Burning Bright

Ransome winced, remembering their earlier conversation. “I’m sorry about earlier,” he said. It was because Chauvelin’s been pushing me, pushing me back into the Game when that’s the last thing I want to waste my time with—But that was not something he could say aloud. “Do you do your own backgrounds, for the Game?”

Lioe nodded, obviously glad to accept the change of subject. “Yes. I carry a recorder when I go planetside. A lot of times I stumble into places that I can use later. When I can get time on the club machines, I do some manipulations, of course, but most of the time I can’t afford it. That’s the good part about this deal with Shadows. I’ve got all the time I want, and the run of their libraries.”

“For ten days,” Ransome said. That wasn’t nearly enough time, not for any real work.

Lioe shrugged. “I have a contract with Kerestel.”

Ransome stared at her with a certain frustration, wondering how she could stand to work part-time, only when there was time available on club machines, only when she wasn’t piloting—how she could stand to stay confined, stuck inside the boundaries of the Game, where the ultimate rule was, never change anything? He opened his mouth, searching for the right words, and saw her pick up the story egg, hold its lens to her eye. He remembered that one well—an early work, filled with flames and a figure made of flame that shifted from male to female and back again with the fire’s dance—and closed his mouth again, wondering what she would say.

“Is this yours?” Lioe asked, after a moment. She set the egg carefully aside, as though she thought the mechanism was something delicate. Her voice was without emotion, without inflection, polite and unreadable.

“Yes,” Ransome said, “it’s one of mine.”

“How do you do that?” Abruptly, Lioe’s voice thawed into enthusiasm. “How do you pull it all together?”

“Do you mean mechanically, or how I structure the images?” Ransome asked.

“Yes—both, I mean.” Lioe grinned again, looked slightly embarrassed. “Sorry, I don’t mean to hassle you.”

“No!” Ransome had spoken more sharply than he had intended, shook his head to erase the word. “No, you’re not hassling me. I like to talk about my work.” And anything to get her away from the Game. “It’s a lot like finding settings for Game sessions,” he said, and heard himself painfully casual. “I spend a lot of time on the nets. I’ve got a pretty complete tie-in in my loft, and a good display structure. I pull clips off the nets, break down the images, then rebuild them into the loops for the eggs.”

“That must take a lot of storage,” Lioe said.

“But only linear, that’s cheap enough,” Ransome answered. “Look, it’s easier to show you what I do than it is to talk about it. Would you like to go back to my loft, look at the system? I’ve got some things in progress, you could see how everything fits together—you could even play with the machines, if you’d like.”

Lioe gave him a measuring look, and Ransome felt himself flush. “No strings attached. This is not an unsubtle way of getting you into bed.”

Lioe smiled. “I wasn’t really worried about it.” She laid the lightest of stresses on “worried.”

“Will you do it, then?” Ransome asked, and did his best to hide his sudden elation at her nod. Maybe, just maybe he could show her what was so wrong with the Game, why it was a waste of any decent talent—she was good at the Game, good enough that she should have a try at something else, something that would last beyond the ephemeral quasi-memory of the Game nets. He shook those thoughts away. Time enough for that if she was interested, if she cared about anything beyond the Game. “I was wondering,” he said aloud, and Lioe glanced curiously at him. “You’ve got a great reputation on the Game nets. Why haven’t you gone into it full-time, become a club notable? You could make a living at it, easily.”

Lioe looked at him for a long moment, obviously choosing her words with care, and Ransome found himself, irrationally, holding his breath. “Two reasons,” she said at last. “One, piloting’s a better living. Two—the second reason is, I can’t see making it my life.” She shrugged and looked away, embarrassed. “It’s a game. It’s only as good as all its players.”

Yes, and that’s most of what’s wrong with it, Ransome thought. But there’s so much else out there, besides the Game. What the hell were your parents thinking of, to send you into piloting? There was no answer to that, and he curbed his enthusiasm sharply. “Let me show you my setup,” he said, and started out of the room.