I’d bet right now Russell and his board were scrambling to cover all this up.
“Almost all clones within that radius froze up and went off-line—”
Went off-line. The PC term for “died.”
“—but as far as we can tell, this was a pocket of Six-Timers. Obviously, the mechanical breakdowns we’ve been hearing rumors about are no longer restricted to the Ninth Generation clones—”
There was a dramatic pause.
“Remember to stay tuned for our next Nine-Timer Report at noon,” she said. “And may your afterlife be even better than your life today.”
I pulled into the Fresh Start parking lot just as the broadcast concluded. Angelique’s mood changed again when she stared at the building. Almost every Newbie has some sort of reaction when they see one of our plants, based on some hidden memory of when they first got their chip, so I didn’t really pay too much attention.
I was still thinking about the report.
When I was younger, the end of the world always seemed a bit poetic. In between gigs, my jazz buddies and I would sit around and talk about it for hours, sipping coffee or whiskey, cigarettes burning, taking bets on the future.
But the bottom line was that the end was coming, whether we believed in it or not. Folks have been talking about this afterlife time bomb for the past fifty years.
I should know.
After all, it was my family that lit the fuse in the first place.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Chaz:
Sometimes my arguments with Russ were universal, no different from those that brothers have had throughout history. You got a bigger slice of pie, all the girls like you better, you always think you’re right. But lately our words carried a sharper edge, a growing hostility that was pushing us apart.
And despite the increasing tension, I still saw myself in his shadow, following in his oversized footprints.
I hated those moments. Like now. When I knew that I needed to confront him, but I also knew that somehow he was going to make me feel like I had messed up; I was the one tracking mud through the house; I was the one leaving dirty fingerprints behind that would let the rest of the world know, once and for all, that the Domingues were to blame for everything.
Majestic cedars stood outside the window, a patient audience dressed in shades of mossy green and burnt sienna. Their rich fragrance drifted through an open door, a woodsy incense that made me think of childhood. Then the VR projection flickered. Probably a power surge somewhere in the city. For an instant, the large vaulted room filled with wooden desks and spiraling dust motes temporarily faded away to reveal the plant warehouse.
Meanwhile, the debate continued, like it always had. I’d heard this dispute before. I knew there was no conclusion. No happy ending.
“What are we going to do if the media gets hold of this? Nobody expected the problems we had with the Ninth Generation clones to show up in the Sixth Generation. Almost any amount of stress will cause them to freeze up—”
“—you’re worried about the media? Have you thought about what the UN might do? Did you see what happened to that hot pocket of Six-Timers in Jaipur this morning? We weren’t able to cover it up because one of our nearby plants was bombed. All of our resources were focused there. Just like last year in Tehran and Bangalore. These pro-death organizations are out for blood—”
“—I keep telling you, the pro-death committee is not behind this. Somebody else is pulling all the strings—”
“—the experts said this wouldn’t happen for another century. The problem that was supposed to surface first was infertility. We never anticipated that the host DNA would break down this quickly—”
It was a corporate board meeting with all the Fresh Start top-level executives. All wearing their pretty-boy monkey suits and their we’re-so-very-important scowls.
Just then, Russell filled my vision, larger than life as always. Big brothers always seem too big to put into words, especially when a sizable portion of their life has been spent playing the role of father. I stood in the shadows, arms crossed.
“Look, it’s not like we were blindsided here,” he said. “We tried to make changes, to give people incentives to stop jumping so often, especially in India. But the Hindu population has taken a personal interest in resurrection. Something about their search for Nirvana, some quest for a higher rung on the caste-system ladder—”
“Why does this always come back to religion? Why do you One-Timers always have to make this an argument about God?”
Russ held his own for several minutes, arguing with Aditya Khan, the guy with the unfortunate job of overseeing our business in the Middle East and Asia, where the lion-tiger-and-elephant share of our problems was currently taking place. Then Russ glanced over his shoulder and realized that I had walked into his VR conference call.
“Well, look who decided to get his little hands dirty and pay us a visit.” He paused, then turned back to the board members. “We’ll continue this later.” Aditya started to protest, but Russ ignored him. He hit the DISCONNECT button on his wristband and slipped out of his VR suit. Instantly the conference room vista, replete with rustic nineteenth-century woodland ambiance, sizzled and faded. We were back in the plant warehouse now: concrete floors, a buzz of activity in distant office cubicles, the clatter of hospital-grade carts rolling down hallways, and a vague sterile odor hanging over everything.
And somewhere behind us, Angelique was running through a battery of hand-eye coordination tests in a soundproof booth.
A fine layer of dust seemed to hang in the air. Like guilt.
“You really must be some sort of idiot,” Russ said, his dark-eyed gaze sifting through the dust. He seemed out of place, dressed in an evening suit, one of the latest designer-from-China things, the top buttons hanging open. There was a cut on his forehead and a few drops of blood stained his white collar. “What kind of game were you playing in that bar last night?”
As much as I had tried to be prepared, he still caught me off guard.
