“Tomorrow,” ji‑Imbaoa said again, and there was a note in his voice that warned Damian not to push further.

“All right,” he said, but couldn’t resist adding, “Tonight was such a good chance. I’m just sorry we missed it.”

Ji‑Imbaoa made a hissing sound, but said nothing.

“Until tomorrow, then,” Damian said, cheerfully, and slipped out of the embrasure before the Visiting Speaker could think to stop him.

Part Four

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Day 1

Storm: Ransome’s Loft, Old Coast Road,

Newfields, Above Junction Pool

Lioe woke slowly, blinking in the light that seeped in through the filtered windows. She lay still for a moment, remembering where she was, then cautiously pushed herself upright. The door to Ransome’s bedroom was still closed, but the light was on in the little kitchen, and she could hear the last gasps as an automatic coffee maker completed its cycle. She glanced sideways, checking the time, and made a face as the numbers flashed red against the stark white wall. Almost noon, and she was committed to a midafternoon meeting at Shadows, reviewing her scenario for a group of club session leaders.

She reached for her shirt and trousers, the loose silky tunic incongruous at this hour of the morning, and dressed quickly, then went into the kitchen alcove. The coffee maker was obviously on a standard program: the tiny pot held barely enough for a single mug. She hesitated for an instant, but poured herself some anyway. That emptied the pot, and she searched cabinets, the little room as compulsively ordered as a ship’s galley, until she found the box of makings and set another pot on to brew. She folded up the bed as well, but could not remember where Ransome had kept it; she left it sitting against the wall, and went back to the computer setup that dominated the working space. She touched one of the secondary keyboards lightly, but did not bring up the system, remembering instead what she had done the night before. It had been like the best parts of the Game, the preparation, hunting through the nets and libraries and her own collection of filmed scenes until she found just the right image– or the image that can be adjusted, manipulated, until it has exactly the impact you wanted, that will conjure upjust the right responses from your players, and they can take that knowledge and run with it… Except, of course, that Ransome’s work stopped there, before the others, any others, entered the picture. He set up the image, calculated the effect, but didn’t stay to finish the job. Or else he assumed he had finished his job, that the effect would be what he intended. She shook her head, not sure if she even really believed in that sort of confidence– or is it arrogance?–and turned away from the computers, touched the window controls to clear the treated glass.

The city stretched out below her, a breathtaking view over the housetops toward the Inland Water. The sky above the city was milky white, sunlight filtered by clouds, but light still glinted from the solar panels and on the murky water of the Junction Pool at her feet. It was busy, barges and lighters of all sizes snugged up to the multiple docking points that lined the Pool’s edges. One of the largest ships, broad‑beamed, its deck piled high with the familiar scarred‑silver shapes of drop capsules, was moored at the foot of a cargo elevator. As she watched, fascinated–pilots rarely got to see where their cargoes ended up–a crane swooped down, delicately picked up two of the capsules, and added them to the neat pile growing in the elevator’s open car.

She finished the coffee before the crane operator finished loading the elevator, and looked sideways again, checking the time. Past noon, and it would take almost an hour to reach Shadows–more, if she understood right, and the Storm celebrations had already begun. She looked again toward Ransome’s door, blinking away the chronometer’s numbers, wondering what she should do. It seemed rude just to leave, but it might well be worse to wake him. Of course, she could always leave a note. She looked around, searching for a notepad/printer or pen and paper, and the door to the bedroom opened.

“Good morning,” Ransome said. He looked tired, Lioe thought, more tired than she would have expected. “I see you found the coffee.”

“Yes, thanks,” Lioe answered. “I made a second pot.”

“Thank you,” Ransome said, and stepped into the kitchen. “I’m glad you found the makings, most people I know drink tea.” He came back out into the loft’s main room, mug of coffee in one hand, a polished spherical remote in the other. His hand moved easily over the steel‑bright surface, and the display space in the center of the room flashed into life. Lioe looked away, vaguely embarrassed, from the loop she had compiled the night before.

“That’s really quite good,” Ransome said.

“Beginner’s work,” Lioe said, more roughly than she had intended. In the display space, a metal‑skinned woman transformed herself into a bird, the fingers elongating into feathers, hair into the crest of a hawk, body melting and shrinking into a compact and vicious form, rose and turned and swooped on something invisible, then landed, body beginning to turn again into a woman’s even as she fell the last few meters, until the silverskinned woman sat again on a bench in the sun, inspecting her long, bony feet. Even in the light from the window, the forms were clear and vivid.

“Certainly,” Ransome said. “Everybody starts off with this kind of thing. But it’s got promise. You could do something with it.”

Lioe looked suspiciously at him, but he was staring at the images, watching the loop run its course one more time. It wasn’t often one heard judgment and praise so neatly balanced; there was something in his tone that let her believe his words. “Thanks,” she said. She sounded stilted, even to herself, and added, “And thanks for letting me play with your equipment. I really enjoyed it.”

Ransome touched the remote again, and glyphs flashed in the air around him. From where she stood, Lioe could only see enough to recognize the drop‑to‑storage sequence. “You should try it again. I’m serious, you have a knack.”

“Thanks.” Lioe looked at the chair, the wire gloves discarded on the stand beside it, but made herself look away. “I’ve got to be at Shadows, though. I’m committed to a training group for their session leaders.”

“For Ixion’s Wheel?” Ransome asked, and Lioe nodded.

“They’re paying me,” she said, and didn’t know quite why she felt so defensive.

Ransome grinned. “Well, that’s a good reason, there. But don’t you ever get sick of the Game?”

“No,” Lioe said, automatically, and then, because Ransome had been honest with her, added, “It’s not like I do it for a living.”

“You could,” Ransome murmured.

Lioe made a face. “I suppose. But I like piloting, which is a steady income, unlike Gaming, and–” She stopped abruptly, acknowledging what he had said. “And, yes, I think I’d be bored–well, not bored, exactly, but the Game, the scenarios never seem to resolve anything.”

Ransome nodded. “Ixion’s Wheel comes pretty close, from what I saw.”

Lioe smiled, and didn’t bother to deny it. “It could be the start of something. I think Avellar could pull the whole Game together into one really big scenario, but I know damn well no one’s going to want to play that.”

She stopped then, knowing how she sounded, but Ransome nodded again, more slowly, his expression remote. “A scenario that concentrated on Avellar’s bid for the throne–you’re right, that would pull everything in, wouldn’t it? Rebellion, Psionics, Court Life… it would be worth playing. And Ixion’s Wheel really sets it up. Have you started work on it?”

“No one wants to change the Game,” Lioe repeated. “Not that drastically, anyway.”

Ransome sighed. “You’re probably right, which is why I stopped playing. It’s a pity, though.”