Burning Bright

If Damian Chrestil wanted him back in the Game, it was all but certain that the Game was not really important, was only a blind—and certainly he’d found nothing during his time on the Game nets to indicate otherwise—which made it well worth his time to see what was happening on the various nets that served the port and the traders who depended on the port for their living. He dimmed his own image further, so that he saw his mask floating ghostly through a Bower of Love that currently filled a transfer node. It was a striking image, the death-white mask drifting expressionless, incurious, through the flower-draped temple where an improbably well-endowed man and woman were locked in vigorous and detailed sex, and he touched the capture sequence to record the moment. It would make an interesting story egg, someday, but he made himself turn away once the capture was complete and follow the multiple channels into the port systems.

There were fewer Carnival images here: more off-worlders used the port nets, and there weren’t many Burning Brighters who dealt with them who could afford to give up a day’s trade. Still, an Avellar walked through a segment of corridor, striding hard as though it was work to keep up with the moving tiles; another Grand Type, the Viverina, braided tiny human skulls into her long hair. Ransome frowned, trying to remember the scenario that had spawned the image, but couldn’t place it. The Judge Directing presided over a node that gave entrance to a merchant bank. The serene face was semitransparent, and Ransome recognized familiar features behind the cloaking Carnival image. He adjusted his own projection, allowing his familiar on-line presence to show behind the floating mask, and slipped into the node.

The Judge Directing turned to face him, the ster serenity melting to a more familiar grin, and codes flashed through the display space, weaving a private link-in-realtime. “Ransome. I didn’t expect to see you masking.”

“Neither did I,” Ransome answered, truthfully. Guyonet Merede was a Gamer as well as a banker, and a former patron who owned several of his earlier story eggs. “But it seems to have worked out well.”

“It’s a nice image,” Merede said. He was older than he looked behind the Judge’s face: the projection’s stony beauty reminded Ransome for an instant of Lioe’s face in repose.

“Thanks,” he said. “I wonder if you could do me a favor, Guy. I need access to the raw feed from the port computers—the unsorted line, the one that carries the general traffic.” If Damian Chrestil wanted him on the Game nets, it could only be to keep him away from some other part of the greater system. C/B Cie. was an import/export firm, and that most likely meant smuggling. And the best way to track that down was to sift the day-to-day chatter and hope that, despite the sheer volume, he could find some hint of an irregular shipment, something that didn’t match the more public records. And if I can’t find it, well, there are other places to look, political games he could be playing, and I won’t have wasted much time. But I’m betting it’s a doctored cargo.

Merede was silent for an instant, his face gone very still, and then he said, cautiously, “You know I can’t do that, I-Jay.”

You’ve done it before. Ransome said aloud, “I just need to pull some numbers for a piece I’m working on. It’s a commission for the MIS, and I need some strings for background. I thought I’d tie part of the loop to the trade balance.”

It was an easy lie, and plausible, but to his surprise Merede shook his head. “I’m sorry, I-Jay. If it weren’t Carnival—but we’ve had some complaints recently, people saying stuffs been pulled out of the raw feed that should’ve stayed confidential. I just can’t do it.”

Ransome nodded. “I can see that. I guess I can rig what I need some other way.” He did his best to look thoughtful, glad of the mask that screened his features. “Who’s been complaining, anyway?”

Merede glanced down at something out of camera range. “The Five Points Bank’s merchant division—you know, the exchange-rate people?—and a couple of importers, Ionel Factor and C/B Cie., and one of the private captains.”

Who I just bet is connected to the Chrestil-Brisch, too. Ionel Factor was closely tied to the Chrestil-Brisch—Ionel dealt in off-world spirits, and therefore, inevitably, was tied to the Chrestil-Brisch distillery and their various wholesalers—and Bettis Chrestil was head of the merchant division’s steering group. “You think there’s anything in it?” he said aloud, and Merede shrugged.

“We haven’t seen anything on our screens, and we tap pretty carefully. I suppose it could be a very directed probe, but—between you and me only, Ransome—I think they’re overreacting.”