The Orpheus Machine

Chapter 8

Ruiz found a smooth stone and sat. He watched the guards as they set up the camp, and out of the corner of his eye he watched Nisa. She leaned against a low gray-barked tree and gazed out over the way they had come. Molnekh and Gunderd joined Dolmaero on his rock; Molnekh looked at the limpet with bright curious eyes. “Don’t touch it,” warned Ruiz.

Molnekh nodded easily, but he still seemed fascinated by the pangalac device.

Gejas activated the chameleon gauze, and the hollow fell into an artificial twilight.

Ruiz shivered. In the sunlight, the day had seemed warm.

Gejas set out various sensors around the campsite’s perimeter and assembled an elaborate security console in the center of the camp. Over the console a self-erecting weapons arch rose; on top was a heavy ruptor and a brace of antipersonnel grasers. Ruiz was a little surprised by the thoroughness of these precautions. He shrugged. Perhaps this simply reflected a habitual paranoia.

The guards triggered self-inflating shelters, low bubbles of shiny green plastic. From one of the landwalkers, they brought a field autochef; its battered olive chassis reminded Ruiz of a hundred other such machines, machines that had fed him on a hundred long-ago battlegrounds.

He felt a sudden sad nostalgia for the single-minded boy he had once been, the boy who had been able to destroy his enemies with such a clear conscience. He’d felt clean then, so clean, so sure of the rightness of his various lost causes.

He looked down at his hands, which would never be clean again.

Ruiz got up and went to the perimeter, a few feet from Nisa, who still stood looking out over the ruins below.

He was surprised when she spoke. “What’s happened to you, Ruiz?” she asked.

“You couldn’t understand,” he said, attempting to match her detachment.

He made the mistake of glancing at her, and saw that her eyes were swimming with barely restrained tears. “I didn’t really believe you’d ever hurt me,” she said, looking down.

His gaze fell on a strand of audiovisual sensors almost at his feet. He took a deep breath. “Things have changed. I’ve changed.” He made his voice as cold as he could.

He turned away and saw Gejas watching him with smiling assessment.

The Yellowleaf disappeared into her shelter when the guards served lunch — a bland hash of reconstituted vegetables with a slab of gray seedbread.

Ruiz sat apart from the others while he ate. He couldn’t display any human feeling for them; Gejas was too alert. Already he might have made a fatal mistake in speaking politely to Nisa. He must wear a face of mad unpredictability, of black nihilist joy — and he must, to the best of his ability, feel that way. Any other face would give Gejas irresistible leverage.

When he had finished the tasteless food, he sailed the plate away, as if without thought. It struck the weapons arch just above Gejas’s head, and Ruiz turned to give the Roderigan a wide grin.

Gejas glared. A bit of hash decorated his shoulder; he flicked it away with a look of distaste. “Rather than playing silly games, you should be resting, slayer. Midnight will arrive before you know it, and you’ll need all your strength.”

Ruiz got up and swaggered toward the tongue. “Oh? Perhaps I’ll join The Yellowleaf in her shelter. She might find me entertaining.”

Gejas laughed uneasily. “Perhaps. But not in the way you mean. You wouldn’t find her attentions pleasant, I think. No, restrain your ambitions; go to your own shelter. I’ll put the primitive woman in with you.” He showed his teeth in an approximation of a smile. “The stockyard drugs have doubtless worn off by now, and you may breed to your heart’s content.”

Ruiz twisted his face into a contemptuous mask. “Your master’s mouth is tongueless; with such a disadvantage she couldn’t be very good in bed, eh? I’ll leave it to you to go sniffing after the bitch.” He glanced at Nisa without focusing his eyes on her. “My slave is untrained and shows little natural aptitude, so I’ll rest alone.”

He was reassured to see that Gejas once again regarded him with baffled rage. He nodded affably and went into one of the shelters.

Ruiz lay on the pallet, teeth clenched, refusing to feel anything. The afternoon passed slowly.

