by Mike Resnick
Book Description
He is a grifter named Jeremiah the B, the last possible descendant of the line of David, and unknown to him he fits all four Biblical signs of the Messiah. But Jeremiah the B is a reluctant messiah and finds himself pitted in a titanic struggle with a billionaire underworld boss, who has distinct similarities to a certain Prince of Lies.
With both of them demonstrating their true colors as scoundrels, which one is actually the hero?
Can Jeremiah the B redeem the human race after all, or will he put the world in more jeopardy than it has faced since Earth’s last extinction-level event?
The Branch is original, funny, and thought-provoking.
The Branch
Mike Resnick
The Branch
Copyright © 1984 Mike Resnick
Originally Published by Signet, 1984
Penguin Publishing Group
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
The ebook edition of this book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. The ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share the ebook edition with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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EBook ISBN: 978-1-68057-173-8
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-68057-172-1
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Cover design by Janet McDonald
Cover artwork images by Shutterstock
Kevin J. Anderson, Art Director
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Published by
WordFire Press, LLC
PO Box 1840
Monument CO 80132
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Kevin J. Anderson & Rebecca Moesta, Publishers
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WordFire Press eBook Edition 2021
WordFire Press Trade Paperback Edition 2021
Printed in the USA
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Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
About the Author
If You Liked …
Other WordFire Press Titles by Mike Resnick
Prologue
It was not the best of times; it was not the worst of times. It was the dullest of times.
By rights, it shouldn’t have been. The first half of the twenty-first century was an age of fantastic, glittering cities that spread like creeping cancers across the face of the planet. It was an age of bold new art forms, darksome pleasures, and bizarre indulgences. Every day saw the discovery of a new perversion, every month revealed the creation of a new spectator sport, every year boasted splendid new forms of entertainment.
The fact that the perversions and sports and entertainments ultimately proved not to be so new after all, but merely the recycling of old mundane diversions, could hardly be blamed on society, which continued its quest for the new and the unique with unrestrained vigor, while its members, individually and collectively, came to the unhappy realization that an excess of leisure was not quite the Valhalla that they had anticipated.
Religion had recently made a big comeback. So had philosophy. So had anything else that took up time. Every city possessed baseball, football, hockey, basketball, rugby, soccer, and lacrosse teams, as well as scores of professional and amateur golfers, bowlers, boxers, wrestlers, tennis players, and martial arts experts. Handicrafts were unbelievably popular—and the more complicated and time-consuming, the better.
Watercolors and acrylics had given way to a resurgence of interest in oils among amateur painters; origami was sweeping the nation; indoor gardens, especially those requiring constant attention and uncommon conditions, were the order of the day.
Only the rich could afford clothing made of wool, cotton, or other natural fibers; but even the rich designed and sewed all their own garments, usually choosing the most colorful fashions from past eras.
Scarcely a household was without a pet. Cats were the most popular, since they adapted easily to the mile-high million-windowed hovels that formed the supercities, but a few breeds of dogs—Keeshonds, Shih Tzus, Lhasa Apsos, and a handful of others still existed in some quantity.
These, like the cats, the rats, the mice, the fish, the birds, the crickets, and every other form of animal life, were inbred, line bred, outcrossed, shown, trained, and pampered.
Of course, to the people living through it, there was nothing very special about their day and age. They accepted what came, as people always have, hopeful of better and fearful of worse. None of them were hungry, few of them were oppressed, most of them were at least minimally employed, and all of them were bored.
They were not to remain bored for long.
December 11, 2047, seemed neither better nor worse, neither more nor less interesting, than any other day of recent vintage. Certainly the two men who were to change the face of their world seemed quite ordinary at first glance: one of them was a criminal, and the other a beggar. Nevertheless, although no one was aware of it—and least of all the two principal players—this day marked the onset of a tapestry of events that would soon jolt Earth’s unhappy and apathetic billions loose from their lethargy, never to return.
It began, appropriately enough, at a circus.…
Chapter 1
Like most of the others in the crowd, the young man was attracted by the huge neon signs and electric calliopes. They had come for pleasure, he for business, but all were drawn like suicidal moths to the artificial flame.
A huge, luminescent banner, fluttering slightly in the cold breeze, proclaimed to all and sundry that this was the
Nightspore and Thrush
International Traveling Circus
and Thrill Show Direct from Vienna
as circuses of old used to proclaim, though this one was less circus than thrill show, and more recently from Cleveland than Vienna. It was huge, as it had to be, for the people came out of Chicago and its environs by the tens of thousands, wild-eyed and hopeful as they maintained the frantic pace of their lifelong quest for amusement and diversion.
