“I’ve decided to sit in myself,” Gueremei said. “I play under Fernesa–Gameop’s privilege.”

A mixed favor, Lioe thought. Gueremei would be good–you didn’t get to be a Gameop without being at least a double‑A player–but it was also a little unnerving, having her on‑line for the first session. “Suit yourself,” she said aloud, and Gueremei settled herself in the remaining chair.

“All right,” Gueremei said, not loudly, but all attention shifted instantly to her. “This is Quinn Lioe, everyone, who wrote the Frederick’s Glory scenario some of you played last week. Na Lioe, let me introduce your players. Peter Savian–”

That was the bearded man, sitting so close on her right that he could extend a hand, Republican‑fashion. Lioe murmured a greeting, met and matched the pressure of his grip, and saw a new amusement gleam for an instant in his dark eyes.

“–Kazio Beledin–”

The man with the implant lenses touched his forehead, a formal gesture that went badly with his crumpled, brightly dyed and patched shirt and dock‑worker’s trousers.

“–Alazais Mariche–”

The hook‑nosed woman nodded very seriously, her fingers playing over the controls of her expensive equipment.

“–Vere you know, and Serenn Imbertin–”

“ Dit–everyone calls me Imbertine,” the young man in the supportchair said. Lioe nodded in acknowledgment, wondering if the chair were a permanent necessity. It was hard to tell–he was thin, certainly, but not wasted–and it was none of her business, in any case.

“–Garet Huard–”

The man with the hsai spurs looked up from his Gameboard to nod a greeting. He didn’t have a hsai name–most adoptees used some hsai forms–and Lioe wondered again what the connection was.

“And Jafiera Roscha,” Gueremei finished.

Lioe nodded to the redhead, startled again by the contrast between the woman’s striking beauty and the aggression in her face.

“It’s good to meet you,” Roscha said, her voice low and unexpectedly musical.

“Thanks,” Lioe said. She looked around the table, feeling the familiar excitement building in her, and said, “Na Gueremei has outlined the scenario to you, I assume?” Most of them nodded, but she continued anyway. “This is a Rebellion/Psionics variant, set on the prison planet of Ixion’s Wheel. Baron Vortex has, unknown to anyone until now, been running a secret research project in the prison complex, trying to find a way to bring psis of all types under his personal control. You are all part of that project, either as prisoners or as part of the prison staff. One of you, however, has an ulterior motive: you have come to rescue an old friend and antagonist, now a prisoner, and in order to escape yourself you will all have to work together.” She smiled then, and most of the players grinned back, even Roscha softening slightly, caught up in the preliminaries of the Game. “Assuming no one wants to back out, I have casting disks and the scenario supplements.”

No one did. Lioe felt her smile widen even as she tried to control it, and looked down at the display to check the cast list a final time. She dealt the disks around the table, and slid the session supplements after them. Huard, with his hsai spurs, would play the key role, Royal Avellar, potential if distant claimant to the Imperial throne; she wondered for a moment if he were really jericho‑human, and if he was, what it would do to his play. Savian would play Lord Faro, Beledin the half‑mad vampire Ibelin Belfortune–a good choice, given the visible chemistry between the two men–and Vere would play Jack Blue. Imbertine and the hook‑nosed woman, Mariche, would play Gallio Hazard and Desir of Harmsway–not easy parts, requiring a lot of coordination, and Lioe hoped they had played together before. Roscha would play the technician Africa, and Gueremei would play Mijja Lyall. That was an interesting choice–Lyall was superficially a minor character, but could become pivotal if played right–and Lioe gave a little nod of approval. She fiddled with her own controls as the players slid disks and supplement boxes into their Gameboards, and linked the boards to the VDIRT table’s main systems, bringing the prison complex into focus just above the tabletop. She kept it dim, the outlines vague and colors dulled, but she saw her players glance warily at it, assessing the setting. Savian ran a fingertip along the ridge of bone below one eye–there was a scar there, Lioe saw, faint as a thread against his brown skin–and studied the displays on his screen. Mariche busied herself with a pull‑out input strip, typing something into her Gameboard, her face still and intent as she studied the shifting numbers.

“Is everything clear?” Lioe said at last, when the first flourish of activity slowed, and there were nods and mumbled agreement from the players. Even Roscha looked almost eager. Lioe glanced at her main boards a final time–everything was ready to go, all the linkages in place and the libraries on line–and looked back at her players, excitement coursing through her. This was what made the Game worthwhile, all of them gathered for the one purpose of playing her scenario–She put the thought aside and said, “Then let’s go.”

She reached for her own shades, settled the temples on her ears. The broad double screen, dipping almost below her cheekbones, stayed black for a moment, and then she adjusted the controls so that she was watching her players through one completely transparent lens and watching the Game they would create in the other, darkened lens. Savian lifted a half‑helmet, settled it very deliberately on his head. The matte silver backing hid eyes and nose, but his mouth, framed by the neatly trimmed beard, remained visible and expressive. Most of the others wore shades similar to her own; bands of black or grey plastic covered half their face, turning them into icons of justice. Imbertine leaned back in his chair, hands caressing the bright stones of his bracelets. Looking more closely, Lioe could see the thin cables that connected each one to the sockets of his Gameboard. She smiled to herself, unable to resist prolonging the moment, then touched her controls to bring a scene slowly into shape in the players’ view. The buildings of the prison complex, blank grey walls, a single row of slit‑windows visible just below the tops of the buildings, grew more solid in the air above the tabletop. The same image was reflected in her shades. She touched controls again, and wind swirled around the buildings, driving great sheets of sand against the prison’s force dome.

“Welcome to Ixion’s Wheel.”

Evening, Day 30

High Spring: Ransome’s Loft,

Old Coast Road, Newfields,

Above Junction Pool

Ransome sprawled in his chair, caught in his web of images that all but blocked out the cityscape spread out below the loft windows. A solitary firework burst into a flower of golden rain–someone on the far side of the Water getting a head start on Storm–and he watched it fall and fade into a last trail of sparks, ignoring the dancing images. Most of them were Game nets–he was trying to do what Chauvelin wanted–but his heart wasn’t in it. There was nothing new in the Game, had been nothing new for years, only the same sterile repetitions, theme and variations all gone stale with overuse. His eyes stole to the image sitting alone to the left of his chair, a direct feed from one of his dataspheres. The last of the tiny stone heads looked back at him, a faint, sly smile on its carved mouth. Idly, he reached into a secondary control space, flicked on the controls that would allow the Imani Formstone Works to produce copies of his originals. The head looked back at him, caught now in a maze of numbers and guidelines. It had taken him most of the morning to find a workshop that would admit it could do the job in the time required–and the hefty surcharge, twice what the job should actually cost, was the only reason the shop manager had agreed at all. But the ambassadorial accounting system had accepted the charges, and he was left to deal with the Game. Voices babbled from the floor speakers, no channel given priority; Ransome made a face at the noise, but did not bother to adjust the tuning.