“But will Chauvelin?” Damian Chrestil asked.

“Ask him,” Ransome answered.

There was a little silence, and Lioe, still held in the chair’s gentle embrace, the nets wound around her like a cocoon, held her breath. If this could work, if they could come up with a bargain –

“Be my guest,” Damian Chrestil said, and gestured to the controls.

“Traitor,” ji‑Imbaoa said, almost conversationally, and turned his back on them all.

Ransome grinned, and reached for the control spaces. Static fuzzed a tiny circle at the edge of Lioe’s viewing volume. She winced, and looked away from it, but did not adjust her own controls. An image formed, slowly at first, then flicked completely into adjustment. Chauvelin looked out at them, one eyebrow raised in arrogant question, and Lioe tugged at the image until it was as large as the other.

“Na Chauvelin,” Damian Chrestil said, with a fleeting and twisted smile.

“Na Damian,” Chauvelin acknowledged. “What interesting company you keep.” He looked at Ransome. “I’ve been looking for you, I‑Jay. I trust you’re well?”

Ransome nodded. “Well enough.”

Damian Chrestil cleared his throat. “I think we’ve achieved stalemate,” he said. “Each of us has something the others want, and, thanks to you, Na Lioe, we have a time constraint as well.”

“How so?” Both of Chauvelin’s eyebrows rose.

“I’ve put a new Game scenario onto the nets,” Lioe said bluntly. “In four hours–less than that, now–it’ll be released, and every Gamer on the nets will want a copy. It’s a jeu a clef, Ambassador, based on Na Damian’s deal with the Visiting Speaker. If Damian Chrestil doesn’t back off, guarantee my safety and let Ransome go, I’ll let it run.” She paused, couldn’t resist adding, “I do think it will play.”

Chauvelin was silent for a moment, his face expressionless, then looked at Ransome. “Will it work?”

“It’s fucking brilliant,” Ransome answered, and the amusement in his voice had a slight note of hysteria. “Oh, it’ll work, all right, no question.”

A faint expression of distaste flickered across Chauvelin’s face, vanished as he looked back at Lioe. “I wish you had seen fit to trust me with this information, Na Lioe.”

“Why the hell should I?” Lioe retorted. “I’m a Republican, you’re hsaia–and I don’t know you. Why should I trust my neck to you?”

“If I may interrupt,” Damian Chrestil said. “I think I can offer us all a way out.”

“Why not?” Lioe said, and heard Ransome laugh.

Chauvelin said, “Go on.”

“Na Lioe says she wants to be left alone–my goons off your back, you said, and your job to go to. And Ransome back, which is what Na Chauvelin wants, too.” Damian Chrestil looked directly at Chauvelin, his voice gone suddenly deadly cold. “Am I right in thinking you’d also like to see the Visiting Speaker’s influence curbed a little, N’Ambassador?”

Chauvelin nodded once.

“Then this is what I’m offering,” Damian Chrestil said. “You, N’Ambassador, will allow this shipment to proceed. Neither you nor Na Ransome will interfere with it–why should you care what happens to my money and clients, so long as ji‑Imbaoa, and the je Tsinraan, are taken down a few notches? In return, I won’t act for the Visiting Speaker, or ask any awkward questions about his disgrace. As for you, Na Lioe, I want you to withdraw this scenario of yours, and to keep quiet about all of this. And I’d like you to stay away from Republican C‑and‑I at least until the statute of limitations runs out on any possible smuggling charges from that direction.”

I’m a pilot. That’s impossible. Lioe started to protest aloud, but Damian Chrestil held up his hand.

“In return, I’m willing to offer you my sponsorship to remain on Burning Bright, as a citizen. I daresay you can find work as a notable, in the Game clubs, but if you can’t, or if you don’t want to–if you want to follow Ransome’s example–I’ll provide you with a stipend, to continue until the statute runs out.”

To stay on Burning Bright. To live as a notable, as a Gamer, my income guaranteed… Lioe took a deep breath, fighting for calm. This was the last thing she had expected, something outside of all possibility, that she would play this game, and win, and be offered this reward.

