Burning Bright

The staircase spiraled down the outside of the palazze, with only a single entrance before the ground level. He twisted the remote again to release that lock, and let himself in past impassive human security to the third floor’s secondary hall. The corridor connected with his own rooms; he made his way there, the lights growing brighter at his approach, dimming as he moved away, let himself into the suite. Lights were blinking on the communications console, but he paused long enough to clear the windows completely before he crossed to the control board and entered the security codes. The little screen sprang to life, but Damian ignored it, tilted the boxy display so that he could see at least some of the fireworks through the window beyond it.

In the screen, ji-Imbaoa glared at him, claws tapping somewhere out of sight. “Your plans are starting to unravel,” he said, without preamble.

Damian Chrestil lifted an eyebrow at him— how did I come to join forces with him?—said aloud, “Weren’t you able to get the codes?”

Ji-Imbaoa waved away that question. “They are coming. There has been some trouble with the transmitter; I’ve had to go through the commercial links. But that is not the issue.”

“Forgive me, Na Speaker, but I thought precisely that was the cause of this delay,” Damian said.

“The codes are on their way,” ji-Imbaoa said again. “Do you doubt me?”

Damian bit back his anger, waved a hand in apology. “No. I don’t doubt they’ll get here.” Eventually.

“I accept the apology.”

It was only a formal phrase, effectively meaningless, but Damian felt his hackles rise. He controlled his temper with an effort, and said, “Then, Na Speaker, what’s happened to upset you?”

“Ransome,” ji-Imbaoa said. “He has concluded that the Game is a blind, and he is encouraging Chauvelin to look elsewhere.”

Damian frowned at the screen, a cold knot forming in the pit of his stomach. If that was true, if Ransome was back on the port nets, and with Customs-and-Intelligence still asking questions about the shipment from Demeter, it would be only too easy to track down what was really going on. Easy for Ransome, anyway. He took a deep breath, trying to banish fear, and ji-Imbaoa went on.

“I have taken steps to forestall him, but I don’t know how long it will last.”

“Good,” Damian said, and then considered. “What did you do?”

“The only thing I could do,” ji-Imbaoa answered. “I have made it a matter of honor and prestige that Ransome continue with the Game—I have wagered my name and my fathers’ that there will be something there for him to find. I trust that it’s so.”

Do I care about your fathers’ names? Damian ran his hand through his hair, tried to consider things calmly. “There are things for him to worry about, yes,” he said, “and I can arrange for him to find some more political material.” I think. If Cella can get time. “But under these circumstances, Na Speaker—let me put it plainly, if you don’t get me those codes, tonight or tomorrow, this deal will fall through. At a high cost to both of us, money and prestige alike.”

“Let me remind you,” ji-Imbaoa said, his hands suddenly as still as Damian had ever seen them, “that you have significantly more to lose than I.”

“I’ve done all that I promised,” Damian answered, and left the rest unsaid.

“I’ll get you the codes,” ji-Imbaoa said. “But you will have to keep Ransome busier.” He cut the connection before Damian could reply.