Burning Bright

A noise from the street brought her bolt upright, heart pounding, an enormous ripping sound and then a crash. Roscha’s voice came indistinctly from the main room. “What the hell—?”

Lioe went to join her, found the other woman standing by the main door, her head cocked to one side. The working space was opened, and the air around Ransome’s chair was filled with Game images. “What was it, do you know?”

“Outside,” Roscha answered. She worked the locks. “Only one way to find out.”

Lioe nodded. Roscha slid back the last bolt, and eased back the heavy door. The wind caught them both by surprise, a gust of cold, wet air snapping past them into the room.

“I didn’t hear a window,” Lioe began.

“ Sha-mai,” Roscha said. “The stairway’s gone.”

“The stairway?” Lioe repeated, foolishly, and Roscha edged back into the loft.

“See for yourself.”

Lioe leaned past her, blinking a little as the full force of the wind hit her. The short hall looked different, wrong somehow, and then she realized that the stairs were indeed gone, ripped away from the side of the building, the door hanging crooked by a single hinge. Even as she watched, another gust of wind set the door swinging, and the groan of the hinge pulling still farther out of the wall was loud even over the noise of the storm.

“The wind must’ve caught it just right,” Roscha said.

“Is there anything we should do?” Lioe asked. She looked up and down the hall as she spoke, wondering if any of the other tenants were around, glanced back to see Roscha shrug.

“I don’t know what. I don’t see any sheet-board, or anything like that, and I can’t see that a little rain’s going to hurt this floor. There’s probably a maintenance staff around somewhere, anyway.”

“Probably,” Lioe agreed. She was certainly right about the damage: the battered tiles had been peeling away from the floor long before the storm started. She stepped back into the loft, and Roscha pushed the door closed again. She had to work against the weight of the wind, and Lioe leaned against it too, to help the bolts go home.

The Game shapes were still dancing in the air around Ransome’s chair. Lioe glanced idly at them, frowned, and looked more closely. Damian Chrestil’s face seemed to leap out at her from among the busy images. “What’s all this?” she asked, and turned to see Roscha looking at her with a mix of defiance and embarrassment. There was a little pause before the other woman spoke.

“I was trying to remake your scenario, the one you threw together. It was too good to waste—too good to waste on blackmail.”

Lioe ignored the deliberately provocative word. “I made a deal,” she said. “You could get all three of us killed, you, me, and Ransome.”

Roscha looked away. “I wasn’t going to run it as it stood, I was going to make a lot of changes. Enough to make a difference, I think—I know.” She faced Lioe again, scowling now. “You can’t stop me.”

Lioe looked at her for a long moment, weighing her options. No, I probably could stop you. I’ve got the influence on the Game nets, and I’m probably better on the nets than you are—and Ransome will help me—but that only works for a while. I’d have to watch you like a hawk, and I don’t have the time or the inclination to do that. “Maybe not,” she said aloud, “but the scenario shouldn’t run, regardless of my deal. It doesn’t belong in this Game.”

Roscha’s frown deepened, her expression faintly interested as well as suspicious. “Why not?”

“Because this Game is over.”

Roscha opened her mouth to protest, and Lioe lifted an eyebrow at her, daring her to continue. The other woman said nothing, and Lioe felt a thrill of excitement at the small victory, a small, sweet pleasure at a good beginning. Was this what Chauvelin felt, this sure power? She swept on, not wanting to lose her moment.