Incarnations of Immortality

by Anthony, Piers

  "I agree to this," Jolie said.

  "And I see no need to acquaint Gaea with what you have told me, until there is a better resolution," Luna said. "Now I must go, but Zane will be along presently, and he will take you to the girl."

  "I'll have to tell Gaea where I'm going."

  "No need; she knows." Luna left.

  Jolie stood, bemused. How could Gaea know? Then she realized that Gaea's suggestion had not been offhand, about seeing Luna. She must have cleared it first, or at least have known that Luna had such a need. The Incarnations had levels of communications that others hardly fathomed, and Luna was in certain respects like an Incarnation.

  She remembered, too, the first time she had animated Gaea's physical body and gone to make love to Satan. It had been nominally Parry and Jolie, as it had been so long ago in life, and as such, wonderful. But it was also the secret, forbidden consummation of Satan and Gaea, the Incarnations of Evil and Nature. There had been only one direct evidence of that which an outsider could have recognized: when Satan had asked Jolie to thank the one whose body she had borrowed, and Gaea had said in her own voice, "She knows."

  Luna had been similarly certain. But she had also agreed to keep Jolie's information private, for now. So Gaea knew that Jolie's business was serious and in good hands, and that was enough.

  She waited, hanging on to the limp soul, and in an hour there was a sound outside. She looked out, and there was Mortis, the beautiful, pale death-horse, trotting down through the air toward the yard. The two griffins set up a squawking of welcome. Mortis landed, the hooded figure dismounted, and the animals sniffed noses.

  Thanatos strode to the house. Jolie stepped through the closed door to meet him. She was, of course, used to his skull visage; he was actually a living man, become the Incarnation of Death when he killed his predecessor, and his appearance was only his costume. "Luna said—"

  "Yes. Are you ready?"

  "Yes." There was that hidden communication again! "It is not far from here. Ride with me." Jolie followed as he returned to Mortis. The horse became a pale car, somehow knowing his master's desire unspoken. His master? Mortis had outlasted several Officeholders! Jolie tried to enter the car but could not pass through the substance; Thanatos had to open the door for her, in seeming gallantry which was not mock. The associates of the Incarnations had special qualities too; Jolie had not realized that Mortis was ghost-proof, but it did not surprise her.

  "I understand Nox is involved," Thanatos remarked as the car moved smoothly out of the grounds, self-guided.

  "She made this person into a man and caused him to attempt rape," Jolie replied. "Now her evil overbalances her good and she is sinking, but I don't think it's fair."

  "Her balance is positive, not negative," Thanatos said. "She sinks only because she believes she is evil, but no guilt should attach for a burden imposed by another party. Is this not the one for whom you interceded so recently?"

  "Yes, she is. I learned that the Incarnation of Night had the soul of her baby, so I guided her there—and Nox played a cruel game before agreeing to help. Even then, she set horrendous conditions."

  "That is not like her. She has been indifferent to mortal and immortal affairs throughout my tenure. What conditions did she set?"

  "An item from each of the active Incarnations, to facilitate correction of the malady of the baby's soul."

  "What item from me?"

  "A blank soul."

  There was a pause. Then the skull turned toward her. "If that is typical, the chances of completing that list are minimal."

  "But better that Orlene try, than that she give up hope," Jolie said, hoping it was true.

  "Perhaps it is a deliberate diversion, intended to be an endless quest for her."

  "But why would Nox do that? She could have denied the interview entirely if she didn't want to give up the baby!"

  "The Incarnation of Night is excellent at keeping secrets."

  He said no more, and Jolie didn't dare pursue it. She had mentioned the item listed for him, and that was as far as she could go on her own; Orlene would have to pursue it herself, when she was able. Jolie's task was to enable Orlene to resume her quest; then the decision would be Orlene's.

  The vehicle halted. They were in a bad section of the city of Kilvarough, where rundown tenements were scheduled for demolition in favor of modern megabuildings. Thanatos led her to a grimy chamber where a teenage girl lay sprawled asleep on a flimsy cot. "This is Vita," he said. "She is a harlot being addicted to Spelled H. Her individual volition is almost gone; she responds merely to the voice of authority supported by force."

