This Virtual Night

by C. S. Friedman

  It is when we are being most selfish that we appear most selfless.

  ATHENA ROSS

  Behind the Mask

  HARMONY NODE

  HYDRA COLLECTIVE

  IVAR FOUND his few remaining crew members in one of the core’s smaller gambling dens. No surprise there. There weren’t that many forms of entertainment on Hydra, at least not that the average scav could afford. Food, drink, drugs, whores, gambling. The patroni with their grand motherships no doubt had a richer selection, but the core of the station was where common folk gathered, rough-hewn men and women whose profits might buy them a week’s worth of indulgence if their last haul was good. It was a necessary pressure valve after the stress of a dangerous run. So were the fights that broke out periodically. When you had a station full of people for whom violence was second nature, and who lived outside the law, peace rarely lasted for long.

  This den was small and dimly lit, and it smelled of sweat, alcohol, and a variety of drug vapors. Others might find the mixture oppressive, but to Ivar they were the smells of home, and he breathed in deeply, to counter Shenshido’s stink. But he had been on that station too long, and memories were too deeply embedded in his psyche; they would not be banished so easily. Especially not after Ru had told him he’d spent two years seeing things that weren’t there. That kind of revelation did not sit easy on the spirit.

  He was wearing a hooded jacket he’d found in Ru’s wardrobe—her parting gift to him—and had pulled the hood forward over his head, enough to shadow his face. Thus far no one had recognized him. Now, looking around the room, he pushed it back. Most of the people there were too fixated on their games to notice, but one head turned in his direction—a Sinji woman in an aggressively spiked headset—and the look of shock on her face was priceless. “Ivar!!?” Others were turning in his direction now, their expressions ranging from joy to confusion to disbelief. Cards were laid down—in one case dropped on the floor—and dice went unclaimed as all eyes in the room turned to him. The attention bathed his spirit in energy.

  “Holy shit!” someone exclaimed. “Is that really you?”

  “It’s a fucking ghost,” someone else said. “Ivar’s dead.”

  “Obviously not, asshole.”

  “Fuck me, Ivar! Where the hell have you been?”

  Then there were some people who didn’t look as happy to see him, rivals he’d screwed in the past, as well as people who’d tried to screw him and suffered the consequences. How easy it would be to slip back into the old social patterns with them, as if nothing had changed. But he was skating on his reputation, and that would last only until his old enemies realized he had no ship, no crew, and no patronage. The things that had once made him a force to be reckoned with were mere memories now; he would have to climb up from the bottom of the ladder again, like a newbie.

  No. Not like a newbie. He had a world full of enemies and rivals who would cut him down to size the minute he looked weak. Newbies had nothing.

  “Over here!” a familiar voice cried. The cry came from a kaltrop table with half a dozen people seated around it, three of whom were from his old crew. But only three. He felt a brief pang of guilt, that so many of his people had died in the Shenshido raid while he had survived. It was an unfamiliar and uncomfortable emotion.

  The lanky Algonkian woman who had called to him rose from her seat as he approached the table. Raven was dressed in black—as always—with a headset shaped like her namesake. Long black wings with stylized feathers swept down around the sides of her head, shimmering with iridescent hints of green and copper as she moved. She was one of the best distractors he’d ever worked with, adept at buying other scavs the time they needed to sweep in and claim a disabled ship before official recovery teams could reach it. He was glad to learn she was among the survivors. “Alive? For real?” She reached out and pinched both his cheeks, hard, then turned back to her companions. “Not a ghost!” she announced. As if somehow that was her personal accomplishment.

  Second in the trio of survivors was Ghant. The Iothan seemed glad to see Ivar as well, if guardedly so, and got up to embrace him. The third survivor from Ivar’s former crew was Spike, named for the rod that had once impaled his face, going in through his left eye and coming out through the back of his skull. Modern medicine and the luck of the devil had saved the most important parts of his brain, but the empty hole where his eye used to be, covered over in twisted scar tissue, was a paragon of ugliness. Of course he could have had it fixed, or covered it up. But he didn’t. Battle scars were status symbols on Hydra: the more gruesome the better.

