Afterlife (3 page)

Chaz:

Night brings peace for some, for those who can sleep. Personally I think it's all a ruse. Go ahead, close your eyes. Tomorrow will be better than today. Go ahead. I dare you. Well, I'm not taking any bets. When I stand and look out at the night sky, I have a hard time believing that the sun is really going to rise again.

The landscape of George faded away, faster than I wanted. I was alone. Remembering that freak in the jazz club. He left a bad taste in my mouth. Almost like I'd swallowed a glass of his jive-sweet take-me-to-the-sky high, and now his snake-in-the-skin was going to rub off on me.

I've never liked gen-spike addicts, the way their skin ripples and shivers, like it's crawling with a hundred snakes. There's something primeval about them, as if evolution somehow reversed, imploded in upon itself; maybe Darwin stood up in the middle of the night and pushed a cosmic button and then suddenly all his clever theories began to unwind. Not that I ever believed in them in the first place, but somehow the gen freaks have his name tattooed on their souls.

And I hate to say it because it sounds so déjà vu, but I felt like I had seen this guy somewhere before.

A bad feeling slipped up my tailbone, lodged itself in the center of my chest and then twisted.

Had we been followed tonight? I thought I'd seen that guy earlier in the evening, outside the museum. He had turned around, watched Angelique when we got in the taxi and headed for the jazz club. And then in the cemetery, a flash of eyes watched me, between the crypts.

Was my imagination working overtime just because my Newbie collapsed and went off-line? Or—this one was even worse—was somebody after the Newbie?

Her identity was a secret: even she didn't know for sure who she had been in her previous life yet. That was all part of the deal. Fresh Start. Nobody knew who you were or what you'd done. Even the mugs couldn't come after you for a past crime, as long as you hadn't committed a capital. It was a little bit like redemption. I know that sounds corny, but it was true. Sign on the dotted line and then when the time comes, everything gets washed away. Your family can't find you, your creditors can't find you, even your best friend won't know where you went. A brand-new beginning. And if you planned everything right, there should be a nice little sum of money waiting, investments accrued over lifetimes.

Still, people have cracked the system before.

We pretend to be this omnipotent organization, but we've got our weak points.

“Run a track on marker number”—I paused and checked my log—“sixteen-point-four-three-eight-eight. Check to see where it's been tonight.”

I tried my best to settle back and relax while the Grid ran a search on the gen freak I'd tagged a few hours ago. I knew he wouldn't keep the marker long. Within a few days he'd find somebody in a back alley with barely enough techno-skills
to take it out. I just hoped that they would accidentally yank out some muscle and nerve at the same time. Our markers have tentacles that lace for at least five inches on either side of the insertion point. Not many black-market geeks have the talent to remove one. Or the guts.

The search paused and skittered, jammed to a stop sooner than I expected.

“Parameters?” a silver voice asked.

“Where and when. Give it to me on a satellite map, include street names. Make it ‘up close and personal.'”

It flashed across the VR screen. Shorter than it should have been, both in distance and time. Either the jerk went home and fell asleep, or he had already found someone to remove the marker.

“Closer. Zoom in on the street names.”

The map sizzled, then jumped, razor-sharp exact. I immediately recognized the beginning of the glowing yellow trail. I smiled. The brute must have taken a while to catch his breath. He didn't leave the alley behind the club for about half an hour, long after the Newbie and I left. Nice. I wish I could have put him down for longer. It's illegal, but with some of these Mongoloid jerks, I feel like the limits need to be stretched.

Nobody tells me yes or no. Nobody but me. And that little voice, almost too quiet to hear sometimes.

I stood up and walked closer to the screen. Read the street names out loud as I followed the trail with my finger. Something strange about the way he traveled. Stop and go. Almost made me think he wasn't alone, like he was with somebody else.

“You got any real satellite shots of this?”

A duplicate map, sans the yellow tracking line, shot up on the far wall. I walked over, examined it. I was right, there were four goons down there.

I went back to the first map, continued the trail. Stopped. That bad feeling was back. His trail led to the City of the Dead. The same time the Newbie and I were there.

He had followed us.

And as far as I could tell, there was only one way he could have found us.

