The Children of the Company (44 page)

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Authors: Kage Baker

Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Science Fiction, #C429, #Extratorrents, #Kat

BOOK: The Children of the Company
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“You’re saying, then”—I fought to keep my voice steady—“that the Company is able to make my body generate poisons without my knowledge. At any time.”
“Exactly so.”
“Why was this thing done to me?” I asked.
“Now, now, you’re taking entirely the wrong attitude! Though you can be excused, in view of what you’ve just been through.” Labienus smiled indulgently. “The Company was considering a special-threat design, and Aegeus felt you were the nearest match to the desired psychological profile.”
“Did he really?”
“Oh, yes. Of course, you still underwent years of tests to see if you’d be emotionally up to the work. Placed in certain situations to see how you responded. Why, when you were still at Eurobase One, hardly more than a neophyte, there was a drone named Lewis—”
“I remember.” I closed my eyes. “Please. Enough.”
Labienus seemed to feel it was safe to step close and place a comradely hand on my shoulder. He was correct; however extraordinary my revulsion
might be, I hadn’t the will, just now, to attack him. If only he’d go away, I could get on with my immolation. Myself I hated most of all.
“Now then,” he continued, “you’ll be relieved to know, I’m sure, that you’re no longer manufacturing the virus. It’s served its purpose. You can go on to your next assignment without endangering any other mortals.” He drew a small case from an inner pocket and put it into my nerveless hand. “That contains your new credit ID. You’re to report to the Herengracht HQ before daylight, for a change of clothes and a shave. The Section Head there will brief you on your next posting. I’d discard that coat before you go much farther, however. You’re a little conspicuous.”
I looked down at the bullet holes, the imitation blood.
When I looked up he was gone.
A little nonsensical voice sang in my ear:
Victor. Vector. Virus. Victor Veneficus
…
Like the good machine I was, I slogged away through the night and found my way at last, sick and chilled, to the Herengracht HQ. Van Drouten, redeyed with weeping, let me in and was very kind to me. She stuffed me full of a hot breakfast, and I managed to keep it down until I was alone in the lavatory.
I showered. I shaved. I put on clean pajamas and slept, in a quaint little room at the top of the house where Van Drouten had once hidden Jewish children, and woke to find Facilitator General Aegeus sitting on a chair beside my bed, regarding me with cold eyes. I’d so admired him, once.
There were recorded voices speaking in the room. It was the conversation Labienus and I had had outside the liquor shop.
When the voices stopped at last, Aegeus spoke briefly and to the point. He informed me that Labienus was a liar, the leader of a genocidal cabal within the Company.
He
had augmented me to produce viruses, intending me as a weapon for his group. My own loyalty to our masters was now suspect, by association.
It was expected that Labienus would shortly offer me a chance to join his inner circle. I would accept his offer. I would monitor the cabal’s activities. I would keep Aegeus informed on what they planned to do next …
And perhaps one day I might be trusted again.
How to trust either one of them? I suspect there is no solution to my particular dilemma. Not at the present time, at least.
I proceed with extreme care, as indeed one ought when one may become a source of disease at any moment, quite unawares. It has necessitated some changes in my personal habits. Obviously, I can never engage in intimacies of any kind again.
It is not a pleasant life. And it continues, for I am unable to die; and so the pain never goes away.
History took its course, and recorded that the plague had been generated by Hendrick’s overpowerful immune system. Horrified by the tragedy, all the nations of the world signed the treaty that would outlaw forever any further experimentation with recombinant human DNA.
The Karremans became infamous, their story dramatized to its full potential to shock, horrify, and entertain. After the manner of storytellers, the filmmakers altered the facts for greater mythic appeal: in the American version of the story, Hendrick (or the Recombinant) was depicted as a perfect Aryan type, blond and blue-eyed, coldly adult in his manner. Anna was a lesbian, Geert an alcoholic. I was played by a hulking actor (bodyguards must be huge, mustn’t they?) as a simpleminded muscleman, faithful to his doglike death.
But all that came later.
Amsterdam mourned, and it had so much to mourn. So much was buried with all those white coffins.
