And beneath it.
And within it.
And despite it.
KAJA: An Outworlder’s Guide to the Gueran Social Contract, Volume 2: Signs of the Soul
HARMONY NODE
HYDRA COLLECTIVE
IN THE silence between consultations, the Oracle meditated. More and more people were seeking her counsel these days, and quieting her spirit between their visits had become a necessity. Her next appointment was Josef Kors, and her visions would give her the insight she needed to guide him properly. She wondered what his offering would be.
An image began to take shape before her. It was the same couple she had seen before, the Sarkassan and the terramorph woman. This time the image was unusually crisp, as if a vid was playing in front of her. The man was sitting with his back to a rough stone wall, while the woman watched over him. There was fear in the air. Then the man’s eyes opened, and he looked around. Creepy tunnel, he said, check. Light fixture, check. Lack of zombies, check. One very worried companion, check.
You found the map? she asked.
Yes, and also notes from the guy who oversaw excavation of the labyrinth. The official map matched ours, but his notes didn’t. Apparently we missed an access point. Not sure exactly why, but it looks promising, so we need to go back there and check it out. He removed a data chip from his headset and offered it to her. Here’s a copy of what I learned from my connection. There’s data in it that can be used to turn the Hydrans against the Oracle. By the time we’re done, they’ll want her dead as much as we do. No one will stand in our way.
The image faded. Her hands curled around the arms of her throne, her nails pressing into its stone surface so hard that one of them cracked.
They will want her dead as much as we do, the Sarkassan had said.
No one will stand in our way.
A knock sounded. “Come in,” she said.
It was her assistant. He bowed his head reverently and said, “Josef Kors is here, my lady.”
She nodded slowly. “Send him in.”
He bowed his head and left.
I’m ready for you, Josef Kors. And don’t worry about your offering. Fate has dictated what it shall be.
Life is a richly layered experience. Choices are never simple or clear.
If the choices in your game are simple, no one will believe the world you have created is real.
MICAH BELLO
Crafting Nightmares (presented at Virtcon LVIII)
HARMONY NODE
HYDRA COLLECTIVE
THE COMMON room was crowded when Ivar arrived, and many of those present clearly recognized him. In the time he’d spent visiting the Oracle word of his return must have gotten around, because though old scav partners greeted him with smiles (and his rivals with scowls), no one seemed surprised by his presence. A few people nodded to him so casually as he walked through the room, you’d think he had only been gone two days instead of two whole years.
As he skirted the fight cage and headed toward the bar, he remembered his first visit here. A cocky and arrogant newbie with a few good hauls to his credit, he’d been willing to do whatever grunt work was required to start climbing the ladder of notoriety. He still had the same skill set as back then, and a hell of a lot more experience, so in theory he should be able to make that climb a second time. But people here were used to him being at the top of the pecking order, and might assume that he would accept nothing less. He needed a gig to convince them it wasn’t true . . . or perhaps to convince himself.
A pair of whores brightened as he approached, one of them reaching out to touch his face, the other murmuring suggestive enticements. Though whoring was the last thing on his mind right now, such women were a valuable resource, replete with local gossip that could be bought for the right price. More than once these two in particular had provided information that gave him the edge over his rivals, and so he paused long enough to exchange a few pleasant words with them, and expressed his regret at having other business to attend to. A wise man kept his whores happy.
Approaching the bar, he saw there was a section with few people near one end; he took a seat there and waited for Pago to notice him. The bartender was busy mixing drinks for half a dozen other people, and appeared not to see him, but when those jobs were done he came over to where Ivar was sitting and put a glass of Callistan rum down in front of him.
“You remembered,” Ivar said.
“You’re hard man to forget.”
He took a deep drink of the rum. It burned his throat going down and filled his belly with welcome heat.
“Sorry about your ship,” Pago said.
Ivar shrugged. “Shit happens.”
“You have plans?”
“I figure I’ll look for gigs. Restore the bankroll. Then worry about the rest.”
“I’m sure for a man with your skills that won’t be a problem.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know of anyone looking to hire, would you?”
Pago snorted. “I’m a bartender, not a career counselor.”
Ivar took a medallion from his pocket and laid it on the counter. It was real metal, finely worked, with the image of a Terran animal rising up on its hind legs. Pago had a taste for unusual artifacts, and he gazed at it for a long moment before asking, “Does it have a story?”
“Rumor says it’s from an independent station in Salvation Node. Don’t know which one, sorry.”
Pago studied it for a few seconds more, then tucked it into his apron pocket. “You know Josef Kors?”
“I’ve met him.”
“Rumor has it he’s gathering a team for some bloodwork. Not your usual gig, but I’m guessing that you’re feeling pretty flexible right now.”
“You guessed correctly.”
“He’s over there.” A lower arm gestured toward one of the gaming tables. “Leaving soon, unless I miss my guess.”
