I swallowed. It felt like I was in the Old West, challenging a gunslinger.
“This is your last chance,” I warned him. I knew the stims had him going, had taken him to a land beyond logic. There was only one conclusion here. If that primate had half a brain, he would have known—
“The young lady, she stays with me, punk.” His words slurred and his eyes narrowed. Angelique peered at me from behind his barrel-sized chest, like a teenager who’d been caught staying out after curfew.
“Move away from him, Angelique,” I told her. She hesitantly obeyed, shoulders hunched. I gave her a nod and a soft smile. Good girl. Stay.
“You gots puppy written all over ya,” he taunted. “Ya First-Timer!”
I’ve been called worse things. Doesn’t mean that I like it. Or that it’s true.
Then he lunged at me. There was a split second when I realized I may have misjudged him. I don’t think he weighed 220; it was probably more like 250. I pulled my hand from my pocket and with a flick the liquid light ignited. A flash blasted from the palm of my left hand, shot toward him; electric current pulsed like jagged lightning, wrapping his arms and legs and chest in a sizzling blue-white anaconda. The force of it knocked him across the room, hissed while his limbs quivered. His eyes blinked in rapid succession, like he was trying to send us a message through Morse code.
Probably 250, not 220, I reminded myself as I waited for him to wake up. He got a lower charge than I expected. He convulsed on the floor.
All around me the room jolted to life.
“Somebody call the mugs! He gots liquid light—”
“He’s gonna kill us—alls of us—”
I held up my hand, showed them the tattoo on the inside of my left palm.
A deadly quiet breezed through the club. Even the jazz stopped. I hate this part, the part where I kill the music. On the ground, the brute shuddered awake, lip twitching. He shook his head, struggled to fix one eye on me.
“I’m gonna gets the mugs on you, First-Timer,” he choked out one word at a time.
I laughed. “No, you’re not.”
The Neanderthal forced his body to sit up, fought the storm that raged in his muscles. He pointed a quivering finger toward me. “Nobody pours liquid light on me and lives ta talk about it.” He pushed one leg into position, then the second, grabbed a chair and used it to hoist himself to a shaky stand.
I turned my palm toward him. Showed him the tattoo. Watched his eyes widen, saw his gaze sweep the room as if one of the people there could help him. As if they would even consider it. “You see that woman over there?” I asked, nodding toward Angelique. He slid a nervous glance in her direction, not moving his head. “That’s my baby, buddy. Nobody touches her—you got that? It’s within my legal rights to send you all the way back to your own miserable beginning. You want to start all over as a single-celled zygote?”
He shook his head, his jaw slack. His lip was still quivering.
I reached into my right pocket, pulled out a tag, walked toward him.
He started to move backward, ran into a table, knocked it over.
I stopped. “Where do you think you’re going?” I asked.
He froze, every muscle trembling now, but not from the liquid light.
I sighed. Reached over, clicked the tag on the back of his hand. A microscopic chip shot out, embedded itself in his skin. He flinched, but not from the pain. “That’s my marker,” I whispered. “You’re my baby now.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t means nothin’. I didn’t do nothin’.”
“Well, then you just better pray that when you’re my baby, nobody does nothin’ to you, neither. Cause when your time comes, I’m gonna be your Babysitter. And sugah,” I leaned dangerously close to his face, let my hot breath sink into his pores, switched my speech patterns to make sure he understood. “We’s gonna haves lots of fun together. I promises.”
CHAPTER TWO
Neville:
I stumbled out the door, my feet numb, my vision blurred. I slumped onto broken cobblestone, strains of jazz seeping into the alley around me as I landed facedown. Behind me, a high-pitched twitter mingled with the bright notes of a clarinet. One of my own boys was laughing at me.
“Boss, you shoulda seen yourself, you was tumblin’ backward like a First-Timer with a mouthful of jive-sweet! Man, I wishes I had a VR of that pretty scene—”
I struggled to my feet, then grabbed the black-haired gutter punk by the throat and shook him until the change in his pocket jingled. The boy didn’t fight back. He didn’t dare. He sputtered and coughed, his lips turned blue.
