The Orpheus Machine

Chapter 5

Ruiz Aw came to himself more slowly than was usual.

He opened his eyes to a dim bloody light. The warm air smelled of disinfectant. The only sound he heard was a low murmur of voices, so soft and so numerous that the sound seemed a natural phenomenon, bereft of content, like surf or the rush of wind through a forest.

He raised his head and looked about. The others lay beside him in a neat row, on a riser of some soft gray plastic. They all still slept and, like him, were naked. Behind them a wall of monocrete rose up to a low ceiling.

The room was vast, its farthest reaches invisible through the mist that rose from the thousands who filled it. Everywhere were clumps of naked humans of all races, genders, ages. Only a few moved about; the others either sat in watchful silence or huddled together, whispering.

Ruiz sat up slowly, muscles protesting. He wondered how long the Roderigans had kept them under; he felt worse than he might have expected after an hour or two of unconsciousness. Perhaps Gejas had ordered him injected with debilitating drugs, just in case he proved more dangerous than he pretended to be. He massaged his limbs, trying to work the stiffness out and restore some circulation, and gradually he began to feel a little better.

By the time Gunderd began to stir, Ruiz felt well enough to stand up and stretch.

“Oh,” groaned Gunderd. “Was this necessary?”

“So our keeper said,” replied Ruiz in a timorously hopeful voice, keeping within his chosen role as a helpless comfort boy.

“Give it a rest.” Gunderd grunted. “They don’t monitor these cattle pens, except under extremely unusual circumstances. Unless the universe has gone crazy, we’re of no great significance to the Roderigans. Control your grandiosity and help me to sit up.”

Ruiz reached down a hand. “How can you be so sure?”

“The Roderigans were among those races I studied at the university — before I came to my true calling as a paid hand on the worst rust-bucket to sail Sook’s seas. Anyway, my professors generally agreed that the hetmen are no longer human — in any important sense — so we were required to take a section on Roderigo. ‘Transitional Alienation-A Study in Self-Willed Evolution’—I think that was the course title.”

Ruiz felt a small twinge of hope. Once again a trace of luck had clung to him, in the midst of a terrible situation. Surely Gunderd’s knowledge would prove helpful. “What else do you know?”

As if reading Ruiz’s mind, Gunderd looked at him in bleary disapproval. “If anything useful occurs to me, I’ll certainly tell you — if you promise to control your overly decisive nature. We won’t live long if you can’t.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Ruiz.

Nisa was the next to waken. She sat up abruptly and stifled a gasp, face pinched with pain. Then she apparently noticed that Ruiz and Gunderd were naked, and she shrank away.

“Don’t worry,” said Gunderd. “Even if I weren’t a man who prefers the love of men, you’d be safe from any unwanted attentions. Or wanted attentions, for that matter,” he said, shooting a wry glance at Ruiz. “Our keepers take a dim view of unauthorized entertainment, so they infuse the atmosphere with drugs which inhibit desire.”

“I see,” she said, but her face was still stiff with wariness.

Ruiz looked at her, and though she was as beautiful as before, he took only an abstract pleasure in her beauty. He felt no desire for her, but he found he could feel a bitter anger for those who had stolen from him that precious heat.

Something of his reaction must have shown in his face, because Gunderd tapped him on the arm and said, “Control, Ruiz Aw. Above all, control. The Roderigans leave us very little to control; we must do the best we can with what’s left.”

Ruiz took a deep breath and nodded.

The others slowly woke, groaning and coughing, except for Einduix, who remained as still as a small orange statue. After a while, Ruiz began to wonder if perhaps the cook had succumbed to the disabling chemicals they’d been dosed with. He went over and knelt beside the little man.

If Einduix breathed, it was very slowly indeed. Ruiz reached out and touched the cook’s neck. After a moment he detected a slow faint pulse.

As he drew back, he thought he saw the cook’s right eye open, just a slit, barely noticeable — but behind that slit was the watchful darkness of a pupil, not the blank white of unconsciousness. Before he could be sure it had happened, the eye shut again… but Ruiz felt an odd certainty that the cook had winked at him.

“Does the poisoner live?” asked Gunderd.

“I think so,” said Ruiz. “Well, what now?”

