This Virtual Night

by C. S. Friedman

  “The ship watched you. It monitors all our vital signs as a failsafe, so that if we were ever both incapacitated, it would know to seal the hatches and bring us back to the mothership.”

  “By we, you mean . . .”

  “Ah. Sorry. My partner and I.” A hollow ache attended the words. “It’s probably confused by the fact that there are three of us on board. We don’t usually take on passengers.” She nodded toward the bow. “Decide what silly cartoon you want to wear today and join me up front. We can talk over food. Hardly a gourmet meal, but we’re cruising at a high enough G that I can do better than tubes and nutrient bars.” She glanced back toward the body in the medpod; her eyes narrowed. “This ship wasn’t designed for private conversations; any discussion we don’t want him to hear should take place before he wakes up.”

  “How is he? He was in pretty bad shape.”

  “Medpod says nothing is torn or broken that won’t heal. His pain receptors have been tamped down, so he won’t feel the worst of it for a while. Hopefully before that happens we can negotiate . . .” she hesitated. “Something.”

  She left him to see to his own awakening and headed for the galley outlet. The ship’s stock of edibles was more depleted than expected—she would have to restock before her next mission—but the replicator had enough ingredients to turn out a reasonable simulacrum of a meal. There were real dried fruits as well, from the aeroponic gardens on Tiananmen, and after a moment’s consideration she added them to the spread. It could be their last peaceful meal for a while; they might as well enjoy it.

  When he joined her at the foldaway table he looked over the offerings curiously. “More than I expected.”

  She smiled slightly. “Can’t explore new worlds on an empty stomach.” She pushed a tall mug of steaming brown liquid toward him. “Made you some kaf. You’ve been living among Terrans for five years, so I figured you might have picked up a taste for it.”

  “Don’t need to be Terran to appreciate kaf. Though that’s more for the kick than the taste.” He sat down and lifted the mug a few times, testing the magnetic field that held it in place. “So . . . you’ve been doing some research on me.”

  “Would you expect anything less?”

  “Back home, no. But without the outernet it’s pretty challenging. Color me impressed.” He sipped carefully from the mug. “Not that I can return the favor, since a certain outrider has locked me out of her ship’s innernet.”

  “Says the man I had to shove through an imaginary wall.”

  He winced. “Fair enough.” Another sip. “Have you gotten your new orders?”

  Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Not orders. But yes, my contact responded. He asked me to hunt down the designer of Shenshido’s rogue software.”

  “Which would require what, exactly?”

  “Following the signal we discovered. Into the sector where all the bad people hang out.”

  He grinned. “Sounds like fun.”

  Was he being sarcastic? She didn’t know him well enough to be sure. “It depends on what kind of information Ivar can give us.” She sipped from her cup of replicated fruit juice. “Assuming he’s willing to share what he knows.”

  “He might not know anything. If Shenshido’s software infected him without his being aware of it—like it did with me—he may be as much in the dark about its source as we are.”

  What if that infection is still active? she thought. We’re assuming the distance from Shenshido will protect you, but what if we’re wrong? What if it left something inside your brain that can affect you outside that network? “True,” she murmured. She put her cup back down on the table; it snicked softly against the magnetic surface. “Either way, I have two choices. The first is to head back to Harmony, drop you off, and then continue the investigation alone. The problem with that is, I can’t just set you down on the waystation and leave. My contact needs to evaluate you before you’re released into the general population. He’s decent enough, for a Guildsman, but ultimately I doubt he’ll be the one deciding your fate. And I can’t answer for how others would treat you.”

  “Understood,” he said solemnly. “And the other choice?”

  She leaned back in her chair. “You could help me trace this thing to its source. Between your knowledge of virt technology and your experience with Tridac, you’re a valuable asset.” She paused. “There’s only one problem.”

  He put his mug down. “How do you know you can trust me.”

  She nodded.

  For a moment he was silent. Was he accessing his brainware for data, or just weighing his options in the old-fashioned way, sans digital assistance? “What would you need from me, to make that possible?”

  “You can start with the truth.”

  “I told you that on Shenshido.”

  “All of the truth.”

  He sighed heavily, and for a few seconds just stared into his kaf. “Tridac asked me to review the software for Dragonslayer. They said that if there was something in it that could explain what happened on Harmony, I was the one who could find it. But while I was working on it . . .” he inhaled deeply, “it looked like they were setting me up to take the blame for the attack. So I left. I figured if I could get back to Common Law space I’d at least be guaranteed due process. Only I guess they anticipated that move. I was attacked en route. Driven into Shenshido’s space, where the spiders got me. In hindsight . . . maybe Tridac manipulated me into doing that. Maybe it was their plan all along. Twenty/twenty hindsight, yeah?” He took another drink from his mug. “Is that enough truth for you? Because if there’s an alternative to being delivered to the Guild to have my brain dissected, I’m all for it.”

  She hesitated, then took a small envelope out of her pocket, withdrew a folded printout from it, and handed it to him. It was the part of Jericho’s letter that talked about Tridac’s accusation and Bello’s alleged death. As he read it, his expression darkened. “Sons of bitches.” He slammed the printout down onto the table, then drew in a ragged breath. “It’s not true. Any of it.”

