The Resurrection Pact (Winston Casey Chronicles Book 1)

by Jay Smith

  My footsteps echoed and the window wall behind me cast a long shadow across the room. Without looking up, he boomed, "Greetings!" His was a rich, musical British accent, softer than the coarse baritone he affected on stage. He wiped his hands on a towel, crossed the room and took my hand in both of his.

  "It is so good to meet you, first as Lord Bunting and now as just Alan Horus. Thank you for coming."

  "Alan. Hi. Thank you for having…"

  "Did Ni show you the gardens on your way in?"

  "She did. It's amazing, Alan."

  Alan resumed his work as he spoke. "Thank you. Twenty years ago, I lived in a one-bedroom flat in a part of London occupied by artists, whores and the criminally insane. I wrote romance and base pornography to keep busy and pay my way. I published my first Aeternus book and it did nothing. I couldn't even afford to support it. It was going to die on the vine before the late Appin Dungannon wrote it a lovely review in a trade magazine. If you knew Dungannon, you know he rarely spoke fondly of other authors and especially those he considered competition. Sales spiked, someone optioned it for a film…which thank the gods was never made...and the rest, as the mundanes like to say, is history."

  He added a cup of water to the pot. I leaned against the marble top island and considered what one successful book could lead to. The kitchen of Horus’ estate was larger than my first apartment. The giant hood hanging from the vaulted ceiling over the central island was wider than its bathroom, including the tub.

  "Would you like something to drink? The refrigerator behind you has all the beverages."

  "Thank you. The stew or…whatever… smells wonderful. What is it?"

  "Cat food."

  "That’s cool." It was the only thing I could find to say on the subject in the space where a response was implied.

  "I find the act of making food for my animals brings me closer to them. I never serve my friends food out of a can. Why would I do it for members of my own family?"

  "Understood. What’s in it?"

  "It’s a simple recipe of rabbit meat, chicken liver, a few vitamin additives, some spices for flavor and smell…the key is the scent. Marcus and Darwin are very picky when it comes to the smell of their meal. It must smell like a fresh kill. Precious boys never killed so much as a mouse in their lives, but – it’s how they sate their primal urges, you know? Pisces prefers her meals served warm and a little bloody so I have the staff heat up hers and stir in just a touch of chicken blood."

  "Mm. I could see that on the menu at T.G. Applebusters. What other skills do you possess beyond the feline culinary arts?"

  Alan offered a polite laugh. "I am a simple person with simple tastes. My friend Sullivan tells me I only like three things; food, fantasy, and… finance."

  It was my turn for a polite chuckle. "I understand. I can't imagine you built an empire on a series of books. They aren't exactly Harry Potter sales levels. No offense."

  "None taken. I take pride in my success despite the fact that, unlike Jo, I did not sell out. I do adore her. She's a shadow member of the realm, by the way. If you're ever online and you see a dirty street urchin named Talbot running about, that’s Jo in disguise." He pressed a finger to his lips to indicate this was not common knowledge.

  "So how did all this happen? Do you make that much off the dues and fees from the game?"

  "No." Alan continued adding ingredients to his pot, carefully measuring, pouring and stirring as the blue flame beneath kept it all simmering. As he sprinkled a black dust over his creation, Alan replied, "I whispered something into a columnist's ear. Two months later, I was a millionaire nearly a hundred times over. Within a year, I became one of the richest men alive."

  "Nice hook, but what does it mean?"

  "Are you conducting an interview, Winston?"

  "We’re having a conversation. You’re much more interesting than me."

  "Oh, I wouldn’t say that. But, so long as we’re having a private conversation and not a prelude to a blog or something…I have your word on that?"

  "Just two guys shooting the shit over a tub of fresh cat food."

  He nodded, satisfied with my answer. "That virtual currency we use representing Gold pieces?"

  "Yeah?"

