The woman snapped at him, “What do you expect us to do, carry ID cards? Name tags? Shit!”
Avoiding her glance, Rodney could barely stutter an inane reply.
The male Cremator was a largely built man, dressed unusually but comfortable enough in his unusual appearance that he didn’t seem strikingly noticeable. He stood tall and wore a beard looping around his chin, framing it in Abraham Lincoln fashion but leaving his lip clean shaven. His skin was all the same tone, somewhat textureless, even pasty-looking, and Rodney wondered if perhaps the man was black and trying to hide the fact. But then he realized his own inability to see the obvious—the Cremators, incognito, of course. Covering themselves.
“You can call me Rossum Capek,” the man said. “You can call her Monica. If you must have names.”
The man was dressed in a khaki overcoat and wore a black top hat that made him look like something out of a classic Charles Dickens presentation. Yet when the Cremator spoke, his voice had a rich timbre, a confident and knowledgeable tone but not condescending. The slightest touch of condescension would have immediately put Rodney on his guard.
The accompanying woman, Monica, was thin and stern looking with dark hair cut in a jagged page boy—she looked familiar to him in the vaguest of ways. She was dressed in a nondescript wrap decorated with hexagonal blotches of earth tones. Her eyes were alert, flicking back and forth—darker than dark eyes, opaque eyes, and Rodney suspected that she wore contact lenses augmented with extra micro-sensors. The woman said nothing and only watched Rodney, watched Rodney, making him feel uneasy.
Capek put a hand lightly on the tech’s shoulder, and with an unyielding force, directed Rodney to walk with them. “Let’s go to more pleasant surroundings. We have some very important matters to discuss, and I’d like to make things a little more congenial.”
The two Cremators quickly guided him to a street corner where they could board a mass-trans vehicle. After only five stops Rossum Capek motioned for him to disembark. Air pressure hissed as the mass-trans vehicle spewed open its doors in front of a large shopping-plex. The man and woman rapidly escorted Rodney out onto the pavement again, flanking him right and left.
The propped-open mall doors had been smeared with fingerprints too high for any child to reach. Rodney didn’t have time to discover the name of the particular mall as they ushered him inside—all shopping-plexes looked basically the same, anyway.
Capek knew exactly where he was going and moved ahead, confident that Rodney and the woman would follow. The various specialized shops blurred past, and Rodney caught glimpses of them with wide eyes, but most passed in an indistinct collage. Capek halted once to allow them to catch up.
“I know a delightful little café at the heart of the mall. It’s rather exclusive, but we can talk there.”
The cafe was indeed very exclusive. Almost empty, it was hushed and waiting impatiently for a luncheon crowd. Capek smiled and, without a word, the cafe host nodded and led the three of them to a small table deep in the back.
Rodney forgot his anxiety for a moment and savored the surroundings. The air smelled fresh from dozens of hanging ferns and potted plants, from moist terrariums on every table. Mingling with the smell of earthy greenery was also the complex aroma of fresh-baked bread.
Huge skylights of plate glass let the hazy sunshine pour through, dappling the interior cobblestone walkways. A colorful patio umbrella shielded each table from the bright sunlight streaming down. The sound of running water made the atmosphere seem even more peaceful, and Rodney realized that a tiny moat surrounded each exclusive table, more for appearance than for an actual barrier. The tech noticed as he stepped over the two flat stones to their table that the bottom of the shallow stream had been strewn with old pennies and dimes, apparently for decoration, artifacts from the days of tangible currency.
Capek held a wicker chair for Monica, and she sat down without taking her opaque eyes from Rodney. The Cremator sat down himself as Rodney awkwardly took his own seat. The tech looked at the two Cremators, first the man and then the woman, waiting in silence, but neither of them seemed ready to speak.
Momentarily a waiter appeared, walking lightly over the stepping-stones to stand expectantly beside their small table. Rodney saw with slight distress that he carried no menus. “I’m ready to take your order.”
