards followed,
polite but obtrusive in their armed presence. The rest stayed
behind, the thin woman still with her palmgun drawn and leveled at
Magill. There was a little pause, and then Magill shook his head,
and lifted his hands, surrendering to a search. At the woman's
gesture, he and the hsaia secretary moved slowly toward the door.
       "Neatly done," Ransome said. He was still smiling, but the
expression was less sly, more conscious of his own failures.
       Damian Chrestil ignored the irony, said, "Thank you." He
was very aware of Cella's lifted eyebrow, and went on almost at
random, "Make yourself comfortable."
       "Consider myself a guest?" Ransome asked.
       "If you must."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (270 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

       "Chauvelin will be grateful." Ransome pushed himself up off
the arm of the chair, moved slowly across the room to stare at the
weather screen. "I don't suppose there's any chance of getting
back into the city."
       "I wouldn't send my people out in this," Damian answered
with some asperity. "You'll have to wait it out with the rest of
us."
       Ransome nodded, his attention still on the screen. Cella
set her drink aside very precisely, and came to stand between
Damian and the other man, so close that Damian could smell the
faint sweetness of her perfume.
       "May we talk, Damiano?"
       The very reasonableness of her tone was a warning of sorts.
"Of course," Damian said, and moved back into the corner of the
room, far enough away from the screen that an ordinary speaking
voice would not be overheard. He leaned against the side of one of
the heavy chairs, still not quite willing to turn his back on
Ransome, and Cella leaned close, her hip against his knee, one
hand on the chair, just brushing against his thigh. They would
look intimate from a distance, Damian knew, and wished for a
fleeting instant that that was all she wanted.
       "Are you going to go through with this?" Cella asked. She
kept her voice down, but the anger was perfectly clear under the
conversational surface.
       Damian Chrestil eyed her for a moment, biting back his
answering anger -- _all the more unreasonable because I know what
you're really saying, that I backed down, that I let Chauvelin
win_ -- and said, "It's the best bet, Cella. Better odds than
anything else."
       "Changing horses is never a good bet," Cella answered. "The
Visiting Speaker's still got power, why not stick with him? Why
the hell go with Chauvelin?" She glanced over her shoulder, a
quick, betraying tilt of the head toward Ransome, still staring at
the screen. "And him?"
       "For God's sake, Cella," Damian said. "Because ji-Imbaoa is
unreliable, and because Chauvelin's winning right now."
       "The je Tsinra-an have the power at court," Cella said. "I
know that, I did the research for you. They're going to win in the
long term, not the tzu line. You should stick with them."
       "It's a little late for that."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (271 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

       "I could persuade him," Cella said. "I could tell him it
was a bluff -- "
       "_Sha-mai!_" Damian Chrestil pushed her away, pushed
himself up off the chair in a single motion, heedless of Ransome's
frankly curious stare. "Look, Cella, I've told you what I'm doing,
which is more than is really your business. You're very good at
the Game, but this is reality. This is what I am going to do --
this is the only thing I can do, the only way I can keep even this
much -- and I don't need your baroque variations to complicate
it." He took a deep breath, regained his composure with an effort.
"If you want to help out, yes, by all means, keep the Visiting
Speaker happy. But stay out of my politics."
       Cella looked at him, her face stiff and hard as a Carnival
mask, her careful makeup bright as paint against a sudden angry
pallor. "I can -- keep him happy -- if that's what you want, yes."
       "I don't really give a fuck," Damian Chrestil answered, and
turned away.
       "Certainly, Na Damian," Cella said, with the sweet
subservience that never failed to infuriate him, and swept away
toward the door.
       Ransome watched without seeming to do so, all too aware of
the tone if not all the words of the conversation. It was the
losers who watched and listened like this, prisoners, servants,
_houta ... Well, I've been all of those, and born canalli
besides_. He fixed his attention on the screen as Cella stalked
past him and disappeared into the hallway. _I can't say I'm sorry
she's been taken down a peg or two_.
       In the screen, waves rose and beat against the wet black
metal of the storm barriers, the image dimmed and distorted by the
blowing rain and the drops that ran down the camera's hooded lens.
It shivered now and then, as the wind shook the shielded
emplacement. The first line of barriers was almost engulfed, foam
boiling against and over it; the second and third, farther up the
channel, were more visible, but a steady swell still pounded
against them. Ransome watched impassively, remembering what
conditions would be like on the Inland Water. Even with all the
barriers up, the water would be rough -- the Lockwardens would
have to let some of the tides through, or risk damage to the
generators that powered the city and, if things got bad enough, to
the barriers themselves -- and the water level would be rising


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (272 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

along the smaller canals. He had grown up on a low-lying edge of
the Homestead Island District, could remember struggling with his
parents to get the valuables out to higher ground without any of
the neighbors finding out that they had anything worth stealing;
remembered how they had piled what they couldn't carry onto the
shelves that ran below the ceilings, hoping that the roof would
stay intact and the water wouldn't rise too high. And hoping, too,
that the overworked Lockwardens from the local station would
remember to keep an eye on the block. He glanced at the controls,
touched a key to superimpose the chronometer reading on the
screen: still almost an hour to actual sunset, but the image in
the screen was already as dark as early evening. The winds were
high, but steady for now: _all in all_, he thought, _not a bad
time for looting_. There would be a few bad boys in the Dry Cut
and Homestead who would be risking it.
       "Where's that from, Warden's East?" Damian Chrestil asked.
He had come up so silently that the other hadn't been aware of his
presence until he spoke.
       "I think so," Ransome answered, and found himself glad of
the distraction. He glanced sideways, saw the younger man still
scowling faintly, not all the marks of ill temper smoothed away.
_Still pissed at Cella_, he thought. _And I can't say I blame
him_.
       Damian Chrestil slipped a hand into his pocket, obviously
reaching for a remote, and a moment later the image in the screen
vanished, to be replaced by a false-color overview of the storm
itself. Distinct bands of cloud curved across the city, outlined
in dotted black lines beneath the flaring reds and yellows of the
storm; more bands were visible to the south, but there was still
no sign of the eye.
       "Heading right for us," Damian Chrestil said.
       "We should be here some hours," Ransome agreed, and had to
raise his voice a little to be heard over the noise of the rain.
Something thudded heavily against the shutters, and they both
glanced toward the source of the sound, Damian Chrestil vividly
alert for a second before he'd identified and dismissed the noise.
       "Not too many trees around here, I hope," Ransome said,
with delicate malice, and Damian's mouth twisted into a wry smile.
       "Let's take a look." He worked the remote again, and the
picture shifted -- tapping into the house systems, Ransome


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (273 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

realized. At least one camera was useless, its lens completely
obscured by the blowing rain, so that it showed only wavering
streaks of grey. Damian flicked through three more cameras, so
quickly that Ransome barely had time to recognize the images -- a
rain-distorted view of the lawn, a camera knocked out of alignment
by the wind, so that it showed only the corner of the house and a
patch of wind-blown grass, more rain sweeping in heavy curtains
across a stone courtyard -- and stopped as abruptly as he'd begun.
"Ah."
       The camera was looking away from the wind, Ransome
realized, looking inland toward the Barrier Hills and the low-
lying trees that grew along their wind-scoured shoulders. The
nearest trees were perhaps thirty meters away, up a gentle slope.
They were bent away from the house, into the hillside, their
leaves tossing wildly, thick trunks bent into a steady arc.
Ransome winced, and even as he watched, one of the trees fell
forward, quite slowly, a tangle of roots pulling free of the wet
ground. The silent fall was disconcerting, eerie, and he looked
away.
       "What a lovely place to spend a storm."
       Damian Chrestil shrugged, smiling slightly. "It's stood
worse."
       "It wasn't the house I was worried about."
       Damian shrugged again, and his smile widened. "The odds
look good to me."
       _And you're such a judge of that_. The comment was too
double-edged, too easily turned against himself, and Ransome kept
silent, though he guessed that the other had read the thought in
his eyes. He turned away from the screen, went over to the drinks
cart, and poured himself another glass of the sweet amber wine.
"Do you want anything?"
       Damian Chrestil looked momentarily surprised, but then
flipped the screen back to one of the city channels, and came to
join him. "Yes, thanks, you can pour me a glass of that."
       Ransome filled another of the long-stemmed glasses, handed
it to Damian Chrestil, and they stood for a moment in an almost
companionable silence. Something else fell against the shutters, a
lighter thump and then a skittering, as though whatever it was had
been dragged across the rough surfaces. Damian Chrestil glanced
quickly toward the noise, and looked away again. He was a handsome


