The Sons of Heaven (The Company)

by Kage Baker

  “Very good, sir.” Lopez cleared his throat. “Ladies, gentlemen: it’s been a banner quarter for Dr. Zeus Incorporated. Response on our Day Six Resort project has far exceeded our original estimates. I’m pleased to report that the first three seasons are fully booked, and preorder reservations topped twenty-five billion pounds, well above projections.

  “Revenues from historical artifacts alone brought in seventeen point five billion pounds. You’ve probably heard of the Michelangelo portraits we auctioned at Sotheby’s, but some of our less publicized finds were also notable: the lost early stories by Ernest Hemingway, three Stradivarius violins, a set of previously unknown poems by Jalal ad-Din Rumi, the original score for Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Gods Grown Old.” The smooth voice went on and on, cataloguing wonders unimaginable, unbelievably rescued from the devouring maw of Time. The investors sat there, occasionally looking impressed. The scientists looked bored and impatient.

  “… for which we can thank our hardworking team on the Pompeii project. Another item expected to do well at auction is the holograph script for A Midsummer Night’s Dream, with Shakespeare’s own notations—”

  “Hey.”Telepop put up his hand. “Don’t we get first crack at stuff like that?”

  “Certainly, sir,” Lopez said, looking up from his list. “If you outbid the revenue estimates.”

  “I thought we got a Company discount,” objected Telepop. Lopez did not reply, turning to look at the other board members, and at last Roche shifted in her seat and sighed.

  “Well, yes, we do,” she admitted. “Some of us have private collections.”

  “That’s what I heard,” said Telepop. “Like some of you have whole museums full of stuff just for yourselves?”

  There was a lot of blushing and avoided gazes at that. Rossum shrugged.

  “It’s only a lot of old things that I wouldn’t look at twice,” he said. “No use to anybody except by making money for us. If you want to keep something back so you can buy it, go ahead. Hapsburg has all those ugly statues out of the World Trade Center by—who was it? Rodent?”

  “Rodin,” snapped Hapsburg. “They aren’t either ugly.”

  “And Morrison has a complete set of the first drafts of the novels of Skywalker Lucas the Third,” Rossum continued maliciously, but Telepop looked impressed.

  “Wow, you know how to read?”

  “No,” said Morrison, glaring at Rossum. “I just like knowing they’re mine. But it’s nobody’s business I have them.”

  “Well, I don’t care, okay? I just want to buy some Shakespeare souvenirs,” announced Telepop. “Because there was, like, almost nothing but T-shirts at the museum gift shop. What is it with you people anyway?”

  “I’ll just earmark that Shakespeare script for you, then, sir, shall I?” Lopez said, unobtrusively making a tick against the list.

  “Yeah, do it. Thanks. Hey!” Telepop’s eyes lit up. “We’ve got the Benthamites working for us, too, don’t we? How much would I have to spend to get Shakespeare?”

  “I’m afraid he’s not for sale, sir,” Lopez replied. “He’s buried on private property and was only disinterred temporarily, when the holo for the museum was being made.”

  “Really? I thought there was supposed to be a curse or something,” said Telepop.

  “Yes, apparently there was,” Lopez told him, chuckling.

  “So there’s no way, with a little quiet payoff, we couldn’t just… permanently borrow him?” said Telepop hopefully.

  “That is so Yank,” cried Morrison in indignation. “He’s our painter, after all.”

  “Playwright, sir,” Lopez corrected him.

  “Hey! You people won’t even show Shakespeare’s movies over here,” yelled Telepop. “At least we’re not ashamed of our big moneymakers.”

  British lips were pursed. “Perhaps we ought to move on,” suggested Lopez.

  “Are you sure he wasn’t a painter?” inquired Morrison sotto voce.

  “Quite, sir. Now, for a brief preview of our third quarter investment strategies: Dr. Zeus will concentrate its energies on acquiring a number of small industries in Senegal, which stands poised for an economic boom after a meta-flu epidemic devastates its neighboring nations late next year. Operatives are already in place in the following firms: Katanga Specialty Systems, Qwel-Juice Consolidated—”

  “This is what the prospectus was talking about, right?”Telepop exclaimed. “The Temporal Concordance thing? Our big database that knows everything that’s going to happen, so we can always invest in stuff that’ll boom?”