That was as much evidence as I needed, but for some reason I continued to follow his trail. He didn't track us after the cemetery, didn't come here. I paused. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was a one-in-a-million fluke, like winning a lottery ticket. Maybe he hadn't followed us.

I took his trail to the end.

It had to be wrong.

“Is this data corrupted? Any chance somebody tampered with the marker?”

A long, reflective whirring pause. “No. The data is correct.”

That Neanderthal's trail ended at Fresh Start, at our main headquarters.

This was beginning to look like an inside job.

Neville:

The Mississippi churned with froth and mud, and here, on the Toulouse Street Wharf, the wind blew chill. A steam whistle sounded in the near distance as the
Natchez
slugged closer and the river echoed with the captain's voice, calling through a vintage megaphone. Ambiance. It was all about mystique and how to charm tourists out of another fistful of cash.

I turned up my collar, shivering in the damp cold as I glared at the three-deck steamboat edging its way toward the dock. Somewhere, hidden in a private room, a steam calliope sang a thirty-two-note forbidden song.

Luring me and my boys.

The laughter of children, innocence bought and sold.

“Has you been inside before, boss?” one of my gutter punks asked.

I nodded, then flashed a dark grin. My spike halo was fading, and with it, the world was coming back into focus. The crowd began to shuffle up the ramp toward the boat, river water sloshing onto the first deck. Hidden in my pockets, my
fists curled in anger at what I had seen less than an hour ago, a laboratory filled with empty cages—just like my boss expected.

We had been betrayed. The dog and the research were missing.

But for now, I followed the crowd, one step at a time, ignoring the stench of sweat and the press of flesh, forgetting about the near impossible task set before me by the latest turn of events. I vowed to push it out of my mind for the next two hours.

Instead I listened for the strains of calliope music.

And waited for the decadent pleasures that could only be found in the Underground Circus.

Chaz:

Angelique slept on her right side, curled in a tangled fetal position, legs tight to her chest, head buried in a pillow. One fist pressed against her mouth. Her eyelids twitched. She must have been dreaming.

I slipped into her room as quietly as I could. I'm always a bit clumsy when I'm tired, but right now exhaustion had been replaced by a jagged adrenaline rush. Fear isn't one of my favorite highs.

I took her left hand in mine as gently as I could. Ran a scanner over it. Nothing.

I wanted to feel good, I wanted to say, hey, one out of two. Chances are high that I was mistaken. But I've never been an optimist.

I reached for her other hand, twisted beneath the pillow. Tried to pull it forward. She moaned, tossed her head, stretched both arms and then repositioned herself. I waited. We each took a deep breath and sighed at the same time, one of those odd in-sync moments that catch you by surprise. I blinked and reminded myself that this was another human
being lying here, with as many rights as I have. One of them being violated by Yours Truly right now.

She settled back into a deep sleep, her right hand draped over her thigh.

I ran the scanner again. A pulse of red light flashed.

She had a marker.

I gave myself a couple of minutes to think, paced back and forth in front of her bedroom window. Stared down at the almost empty street, then up at the starless sky. If I was waiting for a flash of brilliance, it didn't come. The only thing I got was a nagging list of questions, one that cried for attention louder than the others.

I was her Babysitter, so how and when did she get somebody else's marker? Messing with a Newbie is a capital, and none of the morons who run the kidnapping rings have access to this kind of hardware.

I decided to take a break, went out into the kitchen. Made myself some café au lait with chickory, then found a couple of cookies. I sauntered back into the VR room, rested in the chair and waited for my home page to boot up again, munched on something that tasted like chocolate chips but was probably a soy-based, lactose-free imitation.

Waves washed back and forth. Each one clean, fresh, new. White foam curling. Gulls complaining overhead. The sandpipers were gone. Now a baby seal and its mother glistened in the afternoon sun, sliding over the sand, chasing each other, barking like dogs with sore throats.

I wished my father was still alive. He understood this business like nobody else, had a way of explaining how it never compromised his faith, how he was more like a watcher on the wall, making sure Stringers kept their rights, while at the same time the One-Timers kept theirs. He believed that one day our family might be the only ones left with enough political power to stand up for the One-Timers.

Of course, the other One-Timers never saw it that way.

