Kevin Anderson - Resurrection, Inc.

Van Ryman seemed to be only half listening. “Good.” He punched some keys on one of the already logged-on terminals, establishing a direct communications link with Francois Nathans. Danal tried not to listen.

“He’s coming. You’d better get ready,” he said to the screen. The voice receptor picked up his words, encoded them, and transmitted the message directly to Nathans’s electronic address. “This is the trigger moment we’ve all been waiting for.”

Van Ryman turned to Danal. “Open the front door.”

Mid-morning sunlight entered the foyer, illuminating the dark shadows inside. He could see the black textured concrete of Van Ryman’s walkway extending to the public sidewalk, and from there to the streets and the people and the entire city—people who hated Servants and, he recalled uneasily, who disliked neo-Satanists as well.

Danal could barely see the hazy hemisphere of ionized air of the Intruder Defense field surrounding the mansion. Van Ryman fiddled with the controls; without looking up, he announced, “Go now, Danal. I’ve opened the door field. I’ll be watching and ready when you come back.”

“Yes, Master Van Ryman.” Indeed he did see a portion of the blurred air become fully transparent again as the deadly field was reshaped enough to let him pass through.

“Danal!” Van Ryman came to the porch to see him. He hung onto his words breathlessly. In the slanted sunlight the Servant could see the line of faint pinprick scars on his Master’s face and jawline. “Good luck.”

Danal stepped out, began to walk, and kept walking, feeling paradoxically naked in his neo-Satanist disguise, vulnerable and trapped.

Alone, he tried to sidestep the psychological battlefield of the streets. As he walked, the mansion fell behind him with all its gables and towers and its too-polished gargoyles. He felt like a walking time bomb, the jagged tip of an iceberg thrusting itself upward from his past.

You are Danal. Danal, the Messenger. You are the Prophet.

He walked purposefully, knowing Van Ryman would be watching through his monitors until he was out of range. He let the streets swallow him up. Conflicting emotions and confusion made his heart heavy. As a Servant, he had already felt the latent antagonism of the people, but now, marked with the sign of the neo-Satanists, he could feel even more angry, disgusted stares from the crowd.

You are the Bringer of Change and the Fulfiller of Promises.

Danal wondered if the protection supposedly offered by the pentagram mark on his forehead was worth the wrenching, disconnected feelings in his stomach. This time, he experienced no wonder and awe at the streets’ varied impressions. The pedestrians’ quick glances and muttered obscenities were also laced with fear. He wanted to tell them he was not one of the Satan worshippers

not any more!

Near Resurrection, Inc. he stood as if hypnotized, staring into the feathered surface of the pool surrounding a splashing fountain. Warm salt water gushed from ornate, abstractly phallic orifices. Overhead, a pair of seagulls floated on thermal currents, searching for garbage that someone might drop into the fountain. Prominently painted on the concrete lip around the pool were the words, “DO NOT DRINK.”

You are the Stranger whom everyone knows.

Fine droplets of mist from the fountain splattered against his polymer trenchcoat. He knew he shouldn’t be hesitating. He shouldn’t be stopping. But then, he shouldn’t be uneasy either—as a Servant, he had been given clear-cut instructions. He should have been concerned only with following them.

You are the Awakener and the Awakened.

In truth, Van Ryman had not actually told him to keep the pentagram, had not Commanded him to continue wearing the disguise at all. Danal understood what the Master had implied, but without the binding Command phrase, a Servant was free to interpret orders as he wished, wasn’t he? Danal continued to rationalize to himself, thinking rapidly, trying not to wait too long by the fountain before someone became suspicious.

You are the Destroyer.

On impulse he splashed water on his forehead and scrubbed with the corner of his trenchcoat, staining the cloth a greasy red. He tossed the sopping black stocking cap into the water and it slowly sank to the bottom. He leaned over the fountain to see his reflection. The mark was gone.

He felt as if he had cast one of the leering gargoyles off his back.

In her own quarters, Supervisor began by playing the second movement of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7, selecting it from the Net library of music and setting the piece on auto-repeat. The slow, quiet beginning of the music drifted out from the thin band of microspeakers at waist level around the room. She used the keypad tattooed on her palm to activate the implanted speakers in her head, hooking her mind up to the direct electronic translation of the symphonic masterwork.

She closed her thick eyelids, reveling in the pure digitized tones, receiving the real music from the inside in an ecstatic experience that few other people could ever have. She allowed herself to savor each note in private, where no one else could see her. The somber andante tempo set the mood for her search.

In further preparation, Supervisor removed her sleeveless purple tunic and neatly placed it on the meditating chair. Standing naked, she undid her three equal braids, brushing the bluish-blond hair out into a fine web; stray strands drifted with leftover static electricity. She would never admit her apartment was too empty, too lonely; with all The Net for company, no Interface should ever get lonely.

Supervisor took the wand, laying an impedance path from the wall’s power plate along the floor to the center of the room, where she would be sitting. She lit incense, then switched off all the lights, leaving only darkness except for a dim red glow from the photo-receptive mood specks painted on the wall.

Supervisor arranged her stocky body in a lotus position on the floor, sitting in the center of the impedance path. She could feel the pleasant pressure of the neutral-textured carpet against her buttocks. The temperature in the room was perfect. She controlled her breathing and listened to Beethoven’s music for a few minutes, closing her eyes, washing away all barriers. Then she brushed her fingertips against the keyboard on her palm, logging onto the computer network.

In the back of her mind, Supervisor had already begun to formulate a strategy for her search. The Cremators. The information must exist somewhere on The Net. She decided to find them, expose them. The problem would occupy her entire mind, her entire body, and she would be taken away from this… triviality. Supervisor would once again prove her incredible worth to Resurrection, Inc.

Of course, she chose to seek out the Cremators for the sheer challenge rather than out of any sense of duty to the corporation. Life presented so few challenges. She savored the tingle of excitement that skittered along her spine.

Personally, Supervisor didn’t care about what the Cremators did; moral qualms were for weaker people who had no interest in seeing the greater universe. Resurrection, Inc., with its power and visibility, balked at anyone opposing their operations; the Cremators fought for another way of existence, with a philosophy perpendicular to that of the corporation. And, regardless of any objective assessment of their motives, Supervisor had a deep admiration for the Cremators’ ability to elude all the intense searches for so long.

Francois Nathans had used his best hackers and database jockeys, but no matter how talented they were, they still suffered under the handicap of being only human. An Interface was the only appropriate person to conduct such an in-depth search.