Burning Bright

“Search him,” the woman said to one of the dockers, and Ransome submitted to the rough and efficient search. She stepped past him then, unplugged the datablock, and stood studying the kiosk screen for a moment. Ransome saw her frown over the hash of random characters and touch a few keycodes before she shook her head and pocketed the datablock. At least she wasn’t able to trace the destination codes, he thought, and felt a flicker of hope revive.

“Nothing here,” the docker said, and she nodded.

“I hope you’ll come quietly, Na Ransome.”

“I’m not stupid,” Ransome answered. This is how the game is played; you cut your losses and hope for your connections to save you. Please God, Chauvelin will try to contact me, will sort through the net stores when he can’t—He pushed that thought aside, pushing away panic with it. But this had happened before; he’d done his best, and sacrificed himself, and ended up abandoned. That was Bettis Chrestil, twenty years ago. Chauvelin is different. I can rely on him. I have to rely on him. The fear was a taste of metal in his throat.

“Walk with him,” the woman said to the big man, who nodded unsmiling and took Ransome’s arm. Ransome felt the muzzle of a palmgun touch his side briefly, felt the plastic warm against the inside of his elbow. The big man had a grip like iron; there was no hope of pulling free. All I can do now is wait, Ransome thought, and let them walk him slowly down the stairs and across the lobby. No one looked twice at them, and a part of Ransome’s mind had to admire their efficiency.

“I hope Damian Chrestil pays you what you’re worth,” he said, experimentally, and the big man’s hand closed painfully on his arm, grinding the palmgun into his elbow.

“Do stay quiet,” the woman said, conversationally, and turned her head to murmur something into a hand-held com-unit. As they passed through the main doors, a heavy passenger carrier, its rear pod sealed tight, windows darkened, pulled up in front of them. The door of the sealed compartment sighed open, and the woman said, “In there, please.”

There was no point in a struggle, and no chance even if he’d wanted to. The big man leaned into him, putting him off balance, and as Ransome stumbled, the woman tripped him neatly, so that he practically fell into the darkened pod. He righted himself instantly, steadying himself with both hands against the padded seats, but the big man pushed in after him, palmgun now displayed, forcing him back against the pod’s wall. The door closed behind the big man almost as soon as he’d cleared the frame, and the carrier slid away from the curb.

Ransome leaned back against the cushions, knowing better than to move too quickly. The big man settled himself opposite him, moving with the rocking of the carrier, sat comfortably, with the palmgun resting on his knee. Ransome eyed it for a moment, but knew better than to think of attack. He could hear the rasp of his breathing even over the purr of the carrier’s motor, felt the familiar pain tugging at his lungs. “Hey,” he said, and his voice cracked even on the single word. He made a face, hating the weakness, hating to have to ask, said again, “Hey. I need to take some medicine. It’s in my pocket.”

The big man looked at him for a long moment, his face utterly without expression. “All right,” he said at last. “Which pocket?”

“Jacket. Left-hand side.”

“Go ahead.”

Ransome reached for the cylinder of Mist, making himself move at half the speed he wanted, slid the squat cylinder from his pocket, and started to hold it up even with the big man’s eyes. The man leaned forward instantly, caught Ransome’s wrist before he could finish the movement.

“Don’t make trouble.”

Ransome shook his head, did his best to suppress the cough that threatened to choke him. The big man eyed him warily, then released him, leaned back against his cushion. Ransome unfolded the mask, set it against his mouth and nose, and touched the trigger. The cold mist enfolded him, drove away even the fear for a brief second; he leaned back, eyes closed, and let the drug fill his lungs. He’d betrayed another weakness, he knew, something that they could use against him, and for a moment the fear rose with the thick mucus to choke him. He made himself breathe slowly, until the worst of the fear passed and he was left with the lethargy of the drug. He let himself fall into it, repeating his thoughts like a mantra. He would wait: there was nothing else he could do, and the situation might change. And in the meantime, he would wait.

Day 2

Storm: Betani Square, Roche’Ambroise