Resurrection, Inc.

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “WELCOME TO THE NETWORK, RODNEY QUICK. HOW MAY WE HELP YOU TODAY?

  “?”

  At the prompt, four other major menus appeared, asking him to choose between Communications, Entertainment, Calculations, or Information Services. Rodney chose the latter, then cracked his knuckles as he lifted his hands away from the keyboard. Steepling his fingers, he blew on them and half-closed his eyes, trying to think of the best way to attack the problem, to ask his question.

  A sudden shudder whipped up and down his spine. His eyes flew open again.

  Supervisor was an Interface. She could tap into what he was doing—even in his own home—if she wanted to….

  He had come home that evening in a sweat, trembling, barely seeing anything around him. Supervisor had renewed her attacks with a greater vigor, finding subtle ways to stretch Rodney’s nerves, snapping them one by one.

  This morning, before starting the workday routine, Rodney had inspected the roster and the banks of frozen pre-Servants. Other Servants milled around, monitoring temperatures in the vats, cleaning up, keying in data as they stared at the display panels in front of each tank. Rodney logged on to The Net, using his work account and password, and skimmed down the day’s schedule.

  He found his own name on the list of bodies scheduled to be resurrected.

  Too astonished even to consider the coincidence of someone else having his name, Rodney called up the file. It contained only one line of text.

  “WE ARE ALMOST ON SCHEDULE WITH YOU MR. QUICK.”

  His skin felt cold and white enough with fearful anger that he almost looked like a corpse already. Rodney tried to delete the file, but found that it had been password-protected.

  The feelings of persecution and rage grew strong enough for a moment to drive down his terror, and he stormed about the room, shouting at the Servants, who obediently moved out of his way. One male seemed so intent on his tasks that he almost walked into the raging tech. “Go screw yourself!” Rodney snapped, and the Servant looked down at his crotch in total bewilderment.

  On one of the vats Supervisor had mounted a plaque with his name on it. “FOR RODNEY QUICK.” Rodney’s anger drained away like spilled milk. All that day Supervisor never showed herself.

  Rodney couldn’t run away. They held him in a web of dependence that had damned him. No matter where he went, he would have to use The Net and his password for money, for transportation tickets, for food, for identification. And every time he logged on, he would pinpoint his location, screaming out “Here I am!” to anyone who bothered to look. Supervisor was an Interface—she could find him herself, and she could come to get him if he ran away. Supervisor would do it quietly, at her own speed—but she would do it.

  Now, though, if he could find the Cremators, perhaps he could win a small victory.

  The Information Services menu spilled out across the screen. He selected “SEARCH DATABASE.” Another menu came up, listing the broad divisions of the database, and Rodney wound his way deeper into the mind of The Net, tunneling through menu after menu after menu.

  “SEARCH FOR WHAT?” the terminal finally asked.

  “CREMATORS,” Rodney typed, then sat back to wait. A “SYSTEM BUSY” message instantly appeared in the system line at the bottom of the screen. A second later Rodney scanned the summary paragraph, but it made no mention whatsoever of the group he sought.

  Not terribly surprised, Rodney then looked for other ways to approach the problem. His peripheral vision vanished, and the rest of the world faded away as he rose to the challenge and devoted himself entirely to finding what he needed to know.

  He tried anagrams of the word; he accessed the foreign-language dictionary databases and asked the computer to search for the key word in nineteen different languages. He followed every possible line of cross-referencing in an electronic wild-goose chase that led him through the labyrinths of The Net. He rose through the menus again and plunged in along an alternate route, asking different but related questions. Sometimes he received answers, but nothing helped much.

  Rodney had honed and developed his own Net finesse during his teenage years, while his friends had discovered the Net simulation/adventure games and spent their time blasting graphic aliens or guiding their cursors through childish pixel mazes. But Rodney had learned how to run the tightrope of the computer network, skipping through directories and opening files no one else had even thought to look for.

