The Risen Gods

by Frank Kennedy

  “By not spending money.” He saw the confusion in his brother then waited for the expression to change to sudden realization.

  “Our father is a thief?”

  He nodded. “Some of these pieces are treasures to the indigos. They’ve built legends and myths around these artifacts. If they knew the truth, well … not a thing they could do about it.”

  “You were right, Valentin. What you said back on the platform. He raised you to be a god.” James leaned over. “But he’s just a man, and we have to make him remember that. We can’t let him walk away from what he did to us.”

  “No worries, brother.” Valentin slowed the rifter as they approached the family communal suite. Maj. Sexton Marshall stood outside the portal awaiting their arrival. “He’s too arrogant to think his own sons would ever hurt him. And you’re a mystery to him. Nothing crawls under his skin more than lack of foreknowledge. Use that, James. There’s nothing I can say he won’t see coming.”

  “And our mother?”

  He guided the rifter to a gentle halt. “Watch her eyes. If she locks onto you, she’s interested. Grab the moment before you lose her.”

  Maj. Marshall greeted them. Valentin was surprised to see him standing guard like a simple field soldier. In his short time under Perrone’s command, Valentin always saw Marshall at the admiral’s side, a dutiful No. 2. Marshall allowed Perrone to do most of the talking, but Valentin recognized who did the heavy lifting. The major was the largest physical specimen Valentin ever saw among high command, his stature more imperious than Perrone. Yet, Valentin sensed why Marshall never rose to the admiralty despite twenty years of UG service. He wore an old battle scar along his right jaw – a deficiency easily removed. The popular perception among peacekeepers was that officers who kept their scars longed for the days when they took orders rather than doling them out.

  “Gentlemen,” the major said. “They are alone. I trust you will follow the protocols we laid out?”

  “We will do our best, sir,” Valentin said. “But my parents pose a special challenge. They are unique.”

  Marshall smiled, his hands cupped behind his back.

  “Aren’t we all, First Specialist?”

  Valentin held back; the major wouldn’t care for his answer.

  “You should know,” Marshall continued, “that although we have nullified their stream capabilities, we granted them access to their internal amp. We wanted them to wait in comfort.”

  “Understood.” He turned to James, who stood abreast. “Internal amps allow them household functions, limited entertainment, meal requisition. No communications whatsoever.”

  “Sure,” James said. “It’s like having the hard drive but no wi-fi.”

  “I don’t recognize those terms, but I’ll assume it’s an apt analogy. Are you ready for this?”

  James placed a hand on the door. “To meet my second parents, who were also my first, but threw me away in another universe and now want me dead? Seriously? I can’t wait to meet these bastards. Lead the way, brother.”

  Valentin placed his hand over a glowing seal, and the door disappeared in a scurry of pixels. He steadied his nerves. He never felt this terrified on a battlefield.

  46

  J AMES SAW ENOUGH OF THE COMPOUND TO DECIDE his parents were well beyond redemption. These weren’t humans. They were vampires, and the human race was their feeding ground. As he entered the communal suite beside his brother, James searched his memory and recalled the only messages his parents ever sent him. Each came to him in the waning hours of his first life.

  He blinked. “They sent me to my death,” he told Ignatius. “They tried to manipulate me into thinking they cared.”

  Ignatius sat upon a white stump in a white forest.

  “Perhaps they were acknowledging your inevitable fear in the final hours. Do not discount their humanity.”

  “Why? Because they showed me video of this Earth? Because they showed a photo of the three of us on the day I was born? Ignatius, they ended each message the same way: ‘With Fondest Regards.’ Who speaks to their own child that way? Did they even craft those messages? Lydia could have been manipulating me.”

  “All possible. But as your brother requested, hear them out. You will know if they bear even the slightest remorse.”

  “And if they don’t? If they want me dead? What’s stopping me from killing them where they stand?”

  “Shall we make a list?”

  “I’m not interested in your sarcasm. When I return, you explain what this,” he pointed to the white forest, “is supposed to mean.”