The waiter placed his hands behind his back and smiled with a vacuous stare. Rodney wondered if the waiter would be filing away their selections in his memory, or if he had a transmitter hidden somewhere on his uniform to send their order directly to the kitchen.
Capek folded his hands on the table and answered confidently. “I’ll have an espresso, and she will have tea—Lapsang souchong, I believe?” The woman nodded.
The waiter turned to Rodney, who hesitated uncomfortably for a moment. The waiter immediately spoke into the silence, “If you’re not in the mood for coffees or teas, sir, may I offer you something else? Some wine perhaps, or a beer?”
The Cremator interjected, “They do have a very good beer, Mr. Quick. They brew it themselves, in large oak casks. ”
Rodney grasped at the suggestion and nodded. After the waiter had vanished, Rossum Capek made brief at tempts at small talk, to which Rodney mechanically responded. Monica sat in silence, scowling, suspicious, until the waiter returned with their order.
The Cremator picked up the tiny white china cup in his large hands and took a sip of the steaming liquid. He closed his eyes in obvious satisfaction. Monica ignored her tea, but Rodney could smell a smoky, tarlike aroma drifting toward his nostrils. He took a swallow of his reddish-amber beer; he would have liked it colder.
“Now then, Mr. Quick,” Capek spoke, finally getting down to business. Reflexively Rodney took another deep drink of his beer, looking around the castle-like terrarium in the center of their table. “You obviously know what services we offer, or else you wouldn’t have been so persistent in trying to find us. However, you are the first from your, er, organization to express anything other than hostility toward our operations.”
“I’m in a better position to be afraid than most people,” Rodney answered. “I know what goes on there. That’s why I’ve been trying so hard to find the Cre—”
“Careful!” The woman suddenly sat up straight. Her tea sloshed near the rim of her cup, spilling a drop onto the saucer.
“Yes, Mr. Quick. Please be vague if at all possible.” Capek smiled patiently and made Rodney feel comfort able again. The tech understood their paranoia, though, and spoke in a hushed voice.
“Yes, I know what you promise. But death is such an unpredictable thing—how can you guarantee that you’ll be able to… you know, carry out our agreement?”
“We haven’t made any agreement yet,” Monica interrupted. Her companion waved her to be patient.
“We can’t make any guarantees, since death is such an unpredictable thing. But we do promise that we’ll at tempt everything in our power to see you safely removed from the resurrection loop. Since we don’t make our contracts public, you can’t know how many times we fail… but so far we’ve been successful in more than eighty percent of our attempts. We have greater powers than you might suspect.”
Rodney tried to calculate how many contracts that meant, but then he realized that on Lower Level Six he saw only the suitable pre-Servants; others too old or too badly damaged would never have shown up on his roster at all. Many of those cadavers must disappear as well, not to mention the ones that vanished before an Enforcer could even log the death onto The Net.
Rodney tapped his two fingernails on the thick side of the beer mug and took another drink. Only a mouthful of foam remained on the bottom of the mug, and uncannily the waiter appeared, standing unobtrusively on the other side of the moat and not interrupting their conversation. In the lull he spoke over the trickling water, asking if Rodney wanted another beer.
“Yes,” he said, feeling somewhat daring now, not quite noticing the effects of the alcohol but badly
wanting to.
The waiter disappeared, and the tech dropped his eyes a little, speaking before the nervousness could build and before the other man could return with his second beer. “And what about payment? How much will all this cost me?”
Rossum Capek’s face seemed distorted by the curved glass of the terrarium, and Rodney shifted his seat to see him more clearly. The Cremator finally removed his top hat and set it delicately on the tablecloth. “We’ll determine what you can afford. We serve all concerned people, not only the rich or the poor. Our group operates on the archaic system of barter, so you won’t have to directly transfer funds from your account.”
“Barter?” Rodney frowned. “But—”
“We can’t get payment through The Net,” Monica finally spoke up. “The Guardian Angels are constantly sweeping all transactions to see if they can identify something they can trace to us.”
Capek nodded. “We’re in a precarious position, as I’m sure you can appreciate.”