Gunderd laughed sourly. “We wait; what else?”

Molnekh stood up and stretched his cadaverous frame. “When do they feed us?” he asked, in his usual cheerful manner.

Ruiz shrugged. “Gunderd is the expert; ask him.”

Molnekh looked to Gunderd, eyebrows raised.

Gunderd frowned. “I’m no expert. I’ve spent thirty years forgetting what I once learned — and I’ve done a fair job of it. However, to answer your question, I seem to remember the Roderigans use an on-demand feed system. Somewhere nearby you’ll find a hopper full of pellets. Search it out.”

Molnekh seemed undisturbed by Gunderd’s unfriendly tone. “Thank you. I will,” he said, and wandered away, his eyes darting from side to side hungrily.

Gunderd followed him with hooded eyes. “Of all your vipers, that one I like the least, Ruiz Aw. He looks too much like Death’s homely brother.”

Dolmaero sat up finally, face white and beaded with sweat. “Appearances deceive, sometimes,” he said in a weak voice. “Of the conjurors I’ve known, Molnekh has the best heart — at least he doesn’t treat common folk like bugs.”

“Perhaps. You know him better than I,” said Gunderd. “But he makes me uneasy, and it’s not just his handsome face.”

“You’re not so handsome yourself,” said Nisa tartly.

Gunderd laughed, this time with genuine amusement. “True. However, it may be that I’m more handsome than I was.” He opened his mouth, displayed gleaming white teeth. “They took my tooth skins; now I look a less authentic buccaneer, eh? And if any of you were carrying implanted weaponry, or subdural cerebral enhancers, or anything else you didn’t grow yourself — you haven’t got the gear anymore. Apparently none of us depends on mech organs, since here we are.”

“What’s he talking about?” asked Dolmaero, rubbing his head as if it ached.

“Some pangalacs carry devices within their bodies — weapons, or communicators. And those who can’t afford autocloned replacement organs for, say, a damaged heart, must make do with mechanisms.”

Nisa looked at Ruiz with serious eyes. “So your heart is flesh, and not steel?”

“Flesh,” Ruiz said.

She tipped her head to the side and gave him a long speculative look. Ruiz wondered what thoughts that lovely head held, and how she had become such a stranger. The speculation frightened him. Were the Gencha to blame?

Dolmaero looked up. “What’s the matter, Ruiz Aw?” the Guildmaster asked.

“Nothing,” Ruiz muttered.

“Ah. Well,” said Dolmaero, turning to Gunderd, “you seem to know a lot about our captors. May I ask a few questions?”

“Let me ask Ruiz if he thinks it wise,” said Gunderd. “Ruiz?”

“Dolmaero is a thoughtful man,” said Ruiz soberly. “He has a unique perspective and a supple mind. Who knows, he may provide useful insights. Why not inform him?”

Gunderd nodded affably. “Why not? Ask away!”

Dolmaero rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “We are among slavers?”

“They are that, at least,” agreed Gunderd.

“And they intend for us… what?”

Now Gunderd looked a bit uneasy. “Ordinarily I could answer with a high degree of certainty: They will market us to the highest bidders, or ship our meat to the Blades if no one offers them a sufficiently profitable price. But… now I’m not entirely sure; there are oddities here.”

Ruiz felt something stir deep in his mind, that paranoid part of himself which resonated to the possibility that the universe might conspire to snuff out the small particle of itself called Ruiz Aw. Ordinarily he sternly repressed such ideas; that way led to madness and, worse, ineffectiveness. But, he thought, times might have changed. “What do you mean?” he asked, as casually as possible.

“Well, there’s The Yellowleaf. Why would a hetman of that rank take any interest in a randomly collected scraggly little group such as ours? Begging your forgiveness, but none of us seems a truly valuable specimen.”

Dolmaero frowned. “Ruiz Aw informs us that we, as key members of a Pharaohan Expiation troupe, have considerable value.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Gunderd. “I don’t mean to demean your value; still… the hetmen deal in very large affairs indeed. The ordinary business of the island is left in the hands of tongues like Gejas.”

“‘Tongues’? What does that mean?”

