“We can’t get payment through The Net,” Monica finally spoke up. “The Guardian Angels are constantly sweeping all transactions to see if they can identify something they can trace to us.”
Capek nodded. “We’re in a precarious position, as I’m sure you can appreciate.”
The Cremator sipped his espresso again, leaving Rodney to ponder for a moment. The Guardian Angels were a cadre of Interfaces who constantly monitored all financial transactions on The Net, searching for electronic fraud or embezzlement, tracing any transfer of funds for questionable dealings. Punishment for abuse, fraud, or embezzlement was severe, and Rodney knew the corporate moguls were more frightened of a reduced popular faith in The Net than they were worried about the actual crime itself. Superhackers had built a great many safe guards and fraud traps, and the Guardian Angels kept a detailed watch over the entire system.
The waiter unobtrusively placed a second mug of beer on the table, hooking his finger around the handle of the empty glass and snatching it away. The Cremator fell silent until the waiter had left again. “For instance,” Capek continued, “that’s why you’ll have to pay for this meeting today. We can’t leave anything of ourselves behind. Your Mr. Nathans would be on us in a moment. He is very intelligent, and very angry. Our group’s existence is too important to all people—we offer a crucial option to mankind. We can’t risk being caught. Too much is at stake here.”
Rodney fidgeted in the wicker chair, feeling the rough cushion prick the seat of his pants. He tried to steer the conversation back, growing nervous again, doubting that he’d get to the dentist in time after all. “What kind of barter are you talking about, exactly?”
The Cremator fingered the brim of his hat. “Occasionally we find ourselves in need of certain things, equipment, documents—I myself have a fondness for printed books. But most important, we need a pool of people as resources to buy things when we do need them.” Capek swallowed the last of his espresso and placed the tiny cup upside-down on the saucer as he stood up.
“My companion will tell you some of the things you need to get for us. I’ve got other business right now, and it’s best that we three leave at different times, in different directions.” He straightened his khaki coat and replaced the black top hat on his head, tipping the brim at Rodney. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Quick. I hope we can work something out.”
Rodney said “thank you” as Rossum Capek strode across the stepping-stones. Off in the café’s jungled shadows filled with potted ferns, he saw the waiter pointedly not watching the Cremator leave.
Monica spoke quickly and firmly, expecting Rodney to listen. Her opaque eyes bored into him, and he took a reflexive swallow of the second beer.
“The most important thing you can get us, as soon as possible, is a liter of solution from the final resurrection bath. Preferably one of the mutated batches.”
Rodney’s unshaven eyebrow rose up. “How am I supposed to get that? Hey, and how do you know about the mutations?”
Monica looked sourly at him. “Don’t ever be surprised by what we know or don’t know. You work down in the resurrection levels. Find a way to smuggle out some solution before it all drains down the grates. Nobody will notice.”
“But where should I take it?” He narrowed his eyes nervously. “How often is this sort of thing going to happen?”
“It’ll happen as often as necessary.” Her expression emphasized each word. “We’ll send you transient messages by electronic mail, with portions of instructions. It’s your body and soul we’re talking about here, Mr. Quick. You don’t expect it to come cheap.”
Rodney hung his head sheepishly, staring into the disappearing foam on top of the beer. “No, I guess not.”
The woman stood up, her tea untouched and cold, and shook her jagged page-boy hair. “Before you start complaining to yourself, think of your alternative. Do you want to be a Servant?”
Rodney felt a small glimmer of anger reawaken in him. “At least they’re not worried about anything.”
She whirled and glared at him with such a piercing gaze that he quickly averted his eyes and consciously drank the last of his beer. “How do you know Servants aren’t worried? How do you know they don’t remember anything but just can’t show it?”
He couldn’t respond before she splashed through the moat, ignoring the stepping-stones and getting the tops of her white boots wet. She walked off, trickling water as it beaded on the polymer surface of the boots. Rodney looked up at the skylight overhead, pulling his chair out to avoid the shadow from the patio umbrella.
“Could I get you another beer, sir?”
Rodney almost jumped as the waiter appeared at his shoulder. The taste inside his cheeks seemed to cry for another mug, and he wanted to sit and sulk. But before he could order, he suddenly remembered the cost, cringing at the cafe’s lush—expensive—surroundings. He quickly changed his mind and waved the waiter away, sitting alone for a few moments, not eager to face the bill.
12
The tall, cylindrical headquarters of the Enforcers Guild stood like a pillar of one-way mirrors through which the Guild could see in all directions and watch over the entire world. A gray soup of clouds typical of mid-spring reflected from the Guild building, making its polished walls look like a smeared black-and-white photograph.
Jones stood out of uniform in the brisk morning air, wearing a tight black skin-shirt that made his dark flesh look the color of wood. Beside him Julia stood motionless, unaffected by the cold breeze that sent goose pimples down Jones’s arm, seemingly unaware of his distraught and uncertain mood. Her loose gray jumpsuit billowed around her body; she looked like just another Servant for sale.
As they kept walking toward the mirrored building, the crowds thinned out quickly, as if pedestrians were afraid to approach the Guild headquarters. The weekend crowd was always a different sort from the everyday traffic on the streets. People wandered about shopping, frantic to get errands finished. Businessmen wore casual clothes, but remained near their own office complexes in a holding pattern, almost uncomfortable not to be at work. As always, scattered here and there, were a few of the wandering jobless blues, who probably never noticed what day of the week it was.
Jones noticed that the people on the street seemed to be avoiding him, shying away. He was used to that, the invisible prestige of the Guild that made him feel like a pariah. It saddened him to think that becoming an Enforcer had required him to sacrifice something so basic, so essential to a normal life. But then he remembered with a slight shock that today he was not wearing his armor. After a moment he understood that the people were avoiding Julia. This angered him, and he tentatively reached out to hold onto her wrist, as if daring someone to make an unkind comment. Couldn’t they see that she was… she was a Servant.
Servants—just property, buying and selling, mix and match. If you don’t need them anymore, just get rid of them. Jones winced, trying to swallow his guilt. That wasn’t it at all. Julia would understand, if she understood anything. She gave no sign. She never did.
He entered the Guild building, with Julia tagging obediently behind. Off-hours and empty, the lobby smelled dank with disinfectant and the decontaminated residue of cigarette smoke from the smokers’ lounge on Floor 2. The air carried several levels of subliminal noise, humming and hissing, static from the white-noise generator that supposedly created a more peaceful work environment. The air conditioner kept the air pumped to a just-below-comfortable temperature. He had not come to the headquarters off-hours since… since just after Fitzgerald Helms had died.