Disappointed and puzzled, she stopped and started to swing the light away, when she spotted its leafy crown.
No, it was a willow, like those on the shore of the lake. But how did it get there--
It turned and "faced" her.
From "Disposable Commodities"
He laughed again and shook his head as he crossed the room to his desk. He dropped the messages on the blotter and took a moment to push down the upper panel of his window to get some fresh air, glancing down at the street twenty stories below. He then turned and opened the desk file drawer. Inside was a bottle of whiskey, half full, a thick-walled pewter bowl a foot across, and a crude ceramic jar stopped with a lead plug. He took out all three and set them on the desk. Pulling loose the plug, he poured a handful of grayish-green powdery salt into a glass from the wet bar and measured out a gram onto a slip of rice paper using a pharmacist's balance. He poured the unused dust back into the jar and replaced the plug before dumping the gram into the bowl. He walked into the middle of the room carrying the bowl and the whiskey bottle, set the bowl on the floor, and poured in a libation of the liquor. He sprinted back three feet as the contents began to fizz.
Within seconds, a column of fine mist rose into the air. It billowed and swirled, and took on a female form. As he watched, it coalesced into a solid object, then faded away, to reveal a nude, voluptuous woman with an hourglass figure and skin the color of bread crust. She stood as still as a statue for a few moments, her eyes closed, then she inhaled sharply and started to breath. She tilted her head back, raised her arms, and stretched her entire body, as if trying to reach the ceiling. She lowered her arms in a languid manner, bending her elbows, and ran her fingers through her billowing mane of fiery crimson hair. Still lowering her arms, she caressed the sides of her face and neck, her shoulders, and her voluminous breasts. It wasn't until she rested her palms on her hips that she relaxed and opened her eyes.
She stepped out of the bowl. "How long has it been this time?" Her voice was a low contralto, with a sultry burr that sounded like a purr.
"Three months, Lily my dear." He raised the whiskey bottle to his mouth.
She frowned and raised an eyebrow. "That's the longest yet."
He took a swig. "Not as long as when I first woke you up. What year were you processed again?"
"1912." Her voice sounded tight as he took another drink.
"And the first time I let you out was last year. So, ninety-five years. Get the picture?"
She gave him a look that could curdle milk. "What do you want this time?"
He took one last pull then recapped the bottle. "Most of it's routine, but I have a couple of new requests. First, I want to replace Lucy." He turned and went back to his desk to set the bottle down.
"Isn't she working out?"
Her snarky barb stung, but he ignored it. "She expects me to permanently resurrect her." He turned around.
"What ever gave her that idea?"
"I told her I knew how to do it, to get her to do what I wanted."
She scowled. "That was stupid. All you had to do was threaten to torture her, though you would have to do it at least once to make it credible."
"I'll keep that in mind. So, can it be done?"
"No."
"That's plain enough. So I'll need someone new for tomorrow. Who would you recommend?"
She smirked. "As I remember, you prefer them sweet, adorable, and naïve, true?"
He licked his lips. "Most definitely."
"Then I suggest Helen; front row, third from the middle."
He looked over to his left. That entire wall was covered by a bookcase. In its center was a display cubicle with a glass front. Inside were three rows of ceramic jars, similar to Lily's, but only a third the size.
He glanced back at her. "Stacked?"
Lily favored him with a grinning leer. "Most definitely."
He went over and opened the front. "From the name, I assume she's a blonde."
"That she is."
He reached in and picked up the jar in question. "Why can't they be permanently resurrected?"
"The reconstituted body is held together by the salt matrix. The salts are vulnerable to oxidation, so the integrity of the matrix only lasts about a day. Once the body starts to break apart, it crumbles very easily. If you could seal her in an airtight vessel filled with helium, she would stay intact indefinitely; she doesn't need to breath. But that wouldn't do you any good. Of course, the more powder you use, the longer she would remain reconstituted, but the fewer times you could resurrect her."
He examined the jar as he returned to his desk. "I've always wondered why your jar is so much bigger than these others."
"That's because living tissue condenses that much smaller. Your grand-uncle poisoned me first; I still don't know how."
