Burning Bright

by Melissa Scott

  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 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 codestrings 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.

  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 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 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 reala 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 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 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 HsaioiAn.” He paused, seeing annoyance 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 b
een 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 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.