Burning Bright

And in a situation like that, Lioe thought, I bet there’s one hell of a debate about how to play those characters. Oh, well, too late to change now. She looked back at the screen, saw the standby symbol fade, indicating that file transfer was complete. The planning form for session parameters was flashing in the screen, and she touched a key to submit the various supplemental rules she preferred to use. Those slots lit, and vanished from the screen, leaving her with the bare bones of the situation. It was a convention of the Game that Baron Vortex, the villain who opposed the Rebellion and wanted to make himself Emperor, was involved in secret psionics research; it was also a convention that he controlled the prison world of Ixion’s Wheel, from which no prisoner had ever escaped. She had combined the two, made Ixion’s Wheel the center of the Baron’s illegal research project—aside from the ethics involved, psions were illegal on the worlds of the Imperium—and then given the Golden claimant to the Imperial throne, Royal Avellar, a good reason to get himself sent to Ixion’s Wheel. Avellar was a secret telepath, one of the last four survivors of a clone-group who had shared a telepathic link; and the one person who could restore his power, the electrokinetic Desir of Harmsway, was a prisoner in the research sections there.

“It looks good,” Gueremei said, and Lioe jumped at the sound of her voice. An instant later, one of the printers whirred to life, spat a piece of paper, and Gueremei retrieved it. “I’ll get you some players, then.”

“Thanks,” Lioe said. Her eyes were on her screens before the door closed behind the other woman.

Most of the relationships in the Game were familiar, formalized; everyone who played knew the characters and their backgrounds, and the pleasure of a session came from seeing how well a player could perform within those constraints. About half the characters on Ixion’s Wheel were drawn from someone else’s scenarios: Harmsway and Gallio Hazard from Ambidexter’s sessions of five years ago; Avellar from an old, old session that everyone had said was wonderful, but no one had used; Lord Faro and Ibelin Belfortune from a session she herself had played on Demeter a few months before, whom she had salvaged from certain death because their templates were more interesting than her players had been capable of making them. The rest—the telekinetic Jack Blue, unofficial leader of the prison population; the Rebel technician Galan Africa, who hated blood telepaths, with good reason; the research scientist Mijja Lyall, part of the prison staff, living in fear that someone would discover her own low-level talent and transfer her to the experiment—were her own creations, but she had been careful to tie them to familiar places and characters within the larger Game. She studied the numbers for a moment longer, balancing skills and quirks and basic numbers, then touched the keys that dumped the templates to the system. A light flashed, confirming her choice, and she turned her attention to the setting.

She had a good library with her, settings she’d laboriously compiled through her years of travel, walking through the various cities on all the worlds she visited with her palmcorder in her pocket, waiting for just the right combination of light and space, of architecture and atmosphere and attitude, that would make a perfect place in some Game. Ixion’s Wheel had been harder to find than most, and she had had to transform her stored images more than usual, to get the harsh world suggested by the planetary statistics.

Frowning a little, she pulled her shades from the carryall, plugged the datacord into the socket on the temple, and touched the keys that opaqued the heavy lenses and displayed the image directly in front of her eyes. She touched more keys, and the statistics for Ixion’s Wheel hung in blank space: a hot planet, desert-dry except for sparse bands of grassland to the north and south. The prison complex lay just south of the dry line, in the softer desert; the port lay to its north, just far enough away from the complex to seem unreachable. She had already pulled images for the prison—mostly from government buildings on Ardinee, a cheerless place if she’d ever seen one—but the port was less defined. And there wasn’t much time; she would have to fall back on her old standby for hot planets, images taken on Callixte itself, her home base.