  He blinked. The communal suite was designed as a theater in the round but with four tiers. Sofas, staggered tables both oval and rectangular, bed-size pillows, and floating lamps decorated the tiers along with food and beverage kiosks. In the circular well, a black monolith glowed in the many colors of the spectrum.

  Above it all, perhaps forty feet across, an open window to the world two miles above the surface dominated the suite. Small sheets of white clouds passed through, as if projected in three dimensions, and purple storm heads built in the distance. A flash of lightning. Seconds later, a hint of thunder.

  “It’s a projection,” Valentin whispered. “But it is a live view from just outside.”

  “And that?” He pointed to the monolith.

  “UNIFAC. Unified Facilitator. Audio-visual, lighting, atmospheric controls, kiosk management, staff interface. Everything.”

  “I saw that in a movie once. There were apes dancing around it.” They shared an awkward moment. “There’s room in here for hundreds of people. When do they …?”

  “Five hundred. We moved my fourteenth birthday. Not big enough.”

  “You know I’m not impressed. Right?”

  “You shouldn’t be. They denied you this.”

  A man’s voice arose from the lowest tier.

  “If you intend to stand up there and whisper, we will not have a productive conversation.”

  Valentin took the lead, walking to the edge of the upper tier, stopping at the height of the stairs.

  “Most of my life has been whispered, Father. Why should this be any different?”

  Emil Bouchet sat on a table-sized pillow, his legs extended and crossed. He faced away from his sons and appeared to be piecing together a holographic jigsaw puzzle. On the opposite side of the tier, Frances Bouchet removed a tray of cookies from a food kiosk and sorted through them with minimal interest. She sat them on a café table and picked up a book.

  “Oh, Valentin,” his father replied. “Are you going straight for the dramatics? Your mother hates that side of you.”

  “I think Mother hates everything about me, but I’m sure she will let you do all the hatemongering.”

  Emil followed an audible sigh with, “There’s a nice white wine in the kiosk closest to you. Have it pour glasses for you and your brother. Then show your parents the courtesy of standing before us so we might have a proper conversation. Can you accomplish that, Valentin?”

  James reached for his sidearm. “Has our father always been such a raging dick?”

  “He has his moments. Do you …”

  “I don’t want his damn wine. I’d probably be dead in five minutes.”

  James took lead down the stairs and held his weapon, a short-pulse gun, at this side. He stamped into the well and aimed the gun at Emil, who did not take his attention off the jigsaw.

  “So, what do I call you? Daddy? Pops? Old man? Corpse?”

  Emil swiped away the puzzle. He reached for a tall-fluted glass half-filled with a light-pink, bubbly beverage. James saw the man up close for the first time, and he thought the last nickname fit. His father’s eyes were deeply inset, like a cadaver in the making. His hairline receded. He could have passed for a middle-aged, worn-down farm worker. Far from one of the most powerful men in the Collectorate. Emil sipped but lost some of the beverage on his simple, sky blue tunic.

  “You’re not from around here,” Emil said, wipi
ng the spot on his tunic. At last, he looked up. “Are you, James?”

  “You made sure of that, Emil. Or was it Frances who sent me away? I couldn’t tell, seeing as how the Mentor delivered farewell messages from both of you.”

  Emil thought for a second, as if musing about a funny episode from his earlier life. “Oh, yes. I remember something along those lines. Frances, I seem to recall we debated whether they served a purpose.”

  James faced his mother, but she remained engrossed in a book, something James assumed these people long outgrew. Valentin motioned for him to lower his weapon then moved toward Emil.

  “Father, why are you being this way? You know what needs to be said. You turned us into monsters. Your own sons. We have both died because of you.”

  “And yet, strangely enough, here you are in the flesh. I believe the word you are scrambling for is resurrection. Yes? Perhaps a robust ‘thank you’ might be in order?”

  Valentin bowed his head low. James saw him stew.

  “To answer your question,” Valentin told James, “yes, our father can be a raging dick.” He closed within arm’s-length of Emil. “I wonder, Father. If we kill you, will you resurrect, too?”