  “Yes, sir, exactly,” Lopez told him, and the others nodded.

  “Boy, this is great. How can we lose?” said Telepop, gleeful. The other board members regarded him pityingly. Being a new associate, he didn’t know the truth about 2355 yet. Strictly speaking, neither did they. That was the problem.

  Now Telepop’s grin faded as an idea occurred to him. “There’s no chance this database thing can … like … pull a Hal and take over the Company, is there?” he inquired of Lopez. “Like in Cyborg Conquest? No offense, you know, Lopez, I’m sure none of you people would do anything like that, but—some big inhuman machine thing might—”

  “Not to worry, sir,” Lopez waved away the questions. “The Temporal Concordance isn’t an artificial intelligence. It has no personality or individual consciousness of its own, any more than an antique computer had.” He smiled tolerantly. “Hollywood has no equal when it comes to providing topnotch entertainment, but as one of its movers and shakers, you certainly know that ordinary reality won’t entertain people for long! And so, instead of making a holo about dull old civil servants like me, you wisely chose to make a holo about eight-foot killer androids. Smash hit! And may I say, sir, that I found myself on the edge of my seat, rooting for the plucky human heroes?”

  “Really?”Telepop beamed. “That’s great.”

  Lopez smiled and stood back, pleased to have fended off another bout of servophobia.

  As soon as the door opened for him, Bugleg emerged from his car and hurried away without a word to the driver. This was his usual practice, so the driver wasn’t particularly offended.

  Bugleg made his way to the aglift and rode up to his floor, peering nervously around; entered the admission code and slipped inside his apartment. Comforting dimness, soothing silence. Or—no—wait…

  There were noises coming from his bedroom. He stood still a moment, heart hammering, ready to turn and run into the hall again. Gradually he recognized the sounds as coming from one of his more private games, and something like a sense of outrage strengthened him enough to creep forward and see who was there.

  Ratlin was sprawled on his bed, comfortably propped up on the pillows and staring in absorption at the hologame projecting from the entertainment console. He didn’t look a day older than he had on the occasion of their first meeting, fourteen years previous; in fact he looked a good deal less withered, which made his resemblance to Bugleg more striking.

  On the coverlet beside him were his sun goggles and hat, and something else: a pair of flat rectangles, one oddly bumpy and one glossy with embossed art and writing. A box, full of little brown things, and its lid.

  Then Bugleg realized just exactly which game Ratlin was playing. Even as he reeled with the shock, he was hit by another jolt; for as he watched in horror, Ratlin reached into the box for one of the brown things and put it in his mouth!

  “Stop it!” he screamed. Ratlin glanced at him in annoyance, chewing.

  “What for?” he asked. “You took long enough at your bigwig meeting. I was getting ever so bored waiting for you to grace this place with your presence.”

  “You can’t—you’re not supposed to—DON’T LOOK AT MY GAMES,” cried Bugleg, grabbing the control from Ratlin’s hand and switching it off. The forbidden images vanished into darkness. He heard Ratlin snickering.

  “Oh, dear, doesn’t want anybody to know he’s into naughtiness, eh? Well, well. What a pity we’re on
the same side, isn’t it? I could blackmail you six ways from Sabbat.”

  “You weren’t supposed to come in here,” Bugleg protested, nearly weeping. “This is my private room. These are my things. Nobody’s supposed to see.”

  “Then it’s lucky for you we’re partners, you big stupid lout,” said Ratlin, and slid off the bed. “Want a chockie?” he added, offering the box.

  Bugleg drew back as though he had been offered a nest of coiled snakes. “No! Those are poison!”

  “No, silly, think I’d be sampling ‘em myself if they were?” Ratlin scowled at him. “They’re the wholesomest treat on the market. You ask your cyborgs! Mine’s the kind they buy, and why? Because Ratlin’s Finest really is better made, see, and richer, and’s got more expensive ingredients than anybody else’s. Not to mention it’s easier to get, since I had the competition arsoned.”

