Burning Bright

Ji‑Imbaoa ignored that, and glanced back at Chauvelin. “I expect to be kept informed.”

“As you wish,” Chauvelin said, and the Visiting Speaker lifted a clawed hand to signal the door. It slid open obediently, and ji‑Imbaoa stalked out, his ribbons flurrying behind him.

Ransome said, even before the door had fully closed again, “Pity everything else isn’t so docile.”

“You’d better have meant the door,” Chauvelin said, without heat.

“What else?” Ransome darted him a suddenly mischievous glance, said, “Am I to keep on with the Game, then? Or would you rather know about the larger nets?”

“Both,” Chauvelin said. “You heard him. I need you to be visible on the Game nets, to be sure he knows you’re doing what he ordered.”

“That won’t be too difficult,” Ransome said.

“You’ve changed your tune.” In spite of himself, Chauvelin felt a stab of jealousy, remembering the way the other had looked at the pilot, Lioe, the night before.

Ransome gave him a rueful smile. “She’s good,” he said. “And she’s wasted in the Game.”

Chauvelin said, more abruptly than he’d intended, “Whatever. But I do need you to be seen in the Game.”

“I’ve said I would,” Ransome said. He pushed himself off the corner of the desk. “But, damn it, Damian Chrestil is up to something that has nothing at all to do with the Game.”

“I believe you,” Chauvelin said. “I’m doing what I can to find out what.”

“That would make sense,” Ransome said. He lifted his hand to open the door, paused with the gesture half completed. “Do you want me to keep on the port nets?”

Chauvelin nodded. “If you can, yes, but the main thing’s the Game. I think you’re right, but ji‑Imbaoa’s forced my hand.”

Ransome nodded abruptly. “I know, I’m sorry. I’ll do what I can.” He finished his gesture, and the door slid open.

Chauvelin watched him leave, watched the door slide shut again behind him. As long as you stay on the Game nets, as long as you’re conspicuously doing what ji‑Imbaoa wants, then I’ve got a little time. He reached for the shadowscreen, recalling one of the chronometers, and checked the transmission pattern between Burning Bright and maiHu’an. He had just missed a window: the two planets would not be in phase for another twenty hours. Not until tomorrow, then, he thought, and tomorrow afternoon at that. For a moment, he considered using the more complicated–and expensive–emergency cha

Day 1

Storm: Shadows, Face Road, Dock Road

District Below the Old Dike

Lioe blinked even in the filtered sunlight that filled the i

She triggered the self‑heating unit, waited the required thirty seconds while the little charge cycled, and opened the box. The steam that rose from the mix of rice and onions and chunks of palmweed and the flower‑shaped seacakes was thick and appetizing, smelling of salt broth and the smoky oil that preserved the fish. There was a tiny dish of sweet mustard as well, but she had learned that it was far more mustard than sweet and should be approached with caution. She spread a pinpoint of the condiment over the first of the seacakes, and tasted warily. It was spicy, cutting the oil, but not so hot that it brought tears to her eyes. She hadn’t realized quite how hungry she had become, caught up in the intricacies of the Game, and she ate with relish, pursuing the last grains of rice around the bottom of the box. Both rice and seacakes were ubiquitous on Burning Bright, the staple of everyone’s diet–the rice grown in the tidal shallows, the seacakes processed at sea from the bits and pieces left over after the more expensive fillets and chunks were set aside–but she had not been on planet long enough to get tired of the salt‑and‑smoke flavors.

She reached for the datacord then, plugged her workboard into the unoccupied node, touched keys to activate the unit and call up the night’s schedule. Somewhat to her surprise, the session hadn’t filled yet, but then she remembered that it was the first night of Storm, the first night of the Carnival. It wasn’t that surprising, after all, but it was a shame that she wouldn’t be making as much money from the session fees as she had hoped. Unless, of course, she could fill the session herself… She tilted her head to one side, considering. She had reserved Harmsway for Ransome, as he’d asked, and Savian and Beledin had signed up to play Lord Faro and Belfortune again– I’d like a second chance at him, Beledin had said, when she had met him in the hall on her way to the session leaders’ meeting–and a couple of unfamiliar names filled other slots, but no one had signed up for Jack Blue, or Mijja Lyall, or Avellar. Lioe frowned, seeing that. She had expected the unfamiliar names to fill last–and neither Jack Blue nor Lyall was a well‑known template–but she would have assumed that Avellar would go quickly. An inexpert Avellar would throw off the balance of the entire scenario; she needed someone good in that spot, if the session was to work at all.

“Qui

The voice was familiar, but Lioe couldn’t quite place it. She looked up, still frowning, and felt the frown dissolve as she looked up at Roscha. “I’ve been around,” she said. “Are you playing tonight?”

Roscha’s wide mouth widened further in a grin that showed perfect teeth and heightened the impossible cheekbones. “I hope so. I just got off work, and they told me there were still places left for tonight’s session.”

Lioe looked down at the little screen, juggling choices. Roscha was good, all right, but volatile; there had been moments in the first session when she’d amply justified Gueremei’s description of her as “difficult.” On the other hand, that volatility might make for a very interesting key character. “How would you feel about playing Avellar?” she said slowly. “The other real option is Jack Blue–Lyall’s open, too, but that doesn’t strike me as your style.”

“Avellar.” Roscha’s voice caressed the name. “Hell, yes, I’d like to play him–or her, if you’ll let me play the she‑clone.”

Avellar, by Game convention, was actually a four‑person clone, the survivors of a larger clone that had been partially destroyed some years before, in the clone’s childhood. It provided an explanation for the character’s limited telepathy; it also gave players who didn’t like crossing gender lines further options. Lioe shrugged. It made no difference in the context of the scenario; she was just a little surprised that Roscha, of all people, would choose not to cross gender. “If you want, sure,” she said. “I don’t have any problem with that.” She touched keys, and watched the program add Roscha’s name to the list of players.