“Do you realize we could have a major lawsuit on our hands,” he continued, “if that brute you tangled with decides to press charges?”
“Trust me, there’s no way that Neanderthal’s gonna slam us with a lawsuit—”
“You didn’t identify yourself, bruh.” He sighed, then glanced over my shoulder at Angelique. “One of the mugs in the French Quarter sent me a VR report, minutes after you sauntered out of that club.”
I paused. Mentally re-enacted the events in the club last night. “I told that goon who I was,” I countered, but all of sudden I wasn’t sure.
“You showed him your tattoo, all right. After you blasted him with light. Look, I’m not in the mood to fight,” he said wearily. “I got yanked out of a dinner with the mayor last night by another board meeting, came in here and had to fight my way through a pro-death rally—”
“Is this one of your infamous ‘my job is tougher than yours’ speeches?” I glanced back at Angelique and noticed that she had stopped her tests. She was staring at Russ, a guarded expression on her face.
“—then I got in here,” he continued, “and found out that an e-bomb had crashed our computer system. We almost lost a Newbie in transit.”
“Okay, okay, you win. Your job really is tougher than mine.” I pulled the plastic bag with the marker out of my pocket and slammed it on the table in between us. “Just tell me one thing, what the hell is this?”
Russ looked at the bag, then back up at me. “It’s a marker. Apparently taken out of a Stringer, since there’s blood on it.” He shrugged.
“It’s not one of ours.”
I saw something flash in his eyes, something I couldn’t quite pinpoint. Anger, maybe. Or fear. His face seemed to shift in the descending dust, like he was changing into someone I didn’t know anymore.
Like the old Russell was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Angelique:
The tests looked easy at first. And they
were. Then I glanced through the window and saw another man across the warehouse floor. He was talking to Chaz. I pretended not to notice him, but the back of my neck started to prickle. A strange feeling settled in my stomach, like I had a blender inside me and somebody turned it on real slow. Just fast enough to make me sick, but not fast enough to kill me.
All of a sudden I couldn’t figure out the answers, my hands wouldn’t do what I told them and my words wouldn’t come out right. I hovered there, alone inside the booth, somewhere between nausea and death, wondering what was wrong with me.
They were arguing.
The other man looked a little bit like Chaz. Taller, darker, maybe a little more handsome. Maybe not. I tilted my head and stared at him, caught him looking back at me.
My hands started to sweat and I couldn’t grip the controls properly.
I was done. I didn’t care about the tests anymore. I just wanted to get out of there.
Wanted to get out now.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Chaz:
The marker lay on the table between us, a small chunk of glittering hardware that suddenly seemed more important than the trillion-dollar resurrection monopoly that surrounded us. For some reason I flashed on a Babysitter mantra that one of my teachers had drilled into me years ago.
Trust nobody during Week One.
I watched Angelique from the corner of my eye, saw her fumble at the controls, her hands slipping and her eyes blinking. I could already tell that she was going to fail this test—the easiest of the bunch. Last night she had almost wandered off with a meathead stranger who probably would have sold her before the sun came up. This was beginning to look almost as bad as a black-market jump. I wondered if she might have been involved in one of those suicide cults in her previous life—those bottom-feeder freaks who loved dancing on the knife edge between death and resurrection.
Meanwhile, my brother frowned and pulled the marker closer. He put on a pair of glasses. “What do you mean this marker isn’t one of ours?” he said. “We’ve got a patent, nobody else is allowed to—”
“It was made by the government.”
I continued to watch his face, saw his brow furrow, saw something resolute in the angle of his jaw.
“Where did you get this?” Russ demanded. “Chaz, you’re not involved in something illegal, are you?”
“Are you crazy? I got it off my Newbie. I thought these clones were supposed to be wiped clean before your boys turned them over to me.”
He studied me for a long, silent moment. “They are.”
“Well, this one’s on Day Two and she had government hardware jammed neat and pretty in her hand. On top of that, that jughead from the bar followed us last night, like he was after something.” I paused, leaning closer. “And believe it or not, his trail ended right here. At Fresh Start. So why is the government suddenly interested in what we’re doing?”
Russ crossed his arms, let a slow grin slide over his cheeks, brought his I-should-have-been-a-politician dimples out of hiding. “Do you seriously think this is the first time that the government, or any of the myriad resurrection cults, have tried to get a piece of what we have?”
“Not like this,” I said. I decided to toss in a wild card, see if it would shake him up. “Is there some sort of secret project going on here? Something I should know about?”
He shook his head, then laughed. For a brief, surreal moment all my fears bobbed to the surface like dead bodies after a shipwreck. I wondered if he had sold us all out, if everything Mom and Dad had worked for was going to vanish in an instant, if the Feds were going to walk in.
If life and death as we knew it was going to change. Forever.
But that was ridiculous. I mean, Russ cared as much about Fresh Start as Dad ever did. At least, that was what I’d always thought.
“Where y’at, Russ?” I said finally. Then I repeated my question. “Is there something you want to tell me?” I tried to read between the lines, tried to figure out if his deep, dark secret was life threatening.
