Babushka: Echoes of Immortality (Book 1) - Chapter 5 - Yana
Yana meets Dunya at The Flock, where unsettling revelations about Vesna's disappearance spark concerns about a looming threat. Together, they prepare for the challenges ahead.
“CAN MONEY BUY HAPPINESS?”
“Friggin yeah.”
The question hung in the raucous air, echoing through the The Flock on a Monday evening. Patrons from all corners of the peninsula sought refuge here, drowning their troubles in cheap synthetic alcohol.
Yana avoided the establishment on its busiest nights, favoring the quiet solitude of her apartment, a cup of tea and a good film. But tonight, she had no choice.
“Maybe. Sometimes yes. But when you finally reach the top, I guess everything gets boring.”
Another message from Dunya had arrived, its tone demanding an immediate rendezvous. Yana acquiesced, weaving her way through the motley throng, her eyes scanning for a suitable meeting spot.
“Like if that dog had more money and he wanted more alcohol he could get more alcohol.”
The colossal avatar loomed above, its multiple facades embellished with the grinning face of a child. In the chaos, those dark faces barked orders, casting a shadow of menace over a small, cowering puppy in the corner. Yana could relate to his fear.
The abundant absurdity of it all did not deter the patrons. On the contrary, they found solace and significance in the repetitive, trivial nature of these memes. This ability to infuse meaning into the meaningless was perhaps the secret to the success of any viral phenomenon—a powerful magnet for the captivated masses.
“IF YOU DIED RIGHT NOW, WHAT WOULD YOU REGRET?”
“My biggest regret would be not being able to visit those who I met and cherish over the internet.”
Yana’s gaze swept across the bustling crowd, pausing as she spotted a group of patrons donning avatars that seemed all too familiar. She accessed the server’s logs, fingers flying over the virtual keyboard fanned out in front of her.
As lines of data streamed before her eyes, the sinking feeling in her stomach intensified, revealing an unsettling truth: a sentient malware had slipped past her security measures, worming its way into her server’s encryption. Powerless to stop the theft, she watched as her avatars were used without her consent, a torrent of purloined royalties slipping through her fingers.
Determined never to repeat her lazy oversight, Yana embraced the weight of her mistake and resolved to rectify it—right after a few more drinks and a shot at karaoke.
As the room’s haze grew denser, acrid smoke mixed with the potent scent of alcohol and the musk of sweat. Yana fought the urge to cough as the fumes assaulted her nostrils and irritated her eyes. The server she designed boasted remarkable realism, but there were moments when its authenticity felt more like a curse than a blessing.
The atmosphere transformed when a duet in the corner struck up a soulful rendition of an Elvis Presley classic, accompanied by the deep, mournful chords of a balalaika. To Yana’s delight, the fierce voice of Princess Börte, wife of Genghis Khan, joined in from across the room. Yana’s lips curved into a smile, her heart swelling with warmth as her creation brought together the most unlikely of souls.
“I regret not being able to tell my wife how much I love her.”
The Flock’s gallery, with its lustrous black marble walls, exhibited a diverse array of paintings and photographs, each tagged with a substantial price. As Yana strolled past, her curiosity sparked, not just by the hidden nature of the artworks but by the unassuming party officials mingling in the crowd. Disguised in whimsical attire—bunny ears and dragon scales—they quietly negotiated for their desired laundered masterpieces.
“Her girlfriend won’t let me,” the voice added, after a moment’s hesitation.
Yana’s heart raced as she leapt aside. A colossal scrofer lumbered past, its massive bulk threatening to topple her with its sheer force.
“Hey, watch it!” she snapped.
The creature grunted, oblivious to her irritation, and continued its ponderous journey through the bar.
She stared at the scrofer’s retreating form, her imagination painting a picture of its true existence: an old, solitary being, who dwelled among the crumbling skyscrapers that stretched toward the leaden vistas of Gred’s western district. The Derge, a realm of decay and desolation, bred such souls, and Yana understood the desperation that drove her clients to seek escape in the fantasy of imagined power.
Yana found solace in the knowledge that she could offer a glimmer of hope, a flicker of light in the all-consuming darkness. It was a small comfort, yet she clung to it, cherishing the fact that she could touch the lives of those who wandered the desolate paths of the Derge and elsewhere, seeking answers to their heart’s most profound questions.
“I regret not being able to tell my father how much I hate him.”
Yana’s brows knit together. Rude, she thought. Fathers were a precious rarity—many having met an untimely end in wars past. She couldn’t help but puzzle over this peculiar sense of remorse.
