The Sons of Heaven (The Company)

by Kage Baker

  “Van Drouten? We’re here.”

  “Suleyman, I’ve just had a delivery from the Company.”

  “Theobromos.”

  “But it’s adulterated with something! The directive with it sounded so fishy we thought it was a good idea to analyze some of it, and we found these horrible little biomechanical kind of things all through it and—but you’ve found out too, eh?”

  “Yes,” Suleyman replied. “They’re poisoned, Van Drouten. Any operative eating this stuff will be disabled. Maybe irreparably.”

  “So obviously you’re not going to follow orders and distribute any,” Van Drouten said, brushing back strands of loose hair. “It’s beginning, isn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  “We have to warn everybody else. Emergency comm protocols?”

  Suleyman nodded. “Except that I’m going to have to ask you to handle it all. I’ve got another situation developing here.”

  Van Drouten winced. “All right. Well, if I never speak to you again—is that Latif in the background? Hello, sweetheart—anyway, if this is really it—”

  “Van Drouten! Listen to me. I think this was intended as provocation, and not a serious attempt at murder.”

  “You mean they wanted to see what we’d do?” She looked dubious, then began to laugh sadly. “Goodness knows it’s a dumb idea, concocting something this fiendishly complicated and missing the obvious fact that we’d see right through it—”

  “So we can’t rise to the bait,” Suleyman told her. “You agree?”

  “Oh, of course. Though I don’t know if I’ll be able to get anybody else to agree with us!”

  “You’ll have to try,” said Suleyman. “Will you try, while I’m dealing with my situation?”

  “What else can I do?” Her laughter grew a little wild. “Why not?”

  Then she was gone, perhaps signing off abruptly. Perhaps the connection had been broken elsewhere. Suleyman turned away from the screen and sighed. “Status report?” he inquired.

  “The transports are being refueled and offloaded,” Sarai answered. “Team A is having a pit stop. Team B is assembling.”

  “I’d better go brief them on the next stage.” Suleyman rose to his feet.

  “You’re moving on Alpha-Omega now?” Nefer asked.

  “I have to. It’s started, Nef,” he told her.

  “Then—I think I’ve got a flight to catch,” she said. He nodded and she hurried from the room.

  “We move out in ninety minutes. You should eat something, son,” he told Latif.

  “I’ll see he eats,” Sarai volunteered.

  “Thank you. And … get rid of all this.” He gestured at the boxes of Theobromos.

  “It’s gone,” Latif told him.

  Some time later, Suleyman was just concluding his address to the troops in the hangar. Team A was combat-grimy and finishing the remains of a late supper; Team B was fresh and ready, lined up sharp, bouncing on their toes. Some of them were immortals, Suleyman’s own security techs. Most of them were mortals, bound to him by love and obligation. None of them expected to die.

  He had spoken to them quietly, had refrained from oratory tricks to inflame them, had concentrated only on the next step of the operation in detail. “… Once the objective is gained, we rendezvous here with Team A. At that point you will be briefed on the third stage—”

  He became aware of flames and an overpowering smell coming from another quarter of the compound. He turned as Latif and Sarai came in. “What’s on fire?”

  “The Theobromos,” Latif informed him. “I dumped all the crates in the empty pool and set fire to it.”

  “You could have just thrown them down the fusion hopper,” Suleyman remarked, raising an eyebrow.

  “This way it’s a gesture,” Latif said. “It means something!”

  “It means you’ve ruined my pool.” Suleyman turned, shaking his head ruefully. “Gentlemen? Ladies? I think it’s time we were gone.”

  “Let’s go,” Latif shouted, running forward as Team B saluted and broke into their units, each heading for their designated transport. “Let’s make this one count!”

  Nefer was out and heading for the public airstrip when she heard the transports lifting, rotating, screaming away. She turned her head and saw the column of smoke rising from Suleyman’s house, and the play of red flames under it. She couldn’t look long. Already before her eyes stretched the yellow plain of her dreams, and the quiet herds coming down to the water.

  Sighing, she adjusted her pack and walked on.

