Kevin Anderson - Resurrection, Inc.

Stromgaard Van Ryman lay on the altar, still garbed in his red-trimmed High Priest’s robe, while Vincent stood beside him, wearing his own black-and-red robe. Vincent shifted the razor-sharp arthame from hand to hand, fidgeting.

The ceremony progressed as it always had, and Vincent found himself mechanically offering the expected gestures. But his mind was elsewhere.

“I won’t feel a thing, Vincent. I will be drugged and floating high in the sky long before you even begin the Sabbat,” Stromgaard had said. “ The pain is already so bad I can hardly stand it. It’s eating me away and I can feel every bite it takes.” He clutched Vincent with a desperate clawlike hand.

“Don’t force me to shrivel away until there’s nothing left,” he pleaded, “It’ll only get worse. Much worse.

“I’ll keep myself drugged to euphoria until you finish the High Sabbat. Give me at least that much dignity. Let my own choice enter into it. Besides, it’s the best thing for neo-Satanism.” Stromgaard said the last comment as if he meant it fervently.

The younger Van Ryman looked down between the folds of the old High Priest robe and saw the gaunt, skeletal remains of his father. The ribs protruded; the skin had a grayish cast. And Vincent even noticed a wide birthmark on the right side of Stromgaard’s chest that he had never seen before.

Stromgaard Van Ryman’s eyes were strange and glassy, unfocused and staring deep into infinity. His chin was covered with stubble, and the knuckles on his hands stood out like knobs on an old tree.

I won’t feel a thing. This is what I want.

The crescendo of the ritual rose, then fell, then rose again to an even higher peak before it stopped abruptly. Vincent turned to look at the faces of the gathered neo-Satanists, searching. They stared back at him, some curious, some expectant, some wearing no expression at all, just a blank, confident acceptance.

He turned back to his father and shifted the arthame to his left hand so that he could deliver a hard and swift final blow.

“Ashes to ashes, blood to blood; fly to Hell for all our good!” he intoned, and then, mostly to himself, “Goodbye, Father.”

Deep in the lower managerial levels of Resurrection, Inc., Francois Nathans stared at the bloody corpse of the man who looked exactly like him. The dead man lay face down on the carpet, still dressed in the white symbol-embroidered neo-Satanist robe. Nathans knelt and rolled the man over, looking down into his face.

Though he had anticipated Danal’s reaction, and planed for it, the sight of his murdered lookalike still gave him an eerie sensation, as if he were looking at a snapshot of his own death. Nathans had watched the whole thing from a hidden monitor, astonished by Danal’s explosive speed and violence, but he didn’t feel a great deal of pity for the dead duplicate—the other man had been fully aware of the risks, and he’d agreed to accept them.

“A man has amnesia. We’re trying to awaken his memories, trigger them to return,” Nathans had explained it to the volunteer. “We don’t know how he’ll react, and there could be some risk. There’ll probably be some risk. The man is a Servant.”

After seeing the large sum waiting to be transferred into his Net account, the volunteer had motioned for them to begin the surface-cloning that would give him the face of Francois Nathans.

Now Nathans looked down at the murdered man again, saw the line of faint red pinpricks where the clone-infection had spread, and saw where Danal’s blinding speed had neatly split the double’s throat like a spoiled fruit.

A warm thrill trickled down his spine. Something had snapped, some part of Danal had come back, some part of the original Vincent Van Ryman had broken through the wall of death and reawakened his old anger.

Pondering, he moved slowly over to Rodney Quick’s body on the sofa. That was something Nathans had not counted on. A shame, too—and a waste. He had been touched by the regret and dismay on Danal’s face as he placed the dead technician on the couch. But things were moving too fast right now. Nathans could mentally collate the events later.

He picked up the young tech’s body and stumbled with it outside his office, back to the elevator. He positioned Rodney’s body against the wall, to look as if he had been attacked and then discarded. Then Nathans went back to seal the door of his own office. He had other things to take care of before he could sound the alarm down in the lower levels.

The door to the secret alcove opened and an Enforcer came in, moving rapidly from the passage to the street above. The Enforcer was outfitted in glossy dark-blue armor with crimson ringlets on each arm-piece. He quickly came up to Nathans, moving with a fluid assurance in his dark armor.

“The riot out there is getting worse, sir. We’ve got Special Forces coming in now. Should be under control fairly soon.”

“What are you doing here in that Elite Guard uniform?” Nathans demanded. “This is Resurrection, Inc, remember? I’m supposed to hate the Enforcers. Get changed immediately!”

The blue-clad Enforcer nodded stiffly. Nathans then indicated the dead lookalike on the floor. “I want you to get rid of this. And completely destroy the body—make sure no one sees you.”

The Enforcer mumbled his reply and wasted no time getting to work.

Nathans placed his hands behind his back and went over to the thick underwater window, staring out at the murky shapes behind the glass. He flicked a switch and sent spotlights into the water. Sharply defined yellowish beams plunged into the murk where they occasionally struck the shapes of large grayish fish.

Danal had responded! Now they were past the first major hurdle. The experiment might work after all.

Nathans jumped out of his reverie and went to the direct network-link terminal. Making sure the Elite Guard was not in view, he punched a few buttons and came face-to-face with an image of the captain of Resurrection’s specially assigned team of regular Enforcers.

“We’re busy right now, Mr. Nathans,” the captain said impatiently. “We’ll give you a report as soon as we can compile one.” The other Enforcer reached forward to blank the screen.

“The Servant must not be harmed,” Nathans interrupted. “All other priorities are secondary. You have to get him out of there, rescue him from the mob.”

“I understand that, Mr. Nathans. It’s too bad he got away in the first place, isn’t it?” the white-armored Enforcer said. “We’ve informed all our men except one Enforcer. We’re not able to contact him. His suit radio must be out of service.”

“Who? Which one?”

“Jones—the man who first went after your rebel Servant at the scene. His weapons fire could have sparked the disturbance outside. Your receptionist believes the Servant was struck in the shoulder by one of his shots. Jones was in the lobby at the time and acted exactly according to protocol. Commendable, under any other circumstances.”

“I’m not interested in any other circumstances! I want you to make damn sure my Servant is not harmed. You don’t understand how valuable he is.”

“That may not be possible by now, sir.” The guard captain had a maddening hint of disrespect and scorn in his voice. “As I said, we’ve lost contact with Enforcer Jones, and the disturbance is getting pretty bad. A mob would probably focus around a Servant, especially one running from an Enforcer. He may not have had a chance.”

Yes, Nathans thought, but you don’t know how fast that Servant can move! With his knuckles Nathans rapped the key that blanked the screen. He clenched his teeth and stared through the murky window again.