Burning Bright

Damian hesitated, looked down at his screens to cover his uncertainty. This was part of the hsai power games, one more attempt to jostle for status; he himself couldn’t afford to lose, and so drop lower than ji-Imbaoa, but he wasn’t sure he was good enough to win. The secretary chimed softly, signaling an incoming message, and he seized gratefully on the excuse. “I’m sorry, Na Speaker, I need to take that.”

“Shall I go?” Cella asked softly, and Damian shook his head before the hsaia could take offense.

Ji-Imbaoa gestured acceptance, and Damian leaned back in his chair, touched the string of codes that activated the security filter, translating spoken words to a stream of letters across the bottom of the screen. A second set of codes flared, and he touched a second key to cut in the family’s decryption routines. The screen lit at last, and Ivie’s face looked up at him.

NA DAMIAN.

It was disorienting, watching Ivie’s lips move without sound, while the words scrolled past on the bottom of the screen. Damian nodded. “I hope things went well? I’m with a visitor, so you’ll have to make it fast.”

Ivie nodded, in comprehension as well as agreement. I’M AT THE SUMMER HOUSE NOW, he said. THE FIRST GUEST IS WITH ME. WE’VE HAD A LITTLE TROUBLE WITH THE SECOND, BUT I HAVE HOPES THAT WE’LL BE ABLE TO FIND HER AGAIN SOON.

So he’s got Ransome, but not Lioe. Damian said, “It’s a start, anyway.” He looked back at ji-Imbaoa, the germ of an idea forming in his mind. “I’m coming to join you myself, and I may be bringing a guest of my own—a colleague, rather. How’s the weather?”

Ivie shrugged. DETERIORATING. IF YOU’RE GOING TO BE MORE THAN AN HOUR OR TWO, I WOULDN’T FLY, BUT THEY TELL ME THE ROADS SHOULD STAY OPEN UNTIL DARK.

“Good enough,” Damian said. “I’ll be there directly.” He touched the sign-off key, and watched the picture dissolve, then looked back at ji-Imbaoa. “I’ve had to do some improvisations of my own,” he said bluntly, “thanks to your delays. And suffer some inconveniences. Illario Ransome is off the nets right now, but only because I am holding him in my family’s summer house. I think that is equal to your expenses in getting the codes.”

Ji-Imbaoa nodded slowly. “Ransome is your prisoner.”

“To put it bluntly, yes.” Damian watched him, aware that something had changed, but not certain what it was. It was as though the rules had changed, or even the game itself. Cella was watching him with renewed intensity, as though she’d sensed the change, too.

“I would like to speak with him,” ji-Imbaoa said. “I will give you the codes there, once we are at this house of yours.”

Damian shrugged. There was no reason not to do it, as far as he could see; the nets were too well shielded for work to be interrupted by any but the worst storms, and he could access them from the summer house as well as anywhere. “All right,” he said. “I’ll call my flyer. I assume you have staff with you?”

Ji-Imbaoa gestured agreement. “My secretary, and one guard.”

Damian looked at Cella, who was still watching him with that same unnerving fixity of purpose. “Do you want to come, too?” From the look in her eyes, it was a pointless question.

“Yes,” she answered, gently. “If you don’t mind.”

“Fine.” Damian Chrestil opened a working channel, typed in a quick series of commands, and waited half a second for the confirmation. “The flyer will be waiting for us at Commercial Street in ten minutes.”

The wind had eased a bit by the time they reached the Commercial Street helipad, but the first fringes of rain had overspread the city. It fell in huge drops that left wet irregular circles the size of a man’s hand on the dusty pavement. Damian ignored it as he shepherded the others into the heavy flyer, but ji-Imbaoa hissed irritably to himself, and the other hsaia, ji-Imbaoa’s secretary, huddled himself into an incongruous plastic overcoat. The jericho-human Magill, who handled security, flipped up the hood of his coat, but made no comment. Cella followed demurely, moving through the rain as though she didn’t feel it. The passenger compartment would seat only four in comfort, and Damian seized the excuse with some relief.

“I’ll ride with the pilot,” he said, raising his voice over the noise of the engines, and let the compartment’s door fall closed without waiting for an answer.

The pilot didn’t look up as he climbed into the control pod, already deep in her rapport with the machine, hands and feet encased by the controls, but one of Ivie’s men was riding in the copilot’s space. He scrambled to his feet as Damian opened the hatch, moved back to the jumpseat that folded down from the compartment wall.

“Thanks, Loreo,” Damian said, and took his place beside the pilot. “How’s it look, Cossi?”