He snorted. “Some experiment down in Bio went bad, and now the station’s full of the mutated bastards. Sometimes they eat the people they catch.” He held up the arrow. “This is one of theirs. The black on the tip is probably poison. Primitive but effective. And the owner is probably still nearby.” He nodded down the corridor, the way he had come. “We should move before he comes back. Unless you feel like fighting.”
“I’m good,” Micah said quickly. He had a thousand more questions, but this obviously wasn’t the time or the place to be asking them.
As he fell in beside his new guide he gripped his small knife tightly, watching the shadows closely for exos. Whatever the fuck they were.
The concept of “Us versus Them” is deeply ingrained in the human psyche. It echoes our primitive roots, a time when loyalty to the tribe could make the difference between living and dying. It’s as powerful a driving instinct as the need for food, and sex, and—if properly manipulated—can provide a compelling story dynamic.
MICAH BELLO
Crafting Nightmares (presented at Virtcon LVIII)
HARMONY NODE
SHENSHIDO STATION
WHEN RU first woke up she thought the sky was real. It was bluer than Guera’s sky—bluer than any sky she’d ever seen—and the crisp color would have been quite pleasing had her head not been pounding. Slowly her vision came into focus, and the reality of the sky became clear. Maybe if there had been only one sun she might have been fooled a bit longer, but the row of neatly spaced sun lamps arching across a dome-shaped ceiling high overhead gave the game away.
All of which she could see because she was in a primitive hut that had no roof, just an open framework with a rolled-up tarp at one end.
SYSTEM SUMMARY, she prompted her wellseeker. A moment later, biological readings began to scroll down the left side of her visual field. Her biostats weren’t ideal, but considering she’d just recovered from a dose of poison that could have killed her, they were reassuring. She let the wellseeker feed her something to quiet her headache, and a moment later the pounding subsided.
With effort, she pushed herself up to a sitting position. Every inch of her body hurt and her muscular response was slow, but everything was responsive; whatever toxin had knocked her out hadn’t disconnected any vital circuits.
The hut she was in was small, and apparently designed by someone who lacked any skill in hut-making. The walls were constructed of half-trimmed tree branches bound together with mismatched ropes and ties: braided strips of plastic, twisted vines, strips of cloth, even a few thin chains. And of course, the highlight of the entire design was its lack of roof. The furniture was mismatched as well, chairs and table and a narrow chest of drawers made from different synthetic materials, each piece looking like it had been salvaged from a different low-rent office. The cot she was lying on was a study in salvage art, the frame of a rolling cart topped with a webwork of mismatched plastic strips. PROPERTY OF LAB 5 was printed on one of them, KEEP OUT on another. As an outrider, she recognized the significance of the haphazard construction. The owners did not intend to stay in this place. It was important for them to believe they would not have to stay here. This ramshackle place was a cry of defiance.
But where was here?
She reached into her pocket to check for her weapons, only to discover that she had no pockets. Or coat, for that matter. Someone must have removed her outer clothing while she was unconscious, along with every item she’d been carrying. Not good. The only things she still had on were her boots, her jumpsuit, her headset—they would have needed a passkey to release the maglocks on that—and her rings. She was surprised about the rings, but evidently whoever had stripped her of all her other gear didn’t realize what they were. And the heels of her boots didn’t look like they’d been opened, which meant the tools in there were safe as well. After a moment’s consideration, she decided to leave them hidden for now, in case someone was watching.
One leg of her jumpsuit had been rolled up, revealing a clearflesh dressing where the arrow had struck her. The area under it was sore but didn’t have the telltale tenderness of an infection. She rolled down the jumpsuit leg and swung her feet over the side of the makeshift cot. Standing up turned out to be harder than expected. For a moment the hut swam around her, and she had to grab the nearest wall for support while she waited for her vision to settle. Finally, when she thought she could move without throwing up, she began to inch her way to the only visible exit, a narrow opening with a tarp hung across it. Doorway to the unknown. The thought brought a rush of excitement. Novelty, as always, was a heady elixir.
She pushed the makeshift curtain aside.
The hut was in a small clearing, surrounded by a forest of sorts. Tall blue trees were spaced around the periphery with unnatural regularity, patches of shrubbery evenly spaced between them. Not the sort of thing one expected to find on a space station. There was a person present, sitting in a plastic office chair, watching her as she stepped down from the threshold: the man who had saved her. Now that her vision was clear she could see that his clawed headset was shaped to fit over two bony crests arching back over his skull from brow to nape. His clothing had probably been black once, but time and wear had reduced his jumpsuit and flight jacket to a mottled gray. The soles of his heavily scuffed boots were thick enough to contain mag plates, and his wide belt had utility rings hanging from it, both standard accessories in a no-G environment. Most ships these days had some kind of grav net, so the fact that he was outfitted to travel without one was . . . interesting.
Her possessions were laid out on a small table beside him. Coat, shock rod, and all the basic supplies from her pockets, neatly arranged for inspection. Her ID wallet lay open, next to a flask of amber-colored fluid and a rack of empty test tubes. The shock gun, however, was gone.
“Up at last,” he observed gruffly.
She rubbed her forehead, trying to massage away the last of the ache. “Where am I?”
“Biome Five. My personal haven, such as it is. You’re goddamn lucky to be alive, girl.” He nodded toward her coat. “That’s grade-A armor you had on. Without it . . .” He shook his head and made a tsk-tsk noise. She started toward the table, but he raised a hand to warn her back. “Not yet . . . let’s see, what’s your name?” He peered at her ID. “Ru? Bounty hunter, fourth class. Okay, let’s have a little chat first, bounty hunter fourth class Ru. I go by Ivar. And you’re welcome for saving your life, by the way.”
She stared at him for a moment, briefly contemplating which she’d rather do more: grab for her weapons or smack him in his arrogant face. Neither was likely to improve the situation, so she just muttered, “Thank you.”
He took up one of the test tubes, poured some of the amber liquid into it, and offered it to her. After a moment she took it and sniffed it. Alcohol of some type. Strong. Wary of being drugged, she pretend-sipped it as he returned to his office chair. He waved her toward a fallen tree trunk. “Please, hunter Ru. Sit.”