  Jolie was aghast. "Luna has need of such a one?"

  The grinning bare teeth seemed to grin further. "There is a rationale. We did not feel free to ask any other to undertake this task, for there is much discomfort in it, and you may avoid it also."

  "No, I said I would do it, and I will," Jolie said. "But I can see that I won't enjoy it."

  "True. I leave you, then, to your devices." He turned and walked back the way they had come, in a moment fading from view. Jolie knew that he had not truly disappeared; rather, he was not visible or memorable to anyone who did not have reason to see him, and her reason had passed. As a ghost she could perceive him far more readily than living mortals could, but even so, it was only because he permitted it.

  She walked to the sleeping girl, dragging Orlene's soul. Prostitution and Spelled H—a combination for disaster! She would have to do something about that immediately!

  "Very well, Orlene," she said. "I will carry it at first, but it is for you I am doing this." She embraced the soul and stepped into the body.

  She felt the effect of the drug immediately. The girl was not in a natural sleep, but in a stupor. Jolie was not conversant with the cycle of Spelled H, for the drug had appeared centuries after her time, but she understood that its effects varied with the dosage and the time following the dose. Once a person was habituated to it, she depended on it to be functional; there was a certain euphoria followed by depression, which could be abated by another dose. Properly managed, it could keep a person in the pleasant in-between state during the waking hours. Too much made the addict hyper; not enough brought an agony that was not merely of the body. Gaea had cured several musicians who had been addicts, but short of direct intercession by the Incarnation of Nature, few broke free. This would require iron willpower!

  Orlene settled into the host and found the mood compatible: hellhound. Jolie, freed of the need to hold on to Orlene constantly, got to work on Vita.

  "Up, girl," Jolie said, using the host's sodden lips. "We're going to work off this high, or low, as the case may be." She forced the limbs to move and the flaccid stomach muscles to contract.

  The host groaned and sat up. Jolie felt the spinning of the senses and the pounding at the temples. This was definitely a low! But she pressed on, making the host rise unsteadily to her feet and stagger to the grubby toilet nook. She ran water and splashed it on the face. Vita had vomited recently, by the taste of it, and there were bruises on her body: someone had been hitting her.

  Jolie decided to go the whole route. She stripped off the dirty clothing, then stepped into the shower cubicle. Cold water blasted down, shocking her body. She gritted her teeth and washed both body and hair as thoroughly as possible without heat. The discomfort was more important than the cleanliness, at the moment.

  When she couldn't stand it anymore, she got out. The water cut off automatically. Shivering, she went to stand before the pane of glass that served as a full-length mirror.

  This host was nubile, with hips and breasts that would have been on the way to provocative fullness had bad eating and bad living not interfered. The hair, too, could have been lustrous, but seemed to have been hacked off at shoulder level and otherwise mistreated. Bruises showed on the arms and shoulders. By the feel of it, the men this prostitute served had been urgent and rough and had not necessarily confined their ardors to the genital r
egion. There were no scars or punctures on arms or legs, but of course that proved nothing; there were oral, nasal and optic variants of the drug.

  The lethargy of incipient withdrawal remained. Jolie spread the bedsheet on the floor and tried exercises: sit-ups, leg lifts, curls and stretches. The body protested, way out of shape for this, but again, the point wasn't health but effort. Could exercise burn off the traces of the drug? She was going to try it.

  Actually, this was helping Jolie, too, for she was not used to living flesh. She had been seventeen when she died, and though that was considerably older then than it was today, she had been long out of body. Gaea lent her body for special occasions involving their common interest, but the body of an Incarnation was in stasis and invulnerable, not truly mortal. Vita's body was all too evidently mortal, with the discomforts and weaknesses of mortality. Jolie had to accustom herself again to keeping the body balanced when she stood, so that it would not fall over, and to the needs of ongoing processes.