The Cremator sipped his espresso again, leaving Rodney to ponder for a moment. The Guardian Angels were a cadre of Interfaces who constantly monitored all financial transactions on The Net, searching for electronic fraud or embezzlement, tracing any transfer of funds for questionable dealings. Punishment for abuse, fraud, or embezzlement was severe, and Rodney knew the corporate moguls were more frightened of a reduced popular faith in The Net than they were worried about the actual crime itself. Superhackers had built a great many safe guards and fraud traps, and the Guardian Angels kept a detailed watch over the entire system.
The waiter unobtrusively placed a second mug of beer on the table, hooking his finger around the handle of the empty glass and snatching it away. The Cremator fell silent until the waiter had left again. “For instance,” Capek continued, “that’s why you’ll have to pay for this meeting today. We can’t leave anything of ourselves behind. Your Mr. Nathans would be on us in a moment. He is very intelligent, and very angry. Our group’s existence is too important to all people—we offer a crucial option to mankind. We can’t risk being caught. Too much is at stake here.”
Rodney fidgeted in the wicker chair, feeling the rough cushion prick the seat of his pants. He tried to steer the conversation back, growing nervous again, doubting that he’d get to the dentist in time after all. “What kind of barter are you talking about, exactly?”
The Cremator fingered the brim of his hat. “Occasionally we find ourselves in need of certain things, equipment, documents—I myself have a fondness for printed books. But most important, we need a pool of people as resources to buy things when we do need them.” Capek swallowed the last of his espresso and placed the tiny cup upside-down on the saucer as he stood up.
“My companion will tell you some of the things you need to get for us. I’ve got other business right now, and it’s best that we three leave at different times, in different directions.” He straightened his khaki coat and replaced the black top hat on his head, tipping the brim at Rodney. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Quick. I hope we can work something out.”
Rodney said “thank you” as Rossum Capek strode across the stepping-stones. Off in the café’s jungled shadows filled with potted ferns, he saw the waiter pointedly not watching the Cremator leave.
Monica spoke quickly and firmly, expecting Rodney to listen. Her opaque eyes bored into him, and he took a reflexive swallow of the second beer.
“The most important thing you can get us, as soon as possible, is a liter of solution from the final resurrection bath. Preferably one of the mutated batches.”
Rodney’s unshaven eyebrow rose up. “How am I supposed to get that? Hey, and how do you know about the mutations?”
Monica looked sourly at him. “Don’t ever be surprised by what we know or don’t know. You work down in the resurrection levels. Find a way to smuggle out some solution before it all drains down the grates. Nobody will notice.”
“But where should I take it?” He narrowed his eyes nervously. “How often is this sort of thing going to happen?”
“It’ll happen as often as necessary.” Her expression emphasized each word. “We’ll send you transient messages by electronic mail, with portions of instructions. It’s your body and soul we’re talking about here, Mr. Quick. You don’t expect it to come cheap.”
Rodney hung his head sheepishly, staring into the disappearing foam on top of the beer. “No, I guess not.”
The woman stood up, her tea untouched and cold, and shook her jagged page-boy hair. “Before you start complaining to yourself, think of your alternative. Do you want to be a Servant?”
Rodney felt a small glimmer of anger reawaken in him. “At least they’re not worried about anything.”
She whirled and glared at him with such a piercing gaze that he quickly averted his eyes and consciously drank the last of his beer. “How do you know Servants aren’t worried? How do you know they don’t remember anything but just can’t show it?”
He couldn’t respond before she splashed through the moat, ignoring the stepping-stones and getting the tops of her white boots wet. She walked off, trickling water as it beaded on the polymer surface of the boots. Rodney looked up at the skylight overhead, pulling his chair out to avoid the shadow from the patio umbrella.
“Could I get you another beer, sir?”
Rodney almost jumped as the waiter appeared at his shoulder. The taste inside his cheeks seemed to cry for another mug, and he wanted to sit and sulk. But before he could order, he suddenly remembered the cost, cringing at the cafe’s lush—expensive—surroundings. He quickly changed his mind and waved the waiter away, sitting alone for a few moments, not eager to face the bill.