“Ah. This is one of the more interesting elements of Roderigan society,” said Gunderd, adopting a professorial tone and shaking his finger for emphasis. Ruiz suddenly had no trouble seeing him as the scholar he claimed to have once been — though to the casual eye he might still appear to be a thin naked scoundrel with the crude tattoos of a sailor.

“You see,” Gunderd continued, “Roderigo is a place of intrigue, brutality, betrayal, all to a degree of intensity found in few other places in the human galaxy. The hetmen are obsessed with security, with secrecy. When a new hetman is initiated, he must accept the surgical removal of his tongue and larynx, so that never will the new hetman be tempted to speak a secret. Thus the ‘tongues’: persons trained to anticipate the hetman’s wishes and speak them.”

Dolmaero’s eyes widened. “The hetmen never speak again?”

“Never. Of course, in a way it’s a largely symbolic mutilation, since at need the hetman can communicate directly through dataslate or manual vocoder. Still, it’s one of the reasons why we think the Roderigans have evolved away from humanity.”

“I don’t understand,” said Dolmaero. “I’ve known men unfortunate enough to be born dumb; they seemed as human as anyone.”

“Of course,” said Gunderd. “And they are, they are. But, I understand you come from a client world where life extension is unknown, where all die after a natural span, no matter how rich they might be.”

“True,” said Dolmaero shortly.

“So an affliction with which a man can cope over an ordinary life — though such men may in their loneliness be more different than you imagine — becomes, in a thousand years, something else entirely.” Gunderd’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “How important is language — the exchange of ideas that raised us above the beasts? In its absence, can we retain those other qualities that distinguish us from the beasts: compassion, remorse… love? Perhaps their never-ending silence somehow makes the Roderigans strong enough, cruel enough, bestial enough to perform their terrible deeds. Who knows?”

Dolmaero looked shaken. “What deeds are these, worse than slavery and cannibalism?”

“They’re not cannibals; in fact I understand that they subsist on vegetable matter, finding the flesh of animals too disgustingly mortal to take into their bodies. Strange, that. As to their deeds, I find that I cannot recount any of them, at the moment. I’m already too frightened, and I don’t think I can bear to be more so.” But he smiled at Dolmaero. “Later, perhaps, when I’ve grown used to the fear. We’re so constructed, we humans, that even in the most fearful situations, we eventually grow calmer.”

“I have enough to think about, for a while,” said Dolmaero.

Molnekh returned soon after. He looked happier; his stomach bulged slightly. “Yonder is the nearest feeder,” he said, pointing to the left along the wall. “The pellets are much better than I expected — sweet and savory at the same time.”

Gunderd grinned, not pleasantly. “I see that you intend to cooperate with our keepers.”

“How so?” asked Molnekh.

“You’re fattening yourself for the hook. Notice how plump our fellow prisoners are, for the most part.” Gunderd made a gesture indicating the other humans that filled the hall.

Ruiz looked, and saw that it was true: They were surrounded by hundreds of terrified fat people.

Molnekh looked only briefly uncomfortable. “Always have I eaten gluttonously; never have I fattened.”

“You’re lucky in your metabolism, then,” said Gunderd.

Gejas sat across the wide armorglass table, watching the vastly subtle expressions of The Yellowleaf. His mind had gone to that place where he was no longer Gejas, but an organ of his hetman, more facile to her use than the tongue gone from her mouth had once been.

He spoke into the screen, to a beautiful madwoman in SeaStack. “Corean Heiclaro, The Yellowleaf hears your petition with favor. She is unoffended by your whining; after all, Roderigo is strength personified, and you would be foolish indeed not to perceive your own weakness in any dealings with us.”

It was his life’s work, to read faces, and the little slaver’s face was transparent, a thin lovely veneer over a writhing snake’s nest of bitter passion. He judged that she possessed enough cold amorality to take a small place in Roderigan society, but not enough discipline. Why else would she allow her vengeful lust for the Dilvermoon slayer to so override her sense of self-preservation?

Her mouth twisted into a sour shape, but otherwise she ignored his insults. “Then we have an agreement?”

“Yes. But… our sources tell us the battle is still raging, that more of SeaStack turns to ashes every day. The surviving Lords grow more desperate, do they not? More terrified that someone will escape with their great prize, whatever it is. Are you not afraid to leave your own interests there unprotected?”

