Burning Bright

However, Chauvelin’s background didn’t tell her why Ransome was invited to his party, or why Ransome would invite her. She skimmed through the rest of the file, and found nothing useful. Ransome’s public file was short, and heavily edited: it made no mention of his Gaming career, and concentrated on a list of the awards he had won for his story eggs and other image installations. He had been born on Burning Bright, held Burning Bright citizenship, but the only remotely personal piece of information in the file was the note that his parents had been Syncretist Observants, minister/administrators of Burning Bright’s peculiar religion. She hesitated, wondering if it was worth her while to try to hack the system—there had to be other records available somewhere—but then smiled, slowly. There was, of course, an even simpler way to answer her question: ask him directly.

She flipped herself out of the datastore—the charges read fifty real, and she made a face at the total—and back onto the main communications net, transferring Ransome’s mailcode from the message that still waited on the secondary screen. There was another brief pause, and then the communications screen lit and windowed.

“Na Lioe. I see you got my message.”

Lioe leaned back in her chair to look at the face in the screen. Ransome was looking even paler than he had the night before, and a hectic flush stained his high cheekbones. But then, I probably don’t look so great myself, after last night. She had not slept well on Roscha’s boat. She put that thought aside, said aloud, “I did. I was wondering why.”

There was a little pause, and Ransome said, “Why what?”

“Why you invited me,” Lioe answered. And why you were invited in the first place.

Ransome grinned. “I told you, I like your play, and I think you might find hsai politics amusing—maybe even useful. Are you committed to a session tonight?”

“No.” Lioe hesitated, unsure of the right move. But I want to go, she realized abruptly. I’ve never seen real hsai society, just the jericho-humans who broker for them. And most of all, I want to find out more about Ransome. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Yes, I’d like to come. How do I get there—and how formal is this, anyway?”

“Moderately,” Ransome said. “I’ll meet you at the Governor’s Point lift station at eighteen-thirty, and we can ride together—if that’s agreeable to you.”

“Thanks,” Lioe said. “I’ll be there.”

“Until tonight, then,” Ransome said, and cut the connection.

Lioe stared at the empty screen for a moment longer, then made herself begin closing down the systems. From what she had seen of Burning Bright, “moderately formal” here should probably be translated as “strictly formal” in Republican terms. Nothing in her carryall—nothing in the storage cells back on the ship, or indeed left behind in her one-room flat on Callixte—fit that description; she would have to find the local shop district, and hope she could pick up something appropriate. She hesitated then, her fingers poised for the final sequence. The cab driver had said something about Warden Street, the street that ran along the top of the Old Dike, being a center for fashion. Why not go there, especially when she had money to spend? Less than she had before she’d gone into the datastores, but still enough to afford a few more indulgences. She smiled to herself, and finished closing down the system.

She paid her fee at the main desk in the lobby, and found her way to the nearest waterbus stop. Roscha had tried to explain the local transit system before she’d dropped Lioe off on the canalside south of Shadows, and so far the hurried explanation seemed to make sense. She bought a regular ticket—she didn’t want to indulge in express buses, not when she was planning to buy clothing—and when the bus arrived, seated herself in the stern, under the faded brick-red awning. The bus was crowded, and slow, stopping every two hundred meters or so to take on more passengers or to drop someone off, and for once Lioe let herself enjoy the scenery.