Burning Bright

by Melissa Scott

  As they rose above the cliff edge, approaching Newfields and the Warehouse helipad, the wind caught them, jolting the cab sideways before the pilot caught it. Lioe braced herself against the safety webbing, watching the muscles of the pilot’s arms tense and relax as his hands moved inside the sheaths of the on‑line controls. His lips were moving, too, and she guessed he was talking to his dispatcher, warning other pilots about the winds. He took the approach to Warehouse very carefully, and Lioe was grateful for it: the helicab shuddered and bounced, but finally dropped the last meter or so onto the hard paving. The credit reader unfolded from the cab wall, beeping for payment.

  Ransome reached for his card, but Lioe got there first. “Pay me back,” she said, and ran her own card through the slot. She managed not to wince at the total–about twice what she had expected–and hit the key that confirmed the payment. The pilot opened the passenger door, and they climbed out onto the pad. The helicab started to lift as they crossed the low barrier, and Lioe flinched as grit stung her face and bare arms. Ransome turned away from it, one hand cupped over his mouth and nose, did not move until the cab had lifted out of range.

  “Do you want a velocab?” Lioe asked, tentatively, more to make sure he was all right than to get an answer to her question, and was relieved when he shook his head.

  “No. It’s not far to the loft.” He sounded a little better, and Lioe let herself relax.

  The streets were all but empty of pedestrians here, and only a few heavy carriers rumbled past, stirring the drifted dirt and sand. A fickle wind was blowing, a warm wind that carried an occasional hint of a chill at its heart. Lioe shivered at its touch, glanced again to the sky, but saw only the same hazy clouds, the sun a hot white disk behind them. It felt like the afternoon winds on Callixte, the summer wind that brought the big storms down onto the plains, and she found herself walking warily, as though too quick a movement would trigger lurking thunder. Ransome glanced curiously at her, then looked away.

  They turned the last corner onto a street shadowed by the buildings to either side, and Ransome led her past a tangle of denki‑bikes, their security fields humming at an annoying pitch, to the access stair that ran along the side of the building.

  “Isn’t there a lift?” Lioe asked involuntarily, but Ransome didn’t seem offended.

  “There is, but it’s in use.” He nodded to the main doorway, where a red flag drooped, moving only sluggishly in the breeze.

  “Oh.” Lioe followed him up the stairway, past the Carnival debris, broken bottles, a cluster of stained and ragged ribbons at the base of the stairs, another bottle on the landing; the crumpled papers and stained foils from a packet of Oblivion lay on the landing outside Ransome’s door. He stepped over them without looking, and Lioe did her best to follow his example.

  The loft was pretty much as it had been when she’d left it, nothing changed except the pile of clothes on the floor outside the bedroom door. Her hat was sitting on the folded bed. Was it only yesterday that I left it? she thought, said aloud, “Can I get you anything?”

  Ransome was already heading for the tiny bedroom, said over his shoulder, “Coffee?”

  “Right.” Lioe went into the kitchen. She filled the machine and set it running, came back out into the main room just as Ransome emerged from the bedroom. His eyes looked slightly unfocused, and there were two spots of red on his cheeks that spread as she watched, as though he were blushing deeply.

  “I appreciate your coming back with me,” Ransome said. His voice already sounded better, less choked. “I wasn’t sure I’d be able to talk the pilot out of taking me to a clinic.”

  “Should you have gone to a clinic?” Lioe asked. “Should you go to a clinic?”

  Ransome grinned. “No, I told you, I had what I needed here. They couldn’t‘ve given me anything different.”

  Lioe nodded, watching him. “Are you all right?” she said slowly, and Ransome looked away.

  “For the moment.” He sighed, turned back to face her. “As you probably already figured out, I have white‑sickness–it’s under treatment, so you don’t need to worry–but I’ve had it for a while, and the system’s slipping out of equilibrium.”

  Which translates as, you’re starting to die. Lioe said, “I’m sorry,” and cringed at the inadequacy of the words.

  Ransome went on as if he hadn’t heard, his tone so matter‑of‑fact that she winced at the unvoiced pain. “I have five to seven years, or so they tell me, so it’s not an emergency.”