  That thought clarified one problem. She walked back to the toilet and used it. Ghosts had no natural functions, but mortals had to be constantly aware of input and outgo, or their systems got into trouble.

  Then she went to the food-storage section to find something to eat. That was a waste of time; there was nothing. Evidently this girl ate outside.

  Jolie checked next for money. There was none of that, either. Then she tested the door. Sure enough, it was locked, and she had no key or admittance card. She was a prisoner.

  She wished she had paid more attention to the nature of mortal life in the slum sections. As it was, she had little notion how to proceed. How had this host come to such an involuntary situation?

  Jolie tried to contact Vita, but the girl's mind was satisfied to let someone else do it. The drug had dulled her awareness, but that was only part of the story; Vita had little interest in facing reality. Perhaps that was just as well, for now, because had she objected to Jolie's control, it would have done her no good. The soul in charge of a host had command and could not be involuntarily displaced. Had Vita not been in a stupor, Jolie could not have taken over.

  She checked next on Orlene. The case was similar there. Jolie remained on her own; if she didn't do something, neither of the others would. Still, there might be something to be gained here. Orlene, this is Vita. your host, she said internally, hauling the spirit of the girl up. Vita, this is Orlene, who will be animating your body for a while. She lost her baby son, and died of grief, and suffered again after death. She can tell you what it is like.

  Who cares? Vita demanded, retreating. Why don't you just let me sink to Hell, where I belong?

  Orlene asked.

  What do you know about Hell? Vita retorted. It has no fear for me, after what I've seen on Earth.

  You haven't experienced what I have, Orlene said. Yeah? Well, I don't want to know about it!

  That ended the dialogue. Jolie shrugged her host's shoulders. At least it was a beginning.

  She had two ways to ascertain Vita's situation. One was to establish enough of a rapport with the mind of the host to learn it from her. The other was to pick it up from ongoing experience. The latter seemed to be the choice.

  She returned to the main chamber and resumed her exercising. This time she ran in place, using the large muscles of her legs to give her heart and respiration a workout. It might be wishful thinking, but she thought the body's tone was improving and the brain becoming more functional.

  There was a sound at the door. Then it burst open. A neatly dressed thug stood there, staring at her with brute disapproval. "What the hell you doing, running around baretit?" he demanded.

  Oops! Jolie had forgotten to don clothing after her shower, that being another detail that ghosts did not have to worry about. As a ghost she could assume any form, clothed or unclothed, that she desired, merely by concentrating on it. Once she had learned how to do that, she had done it so routinely that she was always garbed appropriately. But the physical host needed artificial garbing.

  The man was staring at her exposed torso, which was an embarrassment. His face showed disgust, which was a further embarrassment. Who was he—her captor?

  Now the man strode forward, one hammy hand reaching out to grab her shoulder. "Answer me, brat! What you think you're doing? I didn't tell you to dance, I told you to sleep it off."

  "Sleep what off?" Jolie asked, twisting away. Immediately the hand swung up and clipped her on the side of the head, stingingly. "Don't sass me, blackass!" Jolie was stunned both by the blow and the words. What had she done to deserve the first, even assuming this man had authority over her? What was the meaning of the name he had called her?

  "Now get dressed good," the man said gruffly. "Got a special John tonight, likes 'em young and lean and hurting, so you can scream and cry all you want, but no claws and no kicking. You get a sniff of H before so you can act lively, and more after if you make him happy. But first you eat; got to get more meat in your dugs so you can work up to the big time." He strode to the shallow closet and checked the dresses there. "This one—make you look as young as you are. And a ponytail, and not much makeup. Look like some jerk's niece. My niece, maybe. But don't never forget you're just a whore. Come on, get it grinding." He shoved the dress at her.

  At last it was coming clear. This was what was called a pimp—a man who procured women for deviant customers. Vita was young, and it seemed there was an illicit market for sex with underage girls. The pimp was serving in lieu of a parent—a bad one, to be sure, but perhaps doing better for her than she would do alone on the street.