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (274 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

man, Ransome thought, attractive in the same fine-boned, long-
nosed way that his sister Bettisa had been, with the same quick
response to the unexpected. And it was good to see a man who knew
better than to follow an unflattering fashion. _And sex is the
last weapon of the weak. Not that that's stopped me before_. He
looked back at Damian Chrestil, allowed himself a quick and
calculated smile, and was not surprised when the other's smile in
return held a certain interest. _But I'm bored, and he is -- less
than fastidious, at least by reputation. Not very flattering, I
suppose. But it's better than doing nothing_.
--------
         *Day 2*
         _Storm: Ransome's Loft, Old Coast Road,_
_Newfields, Above Junction Pool_
       Lioe lay on Ransome's neatly made bed, one arm thrown over
her eyes to block the light from the main room. The walls trembled
now and then in the gusts of wind; she could feel the vibration
through the mattress, through the heavy wood of the bed frame. The
shutter that protected the single narrow window had jammed before
it quite closed off the view, and she had left it there rather
than risk damaging the mechanism. The glass had seemed heavy
enough, and on this side of the building, overlooking the cliff
edge, there had seemed little chance that anything would blow
through it. Now, feeling the building shake, she was not so sure,
and looked sideways under the crook of her elbow, at the hand-span
gap between the shutter and the bottom of the frame. She could see
only the sky and the rain, the slate-colored clouds periodically
dimmed by sheets of water blown almost horizontally past the
window. She had never seen anything like this before, could not
believe how tired she felt, tired of the tension, the dull fear at
the pit of her stomach. Storms on Callixte were just as dangerous,
maybe more so; but they swept in out of the plains with a few
minutes' warning, and were over almost as quickly. There was none
of the anticipation -- days of anticipation -- that preceded
Burning Bright's storms, and certainly nothing she'd ever been
through had prepared her for the steady, numbing fear. And the
worst of it was that she had nothing to do -- there was nothing
she could do to face the storm, and nothing in the Game seemed
worthwhile compared to its massive force. Once she had pulled the
copies of the _jeu a clef_ off the nets, there was nothing to


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (275 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

distract her.
       A noise from the street brought her bolt upright, heart
pounding, an enormous ripping sound and then a crash. Roscha's
voice came indistinctly from the main room. "What the hell -- ?"
       Lioe went to join her, found the other woman standing by
the main door, her head cocked to one side. The working space was
opened, and the air around Ransome's chair was filled with Game
images. "What was it, do you know?"
       "Outside," Roscha answered. She worked the locks. "Only one
way to find out."
       Lioe nodded. Roscha slid back the last bolt, and eased back
the heavy door. The wind caught them both by surprise, a gust of
cold, wet air snapping past them into the room.
       "I didn't hear a window," Lioe began.
       "_Sha-mai_," Roscha said. "The stairway's gone."
       "The stairway?" Lioe repeated, foolishly, and Roscha edged
back into the loft.
       "See for yourself."
       Lioe leaned past her, blinking a little as the full force
of the wind hit her. The short hall looked different, wrong
somehow, and then she realized that the stairs were indeed gone,
ripped away from the side of the building, the door hanging
crooked by a single hinge. Even as she watched, another gust of
wind set the door swinging, and the groan of the hinge pulling
still farther out of the wall was loud even over the noise of the
storm.
       "The wind must've caught it just right," Roscha said.
       "Is there anything we should do?" Lioe asked. She looked up
and down the hall as she spoke, wondering if any of the other
tenants were around, glanced back to see Roscha shrug.
       "I don't know what. I don't see any sheet-board, or
anything like that, and I can't see that a little rain's going to
hurt this floor. There's probably a maintenance staff around
somewhere, anyway."
       "Probably," Lioe agreed. She was certainly right about the
damage: the battered tiles had been peeling away from the floor
long before the storm started. She stepped back into the loft, and
Roscha pushed the door closed again. She had to work against the
weight of the wind, and Lioe leaned against it too, to help the
bolts go home.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (276 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:13 AM]
======================

       The Game shapes were still dancing in the air around
Ransome's chair. Lioe glanced idly at them, frowned, and looked
more closely. Damian Chrestil's face seemed to leap out at her
from among the busy images. "What's all this?" she asked, and
turned to see Roscha looking at her with a mix of defiance and
embarrassment. There was a little pause before the other woman
spoke.
       "I was trying to remake your scenario, the one you threw
together. It was too good to waste -- too good to waste on
blackmail."
       Lioe ignored the deliberately provocative word. "I made a
deal," she said. "You could get all three of us killed, you, me,
and Ransome."
       Roscha looked away. "I wasn't going to run it as it stood,
I was going to make a lot of changes. Enough to make a difference,
I think -- I know." She faced Lioe again, scowling now. "You can't
stop me."
       Lioe looked at her for a long moment, weighing her options.
_No, I probably could stop you. I've got the influence on the Game
nets, and I'm probably better on the nets than you are -- and
Ransome will help me -- but that only works for a while. I'd have
to watch you like a hawk, and I don't have the time or the
inclination to do that._ "Maybe not," she said aloud, "but the
scenario shouldn't run, regardless of my deal. It doesn't belong
in this Game."
       Roscha's frown deepened, her expression faintly interested
as well as suspicious. "Why not?"
       "Because this Game is over."
       Roscha opened her mouth to protest, and Lioe lifted an
eyebrow at her, daring her to continue. The other woman said
nothing, and Lioe felt a thrill of excitement at the small
victory, a small, sweet pleasure at a good beginning. Was this
what Chauvelin felt, this sure power? She swept on, not wanting to
lose her moment.
       "Yes, this Game is ending. The scenario I've been running
is the start of it, a bigger scenario that's going to tie
everything together, all the bits and pieces, and bring this Game
to a solid conclusion, all the lines resolved in a single grand
structure. And no one, ever, is going to be able to play with it
again without knowing that it's ended." She had not realized,


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (277 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

until then, how important that had become to her, to write one
thing, create one scenario, that could never be changed -- that no
one would want to change. She went on more slowly, speaking now as
much to herself as to Roscha, and heard both certainty and
seduction in her tone. "It's gotten stale, it's too predictable
right now. We've all felt it. So it's time to start over, begin a
new Game. And that's where this scenario -- " she nodded to the
dancing images, to the faces of Chauvelin and Damian Chrestil
hanging in the air beside the working chair -- "it and lots of
others like it -- that's where they come in. We can remake the
Game so that it's something real, not just a distant reflection of
reality, but something that changes, comments on, reshapes what's
really going on. That's the Game your scenario belongs in, don't
you see? Someplace where it will matter."
       Roscha looked warily at her, the frown gone, replaced by a
look of uncertainty that made her look suddenly years younger,
almost a child again. "I don't play politics -- "
       "You could. In this Game, you could." Lioe smiled,
suddenly, fiercely happy, the storm forgotten. "We both can. It
won't be _jeu a clef_ any more, that's too easy. We can set it up
so that it's an integral part of the Game, so that you can't
escape it -- so that no one who plays, and no one who sees the
Game, hears about it, can avoid what we're doing. That's what we
need, to keep us honest. To make it real."
       "That's what you need, maybe." Roscha shook her head. "I'm
not that good."
       "Then you'd better learn."
       There was a little silence between them, the wind a rough
counterpoint, and then Roscha threw back her head and laughed.
"You're right, and I'll do it. _Sha-mai_, what a chance!"
       _I knew you would_. Lioe hid that certainty, looked again
at the busy workspace. "Let's get on with it, then." She reached
for the nearest of Ransome's gloves, started to draw them on.
       Roscha nodded, and moved toward the other controls. "One
thing, though."
       Lioe stopped, one hand half into the thin mesh. "What?"
       "A favor."
       "If I can."
       "I want to play the last scenarios." Roscha's face was
utterly serious. "The ones that wrap this up, I mean. I want to be


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (278 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

a part of that, too. It's -- I think someone in the new Game
should have been part of the old one, that's all."
       _I was part of the old Game_. Lioe stopped short, the
moment of indignation fading. _But not like her. I was looking for
something else, something better, even when I didn't know it. I
never was wholly part of it, no matter how hard I tried_. She said
aloud, "I wouldn't have it any other way."
       Roscha looked at her for a long moment, then nodded,
appeased. Lioe nodded back, and reached into the control space to
turn the images to herself. For a moment, she saw Roscha webbed in
the Game shapes, tangled with the visible templates, and then the
images sharpened, and she turned her attention to the double task
of ending the old Game and creating the new.
--------
         *Day 2*
         _Storm: The Chrestil-Brisch Summer House,_
_the Barrier Hills_
       The room was dark and chill under the eaves, the roof and
walls trembling under the lash of the wind. Damian Chrestil
burrowed close to Ransome's warmth, dragging the found blanket up
over his shoulders, and wondered if it was time to leave. In the
darkness Ransome's face was little more than a pale blur, but he
could guess at the expression, sleepy and sated, and suspected
that it matched his own. Something, not a solid object, just the
wind itself, slammed the side of the house with a noise like a
great drum. Damian winced, and felt Ransome shift against him,
startled by the sound.
       "Perhaps a downstairs room would have been wiser."
       Damian shrugged, the coarse cloth of the mattress cover
rasping against his shoulders. "But not nearly as private."
       Even in the dark, he could see Ransome's grin. "Since when
did you care about discretion, Na Damian?"
       Damian Chrestil sighed. Clearly the brief truce was over --
_if you could call it a truce, more like a whole different
episode, something out of the Game, completely unrelated to the
politics downstairs_. It had surprised him, how alike they were in
bed. But that was finished. He sat up, letting the blanket slide
down to his hips, and then made himself stand up, bracing himself
for the other's acid comment. Ransome was watching, but idly, the
blanket drawn up over his shoulder. Damian finished dressing --


