Spike was being too nice, too helpful. It all sounded natural enough—they’d been crewmates, after all—but they weren’t crewmates now, and parting with information without demanding something in return wasn’t Spike’s usual style.
I’m a danger to him, and he knows it. For as long as I’m on this station, he has to worry about me trying to take over. And no matter what I promise, no matter what deal we make, he knows that confrontation won’t be open and honest. It’s not our way. Neither was tolerating such a threat. Spike was trying to put Ivar off his guard, so that when it was time to take his old boss down he wouldn’t see it coming. His amiable manner was as clear an indication of hostile intent as if he’d shouted threats across the gambling den.
With a sigh, Ivar wiped the moisture off his stimmer and tucked the remaining portion into his pocket. There might indeed be enemies lurking in every shadow, but fixating on them right now could drive a man insane. And he’d seen enough insanity in the last two years to last him a lifetime.
Maybe the psychic bitch would know something about that.
* * *
This is crazy, Ivar thought.
He almost turned around and left. That would be the sensible thing to do. Not sitting here waiting for some mystical seer to hand him answers. One might as well look to patterns of the stars for guidance.
Still, as Spike had said, there was no denying her influence here. And now that he was here, in her antechamber, he had to admit he was curious. A lot of people on Hydra wouldn’t think of going out on a raid without first laying offerings at her feet and begging for precious drops of her wisdom. He knew one pirate who’d canceled an excursion on her word alone and later found out that what he’d thought was an opportunity was in fact a trap. If he’d gone, he would be rotting in a Guild prison today.
So Ivar would listen to what she had to say, and if it turned out to be bullshit, then he could just laugh and leave. (Or, rather, leave first and laugh later, because there was no reason to be rude.)
“She’s ready for you,” the attendant announced.
Were the Oracle’s visions connected to the madness on Shenshido? For two years he’d lived surrounded by crazies—though he hadn’t understood the nature of their madness at the time—and he wondered if he would sense something in the Oracle’s presence that would suggest the same insanity. If Ru was right, and he was infected with it himself, would like call to like, so he would recognize others who shared his affliction? Maybe that was the question that had really brought him here. Maybe all the rest was just an excuse.
The attendant startled him by speaking. “Nothing you see in the Oracle’s chamber may be spoken of outside it.” He was a Novan with ink-black skin, and his red eyes gleamed like rubies on velvet. “Do you agree?”
Like all spaces within the core, the Oracle’s inner chamber had been carved out of native rock, but these walls had not been smoothed and polished. Natural cavities pockmarked every surface, and flickering light from faux candles sent shadows dancing along the edges of each, like demons cavorting at an entrance to Hell. Someone with a taste for mystical experiences might say the chamber felt haunted, though no ghosts were visible.
The oracle sat in the center of the dome-shaped chamber, on a throne carved from the same substance as the pitted walls, atop a daïs made of the same. Her eyes peered out from a silver filigree mask as she watched Ivar approach, her face a cypher behind it. She was much smaller than he’d expected, and despite the voluminous robe that obscured most of her body, enough was visible for Ivar to note the lack of feminine curves. That by itself meant little—there were Variations in which human sexuality was expressed differently than the Terran norm—but combined with her size, it seemed significant. Her hands were resting on the arms of her throne, her wrists so slender that it was hard to believe they belonged to an adult woman—
And then he realized what he was looking at.
The Oracle was a child.
A child.
He knew he shouldn’t stare, but it was impossible not to. The mask and shapeless clothing made it hard to judge her age, but he would guess her to be no more than twelve. How young had she been when she first began to counsel pirates and smugglers and scavengers, doing it so well that they laid untold wealth at her feet, begging for jeweled droplets of her wisdom? She’d been on Hydra for longer than twelve years, so unless she belonged to some Variation with an extended childhood, this wasn’t the original Oracle. Was that what the mask was for, to disguise a substitution? He’d never heard anyone talk about the Oracle’s role as something that could be transferred, but it seemed the most likely explanation.
It was not what he’d expected. At all.
“Your offering,” the attendant prompted.
Startled, he looked down, to see a bowl of beaten silver at her feet. It was large enough to hold several hundred coins, or a small animal with its throat cut.
A child.
Numbly he reached into his pocket to take out the offering he’d brought: a golden locket with a large Frisian ruby in its center, part of the secret stash he’d hidden away long ago. He held it up to the light so she could see the stone’s inner fire, and flickering blood-colored reflections spasmed across the walls. Then he stepped forward and laid it in the silver bowl. When metal touched metal the bowl vibrated softly, and a low-pitched chiming filled the chamber.
She waited until the sound had faded completely, then nodded. The mask made her face unreadable. “It is acceptable,” she said. A child’s voice.
Ivar heard the attendant leave the chamber, the heavy door shutting behind him, but he did not turn back to look at him. The child had him mesmerized. Was this the mystic who Spike consulted before every raid? She must have done something damned impressive to earn that kind of respect.
