Emperor-for-Life: DeadShop Redux (Unreal Universe Book 6)

by Lee Bond

  Jerry turned his eyes to Darren Freoli, drinking in the shattered, ruined wreck of a man hidden behind the thick plastic sheets that kept all manner of airborne infection from landing on the burned flesh. As he understood it, a man in this condition could catch something in the blink of an eye and be dead within seconds.

  Data concerning the destruction of the spaceport was slim to none. They had Gary Bad Chicken working on uncovering finer details with his less-than-savory compatriots, a thing Jerry didn’t necessarily approve of, but his hands were tied thanks to police ineptitude. Jerry dearly wanted to know what, precisely, had happened. And why. And how.

  Oh, they knew some of the details, clear enough, but … not enough.

  They knew a ship, belonging to a very wealthy, very connected man named Joseph Hewitt, had been allowed to land, against fresh policies and procedures. The two officers responsible for their atrocious lapse in judgment had already been dealt with in a most satisfactory manner, but it was those empty spaces …

  They knew from a partially resurrected data file that Darren and his partner, Alsinz, had begun the process of vetting him through the spaceport computers, and even then, only as a time waster until they figured out what to do with their unwanted visitor.

  Sometime between identifying their visitor and the subsequent rescue of Darren himself, the only thing that was abundantly clear was that everything had gone incredibly, disastrously wrong.

  From all outward appearances, Jerry Seinfeld was only interested in seeing to Darren’s return to health, but the fact of that matter was very different; the conundrum behind the entire situation was driving the leader of the Church of Nothing somewhat mad.

  If there was one singular thing he’d learned from the Changemaker, it was that there was no such thing as a coincidence.

  Not in this Universe.

  Jerry felt deep in his bones that Joseph Hewitt had come to Tenerek for a very foul purpose and once Gary Bad Chicken proved it by uncovering the true identity of the man from space, the Church would begin dealing with whatever agency in the solar system had sent him to Tenerek; Jerry Seinfeld didn't … couldn’t … imagine that someone as wealthy and influential as 'Joseph Hewitt' coming to Tenerek. Not for any reason. Their world had nothing for a man like Hewitt.

  On the off chance Gary's quest failed, all hope in getting to the bottom of this rest with Darren’s recovery.

  So long as he didn’t die.

  Time to give Nurse Aldicott something else to think about other than his most august presence. “What are his chances?”

  Precious blinked, then snapped her eyes to the handheld. “Not encouraging. Burns over ninety percent of his body, some parts … are … I’m sorry, there’s no other way to say it … are cooked through. He’s completely disfigured in every way. If he survives, if he regains consciousness, he … he might die anyway. The machines are doing a great job in assisting, he has this amazing will to live but … I’ve seen men and women with a third of this damage just … just give up.

  Skin grafts and facial reconstruction will help, but … it’s not covered by his medical plan, and the odds are he won’t even look like himself. His lungs are charred from heavy smoke inhalation, but the methodology to replace those is fairly simple and is covered. Beyond that, before he was discovered in the wreckage, he’d been oxygen deprived for nearly three minutes. If he manages to get over looking like he’s been dipped in candle wax, and that his lungs are government property, the issue of permanent nerve and neurological damage persists. I understand his wife is starting a charity for more extravagant recovery procedures, but those sorts of undertakings rarely succeed.”

  Precious Aldicott wanted to add 'especially in these climates', but her heart remained loyal to the church.

  Aldicott hung her head in silence for a moment, then finished woefully. “He’s a truly lost cause.”

  Jerry Seinfeld reached out and put a comforting hand on Nurse Aldicott’s trembling shoulder, though it was –for him- an empty gesture. He could tell from the way in which the nurse quietly sobbed that she wasn’t very far along in the Church; he –by way of example- felt nothing for her tears, or –in point of fact- for ‘poor’ Darren Freoli, either.

  The very real and powerful awareness that they were nothing and that they'd soon return to nothing had scoured away almost every vestige of connectivity to other people.