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (279 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

_not too undignified, this time, no scrambling into clothes_ --
and glanced back, curious. Ransome was sitting up now, hunched
over a little, one hand pressed against his chest. Even as Damian
frowned and opened his mouth to speak, the imagist began to cough.
Damian winced at the sound, harsh and painful even over the noise
of the wind.
       Ransome waved him away, got his breathing under control
with an effort that seemed even more painful than the cough.
       "Are you all right?" Damian asked, and did his best to keep
his tone neutral. _Of course he's not all right. But that's the
only thing I can ask_.
       Ransome nodded, took a careful breath, and when he spoke,
his voice sounded almost normal. "I'll be fine. Your thugs took my
medicines, though."
       "You left them," Damian said, and after a moment Ransome
nodded, conceding.
       "Whatever."
       "Shall I have someone bring them to you?" Damian asked.
       Ransome shook his head. "I'll be all right." He still
didn't move, and Damian watched him warily, until at last the
other man straightened. Damian Chrestil turned away, heading down
the darkened hall to the stairs.
       The lights of the main room seemed very bright after the
darkened upper level, and he stood for a moment in the doorway to
let his eyes adjust. The Visiting Speaker was back, sitting in a
chair by the weather screen, a service cart drawn close beside
him. Even as Damian saw him, and frowned, ji-Imbaoa rose to his
feet and went to peer into the screen, the false-color image
tinting his grey skin. Ivie said something to one of the men, and
came quickly to join his employer.
       "I'm sorry, Na Damian, but it seemed best to separate him
from his security. And Na Cella's been keeping an eye on him."
       Damian nodded slowly, accepting the logic of the statement.
"Good enough. But watch him."
       "He seems -- calmer -- now," Ivie said. "Na Cella's been
talking to him."
       Damian nodded again. Cella was sitting a little apart from
the Visiting Speaker, just outside the loose ring of Ivie's
security, but as he caught her eye, she rose to her feet and came
to join them, smiling gently. _I just hope she's over her snit_.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (280 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

"Thanks, Almarin. He looks -- at least resigned."
       Ivie nodded and turned away, accepting his dismissal. Cella
said, "He still thinks he has a hand to play."
       "Pity he's in the wrong game," Damian said, and was pleased
to see Cella's smile widen briefly.
       "Maybe so. But I thought I should tell you."
       "Thanks." There was a sound in the doorway behind him, and
Damian turned to see Ransome making his entrance, jerkin thrown
loose over one shoulder. As he moved past into the room, Damian
could hear the faint rattle of his breathing. He smiled at Cella,
knowing, confident, but his eyes slid away instantly, looking for
the red-painted cylinder.
       "Over there?" Cella said, and pointed to a table against
the wall just beyond the weather screen.
       Ransome nodded, and started toward it, brushing past the
nearest of Ivie's people. He had to pass quite close to the
Visiting Speaker, who was still staring at something in the
weather screen, and as he did, ji-Imbaoa turned suddenly into him,
uncovered wrist spur striking for his throat. Damian saw the look
of shocked surprise on Ransome's face as he lifted one arm in an
instinctive, futile counter, and then the spur sliced into and
past the imagist's wrist, hooking him like a fish through the
cords of his neck. Ji-Imbaoa struck again before the other could
pull free, the second spur and the clawed fingers slashing deep
into Ransome's belly, and then he'd freed both spurs and Ransome
was falling, still with the look of surprise frozen on his face.
       "Kill him," Damian Chrestil said instinctively, and Cella
cried, "No!" Her voice rode through Damian's, checking security's
immediate response. Ivie glanced back over his shoulder, flat face
blank in shock and confusion, and ji-Imbaoa stepped back from
Ransome's body, holding up his bloody spurs in an oddly fastidious
gesture.
       "I am not under your jurisdiction. He was _min-hao_. This
was between my honor and him."
       Damian hesitated, knowing that the moment for action had
already passed -- had maybe never happened, the Visiting Speaker
had been so quick in his attack. "Self-defense," he said anyway,
and ji-Imbaoa shook his head.
       "Who would believe it? All the witnesses are yours."
       "Na Damian?" Ivie asked.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (281 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

       _Ransome was none of mine. I would have sold him before.
And I don't know what to do_. Damian said, "Cossi -- ?" The pilot
had some medical training, he remembered.
       Cossi slid the useless blackjack -- her only weapon, Damian
guessed -- back into her pocket with a look almost of
embarrassment, and went to kneel beside Ransome's body. She turned
him over gently, long fingers probing at the wounds. Damian
Chrestil winced and looked away. The pilot shook her head.
       "Not a chance. Not even at the city hospitals."
       _I didn't think there was_. Damian took a deep breath,
looked back at the Visiting Speaker. "No," he said aloud, "it's
not my jurisdiction. But it is Na Chauvelin's, and I expect -- I'm
certain -- he will handle this appropriately. In the meantime -- "
He looked at Ivie. "Find someplace small, secure, no windows. Lock
him in there, and keep him there until we hand him over to the
ambassador."
       Ivie nodded. "There's a storeroom that will do." He
gestured to his people, who moved warily toward the Visiting
Speaker, guns drawn.
       Ji-Imbaoa looked at them, gestured disdainfully with his
bloody hands. "This has nothing to do with you," he said, and one
of Ivie's men hissed at the contempt in the hsaia's voice. "I have
no quarrel with you."
       "Go with them, then," Damian Chrestil said, well aware of
the edge of fury still in his voice, and ji-Imbaoa nodded with
maddening calm.
       "I will do so."
       Ivie's people still circled the hsaia, and Damian wished,
fiercely, futilely, that he would try something, anything, that
would give Ivie an excuse to act.
       "This way," Ivie said, and gestured with the muzzle of his
palmgun. Ji-Imbaoa nodded again, and followed him from the room.
       Damian looked back at Ransome's body, sprawled now on its
back in a pool of blood -- _not as much as I'd expected, but then,
I guess he died quick_ -- empty eyes staring up at the ceiling.
Cossi saw him looking, and reached across to close the imagist's
eyes.
       "What do you want me to do with him, Na Damian?" she asked.
       _I don't know. Very God, I have to tell Chauvelin_. Damian
Chrestil took a deep breath, still staring at Ransome's body. _Not


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (282 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

an hour ago we were in bed together -- not an hour ago he was
fucking me_. The room smelled of blood and shit. "Leave him for
now," he began, and Cella spoke softly.
       "What about one of the upstairs rooms?"
       Damian looked at her blankly for a moment, then, in spite
of himself, in spite of everything, smiled. "Well, he would've
appreciated the irony." He looked at Cossi. "Yes, take him
upstairs -- get one of Ivie's people to help you. And then get a
housekeeper running, get that cleaned up."
       "Right, Na Damian," Cossi said.
       _And I will speak with Chauvelin_. Damian took a deep
breath, bracing himself. _Ransome dead isn't so bad, it's how he
died, and where -- that he died in my house when I'd made a deal
with Chauvelin to keep him safe. The question now is, can I
persuade Chauvelin that I didn't do it, that I didn't break our
deal? And is there any way I can persuade him to turn this death
to his advantage?_ He shook his head, sighing. _Anyone but
Ransome, that might have worked, but not when it was Chauvelin's
lover. Very God, I haven't even thought of Lioe_. He pushed the
thought away. _One thing at a time_, he told himself, and turned
to the communications console.
--------
         *Day 2*
         _Storm: The Hsai Ambassador's House,_
_in the Ghetto, Landing Isle Above_
_Old City North_
       Chauvelin had come away from the windows when the wind got
bad, waited now in one of the smaller rooms that overlooked the
gardens, his back to the shuttered windows and the storm. The
walls, dark red trimmed with gold, gleamed in the warm light; he
could not feel the household generators whirring on standby
through the thick carpet, but a glance at the monitor board told
him they were ready should city power fail. He glanced away, took
a few restless steps toward the door and then back again to the
desk, looking down at the files glowing in the display surfaces.
The first draft of his formal letter to the Remembrancer-Duke
waited in the main screen, ready to be transcribed into _n-jao_
script, but he could not make himself concentrate on its careful
phrases. Damian Chrestil had given him the excuse he had needed to
break ji-Imbaoa's power. If he and the Remembrancer-Duke played


