Gods and Pawns (Company)

by Kage Baker

  “And some of them come to the conclusion, especially after living through a few wars, that it’s not worth it to save the world. Some of them have decided that the world would be better off if the human race died out.

  “This goes against all our programming, of course, but…we were people to start with, before they made us something else. So there are good immortals and there are bad ones. And, about four hundred years ago, a kind of underground movement started.

  “The guy who killed Hector is one of them.

  “He went crazy back in 1937, or maybe that was when he just decided to hell with it and decided to start killing mortals. A crazy cyborg is bad news for the Company. The mortal masters, up there in the future, won’t even admit we can go mad. So they have ways of covering up incidents like that, and so somebody slipped him a Mickey Finn that made him look dead. He was supposed to have been collected at the funeral home and taken off to a Company holding facility.

  “Apparently, he was revived and recruited by the underground instead. He may have been working for them ever since. Recently, though, he seems to have gotten careless again. He’s let himself be seen.

  “I was already on his trail. He began playing cat-and-mouse with me. He found out I had a family, started stalking all of you. I came to see Hector and caught him there, giving Hector a shot. He took off and I chased him up to the roof, but he went over the side and got away. I went back…and there wasn’t any way I could help your father. This group engineers plague viruses…among the other things they do. So I put on his favorite music for him, and I told him good-bye.”

  “But why?” Maria said hoarsely, feeling her throat constrict. “Why kill Papi?”

  “To show me he knew about him. To show me he could,” said Uncle Porfirio.

  “And…all that crazy business with Papi’s teeth? The letters to me? What was that all about?”

  Uncle Porfirio sighed. “That was a game of chicken. He was systematically blowing my cover, and the Company’s cover, too. You’d already put it all together. The longer I waited, the bigger the mess I’d have to clean up.”

  “Waited to do what?” asked Maria.

  But he had turned his head, was staring through the house at the front door. His lean dark profile was like a wolf’s, and his lips drew back from his teeth in a wolf’s snarl. Maria set her hand on her gun.

  “Put it away, mi hija,” said Uncle Porfirio, very quietly. “It can’t help you, and it might make things worse. Let’s go into the living room.”

  They sat on the couch, side by side in the light from the pink candles, and the Virgin of Guadalupe smiled on. Uncle Porfirio leaned forward, tense, silent. Maria strained to listen: the sounds of traffic had faded to the occasional whoosh of a car along Fountain, and insects creaking in the night. She heard the light footsteps long before they came near, proceeding along the sidewalk, pausing before the house, turning up the walk. No heavy shuffling tread. The walker had nothing to disguise.

  He skipped lightly up the front steps, and a second later Maria heard another key in the lock. She felt a moment of vague outrage—how many people had keys to her house?—before the door swung open.

  He wore no white coat now, though he was still smiling.

  “Hi, Maria,” he said. His smile widened when he saw Uncle Porfirio. “Well, finally! I was beginning to think you’d never come out of the woodwork. Bet you wish you’d done things my way, after all.”

  “I’m here now,” said Uncle Porfirio. “What do you want, Emrys?”

  But Emrys, or Ambrose Muller, or Dr. Miller, turned to Maria. “Say, chiquita, why don’t you go fix us a couple of cups of coffee? Cream and sugar for me.”

  His voice, his intonation was a little offbeat. Maria struggled to place his accent; what did it remind her of? She realized he sounded like someone in an old movie. People hadn’t prefaced a remark with the word say since the 1930s. Ambrose Muller had supposedly died in 1937. Suppressing a shudder, she said: “Go to hell.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I’m there already, sister. Your uncle and I need some privacy to talk.”

  “She knows already,” said Porfirio. “You told her enough.”

  “Suit yourself. I don’t envy you explaining this to your superiors.” Emrys sat down, raised his head, and sniffed the air. “Took a shot at you, did she? You’re lucky she missed. She’s one big old knot of barely suppressed rage, that Maria.”

  “Boy, you must have learned a lot from Tina,” said Maria.

