Part 52 (2/2)
”Why kill him? Same line of thought. If he flips, things get thrown off balance. Order is important for them, too, you know. Mortals are the same way, you may have noticed. You all need order. Throw things off and you go crazy. That's why you'll put up with despots-even choose them over more benign and loving leaders-just so you don't have to worry. Disorder makes for a lot of worry, Anthony.”
”You already knew it?”
”Knew what?”
”That I wouldn't do it and the Jesuits would instead.”
”Yes.”
”Then why send me?”
Again the look, the sigh. ”Ah. Think hard.”
I do, and, miracle of miracles, I see it.
”Giovanna is free now,” I say.
”Yes. Frank, bless his immortal soul-which G.o.d has indeed agreed to do-is gone in flesh.”
”So He wants me to hook up with her?”
The angel nods. ”Of course.”
”Why?”
”Because she'll love you- really love you, innocent that you are-just the way she loved him.”
”That's it?”
”Not exactly... Because she'll love you, you'll have to stop. You'll have to stop killing people, Anthony. It's just not right.”
”No, I won't.”
”Yes, you will.”
”I don't think so.”
”But you will-because, whether you know it yet or not, you love her, too.”
What do you say to that?
The angel's gotten up, straightened his red Zegna, picked up the case, and is ready to leave.
”By the way,” he adds, ”He says He forgives you anyway.”
I nod, tired as h.e.l.l. ”I figured that.”
”You're catching on.”
”About time,” I say.
”He said that too.”
”And the whole 'balance' thing-”
”What do you think?”
Pure bulls.h.i.+t is what I'm thinking.
”You got it,” he says, reading my mind because, well, angels can do that.
Twenty-four hours later I'm back in Siena, shaved and showered, and she doesn't seem surprised to see me. She's been grieving-that's obvious. Red eyes. Perfect hair tussled, a mess. She's been debriefed by the angel-that I can tell-and I don't know whether she's got a problem with The Plan or not, or even whether there is a Plan. The angel may have been lying about that too. But when she says quietly, ”h.e.l.lo, Anthony,” and gives me a shy smile, I know-and my heart starts flapping like that idiot bird.
Undead Again.
by Ken MacLeod.
Ken MacLeod's most recent novels are The Execution Channel and The Night Sessions, and a new book, The Restoration Game, is due out later this year. He is also the author of several other novels and short stories, including The Sky Road, which won the British Science Fiction Award. He is also the winner of the Prometheus Award, the Sidewise Award, and the Seiun Award, and has been a finalist for the Hugo, Nebula, and John W. Campbell Memorial awards. He is currently serving as Writer in Residence for the ESRC Genomics Policy and Research Forum at Edinburgh University.
This story, about a vampire who chooses cryonic preservation in the hope of a cure, first appeared in the science journal Nature, as part of their Futures series of short-short stories. MacLeod says that it was originally inspired by thinking about viruses that spread through changes they make in the host's behavior.
It's 2045 and I'm still a vampire. d.a.m.n.
The chap from Alcor UK is droning through his orientation lecture. New age of enlightenment, new industrial revolution, many changes, take some time to adjust, blah blah blah. I'm only half-listening, being too busy s.h.i.+fting my foot to keep it out of the beam of direct sunlight millimetering across the floor, and trying not to look at his neck.
I feel like saying: I've only been dead forty years, for Chr- For crying out loud. I saw the first age of enlightenment. I worked nights right through the original Industrial Revolution. I remember being naive enough to get excited about mesmerism, galvanism, spiritualism, socialism, Roentgen rays, rationalism, radium, Mendelism, Marconi, relativity, feminism, the Russian Revolution, the Bomb, nightclubs, feminism (again), Apollo 11, socialism (again), the fall of Saigon and the fall of the Wall.
The last dodgy nostrum I fell for was cryonics.
So don't give me this future shock s.h.i.+t, suns.h.i.+ne. The most disconcerting thing I've come across so far in 2045 is the latest ladies' fas.h.i.+on: the old sleeveless minidress. The ozone hole has been fixed, and folk are frolicking in the sun. I hug myself with bare arms, and slide the castored chair back another inch.
Under the heel of my left wrist, I feel the thud of my regenerated heart. It beats time to the artery visible under the tanned skin of the resurrection man's neck. The rest of my nature is unregenerate. I feel somewhat thwarted. This is not, this is definitely not, what I died for. And it seemed such a good idea at the time.
It always does.
By 1995 we thought we had a handle on the thing. It's a virus. In all respects but one, it's benign: it prevents aging, and stimulates regeneration of any tissue damage short of, well, a stake through the heart. But it has a very low infectivity, so it takes a lot of mingling of fluids to spread. Natural selection has worked that one hard. Hence the unfortunate impulses. And by 1995, I can tell you, I was getting pretty sick of them. I cashed in my six Scottish Widows life insurance policies (let's draw a veil over how I acquired them), signed up for cryonic preservation in the event of my death, and after a discreet ten years, met an unfortunate and b.l.o.o.d.y end at the hand of the coven senior, Kelvin.
”You'll thank me later,” he said, just before he pushed home the point.
”See you in the future,” I croaked.
The last thing I saw was his grin. That, and the pavement below the spiked railings beside the steps of my flat. A tragic accident. The coroner, I just learned, blamed it on the long skirt. Vampires, always the fas.h.i.+on victims.
I leave the orientation room, hang around until dusk under the pretext of catching up with the news, and go out and find a vintage clothes shop. I walk out in Victorian widow's weeds. They fit so well I suspect they were once mine.
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