The Pharaoh Contract

Chapter 20

Corean gave all her attention to her spyscreen. She watched Ruiz assembling the snoring swain’s outfit, and laughed.

At her side, Marmo the cyborg rested on his floater, uncommunicative. But when Ruiz, equipped in his stolen garments, turned toward the lakeshore, Marmo spoke. “Are you certain this is wise? The Farelord Preall takes his little world seriously. He’ll be put out if your unknown damages it.”

Corean kept her eyes on Ruiz’s progress through the garden. “Preall is nothing to me. Besides, Preall fears me, as he should. If the unknown should take a sledgehammer to Thera, if he should poison the sea meadows, if he should net Preall’s darlings and hang them all on hooks and take holos for the folks back home and write on all the walls, “This is Corean’s fault,’ Preall wouldn’t say a word to me. And if he did, I’d tell him to complain to the Pung. After all, it’s their compound. They’re the ones who maintain the snapfields.”

“You’re right, yes,” Marmo said. His vocoder was turned down to a whisper. His lips pursed.

On the screen, Ruiz sidled delicately through a patch of shoreside bushes.

“Look, Marmo. He’s an elegant sort of snake, isn’t he?” Corean smiled.

“He doesn’t appeal to me. You knew he was the one, back when he saved the phoenix from the yokels — why didn’t you deal with him then? Freeze him down, ship him off Sook, and leave him where no one will ever find him. It’s always worked before.”

“Ah, but Marmo, what if he’s too quick for us? What if he manages to die before we get him frozen, and a signal goes out? What then?” She shrugged. “And anyway, he’s entertaining to watch.”

An uncomfortable silence ensued. Corean knew she was right to treat the unknown with caution. If he was a League agent, as seemed likely, there was an excellent chance he was fitted with a death net; if she were to simply kill the man the consequences might be fatal for her. At the moment of death, a burst of data would flood the tachyon strata, activated by the unknown’s death trauma. The burst would carry the unknown’s location and the immediate circumstances of his death back to the League.

But there was some doubt that he was a League agent. The preservation of the phoenix was a deep enigma. That the unknown had acted in so quixotic a manner was very puzzling. Either the unknown was an arrogant blunderer, with no grasp of the gravity of his situation, or else he was no blunderer at all, just a being so supremely sure of himself that he could afford to flaunt the survival of the phoenix in his captors’ faces. In any case, it was disquieting in the extreme that the unknown had resisted the stunfield long enough to attach the med limpet to the phoenix. She would have thought such a feat impossible. Certainly she had paid enough for that technology, supposedly the very latest, proof against any known conditioning system. These uncertainties made Corean reluctant to act against him until she understood the situation better. So she had set her traps and now she watched, waiting for the unknown to announce his identity.

If it turned out that he was only a beautiful predator, then she wanted him. She could brainpeel him, and eventually make him safe. And then she would keep him forever in her collection of beautiful things.

Ruiz reached the shore. Looking down into the waters of the lake, he saw a mariphile’s vision of fairyland, a fantasy city under the water, glowing up through the green depths. The city was built to an eccentric plan, with a complexity of spires and balconies, constructed of some pale translucent stone bright with an inner light.

There was something infinitely enticing about the city, which Ruiz attributed to the harmonic generators. Ruiz felt a strong urge to join the revelry that swirled among the towers and courtyards and pavilions of the submerged city. Tiny human figures swam far below, flitting lazily from building to shining building.

Ruiz felt a touch of optimism. If appearances could be relied on, he had stumbled onto some wealthy being’s plaything, a permanent installation maintained on Sook for the diversion of the owner and his guests. Escape from here might be feasible, because of the greater volume of traffic in and out.

Ruiz examined the surface of the lake, which had a dense, viscous, unwatery look. He nodded, stood up, stretched, and allowed himself to fall face first into the lake.