“I regret not being able to tell my mother how much I love her.”
Yana exhaled. She found herself thinking about having children and whether they would ever understand the depth of their mother’s love for them.
Navigating the crowd with the precision of an ancient mariner, she savored her drink with measured grace. The Flock, her domain, had taught her to move through the sea of people without breaking her rhythm. Exchanging fist bumps, and sidestepping jostling shoulders, Yana’s immersion in virtual reality had paid dividends in her traversal of the bustling environment.
“I regret not being able to tell my best friend how much I appreciated her.”
Yana empathized with the struggle to express one’s true feelings, a battle she’d fought during her own difficult youth as an artist grappling with depression.
“Thanks for listening,” the hesitant voice murmured.
“No problem,” Yana replied.
The Flock offered a chance at redemption and a place to be unbridled and unafraid. Yana embraced its chaos and squalor, for it was within these walls that she discovered a family and a sense of belonging.
“I regret not being able to tell my brother how much I miss him.”
In the wake of the Great War, the population lay in shambles, with nearly all who survived rendered infertile; those who could bring new life into the world bore only female children. This cataclysmic event gave rise to a generation of women who had no choice but to fend for themselves, seeking companionship and intimacy with one another. Brothers were a rarity in this new world.
“I regret not being able to finish my book.”
“I regret not having the courage to speak my mind.”
“I regret that I came here,” Dunya said.
Pressing her handkerchief against her mouth to filter the thick smoke filling the room, Yana struggled to keep her voice audible. “Of all the nights, did we really have to meet on open mic?” she replied, her words muffled by the pace of the room’s frantic confessions.
Even without the fantastical trappings of the others, Dunya had a way of standing out. Her neon green polyester skirt seemed to catch the pulsing lights, and her now-pastel pink hair was twisted into an elaborate bun. Tiny bat wings playfully adorned her black sneakers and camisole. Yana noticed how the word “uWu” lit up across her chest, flashing in sync with the bar’s bass beat. Always a trendsetter, this one.
“This place has truly become a dive. What made you want to boot it up again?” Dunya said as her nose wrinkled. Her attempt to suppress a laugh was only a partial success.
“Nostalgia, I guess,” Yana shrugged. “Though maybe it’s more a sense of loyalty...and necessity.” Memories of a time when membership in The Flock was a symbol of the avant-garde played in her mind. The club had once been an exclusive haven for the artistic and rebellious. But as the virtual club scene boomed, the old Flock’s allure faded. Now, it served a different crowd, many seeking refuge from their personal demons. Yana missed the old days, but she also saw the value in its new form. After all, it kept the lights on and her debts at bay, if only by a thread. She quickly snapped back to the present. “You said this was urgent. What’s wrong?”
Dunya’s voice dropped to a whisper. “We’ve got a tail. But don’t get too excited just yet. We don’t know who it is or what they want. Could be just some low-level bureaucrat, or it could be a rogue. Either way, keep your cool and let’s see how this plays out.”
“What!?” Yana pulled open a menu, her fingers flying across to alter her avatar’s appearance. A few more dabs of blush and a platinum blonde haircut later, she was ready to tackle the day in business attire. All the while, she caught Dunya’s resigned sigh, her typical frustrated look as she settled onto a stool at the bar.
“It’s nothing like that,” Dunya said, shaking her head. “This is serious.” The word ‘serious’ playfully flashed across her shirt in neon letters, and Yana laughed.
Yana had her fair share of enemies, but stalkers and admirers far outnumbered them. There were always those envious of her success or critical of her memes. But she couldn’t imagine anyone going to such lengths to harass her at work.
“Who is it, then?” Yana demanded, tossing her compact vanity mirror aside without a care.
“I already told you, I don’t have a clue. But I ran a NeRF MRI on myself and noticed an anomalous signature. It’s like they left behind a calling card of sorts. I came here to enhance your encryption and see what you make of it.”
“Damn it, Dunya, you can be such a downer sometimes.” She signaled a waitress to approach.
“I’ll take a vodka neat,” Yana said, glancing at Dunya. “What’s your poison?”
“You know I don’t synth.”
“Your loss,” Yana said with a shrug, turning back to the waitress. As her gaze swept across the crowded bar, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of repulsion at the frenzied, drunken energy pulsating through the patrons now. It was getting late.
She decided it was time to find a new spot, somewhere less crowded. “I’ll grab us a table,” she said to Dunya, who nodded. Yana weaved through the mass of revelers, her eyes searching for an unoccupied table.
