The Emperor of Everything

They might attempt to steal an airboat, which would convey them to any of a thousand neutral launch rings — but in SeaStack thievery was a way of life, and anything as valuable as an airboat would be elaborately protected. And leaving would still be problematical.

Several overland routes suggested themselves, but they all had their particular hazards — and Corean might more easily find them, outside the protective complexity of SeaStack’s warrens.

Ruiz shook his head wearily. He needed help, as much as he feared the risks implicit in such assistance. He knew of only one place in SeaStack he might look for help — but he would certainly be asked to pay a price for it. He hoped it wouldn’t be too high.

He tried to stop thinking, to give himself to the simple enjoyment of his new freedom. Who knew how long it would last? Gradually he succeeded.

An hour later they pulled under a low broad archway, which spelled out, in letters of wrought iron, “The Diamond Bob Pens.” Inside was an anchorage crowded with a variety of boats, from armored gunboats to sleek speedneedles to ragged wood-hulled junks.

Ruiz turned to the others. “Do you trust me?” he asked.

Nisa smiled. “Of course.”

“Why not?” said Molnekh, and then he shrugged.

After a time, Dolmaero nodded cautiously.

“Good,” said Ruiz. He gestured toward the landing at the innermost wall of the anchorage. Two security mechs stood sentry on each side of a heavy blast door, now closed. “I need to leave you all in a safe place, while I go and try to arrange passage offworld. This is the only such place I could think of.”

“What is it, Ruiz?” asked Nisa.

“It’s a slave pen,” he answered. “It caters to transient dealers who need a place to keep their stock while they make more permanent arrangements.”

Their faces fell. “Oh,” said Nisa in a small voice.

“Please,” he said. “Don’t be afraid. No one will harm you here, and even if Corean locates you, she’d have to raise an army to get you out. These pens are sanctioned by the pirate lords; she’d have to be insane to antagonize them.”

“She is insane, Ruiz,” said Nisa.

“Not that insane,” he said, and thought: Or so we must hope.

A moment of uneasy silence passed, and then Dolmaero spoke. “And what will happen to us, if you do not return?”

“That’s a possibility for which I have no solution.” The procedure followed by the pen was to keep the merchandise until the prepaid fee was exhausted — and then, after a short grace period, to sell the stock in the open market.

“Is it possible you’ll not return?” Dolmaero spoke with reluctant determination.

“Anything can happen,” said Ruiz. “But truly, Dolmaero, I don’t know what else to do. You don’t understand what a dangerous place SeaStack is; you wouldn’t survive a day unprotected. There are hotels, but their security is a joke — Corean would have no trouble locating and recapturing you, if I left you there. I’ll deposit sufficient funds for a week’s maintenance; I’ll surely be back before that.”

“I believe you,” Dolmaero said heavily. “But I’m worried. To have no control at all over one’s fate… it’s not a happy feeling. Still, I suppose that even in the worst case, we’ll be in no worse condition than we were when Corean had us.”

“Can’t I go with you?” asked Nisa.

“I’m sorry. I’ll probably meet with trouble; I’ll be more likely to deal with it successfully if I don’t have to worry about protecting you.”

She dropped her gaze. “I understand,” she said.

The speedboat drifted toward the landing. “I must ask you all to play the appropriate roles. Speak when spoken to, keep your eyes down, look defeated. Will you do this?” Ruiz looked at each in turn; they nodded. He looked especially long at Nisa, then, concealing the movement beneath the boat’s dashboard, squeezed her hand gently. He dared make no other gesture of affection. They were doubtless being watched by the pen’s security monitors.

“Above all, say nothing that the monitors might interpret as inappropriate for slaves. Be consistent and you’ll be safe.”

The boat touched the landing and attached its mooring linkages. Ruiz drew his splinter gun and made herding gestures. “Out!” he shouted. “All out now!”

The Pharaohans debarked onto the wharf, shoulders sagging believably, faces slack with misery. Ruiz followed, springing nimbly out and pushing them toward the personnel lock set into the wall next to the blast door.

The mechs watched them without interest, stunrods lifted in casual readiness. The lock slid open and they were inside.

A long steel corridor, dimly lit, stretched away into darkness. At ten-meter intervals, flashing signs pointed down side corridors. The signs indicated the quality of accommodations and the availability of vacancies in that area of the pens. At five-meter intervals, surveillance cameras and automatic weapons pods scanned the corridors.

“It’s self-service,” Ruiz said. He moved his group down the main corridor for several hundred meters, until they had passed beyond the minimum-service section of the pen.