  “No, no.” Bugleg had closed his eyes and was shaking his head obstinately. “Chocolate is poison. Refined sugar is poison. Butterfat is poi—” He broke off because Ratlin, impatient, had crammed a chocolate in his mouth. He chewed twice, involuntarily. His eyes popped open, round with horror.

  “See? They’re nice,” gloated Ratlin.

  Bugleg’s eyes were tracking frantically around the room for a place to spit out his mouthful. On the rug? But the cleaner would notice. On the bedspread? Same problem. On the table? It might splatter his control box and mess the circuits. In the lavatory? Yes, and wash it down the sink—

  All the while, however, his jaws were moving quite without his permission. By the time he finally ran to the bathroom and spit into the sink, there wasn’t much left of the chocolate. Weeping in self-loathing, he rinsed away the nastiness.

  “You liked it,” said Ratlin, right there beside him. He elbowed Bugleg convivially. “You did so. I could tell. A little bit of pure pleasure for you, eh, cousin?”

  “I wasn’t supposed to,” gasped Bugleg. “It’s wrong!”

  “Bugger wrong,” Ratlin scoffed. “Who’s ever going to know about it? A sweet silent thrill in the safe dark, and it won’t show, no, not at all. Long as you wipe that dribbly bit off your chin,” he advised.

  Bugleg turned to the mirror and busied himself with wiping the last trace of the chocolate away. “I don’t want to talk about that anymore,” he said.

  “No, of course not,” agreed Ratlin. “You want to talk about our little wonder drug. Got it all ready for me?”

  “Yes,” Bugleg replied, drawing a deep breath and flicking lint from his shoulder. In control again, he turned and led Ratlin to a closet, where he drew out a broad wide band of black material, in design something like an old-fashioned money belt. The inner flap held twenty-one little ampoules of a strange-looking substance: bright teal sediment at the bottom and red-purple clear stuff at the top.

  Ratlin grinned in satisfaction and fastened the belt about his middle. “That’s fine,” he said. “Keep me young and limber another year. Good boy.”

  “When should we tell the others about our plan?” asked Bugleg.

  “Oh, not for a while, yet,” Ratlin told him, rebuttoning his coat. “Don’t want ‘em getting qualmish, or dropping an unintended word to the slaves. Anyway I’ve bought a place of my own to make the wicked stuff. When we strike, it’ll be like lightning; all we’ll need your friends for is getting the air transports for delivery everywhere at once.”

  “All right,” said Bugleg, nodding. “So we just wait.”

  “That’s what we do. Twenty-two years to go!” said Ratlin. He donned his hat and goggles. “I’ll be on my way, now, cousin mine.” He strolled to the door, pausing to glance back into the bedroom. “You can keep the sweets,” he said slyly, and by the time Bugleg had managed to stammer out an indignant refusal he was gone.

  Bugleg stood, listening to the faint sound of Ratlin’s departing footfall. After a long moment of indecision, he reached up and switched off all the lights. Nobody could see him now. He couldn’t see himself. Trembling, in pitch blackness, he groped his way to the bedroom.

  Meanwhile, in San Francisco

  “But not a word about where his laboratory is,” complained Ereshkigal.

  “Oh, it’ll be easy enough to trace,”Aegeus assured her. “We’ll get a couple of our mortal people in as plant workers, to keep us abreast of developments. Wouldn’t you think? It’s not as though we want to stop the little fools.”

  “No, of course not,” said Ereshkigal. “In fact, we might want to seriously consider helping them. The sooner we have the substance in our possession, the greater our advantage.”

  “Precisely,” said Aegeus, idly unwrapping a bar of Ratlin’s Crunch.

  While at the Same Moment in St. Petersburg

  “We’ll need to set somebody on that laboratory location,” mused Ashoreth, leaning back in her chair. “It’s got to be somewhere in the Celtic Federation, just like the confectioners’. Wouldn’t you think?”

  “Very likely,” said Labienus. “Easy enough to trace what real estate he’s purchased lately.”

  “We really might want to consider a preemptive strike—” Ashoreth suggested, just as a muffled groan was transmitted through the surveillance audio. She bit her lip, but Labienus laughed outright.

  “That’s it,” he cried. “Enjoy yourself, you poor little hypocrite! Can you imagine what he’d be experiencing right now, if Theobromine affected his nervous system the way it affected ours?”

