Burning Bright

by Melissa Scott

  “Do you know any n’jao?” she asked, and Roscha came to look over her shoulder at the screen.

  “A little. I can’t read that, though.”

  Lioe glanced back at her, saw the delicate eyebrows draw down into a thoughtful frown.

  “Wait a minute, though.” Roscha reached out to touch one tripart character in the first message. “I think that’s the ambassador’s name‑sign. And I think these are repeats–message repeats.” She indicated another set of symbols.

  “Chauvelin?” Lioe asked.

  “I saw it on a crate once, when we handled some diplomatic shipping out,” Roscha answered. “I’m sure that’s what it is.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Lioe muttered. She touched more keys, searching for a main directory, and wished she had had more time to learn Ransome’s idiosyncratic systems.

  “Why not?” Roscha asked. “Look, what’s going on?”

  “I wish I knew,” Lioe answered. She took a deep breath, made herself look away from the screens crowded with useless information. “What I think is happening–what Ransome said was happening–is that Damian Chrestil and the hsaia Visiting Speaker are probably smuggling something, mainly to get Damian Chrestil some political advantage in HsaioiAn, which he could use here.”

  Roscha nodded. “That makes sense. He wants to be governor.”

  “Chauvelin and the Visiting Speaker are enemies,” Lioe continued, “members of rival factions–and the Visiting Speaker doesn’t much like Ransome, either–so there’s a hsai dimension to this, too.”

  “ Sha‑mai.” Roscha shook her head. “It’s a mess, but it does make sense.”

  “I’m glad it makes sense to someone,” Lioe said. She fiddled with the shadowscreen again, found the main directory at last, and ran through it hastily, searching for translation programs. There was only one, and it was really only for transliteration. Ransome certainly speaks tradetalk, and probably a couple of modes of hsai, she thought, but copied the two screens to its working memory anyway. The prompt blinked for a few seconds, and spat strings of letters. She recognized Chauvelin’s name, and, in the second message, a string of numbers that looked like routing codes. She studied those numbers, cocking her head to one side. They were certainly routing codes; in fact, they looked like the kind of codes that gave access to commercial data storage. I wonder what Ransome keeps in that kind of safe space, she thought, and copied the codes to a separate working board.

  “I think,” Roscha said slowly, “I think that means that Chauvelin’s been looking for him.” She pointed to the first message, her fingertip hovering just above the screen. “And it looks like it’s been repeated–what’s the time check, anyway?”

  Lioe touched keys. “That message has been repeated every quarter hour for four hours. The last one arrived about forty minutes ago.” Does that mean he got the message and is with Chauvelin? she wondered. Or did Chauvelin just give up?

  “Do you think he got the message?” Roscha said.

  Lioe shook her head. “There’s only one way to find out.” Roscha looked at her, and she smiled wryly. “Call Chauvelin and ask.”

  “Yeah, but do you think he’d answer?”

  Lioe shrugged. “I’ve no idea.” She reached for the workboard, typed in a string of codes, an inquiry first, to Ransome’s own directories, and then into his storage. To her surprise, the codes to contact the hsai ambassador were held in open storage; she copied them to the communications system, but hesitated, wondering if she should send them. What do I say, anyway? “I’m so sorry to bother you, Ambassador, but is Ransome with you?” How do I explain why I’m calling, if he’s there, without getting him into trouble? More important, what do I say if he’s not? She touched the final key before she could change her mind. I can always just say he told me he might be there. I don’t have to tell a jericho‑human–no, not even a jericho‑human, a conscript, chaoi‑mon– anything of what’s going on. The handset chimed softly, from beside the working chair, and at the same time the secondary screen displayed connect symbols.

  “What the hell?” Roscha said.

  “I’m calling the ambassador,” Lioe answered, and crossed to pick up the handset. The green telltale was lit at the base of the set, indicating a machine on the other end of the connection. “I want to know if Ransome’s there.” She touched the connect button before Roscha could say anything, heard a delicate mechanical voice in her ear.