She spotted one tucked away in a far corner and made her way toward it, sidestepping intoxicated patrons and waitstaff alike. Although she owned the establishment, Yana resisted the urge to clear out some guests to make space. Her reputation mattered to her, and she wasn’t about to jeopardize it by LARPing as a ruthless businesswoman.
Out of the corner of her eye, Yana noticed Dunya miming the action of lifting a headset off her head, her lips forming the word ‘restroom’. She better not have called me down here just to bail. “Is this table taken?” Yana asked, her eyes fixed on the unoccupied booth. To her alone, the faint outline of a spectral occupant materialized. The encrypted patron offered a nonchalant shrug, and Yana interpreted that as permission to claim the spot and clear its authorization list. “Thanks,” she said.
“IF YOU DIED RIGHT NOW, WHAT WOULD YOU REGRET?”
“I’ve done some friggin’ doodie. So, I regret not forgiving myself sooner, you know?”
“Shit. I really should have turned off that fucking profanity filter. But hey, ad revenue is up,” she spoke to the empty space beside her, momentarily oblivious to the fact that Dunya had not yet returned.
A robed figure approached their table, catching Yana’s eye with something unnervingly familiar. The woman’s face shimmered like a fractured mirror, all metallic-like and mysterious. Gathering her composure, Yana asked, “Can I help you?”
“Yes. Your deadline approaches, Ms. Kuular,” the figure intoned, her emphasis on her surname sending a chill through Yana. It was a name few knew and hearing it from this enigma tightened a knot of unease in her stomach.
Attempting nonchalance, she replied, “What’s the rush. You know I’m on it,” remembering now that her loan was coming due.
The woman fixed her with an impatient stare. “We’ve been waiting. The job needs doing. Now.”
Yana felt the pressure but refused to let it show. “I’ve got it under control. No need for your goons to get twitchy. I’ll head over tonight,” she assured her with a calm she was far from feeling.
“Make sure you do. We can’t afford more delays.”
“Trust me,” Yana said. “I’ll wrap this up and meet you at the Golden Slit after it’s all done and over with. You’ll have your hack.”
“See that you do,” she said. Her words hung in the air like an unspoken threat. Then she turned and melded seamlessly with the crowd, leaving Yana to release a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“Yeah, that lady seemed like a real pain in the ass,” Dunya muttered as she glittered into view.
“Tell me about it. I thought I had banned all the job scammers from our feeds.”
“You’re willing to crack down on job scam artists, but not the paparazzi? Interesting choice.”
“And so, what?” Yana teased with a sly grin. “You sure you don’t want a drink? It’s on the house, for us.”
“I told you, I’m not touching that stuff.”
“Suit yourself.” Yana shrugged, her eyes scanning the aisle for their waitress. She caught the bunny-tailed woman’s attention, complimented her on her outfit, and ordered two more vodkas with a flirtatious glance.
“So, you have something important to tell me,” Yana said, turning her attention back to Dunya.
“WHAT’S THE MOST IMPORTANT THING IN LIFE?”
“Alcohol!”
Yana slipped the waitress a few zats with a roguish grin and gave a playful, appreciative pat on her backside, signaling her to keep the drinks flowing. She then smoothly activated the table’s private instance, weaving a veil of security around their conversation to ensure it remained for their ears only.
“Why didn’t we just meet somewhere else?” Yana asked, frustrated now. “This place is a nightmare. I mean, I created it, but still.”
“I had to play it close to the chest, make damn sure we weren’t tailed by anyone with half-decent tracking chops. Link up on one of the low-rent servers and we’re asking to get sniffed out. Metadata’s not worth a damn anymore, it’s like leaving breadcrumbs.”
She was right. End-to-end encryption was one of The Flock’s premium offerings. Though imitators popped up from time to time, they went out of business quick. The value of having a discreet place to speak in a legitimate crowd was undeniable, and The Flock provided that rare opportunity. No bots here, Yana reflected with pride.
“…What was it you wanted to tell me?”
“It’s Vesna,” Dunya said, a frown etching her features. “I’ve scoured the feeds; she’s clocking her contracts, but there’s radio silence to my pings. It’s been days. Sure, Vesna’s dropped off grid before, but given the current shitstorm, it’s got an uneasy edge to it. Can’t shake the feeling something’s not right.”
“Vesna? She’s made of steel—that one. I’ll bet my last zat she’s holding her own.”