As he had expected, he didn’t get wet; there wasn’t even a splash. The surface layer, a semiliving protein, flowed around him and bonded to his skin and clothing, preventing the penetration of the fluid, which was not water and carried a hypersolution of oxygen. Ruiz breathed in, and the bond layer passed oxygen through to him. The bond layer ensured survival, comfort, and even sartorial correctness; his cap remained tightly attached to his skull. The fluid provided Ruiz with a small negative buoyancy, so that Ruiz drifted gently downward toward the city. The fluid was just cool enough to be comfortable, though it took him some moments to grow used to the odd talcum-powder slipperiness of the fluid against his skin.

Through the fluid he could hear music. A dozen small orchestras played softly below, and the murmur of many voices carried oddly through the fluid. Ruiz floated toward a large pavilion, directing his descent with small flicks of his hands. The pavilion’s roof was formed to resemble a starfish, and each spiny projection on the roof was tipped by a tiny sparkling light. The lights pulsed and rippled to the music that played within.

Ruiz touched down just outside the railing that rimmed the dance floor of the pavilion, where a number of filigree booths gave a little privacy to tired dancers.

He rested for a bit by the railing, watching the dancers. They danced a complicated figure, swirling in slow grace. The men were uniformly dashing, the women as beautiful as they were haughty. All wore mannered expressions so uniform that the effect was unsettling, as if Ruiz watched one couple in a hall of mirrors instead of the dozens who filled the domed interior.

Ruiz recognized the touch of Cleve of Sook, a minor master in the art of the grown culture. This example of Cleve’s work, though probably not among his most original designs, would still fetch a pretty price in the Pit on Dilvermoon. Ruiz wondered if it was stolen, that being the only reason he could imagine for the culture’s presence here in an obscure slave pen. He shook his head. Grown cultures always made Ruiz Aw uneasy, for reasons that he had never been able to give a definite shape to. Perhaps it was due to the sense he had, when among the dwellers of such a culture, that the artificially instilled behavior that directed every thought and mood of the dwellers was dangerously brittle, so that the uncontrollable humanity of the dwellers might at any moment erupt in terrible acts.

The act that unfolded while Ruiz watched, however, was certainly part of the programmed ambience of the culture. Two young men at the center of the figure, both striving for a fashionable extravagance of gesture, chanced to bump elbows. Immediately they whirled to face each other, interrupting the flow of the dance. The music trailed off uncertainly; the two spoke harshly to each other, though Ruiz couldn’t make out the actual words. The other dancers formed a globe around the two, and from the avidity of the watchers’ expressions, Ruiz understood what was to follow before it happened, though it happened very quickly.

Both whipped willow-leaf daggers from their sleeves at the same instant, as though controlled by the same brain. The first slash and parry were almost a continuation of the dance; the fluid they swam in enforced grace even in the extreme of combat. But then it was over, and the victor pulled his dagger from the throat of the loser. A small crimson puff of blood escaped before the bond layer sealed the corpse. The loser floated quietly in the center of a rapidly emptying pavilion.

Many of the couples were swimming upward toward the surface, faces taut with unconcealed lust. The nature of the bond layer made it inconvenient to perform the more basic human functions, including sex, because the bond layer did not pass nongaseous matter. Doubtless, air spaces were common in the city’s private areas, but Ruiz couldn’t deny the lure of the starlit gardens.

A hand touched his sleeve and he turned as quickly as he could in the fluid.

A stout man with a sly appraising face floated there, watching Ruiz with tiny eyes. “You’re a guest of Lord Preall also, eh?” the man said, emitting a cloud of tiny bubbles. The tiny eyes widened when he saw Ruiz’s tattoos.

Ruiz collected himself. “Of course,” Ruiz said in his most autocratic tones.

The man relaxed, apparently satisfied that no painted savage would speak in so assured a fashion. “I introduce myself,” the stout man said. “I’m Highfactor Fhuniac Bolard, of Moover Station.”

Ruiz revived a former incarnation, one he’d used on an ill-fated mission to Tronkworld. “Yuhi Nolto Macchia, Scion of the Kruger Macchias.” Ruiz smiled coldly. “We have more intriguing entertainments on Kruger, I must inform you.”