  Spike didn’t stand, just nodded his head in wary acknowledgment. There was no hint in his expression of what thoughts were churning in his head, but Ivar could guess. “We heard you were dead,” he said quietly. “Glad to hear otherwise.”

  “The thought of getting back to all your ugly faces kept me going,” Ivar assured him. Ghant placed a chair in front of him. Spike’s expression was unreadable, but his hands on the table tensed slightly as he watched Ivar’s old crew fawn over him. I valued this man for his ruthlessness, Ivar reminded himself. “You’ve got some new blood, I see.”

  Spike’s good eye narrowed slightly. “This is Teek.” A slender Frisian nodded. “Gerta.” That was a stocky Salver, probably female; it was sometimes hard to figure out gender with Salvers. “Maruth.” This one was small-framed and bald; a Belial twin? It was rare to see one of those traveling alone. One or more of his siblings were probably somewhere else on Hydra.

  Ivar nodded to them all, then looked back at Spike. “I hear you’re alpha now.”

  “So it seems.” There was an echo of challenge in the man’s voice. One of his hands had dropped under the table, presumably to a weapon. Ivar’s own hand twitched toward his knife, ready to respond if necessary. Gunfire was forbidden inside the core, to protect its structure, so any fight that took place tended to be intimate and bloody.

  Then the moment passed. “Join us,” Spike said gruffly. He brought his hand back up and gestured toward the chair. Ivar turned it around and sat on it backward, straddling the seat, claiming the space around him. Other people had apparently been watching their little drama, and as the tension at the table was reduced to a low simmer they came over to greet him. Palms slapped him on the back, hands squeezed his shoulder, one woman mussed his hair. The unsolicited intimacy made his hackles rise, but that was the price of being a legend, so he tolerated it. Someone put a glass down in front of him and poured him a drink. He nodded his appreciation and pretended to drink, but only took in a few drops. He couldn’t afford to have his mind dulled by alcohol in such a potentially volatile setting.

  Then, predictably, someone demanded he tell his story. Others followed, clamoring in support. Little surprise. He’d come back from the dead, and they wanted to know how. So he told them. They listened enraptured as he mixed truth and fantasy to craft an adventure that was worthy of his reputation. He described his daring escape from his doomed ship and his capture by the enemy—those parts were true enough—and then their attempts to break his spirit. The prison break he’d unwittingly benefited from turned into an event he’d masterminded, and the surreal war between delusional factions became an armed insurrection by the escaped prisoners, under his leadership of course. He’d almost taken control of the station, he told the Hydrans, but it was so badly damaged that in the end he’d decided that it wasn’t worth what that battle would cost him.

  And now here he was: a legendary scav, risen from the dead, an outlaw who’d proven himself superior to those who hunted him. His story would reach all corners of Hydra before an E-day had passed, no doubt embroidered a little each time it was relayed. His enemies would add less than flattering details, no doubt, but even those would cast him as a figure worthy of fear. His status as a legend was safe, for now.

  Spike watched him throughout his recitation, his one sharp eye missing nothing. His sc
rutiny was like clammy fingers on the back of Ivar’s neck, and he had to fight the urge to physically shake it off. No doubt Spike had noticed how little Ivar was drinking, despite his show of celebratory indulgence. He’d have done the same thing in Ivar’s situation. One didn’t walk a tightrope over a pit of vipers with one’s senses impaired.

  Finally the crowd began to thin out, gamblers returning to their previous stations. Ivar heard one man complain loudly that his chips had been moved in his absence. There was the sound of a fist striking flesh, but it was followed only by cursing, with no further violence. A quiet day. Perhaps the wonder of Ivar’s return had mellowed everyone.

  Spike glanced briefly in the direction of the complaint. “We can’t talk here,” he said quietly.