“That’s very good, Damian,” Chauvelin said, and there was real admiration in his voice.

“Thank you. I think it serves all our needs,” Damian Chrestil said.

Maybe not mine, Lioe thought, indignant. There’s my piloting–I like my work–and, my God, there’s Kerestel. I can’t just leave him without warning. But there were plenty of pilots in the replacement pool, good ones, too. It was not impossible, not impossible at all. Will he keep his word? Will I find his goons still on my tail, or wake up dead some morning? Do I care? I could stay on Burning Bright, stay in the Game; most of all, if Ransome will teach me–and I think he will–I can see what else there is, beyond the Game. He and I can put an end to the Game, and see what happens then.

“I can agree to this,” Chauvelin said.

Damian nodded. “Na Lioe?”

She nodded, slowly. “I agree. But I want the money.”

“Wise move,” Ransome said. He was smiling again, without amusement. “And I’ll agree, because the rest of you do. But you owe me something for it, Damian.”

Damian Chrestil shook his head. “No. You’re getting something already. You’re getting yourself an apprentice, someone you can pass your skills to before you die. I think that’s reward enough for anyone.”

There was another silence, and Lioe held her breath, sure that Ransome would reject the offer, reject the reminder that he was going to die– reject me. Then, quite slowly, Ransome’s smile changed, became more real. “You are good, Damian,” he said.

“I’m not Bettisa,” Damian Chrestil answered, and there was an odd regret in his voice, as well as certainty. There was a little pause, and Ransome nodded.

“All right. I’ll agree.”

Lioe let out the breath she had been holding, leaned back and let the chair tilt with her, the images moving around her to hold their relative positions. It was done, it would work– and I will stay on Burning Bright, and in the Game. And I’ll have my chance, at last, to do something no one will want to change.

Day 2

Storm: The Chrestil‑Brisch Summer House,

the Barrier Hills

Damian Chrestil watched the net symbols fade and then the flicker of lights and symbols as the communications console shut itself down. It was the best he could do– not very good, he acknowledged silently, but at least he would be able to salvage something from the mess. And I won’t have to deal with ji‑Imbaoa anymore. He turned away from the machine, did his best to ignore Ransome, watching with his sly smile from the sidelines, and beckoned to Ivie. The flat‑faced man came over quickly, his hands still curled in his pockets, caressing at least one weapon.

“Na Damian?”

Ivie was well trained, Damian thought sourly, but no one was well trained enough to keep from sounding just a little uncertain about this situation. “Escort the Visiting Speaker into the game room,” he said. “And take his people with him. Be sure you search the jericho‑human, though.”

“A pleasure,” Ivie answered, and turned away. He sounded confident enough once he’d been given something definite to do, Damian thought, and touched his remote to summon the drinks cart. He busied himself with its contents, careful to keep it and himself out of the way of Ivie’s people, and saw without really looking that Cella and Ransome were being equally cautious. Cella stood well apart from the rest, still with a drink untasted in her hand, her expression remotely interested, as though she were watching someone else’s Game. Damian read disapproval in her face, and looked away from it. On the far wall, the weather screen flickered soundlessly, showing the storm from various perspectives. He could hear the wind even through the heavy shutters, a numbing, constant wail that rose and fell monotonously. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ivie say something to the Visiting Speaker, too soft and polite to be heard. Ji‑Imbaoa tossed his head angrily, turning away as though he would have preferred to ignore the security specialist, and Damian Chrestil braced himself to intervene. Then, abruptly, ji‑Imbaoa’s resistance vanished; he made a curt gesture of agreement, and followed Ivie toward the door. Two of the guards followed, polite but obtrusive in their armed presence. The rest stayed behind, the thin woman still with her palmgun drawn and leveled at Magill. There was a little pause, and then Magill shook his head, and lifted his hands, surrendering to a search. At the woman’s gesture, he and the hsaia secretary moved slowly toward the door.