  “I believe you. Here.” She handed him the envelope. “You’ll need this, to stay out of trouble.”

  “What is it?” He peered inside, then turned it upside down, spilling out the contents: printouts, cards, a data chip. He picked up one of the cards. “ID?”

  “If Tridac thinks Micah Bello is dead, then he needs to stay dead. Which means you need to become someone else.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You had this ready for me?”

  Smiling slightly, she nodded.

  “You were so sure I would want to come with you?”

  “I was pretty sure you wouldn’t want to go back to Harmony.”

  “Yeah.” He snorted. “For sure.” He drew the bio out of the pile and looked it over. “Anthony Bester, huh? Degree from Core West University . . . that’s a shitty school. And Isolation Studies is a shitty major.” He skimmed the rest of the page. “No wonder this version of me never made much of himself.”

  “The goal was to design you a history that wouldn’t draw notice. It’s been entered in all the proper databases.”

  He looked up at her. “This is from your contact?”

  She nodded. “I told you. He’s a decent guy. For a Guildsman.”

  “But if I use this name, he’ll know it’s me. He can track me with it.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, “that is the downside.”

  “Shit.” A long silence. “You realize this mission of yours could get us both killed?” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m saying that outside of a game.”

  “The plan is to gather information, not engage the enemy. Others will do that after we deliver our report.”

  “Hopefully.”

  “Hopefully,” she agreed.

  “But the best-laid plans of mice and men, huh?” He put the bio back down on the table. “You u
nderstand, I’m not used to risking my actual physical neck—”

  “But you’ve written stories about it.” She smiled sweetly. “Call this research.”

  He stared at her for a moment, then chuckled. “Damn it, woman. You should have gone into sales.”

  She leaned forward on the table. “Are you going to tell me that the mystery of all this doesn’t intrigue you at all? That the risk doesn’t appeal to you? That you didn’t feel more alive on Shenshido than you ever did in one of your make-believe worlds?”

  A corner of his mouth twitched slightly: the shadow of a smile.

  “Not that I’m ever going to admit to you,” he told her. “So when do we wake up Sleeping Beauty?”

  The hunger for competition is an intrinsic part of human nature. We can no more be rid of it than we can rid ourselves of the desire to eat, to procreate, or to leave our mark upon posterity . . . for in the eyes of Nature, competition is linked to all those things.

  Give this instinct proper outlet, and it can nourish the spirit.

  Attempt to deny it, and it can destroy worlds.

  KOJO SACHI

  The Darkness Within

  HARMONY NODE

  INSHIP: ARTEMIS

  IVAR LOOKED better than he had a day ago, though Micah had to admit that was not a very high bar. Still, the man had gone from almost dead to probably going to live long enough to talk to us, and that was a definite upgrade.

  He and Ru were armed now, with charge pistols from the hidden armory, small enough weapons to be hidden in their pockets. Just in case, Ru said. Micah had never carried a real weapon before, and the weight of the gun was a sobering reminder of just how real the stakes were here. But what the hell. In the last couple of days he’d watched his ship explode, been stranded in deep space without life support, been trapped in a decrepit space station run by crazy people, and wrestled with delusions so real he still had nightmares about them. The thought of facing physical danger wasn’t as alien to him as it had once been. There was even a small part of him—a very small part—that found the concept exciting. When in this strange journey had he ceased to be a mere game designer—orchestrator of wasted time, purveyor of faux fear—and become the kind of person who found the thought of real danger enticing? The change was both exhilarating and unnerving.

  The medpod had cleaned Ivar up, stripping away crusted blood and dirt and sweat to reveal a body crisscrossed with scars. The puckered flesh of badly healed burns distorted some of his tattoos, and gnarled white scars sliced across other tattoos like bolts of lightning. There were medical treatments that could have diminished those scars, Micah knew, but Ivar clearly hadn’t sought them out. Had he lacked the opportunity, or the desire? Status among the scavs was rumored to be fiercely competitive and constantly shifting; might Ivar have believed that it would enhance his social standing to bear the marks of so many violent confrontations? The idea was intriguing, and he logged it in the back of his mind for future reference.

  “There are powerful factions that dominate the black market,” he had told Ru. “If he’s connected to one of them, his actions will reflect back on it. There would be consequences for him breaking his word to us, or refusing to acknowledge a valid debt.”

  “And if not?”

  He shook his head. “Then there’s no guarantee of anything.”

  “I didn’t realize you were an expert on scavs.”

  “I did research for a project once. Mostly gathering legends and rumors for inspiration, but that particular detail was mentioned by several sources, so there’s probably some truth behind it. Don’t know if the factions are family-based, though it seems likely. Families, tribes, clans . . . it’s how humans organize themselves.”

  “Any other detail you think had truth behind it?”

  “Yeah. Status. Big deal. Bring back a good haul, pull off an impressive heist, and you’ll sit high and proud in the scavenger pecking order. That matters to them. Or so say the rumors.” He paused. “Of course, all that’s only relevant if he really is a scav. If you guessed wrong about that—”

  “Then we’re shooting blind.”

