Resurrection, Inc.

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Final test. He looked back at the other Elite Guard, who had taken one reluctant step closer to watch.

  Jones reached his hand out in front of him—the left hand, just in case—and touched the grass. He felt a strange disorientation as he watched his fingertips disappear, but he felt nothing, no pain, not even any change. Hesitant, he withdrew his hand, flexed his fingers, and then recklessly pushed it back through the grass patch up to the wrist.

  He stood then, holding his hand up like a trophy and showing the other Elite Guard. “Let’s go. I was right.”

  “Hooray for you.”

  They anchored their ropes to the street above, and threw down the ends, watching as the strands vanished into the imaginary grass—but now it only looked odd, not frightening. They uprooted the barbed fence from the stones and tossed it aside. Jones grasped the rope and eased himself backward until the green illusion and the darkness below engulfed him completely. As he hung, hooked onto the ropes with special clips on his armor, he looked back up and had the eerie sense of staring through the other side of a mirror.

  “I’m all right,” Jones called, “but I can’t see anything.”

  He flicked on the vision enhancers embedded in his visor as he continued to descend. The rope twitched a little from above, and Jones saw that the other Elite Guard had begun his descent. As Jones looked around, the night sensors turned the dimness a greenish color.

  A few feet below them, a net had been strung out, anchored to the widely separated pilings. A net… to catch anyone who might go through the “maintenance openings,” accidentally or on purpose? The strands were new, not more than a couple years old.

  Jones scrambled the rest of the way down to the end of his rope and stepped off onto a crossbeam. Beyond, deeper under the Metroplex, he could see strings of mysterious lights, but he waited for the other Guard before going to investigate.

  Together they made painfully slow progress on the narrow walkways; Jones heard his companion swearing to himself. Only occasionally did they encounter a catwalk wide enough for them to move at a steady speed.

  “How do they walk on these things?” Jones commented after he had tottered, off balance. “Or maybe these are just for the repair-rats?”

  The other Elite Guard grunted and made no further comment.

  When they reached the lights, both of them stopped in puzzled amazement. A network of sunlamps dangled down, tapping into the main electrical conduits of the city above. Platforms were scattered about in a complex hierarchy. Boxes and crates of supplies hung suspended from the overhead girders. Small amenities such as books, jewelry items, and treasured knickknacks implied that the place had been inhabited for some time.

  But they saw no one. All around them stood the forest of pilings, crossbeams, girders; he heard the sounds of creaking ropes and the lapping of the ocean below. But everything was completely deserted.

  “How many do you think live down here?” Jones whispered.

  Looking around, his companion paused a moment as if assessing. “Fifty. Maybe a hundred.”

  They searched but found only more silent clues—nothing conclusive. Jones checked his chronometer and signaled that it was time to go back.

  As they emerged again onto the street, Jones turned and watched the other Guard crawl up through the hologram. Jones fought to contain his pride and enthusiasm. Some of the excitement crept into his voice. “Wait till we report to Nathans! He’ll be very interested in all this.”

  The other Guard finally broke his silence and stiffened in frustration, “Don’t feel too smug that you’ve got Nathans’s ear, smartass. You think you’ve been selected for the Elite Guard? Big deal!

  “You’re not here because of any special talent, not because you’re the best. You’re here—like we all are—because Nathans holds us over a barrel. He can do anything he wants. But he doesn’t like killing unless it’s absolutely necessary—that’s his big flaw. If someone’s in his way, he doesn’t just get it over with. He finds a new way to use you instead.”

  Jones felt as if he were falling off a cliff into ice water. His tongue dried all the way to its root, and he could not answer. No! What did the other Guard know? He was too cynical, too pessimistic—Nathans probably didn’t trust the other man as much, and he felt slighted. That must be it. He had to get back at Jones—it was all so petty. But another part of him admitted that the information was no surprise, no matter how meaningful Jones wanted his work in the Elite Guard to be.

  His companion continued, “You’re not important to him. You’ve been duped.”

  Jones stood like a statue. He kept denying it to himself, but the knots in his stomach grew larger and larger; the thin ice of security began to crack under his armored feet.

