“Oh?” said Publius, bright-eyed. “Since when?”
“I’ve never been an assassin.”
“Oh, of course not, of course not. But you were always willing to kill anything that got in the way of your job, whatever it might be. Tell me, how many corpses have you left behind this trip out?”
Ruiz had no answer.
Publius laughed in a jolly manner. “You see? What difference does one corpse more or less make? Eh? And I assure you, he’s a very evil man, almost as evil as I am — he deserves killing almost as much as I do. Help me out, and I’ll get you offplanet, no matter what it takes, money or time or blood. But if you won’t do this little favor for me, I’ll take you and chop you up and make toys out of your pieces. I’m tired of worrying about your foolish little blackmail; a man like you will eventually perish, probably sooner rather than later, so why not get it over with? In a hundred years, who will care? Not I.”
Ruiz tensed his muscles and prepared to leap at Publius. The monster-maker had once been formidable, but perhaps his skills had deteriorated, perhaps Ruiz could subdue him, could hold him hostage until he had escaped the laboratories.
Publius raised his hand in an odd gesture, and stunner muzzles slid from the wall behind him, pointed at Ruiz. “Don’t be silly, old friend — and please, don’t make me wonder if you consider me so stupid as to sit and chat with you, protected by nothing but your famous goodwill. I must tell you, I’d be terribly insulted, if I ever imagined you thought such a thing. And you know what a temper I have.”
Ruiz sagged back in his chair. A feeling of futility came over him; what had he expected? That he would walk in and Publius would help him, out of the nonexistent goodness of his monstrous heart? Foolish, foolish.
“Who is the man?” Ruiz asked.
Publius stood gracefully and beckoned. “Come. I’ll show him to you.”
Ruiz stood with Publius, looking into an observation cell. He saw a man of medium height and build, dressed in a moderately fashionable unisuit. His face was unremarkable, even-featured, neither plump nor thin. His hair was an indeterminate color, neither brown nor blond, cut in a conventional style. He sat in a comfortable chair, face almost expressionless, except for a subtle quality of alertness. Ruiz wondered if he was a spy of some sort — he looked the part to perfection.
“Who is he?” Ruiz asked.
“His name is Alonzo Yubere.”
Ruiz was puzzled. “Why would you require my assistance? There he sits; why not just kill him yourself?”
Publius smiled and malicious delight spread over his face. “Oh, it’s not this Alonzo Yubere I want you to kill. No, no. It’s the other Alonzo Yubere, the one who controls the secret. You know, the secret that’s so inflamed the pirates.”
Ruiz assumed a look of bland indifference.
“You see, this Yubere is actually an old servant of mine, torn down and rebuilt in this undistinguished form. Alas, poor Hedrin — he served me well, but I had greater need of his body than he did. I long ago had Hedrin Genched, by the way. Everyone needs at least one henchman he can trust. So his loyalty, even in this new form, is absolute.”
“Ah,” said Ruiz noncommittally.
“Do you begin to understand? It’s an old idea, of course — replace the key person with a duplicate who belongs to you. But you know how tediously exact ident procedures can be these days, so it isn’t often tried anymore, and is less often successful. And Yubere is the most careful of men; his ident data was very difficult to come by. But,” said Publius, holding out his hands and wiggling the fingers, “my virtuosity with flesh and spirit has become prodigious, more than adequate to the task, and Hedrin has become Yubere, in every aspect but his basic loyalties.”
“I see. Still, why not simply buy an assassin in the market?”
Publius clapped him on the shoulder. “That was my plan, until you appeared on my doorstep, as if by magic. And who am I to sneer at Fate’s gifts? Besides, I have vast faith in your skills; if it’s possible to get to Yubere, you’re definitely the one who can do it.”
Chapter 12
Corean fumed. Bad enough that Alonzo Yubere had made her wait, worse that he refused to meet with her face-to-face. She was insulted… and worried.
His nondescript face stared calmly from the holotank. “Matters are unsettled, Corean. Somehow the pirate lords have learned our secret — or enough of it to make them froth at the mouth. I’ve been threatened, and even my Gencha are restive. They’re not stupid creatures, you know. Just unworldly.”
Corean was stunned. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes. You wouldn’t know how they found out, would you?”
“Don’t be absurd,” she snapped. “You have dozens of other clients, any of whom could have leaked it.” But she was very uneasy. Had Ruiz Aw somehow divined that she had been sending him and the others to SeaStack for their treatment? Maybe. But that wasn’t the central element of the secret she shared with Yubere, and the other slavers in his organization. “Do the lords know about the machine?”
Yubere’s lips writhed. “Best not to mention such things, even here,” he admonished. “No, I think not. They know only that an unnatural number of Genched slaves have recently appeared on the market, and they suppose that someone has a pack of unregistered Gencha hidden in their basement. That’s enough to drive them mad with avarice, as it is. They’ve made a connection with me, unfortunately. I may be forced to flee; you should be prepared to.”
Corean drew a deep breath. “I have unfinished business here. It’s your business too, so you’d do well to help me. That group of Pharaohan conjurors I was shipping to you for processing, do you recall? They escaped, and one of them knows I was sending him to the Gencha. And he’s not a Pharaohan, he’s a pangalac, a freelance enforcer… and a very capable individual. The longer he stays alive, the more chances he’ll have to pass along what he knows.”
Yubere leaned closer, his face suddenly keen. “What does he know?”
“Not a great deal — just that he and the others were to be processed. They escaped before the boat reached SeaStack, so he probably doesn’t know that the Gencha are here. But he’s clever; I don’t want to give him too much time to think about it.”
“What do you want of me?”
“I need a slayer. A very good slayer, someone who specializes in difficult infiltrations. And best if you can give me a Genched slayer, so there’d be no possibility of disloyalty.”
Yubere sat back, so that the tank’s focus dissolved and his face became a random pattern of primary color. He said nothing for a bit, and Corean became impatient.
“Well? Will you help?”
His face came back into focus; his eyes were luminous and Corean could almost see gears spinning in the facile mind behind those eyes. “Yes, of course. I have exactly the man you need. Leave your cyborg and your Moc; follow the mech I send. We’ll take a look at your slayer, and you can have him immediately, if you like.”
The mech took Corean to an elaborate security lock set into an ancient bulkhead. Once inside, she was searched, scanned, and deprived of all her external weapons. Finally the mech locked a neutralizer around her hand; if she tried to use the sonic knife built into her index finger, she would only succeed in blowing her hand off.
At the other end of the lock Alonzo Yubere waited for her, his unremarkable features composed, his hands folded across his stomach. “Come,” he said, and walked down the corridor.
She had never been in his stronghold before, and she looked about, frankly curious. The walls of the corridor were brushed stainless alloy, bright and clean and unadorned. The ceiling was a continuous glowpanel, the floor spongy gray tile. She fancied she could smell the decaying-earthworm stink of the Gencha who lived somewhere below, but if so, it was very faint.