Burning Bright

“Yes, this Game is ending. The scenario I’ve been running is the start of it, a bigger scenario that’s going to tie everything together, all the bits and pieces, and bring this Game to a solid conclusion, all the lines resolved in a single grand structure. And no one, ever, is going to be able to play with it again without knowing that it’s ended.” She had not realized, until then, how important that had become to her, to write one thing, create one scenario, that could never be changed—that no one would want to change. She went on more slowly, speaking now as much to herself as to Roscha, and heard both certainty and seduction in her tone. “It’s gotten stale, it’s too predictable right now. We’ve all felt it. So it’s time to start over, begin a new Game. And that’s where this scenario—” she nodded to the dancing images, to the faces of Chauvelin and Damian Chrestil hanging in the air beside the working chair—“it and lots of others like it—that’s where they come in. We can remake the Game so that it’s something real, not just a distant reflection of reality, but something that changes, comments on, reshapes what’s really going on. That’s the Game your scenario belongs in, don’t you see? Someplace where it will matter.”

Roscha looked warily at her, the frown gone, replaced by a look of uncertainty that made her look suddenly years younger, almost a child again. “I don’t play politics—”

“You could. In this Game, you could.” Lioe smiled, suddenly, fiercely happy, the storm forgotten. “We both can. It won’t be jeu a clefany more, that’s too easy. We can set it up so that it’s an integral part of the Game, so that you can’t escape it—so that no one who plays, and no one who sees the Game, hears about it, can avoid what we’re doing. That’s what we need, to keep us honest. To make it real.”

“That’s what you need, maybe.” Roscha shook her head. “I’m not that good.”

“Then you’d better learn.”

There was a little silence between them, the wind a rough counterpoint, and then Roscha threw back her head and laughed. “You’re right, and I’ll do it. Sha-mai, what a chance!”

I knew you would. Lioe hid that certainty, looked again at the busy workspace. “Let’s get on with it, then.” She reached for the nearest of Ransome’s gloves, started to draw them on.

Roscha nodded, and moved toward the other controls. “One thing, though.”

Lioe stopped, one hand half into the thin mesh. “What?”

“A favor.”

“If I can.”

“I want to play the last scenarios.” Roscha’s face was utterly serious. “The ones that wrap this up, I mean. I want to be a part of that, too. It’s—I think someone in the new Game should have been part of the old one, that’s all.”

I was part of the old Game. Lioe stopped short, the moment of indignation fading. But not like her. I was looking for something else, something better, even when I didn’t know it. I never was wholly part of it, no matter how hard I tried. She said aloud, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Roscha looked at her for a long moment, then nodded, appeased. Lioe nodded back, and reached into the control space to turn the images to herself. For a moment, she saw Roscha webbed in the Game shapes, tangled with the visible templates, and then the images sharpened, and she turned her attention to the double task of ending the old Game and creating the new.

Day 2

Storm: The Chrestil-Brisch Summer House,

the Barrier Hills

The room was dark and chill under the eaves, the roof and walls trembling under the lash of the wind. Damian Chrestil burrowed close to Ransome’s warmth, dragging the found blanket up over his shoulders, and wondered if it was time to leave. In the darkness Ransome’s face was little more than a pale blur, but he could guess at the expression, sleepy and sated, and suspected that it matched his own. Something, not a solid object, just the wind itself, slammed the side of the house with a noise like a great drum. Damian winced, and felt Ransome shift against him, startled by the sound.

“Perhaps a downstairs room would have been wiser.”

Damian shrugged, the coarse cloth of the mattress cover rasping against his shoulders. “But not nearly as private.”

Even in the dark, he could see Ransome’s grin. “Since when did you care about discretion, Na Damian?”