Scott, Melissa - Burning Bright

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Burning Bright

by Melissa Scott

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Science Fiction

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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by

the original purchaser. Duplication or distribution of this work

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the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment.

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*Part One*

*Day 30*

_High Spring: Parking Orbit,_

_Burning Bright_

Quinn Lioe walked the galliot down the sky, using the

shaped force fields of the sails as legs, balancing their draw

against the depth of gravity here in the planet's shadow. Stars

glowed in the mirror display in front of her; spots of dark haze

blocked the brilliance of sun and the limb of the planet, so that

she could see and read the patterns that gravity made in the

vacuum around her. The low-sail, under the keel of her ship,

vibrated in its cup: the field calibration had slipped badly on

the journey from Callixte to Burning Bright, would have to be

adjusted before they left orbit. She sighed, automatically easing

the field, and widened the cross-sails' field to compensate.

Numbers flickered across the base of the mirror as the ship's

system noted and approved the changes; she felt the left cross-

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sail tremble under her hand, as its draw approached the illusory

"depth" of hyperspace, and shortened it even before the warning

flashed orange and red across her screen. The galliot continued

its easy progress as though there had been no chance of grounding.

"Beacon," she said to the ship, to traffic control waiting

somewhere ahead of her in the parking pattern, and a moment later

a marker flared in the mirror's display, ahead and slightly to the

left of the galliot's course. She sighed, wanting to hurry,

wanting to be done and parked and free for the five days or more

that it would take to recalibrate the fields, but disciplined

herself to safe and steady progress. The galliot crept forward,

sails beating slowly against the weak currents of hyperspace that

were almost drowned by the local gravity. Her hands rested lightly

on the controls; she felt the depth of space in the pressure of

the sails, saw the same numbers reflected in the slow swirl of the

currents overlaid on the mirror's mimicking of reality.

At last she brought the galliot to a slow stop almost on

top of the unreal marker, and shortened the sails until the system

gravity took over, drawing the ship neatly into the designated

space. She smiled, pleased with her precision, and kicked the

lever that lit the anchor field. Lights flared along the mirror's

base -- familiar, but nonetheless satisfying -- and the ship said

sweetly, "On target. Anchorage confirmed."

"Nicely done," a familiar voice said, and Lioe glanced over

her shoulder in some surprise. She hadn't heard Kerestel enter the

pilot's dome, had thought he was still back in cargo space sorting

out what had and hadn't gone on the drop. _And, to be fair,

cleaning up after the bungee-gars_.

"Thanks," she said aloud, and ran her hands across the main

board, closing and snuffing the sail fields. She set the anchor

field then, watched the telltales strengthen to green, and turned

away from her station, working her shoulders to free them of the

night's -- _morning's_, she corrected silently, _it was the

beginning of the new day on Burning Bright_ -- painstaking work.

"How's it look back there?"

"Bungee-gars," Kerestel said. He leaned against the

hatchway, folding his arms across his chest. His hands and bare

arms were still reddened from the embrace of the servo gloves he

used to move the canisters that held the cargo safe during the

drop to the planet's surface. "Gods, they're a grubby lot."

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Looking at him, Lioe bit back a laugh. As usual, Kerestel

was wearing a spacesuit liner, this one more battered even than

usual, the long sleeves cut off at the shoulder to make it easier

to work the servos. He had stopped shaving two days into the trip -

- _also as usual_ -- and the incipient beard had sprouted in

goatish grey tufts. The hat that marked him as a union pilot --

this one a beret of gold-shot grey brocade, pinned up on one side

with a cluster of brightly faceted glass -- perched, incongruously

jaunty, on his balding head.

Kerestel had the grace to grin. "Well, you know what I

mean. And Christ, the pair of them couldn't make up their minds

what was to go in the drop -- if they had minds."

