This Virtual Night Page 13

  There wasn’t anything in Jericho’s files about a mass exodus, Ru mused. Which suggests that those who tried to leave never reached their destination. “I’m not sure a full-sized transport would be able to dock here.”

  “Yeah. You can thank the scavs for that.” She spat. “Fucking vultures. Ever since Shido went down they’ve been picking at this station, tearing it apart piece by piece. Damn megacorps were too busy arguing about who should profit from the station to deal with them effectively. Every problem was always someone else’s job. Well, they finally put a security system in place, but you saw what the station looks like. And yeah, that played a part in all this. It’s hard to evacuate people from a station when you only have one working dock.”

  Ru looked at Ivar. “What happened to your ship?”

  There was a brief hesitation. “Commandeered during the exodus.”

  “I’m surprised you let that happen.”

  “It was a fucking mob. I’m good, but I’m not that good.” He pulled open his shirt collar to bare his neck; there was an ugly scar on one side of it. “Wages of battle.”

  “The crazies are afraid to enter the biomes,” Zevi said. “We’re not sure why, but at least it gives us some breathing space. But someday they’ll get their courage up and come down here. We’re preparing for it as best we can, but . . .” She shook her head, her expression grim. “It’s going to be bloody.”

  “Do you have high-tech weapons?”

  She shook her head. “What few were on the station were locked away in Security. That’s part of the main Engineering suite, which no one can get into. So we jury-rig what we can from components we salvage. But the high-tech stuff doesn’t work reliably. We’ve captured enough of the enemy’s weapons to know they have the same problem.” She smiled wryly. “In contrast, a sharpened stick always works.”

  “When you say Engineering, do you mean the complex on the top level, on the ainniq side of the station? Why can’t you get in there?”

  “Dunno. That whole sector is shut down. Maybe some kind of automatic defense. Or maybe the people who fled the station did that on their way out. The doors are all locked, emergency hatches sealed, and the equipment we’d need to break through is stored inside the complex. Which I suppose is a blessing, given what would happen to us if the crazies broke in there.”

  “They keep it under constant guard,” Ivar said. “Our people can’t even get near that part of the station safely.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “What’s your interest in Engineering?”

  The last thing she wanted him to know was that her ship was moored there, but she would need help finding her way back to it, so she had to tell him something. I was there, she thought. None of the doors were locked, no hatches were sealed, and there wasn’t a guard to be seen. It was like they were describing something on another station. In another universe. “I was hoping to use that equipment to call my ship back,” she said.

  “There are other communication nodes on the station,” Zevi offered. “None of them have been able to send a signal off-station, but if your ship is right here—”

  “It might be enough,” Ru said.

  Zevi looked at Ivar. Something passed between them that might have been netted communication. Or perhaps just the unspoken rapport of warriors. “You’d have go through the crazies’ territory to get to one of the other nodes.”

  Ru nodded.

  “We’re heading upstairs tomorrow. Our scouts have located a small supply cache on the second level, which they think may not be heavily guarded. We need people to help raid that cache. And you need a team to get you to one of the nodes safely. Perhaps . . . an exchange of support?”

  “You won’t need supplies, if a rescue team comes.”

  “If it comes,” Zevi said harshly. “Remember, we’ve been promised rescue before. And I’m sure when they said that, they believed that it would happen. So, with all due respect, until a fleet of transports actually shows up at our door, it’s going to be business as usual here. And we need those supplies.”

  “So what are you asking me to do?” Ru asked. “Kill people?”

  Zevi shook her head. “Just help us retrieve the supplies. We need to do this on foot, to move quickly, so that means we can only take what we can carry. You coming means we’ll have one more backpack to fill.” When Ru didn’t respond she pressed, “We’ll help you get to a communications hub after that. Favor for favor.”

  You’ll help me get to the hub whether I join your raid or not, because that’s your only hope of rescue. Ru didn’t need to go with them. Didn’t need to embrace a high-risk journey, invading the territory of a band of murderous half-crazed Terrans, deep in the shadows of a derelict station where so many things just didn’t make sense.

  She felt the same rush that she had back in Ivar’s hut, only ten times stronger: curiosity, excitement, elation. She couldn’t deny that her restless soul, always hungry for novelty, was drawn to this task—not despite the risk, but because of it.

  The only thing in the world that she really feared was boredom.

  “Count me in,” she told Zevi.

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  HARMONY NODE

  SHENSHIDO STATION

  JAMAL’S HAVEN turned out to be several labs and storage rooms combined into one large space by the crude but effective method of smashing through the walls between them. There were broken fragments of plasteel supports sticking out of the nearest opening like teeth, which reminded Micah of his dream back on Tridac Station. A day ago? A year? The period before his flight was becoming blurred in his mind, his sense of time dulled by mental and physical exhaustion.

  That the people here were prepared for trouble was clear. The windows that looked out on the corridor had been blocked by a wall of furniture and rugs. Against another wall was a rack with an assortment of makeshift weapons, most of them simple blade-based designs. There were a few gun-shaped pieces, but their shapes were odd enough that Micah wasn’t sure what they would fire. Next to the rack was another with pieces of armor draped over it, the same type Jamal was wearing: mismatched strips that lapped over one another, creating a flexible carapace.

