The Emperor of Everything

Chapter 2

By great good luck the airboat struck the talus slope in a nose-up attitude, pancaking into the loose detritus and bouncing up toward the base of the cliff. The initial impact almost tore Ruiz loose from his chair, but he managed to hang on. He hoped the others had braced themselves, but in any case, the acceleration webbing would protect them as long as the boat remained intact.

The boat slid upward, raising a cloud of dust, hull screeching against the rubble of the slope. It slowed, crunched into the ledge at the top of the slope, and stopped.

For a moment the boat rocked unsteadily, and Ruiz feared it might roll back down. He wondered how far the slope dropped. Had the slope ended at the top of another precipice, which then had dropped into a deep valley? He couldn’t quite remember; all his attention had been concentrated on Corean and her vengeful face.

But then the boat became still. Ruiz could hear nothing but the retching sounds Flomel was making. The vidscreen was a dead gray, and the control board was dark.

“Well,” Ruiz said. “We’re still lucky.” He turned to look at the others.

Nisa clutched at the webbing, her face pale and serious.

Molnekh smiled crookedly and pulled the hem of his tunic away from Flomel, who was making a mess. Dolmaero was impassive, staring out the port.

Flomel gained control of his stomach. “One day you’ll be sorry, casteless one,” he said, gulping air. “Now you’ve wrecked the Lady Corean’s miraculous vessel and we’re stranded in the wilderness.”

Ruiz sighed. “Flomel, must you be so devoted an idiot? Don’t you understand that Corean was trying to smash us into that cliff?” He pointed out the forward viewscreen at the dark sandstone.

Flomel glared at him. “Nonsense. It’s your meddling that’s at fault. If not for your meddling, we’d still be traveling safely and comfortably toward our goal. If you think I don’t see through you and your lies, then you greatly underestimate me.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t underestimate you. But I’ll agree that in one respect things would be better, had I not ‘meddled,’” Ruiz said wearily. “You’d still be safely tethered in the cargo hold.”

A short silence ensued. “Speaking of the cargo hold, what of Kroel,” Dolmaero asked, a bit hoarsely.

Ruiz shrugged. “I’m sorry,” he said, but none of the others seemed to understand his meaning. “Kroel is dead.”

“But, how do you know?” asked Molnekh, looking stricken.

Ruiz stood. “I killed him. I couldn’t think of any other way to save us.”

The emergency lock was sufficiently intact that Ruiz and Dolmaero were able to manually crank it open. The others fled past Kroel’s headless corpse, but Dolmaero lingered with Ruiz for a moment, staring at the small jagged hole in the engine compartment bulkhead, torn open when Ruiz had detonated Kroel’s collar. Dolmaero turned his gaze to Ruiz. “How did you think to do this?”

“I don’t know. A lucky whim. For us, anyway — though I suppose Kroel would be dead with the rest of us, otherwise, so he’s no worse off. Here, help me with these food packs. The boat carried enough food for another day, but there are fewer of us now, so it should last several days, with care.”

Dolmaero hung the packs from one broad shoulder. “Kroel wouldn’t have lived much longer, anyway. His soul had already fled.” He shrugged and turned away. “You’re an odd man, Ruiz Aw — though I hope you’ll take no offense at my saying so. You kill your enemies as easily as another man might swat bloodbugs. Then you regret the death of poor Kroel, who meant nothing to you. But I fear for your remarkable luck. Can it last?”

“We only have to get off Sook. If my luck lasts that long I won’t ask any more of it.”

Outside, Ruiz examined his little group of survivors. They clustered around the airlock, all wearing unhappy faces, except for Nisa. Ruiz’s susceptibility to her beauty had been responsible for most of his recent difficulties… but there were compensations. He took a moment to admire her smooth pale skin, her great dark eyes, her long black hair, thick and soft and glowing with coppery highlights, and her graceful long-limbed body. Her loveliness complemented a quick intelligence and an admirably strong character.

He smiled at her. She gave him a sweet melting look in return, at which Flomel scowled and made a grunt of disgust.