  “I’m not so sure it doesn’t,” giggled Ashoreth, as a raucous panting came through loud and clear.

  “No,” said Labienus, increasing the volume. “He’s got a hologame on now. Listen.”

  “‘Totter Dan in Microbe Land,’” concluded Ashoreth after a moment. “Why, Mr. Bugleg, you shameless libertine.”

  “Oh, why shouldn’t he indulge?” said Labienus. “Eat, drink, and be merry, mortal. After all, you’ve only—” He paused to consult his internal chronometer. “Twenty-one years, nine months, two weeks, six days, five hours, thirty-six minutes, and ten seconds in which to do so.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The Pirate’s Lair, 2337

  Until the last big earthquake, Point Reyes had been merely a peninsula north of San Francisco; now it had the distinction of being an actual island, though only a modest and brackish stretch of seawater connected Tomales and Bolinas Bays. Still, it was now necessary to cross the San Andreas Fault by bridge to get out to Inverness and the other little communities on the eastern shore. It was a cold windswept place, a high tableland in the sea, forested on its leeward side but all bare rolling hills to windward.

  A road ran out along the high hills, now and then veering close to the leaning fenceposts of abandoned farms, beyond which collapsed mounds of silvered planks and skeletal wind-bent cypresses kept their ghosts to themselves. Isolation, desolation, driving wind and fog. Cold waves broke with a sound like cannon shot on the long windward beach.

  Hearst piloted the agcar westward, fighting the wind. The road was weedy, obscured with drifting sand. He had passed no other vehicle since he had crossed the bridge at Olema.

  He’d have spotted any other vehicle, too, because it would be hard to find a more exposed stretch of road than this that trailed out its length between the two inclement shores. If anyone were watching him, whether by satellite or field glasses, they might have tracked his progress for miles without so much as a tree branch blocking the view.

  But then, Hearst told himself, Joseph had probably counted on that when he’d specified Drake’s Bay as the place of their rendezvous.

  A mortal waiter had stepped up to the table in Alioto’s and presented Hearst with a slip of paper, explaining that he’d been asked to deliver it.

  Having fun shopping for antiques? So, you’ve probably had plenty of time to think about my little present. Want to talk about it now? I promise I’ll pick up where I left off. Drive out to Drake’s Bay any time in the next three days and I’ll see you there. Come alone, please.

  “Is it a thre
at, mister? You want a Public Health Officer?” the waiter had said, wringing his hands. He had been unable to read the note. In fact, it was the first written communication he had ever seen, strange enough to alarm him.

  Hearst grinned at him, tucking the note away. “No, no, don’t worry. It’s a joke. From a friend.”

  The waiter had blinked, uncomprehending. Hearst felt a momentary flash of irritation at the general obtuseness and timidity of the present generation of mortals. He ordered another glass of fruit tea and sat looking out on the bay, pondering whether there wasn’t a way to inspire mortals to a little more bravery, a little more zest for life …

  He crested a hilltop now, and before him the road went steeply down to the little museum at Drake’s Beach. No other cars and not a living soul in sight.

  Hearst was smiling to himself as he put his hands in his coat pockets and strolled across the parking lot. This was sort of fun! Like being in a spy novel. And here he was, where Sir Francis Drake was said to have paused in his career of looting Spanish galleons long enough to repair his ship … well, in one of the places that claimed that distinction. The precise site of Drake’s landing remained a question over which Californians argued with astonishingly uncharacteristic viciousness, even in the present meek age …

  The museum was closed. Hearst wandered around on its outer deck, peering through the windows. Nothing to see but the painted backdrops for the natural history dioramas, and they didn’t amount to much with the holoes shut off. Nothing about Drake in evidence at all; not even a plaque. But then, pirates hadn’t been politically correct for years now. Hearst sighed to himself as he walked down to the beach, remembering his boyhood fascination with Captain Kidd.

  What was wrong with mortals nowadays? Surely a little bloody-mindedness was natural for children. He’d delighted in toy cannons and wooden swords, himself. Maybe a bit late into life, but he’d learned better eventually, enough so that he could point with pride to the laws he’d had enacted for the improvement of humanity. Mortals had become such spiritless creatures …