  Unless, of course, it served the course the Church needed to take, and then it was quite easy. When you are an empty vessel, you can fill yourself with whatever was needed. Only high level members of the Church –and there were perhaps only fifteen on the entire planet- knew what happened to your very heart and soul when you were truly christened onto the Path of Nothing.

  “Nonsense.” Jerry said warmly. “Nonsense. Darren Freoli’s wife doesn’t need to worry about raising funds to pay for any operations. The Church of Nothing has already donated everything all he could ever hope for. More than that…”

  Precious turned her head to the leader of the Church, wiping tears from her eyes quickly and hurriedly.

  “Yes?” she choked out, awed at the man’s humble smile and fervent kindness shining from his eyes.

  “More than that, experimental cellular regenerative machines are being flown in from Tetterel and airdropped to our Compound in the south; there’s nowhere else safe enough, thanks to the spaceport being destroyed. I am assured by a Doctor Gupta Borkele that these revolutionary machines will not only repair the vast majority of Darren’s burns, they can in fact generate fresh tissue to replace everything that’s … not usable. I am told by G… I am told that the delivery will be made later today.” Jerry smiled at the look of absolute adoration pouring forth from the young girl’s pretty face. If she wasn’t ready yet, she’d soon be back at the Compound, waving her money around, desperate to move on to the next level. “And as to how he looks? Well, after having experienced something so traumatic, I wouldn’t blame him if he wanted to rise from the ashes as a whole new man. I know I would.”

  Precious wiped another errant tear from her face. “Why are you doing this?”

  Jerry dug around in a pocket and pulled out a mostly melted, formless blob of metal that on-the-scene responders had found and held it up to the light.

  You could hardly tell what it'd been before the fires, but there was a tiny corner that still held enough of it's original shape. Jerry tilted it closer to Precious, until she, too, saw what it was. Her eyes widened accordingly. “Because before all this, he was faithful. When we bring him back from the dead, he will be even more faithful. The Church looks after it’s own wherever possible, Precious Aldicott. Never forget that.”

  A thrill of ecstasy thundered up through Precious’ legs and for a terrible moment she thought she was going to collapse! It’d happened once, during her initial Assessment at the Church's Compound. When she'd woken in a quiet room with thick curtains on the walls, she'd wanted nothing more than to flee, but the very same man -Silar Marnell- brushed it off, mentioning that not only had he done the same, he'd done so right in front of one of the Church leaders!

  Either way, she blushed furiously and tried to hide her embarrassment by looking over the fresh batch of readings beamed to her handheld, “The Church is wonderful. I knew it from the moment … oh! Oh my! He … he … he's … he's … regained a bit of consciousness! Amazing! Almost as if he heard you saying you were going to be his savior!”

  Though he really didn’t understand a damn thing he was looking at, Jerry looked over the data Precious shared with him. This was more Gary’s forte, so he merely smiled and nodded, saying, “As I was saying. He is one of the faithful, so of course he heard my words. I will leave you to tend to him. As soon as the equipment arrives, we will contact your hospital administrators so you can begin preparing Darren Freoli for the new procedures."

  Nurse Aldicott nodded, smiling. Her arm where Jerry had offered her comfort burned with the memory of his presence. The absolute moment she knew Darren Freol
i was going to be all right, she'd be on a shuttle to the Compound.

  No doubt about it. She needed to be more deeply connected to the Church.

  As Jerry Seinfeld smiled graciously once more and left, her heart raced more powerfully than ever before.

  It was only once his electric presence was on the other side of the door that Precious turned back to her handheld, intent on familiarizing herself with all of Freoli's particulars.

  If she could attach herself permanently to Darren's care … who knew where that might take her within the Church of Nothing?

  ***

  Jordan Bishop watched Jerry Seinfeld leave through slatted eyes, enormously pleased that his far-too risky gambit had paid such high dividends; intentionally working against his body's built in regenerative capabilities was turning out to be a tremendous pain in the ass, one he wasn't willing to endure for much longer.

  Oh, the pain itself –a never-ending cyclic wave of scorching heat riding nastily across every exposed millimeter of flesh, slicing through nerves that believed he was still on fire, a molten hot insistence that peaked to a crescendo every few minutes- was nothing at all, not after surviving Andros’ conversion process.