“Thanks,” Ivar said, but Pago was already moving on to another customer. Ivar drained the last of his rum, put the glass down, and dug out a cash chit to tuck beneath it. Then he headed across the room to where Kors was sitting, with a pair of bruiser types he didn’t recognize. Newbies, most likely. They had that look about them: energy and arrogance without experience to temper it. I probably looked like that once, he mused. Strong and stupid.
Kors saw him approaching and stopped whatever conversation he was having. He pulled out a chair as Ivar reached the table and pushed it toward him. “Ivar! Heard you were alive. Congratulations.”
He straddled the chair. “I heard you were hiring.”
Kors chuckled. “Straight to the point, as always.”
“Anything else is a waste of both our time.” He looked over the newbies, taking stock of their potential. One was a Caliban, short in stature but impressive in musculature. He’d torn the sleeves of his jacket off, no doubt because his barrel-like biceps didn’t fit in them. His companion was Algonki, whose eerily long arms were folded across his chest as Ivar approached. Together, they looked more than capable of taking someone down, particularly if they coordinated their actions. Of course, that was the very kind of thing newbies were bad at.
Meanwhile Kors was studying him, no doubt weighing the pros and cons of hiring a legend to do less-than-legendary work. “The Oracle wants someone dead,” he said at last. “I pay you to help make that happen, and she adds you to her list of favorite people. Win-win.”
“Second part’s of no concern to me. What’s the offer?”
“Five hundred if we succeed. Medical costs covered regardless.”
He nodded toward the bruisers. “Is that what you’re paying them?”
“It is.”
Ivar was worth much more than the newbies, and they both knew it. But demanding more than an equal share would earn him their enmity before they even left the bar. He remembered what the Oracle h
ad said about his being betrayed. No, he didn’t believe all her bullshit, but why tempt fate? “Good enough. Who’s the mark?”
“Young Sarkassan male, terramorph female. Lightly armed at best, no charge weapons or kinetics.”
What the fuck? That had to be Micah and Ru. It took him a moment to find his voice. “Do you have names?”
“No, but we know where they are, and we’ll be kept informed of their movements.”
“The hit will be on Hydra?”
“It will.”
“And the Oracle sees no problem with killing someone on the station?”
“They’re outsiders, so they’re fair game.” He shook his head. “Don’t know what the fuck they did to piss the Oracle off, but apparently it was major. She said to make sure neither of them leaves this station alive.” He waited. “So? You want in?”
Did he? If he agreed, he’d be helping to kill the people who had saved his ass on Shenshido. That was a level of ingratitude even he found hard to stomach. Not to mention, those two were trying to figure out what had happened there. Since that might involve a weapon designed to attack the scavs, Ivar had a vested interest in their success. Killing them now meant losing all their data.
Maybe that’s the point, he realized suddenly. What if the Oracle wanted Micah and Ru dead because they were getting close to discovering the truth? If so, that meant the Oracle was indeed involved, just as those two had suspected. His head spun with the implications of that.
“Ivar?”
“Sorry. Thinking.”
If he didn’t join the team, Kors and his bruisers would just go on their hunt without him, and Ivar would have no clue what they were doing. He didn’t have Micah and Ru’s innernet IDs, so he couldn’t net a message to them, and without Kors he would have had no way to know where they were. If he decided he wanted to help them, tough shit. He wouldn’t even be able to find them.
You don’t want to get involved in this, an inner voice warned. If Kors ever found out that he’d crossed him, there’d be hell to pay. But if Ivar didn’t sign on now, he’d lose the option to do so.
“I’ll go,” he said.
“Good!” Kors slapped him on the back. “Glad to have you on the team.” His eyes flicked upward briefly as he consulted some internal reading. “Time’s short. We need to get moving. I’ve got to pick up some arms and one more person, then we’ll meet in Nassau Bay and launch from there. Figure an hour.”
You’re going after Ru and her partner with only five people? Good luck with that. “You said you know where to find them?”
“Oracle says they’ll travel south through the market, toward the Saito flyway. Can’t ambush them in the marketplace; way too crowded. We’ll wait for them at the first turnoff after.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “Hopefully there won’t be too many people around. Last thing we need is for this to turn into a public brawl.”
I could warn them, Ivar thought as he watched Kors and his bruisers leave the common room. An hour would be long enough to get there, find them, and return to Nassau Bay in time to rejoin the team. No one would ever know.
One hoped.
He had always been a survivor at heart, prioritizing his personal welfare above all other interests. But this time it was different. If Hydra became like Shenshido, all other considerations would be moot. The Hydrans would all start killing each other, and it would no longer matter who had betrayed or helped whom, as rational thought was drowned out by bloodlust. And he would be stuck in the middle, surrounded by insanity again, with no way to escape. Was that the kind of survival he wanted?
Slowly he rose from his chair, still not certain what he was going to do but knowing that if he didn’t move soon he would lose the chance to decide.
* * *
The market strip was on the surface, a long tunnel crafted from salvaged wreckage. Shops and stands had sprouted like weeds in every available niche, and the floor was packed with so many makeshift booths full of clothing and weapons and food and drugs that there was almost no room for a man to walk between them. And overhead trade goods clustered so thickly that they blocked out any view of the tunnel itself. Visitors had to wend their way along a narrow, twisting path, as if through a forest.