Lioe nodded, and turned to the secondary board to begin

shutting down the mirror. Bungee-gars, the hired hands who rode

the drop capsules down out of orbit to help protect particularly

valuable cargoes from hijacking after landing, were generally a

difficult group to work with -- _you have to be pretty crazy to

begin with, or desperate, to take a job like that_ -- and the two

who had come aboard on Demeter had been slightly more bizarre than

usual. "What I don't care for," she said, "is running cargo that

needs bungee-gars."

"You got a point there," Kerestel said rather sourly, and

Lioe allowed herself a crooked smile. Cargoes that needed bungee-

gars were valuable enough to hijack in transit as well as at the

drop point, and the free space between the Republic and the Hsaioi-

An was loosely patrolled at best, with no one claiming either

jurisdiction or responsibility. She shook the thought away --

there had been no sign of trouble, from Callixte to Demeter or

after -- and keyed a final set of codes into the interpreter.

Overhead, and across the front of the dome, the tracking overlays

began to fade, first the oily swirls that showed the hyperspatial

currents, and then the all-but-invisible blue-black lines that

showed the depth of realspace. The stars blazed out around them,

suns strewn like dust and seed, tossed in prodigal handfuls

against the night where the plane of the galaxy intersected the

mirror's curve. Then the shields that cloaked sun and planet

vanished, and the brilliance drowned even the bright stars. Lioe

blinked, dazzled, and looked away.

"But if they'd only make up their mind," Kerestel said, and

Lioe frowned for a second before she realized he was still talking

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about the bungee-gars. "You probably felt it, Quinn, they kept

changing which capsules were going, so by the time they'd decided,

the whole ship was unbalanced. I'll bet money that hasn't helped

the low-sail projector."

"I didn't feel we were off alignment," Lioe said. "She

handled fine, and the projector didn't feel any worse than when we

left Demeter. You did a good job, Micky."

She saw Kerestel's shoulders relax, subtly, and realized

that he had been looking for that reassurance all along. She hid a

sigh -- she liked Kerestel well enough, liked his ship even

better, but his insecurities were wearing -- and said, "Speaking

of which, have you scheduled the repairs?"

"Yes." Kerestel's face brightened. "The yard says they can

take us into the airdock tomorrow, and they'll tear down the

projector right away. The whole thing, including recalibration,

ought to take about eight days. Not bad, eh?"

"Not bad," Lioe agreed. _Not bad at all, especially when it

happens over Burning Bright_. "I thought I'd take off, go

planetside," she said, carefully casual. "You're not going to need

me up here."

Kerestel frowned slightly, said, after a heartbeat's pause

that seemed much longer, "You're going Gaming, right?"

"That's right." Lioe bit her tongue to keep from adding

more. _This is Burning Bright, heart of the Game, where the best

clubs and the best players -- the greatest notables -- live and

work. I'm not missing this chance. Chances like this are only once

a lifetime_ --

"It's a game, Quinn," Kerestel said.

"And it's one I'm very, very good at," Lioe retorted. She

grinned, forced a lighter tone. "Christ, Micky, it's not like I'm

quitting."

"One of these days, though," Kerestel muttered, and Lioe

reached across to touch his shoulder.

"Not likely, and you know it. Piloting's a steady living,

and I'm not stupid." _I had to work too hard to get the

apprenticeship, coming out of Foster Services; I'm not giving that

up anytime soon_. But that was none of Kerestel's business; she

forced the smile to stay on her lips, said, "All I'm saying is, I

think I'm going to spend the repair break planetside. All right?"

She could force the issue, she knew -- they were both union, and

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the union gave her the right to move off the ship anytime it was

anchored in orbit for more than five days -- but she liked

Kerestel too well to use that lever unless she had to. _And

besides, he's getting old, one foot on the retirement line. I

don't want to hurt his feelings_.

Kerestel nodded, reluctantly. "All right," he said, and

then made himself sound more enthusiastic. "And good luck with the

Game."

It was those efforts that made him worth working for, even

if he was getting old and querulous. "Thanks," Lioe said, and

retreated to her cabin to collect her belongings.

