He switched off the screen.
The most demanding, yet most pleasant moments of the passage to Pharaoh were those Ruiz spent practicing small feats of sleight of hand. These skills would be necessary when he walked Pharaoh’s dusty roads in his chosen disguise as a snake oil peddler, one of a caste of itinerant drug peddlers who customarily performed such minor tricks in the course of hawking their wares. Pangalac technology could replace skill in most instances, but there were still elementary principles of misdirection and showmanship to be absorbed.
Ruiz found an odd sense of accomplishment in mastering his few tricks, and what time he found between recovery and the next bout of datasoak, he spent polishing his skills, until he could perform his repertoire without fumbling.
Chapter 4
When the Vigia reached orbit above Pharaoh, Ruiz’s head ached with the new knowledge it contained. He approached the Art League’s orbital platform with an emotion close to relief. Here would be people, several thousand of them: League employees, consultants, contractors, transshipping travelers. The possibilities for distraction seemed promising.
From below, the platform was a less intense darkness against the blackness of space, showing no lights that some upstart genius on Pharaoh might observe. A crude telescope was well within the technical abilities of the culture below, and although such a development would be suppressed by the League infrastructure whenever it seemed to verge upon realization, the League took no chances.
Ruiz guided the Vigia carefully into her assigned slot, and when the last clashing sounds of the lock-on faded away, he unhooked his acceleration webbing and sighed.
“To work,” he muttered.
He dressed in a black zipsuit — suitable garb for an enforcer — then debarked. In the lock area, a young woman waited for him. She was small and very slightly plump, with short, curly, blond hair and an apparently genuine smile.
“Citizen Aw?” she asked, stepping forward.
“Yes.”
“Welcome to Pharaoh Upstation,” she said, beaming. “I’m Auliss Moncipor. I’m to conduct you to Factor Prinfilic’s office. Will you follow me?”
“Gladly,” he answered, with somewhat more amiability than the situation called for. Auliss Moncipor appeared a pleasant and guileless person, for a League employee, but Ruiz wondered why he was even thinking such things. He walked behind her as she led the way through one of the access tubes that tied the platform’s modules together. He found himself admiring the flex of her buttocks through the thin material of the League-issue overalls she wore. What’s the matter with me? he wondered. Why was he feeling such a flush of heat at the proximity of a rather pretty, but otherwise unremarkable young woman? He shook his head violently, hoping to clear it. It had been a long, lonely trip from Dilvermoon, but ordinarily he postponed his romantic impulses to a time and place where his profession and reputation were unknown — as a matter of principle and of elementary safety.
They arrived at the factor’s office, which was guarded by a small killmech. The sight of the assassin device restored Ruiz’s sense of proportion, to some extent, and he was able to raise his gaze to the young woman’s face as she turned.
“I’ll announce you, Citizen Aw. A moment, please.” She went in, and more than a minute passed. When she returned, she took Ruiz’s arm and guided him through the door. He was briefly but acutely aware of the warmth of her hand.
The factor was an ancient Dilvermoon herman, tall and thin, with disproportionately heavy breasts. It had the distinctively elongated and sexually ambiguous features of its kind, framed by an elaborately coiffed mane of white hair. A blue caste-mark flowered on its wrinkled cheek, identifying it as a member of a prominent clan. It extended a hand in greeting. “Ruiz Aw,” it said. “So happy to meet you. I’m Prinfilic; your servant.” Ruiz reluctantly touched its somewhat clammy hand and then sat down unasked. Auliss left through a side door, smiling over her shoulder.
Ruiz forced himself to alertness. The hermen of Dilvermoon were among his least favorite self-created life-forms; their amoral cleverness was legendary. He wondered that a herman had ascended to such a responsible position in the League, which was as paranoid about its employees’ loyalties as any other far-flung conglomerate.
Prinfilic folded its well-kept hands and leaned back. A look of covert disdain flickered through its eyes. Like hermen in general, it apparently had a highly developed sense of its effect on unmodified humans. But it smiled easily.
“You’re a welcome presence here, Ruiz Aw. The losses have gone far past acceptable levels in the last year or so. But you arrived here much more quickly than I had expected.”
Ruiz ascended to a slightly higher plateau of alertness. Was there a detectable level of guile in the herman’s voice? Was the herman in some way involved with the poachers on Pharaoh? Ruiz reminded himself to be especially wary as long as he remained aboard the platform.
“League Central did not inform you?” he asked.
“Yes, yes, but… the message arrived in a message drone, not six hours ago. Apparently you were contracted immediately following the decision to open this new line of inquiry, and you left without delay.”
Ruiz said nothing. He allowed the silence to congeal, until the herman finally cleared its throat and spoke again. “Well. Your authorization is of impressive scope; the League must have great confidence in you. For the duration of your stay here, you will be the factor. How may I facilitate your investigations, Ruiz Aw?”
“I don’t know, as yet. When I do, I’ll tell you.” Ruiz glanced about the factor’s office. It was elegantly decorated, if a bit fussy. The walls were covered in some fine-grained silvery leather, seamed with vertical stripes of wine-colored velour. At exactly spaced intervals, in pools of white light, Pharaohan effigies hung at eye level. Ruiz rose and went over to the nearest. It was, he decided, a dustbear’s snarling face, carved from what seemed to be the top of a human skull, stained with rusty pigment, and surrounded by a ruff of black feathers. A red thong held a swag of finger bones and little silver bells. Ruiz touched it and it made a strange, dry, shivery sound.
“A wonderful piece, eh?” Prinfilic spoke at his shoulder, and Ruiz restrained an impulse to jump. “I collect beautiful things from dirtside; it makes my time here pass more entertainingly. And it might make my retirement a bit more comfortable, or so I hope. What do you think; is it valuable?”
Ruiz moved away; the closeness of the factor made him uneasy. “I’m no judge,” he said.
“Ah. Well, how long will you be with us?”
“Not long. I’d like to service the boat. Then I’ll get right to work.”
Prinfilic looked genuinely disappointed. “Ah, no! Surely you’ll spend a day or two with us. At least. Why not have a last taste of pangalac life, before you go down to the dirt-grubbers?”
Ruiz looked at Prinfilic curiously. “Why do you say last? I plan to return soon.”
Its cheeks colored, a bizarre effect on a face so old and rapacious. “I meant, of course, the last time for as long as your mission requires you to be dirtside. Please accept my apologies if any offense was conveyed.”
“Sure,” Ruiz said.
Another silence ensued, and Ruiz imagined that he felt the weight of the factor’s disapproval. He ignored it and moved about the office, staring at the effigies that decorated the walls. Here was a daybat, its fierce raptor’s head carved from polished russet granite, with rubies set like beads of blood along the muzzle’s serrated edges. There was an arroyo lizard, with eyes of blue sapphire and teeth of amber. An obsidian Helldog wailed from a disk of gold and silver filigree.