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (283 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

the game right, the incident could have effects as far away as
Hsiamai and the All-Father's court itself. At the very least, the
je Tsinra-an would lose face over this, a Speaker for the court
embroiled in common commerce, tripped up by a smuggling scheme: a
more than acceptable outcome. And that didn't take into account
the effects on Burning Bright itself. Chauvelin smiled, savoring
the double victory. At the very least, Damian Chrestil would not
become governor in the next elections, nor the ones after that; at
best, he would never be governor, and the tzu Tsinra-an would not
have to contend with an ally of the je Tsinra-an in control of
Burning Bright. _And I may still be able to keep some hold over
Damian Chrestil, even after all of this is over. That would be the
best of all_.
       A chime sounded in the desktop, and he reached to answer
it, touching the flashing icons. "Yes?"
       "I'm sorry to disturb you, Sia," je-Sou'tsian said, "but
it's Na Damian. He says it's urgent."
       "Put him through," Chauvelin said, and felt the fear cold
in his stomach. _Something's gone wrong_ -- The picture took shape
in the desktop, blotting out the open files, and Damian Chrestil
looked out at him, his face strained and white.
       "N'Ambassador."
       "What's happened?" Chauvelin asked, suspecting already,
dreading the answer. In the screen behind Damian Chrestil, out-of-
focus shapes bent over another shape crumpled on the floor.
       "I'm sorry," Damian Chrestil said. "Ransome's dead."
       _I knew it_. Chauvelin bit back anger, the instinct that
would have had him calling out the garrisons on Iaryo, on Hsiamai,
to launch the missile strike that would obliterate the summer
house and everyone, everything, in it.... "How?"
       "The Visiting Speaker," Damian said baldly. He was telling
it badly, and he knew it. "He attacked him. Ransome went past him,
to get his medicine, and the Speaker attacked him. He was killed
almost instantly."
       "Like hell," Chauvelin said. "I-Jay wasn't that stupid, he
would never have gone within reach -- " _But he might have_, the
cold voice of logic whispered at the back of his mind. _Ransome
never did fully appreciate just how much that clan line hated him.
And he always underestimated ji-Imbaoa_.
       "It was none of my doing," Damian Chrestil said.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (284 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

       Chauvelin looked at him for a long moment, recognizing the
truth of his words in the shocked look on the younger man's face.
_I-Jay's dead_. "Where's ji-Imbaoa?"
       "Locked in the cellar." Damian Chrestil managed a strained,
mirthless grin, gone almost as quickly as it had appeared. "I'm
sorry, Chauvelin. He claimed your jurisdiction."
       Chauvelin made a noise that might at another time have been
a bark of laughter. "What a fool." He paused then, considering,
the habit of cold calculation carrying him through in spite of
himself. There was nothing he could do for Ransome, and nothing
more Ransome could do for him, except that in his death he would
bring down ji-Imbaoa and most of the je Tsinra-an with him. Ji-
Imbaoa had overstepped himself. Even under the old codes that the
je Tsinra-an professed to believe in, this killing, this murder,
cut across too many kinship lines, impinged on his, Chauvelin's,
rights as Ransome's patron and lover. "Fool," he said again, not
sure if he was thinking of ji-Imbaoa or Ransome or himself, and
made himself focus on Damian Chrestil, white-faced in the screen's
projection. "Hold him for me. He claims hsai law, he'll get it."
       Damian Chrestil nodded. "I'm sorry," he said again.
       Chauvelin said, "I'll keep our bargain, Damian. But it's
because I want the Visiting Speaker."
       Damian nodded again. "I accept that." He looked away
briefly, made himself look back at the screen. "I've not yet
spoken to Na Lioe, I don't know how she'll take it."
       "I'll talk to her," Chauvelin said.
       "Are you sure?" Damian asked, involuntarily.
       "Our goals were the same," Chauvelin said. "I think our
interests still run parallel."
       Damian Chrestil flinched. "Very well," he said, and reached
for the cut-off button.
       "One more thing," Chauvelin said, and the younger man
stopped, his hand on the key. "I want I-Jay's body. I'll send some
of my household for it when the storm lifts."
       "Of course," Damian answered, almost gently, and it was
Chauvelin who cut the connection.
       He stood for a long moment staring at the desktop, at the
letter that no longer had any significance because Ransome was
dead. _I knew I would outlive him. I didn't think it would be so
soon. Even bringing down the je Tsinra-an isn't worth this_. He


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (285 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

turned away from the desktop and went to the drinks cabinet,
poured himself a glass of the harsh local rum, not bothering with
any of the mixers. He drank deeply, barely tasting the alcohol,
put the glass aside before he could be tempted to finish the
bottle. _Oh, God, I know I can live without him. It's just -- at
the very worst, I wish it had been at my choice_.
       He moved slowly back to the desktop, touched keys to
connect himself to the main communications system. He called up
the familiar codes -- _Ransome's codes, the codes to Ransome's
loft_ -- and swore when the familiar message flickered across the
screen: SYSTEMS ENGAGED, PLEASE TRY AGAIN.
       "Override," he said harshly, and a few seconds later the
screen cleared. Lioe's beautiful, strong-boned face looked out at
him.
       "What the hell do you want?" she began, and her frown
deepened when she recognized the ambassador. "Na Chauvelin?"
       "I have bad news," Chauvelin said, and knew he had not been
able to hide the pain in his voice. "I-Jay -- Ransome's dead."
       "Oh, God." There was a long silence, Lioe's face utterly
beautiful in its blank shock, and then, quite suddenly, the mask
shattered into fury. "What the hell happened, did Damian Chrestil
kill him? I'll murder the son of a bitch myself -- "
       "No." Chauvelin did not raise his voice, but she stopped
abruptly, the mask reasserting itself.
       "So what did happen?" she asked, after a moment.
       Chauvelin swallowed hard, suddenly unwilling to speak, as
though to tell the story would make it truly real. That was
superstition, shock, stupidity, and he put the thought aside, went
on, steadily now, "Ji-Imbaoa -- the Visiting Speaker -- killed
him. They were old enemies, and Ransome got too close to him."
       "The hsaia at your party," Lioe said.
       "That's right."
       Lioe closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them
again, Chauvelin could see the tears. "Ah, sa," she said, her
voice breaking. "He wouldn't've been so careless."
       "Wouldn't he?" Chauvelin said, in spite of himself, heard
the bitter laughter that was close to tears in his own voice.
       "Yes," Lioe said, after a moment. "He would."
       There was another, longer silence between them, broken only
by the howl of the wind. Chauvelin wished for an instant that he


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (286 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

could wail with it, but hsai training prevailed. He stared at
Lioe's face in the screen, wondering again just what Ransome had
seen in her. _Not sex, certainly, she's not his type for that.
Surely not just the Game? He meant it when he said the Game was a
dead end, useless. He said she was too good for the Game, wasted
on it. I wonder if he's persuaded her of that? I suppose that's
one last thing I can do, give her the chance to do something
more_.
       "What now?" Lioe said, softly. "I -- we had a deal,
Ambassador, you and I and Damian Chrestil."
       "The deal holds," Chauvelin said. "At least as far as I'm
concerned. Ji-Imbaoa falls under hsai jurisdiction, my
jurisdiction. He asked for it, in fact."
       There was a note of satisfaction in his voice in spite of
himself, and Lioe nodded.
       "As for the rest of it," Chauvelin went on, "I'm I-Jay's
next of kin, the rest of his family's dead." He took a quick
breath, spoke before the full pain of it could hit him. "I'm
willing to let you have the loft and its contents, tapes and
equipment. No one else has a claim on them. As part of the deal we
made." He made himself go on without emotion. "He would want
that."
       "Ah." Lioe's voice held a note of pain that Chauvelin
suddenly resented. He frowned, searching for the necessary rebuke,
and Lioe went on, her voice under tight control again.
       "All right. I'll keep my end of the bargain."
       _Good_. "Agreed," Chauvelin said, and cut the connection.
He stood for a moment, staring at the desktop, then touched icons
to close the letter that still waited for transcription. There
would have to be another letter -- another letter that in some
ways carried better news to the Remembrancer-Duke, a bigger
scandal, one that would devastate the je Tsinra-an -- but he
couldn't face that now. He turned away to lean against the
shuttered window, feeling the force of the wind even through the
spun shielding. _The price of this victory is very high_. He
slammed his hand flat against the shutter, already impatient with
his own grief. _He was dying anyway. This was quicker, maybe
kinder -- but I will miss him_. That was all the epitaph he could
promise anyone, even Ransome. He made a face, and went back to the
drinks cabinet, reaching for the rum.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (287 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

--------
         *Day 2*
         _Storm: The Chrestil-Brisch Summer House,_
_the Barrier Hills_
       A weather screen was flickering soundlessly in the corner,
the display showing the bands of clouds curving now from northeast
to southwest. The winds had shifted too, and the clattering of the
rain against the house was softer, less insistent. Damian Chrestil
sat alone in the tiny office space, the desktop open in front of
him, a small black box lying on top of the displays. The lights
beneath it, shining up through the clear screen, made it look as
though it was floating on a haze of blued light. Damian stared at
it, not touching it or the rolled tool kit that lay beside it, too
tired to do more than look for a long moment. Then, sighing, he
reached for the tool kit, unrolled it, and extracted a slim hook.
He worked quickly, prying open the case of the desktop's datanode -
- not hooked up at the moment -- then fanning the stacked chips
until he found the delicate nest of wires. He separated out the
ones he wanted, the power feed, the direct-on-line lead, the one
that fed the data to an implanted data socket, spliced the black
box into them. It had been a long time since he'd done that kind
of work, but it was easy enough; the skills came back quickly,
like running a john-boat along the Inland Water. He eased
everything, wires, box, the stacked chips, back into the cavity,
and fitted the cover carefully back into place. There was room and
to spare in the old-fashioned fitting.
       Moving more slowly now, he rerolled the tool kit, and
slipped it back into his pocket. He glanced then at the
chronometer, its numbers discreetly displayed above the open file:
almost midnight, and the storm would be ending soon. Already, the
winds had dropped enough to allow the Lockwardens to send out the
first of the emergency repair crews, heavy-duty flyers headed for
the lighter barriers west of Factory Island and Roche'Ambroise,
where the news services reported some minor damage, another team
headed for Plug Island to check the generators there. In another
hour or two, they could leave the summer house.
       He flicked a switch, reconnecting the datanode to the main
system, but did not touch the waiting cord. Instead, he ran his
finger over icons on the desktop, tying in to the house systems,
and touched a private code. A few seconds later, a telltale lit in


