The Emperor of Everything

Inside, Ruiz was briefly assailed by nostalgia. The air seemed so familiar, thick with the stinks of his trade: sweat, alcohol, smoke, gun oil, ozone. Harsh voices drifted from the various curtained openings along the entryhall. He heard sudden ugly laughter, curses, off-key song, the clink of glasses, the bubble of pipes, sighs, and moans.

He shook his head. It seemed strange to him now that he had ever lived that life… though it wasn’t so long ago.

“Let’s go down to the message room,” he said, and Huey followed obediently.

The message room was an island of hygienic technological calm in the steamy depths of the Spindinny, full of chrome and glass and the soft hum of machinery. Ruiz sat at a dataslate and entered his requirements and payscale. When he was done, he rented an interview room and went there to wait for his troops to crawl out of their revels.

Four hours later he had five mercenaries he judged competent, out of almost a hundred applicants. Publius had allowed him six choices, but he was growing discouraged. And he was exhausted; every session with the verifier — the limited brainpeeler he was using to assess the skills of his applicants — had taken a little more out of him. The holomnemonic oceans of the mercenaries who frequented the Spindinny were murky dangerous waters.

His squad so far consisted of: a much-scarred graduate of the downlevel bloodstadia, a cyborged clone of the famous emancipator Nomun, two solemn women from Jahworld who were expert pinbeamers, and a beaster-addict who favored the wolverine persona. The beaster might have been a mistake, Ruiz thought, brought on by exhaustion and frustration with the poor material from which he’d had to choose. The beaster was ferocious, no doubt about it, and skilled at killing — but could he be relied on to control his murderous alter ego in situations calling for more detachment than ferocity? Ruiz was unsure.

While they waited for Ruiz to find his last recruit, the three men played a card game in the corner. The women held hands and watched Ruiz with wide golden eyes.

When he was about to close up and make do with what he’d already found, a familiar figure stumbled into the interview room, a tall gangly individual who wore his silver-plated hair in a stringy ponytail. His lumpy face was embellished with random slashes of blue-green beauty paint, and he was dressed in a worn-out unisuit, decorated with souvenir patches from a number of Dilvermoon tourist attractions.

“I’m not too late, am I?” asked Albany Euphrates, swaying a bit. He peered at Ruiz, took a shaky step forward. “Ruiz? Ruiz Aw? What are you doing in this devil’s den?”

“Looking for you,” said Ruiz, not altogether facetiously. He couldn’t quite contain his delight. Albany was no more saintly than any other person who fought and killed for money — and for the perverse pleasures to be found in violence. But Ruiz had campaigned with Albany on two prior occasions, and had witnessed Albany acting from both loyalty and compassion. These were rare qualities in a freelance slayer. He had formed a cautious friendship with Albany, even though in the second instance, the ill-fated campaign on Line, they had ended up on opposing sides. Albany’s major personal weakness was a predilection for the various chemical recreations; at the moment he seemed quite drunk.

“Looking for me,” said Albany Wearily. “How odd. Well, I’m found. What’s the job?”

“Sneak and snuff,” said Ruiz.

Albany shook his head doubtfully. “I don’t know, Ruiz. I’ve never been much for the cold blood.”

“I know. But this is a worthwhile job. The target needs killing badly — a lot depends on it.” And this was no lie, Ruiz thought.

Albany sighed. “Well, if you say so. I don’t think you’d mislead me — you were always funny that way.”

“Good,” said Ruiz. “Let’s get you sobered, and then we’ll go. It’s a rush job.”

They were all in the hold of Publius’s armored airboat, except for Publius, who had seen the wisdom of Ruiz’s suggestion that he not make an appearance. “One of them might recognize you and come down with a fit of moral qualms,” Ruiz had said.

Albany was sober, but still a little shaky. The on-board medunit had fitted a perfusor cuff to his arm and was pumping restoratives into him. “So,” said Albany. “What’s the plan?”

They were on the way to the storage facility where Publius kept his submarine, and Ruiz had a few minutes to go over the plan he’d developed in conference with the false Yubere. He explained how and where they’d break into Yubere’s stack. He discussed, though not in horrifying and discouraging detail, the obstacles they might have to deal with on their way up to Yubere’s quarters. All of them were experienced in urban warfare and had been trained in the basic maneuvers necessary for such an assault — though Ruiz hoped they could be crafty enough to avoid any pitched battles.