The Translated Man and Other Stories - Chris Braak [1]
The creature was horrific. It was a patchwork of dead, leathery human and sharpsie skin, scales and lank tufts of hair. Its eyes had rotted away, because the eyes were always the first things to go; they left two great, black, gaping sores in the creature’s face, and slimy black ichor dribbled down its cheeks like tears. The thing’s lower jaw had been replaced with an iron facsimile; its master had fixed long iron nails to it in place of teeth. The thing had two arms, made of thick, gnarled muscle; their pebbly skin and stubby fingers suggested that they’d been taken from a trolljrman. A third arm, this one small and thin, waved about and clutched aimlessly beneath it.
Three arms, Beckett scoffed. Necrology, the Forbidden Science that produced Reanimates, was a heresy in itself, and an affront to Nature and the Word. But why, the coroner asked, do they always think they can improve on it? To a necrologist, bringing life to the dead was never enough. They always had to add something extra: a new arm, a third leg.
The tangled mass of dead limbs lurched fully into the light now. Blue glints from the phlogiston illumination traced the shapes of the thin copper wires and the glittering silver brackets that provided the electrical charge to the thing’s ichor-invigorated muscles. Black gore dripped from its empty eye sockets, as it began to move confidently towards Beckett’s hiding place.
A faint pang of fear stabbed at the Coroner—the Reanimate was slow, yes, but huge. Its legs were mismatched, which explained the shuffling; a well-made Reanimate could run as quickly and smoothly as a man. Still, if the thing did manage to catch up with him, its simple bulk would be a huge advantage. And its dead muscles were unconcerned by the limits that they’d had in life. The Reanimate could literally tear itself apart trying to crush Beckett’s skull with those huge trolljrman hands.
The fear lanced through the thin fog of veneine-induced anesthesia, only to be throttled and tossed aside as Beckett had done with his fear so often before. It doesn’t matter, the Coroner thought to himself. The Reanimate swayed its massive, patchwork head back and forth, snuffling like a blood-hound.
Rappa-tap-tap-tap. Skinner tapped another message in code out on the wall, in her complex rhythm. She’s found the necrologist, thought Beckett. And he’s got behind me somehow.
The necrologist shouted, and the sudden noise almost startled Beckett into motion. His joints were old, though, and unaccustomed to sudden movement. He managed to stay in place.
“You don’t understand,” the necrologist screamed. His name was Albert Wyndham, of the Esteemed Wyndham-Vies, and he had a ragged, hysterical voice. “This isn’t some random experiment. I’m not just dabbling…”
Of course you’re not, thought Beckett. You’re a visionary. You’re building a better race, improving on Nature.
“I’ve begun to build something new here. A new species, a species unencumbered by fear, by pain, by death. A species to lead mankind through a new century!”
Keep waiting. He’ll tell you next about how great it is to create life, about how the Word wants us to.
“Don’t you see? The Word endowed us with the capacity for science, for reason. We are meant to…why would it gives us the science to create life, if it didn’t want us to use that science?”
Isn’t it a crime to squander the gifts of the Word? Beckett resisted the urge to shift his weight. Wyndham’s mad enthusiasm for his delusions was strangely energizing. It put Beckett in mind of the heady enthusiasm of his younger days, when he would have come out from the dark shooting, heedless of the consequences. It’s a wonder I made it this far, he thought, wryly.
“Science is a gift from the Word! It would be criminal to squander it!” The necrologist was practically screaming, now. His voice echoed out of the maze of black back alleys behind Beckett; it was impossible to tell from where.
It doesn’t matter,