  The other Guard reached forward as if to touch Jones’s shoulder, but he stopped himself and let his hand fall back to his side. “Now that I’ve got that off my chest, let’s go and make our report, like good little soldiers.”

  Sluggishly Jones followed, devoid of all self-confidence again.

  39

  “Where is he?” Nathans demanded of the empty room.

  He blanked the Net screen and paced in a furious circle as Jones entered the High Priest’s private chamber. Nathans turned to the Elite Guard and spoke in a distraught voice. “Less than an hour before the greatest Sabbat in history, and our High Priest isn’t here! I haven’t spoken to him all day, and now he won’t acknowledge my direct messages!” He pounded three times on the keypad as if knocking on a door, then turned away in disgust.

  Out in the adjacent main grotto, the neo-Satanists had begun to crowd in expectantly. Most of them wore robes that had been freshly cleaned and pressed. A week before, Nathans had transmitted a message describing the vital importance of the Walpurgis Night Sabbat, signing himself as “High Priest Van Ryman.” But he had warned that only “those with no doubts, those with the most unshakable faith” should come—on peril of their own souls.

  The response had been overwhelming.

  Nathans made a distasteful noise of dismay and then sat down again, putting his elbows on his knees. He looked up at the Elite Guard, and Jones could see that the man’s eyes were etched with red threads.

  “At least you’re here,” he said, frustrated. He got up, paced again, burning off nervous energy. “Well, what did you find? And take that damned helmet off!”

  Jones answered, but his doubts about Nathans’s ethics, his true reasons for choosing the Elite Guard, diminished his enthusiasm. He didn’t want to look Nathans in the eye, afraid he might be tempted to demand answers to the accusations. Were they true? No matter how much Jones tried to convince himself, it all fit too tightly together. And if he did voice his doubts, Jones feared that Nathans would laugh at him.

  “Yes, the KEEP OFF THE GRASS patches are just holograms.” In a flat voice he described the shadowy place beneath the city.

  “But you didn’t find anyone there?”

  “No. No one.”

  “The plot thickens…” Nathans mumbled to himself, then he waved it away. He hurried back to stare at the Net screen, then paced again. “I can’t worry about that just now. Where the hell is our High Priest?”

  “One other thing,” Jones dutifully added. “When I reported in, I found a message posted for you. News that someone named Zia apparently escaped from the security wing of the main hospital complex this morning. They expect to find her soon.”

  Nathans frowned. “Zia? Why in the world would she want to escape?” Baffled, he pushed aside the information with annoyance—it would wait until after the Sabbat.

  Jones found himself gathering courage, about to speak up and ask Nathans if the other Guard had meant anything by his deprecating comments about their elite force, when a signal came from the outer corridor. Even before Jones or Nathans could move to answer it, the person on the other side of the door entered the proper password.

  “Who the hell?” Nathans whirled, then smiled in relief. “Ah, it must be him.�
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  Instead the grotesque Zia entered as the door slid open.

  Jones looked at her and unconsciously took a step backward. He quickly fumbled to put his opaque helmet back on, self-conscious about his reaction.

  Before Nathans could utter a startled comment, Zia turned and barked an order out to the corridor. “Danal! Command: Follow!” Her voice held a sneering tone of condescension.

  Head down, the lost renegade Servant sluggishly entered the chambers. He didn’t look around him, didn’t offer any resistance.

  “I brought you a present, Francois Nathans,” Zia said.

  In an instant Jones also recognized the Servant—Danal the one who had rebelled, caused the riot, jumped into the KEEP OFF THE GRASS patch—

  “Vincent!” Nathans clapped his hands in delight, then turned offhandedly to the Elite Guard. “Jones, leave us. I want to hear what he has to say.”

  At being dismissed so casually, startled anger and distaste washed over Jones again. I want to hear what he has to say, too! he thought. You can’t just send me away—you’re supposed to trust me, remember? (You’ve been duped… you’re not important to him.) Jones hesitated a moment, but Nathans did not retract his order, wholly absorbed in the prodigal Servant. The Elite Guard stiffened and clenched his teeth.