All the same, the city had justly earned its reputation for tolerance and common sense, and in time those virtues reasserted themselves. Anna and Geert were never to be vindicated, but Hendrick was recognized for the innocent victim he had been.
A statue was erected on the site of the house where they’d tried to live. The sculptor utilized the famous image taken that first day of school, after the murder attempt, and there it stands to this hour in black metal: Hendrick being pulled along by the hand, turning to look back, his little face sad and enigmatic. Dynamic, the grim striding figure that drags him relentlessly forward, the folds of its long black coat flowing out behind.
The sculptor has chosen not to give the figure a face.
Labienus opens another file case.
He regards a field photograph taken by an operative, of a street in what can only be San Francisco. Before a hotel, a young mortal woman is being helped down from a carriage. She is heavily pregnant. From her clothing and the rest of the setting, the photograph would appear to have been taken in the early 1860s. And here is a second picture, a portrait of a man, taken much later: perhaps the first quarter of the twentieth century?
Another face inhuman, but much more subtly so. Smiling, but the deepset eyes are as cold as Budu’s. There is something suggestive of a shark in the too-boyish grin. Labienus’s frown deepens.
A loose cannon. A compromise. An unacceptable exception to the rules. What had Aegeus been planning? Some kind of parity with the old project
Adonai?
Take an extraordinary child, gift him with extraordinary resources, and put him in a position to affect world events to the Company’s advantage?
If so, Aegeus had been successful. The really awful part was that it had been a public success.
“Spoiled millionaire’s brat,” Labienus mutters. He looks down at the face of William Randolph Hearst. Crass, naive, arrogant,
American.
Given unlimited attention from the moment of his birth, an only child who had but to point at something and, if money could buy it, it was his. Where was the shaping discipline? Where was the inner pain to spur him on to great deeds? He should have been profitless to the Company, a crashing failure for
Aegeus. At the very least, he should have become an empty-souled Charles Foster Kane.
Instead he’s been a rampant success, a monster with a heart solid as a diamond, voraciously alive, motivated, powerful, breaking even Company rules with comparative impunity because of his usefulness. Posing as his own descendant, he has rebuilt his empire. Hearst News Services is an invaluable tool for the Company, and the Hearst museums throughout Europe continue to accrue as much priceless art for Dr. Zeus as the most dedicated team of Preservers.
The idea that the child had been wanted and loved by his parents might figure in the equation, somehow, never even occurs to Labienus.
He flips on through the dossier. Here are the later pictures, with the big American in modern dress, still strangely old-fashioned looking. Smiling at museum openings, scholarship awards banquets,
orphanage dedications
for God’s sake. Immortal, and immature enough to believe he could improve the world. Labienus shakes his head.
There’s the fool smiling on the steps of the National Museum of Tunisia, on the occasion of its grand rededication. Here is an insert of the priceless Carthaginian artifacts he (or rather, his paid experts) had tracked down and restored to the museum. Did he imagine for a moment he would win their love? The American really has no grasp of history, has he?
Carthage hadn’t changed much since the third Punic War. Labienus had gone there on a whim, celebrating the two-thousand-three-hundredth anniversary of its destruction, and even in 2154 there weren’t many amenities for tourists. No trams at all to the infamous Tophet; he’d had to walk more than a mile through an ankle-turning wilderness of spiny weeds and broken stone before he’d come to the site.
Labienus stood surveying what had been Baal-Hammon’s shrine. Vague rectangles in the pale rock, broken stele, long-eroded pits from bygone archaeological digs. And, underneath his feet to an unknown depth, the crumbled bones and ashes of thousands upon thousands of mortal children.
Closing his eyes, Labienus could still hear the voices:
“They’re a morally inferior race as well,” Cato had told him, glaring over
his wine cup. In the villa’s atrium, a fountain babbled quietly and slaves played soothing music.
“What, because Dido lay down for Aeneas?” Caecilianus shouted impatiently. He was a young member of the
populares.
