When the River Ran Dry

by Robert Davies

  “Take care with your tone, Thutmose,” Neferure hissed, “she is my mother!”

  “She is also our king,” Thutmose smiled; “you would do well to remember that truth, Princess.”

  On his way, he stopped only to aim a determined stare at Apheru for a moment before disappearing beyond the sheer curtains. Neferure went quickly to Apheru and he gathered her in his arms. Thutmose’s words were suitable only to be carried on the wind to the vaults at Giza, she insisted, but the torment of a possibility too horrible to think of would not relent. She laid her head upon his shoulder.

  “It can never be so,” she said softly. “We were born to each other and that is the only place I will ever go.”

  Outside, the shouts of boatmen calling to shore for palace attendants to make ready announced the arrival of a royal barge, slowing as it neared the banks of the sacred river.

  “Who comes to visit?” Apheru asked, craning for a better view. She said nothing.

  “Princess?”

  Neferure walked to the broad steps of the palace, shielding her eyes with a hand against the glare across the calm surface of the water, reflecting the light of Ra more bright and powerful than a thousand torches.

  “It is Amenemhab; a lieutenant in one of Thutmose’s battalions. They met while serving Pharaoh at a garrison near the cataracts.”

  “I’ve heard of this officer,” Apheru said with a frown, “but not so frequently that his nature is well-known. Why would he arrive on a royal barge?”

  “Perhaps Thutmose has used his influence to spare his friend and favorite soldier the fatigue of traveling across the land to reach us.”

  “Maybe,” Apheru replied, but the intrigue that played out with Thutmose only moments earlier seemed far beyond coincidence. Again, the challenges to Apheru’s standing had risen to frustrate and confound, placing his position at court in jeopardy. If Thutmose was successful in swaying General Nekhbet, Apheru thought silently, even Pharaoh herself might be turned against him—against Neferure, too. He decided to wait and let Thutmose’s plan emerge; without the General’s full support, any rival to the hand of Neferure would stand little chance of convincing Hatshepsut to act against her own daughter’s wishes, regardless of the priest Senenmut’s loud, intrusive pleas. He smiled and took Neferure’s hand in his.

  “Shall we walk a while? It’s a beautiful morning and only your loveliness is more compelling.”

  “Very well, Captain; I am yours to command!” she said with a grin. “But when we return, I want you all to myself.”

  As they turned for the broad footpath beside the river where they enjoyed evening strolls, another watched from behind the curtains where they fluttered gently in the warm wind.

  “We shall see, Apheru,” Thutmose whispered where he waited for Amenemhab; “we shall see…”

  Ricky stepped from the cocoon once more, aiming for the gallery’s exit and the theater’s broad, garish lobby to pay his fee. Justman sat at an awkward angle atop an old, padded barstool, wincing with each slight adjustment against the pain he insisted was a lingering reminder of military service—a noble legacy of solemn, selfless duty as a conscript in the city’s Defense Bureau from the days when Novum fought the last war against Veosa, the closest city-state and neighbor far across the Broadlands. No one believed him, and the notion of Justman as a soldier was a customary, local joke. Still, Ricky allowed the oily, ever-perspiring little man the indulgence of his fantasy just the same.

  A permanent fixture, it seemed, like the tasteless magenta and purple wallpaper that surrounded her, Lady Gem sat silently in the folds of an enormous lounger. The chair’s faux-leather fabric was faded and worn, but she took no notice, concerning herself instead with a decades-old fashion catalogue and the possibilities of fresh and outrageous additions to her wardrobe. Her days as a bit-part actress on the vids were a distant memory, but excessive makeup—and outfits cut for a more slender figure—kept her rooted to a better time when riders in a pod train would point and smile, keeping alive another day the dreams of thespian notoriety that never quite panned out. Justman’s sleepy eyes and the false, saccharine smile he always wore met Ricky as he thumbed the transfer code and fee amount into the glass panel of the theater’s pay station.

  “So, Slider; how goes your effort to win the hand of the Princess?”

