Resurrection, Inc.

by Kevin J. Anderson

“Drink!” the demon bellowed.

  “This isn’t real!” Jones cried, looking at them, appalled. “That thing is just an android.”

  A few people stopped and looked at him questioningly, but the awesome form of the monster reaffirmed their belief. Danal blinked, amazed but relieved to have a rational explanation, no matter how impossible, to clutch at. An android? Androids weren’t feasible, but they were more believable than walking demons.

  “Like a Servant. A machine—a trick!”

  Jones made a determined sound and pulled out his riot club, striding forward. He struck the demon on the thigh, on the hip, reached up to batter its shoulder. The club made solid, wet sounds as it impacted, but the android took no notice of him and continued to survey the crowd, speaking its programmed summons.

  “Come join me! Why do you hesitate? Do you not believe the evidence of your own eyes?”

  “But it’s just an android! A prototype, a trick!” Jones insisted.

  The first of the worshipers—a chunky man with graying hair—reached the fountains. Breathless and enthusiastic, he plunged his head into the brilliant, glowing liquid, splashed, and turned to look at the others as he swallowed a mouthful… and died in retching convulsions a few moments later. His eyes almost burst from their sockets. Seeing but not seeing, more of them surged forward to drink.

  “Hey, stop!” Jones shouted from the stage. Danal added his voice. Many of the neo-Satanists did hang back, frightened and uneasy, but the pressure from the others buffeted them forward.

  “Drink! Join me!” Prototype thundered.

  More cultists lay dead by the fountains, piling up, but others pushed ahead, some hesitant, some eager. Danal struggled with the last manacle, staring in cold horror at the cultists. Nathans had known exactly how they would react—he had selected them for their gullibility, and only the ones with the most unshakable faith would have come to the Walpurgis Night Sabbat. But how could they not see what they’d gotten into?

  “It’s only an android! Prototype!” Jones cried again, softer this time, his voice with an edge of hysteria. “Look!”

  He pulled out his heater-knife and stood in front of the demon. Reaching up, he sliced with the hot blade through the rubbery synthetic skin of Prototype’s chest. The Elite Guard slashed across, and down, peeling the corner to expose tendrils of optic fiber, glowing power sources, cables, pulleys, servomotors.

  With some self-protective mechanism the android swatted Jones, sending him sprawling. He skidded across the stage, protected by his armor, but he struck his head on the floor and sat back, dazed. Prototype, his innards exposed by the sagging flap of synthetic skin on his chest, turned back to the worshipers. They looked at him, disregarded what they did not wish to see, and continued to press toward the scattered fountains.

  In the crowd Gregor moved frantically, trying to pull the worshipers away from the fountains. “Stop them! Wakers!”

  The other Servants wrestled with the neo-Satanists. Many stopped by themselves, angry and confused after Jones’s revelation, but the majority clung blindly to their faith and threw themselves at the scarlet poison. The Wakers struggled with them, but they were outnumbered dozens to one.

  “I want to take all of your souls back to my realm! Join me! Drink my blood!”

  Danal finally freed himself and swung down off the altar stone. He had no time to ponder, but many of the pieces fitted into place in the back of his mind. Prototype—yes, an android, a puppet for Nathans to use, but also an experiment to stretch the capabilities of Resurrection, Inc. And if Nathans had built Prototype, he would only have extended the technology already available to him—

  “Prototype!” Danal shouted, “Command: Stop!”

  In mid-sentence the android froze, arms upraised, fang-filled mouth open.

  “Command: Be silent!” Danal stepped toward the towering monster. He looked up at the demon’s face. “Take it back. Tell them to stop.”

  The Satan simulacrum lowered its gaze to look down at the Servant. Its curved horns glistened, but the bright purple glow of its eyes held no menace now.

  “I cannot,” the android said. “My programming specifies the words I must speak to the audience. I cannot deviate.”

  Danal wanted to scream in desperation at the demon, or break down in tears.

  Then, unexpectedly, in the pentacle on the floor beside the altar stone, the body of Francois Nathans stirred and sat up.

