Burning Bright

by Melissa Scott

  “Mmm.” Lioe glanced from side to side, staring at the blank‑walled buildings. Most of them seemed to be four or five stories high, made of something dark that might have been poured stone. Nearly all of them had lighter inclusions: a band across the front, or outlining a door, or defining the corners of the building, but there were no windows, or at least nothing she recognized as a window. She had thought the on‑line guides had said that Dock Road was primarily a residential district, but these looked more like factories or warehouses than any house she had ever seen. And then the cab swept past a building with all its windows open, shutters folded back against the empty dark stone of the facade, a gate open too into a courtyard where people swarmed around a blue‑lit fountain, and music spilled out into the quiet street. She craned her head as they slid past, and out of the corner of her eye saw the driver smile briefly over his shoulder.

  They pulled up outside Shadows a little before the nineteenth hour. The club was a more ordinary building, three stories high with bricked‑in windows and a brightly lit sign over the door, in a neighborhood full of buildings that had visible windows and doors that locked with metal grills. There was a food bar on the nearest corner–and a heavyset bouncer leaning his chair against the wall outside the entrance, so she shouldn’t have to worry too much–and some kind of shop across the street, its display windows shut down for the night. She paid the driver what he asked and added the tip the guides had said was appropriate, then turned toward the club’s well‑marked door. The cab’s motor whined behind her as the driver pulled away, but she did not look back.

  After the glittering strangeness of the rest of the city, Shadows was refreshingly ordinary, another Gaming club like a hundred others she’d seen on other worlds. The door was painted with the images from hundreds of Gaming pins–conferences, competitions, specific sessions and scenarios, most of the Grand Types and even a few faces that had to be local favorites–but before Lioe could study them more closely, the door swung open onto a narrow hall.

  The carpet was worn, with a few squares of a brighter shade of moss to show where the worst damage had been replaced. The white‑painted walls were mostly empty, except for a few display boards and a Gameboard under glass. The displays were of sessions that had attracted attention on the intersystems nets, and Lioe gave a mental nod of approval. There weren’t many–there couldn’t be many, if Shadows was as new as the steward Vere had said, and it was a good sign that the club hadn’t tried to inflate its reputation by adding displays of merely local interest. The Gameboard, the gleaming screen below it said, had belonged to the club’s founder, Davvi Medard‑Yasine. Lioe didn’t recognize the name.

  The hallway ended abruptly in a softly lit lobby, walled on three sides with multiscreen virtual‑display‑in‑real‑time wallboards. Only four of the screens were displaying the broadcast bands, and two of those showed the same session, but telltales glowed green on a few of the others, and the couches opposite those boards were occupied by people whose faces were hidden behind the mirrored mask of their shades. Telltales flickered on the temples of the shades, too, indicating that they were tuned to a narrowcast from one or more of the wallboards. There were smaller, lower‑resolution VDIRT tables scattered around the rest of the lobby, but not many of them were occupied yet. They would be busy later, Lioe knew, when the main tanks filled up and Gamers needed to kill a few hours between sessions. That is, if Shadows was like every other club in human‑settled space. She glanced one last time at the session playing on the screen overhead–it was a Court Life variant, familiar iconography identifying Count Danile and the Lady Hannabahn, but it was impossible to follow the scene without the direct‑line voice feed–and turned her attention to the checkroom that controlled access to the club’s session rooms. A young man was sitting behind its counter, Gameboard balanced in front of him, but he looked up quickly as Lioe approached.

  “Can I help you, pilot?”

  “I hope so. Do you do temporary memberships?”

  “We do.” The young man touched keys on a terminal tucked out of sight below the lip of the counter. “It’s forty reala week–we have a ten‑day week, you know–and you get all privileges except priority for limited‑access sessions.”

  “So I can run sessions, if anyone’s interested,” Lioe said.

  “Yes, no problem.” The young man consulted his terminal again. “Can I get your name?”

  “Quinn Lioe.”

  The young man looked up sharply. “The Lioe from Callixte?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I admire your sessions a lot.” His clear complexion was slowly turning a delicate pink, and Lioe watched in fascination. “We just got a good tape of the Frederick’s Glory session, downloaded from MI‑Net a couple of days ago. It looks wonderful.”

  “Thanks,” Lioe said.

  “Are you going to be running any sessions while you’re here?” the young man went on.

  “I hope so,” Lioe answered. “I was wondering who I should talk to about it.”

  “The night manager,” the young man said, and touched keys on a different machine. “She can help you–and we’re having a slow week right now, with Storm coming up.”

  “Storm?” Lioe had heard the term half a dozen times since landing, hadn’t had the chance to ask what was meant.

  “Yeah. It’s our fifth season, lasts twenty days, about. There’re so many big storms every year about this time that it makes more sense for things to shut down. So we hold Carnival.” A tone sounded softly under the counter, and the young man turned away to touch some hidden control. The door to the inner rooms swung open.