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (288 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

the monitor bar, and he said, "Cella? I need to talk to you. I'm
in my office."
       There was no answer -- probably she wasn't wearing the
jewelry that concealed the transmitter -- but a moment later the
telltale winked out. Damian Chrestil sighed, and settled himself
to wait.
       At last, the door slid open almost silently, and Cella
peered around its edge. "You wanted me, Damiano?"
       Damian nodded. "We need to talk," he said again.
       "Certainly."
       Cella moved easily into the room, seated herself at his
gesture on the edge of the desktop. She was still wearing the
demure, plain shirt and loose trousers, the creamy blouse
improbably neat even after hours of wear. _And Ransome's death_.
Damian looked down at the open files, not really seeing the
crowding symbols. "You set this up," he said quietly.
       Cella blinked once, her face utterly still and remote.
"Ransome's death? No."
       Damian Chrestil leaned back in his chair, too tired to feel
much anger at the lie. "You've never had so much to say to the
Visiting Speaker -- to any hsaia -- in your life. And the
cylinders were moved, not by me, not by Ivie or any of his people.
That leaves you."
       "Or Ransome himself," Cella said gently. "Or the Visiting
Speaker."
       "The Visiting Speaker didn't have the chance," Damian said.
"Ivie was watching him too closely, keeping him in that corner.
And Ransome was looking for it elsewhere. You had to tell him
where it was. That still leaves you, Cella."
       Cella met his eyes steadily, only the note of scorn in her
voice betraying any emotion. "Why would I kill Illario Ransome? Do
you think I care if you fuck him? What's that to me, any more than
any other of your minor conquests? We have a -- more complicated
arrangement. I thought you knew me better, Damiano."
       "I think I do." Damian did not move, still leaning back in
his chair, his hands steepled across his chest. "What annoys me,
Cella, is your interfering in my business, screwing up a deal I
had a hard time salvaging. I told you before that this was the
only thing I could do to save the situation. I meant it, and I
don't appreciate your trying to force my hand. You're not good


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (289 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

enough to play politics."
       "Ransome's death is the best thing that could happen,"
Cella said. "For you, for Chauvelin -- even for the Visiting
Speaker, if you wanted to play it that way; he'd be under
obligation to you if you let him go. Ransome's worth a lot more
dead than alive -- and don't try to tell me that Chauvelin loved
him so much that he'd rather get revenge than use him to bring
down the je Tsinra-an. It's the best thing that could happen, if
you're serious about going over to the tzu line."
       "It's not your place to make that decision," Damian
Chrestil said. He sighed, looked down at his files again, then
spun the first one so that it faced Cella. She looked down at it,
her expression first curious, then angry, before she'd gotten
herself under control again.
       "Our arrangement is over," Damian Chrestil said. "That's my
assessment of your property, a fair settlement. You can take it or
not, I don't really care. But I don't want to see you again." He
pushed himself up out of the chair, took a few steps away from the
desk.
       "Very well," Cella said, her voice still rigidly
controlled. "But you won't object if I verify some of this?"
       "Help yourself," Damian said, and heard the whisper of the
interface cord drawn out of its housing in the side of the
datanode. He did not look back, bracing himself, and a moment
later heard the fat snap of the current as she plugged herself
into the system. There was no cry, no sound except the buzz of the
overload box shorting out, and then the sprawling thud as she
fell. The room smelled of electricity, and then, insidiously, of
scorched hair and skin. Damian Chrestil turned then, without
haste, knowing what he would find.
       Cella lay contorted by the corner of the desk, limbs
tumbled, her face pressed into the carpet. Her dark hair had come
out of its crown of braids, lay in disturbed coils over her neck
and across the floor, hiding the data socket at the base of her
jaw. A thin tendril of smoke was rising from it as the implant
housing smoldered. He looked at her for a moment, but did not
touch her after all. The end of the data cord dangled over the
edge of the desk, inert: the automatics had cut the power
instantly after the massive current passed through. He left it
there, and reached into his pocket for his thin gloves. He drew


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (290 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

them on, ignoring the smell -- burned flesh, urine, burned implant
plastic, and hot metal -- and used the tool kit to pry off the
cover of the datanode. The boards and wires had fused, a ragged
mess; he stepped over Cella's body to lean closer, carefully freed
the black box from the ruined node. _The military does good work_,
he thought, and gingerly stuffed the ruined components back into
the node's casing, closing it carefully behind him. By the door,
where the carpet ended and the tiles began, he stopped, dropped
the black box on the hard surface. The casing shattered, spilling
fragments; he set his heel on them, methodically grinding them to
gravel, then swept them toward the nearest garbage slot. The
baseboard hatch slid open, and he swept the fragments into its
waiting darkness, running his foot twice over the tiles even after
he was sure he had it all. He did not look back -- he did not have
to look back, would remember Cella's twisted body in absolute
clarity even without a second look -- but walked away, letting the
door slide closed behind him. _Power surges happen during big
storms; you shouldn't go direct-on-line when the weather's bad.
Everyone knows that, and everyone does it just the same. Poor
Cella, what a shame it caught up with you. But you shouldn't've
tried to force my hand_. In an hour or two, if no one had found
her, he would send Ivie looking for her: _until then, let her
lie_.
--------
         *Epilogue*
         *Day 6*
_Storm: The Barge Gemini, Nazandin_
_Wharf, the Inland Water by Governor's_
_Point District_
       Lioe stood on the midships deck, one hand on the rail to
balance herself against the motion of the barge. Even four days
after the storm had passed, the Water was still a little rough; it
would be easier out to sea, Roscha had said, where the currents
were less constrained by the complex channels. Overhead, the sky
was very blue, utterly free of clouds, and the ghost of one of the
moons rode the housetops over Roche'Ambroise. The sun was warm:
Burning Bright was moving toward summer, Lioe remembered, and she
glanced forward, wondering if she should claim a place under the
thin canopy. It was crowded there, full of people in white under
the white canopy, and she decided not to join them yet. There were


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (291 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

more people in white crowding the docks, Gamers mostly, people
from Shadows that she recognized, others that she didn't know,
from the nets and the other clubs. White was the color of mourning
on Burning Bright, and Ransome had been well respected. She
smoothed the front of her own coat self-consciously, the fabric
heavy over a white shirt and her most formal trousers, the breeze
cool on her neck and scalp. It felt odd, not to be wearing a hat,
but she was no longer a pilot, would have to get used to that.
Kerestel had not been pleased, but there were good pilots
available through the pools. He would learn to live with it. She
glanced over her shoulder, saw Roscha coming toward her, red hair
bright in the sun, very vivid against the white coat. _Everyone on
Burning Bright owns one_, Roscha had said. _You never know when
you'll need it_.
       "It's quite a turnout," Roscha said, and leaned out over
the railing to stare at the crowd on the dock.
       Lioe looked with her, saw Medard-Yasine standing with Aliar
Gueremei, a handful of Shadows' staff clustering around them. She
had seen Peter Savian earlier, conspicuous in plain Republican
shirt and trousers, a white scarf his only concession to local
custom; now he was nowhere in sight, but instead, Kazio Beledin
stood talking to a tall woman, LaChacalle, and a slim man with a
data socket high on his face that caught the light like a diamond.
He saw her looking, and lifted a hand in sober acknowledgment.
Lioe waved back, not knowing what else to do. LaChacalle had on a
white dress under the sheer white coat, and the others wore wide
wraps, Beledin's covering his head like a hood. "So many Gamers,"
she said, and Roscha shrugged.
       "Everyone knew Ambidexter. They may not have liked him, but
they'd kill to get in his games."
       "Not a bad epitaph," Lioe said. _And it's not just Gamers
who feel that way_. She looked back toward the group under the
canopy, counting the political notables who'd come to Ransome's
funeral. Governor Berengaria, looking remarkably like her image
from the parade, stood talking quietly to a man Ransome had
pointed out at Chauvelin's party as the head of the Five Points
Bank, while a detachment from the Merchant Investors Syndicate
waited for her attention. There were representatives from all of
the Five Points Families, Chauvelin had said, and two of the
Chrestil-Brisch. She scanned the crowd until she found them. The