Ruiz considered Flomel, a stringy middle-aged man with a hard face and a self-important manner. The tattoos of a senior conjuror were prominent on his shaven skull. Flomel had been as much a prisoner as the others, but unshakable arrogance compelled him to regard his captivity as a form of protective custody. He had yet to be convinced that Corean had intended to sell his troupe to the highest bidder.

Ruiz judged him a dangerous man, and he was certain that Flomel was hatching some treachery. Ruiz shook his head. What was wrong with him that he could not simply kill the conjuror, as common sense dictated?

Molnekh stood beside Flomel, looking about curiously. He was tall, gangly, and thin to the point of emaciation. Molnekh also wore the tattoos of a conjuror, and had assisted Flomel in performing the masterful illusion-plays that had made the phoenix troupes of Pharaoh so valuable in the pangalac worlds. Ruiz felt a certain admiration for Molnekh, with his optimistic acceptance of his changed circumstances. He couldn’t help contrasting Molnekh’s resilience with the fatal brittleness of Kroel, who had been reduced to comatose panic by the strangeness of Sook.

Finally there was Dolmaero, a stout somber man, tattooed in the spiky red and green patterns of a Guildmaster. He had been the leader of the troupe’s supporting crew — the dozens of scene setters, animal trainers, gowners, carpenters, surgeons, and other specialists whose expertise beneath the stage made possible the conjurors’ miraculous tricks. His position was subordinate to the conjurors, on Pharaoh… but on this new world he was evolving toward a more dominant role. Dolmaero took his responsibilities to his people seriously, Ruiz thought, and his was a supple, clever mind. When Corean’s catchboat had scooped up both the phoenix troupe and Ruiz Aw from the harsh world of Pharaoh, Ruiz had believed his disguise a near-perfect one. But Dolmaero had been the first to notice that Ruiz was not a Pharaohan.

Dolmaero had never attempted to use this knowledge against Ruiz, and Ruiz was still grateful. He felt a degree of cautious friendship for the Guildmaster, despite their disparate origins — and despite the risks inherent in friendships formed under such precarious circumstances.

Dolmaero’s brooding eyes fixed on Ruiz. “You seem cheerful; I envy you your light heart. Too many questions burden mine.”

Ruiz regarded Dolmaero uneasily. In Nisa’s case, affection ruled him — but his responsibilities to the other prisoners seemed less well defined. Perhaps, however, he owed Dolmaero some degree of explanation. “I’ll tell you what I can,” he said to Dolmaero. “What do you want to know?”

Dolmaero sighed. “I fear I don’t know enough about our situation even to ask the right questions. Still… where did Corean mean to send us, before you killed her giant henchwoman and disabled the machine man? Do you know?”

“Yes.” The subject filled Ruiz with unpleasant sensations — a crawling sensation along his spine, a queasiness in his stomach, a sudden film of sweat on his forehead. In the depths of his mind, the death net twitched, reminded him that it would kill him if he fell into the tentacles of the Gencha. He shuddered. “Yes. Corean was sending us to the Gencha, so that we might be made safe.”

“Made safe?” Dolmaero looked dubious, as if he felt certain that Ruiz Aw could never be rendered harmless.

“The Gencha… they’re aliens, much stranger than the Pung who ran the slave pen. They’re repulsive creatures, but that’s not the reason I fear them. They’ve devoted centuries to the study of human mentation. They know us too well; they can make a person do or be anything.”

“And for us?”

“The process is sometimes called deconstruction. If we’re taken down into the Gencha enclave, they’ll tear down our minds and rebuild them in a form that would make us perfect slaves. Our primary loyalty would no longer be to our selves, but to Corean — or to whoever purchased us from her.”

“It sounds complicated,” Molnekh said. “Surely there are less troublesome ways of controlling slaves. On Pharaoh we manage well enough. If a slave is rebellious, we crucify him, or stake him out in the waste, or use him in an unsanctified Expiation. The other slaves watch and learn.”

Ruiz frowned. Sometimes he forgot that the others came from a primitive client world, that their cultural matrix was alien. He found it especially disturbing that Nisa was nodding her lovely head, apparently finding Molnekh’s statement reasonable and obvious.

