Burning Bright

by Melissa Scott

  I can believe that, Lioe thought, glanced again through 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 methodein 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 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 realper 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 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 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 methodeas 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–n
egotiating,” 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 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 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 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 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 s
lightly, 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.