  Ricky felt his face flush, wishing once more he hadn’t described the details of his simulation in such detail to others, especially Ellis Justman.

  “Oh, it’s going well enough,” he replied.

  “Will you get to fight the other one—the nephew?”

  “I’m not sure; we’ll have to see what happens next, won’t we?”

  Ricky was determined to avoid a lengthy discussion with Justman. Some found it enjoyable—the ones who loitered around the theater with nothing better to do—given over to their simulations as a way of life in the vain hope familiarity as a theater ‘regular’ might win them free hours in an experience cocoon. His way was better, he decided long before; the time spent with Neferure was thoughtful and genuine, not like the desperate and perverse who seemed forever drawn to Starlight for the wrong reasons.

  Ricky looked away to hide his disgust. Many who took subscriptions found immersive simulations the best, often only option to satisfy their needs, while others simply went in search of companionship they could never find in their real lives. He looked at them in silent contempt where they gathered near the counter, laughing much too loudly at Justman’s idea of clever jokes. Some were outsiders and misfits with desires and habits so unpleasant, even the boulevard prostitutes refused their advances. Not the clean ones—the preening, ill-tempered professionals who worked the hotels and mid-level buildings in the heart of Novum—but common streetwalkers with out-of-date disease cards and mottled skin; crude night girls who smelled of disinfectant and contraceptive foam, trapped in dead-end lives that so often ended too soon.

  Starlight subscribers down on the streets simply couldn’t afford obedient, rubber-skinned pleasure units that became fashionable among elite Uppers; expensive, humanoid robots in plastic wigs and revealing lingerie were out of reach to the average Flatwalker. Some preferred virtual encounters if only to avoid complications should others discover the true nature of their depravity, comfortable in the knowledge Starlight never revealed its secrets. Ricky saw little difference and he despised them equally, wrinkling his nose at lives so dull and without purpose beyond selfish, puerile interests. Only the virtual warmth of a programmed character stood between some of them and suicide, he was sure, but they were all uniformly comical and absurd. Ricky’s program was something more; cultivated and rewarding beyond any cheap sex fantasy an ignorant ‘regular’ could conjure.

  He went quickly to the sidewalk along Reese Street and turned for the Square, stopping at once when he saw two figures waiting beneath a cluster of street lamps at the corner. Vaclav Bartel tumbled the little magnets in his palm as he always did, clicking them and separating one from another effortlessly and in measured cadence. Junkyard, the hulking sociopath who provided muscle to back up Bartel’s demands, leaned against the smooth, lavender-painted façade of the theater, seemingly unburdened by a huge raincoat that doubtless hid more than one fearsome weapon. Bartel moved suddenly, as if he worried Ricky might miss them, or at least pretend to and try to slip by.

  “Hello, Slider,” he said in the nasally, Bohemian accent Ricky had learned to hate. “We ain’t seein’ you in so long; how you been?”

  Ricky felt the tension build, remembering that Bartel never appeared unless he wanted something. With few exceptions, that need meant unpleasant tasks were coming, or the wrath of those Bartel served if he failed.

  “I’m doing okay,” Ricky replied, trying his best not to show the rising discomfort.

  “You been here a lot, I see; plenty of time in them sims, huh?”

  “It’s a good program.”

  “Justman, he says you show up two, three times a week now; not like before whe
n you was just getting all the way in, know what I mean?”

  “Ellis has nothing to bitch about; he gets his percentage. Anyway, what do you want, Vaclav?”

  Bartel smiled at Junkyard quickly, flashing the wide smile and gold teeth he wore as badges to remind others of his authority; the feared lieutenant of a street Boss with a reputation that harmonized with his ruthless nature.

  “You don’t gotta be like that, Slider! We just talk a while, see?”

  “I don’t owe Boris anything; what’s there to talk about?”

  “Oh well, the news is really good these days—we could talk about that, maybe.”

  Bartel would come around to the point soon enough, but there was little doubt his question was framed by the arrests of two powerful Bosses; everyone on the street was talking about it and Bartel’s visit was always a matter of time.

