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.