Burning Bright

One screen winked out, slaved to the handset; Lioe ignored its absence, stared at the routing codes displayed on her workboard. She was still learning her way around Burning Bright’s nets, but this sequence looked straightforward enough. The header codes indicated a secure node, but the numbers following should be the owner’s own codes. She ran her hands over the shadowscreen, recalling the main directory, and set the system scanning for a node that matched the header codes. She could hear Roscha’s voice in the background, rising in inquiry, flattening out with each inaudible answer, but she ignored it, her eyes fixed on the screen. If this didn’t work, she would have to try netwalking, personally checking the likely nodes. Then the screen lit, displaying a gaudy logo, a shield banded in blue and gold, with a scarlet dragon coiling over it, and presented her with a list of options: ADD, SUBTRACT, RETRIEVE, NEW FILE, CHARGES. She hit RETRIEVE, and her screen filled with symbols, scrolling past too fast for her to read. She touched the shadowscreen to dump the information to Ransome’s local system—somewhat to her surprise, there was no request for a further password—and waited until the key bar flickered green again. She banished the connection, and turned her attention to the workscreen, scrolling back to the beginning of the file.

“Nothing at any of the hospitals,” Roscha said, and came to peer over her shoulder. “But a friend of mine at C/B Cie. says Na Damian’s gone off with a hsaia—it was somebody important, he said, so it could be the Visiting Speaker—and Almarin Ivie, he’s head of security, has been sent off to look at something at the family’s summer house.”

“Look at this,” Lioe said. She gestured to the screen, heard the repressed excitement in her own voice. “Damn it, how did he get all of this?” The outline was complete— maybe a little iffy in courtroom eyes, especially when so much of it was gathered netwalking, but certainly enough to use. Enough to blackmail Damian Chrestil with, and enough to make Damian Chrestil willing to do—what? Kill him? She pushed the thought away. That seemed the least likely result, if only because a well-known body would be hard to explain, and Chauvelin would be likely to ask awkward questions. But certainly to keep him out of action for a few days. Especially since Damian seemed to be ready to transfer the lachesi to its new “owners.”

“So Na Damian was smuggling lachesi for clients of ji-Imbaoa’s,” Roscha said, slowly. “I think I worked that pickup.”

“I brought it in,” Lioe said. “Damn, that’s why we had bungee-gars on board. I didn’t think red-carpet was worth that much trouble.”

Roscha laughed softly. “What a fucking mess. Na Damian is going to be really pissed when he realizes we know what’s going on.”

“I think he already is,” Lioe said, and touched the patches of selfheal starring her face. “That has to be what this was all about.” He was willing to kill me, too—not eager, so I suppose I should be grateful, but willing. She shivered, looked over her shoulder in spite of herself toward the shuttered window and the locked door. Which means we need some kind of a defense, and not just physical. “You said Damian Chrestil went off with the Visiting Speaker?”

“It looks like it,” Roscha said. “And if N’Ivie’s at the family summer house, then I bet that’s where Ransome is. It’s remote enough to keep somebody out of circulation for a while. Especially with the storm.”

Lioe nodded, aware for the first time of the steady slap of rain against the shutters. Every so often, a stronger gust smacked against them, a sharp sound like a handful of nails thrown against the metal plates. “All right,” she said. “How safe are we here?”

Roscha shrugged. “Na Damian has plenty of people in the port,” she said. “If he wants—well, if he doesn’t care about publicity, we’re not safe at all.”

“How much do you think he cares about publicity?”

“I don’t know.” Roscha looked back at the screen, at the careful outline. “If that’s what’s been going on, it could mean the governorship. I wouldn’t care a whole lot, in his shoes.”

Lioe nodded at the answer she had expected. “Do me a favor, make sure everything’s locked, as secure as you can make it. And see if Ransome owns any weaponry.”

“All right,” Roscha said, and sounded faintly dubious. “But—”