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (292 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

head of the family, Altagracian -- _dit Chrestillio_, she
remembered -- was a big man, bigger and more leonine than Damian
Chrestil, but the sister, Bettisa, had the same sharp face and
fine body. It was a little disconcerting, seeing her there, thin
white coat wrapped tight around her body, and Lioe looked away.
Chauvelin was nowhere in sight. _Probably with the ashes_, she
thought, and still wasn't sure how she felt about this ritual, the
formal consigning of what was left of Ransome's body to the seas.
Death on Callixte was a private thing, and so were funerals. There
was a shout from forward, and the beat of the engines strengthened
through the deck. Very slowly, the barge began to pull away from
the dock.
       "Quinn," Roscha said, just loudly enough to be heard over
the sudden rush of wind. "There's been some talk."
       Lioe glanced back at her, frowned at the grim look on the
other woman's face. "What about?"
       "The fucking Visiting Speaker," Roscha answered. "I've been
hearing from people I know up at the port -- and other places,
pretty much all around -- that he's walking around loose. I
thought you said the ambassador was going to deal with him."
       "He was," Lioe answered. "As far as I know, he is. Are your
friends sure it's ji-Imbaoa?"
       She knew it was a stupid question even as she asked, and
Roscha grinned. "Not all hsaia look alike. And he's wearing all
the honors. Perii lived on Jericho, she reads hsai ribbons pretty
fluently. Oh, it's him all right."
       "Wonderful," Lioe said. _What the hell is ji-Imbaoa doing
free? Chauvelin should be keeping him under lock and key until the
next ship leaves for Hsaioi-An -- _
       "It occurred to me," Roscha said, "that maybe N'Ambassador
wasn't all that sorry Ransome's dead."
       _No_. Lioe shook her head, rejecting the thought even
before she had fully analyzed it. _Not that I'd put it past
Chauvelin to kill someone, but not Ransome. Not the way he
sounded, looked, when he told me_. "There's bound to be a reason,"
she said, "something in hsai law, maybe."
       "Maybe," Roscha said. "But the thought also occurred to me,
Quinn, that maybe something could be done about it. Perii says the
Visiting Speaker's been drinking pretty heavily, drowning his
sorrows, she says. It'd be a shame if he didn't make it home some


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (293 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

night -- which could be arranged, Quinn. If you think it's
appropriate."
       Lioe stood frozen for a moment, suddenly very aware of the
heat of the sun on her back, the movement of the barge under her
feet. This was a power she had never expected, a direct and potent
strength, the smoldering anger of the canalli channeled through
Roscha, ready to hand. _That's exaggerating, sure, I don't have
all the canalli -- but she's offering me a means of direct action
that I never dreamed I'd be able to tap. With this to back up the
new Game, I've got more power than I'd ever expected_. She curbed
herself sternly, made herself focus on the issue at hand. "I want
to talk to Chauvelin." She pushed herself away from the rail
before Roscha could follow.
       She found Chauvelin about where she'd expected, toward the
forward end of the canopy where a plain, raw-looking pottery jar
stood ready on a white-draped table. He was wearing a white wrap
coat, like everyone else, but had left it open, so that the wind
blew it back to reveal the knots and clusters of his honors draped
about his shoulders. Berengaria stood beside him, the wrinkles at
the corners of her mismatched eyes making her look as though she
almost smiled. Lioe sighed, and resigned herself to wait, but to
her surprise, Chauvelin nodded to her, and said something to the
governor. This time Berengaria did smile, and Chauvelin made his
way across the last few meters to stand at Lioe's side.
       "It's good to see you, Na Lioe. I'm sorry we haven't had a
chance to speak before this."
       _At least not today_. Lioe said, "I hear that the Visiting
Speaker is back in all his old haunts, Ambassador. How does that
happen?"
       There was a little silence, and then Chauvelin said, "There
isn't a ship to Hsiamai for another four days. He gave his parole -
- his word, his promise -- to give himself up when it arrives."
       "I know what parole means." Lioe took a deep breath,
fighting back her anger.
       Chauvelin said, "It doesn't mean anything. It's his right
under the law, to have this time. He'll be on the ship to Hsiamai,
and the All-Father will deal with him. He miscalculated badly,
it'll take the je Tsinra-an years to recover from this."
       "I can't say I find that terribly satisfying," Lioe said.
       "You surprise me." Chauvelin looked at her, his lined face


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (294 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

without emotion. "Ji-Imbaoa is ruined. Not only that, he's ruined
his entire clan. Let him have all the Oblivion he wants, it's not
going to change anything. I think that's very satisfying."
       Lioe paused for a long moment, considering the ambassador's
words. Yes, it was satisfying to think that ji-Imbaoa would have
to live with whatever hsai law thought was the appropriate
punishment for murdering an ambassador's dependent, and with the
fury of his own relatives. Ransome, certainly, would have
appreciated it.
       "He's lost any hope of ever gaining position at court,"
Chauvelin said, "or of regaining what he's already lost. He'll be
ostracized, completely."
       "I see." Lioe looked away from him, toward the railing and
the Water beyond. Traffic was heavy, as always, but funeral barges
had priority, and the smaller boats gave way grudgingly, sliding
to either side of the broad channel. The air smelled of salt and
oil. They were coming up on Homestead Island and the end of the
Water; she could just make out the blockhouses that controlled the
first of the storm barriers, the stubby grey buildings conspicuous
against the brighter brick behind them. According to the datastore
and to the obituaries, Ransome had been born somewhere in that
district, born poor, child of no one at all important. _And now
his death is bringing down a major faction within Hsaioi-An. Yes,
he would appreciate that_. "All right," she said, "I won't do
anything."
       Chauvelin lifted an eyebrow, looked genuinely surprised for
an instant. Then his eyes slid sideways, and he smiled slightly.
"I forgot Roscha. Careless of me. But this is a hsai matter, you
can leave it to me."
       "All right," Lioe said, and to her surprise, Chauvelin
bowed to her.
       "Thank you," he said, and turned away.
       Lioe looked over her shoulder, and saw, as she'd expected,
that Roscha had come up behind her, moving so silently that she
hadn't heard her approach.
       "Well?" Roscha asked. "What did he say?"
       "We'll let it go," Lioe said. "Ji-Imbaoa will be on the
ship to Hsiamai, and he'll be appropriately dealt with there."
       "Do you believe that?" Roscha asked.
       "Yes," Lioe answered, and managed a tight grin. "He'll get


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (295 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

exactly what he deserves." Roscha still looked uncertain, and Lioe
went on, "It's what Ransome would've wanted, I'm sure of that."
       "If you say so."
       "Look, this brings down an entire government," Lioe said.
"You've got to admit that's Ransome's -- Ambidexter's -- style."
       Roscha laughed softly. "That's true. _Sha-mai_, wouldn't it
make a great Game session?"
       _It would_, Lioe thought. _It would make a brilliant one.
And it's one I want to write -- maybe put it at the core of the
new Game, make it one of the givens, part of the background for
everything. That would be a nice memorial, something else he'd
approve of. And then no one could play without knowing something
about him, remembering his death_. She nodded slowly. "Thanks,
Roscha," she said. "I'll do just that."
--------
         *Day 6*
         _Storm: The Hsai Ambassador's House,_
_in the Ghetto, Landing Isle Above_
_Old City North_
       It was midafternoon by the time Chauvelin returned to his
house, and his face stung from the combination of sun and salt
spray. Je-Sou'tsian was waiting in the main hall -- like all the
household, she wore white ribbons, sprays of them bound around
each arm -- flanked by a pair of understewards. Chauvelin frowned,
surprised to see so formal a delegation, and je-Sou'tsian bowed
deeply.
       "Your pardon, Sia, but there has been a transmission from
maiHu'an. His grace has been pleased to grant you an award." She
used the more formal word, the one that meant "award-of-honor":
she would have seen the message when it came in, Chauvelin knew.
She would have prepared the formal package. "It's waiting in your
office."
       "My lord honors me beyond my deserving," Chauvelin
answered, conventionally. "Thanks, Iameis -- and thanks for that,
too." He reached out, gently touched the knots of white ribbon.
       Je-Sou'tsian made the quick fluttering gesture, quickly
controlled, that meant embarrassment and pleasure. "We -- I didn't
want to presume. But we regret your loss."
       "Thank you," Chauvelin said again, and went up the spiral
stairs to his office.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (296 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