  Lioe turned, her idle question already forgotten, and found herself facing a tall, greyhaired woman, who held out her hand in greeting.

  “Na Lioe? I’m Aliar Gueremei, ditLia.”

  Lioe murmured a greeting, and clasped the fingers extended to her. Gueremei was weather‑beaten, as though she’d been in space, but more so, her brown skin crossed with a web of fine lines and faint, bleached freckles. She wore coarse workman’s trousers, but with an expensive‑looking and impractically wide‑sleeved jacket over it, clasped at the waist with a circle that glittered with tiny iridescent disks. Even if sequensa were less expensive on Burning Bright, where the shells were seined and cut into tiny perfect shapes, they would never be cheap, and Lioe found herself revising her assumptions about Shadows and Burning Bright’s Gamers.

  “Come on into the back,” Gueremei went on. “I know your work, from the nets, and I’m delighted you thought of coming here. Can I ask where you heard the name?” She palmed open the door as she spoke, and gestured for Lioe to precede her into the inner hallways.

  “The steward on the inbound shuttle–orbiter, I mean–recommended you,” Lioe said, “and then of course your name is good on the Game nets.”

  Gueremei nodded, though whether in agreement or thanks Lioe could not be sure. “Were you looking to run sessions while you were here–how long are you staying, anyway?”

  “Probably about five days,” Lioe answered. “The ship I was piloting for is down for repairs, recalibration of the sail fields. And, yes, I would like to run a session or two.”

  Gueremei nodded again. “I’ll be frank with you,” she said, as she led the way quickly through a maze of corridors. “We’d be very interested in your running something here. I’ve seen your Frederick’s Glory scenario–and the Callixte board summaries, of course, the ones that went with the award–and a couple of others, and I’m very impressed.”

  “Thanks,” Lioe said again, and waited. This was familiar territory, like the white‑painted walls filled with quick‑print sheets of network downloads, the padded doors and one‑way glass windows that gave onto the session rooms, the banks of food‑and‑drink vendors tucked into every available alcove. Gueremei, or Shadows through Gueremei, wanted something, and the praise was just a prelude.

  Gueremei touched another doorplate, this one badged with the Gameops glyph, and ushered
Lioe into a crowded and comfortable office. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon, and there was a thin, dark‑red stick smoldering in a holder on top of the VDIRT table that served as a desk. The chairs were Gamer’s chairs, designed for long hours of relative immobility, and when Lioe lowered herself into the nearest one at Gueremei’s absent invitation, she felt more at home than she had since she’d come to Burning Bright.

  Gueremei settled herself on the other side of the VDIRT console, and unearthed a workboard from the mess of faxsheets, quick‑prints, Rulebooks and supplements, and a couple of expensive‑looking Gameboards. She touched keys, peering down at the tiny screen, then looked back up at Lioe. “As I said, Shadows would be very interested in hosting you. There was word on the Callixte nets you had a new scenario in the works.”

  So that is the way things are going. Lioe smiled, and said, “Yes, I’ve been working on a new scenario–Rebellion variant with Psionics overtones, set on Ixion’s Wheel.”

  “Baron Vortex’s prison planet,” Gueremei said, testing the words. “That sounds hard to pull off.”

  Lioe shrugged. “I’m using one of the rival claimants as a primary focus. I think that gives them enough firepower to stand a chance.”

  “Interesting.” Gueremei glanced down at her workboard again. “If you were willing to give us an exclusive deal for the duration of your stay–and copies for later use, of course–we’d be willing to offer you twenty percent of the special‑session fees.”

  “That’s a generous offer,” Lioe said automatically, temporizing while she sorted out the implications. It wasn’t a bad deal at all, but twenty percent of fees was the standard rate, and if Shadows wanted to buy a copy of the scenario, they ought to pay more. “Still, I’d like a little more if you want to keep the scenario for your own use–either a higher percentage, or, better still, a flat purchase fee.”

  “That’s hard to come up with when we haven’t seen the scenario,” Gueremei said. “We might be able to offer a slightly higher percentage, though, maybe as much as twenty‑five percent.”

  “That really doesn’t cover what I’d make from the nets,” Lioe answered. “I’d need at least thirty‑five.”

  Gueremei glanced down at her board again, shook her head with what looked like genuine regret. “I don’t have the authority for that. What if you run the session here first, we’ll give you twenty percent of the fees, and you’ll be under no obligation to stay with us beyond tonight. If it’s good, I’m sure Davvi–Davvi Medard‑Yasine, our principal owner–will want to purchase more rights.”

  And you’ll have the prestige of having run the first session, whatever happens, Lioe thought. Still, it seemed worthwhile; it would be a nice bit of extra money, and there was a good chance she could sell the scenario afterwards. She nodded, and said, “What about players?”

  Gueremei consulted her board, then touched the input strip to light a second screen under the surface of the VDIRT table. “Actually, we’ve a very respectable crowd in tonight. How many slots will you have?”

  “Eight. Six‑player minimum.”

