Resurrection Inc.. Kevin J. Anderson

from pockets and holsters on the Enforcers’ body armor; a tough helmet with a laser-proof black visor covered their faces. In the mercifully brief four weeks Frampton had been assigned to him, Jones had never seen Frampton’s face, but somehow he imagined it would wear a stupid boyish grin, maybe some scattered pimples, maybe curly hair. Frampton thought all this was fun, a game. It didn’t matter—they weren’t friends, nor would they be. Other Enforcers had a real camaraderie, a team spirit. But this would be Jones’s last night patrol anyway.

      “Think I should put out the candles?” Frampton asked.

      Jones moved away from the hovercar, shaking his revulsion of the pentagram, the blood sacrifice. “No, I’ll do it. You see to his ID.”

      Frampton retrieved some equipment from the hovercar while Jones stepped forward, methodically squashing each of the five black candles with the heel of his boot. In the distance, between gaps of the massive squarish buildings, he could see the running lights of another patrol car moving in its sweep pattern.

      Frampton made a lot of noise as he carelessly tumbled the equipment onto the flagstones within the pentagram. He picked up one of the scanner-plates and pushed it flat against the dead man’s palm. The optical detectors mapped the swirls and rivulets of the man’s fingerprints, searching for a match in the city’s vast computer network.

      “Nothing on The Net about him.” Frampton double-checked, but came up with the same answer again.

      “Figures,” Jones said.

      “Ever wonder how the neo-Satanists always manage to get people who aren’t even on The Net? Weird.” Frampton sounded breathless. He was always trying to make conversation.

      Jones turned an expressionless black visor at his partner for a long and silent moment. He wanted to act cold, wanted to be gruff with the other Enforcer. It was too late to make friends now—better just to keep up the act. “How do you know they don’t just alter the data on The Net?”

      Frampton considered this in silent amazement. “That would be awfully sophisticated!”

      “Don’t you think this is sophisticated?” Jones jabbed a hand at the body, the candles, the pentagram. “Enforcers sweep this area every five minutes after curfew. You know how strict it is, how closely patrolled—and the neo-Satanists still managed to get him out on the street, light the candles, draw the pentagram, and then vanish before we could get here.”

      Only members of the Enforcers Guild were allowed on the streets of the Bay Area Metroplex between midnight and dawn. Jones didn’t fully understand the actual reasons for the curfew—some rumors mentioned a war taking place somewhere, but he had yet to see any signs of battle. Other, more sensible people cited the occasional violent riots caused by the angry blue-collars who had been displaced from their jobs by resurrected Servants.

      Jones himself had participated in some of the after-dark mock street battles staged by the Guild. Nobody really got hurt—only a few blasted palm trees, a few scorched tile rooftops, and a lot of noise in the streets. But it all sounded terrible and dangerous to the general public cowering in their living quarters, and they would always feel grateful for the protection the Guild offered. Besides, it gave all the Enforcers something to do.

      Earlier in the night, Jones and Frampton had captured a chunky Asian man cowering under the overhang of a darkened business complex. The man had been trying to hide, not knowing where to go, as if he had a chance of avoiding the Enforcer sweeps.

      Frampton had pulled out two of his weapons, striding toward the cowering man, but Jones restrained his partner and listened while the chunky man babbled an explanation. He and his wife had argued, and he had stormed out of their apartment, either forgetting about the curfew or not caring. Now his wife wouldn’t let him back in, and the man had been trying to hide until dawn.

      Sheepishly the Asian man keyed his Net password into the terminal mounted in the armored hovercar; his ID checked out.

      “You know what we have to do now,” Jones said from behind the visor.

      The man swallowed and hung his head in dejected horror. “Yes.”

      “All your Net privileges revoked for a week. Sorry. Curfew is curfew.” The Asian man sulked behind the restraining field in the back of the hovercar while Jones and Frampton escorted him home.

      Without The Net recognizing his identity, the man would be effectively a non-person for an entire week; he could not buy anything, or make person-to-person Net voicelinks, or call up entertainment on The Net itself; he could not get into his own home unless someone else let him in.

      The man’s wife looked frightened but not surprised when the Enforcers arrived to escort her husband back into the dwelling; she didn’t look pleased to see him, and the prospect of having to do everything herself for the next seven days seemed to make her even angrier yet. …

      “Give me a hand here?” Frampton opened the refrigerated, airtight compartment in the back of the hovercar and returned to the slain man in the pentagram.

      Jones bent to take the body’s feet while the other Enforcer tightened his handhold under the man’s armpits. Jones could feel the rubbery dead flesh of the victim’s ankles even through his flexsteel-mesh gloves.

      Frampton pursed his lips and grinned at the mouthlike wound in the dead man’s chest. “Well, it’s off to the factory for you, my boy. I bet you’re going to miss all this, Jones.”

      Transfer generally equated with punishment in the Enforcers Guild, and Jones had screwed up several days before, during a daytime stint on the streets. He had frozen for a moment, let his conscience whisper a few words in his ear, when he had seen a rebel Servant break from her routine and run.

      All Servants were reanimated corpses, dead bodies with microprocessors planted in their brains to make the bodies move again, to let them walk and talk and do what they were told. It was much cheaper than manufacturing androids from scratch for doing menial and monotonous tasks.

      But even with her head shaved, the lifeless pallor to her skin, and the gray jumpsuit/uniform of all Servants, Jones had difficulty convincing himself that the rebel Servant wasn’t human, that she was already dead and merely reanimated, that she didn’t matter.

      The Enforcer found his reprimand ironic: Starting tomorrow, he would be taken from his easy post-curfew beat for full-time service at Resurrection, Inc. to escort newly resurrected Servants to their assignments.

      But at least it would get him away from Frampton and his constant inane chattering.

      They placed the slain man in the back compartment of the hovercar, folding his arms and legs neatly to fit him into the cramped space. Frampton stood with a miniature Net keyboard in his hand, punching in data about the discovery. “Verify cause of death,” Frampton said. “Single wound, no other apparent bodily damage, no identity information on The Net.”

      Jones glanced at the wound in the man’s chest. “Verified.”

      “To Resurrection, Inc., right?”

      “Yeah.”

      Frampton dropped his voice slightly. Because of the dark visor, Jones could read no expression on his partner’s face. “Man, I hope that never happens to me.”

      Jones closed the compartment and set the controls for quick-freeze. A hissing noise filled the air. He knew exactly what Frampton meant, but he asked anyway, “What? Being a neo-Satanist sacrifice, or becoming a Servant?”

      “Neither one.”

2

      On the sixth underground level of Resurrection, Inc., the technician placed the body from Vat 66 onto a clean inspection table. The body’s arms moved loosely, still dripping, almost cooperating, as the tech rearranged them. Four days of conditioning had left the muscles free of rigor and the dead brain ready for imprinting as a Servant.