Kevin Anderson - Resurrection, Inc.

Nathans gestured, and two Acolyte Supervisors appeared from alcoves beside the altar platform. They took Danal’s bloodless Servant hands and lifted them over his head to meet the manacles; the other assistant then chained his feet.

That wasn’t necessary , Danal thought. He could bind me as effectively with a Command phrase. Nathans still didn’t trust him. The Servant felt a warmth creeping inside. Nathans was afraid.

Before the appearance of the High Priest, one of the ranking Coven Managers had led the neo-Satanists in the elaborate rituals listed in their Sabbat program leaflets, ceremonies that Vincent and Nathans had long ago designed using choreographers and cultural specialists. The crowd was sated with ritual now, brought up to a different fever pitch, waiting for something more.

Nathans raised his hands, and the background noise dropped off as with the chop of a guillotine blade. The organ music ceased.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Walpurgis Night Sabbat!” he called to the crowd. “I am your new High Priest, and I come to you with a promise. I have such confidence in your faith, in the truth behind what we’re doing, that if you believe—we, you and I, can bring Satan back among us with this one last sacrifice!” Coldly he swept his hand behind him to indicate Danal on the altar.

The crowd cheered and whistled.

“It will be tonight—I guarantee it!”

Danal tried to sit up, but one of the assistants firmly pushed his head back down. He could have resisted with his strength, but decided to play passive for the moment.

“You have followed all the rituals, read all the Writings, attended all the Sabbats. I’m proud of you. But tonight, this magic night, is Walpurgis Night, the greatest Sabbat of the year. All the stars and planets are in their ideal positions. Tonight, neo-Satanism will come to its climax, and you’ll all be part of a new age. For the return of our Master!”

More cheering. Nathans strutted back and forth across the stage. He seemed tense, hyperventilating, but Danal could see a well-hidden smugness in the man’s bearing. Nathans refused to turn to meet Danal’s eyes; the Servant couldn’t tell if the man avoided looking at him out of guilt and anger, or if he had simply become too caught up in his role.

Then Danal realized something else, something that might have been useful had he not been under a Command of silence—he didn’t think Nathans had ever killed before, not directly, not with his bare hands. Danal wondered if the man would have the nerve to murder his former student, his apprentice.

“The time is now!” Nathans cried, and his voice cracked in its enthusiasm. “Are you ready?”

The resounding shout from the audience chilled Danal. “Rah hyuun! Rah hyuun!”

Nathans whirled and stepped behind the altar. He was moving too fast; the Servant could tell he wanted to get this over with. The thought surprised him—he had expected Nathans to gloat, to savor the moment of his ultimate victory.

From a slot in the side of the altar stone, Nathans snatched out the wide-bladed arthame, the jeweled sacrificial dagger. He held it up with both hands over his head.

The crowd shouted again. “Rah hyuun! Rah hyuun!”

Danal knew the pain would come, a bright flash of Death, but still he stared up at Nathans to the last. By the look in the man’s eyes, he could see that Nathans didn’t dare hesitate or else his doubts might win through. Nathans’s expression softened for the briefest instant, but he hardened it again, fighting against his feelings. Danal could see infinitely clear droplets of sweat on the man’s scalp, glistening like beads among the painted symbols on his head.

The audience fell completely silent, sitting motionless on their stone benches in hushed anticipation. Nathans cocked the blade and tightened his grip on the hilt until his knuckles whitened. “Ashes to ashes, blood to blood; fly to Hell for all our good!”

Then Julia stood up in the audience, shrugging down her hood and exposing herself as a blank-faced, bald Servant.

Startled and distracted cries broke from the worshipers.

Nathans flicked his gaze up, and his face contorted in angry surprise. “Who has brought a Servant here to our most sacred ceremony!”

Scattered throughout the audience, the Wakers stood up. Only forty-three of them, but they were well dispersed among the hundreds so that the effect was increased. Gregor threw off his Acolyte Supervisor robe, crumpled it in his large hands, and threw it to the ground. He proudly displayed his gray jumpsuit, his pallid skin, his hairless visage.

“You don’t want to lay a hand on him, Mr. Francois Nathans,” Gregor shouted.

The other Wakers exposed themselves, standing up as gray-clad Servants. Nathans stood aghast, staring at the sudden appearance of the Servants— Servants! His mouth hung open just enough that Danal could see the depth of his shock. The ceremony had been interrupted—Danal convinced his Servant programming that Nathan’s Command no longer bound him to silence.

“So many things you don’t know, Francois,” Danal spoke quietly as he lay helpless on the altar, but with a scorn that cut deeply into Nathans’s confidence. “I’m not the only one. I was your great experiment, your guinea pig. But all these other Servants awoke to their memories, awoke to themselves, without any intervention from you. They all remember, Francois. Dozens and dozens of them. Think of how many more must be out there, hiding. Remembering life and death because your resurrection process is flawed.”

Nathans worked his mouth, but only a wordless whisper came out. Even without slipping into microprocessor speed, Danal sensed that all time had stopped. The crowd fell silent, confused, waiting for their High Priest to react. Danal lay back in chains, unmoving.

“One more thing, Francois,” he continued slowly, savoring the words. “ They are the Cremators. Awakened Servants whose goal is to stop you from creating more like themselves!”

That was the last straw for Nathans. His eyes became wild, giving him a hunted look. Helpless and frantically desperate, the man whirled back toward the secret rooms behind the altar platform and shouted—

“Jones!”

The Elite Guard watched, helplessly horrified, at his station in the spy alcove. As the Sabbat continued toward its peak, he grew sick inside, enraged and disgusted—he had helped Nathans in this? How many other things would be clear if he looked at them under a harsher light? He squirmed, sweating and wide-eyed, as Nathans prepared to make the sacrifice of the hapless Servant. He could not see the expression on the man’s face, but Jones imagined any number of them.

Then when the Servant appeared in the audience—Julia! he knew it was Julia—Jones reacted as if someone had struck him a sharp blow. It was utterly incredible even to imagine that she could be here! His world began to swim around his senses again, as if the gears of the universe had just become unmeshed.

Julia!

What was she doing here?

Was this something Nathans had set up? To trap him even further?

“Jones!”

Stunned, he finally heard the frantic tone in the man’s cry. Interminable hours of Enforcer and Elite Guard training overrode his thoughts for a moment, and Jones lurched into motion. He burst out of the alcove onto the stage, fully armored and bristling with weapons.

The crowd gasped again at the sudden appearance of the Elite Guard. Their fear of the Enforcers Guild had nothing to do with their belief in neo-Satanism. And their confusion sank deeper.

“Kill the Servants!” Nathans cried automatically. His voice seemed to be losing its grip on the tone of authority, and it came out with undertones of a manic whimper. The High Priest looked down, as if oddly terrified of the Servant chained on the altar.