“That’s no reason to trounce somebody we’ve already defeated! The Carthaginians have changed. Hannibal’s so much history. They’re peaceful merchants now, and they’ll stay that way—”
“If you please,” Labienus had said. “Let the honorable Cato speak his mind.” He said it in such a way as to imply a broad wink to the younger guests sprawled around his table, but the truth was that Labienus rather liked Cato. The old mortal might be a warmonger, but he was ruthlessly pragmatic. “Why would you say our ancient enemy is morally inferior, dear Cato?”
“Their religious practices are an offense to the holy gods,” said Cato, staring down Caecilianus. “As is well known. They worship Cronus. The old baby-eater, you see? Over there he’s got some damned Eastern name, Baal or Moloch if I remember rightly. Your’peaceful merchants’ have a huge bronze image made of him, a bull-headed figure with a gaping mouth and cleverly articulated arms, and do you know what they do?
“They build a pyre inside Moloch so intense he glows red-hot, and then they place their firstborns in the thing’s hands and some priest pulls a lever. Up go the arms and the children fall screaming through Moloch’s mouth, into the fire.”
Caecilianus winced. Cato pressed his advantage: “And then, the Carthaginians clash cymbals and skirl pipes as loudly as they can, to drown out the cries of their little victims!” The other guests grimaced. They weren’t soldiers; only politicians.
“Oh, that’s too horrible,” cried Caecilianus. “Nobody would do that.”
Labienus looked at him and smiled, thinking of the infants his legions had put to the sword: little Gauls, little Nubians, little Greeks, all in the name of the Pax Romana.
“Believe it, young man,” insisted Cato. “And that is only one of the reasons I say, as I have said and will say again—”
“Carthago delenda est!”
they all shouted, including Labienus, who could remember a time when Cato’s ancestors had not only sacrificed children but eaten them.
In the end, Cato had finally had his way.
It had been a long siege, and it had cost a lot of money. Caecilianus and his fellow
populares
had complained about that; they had complained, too, about the underhanded means and ridiculous pretext Rome had used to justify the war. Further justification was needed.
So Labienus strode through the ruin of Carthage, pausing now and again to cheer on the legions in their good work, sometimes even setting his own torch to purple hangings, or directing the crews that toppled walls. He was there to see that Dr. Zeus got its share of the loot, of course, but he was also there in his official capacity as the nearest thing Rome had to a journalist, gathering reports for the Senate.
This was why he made his way now to the temple of Baal-Hammon, stepping over the sprawled bodies, the pooled blood that reflected bright fire climbing, and smiled as he came.
Marcus Gracchus was waiting for him on the steps of the temple. Blood ran down the steps, a thick stream flowing. Two legionaries stood alongside, supporting between them a man in chains.
“Ave, Labienus.” Gracchus saluted. He took his helmet off, wiped his face with a bit of torn curtain: fine stuff, sea-green and cloth of gold.
“Ave, Gracchus!” Labienus bounded up the steps and surveyed the prisoner. “So this is my interviewee? He doesn’t look much like a high priest.”
Gracchus squinted at his men. “He was a lot more impressive before the boys had a bit of fun with him. Well, where do you want the bastard?”
“Are all the temple buildings secured? Find us an administrative office,” said Labienus, and five minutes later he was comfortably ensconced in the high priest’s own chair, pouring himself a glass of the high priest’s own wine. The high priest knelt before him, blinking through blood from a scalp wound. The legionaries stood just outside the door, sullen because they were missing out on the temple loot. Labienus tasted the wine.
“Mmm. Falernian, isn’t it?” he asked the priest, in the priest’s own language. The priest raised weary eyes. He was past shock.
“Yes,” he replied. “Roman wine.”
“You ought to have bought more of our wine. You ought to have bought our olive oil, too. It might have prevented all this,” Labienus said, gesturing widely with the cup. “Trade imbalance is worse than a few elephants over the
Alps, you see. Takes bread from the mouth of the Roman olive grower. We can’t have that.”
“What will you do with me?” the priest asked.
“Ultimately? Parade you in a triumph, I imagine. We’ll want to clean you up, first; you’re certainly not very imposing as you are.” Labienus looked the priest over critically. “What you’ve got on, is that your ceremonial regalia?”
“Some of it,” said the priest. “The legionaries took the rest.”