  Except that you can’t be much more than forty, and you ought to live another forty years. Lioe said again, “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.” There was a little pause, and then Ransome achieved a kind of smile. “Do you want some coffee?”

  “Sure, thanks,” Lioe said, glad of the change of subject, and Ransome disappeared into the kitchen. He returned a moment later with two steaming mugs. Lioe took hers with a murmur of thanks, sipped cautiously at the bitter liquid.

  “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you,” Ransome said, and his voice was carefully casual, so that Lioe glanced back at him warily. “Especially since last night’s session.”

  “Oh?” Lioe paused, and then shrugged. “Go ahead, I guess.”

  “What the hell were your parents thinking of, to let you become a pilot?”

  Lioe blinked, completely taken aback by the question. It was not at all what she’d been expecting– though what I was expecting I don’t know –and she didn’t quite know how to answer. She opened her mouth, stopped, closed it again. “I was good at it,” she said at last, and heard the annoyance in her voice.

  Ransome spread his hands, almost spilling his coffee. “I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just that you’ve got an artistic sense, a talent for the Game, and for imaging. I’m surprised you didn’t get a chance to pursue it–I’m surprised nobody picked up on it.”

  “No, it’s all right,” Lioe said. And after what you’ve told me, I’m not sure I have the right not to answer. She ordered her thoughts with an effort. “I was raised by Foster Services, on Callixte. They steered me toward the union certificate program, and when I won one of the scholarships–well, you know how hard they are to get. I wanted to take it, at least to prove I was as smart as the docents had always said.”

  Ransome nodded. “Your parents died?”

  Lioe shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t remember much about it–I pretty much don’t remember anything before the Service creche–but what they told me was, a couple of people found me in an abandoned house near the port district, Mont’eranza, it’s called. I was undernourished, but otherwise unhurt, and about six years old, as best the medical people could tell. So I ended up with Foster Services.”

  “And the Game,” Ransome said. “Your scenario’s good, near brilliant, in fact.”

  “Thanks.” Lioe grinned. “I’d still like to take this situation a little further, though, pull it all together. Can you imagine what that would do to the Game?”

  Ransome nodded, his tone quite serious. “It would be enormous fun while it lasted, though, wouldn’t it?”

  “I’m not eager to be lynched afterwards,” Lioe said. “Besides, I’d have to set it up now, change this scenario a little.”

  “Do it,” Ransome said. Lioe looked at him, startled, and he said again, “Do it. And let me play Avellar.”

  “Not Harmsway?”

  Ransome shook his head. “Avellar.”

  God, Lioe thought, that would be a brilliant bit of casting, and if anybody could pull it off, give me the setup I need for Avellar’s Rebellion–She smiled, realizing that she had already given the scenario a title. “When I run it again,” she said, slowly, “you can have Avellar, if you want him. But I’m not sure about making the changes.”

  “If you won’t,” Ransome said, “I will.”

  She lifted an eyebrow at him, not sure she believed him, and his smile widened. “I’ll do it, you know,” he said.

  “I believe you,”
Lioe answered.

  “You needn’t sound quite so worried,” Ransome said. He paused, looked back toward the windows. The clouds had thickened a little since they had come in, turning the sky the color of milk, and the shadows had vanished. Lioe moved to join him, staring down into the Junction Pool. It was even more crowded than it had been, seemingly hundreds of barges tied up two deep at the piers, and smaller craft darted like beetles among them. She wondered briefly if Roscha were somewhere among them.

  “There was something else I wanted to ask you,” Ransome said. “How did you happen to pick Harmsway for the scenario? Did Cella Minter–or anyone–mention him to you?”

  Lioe blinked again, startled, and shook her head. “No. I’d worked up the scenario before I got here. We didn’t expect to spend any time on planet; we lost calibration in one of the sail projectors en route from Demeter, and had to lay over to reset it. I’d kind of forgotten that they were local Types when I showed the scenario.” Ransome nodded, still looking out the window, and Lioe frowned. My turn to ask questions, I think. “Why? Who’s–Cella, did you say?”