The Krugerites were a notoriously bloodthirsty, eccentric, and testy race, who brooked no interference with their personal whims. Ruiz could almost see the gears turning in Bolard’s brain. The stout man was thinking that inviting such a guest was an act of conspicuous foolishness on the part of Lord Preall — quite inhospitable to his other guests, in fact. But after a moment Bolard decided to put the best face on things; it was, after all, the only feasible course. “Dancing, killing; I agree with you, not well done,” Bolard said nervously.

“You presume to put words in my mouth,” Ruiz asked in quivering tones.

“I? Never, Scion.”

“That is well. Of dancing I have little opinion. But killing can be immensely entertaining, when performed with skill and élan.”

“Yes, of course. Well put, Scion.” Bolard was now thinking only of getting away, and Ruiz took a certain grim amusement in pressing him. From the moment Ruiz had leaped onto the stage at Bidderum, others had pushed; Ruiz had yielded. There was an ugly but undeniable pleasure in doing the pushing, for a change.

Ruiz spread a feral grin across his face. “You are a frequent visitor to Preall’s little domain? Good! You shall be my guide, as this is my first visit. I am sure you’ll not disappoint me.”

Bolard concealed a look of resigned despair. “You honor me too much, Scion,” he said hopefully.

“Not at all,” Ruiz said, taking Bolard’s doughy arm in a grip so vigorous that Bolard was not quite able to avoid a wince. “Where shall we begin, good Factor?”

As Corean watched, she chewed delicately at her lower lip. “He’s convincing,” she murmured to herself. “Yes, he is. I wonder, Marmo, could he really be of the Macchias? No, no, of course not. But still, he’s good, isn’t he?”

Marmo was listening, as he always was. “Freeze him, lose him. You know my view,” the cyborg said. He was playing one of his endless games, his crystal eyes fixed on the larger eye of his dataslate.

Corean shot him an annoyed look. “Patience. We’ll wait for him to show us what he is, or for the situation to begin to get out of hand. Right now, we have him where we want him, no?”

“I suppose so,” Marmo said, with a rasping sigh.

“Here is what we watch for, Marmo: any sign that he is a League agent. Or indisputable evidence that he is not. Or any sign that he’s about to get away. Until then, we just watch.” Corean rose gracefully from her chair and shook back her long jet braid. “You have the duty now, Marmo. Run your assassin past him at the first opportunity. I’m going to bed. Disturb me only if you see something important occurring.” She swept out. At the door, she looked back, to see Marmo staring thoughtfully after her, his photoreceptors gleaming.

As time passed and Ruiz refrained from killing him, the factor relaxed somewhat, and became a passable guide. They passed other visitors to the submerged city, which Bolard called Thera. Ruiz glared fiercely at these others, who thereupon paddled in the opposite direction. Fortunately, none of them seemed to be the owner, who might have investigated a hard-looking guest he did not recognize.

One of the first buildings they approached was a dining hall, and Ruiz directed Bolard toward it, prompted by a sudden gnawing in his stomach. Long hours had passed since his last meal of pseudo-Pharaohan cuisine, and his exertions since then had been considerable.

When they emerged in the hall’s air space, the bond layer flowed away from them in sparkling rivulets. Ruiz took a deep breath, more satisfying than the rapid, shallow respiration that the bond layer demanded, and the odor of rich pangalac foods filled his nostrils. They were alone in the hall, except for a dozen robot servitors who waited by the dispensers. “Come, Bolard, I will try Preall’s table,” Ruiz said.

Bolard looked more enthusiastic than he had since he had made the mistake of speaking to Ruiz. “A fine idea, Scion,” he said, licking his lips. Ruiz guessed that Bolard was one of those fat folk who perpetually hungered, despite the availability of appetite conditioning, because such conditioning made gluttony no longer enjoyable. And here was Ruiz, ostensibly an irascible Macchias, the perfect excuse for indulging. Ruiz could almost hear Bolard explaining the situation to himself: But the Scion might have been fatally offended, had I not joined him at the table….

Well, Ruiz was not one to deny his victims their pleasures, as long as he wasn’t inconvenienced. He fell to eating with insistent enthusiasm, and encouraged his prisoner to do the same. Soon Bolard’s good humor was restored. Preall served a fine banquet, with choice food from many pangalac worlds, brought by the robots in unending rivers: rare meats, savory sauces, pastries light as sugared air.