  "It's called Cryptocurrency. Like Bitcoin but better managed. I first bought some shares in it many years ago, as a favor to a friend. It's now the root of all currency used in most major online games and many online businesses. It's backed by capital owned by three major Trusts, which makes it quote-unquote real to the people who use it and the investors who wish to make a profit on it. It's just a trick of the spreadsheet, really, but when you print ink on paper, everyone accepts the reality that it is money, yes?"

  "I only know what the bank tells me. Numbers go up. Numbers come down. Usually faster on the way down."

  "Precisely, Winston. That's what makes the world turn, man."

  With a large wooden spoon, Alan began scooping the steaming contents of the pot into the Tupperware.

  "Regardless...I owned original shares and then invested real money in a company that dealt in their exchange. I met a business columnist interested in the whole Crypcoin phenomenon and I whispered - off the record - that one of the three Trusts backing the currency was about to collapse. It didn't make the news, but it did reach the Internet. I had 540 thousand in Crypcoin at Warhawk Trust when it collapsed. After the Wall Street chickens settled down it was worth a tenth of that. I immediately shifted five million dollars from my other accounts to the trust under the pretense of shoring up the trust in good faith. I owned 45 percent of the company that designed the online Realm of Aeternus and they invested another ten million. In the end, that five million ballooned and split and... well, here we are. I never fired a shot. I simply excited the chicken coop."

  ~

  I had very little to say because I never really thought about the collective illusion of money. Alan had filled a dozen small plastic containers with the brown, meaty substance. He sealed each container carefully and stacked them up in sets of three.

  "The fees and dues paid by the members is a slush fund to keep the facilities operational. So, if you're thinking that I run a pyramid scheme off the backs of starry-eyed followers, you should spend some time with our P&L chart. More to the point, you should probably bring a real accountant in to explain it to you."

  I took note of the tone. He was trying to read into what I'd said and established that someone like me had no real understanding of how money - real money - works.

  "Interesting. You engineered a minor economic collapse for your own financial gain." I did not add "Which I believe is illegal, unethical and a lot evil."

  "My own? No. For the good of The Realm. I won a nation in a great economic coup."

  "The SEC might see it differently."

  "'One man's patriot', Winston..." is another's terrorist. "I didn't think of myself as a businessman until I realized the magic of finance and how I needed to become a master of that force to provide the people of Aeternus with the life they enjoy in my realm. I don't even ask them to pay taxes, though I easily could. What I take from them is influence, Winston. The townhouse where you stayed - for free, I might remind you - a townhouse owned by a citizen of the realm rented to me for just that purpose. It is one of hundreds around the world where our citizens may go to privately enjoy their lives. Not just lawyers and bankers - authors, scientists, politicians, bankers...people who run the meatverse. I provide them escape. They provide me with...influence."

  "How many people lost everything in that coup?"

  "If they were smart, they kept pretending their currency was worth something because it changed nothing in the games. If you had virtual Gold, Simoleons, Lindens, Galactic Credits... nothing changed. A ray gun or a broadsword still cost the same. It was only if you wanted to convert your in-game currency to terrestrial currency that you had trouble."

  At the time, I did not understand, but Alan Horus nearly bankrupted a major investment corporation
for his own gain. The illusion is that he lost anything. He invested a half-million and earned a vast profit. Other investors, principals and benefactors of the trust lost hundreds of millions in a short period because Horus could exploit a new market with limited regulatory oversight. When you consider the number of people who worked in the virtual world receiving a real income derived from the trading of virtual items, real estate, and services - not just to finance their in-world activities, but pay for their internet, electricity, rent and food - that represented collateral damage. Of course, businesses play with the lives of employees every day. They lay off workers to increase profits, to look better to investors. Lord Bus was just another amoral venture capitalist.

  And that's how he was addressing me; not as an author or a buddy or even an evil criminal mastermind... but as the COO of Aeternus Corporation to a new shareholder. He stirred the pot and turned up the burner slightly to boil off and thicken his mix.

  "Ten cents on the dollar, Mr. Casey."

  "What does that mean, Alan?"

