The man’s rage continued to pour out, and he looked ready to pound Vincent’s face even as he hung suspended like a marionette on the manacles.
“Can’t you see? Of course neo-Satanism is a sham, but the people have to realize it for themselves! You’ve cheated them out of their own realization. Prophets have been giving the public an endless string of truths since the beginning of civilization. Now, by your confession to them, by giving away our secret, you became just another debunker, just another man at a podium with another story to believe in. You’ve stolen the opportunity of self-enlightenment away from thousands of them. So many, so many!”
The doctor lifted Vincent’s chin upward, holding his slack jaw in position. Another needle, another syringe—only this time the doctor left a thin line of pricks, one after another, along his jawline, up behind his ear. The medical man hummed to himself as he moved with the careful precision of a tattooist, jabbing with the needle, squirting a tiny amount of the milky gray substance under Vincent’s skin, and then moving half a centimeter over to repeat the process.
Nathans calmed himself again. “You probably never heard us speak of surface-cloning, Vincent. That was something we kept under lock and key at Resurrection, Inc. While my special hotshot team worked on developing the resurrection process, one of the bioengineers stumbled upon a spinoff technique, a special type of permanent biological disguise. Your father knew about it, but he didn’t quite see its potential.
“You see, after taking a blood or skin sample from one person, we can use the genetic information to ‘grow’ an identical face on someone else, to clone someone’s appearance. We strip the nuclei from the cells and then piggyback the genetic information on a special virus. After we’ve cultured the virus, we can inject it into many sites on the imposter’s face, beginning a ‘clone infection.’ The virus spreads, carrying with it someone else’s genetic information.” He smiled, but anger burned behind his expression. “A new face is going to grow on you Vincent, spreading slowly. You’ll be someone not so recognizable. We can even do your hands, if we want to change the fingerprints.”
Paralyzed, Vincent could not blink, could not cringe, could not respond—he sagged against gravity, humiliated. Preoccupied, the doctor injected a string of clone infection nodes around his hairline, pricking the scalp.
“The whole process will take about a week. I’m told that the itching and burning sensations are almost unbearable while you’re growing a new face. But don’t worry, we can keep you pleasantly sedated until all that’s over with. Now that we have a clean blood sample from you, your own double can begin the same process of his own.”
The doctor finished and put away his equipment. Without a word to Nathans, he packed up the case containing Vincent’s blood sample and carried it reverently up the stairs.
“Maybe you’ve done irreparable damage to my plan, Vincent. But there might be a way to fix things, a last-ditch effort. We have someone who matches your physical build and genetic type. We’ll give him your face, your fingerprints, and when he’s completely ready, he will become Vincent Van Ryman. It won’t be perfect, because he’ll only look like you, but he’s studied your mannerisms, and his fingerprints will be identical. Only a retinal scan, voice print, or maybe a chromosomal match will tell the difference. Besides, we used drugs to get your Net password while you were unconscious, and that’s really all he needs.
“I have already written the publicity speech for when ‘you’ make a sensational return to neo-Satanism, born again, denouncing your previous heretical babble. We could survive this after all—no thanks to you.”
Behind his unblinking eyes Vincent saw a reflection of his own shock, horror, and bafflement. Francois Nathans was his idol, his friend, his teacher… and now his condemner, his torturer. At the same time, Nathans looked furious with Vincent, choking on righteous indignation.
“In a few weeks, after your new face has grown and you look just like any other neo-Satanist convert—and when your replacement has fully taken his role as High Priest Van Ryman—we’ll have another High Sabbat, with you as the guest of honor at the sacrificial altar.
“And no one will know the difference… because you aren’t you anymore.”
23
An hour after all evidence had been expunged from his lower office chambers, Francois Nathans received reports that the disturbance in the streets was completely quelled. He was relieved and overjoyed that the Enforcers had found only one destroyed Servant among the casualties, a female Servant—definitely not Danal.
Danal had somehow gotten away. Now all that remained was for Nathans to find him.
Sleepy, mentally exhausted, his stamina and his nerves stretched and frayed: Nathans dimmed his office and lit a scented candle, letting the warm, flickering illumination soothe him. Turned down so low that he could barely hear it, a scratchy tape of Fats Waller sent strains of jazz through the dimness.
The message light sprang to life on the communications screen, and Nathans required a great effort of will to lift his finger and respond.
A white-armored Enforcer appeared on the screen, fidgeting. Nathans opened his eyes, trying to stare the man down, but he could see no response behind the black polarized faceplate.
“Mister Nathans?” the Enforcer asked.
“Yes? What is it?”
“I—I have been instructed to inform you that there has been another… that the body of the technician Rodney Quick has disappeared. We suspect it might be the Cremators, sir.”
The news struck him like a knife in the back, an unexpected blow from a forgotten adversary. Nathans surged fully awake. At another time he would have found this exhilarating, but too much had already gone wrong for one day. He clenched his fists, whitening the knuckles as he struck the side of his desk. For a moment he could find no words, and then they all seemed to burst out of his mouth at once.
“But how could he have been taken? He was right in our own building! Who was watching him? Where was his body taken for storage? How could someone have gotten to him?”
The Enforcer looked ready to break down. “We took him to the resurrection levels, sir. With Rodney Quick killed, there was no other alternate tech designated for that section. We had the riot to attend to, sir, as well as trying to find your Servant. But we didn’t think there would be a problem. There shouldn’t have been. And now the body is gone, without a trace. As far as we can tell, no one entered or left the resurrection levels.”
“Then your information is wrong!” Nathans snapped.
“There’s another thing, too—” the Enforcer began, hesitant and uncertain.
“What?” Nathans stared furiously for a moment, then dropped his gaze. No use frightening the man so much he couldn’t speak.
“One of the Servant assistants in Lower Level Six seemed extremely agitated when we tried to question her about the disappearance. We had to use the Command phrase to get her to respond at all, but she dropped to the floor before she could answer. Rolled up her eyes and fell over. Apparently dead. I swear we didn’t do anything to her. It seems that she nullified her own microprocessor.”
Nathans sat back heavily in his chair, frowning deeply. “But how? How can that be?” he mumbled, mostly to himself.
With a backhanded gesture Nathans muted the screen and continued to mutter to himself. Servants committing electronic suicide? Rodney Quick taken from Nathans’s own doorstep at Resurrection, Inc.? Danal lost in a mob? He tried to think of a suitable curse to spit out of his mouth, but could come up with none.