The barkers, the grifters, the hookers, the musclemen, all the night people had assembled there to meet the challenge.
“This way, ladies and gentlemen!” called the barkers. “This way to Madam Adam! Is she a man? Is he a woman? Step right up, come right in, let’s keep it moving. The world’s only authenticated hermaphrodite, a compendium of all that’s most voluptuous and sexciting in man and woman, is onstage right now, waiting to …”
“Three throws for twenty dollars, three for o
nly twenty dollars! Hurt? Sure it hurts ’em, mister! Ask your girlfriend how she’d like to have you hurl a dart into her naked, pulsating flesh! Listen to them scream, watch ’em writhe! Six throws for …”
The young man paused for a moment before the Living Dartboards, then continued walking down the seemingly endless rows of sheds, games, and exhibits.
“Mister Blister, that’s what we call him—Mister Blister! No, he doesn’t do any childish stunts like eating fire or walking on hot coals. No, sir, not Mister Blister. Now folks, do you see this blowtorch I have in my hand? Well, step a little closer and …”
“First time ever onstage: a full-scale production of Leda and the Swan. Now, I know there are doubters out there, I know there are skeptics. So I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. If any of you feel cheated after the performance, if anyone can honestly state that we don’t deliver the goods, I’m gonna refund not just your money, but each and every …”
The young man turned up another aisle, past the Chamber of 1,000 Pains, with its shrieks and groans coming through loud and clear over a pair of outside amplifiers, past the even more exotic pleasurepain palaces.
Tonight would be a good night; he felt it in his bones. The crowd was immense, as well it should be. There were just so many Madam Adams and Sin Shrines and Pervo Palaces in the world, and when the thrill shows made their rare appearances the money flowed like water—and there was no reason why he shouldn’t be able to siphon some off for himself.
The young man continued walking past the gaudy, exotic exhibits, fighting his way through the crowd. Finally he came to a small, unoccupied space about a quarter of a mile from a windowless office building, unloaded his backpack, withdrew a pair of very dark glasses and a white cane, and went to work.
There was a bit of work going on inside the office building too—as Mr. Nightspore and Mr. Thrush were finding out. A tall, slender man, immaculately but archaically clad in the fashion of more than a century ago, sat with his feet on Mr. Thrush’s desk. His long, lean fingers were covered by white dress gloves, he wore a double-breasted navy-blue pinstriped suit, and his black leather shoes were covered by shiny white spats. He pulled a large cigar from his lapel pocket and placed it in his mouth; it was immediately lit by one of the four burly men standing behind him.
“So you see, gentlemen,” he said calmly, puffing thoughtfully on the cigar, “it’s not that I have any aversion to your company, or wish you to vacate the premises and set up shop elsewhere. Chicago is a big city, big enough for all of us.”
“Then why did you force your way in here?” demanded Mr. Nightspore.
“Please don’t interrupt,” he said with a smile that began and ended at the corners of his mouth. “As I was saying, there’s money enough for everyone here: money for you, money for your employees, and money for me. Frankly, I’m at a loss to see what your problem is. If anyone will suffer because of your presence here, it will be me. After all, there’s no more money to be spent today than there was yesterday, but now there are two more hands reaching out for it—your hands. I’ve looked your operation over, and it’s my conservative opinion that you’ll take in about nine million dollars a week.” He paused, staring coldly at them.
“That, gentlemen, is nine million dollars I won’t be taking in. Do you begin to appreciate my concern?”
Mr. Nightspore started to say something, then thought better of it, and nodded.
“Well,” continued the man, with another nonsmile, “I’m delighted to see that we understand each other. After all, we’re not enemies: we’re on the same side of the fence. It’s the people out there”—he waved a hand in the general direction of the midway—”who are our opposition. They’ve got something we both want and there’s no sense working at cross-purposes to get it. The three of us are operating on the same basic premise: if God didn’t want them fleeced, He wouldn’t have made them sheep.” He swung his feet to the floor and leaned forward on the desk.
“Now, shall we get down to business?”
“How much do you want?” asked Mr. Thrush suspiciously.