  Gueremei nodded. “I can get you eight players, all rated A or higher. That’s MI‑Net rated, by the way.”

  Lioe nodded back, impressed in spite of herself. MI‑Net was the toughest of all the Game nets, demanded the most from its players. “Then I’m willing. Twenty percent of the take, up front, and no strings.”

  “Agreed,” Gueremei said, and, quite suddenly, smiled. “I’m looking forward to this, Na Lioe.”

  “So am I.”

  Gueremei fingered the workboard’s input strip again, studied the results. “Room five is free for the night. It’s a standard tech setup, Gerrish table, standard Rulebooks already in place, and we’ve got all six editions of Face and Bodybacked up on a separate datalink, so you get instant access when you need it.”

  “That sounds good,” Lioe answered. She could feel the edges of her disks through the thin fabric of the carryall, wanted suddenly to get to work again. “When can I load in?”

  “Anytime,” Gueremei said, and pushed herself back from the table. “I’ll get you started, then I’ll see who’s free to play.”

  “Excellent,” Lioe said, and followed the other woman from the room.

  Gueremei led her through a second set of hallways, and then out into a wider corridor where one wall opened onto a central courtyard. There were more VDIRT tables set out under the carefully tended trees. Lioe tilted her head, curious, and saw light reflecting from a glass dome that enclosed the courtyard. A group of players, perhaps half a dozen, were clustered around a bank of food‑and‑drink vendors: probably on intermission, she thought, and turned her attention to her own scenario. It was solid; if the players were halfway competent, it would go well. If they weren’t–well, she would have to trust to luck and her own improvisational talents.

  Gueremei stopped in front of a door marked with horizontal silver bands on a deep, brick‑colored background, and laid her hand on the touchpad beside the lock. The mechanism hissed softly, and the door popped out from the frame. She tugged it open, and motioned for Lioe to precede her into the dimness. Lioe did as she was told, and swung her carryall onto the massive VDIRT table that dominated the space. She found the room controls, set into a dropboard at the session leader’s seat, and touched the keys that brought up the lights. The room was just as it should be, banks of blank‑faced processors, telltales red or unlit, and she settled herself in the heavily padded chair. The chair shifted under her weight, squirming against her as the oilcushions adjusted themselves to her body, but she was only dimly aware of the movement, concentrating instead on the panels that opened to her touch. She checked the air and temperature– comfortable and stable–and folded that board away, reaching for the table controls. The VDIRT display came to life under her fingers, the tree of lights that defined the library and display connections slowly changing from red to orange to yellow, and for a moment a faint haze of static filled the air above the center of the table. Lioe smiled, seeing that, imagining it filled with her own images, and touched keys to tune the system to her own specifications. A red light flashed instead, and glyphs filled the smaller, monitor screen.

  “I need a password,” she said.

  “Sorry.” Gueremei pulled herself away from the doorframe where she had been leaning, came around the table to lean over Lioe’s shoulder. She touched keys; the screen, as usual, showed nothing but placeholders, but Lioe looked aside anyway, out of old habits of politeness. “I’m setting up a temp account for you,” Gueremei went on. She worked one‑handed, like a lot of older Gamers, using chord‑keys to speed her input. “You can set your password now.”

  Lioe hesitated for a moment, then typed a single word: hellequin. The letters hung on the screen for a moment, and Gueremei lifted an eyebrow.

  “What’s it mean? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  Lioe shrugged one shoulder, already regretting the impulse. It was no more than superstition that made her use that name; she should have known better. “It’s my full name. Quinn’s the short form.” It was the only name I could remember when the Foster Services people found me, the only thing I have that isn’t theirs.

  “So.” Gueremei nodded, and touched another sequence of keys. “Like Harlequin, right? You’re all in,” she added, and stepped aside.

  “Thanks,” Lioe said, and was glad to concentrate on the larger screen that windowed under the tabletop. Familiar glyphs and query codes filled the blank space, laid out in an outline form as familiar to her as the hyperspatial maps of a star system’s deeps and shallows. She spilled the rest of her disks out onto the table’s smooth, slightly spongy surface, and began slotting Rulebooks and databoards into the waiting readers. On the screen, glyphs changed shape, queries smoothing into acknowledgment as the VDIRT systems found the data they required and forged the links between them. More lights flared on the wall systems, the machines whirring slightly as they came on‑line. Faces and shapes, familiar icons, began
to appear in the haze of static.

  “That’s Desir of Harmsway,” Gueremei said abruptly, and Lioe looked up in some surprise. “And Gallio Hazard. You did know they were local Types?”

  “Yes,” Lioe said, and wondered why it mattered. Notables generally didn’t mind other people using their character templates–that was one of the definitions of a notable, someone whose characters were played by a lot of different people.

  Gueremei’s smile widened. “I think I’ll definitely sit in on this session.” Lioe looked at her questioningly, and Gueremei turned away. “Oh, don’t worry, there’s no problem. It’s just they’re Ambidexter’s templates, and he hasn’t played in years.”

  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.