  He grinned. “So much,” he agreed. He shifted his gaze to Uncle Porfirio. “Quite a trick you’ve pulled off, Security Technical Porfirio. All the rest of us orphans trudge through pointless eternity alone, except for you. You’ve got a family of your very own! Must make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

  “Except when they’re in danger, of course.

  “The good news is, from this day forward, you won’t be the only one looking out for your family. They’ll have a whole new set of guardian angels watching them. The bad news is, there’s a price for our protection.”

  “What do you want me to do?” said Uncle Porfirio in a dead voice.

  “Oh, nothing very much,” said Emrys. He leaned forward, smiling in a confidential kind of way. “We want you to keep on doing your job, just as well as you ever have. We respect your work, you know. Maybe once or twice in a century, you’ll get a discreetly worded request. We might need a certain access code. We might need you to bungle a job—though we’ll take pains to provide you with excellent reasons for failure, the kind that wouldn’t arouse suspicion in the most paranoid case officer.”

  “Just what is it you do?” Maria asked Uncle Porfirio. He did not reply, staring at Emrys with a face like stone. Emrys chuckled.

  “You didn’t tell her that much, did you? I didn’t think you would.” He turned to Maria. “I wonder how your ‘uncle,’” and he hooked his index fingers to signify quotes, “explained us to you? In religious terms, am I right? The forces of Good and Evil battling it out across time? And you think your ‘uncle’ is one of the good angels. Not at all, sweetheart.”

  Uncle Porfirio shifted in his seat. “How far are you going to take this?” he said, with warning in his tone.

  “Don’t you think she deserves the truth? Maria’s the smart one in the family, after all. I think we owe it to her to strip away the mythological crap and tell it like it is.” Emrys made a slicing gesture with his hands.

  “The opposing forces here are really Reckless Profit and Conscience. Your ‘uncle’ works for seriously stupid masters, Maria. Money is their greatest good. They created everlasting slaves to get it for them, mining the past like a strata of coal. They didn’t order them to save the animals and the works of art and the children because they were good; they did it because it would make them richer!

  “They aren’t remotely concerned with preventing all the horrors and catastrophes they know will befall humanity. Far from it; if it were possible to change history, they might not be the little tin gods they are, up there in the future. They just make damned sure their operatives can grab the loot and run with it when all hell breaks loose. Isn’t that so?” Emrys turned to Uncle Porfirio.

  “Yes. It is,” said Uncle Porfirio.

  “Their great mistake was in creating slaves who were smarter than they were,” said Emrys. “And who had miserable, interminable millennia to become wiser as well. Over the ages, many of us began to ask: why not try to actually do something about the horror of it all, rather than merely pick up the pieces? Oughtn’t we to turn our astonishing cyborg powers to nobler ends? Think about this, Porfirio. Think of the state the world is in. Think of the poverty and starvation. You could help the mortals!”

  “Not the way you want me to,” said Uncle Porfirio.

  “You could help them, and you could help yourself,” Emrys insisted. “Do you really believe our masters have that wonderful paradise waiting for us, when our work ends at last? I could show you proof it’s all a lie.”
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br />   “I know.”

  “And you know, yourself—who better?—that some mortals deserve to die. Have you told her the truth yet, about what happened to that studio bigshot who was dating her mother when Hector came on the scene? The one who took out a contract on Hector’s life, out of jealousy? Funny, the way he drove his car off Santa Monica Pier that very evening.”

  “My father didn’t deserve to die,” said Maria, in a thick voice.

  “Oh, God, sweetie, you can’t mean that!” Emrys rolled his eyes. “With what he’d been reduced to? Poor old monkey couldn’t even chew his food anymore. If he’d still had enough of a mind to make the choice, I’m sure he’d have begged to be set free. I’m the Angel of Mercy, honey. Didn’t his death make your life easier? To say nothing of letting your ‘uncle’ know what we could do, if we wanted to. Two birds with one stone.”

  “You don’t sound much like an angel to me,” said Maria.

  “Well, I don’t really care what you think, pachuca,” said Emrys, clasping his hands behind his head and leaning back. “Your ‘uncle’ knows I’m speaking the truth. We’re the good guys, Porfirio. Wouldn’t you like to work with people who have principles, for a change?”