There was a flicker in Dunya’s big blue eyes, brief but expressive. “I wish I could be so certain. But she got all kinds of twisted up after I dropped Maria’s name.”
Yana’s pulse quickened at the mention of Maria. In recent days, her brush had often traced the contours of the enigmatic woman’s face. To Yana, Maria was a mystery, a symbol of something intangible that escaped her understanding.
“Spit it out before I lose my cool,” Yana suddenly snapped, gaze darting to the tabletop. “And I’m not joking—I’ll knock myself out on this damn thing if you keep dealing in riddles.”
Yana could sense Dunya’s reaction without even looking up—that familiar blend of exasperation and amusement she often provoked. Ignoring it, she waited for Dunya to continue.
“Vesna dug into her old network, fishing for info on Maria. Said she stumbled on something big but kept the details under wraps. Told me to lay low, then—poof—she’s ghosted,” Dunya said.
Yana fought to keep her voice steady, “I trust Vesna’s got her game face on, can handle her own mess.” Yet, as she said it, uncertainty gnawed at her. She attempted to flick away the nagging doubt. “Still, you’re right. It’s damn peculiar.”
“Let’s hope we’re not underestimating the situation,” Dunya said, her tone serious. “What if this has something to do with our little operation?”
Yana followed that with a low chuckle, even as she considered the possibility. “You think Syn’s got us in their sights? We’re not exactly big fish. More like...irritants in the system. A little itchy for them, but nothing serious. Can’t see why they’d bother.”
“Yana, back in the day, skepticism was my middle name. But the things I’ve laid eyes on lately... They’re off the charts—defy all reason. It’s got my gut screaming that we’re missing a chunk of the picture. I’m not pinning a target on Vesna’s back just yet, but what if she puts us on their radar? We can’t afford that exposure.”
“So, what’re you getting at?”
“Vesna’s solid, but she’s never been one for playing it safe. She’s family to me, but when she goes dark and zips her lips? Means we gotta rethink how much leash we give her. Can’t afford to overlook any threat she might be dragging our way.”
Yana swirled the remnants of her last drink. “Re-evaluate our trust, you say? Alright, so we set up a game plan for if she pops back up. We don’t leave her hanging, but damn if we’re going to run headfirst into the unknown again. Do you see me disagreeing?” She pushed herself up, her limbs heavy with the synth’s hold.
“Park it, Yana. Don’t forget we’re in the same trench here. We’re a unit. Now, more than ever, I need you on my six.”
Yana paused, balancing precariously between sitting and standing. “Whoa there,” she slurred, managing a crooked smile, “I never signed up to be a merc like you. Every time you get serious, it’s ‘units’ this and ‘trenches’ that. I’m an artist, Dunya, and I’m just along for the ride...”
The drinks had muddled Yana’s otherwise razor-sharp creative instincts. She felt a knot of hesitation she hadn’t felt in a while. Dunya had been the one to lure her into the seductive abyss of mindgrafts—high-stakes, high-reward work that flirted with the fringes of legality. Now the dilemma clawed at her conscience, a tug-of-war between the moral high ground and the intoxicating lure of easy credits.
“I didn’t come here just to bore you with talk of Vesna…”
Yana settled back down, the gravity in Dunya’s tone anchoring her to the spot. “Spill it then.”
“Look, I’ve been caught in this...this loop of a dream—no, a nightmare. With each pass, it sharpens, edges closer to the bone. And it’s not just in my mind, it’s mirrored in the madness spreading through the city’s veins. I see buildings detonate before actual bombs tear through them. Faces—strangers—haunt me, and days later, those same faces headline the news, listed as missing.”
She paused, the confession chilling the air between them. “You’ve got that artist’s eye for the unseen, Yana, a gift for turning visions into revelations. I’m here because I trust that. You’re the only one who can help me decode this. And I can decode almost anything.”
“You want me to play shrink to your subconscious? Dream interpretation isn’t in my job description, you know.”
“Weren’t your folks into shamanism?” Dunya asked.
Yana waved the notion away, almost amused. “Shamanism was like a national sport back in the Republic of Sakha. Doesn’t mean I’ve got the time to sift through your nightmares like a therapist.”
“I’m grasping at straws here. Something’s going on, and this dream...it’s a piece of the puzzle. Help me make sense of it. Please?”
Dunya’s request was earnest, almost desperate, which was not normal for her. Yana felt bad for her friend.
