Klein groaned. “So much for leaving the dead to bury the dead, as the Christians so prophetically put it. The parents declined to convey their bereavement when I called them with news of Sybille’s second death. That shiksa. Father all but hung up in my ear.”

  “Well. Shiva was sat. You’re not only dead, Jorge, you’re dead. I’m sorry, it’s awful.”

  “And yet they’re here, you say.”

  Moshe told him in his rumbling voice, “They have seen you on TV, read your interviews. You have become a notable part of the cultural landscape, you know.”

  “And they want to shut me up.”

  Hester glanced at the twelve-year-old. “This should wait.”

  “Don’t mind me,” Eli said with a crafty grin. “The other chaps and I can’t see what all the fuss is about, really. Well, Luton had a few snarky things to say but I soon set him straight.” He rubbed the knuckles of his right fist on his trousered knee, and gave his uncle a bland look. Klein laughed softly.

  “Good for you, kid. We deads need a few more people like you in our corner.”

  The driverless car dropped them at the Montagu Place Hotel, where a slender Pakistani porter took his minimal luggage.

  “Not five star, Jorge,” Moshe said apologetically, “but those are getting rather stuffy about…”

  “Dead Jews.”

  “Not quite. Live Jews have no trouble getting a suite at Claridges or the Langham. It’s an old-fashioned city in many respects. The traditional bigotries pass eventually, making way for the new.”

  Moshe checked them in and took the boy up to the Solomons’ small suite. Hester led Klein into a snug bar where his parents sat drinking vodka and trying not to look uncomfortable. Sybille’s parents sat across from them, utterly at ease. British consular diplomats interfaced with the Foreign Service of the Department of State, George and Anna Palmer were currently binational attachés at Brussels. He had not seen them during their quick visit to Zion Cold Town following their daughter’s medical crisis, but he had exchanged brief messages, explaining that Sybille would probably recover completely from her brutal ordeal. Now he shook their hands as everyone rose, hugged his mother, bowed to the cold countenance of his unyielding father.

  “I’m glad to find you well, sir.”

  “Since you’re here, you might as well find a seat.” It was closest thing the old man could come to a concession.

  “Thank you. Mother, you look lovely.”

  “My handsome son!”

  Formulae, unreeling the clichés. Clowns, it was true, they were all clowns. Endless emptiness. Sundered. Yet the pain was gone, he realized. If there was no joy in this reunion, neither was there grief nor anger nor the old demand for acknowledgment. Alive, he had been broken until Sybille healed him, or rather he and Sybille colluded in a mutual embrace that excluded the sting of such rejection. She died, impossibly she died; he was not merely broken again but desolate, driven by a need that choked his heart and made him a mad thing, obsessed and futile. And now, he saw finally, all that anguish was drained away. He felt nothing for these people, no love, no yearning for acceptance, even as he felt no animosity nor resentment. He was free.

  And it meant nothing at all.

  “Can I get anyone another drink,” Klein said.

  In an atmosphere at once chilly and desperately contained, Moshe called them a limo and instructed it to bear all eight of them the sixteen kilometers to Gants Hill. “Not Orthodox, Reformed—but they keep kosher,” he promised. There was a palpable breach in the lowering mood when the name of the restaurant-pub was revealed, antique gold against smoky oak: Bangers & Mashugana. Eli laughed out loud. “Bangers and mash! What an outrage!”

  “I don’t even know what that is,” Klein told the boy. “Not kippers steeped in their own haggis, I hope.”

  The boy laughed harder, tears running down his face. The strain had wound the child up more than any of the adults had cared to notice. “It’s just sausages and whipped potato, with lashings of gravy and tomato sauce. Like, ketchup. Yummy!”

  Dubious, the Klein parents followed their daughter’s husband into a low-ceilinged, noisy, smoky cavern. A great bar-counter made a polished horseshoe in the center of the beamed room, and men and women shamelessly drank together, laughing, nudging each other, calling their orders. It might have been a stage set. Perhaps it was, a calculated tourist trap. In one corner a pair of Jews with payot curling down before their ears, and dark felt hats, played chess, ignoring the innocent vice on every hand. Small tables were scattered along one wall. Three of these awaited their party, squeezed together, cutlery and linen already in place.