Ruiz Aw emerged into the cold twilight, exhausted. He saw that his people sat around a glowpoint the guards had set up in the center of the camp, warming their hands at its feeble heat. A few tiny blue lights hung from the chameleon gauze, shedding a wan light. Someone had moved Einduix’s stretcher close to the glowpoint, but the cook was apparently still comatose.

Gejas stood at his security console, studying its readouts intently.

The Yellowleaf stood at the perimeter, looking out at the black mountains. Obeying some dim impulse, Ruiz approached her.

As he came up behind her, The Yellowleaf turned abruptly, her weapons jingling against her armor. She regarded him with her usual opacity.

He fought a sudden urge to attack her. She was, he was sure, as strong, as quick as he was — and she was thoroughly armed. Even if by some stealthy miracle he succeeded in wringing her neck, Gejas would destroy him an instant later.

So he adopted an insolent smile and said, “Time to bargain.”

If she reacted at all, he couldn’t see it. Her face was disconcerting in its unreadability.

Gejas relinquished his console to one of the guards and came trotting over. “What is this?” he asked in a breathless voice. “You must not speak to The Yellowleaf directly — that is disrespectful and will bring severe punishment.”

Ruiz laughed. “I’ve already been severely punished. Therefore I must perform sufficient disrespectful acts to balance our accounts. Not so?” He turned to Gejas. “We’re a long way from even, tongue.”

Gejas frowned. “You should stop this foolishness. We have serious matters to discuss.”

“Indeed we do,” Ruiz said. “What will you offer me for my help? And please, not my life, nor the lives of my worthless companions. Something better.”

Gejas watched The Yellowleaf’s face. “The Yellowleaf asks: Why do you hold them in such low esteem?”

The question surprised Ruiz a little, but he let all the bitterness in him boil up and answer for him. “Why? Let me tell you about them.” His voice swelled into a shout. He turned and saw that the others were watching, wide-eyed. “Look at them! Let me number their virtues. There’s Gunderd, a failed scholar hiding from his inadequacies, playing make-believe sailor. His only noticeable skill is cheating at cards. There’s his cook, the small orange vegetable there, whom we dragged along just to annoy you. There’s Molnekh the all-consuming, a gangly dirtworld norp, a walking appetite who to my knowledge has never spoken a sentence more intelligent than ‘Feed me.’ And Dolmaero, his loyal dirtworld dog, a snake oil addict, a dour lump of a man who hasn’t smiled more than twice since I’ve known him.”

Ruiz turned his attention to Nisa; he hardened his heart to the necessary degree and went on. “And look at that: the dirtworld princess. Grew up in a fly-specked hovel of a palace in a shit-soaked stone town, and is therefore certain that she is the galaxy’s highest form of life. Managed to push her ignorant arrogance far enough to get herself put to death for excessive whoring, and then some idiot revived her, on the slaveship that was hauling her corpse to Sook.”

Ruiz turned back to The Yellowleaf, so he wouldn’t have to look at the faces of his friends.

Gejas spoke. “The Yellowleaf muses: And yet, in the slaughterhouse you refused to cut her throat.”

Ruiz shrugged. “A handy symbol, nothing more. A logical stopping point. I’d cut far too many throats. Had you not sent her, another throat I could not cut would soon have arrived.” He looked at The Yellowleaf, feeling a bright crazy burning in his eyes. “I’m not even sure I could cut your stringy throat, if you offered it to me. I’ve changed.” He said it for effect, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he was afraid it might be true.

An expression appeared on The Yellowleaf’s face at last. Ruiz hoped for fear or hatred, but then he saw it was a sort of disgusted pity, the expression of a person who has seen a broken-backed dog lying in the gutter.

Anger flared through him. It felt oddly pleasant.

“The Yellowleaf admonishes: Put aside your grievances and attend to your negotiations. The Yellowleaf offers: Free passage back to SeaStack for you and your people.”

Ruiz laughed incredulously. “Really? Aboard a Roderigo vessel? Do you take me for a complete fool?”

“The Yellowleaf responds in the negative. She has hired an independent transporter, unaffiliated with Roderigo.”

“Oh, of course. Would it surprise you to learn that I don’t wish to return to Sea Stack?”