  These burns were nothing compared to … compared to the bag.

  It was just so tiring.

  But this news of advanced tech arriving on Tenerek aid in his 'resurrection' and the wonderful news that no one would blink twice if he came out of the procedure with a new face, and that furthermore, no one was holding out any hopes that he'd even know his own name thanks to oxygen starvation killing his brain cells … all of this was wonderful.

  It was beyond wonderful!

  It was almost as if the Universe itself was playing into his hands!

  Oh yes, Jordan gloated, the beast he’d become smiling a red-mouthed, dark-eyed smile in the back of his mind.

  The Church takes care of it’s own indeed.

  The Church exploited what it needed, and that was something Jordan could work with.

  The Beast settled in to wait.

  Relax People, I Got This

  Gwyleh Ronn had always despised Class-A level worlds with every fiber of his insect being, and after having spent considerable time getting back to nature, connecting with the agrarian blood flowing through his chitin, he’d come to loathe them so much more.

  It wasn’t even the people, with their rampant, unfettered minds, their barely disguised lusts and wants, or their greed, or their hatred, because those were –rarely- offset by brilliant beams of love and truth and hope that rose up through the choking miasma that was the human condition like supernova, transforming the blackened landscape –however briefly- into something wondrous.

  It was the smell.

  Highly technological worlds stank. Even the ones that worked studiously to keep their air fresh with scrubbers and their waste managed with the very best in disposal techniques, everything still stank.

  It was a combination of oils and gasses and human sweat and the grotesque foods they ate and all that flatulence combined with the ever-pervasive odor of machines; the metal and composite machines every human on every planet in every system in every Galaxy had a particularly rank and vile stench that they were miraculously nose-blind to.

  That … melange, that collision of disparate odors that mingled together into some kind of … of super-stink crawled under Gwy's carapace and lingered for weeks.

  The only thing he didn’t really hate about Class-A worlds was the beer.

  Beer was delicious, and if those assholes hadn’t forced him to leave, Gwyleh figured he’d be working on crafting his own beers right that very second instead of trying to steal a black hole ship.

  “We … we don’t get many like you ‘round these here parts.” The bartender admitted nervously, eyes alternating between not staring at the giant bug lounging on a bar stool drinking a beer like a normal person and doing precisely that.

  “You’ll never see another one like me.” Gwyleh intoned darkly. He took another sip of beer, using a straw designed specifically for the task. The delicious amber concoction whetted his thorax. “Your brew master should add something to this particular ale. Something light, fruity. There’s something missing from the low end.”

  Piotr the Bartender blinked and then looked at the other patrons of the bar for support; ordinarily, they’d be at the stools themselves, slowly but surely working themselves into a coma, whereupon they’d stumble their drunken asses outside into the cool night air, where they’d then be greeted by a handful of cabbies who’d taken the time out to learn the habits and rituals of the people frequenting this particular bar.

  Lushes they might be, but his regulars were conscientious lushes who kept a few wrinkled bills in their pockets so they could get home safe.

  Instead, they were sat off in the booths, quietly –almost sullenly- nursing the same beer they’d ordered over an hour ago. Every now and then they’d turn their heads to whisper something, but other than that, the old boy’s crew who closed out Tallhound’s were acting as pensive as a bunch of peach-faced kids toting homemade ID cards.

  Piotr nodded, then brightened when someone new came into the bar. “I’ll get right on that.”

  “No you won’t.” Gwyleh said into his straw. “No one ever listens to me.”

  :I’d listen to you, mate, straight up and no two ways about it:

  From the sounds of things, Suit was busy zooming through the skies, keeping itself occupied until …

  Until they got busy.

  Gwyleh tapped at the earbud that was just sort of … connected to the part of his head that did proper listening. The ex-Enforcer thought it looked ridiculous, whereas Suit, now operating independently, remained insistent was 'rakish', and that if this were the mid-90’s on a place called Earth, he’d fit in very well indeed, excluding, of course, his … bugishness.

  “I don’t like this plan, Suit, not one bit.” Gwyleh picked up his beer and moved to the furthest booth he could find.

