The Pharoah Contract

Within, it was dark and a bit cooler. In the moment it took for Ruiz’s eyes to begin to adjust to the gloom, he sensed that the hut was, unexpectedly, occupied. He sidled aside from the silhouetting light of the doorway, all his senses reaching out. In addition to the musty scents of dust and mud and timber and ancient leather, he caught a thin organic waft — the smell of sickness. As his eyes adjusted, Ruiz made out a line of dilapidated cots against the wall. One was occupied by a still figure.

Ruiz moved cautiously forward. The woman on the cot lay still a moment longer, then twisted uneasily, as if tormented by a fever dream. A tiny moan escaped the pale lips of the phoenix.

Ruiz sighed and sat down gingerly on the nearest cot, which supported his weight with only minor ripping sounds.

Here was the tangible evidence of his foolishness. He sat for a long silent while, watching her troubled sleep. She represented an anomaly to his enemies, a source of suspicion, a focus for their paranoia. Ruiz was among them, a potentially fatal infection, and this woman was the first tangible symptom. For a time he weighed the notion of smothering her — no one would be able to say she had not simply succumbed to her wounds. When she was gone, perhaps his mistake might be forgotten.

Later, Ruiz could not remember just when he discarded that hopeful idea. He watched her sleep, watched the sweat bead on the sweet contour of her upper lip, watched her dark lashes flutter against the flushed translucent skin of her cheeks. Almost as an afterthought he assembled the logical support for his decision; the girl was already entered into the inventory banks of the slavers — her death or disappearance would remind them of the troubling question of her presence on the slave ship.

Finally he put his hand to her forehead and felt the fever burning bright in her. “Too hot,” he whispered, as if she could hear. He rooted about in the debris at the back of the hut and found a cracked plastic bowl and a wad of filthy rags. He went outside, located the watershed. Inside, in addition to the traditional bathing pool, he found a universal tap, the kind installed by slavers who couldn’t be sure what sort of hands their property might have.

When the rags were washed clean, he carried them back inside. She shifted feebly when he pulled off her rough tunic, but she was more than asleep.

The slaver should have left the limpet awhile longer, he thought.

He washed her as well as he could, and then continued to bathe her with the tepid water. He felt no sexual stirring as he passed the rag across her handsome body — she was still too ill to be beautiful, too close to death. But there was pleasure of a more detached sort in touching her; it was like running his fingers over a fine carving. Her skin was as smooth as polished wood, the topology of her body cleanly modeled. The scars of her brief death were only faintly visible in the dim light of the hut. The replicant gel would continue its work until they were gone entirely. Even her hand was healing cleanly, restored to youth.

For the remainder of that afternoon she slept. Occasionally Ruiz was able to squeeze a trickle of water into her mouth, using the cleanest rag. She was able to swallow, and her lips looked less parched. Ruiz began to take an odd guilty satisfaction in his nursing. When he realized this, he became angry with himself, but he continued. She began to look a bit more comfortable, and she seemed to rest more easily.

As the sun was setting, a tone rang out in the paddock, and Ruiz looked out to see a robocart trundle into the square, trailed by a gray guard holding a nerve lash ready.

The other Pharaohans emerged from the buildings. Ruiz was surprised by their numbers; there were at least fifty Pharaohans, mostly men, all commoners. The conjurors were apparently being held in the high-security cells below, as befitted more valuable stock.

The Pharaohans watched silently until the guard waved them forward. As they surrounded it, the robocart opened, revealing steaming tubs of Pharaohanese edibles: sand-mussel stew, hot pickled vegetables, a gray mush of ground jemmerseed. The slaves dipped reluctantly into the provender, with no great evidence of appetite.

When all were provided, Ruiz approached, and the others drew away. He saw that the food was only superficially Pharaohanese; it was, in fact, synthetic, crudely textured and colored and flavored so as to resemble familiar fare. Ruiz took a disposable plate and piled it high with the most digestible-looking choices.

With his mouth full of tasteless pseudo-barley and stringy synthalizard, Ruiz approached Dolmaero, who leaned against a wall, chewing stoically. A bit farther along the wall, a tall angular man with the tattoos of a coercer squatted, glaring at Ruiz with scornful eyes. The man had enormous hands, which he curled into hooks as Ruiz neared Dolmaero. Ruiz stopped at a respectful distance.