Chapter 4
The body named Danal hung suspended in the final purging bath of amniotic solution. Faint smells of chemicals wafted up from the open vents at the top of the vat. Rodney Quick wished his nostrils would become desensitized once and for all.
A long, colorless scar ran down the center of Danal’s chest where Rodney had implanted the synHeart, a scar that would never fade because a Servant could not heal itself. Danal’s body had been shaved and his nails trimmed back; he hung in the amber nutrient bath, drifting, held submerged by weighted spheres. The pre-Servant’s eyes were closed beatifically, as if enjoying a last peaceful taste of death.
An involuntary shudder traced itself down Rodney’s spine, but he managed to hide it from any invisible eyes. Seventy other vats functioned in the large room, creating Servant after Servant. Each day new pre-Servants arrived, and resurrected bodies walked out under their own motor power. Have microprocessor, will travel. The entire system was too efficient to be openly ugly, and perhaps that was why it had fooled him for so long.
The bright harsh lights of Lower Level Six seemed colder every day. Death surrounded Rodney, and the stink of resurrection chemicals hung about him like a cloud, a breath from the Grim Reaper, clinging to him even when he walked away from work and tried to slip into a normal life of his own.
The odd feeling of low-level horror had been growing steadily within him for days now, making it difficult to do his job. Only now, after all the time of working for Resurrection, Inc., had he finally come to face his own mortality, the very real possibility of his own death. The knowledge slowly turned his nerves to jelly.
Supervisor breathed down his neck like a vampire, making his job a nightmare. She seemed to have singled Rodney out for career destruction, just at a whim. Rodney knew of other humans who had worked for her, filling various jobs—including the one he himself now held—and those others had disappeared, with no explanations and no excuses offered by management. As a living Interface with the Net, Supervisor knew full well how valuable she was to Resurrection, Inc. She seemed sickeningly confident that no one would call attention to anything she might do. Rodney felt trapped in a cat-and-mouse game, unable to do more than quietly panic. He continued to do his job, hoping that it wouldn’t be today, not today. But he didn’t know how much longer he could grovel and use excuses to fend off Supervisor’s increasingly more elaborate accusations.
The worst part had been recognizing some of the new pre-Servants that came in just after those unofficial disappearances—Supervisor’s previous victims. The records had claimed that these cadavers were other people entirely, and the Net denied any correlation with the missing humans. But Rodney never forgot a face. Not even a waxen grimace of a death could make him doubt the identities of the bodies going into the resurrection vats.
And being turned into a Servant must be worse than dying in the first place.
What alternative did he have? When people died clean deaths, they ended up as Servants; Rodney, of all people, knew the criteria for acceptance. Was he supposed to hope for a long, debilitating disease to ruin his body ... or a death messy enough that no technician would bother to reassemble the pieces?
The more he thought about it, the more Rodney felt a gnawing helplessness—he could do nothing to save himself if Supervisor finally chose to destroy him, and he could do nothing to protect his own body afterward. What option did anybody have?
Yes, he did know of an option. He barely dared to whisper it in his own thoughts: Cremators. Even the idea frightened him, but he knew it had to be true. He believed in the Cremators. The need was too great for it to be just another rumor.
More than ever before, people had become preoccupied with, and terrified of, death—caused in great part by the brooding and listless presence of Servants. But Rodney had heard of a mysterious group of militants—the Cremators—who, if one formed a contract with them, would do everything in their power to destroy the customer’s body after death, guaranteeing that it could never become a Servant. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, with all the ritual. Real information about the outlaw Cremators was hard to come by, though, and the Net swallowed up any actual reports of their activities.
Francois Nathans himself had frequently posted enormous rewards for any information about the Cremators. Nathans seemed to be nervous about them, perhaps even frightened by them—though if it was all just a fabricated rumor, why would such a powerful man care? The Enforcers Guild turned every suitable dead body over to Resurrection, Inc.; Rodney didn’t know for sure if the law required it, if the corporation simply paid well for them, or if Nathans just twisted the thumbscrews on the hierarchy of the Guild. But if the Cremators were snatching suitable pre-Servants out from under Nathans’ nose, then the man would be hard pressed to ignore the challenge.
Rodney didn’t know if he dared attempt to contact the Cremators himself, but it would have to be soon. Would they even meet with him, knowing that he worked for Resurrection, Inc.? He became jittery again. Rodney didn’t have the slightest idea how to begin his search. What if someone found out?
“I like to see a man contemplating ... thinking.”
The man’s voice seemed to echo off the walls, and Rodney whirled, looking for its source. For a terrified moment he was disoriented and did not notice the three others standing in the maze of vats and tables.
“That’s one of the reasons why I worked so hard to create Servants,” the man continued. “To free more of man’s time for philosophizing.”
Then Rodney saw Supervisor’s purple sleeveless tunic and her cold, half-focused stare, but he realized with some relief that she seemed cowed by the two men standing beside her. The taller of the two men was much older, thin, but with a fire of knowledge behind his eyes that made even Supervisor’s gaze seem harmless. The older man was immaculately dressed, with not a strand of his steel-blue hair out of place. The other man seemed much younger but he carried himself with an uncharacteristic weariness and uneasiness. He had gleaming dark hair and a shadowy complexion that spoke of possible Asian or Indian ancestry deep in his genes. The younger man stood a few inches shorter than the older man, but his shoulders were broad and he radiated an animalistic strength.