  "One hundred-seventy thousand dollars. You'll go out to the Peppermint Casino's Big Candy Mountain Slot Machine, throw in a $20 chip and yelp with surprise as you win the big prize. Legal and real…well, at least that's how our books will show it. I'll shake your hand take a photo for the media and you'll drink champagne and corn dogs on your private flight home. You can tell your friends about the great sex, drugs, and adventure you had."

  "You're bribing me to cash out?"

  "The in-world value of Lord Parque's bequest. Parker built that over years. Forgive my bluntness, but you know nothing of our society or our business. I'm afraid losing a significant share of that might destabilize the economy. Frankly, you’re a stranger to me and I haven’t had time to assess the risks associated with your arrival. Grant Parker was a good friend, but his failure to inform me of his intentions regarding you -- it troubles me."

  His monologue stopped at the sound of heels on tile. Miss Huan’s voluptuous shadow moved across the wall in front of me while Alan got a look at the real thing behind me. He smiled at her arrival, but it wasn’t a warm smile. It was like spotting prey.

  "Miss Huan. Glad you’re here."

  I turned to see what Miss Huan thought of business attire. She wore a tight, knee-length black skirt and a matching jacket cut to her hourglass shape. She removed the jacket for Alan’s benefit, showing off a crisp, white blouse that struggled to remain buttoned over her chest. Even pulling back her hair needed to look dramatic and extreme, with her glossy black hair pulled tighter than I could imagine comfortable for anyone with a central nervous system. She wore blue eyes that day and a layer of make-up that would spark a counseling session in the office setting I came from, but was conservative for her tastes. Again, there was the odd black metal hoop around her neck and the smaller connecting ring resting just above her cleavage.

  She smiled a little for me and a lot for Alan. "Good morning. Are the two of you playing well together?"

  "Sure, but apparently I scare Alan a little."

  Alan’s smile bore teeth.

  "Oh, I doubt that, Mr. Casey," Huan teased. "I’ve seen him flay the skin from bigger men than you…much bigger."

  Alan chuckled and added, "I think Mr. Casey is not quite used to the way we live in the Realm Aeternus. But I sense he will quite soon."

  "I’m glad. We have to get you to the airport."

  "Miss Huan. Before you commence, I would like you to do something for me, please."

  "Of course, Alan."

  Alan took one of the plastic containers from his stack and carried it to a counter across the kitchen. From the overhead cabinet, he produced a small ceramic bowl into which he scooped some of the cat’s dinner. It was still warm and the tub, like the others, was full of beaded water. Alan brought the bowl back to the island where Huan and I stood, saying "I am never sure if I have the consistency of my recipe correct. You know Marcus is very picky."

  Huan looked concerned, perhaps not about Marcus’ tastes. "Yes, I do."

  "Would you give me your opinion of it, please?"

  She looked at the contents of the bowl, the steaming fatty mix of meats, fish oil, egg, and gods know what else. It was a bit runny and glossy just like wet cat food, which is to say like toddler vomit.

  "It seems…" she hesitated, being unable to find a comparison or benchmark to give a constructive answer. "I would guess… Alan, I don’t have cats."

  "It’s all a matter of taste, Miss Huan." He looked at her as if she should understand what he meant by that. "Marcus is a very high-maintenance Bombay. He finds most of the world beneath his notice and can be cruel to those he does not respect. In many ways, the two of you are alike. I love you both very much."

  "Th-thank you, Alan. I love y-"

  "I think Marcus is different from you in one important respect. His arrogance does not make him lose sight of the details."

  "Excuse me?" There was a bit of the dominant in her tone, blanketed, but not smothered by her well-trained submission to Alan.

  "When you had Mr. Casey here sign his Non-Disclosure Agreement, he provided us the name and signature of a dead musician. While I found it amusing, I find your failure to notice it less than so."

  There are different ways to flay a person. Alan proved he could use words with equal precision and without an ounce of malice.

  Huan cleared her throat for the reply she could never make and the excuse she could not provide. She lowered her gaze to Alan’s feet.

