“Yes.” The subject filled Ruiz with unpleasant sensations — a crawling sensation along his spine, a queasiness in his stomach, a sudden film of sweat on his forehead. In the depths of his mind, the death net twitched, reminded him that it would kill him if he fell into the tentacles of the Gencha. He shuddered. “Yes. Corean was sending us to the Gencha, so that we might be made safe.”
“Made safe?” Dolmaero looked dubious, as if he felt certain that Ruiz Aw could never be rendered harmless.
“The Gencha… they’re aliens, much stranger than the Pung who ran the slave pen. They’re repulsive creatures, but that’s not the reason I fear them. They’ve devoted centuries to the study of human mentation. They know us too well; they can make a person do or be anything.”
“And for us?”
“The process is sometimes called deconstruction. If we’re taken down into the Gencha enclave, they’ll tear down our minds and rebuild them in a form that would make us perfect slaves. Our primary loyalty would no longer be to our selves, but to Corean — or to whoever purchased us from her.”
“It sounds complicated,” Molnekh said. “Surely there are less troublesome ways of controlling slaves. On Pharaoh we manage well enough. If a slave is rebellious, we crucify him, or stake him out in the waste, or use him in an unsanctified Expiation. The other slaves watch and learn.”
Ruiz frowned. Sometimes he forgot that the others came from a primitive client world, that their cultural matrix was alien. He found it especially disturbing that Nisa was nodding her lovely head, apparently finding Molnekh’s statement reasonable and obvious.
But then it occurred to him that his own ethical standards were more theoretical than actual. At the thought, he was suddenly quite depressed. He might find the idea of crucifying slaves barbaric; still, Ruiz Aw destroyed innocent lives in the course of every job he did. Many had died since his arrival on Pharaoh, beginning with the Watcher on the Worldwall, whom he’d been forced to kill. Then Denklar the innkeeper, Relia the doxy, Rontleses the coercer — their deaths stained his hands. And after his capture and transport to Sook, the list of his victims grew too long to count. Sometimes Ruiz Aw saw himself as a sort of random merciless plague, constantly mutating, incurable.
Something must have shown in his face, because Nisa spoke, voice full of concern. “What is it, Ruiz? Perhaps this new way is kinder, but on Pharaoh we don’t have the means to rebuild minds.”
“Kinder?” Ruiz laughed bitterly. “No. The Gencha build human-shaped puppets — they’re no longer real people. The Gencha would make me into a flesh machine. And the worst thing is, I wouldn’t even know it; I’d think I was still the same person. But if one day my owner told me to open my belly and drape my guts over the shrubbery, I’d think it was a perfectly reasonable request and I’d do it happily. Even then I wouldn’t know that I’d lost my self.”
A silence ensued, as each considered the ugly picture Ruiz had painted. Even Flomel, who had studiously ignored the conversation, looked shaken.
After a while, Dolmaero looked up. He rubbed his heavy jaw, scratched his tattooed head. “Well,” he began hesitantly. “I mean no disrespect, but I can’t understand why, if the Gencha can do as you say… why they don’t rule the human universe. Or do they?”
Ruiz was once again surprised by the Guildmaster’s grasp of the situation. “A good question, Dolmaero. The Gencha don’t do this thing easily — the effort of fully deconstructing a human substantially decreases the Gench’s vitality, and recovery is lengthy and somewhat uncertain. They can perform smaller mental modifications with much less damage to their health.”
It occurred to Ruiz to wonder how Corean was able to arrange for the processing of five slaves such as he and his companions were — and why she would be willing to pay the astronomical fees such services surely demanded. He found, however, that it was difficult for him to consider any matter connected with the Gencha — it made his head hurt.
Then he was distracted by dark memories. He recalled the Art League factor on Dilvermoon who had hired him for this job… and then the League-owned Gench who had installed the death net and mission-imperative compulsion in his own mind. He discovered to his surprise that he had at some point reached a decision: He would never again permit his mind to be tampered with. It occurred to Ruiz Aw that he might have to find a new profession, in the event he survived his present difficulties. A remote possibility, he thought, and put the notion away.
“Also,” Ruiz continued, “the Gencha are a nontechnical race — they appear unable or unwilling to design machines to augment their abilities. Otherwise they might indeed control the pangalac worlds. Oh, occasionally a particularly ambitious Gench gains substantial power by converting a few influential humans. None has ever consolidated its position successfully. Partly luck, I suppose, but mostly it’s because the Gencha as a species don’t seem to be interested in power for its own sake. Finally, there are very few Gencha — and most of them are prisoners.”
“Very valuable prisoners, so I would suppose, if they can be forced to do their work at their captor’s behest,” said Dolmaero.
“Yes. Very valuable.” Ruiz was forced once again to consider an unpalatable truth: The Art League had sent him not to identify those who had been poaching valuable slaves from the League’s client world of Pharaoh, but to lead the League to an enclave of Gencha on Sook.
Ruiz glanced downslope, verified that the tumble of loose stone ended in a sheer drop, and shuddered.
Dolmaero followed his glance, smiled. “More luck. I must remember to stay close to you, Ruiz Aw.”
Ruiz sighed. “The luck comes and goes, Guildmaster. We’re far from safe yet.”
“What do you think we should do?” Dolmaero leaned forward attentively.
Flomel spoke in testy tones. “We must rely on the Lady Corean’s mercy. She’ll surely understand that we had nothing to do with the casteless slayer’s outrages. She’ll soon be here to rescue us from this bizarre place.”
Ruiz laughed, astounded. Even the other Pharaohans were watching Flomel with wide eyes, as if he were some odd menagerie beast, trained to perform eccentric tricks.
Dolmaero only shook his head.
“Flomel, Flomel,” said Molnekh. “This is no moment for jests; besides, you were never a great joker. The Lady Corean’s mercy strikes me as unreliable. Don’t you remember her ‘mercy’ to Casmin, your favorite enforcer? She cut his throat and burned him to a cinder.”
“I think Flomel’s too stupid to learn,” said Nisa. “He’s like Kroel, only he hides it better.” She looked at Flomel with vindictive eyes. “He’ll end up just like Kroel, with any luck.”
Flomel purpled, knotted his hands into fists. For a moment Ruiz thought Flomel might strike Nisa, and he swayed forward, filled with a hot impulse to commit violence. Here was an opportunity to be done with the treacherous conjuror; his fingers ached with the urge to snap Flomel’s thin neck.
Flomel looked into his eyes and stumbled back, suddenly pale.
Ruiz took a deep breath, and by degrees relaxed the snarl that had frozen on his face.
The others were watching him with frightened eyes. Even Nisa had drawn away, as if suddenly unsure of him. His heart twinged, and he managed a smile.
Her responding smile was genuine, if a bit cautious, for which he could not blame her. She would need to be mad or utterly foolish to trust him entirely… and she was neither.
“Well,” he said, in a somewhat shaky voice. “You may wait here for Corean, if you wish, Master Flomel. She’ll be here in two days, or a little less. Yonder ledge will make a roof for you, but we can spare you no food.” He smiled a different smile. “Still, I can almost guarantee you won’t die of hunger.”