  “Give me your scatter-stun weapon, too, Jones. That one.” Nathans took the weapon himself out of the Guard’s armor, and pointed it directly at Danal. He did not let his attention waver, nor did he glance again at Jones.

  The Elite Guard’s nostrils flared in disappointed resentment, but the helmet hid it all. With some difficulty he kept control of himself. Without a word Jones strode out of the chamber, making Nathans scramble-seal the door himself.

  Danal stood motionless, making sure that he appeared completely cowed by Zia. She played her part with a gloating zeal, but he knew it was only her eagerness to strike back at Nathans. She no longer seemed interested in preventing the massacre merely to save the other converts.

  Nathans grinned in amazement as he stood up. “Well, I don’t understand all the details of this situation.” He came toward the Servant, pointing the scatter-stun directly at Danal’s head. His voice held unexpected warmth, as if he wanted to embrace Danal. “But I must say I’m very pleased to see you back, Vincent.”

  “He ransacked The Net,” Zia explained, “and somehow got the idea that I was his Julia. He came to the hospital complex and ‘rescued’ me—but I brought him back to you.”

  “Zia, you’ve done remarkably well.” Nathans flashed a glance at her from the corner of his eye, but did not take his attention away from the Servant. “I hereby promote you to Coven Manager—that should please you. We’ll see to the details later. Why don’t you go attend the Sabbat? I’ve got some extra robes stored in the wardrobe inset there. Take one, and please be sure the hood covers your face. Sorry about that, but it’s necessary.”

  Anger flared in the woman’s lump-shrouded eyes and she seemed ready to refuse, but Danal made a small frantic gesture he hoped Nathans could not see, waving her away. Zia controlled herself and appeared appropriately submissive.

  “Thank you, Master Nathans.” Listlessly, she rummaged in the wardrobe until she found a maroon robe trimmed in black. “I’d really like to attend a Sabbat again. Especially this one.” Without looking back, she draped the robe over her arm as she left. Watching her from behind Danal felt an eerie shiver—she seemed so much like Julia, her walk, her actions….

  Danal kept a blank face, but he seethed inside. He had waited long for this moment of confrontation. He had planned carefully, but how could he have forgotten so many things? How could he have been so naive, especially where Nathans was concerned? He had not considered that Nathans could hold him so completely at bay with a weapon, nor had he imagined the man would so quickly dismiss Zia. If only he had thought ahead!

  He had not at all expected to see an Elite Guard in the private neo-Satanist chambers. Why would a member of the Guild be here? A neo-Satanist convert? No, Nathans hated the Guild—he would never have allowed an Enforcer, especially not an Elite Guard, so close into his circle.

  Unless there were schemes even deeper than Danal had ever suspected….

  Nathans nodded toward the weapon. “I’m sorry for this, Vincent, but I was watching when you killed my surrogate, you know. I’m amazed at how fast you moved. You’ll have to explain that to me sometime, but right now I don’t want to take any chances.” Then his voice turned inward, with a deeper sadness that Danal believed was sincere.

  “Ah, Vincent, I tried so hard to teach you—I gave you every chance to really understand what has to be done. You were supposed to be my successor. But you didn’t learn. You haven’t learned anything. Those two imposter Servants got through all your defenses with no trouble at all. That was a simple trick, Vincent—you should have caught it.” He shook his head and then snapped his gaze back up to look at the Servant. “You didn’t learn.”

  Danal allowed a beatific, all-knowing smile to fall on his face. This would be smooth, simple. He laughed, taunting Nathans with an invincible calmness. “I learned plenty of other things, Francois—things you don’t understand. I’ve looked Death in the face—I know what happens beyond life, all the answers—because when my memories came back, I remembered that, too. All the way through.”

  Nathans remained motionless, but the Servant could see him mentally squirming. Before the man could respond, Danal pulled out a second surprise.

  “I’ve already removed the imposter, got my revenge on the person who stole my identity. He’s dead now, and he won’t be helping you out tonight. The Van Ryman mansion is mine again.”