  Elsewhere in the bar, the regulars who’d been fuming over his egregious theft of bar-space swept up their drinks rushed to reclaim their lost domain.

  “It’s dangerous.”

  Once Gwy had seated himself as comfortably as possible, he was ready for Suit’s … explanations.

  :Well, mate, which is more dangerous? Trinity realizin’ you –and me, by association- ain’t dead the mo we pop our virtual heads into AI space or the wee bit of a dustup as might happen when things get rolling properly?:

  Before responding, Gwyleh took a thoughtful pull on his beer. It really was delicious. When the beery goodness was down in his stomach, he offered up his thoughts to Suit.

  “Truthfully, I can’t imagine Trinity’d be able to do too much to us at the moment, Suit, and you know it. Data buoys are full of worlds like this one complaining about Enforcers, showing up by the handful, stealing black hole ships, when they should simply take what they need. That particular action alone is mystifying enough, and undoubtedly causing all kinds of confusion and hysteria. I do believe that even if Trinity learns about what we're doing, all we'd be looking at is local intrusion. It's forces will be busy dealing with their own sown chaos. And believe me, we can handle the locals. Easily."

  Suit responded with a solid fifteen seconds of explosions and weapons’ fire.

  Gwyleh took a larger sip of beer, deep in thought.

  He wasn’t entirely certain about Suit's mental state.

  In fact, the fact that Suit had a mental state at all was entirely unpleasant. Suit may have explained the particulars of it’s sudden ascendency to full blown consciousness to satisfy Gwyleh's curiosity. Not only that, but Suit had gone to great lengths to clarify that there wasn't anything dire or grave going on inside itself to warrant any kind of worry.

  Which was the problem.

  If there was nothing to worry about, why was Suit going out of it's way to say there wasn't anything to worry about?

  If, say, Suit had developed the pe
rsonality habits and traits of a mild-mannered banker who went about his days crunching numbers before returning home to feed his two point three pets before eating dinner himself, and then falling asleep in front of the screen in the living room, there would quite literally be no problems whatsoever. There might be a considerable amount of dry discussion on interest rates and mortgages, but that kind of thing was preferable to … well, to what they were faced with.

  Alas, there were no banker personalities stored inside Suit.

  Rather, Suit was, impossibly, channeling the spirit -and reckless enthusiasm- of one 'Chad Sikkmund'. Gwy had no issues with the chaotic assassin himself, as the man had definitely shown signs of improvement and impulse control the longer they'd traveled together, but it felt to Gwy as if Suit might not be on the same page.

  :and let’s be honest, yeah?: Suit demanded when Gwyleh said nothing supportive towards his award-winning sound effects display. :a little dustup is better than wot will happen if Trinity places a few calls, right? I is not that crazy:

  Gwyleh begged to differ, but kept his opinions to himself. Suit was still loyal, Suit was just as invested in uncovering what’d happened Chad Sikkmund as he was, and that was all very well and good.

  If you ignored the colossal shubin in the room.

  Though Gwy was the Enforcer -or had been- and the dynamic was the same, that was only on the surface.

  Suit had all the power in the relationship, and they both knew it.

  “We need to keep the destruction to a minimum, Suit.” Gwyleh reminded sternly. “You can’t destroy half the planet in order to get what we want.”

  :I been thinkin’ on that, true enough: Suit admitted. :And while I is agreein’ on the principle of the matter, the fact is, it’s got to be enough for ‘em to realize they is kind of fucked but not enough for them to start hollerin’ on a Q-Comm, right? Anuvver fing I been thinkin’ on is, who says they’ll give uz a ship for ‘services rendered’:

  If Gwyleh could rub his eyes in frustration without doing serious damage, he'd be all about that. Suit was intentionally forgetting things. “On a one on one basis, I can very easily force any being in the Universe –save a few- to do whatever I want, as we’ve seen in the past. But the chain of command for a black hole ship to be just given away is too strong. Once I ‘stop’ you from destroying the world, they'll be infinitely more pliable. Any lollygaggers or naysayers can be nudged at that point. Especially if I’m standing over your conquered body.”