Dad wouldn't think twice about all this, I know. He'd confront my brother, Russell, in a heartbeat, ask him what the hell was going on. Why did this Stringer have a marker? Why had that goon been following me? And who did he know over at Fresh Start?

But underneath all of it, I still had a feeling, one of those stupid gut-intuition things. I couldn't believe Russ was involved in this. I mean, he'd made a few bad business decisions in the past several years, but he'd never actually crossed the line, never broken the law.

I was the one who always got stuck with the dirty work.

The café au lait was gone and I wiped cookie crumbs from my face as I stood in the doorway to Angelique's bedroom. I was going to have to use a couple of Keys I usually avoid. And do something that could get me thrown in jail.

“Sleep, Angelique,” I said. “Deep sleep.”

She sighed, rolled over on her back. She lay perfectly still, almost not breathing. It was creepy.

I took her right hand.

“No Pain.” My words were clear, loud, firm.

She smiled.

I ran a tracker over the back of her hand, made a mental note of where the marker was. Swabbed her skin with disinfectant. Held my breath while I made a small laser incision, then carefully removed a tiny metal and plastic chip with tweezers. Fortunately, it didn't have long tentacles like Fresh Start markers, but there was more blood than I expected. I wrapped her hand in one of the hotel towels, pressed it tight enough to stop the bleeding.

She just continued to smile.

Once the bleeding stopped, I put a flesh patch on top of the incision. Then I cursed softly. The color wasn't quite right. Well, I hadn't planned on doing minor surgery tonight.
It made perfect sense to me that the skin patch wasn't the right shade. I just hoped that Angelique didn't freak out and decide to press charges in the morning.

I slipped the marker into a plastic bag and stuffed it in my jacket pocket.

I honestly had no idea what to do next. I was too hyped up on caffeine, sugar and adrenaline to sleep. So I decided to do what came naturally.

I went out on the balcony and played my sax.

Chaz:

I was eleven years old the first time I saw a Newbie, the first time I saw life and death trade places. I guess my life had been pretty sheltered up to that point.

A state-appointed teacher came to our cell, wearing one of those government suits with the high collar, his breath a mixture of coffee and mint. My brother Russell and I, we sat in the back and pretended to pay attention while the guy peddled the Ideal Plan, we even made faces at each other behind his back. We only had seven kids in our cell, but we could tell that we made him nervous. Seven kids in one room was enough to unnerve almost anyone. I'd heard of cells with as many as sixteen kids, but personally, I don't know if I really believe it.

We each had two bodyguards inside the room, armed and able to kill with their bare hands in less than three seconds if necessary. And outside the room there were at least fifteen more. A crackle of handset communications buzzed continuously between the teacher's sentences, a hoarse whisper of monotone voices.

“—Sadie took her medicine, yes, I will get her there in time—”

“—piano lessons at three. Of course—”

“—Jeffrey is listening to the teacher, Mrs. Damotta—”

The Ideal Plan had been enforced for the past fifteen years, so I had to study it just like everybody else, whether I wanted to or not. The teacher did his best to explain everything, all the way from Life Number One to Life Number Nine, covering everything from sterilization to college to the legal procedures involved in fighting a death cert case; then he gave us each a contract. My best friend, Pete Laskin, signed his that same day. I heard that his mother cried for a week when she found out, but it didn't matter. They kept us separated from our parents for a full month, so we could think about it without their influence. Sadie Thompson, a twelve-year-old dream come true who barely knew my name, laughed and signed hers almost immediately, dotting the “i” in her name with a heart. Russell, who was thirteen and of an age to make his own decision, immediately folded his contract into quarters and handed it back. Unsigned. No thank you, Mr. Government Man. Can I go home now, please?

At eleven years old, I was the youngest in our cell. Everyone else had to make up his mind within our month of isolation. But I had a full year to make my decision.

So that was when Dad started taking me to work, on the pretext that it was time for me to learn about the family business. I'll never forget that first day. Mid-October. Dry leaves whisked across the streets, crackled beneath my feet and turned to dust. The sky burned blue and bright overhead. A cool breeze poured between the buildings like fresh water, a welcome respite after the unending summer. People had been dying all over New Orleans from an abnormally long heat spell. Mostly old people, but a few babies had passed too.

