She nodded, considered the archway in silence for a moment, then said, “Describe it to me.”
He blinked. “Say what?”
She gestured toward the opening. “Describe what you see.”
He looked around the space. “A narrow opening, maybe a meter wide, two meters high. Looks like someone broke through the wall from the other side and just chipped away at what was left until the hole was fairly even.” He pointed to a series of shallow gouges overhead. “Chisel marks there . . . there . . . and there.” He stopped, but she looked like she was waiting for more. “Looks like it leads to another tunnel, maybe parallel to this one. The map says—”
“Not the map,” she said. “What you see.”
“Two kinds of rock. Only one has the pit marks in it. Pretty big hole over there.” He pointed.
“Good,” she murmured. “Good.”
“Because . . . ?”
“It’s exactly what I see.”
“A field test.”
“We need to see if your senses have been altered.”
He was about to say that their adversary was unlikely to bother with illusions as insignificant as chisel marks and rock matrices, but then he remembered Shenshido. Grime had been added to the walls there, and vines added to the vents. So God alone knew what small things might have been changed in the labyrinth, that he and Ru never noticed. “Okay. Good thought. We can do that periodically.”
They gripped their knives and started down the new tunnel, ready for any trouble that might show itself. Ru was also wearing the rings of her garrote looped over two fingers of her left hand like ill-fitting knuckle guards, the razorwire safely retracted into one of them. She had winced when she put them on; clearly her hand was injured, and just as clearly, she had no interest in talking about it. Fair enough. He hadn’t exactly been forthcoming about the brief waves of dizziness that came over him, or his fear that the blow to his head might have damaged something inside it. Talking about such things right now would have no practical purpose.
They walked, much longer than they should have had to; the twisting path never led directly to where they needed to go. Damn the people who’d carved out these tunnels, following natural hollows in the rock instead of just blasting straight through. If he and Ru could have walked a straight line to their objective, they’d have been there and back already.
And then, at last, there was a staircase, leading up. Micah felt a spark of hope for the first time in many long hours, and double-checked his map. “I’m not sure about some of these symbols, but I believe this will take us to the surface.”
“Where travel should be more direct, at least.”
“Not to mention flyways.” Hence escape from this wretched place.
The first few stairs were coarse and uneven, and he had to reach out to the wall to keep his balance. But soon those gave way to synthetic steps, perfectly smooth, perfectly spaced, and perfectly identical. It was easier to ascend after that, and within minutes they were at the top landing, standing in front of an airtight hatch with a control panel to one side. It was an emergency seal, designed to isolate this section of the core if life support elsewhere was compromised. The readout offered data on temperature, air pressure, and oxygen content, all currently within acceptable limits. Ru glanced at Micah to see if he was ready, then reached out and triggered the control. The heavy door panels separated and light poured out from between them. After so many hours in dimly lit underground passages, it was nigh on blinding. Micah gripped his knife tightly for the few seconds it took his eyes to adjust, preparing for trouble. But there was none. After a few moments Ru nodded and stepped through, and he followed.
Whatever he had expected, this room wasn’t it. Though perhaps it should have been.
“Describe it,” she said softly.
He drew in a deep breath as he looked around. “A dome-shaped room with a standard geodesic structure, but it’s a patchwork of mismatched panels, like each one was salvaged from a different source. One has a ship’s ID number printed on it.” He pointed to it. “Three doorways, in addition to the one we just came through, two beside ours and one at the far end of the chamber. And on the floor . . .” His expression darkened. “Puddles. Maybe blood.” He pushed the toe of a boot into one of the puddles, smearing it. “Fresh.” He looked at her. “Is that what you’re seeing?”
“What about there?” She pointed to one of the exits. “Can you see the footprints?”
He’d taken them for random smears of blood, but now that he looked more closely he could make out treadmarks in them, leading to that exit. Someone must have bled like the devil on the other side of it. “I see them.”
“And I see the rest of it, just like you described. So far so good. Which way next?”
He consulted the map, and pointed to the isolated door. As they approached, it opened. The smell of food enveloped them, and the noise of a hundred voices—at least. Beyond that was a madness of color and motion, and as Micah crossed the threshold he could only stare, trying to make sense of it.
“Holy shit,” Ru muttered.
It was a market, but not in the normal sense. Oh, there were tables and booths and a few free-standing kiosks, all displaying a wealth of merchandise, people and items packed together so tightly it was a miracle anyone could squeeze between them. But beyond that, he could see glimpses of a station shell that looked like it had been formed by two ships colliding. No, not merely two; Micah saw parts from what must have been half a dozen different vessels, twisted and shattered and then welded together into a madhouse creation. He saw a clothing vendor whose wares were hung on a strip of plasteel from a station’s hull, its climbing rungs twisted outward to form hooks; another shop was tucked into the discarded shell of an engine housing, which itself was welded to a section of passenger seating. The place was a veritable graveyard of ships, vendors exploiting its corpses.