  “No. No, son, I will not. You and your brother were designed to save future generations. Mine will have no second chances.”

  “Then why us? James was your first-born son. Instead of giving him all this, you re-engineered him into …” Valentin couldn’t say the word, so James stepped in.

  “An abomination. A weapon of mass destruction. You didn’t intend to save anybody. You just wanted an army of us to fight your enemies while the Chancellors got sick and died. After you sent us into hiding, you realized you made a mistake. Maybe you realized a whole army of Berserkers wouldn’t be good for anybody.”

  James snapped his fingers when he didn’t think Emil was paying proper attention. When their eyes locked, he continued.

  “I can decide who lives and who dies, and I don’t need weapons.” He lifted his right hand. “If Valentin shot you, I could put this hand on you and heal the wound. Or, if he didn’t have the guts, I could lay this same hand on you and turn your body to ash. No coming back from that. What do you think, Daddy-O? Care to try it?”

  Emil shrugged then pointed to James.

  “Your complaint might have a nugget of veracity.” He turned to Valentin. “But you? Complaining of immortality? The ultimate gift.” He raised his voice, speaking to Frances. “I warned you he would not be grateful.”

  Frances did not release herself from the book. She was as cold and disinterested as Valentin suggested, so James ignored her.

  “Enough, Father.” Valentin said. “Why can’t you see the pain you have put us through? We did nothing as your sons to deserve this.”

  “On that point, we agree, Valentin. Neither of you earned this outcome. You had the great misfortune of being our sons.”

  “And how was that a misfortune?”

  “Align the dots, son.” Emil readjusted his position on the pillow, sitting upright against the cushioned tier-back. “I led one of many factions attempting to reverse the collapse of the Chancellory. In fact, I came to the chase late in the competition. I was only nine during the fall of Hiebimini. I had no idea what it meant at the time – few Chancellors did. Many remain in denial.

  “Most experiments focused on a simple goal: Negate the effect of brontinium extract on our genetic template. All failed. Chancellor DNA is irreversibly tied to the extract. Eight centuries of dependency ensured this outcome. Others have tried to develop a synthetic version, but we can only withdraw the compound from the ore.”

  Valentin nodded. “And Hiebimini was the only source of the ore. I know this, Father. Why James? Why me?”

  “Because I am, despite your skepticism, a man of rigid moral principles. Yes, yes. I see your scowls. Laugh if you wish. However, I chose a different path for our people. A new species. A restart, if you will. Your mother and I had no children, but my vision involved prototypes. I decided: If I were to experiment on infants, my child must be first in line. How dare I risk mutating or killing another Chancellor’s child?”

  A part of James always knew his father would use this justification. A noble man, willing to sacrifice his own children for the good of all.

  “Bullshit,” he shouted. “I wasn’t the first. Not even close. I’m no damn expert, but scientists never get it right the first time. They fail over and over again. That’s how the process works. I’d bet the farm you destroyed thousands of embryos – maybe even living babies – before you figured it out. A regular Frankenstein, you were. You don’t care about other people’s kids because you don’t care about your own.”

  James saw a crack in his father’s smug aura. At the very least, he quashed the argument of the principled martyr.

  Then a hand grabbed him from behind, and he swung about. He faced his mother, five inches shorter but furious teeth clenched.

  “How dare you, James? We gave you life.”

  Frances Bouchet smacked him across the face.

  47

  T HE LAST TIME ANYONE SLAPPED JAMES, he was in full meltdown after Tom and Marlena Sheridan were shot to death. Ben, the brother who was not, tried to bring him back to reality after Jamie stormed to the jail, baseball bat in hand, set upon vengeance. Ben succeeded, if only for a time. Frances Bouchet did not.

  James reacted to the stinging blow with one of his own.

  He didn’t realize the damage at first, so consumed in making an instant statement to the mother who bore him to be a monster. Not until the pain on his cheek subsided did James realize she was lying flat on the floor, Valentin reaching for her.