  “They know you here?” Klein asked.

  “They know me everywhere, dear chap. Come come, take our seats, the girl will be along in a moment for our orders so make up your minds quick-smart, they don’t mess about in this pub.” Moshe gestured; a waiter brought them beer, stout, wine in a tall flagon, a soda for the boy.

  “You’re quite certain this is kosher?” Mrs. Klein said, quite certain that it couldn’t possibly be.

  “Absolutely. We’re in the middle of London’s Jewish district. Forget Golders Green. I’ll have Yorkshire pudding,” he told the plain middle-aged woman in an apron that reached to her knees. “Jorge, I recommend the steak and kidney pie with vegetables. As for you antique folks, you might care for something you recognize—a rare steak with a baked potato, some grilled bream, order anything but pizza or burgers, they’d throw us to the wolves.”

  Voices rose, plates were piled high and then a moment later, it seemed, miraculously emptied. Desserts made the same magical transition from being to nothingness. No words of substance were exchanged. Klein stolidly munched his untasting way through the provender, pretending enjoyment. He was not unhappy, nor was he happy. He thought of Arthur Schopenhauer: “The two enemies of human happiness are pain and boredom.” Here and now he felt no pain, and not really boredom either, but the absence of those two enemies did not clear any space for happiness. He shoveled up his sweet, washed it down with a half and half, a mix of mild ale and bitter. Inside his altered body, nanocytes tore the molecules apart, sorted them, broke down the alcohol before it could reach his brain. Could it be, he thought, that I am at least … content? It seemed impossible. Well. He prepared to tell these people, his relatives and former in-laws, some truths of that altered condition, and what it meant to be a dead on the hoof, no longer living but assuredly still kicking. I am the Apostle, he thought, to the Gentiles. To the Genitaled. To the Gendered. I am the dickless, ball-less wonder come to bear improbable testimony to the very humans least likely to pay me any attention. Except the kid, he thought. Except the boy, Eliezer.

  For the first time in his life, he felt the poignant stab of a wish for a child of his own.

  BBC Gogcast transcript

  1 October 2037

  Our Science & Society mavenette, Dr. Jane Makwe, speaks with Professor Jorge Klein, spokesperson for the Conclave of the Rekindled, and himself a dead for four years. Jane spoke with Jorge from her den in Edinburgh.

  Jane: Welcome to the rant, Jorge. You don’t mind a bit of informality?

  Jorge: It might be more professional, Dr. Makwe, if you addressed me as Professor Klein.

  Jane: Oooh, stuffy! Let’s keep it friendly and light, shall we, Jorge? I mean, we’re dishing some pretty gruesome shit here.

  Jorge: As you wish.

  Jane: Jorge hails from Argentina, clubbies, and you’d think looking at the way his name’s spelled he’d go by “Georgie.” Nup, “Whore-hey” it is.

  Jorge: I was born in Buenos Aires, Jane, but we moved to California when I was four. I hold joint citizenship.

  Jane: Cool—a citizen of the world! Highly fash! But hey, don’t you like lose your citizenship when you like die?

  Jorge: No. My passport is still active. But it’s certainly a question currently under review in both our countries.

  Jane: But us Brits don’t have any deads. It’s a Yank thing. Why’s that? Isn’t it like restraint of trade or something? Not to mention human rights.

  Jorge: I understand your concern, Jane, but the rekindling process was developed by Americans in the United States, and the process is proprietory.

  Jane: Protected by megacorp patents, you mean?

  Jorge: Actually, no. The matter is vexed. The Conclave have their hands tied at the moment because the Supreme Court of the United States has declared all the relevant techniques to be a munitions issue, and anyone selling or transporting that information to other nations would be subject to trial for treason and the most extreme penalties.

  Jane: They get offed?

  Jorge: At the very least.

  Jane: Ha ha. I like that. You mean they’d be executed with no chance of getting reborn as a dead.

  Jorge: Precisely.

