The Pharoah Contract

The guards were definitely alerted by some anomaly. They loosened the nerve lashes that they wore holstered at their belts, making the movement seem a casual meaningless gesture. They drifted apart, so that no attack could reach both of them in the same instant. They no longer glanced at Ruiz, even indirectly — a failure in subtlety, Ruiz thought.

And yet they did not seem fearful or overly anxious, as if the situation they saw developing was one they dealt with every day. The readiness seemed more a routine response pattern than the result of any genuine alarm.

“What is it, Bolard? What do they know?” Ruiz asked. Bolard was silent, but his face gleamed with sweat. Ruiz transferred his grip on Bolard’s arm to the other hand and draped a friendly arm across the merchant’s pudgy shoulders.

Ruiz smiled the most terrible smile in his repertoire. “I’m about to hurt you, Bolard. Don’t stumble, or cry out, or I’ll kill you now.” Ruiz dug two fingers into the factor’s ear. He twisted the ear, exerting a fair amount of his strength. Bolard did stumble, but he stifled a gasp. Ruiz stole a glance at the guards, who were only a dozen meters away. They took no apparent notice. Ruiz released the pressure on Bolard’s ear.

The merchant drew a shuddering breath. “They think you’re a dweller from the city. You don’t carry a guest implant, do you? Please, don’t hurt me again. There’s no way you’ll get past them. Release me and I’ll use my influence, I’ll help…. Please.”

So they thought Bolard was trying to smuggle out a prettyboy. That misconception gave Ruiz an acceptable edge; the guards would be expecting trouble from Bolard, not Ruiz. As they drew abreast of the security men, Ruiz stroked Bolard’s round head affectionately.

One guard stepped forward, a flat-faced man with oddly colorless eyes. “Sir,” said the guard, reaching out a detaining hand to Bolard, “did you know that the Dwellers Below are not permitted to leave the city by this route?”

Bolard opened his mouth to protest his innocence, as Ruiz acted.

He shoved Bolard into the guard with enough force to send them both crashing down into a flailing heap and leaped toward the other guard. The heel of Ruiz’s hand smashed into the guard’s sternum before the guard had the nerve lash halfway clear of its holster. The guard jolted back, thumped into the wall, and fell bonelessly to the floor, unconscious or dead.

The nerve lash rolled free, and for an instant, Ruiz was terrified that it would get away from him. But his lunging fingers closed on the lash just in time to prevent it from skittering on down the hall.

Ruiz bounded to his feet as the first guard threw Bolard to the side. Ruiz whirled his lash to extrude the clinger-stingers to maximum length, shoved the vernier up with enough force to jam it at lethal output, and pegged it straight into the horrified face of the guard. The stingers struck and wrapped tight; the lash made an ugly thrumming buzz. The guard managed one stifled shriek as the lash burned out his brain — and then he fell back dead.

The other guests huddled against the walls, looking everywhere but at the bodies on the floor. The ones who were still close to the arena fled back inside, and Ruiz surmised that he had very little time before the management learned of the events in the corridor. He scooped up the other nerve lash and thrust it through his belt, after making sure that the safety was securely locked down.

Bolard lay on the floor and stared up at Ruiz. The whites of the merchant’s eyes showed all around, and the look on Bolard’s face had gone beyond mere terror. “Who… what are you?”

“Just another pretty face,” Ruiz said cheerfully. He hauled Bolard roughly to his feet. “Shall we go, sweetie?”

Ruiz dragged Bolard along at the best speed the fat merchant could manage, to the bubble ramp. They stepped onto a waiting freefloater, and sank slowly toward the hangar floor.

* * *

Corean was back, tousled attractively with sleep. She tore her eyes from the screen reluctantly. “He’s good, amazingly good. It’s a mortal shame we’ve got to terminate him, don’t you agree? At least in the abstract?”

“You know my opinion. It hasn’t changed,” Marmo replied. The cyborg was at a tactical dataslate, metal fingers tapping, directing Corean’s Moc into position.

Corean favored him with a sour look. “Yes, of course, Marmo. Necessity rules us. Still, don’t you feel even a tinge of regret that we must destroy such a beautiful animal?”

“No.”

Corean sighed. “Your circuits hold no poetry, Marmo. But in practical terms, then. What if he is not a League agent? What if we could secure his loyalty? What then?”

Marmo looked up, and Corean could read no emotion in that metal beetle-back of a face. “Impractical,” Marmo said. “Risky.”

* * *