Resurrection, Inc.

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Danal swallowed uncomfortably. “Tonight…” He looked at Laina, then at Rolf. The burly Waker had propped the unconscious Enforcer against the wall and stood listening in silence. “Nathans is forcing our hand.”

  He bit his bloodless lip and took a deep breath, assuming the role of leader. Anger rode behind his eyes, but he kept it under control. Galvanized, he fixed his gaze on Zia. “Do you want to get out of here? Come with us? There might be something you could help with, when we confront Nathans.”

  The malformed imposter looked surprised and suspicious that he’d even ask. She spread her arms to indicate the hospital room. “And take me away from all this?” She stood up, and Danal saw that her slim figure matched Julia’s exactly. She could walk and move unhindered: the surface-cloning disarray had destroyed only her face and hands.

  Zia set her jaw. “Yes, I’ll come if I can help kill him.”

  36

  Zia gazed at the Wakers’ underground world, inhaling details. With her distorted face and stretched eyelids, Danal could not interpret her expressions, but he could sense Zia’s growing awe. She had remained silent as they smuggled her through a sublevel basement entrance, all of her sarcastic bitterness dissolved away. Astonished to be free from the hospital complex, she was intrigued by the very existence of the Wakers and the world they had built under the city; but most of all, Zia was delighted to know that Francois Nathans suspected nothing of the Wakers whatsoever.

  She sat by herself, silent and daydreaming on a hammock as the other Wakers discussed the new turn of events. Without bothering to use gloves or a rag, Zia had removed the hot sunlamp bulb above her head, keeping herself in murky shadows, but she wore her deformities without cringing, brandishing them for all the Wakers to see.

  Danal locked his fingers behind his smooth head, stretching his elbows back until the joints creaked. He let the silence hang for a moment, turning his gaze on the gathered Wakers.

  Gregor sat back on his heels and watched Danal make his case, rubbing his big square jaw and waiting. Danal spoke carefully, gauging their reactions, then decided it was time to let them judge for themselves. Before any of the Wakers could speak, Gregor stood up and faced Danal. “Let me be your straw man for a minute. A devil’s advocate, if you’ll forgive the pun.”

  Danal watched him, trying to detect hostility or resentment in the Waker’s eyes, but he saw only disturbed consideration.

  “Why should we Wakers give up everything we’ve worked for? You want us to expose ourselves to Nathans and all the neo-Satanists—but that’ll put us at their mercy. Your reasons aren’t good enough to me. It sounds like a personal vendetta.”

  The other Wakers watched, tense. Rikki. Laina. Rolf. Forty others. Did they perceive this as a showdown? Julia would be out there somewhere, silent and patient, probably sitting motionless as she had been told to do. Danal did not want to clash with Gregor, but he couldn’t let himself hesitate.

  “It’s more than that. If I go by myself, I can’t win—I’m sure of it. And half a victory in this game isn’t worth anything at all. I need your support, all of you. Look at Zia, remember what Nathans intends to do tonight at the High Sabbat—you’re a conscientious person, Gregor. Isn’t stopping him the right thing to do?”

  “You tell me, Danal—which is the lesser of the two evils? Saving the neo-Satanists or protecting the Wakers?”

  The others began to murmur softly, and Danal knew he had to try a different tack. Water trickled below, and somewhere in the darkness a repair-rat clicked and scuttled. The entire world of girders and pilings seemed alive and waiting, coiled tight. He considered long, forming his argument, then his eyes lit up as he spoke.

  “Gregor, if I can defeat Nathans completely and utterly, take away his power… then Resurrection, Inc. will be mine. By right. I think we can do it—with the scandal that’s sure to follow and with my own story.” He paused, measuring the dramatic effect. He felt tense and uneasy. So much depended on this, so much.

  “Then the Wakers can perform all the above-board research they want, with the best equipment possible—maybe you can answer all your questions, Gregor. And if we Wakers hold Resurrection, Inc. then we can implement whatever decisions we reach. Should we stop making Servants? We could do that if we wanted. Can we fix the resurrection process so Wakers never happen again, and the lost souls really do rest in peace?” He paused. “Can we find some other way to bring Julia’s memories back?