       The room was unchanged, the single pane of glass that had
cracked during the storm replaced days before. Chauvelin settled
himself at the desk, lifted the precisely folded message to his
lips in perfunctory acknowledgment, and broke the temporary seal.
The message -- handwritten in _n-jao_ character and then copy-
flashed; Haas's handwriting, not the Duke's -- was clear enough,
but he had to read it a second time before the meaning sank in.
Then, quite slowly, he began to laugh. He had done well, in the
Remembrancer-Duke's opinion: this was the reward every _chaoi-mon_
worked for, dreamed of, but few ever achieved. There, set out in
the formal, archaic language of court records, were the
certificates of posthumous co-optation for his parents and their
parents, the necessary two generations that would make him no
longer _chaoi-mon_, but a full hsaia, indistinguishable in the
eyes of the court and the law from any other hsai. He could not
quite imagine his mother's reaction, but suspected it would have
been profane.
       There was a second note folded up inside the official
announcement, also in Haas's hand, the neat familiar alphabet used
for tradetalk. He opened that, skimmed the spiky printing.
       CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR PROMOTION, AND MY SYMPATHIES FOR
THE LOSS OF YOUR PROTEGE. MY LORD IS VERY PLEASED WITH THE OUTCOME
OF THIS BUSINESS, AND IS PLANNING TO TRAVEL TO HSIAMAI IN PERSON
FOR THE TRIALS. A MORE PERSONAL TOKEN OF HIS PLEASURE WILL FOLLOW.
       Chauvelin smiled again, rather wryly this time. _I don't
think I should count on that_. The Remembrancer-Duke might be less
pleased after all, though on balance it shouldn't affect the
ultimate outcome of the trials. He glanced at the chronometer
display, gauging the time left until he would hear -- _not much
longer now_ -- and set both messages aside. One of Ransome's story
eggs was sitting on the desk beside him, the case a lacquer-red
sphere that looked as though it had been powdered with gold dust.
He picked it up idly, turned it over until he could look through
the lens into its depths. Familiar shapes, Apollo and a satyr,
shared images from his and Ransome's shared culture, leaned
together in a luminous forest, each with a lyre in his hands. The
loop of images showed a brief conversation, a smile -- _Ransome's
familiar, knowing smile_ -- and then a brief interlude of music,
the sound sweetly distant, barely audible half a meter away.
_Apollo and Marsyas_, Chauvelin thought, _in the last good days


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (297 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

before the contest_. He had never noticed it before, but the
Apollo had his own eyes, and his trick of the lifted eyebrow. _Oh,
very like you, I-Jay. But that's not how it was. I did everything
I could to save you. You died by your own misjudgment, not by
mine_.
       "Sia?" That was je-Sou'tsian's voice, sharp and startled in
the speakers. "Sia, I'm sorry to disturb you, but there's been an
accident."
       "An accident?" Chauvelin said.
       "Yes, Sia."
       Chauvelin did not light the screens, allowed himself a
smile, hearing the shock in the steward's voice.
       "I'm sorry, Sia," je-Sou'tsian said again, "but it's the
Visiting Speaker. There's been -- the Lockwardens say he fell into
one of the canals, he was drunk on Oblivion, and a barge hit him."
       "Is he alive?" Chauvelin demanded, and heard himself sharp
and querulous.
       "For now, Sia. But he's not expected to live the night.
They've taken him to the nearest hospital, Mercy Underface, they
said."
       "So." Chauvelin could not stop his smile from becoming a
grin; it was an effort to keep his voice under control. "Do they
know what happened?"
       "Not for certain, Sia. They think he fell."
       "Or did he kill himself?" Chauvelin asked, and was pleased
with the bitterness of his tone. _If they can believe it's
suicide, that's shameful enough on top of everything else that the
Remembrancer-Duke will still gain everything he would have gained
through the trial_. He heard je-Sou'tsian's sharp intake of
breath, wished he dared light the screen to watch her gestures.
       "It -- the Lockwardens asked that also, Sia. It seems
possible."
       "Such shame," Chauvelin said, and knew that this time he
did not sound sincere. "Send his house steward to stand by him,
and one of us to stay with her. Express my condolences."
       "I'll go myself, if you want, Sia," je-Sou'tsian said.
       Chauvelin nodded, then remembered the dark screen. "That
would be a gracious gesture, Iameis. I'd be grateful."
       "Then I'll do it," je-Sou'tsian said.
       "Keep me informed of his condition," Chauvelin said, and


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (298 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

closed the connection. It was good to have friends on the canals.
He leaned back in his chair, reached out to touch the story egg
again, but did not pick it up, ran his fingers instead over the
warm metal of the case. _I told the truth when I told Lioe I'd
take care of the Visiting Speaker. It's not my fault that she
assumed I meant that I would let the law take its course. That was
something Ransome would've appreciated, that double-edged
conversation. And I think he would've appreciated my decision_. He
smiled again, and picked up the story egg, glanced again at the
bright images. The loop, triggered by the movement, showed god and
satyr leaning shoulder to shoulder, and then the faint clear
strain of the music as the satyr played.
--------
         *Interlude*
         _Game/varRebel.2.04/_
_subPsi. 1.22/ver22. 1/ses 7.25_
       They crouched in the uncertain shelter of the cargo bay,
hearing the clatter of boots recede along the walkways to either
side. The overhanging shelves, piled high with crates, gave some
cover, but they all knew that if the Baron's guards came out onto
the center catwalk it would take a miracle to keep from being
seen. Galan Africa/VERE CAMINESI winced as an incautious movement
jarred his bandaged arm and shoulder, and stopped trying to pry
the power pack away from the nonstandard mounting.
       "Hazard," he said, and Gallio Hazard/PETER SAVIAN slipped
his own pistol back into his belt and came to study the housing.
After a moment, he pried it loose with main force, handed the two
parts to Africa. The technician accepted them, prodded dubiously
at the bent plugs. Hazard shrugged an apology, and drew his pistol
again, his attention already turned outward toward the retreating
footsteps of the guards.
       Jack Blue/JAFIERA ROSCHA sprawled gasping against the
nearest stack of crates, his face drawn into a scowl of pain and
anger equally mixed. Mijja Lyall/FERNESA crouched at his side,
digging hurriedly through the much-depleted medical kit. She found
the injector at last, applied it to Blue's forearm. The
telekinetic swore under his breath, but a moment later, the pain
began to ease from his forehead. Lord Faro/LACHACALLE and Ibelin
Belfortune/HALLY VENTURA exchanged glances, and edged a little bit
away from the others, where they could exchange whispers unheard.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (299 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

       "What about the contact?" Desir of Harmsway/KAZIO BELEDIN
said. "Where is it, Avellar?"
       Avellar/AMBIDEXTER looked back at him for a moment, gave a
slow, crooked smile. "Something's gone wrong, obviously. But
unless you want to go back..." He let his voice trail off in a
mocking invitation, and Harmsway looked away, scowling. Avellar's
smile widened slightly, and he moved to stand beside Jack Blue.
"How is it?"
       Blue shrugged, made a so-so gesture with one hand. "I'll
live." His voice sounded better, and Avellar nodded.
       "Maybe he's losing weight," Harmsway said, too sweetly.
       Blue frowned, and a cracked piece of the floor tiling tore
itself loose and flung itself at Harmsway's face. Avellar plucked
it out of the air before it could hit anything, dropped it onto
the flooring at Blue's feet. There was blood on the tile, from
where the sharp edges had cut his hand, but Avellar ignored it.
       "Try that again," he said, almost conversationally, "and
I'll leave you." He was looking at Blue, but Harmsway stiffened.
       "Not me, surely," he said, his voice provocative. "If you
leave me here, Royal, all this will have been for nothing."
       "All what?" Avellar said, softly. "All this? Coming here,
risking my life, planning this escape for the lot of you? That's
nothing compared to what I'm willing to do to have you back at my
side, Desir. But you need me just as much, if you're going to get
off this planet. Don't forget that, my friend."
       In spite of himself, Harmsway glanced toward the cargo
door, only forty meters away across the width of the warehouse. It
was even open, and he could feel that the last barrier was sealed
only with a palm lock, the kind of thing he could open in his
sleep ... if he could reach it. And beyond that hatch were
Avellar's people, loyal only to Avellar. His lips thinned, and he
looked away.
       Avellar nodded. "The ship's mine," he said. "Without me,
none of you will get aboard. Hell, without me, none of you would
have gotten this far."
       "Without you," Gallio Hazard said, "some of us wouldn't be
here at all."
       "Touche," Avellar said. "But you shouldn't've left my
service, Gallio."
       "Avellar." Lyall's voice was suddenly sharp with fear, and


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (300 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

Avellar turned to face her. "They've brought in a hunter," Lyall
said. "And the Baron's with him."
       "How close?" Harmsway demanded, and Lyall shook her head.
       "I can't tell. There's -- he's shielded."
       "No one use any psi," Avellar said. The others murmured
agreement, and he looked at Africa. "Is it finished, Galan?"
       Africa shrugged his good shoulder. "I've got the connection
rigged, but there's no guarantee it'll work."
       Avellar nodded, and looked at Belfortune. "That leaves you,
Bel."
       Faro said, "Let him be."
       Avellar ignored him. "Bel -- "
       "Avellar," Lyall said again, real horror in her voice.
"He's found us."
       "What?" Harmsway's voice scaled up in surprise. "Damn you,
Royal -- "
       "Shut up," Avellar said, and was obeyed. "Belfortune. Can
you stop the hunter?"
       Belfortune shook his head. "I have to be close to him, I
can't just reach out and take his power. It's not that easy -- "
       "All right," Avellar said, his voice gentle but firm, and
Belfortune was silent. Faro laid a hand on his shoulder, then
reached for his pistol.
       "Well, Desir," Avellar said, "it's up to you and me."
       Harmsway shook his head sharply, and Hazard said, "The last
time, you nearly killed him."
       Avellar ignored him. "If we don't work together, we'll
never get out of here. You and I will both die on this wretched
planet. Do you really want that, just to spite me? Or do you just
enjoy it too much?"
       "Yes," Harmsway said, "I can admit it. You're too strong
for me, you and your crazy clone-sibs, and I like it too much."
       "Would you rather be dead?" Avellar asked.
       "Desir, don't," Hazard said.
       Harmsway ignored him. "No, damn you. All right. I'll do
it."
       Avellar held out his hands, carefully not smiling, and
Harmsway took them with only the slightest hesitation. There was a
little silence, and then a kind of darkness seemed to gather
around them. Shapes moved in the darkness, shapes that were