  “Where then?” There was a code of conduct on Hydra that forbade its citizenry from killing one another, but any hostile act short of that was fair game. And even murder was legit, provided one didn’t get caught. Spike’s life would be infinitely simpler if Ivar should disappear, and both of them knew it.

  “Tunnel’s good. Anywhere away from this crowd.” Within the network of tunnels that connected the core’s facilities the chatter of passers-by would mask their conversation enough for a pretense of privacy, but there would be enough witnesses around that Spike wouldn’t be able to act against Ivar in secret. Good enough for now; Ivar nodded.

  Spike pushed his chair back from the table, while Ivar unstraddled his own. Ghant shot him a worried look: Should I be concerned? Ivar wasn’t sure of the answer, but he shook his head. No.

  “Hey.” Raven nudged his arm. “Before you go.” She pulled up her sleeve, revealing an arm covered with colorful tattoos, typical Hydran style. Most commemorated raids they’d shared, or lost comrades they had mourned together. Ivar had seen most of the designs before and for a moment didn’t understand what she was trying to show him. Then he saw the dragon on the side of her forearm. It was a small figure—it had to be, given how little free space was left on her skin—but there was no mistaking the design. It was the same as the dragon that adorned his chest. His totem. “I added this in memory of you.” She glanced at Spike. That’s who her words were meant for, Ivar realized. Not him. We still respect our old leader, she was saying. He’s one of us. Don’t fuck with him.

  “Thanks,” he told her.

  As he and Spike left the den he pulled his hood low over his face again, not only masking his identity from passers-by, but limiting how much of his expression the new alpha could see. They walked together in silence for a bit, keeping to one side of the narrow tunnel, while an assortment of travelers passed by along the other. One pair of drunken lovers jostled Spike as they passed, and apologized profusely. A whore raised an eyebrow as she approached, but Spike shook his head sharply and she continued on. Most of the others were wrapped up in business of their own and took enough notice of them to avoid collision, then ignored them once again.

  “If I asked you what your plans were,” Spike said at last, “would you give me a straight answer?”

  “Sure. Same as you would for me.”

  A corner of Spike’s mouth twitched. “Understood.”

  “I’m not here to unseat you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I’m not worried.” In fact he was tense enough that you could string a bow with him, but it was only to be expected. Any alpha in this situation would be worried.

  A man with two scantily dressed terramorphs on his arms—one male, one female—passed by without a glance. Ivar waited until they were out of hearing range. “If the day comes when I want your job, I’ll challenge you for it, clean and honest.”

  “Good to know.” Spike’s tone made it clear he wasn’t going to count on it, but they were both saying what needed to be said, to maintain peace between them. He took a small pack of stim sticks out of his jacket and offered Ivar one. “So what are your plans now, if not armed conflict with your former comrades?”

  “Same as before.” Ivar drew one of the drugged sticks out of the pack, bent it briefly to release its chemical contents, and placed it between his teeth. “I’ll freelance till something better comes along.”

  Spike took a stick for himself and put the pack away. “Hard to do without a ship.”

  Ivar shrugged. “Obviously I’ll need a berth on someone else’s for a while.”

  “Or a patronus.”

  Ivar scowled.

  “It’s the simplest solution. Any patronus would kill to have you in his service.”

  Yes, but kill who? He remembered Dominic’s chilling advice. “That’s not my style, and you know it.” He sucked in a bit of air through the stimmer, pretending to draw in far more. A tiny bit of narcotic seeped into his lungs. “What about you?” He tried to make the question sound casual. “Sold your soul to anyone yet?”

  Spike laughed. “They can’t afford me.”

  “I hear it’s getting harder to turn them down.”

  Spike nodded. “The patroni are at each other’s throats, and we’re caught in the crossfire. You can hide behind a clan and maybe it’ll protect you . . . or maybe not. We’re just pawns to them. Pawns get sacrificed; that’s their job.” He chewed on his stick for a moment, letting its drugged content seep into the membranes of his mouth. But he didn’t draw in hard on the stimmer; like Ivar, he wanted to keep his wits about him. “Better to die free and foolish, I suppose.”