She rose from her seat, the daïs lending her sufficient height that she could gaze down upon him. “Scavenger. Legend. Refugee.” Her child’s voice was sing-song, mesmerizing. “Ruthless and bloodthirsty but loyal to his own. Once wealthy, now stripped of wealth. Once well connected, now seeking support. Once alive, then nearly dead, now alive again. What need brings you here? What insight do you seek?”
Her voice might be cast in the tenor of a child’s, but the mind behind it was clearly more than that. What the hell was she? “I’ve come for counsel.”
She waited.
How much did he want to tell this seer-child? He’d known enough scam artists in his time to understand the concept of cold reading. A charlatan could derive enough information from passing references to fake supernatural insight. If he gave her what she needed to do that, there was no point in his being here. “My return—” he began.
She raised a hand to stop him. “The familiar beckons to you, but it is not what it once was. All you once trusted has vanished or changed, consumed by time; only the illusion of trust remains. Those who were once as brothers to you now turn elsewhere for support. You are an outsider to them. Lost. You passed through a door once, but aren’t sure you can find it again.” The eyes in the mask reflected the flickering light in a thousand points of fire. “Have I named your fear, scavenger? Is that why you’ve come to me?”
His throat was suddenly dry. “I’m not sure who I can trust.” By the seven hells, was he really seeking advice from a child?
“You’ve never come to me before.”
He hadn’t expected to have to justify himself. “I’m not big on seeking advice from anyone.”
“You don’t believe I have the power to see your fate.”
By the seven hells, was she going to refuse his request? That possibility hadn’t even occurred to him. “I’m skeptical, yes. I won’t deny that. But people that I respect have praised your insight, and many rely on your counsel. I figured I’d give it a shot.” Would that be enough for her? Or did she only help those who acknowledged her divine nature? If what she wanted from him was ado
ration, she was going to be sorely disappointed.
The steady gaze from behind the mask pierced his soul—dissected it—judged it. “Very well.” Her eyes shifted focus, and he sensed she was no longer looking at him, or at this room, but at . . . something else. In any other setting he would have guessed she was accessing her brainware, maybe connecting to Hydra’s innernet, but this woman—this girl—was supposed to be a visionary. So what was she seeing now, that was invisible to him?
“There is a knife,” she murmured. “Its blade drips with blood. Your blood. I can’t see the hand that’s holding it, but the owner is close to you. Very close.” She paused for a moment; her eyes twitched from side to side. “Your allies are more dangerous than your enemies, right now. Death wears a brother’s mask. If you came here to ask if you should trust someone, that’s your answer. If you want to know if you can let your guard down . . . don’t.”
“I never let my guard down,” he said sharply.
She concentrated for a moment longer, then shook her head. “That’s all I can see of your fate right now; the blood obscures too much. You must remove this threat from your destiny before I can tell you more. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” You’re offering just enough to whet my appetite, but not enough to satisfy. I understand you very well.
She backed up to her throne and sat down again. Ivar heard the door open behind him. “You may leave,” she said.
Should he feel any different than he did before, as he left her presence? More enlightened? Fearful, perhaps? No. She’d confirmed his existing fears, nothing more. No supernatural ability was needed for that kind of insight, just good observation and an innate gift for manipulating people. Neither of which had the power to transform him.
He thought back to Shenshido and the delusions that had reigned there. They had been subtle transpositions, all but undetectable. Wherever this girl came from, whatever the source of her inner vision was, she knew that her visions weren’t part of physical reality. That didn’t feel like Shenshido.
Which was really what he’d come to learn. So at least he had accomplished that much.
Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.
ARTHUR C. CLARKE
Profiles of the Future
HARMONY NODE
HYDRA COLLECTIVE
IN THE chamber of the Oracle
In the heart of the seven-headed space station
A child waited.
The silence surrounding her was eerily perfect. The normal hums and murmurs of life support, background music of the outworlds, were muffled by the dense rock surrounding her, to the point where no human ear could detect them. The only sounds she could hear were the rhythms of her own body: the beating of her heart, the fluttering of her breath, the pulsing of blood in her veins. She focused on those things, shutting out all other sensory input. Slowly, the chamber faded from her awareness, followed by the station—the outworlds—the entire physical universe. Nothing existed now but her own awareness, floating in the lightless space between realities.
“Show me,” she whispered.
An image began to take shape before her. It was blurry at first, but then grew gradually clearer. She saw a man and a woman arguing. She recognized the man as Joseph Kors, who had an appointment to see her later that day. The woman was his partner. Their words were too muffled for her to make them out clearly, but that didn’t matter; the hostile nature of the exchange was clear. Finally he waved her off in disgust and stormed from the room.
The Oracle watched as the woman placed a call. The image on her vid screen was too blurry for the Oracle to see who she was talking to, but she could guess what his role was.
The vision changed. A man had arrived, someone the Oracle didn’t recognize. He consoled the woman, caressed her, then had sex with her. The Oracle watched all this dispassionately, unstirred by the images. In this state she was an observer, nothing more. Only thus could she grasp the greater significance of such events. Later in the day, when Joseph Kors came to her for insight into his failing partnership, she would give him the clues he needed to discover the truth. The strands of fate would thus be rewoven, new futures would be made possible, and perhaps in the end someone would die. Men such as Kors were not the forgiving kind.
