Burning Bright

by Melissa Scott

  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.

  “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 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 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– 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 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 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 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 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.