12
The tall, cylindrical headquarters of the Enforcers Guild stood like a pillar of one-way mirrors through which the Guild could see in all directions and watch over the entire world. A gray soup of clouds typical of mid-spring reflected from the Guild building, making its polished walls look like a smeared black-and-white photograph.
Jones stood out of uniform in the brisk morning air, wearing a tight black skin-shirt that made his dark flesh look the color of wood. Beside him Julia stood motionless, unaffected by the cold breeze that sent goose pimples down Jones’s arm, seemingly unaware of his distraught and uncertain mood. Her loose gray jumpsuit billowed around her body; she looked like just another Servant for sale.
As they kept walking toward the mirrored building, the crowds thinned out quickly, as if pedestrians were afraid to approach the Guild headquarters. The weekend crowd was always a different sort from the everyday traffic on the streets. People wandered about shopping, frantic to get errands finished. Businessmen wore casual clothes, but remained near their own office complexes in a holding pattern, almost uncomfortable not to be at work. As always, scattered here and there, were a few of the wandering jobless blues, who probably never noticed what day of the week it was.
Jones noticed that the people on the street seemed to be avoiding him, shying away. He was used to that, the invisible prestige of the Guild that made him feel like a pariah. It saddened him to think that becoming an Enforcer had required him to sacrifice something so basic, so essential to a normal life. But then he remembered with a slight shock that today he was not wearing his armor. After a moment he understood that the people were avoiding Julia. This angered him, and he tentatively reached out to hold onto her wrist, as if daring someone to make an unkind comment. Couldn’t they see that she was… she was a Servant.
Servants—just property, buying and selling, mix and match. If you don’t need them anymore, just get rid of them. Jones winced, trying to swallow his guilt. That wasn’t it at all. Julia would understand, if she understood anything. She gave no sign. She never did.
He entered the Guild building, with Julia tagging obediently behind. Off-hours and empty, the lobby smelled dank with disinfectant and the decontaminated residue of cigarette smoke from the smokers’ lounge on Floor 2. The air carried several levels of subl
iminal noise, humming and hissing, static from the white-noise generator that supposedly created a more peaceful work environment. The air conditioner kept the air pumped to a just-below-comfortable temperature. He had not come to the headquarters off-hours since… since just after Fitzgerald Helms had died.
Now that the lobby was without other people milling about, Jones could see where too many feet had begun to crush the nap of the red dura-carpet. Overhead in the ceiling panels he could hear a repair-rat scurrying about its pre-programmed path, checking wiring, replenishing fluorescent cylinders, dissolving dust and grit. The building’s directory screen had been shut off, leaving a blank gray rectangle on the wall above the two vacant desks where receptionists normally sat.
“This way, Julia.” He moved quickly to the dead escalator that led to the mezzanine. He walked up the rubber-jacketed stairs that seemed frozen halfway out of sync. Julia followed.
The mezzanine level was also empty. He knew the entire building could not be deserted, and he was finally relieved to notice two other men standing together down one of the corridors, and at the rear of another hall he noticed a Servant janitor patiently waxing a floor. Darkened cafeterias were lined up in the main lounge area of the mezzanine next to a couple of Guild-members-only bars that served drinks and sandwiches at lunchtime. A barber shop sat empty beside the rest rooms and showers; three public Net booths stood beside various potted plants in the open areas.
The one functional upper-floor lift waited at the far side of the open mezzanine area. Though he and Julia were almost the only ones in the entire building, the lift still took a full minute to return to the mezzanine. He ushered Julia into the clonewood-paneled interior of the lift and then joined her, requesting floor 14 from the panel.
“SPECIAL ACCESS PERMISSION REQUIRED FOR UPPER-MANAGERIAL LEVELS. ”
Jones bent over to speak into the cloth-covered microphone patch. “I’m here to see Guildsman Drex. I have an appointment—my name is Jones, Enforcer, Class 2.”
Resurrection, Inc. Page 9