  The easiest solution for Ivar would be to sign onto Spike’s crew, and they both knew it. Ivar would promise to accept his rival’s authority for a mission or two, while he got his feet back in the ring, and there was no question he’d be useful. But Spike could never trust him like that. And Ivar would never expect him to.

  Ivar smiled slightly. “I guess I’ll have to look for another crew foolish enough to have me.”

  “I can ask around.” Spike drew a bit more air through the stimmer and pretended to savor its effect in silence, though he probably hadn’t taken in enough for more than a second’s buzz. “People claimed your stuff a long time ago. There’s probably not much left.”

  Yeah, and you probably got most of it. “I had stuff hidden away for emergencies. I’m good.”

  Spike lowered the stimmer. “You realize everyone thought you were dead. Gone forever. They wouldn’t have claimed your property otherwise.”

  Ivar shrugged. “Business as usual. I get it.”

  “Anything you need?”

  There was, but he wasn’t certain he should ask Spike for it. Then again, if not him, who? “I could use some information.”

  Spike raised an eyebrow. “Regarding?”

  There’s a secret weapon Shenshido was working on, that drives people insane. Has it reached Hydra? Is anyone here infected? Will all the petty rivalries be swept away by a nightmare like Shenshido’s? Ivar knew he had to choose his words very carefully. If anyone on Hydra had reason to suspect that the madness was infectious, and that he might be carrying it, he wouldn’t make it off this station alive. “There was a drug on Shenshido,” he said. “Something new, maybe experimental. It had some nasty side effects.” He paused. “I heard it might be headed in this direction.”

  Spike’s eyes narrowed. “Does this new drug have a name?

  “Not a street name. Too new. Hasn’t hit the trade yet.” Was that a spark of interest in Spike’s good eye? Was he secretly connected to one of the Cassinin drug lords? Or just imagining what they would pay for such a prize. “It causes the user to lose touch with reality. He starts seeing things that aren’t there: subtle delusions at first, then more and more nightmarish images. In later stages he becomes violent, striking out at people who don’t exist, mistaking friends for enemies. He becomes dangerous to everyone around him. There’s no counteragent that I know of.” He paused. “If that shit’s made it to Hydra, we need to know.”

  “I haven’t heard of anything like that.”

>   “No talk about anyone suddenly acting crazy? Even rumors?”

  “Nothing new. There’s the Oracle, of course, and her visions. But she’s been around for years, and anyway, this doesn’t sound like her style.” He paused. “You should go see her.”

  Ivar rolled his eyes.

  “I’m serious.”

  “Because I need a psychic to guide me?”

  “No. Because the patroni see her. They swear by her visions now. Which means she has influence over them. Which means she has influence over all business on Hydra. That’s worthy of respect, even if you think her visions aren’t.”

  “Do you see her?”

  He shrugged. “I sometimes make an offering before I go out on raids. I listen to her advice. If I think it has merit, I follow it. If not, I don’t.” Another short drag on the stimmer. “She hears and sees everything, Ivar. If you want to find out if someone on Hydra has been acting strangely, she’s the one who would know. Now, whether she’d be willing to share that information with you is another thing.”

  A sudden cry from the direction of the gambling den echoed down the narrow tunnel, followed by a loud crash. “Hell. I need to go check on that. Make sure it isn’t one of mine.”

  “Totally understand.” Ivar nodded toward the den. “Go.”

  Spike put a hand on Ivar’s shoulder. “If you need anything more, you let me know.”

  How about I write you up a list of my weaknesses, and you can read it at your leisure? “Thanks, man. Appreciate the support.”

  And with that the new alpha headed back the way they’d come. Back to the crew that was no longer Ivar’s. Back to the world that no longer felt like Ivar’s. It was almost as if Ivar-before-Shenshido and Ivar-after-Shenshido were two different people. But he had to keep them connected if he was to reestablish himself. Powerful men didn’t get the luxury of a fresh start.