“No.” His eyes met mine. “I mean, we’re knee-deep in a senate investigation about that Nine-Timer claim that society is going to collapse in on itself in a few years. And we’re getting pressure from the Right to Death committee—they want a census to track the success rate of jumpers. And there are a number of hot pockets in the Middle East, places where almost anything could trigger a Nine-Timer scenario if we can’t get it contained in time. But it’s really all just life-after-life business as usual.” He paused, suddenly reflective. “What did your Newbie say about the chip?”
“Angelique. Her name’s Angelique Baptiste, and I decided to ask you about it first.”
“Good idea.” He pursed his lips, then stared down at the marker again. “Why don’t you leave this with me? I’ll look into it.”
I forced a grin, not quite ready to turn this over to him. I picked up the bag, stuffed it back in my pocket.
Then Russell took a sharp breath, as if he just remembered something. “Sorry, with everything going on the past couple of days, I almost forgot.” He pulled something out of his pocket and tossed it on the table—an envelope with almost illegible printing.
To Uncle Chaz
“What’s this?” I asked as I picked it up.
“An invitation to Isabelle’s birthday party. She wanted to have it early this year, didn’t want to share it with all the monsters on Halloween.”
I hesitated. I loved my niece like she was my own kid, but after last night I wasn’t sure if my Newbie was ready for social gatherings.
“Go ahead and bring the Newbie—I mean, Angelique,” Russ said with a flippant wave of his hand. “She may as well learn that families aren’t as wonderful as everybody thinks. Maybe it’ll even make her glad she doesn’t have one.”
“Maybe she does have one.”
“Yeah, and maybe I have an island off the coast of India. Look, just be there tonight at six and let’s not fight, okay?”
I could tell that there was more he wanted to say, saw a flash of emotion, heard his voice catch in his throat. I pretty much had it figured out, but I gave him some space. Let him say it.
“Mom’s gonna be there,” he said finally, “and I think she’s bringing Dad with her.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Chaz:
I hadn’t seen Mom for about a week. I guess I’m about as guilty as the next guy when it comes to staying in touch. Especially when I’m on a job, although that’s really no excuse.
The last time I saw her was on Tuesday. Or maybe it was Monday.
It was about 6 P.M. I usually go right after dinner. Watching one of the attendants feed her is a little more than I can handle. As liberated and open-minded as I try to be, I have to confess that sickness and death still bother me, probably more than they should, considering I’m a One-Timer.
She was in bed, resting. I came in and sat beside her and waited. I knew she would open her eyes soon. As quiet as I was, I knew the smell would give me away. VR suits always give off an odor; some people say they smell like maple syrup, others say it’s more like vanilla cake. Since I’m usually the one inside the suit I don’t really have an opinion. Virtual reality caught on big-time a few years before my father passed away, and I’m sure that’s why he did what he did. He got caught up in the craze and wanted to give Mom an anniversary present she wouldn’t forget.
Well, none of us ever forgot that one.
Like I said, Mom was in bed, silver hair smoothed on the pillow, her skin pink and paper-soft with age. Her hands lay at her side, elegant long fingers wearing rings of wrinkles at each joint. She had lost some weight. The monitor over her headboard registered 101 LBS. in glowing red numbers. Her pulse, temperature, blood pressure, electrolytes and cholesterol were all readily visible, along with a few other numbers that I never could figure out. I glanced at the cheat sheet I had brought with me, compared the current numbers with what they had been last time.
She was fading away. Pret
ty soon she would just vanish. All her numbers would read zero and her spirit would sail away.
When I finally got the courage to lift my gaze from my mother’s frail body, I saw him. Damn holo has uncanny timing. Right when I looked across the room to the corner, where I knew it was—this supernatural, super-spooky, three-dimensional rendition of my father when he was thirty-eight years old—it looked up and stared right back at me. And smiled.
A tear formed and slid down my cheek.
I hate that holo.
He looked just like he did right before he died. Dad never grew old. Never got gray hair or wrinkles. So this creature that occasionally flickers and skips with a hiss and a crackle actually looks a lot like me.
It’s disconcerting to outlive your own father. To realize that every year after this one will be one more than he had.
Mom woke up right about then, when I was analyzing the miserable lack of accomplishment in my life, when I was silently cursing a technology that could keep a virtual ghost of my father alive forever but couldn’t find a cure for what was slowly killing my mother.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
She reached out and touched my VR arm with her hand, a caress as soft as velvet. That’s as close as we’re going to get, until her last few minutes and the doctors allow us to actually go inside her quarantined room. It’s not so much that they’re afraid we might catch what she has. It’s more that what we have might kill her. A cold. A flu. Some random bacteria, happy to live innocuously on our skin, but much more excited to leap into her compromised immune system and develop into pneumonia or tuberculosis or tularemia. All deadly.
“Hi, Mom. How do you feel?”
Her eyes glittered, a pale blue sky filled with diamonds, like stars in the morning.
“Better now, honey. Always better when you are here.”
Afterlife: The Resurrection Chronicles Page 5