  “Principles, my ass,” said Uncle Porfirio. “You just like to kill mortals.”

  “But I’m sublimating it in a higher cause,” Emrys replied. “Do we have to dip back into the Joseph Campbell mumbo-jumbo for you? Listen to that Aztec blood running in your veins! It knows that sacrifice is necessary. Blood is the only thing that will wash away this filthy mess in which we’re all stranded.”

  “Ah, now that’s just racist. What a stupid stunt.” Uncle Porfirio shook his head in disgust. “And that’s why I have one little problem with all of this. The whole time I was on your trail, I never saw any evidence that you aren’t one guy working alone.

  “I don’t think you’re a member of the Plague Club. They’re smooth operators. Never draw attention to themselves. You like the attention. You practically carry a neon sign saying ‘Serial Killer.’ That’s why half the LAPD is running around trying to find out who’s copycatting the old Ambrose Muller homicides. And that’s why I don’t especially feel I can trust a word you say, about recruitment or anything else. See?”

  Emrys stopped smiling. He brought his arms down slowly.

  “Well, excuse me for leaving my membership card in my other pair of pants,” he said. “May I point out that you’re not exactly in a position to demand proof? The nerve! You second-rate thug, do you have any idea how old I am? I’ve traduced kings! Maybe you’re not worth the effort. Maybe we don’t want you after all. But you’d better pray that’s not the case.”

  He jumped to his feet and began to pace, and his voice rose as he spoke.

  “What else do I have to do? How many of your family have to die before you’ll pay attention to me?”

  Maria closed her eyes and thought: Great. What’s worse than an immortal monster in your living room? An insane immortal monster in your living room.

  “The sensible choice would be Maria,” said Emrys. “Too old to breed, fat, knows too much. But I like Maria. She was almost a challenge. Isabel’s old, too, but she’s a public figure, and anyway, she does produce something worthwhile in her paintings. Not like Tina. Tina, now, I could wring her head off like a flower! And, oh, have I been tempted, listening to her whine about her sad life. What a relief when her weekly hour was up! I was dreading the inevitable seduction, but if that was what it took to get you to step up to the bargaining table—”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Maria observed Uncle Porfirio tensing. With a surreal sense of detachment, she noted his right arm bending, clenching in toward his body with the fist bent forward. Was there something glinting there, between the back of his wrist and his sleeve? He shifted his feet, almost imperceptibly, for better purchase when he sprang…Maria prepared to throw herself to the floor.

  “Then there’s the baby,” Emrys ranted. “He really is the ultimate hostage, isn’t he? The last male of your line. If you lose him—”

  There was a creak from behind him.

  Tina was gliding down the stairs, like a snake. Her eyes were fixed on Emrys. Her face was the scariest thing Maria had seen so far that evening.

  Uncle Porfirio groaned.

  Things happened very quickly then, and only afterward and with great effort was Maria able to reconstruct the exact sequence of events. Emrys turned, saw Tina, and began to laugh, in the same second that Uncle Porfirio launched himself from the couch. Tina moved a split second later, throwing herself at Emrys, screaming in her throat. Maria rose from the couch herself, faster than she would have thought possible, but not in time to come between Tina and Emrys.

  She did manage to deflect the blow that would have killed Tina, though it drove her upper arm against Tina’s face and knocked her out cold, and she herself felt a white-hot shock before her arm went numb.

  Tina dropped to the floor, limp as a rag. Maria stood there clutching her arm, trying to draw enough breath for a scream of pain, but she just couldn’t seem to; and before her, Uncle Porfirio and Emrys looked like something out of a horror movie. They were grappled together, upright, alternating between blurred kinetic flashes and frozen, locked moments, straining for leverage. Neither one of them looked especially human.

  Maria did notice that the claw or needle or spike of bone, whatever it was, had fully extended from Uncle Porfirio’s sleeve and glistened with moisture. Its tip was trembling not an inch from Emrys’s throat. Uncle Porfirio, displaying terrifying bared teeth, was forcing the tip closer, closing the gap…

  Emrys kneed him and dove, and the tip of the weapon scored a red line across his cheek but did not go in. He vaulted past Maria and up the stairs, laughing drunkenly. Uncle Porfirio crouched, clutching himself, cursing, suddenly looking a great deal more human.