“No,” she answered, in a convincingly careless tone.

Time passed in dim red tedium. Ruiz sat on the plastic riser and tried to force his brain to work, without much success.

The others seemed as lethargic as he felt. Dolmaero lay back, apparently asleep. Molnekh leaned against the wall, face blank. A few meters away, Gunderd and Nisa spoke together in low voices, and Ruiz wondered what they could possibly find to talk about. Einduix the cook remained quiescent in his odd coma.

It occurred to Ruiz that he was probably as close to death as he had ever been — but the notion carried no urgency. He considered that, his thoughts painfully sluggish. Drugs? Cerebral suppressor field? Terminal weariness? It hardly mattered, if he could not somehow push himself past the cobwebs that wrapped his mind.

The clatter of steel-shod boots echoed through the hall, much louder than the soft shuffle of bare feet. He looked up to see a pair of mirrorsuited guards moving toward them.

They halted in front of him. “Come,” one said.

He got to his feet, feeling dizzy. The guards turned and moved away; Ruiz staggered after. As he passed Nisa, he glanced down. She looked up at him, eyes huge, beautiful mouth trembling. She reached toward his hand, but he was already past and her fingers missed his by a meter.

He didn’t dare turn back.

The guards conducted him to a transport coffin, an alloy box with padded restraint cuffs. He considered escape just before they thrust him into the coffin, but the thought of a naked man whose muscles could barely respond to his will attacking two well-trained armed men in mirrorsuits — it was so ludicrous that a smile twitched at his mouth, even as they closed the lid.

He waited in the darkness of the box, a stink of ancient terror filling his nostrils.

After a while the box jerked, and they began to move. Ruiz tried to feel the changes of direction, to get some notion of where they were going, but several times they paused and the box whirled, so that Ruiz was completely confused long before they reached their destination.

He waited in stillness for another measureless time.

Finally he heard the clatter of latches as the box was opened. Light flooded in, stabbing his eyes.

He squinted, and after a moment he saw the affable face of Gejas peering into the box. “Ruiz Aw?” asked Gejas. “Comfort boy?”

Something in the tongue’s manner told Ruiz that his small deception had collapsed, but he had no choice but to play it to the end. “Yes, sir.”

“Come out, then,” said Gejas.

Ruiz stumbled forth, almost falling in his weakness. Gejas caught his arm in a crushing grip. “Steady, Ruiz,” he said.

Ruiz raised his eyes. He was in a small sumptuous room, lit softly by golden lamps, which threw their light up against sparkly white quartzite walls. A desk of polished copperwood filled one end of the room. He stood ankle deep in a carpet of some soft blond fiber, fine as baby hair. He looked down and shuddered. Perhaps it was baby hair.

Gejas shook his head. “This will never do. Presently The Yellowleaf will arrive, and you must be coherent.” He took a small skinjector from his pocket and pressed it to Ruiz’s thigh.

Almost instantly Ruiz began to feel better. Gejas released him and stepped back. The Roderigan’s eyes glittered and to Ruiz he suddenly seemed an avatar of alertness, wariness personified — as though he could never be taken by surprise.

“Stand easy, now, Ruiz Aw,” said Gejas. “The Yellow-leaf comes.”

At the far end, behind the desk, a door slid open silently, and The Yellowleaf stepped through. She wore the same shipsuit, but now her ear ornament was a string of tiny jade beads, from which hung a black opal carved in the shape of a rose.

Ruiz glanced aside at Gejas and was caught by the strangeness of the tongue’s affect. That preternatural wariness had shifted and narrowed its focus; Gejas appeared to be oblivious of everything but the hetman, eyes shining, vulpine features alight with concentration. Ruiz had the impression that he might do almost anything, and Gejas would not notice, could not notice. It occurred to Ruiz that for each new defensive adaptation, a new vulnerability appeared.

On the other hand, if he were now to attempt to wring Gejas’s neck, The Yellowleaf would surely notice, and then Gejas would know.

He shook himself. Were these pointless fancies the result of the drug Gejas had used to revive him? Even if he managed to best Gejas, The Yellowleaf was probably at least as formidable physically, and surely her safety was guarded by automated weapons systems.