As Ivar worked his way along the strip, ignoring the enticements of vendors on both sides of him, he kept checking the time. It had taken him longer to get here than expected, which left him very little time to do what he came for. Yet he dared not rush too much, lest someone take note of his haste. The only way he could interfere with Kors’ plans and survive the aftermath was to be so indistinguishable from the rest of the crowd that no one remembered his having been there.
It’s not Kors you’re interfering with. It’s the Oracle. Don’t forget that.
Several times he almost turned back. But amidst the cacophony of vendors hawking their goods and customers haggling over prices he could hear the echo of screams from Shenshido, the cries of men so lost in illusion that only a bloody death could silence them. Whatever had ruined that station could likewise turn this marketplace into a killing ground. That was what Micah and Ru were trying to prevent, wasn’t it? If they failed, who else would take over the task? He certainly couldn’t.
As he neared the north end of the strip, his pace quickened. The crowds were thinning out at last, and soon he would come to the place where the main passage split, smaller tunnels breaking off to head toward various sections of the core. What was he supposed to do when he reached it? Hang out there and wait till they showed up? He’d be damned conspicuous. But how was he supposed to know which tunnel they were traveling? If he headed down the wrong one he could miss them entirely.
Kors probably knew. But that did him no good at all.
A sudden touch on his arm startled him. He reached reflexively toward his charge pistol as he turned to see who had dared to put a hand on him—but it was only a woman, smiling broadly as he looked at her. He didn’t recognize her, but that didn’t mean much. After two years of absence, one expected to forget some people. “Ivar! They said you were back, but I couldn’t believe it. Let me look at you for a moment . . .” She put her hands to the side of his face, but he pulled away. This wasn’t the time or the place for such gestures. A fingernail scratched his cheek as she let go.
“I have business to attend to,” he said. He was trying not to sound any more rude than he had to, but he needed to make it clear he wasn’t in the mood for conversation. Damn it all, who was she? Had he slept with her?
“It’s been so long!” She pouted. “I’ve missed you. Can’t you even spare a minute for an old friend?”
“I’m sorry. I’m busy right now. Maybe later.”
She sighed, clearly disappointed, but made no further attempt to stop him.
He started to turn northward again, but suddenly a wave of dizziness came over him. He reached out to the nearest table to steady himself, but misjudged its position and nearly went down. What the fuck . . . ? The woman was watching him now. Not smiling, just watching. Behind her were other people who were also not smiling: vendors, customers, an arm-in-arm couple that he had taken for tourists. All watching him now. Sweat broke out on his forehead as he backed up, step by careful step. His face burned where she’d scratched him, and he realized what she’d done. Fuck you, bitch! His surroundings were starting to spin. He tried to draw his gun, but his fingers were too numb, and he failed to pull it loose from its holder. Two men were moving toward him now, and he knew he couldn’t fight them, so he tried to turn and run, but his legs were losing strength, and his feet wouldn’t obey him. The men grabbed his arms and began to drag him north, away from the market. It was the direction he’d wanted to go in, but not like this.
He struggled against them as best he could, but whatever drug the bitch had injected into his veins made resistance impossible, and soon they were dragging him down a side tunnel, into a dark and deserted
place where no one would interfere with their plans. Terror gripped him, but even that couldn’t give him the strength to pull loose from them. Then someone drove a fist into his gut, driving the breath from his body. Someone else hit him across the face with a blunt object, and he heard bone crack. Someone struck him with a charge weapon, sending that side of his body into agonizing convulsions. Then he was on the floor, still convulsing, and they were beating him, brutal blows designed to cripple rather than to kill—even in his drugged state he knew the difference—and someone must have hit his wounded leg then, because he heard the newly fused bone crack. He was stabbed in the side, in the leg, in the arm. A bloody knife flashed before his eyes. The Oracle had talked about a bloody knife. Allies would betray him, she’d warned. Those he was closest to would seek his blood.
Spike.
Then the pain was gone. His thoughts were gone. There was a last titanic wave of fury that almost gave him strength—almost—and then that too was gone, swallowed by the black oblivion of bitter failure.
Who is more courageous—the man who knows no fear, or the man who, overcome by terror, does what he fears most?
AARON LEICESTER
Choices
HARMONY NODE
HYDRA COLLECTIVE
THE EXIT was exactly where the builder’s notes said it would be. Micah watched as Ru inspected the opening, poking and prodding at various cracks and protrusions, seeking an explanation for why they hadn’t seen it before. But there was no secret mechanism to be found, no sign of a pocket that a door might have slid into, nothing but a crudely excavated tunnel, the same kind they’d been trapped in for hours. Yet it hadn’t been there before. Micah was sure of it.
“You sure this leads out?” she asked.
“I’m sure it leads to the edge of the builder’s map. Anything past that point probably isn’t part of the labyrinth. Granted, I’m speculating.”
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