  “Cella Minter.” Ransome paused. “You may have seen her at Chauvelin’s party the other night, a tiny woman, absolutely a perfect beauty. She’s Damian Chrestil’s mistress, when he isn’t chasing something else.”

  Lioe paused, trying to remember, could vaguely recall a tiny woman with copper‑colored braids woven into sleek, jet‑black hair. She had been startlingly beautiful, seen from across the room, and more than a little intimidating. “So who’s Damian Chrestil? Any connection to C/B Cie.?”

  There was a little silence, and Ransome looked at her. “He isC/B Cie. Decidamio Chrestil‑Brisch is his full name, he’s head of C/B Cie. Did you, your ship, bring in a cargo for him?”

  “It was a C/B Cie. cargo, yes,” Lioe said. “Why?”

  “Because Damian Chrestil has been trying to keep me out of the port nets for two days now,” Ransome said, anger and glee mixed in equal measures in his voice. “And maybe, just maybe, you can help me figure out why.”

  “I don’t quite see the connection,” Lioe began, and Ransome cut in.

  “What were you carrying?”

  “I don’t want to be overly delicate about this,” Lioe said, “but why do you want to know? We’re supposed to keep our mouths shut about what we carry. General union rules.”

  Ransome nodded. “Sorry.” He took a deep breath, gestured, spilling coffee, and set the mug aside, scowling. “Look, it’s like this. Chauvelin’s my patron. We’ve known each other for years–”

  “I remember,” Lioe said. She could still see the little room in Chauvelin’s monumental residence, light gleaming off the story egg, the first one she’d seen. Chauvelin is your patron, and Chauvelin’s rival the Visiting Speaker hates you, quite personally.

  “I’ve done various kinds of work for him,” Ransome went on, and there was a distinct note of pride in his voice. “I’m good on the nets, very good, and I occasionally do some research for him.”

  “The charge is usually common netwalking,” Lioe murmured, and remembered, too late, that Ransome had been in jail. To her surprise, he laughed.

  “True. Anyway, I’ve been–walking the nets for him lately, because the damn Visiting Speaker got it into his head that Damian Chrestil was up to something in the Game. When I checked it out, sure, he wanted me back in the Game, back involved, but there wasn’t anything really happening. It was all just a blind. So I started wondering what Damian Chrestil really wanted, and I haven’t been able to get into the port nets at all. So you see why I’d really like to know what you were carrying.”

  Lioe shrugged. “Red‑carpet, according to the manifest. En route to a distillery here. We had a couple of bungee‑gars on board.”

  “Is that normal?”

  “Depends,” Lioe said. “I wouldn’t think red‑carpet was quite that valuable, but it’s close enough, I guess.”

  “Who was the shipper?”

  Lioe frowned, pulling names from her mental files. “A company called TMN, I think. They weren’t much.”

  “I bet it’s smuggling,” Ransome muttered, as much to himself as to her. “There’s no other reason to keep me out of the port nets, except that he hasn’t rechristened the cargo yet. Damn it, if I could just get in!”

  Lioe eyed him warily. It seemed overelaborate to her, a lot more complicated than simple smuggling would need to be– and I’ve seen enough smuggling combines at work to know that simple’s the way to go. “So why should the Visiting Speaker be worried about it?” she asked aloud.

  “I wish I knew,” Ransome answered. He stopped suddenly, eyes wild. “But I do know, I just had it backward. Ji‑Imbaoa doesn’t want to know what Damian Chrestil’s up to, he already knows that because he’s involved in it. What he wants is me out of the way, me and Chauvelin, so that he can gain favor with whatever it is they’re smuggling.”

  “That sounds a little complicated,” Lioe said when it became clear that some answer was expected of her.

  “But that’s it,” Ransome said. “I’m sure of it. Ji‑Imbaoa’s a je Tsinraan, and they need to consolidate their position with the All‑Father. Chauvelin’s a tzu Tsinraan, he’d stop him on principle, regardless of what the cargo is. And Damian Chrestil’s an ambitious little bastard; he’s got lots of friends in the Republic, but not many in HsaioiAn. But if the je Tsinraan owed him a favor, that would give him some substance over the border, and that kind of connection there translates to power here, on Burning Bright. It makes good sense.”