“The Yellowleaf greets you, Ruiz Aw,” said Gejas in a voice subtly different from his own — slightly breathless, a little higher pitched.

Ruiz was unsure of the proper etiquette, so he smiled as obsequiously as he could and bobbed his head.

Without seeming to take any of his concentration from the hetman, Gejas swung his fist up and into the back of Ruiz’s head. Ruiz found himself on all fours, shaking bright spots from his vision. Apparently the drug hadn’t entirely restored his strength.

“Kneel to greet The Yellowleaf,” said Gejas.

Ruiz nodded groggily. Gejas’s boot lifted him off the carpet and he landed on his back, clutching his ribs.

“Say ‘Yes, Master.'”

“Yes, Master,” said Ruiz. He wondered how they managed to get the bloodstains out of the thick carpet; it looked so clean.

“On your feet,” said Gejas.

“Yes, Master.” Ruiz struggled to his feet and found that he could stand up, despite the pain in his ribs.

He looked up to find The Yellowleaf examining him with an intensity almost as great as Gejas had directed at her. Her regard was a vastly colder thing, however, and in that passionless gaze Ruiz felt small and insignificant.

Ruiz looked back at her as humbly as he could, but he was conscious of a great fascination. What did Gejas the tongue see in those frozen eyes, that still face? What dreadful deeds had she ordered with that nonexpression? Had Gejas ever misinterpreted her will, and what had the consequences been for the tongue? His manner suggested a man trapped in an obsessive passion; how much was love and how much terror?

“The Yellowleaf asks: You claim to be a comfort boy named Ruiz Aw; is this true?”

“Yes, Master.”

She smiled a tiny cruel smile. Gejas said, “The Yellow-leaf asks: Where have you plied your trade?”

“Master, I’ve worked on Dilvermoon, in Bo’eme… at the Palace of Passionate Pulchritude, at the Club Demesne, at the Red Donkey. I’ve also served on SeedCorp liners, though in an unofficial capacity.”

“The Yellowleaf observes: An engine-room whore.”

“Yes, Master.”

Her smile widened fractionally. Gejas spoke on. “The Yellowleaf observes: A rough trade. The Yellowleaf asks: How did your beauty survive intact?”

“Master, I was lucky enough to obtain a patron.”

“The Yellowleaf asks: How did you come to Sook?”

“Master, my patron sold me.”

“The Yellowleaf observes: An old story.”

“Yes, Master.”

A silence fell. In that small room with two other people, Ruiz had never felt so alone. The air seemed charged with communication to which he was deaf; but he could feel it, like a bone-deep shiver.

Finally Gejas spoke again. “The Yellowleaf mentions: She has a squad of Daccan shock troops who have recently worn out their playpretty. Perhaps she will give you to them. The Yellowleaf asks: Would you like that?”

Ruiz knew he must respond or be hurt, but it wasn’t easy. Several times he had come into unwilling contact with Daccan troops; they were little better than flesh and bone killmechs, living only for cruelty and the most basic of pleasures, bred down to loyal bestiality. They were a poor choice for a tactically demanding mission, but excellent for punishing helpless conquered populations.

“Yes, Master,” he finally said. What choice did he have, but to play out his role?

The Yellowleaf smiled a little more broadly, showing red-enameled teeth.

“The Yellowleaf observes: You are either incredibly brave or abysmally stupid. The Yellowleaf asks: Which is it?”

“Master, I’m not brave.”

The Yellowleaf laughed soundlessly, an eerie thing to watch. But almost instantly her face smoothed back into an expressionless mask.

“The Yellowleaf states: You have been briefly amusing, but now it’s time to get down to business. You are not Ruiz Aw, comfort boy with a high pain threshold. You are Ruiz Aw, once an unsuccessful emancipator, of late a slayer under contract to the Art League. Abandon all pretense; henceforward it will earn you nothing but pain that even you will be unable to endure.”

“Yes, Master,” said Ruiz numbly.

“The Yellowleaf informs you: We attempted to peel your mind, without significant success. We find certain aspects of your mind intriguing. It may be that you will find yourself serving Roderigo in an important capacity.”