  One of the labs had been converted into a workshop, with several large tables surrounded by racks of tools. There were broken pieces of furniture and fragments of walls and ceilings arranged on racks, many made of the same material as the armor. At one table a man in protective goggles was using a primitive torch to burn his way through the back of a chair, rectangular strips from his earlier harvests laid out before him. The smell of charred plastic wafted over to Micah, making his nostrils burn. At another table was a dark-skinned man dumping out the contents of cleaning bots, studying each pile closely as he did so. Clearly something in the dirt was of great importance.

  There were a dozen men and women visible, with the sounds of a few more coming from parts of the haven that Micah couldn’t see. They all looked like Terrans, which was no big surprise. Several were wearing armor like Jamal’s, while others wore mismatched garments that looked like they’d been salvaged from a dozen different labs. Some wore brightly colored T-shirts emblazoned with advertising logos that Micah recognized from the food court. Clothing was where you found it, apparently.

  Everybody stared at him as he entered, of course. It wasn’t just curiosity. There was an alertness to them, a fearful energy, as if they expected he might grab a weapon and start shooting people at any moment. Indeed, one of the women positioned herself between him and the weapons rack, perhaps fearful th
at he would rush toward it. But though their expressions were hard, the souls that peered out through their eyes looked more weary than hostile.

  “This is Micah Bello,” Jamal announced. “I found him in sector five. Also found this.” He held up the broken arrow. “There seems to have been some kind of fight there. None of our people are reporting any confrontations, so if someone died, it wasn’t one of ours.”

  “Maybe the mors are fighting each other,” one woman muttered.

  A man in a purple t-shirt with Happy Cakes scrawled across the front laughed harshly. “We should be so lucky.”

  A tall man in black armor walked up to Micah, studying him from top to bottom like he was a slab of meat. There was a long, nasty-looking machete hanging from his belt.

  “This is Serjit,” Jamal said. “He’s in charge of the haven.”

  Quietly Serjit said, “How did you get here, Bello?”

  All the way here, Micah had been thinking about how he was going to explain that. Telling them that he was a fugitive from the same corporation that probably paid their salaries—back when they got salaries—seemed like a uniquely bad idea. “I was on my way to Harmony when my navigator malfunctioned. I didn’t want to risk going any further without repairs, so I headed for the nearest station. Turned out to be Shenshido. Only the docks were too damaged to use, and my navigation was barely functional. So I had a choice between crashing into the station, riding my ship into the depths of space, or evacuating. I went for option C.”

  “An impressive feat, if true.” Serjit looked at Jamal. “Have you confirmed any of this?”

  “With what equipment? Look, he’s obviously not exo. Who else is on this station, besides them and us?”

  Serjit peered at Micah. Then he reached out a hand toward his face. Micah instinctively backed away.

  “He wants to confirm you’re not exo,” Jamal said.

  And it would be nice if you told me what the procedure for that was. But it wasn’t like he had much of a choice at this point. He stood still while Serjit felt his cheeks, kneading them with his fingertips. Finally Serjit nodded. “He’s clean.”

  “May I ask what that was about?” Micah asked.

  “The exos suffer from a parasitic infection that gives their skin a bark-like texture,” Jamal told him. “Normally you can see it on the face, but he’s checking to see if maybe something is developing that isn’t visible yet. Apparently you’re good.”

  Mutated humans with bark faces. How would bark faces even move? It sounded like something from a badly designed fantasy epic. “You talked about mors. What are those?”

  “Same as exos. It’s short for morlocks. A somewhat obscure reference—”

  “From Old Earth literature,” Micah said. “H. G. Wells. I used them in one of my games, The End of Time.” The fact that I was born on a space station doesn’t mean I’m ignorant of Terran literary traditions.

  “The End of Time?” The speaker was a young woman in a pink T-shirt that said SHIDO CAFE. “Oh my God, did you design that?”

  He couldn’t help but smile. “I was lead developer for it.”

  Serjit sharply looked at her. “You know him?”

  “I know of him. One of the best game designers in the business.” She sighed. “His virts are amazing. Like stepping into another world.”

  “So.” Serjit’s mouth twitched. “We have a celebrity in our midst.”

  Micah shrugged. “I’m just a guy looking for a way home, like everyone else here.”

  “Well,” Jamal said, “you’re welcome to shelter with us. And given what’s out there, I recommend you accept the offer.” He nodded to the woman in the SHIDO CAFÉ shirt. “Rose, why don’t you help him get settled in? Introduce him to everyone, get him some food, show him where he can clean up.”

  “Thank you so much,” Micah said.

  “Don’t thank us,” Serjit snapped. “It’s not a favor. You’ll be expected to contribute your skills to the group, same as everyone else.” He shook his head. “Though I’m afraid we’re not much in need of games.”