It didn't take her long to pack: her jump bag was easily

large enough to hold a couple of changes of clothes, plus her

Gameboard and the thick plastic case that held the half-dozen

Rulebook disks. She seized a hat at random, this one black, with a

wide brim, shrugged on a jacket -- her favorite, heavy blue-black

workcloth with a flurry of Game pins across the lapels -- and

tapped into the local comnet to find a taxi-shuttle to take her

across to the customs station. Kerestel was nowhere in sight when

it arrived, and she hesitated, but called her good-byes into the

shipwide intercom. There was no answer; she shrugged again, caught

between hurt and annoyance, and pulled herself through the

transfer tube to the taxi.

The landing check was strict and time-consuming. The

officer on duty went over her papers with excruciating care, and

ran the Rulebooks through a virus scan twice before grudgingly

allowing her to carry them onto the surface. She made the orbiter

with only minutes to spare, and collapsed into her seat, resolved

to sleep for as much of the descent as possible.

She woke to the unfamiliar noise of air against the

orbiter's hull, sat up in her harness to see fire rolling across

the viewport. The orbiter bucked and fought the sudden turbulence,

and then they were down into the atmosphere. Servos whined

underfoot and in the cabin walls, reconfiguring wings and lifting

surfaces, and the orbiter became a proper aircraft, banking easily

against the heavy air that held it. The engine fired, a coughing

explosion at the tail of the taxi, and the craft steadied further,

came completely under control. Lioe released the breath she hadn't

realized she'd been holding, and craned her head to look out the

viewport again.

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"We'll be landing at Newfields in about fifty minutes," the

steward said, from the front of the cabin. "It's day thirty of

High Spring, the end of High Spring -- that's day ninety-four of

our four-hundred-day year. Burning Bright has a twenty-five-

standard-hour day, and you should program your chronometers

accordingly. If you are keeping Greenwich Republican time, the

GRTC factor is eighty-eight B-for-bravo one hundred fifty-two.

Ground temperature is twenty-three degrees. If you need any

assistance, or further information, please feel free to ask. Your

call buttons are on the cabin wall above your head."

No one seemed to respond, and Lioe turned her head back to

the window. Clouds flashed past beneath them, thin wisps that only

partly obscured the glittering water. Burning Bright was mostly

water; the main -- the only -- landmass was largely artificial,

the new land built on the inner edges of the giant atoll's

original islands, guarded from floods by a massive network of

dikes and storm barriers. The city of Burning Bright -- city and

planet shared a name; the two were effectively identical -- was

one of the great engineering achievements of the nonaligned

worlds: _even in the Republic, and even in Foster Service

schools_, Lioe thought, _you learn that mantra_. And it was pretty

much true. In all the time she'd spent in space, piloting ships

between the Republic and the nonaligned worlds and Hsaioi-An,

she'd never been anyplace that was at all like Burning Bright.

"Can I get you anything?"

Lioe looked up to find the steward looking down at her,

balancing easily against the movement of the orbiter, one hand

resting on the back of the empty couch beside her. She shook her

head, but smiled. "I can't think of anything, thanks."

The steward nodded, but didn't move. "I couldn't help

noticing your pins."

Lioe let her smile widen, grateful she hadn't had to set up

this encounter herself. "I saw yours, too." She glanced again at

the pair of Game pins clipped just below the company icon: one was

the triangle-and-galaxy of the Old Network, but the other was

unfamiliar. "Local club?" she asked, and was not surprised when

the steward shook his head.

"Actually, it's a session souvenir," he said. "It was a

Court Life variant, run by Ambidexter about five years ago."

"I think I saw tapes of that," Lioe said, impressed in

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spite of herself. The steward didn't look old enough to have been

playing at that level five years ago. "That was the one that

featured Gallio Hazard and Desir of Harmsway, right? The one that

really made Harmsway a Grand Type."