“The Yellowleaf asks: Where would you wish to go?”

“Off Sook.”

“The Yellowleaf states: This is acceptable. She will arrange passage to the nearest launch ring. There you will be given funds sufficient to take you and as many of your people as you wish off Sook — but you must personally arrange for any further travel.”

“That’s easy enough…. “Ruiz said slowly. “But how will she convince me to trust her?”

“The Yellowleaf states: She would not expect you to. She will make herself hostage. She alone will accompany your people to the transport she has contracted, there to wait for you. When you have completed your mission and have the requisite information, she will release your people to you, and provide you weapons with which you may defend yourself against any treachery.”

It seemed a surprising offer. What, Ruiz wondered, was the catch? “Who will provide this transport?”

“The Yellowleaf reiterates: An independent contractor, whose identity is immaterial. They lie offshore in a submersible, awaiting our signal. When you have gone up to the virtual, The Yellowleaf will go down to the sea with your people. You will be provided with a comm device, with which you may make arrangements for the exchange when you emerge from the virtual. Do you wish to speak with the contractor now?”

Ruiz was amazed at the thoroughness of the hetman’s arrangements. It was almost as if she intended to play fair. “Why not?” he said.

Gejas produced a small transceiver and made as if to strap it to Ruiz’s upper arm. Ruiz snatched it, smiling brightly, and then examined the mechanism carefully. He could find nothing obviously wrong with it — no explosives, no drug injectors, no neural dampers. It seemed to be exactly what the Roderigans had claimed: a simple short-range transceiver.

“No video,” he said. Instead of strapping it to his arm, he knelt and put the adhesive band around his boot. Perhaps the thick plastic of the boot would thwart any dangerous mechanisms.

Gejas snorted. “The Yellowleaf states: You are properly cautious, but no treachery is intended. No, there’s no video, but the scrambling is sophisticated. To activate the device, enter the following sequence on the keypad.” And Gejas spoke a string of numbers.

Ruiz tapped them in; the unit’s ready-light glowed green.

“Yes?” The voice, tiny and distorted by some cloaking device, issued from the speaker.

Ruiz took a deep breath and then, in a creditable imitation of Gejas’s soft light voice, said, “Repeat your instructions.”

Gejas seemed startled but unalarmed. The Yellowleaf’s face, as ever, was unreadable.

A moment passed, then the speaker rattled and the distorted voice answered, “We are to take on passengers, for a destination to be given us by a final passenger, who will notify us on this frequency when we are to pick him up.”

“And?” Ruiz couldn’t believe that was all there was.

A pause ensued. Then the anonymous voice answered uncertainly, “Do you have further instructions for us? If so, we may need to negotiate additional fees.”

“Never mind,” Ruiz said. “Stand by.”

He clicked off the communicator. The Yellowleaf watched him without expression, but Gejas wore a twisted smile.

“The Yellowleaf asks: Are you satisfied with these arrangements?”

“Not particularly.” Ruiz considered the situation. “Tell me. Why did you bring us up here?”

“The Yellowleaf states: Dangerous folk frequent the seashore. Here we are safest.”

“Plausible,” Ruiz said. What would prevent The Yellow-leaf from issuing new instructions when she and the others reached the sub? “Let’s do this a little differently,” he said.

How could he maintain a reasonable degree of control over the situation? “How about this?” he said. “The hetman disarms herself and comes with me. One of my people comes along to keep an eye on her until I return from the virtual — that person must remain sufficiently intact to give me a report of the hetman’s activities during my absence. Clear so far? We’ll exchange hostages when I’ve got the information you require.” He spoke without the slightest hope that the hetman would agree.

Gejas looked at his master, and his mouth dropped open. “The Yellowleaf will consider your proposal.” The two walked to the other side of the camp, and Gejas spoke in an animated whisper, gesturing wildly.

Apparently, Ruiz thought, the tongue was unhappy with the revised plan.

Eventually Gejas fell silent and the Roderigans returned. “The Yellowleaf states: Your proposal is acceptable, on one condition. The Yellowleaf must retain her armor.”

Ruiz was unable to conceal his astonishment. “All right,” he said.