  The hands twitched, as if trying to orient themselves. The gaping hole in the man’s chest began to trickle red blood once more, splashing anew across his High Priest’s robe. Something had begun to pump in place of a heart.

  Danal felt a sensation of eerie horror as Nathans fumbled with his hands, grasped the edge of the altar stone, and hauled himself to his feet. Then Danal noticed the fine-lined scars on the man’s bald scalp—scars that were better healed but otherwise similar to those that all Servants had.

  From the implanting of a microprocessor.

  Danal gasped as he tried to say something, but his mouth felt too thick. Had Nathans been so frightened of dying, so obsessed with returning to life, to have a standby microprocessor implanted in his head? Ready to switch on after actual brain death? It had been perhaps fifteen minutes, maybe longer—not long, but enough. Without the resurrection process, without that long interim step, perhaps he had believed that his memories, his self would come back with him. It made a cold, logical sense—as if a simple time factor was the only thing that mattered.

  Death doesn’t work that way, Francois.

  Dead Nathans sluggishly turned and saw Danal. His arm was rigid, still gripping the scatter-stun. He raised his arm. Danal couldn’t move. But Nathans seemed only to be following a reflex action, flexing a muscle, and stood motionless and cold. His eyes didn’t blink. His chest continued to bleed. The expression on his face was slack and cadaverous. Blank. Utterly empty.

  Like Julia.

  41

  Aftermath. Holocaust. The words ran through Danal’s mind as he stood horror-struck, staring into the silent chamber.

  The worshipers had been too many, too intent upon destroying themselves. Those who refused to drink the poison now stood distraught and frightened, but few of them had helped to stop their companions. The efforts of the Wakers alone did little against the tides of people.

  Burly Rolf knocked down many of the cultists, sprawling them on the floor as fast as he could stride from one to another—arms swinging, shoulder tackling. Rikki was too small to do much more than distract and harry them, but still he kept a few away from the fountains. Laina became injured when she tried to wrestle with too many of the worshipers at one time; they turned on her, and only microprocessor speed saved her from being torn to pieces.

  Stunned and concerned, Gregor knelt beside an old man convulsing in his last few moments. The leader of the Wakers looked deep into the old man’s face, and propped the man’s head on his knee. The victim’s lips, teeth, and mouth were a brilliant scarlet, stained by the dye. Blotches of burst blood vessels spotted his face and hands. The dying man sensed Gregor’s presence and opened his eyes; his limbs jerked spasmodically.

  “Why?” Gregor asked, begging for some kind of explanation that would make sense. “You could see it was poison. You knew the demon was just an android. Why would you do this? To yourselves?”

  It seemed a rhetorical question, but the dying man became lucid and gasped an answer, “Because I have Faith!”

  It all stopped when Jones had finally roused himself and, conquering his own revulsion, snatched the scatter-stun from Nathans’s dead-but-alive hand. The Elite Guard went through the neo-Satanists, stunning them all, dropping them in their tracks….

  Other than sobs from some of the Wakers and the nonsuicidal worshipers, the sacrificial grotto now fell silent. The fountains continued to pour forth the bubbling red poison, but Rikki and Rolf had gone to find a way to shut them down.

  Danal stood, numb and cold like a ghost. Slowly, he walked
down the steps to the main floor of the chamber. He left Prototype behind him, Commanded into silence and immobility on the stage… and the zombie Francois Nathans stood bleeding away his second life.

  Though many of the neo-Satanists lay unconscious, crumpled across stone benches, nearly a full hundred had managed to poison themselves. Lost out among the fallen bodies, Jones remained motionless, encased in the midnight-blue armor but without his helmet. His mouth hung open with a thread of saliva connecting his lips; his eyes were wide open and staring.

  By now Danal felt almost inured to seeing the bodies. Poisoned—Nathans would have thought of that. Now they were all perfect candidates for Servants. He felt a pang of sadness as he looked back at Julia, still clad in her Acolyte robe, blank and seemingly without a conscious will of her own.