  “Hsaie house. May I help you?” A moment later, the voice repeated the same message in tradetalk.

  “I’m trying to contact Illario Ransome,” Lioe said.

  “Who may I say is calling?”

  So he is there. Lioe felt a sudden surge of relief, a kind of deflation, and said, “Quinn Lioe.” She heard her voice flat and irritable in the handset’s reflection.

  “One moment, please.”

  “He’s there?” Roscha demanded, and Lioe shrugged.

  “He seems to be–” She broke off as the handset clicked, flipping over to the new connection.

  “Chauvelin.”

  The voice was familiar from the ambassador’s party, low and crisp, with only a hint of the hsai accent. Lioe froze, not knowing what to say, what she should do, and Chauvelin said, “Na Lioe?”

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you, Ambassador,” she said. “I–I was looking for Ransome, he said he might be with you.” Maybe that wasn’t the best phrasing, she thought, but it’s the best I could do on short notice. Things must be bad, if Chauvelin himself is talking to me.

  “I’ve been looking for Ransome myself,” Chauvelin said. “Are you at his loft?”

  There was a certainty in his voice that made Lioe think the call had been traced. “Yes.” No point in lying: even if he hasn’t traced it yet, he will.

  “Has he been there, do you know?”

  “I don’t know,” Lioe said. It was a safe answer; better still, it was the truth. “Is there anything wrong?”

  There was a little pause, just enough to make her sure he was lying. “No, not at all. But I would like to talk to him as soon as he returns.”

  “I’ll tell him that,” Lioe said, and waited.

  “It’s important,” Chauvelin said. There was another pause, barely more than a hesitation, and then the ambassador went on, “I was expecting a message from him. Did he leave anything for me?”

  Lioe shook her head, then remembered it was a voice‑only line. “Not that I’ve seen.” She glanced quickly at the console, double‑checking the messages displayed on the screen. “No, nothing.” She hesitated herself, wondering how much she could say, then said, “I was expecting to find him here. I’m a little–concerned.”

  “So am I.” She could almost hear a kind of wry smile in Chauvelin’s voice. “If you hear from him, please tell him to contact me.”

  “I’ll do that,” Lioe said, and broke the connection.

  “So what happened?” Roscha asked.

  Lioe shrugged, looked back at the massive console, at the symbols and codestrings filling the screens. “Ransome isn’t there, as you heard, and Chauvelin badly wants to talk to him.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Roscha said. “What about hospitals, or the Lockwardens?”

  “I bet Chauvelin’s already done that,” Lioe said, “but it couldn’t hurt to check again.” Or could it? What if he wants to keep this quiet? She shoved the thought away. “How are you on the nets?”

  Roscha shrugged. “Good enough to find that out, anyway.”

  In spite of everything, Lioe grinned. “Can you take care of it? There’s something I want to check.”

  Roscha reached for the handset. “All right.”

  One screen winked out, slaved to the handset; Lioe ignored its absence, stared at the routing codes displayed on her workboard. She was still learning her way around Burning Bright’s nets, but this sequence looked straightforward enough. The header codes indicated a secure node, but the numbers following should be the owner’s own codes. She ran her hands over
the shadowscreen, recalling the main directory, and set the system scanning for a node that matched the header codes. She could hear Roscha’s voice in the background, rising in inquiry, flattening out with each inaudible answer, but she ignored it, her eyes fixed on the screen. If this didn’t work, she would have to try netwalking, personally checking the likely nodes. Then the screen lit, displaying a gaudy logo, a shield banded in blue and gold, with a scarlet dragon coiling over it, and presented her with a list of options: ADD, SUBTRACT, RETRIEVE, NEW FILE, CHARGES. She hit RETRIEVE, and her screen filled with symbols, scrolling past too fast for her to read. She touched the shadowscreen to dump the information to Ransome’s local system–somewhat to her surprise, there was no request for a further password–and waited until the key bar flickered green again. She banished the connection, and turned her attention to the workscreen, scrolling back to the beginning of the file.