Finally I dropped him to the ground, watched him gasp and flail.
“Was it pretty, like that?” I asked.
The boy cringed. Two other slender young men slid deeper into the shadows, their faces covered with fresh bruises from their recent mock battle inside the club.
I laughed until my voice echoed. “Good job, boys,” I said. Then I tossed each of them a token that spun through the evening gloom, engraved words catching the dim lamplight: FREE ADMISSION TO THE UNDERGROUND CIRCUS. Dangerous grins spread across their faces as they each pocketed their new favor.
“Was it her?” one of them asked.
I shrugged. Seven ladies downloaded in New Orleans today. I’d already discounted the two that had tumbled through the black market, a process that left their brains scorched and empty. Could be this one, but I didn’t want to say yeah or nay, not yet. Still had three more to track down.
I sucked in a long, dark breath. My boys waited for a sign that it was time to move on.
I nodded. Slow, so they’d pay attention.
“We goes that way.” I pointed toward the other end of the alley.
They all stared like they didn’t believe me.
“But, boss,” the punk on the ground finally coughed out a few words, his voice raspy, his neck still red from my grip. “That guy’s a ’sitter. He’s loaded with light. Nobody says he gonna be carryin’ light or—”
“Or you woulda been too chicken to belly up for the job? Look, you gots a sister, right?”
The kid nodded, then looked away.
“And you wants yur sister to keep that pretty face. Or maybe ya don’t cares no more.”
“I cares.” The boy shoved himself into a sitting position, then scrambled to his feet. “Let’s go.”
“Yeah.” I punched him in the arm. “We follows the ’sitter.”
The four of us headed down the alley. I rubbed my hand where that puppy had jammed a marker. I had to get this thing out, couldn’t be on somebody’s trackin’ screen. The dark city stretched out before us like a maze, black-shadowed streets, yellow edges of light—all wrapped up with knife-sharp corners. Only one safe path led across the Big Easy once the sun went down. We lived in the belly of the alley, gutter water ran through our veins, and the sewer stench was our perfume.
I is the shadow, the fire that burns, the smoke that blinds.
I thrust another spike in my arm and then held my breath.
F’true, I’ll gets the marker out. Soon as my spike halo fades.
CHAPTER THREE
Chaz:
It was late, but an unrelenting crowd of bohemians, gutter punks and tourists still jostled their way through the Quarter, all of them carrying black-market imitations of Jamaican rum punch and Dixie Crimson Voodoo Ale. Musicians gathered on street corners, playing jazz improvisations to passersby, waiting for the steady waterfall of tips that jingled into open trumpet cases. Antiques shops and art galleries lured tourists toward brightly lit windows, and a pair of prostitutes strolled arm in arm, gossiping in French. The Newbie and I had walked from one blues club to another, watched the moon snake its way across the sky. My feet hurt and my head throbbed from my last glass of whiskey. A sure sign it was finally time to end the evening.
But now Miss Margarita was in the mood for adventure. As if her run-in with that genetic monster never even happened.
“I want
to see the Cities of the Dead,” she said.
“The Cities of the Dead are gone,” I answered in my best monotone. Nobody needed cemeteries anymore. The empty carcasses left over after resurrection were just piled into incinerators and toasted.
She shook her head. Waist-long platinum waves shimmered.
Why did they always look like Hollywood movie stars, when they should be sucking up worms and dirt? I sighed.
“I’m not stupid, you know. I used to be an attorney. I just, hey, yeah, didn’t want to be one this time.”
I wished I had another drink. Even a migraine would be better than this.
“I know they kept one graveyard—yeah, they did. For tourists. Saw it on the news, babe. You know, before.”
“Before you went in the joint.”