  “We can’t do any of that unless we win against Nathans. Tonight. He’s forcing our hand, I know. But we’ll have to turn that to our advantage. And we can’t win unless I get the help of all the Wakers.”

  Danal waited, feeling the regular beat of his synHeart, but Gregor made no further response.

  “You have to admit he’s got a damned good argument, Gregor,” Laina interrupted. Many of the other Wakers murmured in agreement.

  Gregor looked at Zia’s chaotic features again as she observed them, moving from lighter to deeper shadow as she swayed on the hammock. Danal watched the expressions on Gregor’s face change, and he knew the other Waker had made up his mind.

  Danal found a public Net booth and slipped inside. The timekeeper in his head told him that barely an hour had passed since the meeting of the Wakers, and already things had begun in earnest. He breathed deeply, feeling the tense excitement pounding through him. Soon it would all be over. He only wished it had never begun in the first place.

  The air was damp and cold, with gray clouds sopping up the skies. Other pedestrians moved quickly along the sidewalks, heads down, and paying little attention to anything else. A mass-trans skipper churned past, stopping at corners, but no one got on or off. Several jobless blues sat next to each other in silence on the poured-stone lip of a dormant fountain. The cold streaked their cheeks with a pink flush.

  Danal looked up between the tall buildings to where the jagged gables of the Van Ryman mansion jutted into the grayness. He had picked the particular booth for a specific purpose, so he could keep an eye on the mansion. It would act like fuel for his anger, his determination.

  “Nathans destroyed my life and my love,” he said to Rikki beside him, “but the imposter in there stole my identity, myself. That’s a more personal insult, and I’ll confront him alone. This’ll be our first blow.”

  Zia had also suggested they confront the false Van Ryman first. “Yeah, Nathans is the guiding force behind neo-Satanism and all their plans. But the imposter is the High Priest. Even if we get Nathans now, Joey’ll still complete the massacre tonight. Why not take him out first, since he can cause the immediate damage? Besides, that’ll make Nathans sweat a little.”

  Danal and the boy crowded into the booth, avoiding the cold and damp. They had gone out together, dressed as father and son, to begin the preparations. Rikki reveled in his role and hung close to Danal, asking questions, pointing out things. Back at the Wakers’ camp, Gregor and Laina worked on other plans. Danal wished he could be in both places at once, but he had chosen to be here, on the streets, where he could actively see the mansion, feed his enthusiasm.

  In the Net booth Danal logged on as Vincent Van Ryman and then straightened as the main Net menu showed on the screen. He rubbed the back of his head, trying to massage away the knot of tension there. He gracefully moved aside from the keypad. “All yours,” he said and turned the terminal over to the freckle-faced Waker.

  Rikki made a show of cracking his knuckles before his fingers flew over the keypad. Occasionally he paused and scrutinized the screen, then set off in another direction. With the speed and intensity of the boy’s finger strokes, Danal lost track of what he was doing.

  “I didn’t know there were so many repair-rats in the whole Metroplex!” Rikki cried as the display formed on the screen. “Look at them all!” Danal peered over the boy’s shoulder. Numbers and coordinates scrolled up and off the screen in an endless stream.

  “And those are just the ones in this section, too. They’re self-replicating, remembe
r?” Danal tapped on the images. “But we only need a couple of them.”

  Rikki found two repair-rats in the vicinity of the Van Ryman mansion, then erased all the others from the display.

  “I’ll take over from here,” Danal said.

  Rikki looked at him with a touch of condescension. “You sure you don’t need any more help?”

  Danal punched the boy in the shoulder. “I’m not a complete idiot. I used to be pretty good on The Net—I can handle some simple controls now.”

  As he talked, he set the blips of the repair-rats to work on the wiring of Van Ryman’s Intruder Defense Systems. Danal lost himself in trying to remember details, blueprints, electronic schematics. He opened another window on the screen, trying to connect with other libraries, but the details of Van Ryman’s Intruder Defense Systems were, understandably, impossible to get. He let out a long breath and went back to work, forced to rely on his memory. He had designed the systems—his intuition would be right.