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (301 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

Avellar, shapes that wore Avellar's face and a woman's body.
Avellar closed his eyes, felt his power returning with Harmsway's
presence, Harmsway's raw electrokinesis bridging the holes left by
the deaths of half the clone. He could sense the others' presence,
too: Quarta in her cell, gibbering in darkness; Secunda caught in
midstride, dragged away from herself by his insistent demands;
Tertius ever silent, great eyes staring at nothing. He pulled them
to him, made their power his own, built a ladder with it that
carried him out of the prison of his body and let him look down on
the warehouse as if from a great height. He saw the world in black
and white, the figures of his party and of the Baron's men
clustered at the doorway pale as ghosts against the dark walls and
shadows that were the piled crates. The Baron's group had stopped,
huddling together around a grounded airsled. _The hunter smells
something he doesn't recognize_, Avellar thought, and laughed
silently. _No, you wouldn't recognize me_. He spun again, looking
down from his illusory height for a solution, saw Harmsway on his
knees, head bowed with strain, still clinging to his hands.
Harmsway was weaker than he'd realized; Avellar allowed himself to
look farther afield, saw Jack Blue now standing at Lyall's side.
       _Blue_, he said, and felt the word fall for what seemed an
eternity before it struck air and was heard. "Give me your hand."
       He forced his body to free one hand from Harmsway's grip,
held it out to Blue. The telekinetic took it, reluctantly, and
Avellar felt the other's power join his own. He let himself rise
back up the ladder, dragging Blue's talent with him, hung for a
moment beneath the rafters, looking at the piles of crates through
the lens of Blue's talent. Then, almost lazily, he reached out --
his hand, Blue's telekinesis, moving as one, Harmsway still
bridging the gaps that let him draw on his clone-sibs, his other
selves -- and tipped the first row of crates onto the Baron's men.
He heard screams -- close at hand, and more distant, the noise
reaching his physical body half a heartbeat later -- but he closed
his mind, searching for the right point. Blue's power was fading,
stuttering like an underfueled engine, but he ignored it, and
toppled a second set of shelves, blocking any advance. Then he let
himself slide back down the ladder, feeling it dissolve behind him
as he fell, until he was back in his own body, on his knees, Jack
Blue's hand cold in his own. Harmsway was crumpled on the warped
tiles, breathing in harsh gasps, his forehead against the floor.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (302 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

Blue lay open eyed, unmoving, his face red and mottled. Lyall
crouched beside him, hand on his wrist, and shook her head as
Avellar looked at her.
       "He's dead."
       Belfortune laughed softly. "So that's how the great
Avellar's power works. You're no more than I am, nothing more than
a vampire. At least I don't use the power I take."
       "You just dine on it," Hazard said.
       Faro said, "This is why I won't support you, Avellar. No
one who can do that should be emperor."
       "But that's just it," Avellar said. He reached down almost
absently, lifted Harmsway so that the electrokinetic's head rested
on his lap. "This power is exactly why I should be emperor. I'm
psi, yes, but it's unlimited in type, because I can draw on all of
it. But only if you let me. I can't coerce, I can only take what's
given. Jack gave me what he had, he let me use him up, to save the
rest of us. He couldn't've done it alone, and I knew how to use
what he gave me. If a psi is going to be emperor -- and you know
that's inevitable, there's no one left who isn't psi -- then it
should be me, because I can't do anything alone, and without
consent."
       Hazard nodded slowly, came to crouch at Harmsway's side, he
touched the electrokinetic's face gently, and looked relieved when
Harmsway stirred. Hazard supported him, helped him sit upright.
Harmsway's face was drawn, lines of fatigue sharply etched.
       Faro said, "The ship's waiting."
       Avellar nodded, pushed himself to his feet, fighting back
his own exhaustion. "Let's go."
       Two guards were standing by the cargo door, one with rifle
leveled, staring toward the far door where the crates had fallen,
the other babbling into a hand-held com-unit. He didn't seem to be
getting any satisfactory answers, but Avellar shrank back into the
shelter of the nearest stack of crates. "Faro," he whispered. "Can
you take him?"
       "I can take him," Faro said, and nodded to the closer
guard. "But that one will spread the alarm the minute he goes
down."
       "Leave that to me," Harmsway whispered.
       "Don't be stupid," Hazard began, and the electrokinetic
shook his head, the ghost of a smile wreathing his mouth.


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (303 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

       "The com circuit has to go, or we're all shot. Lucky you
have me."
       "Be ready when he takes out the com," Avellar said to Faro,
and the older man nodded, his eyes fixed over the leveled gun.
Africa dropped to his knees beside him, tucked the laser rifle
against his shoulder.
       Harmsway closed his eyes, drawing on what remained of his
power. His whole body seemed for an instant to be stretched to
breaking, as though the psionic stress had translated itself to
every muscle in his body, and then the pain had passed. He reached
along the wires behind the distant wall, searching carefully to
avoid anything that was not part of the communications system, and
teased his way into the handset. For an instant, he considered the
spectacular, blowing all the circuits in a shower of gaudy sparks,
but he no longer had the strength for that. He reached for a fuse
instead and quietly poured what was left of his power through it.
The cylinder melted, and he allowed himself to fall back into his
body.
       The guard stopped, shook his head and then the handset, and
stepped forward to join the other, holding out the suddenly silent
com-unit.
       "Now!" Avellar said, and the others fired almost as he
spoke. The guards fell without a sound. "Nice shooting. Let's go."
He started across the narrow space without looking back. The
others followed, crowding into the narrow space between the outer
door and the ship's hatch, and Africa fiddled with the controls to
close the door behind them. Avellar nodded, and laid his hand
against the sensor panel in the center of the hatch. There was a
soft click, and then a high-pitched tone.
       "Royal Avellar," he said, and waited. A heartbeat later,
the cargo lock creaked open. Familiar people, familiar faces, were
waiting inside the lock, and Avellar smiled with open pleasure.
       "Danile," he said, and a man -- greying, thin, a long,
heavily embroidered coat thrown open over expensively plain shirt
and trousers -- looked back at him gravely.
       "I'm back, Danile," Avellar said again, and the greying man
nodded.
       "You're here."
       "And I have Harmsway, and the others," Avellar went on. "We
had an agreement, Danile."


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (304 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

       Danile nodded again, more slowly. "Yes."
       "You said," Avellar said, a note of menace in his voice,
"you said you would support me, support my claim to the throne, if
I brought Desir of Harmsway out of Ixion's Wheel. We're here,
Danile. Are you going to keep your part of the bargain?"
       "I didn't think you could do it," Danile said. "I thought --
I thought I'd be rid of you. But if you can do this..." His voice
trailed off, and he shook his head. "If you can do this, yes,
you're the best choice for the position. Yes, I'll support you --
Majesty."
       Avellar smiled with wolfish triumph, and one of Danile's
crew said urgently, "Sirs -- "
       "She's right," Danile said. "We have to hurry. We're
cleared for departure; we'd better go while we still can."
       There was a ragged murmur of agreement, and the group began
to move farther into the ship, following Avellar and Danile. The
cargo door slid shut again behind them, closing off their last
view of Ixion's Wheel.
--------
          *Day 16*
_Storm: Ransome's Loft, Old Coast Road,_
_Newfields, Above Junction Pool_
       Lioe closed down the system for the last time, running her
hands over the secondary controls to disconnect the monitors. She
already had all the data she needed, stored in spheres until her
new space was up and running -- a newer building, down in the Dock
Road District, closer to the clubs. A haulage company would come
for the machines later, or at least for the ones she had decided
to keep. It was a generous legacy, maybe too generous, especially
since she was still not sure if Ransome would have wanted her to
have it. She was better than he had ever been, at both games,
politics and the Game itself, and once the novelty had worn off,
it might have become awkward between them. But there was no point
in might-have-beens. She looked around a final time, making sure
she hadn't forgotten anything. There was nothing left, nothing
that she wanted, and she let herself out into the sun-warmed
corridor. The elevator was in use, as always; she scrambled down
the new stairway, walled in storm-hardened glass, barely aware of
the cityscape spread out below the cliff edge beyond her. Roscha
was waiting, with a borrowed denki-bike, and the new Game began


file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (305 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]
======================

tonight. Lioe smiled, and hurried.

-----------------------
Visit www.e-reads.com for information on additional titles by this
and other authors.




file:///G|/rah/Melissa%20Scott%20-%20Burning%20Bright.htm (306 of 306) [2/17/2004 11:08:14 AM]