  “I haven’t looked,” Ricky said, knowing it wouldn’t make any difference.

  “Oh, you been inside with your computer sweetie too long, maybe? Well, let me tell you all about it!”

  Ricky looked away in frustration—sudden and obvious—but Junkyard moved toward him at once.

  “You better listen up, boy!”

  Bartel pretended to laugh.

  “It’s okay, Junkyard! Slider ain’t gonna make no problems for us. He know already what I mean, don’t you, Slider?”

  “Espinoza and Courtnall.”

  Bartel only nodded, but his expression had changed. The false and contrived pretense of friendship was gone, replaced instead by a worried expression Ricky had seen before.

  “Yeah, them two, they get zipped up by MPE boys last night and lot of things go real crazy, don’t they?”

  “I heard about it.”

  Bartel only stared and Ricky felt the sickening feeling, hidden deep inside where he kept all his secrets, begin to emerge. Could they know he’d been there? Had unseen eyes, hiding in the fog out near the Zone, reported to Bartel a late-night adventure to the now-empty machine shop?

  “Everyone hears about it,” Bartel continued, “but they don’t see what it means, do they? Not like us…”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Oh? Maybe you ain’t givin’ yourself no credit, Slider. From the streeties all the way to them Uppers, everyone says you got a nice view all across the city. They all tellin’ it the same, that nothin’ ever go by without the Slider see and know. We could learn how to do it from him, eh Junkyard?”

  Ricky’s fears tugged at him, demanding an escape, but he knew better; he had to stay within himself and let Bartel’s intent play itself out.

  “They’re looking at a long time in jail, I know that much,” he offered, but Bartel wasn’t impressed.

  “Sure, but that ain’t really the point, is it? Nobody gonna care if Espinoza and Courtnall go all the way down in them punishment cylinders, but lot of people, they wait and see how it goes for all the works they leave behind, maybe.”

  “Including Boris?” Ricky asked, even if he already had the answer.

  “Why not, okay? Yeah, the Boss, he likes to know what’s what, and he figure maybe you hear more than all them news girlies on the ‘net every night; he thinkin’ maybe Slider hears from the other hustlers, and maybe they hear from the streets over in Sector 5 or even Sector 7, right? Somebody got to find out so’s the big Bosses know when the time to move shows up, know what I mean?”

  “I haven’t heard anything from the street, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s been a while since I talked to the other hustlers about anything, let alone Espinoza and Courtnall. Why doesn’t Boris ask around himself?”

  Junkyard leapt to grab Ricky’s collar with both hands, shaking him like a dusty rug.

  “Watch your mouth, boy! It ain’t none of your fuckin’ business what Boris does, understand?”

  Bartel moved him away gently.

  “Easy, Junkyard; he ain’t gettin’ nasty, right, Slider?”

  “Tell your dog to keep his hands off me!” Ricky shouted. “If one of the other Bosses had his eye on Courtnall’s territory, he sure as hell wouldn’t tell me!”

  “It’s okay, Slider,” Bartel said, helping Ricky straighten out the crumpled material of his shirt. “Boris ain’t saying you owe him nothin’, but maybe from the others—the hustlers and bully boys in them guilds you work—if something maybe comes your way, you’d let us know real quick, right?”

  “Yeah, okay,” Ricky said at last, but inside, the relief he felt was immediate; there was no chance anyone had seen his run to the Industrial Zone and that meant his secret was safe, at least for the moment. It would take time before things settled down, but if Bartel (and Boris) was concerned most with Espinoza and Courtnall’s suddenly vacant territory instead of the treasure he’d uncovered, it was unlikely they knew of its existence at all. Time and patience would bear fruit if he kept his head down and refrained from vending the goods too soon. Everything was working as planned.

  “Good boy,” Bartel said with a smile. “See, Junkyard? Slider, he knows how to go; he ain’t gonna miss a chance to make good with the Boss!”