  Rikki watched him in fascination, crowding in, but Danal paid no attention. Outside, a middle-aged man pressed his face against the Net booth for a moment, staring at them, but then he left. Rikki switched on the privacy screens.

  “Are you going to disconnect the Intruder Defense Systems?” Rikki asked. “So you can get inside?”

  “No. I don’t want to do anything he’ll notice. I’m not worried about getting in—I left an escape hatch for myself when I designed the systems. It’s beating the imposter once I get inside—that’s what I’m concerned about.”

  Sitting by the fireplace playing cribbage with Julia… relaxing in the sauna and drinking iced tea… feeling like an idiot as he balanced on the gables with a crowbar to remove the gargoyles… flying the hovercopter, swooping down close to the ocean and watching Julia laugh in terrified delight. Those were his memories, from his life—no one could steal them from him. He remembered her image in the hologram over the mantel, and superimposed on that he saw the Servant Julia, mindless and unthinking. Some things are too sacred to steal. It made him look forward to confronting the imposter.

  “The repair-rats will take a couple of hours to finish,” he said to Rikki. “I need to stay here and direct them. Why don’t you make sure Gregor isn’t changing his mind about tonight?”

  “I want to stay here and help—”

  “You’ll help me the most if you go make sure Gregor hasn’t changed his mind. Besides, I need some time alone to… to set my mind, you know? I have to get ready for this.”

  Rikki nodded. “Good luck, then.” Awkwardly he gave Danal a quick handshake before he slid open the Net booth and dashed off into the streets. Danal settled back to wait, running thoughts over and over in his mind until it was time. He watched the coordinates of the repair-rats on the screen as they worked out of sight underground.

  37

  A relentless drizzle hung in the air as Danal stalked toward the Van Ryman mansion. By now the sun had set, marking the beginning of Walpurgis Night, but he could tell little difference in the murky skies.

  The repair-rats had finished their work. He was about to begin.

  Pedestrians had been driven to shelter from the cold and the rain, leaving the streets hushed and empty. A wind stirred the dead fronds of a nearby palm tree, making it sound like a rattling witch’s broom.

  Danal wore his old Servant jumpsuit defiantly, making no attempt to hide his identity. Let the imposter be watching, he thought. Maybe he’s got a guilty conscience. He smiled grimly to himself. He never thought he’d be his own avenging angel.

  The drizzle clearly outlined the hemispherical screen of the Intruder Defense field as droplets struck it and flashed into steam. As if he were looking through a distorted fishbowl, Danal could see the ornate spires and reptilian shingles of the mansion. The new gargoyles grimaced down at him from the other side of the invisible wall.

  The cold drizzle beaded on his smooth skin and soaked into the jumpsuit. His synHeart had begun to pound, but he stepped it down, calming himself, feeling adrenaline lift him into a clear-minded euphoria.

  He edged around the house, around the Intruder Defense field. No one would stop him now. He wouldn’t allow it. He had to focus his attention completely.

  Danal looked at the structure of the roof, followed the gables with his eyes until he located the spot under one of the enameled hexagram tiles. Then he crouched on his knees and edged up, ignoring puddles on the ground, until he almost touched the field itself.

  The light drizzle would make finding the opening much easier.

  He could smell a thick ozone stench from the ionized rain. Danal sat back, opened his perceptions, and stared at the glimmers as raindrops spangled against the field. Looking for the illusion, looking for the hologram projected across the opening. He stepped up his microprocessor, watching, until he finally saw the pattern mirrored. As one succession of droplets struck the invisible wall, an identical sequence—the illusion—was reflected exactly one meter away.

  When installing the Systems a lifetime ago, it had taken a great deal of effort to design a distortion in the field for emergency access. But Vincent had insisted on being able to get into his own home regardless of who controlled the Intruder Defense Systems. The imposter couldn’t possibly know about it.

  Danal stared a moment longer until he was sure, then pushed his head and shoulders through the unseen doorway, praying he had not misjudged the hologram. Vividly and mercilessly he recalled the blackened corpses of the first demonstrators who had tried to penetrate the field.