“You make it sound like a gift,” replied the man. “Let me hasten to assure you that Solomon Moody Moore takes charity from no one. No, gentlemen, you still misunderstand me. My organization will perform certain necessary services, according to a contract that we’ll draw up, and we will receive only a fair and reasonable payment.”
“What services?” asked Mr. Thrush.
“A very good question,” said Moore. “To begin with, my representatives will police your grounds day and night, serving as what might be called combination caretakers and security officers. You’ve got a lot of valuable equipment, gentlemen,” he added pointedly. “Any vandal could do untold damage to it in a matter of minutes.” He paused and took another puff of his cigar. “Furthermore, I noticed a number of gambling games as I toured your circus; upward of eighty, I would estimate. Most of them are designed to break between ten and fifteen percent in favor of the house. You’ve got them rigged for thirty, of course, but you’ve been taken in by a bunch of clumsy amateurs. They’re robbing you blind and giving the suckers too close to an even break. My people, at no extra charge, will set your games for a fifty percent break, and will operate them for you.”
“If all this is free, what’s the final bill going to run us?” asked Mr. Nightspore suspiciously.
“One-third,” said Moore.
“One-third of what?”
“Everything.” Moore’s cigar went out, and he waited patiently for one of his men to light it again. “View it as a business investment that will pay off in large dividends. I’ll double your gross by the end of the week, so it will cost you virtually nothing, and when you leave town, all of my improvements will leave with you.”
“And then our partnership is ended?”
Moore smiled. “Oh, no. That, like diamonds, is forever.” He held up a hand to stifle their protests. “Believe me, gentlemen, if we find that you’re not making more money than before, we can always renegotiate our contract.” He took another puff of his cigar, then placed it in an ashtray. “Now let’s get down to business. How many drug emporiums are you operating here?”
“None!” said Mr. Nightspore emphatically.
“I would prefer a little more honesty now that we’re going to be partners,” said Moore calmly. “I counted six, but I might have missed a couple. I repeat: how many are there?”
“Seven,” said Mr. Nightspore with a sigh.
“That’s better,” said Moore. “There is absolutely nothing like openness among friends. I’ll take you at your word that there are seven. If we find any more, we’ll assume they’re not operating under your auspices and will appropriate their stock. Now, how much do you cut your hallucinogens and your harder drugs?”
“Not at all!” snapped Mr. Thrush.
Moore stared curiously at him for a moment. “You know, I think you’re just stupid enough to be telling the truth. We can be of service to you there, as well. Next point: how many people die here every week?”
“We’re covered for that,” said Mr. Nightspore defensively. “No one enters the scare shows or the sado tents without signing an ironclad release. We’ve been to court four times in the past two years, and won all four cases.”
“You didn’t answer my question: how many people die at your circus every week?”
“About ten.”
“Not enough.”
“What?” shrilled both partners in unison.
“Not enough,” repeated Moore. “People love blood even more than they love the grotesque. They’re not coming here to see your Four-Headed Baby or your Vaseline Corpse. They want death. The more you give them, the more they’ll talk about it and come back for seconds. Take your Russian Roulette exhibit: you’ve got a nine-cylinder gun with one bullet in it and you’re offering a lousy thousand dollars to the man who’ll play the game. Starting tomorrow, you’ll put three bullets into a six-cylinder gun, offer a ten-grand prize, and triple y
our admission price. Ditto with your Pervo Palaces and all the other crap like that. Agreed?”
The two partners nodded reluctantly.
“As for your girls, get more of them. Prettier, too. And the place reeks of Caucasians. I want to see blacks, browns, reds, yellows, albinos, and polka-dots. If you can’t get them, let my people know and we’ll hunt them up. If they don’t know the meaning of the word ‘normal,’ so much the better. Also, I want you to start two exhibits for women only; I’ll supply what you need for them. Can do?”
“Well, I don’t know … that is, I’m not—” began Mr. Nightspore.
“Can do?” repeated Moore coldly.
Mr. Nightspore nodded.
“Excellent,” said Moore. “All the members of my organization will wear red armbands with your logo printed on them.” He paused. “They are not to be interfered with. Is that absolutely clear?”
The partners assured him that it was.
“My people will be armed for your protection,” continued Moore. “I think it would be best if no one else carried any type of weapon, and that includes any security men you may now have on your payroll. It will avoid unpleasant misunderstandings. If any member of my organization abuses your hospitality, or if every last penny is not accounted for, I will expect you to report it to me.” He stood up and stretched.