Fresh Start had been busy, everyone working double shifts. Two extra crews had been flown in from Los Angeles. I'm sure that's why it happened. Somebody was too tired and the out-of-state crews didn't know our procedures.

I have to believe it was a mistake. The other possibility, that my father let it happen on purpose to teach me a lesson—well, I just can't go for that. Russell, in one of his dark moments, said that Dad did it to show us that life is, and should be, unpredictable, that we never should have pretended to be God.

Mom refuses to talk about it. I have to admit I admire her for not taking sides. I know she had an opinion about all of it, she always did. But for whatever reason, she let Russell and me make our own decisions, about Fresh Start, about the Ideal Plan, about what happened to the Newbie on that October day.

The inside of the plant was everything I'd hoped it would be. All stainless steel and molded plastic in the industrial sections; all luxurious leather and ceramic tile in the public areas. Not that anyone would want to, but you could eat your lunch on the floor anywhere in that 200,000-square-foot facility back then. It was that clean. And the smell was a bizarre mixture of dentist-office-scary and new-car-exciting.

For years, whenever anyone found out that I was Chaz Domingue, of the Fresh Start Domingues, a hush would sweep through the room almost as if something just sucked out all the oxygen. A long quiet would follow. And then when people started to talk again they would be ever so polite, opening doors for me, asking me if I would like some candy, asking my opinion about the weather. I liked the attention at first, but by the time I was a teenager I realized it was based on a combination of fear and envy. So I quit telling people my last name. Sometimes I pretended to be someone else
entirely. When I got older I even pretended to be a Stringer, just because I wanted to fit in.

But on that October afternoon, when the sunlight was slicing through the warehouse at a steep angle, when the sounds of the city seemed muted because so many people had died, on that day I decided that I never wanted to jump. No matter how much I wanted to be like other people. No matter how much I wanted to live.

That day, one of the Newbies got stuck in between lives. In some nether world, where dark, swirling creatures spin traps like spiders. She got caught. Her old body, withered and white with decay, lay discarded on the other side of the frost-etched glass. Her new-cloned body, as beautiful as Eve herself, lay expectant on a metal gurney, modestly covered in white linen. Neither body breathed, neither had life. All the equipment was suspiciously silent, no beeps to register heartbeat or brainwave patterns. Too much time had passed. The technicians began to get nervous, but Dad just raised one hand to quiet them.

“Give her a minute,” he said, a tone of assurance in his voice.

But several more minutes passed and the clone continued to stare, sightless, at the ceiling.

And then, like it was straight out of a nightmare, she started to talk. The machines refused to admit there was life in either body, yet some alien consciousness caused the clone's mouth to move and a hollow voice to speak.

The things she said have haunted my dreams, might just follow me all the way past Judgment Day into the great beyond. Might bring torment with me, like shackles, into God's kingdom, whether he likes it or not.

“I can't…I can't break free,” she said, still staring up at the concourse of pipes and ducts that traversed the warehouse ceiling. “I'm tangled in something. It feels like a
web.” Tears streaked her face. Slow, glycerin-like streams. “They've been chasing me and I'm so tired of running, of trying to hide. Oh, please get me out of here! I don't know where I am. There's no light, just a dark glowing horizon, like fire in the distance. And these creatures—” She moaned, a heartbreaking cry, long and low and inhuman. I found myself wondering if we were really listening to a woman or if some spirit from beyond had commanded an audience. “They're like spiders, but much bigger. I saw one of them eat a man. It ripped his head right off.” Her eyes closed.

Meanwhile, my father ran around the room, fiddling with dials, gesturing to the other workers to try and save her.

“It's so dark. So cold,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “And I'm so alone.”

Most of them stood frozen, like me. Listening.

Then she turned toward one of them, looked right at him. Allen was his name. She reached one arm out, then shrieked. And she was gone.

To this day I still imagine her trapped in a twilight world, waiting for someone to rescue her. But I know now that no one ever will. God wouldn't have left her there if she were one of His. Even if we had messed with His plan, with His order laid down from the beginning, He still wouldn't have abandoned one of His chosen.

That's the only way I can rationalize all of it.