  The first thing Jolie had to do was get Vita out of this trap. But she realized that this would not necessarily be easy to do. With no information and no money, and under constant lock or guard, her options were quite limited. So she would have to play along for the time being, watching her opportunity to make her break.

  She dressed. The man actually did her hair, his fingers surprisingly skilled. He did know his business, however low that business might be. He wanted her to look childlike and innocent for this role, so that the client would be satisfied and pay well and return again on other days. It was all quite close to the reality, except for the significant detail of the sexual element.

  She checked herself in the mirror. Now she realized that Vita was of mixed blood, her skin light brown rather than white. That explained one remark. To have any evident black heritage was to be defined as all-black, logic to the contrary notwithstanding. The Negroid element was slight and showed not at all in the hair, which was brown and straight, or in the facial features; makeup could have eliminated it entirely. But to the pimp she was "blackass"—as if it were literally true, and as if there would have been any fault if so.

  "Looking good," the pimp conceded grudgingly. "Now you get your sniff, and I'll take you to meet him at a classy joint. Eat what you can; you won't get more till morning."

  He brought out a small package of something. Jolie realized it was the Spelled H—the magically enhanced variant of an ancient addictive drug, far more potent than the original. She couldn't afford to take that!

  She sought to turn her face away as the pimp brought the package up, but suddenly Vita's soul stepped in, seized control, and sniffed deeply. Jolie wrested control back immediately, but it was too late; the drug was in the host's system. Already the exhilaration of it was spreading out from her nose, encompassing her brain, and giving her entire body a tingle of joy.

  This is disaster! Jolie thought at Vita. You can't afford this stuff! It will kill you!

  But the girl, having gotten her fix, was satisfied. She retreated into near oblivion.

  Jolie intended to be on guard in the future. The addiction was not yet complete; she should be able to fight it off despite this setback. If she got the girl out of this situation, there might be no further opportunity to take the drug. Perhaps this slip was just as well; it had shown Jolie how canny the seemingly passive girl could be, pouncing during Jolie's momentar
y inattention. She would be on guard against that henceforth. Also, it would have made the pimp suspicious if she had refused the fix.

  "Now we go," the pimp said. "Remember, any trouble, no more H. That goes double for when you're alone with him."

  The system was clear enough. The drug kept the girls obedient, and the pimp supervised every aspect of the business so that there were no errors. It was a living, of a sort.

  They walked out of the room and down the narrow hall. Jolie could have run for it, but several things restrained her. She did not know her way around this neighborhood, so would not be able to hide quickly. The pimp was robust, and could probably outrun her, and certainly could subdue her when he caught her. Others here were more likely to help him than her. And if she did win free, what would she do alone on the street? Until she learned where Vita's home was, and got money to travel there, she would be entirely on her own resources, and they were forbiddingly meager. So she still had to play along; her time was not yet.

  There was a limousine waiting. It seemed the pimp lived in style, even if his girls didn't. They got in and rode to what was indeed a "classy joint"—a quality restaurant. They were guided to a table already occupied by a fat, extremely well-dressed man of middle age.

  "This is my niece, Vita," the pimp said, nudging Jolie, who smiled obligingly. "You show her the sights, call and I'll pick her up, okay?"

  The man nodded, his porcine eyes taking in the young body. This was what he had ordered, certainly!

  The pimp helped Jolie take the opposite seat. Helped? His grip on her elbow was warningly firm. She would behave, or suffer more than H deprivation! Then he left the restaurant, but she noticed that the limo didn't drive away. He was still watching, making sure that she was committed. Later, when her addiction to H was complete, he would be able to relax, but this was still the training stage.

  The meal was excellent, and she was famished. The sniff of H had restored her appetite and evidently made her sparkle, physically. The client seemed happy to have her eat her fill; it was part of the avuncular role he relished. He talked to her, telling her how he had always wanted a girl of his own like her. Jolie realized with a shock that he wasn't actually a bad man, but rather a man with an illicit hunger for young flesh that he could indulge only in this manner. Some slight and perhaps reasonable liberalization of the laws would place him within the normal spectrum.