  Jane: Grim. Ironic, then, that Jules Lagrange, notorious secret-blower from the early years of the mill, is now a dead hiding in San Diego Cold Town.

  Jorge: That’s the kind of nonsense retailed on the crackpot gogs. Mr. Lagrange is not an American citizen. He was born in Belgium and so is not eligible for rekindling. As far as I know, he remains in custody in Guantánamo.

  Jane: Maybe they don’t tell you everything, Jorge.

  Jorge: Do they tell you everything, Jane? By the way, what kind of doctorate do you hold?

  Jane: Snippy now! Well, I’ll tell you, it’s not like I’m hiding some dirty secret that would excite Jules and his gang. I’m a haematologist, with a degree from St. Andrews and postdoc studies at Baylor. For the sports fans watching, a haematologist is an expert in blood. Which handily leads me to my next question: what can you tell us about heterochronic parabiosis?

  Jorge: I’m sorry, what?

  Jane: When the blood vessels of old and young mice were spliced together in experiments back in the oughts, the old guys got young and the young mice got older.

  Jorge: I suppose that’s possible. But it has nothing—

  Jane: Let’s get technical, doc. Heterochronic parabiosis increases hepatocyte proliferation and renews the cEBP-alpha complex, giving the old buggers a kick-start of youthful vigor. Blood, man, fresh young blood. Isn’t that what spices up the deads?

  Jorge (laughs): Really, you’re not serious. Deads as vampires? Blood suckers? Dr. Makwe, that’s the coarsest slur seen on the most rabid gogs. Have you ever heard the term blood libel? The Nazis accused the Jews—

  Jane: Oooh, touched a nerve, have we?

  “That went well,” Jamal Hakim said in his ear.

  The stupidity of it all. Klein said, “Look, Dr. Hakim, I’m by nature a solitary, introverted man, always have been. Death had not made me magically more congenial. I’m just not cut out for this kind of advocacy. You want me to soothe the warms down, and I’m just inflaming them.” He paused. “Unless that’s your intention. Am I a Judas goat?”

  “Truly, Jorge, that interview was a success. You showed again that we are not chilly monsters to be feared, that we are offended by slurs and attacks. The warms watching that gog will feel a deeper empathy for us than they would have if you’d brushed aside that woman’s offensive questions with a smile and a quip. That would be the response of a practiced politician, which is to say a corporate crook and conniver. You are not a Judas goat, Professor. You are not leading warms into a trap. Quite the reverse. We are their future and their salvation, however much they fear us. This is part of your training, Jorge. I meant it when I said you are to be our Apostle to the Gentiles.”

  “None of the Apostles came to an especially enviable end.”

  “We need not be overly literal in our figures of speech. But look here, you mention your tendency toward solitary introversion. When you return to the Cold Towns, we will do something about that.”

  “What now? Not just Guidefather, but Panderer in Chief?” No response, defense, angry retort in his ear. “Listen, I was scarcely a virgin when Sybille and I married, you know. Christ, I was nearly thirty. And we had our fun with others during the marriage. I’ve known the bodies and minds, if not the love, of fair women and dark, more than a few of them. I don’t need your damned help.”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Still, I remind you that since your drying off, you’ve conspicuously sulked in your tent. Not least during your travels.”

  Klein thought suddenly of the wandering gang into which Sybille had fallen so swiftly, roaming the world as tourists of the expired. Had she been inserted into that aimless set by psychologists, Conclave specialists enacting the role of marriage brokers, some shadchan arranging plural shidduchim for the newly dead? The prospect promised some entertainment value, but really it revolted his deepest essence. He and Sybille, the one lasting liaison of his life, had been an accident abetted by their simultaneous presence in the Hanging Gardens, favorite refectory of the university scholars. Like and unlike, Jew and Gentile, teacher and student, congruent in the shared culture of centuries, different enough not to stale, sufficiently akin to merge flesh and mind and soul into a dyadic unity greater than he had ever supposed feasible for a man isolated by intellect and temperament. But that was the old Jorge, he told himself. That was the Klein before death had sucked him dry, drained away the warm juices from their conjoined link. Parabiosis indeed, he thought. And now their blood was a construct of old fluids and prowling haematocytes, oxygen borne through the raceways of their blood vessels inside carbon and silicon cages stronger and more commodious and longer lived than anything devised by bumbling evolution. Maybe the brokers of the postmortal cult he had been snatched into might bond him anew with comrades whose company he could enjoy, women he might lie beside in the remote yet oddly tender embraces of the dead.