  Nathans paled, and his mouth dropped open. Then he squeezed his eyes together to force a calm back upon himself. Danal could have taken him then, but made no move. He wanted to see the man defeat himself instead.

  Nathans drew a deep breath and stared at the Servant again. Behind his eyes burned a cruelty that caused him to lash back out, as if he were revealing a great and painful secret. “The imposter was your own father. Stromgaard Van Ryman. You killed him—for real this time.”

  Danal remained unaffected, not letting Nathans get any satisfaction. He shrugged. “As far as I’m concerned, I killed my father years ago. Anything else is just a bad dream.”

  Then the Servant struck his third blow; with each successive one, Nathans’s confidence crumbled further and further. “There’s so much you don’t know, Francois, it’s almost sad. While I’ve been in hiding, I discovered the truth about the Cremators, too.”

  Nathans’s eyes lit with rage.

  “I learned who they are, and why they do what they have to.”

  Furious, Nathans sprang to his feet, but the Servant jerked up his hand so violently that it almost startled the man into firing the scatter-stun. “Stop! If you Command me to say what I know about the Cremators, I’ll terminate myself immediately. I’ve already died—it doesn’t mean anything to me.” He narrowed his eyes. “Just wanted you to realize that I know about the Cremators, and you don’t, and you’ll never find out.”

  “Traitor!” Nathans whispered under his breath. “Several times over.”

  Shattered and impotent, Nathans fell back into his chair and stared at Danal. The Servant stared back. They waited, engulfed in absolute silence for a full minute. The man seemed to be warring with himself, fighting back distasteful decisions.

  Nathans heaved a heavy sigh and closed his eyes. He seemed very tired, but maintained his control through a supreme effort. “You served your purpose, Vincent. You’ve answered my question: it is possible to bring back memories and personality intact.”

  He cracked his knuckles. “But now you’ve killed our High Priest, Vincent. The Sabbat must go on, you know, especially this one. You’re putting me in the awkward position of having to expose myself as the head of the neo-Satanists.” He drummed his fingertips on the tabletop, keeping his other hand leveled rigidly, pointing the scatter-stun.
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br />   “But after tonight, I suppose it won’t matter anyway.” He smiled with a cold smugness. “Enough is enough, Vincent. I thought very highly of you once… but what you did to me… well, even I can’t forgive some things.” He stood up, backing toward the inset wardrobe. With one hand he rummaged among the garments blindly until he drew out a plain white robe, tossing it toward Danal.

  “For tonight’s Sabbat, you’re going to replace our scheduled sacrifice.”

  40

  “Danal, Command: Follow!” Nathans snapped.

  The towering ceremonial doors to the Sabbat grotto swung open slowly. The electric candlelight inside the chamber caught and reflected from the intricate carvings on the clonewood. Danal looked into the shifting masses of robed neo-Satanists, all eager to see blood—real blood or synBlood, it made no difference.

  High-pitched organ music skirled through the air, without a melody. Somewhere a gong sounded. The crowd made droning sounds, but a hush rippled through them as their new High Priest appeared.

  Without looking back at the Servant, Nathans moved gracefully forward, striding and swaying so that his magnificent black robe billowed behind him. The red trim flickered like blood in the shifting artificial torchlight. The man’s bald head was adorned with temporary tattoos of astrological symbols.

  A wide aisle between the sections of stone benches led straight up to the altar on its raised platform. Some of the cultists pushed forward, struggling to get a seat on the stone benches near the front, where they could see better.

  Danal’s legs jerked him into motion. He strode after Nathans, obedient but defiant, head high with impenetrable confidence. Let Nathans worry about that. Though the white sacrificial robe covered his jumpsuit, Danal’s skin tone identified him as a Servant… but his actions and attitudes marked him as human.

  The blocky druidic altar stone huddled in the center of a large pentacle drawn with glistening red paint. Black candles, each as thick as his forearm, had been set at the points of the star, and a circle drawn nine feet in diameter surrounded the entire design. Old bloodstains discolored the altar stone; manacles attached to its head and foot waited to hold an unwilling victim in place.