  CHAPTER 25

  The Mustering of the Host: 8 July 2355

  It was raining in Yorkshire, booming and flashing away in the sort of raw summer weather that had made the Bronte family’s lives so brief and comfortless. The few mortals still living in that remote part of the world shivered and drew closer to their electronic hearths, sipped their herbal tea and attempted to ignore the frightening sounds coming from heaven. The ghosts were out in the weather and exulting, however.

  A lone rider on a black horse paused on a crag to survey the land beneath him, eternally intrigued by the lone girl making her way through the heather. His cloak, her hair streamed in the wind like banners. On another peak, two lovers pale and fitful as lightning moved against the black clouds in a dance so sensual, so violent, no mortal could have survived its steps. Even to hear the music would drive a mortal mad.

  Animals rose and walked like men and women, about their ancient inexplicable business. Restless things bound with gorse roots broke free and stood, their insubstantial feet finding once again the Via Eboracum, ignoring the insubstantial motorcar that rattled along it in the opposite direction.

  In all this unearthly commotion the air cargo transport was something of an anticlimax as it zoomed down out of the storm, rain hissing on its gleaming sides, and landed pilotless at the base of a high steep hill some little distance north of Hardraw.

  There was no storm in the bunker under the hill. Down there all was warmth, calm, silence, and blue light, as it had been for so many centuries.

  Now. Ron and Albert opened their eyes in the same moment, peered through the glass of their respective vaults and found each other. Ron nodded. They launched themselves upward through the regenerant fluid and, gasping, hauled themselves out. Staggering and slipping they made their way to each other and clasped hands. They leaned together a moment, coughing, wiping the blue stuff from their eyes, a pair of giants naked as newborns but as far from vulnerable as it would be possible to imagine.

  “Go,” said Ron, and Albert turned and scaled the ladder of the nearest vault. He reached in and hauled up the vault’s occupant. One, he wrenched off its circlet; two, he leaned down and lightly butted its forehead with his own, and a spark jumped from the circlet he himself wore; three, he let go and scrambled down, running to the next vault in line to do the same again. Even as he did Ron was at the top of the ladder Albert had just vacated, grabbing for the tank’s occupant, who had begun to move and look around in bewilderment.

  He pulled its head up by the hair and stared into its pale eyes.

  … Sir?

  We’re moving out, soldier. Decant yourself. Form up by the door and await further orders.

  Sir yes SIR!

  Ron leaped to the floor and ran to the next vault just as Alfred was scrambling down and running for the next in line. The Enforcer dragged himself up and over the edge, climbed down, and ran coughing and shivering to the cavern’s entrance. There he waited, wringing out his hair and beard, jumping up and down to keep warm.

  He was joined almost at once by another Enforcer, and then another and another, and a long line of naked titans began to form as Ron and Albert followed their orders.

  One after another after another the vaults were emptied, and the long column grew longer. At precisely the same moment, the same scene was being enacted in the Pyrenees, in Morocco, in Norway, in Siberia, in the Sangre de Christos, and under Mount Tamalpais.

&nb
sp; When four hundred and seventy-eight Enforcers stood waiting by the door, Ron turned with a last regretful glance at the sleeping Preservers and ran back. Albert, many yards ahead of him, was shouting: “Atten—tion!”

  The line snapped to attention with an eerie grace, more like some great clockwork serpent than soldiers.

  “Low bridge!” roared Albert. In perfect unison the whole line dropped forward in a standing crouch, poised for running.

  “Move out! Quick march!” ordered Albert, and raced past them up the tunnel. Ron followed at the head of the column, and though they ran crouched their heads nearly grazed the tunnel’s roof.

  Inexorable as the tide they surged, up and out, emerging into the storm without so much as blinking. Ron led them in a winding file through the heather toward the transport, where Albert had already opened the loading doors. He was now ripping open the crates that were stacked inside.