But then it occurred to him that his own ethical standards were more theoretical than actual. At the thought, he was suddenly quite depressed. He might find the idea of crucifying slaves barbaric; still, Ruiz Aw destroyed innocent lives in the course of every job he did. Many had died since his arrival on Pharaoh, beginning with the Watcher on the Worldwall, whom he’d been forced to kill. Then Denklar the innkeeper, Relia the doxy, Rontleses the coercer — their deaths stained his hands. And after his capture and transport to Sook, the list of his victims grew too long to count. Sometimes Ruiz Aw saw himself as a sort of random merciless plague, constantly mutating, incurable.

Something must have shown in his face, because Nisa spoke, voice full of concern. “What is it, Ruiz? Perhaps this new way is kinder, but on Pharaoh we don’t have the means to rebuild minds.”

“Kinder?” Ruiz laughed bitterly. “No. The Gencha build human-shaped puppets — they’re no longer real people. The Gencha would make me into a flesh machine. And the worst thing is, I wouldn’t even know it; I’d think I was still the same person. But if one day my owner told me to open my belly and drape my guts over the shrubbery, I’d think it was a perfectly reasonable request and I’d do it happily. Even then I wouldn’t know that I’d lost my self.”

A silence ensued, as each considered the ugly picture Ruiz had painted. Even Flomel, who had studiously ignored the conversation, looked shaken.

After a while, Dolmaero looked up. He rubbed his heavy jaw, scratched his tattooed head. “Well,” he began hesitantly. “I mean no disrespect, but I can’t understand why, if the Gencha can do as you say… why they don’t rule the human universe. Or do they?”

Ruiz was once again surprised by the Guildmaster’s grasp of the situation. “A good question, Dolmaero. The Gencha don’t do this thing easily — the effort of fully deconstructing a human substantially decreases the Gench’s vitality, and recovery is lengthy and somewhat uncertain. They can perform smaller mental modifications with much less damage to their health.”

It occurred to Ruiz to wonder how Corean was able to arrange for the processing of five slaves such as he and his companions were — and why she would be willing to pay the astronomical fees such services surely demanded. He found, however, that it was difficult for him to consider any matter connected with the Gencha — it made his head hurt.

Then he was distracted by dark memories. He recalled the Art League factor on Dilvermoon who had hired him for this job… and then the League-owned Gench who had installed the death net and mission-imperative compulsion in his own mind. He discovered to his surprise that he had at some point reached a decision: He would never again permit his mind to be tampered with. It occurred to Ruiz Aw that he might have to find a new profession, in the event he survived his present difficulties. A remote possibility, he thought, and put the notion away.

“Also,” Ruiz continued, “the Gencha are a nontechnical race — they appear unable or unwilling to design machines to augment their abilities. Otherwise they might indeed control the pangalac worlds. Oh, occasionally a particularly ambitious Gench gains substantial power by converting a few influential humans. None has ever consolidated its position successfully. Partly luck, I suppose, but mostly it’s because the Gencha as a species don’t seem to be interested in power for its own sake. Finally, there are very few Gencha — and most of them are prisoners.”

“Very valuable prisoners, so I would suppose, if they can be forced to do their work at their captor’s behest,” said Dolmaero.

“Yes. Very valuable.” Ruiz was forced once again to consider an unpalatable truth: The Art League had sent him not to identify those who had been poaching valuable slaves from the League’s client world of Pharaoh, but to lead the League to an enclave of Gencha on Sook.

Ruiz glanced downslope, verified that the tumble of loose stone ended in a sheer drop, and shuddered.

Dolmaero followed his glance, smiled. “More luck. I must remember to stay close to you, Ruiz Aw.”

Ruiz sighed. “The luck comes and goes, Guildmaster. We’re far from safe yet.”

“What do you think we should do?” Dolmaero leaned forward attentively.

Flomel spoke in testy tones. “We must rely on the Lady Corean’s mercy. She’ll surely understand that we had nothing to do with the casteless slayer’s outrages. She’ll soon be here to rescue us from this bizarre place.”