  There was a thunderous crash in Tina’s bedroom, and a grunt of pain.

  “That son of a bitch,” gasped Uncle Porfirio. “It’s only slowing him down—”

  Maria staggered for the kitchen, thrown off balance by the dead weight of her arm, but as she returned with her gun they heard a window flying open upstairs. There was a thump, a crash on the roof of the porch, and then something landed on the walk with a thud. They heard Emrys guffaw.

  “Well, say!” he said, “Look what I found! It’s a li’l brown baby out here. This your baby, Mister Zoo’suit? Say, what was in that needle? I feel good.”

  They reached the door at the same moment, and flung it wide to see Emrys on the sidewalk, grinning at them. He was holding up Philip, who looked as though he had only just awakened and wasn’t sure what planet he was on.

  “You want ’im?” Emrys chortled. “You sure? Just a li’l brown baby. Billions and billions of the li’l bastards in the world. Why does this one matter, huh?”

  “Put him down,” said Uncle Porfirio. “You win, okay?’

  “You damn right, I win,” said Emrys, tossing Philip up and down as though he were a ball. The little boy drew in his arms, drew up his knees, closed his eyes tight, but he didn’t make a sound.

  “They’re allalike as microbes, and about as important. Mean nothing in the big picture, nothing more than a fly. Speck of dust. But suppose I bounce this one off a wall, so his li’l head splits open. That’ll make you flinch, huh? That’ll tear you up inside. An’ that’s my power over you. I know he doesn’t matter.”

  “Come on, man, you don’t need to do this,” said Porfirio, venturing painfully down the steps. Maria followed him like a shadow. “Give Maria the kid. Then we’ll go off, just you and me, and we’ll talk to your friends. Okay?”

  “Nope,” said Emrys, catching Philip on his next descent. “Price just went up. Don’ know what I want yet, but I cern’ly got some leverage, haven’ I? Ha ha. Byee.”

  He turned and ran, unsteady but very fast, and they glimpsed Philip’s little face over his shoulder, rapidly vanishing in the night.

  “The car!�
�� gasped Maria, running to the Buick. She dug her keys out and got it started, reaching awkwardly with her left hand as Uncle Porfirio half-fell into the passenger seat, hissing in pain. The Buick lurched away from the curb before he had quite got the door closed. On the dashboard, the Virgin of Guadalupe glowed luridly, like a blacklight painting.

  “I don’t care if he’s immortal, if he hurts Philip I swear to God I’m going to take him apart with my two hands,” Maria snarled. “There! There they are at the corner! Roll down the fucking window!”

  She hauled up the gun and steered with her left elbow, trying to aim. Uncle Porfirio grabbed the gun from her in consternation.

  “Drive, for Christ’s sake! You let me do the shooting.”

  “Then shoot him! Aim for his legs. Or somewhere. He got you good, didn’t he? What was that you stuck him with?” Maria swerved, accelerated as Emrys sprinted across the empty intersection.

  “Tranquilizer. The only one that works on us, Theobromidan. But he didn’t get much, and it wears off fast. I’ve got darts, though,” said Porfirio, pulling his own gun from its holster. He slipped the safety off, sighted along the barrel. “If I can get him in the back with one of these—oh, shit.”

  Bounding ahead of them up Fountain, Emrys had leaped into the back of a pickup truck full of newspapers that waited at the stoplight. He turned, leering hugely in the Buick’s headlights, brandishing Philip at them. Philip was screaming, tears coursing down his cheeks. Emrys hurled a bundle of newspapers at them, and had seized up another as the truck’s driver—an elderly Asian man—jumped out in protest. Turning, Emrys swung the bundle with such force that the old man was knocked flying. He vaulted out of the back with Philip tucked under one arm, slid into the cab, and drove off.

  “Come back here, you bastard!” Maria cried, flooring the accelerator pedal. Uncle Porfirio muttered an oath as they surged forward and followed the truck around a corner.

  “Mi hija, watch it! You’ll sideswipe somebody.”