  Now . . . there the man was, lying before them, and the images inked on his body would probably tell them everything they needed to know about him, if Micah knew how to read them.

  “You ready?” Ru asked.

  “As much as I’ll ever be.”

  She had brought a thin robe from the supply closet, and she laid it across Ivar’s loins as a token modesty. Then she reached over to the medpod’s control panel and initiated shutdown. The pod buzzed softly for a moment, then the various leads attached to Ivar began to withdraw from his flesh. The mattress that had been cradling his body returned to its base position, flat beneath him. A catheter slithered out from under his loin cover, serpent-like, and was sucked back into its storage slot. Last to go was the injection gun pressed against his neck; there was the sound of a final spurt as a stimulant was shot into his veins to counteract his sedation, and then it, too, withdrew to its storage position.

  When all the leads were out of the way, Ru pulled several restraining straps across Ivar’s body and clipped them into place. In his last waking moments he’d been fighting for his life, she explained to Micah, and there was a real danger that when he came to he would think himself still in that battle, and strike out at whoever was nearest to him. Strapping him down for those first few minutes would keep him from hurting anyone, including himself.

  The last strap locked into place just in time. Ivar’s eyes twitched, and he began to gasp for breath. Suddenly his whole body tensed, muscles all contracting at once. It looked painful. His eyes shot open, and a chaos of emotions roiled in their depths: pain, fury, fear. He began to struggle against his restraints—blindly, wildly, like a trapped animal—and Micah wondered if maybe the blow to his skull had damaged his brain beyond repair. But finally the struggles subsided, and his body relaxed. He drew in a deep breath, then another one, then started coughing. Ru unsnapped the restraint straps and he turned over on his side, fighting to clear his lungs. After the fit passed he looked up at her, then at Micah, then at his surroundings. “This place is too damned clean to be Hell,” he muttered hoarsely, “and I’m sure I’m not cleared for the other place. Where am I?”

  “Still alive,” Ru told him. “On my ship. It was touch and go for a while.”

  He was running his hands over his body, as if not quite believing it was whole. What must it be like, Micah wondered, to believe one was dying, but then wake up later, still among the living? As Ivar tried to sit up Ru offered a hand to assist, but he waved her off. Gritting his teeth, he slowly managed to pull himself upright. He hates to look weak, Micah noted. “Please tell me we’re off Shenshido.”

  “Far away from it,” Ru assured him. “With no one and nothing following us.”

  “Thank the fucking gods.” He looked at Micah. “Who’s this? Your pilot?”

  “Among other duties. Anthony Bester, meet Ivar . . . I’m sorry, is there a last name?”

  “Ivar’s fine.” Did the evasion mean he had no family, or had one and wished to keep it secret? His expression offered no clue. “I thought for sure they’d killed me.” He looked up at Ru. “You saved my life.”

  “So we’re even on that count. Any idea why they didn’t finish you off?”

  He rubbed his forehead, then shut his eyes for a moment and concentrated: probably directing his wellseeker to shoot something useful into his veins. “I heard someone yell about another fight going on, and people were needed. I was down already, so I played dead. Apparently I do that very well.” A half-hearted laugh turned into another fit of coughing.

  “I think I saw the results of that fight. Bloody mess. I doubt anyone survived it.”

  “Well, they wanted their Armageddon battle.” His expression was grim. “I guess that’s what they got.”

  Slowly,
carefully, he lowered himself from the pod. The robe slid from his lap to the floor as he stood upright, but either he didn’t notice or didn’t care. As he shifted his weight onto his left leg, he winced.

  “You fractured your left femur and your right temple,” Ru told him, “and broke three ribs. The bones have been fused, but that’s just a superficial repair. You’ll need a few weeks of natural healing before they’re at full strength again. I can have the replicator make a brace for your leg—”

  “No brace,” he said sharply.

  “Just to protect it from impact—”

  “No brace.” He took a deep breath and leaned down to pick up the robe, which he wrapped around his hips, knotting the sleeves like a belt. For a brief moment his eyes unfocused; was he trying to access the ship’s innernet? If so, he would discover he was locked out, as Micah was. Finally he focused his attention back on Ru. “I said I’d pay you for getting me out of that hellhole. Fair’s fair. What’s your price?”

  Information on the place you came from, Micah thought. But if they asked for that directly, all his defenses would go up. “We can talk about that later,” Ru said. “To be honest, I’ve been so focused on getting away from Shenshido I haven’t had time to think about it.”

  “No problem. Now that we’re away from that miserable shithole, you’ll find me the soul of patience. So . . .” He looked around the ship again. “Can I ask where we’re headed?”

  “Course is set for Harmony Station. I wanted to wake you up before I loaded it.” She seemed about to say more, then hesitated.

  “What?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Is something wrong?”

  “I’ve been informed we’re going to be placed under quarantine when we arrive. No one will be able to leave the ship until Guera clears us to do so. That includes you. I’m sorry.”