Ruiz tasted a bit of everything, but refrained from gorging. Matters were proceeding suitably, but should an emergency arise, he must not be comatose with food and drink. Besides, an unbidden memory arose, of the phoenix play and the devouring mouth of the god of gods and the banquet that appeared as magically as this one did. That led to the memory of Nisa lying still with the stiletto vine violating her flesh.

Dark thoughts diminished the pleasure of his dinner.

Ruiz grew morose as his appetite waned, and Bolard noticed. “Well, Scion,” Bolard said timidly, “what would you like to see now?” The factor wiped greasy hands. “Perhaps the game rooms? The euphorium, or… would you like to visit Lord Preall’s peach pit? The harlots are imaginative and skillful, they say.”

Ruiz spoke sourly. “At present, none of those appeal.” Time, he thought, to restore the fat factor to a malleable terror. He leaned close to Bolard, spoke with a leer. “Let us return to the subject of killing. Tell me, Bolard, is artistry available, not simple butchery?”

Bolard’s chins trembled. “Oddly enough, Scion, I believe that the night’s entertainment commences soon.”

Ruiz was not surprised. The culture had the flavor of a barbarian conceit, where intensity in all the emotions was encouraged, where any number of abstract concepts such as honor and status and duty were artificially elevated to a higher status than life. “Take me to the place,” Ruiz said, with a barely perceptible touch of weariness.

Bolard was pompous, but he was no fool, and a calculating sidelong glance told Ruiz that Bolard was thinking too much, and that Ruiz had made a serious mistake in revealing any distaste.

But Bolard smiled and said, “This way, then, Scion.”

He smiled with a very near approximation of his original servile smile, but Ruiz resolved to keep a close eye on Bolard.

At that moment a burly scarfaced man in the somber uniform of the Lawbirth proctors stepped up into the hall. He looked at Ruiz as if inviting conversation. Ruiz looked back at the uniformed man with as unsociable a glare as he could summon, and after a moment the man turned away, shrugging.

Reentering the fluid, Ruiz and his guide swam downward, toward the roots of the city.

Marmo watched with one eye, as the spy bead showed the unknown as he and his captive went deeper.

Marmo’s ploy had been a long shot, so he was not unduly frustrated by its failure. Had the unknown rushed up to the false proctor with his tale of being kidnapped, then the proctor, who was one of Corean’s best coercers, could have burned down the unknown without further ado. But the unknown was apparently not an innocent bystander; he knew he was on Sook, where no pangalac law reached.

The unknown was clever and resourceful, but all humans were fools in Marmo’s eyes, which was why he served a woman who in her own way was no more human than Marmo, who had managed to burn away most of his soft, fallible flesh in several centuries of pirating among the stars. Sometimes he wished he were still plying his former trade, which was cleaner in some ways than his present one. But age comes to all beings, and this was a useful and amusing form of retirement.

There were undignified aspects to his present employment, of course. He chafed, for example, under Corean’s instructions not to act against the unknown, who had demonstrated an amazing arrogance. It was, after all, Marmo’s expertise that the man had circumvented, not once, but several times. He had resisted the stunfield; he had attached a limpet to cargo that should have been spaced before the ship had left Pharaoh’s system; he had managed to get aboard in the first place. It all cast an uncomplimentary light on Marmo’s expertise. Corean had said little after her first outburst, but Marmo was sensitive regarding his handling of the ship, or any of the other mechanisms in his care. They were, after all, his brothers and sisters. So he watched carefully with one eye, and with the other he watched the progress of the endless game he played against his own coprocessors.

His interest quickened when he saw the unknown and his guide disappear into the vault of resurrection.

Ruiz and bolard sank through a deep pit faced with black granite, through a dim murky layer of brown-tinted fluid, and then into a vast spherical arena. Bright air-filled galleries lined the inner surface, and they were full of folk, both dwellers of Thera and visitors of many races. Held at the center of the arena by slender pylons, a roughly spherical, multifaceted form of pitted metal rotated sluggishly in the current that constantly flowed, around and around. Each facet held a narrow door, proportioned to pass a full-grown person. There were dozens of facets.