“The Yellowleaf asks: May we now see to the details? Time is passing, and the virtual opens at midnight.”

Corean slapped Marmo jovially, her rings clattering on his metal torso. “It was him! He disguised his voice but it was Ruiz Aw. I know it!” She turned away from the communicator and looked at the screen, which showed a wide-angle view of Dorn.

The island seemed to float above the star-silvered sea, a featureless mass. She wondered: Where on those dark slopes did Ruiz Aw wait for her?

Marmo cleared his throat and spoke with his usual deliberation. “Then you’re pleased?”

“Of course. Why shouldn’t I be?”

The old pirate sighed. “Don’t forget, the Roderigans will surely try to cheat you. And your previous jousts with Ruiz Aw have never gone as you expected.”

“How kind of you to point this out. However, we’re well armed.” She patted the sub’s wide weapons console. “The Roderigans believe we’re in a lightly armored little seabus — they won’t be expecting this. We have the Moc, if it comes to hand-to-hand. We have the Genched Pharaohan in place, if treachery is required. And Ruiz has no reason to suspect that we’re the ones who’ve been hired to ‘transport’ him.” She shrugged. “What can go wrong?”

“I’ve heard that question before,” Marmo muttered. “Usually on the eve of some great disaster.”

“The Yellowleaf asks: Will you come into the shelter, so we can discuss the information you must obtain from the virtual?”

Ruiz nodded and followed the hetman into her shelter, Gejas at his heels.

As he lifted the flap to go inside, he saw that the guards had begun to serve dinner.

The Pharaohans had turned away, but Gunderd grinned and gave him a wink.

Inside, The Yellowleaf indicated a low chair, and Ruiz sat.

The hetman took a chair across a small glowpoint, but Gejas stood. “The Yellowleaf states: The data we require has to do with the Gencha enclave which exists under the fortress of Alonzo Yubere, in SeaStack.”

Ruiz heard this with no great surprise; he no longer expected anything else. It was as if his existence had become some sort of inept drama, which kept returning doggedly to the same unsolvable problem. “I see,” he said.

“The Yellowleaf elaborates: We wish to know four things. One, how many Gencha live in the enclave? Two, what defenses protect the enclave? Three, why have these defenses never been penetrated and the enclave raided? Four — and most important — what is the great secret connected with the enclave? Can you remember these things?”

“Yes,” said Ruiz. “What makes you think this knowledge lies in the virtual? What if it doesn’t?”

“The Yellowleaf promises: If you fail, you will be given to Gejas for his amusement.”

Ruiz laughed. “An effective threat indeed. Well, then, tell me what I need to know about the virtual.”

“The Yellowleaf states: Very little. In a little while, you’ll set out for a certain cave on the mountainside. There at midnight the virtual field will envelope you. Your mind will dream with the virtual — it will be as if you have returned to the days of Dorn’s glory, when the island was encrusted with libraries and the villas of the keepers. Or so our information leads us to believe.”

The Yellowleaf stood abruptly and began to remove her weapons, laying them on an armory rack. The process took several minutes. When she was finished, she turned and raised her arms.

“The Yellowleaf permits you to examine her for compliance.”

Ruiz got up and approached the hetman reluctantly. He felt the same reluctance to touch The Yellowleaf that he might have felt toward a venomous insect. But he forced himself to loosen the latches of her armor and slip his hands inside.

It struck him as terribly unnatural that she should possess so human a body — tautly muscular, but with small soft breasts. The bizarre intimacy of the moment made his stomach heave uneasily. This was the creature who had ordered him to the slaughterhouse — what odd perversity of fate now caused him to caress her as a lover might? He felt slightly dizzy, but finished, finding nothing.

He noticed that the armor seemed slightly vulnerable over the lower ribs, where it was segmented for mobility. He filed the datum away for later consideration.

“Give me your hands,” Ruiz said.

With barely perceptible reluctance, she held them out. He examined them carefully and, in place of the left index finger’s last joint, found the too-regular shape of a one-shot graser.

“Kill it,” he told Gejas.