  Danal froze and breathed an exhausted sigh of relief, then scrambled the rest of the way through. He stood up in the relative shelter and warmth under the field, brushing the mud from his jumpsuit. Up above, he could see the spangles of raindrops as they came down. Both he and the imposter were trapped here—like an arena.

  Danal walked down the black poured-stone walkway and purposefully ascended the steps. He felt tall and powerful. He stared up at the eaves, watching the weathervane turn back and forth on its random motor. The gargoyles seemed to cringe from his presence now that he knew their secret. Danal smiled again, but brought his expression under control. The imposter would probably be watching by now.

  He opened the front door of the house and stepped into the maw of shadows. The carpeting drowned his soft footsteps, but by the light of the dangling chandelier Danal could see the startled lookalike coming to meet him. The Servant stared at the man’s stolen face and felt disoriented, as if looking into a bent mirror.

  Danal turned and closed the door, shutting them both inside.

  The imposter came forward two more steps to face him, and stopped, nervous. His face was drawn and haggard, and he looked at Danal with a contradictory mixture of eagerness and dread. The Servant regarded him in cold silence, trying to choose from his handful of accusations.

  The false Vincent Van Ryman spoke first, astonished. “Nathans said you might be alive after all.” He drew a deep breath, and a vision-driven fire ignited the man’s resolve. Danal couldn’t answer, choked by his anticipation, his conflicting anger. Though his silence lasted only a second or two, it seemed a long, long moment.

  “Very well, alone then,” the imposter muttered and rubbed his hands briskly together. “Follow me, Danal. This is perfect. We’re about to embark on the most important event of the Technological Age.”

  The false Van Ryman shuffled down the corridor. Baffled but ready to jump at any trick, Danal followed him past the control room of the Intruder Defense Systems, past the study in which so many events had begun, to the open sitting area overlooked by the upstairs rooms. The locked door beneath the staircase had once haunted Danal’s buried memories, but now the underground chambers beyond, offered only healed nightmares, the private meeting place for the neo-Satanist Inner Circle, where he had been held prisoner as the imposter grew the face of Vincent Van Ryman….

  The imposter removed a key hanging from the leather thong around his neck and opened the door. A dank sm
ell wafted upward, and the false Van Ryman drew a deep breath.

  “I’m so glad you came back, Vincent—I really did want to see you again.” He turned to lock his gaze with Danal’s. “Will you join me for a little Sabbat of our own? It is Walpurgis Night, you know, and it’s only fitting that things should end this way.”

  Without waiting for a response, the imposter turned and descended the stairs. Danal hesitated, confused; he had not expected this at all, and could not tell if the imposter was admitting defeat or if he had some deeper plan for luring Danal ahead. But the Servant realized it didn’t make any difference—he would never consider turning back now. Danal ducked and entered the passageway.

  Paint, carefully done to look like moss, lined the cracks of the shallow flagstone steps, and a cassette played the sounds of echoing drips of water in the musty air. Stone benches surrounded a chipped granite pedestal; pentagrams, runes, and demonic symbols had been engraved into the sides of the podium, with the registered star-in-pentagram logo of the neo-Satanists prominent. Flickering electric candles stood like pitchforks in three brass candelabra. A Net terminal was set into two massive stone blocks on the wall, and the white-painted squares on the keypad looked like rows of teeth from a grinning skull.

  “Wait here,” the false Van Ryman said confidently as he reached behind the curtains covering an alcove, withdrawing a billowy black High Priest’s robe trimmed with red on the sleeves. He glanced at his chronometer.

  “Tonight it’s all coming to the end.” He donned the robe, shrugging his shoulders and straightening the fabric, then took a step toward the Net terminal. “With your sacrifice, Danal, we can set the final wheels of the universe in motion.”

  The Servant cast aside the charade as he dropped into microprocessor speed again. Without a word he lunged forward, grabbing the folds of the imposter’s black robe and throwing him up against the stone blocks of the wall. He was careful to check his hand so as not to kill the man, but his fingers still slipped through the fabric and gouged the false Van Ryman’s chest. Friction from the cloth burned against Danal’s fingers. The imposter struggled, but the Servant’s reflexes countered every effort.