“Scion, you would honor me by sharing my personal box.” Bolard led him to a fluid lock, and from there into a corridor that spiraled through the skin of the arena.

Bolard’s box was rather smaller than the majority of those Ruiz had glimpsed, but it was comfortable enough, with a wide couch that looked out through a crystal band into the arena.

Bolard ushered Ruiz inside with much ceremony, but to Ruiz’s straining ears, there was a false note to Bolard’s subservience. No matter, Ruiz thought, he’d just have to keep a close eye on the factor until a way out presented itself.

“The entertainment begins now,” Bolard said, with a raspy grunt of anticipation.

A circular door at the bottom of the arena irised open, and the combatants floated up into sight. These were two of the handsome, haughty women of the drowned city. They wore iridium mirrors on their left forearms and carried energy projectors in their right hands. Otherwise they were naked, but for spiderweb skin designs in orange biolume. Ruiz watched their faces, but could detect no sign of fear.

They scissored their legs slowly, until they’d risen to the level of the equatorial viewing boxes, and faced each other across ten meters of fluid. At the sounding of a deep thrumming tone, the duel began.

It was ugly. The projectors fired a short-range heat beam. Each woman at first deflected the beams of her opponent with great skill, but before long, beams began to miss the mirrors and strike flesh. The meat cooked from their bones while they still lived and struggled. After a time the combatants concentrated only on protecting their eyes and the muscles that pointed the projectors and squeezed the triggers.

The current in the arena carried their twisting bodies around and around, past the galleries where the watchers pressed themselves against the glass. The exhibition ended when one woman was blinded, and the other beamed her into a bubbling mass, before expiring in apparent triumph.

Ruiz sat, impassive, conscious of the occasional sly glances that Bolard cast his way.

“Now watch,” said Bolard. “This is the amusing part.”

Attendants stroked swiftly into the arena and removed the remains. Then an expectant interval ensued, and Ruiz looked where Bolard pointed, where two facets on the central artifact glowed with a pale red light.

Soundlessly, the doors popped open, expelling two figures in a cloud of tiny bubbles. They tumbled forth, and Ruiz saw that they were clones of the two women who had just died. For a moment they both seemed confused, floundering weakly in the current. They saw each other, and now Ruiz did see anger. The two women struggled toward each other, and would have torn at each other with bare hands, had attendants not separated them and carried them away.

“Hereditary enemies,” Bolard said with a chuckle. “The womb can mature a clone about every six weeks. These two will be matched against each other afresh, as long as the womb survives. The only time they’re happy is when they’re allowed to get on with the business of killing each other. It will be a long six weeks for those two.” Bolard laughed again. “I suppose the funniest part of it is that they consider themselves to be the luckiest of beings, blessed, immortal, better than we who come to see them die.”

There were more duels, for hours, and Bolard grew merrier as Ruiz sickened. But finally it was over, and robot strainers swept through the bloody soup that now filled the arena.

“Did you enjoy the entertainment, Scion?” asked Bolard.

Ruiz shook himself, and turned his eyes to the factor. “It was inventive at first, if you enjoy spectator sports.”

Bolard looked just the least bit uncertain. “Scion?”

“Does watching ever bore you, Factor? Don’t you long to dip your own hands in hot gore?” Ruiz fixed a bloodthirsty rictus on his face. “I do.”

Bolard had gone pale. “Lord Preall reserves that for himself and his closest cronies, I’m afraid, Scion. Er… are you among those?”

Ruiz said nothing, but Bolard must have seen something frightening in Ruiz’s eyes. “Well, it has been a great pleasure, Scion, but now I must be getting back to my ship. We lift for the Archplate at dawn.”

He stood, edging away. Ruiz got up and slid swiftly to the door. A long moment passed before Ruiz spoke. “I’ll walk along with you for a bit, Factor.”

Bolard gathered his dignity. “As you wish,” he said.

Marmo forgot his game. He activated the line to Corean’s quarters. “Corean,” Marmo said in his artificial voice, “he’s going to the landing zone with the merchant.”