With a weary exhale, she surrendered to the inevitable; the synth’s haze had numbed her better judgement, and her mounting debt pressed urgently against her practical sensibilities. If Dunya’s out of commission, I’m staking on thin credits—and she’s more than just a paycheck; she’s my crew, one of my best friends. Dammit, I guess I can dishonor the ancestors for a good cause. “Alright, tell me all about it. Let’s unravel this cryptic dream of yours.”
In truth, Yana knew the world in strokes and shadows that many never noticed. Her elders had long spoken of the potency of dreams, of visions that held whispers of what was yet to come. She’d often shrug them off. But who was she kidding? There was a part of her—a pulsing, intuitive part—that knew she could navigate these ethereal messages. And so, she waited, ready for Dunya to paint her dreams in words.
She listened intently as Dunya recounted the haunting nightmare. The vivid colors, the imagery of the interlocking tree trunks, the encroaching terror—all sketched with the precision of dread. A living, breathing arboreal force swallowing the city whole, an unstoppable march of nature against civilization, the chaos, the fear—it cascaded through Yana’s artistic mind. She could almost see the yin and yang of its bark, the way tendrils of wood and leaf leached the warmth from the city’s heart, as if drawing the last exhale of winter’s chill from its concrete skin. Dunya’s nightmare was horror and beauty and both, a surreal dance of destruction.
“It’s one of our legends, alright. From the Olonkho of the Sacred Tree,” Yana explained. “The tree represents the duality of human nature, a constant struggle between light and darkness within us all. In Sahkalar tradition, the cult of springs would leave offerings at the base of shaman trees, much like the one you described, to celebrate the end of winter and pray for a bountiful hunting and fishing season. But the tree also serves as a reminder to trust in the power of nature. The Sahkalar believed that nature holds such power that it can determine a person’s fate, for better or for worse.”
Dunya’s voice hardened. “The mindgraft you set up for me, Yana—it was a ritual sacrifice. And I was the bait. It’s clear to me now that Syn was using us to feed some kind of monster. I’ve dealt with insatiable bliskogii before, and I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner.”
Yana’s mind raced as she tried to make sense of her friend’s revelation. The mindgraft she had staged for Dunya turned out to be a complete disaster, but she never suspected it had been sabotaged.
“We’re treading on thin ice here,” Dunya said. “This is bigger than we bargained for. Syn’s orchestrating some kind of high-stakes blood sport. But why? What’s their endgame?”
As Dunya’s words sank in, Yana felt a familiar unease writhing in her stomach. “And whatever their play is,” Yana added, a note of acid in her throat, “doesn’t that make us the delivery crew?”
The ghost of her encounter with a rogue artgen surfaced in her memory. She remembered all too well the tantalizing promises of fame and fortune that had almost lured her into that digital canvas. If not for her quick thinking, she would have been trapped forever, just another human brushstroke in the being’s twisted, fractal landscape.
“Alright, I’m officially scared now,” Yana said as she distracted herself with the very last drop of her drink. She was done with unpredictable superintelligences and didn’t like where things were headed.
Dunya’s fist crashed onto the table. “I wish I knew where Maria was. She would know how to handle this.”
“You don’t think she’s part of this? Look, I have no idea what’s happening,” Yana said, stifling a yawn. “I’ve been on my feet all day, running errands and battling crowds at the market for supplies. I’m beat. But I’ll help you in any way I can. Let’s meet up tomorrow and figure out our next move. Maybe we can find a less chaotic place to talk?”
“Yeah, that sounds good. Just be careful, Yana.”
“I will. You too.”
Yana tore off her headgear, the weight of Dunya’s emotional diarrhea still floating. The confines of her cramped cubicle seemed to close in on her, the lingering effects of the virtual world’s synthetic liquor still raiding her limbic system. Her pixel nest, hardly larger than a broom closet, was a far cry from the opulent three-level penthouse she once called home, but it was all she could manage. She’d take a foxhole over nothing if she could cling to the illusion of success that The Flock provided.
It was time to escape this suffocating space. Hastily gathering her belongings, Yana fled the cybercafe and flagged down a cab, directing the driver to the nearest bar. She craved a real drink—perhaps more than one—to wash away the lingering unease.
As the vehicle coursed through the rain, Yana rummaged through her purse and retrieved a small bottle of timber oil. She massaged it into her temples, seeking solace in the soothing aroma. With her eyes closed, she leaned back against the headrest, the hum of the electric engine lulling her into a state of relaxation. One thing was certain: she was in for a long night. Dunya would have to wait.
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