  As the Enforcers entered, one by one, he tossed each a prepacked duffel. The first in caught his bundle, advanced to the far end of the cargo bay and waited. He was there joined by the next in line with his bundle, and the next. When the last Enforcer had boarded Albert closed the loading doors and took a bundle for himself, as Ron sprinted to the transport’s cabin and keyed in a signal. The console beeped in acknowledgment and the autopilot activated; with a lurch and a whine the transport rose into the storm, and kept rising, and sped westward at last.

  The Enforcers, meanwhile, were busily dressing themselves out of the duffels. There was some muttered amusement, even laughter, at the clothing that had been provided for them. Not uniforms by any stretch of the imagination, no, in fact all the garments had in common was that they were all triple-X sizes. There were Levis and cotton fleece exercise pants, there were chinos and Bermuda shorts and pinstriped trousers. And the shirts! Pastel Izods, rugby pullovers, long-sleeved oxfords, T-shirts in all colors printed with every possible advertising logo, though there were perhaps more for the Hearst News Services 2348 Company Picnic than any other. It had not been easy to stockpile so many big clothes, in a world where the mortal race had dwindled. There were no shoes available at all.

  Having dressed themselves, the Yorkshire contingent was issued field rations and fed, as the transport hurtled on. They were then ordered to draw from their duffels the last items each man had been issued: two lengths of oak, six meters of ramilar cord, two flint nodules, and a hammerstone. It wasn’t necessary to tell them what to do next. To a man, they dropped into a comfortable crouch and their enormous supple hands went to work, expertly knapping stone. With almost no effort the flint axe heads began to take shape.

  They were beautiful things, in a horrible kind of way, faceted sharp as razors at one end and blunt and heavy at the other. They took on nearly identical shape in their makers’hands, to the last tiny careful flake, all nine hundred and sixty of them.

  They were also nearly identical to all the axes being made at that moment on all the other transports, all on their different trajectories, all converging on the mountains behind the little town of Garrapatta.

  In Garrapatta it was the hour before dawn, and Budu had emerged from his bunker at last. He strode through the lobby of the cultural center and pushed the door open, and there on the Spanish Renaissance steps he stood, peering into the dark morning. He gave a long sigh. Crouching down in the doorway, he reached inside his coat and took out the flints and hammerstone. His lips moved in prayer as he began to fashion his weapons, each exactly like the other, both identical to the weapons being made on the ships he had summoned.

  Joseph slunk out behind him and stood shivering in the cold, buttoning up his long coat. He took out a granola bar and ate it, pausing only as he wondered whether he ought to offer Budu any. He decided against it; Budu was praying and probably fasting, too. After licking the last crumbs from the wrapper, he stuck it in his pocket and waited patiently, looking down on the little houses of the mortals.

  They were sleeping, the mortals, except for one or two whose kitchen stovepipes were already hot, sending up plumes of steam. Pale moths were drifting in from the night to shelter under the ramshackle eaves, or hovering still over the half-wild gardens where tomato vines straggled up wire towers, scaling them as though fighting off the wild roses, the bright poppies that pressed through the leaning fences. Shrill pleading scream: a moment later a wildcat paced up the path, silent field mouse in its jaws, and the stare of the predator was as blank and dead as the stare of its prey.

  Joseph stood there bidding it all good-bye, the village and the gardens, the mortals curled in their blankets or huddling by their stoves.

  The sky was paling when Budu stood at last, hefting his axes. “Let’s go,” he said. Joseph nodded and fell into step behind him as they went down the mountain.

  They took the speedboat moored at the pier. Budu cast off while Joseph started the motor; they moved out, away from Cape San Martin.

  At San Simeon Joseph ran her aground on the beach below the trees. They scrambled out and crossed the deserted highway, the big man loping, the smaller man trotting close after. They picked up speed and disappeared into the trees, and then no mortal could have spotted them as they ascended the enchanted hill.

  Hearst’s hands were trembling. He set them flat on the breakfast table and concentrated on calming himself. Don’t look at the ring. There was no reason Quintilius should notice the ring, after all. Hearst had been wearing it for months. It was a careful copy of a ring he’d owned a long time ago. Nothing to arouse suspicion.