Ruiz laughed, astounded. Even the other Pharaohans were watching Flomel with wide eyes, as if he were some odd menagerie beast, trained to perform eccentric tricks.

Dolmaero only shook his head.

“Flomel, Flomel,” said Molnekh. “This is no moment for jests; besides, you were never a great joker. The Lady Corean’s mercy strikes me as unreliable. Don’t you remember her ‘mercy’ to Casmin, your favorite enforcer? She cut his throat and burned him to a cinder.”

“I think Flomel’s too stupid to learn,” said Nisa. “He’s like Kroel, only he hides it better.” She looked at Flomel with vindictive eyes. “He’ll end up just like Kroel, with any luck.”

Flomel purpled, knotted his hands into fists. For a moment Ruiz thought Flomel might strike Nisa, and he swayed forward, filled with a hot impulse to commit violence. Here was an opportunity to be done with the treacherous conjuror; his fingers ached with the urge to snap Flomel’s thin neck.

Flomel looked into his eyes and stumbled back, suddenly pale.

Ruiz took a deep breath, and by degrees relaxed the snarl that had frozen on his face.

The others were watching him with frightened eyes. Even Nisa had drawn away, as if suddenly unsure of him. His heart twinged, and he managed a smile.

Her responding smile was genuine, if a bit cautious, for which he could not blame her. She would need to be mad or utterly foolish to trust him entirely… and she was neither.

“Well,” he said, in a somewhat shaky voice. “You may wait here for Corean, if you wish, Master Flomel. She’ll be here in two days, or a little less. Yonder ledge will make a roof for you, but we can spare you no food.” He smiled a different smile. “Still, I can almost guarantee you won’t die of hunger.”

Flomel looked down. “Guildmaster,” he said in a low voice. “What do you advise.”

Dolmaero answered reluctantly, “I think Ruiz Aw is our only hope, Master Flomel. We’re babes here, in a wilderness full of banebears. I think we should accompany him as long as he will permit it.”

“I must accept your advice, then,” muttered Flomel.

Ruiz was disappointed.

He examined the weapons he had salvaged from the wreck. He wore, clipped to his belt, Marmo’s splinter gun — the only really effective weapon they possessed. From Banessa’s collection of archaic weapons he had taken an antique stiletto, a heavy two-edged dagger, a small lady’s kris with a garter sheath, and a short solid-brass club with a spiked head. The giant woman had owned more powerful weapons: a graser, a brace of seeker-stingers — but like many personal weapons, they were designed to function only under their owner’s control. He’d jettisoned them along with her body.

He gave the dagger to Dolmaero, who handled it as though he had no idea what to do with it. Ruiz recalled that there had been no wars on Pharaoh for many generations. He would have to remember not to expect too much of the Guildmaster, should they meet with hostilities before they escaped from Sook.

“Carry it through your belt, Guildmaster,” Ruiz instructed Dolmaero. “No, like this; you’ll probably want to avoid castration, should you stumble.”

Ruiz handed the sheathed kris to Nisa.

“And how shall I wear this?” she asked.

“I’ll show you.” Ruiz knelt and pushed up the hem of her tunic, enjoying the silky texture of her skin. When he’d fastened the garter that held the kris to the outside of her thigh, he had to force himself to take his hands away. Desire made his head swim for a moment. He realized he was still at the mercy of those reckless romantic impulses that the bootleg minddiver Nacker had afflicted him with.

He handed the club to Molnekh. “I wish we had a better choice of weapons,” he said.

“No matter,” said Molnekh, swishing the club enthusiastically back and forth. “We’ll make do.”

Ruiz pulled up the sleeve of his tunic and bound the stiletto to the inside of his forearm with a length of sturdy cloth.

Flomel edged forward. “Where’s mine?” he asked.

Ruiz turned to him, surprised at Flomel’s audacity. “Sorry. But surely you need nothing sharper than your wits.”

Flomel opened his mouth, as if he meant to argue, then snapped it shut and contented himself with a dark glare.

“Now,” Ruiz said. “Here’s what we must do.”