  Gregor saw his gaze and spoke by Danal’s ear, startling him. “She stood up by herself. I was beside her, and we couldn’t figure out what to do. I was going to shout or something. But when Julia saw you were going to be sacrificed… well, she stood up. By herself.” A tone of wonder drifted into his words.

  In quiet amazement Danal went over to the female Servant, afraid to ask. “Julia. Do you remember anything else?”

  She stood in silence, but did not deny what he asked. Danal didn’t feel his hope slip away so quickly this time. A faint mist like the shadow of a tear formed over her eyes. He thought he noticed the faintest tremor in her lips.

  “You’d better come over here, Danal,” Laina said huskily, holding her injured wrist.

  Reluctantly the nurse/tech took him near one of the fountains, stepping over motionless robed forms on the floor. With her foot she pushed aside several of the dead cultists, revealing a slim female form clothed in a new Coven Manager’s robe.

  “Ah, no,” Danal said as he knelt down, but his throat was so dry he doubted if any words had come out. The Servant pushed aside the hood and tried to read an expression on the disfigured lumpy face, but he could not interpret her death mask. Some of the fluorescent red wine lay in a sticky trickle down her cheek. Strangely, Danal discovered he had new depths of grief within him

  “Zia,” he mumbled, “you knew better. You knew so much better.”

  “Well, what do we do now?” Laina asked. “Who do we tell? The Enforcers?”

  Some of the other Wakers looked at Danal, then Gregor, then Danal again.

  “Nathans ran the Enforcers Guild,” Jones muttered, almost to himself, and then he strode back out into the main chamber among the fallen bodies, as if running away from what he had just said. Danal stared after him, wide-eyed.

  “I’m not sure if I trust that man completely,” Laina muttered.

  “He did help. And at a crucial time,” Gregor countered.

  “He’s still an Elite Guard. But I’ll keep an open mind.” She frowned uncomfortably. “Choice of trust isn’t exactly a luxury we can afford right now.”

  The unconscious neo-Satanists would begin to stir soon. The other Wakers forcibly kept all the nonsuicidal worshipers from leaving the chamber, though many wanted to run into the night and hide from the horrors before them. Only the threat of being caught out after curfew held them back. A few volunteered to help separate the living and the dead from the motionless forms crumpled on the floor.

  “Excuse me, folks,” Rikki interrupted in a very mature voice, “but we have to figure out what we’re going to do.”

  Danal pondered a long moment, and suddenly nothing seemed at all simple. They had defeated Nathans, effectively stopped neo-Satanism; they should have been having a victory party, but things…

  “We’ll tell our story, I guess. Put it on The Net for everyone to see, before it gets distorted. There’s certainly enough evidence, enough proof, enough witnesses.” His voice didn’t contain a great deal of enthusiasm, and none of the others responded until Rikki finally spoke.

  “Blaming all this on Nathans alone isn’t going to work. You know that, don’t you? These people lying poisoned, the tricks, the sham—somebody’s going to find a scapegoat. And we all know what great scapegoats a bunch of spooky Servants would make.

  “And in a few minutes we’re going to be in a room full of revived fanatics. They’ll be angry, or worse. They’ve already proven they’re missing a few circuits in the CPU.” He tapped his temple and made a face. “Any one of them can make us speak a confession or shut us up forever, with a single Command phrase. We don’t have any way to fight against it.”

  The others fell uneasily silent. Gregor looked down at the stained pentacle on the floor.

  “Unless—” Gregor stopped, at a loss for words. Danal watched him in desperate fascination, and waited.

  “I had an idea a long time ago, but it didn’t seem worth trying. Now, maybe we have to.” He swallowed, then shrugged. “Well, what about a paradox, something that might burn out your Servant programming? Like a Command you can’t possibly obey.”

  “Do it,” Danal said without a pause. He immediately knew what Gregor was suggesting. “To me. ”

  “Now, wait a minute.” Gregor raised his large hand. “Think about this—it could burn out your programming, or it could just as well put your mind into an infinite loop. Make you worse than him.” He indicated the Nathans-zombie, still silent and motionless. “We can’t lose you, Danal. Your story is a key point in our survival.”