Here Gejas paused, while The Yellowleaf continued to watch him with her dead eyes.

“Yes, Master,” Ruiz said.

“The Yellowleaf elaborates: A situation exists in Sea-Stack. Roderigo is interested. The Yellowleaf has recently been entrusted with the responsibility of clarifying this situation. The Yellowleaf asks: What do you know of the matter which has caused the Lords of SeaStack to destroy each other with such reckless ferocity?”

“Master, almost nothing.”

“The Yellowleaf states: This may be the truth. We could find no evidence of such knowledge in your peel. The Yellowleaf asks: Would you accept a contract from Roderigo to obtain this knowledge?”

Ruiz felt an absurd twinge of hope. “Yes, Master.” He would agree to anything, if it meant a chance to get away from Roderigo.

“The Yellowleaf laughs. The Yellowleaf states: The only way you will ever leave Roderigo’s control is as a mindwiped body, or on a hook in the freezerhold. But if you agree to attempt a job for us, your life, as long as you may live, will be easier and more comfortable. This is the best you can hope for. The Yellowleaf asks: Is this so negligible?”

“No, Master,” said Ruiz, sadly.

“The Yellowleaf elaborates: On the island of Dorn, there once existed a great library. Now nothing remains but ruins and a repository virtual, unfortunately damaged in whatever catastrophe destroyed the library. Roderigo has reason to believe that data pertaining to the SeaStack matter resides in this virtual. A number of submen such as Gejas have been sent to consult the virtual; all have been killed or mentally damaged. No useful data has been obtained. Recently a hetman was sent, The Redrock, a person of obdurate power. He returned in a nonfunctional condition, and we were forced to rusticate him to his dacha in the north mountains. He can almost feed himself.”

Gejas paused. Again Ruiz sensed the communication between tongue and hetman, a current that sparkled unseen beneath the surface.

Finally Gejas spoke again. “The Yellowleaf states: Your mind combines several uncommon features. It is so well protected by self-circuited traps and synaptic lockdowns as to be virtually impenetrable, barring destructive deconstruction. Yet you retain a remarkable flexibility; you have one of the highest adaptability indices our technicians have ever recorded. You are a valuable prize indeed. If you were not crippled by your unevolved ethical constructs, you could expect a bright future on Roderigo. Still, we must make the best possible use of your talents. We will get our use of you, one way or another.”

“Yes, Master,” Ruiz said uncertainly.

“The Yellowleaf emphasizes: Do not think to deceive us with a facade of cooperation. We understand that you would agree to anything that offered a chance of escape. No such chance will ever come to you.”

“No, Master.”

Gejas tore his attention away from the hetman with a grimace, as though the act caused him physical pain. He touched a control pad at his wrist, and the wall to Ruiz’s right opened. Inside a dark niche sat a restraint chair fitted with a crude holomnemonic probe.

Gejas seized Ruiz’s arm and thrust him down into the chair. In contrast to the hygienic purity of the room, the niche and chair were spattered with dried blood and other unpleasant substances. A thick crust covered the seat of the chair and scraped at Ruiz’s naked skin.

Cuffs snapped shut on his ankles and wrists, and the probe’s hood descended over his face. The stink of death was so strong in the hood that he gagged.

“The Yellowleaf asks: Will you accept this assignment: to be transported to Dorn and taken to the virtual, there to merge with it and seek the data we require, with no hope of later reward other than the treatment we accord any valuable property?”

The hood was like a grave, slimy with the juices of corruption. “Yes! Yes, Master. Yes!”

Ruiz felt himself to be smothering in the ghosts of all those the hetman had given to death in this place; he could barely breathe. It seemed a very long time before Gejas spoke again. “The Yellowleaf speaks with anger: You are insincere.”

“No! Master!” And in fact, Ruiz felt that he would do anything to get out of the terrible embrace of the probe.

“The Yellowleaf states: You have yet to realize the parameters of your situation. Were you an ordinary property, you would now become a carcass for the freezerhold. The Yellowleaf demonstrates flexibility: You are remanded to another job which exploits your unique skills, until such time as you gain an appreciation for your altered circumstances.”

Ruiz heard the hiss of a skinjector against his neck, and he fell down a long dark tunnel.