Burning Bright

Roscha smiled, and turned away, settling herself against the wall by the door. There was an intercom panel there, Lioe noticed, and for the first time became aware of a rush of street sounds—rain and wind on pavement, once in a great while the slow whine of an engine as a heavy carrier crawled along the street—that formed a counterpoint to the sounds from the net. “I’ve rigged the intercom,” Roscha said. “At least that way we can hear them coming.”

If they come in the front door, Lioe thought. “Great,” she said aloud, and turned her attention back to the images that surrounded her. The scenario was complete, and again, she felt the pang of regret that no one would ever play it. All that remained was to put it on the nets, neatly packaged and ready to unfurl itself four hours from now. She had done this kind of programming before, though only for frivolous reasons, a birthday present, a joke; still, the basic technique remained the same, and the routines she used had proved impervious to the best attempts to corkscrew them open. At least, they were impervious on Callixte. She ignored that thought, and reached into the control space for a new set of tools. Ransome’s gloves were warm against her hands, the wires tingling gently to confirm each movement.

She set a nonsense algorithm to work, let it spin its hash into the working space, then shaped the jumbled nonsense into a solid plate, turned it back in on itself, so that the algorithm constantly rebuilt, reinforced itself. It formed a virtual capsule that sealed the scenario away from the rest of the nets. She prodded at it, testing the system, and when she was satisfied with its solidity, began the trigger mechanism. The timer was easy, a standard commercial program tied to the algorithm; it would cancel the nonsense run in three hours and fifty-seven minutes. Three minutes later, the last of the nonsense wall would disappear, tidied away by the net’s housekeeper routines. At last she finished, and spun the entire structure in virtual space in front of her, shaping the external presentation. The emerging image glittered as it turned, became a shape like a golden dodecahedron, each hexagonal facet marked with her Gamer’s mark. That would get people’s attention, if nothing else did. If Damian Chrestil didn’t capitulate, it, and her growing reputation, would ensure that Gamers would copy the program to every corner of the nets. If he did give in, and she pulled the scenario— not that hard, since I have the key algorithm; there won’t be too many copies to track down—she would lose a little status, but that was a small price to pay for survival. And maybe not even that, she thought suddenly. Suppose I do what Ransome suggested, float the scenario for Avellar’s Rebellion. No one could say I didn’t live up to the advertising then…

But that was for later. She took a deep breath, reached out with her gloved hand, copied the dodecahedron, and shoved it into the place that was the entrance to the nets. It floated away from her, picking up speed as it went, until it vanished in a flash of black. One away. She copied the program and scenario again and pushed it out onto the nets, did it again and again until there were at least a dozen copies loose on the nets. Only then did she lean back a little, and reach into control space for the communications system.

She opened a space, but did not drag the connect codes into it, staring at the static-filled volume for a long moment. Then, reluctantly, she reached into the directory, rifling its files for Damian Chrestil, or the family’s summer house. She found a code for the latter, and dragged it into the communications space before she could change her mind. There was a long pause, while codes streamed across the space—unusually long, nearly thirty seconds—and then the codes vanished, to be replaced by a man’s head and shoulders. It was an unfamiliar, ugly face, white-skinned and broad-featured, and for a crazy instant Lioe thought of giants in the story tapes she’d viewed as a child.

“Can I help you?” the giant asked, in a voice as heavy as his features, and Lioe dragged herself back to the present.

“I want to talk to Damian Chrestil,” she said. “My name’s Lioe.”

The giant closed his mouth over whatever he had started to say, and looked down at something out of the camera’s vision. “Just a minute, Na Lioe. I’ll see if he’s free.”

“If you’re trying to set up a trace, don’t bother,” Lioe said. “I’ll tell you where I am. I’m in Ransome’s loft, and I’ve found what he found. You can tell Damian Chrestil that, too.”