“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.”
“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 HsaioiAn, 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 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.
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 r
eally, 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 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, 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 reallearning 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 HsaioiAn. 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, 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‑monwere, 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‑monwas 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.”
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 t
his, 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 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.
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