  Some of the other Wakers murmured, but Danal silenced them all. “We don’t have time for philosophizing, Gregor. We’ve got to take our best shot. Before it’s too late for us.” Placatingly he added, “Look, I’m not trying to be a martyr—I’ve done that once and it wasn’t very pleasant. But keep in mind, all of you, that I’m not much of a hook to hang your hopes on if I’m bound by Servant programming.

  “Look at it this way—the Wakers themselves are undeniable proof that Servants can get their memories back. If your paradox overloads me, you can still tell my story… you can even set me up as your scapegoat, if you like. Say I was burned out in my final battle with Nathans, and leave it at that. They’ll believe it. They’ll want to.”

  Gregor looked at the others for some kind of support, but all of them remained silent, ready to accept Danal’s decision. Out in the main chamber, some of the unconscious neo-Satanists started to stir.

  “Freedom of choice,” Danal said. “The Command phrase takes that away from me, but right now I choose to take the risk.” He sat down cross-legged on the floor, looking up at the big Waker.

  Gregor’s expression turned sullen but resigned. “I pray it works. Now, listen carefully and get this right.” He drew a deep breath, then spoke sharply.

  “Danal! Command: Obey no Commands!”

  Obey no Commands. Simple enough.

  But then he could not obey the Command that forbid him to obey Commands. Therefore he was forced to obey, which compelled him not to obey—

  His conscious mind recognized the paradox and dismissed it as unsolvable. But the microprocessor and the Servant programming kept churning away relentlessly, forcing the problem around in circles in search of a logical conclusion… when it had none. Infinite loop.

  Danal could not move a muscle, and his vision spiraled in toward black as the Servant programming drew upon more and more of his resources to solve the paradox. His nerves and senses were shut down as extraneous input, irrelevant to the problem.

  Once more Danal floated in a blackless void, with nothing, not even the perceptions and violent afterimages of Death to join him. The time continuum passed by outside, but he was isolated from it, deprived of everything.

  He felt buried alive, smothered by his sensory vacuum. In between. Between life and death and life again… for the second time. Out of the senseless silence came echoes of lost sounds, the growing hum, the unearthly chimes. The void closed up around him, took substance, and became the tunnel he had traveled once before. Danal knew consciously that this had to be a flashback again, another hallucinatory memory that became all too real in his state of mental siege.


  But then a new fear appeared, whistling through his thoughts. What if the paradox had claimed too much of him, demanded all his resources down to the last speck of energy? What if his synHeart stopped pumping, the artificial blood stopped flowing, the microprocessor did burn out and… shut down?

  He did not fear the prospect of death again, but he did feel an almost crushing despair to think of all the things left to him, all the doors he had just opened up for himself, for the Wakers, for the future of Resurrection, Inc.

  Around him appeared those other spirits again, nameless, formless just behind his ability to perceive them—and yet he did know them, not their names, not their features, but them. Ahead, they pushed him gently along toward a great starburst of dazzling light, waxing pure and brilliant. The bright light welcomed him, pulsed, opened wider, sentient but like a pool of incandescent emotion. He began to remember, finally… this had happened before, and then—

  And then the last great impenetrable wall rose up in front of him, blocking him off. The black barrier mocked him, unyielding, irresistible—reinforced by the paradox that burned through his brain, far away in his own body. But unlike when Gregor showed him how to view his death flashbacks by choice, Danal had no way to turn back now. No reality lay behind him, and he could go no farther forward.

  He pounded on the barrier, shouting with all his spirit, begging, then angry, then in despair. He knew that on the other side of the impenetrable barrier lay either an escape back to reality or… beyond. He had to break through, or he would be trapped in this hellish limbo for all eternity, whether it lasted an instant or a century in objective time. He had to go back and live, or go forward to Death, but he could not move one way or another.

  The guardian spirits had dropped back to the edges of the tunnel, almost out of his perception. They would not help him. All things were bound by their own rules, their own power.

  Then Danal knew, and he spoke his phrase with an evenness that belied his eagerness, “Command: Let me pass.”