Burning Bright

by Melissa Scott

  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 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 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 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 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 woul
d 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 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 HsaioiAn. 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 HsaioiAn, 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.

  “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 HsaioiAn–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 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 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.”