The older man arched his eyebrows, looked at Rodney, and spoke again without taking his gaze from the technician. “Don’t be rude, Supervisor. Please introduce us.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, looking surprised. “Mister Nathans, this is Rodney Quick. Rodney, this is Francois Nathans, and the gentleman with him is Vincent Van Ryman.”
Neither man reached forward to shake his hand, and Rodney had all he could do to keep his own composure. He had never before seen either of the two men: the head of Resurrection, Inc. and the man rumored to be High Priest of the neo-Satanists. What did they want with him? What had Supervisor accused him of now?
Rodney became suspicious. He didn’t know what Nathans or Van Ryman looked like. His heart pounded harder, hammering the blood through his veins with such force that it squeezed cold sweat out of his pores. This could be a trap. This could be some twisted trick for Supervisor to make him drop his guard in awe at the distinguished visitors ... and then she would do something to make him cause his own downfall.
* * *
But what if these two were the real Nathans and Van Ryman? Then Rodney would probably act like an idiot and cause his own downfall with no help from Supervisor whatsoever. He had no way of telling. Rodney knew little more than a scattered collection of half-truths and legends about the famous people. He did have a sixth-level Net password, but that didn’t allow him access to the most confidential databases.
Rodney knew, though, that Francois Nathans had founded Resurrection, Inc., as a junior partner to Stromgaard Van Ryman—Vincent Van Ryman’s father—who had provided most of the financial backing for the new corporation. Stromgaard Van Ryman had apparently shown an adequate business sense, but Nathans was far superior in vision, charisma, and political savvy. Eight years after the formation of Resurrection, Inc., when Servants had begun to make major inroads on the work force, Nathans had assumed his role as head of the corporation, and Stromgaard Van Ryman had sold his portion of control. About the same time, Stromgaard was apparently involved with the inception of the neo-Satanist movement, but two years after the new religion had taken root, Stromgaard had mysteriously disappeared. Some speculated that he had been sacrificed by his own cult. Shortly thereafter, so rumor had it, his 21-year-old son Vincent had emerged as High Priest of the neo-Satanists.
That had all happened several years before. And now Rodney knew the Servant from Vat 66—Danal, he corrected himself—was somehow special. Vincent Van Ryman supposedly had something important in mind for him. But why was Nathans interested, too? Just out of camaraderie with the son of a friend? Or just to make certain his important customer went away satisfied? Or did Nathans himself have something to do with the neo-Satanists, too?
“Mister Nathans and Mister Van Ryman would like to see Danal now. They want to make sure everything is satisfactory.” Supervisor’s flat voice held many subtle overtones, and each one of them stabbed Rodney like an icicle to his eardrums. Van Ryman still had not spoken.
“I saw you inspecting our Danal as we came in,” Nathans said. His voice was rich and friendly but somewhat distant, as if he spoke through a mask over his true personality. “It’s good to find such diligence, especially in one of our own workers.”
Rodney finally found his voice, using instinct to switch into self-defense mode, smoothing the stutter from his words before he spoke them. “Yes, sir. Supervisor hinted at how important this Servant is to you, and I’ve been watching him very carefully. I’m sure you can see that everything is perfect. The surgical work installing his synHeart is the best I’ve ever done.”
Nathans smiled. “I’m very pleased to hear that, Mr. Quick. May I call you Rodney?”
He nodded quickly, feeling terribly conscious of his hair, wondering if it was out of place, if his gold nose stud was dulled by skin oils, if beads of sweat were showing on his forehead.
Van Ryman went close to the tank, fascinated by Danal’s body submerged in the golden solution; he seemed unable to tear his eyes from it. The dark-haired man pressed his face against the glass to see more clearly.
“Supervisor, leave us,” Nathans said abruptly.
Though obviously surprised and rebuffed at the dismissal, Supervisor turned without a word and left. The simmering noises of the vats swallowed up the rustle of her clothes. Rodney could barely contain his satisfaction as he watched Nathans’s offhanded manner with her. Rodney felt important, raised back up to the level of a human being again. He had to consciously restrain himself from strutting like a bird.
Nathans reached out and placed a paternal hand on Rodney’s shoulder. The tech stiffened a moment, but allowed himself to be turned aside as the older man began to stroll along the row of resurrection vats. Rodney followed closely, and Francois Nathans began to speak to him in a hypnotic voice, making him feel warm and confident in himself, saying just the right things, pulling all the right strings.
“Rodney, we’ve been watching your work for a long time. You have a special touch with the Servants, and you know the resurrection process inside and out. It’s unfortunate that Supervisor’s been slipping your name to us frequently, placing the blame for certain minor things on your shoulders, but we haven’t seen any decline in the quality of your work. I’m tempted to think that she’s just playing another one of her games, pin-the-tail-on-the-scapegoat. She does that, you know. Remember, she’s not quite normal, not like you and me—she gave up a lot to become an Interface with the Net. The company needs her services, but sometimes she overestimates her own importance. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.” Nathans smiled broadly.