The tongue opened his mouth to protest, but apparently read agreement in the hetman’s face. He took a pinbeam from the rack and did the job.

A tiny plume of steam jetted from The Yellowleaf’s finger; a faint smell of cooking meat hung in the air for a moment.

The hetman took her helmet from the rack and settled it over her head. Gejas scurried to her and helped her refasten her latches.

The helmet, of silvery alloy, covered her head completely, replacing her enigmatic face with the image of a grinning snaggle-toothed ghoul, artfully carved in an exaggerated surreal style. She drew on beautifully made alloy gauntlets. When she was done, only the tangled black ends of her mane remained unprotected by her armor.

“So, how do you read her face now?” Ruiz asked Gejas. “Is she as jolly as she seems?”

“Shut up,” snarled Gejas, apparently on his own. “Outside.”

“Choose your man,” Gejas said, gesturing at the other prisoners.

In the wan blue light, the camp seemed a tableau of accusing faces and cold eyes. Only Gunderd appeared at all amiable. Perhaps, Ruiz thought, events had already diverged so greatly from the scholar’s gloomy expectations that he now looked forward to the next amazing incongruity.

If so, Gunderd wouldn’t be disappointed. Ruiz gazed at the others, and considered: Who would best guard his interests while he dreamed in the virtual? Gunderd might be the most capable, but what could he do against the armored hetman?

If they’d seen through his invective, the Pharaohans might still be loyal — except for the one who wasn’t.

Then an odd thought came to him… and then matured almost instantly into a plan. He turned it over in his mind; except for the possibility that one of the Pharaohans was a Gencha puppet, what was wrong with the scheme? Nothing obvious, he thought, suppressing an impulse to grin. “I’ll take the dirtworld princess,” Ruiz said.

Gejas responded with gratifying astonishment. “What good will she do you?”

Ruiz shrugged. “She’s somewhat observant, easily frightened, and naturally suspicious. All I want from her is an accurate account of your hetman’s doings while I’m in the virtual.”

Nisa stood up, her face set in angry lines.

The tongue’s mouth pursed, as though he had detected a smell, faint but very bad. “You plan some trick; so much is certain. It won’t work.”

“Probably not,” said Ruiz, adopting his most lunatic smile.

“And don’t think to run away. The Yellowleaf would catch you; she is very fast. Besides, we have very good tracking tech; this is my personal specialty.” Gejas patted his security console affectionately.

The Yellowleaf made an impatient gesture. Gejas ducked his head. “Time for you to go,” he said, pointing up the dark mountainside. He picked up a metal canister by its sling and proffered it to Ruiz. “Here,” Gejas said. “An energy cell; you’ll need to connect it to the virtual’s receptacle. Payment in advance — the only sort the virtual recognizes.”

“I wonder why,” Ruiz muttered, but accepted the cell and slung it over his shoulder. He turned to Nisa. “Come with me.”

She glared at him for a long moment, and he was afraid she would refuse to go, and that he would have to force her.

But then her face crumpled. She looked down at her feet, shuffled forward.

His heart felt as if it were being crushed between two cold stones, but he kept his voice light and easy. “So. Shall we go?”

At that moment Gunderd laughed and pointed to the landwalker that held Einduix’s litter. “Look! The cook awakens. Guard your victuals, everyone.”

It was true. The small orange man had somehow unfastened the straps securing him to the litter and was crawling out from under the landwalker, eyes still cloudy. He looked up at Ruiz and smiled, an odd rueful expression.

Then his arms seemed to lose what little strength they had, and he sagged, still smiling.

It seemed to Ruiz that Einduix laid his cheek against the stony ground in a strangely tender manner.

“Take charge of him,” Ruiz said to Gunderd. “Get him to the transport.”

“As you say,” Gunderd answered. He helped the cook to sit up. “Despite your unflattering opinion of me, I wish you good luck, Ruiz Aw.”

“Yes,” said Dolmaero grudgingly, but the Guildmaster didn’t look up.

Molnekh waved, waggling his fingers, then returned to the remnants of his supper.

Ruiz turned to The Yellowleaf. “We’re ready,” he said cheerfully.