  "I hold Mr. Casey blameless. I would not sign anything put in front of me under the same circumstances."

  Underneath the bluster and confidence, Huan was revealed to be a scared little girl. She could only squeak as she whispered. "I’m sorry, sir."

  Alan brightened. "All is forgiven, my dear. Things happen. There are no rewards, no punishments in nature…" he gestured to the bowl. "Only consequences." After watching Huan tremble a bit, Alan spelled it out. "I’d like you to tell me what you think of my food before I force it on poor Marcus. Please."

  "Of course, Alan." Without further hesitation, Huan walked to a drawer containing utensils. As she did, Alan moved the bowl from the counter to the white tile floor. "You won’t need that, my dear."

  Huan froze for a moment at the sound of ceramic clicking against the tile. She turned around slowly and stepped back toward Alan.

  "Alan, you made your point."

  He only had eyes for Huan. "What point is that, Winston?"

  "That you can be a gigantic dick. You’re big and powerful. You can hurt people."

  "No, that is certainly not my point."

  Huan stepped over to Alan. He slipped an index finger into the hoop at the front of Huan’s black necklace. He pulled her face close to his and kissed her bottom lip with a lightness that suggested a touch was all she deserved.

  She did not kiss back.

  When he removed his finger from the hoop, Huan stepped back and got down on both knees, then all fours at Alan’s feet. I said something else, but it didn’t matter because Huan lowered her face into the cat’s bowl and took a bite. Her hair fell around the bowl, so I couldn’t see anything more than her submissive posture. But I could hear her chewing, just over Horus’ heightened breathing, all of which echoed from the hard walls of the kitchen.

  She rose from the floor a woman in a trance, looking into the distance without any discernable expression.

  "Your opinion, then?" Alan produced a handkerchief from his front pocket and dabbed oil from Huan’s lower lip and chin.

  "I…think it…" She tried to control her gag reflex and her words at the same time. "I think Marcus will enjoy it very much, Mas—Alan."

  "Are you sure? Because I will hold you to your opinion. If he does not like it and refuses to eat it, this will be your dinner for a week. Are you positive on this point, my dear?"

  "Yes."

  His expression softened and he touched her cheek like she had just professed her love to him. "Good girl. Go
tend to yourself, now."

  Huan darted from the kitchen into the gardens.

  "What is the lesson, Winston?"

  "That you're an asshole?"

  "The lesson," he scolded, "is that Miss Huan is a smart woman who thinks about the long game rather than her immediate wants, which means she is not one of those frightened chickens who lose their entire lives when threatened with a temporary set-back. When people want something more than their own dignity, their own self-governance, they become slaves to it. Most people think this is money, but what they really are is slave to its gatekeeper."

  Huan was a woman willing to endure humiliation for… money? A job? To spare herself a greater humiliation? I wasn’t seeing Alan’s point at all if human dignity and security wasn’t part of this "long game."

  "Miss Huan finds only one thing in the universe more important than her own vast ego. And that is me. You will find she is one of many people in Aeternus who would do far more than eat a bowl of trough slop at my invitation."

  "Why?"

  "Why do you ignore a piece of paper flying out of your pocket? Why do you suddenly drop everything to chase it when you realize that paper is good to settle debts both public and private? I give them something they need. I satisfy something within them no one else can. And I can be as generous and loving as I can be…as you call me, a ‘dick’."

  The wooden spoon bounced around into the pot before Alan gathered the remaining tubs for the refrigerator. "I suspect that Parker played something of a trick on both of us, Winston. It can take years for a total stranger to reach the front door of my organization, much less stand in my kitchen and hold my attention for the better part of a morning. I don’t know why you are here. Further, I don’t think you know, either. As I have neither the time nor the interest in finding out, I make you this one-time offer."

  "I'm expected home. Give me a week to think about it?"

  "A week. You're on a per diem and a leash. I don't see why not. You'll be back in a week to drop that coin?"

  "What happens if I cash the entire account out?"