  “All right,” he said, in the swift code that had been impressed upon his brain by machines grown out of algorithms from a star in an entirely different galaxy, “all right, set me up.”

  * * *

  “You don’t look very dead, you deads,” the interviewer said. “In fact, you seem rather quick on your feet.”

  “Calling us deads is a vulgarism, you know. The preferred term is ‘rekindled.’ “

  “Yet you do use it yourselves.”

  “Well, it’s a traditional defensive move by persecuted groups to borrow terms of abuse. Gays called themselves queer. Black singers took up the gangster use of nigga. But I’m also of Jewish stock. Would you sit there with a smile and call me a kike?”

  “Didn’t mean to tread on your toes, love.” Brine Di Stefano was an epicene specimen, languid in Klein’s borrowed Bunche Hall professorial office. Sunlight streamed through his bouffant hair, each strand crisp and surrounded by a glow. “But now I’m going to have to. The New York Times is the gog de référence, you know, so we have to get the record straight. So to speak.” He smirked. “It’s often said that the drive behind rekindling is an evasion of reality, a flight from life. Some say you willfully block your transition to the afterlife. Even the Mormon Atheists find evidence in their scriptures that you are the new Nephilim, to be abjured and cast out.”

  Klein smiled. “I’m not tall, as you see. I believe the imaginary Nephilim were Giants in the earth.”

  “We speak here in symbols, professor. Let’s not nitpick. I can be specific. A senior member of the White House staff, speaking off the record—”

  “If she spoke off the record, why are you quoting her?”

  Di Stefano brushed this aside. “This person whose gender must remain undisclosed said that the Conclave of the Dead has criminally evaded payment of taxes for more than a decade, is using highly classified information stolen from Federal assets, and plans the corruption of the American people. Comment?’

  “I’m not a lawyer, Brine, nor am I a tax expert. Still, as I understand it, taxes have never been levied on the deceased since the founding of this Republic, unless you count the estate tax. I grant you that the President’s party is often accused of gaining office through the franchise of the dead—and I don’t mean people like me, who are currently entirely disenfranchised. Does this seem just to you and your readers?”

  “Okay, sweetie, I’m with you. Let me track back a step. Revival from death is a kind of ultimate eugenics. Isn’t death designed as the proper termination of life, without which living has no meaning?”

  Klein had heard all this a hundred times by now, and his mind was stocked with a hundred glib one-liner ripostes. He put them aside, leaned forward, spoke carefully. This intellectual buffoon represented a serious newsgog; surely some of its readers were capable of thinking beyond clichés.

  “Eugenics is a tainted word. Why? Only because of the way it was abused a century ago in the era of fascism, Nazism, and Soviet and Chinese communism. Not to mention in this country, when people of limited intelligence were forcibly castrated for the alleged good of the race.”

  “By ‘race’ you mean—”

  “You know perfectly well what I mean. The distinction needs to drawn between that kind of atrocity and the free choices individuals make for themselves and their children.”

  “Oh, so it’s just fine for some bigoted redneck or Chinese commissar to—”

  “If they’re making free choices not imposed by the state or corporations or faiths or any other kind of forcible—”

  A wave of the hand. “Rekindling is an affront to the Lord, according to Cardinal von Sachsen. It is a regressive infantile evasion of maturity, says the New York Directorate of Psychoanalysis. I could spiel out the quotes, but you’re surely aware of these arguments. How do you answer them? I have to tell you, I find them persuasive.”

  Klein sat back, sighed. “You’ve heard of the Stockholm Syndrome?”

  “I believe so. I took a course in Asymmetrical Warfare at Princeton, actually.” The interviewer frowned. “You mean the way a captive or victim of torture paradoxically bonds to her oppressor. That’s a facile analogy.”