He snapped his head around and stared at her, his gut crawling. "They were alive when you...?"
"Of course. You need special procedures to process a dead body. Your uncle didn't know that and he almost botched my processing. I survived only because I hadn't been dead long enough to matter. It also helps if the subject is aware."
He felt the blood drain out of his face. "They're awake when you...process them?"
"At least for as long as it takes the chemicals to begin decomposing their bodies."
He glanced back at the jar in his hand. "Is it painful?"
"Excruciating. And they remember every moment."
He grunted as he placed the jar on his desk. "You sound like you enjoy their suffering."
She turned and walked over to the "casting" coach against the right wall. He had put it in against the day when he would have flesh and blood female clients; for the time being, it served as the platform for his daily antics with Lucy. She laid down, facing him, her head and shoulders propped up on the padded arm and one arm draped over the back.
"They're my servants; they're only purpose is to serve my needs; all my needs." She snapped her fingers and a cigar appeared in her mouth.
"Your slaves, you mean."
"I prefer to think of them as pets. In any event, I fail to see a distinction." She snapped her fingers again and the exposed end lit up.
"You don't believe they have any rights?"
She snapped her fingers a third time and a glass of liquor appeared in one hand. "Technically, they're dead. What rights does a dead man have?" She drained the glass, but as soon as she held it level, it refilled.
From "The Peril Gem"
Eile Chica looked down past her feet at the pit of lava. It was maybe ten yards beneath them, but she knew they'd get a lot closer real soon. Looking up, she examined her restraints. Her wrists had been well lashed with a thick cord made of fibrous vines, and slipped over a hook that hung from a rope. The rope had been thrown over a cross-pole high above them, from which she and White-Lion dangled. She couldn't twist her body around far enough to see, but she heard the creak of the winch as it was turned, lowering them towards the lava at a tedious pace. She looked out in front of her. The tribe had gathered around the lip of the pit, and they danced, screamed, and gesticulated in a wild orgy of religious ecstasy, as others stood off behind the crowd pounding on hollow log drums.
"Uhh, Braveheart, I think we're in trouble."
Irritated by the inane comment, she scowled and gave White-Lion a dirty look. "Brilliant deduction, Sherlock," she growled in a sarcastic tone.
White-Lion jerked her head around, her eyes and mouth opened in large startled O's. "Oh, my! What brought that on?"
"Whaddya think, ya ditz?"
"You sound upset."
"Now, what makes you think that? A bunch of murderous savages want ta immolate us as a sacrifice to their god in punishment for trying ta steal their sacred jewel. Why the hell would I be upset?! Gaaah, sometimes you can be such a space-case!"
"Well, getting mad at me won't help."
White-Lion's words triggered an idea for how to escape. She realized it was a long shot, but she didn't see that they had any
choice.
"Geeze, get a clue, will ya? We wouldn't be in this mess if it wasn't for you and yer hair-brained schemes."
"Hey! You can't blame this on me."
"Oh, yeah? Whose idea was it ta steal the Eye of the Devourer?"
"Well, it certainly wasn't my idea to sneak through the village at night."
"Yer the one who set off the alarm!"
"Only because you were about to step on that sleeping guard!"
"Ya didn't have ta yell!"
"How else was I supposed to get your attention? You were too far away to hear me whisper."
"You were supposed ta be right behind me."
"You were moving too fast!"
"I was tryin' ta get through the village before we were discovered, ya bimbo! Why couldn't you keep up?"
"I was trying to be stealthy!"
"Dammit! I thought we agreed ta move fast!"
"I didn't agree to anything, you decided for both of us!"
"I thought it was the best thing ta do!"
"I'm the senior partner, I'm the one who's supposed to make the decisions!"
"Hah! You couldn't decide what shoes ta wear this morning, you idiot!"
"I'm the idiot? You're the one who thought we could scare the natives with a simple trick!"
"How was I ta know they'd seen matches before?!"
By that time they were within ten feet of the lava. Eile could smell the foul gases and feel the heat rising up from the surface.
"I knew yer obsession with adventure would get us killed some day, but I never thought we'd go out like this."
"Son of a--stop blaming me!"
The Lions of Inganok Page 10