Lioe studied the note for a moment, trying to work out the implications. It was flattering that Ransome/Ambidexter had thought enough of the scenario to extend this invitation, and if sex was intended, she wasn’t entirely sure she’d say no– but I really don’t think I like the word “instructive.” And why is the hsai ambassador inviting him to parties, anyway? She left the message hanging on that screen, touched her keyboard to move onto a general data net. A chime sounded and glyphs flashed, warning her that any charges from this node were her personal responsibility. She sighed, and hit the accept button, though she touched a second series of keys to post a running total at the base of the screen. The screen went dark for a moment, then presented her with another series of menus.
Burning Bright’s datastore was indexed according to an unfamiliar system. She wasted perhaps five minutes and ten reallearning how to phrase her questions, but at last found the hsai ambassador’s public file. He was human– and I probably oughtn’t be surprised at that; the hsai do tend to staff their embassies with adopted members of the local species–but not jericho‑human, not born inside the borders of HsaioiAn. What was unusual was that he had been born on Burning Bright, one of the select few who had been coopted for adoption into the hsai kinship system. Lioe stared at that information for a moment, wondering how it must feel to come back to your homeworld after all this time–over thirty years, if his age was correct, and he had been coopted in his twenties, like most chaoi‑mon. She shook herself then, seeing the list of honors that followed his name: membership in the imperial family, half a dozen different awards for merit, including a personal letter from the Father‑Emperor himself. Whatever he had felt about cooption at the time, Tal Chauvelin had adapted, and flourished. And there were reasons to accept cooption, after all. Lioe frowned slightly, remembering the last big series of hsai cooption raids. She had just begun piloting then, and the risk had been real enough, even on the fringes of the Republic, that she had had to consider what she would do if she were faced with that choice. The hsai wanted to join the entire galaxy in kinship, according to their own phrase, and, however you felt about it personally, they did live up to their side of that philosophy. Chaoi‑monwere, by law and custom, full members of hsai society, fully part of the elaborate system. Given a choice between that and death, or at best a few years in a holding pen while the metagovernments squabbled over repatriation, becoming chaoi‑monwas not that bad an option. And if you came from a poor world, either in the Free Zone or on the fringes of the Republic, or even from a poor sector of a good world, it was a definite step forward.
However, Chauvelin’s background didn’t tell her why Ransome was invited to his party, or why Ransome would invite her. She skimmed through the rest of the file, and found nothing useful. Ransome’s public file was short, and heavily edited: it made no mention of his Gaming career, and concentrated on a list of the awards he had won for his story eggs and other image installations. He had been born on Burning Bright, held Burning Bright citizenship, but the only remotely personal piece of information in the file was the note that his parents had been Syncretist Observants, minister/administrators of Burning Bright’s peculiar religion. She hesitated, wondering if it was worth her while to try to hack the system–there had to be other records available somewhere–but then smiled, slowly. There was, of course, an even simpler way to answer her question: ask him directly.
She flipped herself out of the datastore–the charges read fifty real, and she made a face at the total–and back onto the main communications net, transferring Ransome’s mailcode from the message that still waited on the secondary screen. There was another brief pause, and then the communications screen lit and windowed.
“Na Lioe. I see you got my message.”
Lioe leaned back in her chair to look at the face in the screen. Ransome was looking even paler than he had the night before, and a hectic flush stained his high cheekbones. But then, I probably don’t look so great myself, after last night. She had not slept well on Roscha’s boat. She put that thought aside, said aloud, “I did. I was wondering why.”
There was a little pause, and Ransome said, “Why what?”
“Why you invited me,” Lioe answered. And why you were invited in the first place.
Ransome grinned. “I told you, I like your play, and I think you might find hsai politics amusing–maybe even useful. Are you committed to a session tonight?”
“No.” Lioe hesitated, unsure of the right move. But I want to go, she realized abruptly. I’ve never seen real hsai society, just the jericho‑humans who broker for them. And most of all, I want to find out more about Ransome. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Yes, I’d like to come. How do I get there–and how formal is this, anyway?”
“Moderately,” Ransome said. “I’ll meet you at the Governor’s Point lift station at eighteen‑thirty, and we can ride together–if that’s agreeable to you.”
“Thanks,” Lioe said. “I’ll be there.”
“Until tonight, then,” Ransome said, and cut the connection.
Lioe stared at the empty screen for a moment longer, then made herself begin closing down the systems. From what she had seen of Burning Bright, “moderately formal” here should probably be translated as “strictly formal” in Republican terms. Nothing in her carryall–nothing in the storage cells back on the ship, or indeed left behind in her one‑room flat on Callixte–fit that description; she would have to find the local shop district, and hope she could pick up something appropriate. She hesitated then, her fingers poised for the final sequence. The cab driver had said something about Warden Street, the street that ran along the top of the Old Dike, being a center for fashion. Why not go there, especially when she had money to spend? Less than she had before she’d gone into the datastores, but still enough to afford a few more indulgences. She smiled to herself, and finished closing down the system.
She paid her fee at the main desk in the lobby, and found her way to the nearest waterbus stop. Roscha had tried to explain the local transit system before she’d dropped Lioe off on the canalside south of Shadows, and so far the hurried explanation seemed to make sense. She bought a regular ticket–she didn’t want to indulge in express buses, not when she was planning to buy clothing–and when the bus arrived, seated herself in the stern, under the faded brick‑red awning. The bus was crowded, and slow, stopping every two hundred meters or so to take on more passengers or to drop someone off, and for once Lioe let herself enjoy the scenery.
The canal was filled with traffic, from covered barges half again as long as the waterbus to the narrow, high‑tailed passenger boats that Roscha had called gondas, to one‑and two‑person skids. Most of the people riding skids were young, standing barefoot on the platform, skimming in and out of the traffic trailing a plume of spray. One bright‑red craft cut close enough to the bus to send water spraying across the open passenger compartment, and Lioe joined in the general shout of anger. A woman at the head of the bus pitched a piece of fruit after the skid’s driver, hitting him neatly in the back of the head, and the other passengers applauded. The woman stood and bowed, like an actor, and Lioe saw the mask sitting on the bench beside her, a grinning devil‑face, the gold and black vivid against the faded grey of the seats.
At the next stop, a gaggle of children in school uniforms, black high‑collared smocks open over a variety of shirts and trousers, climbed aboard; they vanished one by one as the bus wound its way up the canal toward the Crooked River. At last the bus turned onto a much broader canal, this one paralleling the Old Dike, so that they moved between a narrow embankment, and the houses shouldering each other for place beyond it, and the immense bulk of the Dike itself. Even in the daylight, with the sunlight to soften it, it was an impressive sight, towering over the traffic, bicycles and three‑wheeled carts and denki‑bikes and the occasional heavy carrier, that moved along the embankment at its foot. The stone of its face had faded from its original near‑black, and the salt stains had all but vanished, replaced by the softer faded lavender and grey‑green of rock‑rust. Lioe leaned back, trying to see Warden Street at the top of the wall, but she could only hear it, the traffic moving in counterpoint to the noise of the street at its base.