“You’re going to tell me we have to cross this,” Ru muttered. She studied him for a moment, then reached out to wipe the blood from his face with the end of her sleeve. He winced but didn’t back away. Then, tucking their knives into their pockets to keep them out of sight, they stepped forward into the hot, sweaty crowd. It was a frustrating journey, squeezing past booths and kiosks that displayed a thousand items they desperately needed, but had no money to buy—weapons and armor, first aid supplies, and of course food. Spices filled the air, bringing on a wave of hunger so strong it was painful. But they had no money to purchase anything, nor anything to barter with, and it seemed an insanely foolish place to try shoplifting. Nevertheless, Micah did manage to sweep a drink box into his pocket, that someone had left on a table while shopping. When they were out of sight of that booth they shared its contents gratefully, their parched skin sucking in fluid like desert sands in rainy season.
Suddenly Ru stopped. “What?” Micah asked. “What’s wrong?” In answer she nodded toward a booth just ahead of them. The man in it was hawking weapons, with his wares laid out on a table in front of him as well as hung on the wall behind. The most valuable items were secured in locked metal cages: charge rods, kinetic guns, blades and projectiles of all shapes and sizes. Only a few meters away, and maddeningly inaccessible. But she wasn’t pointing to any of that. It was something on the back wall, displayed in its own small cage, that had caught her attention. When he saw what it was he breathed in sharply. “Shit,” he muttered. A K-1 triple-stage assault rifle. How many would there be in a place like this? “You don’t know that it’s yours.”
“I know that it’s mine,” she said quietly, her eyes never leaving the piece.
Was she thinking of trying to retrieve it? The mere thought was insane. Even standing here like this, conspicuously fixated on it, was dangerous. “Ru, if you’re right, then the people who attacked us are probably around here somewhere. The last thing we need is to be recognized by them. Come on, let’s go.” He took hold of h
er arm gently, meaning to urge her forward, but she shrugged off his grip without looking away from the assault rifle. Her assault rifle. Oh, he totally understood why the sight of it here would anger her, but the degree to which she was fixated on it was unnerving. She’s Gueran, he reminded himself. Somewhere inside her head, there’s a part of her brain that doesn’t function like other brains. Is that what’s causing this? Could her Variation drive her to consider something so mind-bogglingly stupid as trying to reclaim this weapon?
“What we’re carrying is worth more than a K-1, and we need to deliver it.” He tapped the side of his headset, reminding her of the malware data he had copied. “That chip is worth more than your pride right now.”
She looked at him. Just that, for a moment. Then she nodded.
The rest of their passage through the market was less dramatic, though exhausting. By the time they reached the archway at the far end, Micah was aching to breathe clean air again, and to walk without having to squeeze past other people. The first wish, at least, was granted. As they passed over the threshold, currents of air from the other side swept away the smells of the unwashed multitudes and their wares. Even the noise behind them seemed to fade a bit, though that was probably just wishful thinking on his part.
Soon, soon, they would be off this miserable rock.
As they continued on he asked, “Would you really have gone after the gun?”
“You mean, if you didn’t stop me?”
He nodded.
She smiled slightly. “I was just wondering how its current owner might respond if I offered to barter for it.”
“With what? Your boot knives? Those wouldn’t pay for a round of ammo.”
She patted her rear pocket. “I still have the Seti drug.”
“Okay, so you offer that to him. Then what? He opens the packet to get a closer look, gets a whiff of what’s inside, and it’s the end of that deal. Hell, that stink could clear out half the market—” He stopped suddenly. “Ah. Gotcha.”
She smiled sweetly. “It would have been fun to try. But as you say, duty calls.”
Fun to try. That’s how she envisioned an act that might have gotten the two of them lynched for ruining the market. God, he hoped that was her Gueran Variation speaking, because if not, she really was insane.
It was her map that guided them now, to a central dome from which they might access both ships and flyways. But her notes didn’t indicate which of the tunnels branching off from it would take them where they needed to go, and Micah’s map was no improvement. Apparently this part of the station had been developed after the map was uploaded. Damn. He and Ru were so close to their objective that he could taste it, but this last leg might prove the most difficult of all.
He went to one of the exits and peered into yet another featureless tunnel. He was willing to bet the others would be equally unidentified. Were they going to have to approach this like they had the labyrinth, choosing paths at random until they found one they could use? It hadn’t worked that well the first time.
“Hey. Over here.” Ru was waving to him from across the dome. Apparently she’d found something.
“I think this is the one,” Ru said from a tunnel to the right of him. “Come on, let’s go.”
He froze. Turning slowly toward the second voice, he saw Ru standing at the mouth of the tunnel nearest him. But the other Ru was still on the far side of the dome.
“This one is wider than the others,” came a voice from behind him. He hesitated before looking that way, fearing to confirm the worst. It was yet another Ru, identical to the first two, waving for him to join her.
“Is everything okay?” The question came from across the dome, where the original Ru had been. But when he turned back that way he saw there were now two of her side by side. They seemed unaware of each other, but spoke in perfect unison. “Do we need to do a reality check?”
