Resurrection Inc.. Kevin J. Anderson
in his genes. He stood a few inches shorter than the older man, but his shoulders were broad and he radiated an animalistic strength.
The older man arched his eyebrows as he looked at Rodney, and he spoke again without taking his gaze from the technician. “Don’t be rude, Supervisor. Please introduce us.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, looking surprised. “Mister Nathans, this is Rodney Quick. Rodney, this is Francois Nathans, and the gentleman with him is Vincent Van Ryman.”
Neither man reached forward to shake his hand, and Rodney had all he could do to keep his own composure. He had never before seen either of the two men: the head of Resurrection, Inc. and the supposed High Priest of the neo-Satanists. What did they want with him? What had Supervisor accused him of now?
Rodney became suspicious again. He didn’t know what Nathans or Van Ryman looked like. He felt his heart beating harder, hammering the blood through his veins with such force that it squeezed cold sweat out of his pores. This could be a trap. This could be some twisted trick for Supervisor to make him drop his guard in awe at the distinguished visitors … and then she would do something to make him cause his own downfall.
But what if these two were the real Nathans and Van Ryman? Then Rodney would probably act like an idiot and cause his own downfall with no help from Supervisor whatsoever. He had no way of telling. Rodney knew little more than a scattered collection of half-truths and legends about famous people. He did have a sixth-level Net password, but that didn’t allow him access to the most confidential databases.
Rodney knew, though, that Francois Nathans had founded Resurrection, Inc., as a junior partner to Stromgaard Van Ryman—Vincent Van Ryman’s father—who provided most of the financial backing for the new corporation. Stromgaard Van Ryman had apparently shown an adequate business sense, but Nathans was far superior in vision, charisma, and political savvy. Eight years after the formation of Resurrection, Inc., when Servants had begun to make major inroads on the work force, Nathans had assumed his role as head of the corporation, and Stromgaard Van Ryman had sold his portion of control. About the same time, Stromgaard was apparently involved with the inception of the neo-Satanist movement, but two years after the new religion had taken root, Stromgaard mysteriously disappeared. Rumor said he was sacrificed by his own cult. His 21-year-old son Vincent had emerged as the High Priest of the neo-Satanists shortly thereafter.
That had all happened several years before. And now Rodney knew the Servant from Vat 66—Danal, he corrected himself—was somehow special. Vincent Van Ryman supposedly had something important in mind for him. But why was Nathans interested, too? Just out of camaraderie with the son of a friend? Or just to make certain his important customer went away satisfied? Or did Nathans have something to do with the neo-Satanists, too?
“Mister Nathans and Mister Van Ryman would like to see Danal now. They want to make sure everything is satisfactory.” Supervisor’s flat voice held many subtle overtones, and Rodney heard each one of them like an icicle on his eardrums. Van Ryman still had not spoken.
“I saw you inspecting our Danal as we came in,” Nathans said. His voice was rich and friendly but somewhat distant, as if he spoke through a mask over his own personality. “It’s good to find such diligence, especially in one of our own workers.”
Rodney finally found his own voice, using instinct to switch into a self-defense mode, smoothing the stutter from his words before he spoke them. “Yes, sir. Supervisor hinted at how important this Servant is to you, and I’ve been watching him very carefully. I’m sure you can see that everything is perfect. The surgical work installing his synHeart is the best I’ve ever done.”
Nathans smiled. “I’m very pleased to hear that, Mr. Quick. May I call you Rodney?”
He nodded quickly, feeling terribly conscious of his hair, wondering if it was out of place, if his gold nose stud was tarnished, if the beads of sweat were showing on his forehead.
Van Ryman went close to the tank, fascinated by Danal’s body submerged in the golden solution; he seemed unable to tear his eyes from it. The dark-haired man pressed his face up against the glass to see more clearly.
“Supervisor, leave us,” Nathans said abruptly.
Supervisor looked surprised and rebuffed at the dismissal, but she turned without a word and left. The simmering noises of the vats swallowed up the rustle of her clothes. Rodney could barely contain his satisfaction as he watched Nathans’s offhanded manner with her. Rodney felt important, raised back up to the level of a human being again. He had to consciously restrain himself from strutting like a bird.
Nathans reached out and placed a paternal hand on Rodney’s shoulder. The tech stiffened a moment, but allowed himself to be turned aside as the older man began to walk slowly along the row of resurrection vats. Rodney followed closely, and Francois Nathans began to speak to him in a hypnotic voice, making him feel warm and confident in himself, saying all the right things, pulling all the right strings.
“Rodney, we’ve been watching your work for a long time. You have a special touch with the Servants, and you know the resurrection process inside and out. It’s unfortunate that Supervisor’s been slipping your name to us frequently, placing the blame for certain minor things on your shoulders, but we haven’t seen any decline in the quality of your work. I’m tempted to think that she’s just playing another one of her games, pin the tail on the scapegoat. She does that, you know. Remember, she’s not quite normal, not like you and me—she gave up a lot to become an Interface with The Net. The company needs her services, but sometimes she overestimates her own importance. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.” Nathans smiled broadly.
“She sure knows how to make work miserable for me,” Rodney said quietly. Internal ropes hindered him from opening up to the man’s friendliness. He still wondered why the two men had come to him, what they had in mind. As Rodney and Nathans passed a row of recently emptied vats, the tech noticed that Van Ryman had remained behind to stare through the glass walls at Danal in the resurrection solution.
Nathans interrupted his thoughts. “You might wonder why I’d take the time to come talk to a mere technician.” He paused. Rodney didn’t dare acknowledge the suggestion with a nod.
“Well, because I firmly believe that the future of any corporation begins at the roots. The future managers are today’s technicians, if you don’t mind my being frank, and I always like to keep a pool of candidates under consideration for possible promotions.”
Rodney’s heart fluttered; none of this seemed possible. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Vincent Van Ryman do something to the vent at the top of Danal’s tank. He turned quickly and suddenly felt Nathans’s grip tighten on his shoulder. Summoning up his courage, Rodney turned back to face the head of Resurrection, Inc.
“Thank you for your confidence in me, Mr. Nathans.” Rodney forced a calm expression onto his face. “I’ll try not to let you down.”
Nathans smiled at him again, this time with dazzling sincerity. Vincent Van Ryman came up to join them, and Rodney was alarmed to see a heavy expression of near tears on Van Ryman’s face.
“I think everything’s satisfactory, Mr. Quick,” Van Ryman announced; his voice was rich and mellow, but with a curious strained edge to it. “You certainly know your work.”
Rodney averted his eyes, trying to look embarrassed at the compliment. “It was just a routine resurrection. I’m sure you’ll be happy with your Servant.”
Things seemed less certain now. At least Supervisor was straightforward in her psychological warfare. Was Nathans truly the compassionate boss he seemed to be?
Rodney had seen Van Ryman meddling with Danal’s tank, he was certain of it, though he couldn’t imagine what possible sabotage the dark-haired man could have performed. If Van Ryman was indeed the High Priest of the neo-Satanists, perhaps he had some other ritualistic purpose in mind. And in that case, though it might give him the jitters, Rodney didn’t particularly care. Mumbo-jumbo and superstition were weapons against the uneducated blue-collars.
But