  She did not accept her youngest son’s hand.

  “You had your chance to kill him,” she told Valentin. “You failed.”

  He felt the bitterness in Valentin. This was why he stopped loving her. You’ll see, he told James when asked to describe their mother. Two observations struck James at once: Had he met his mother as a stranger on the street, he would have admired her beauty. She wore her years well, her coiffed strawberry blonde hair draping over her shoulder like a work of art. Her sons carried her eyes. Second, he realized Emil never made a move to defend her against a violent, murderous son. James grabbed Valentin and backed them away before either made another mistake.

  “I’m sorry,” James whispered. “I couldn’t help myself. What is wrong with these people?”

  Valentin nodded with empathy and came close to tears.

  “People?” He tried to laugh. “Is that what they are? I’m the one to be sorry, brother. I’ve made every manner of excuse for them. They are horrible humans, but they gave me the life of a god. How was I supposed to reject them?”

  James saw a sudden light in Valentin’s eyes. His brother found a truth worthy of sharing. Valentin pivoted to his mother. Frances massaged her jaw as she returned to the first tier.

  “You’re right, Mother,” Valentin said, drawing closer. “You gave us life. Then Father gave us a gift we can never repay. By sacrificing your sons, you made certain we could never become like you.

  “You’re right about something else. I did not kill James. He killed me.” He drew a hand against his neck. “And when I was given a second chance, did I thank my creator?” He glanced to Emil. “Not for a second. Instead, I found the brother you deprived me of. I saw the truths you locked away. This is the last day we will ever speak to each other.”

  Frances muttered something indecipherable before sharing an alert, comfortable gaze with Emil, who took her cue by offering applause.

  “The last day? Very dramatic, son, as if you rehearsed the moment.” When he had everyone’s attention, he continued. “I suppose this means you intend to murder us?”

  “James and I have discussed the possibility.”

  “I see. Parricide. So, what would be the methodology? You could shoot us. Whoever is standing outside would never reach us in time.” He zeroed in on James. “But I understand you
have an especially unique disposal technique. Hot to the touch, I hear.”

  As James listened to Emil, he recalled Tom Sheridan, a distant and passive man he now rated as Father of the Year by comparison.

  Again, he showed Emil his right hand. “I could burn you to a crisp in seconds. Or I could drag it out, make the pain linger. I could pull it back and start over again. What do you prefer, Daddy?”

  “You will make a fine torturer. Your mother and I have long preferred cremation to burial. Do your best, James.”

  “You’re not afraid, are you? Don’t matter what we say.”

  Emil tipped his brow like the teacher who couldn’t believe the student just asked such an outrageous question.

  “Fear is a concept for the timid and the ordinary. Bouchets have no fear. Look at us, James. Look carefully. We are all despicable creatures. You and your brother are killers because you were born into a family of them. Your Mother and I long ago stopped keeping count. Yes, James. Our experiments produced many casualties. However, you have laid waste to thousands in a few days’ time, and you crave more. Valentin has slaughtered how many innocents in the Guard’s name? Oh, he’ll say he did it within the legal framework, but they were just indigos. And now, he has committed to stand at your side, blood in blood. And the Ukrainian girl? The two of you cannot wait to join each other in madness. No, James. Fear is not for the Bouchets.”

  Valentin jumped in. “This is why you haven’t left SkyTower in twenty years. The people out there … they know what you are. You’re a disgrace to the Chancellory. To all humans.”

  “Quite a declaration, son. Two points of clarification. First, I have not left in twenty-two years and four months. Your mother did make a day trip fifteen years ago. Second, those people you reference have no idea what we have done for them.”

  “For them?”

  Emil rose as if walking to the front of the stage under the spotlight, expecting rapt wonder from this audience.

  “Be a man, Valentin. Open your eyes to reality. If not for our family and the empire we built along with your grandfather, there would be no hope for the Chancellory. Our kind rose to power three thousand years ago, but we have not innovated for centuries. Chancellors have lived off the produce of generations long gone. Satisfied. Complacent.