  Junkyard leaned close to Ricky and said, “You keep your mouth shut about this, understand? None of them other hustlers better hear a goddamn thing from you until long after you tell us, yeah?”

  Ricky returned a deliberate, bored expression to signal he wasn’t afraid, but Bartel only nodded to Junkyard and they disappeared into the mist. Ricky stood for a while, his head tilted back to let the rain play along his face and down his neck. The cool water felt good and he smiled, knowing the bag hidden behind his couch (and the promise it held) would not be disturbed. Inside, the little boxes had become his deliverer; there would surely be enough in return for their value to change his life for the better. Of course, he thought at once of Neferure; never again, he decided, would he have to wait out the days between visits to Reese Street.

  When he returned to his darkened flat, Ricky pulled the filthy, stained cloth from each box, laying the contents carefully on the counter in his tiny kitchen. The token chips showed less than he expected, but added together and redeemed at any exchange in small increments to avoid being noticed, the money was more than enough to ensure a comfortable life for five years, if it came to that. Ricky set them aside and looked instead at the other bits.

  Ancient, tarnished jewelry seemed bland and out of place; valuable only to their owners for sentimental reasons even the thief who took them couldn’t know. At last, Ricky lined up four data sticks, slipping each into his terminal to read the contents as they booted up. He smiled immediately as the results of challenge matches scrolled past in a long list with a menu of the violent acts the participants were expected to commit against one another. Some matches were simple fist fights with no weapons, but most allowed for electric stunners or crude clubs and shields—22nd Century gladiators whose real names were never revealed, but there was more.

  Next to ten particular matches—scheduled two weeks in advance, Ricky noticed—a competitor identified in parentheses he knew would emerge as the winner. Both players would be paid off for the sham, but fixed matches had become a guarded and lucrative secret across Novum’s underworld. Obscene amounts of money would change hands in anticipation long before the matches were held, leaving unsuspecting gamblers up in the mega-towers poorer for their trouble. In seconds, he understood. The totals were staggering, and more than enough to make the information a highly prized commodity to people like Courtnall and Espinoza. No wonder they took the time to hide it so well, he thought with a satisfied grin.

  Ricky returned the sticks and data chips to their boxes, wrapping them carefully before slipping the bag once more behind his couch. In a few days, he decided, a visit to Elden would show the full amount he held in his hand, and the way to realize its yield from the old man’s contacts far above.

  As the afternoon rush slowed the following day, Ricky went quickly from his flat and boarded a pod train for the Corridor. Beyond, Reese Street Theater waited and w
ithin it, the charms and lovely smile of one so dear to him, no other consideration mattered. Even from a brief inspection the night before, he knew the money waiting in the data sticks and token chips would be more than he could imagine. The urge pushed him again, but armed with his secret, Ricky could indulge himself without worry or hesitation. When he stepped from the platform and angled across the noisy intersection on a straight line to the theater, he grinned, unable to contain his excitement. Justman looked up from across the counter.

  “Slider! Back for another session?”

  “Yes, but I want to see about an advance.”

  “We can arrange for it, but it has to clear with Boris first, right?”

  “I know, but put in the request as soon as you can—I’ll pay it off a week from now.”

  “Okay, Slider; how many hours?”

  “Fifty.”

  Justman looked with raised eyebrows.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure; send in the request.”

  “Your normal weekly report shows about six hours average; that’s a big jump, not counting cleaning and disinfectant fees.”

  “I know.”

  “Okay. If you’re sure, I’ll send it up, but that’s going to be almost eleven thousand, total. You understand that, right?”

  “I understand, but it won’t matter in a week—send it.”

  Justman turned his head to one side slowly, the way people do when they know another is about to make a mistake. Unable to dissuade Ricky, he was obliged to fill the request. After a series of taps into the software ruling Starlight financial transactions, it was done.

  “How long until you get a response?” Ricky asked.

  “This is a big request, Slider; it could take a day until Boris sends down the approval or denial order.”

  “I’m thinking about upping to a Premier account soon, so let me know as soon as you hear from him.”