  No, Micah thought. But if I ever get out of here, this crazy place may wind up in one.

  * * *

  Rose introduced him to everyone, but there were too many names and faces to remember, or maybe he was just too tired to memorize anything. He instructed his headset to record everything he saw, to go over later. They offered him food, but he found that the events of the last day had unsettled his stomach enough that it was hard to eat. He nibbled just enough to realize that their replicator must be running low on ingredients, because everything tasted the same.

  “You’ll get used to it,” one of the women whispered to him, and he shuddered. He didn’t want to be here long enough to get used to anything.

  Then Rose showed him the bath stall, and he said yes, he’d like to clean up. And that part was bliss. As he peeled off his sweat-soaked clothing, he felt like he was shedding a skin, allowing a new, fresher Micah to emerge. The bath itself was a bit challenging, as the sonic cleaner wasn’t working and water was being rationed, but he managed to scrub enough sweat off his body to feel human again, and—more important—to smell human. No doubt the people in the haven would be grateful for that.

  When he went to retrieve his clothing, however, he discovered someone had taken it. In its place was a worn pair of jeans about his size and a bright pink T-shirt. The latter had cartoon kittens on it, along with the words KAWAII HAI! He stared at it for a moment, then turned it inside out and put it on. Sorry, cats. Not in the mood for cuteness today.

  Rose was waiting for him outside the bath enclosure. “Your clothes are being cleaned,” she told him. She glanced at his bare forearms as she spoke, her gaze lingering briefly on his Sarkassan markings. To Terran eyes they were probably exotic. “You know, I read your article on the emotive power of air pressure, and it was amazing. The thought that something so subtle could influence human behavior . . . it’s hard to fathom.”

  “We were programmed by evolution to respond to a particular planetary environment. Even here, in the outworlds, those instincts persist. A well-designed virt—” He stopped suddenly, and flushed. “I’m sorry, I’m lecturing you.”

  “It’s okay.” She smiled. “You’re just trying to distract yourself. I get it. If you can focus on something that interests you, you don’t have to think about what’s out there.” She nodded toward the blockaded windows. “At least for a while.”

  Suddenly a whooping cry sounded from one of the worktables. It was the man who’d been disassembling the cleaning bots. There were a dozen of them laid out on his table now, each with its own little mound of dust in front of it. “Yes!” he cried. “That’s it!”

  They all gathered around the table to see what was happening. To Micah the dust mounds just looked like . . . well, dust mounds. But everyone else seemed excited about them.

  “What did you find?” Jamal asked.

  The dust man picked something out of one mound with a long pair of tweezers and held it up high, so that everyone could see. “It’s a seed. A fucking seed!”

  “From where?” Serjit asked.

  “Corridors B-54 and 55.” The man grinned. “Right where we thought the mors would show up.” He pointed toward the nearest dust pile with his tweezers. “There are a few bits of soil in there, too, and a fiber that I think may be organic. It’s possible a full scouting party passed through there.”

  Serjit nodded tightly. “We’ve hit them hard lately. They’re likely not keen on traveling alone.” He straightened up and looked around the room, waiting until everyone’s attention was focused on him. “Okay, people. The mors took our bait. You all know what that means. You know how high the stakes are. Let’s give it . . .” he paused to consult his internal clock, “one hour. That should be enough time for everyone to gear up, and still get us to B-54 before they arrive.” His lips tightened.
“Let’s end this thing!”

  Suddenly everyone was moving quickly: fetching weapons, donning armor, throwing orders around in a lingo Micah didn’t recognize. It was clear they had drilled this prep many times, and Micah thought it best just to get out of their way. But as he tried to back into a quiet corner, a hand fell on his shoulder.

  “Let’s talk,” Serjit said.

  Micah nodded.

  “I told you when you arrived you would be expected to do your part. Now’s a good time. We need all the hands we can get.”

  Micah felt a sinking in his stomach. “For what, exactly?”

  “Ambush. We’ve set up a trap for the mors, and it sounds like they’ve taken the bait.” He nodded back toward the table. “They shelter down in Bio, so whenever they come up here they track bits of organic matter with them. It leaves a trail for the cleaning bots to collect. So we know where they’ve been, and can guess where they’ll go next.”

  “You want me to help you . . . kill people?”

  Serjit’s eyes narrowed. “It’s that or be killed. The mors don’t leave us any other option.”

  He tried to picture what it would be like to spill a man’s blood. Real blood. To know that as it flowed it was carrying away a man’s life, not just ruining his chance at a gaming championship. “I’m not a killer,” he muttered.

  “None of us were killers when we got here. Survival’s a harsh motivator.”

  Micah’s lips tightened, but he said nothing. Serjit looked into his eyes for a moment, then nodded. “All right. There are other things you can do. Help the wounded. Recover the fallen. Leave the killing to those of us who’ve had friends and family murdered by these cannibals. I assure you, we won’t have any trouble shedding their blood.” When Micah still didn’t respond Serjit’s expression darkened. “Or you can leave us, and go it alone.” He nodded back toward the door. “No one’s stopping you.”