  “Nothing at any of the hospitals,” Roscha said, and came to peer over her shoulder. “But a friend of mine at C/B Cie. says Na Damian’s gone off with a hsaia–it was somebody important, he said, so it could be the Visiting Speaker–and Almarin Ivie, he’s head of security, has been sent off to look at something at the family’s summer house.”

  “Look at this,” Lioe said. She gestured to the screen, heard the repressed excitement in her own voice. “Damn it, how did he get all of this?” The outline was complete– maybe a little iffy in courtroom eyes, especially when so much of it was gathered netwalking, but certainly enough to use. Enough to blackmail Damian Chrestil with, and enough to make Damian Chrestil willing to do–what? Kill him? She pushed the thought away. That seemed the least likely result, if only because a well‑known body would be hard to explain, and Chauvelin would be likely to ask awkward questions. But certainly to keep him out of action for a few days. Especially since Damian seemed to be ready to transfer the lachesi to its new “owners.”

  “So Na Damian was smuggling lachesi for clients of ji‑Imbaoa’s,” Roscha said, slowly. “I think I worked that pickup.”

  “I brought it in,” Lioe said. “Damn, that’s why we had bungee‑gars on board. I didn’t think red‑carpet was worth that much trouble.”

  Roscha laughed softly. “What a fucking mess. Na Damian is going to be really pissed when he realizes we know what’s going on.”

  “I think he already is,” Lioe said, and touched the patches of selfheal starring her face. “That has to be what this was all about.” He was willing to kill me, too–not eager, so I suppose I should be grateful, but willing. She shivered, looked over her shoulder in spite of herself toward the shuttered window and the locked door. Which means we need some kind of a defense, and not just physical. “You said Damian Chrestil went off with the Visiting Speaker?”

  “It looks like it,” Roscha said. “And if N’Ivie’s at the family summer house, then I bet that’s where Ransome is. It’s remote enough to keep somebody out of circulation for a while. Especially with the storm.”

  Lioe nodded, aware for the first time of the steady slap of rain against the shutters. Every so often, a stronger gust smacked against them, a sharp sound like a handful of nails thrown against the metal plates. “All right,” she said. “How safe are we here?”

  Roscha shrugged. “Na Damian has plenty of people in the port,” she said. “If he wants–well, if he doesn’t care about publicity, we’re not safe at all.”

  “How much do you think he cares about publicity?”

  “I don’t know.” Roscha looked back at the screen, at the careful outline. “If that’s what’s been going on, it could mean the governorship. I wouldn’t care a whole lot, in his shoes.”

  Lioe nodded at the answer she had expected. “Do me a favor, make sure everything’s locked, as secure as you can make it. And see if Ransome owns any weaponry.”

  “All right,” Roscha said, and sounded faintly dubious. “But–”

  Lioe looked back at the chair, Ransome’s working space inert, invisible around it. “I’ve got an idea,” she said. “And if it works, we shouldn’t need guns.”

  Day 2

  Storm: The Chrestil‑Brisch Summer House,

  the Barrier Hills

  Ransome waited in the sunken main room, staring at the glass of wine that stood untouched on the table beside him. His back ached with the effort of holding himself relaxed and easy against the chair’s thick cushions; he was aware, painfully aware, of the rising noise of the rain and the murmuring conversations among the Chrestil‑Brisch thugs standing by the display console. He was equally aware of the woman who held her palmgun with the comfortable stance of the expert, but kept his eyes away from her. The wind howled outside the shutters, and he wondered when the storm would hit its peak. Not that the storm was much of an advantage, but at least it limited their actions as much as his. And I bet I know what favor ji‑Imbaoa wants. Chauvelin warned me I shouldn’t push him. The only question is, will Damian Chrestil sell me out? Ransome smiled then, put the glass to his lips to cover the expression. And why shouldn’t he? If he wins–and he’s winning so far–he has nothing to lose.

  “Na Ransome.”

  It was Damian Chrestil’s voice: the younger man moved so quietly that Ransome hadn’t heard him approach. He turned, setting the glass aside, contents untasted, forced a calm smile of greeting. “Na Damian.”