  “If you say so,” Lioe said, and didn’t bother to hide her own uncertainty.

  “Trust me,” Ransome said. “Look, this has to be what’s going on–Christ, won’t Chauvelin be pleased, it’s the perfect excuse to get rid of ji‑Imbaoa–but I have to talk to some people.”

  “Netwalking?”

  Ransome shook his head. “I’ve tried that already. But there are some people up at the port who still owe me favors, and I think it’s time I called them in.”

  “How are you feeling?” Lioe asked, pointedly. Ransome looked blank for a moment, then laughed.

  “Fine. Look, I need to do this now, before it’s too late, but I wanted to know, were you serious about this scenario?”

  Lioe hesitated for an instant–it would mean the end of the Game as she knew it–but then nodded firmly. “I’d like to work it out.”

  “Do you want to use my systems?” Ransome asked. “It’s a little more private than Shadows would be, and I’ve got most of the library disks you’d need. We could talk about it when I got back, you could show me what you need to have happen to set up the new scenario.”

  Lioe thought for a moment. It would be easier, working here–more privacy, fewer interruptions from players and would‑be session leaders who had questions about Ixion’s Wheel–but she’d already made plans for the day. “I’m supposed to meet Roscha. We’re going to see a puppet show in Betani Square.”

  “So work here anyway; if I’m not back by the time you have to leave, come back when you’ve finished. I can give you a key, just in case I’m not back by then–though God knows I should be–but if I’m not, let yourself in and make free with the systems.” Ransome grinned. “You should know where things are by now.”

  “All right,” Lioe said. “We’ll do this.”

  “Great.” Ransome rummaged in a drawer without result, then stood scanning his shelves before he came up with a flat black rectangle about the size of a dice box. He handed it to her, and Lioe took it cautiously, feeling for the almost invisible indentations.

  “Upper left is for the stairs,” Ransome said, “upper right is the main entrance, center is the loft door, lower right calls the lift–when it’s free.”

  Lioe nodded.

  “Then I’m off,” Ransome said. “I probably won’t be back before you have to leave, but I’ll see you after the show, all right?”

  “I’ll be here,” Lioe said, and shook her head slowly as the ma
in door slapped shut behind him. How do I get into these situations? she wondered, then grinned. Maybe Burning Bright was the home of the Game precisely because its own politics were as baroque as those of the imaginary Imperium. Let’s see if I can come up with something as complex for Avellar. She found the room remote, and touched its gleaming surface, darkening the windows and bringing up the display space. She pulled on the wire‑bound gloves and settled herself in the massive chair, wriggling a little as the cushions shifted beneath her, accommodating her weight. She reached into control space, touching virtual icons, and found a copy of her scenario waiting in storage. She defined a space, called it into those new confines, and sat for a moment, staring at the tree of symbols. Then she touched the first icon, and began to work.

  Day 2

  Storm: C/B Cie. Offices, Isard’s Wharf,

  Channel 9, Junction Pool 4

  Damian Chrestil stood at the back of the plotting shed at the end of Isard’s Wharf, watching the display table. A model of Burning Bright’s oceans, spread to scale on a virtual globe, floated above the tabletop; the shapes that represented C/B Cie.‘s various ships ghosted through the mirrorlike surface, the codes that represented their cargoes and destinations flickering to life at a gesture from some one of the attendants. The coiled shapes of the blossoming storms, a grand procession of them sweeping up the trade winds from the shallows below the equator, marched over the surface, interdicting great sweeps of sea. Most of the company’s ships were already in port, or within a day’s journey, but a few were still well out to sea, and the wharfingers studied them carefully, murmuring to each other. They and their assistants each carried a smaller plotting tablet and a delicate, gold‑tipped wand. As they gestured at the model, circling it like acolytes to adjust symbols and times and weather forecasts in search of the most economical arrangement, they reminded Damian of some mysterious and primitive cult. Behind him, the windows rattled in the rising wind, and one of the assistants glanced nervously toward the cloud‑white sky. On the model, a tight spiral of cloud was poised south and east of the entrance to the Inland Water.