The Pharaoh Contract

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In the dim red light of the Beaster Level, pleasure seekers pressed against Ruiz Aw, a sea of wild eyes, wet mouths, sweat-slick bodies. He moved cautiously through the clamor and stink. Confusion protected him. In this grinding jostle, who would notice Ruiz Aw, who would report him to his employers?

The thought of discovery sent a shudder through him, raised goose bumps on his skin. The Art League’s inquisitors would ask, “Ruiz Aw, tell us. Just what were you doing on Dilvermoon? What mischief brought you to the hold of Nacker the Teach, notorious bootleg minddiver?” And, “Ruiz Aw, how did you happen to be there so soon after receiving your net? Tell us, Ruiz Aw.” Ruiz could conceive of no explanation that would satisfy those grim personages.

He imagined he could feel the death net behind his eyes, tangled around his mind, squeezing.

They can’t be everywhere, Ruiz told himself. And: It’s too late to back out. The thought echoed: Too late, too late, too late.

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