Burning Bright

Chauvelin smiled. “I can’t say I blame them. All right, do what you think is best about security. But I want his rooms searched, particularly for papers, disks, datablocks, anything that could prove the link with Damian Chrestil—also for anything that might tell us where he is. Keep your people on that, as well, highest priority.”

“Yes, Sia.” Je-Sou’tsian paused, seemed about to say something more, then turned and slipped away. Chauvelin stared after her, suddenly aware of the roaring of the wind beyond the window. If he could just find either Ransome or ji-Imbaoa— when I find them, he corrected silently, not daring to think of the consequences if he did not—he would have the tools he needed to act. But for now, all he could do was wait.

Day 2

Storm: Ransome’s Loft, Old Coast Road,

Newfields, Above Junction Pool

Lioe walked the Game nets, calling files from the libraries, moving from one familiar nonspace to the next. Images flickered in the air in front of her, bright against the dark shutters; below and to her right, where there was no danger of accidentally intruding into that space, hung Ransome’s outline of Damian Chrestil’s plan. From time to time she glanced at it, comparing its form to the Game scenario taking place in the working volume in front of her. The basic shape looked good, and she reached for images to complement it, trawling now through less familiar news nets and more sober datafields. She found the images she wanted after some trouble—Damian Chrestil’s face, a news scan that covered the arrival of the Visiting Speaker, an old still of Chauvelin, looking younger than he had at the party—and dragged them one by one into space occupied by the Face/Bodyprogram. The program considered them and produced a string of numbers; Lioe dragged those numbers into the working volume, and smiled at the result. The images attached to the character templates were not—quite—the original faces, but they were close enough to be recognized, and that was all that mattered. In some ways, it was almost a shame the scenario would never be played, she thought, studying the convolutions that formed a neat, red-branched tree in front of her eyes. Damian Chrestil’s plot makes for a wonderful Game incident. Too bad it’s only made for blackmail.

“No luck finding guns.”

Roscha’s voice seemed to come from a distance, and Lioe shook her head, refocusing to look through and past the crowding images. She reached into control space to switch off her vocal link, said to Roscha, “Then there’s nothing?”

“Not quite nothing,” Roscha said with a lopsided grin, and slipped a hand into the pocket of her jacket. She brought out a cheap plastic pistol, displayed it with a shrug. “This is mine. On the other hand, it’s only six shots, and it’s not supposed to be reloadable. I’ve had it modified, and I’ve got another magazine, but I don’t know how well it will work.”

“Wonderful,” Lioe said.

“What are you doing?” Roscha asked. She was frowning at the control spaces, as though she was trying to make sense of the carefully focused images.

“My—our—way out,” Lioe said. I hope. “I’ve pulled together a Game scenario, merchant-adventurers variant, a jeu a clef. I’ve put this whole situation into a Game—and used their faces—and I’m going to put it on the nets. If Damian Chrestil doesn’t back down, leave me alone and let Ransome go, I’m going to let it run. The scenario will show up in four hours—in fact, I think I’ll tell Lia Gueremei to expect it—and it will be sent on the internets as well. He’ll never get rid of it, and he should have a hard time explaining why it fits what’s been going on so extremely closely.”

“He will be pissed,” Roscha said.

She didn’t sound entirely pleased, and Lioe looked sharply at her. “I wasn’t thinking,” she said. “Look, I don’t want to get you into trouble. If you want, you can leave now. I won’t mention you.”

Roscha looked momentarily embarrassed. “No. I’m not leaving. Who’d watch the door? Anyway, the storm’s pretty bad.”

“Not that bad,” Lioe said, reaching for the nearest weather station reports. Air traffic was not recommended, but the roads were still open.

“I don’t want to take the bike, and I’m not leaving it,” Roscha said. Face and tone were abruptly serious. “I don’t want to leave, Quinn. Don’t worry about me.”

Lioe stared at her for a moment longer, then slowly nodded. “I’m trusting you,” she said.