  Some of his age group smugly went into professions that would always be honored and safe: banking, politics, administration, engineering. All fine and good if you happened to be particularly bright, but Rodney knew he didn’t have the brainpower to break into any of those fields. He didn’t really care, though, so long as he found something other than the walking death of the wandering blues.

  Rodney knew that he might have hope, if he worked hard enough—the good old work ethic from times gone by. The Net itself was the biggest employer in the Bay Area Metroplex, requiring such a vast number of operators, technicians, programmers, debuggers, hacker-security officers, database assistants, maintenance specialists, hardware engineers, systems administrators, not to mention the hordes of accountants, secretaries, administrators, and other electronic paper pushers.

  Right now, though, the supposedly infinite resources of The Net seemed not to be able to find a scrap of information about the Cremators.

  Feeling a growing desperation and helplessness, Rodney pounded his fist on the side of the console.

  He shuddered to think how Francois Nathans would react if he knew what his own technician was trying to do. For a moment a twinge of guilt made Rodney stop another search for cross-references to Viking funerals. Nathans had been good to him—but Nathans had declared war on the mysterious Cremators. And if a man like Nathans could not unearth a single detail about the group, what chance did Rodney have in finding them?

  After the Servant Danal had been released and escorted off to his destination, Rodney had not expected to see any more of Nathans. Nathans was too important a man to bother with a mere technician, and Rodney had suspected with some chagrin that Nathans’s first visit was just to emphasize how important the Servant was, not necessarily to commend any special work Rodney Quick had performed.

  But Nathans did come once more, when Supervisor wasn’t around. “Rodney, I’ve checked into your background, and I am indeed impressed at what you have made of yourself.” Nathans folded his hands and smiled. “Nothing angers me more than to see a man waste himself on useless, monotonous work, letting his brain turn to jelly. By caring about your future, by working to learn, you’ve made yourself an important part of what I firmly believe to be the most crucial corporation in the evolution of mankind.”

  Dazed and somewhat baffled, Rodney nodded and mumbled something that expressed his deep gratitude. He sincerely hoped that Supervisor was eavesdropping.

  “If you ever have any problems, don’t hesitate to come see me directly. Keep up the good work, Rodney.” Nathans shook his hand. The other man’s grip was dry but firm, not a mere token gesture.

  Rodney had not dared to take him up on the offer, not even after the most serious of Supervisor’s threats. Maybe this was an even bigger trap, a net within a net. And Supervisor had specifically warned him—forcing him back against one of the warm, bubbling resurrection vats and holding him there without even moving a finger—that if he ever went to tell Nathans about anything, she would destroy him before he could say a word.

  His imagination churned away, surrounding him with horrifying possibilities: as an Interface, she could probably use The Net to make an elevator crash, a control panel overload, to turn any of the numerous appliances in his own living quarters into a weapon….

  He had to find the Cremators. He didn’t want to come back as a Servant. Even then, Supervisor would probably keep him as her private toy. He had to find the Cremators. Even if he alienated Francois Nathans in the process. His situation had gotten too serious to leave any other alternatives.r />
  “STRING NOT FOUND,” The Net answered.

  In disgust and frustration almost to the point of tears, Rodney gave up. He logged off, and the screen went blank, leaving him in darkness.

  The wake-up alarm brought him out of the murky depths of nightmares. The sound drove an icy nail of fear into him as he realized that morning had come. His eyes opened wide, and he knew they would probably be bloodshot when he went to look in the mirror. It was almost time to go to work again, to confront another day.

  Before even bothering to shower, Rodney went slowly into the kitchen area and powered up the coffee dispenser, letting the synthesizers and heaters begin to manufacture the one and a half cups he drank every morning.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the message light on his Net terminal blinking on and off.

  Suddenly awake now, Rodney went carefully over to the screen, moving with a tension that made him seem to be stalking the terminal.

  “YOU HAVE ELECTRONIC MAIL ITEM(S) NOT READ.”

  Probably just an updated Net entertainment schedule.

  Rodney logged on and chose the Communications option from the first-level menu.