There were five of them now; the delusion was multiplying. “There’s more than one of you,” he whispered hoarsely. Several of the Rus looked shocked. There were six total, now. No, make that seven. Every time he turned to look in a new direction another one appeared, identical to all the others down to the smallest detail. He was no longer sure which one was the original, and their manner offered no clue; each Ru mirrored the others like a marionette on a common string.
“Okay,” three of the Rus said in perfect unison. “Take my hand and I’ll guide you.” Only it was not one Ru that reached out to him but half a dozen of them, their steps synchronized. Which one was real? What would happen if an unreal one reached him first? He backed hurriedly away, pulling his headset off as he did so. It didn’t help at all. Of course it didn’t help. He knew only that one Ru was real, but he didn’t know which one; as long as his brain thought the others might be real, he lacked the power to exorcize the illusion. But at least if the headset was off no new madness could infect him—he hoped—so he stuck it into his belt.
Suddenly a shot rang out, and a moment later a small object struck him in the chest, hard enough to drive him back against the wall and knock the breath out of him. It bounced off his armored jacket and skittered to the floor, blue sparks flying. A charge bolt. From where? Desperately looking around the dome, he saw that yet more copies of Ru had appeared—the dome was full of them!—and two that were heavily armed were engaging the one that only had the knife and garrote rings. She must be the real one. Before he could even try to get to her, two of the Rus were rushing him, one of them pointing a charge gun at his head. He threw up an arm in front of his face just in time for the armored sleeve to protect him, but the bolt pierced through far enough to get stuck in the fabric, and it hung from his arm, crackling with blue-white energy. Were the bolts even real? It no longer mattered. The malware that had taken control of his senses could make him feel an illusionary shot as if it were real, and he’d be down for the count regardless of whether it existed in the material world.
They were fucked, he and Ru, royally fucked. And he had made that possible. Insisting on connecting to this infected station, he had given their enemy the means to distract and then divide them. And now they were both going to die for it.
But the Ru who had fired at him would need a second for the next bolt to charge, so he threw himself at her, one hand thrusting with his knife, the other reaching out for her gun hand. She blocked the blade and managed to evade his grip, but the struggle gave him an opening to slam his body into hers, desperately trying to throw her off balance. As soon as he made contact he realized his mistake. Whoever the person behind this delusional mask really was, he was much larger and heavier than the image of Ru which disguised him. It was all Micah could do to twist his attacker around enough to block an assault from the other Ru. A third Ru had joined the fray and began pounding on his back, but that attack wasn’t on the scale of what the first two were attempting, so he judged her a fake and tried to ignore her.
There was pain after that, and a chaos of blows—some real, some imaginary, but all equally painful. A fist drove into his gut, a blade sliced through his collar and just missed his throat, and he was almost choked to death. He managed to break that grip with an elbow driven into one Ru’s nose, and he heard bone crack as she fell back from him, making room for yet another copy. This one pointed a charge gun directly at his head, point blank, and he braced himself for the shot that would fry both his brainware and his brain into oblivion.
But before that Ru could fire, another one stepped in and whipped a length of razorwire around her forearm. It cut through clothing and flesh as if through butter, severing muscles that controlled her hand. As she dropped the gun Micah grabbed it, and he turned around and fired into the face of another attacker. The bolt went into her eye, sparks exploding from her face as she fell. He whipped around to see where his third attacker was, but the real Ru must have taken that one down. Now was he was not surrounded by assailants, but by copies of Ru arranged in
a semicircle around him, each one holding out a hand to him.
“They won’t stay down long,” a Ru said. “Come on!”
“They won’t stay down long,” another Ru said. “Come on!”
Then a third.
Then a fourth.
One of the fallen Rus was getting up again. Soon the others would also, and battle would be rejoined. Maybe more attackers would appear. There was no way he could sort it all out in time. Thanks to his foolishness in embracing Hydra’s malware, their adversary had won this battle, at least as far as he was concerned.
“Go!” he gasped. Ru could still save herself. “Get the data to the ship!”
“Not without you,” three of the Rus said simultaneously. They reached into their rear pockets and pulled out matching packets: the Seti drug. They dragged the packets across the tips of their knives, cutting them open. The sickening stink of the drug filled the air . . . but it was only coming from one of the Rus. He reached out for that one, grabbed her hand, and let her drag him through the chaos. Past bleeding Rus, over Rus moaning in pain on the floor, past Rus who screamed that the one holding his hand was the real enemy. Not real, Micah told himself. Not real. Not real. Not real. As they ran through one of the doorways, into the tunnel beyond it, he sucked in that glorious putrid smell of the Seti drug and filled his lungs with the perfume of reality. This Ru was real; no others could be.
By the time they reached the next doorway—another airtight hatch—the fake Rus were gone. The real one went to the touch screen beside the hatch and activated the controls, searching for the icon that would unseal it. A few seconds later the heavily reinforced panels unsealed and the door began to open. As soon as they were through Ru turned back immediately to find the control panel on that side, and as Micah leaned against the wall, trying to catch his breath, she shut the door again. “Can you lock it?” she asked. “So it can’t be opened from the other side?”
This Virtual Night Page 31