  Damian Chrestil snapped his fingers, and one of the heavy chairs trundled over to join them. At another gesture, the woman with the palmgun withdrew a little, resting her back against the shutters that covered the enormous window. Ji‑Imbaoa made a slight, impatient movement of his fingers, but moved away toward the display console and the twin serving carts. Ransome, watching with what he hoped was a convincing show of incurious distaste, saw the other hsaia, ji‑Imbaoa’s secretary, present a plate of food. Cella said something to him, turned him away toward the shuttered windows. She glanced over her shoulder, and met Ransome’s look with a quick, triumphant smile. It was gone almost as soon as he’d seen it, but Ransome felt the chill of it down his spine.

  “There are a couple of things we need to get settled,” Damian Chrestil said, and Ransome looked back at him a little too quickly.

  “If you let me go, give me a ride back to the city and an apology,” Ransome said, trying to cover his nervousness, “I suppose I’d be willing to ignore all of this.” He gestured with all the grace he could muster to the woman with the gun.

  Damian smiled. “That really wasn’t what I had in mind.”

  Somehow I didn’t think so. Ransome smiled back, the muscles of his face stiff and unresponsive, felt congestion tugging at his lungs again. He ignored that– maybe it will go away, ease off on its own the way it sometimes does–and said aloud, “It’s a generous offer.”

  “So’s mine,” Damian answered, and the smile vanished abruptly. “I understand from my people that you dumped the contents of a datablock into the nets, into storage somewhere. I want that material.”

  Ransome spread his hands. “I don’t hear an offer.”

  “Ji‑Imbaoa tells me there are still some charges pending in HsaioiAn,” Damian Chrestil said. “He wants you back, to face them. I don’t care either way, but I want that data.”

  Ransome froze, felt himself go rigid, as though he’d been turned to stone. He remembered the hsai courts, the hsaia judge–“ insults fromhouta are as the barking of dogs; it’s fortunate you are of no status”–most of all the dreary grey padding, walls and floors and ceiling, that was the hsai prison, months and months of grey cells and grey clothes and grey men, and finally the numbing grey fog of the first bout of white‑sickness. That’s twice the Chrestil‑Brisch have done this to me, he thought, and could see the same fine shape, Bettis Chrestil’s face imposed for an instant on her brother’s features. I can’t go back. I don’t want to die there, in that grey place… “If I give you the data,” he said slowly, despising himself for the concession, “you won’t turn me over to ji‑Imbaoa.”

  Damian nodded.

&n
bsp; “What, then? You’ll just let me go?” Ransome let his disbelief fill his voice, and caught his breath sharply, just averting a coughing fit. He tasted metal, the tang of it at the back of his throat, and swallowed hard, willing the sickness away.

  “Why not?” Damian shrugged with deliberate contempt. “Once the–product–is transferred, there’s nothing you can do.”

  “The lachesi, you mean,” Ransome said, and, after a moment, Damian nodded.

  “That’s right.”

  “Chauvelin won’t be pleased,” Ransome said, and Damian shrugged again.

  “Chauvelin won’t be in a position to do anything about his displeasure for very much longer. The tzu Tsinraan are losing face by the day, they won’t be in power much longer. And then Chauvelin won’t be able to do a damn thing to help you.”

  Ransome sat very still, kept his face expressionless with an effort. It was true; if the tzu Tsinraan lost their dominant position at the court on Hsiamai, then Chauvelin would go down– and I’ll go with him. I can’t go back to HsaioiAn. I don’t want to die there, I know what that would be like, I saw it happen. He controlled his fear with an effort, made himself reach for the wine. He sipped carefully, but did not really taste the faint sweetness. “So if I tell you where the data is, you won’t turn me over to him.” He nodded to the Visiting Speaker, still standing by the food carts. “What guarantee do I have that you won’t get the data and still hand me over?”

  “You don’t. But you don’t have another choice,” Damian Chrestil answered. “I tell you–I’ll give you my word–that if you give me the data, you can go free.”