  It could be an advertisement. Mass electronic mailings sent out to all Net users. Rodney had developed a program in his own Net account that would scan all such messages to see if they were electronically generated and sent to large user groups. Then he could toggle his system to ignore all of them, or throw them into a file for low-priority reading. But he hadn’t had a chance to debug the routine yet. Yes, it was probably just an advertisement message.

  He chose Electronic Mail from the Communications menu.

  “YOU HAVE ONE MESSAGE.”

  Or maybe it was a survey. “Rodney Quick, we have selected you at random…”

  He selected the message and displayed it on the screen.

  “A REPRESENTATIVE WILL MEET YOU AT EXACTLY 11:33 A.M. WE THINK YOU WILL BE EXTREMELY INTERESTED IN OUR FINE MAPS AND DEMOGRAPHIC PROJECTIONS—MERCATOR, LIMITED.”

  To his amazement, the words vanished as he read them, as if the sensors on the Net terminal could scan his eye movements. The screen suddenly drew a map of the vicinity around Resurrection, Inc., highlighting one area. Then the screen went blank.

  Frantically he tried to read the message again, but it had been purged. He dug deeper and found that The Net had no record of the message at all. No electronic address had appeared on the header to the message, no source-computer slugline.

  Wide-awake now, Rodney chewed his lip, smelling the freshly processed coffee from the kitchen area. Maps? A Mercator projection was a type of map that made the world look squashed flat on a piece of paper.

  But “mercator” was also one of the anagrams he had used the night before.

  8

  Looking satisfied and possessive, Vincent Van Ryman shuffled into the expansive study. His slippers scuffed the carpet into dark contours as he walked. Danal paced smoothly just behind him, moving without a sound.

  Van Ryman stopped, placing his hand on the top of an overstuffed chair. Danal instantly noticed the details, the front of the cushion where the maroon-crushed velvet had worn away, the heavily lacquered wood trim sporting a row of decorative brass studs.

  Curtains had been drawn across the French windows, though the neighboring condominium buildings blocked out most of the sunlight anyway. Crowded bookcases surrounded the room, mounted on top of half-walls covered with clonewood paneling. Next to the bookcases, a Net terminal displayed a simulation/adventure game interrupted in progress.

  The maw of a large fireplace was filled with jagged quartz crystals bathed by scattered laser light. Mirrored tiles covered the hearth and the inside of the fireplace, reflecting and shattering the light into a million glittering fragments. A large white-light hologram of an ocean scene hovered above the mantel, framed in garishly ornate bronze.

  Danal stopped just inside the room, absorbing details and waiting as Van Ryman moved about. The dark-haired man occupied himself compulsively, seeming insecure, as if he didn’t know what to do in the presence of his Servant.

  “Why don’t you sit with me, Danal? I was just relaxing by the fireplace.” Van Ryman gestured again toward the Servant. “Sit, please.”

  Danal automatically went to the side of the overstuffed chair, stopped, turned to the front of the chair, stopped, placed himself in front of the cushion, stopped, and finally sat down with exaggerated care. He sat stiffly in the soft chair, refusing to relax into the cushion.

  Van Ryman shrugged and walked over to a small table beside the bulky black frame of a Grande piano. Danal could see that a touchpad synthesizer keyboard had replaced the ivory keys, and microspeakers had been installed in the otherwise empty shell of the antique piano. Van Ryman picked up a cut-crystal decanter partially filled with a honey colored liquid; he neutralized the cork with a switch on the side of the decanter and poured himself a small amount into a snifter. From the other side of the room Van Ryman studied Danal for a moment and then poured a second snifter. He strode over, extending it to the Servant.

  Danal accepted the glass automaticalIy, but held onto it and made no move to bring it to his lips, though Van Ryman sipped his own with obvious pleasure.

  “Go on, drink. It’s Glenlivet—you’ll like it.”

  Danal hesitated. “Master Van Ryman, I am required to remind you that I am only your Servant. I am not a human and I am not a guest. It is not necessary to treat me with such courtesy.”

  “Thank you, Danal. I consider myself reminded, and I choose to disregard your advice. Taste your scotch. We need to have a talk, a real talk, and I feel more comfortable if I think I’m talking to someone, rather than just tapping into a database.”