"That's right." The steward glanced quickly around the

cabin, then lowered himself into the couch next to her. "I'm Vere -

- Audovero Caminesi."

"Quinn Lioe." They touched hands, awkward because of her

safety harness.

"You wouldn't be the Lioe who wrote the Frederick's Glory

scenario," Vere said.

"As a matter of fact, I am."

Vere grinned. "That was a great session. There's been a lot

of talk on the net about it; I'm still trying to find someone at

the club who'll run it. Are you going to be doing any Gaming while

you're here?"

The conversation was going just the way she'd hoped it

would. Lioe said, "I was hoping to. I don't know the clubs,

though."

Vere spread his hands. "I can give you some names, if you'd

like."

"I'd appreciate it."

"There are really only three clubs that are worth your

while," Vere said, lowering his voice until she could just hear

him over the noise of the engines. "Billi's in the Old City,

Shadows under the Old Dike in Dock Road District, and the Two-

Dragon House, in Mainwardens'." He grinned suddenly. "I think

Shadows is the best of the lot -- it's where I play, so take it

for what it's worth."

Lioe smiled back. "What's the setup like?"

"They're all about the same, really," Vere answered. A

chime sounded from farther forward in the compartment, and he

lifted his head to look over the seatbacks for the source. Lioe

followed the direction of his gaze, and saw a call light flashing

above one of the seats. Vere grimaced, and pushed himself to his

feet, but leaned down to finish what he had been saying. "Shadows

has newer machines, but they're not state-of-the-art. Billi's was

that maybe four, five years ago. Two-Dragon is pretty standard

stuff, a little older than Shadows."

"Thanks," Lioe said, and Vere smiled down at her.

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"Don't forget me if you run an open session."

"I'll keep you in mind," Lioe said, and meant it. She would

be needing good players, if she managed to persuade a club to let

her lead sessions, and anyone who could play for Ambidexter was

good enough for her. It was just a pity Ambidexter himself was no

longer in the Game.

She turned her head to the viewport again, was startled to

see how far the orbiter had dropped. The water was no longer just

a blue haze, had gained a crumpled texture, and flecks of white

dotted the metallic surface. Burning Bright City was just visible

in the distance, if she craned her neck, but mostly hidden by the

orbiter's nose. The craft banked sharply then, showing her nothing

but the brilliance of the sky, and when it steadied onto the new

heading, Burning Bright lay spread out beneath the orbiter's wing.

It seemed very small at first, an island split in three by a

forked channel, but then the orbiter banked again, losing

altitude, and she began to make out the smaller landformed islands

that made up the larger masses. Most of them were thickly settled,

furred with brick-red buildings, light glinting occasionally from

solar panels and interior waterways. Only the high ground at the

outer edges of the islands remained relatively uncrowded. She

frowned idly at that, wondering why, and the speakers crackled at

the front of the cabin.

Vere said, "I've just been informed that we are starting

the descent to Newfields. We should be on the ground in about

fifteen minutes."

The orbiter canted again as he spoke, and when it came

level again, Lioe was looking at a scene she recognized. Twin

lakes lay to either side of a piece of land like a small mountain,

falling steeply to the sea on one side and more gently into

settled country on the other. That was Plug Island, where the

first-in settlers had first dammed the shallow lagoon to create

more land for their growing city. Double headlands cradled each of

the lakes; the desalination complex and the thick white walls of

the tidal generating stations that closed each lake off from the

sea gleamed in the sunlight. Outside the generating stations'

walls, surf bloomed against the storm barriers that defended the

Plug Island lagoons; it frothed as well against the base of the

cliffs to either side. They were coming into Newfields. Even as

she thought it, the orbiter rolled a final time, then steadied

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into the familiar approach. They flashed over the clustered houses

of the Ghetto where the off-worlders, and especially the hsai,

lived -- still on the inner edges of the island, overlooking the

land, away from the sea -- and then dropped low over the

administrative complex. The orbiter touched down easily on stained

and tire-marked pavement, and she leaned back in her couch, no

longer watching the blocks of warehouses that flashed past beyond

the empty field. _Not long now_, she thought, _not long. I'll find

a room in the Ghetto, and I'll call some clubs, and I'll have a

Game to run_. She smiled, losing herself in a dream.