  He took a piece of toast and spread fruit preserves on it, working very hard to keep his movements smooth and casual. That was the way; now could he pour coffee for himself without spilling? Yes, and cream, too. Good boy, Will! You ought to have gone on the stage.

  The door opened and Quintilius entered. Was he pale, was he trembling, too?

  “Good morning, Quint,” said Hearst, and to his delight his voice was quiet and careless, without so much as a quaver. Why should it quaver? He wasn’t supposed to know it was almost the last morning of the world. “Sorry to get you up so early. I gather you didn’t retire until around three?”

  “That’s all right, Mr. Hearst.” Quintilius gave a ghastly smile. “Touch of insomnia.”

  “Insomnia,” said Hearst, taking a mouthful of toast. “Say, that’s too bad. You’d think they’d have figured out a way to make us immortals proof against life’s little discomforts, wouldn’t you? Maybe that’s something we can propose at the next stockholder’s meeting, what do you think?”

  “Sure, Mr. Hearst,” Quintilius replied, setting something on the table. Hearst looked down at it. Eighteenth-century English silver, a footed bonbon dish. In it, on a paper doily, were arranged a dozen chocolates. All his favorites, from that little company in the Celtic Federation. Ratlin’s.

  “Theobromos?” Hearst was even able to sound jovial.

  “Mary thought you might like them after your coffee. She said the brandied peaches you wanted aren’t ready. They need another couple of days to be perfect,” said Quintilius, not meeting his eyes. Any qualms Hearst had been feeling fled in that moment. He smiled and rose to his feet.

  “Why, that was awfully thoughtful of her,” he said. “You tell her I said so.” And he reached out as though to clap Quintilius on the shoulder in a comradely way, but instead his arm went around the smaller man’s neck. He gripped Quintilius to him with all his immortal strength, and Quintilius, with all an immortal’s adroitness, went writhing out of his grasp; but not before Hearst had managed to turn the bezel on the ring.

  Quintilius stared at him from the opposite end of the room, panting, running a self-diagnostic. “You—what did you just do?”

  “Shorted out your datalink to the Company,” said Hearst, holding up the hand that wore the ring. “I know what’s in the chocolates, Quint.”

  Quintilius went white. “Look, Mr. Hearst, I—”

  “You have failed your masters,” said Budu, appearing in the near doorway. He
ducked his head and stepped inside, and Joseph appeared behind him. “You betrayed the mortal race. You stand condemned, Preserver.”

  Quintilius turned and gaped at him in horror. His eyes widened, his lips drew back from his teeth; a second later he had winked out and the closest window had exploded outward, its glass shattered, its stone mullion broken away.

  Budu winked out after him, with a roar like a freight train. A heartbeat later there was a pleading scream from somewhere in the garden, abruptly cut short. Hearst flinched, and Joseph grimaced and closed his eyes. “That could have been me, you know?” he murmured. “I used to get jobs like his all the time.”

  Hearst found his mouth was dry. He swallowed and said, “Well, but you had the moral gumption to, uh, stand up and oppose them at last. You did what was right. Quint worked beside me all that time, I trusted him, and then—why, he did just what you said he’d do.” He poked the dish of chocolates uneasily.

  A door slammed somewhere below them. They heard a heavy footfall approaching. As it came up through the house, Joseph went to the dish and picked up one of the chocolates, handling it carefully by its paper cup. He scanned it. “Son of a bitch,” he said, in dull surprise. “They are full of something. It’s not the virus that disabled Budu, though. Somebody came up with a new approach.”

  “ ‘I fear the Greeks when bearing gifts,’“ quoted Hearst. “Did they really think we’re such dumb bozos they could take us out with poisoned candy?”

  Joseph shrugged. “It wouldn’t fool me, but I guess they thought you were far enough out of the loop not to suspect.” He turned the chocolate in his fingers, staring at it. “I wonder if Lewis—” He set it down without finishing the sentence and wiped his hand on his coat.

  They turned as Budu stepped through the doorway. In his right hand was one of his axes, and hand and axe were red. In his left hand was a fistful of Quintilius’s hair, with the severed head swinging beneath.