  “Yes, Master Van Ryman.” Danal raised the snifter to his face, automatically inhaling and drawing in the strong aroma of the old scotch. The scent set his olfactory nerves tingling, rushing back to his brain for advice, setting off bells and lights, awakening other neurons that had until then been stubbornly asleep. He wet his lips with the Glenlivet and stepped up the workings of the microprocessor so he could analyze and concentrate on the initial touch of the alcohol before he drew in a mouthful.

  The scotch burned his lips, but he let a small amount pour over his teeth and across his tongue, feeling its slow progression. His tongue awakened, and the insides of his cheeks felt pleasantly seared. He swallowed and concentrated on the sensation as the Glenlivet flowed down his esophagus, seeming to warm and tingle his chest from the inside out. His mind recognized the taste, the experience, and stretched a little further toward awakening.

  Then he returned to real time, where Van Ryman had barely had time to blink, still watching him.

  “Thank you, Master Van Ryman.”

  Satisfied, the man turned and went over to the black-lacquered piano bench and sat down, straddling it so he could face the Servant. He regarded Danal in silence and took a deep swallow of his scotch before he spoke again. He wouldn’t look at Danal as he talked.

  “I suppose you’ve already been given a superficial gleaning of my personal file. My father Stromgaard”—he allowed himself a faint, pleased-looking smile—“was one of the founders of Resurrection, Inc. He and Francois Nathans put it together and made it fly. Nathans had the charisma, but eventually he pushed Stromgaard out of the business. I guess he forgot it was Van Ryman money that financed the corporation in the first place. No matter, my father found something much more important to devote himself to.”

  Van Ryman let the words hang as he looked up at the drab and passive Servant. Danal sat motionless, listening with simulated rapt attention.

  The man rubbed his palms briskly together again, “Danal, I want you to think of me as your friend as well as your Master. Talk to me if you want, and be sure to answer the questions I ask. Servants are bound by their programming to do exactly what their Masters require, and I require you to trust me, to be as candid and as honest as you can. Understood?”

  The Servant
answered automatically, immediately, though his mind balked at the thought of implicitly trusting this man with the alien eyes and the face with a fun-house-mirror familiarity.

  “Now then, Danal, before I show you the house, do you think you’re up to some conversation? Or would you like to rest?”

  Danal paused a moment, listening to the tone of the man’s voice, the nuances of his expression. He could not decide if Van Ryman wanted to talk, or if he was rationalizing an excuse to be rid of the Servant for the time being.

  “Whichever you prefer, Master Van Ryman. I am here to Serve you.”

  The man pursed his lips, then rubbed his hands briskly together. “Well then, I’ll ask a few questions, and you answer as best you can.” He paused for one uncomfortable moment. The lasers in the fireplace scattered purple light, distracting him. Van Ryman rested his elbow against the touchpad synthesizer keys; one prolonged note of cello tone filled the room until Van Ryman straightened again, too wrapped up in his own thoughts even to notice. “Tell me, Danal, what’s it like?”

  “I don’t understand, Master Van Ryman.”

  “What does it feel like?” He seemed to gather up his nerve, and asked with more vehemence, “To be a Servant, I mean? What do you see, what do you think about, what do you remember? About death? You experienced it all and came back to us. What did you see there beyond the border?” His eyes looked glazed and distant. “Did you bring anything back with you?”

  Guided by his inherent programming, Danal answered the questions in the order they had been asked, without thinking. “I see everything around me with great fascination. I want to learn it all again as fast as I can. I am intrigued by everything, and I want to examine. But I can’t—I am a Servant. Servants have no curiosity.”

  “Nonsense.” Van Ryman smiled, apparently satisfied with Danal’s candor. “Here, to show you my goodwill, I’ll let you inspect anything you see, if you wish. I’m a very congenial Master, and I’ll let you do many things.” His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, but Danal noticed. The line of tiny red pinpricks along his chin became visible again. “But you have to answer my questions in as much detail as you can.”