--------

*Day 30*

_High Spring: The Hsai Ambassador's_

_House, in the Ghetto, Burning Bright_

The ambassador to Burning Bright knelt in his reception

room, facing the hissing screen. A few check-characters crawled

across the blank grey space; the ambassador frowned, seeing them,

and glanced over his shoulder at the technician who knelt in front

of the control board.

"Sorry, Sia Chauvelin," the technician murmured, and his

hands danced across his controls. The characters vanished, were

replaced by a single steady glyph: the link was complete.

Chauvelin glanced one last time around the narrow room, at

the plain black silk that lined the walls, at the low table with

the prescribed ritual meal -- snow-wine; a tray of tiny red-

stained wafers, each marked in black with the graceful double-

glyph that meant both good fortune and gift; a molded sweet, this

one in the shape of the _nuao_-pear that stood for duty -- laid

out in the faint shadow of a single perfect orchid in an equally

perfect holder carved from a natural pale-purple crystal. His own

clothes were equally part of the prescribed ritual, plain black

silk coat over the pearl-grey bodysuit that served humans like

himself for the hsai's natural skin, a single knot of formal

ribbons tied around his left arm, the folded iron fan set on the

bright carpet in front of him. He glanced a final time at his

reflection in the single narrow window, checking his appearance,

and found it acceptable. It was night out still, the sun not yet

risen; he suppressed a certain sense of injustice, and glanced

again at the technician. "Is everything ready?"

"Yes, Sia Chauvelin."

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"Then you may go." Chauvelin looked back at the screen,

barely aware of the murmured response and the soft scuffing sound

as the technician bowed himself out and closed the door gently

behind him. The remote was a sudden weight against his thigh,

reminding him of his duty; he reached into the pocket of his coat

to touch its controls, triggering the system. The hidden speakers

hissed for a moment, singing as the jump-satellite bridged the

interstellar space between the local transmitter and an identical

machine on maiHu'an, and then the screen lit on a familiar scene.

Chauvelin bowed, back straight, eyes down, hands on the carpet in

front of him, heard a light female voice -- human female --

announcing his name.

"Tal je-Chauvelin tzu Tsinra-an, emissary to and friend-at-

court for the _houta_ of Burning Bright."

Chauvelin kept his eyes on the fan, dark against the

glowing red of the carpet, staring at the five _n-jao_ characters

of his name carved into the outer guard. There was a little

silence, and then a second voice answered the first, this one

unmistakably hsaia, inhuman and male.

"I acknowledge je-Chauvelin."

Chauvelin leaned back slowly, raising his eyes to the

screen. Even expecting it, the illusion was almost perfect, so

that for an instant he could almost believe that the wall had

dissolved, and a second room identical to his own had opened in

front of him. The Remembrancer-Duke Aorih ja-Erh'aoa tzu Tsinra-an

sat facing him in a carved chair-of-state, hands posed formally on

the heads of the crouching troglodyths that formed the arms of the

chair. His wrist spurs curved out and down toward the troglodyths'

eyes, their enameled covers -- done in a pattern of twining

flowers, Chauvelin saw, without surprise -- glowing in the warm

lights.

"This person thanks his most honored patron for his

acknowledgment," he said, in the hsai tongue that he prided

himself on speaking as well as any jericho-human, any human born

and bred inside the borders of Hsaioi-An. "And welcomes him with

service."

Ja-Erh'aoa made a quick, ambiguous gesture with one hand,

at once accepting and dismissing the formal compliments. The

stubby fingerclaws, painted a delicate shade between lavender and

blue to match the enameled flowers of the spur sheath, clicked

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Scott, Melissa - Burning Bright

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