“Tsk! Not splendid enough at all. We’ll have to make you up something in cloth of gold for the triumph. Rome likes a good show. It wants its villains larger than life.” Labienus set the wine aside and leaned back, surveying the priest. “Now, why don’t you tell me all about the worship of Baal-Hammon?”
“He is our lord of the fertile fields,” said the priest, his voice trembling. “He is the Good Father, the consort of Tanit. To him we offer our first fruits, and the young of the beasts.”
“How many babies do you burn in a month?”
The priest blinked. “It depends,” he said. “In the fever season, sometimes one every day. Other times, we can go a month without a child-offering, if it pleases the Lord.”
“Do you kill them before they go into the fire, or drop them in alive?”
“What?” the priest cried. “What are you saying? They’re dead! We offer them to the Lord because they’re dead! Holy gods, is this why you hate us? You think we kill children?”
“No, no; we hate you because you sell olive oil at lower prices than we do,” Labienus explained. “But if everyone believes you kill children, we can run you out of business and even the
populares
can’t complain.”
“You must understand, these are babies who have
already
died!” the priest insisted, horrified. “Miscarriages. Stillbirths. All who die of sickness or mischance. How could we let their little souls go into the darkness? We give them back to the Lord, he takes them through the fire, and they become his angels.”
“He takes them through the fire. That would be in the great bronze idol, the one with the head of a bull?”
“A bull?” The priest frowned. “Baal-Hammon hasn’t got the head of a bull. You’re thinking of the Egyptians.”
Labienus withdrew a pair of gauntlets from a pouch at his belt. He put
them on and half rose in the chair, just far enough to reach out and slap the priest.
“Baal-Hammon has the head of a bull, and you feed him children,” he said. “You place them in his hands, and they’re dropped into a fire in his belly.”
“No! Come into the temple and see for yourself!” said the priest. “He has a beard, and a high crown—eating children, what kind of minds do you Romans have? We put the babies in the Lord’s hands. He lowers them into the holy fire and gives them life again! I have seen them smile, before they pass through to Paradise! This is all a misunderstanding—”
Labienus hit him this time, hard enough to break a tooth.
“Listen to me, very carefully,” he said in a quiet voice. “You feed your firstborn children to Baal-Hammon. That’s what you’ll tell everyone in Rome. You deck the poor little things with flowers, and then you drop them screaming down his gullet, to be roasted alive in the bronze furnace. Your own people hate you for it. They were happy to be conquered by Rome.”
“No,” said the priest, clutching his jaw. There were tears in his eyes from the pain. “I think—long ago, people used to offer human sacrifices. I have heard of it being done. But we never did. And never children. Why do you—”
Labienus hit him again.
“You’re not listening,” he said patiently. “I want you to tell me the truth. The truth is that you burn your own children alive. You see? It’s very simple. Tell me that truth.”
“But I don’t—”
Labienus raised his hand. “Tell me the truth,” he repeated. “I can call the legionaries in here with a word, and you know what they’d do. If you tell me what I want to hear, things will be much more pleasant. Your tooth’s giving you agony, isn’t it? I can have a dentist see to it. Rome has excellent dentists, you know. We’re a civilized nation.”
“We have dentists, too, you son of an ape,” wept the priest.
“Not any more,” Labienus pointed out. “Now, tell me the truth. You offer up sacrifices of living children to your bestial god, don’t you? Trust me, the hour will come when you’ll say it, and you’ll believe it, too. The only thing you can control, my friend, is how much pain you go through before that hour comes. Think carefully.”
In despair, the priest shouted: “The Lord will punish Rome, Roman! He’ll send plague, and brimstone, and armies for her destruction!”
Labienus grinned. “Yes. Rome will fall, in her turn. Does that make you feel better? Now … tell me the truth.”
Who says history cannot be changed?
thought Labienus smugly, opening his eyes to regard the bleached wasteland. There was no salt covering the ruin to the thickness of a common soldier’s toe—that would have
really
cost money, beyond any spin doctor’s ability to shut the complainers up. But the landscape was just as white, and Carthage had been poisoned just as effectively, as though it were true.

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