She nodded. She didn’t want to talk about the joint. None of them ever did. I felt bad immediately. I should have let her bring it up first. Tears formed in the corners of black-mascara-rimmed eyes. Maybe she was remembering a husband and a kid that she left behind. Maybe there was a best friend, rotting away in a nursing facility somewhere, waiting for a phone call that would never come. Maybe there was a lifetime of memories crowding to the surface, all struggling to be part of the 50 percent that got to survive.
“Fine,” I said, although it really wasn’t. I shot a pulse beam into the night sky and signaled a taxi. “We’ll go see the last City of the Dead.”
Her eyes darkened when the cab pulled down from a nearby rooftop, gliding through the misty evening fog to stop beside us. I thought she would be happy. Thought she would smile at least—I mean, I did exactly what she wanted. But she just climbed inside the taxi and turned away from me, then stared out the window, hands rolled in tight little balls on her lap.
The cemetery appeared a few moments later, a gothic land of stone and skeleton, hard edges softened by moonlight and transformed into something mythic. We stepped from the taxi, both of us hesitating. The wrought-iron gates screeched when I pulled them open. I wanted to laugh, but for some reason I couldn’t. This was a place where bones marked the transition from life to whatever lay on the other side.
No matter what the Stringers say, this was still a sacred place.
I watched as Angelique moved silently through moon-beams, shadowy fog clinging to her feet. It followed her like a living, breathing creature as she walked from one tomb to the next, poised beside her as she read rusted bronze placards. Names of the dead dripped from her lips. Christophe. Marguerite. Francois. She shook her head, moved on. I realized that she was crying. Something was wrong; some of her circuits weren’t firing right. Tears slipped down pubescent-perfect cheeks. Movie-star lips quivered.
Suddenly I couldn’t focus my eyes anymore. I staggered and grabbed on to a towering stone angel, almost lost my balance. Whiskey jitters were finally catching up with me.
“You shouldn’t drink that black-market crap,” she said. Her speech patterns were changing. I detected a faint Scottish brogue, a late twentieth-century accent. I had to watch out. She could collapse if the memories came back too rapidly. “I worked on all the synthetic alcohol patents. Whiskey’s probably the worst.”
I nodded. We finally had something in common. Standing in the middle of a cemetery beneath a silvery moon, we both agreed that contraband liquor was bad news. A whispering breeze passed between us, stirred the mists into curving rococo eddies. Just then I turned away and leaned against my angel friend again. Vertigo forced me to wobbly knees.
“Drink tequila next time,” she said.
I held up my hand to silence her. Even a Babysitter deserves a moment of peace. Especially when he’s curled over with jitters. The world seemed to be all mist and shadow, everything in soft focus, like I was looking through a camera fitted with the wrong lens. I wiped my face on my shirt-sleeve, then caught my breath and stood up.
“Angelique?” Dead leaves rustled and tumbled through a narrow courtyard.
She was gone.
“Hey, yeah! Angelique. Where are you?” Stone met stone, shadows changed from gray to purple to black.
Babysitting 101: Never turn your back on a Newbie. Especially on Day One.
There were no sounds except my own footsteps as I stumbled through uncharted darkness; my own heartbeat, as it chugged along like a train on rickety tracks. I began to jog between temple-tombs, moved through what looked like a black-and-white vampire-movie set. I imagined Dracula, arms open wide, imagined Angelique welcomed into a land of the undead. A hundred dangers lurked in the shadows: thieves, murderers, kidnappers, hiding in the neat and narrow spaces between the tombs, waiting for tourists, hoping someone would pass by, someone unarmed and innocent.
Someone like my Newbie. Memories rose to the surface, stories of half-baked Newbies, caught and sold into slavery. They were so easy to program during the first week. I was running faster now. Thought I saw someone, watching me from a dark corridor between the tombs.
“Angelique—where are you?”
That was when I rounded a corner and found her, kneeling in front of the burial tomb of a legendary voodoo queen. She stared at the stone slab as if it belonged to her; she was running her fingers through a fresh pile of Mardi Gras beads left by pilgrims seeking favors from the dead, a puzzled expression on her face. She must have heard me, but for the longest time she didn’t move. She just continued to stare down at the tokens, mumbling to herself. Finally she turned and looked at me.