It was not her place to judge him for that, or to judge the woman for her betrayal, or to judge anyone for anything. She was merely a conduit of truth.
The vision faded. She prepared to withdraw from her trance, but suddenly another image began to take shape. This one showed two people, a female terramorph and a Sarkassan male. The woman’s battered leather jacket suggested she’d been in combat recently. The condition of the Sarkassan’s clothing suggested he’d led a harsh life.
She watched as the two of them arrived on the station, escorted by the scavenger she had just counseled. They were connected somehow.
She watched as the two of them explored the Core, asking questions, searching for . . . what? Clearly they were looking for something, but her vision offered no clue what it was.
They didn’t belong here. She could see that much clearly. The intricate digital network that was Hydra’s lifeblood didn’t include them. Images flashed before her in rapid succession, of all the bad things that might result from their independence. They must become part of Hydra, or leave the station, or die.
She saw what would be required to correct the situation. “It will be done,” she whispered.
Sometimes she imagined that there was a shadowy presence in the room when she fell into trance, watching her. Sometimes she spoke aloud to it. There was never any answer, of course, but it helped give order to her thoughts. And if there was someone watching her, and if he was the one who sent her visions, he would want to know that she understood his messages, right? “I’ll tell Joseph Kors that’s the offering I want from him. Service, instead of money or goods. He’ll do what needs to be done.”
As usual there was no response. But in her mind’s eye, it seemed to her that the shadowy presence was pleased.
ALLIED PRESS RELEASE
Thomas Easterly has resigned his position as CEO of the popular fast food franchise Taste of Kawaii, following the launch of an official investigation into the company’s advertising strategy. Easterly is credited with the chain’s dramatic increase in market share, but his tenure has been plagued by repeated complaints about Kawaii’s invasive advertising practices. The Allied Communications Authority will be determining whether Kawaii is in compliance with the Privacy Act of ’89, as well as the Ainniq Guild’s Mandate of Personal Sovereignty.
Kawaii’s stock plummeted 23% upon news of Easterly’s resignation, though a late recovery of 2% suggests that some buyers still have faith in the company’s long-term potential.
HARMONY NODE
HYDRA COLLECTIVE
THE CONVERSATION with Shane Everest required three pitchers of beer.
The first one provided lubrication during an intense bout of storytelling, which established everyone’s credentials. Shane described some grand pirating adventures that might or might not have been true. Micah told smuggling stories that definitely weren’t true. He hoped that Shane had never played Smuggler’s Run, because that was where he was cribbing most of his ideas from. It was hard to come up with that much faux-history off the cuff.
As a second pitcher was brought to their table, the Medusan’s voice rang out again, announcing another challenge. This time it was a pair of women who entered the cage for a match—some kind of martial arts competition—and since they were fighting topless, Shane’s attention was going to be focused there for the duration. But that was fine. The man was drinking, he was relaxing, he was beginning to treat Micah and Ru like old friends: that was what mattered. He even made some crude comments to Micah about various parts of the female anatomy that were on display, and Micah answered him in kind. Male bondin
g. Micah was a little worried about what Ru thought of that, but when he glanced back at her she looked more amused than critical, so what the hell.
They needed Shane to be in a state of mind where he wouldn’t be thinking about how much he should tell them, or why they were asking him particular questions. And it wouldn’t hurt if his memory of their conversation turned foggy later, which enough alcohol would encourage. Until Ru and Micah could identify Shenshido’s mysterious adversary and figure out if anyone on this station was controlled by him, asking too many questions could be dangerous.
As their second pitcher was removed from the table and a third one delivered, Micah finally decided that Shane was as well prepped for their purposes as he was going to be. He poured one last round for everyone—less in his glass and Ru’s, as always—leaned back in his chair, and said, “Tell us about this Oracle.”
Shane shrugged. “Not much to tell.” He reached for his glass. “She has visions. Some people say she knows everyone’s secrets. Some people say she’s just fucking crazy. I don’t set much stock in that kind of shit. Prefer the physical world.” He winked suggestively at Ru. “Don’t you?”
Ru smiled, neither responding to his flirtation nor discouraging it. Three pitchers of beer had made it clear the former wasn’t necessary. “We heard she had quite a large following.”
He drank deeply from his glass. “Yeah. She does now.”
“That’s recent?” Her tone was still casual, but in the depths of her eyes a new alertness had sparked. She touched a hand to Shane’s shoulder—just a fleeting touch, the kind of thing a woman might do in conversation without even thinking, that a man might read all sort of things into—and smiled at him. It was very sweet. And very predatory.
We are hunters, he thought. We have stalked our prey and cornered him, and now, when he is off his guard, we move in for the kill together. It wasn’t the kind of experience he’d ever shared with a woman before, outside of a game, and it stirred Micah’s blood in a way he wasn’t accustomed to.
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