It was a pity, Ruiz told them, that the boat’s power system had been irreparably damaged and that the turret raptor was therefore useless. Otherwise, they might do well to wait here and arrange an ambush for Corean when she came, as she certainly would.

He explained his plan to the Pharaohans — they would walk over the pass, and hope to come across some habitation or at least a promising track. Then they’d try to reach a launch ring and get off Sook.

Ruiz was deliberately vague about what might happen to the Pharaohans after that; he didn’t know. He wanted to give Nisa the opportunity to stay with him if she wanted to; he could afford to buy her from the Art League. The others could escape to the pangalac worlds with his blessing, or he might be able to arrange to have them returned to Pharaoh — though the League would insist on removing their memories before they would be released on their home world.

The Pharaohans seemed no more eager to ask about their eventual fate than Ruiz was to discuss it, though Dolmaero looked as if he were full of questions that weren’t quite ripe yet. Ruiz was grateful for the respite.

Ruiz distributed the food packs equitably. Only Flomel grumbled over his load; the others accepted their packs cheerfully enough. He gave Flomel a hard look, and the conjuror subsided.

Into the food packs Ruiz jammed a few more useful items: three of the self-inflating tents, a water jug for each traveler, and insulated rain capes.

Finally he took one of the self-securing leashes by which they had all been tethered the night before. Flomel looked at him and showed his teeth in a grimace of disgust.

The sun was hot on Ruiz’s back as the five of them toiled up toward the pass, but a chill wind blew down the mountainside, making him shiver occasionally. They had scrambled across the talus slope and found a rough path leading in the direction of the notch through the mountains. It showed little sign of recent use, and Ruiz wasn’t optimistic that they’d soon come across anything resembling civilization. Still, he was as happy as he’d been since he’d landed on Pharaoh. He was free, except for the mission-imperative that still pushed him, and the death net that waited in the abyss of his mind. As long as he could stay free, the death net would remain quiescent. Only if he were helplessly captured by enemies of the League and in imminent danger of dying or divulging League secrets would the net kill him and send his recent memories to League headquarters on Dilvermoon.

Ruiz forced himself to optimism. All he had to do was to launch a message torp to the League, detailing his discoveries: the location and identity of the poacher who had been stealing slaves from Pharaoh — and the fact that an enclave of rogue Gencha existed on Sook. And when he’d done that, the net and the mission-imperative would evaporate from his mind, and he would be truly free.

He gave himself to the pleasurable contemplation of Nisa’s smooth strong legs as she climbed the path just ahead of him.

At the top of the pass they paused, and Ruiz looked out over the country on the other side of the mountains. The foothills were much greener, and the dense forest beyond indicated that this was the moist side of the range. In the far distance, another range lifted misty peaks. The broad valley between them seemed to stretch forever in both directions.

To his delight, Ruiz could see a straight line striking down the center of the valley, parallel to the mountains, perhaps thirty kilometers away. It was too far away to positively identify, but it looked like a highway cut through the forest, on which might travel vehicles fast enough to get them away to a hiding spot before Corean arrived.

“It’s like my father’s gardens,” said Nisa, who stood close beside him. “Where do they get all the water?”

Ruiz smiled at her. “It falls from the sky here, all the time. Or at least often enough that the trees grow without tending.”

She turned an unbelieving glance at him. “Of course,” she said in tolerant tones, as though she was certain he teased her.

“No, really,” he said. “Wait, you’ll see.” As he spoke, he noticed that dark roiling clouds were building to the north. “In fact, we’d better hurry along, before we get washed away.”

Flomel sat down. “I must rest. And it’s time to eat.”

Ruiz sighed. “I tire of you, Master Flomel. I cannot leave you here; you would surely tell Corean where we’ve gone, long before she finished killing you. So, either come along without further complaint, or I must end your life. I can do it without pain.”

Flomel stood quickly. “I’ll go,” he said sullenly.

“Are you sure?” Ruiz asked gently. “I fear our association must end badly for one of us. And there are worse places to die.” He made a gesture that took in the broad sky, the green country beyond, the clean wind that blew up the pass. “And worse ways.”

“No,” said Flomel with more enthusiasm. “I’ll go.”