“Did you see him?” she asked.
“Who?” I glanced behind us.
“He’s running away, he’s free now.” She tried to stand up, a ghostly smile on her lips, a long-dead memory. But then she blinked, her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed, disappearing beneath the mist.
I picked her up, checked her pulse, sheltered her in my arms for a moment while my head cleared. “She’s fine,” I said to myself, as if I needed some sort of reassurance. I struggled to forget about all the things that could go wrong, about the hidden clauses in the Fresh Start contract that protected me from scenarios just like this. I was tired of being the one that always came out on top of every bad situation. “You’re going to be okay. Hang in there, kid,” I mumbled as I carried Angelique toward the street. “We’ll get you straightened out. Some jumps are just rougher than others.”
But deep down inside I knew that wasn’t true. There was something wrong here: too much information was trying to get through. Almost as if whoever did her jump didn’t know what the hell they were doing. Fortunately the cab was waiting exactly where I left it. I signaled the driver.
Then I used two Master Keys, preprogrammed commands hardwired into every Newbie at start-up, and I whispered into Angelique’s ear. “Wake up. Focus.”
She instantly opened her eyes, stood up and climbed into the cab, one hand holding mine for support.
We drove away.
I was too tired to care about another Newbie whose life just got mangled and torn in Fresh Start machinery. Too tired to realize that there might be more going on here than just a rugged jump.
It was the first mistake I would make on this case. But that didn’t really matter. Because I was about to make plenty more.
CHAPTER FOUR
October 12 • 1:16 A.M.
Chaz:
Angelique leaned against my shoulder, babbling softly, staring into space. The city melted around us as one narrow fog-drenched street bled into another. We swung through that section of the Quarter where the streets changed names; St. Charles Avenue veered off into downtown and turned into Royal Street, leaving the nineteenth-century millionaire’s row behind.
I tapped the Plexiglas that separated us from the taxi driver. A row of colorful tarot cards clung to the barrier with a handwritten sign: FREE READINGS WITH A TOUR OF THE CITY.
“The Carrington. Bourbon Street.”
He nodded. At least, I think it was a he. Long dreadlocks, black lipstick, massive biceps. I saw him studying me in the rearview.
“Newbie?” the h
e/she asked a few moments later, heavy-lidded eyes confronting mine in the mirror.
I nodded.
“You the Babysitter?”
Another nod. Followed by a yawn.
“Mind if I see some ID?”
I flashed my palm.
The driver shrugged. “Ever since that incident over in Barcelona last year, I always check.”
“Yeah.” I yawned again. “What can I say? The laws are different in Spain. You should be glad you live here.” Just then the Carrington Hotel loomed into view, a tall brick-and-mortar Baroque masterpiece. For seven days and nights I have no life. I eat, drink and sleep with my assigned Newbie. I don’t mean sleep in the biblical sense—nobody touches my baby like that, not even me.
Sometimes we stay in a hotel; sometimes we go to my place. On rare occasions, we go to the Newbie’s home, but there are usually too many memory pegs there, even after it’s been sterilized. My main requirement is that wherever we stay, I need my own room and a VR room. Once in a while a customer balks and says that’s too expensive. I usually raise an eyebrow and tell them to take their business elsewhere. Right about then I laugh. Not hysterically. It’s more like a well-planned “ha.”
There is nowhere else. We’re the only ice-cream store in town.
Angelique and I made it through the hotel lobby without incident. I take that back. There was a brief moment when she became disoriented, right about when I was getting the room key.
She looked up at me through half-closed eyes. “William?” she asked, confused. A tormented pause. “Jim?” She shook her head. I made eye contact with the concierge, then silently showed him my ID.
“Who are you?” Angelique asked.
“Chaz. Chaz Domingue. Your Babysitter.” I briefly debated which of the five Master Keys to use. “Recognize.”
She squinted her eyes, looked me up and down. “My Babysitter?”
Afterlife: The Resurrection Chronicles Page 2
