The Emperor of Everything

Just inside a Dirm bondguard lounged against the wall. It was just turning toward them, when Ruiz’s knife slid into its throat. It died with no more than a small gurgle, and Albany helped Ruiz lower the heavy corpse quietly to the floor.

Ruiz looked at Huxley inquiringly. The cyborg studied his detectors, then shook his head and smiled.

They moved through a large public room, decorated in a rather austere style, with pristine white walls and carpet, sparely furnished with openwork couches carved of some shiny black wood. The effect was curiously unreal, as if they had stepped into some ancient colorless photograph.

A hall full of outre paintings led into the private sectors of the suite. Ruiz passed them without looking, but even from the corners of his eyes, the paintings were disturbing — harsh clashing colors and distorted figures — a madman’s vision.

At the end of the hall, a maid came from a linen room, looked up to see them bearing down on her. She gasped and dropped the bundle of towels she carried, and turned as if to flee. But then she seemed to notice that one of the armored men running down the hall was Yubere, and her face filled with confusion.

Ruiz reached her and rapped his fist against her temple, then eased her to the floor.

“Sentimentalist,” whispered Albany. “She’s probably Genched, she’ll rise up and cut your heart out when we leave.”

Albany was probably right, Ruiz thought glumly. He resolved to be more decisive with the next servant they met, but they saw no one else before they reached their goal.

Chapter 17

They found Yubere in his bathtub. His white-tiled bathroom was unostentatious — not large, and the silver and gold tub wasn’t the sort that could seat a party of three dozen close friends. But it was quite beautiful. Its comfortably slanted back was inlaid with precious stones — black opal butterflies flew among jade bamboo stems.

The target was alone, soaping his back with a long-handled brush, when they burst through the door.

He seemed not to be very startled by their sudden entrance. He looked from the weapons pointed at him to the faces above the barrels, and smiled wistfully.

“You’re from Publius, aren’t you?” he said. He gazed at the puppet, as if admiring the fine work Publius had done. “Clever monster,” he said, and sighed. “I should never have been so greedy as to deal with a thing like Publius.”

He looked at Ruiz, and a look of bittersweet astonishment slipped across his face and was gone. Ruiz had the uncomfortable and illogical sensation that Yubere recognized nun. No, no; that was impossible, he told himself.

“Kill him now,” said the puppet.

“What are you getting?” Ruiz asked Huxley.

The cyborg shrugged. “Nothing. Weird. No alarms, no sensors, no remote surveillance.”

The puppet smiled. “We’re a man of destiny, eh, Alonzo. What need have we of the protections lesser men crave?”

“As you say,” agreed the real Yubere. He gazed curiously at Ruiz. “What in the world could Publius have promised you to make you come here? You’re not Genched; I can tell that much.”

Ruiz ignored him; he was dead.

But Yubere spoke again. “I suppose I should take some comfort in the knowledge that you won’t long survive me.” He began to scrub at his back again, and shut his eyes, a smile of mild gratification lighting his face.

Ruiz triggered a burst that took off the top half of Yubere’s head, and spread a symmetrical splash of red across the butterflies and bamboo. He slung the weapon and turned away.

“Cut him up and put him down the recyclers,” said Ruiz to Albany. He clung to numb purpose, and resolutely refused to think about what he had just done. He heard the burble of Albany’s knife, and then the distinctive sounds that accompanied carving the body into pieces small enough to go down the bathroom recycler.

The puppet’s eyes glowed, and he turned to Ruiz as if to congratulate him, and started to extend his hand. Ruiz slapped the hand down on the rim of the tub, and chopped with his sonic knife, splitting the puppet’s forefinger and the mechanism of the one-shot pinbeam.

The false Yubere gasped and shuddered, and started to jerk his hand back, then became still, until Ruiz had withdrawn the knife and released his hand.

Blood welled from the puppet’s armored glove, dripped to the tiles. He clamped his hand around the injured finger and looked at Ruiz without accusation. “Publius said you were alert.” He sighed and took off the glove, examined his mangled finger. He went to a mirrored cabinet and found a self-tending dressing, which he slipped over the wound and activated.

“Well,” said the new Yubere. “I’d like to get out of this armor.” He opened a tall ebony wardrobe that stood against the far wall, selected an elegant unisuit of dove-gray silk. “Suitable?”

Albany looked up from his bloody work and laughed. “Whatever that means,” he said.

“Hurry,” said Ruiz.