“She sure knows how to make work miserable for me,” Rodney said quietly. Internal ropes hindered him from opening up to the man’s friendliness. He still wondered why the two men had come to him, what they had in mind. As Rodney and Nathans passed a row of recently emptied vats, the tech noticed that Van Ryman had remained behind to stare through the glass walls at Danal in the resurrection solution.
Nathans interrupted his thoughts. “You might wonder why I’d take the time to come talk with a mere technician.” He paused. Rodney didn’t dare acknowledge the suggestion with a nod.
“Well, it’s because I firmly believe that the future of any corporation begins at the roots. Our future managers are today’s technicians, if you don’t mind my being frank, and I always like to keep a pool of candidates under consideration for possible promotions.”
Rodney’s heart fluttered; none of this seemed possible. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Vincent Van Ryman do something to the vent at the top of Danal’s tank. He turned quickly to get a better look and suddenly felt Nathans’s grip tighten on his shoulder. Summoning up his courage, Rodney turned back to face the head of Resurrection, Inc.
“Thank you for your confidence in me, Mr. Nathans.” Rodney forced a calm expression onto his face. “I’ll try not to let you down.”
Nathans smiled at him again, this time with dazzling sincerity. As Vincent Van Ryman came up to rejoin them, Rodney was alarmed to see a heavy expression of sorrow on Van Ryman’s face.
“I think everything’s satisfactory, Mr. Quick,” Van Ryman announced; his voice was rich and mellow, but with a curious strained edge to it. “You certainly know your work.”
Rodney averted his eyes, trying to look embarrassed at the compliment. “It was just a routine resurrection. I’m sure you’ll be happy with your Servant.”
Things seemed less certain now. At least Supervisor was straightforward in her psychological warfare. Was Nathans truly the compassionate boss he seemed to be?
Rodney had seen Van Ryman meddling with Danal’s tank. He was certain of it, though he couldn’t imagine what possible sabotage the dark-haired man could have performed. If Van Ryman was indeed the High Priest of the neo-Satanists, perhaps he had some other ritualistic purpose in mind. And in that case, though it might give him the jitters, Rodney didn’t particularly care. Mumbo-jumbo and superstition were weapons against the uneducated blue-collars.
But if Van Ryman had done something, should Rodney mention it to Nathans? Or might that be worse than not saying anything, if Nathans ended up being part of it? After all, Nathans had carefully led him away from the tank, distracted him, so Van Ryman could have time alone.
Or maybe Nathans had been deviously sincere about looking for new management recruits, and this was some sort of test to see how dedicated Rodney was to the successful completion of his job. If so, if he suspected sabotage from anyone—even a person as powerful as Vincent Van Ryman himself—then he should report it to Nathans. But he should also be willing to trust his ultimate boss, Francois Nathans, in all things. And if Nathans was obviously involved with this staged tampering perhaps Rodney was supposed to see the attempt but trust Nathans to intervene if a problem absolutely needed to be fixed. Should he say anything or not?
Rodney’s head was still spinning when Nathans patted him on the back, and Van Ryman shook his hand, thanking him for the preview of his new Servant. The technician convinced himself to make a parting comment. “Thank you for coming. I very much enjoyed meeting both of you. I hope I haven’t disappointed you in any way.”
“Of course you haven’t, Rodney. I’m sure we’ll be talking again.” Nathans nodded and then motioned for Van Ryman to enter the lift compartment first. The doors whisked shut and swallowed up the two men.
The instant the lift doors closed, Rodney rushed back to the vat that held the Servant named Danal. Carefully he inspected the vent openings, but could not tell if they had been moved. He sniffed the air, trying to detect any unusual smell, but found none. A smudge on the transparent wall showed where Van Ryman had touched the glass, but that proved nothing. He squinted into the yellow amniotic fluid, trying to detect any changes. Was it murkier now than before? Did he see any difference?
Supervisor wouldn’t hesitate for a moment if Rodney did anything to jeopardize the successful resurrection of this particular Servant. The final-stage bacteria that infused the nutrient solution in which Danal now hung suspended were genetically volatile, easily mutated, and more than once a mutated solution had adversely affected the physical or mental condition of a reanimated Servant. Sometimes the motor control seemed skewed; sometimes the mental faculties were dulled or sharpened—and an unusually intelligent Servant caused more concern than a totally stupid one. What if the original memories of the individual somehow came too close to the surface? But without the final solution to do one more scouring and to replace the electrolytes in the brain, the implanted microprocessor would not function properly.
Rodney could think of no way to verify any tampering, short of taking a sample of the amniotic solution to the analytical lab. But then he’d have to explain his suspicions, and that might cause him as much trouble as he was trying to avoid.
The more he thought about it, the more he convinced himself that Nathans had devised a test for him. Or perhaps it was Supervisor’s doing after all. But even the major fact of knowing this was a test didn’t help him at all. Nor did he know what the penalty for failure would be.
* * *