SERIOUS SPECIMEN DAMAGE. URGENT INTERVENTION INDICATED.
UNACCEPTABLE. YOU DEMONSTRATE ATYPICAL BEHAVIOR FOR A PROTECTOR.
He turned his head toward the bars. The cephalyx floated there, hands folded as if in prayer, with the four mechanical arms poised up and around, ready to cut, pierce, clamp, and stitch.
YOUR ACTIVITY IS INCONSISTENT WITH PRIOR PEER ANALYSIS AND MODIFICATION. INCONSISTENT AND UNACCEPTABLE. RE-EVALUATING.
“They tried to kill me. Did kill me, really. I’m just not done dying yet.”
The cage door swung open. Drudges stepped over and around Carlisle, their feet wrapped from toe to knee. One of them had a bright yellow tattoo on his thigh: the unmistakable shape of the Cygnus.
The cephalyx swept in, paused next to Carlisle, then glided over to Anders. It stayed there for a moment and then moved to Murdock’s side.
HIGH RISK OF LOSS FOR SPECIMENS 2 AND 3.
The drudges scooped up Anders and Murdock. Blood spilled and smeared across their mechanikal limbs. They turned and stepped back over Carlisle, taking the bodies with them.
Bodies? The cephalyx said “specimens.” With numbers.
No, they were Carlisle’s patients. Fellow soldiers. Brothers in arms.
Brothers in arms were supposed to be friends. The very closest, right?
Right?
The clanking latch of the cell door rang in his ears, and they were gone.
Carlisle wept and tried to speak that word, friends, but it kept coming out sounding like “specimens.” He closed his eyes against the tears, but visions of silver arms and bloody saws whirled behind his eyelids. His heavy eyelids.
Carlisle gasped in pain and snapped awake.
SPECIMEN 6 NOW CONSCIOUS. FINAL EVALUATION PROCEEDING.
He hung suspended in some sort of harness, facedown, prone, limbs spread wide. Tears immediately began to pool in his eyes. The pain in his lower back was intense, as if wooden shims had been driven into the knife wounds to pry them open.
He couldn’t see what kind of a room he was in, or who was hurting him, but he could hear pumps and springs, hydraulic pistons, and burbling alchemical vessels. All he could see was the floor, a polished surface with black cables and metal pipes barely visible in his peripheral vision, all blurring because of the tears. He listened, and looked, and the effort was almost enough to distract him from the pain.
SPECIMEN DEMONSTRATES RUDIMENTARY PAIN MANAGEMENT.
Almost enough to distract him. Almost, but oh gods this hurt.
He opened his mouth to scream, drew in a breath—
He couldn’t. His diaphragm remained relaxed, his breathing steady.
YOUR EXERTION POSES UNACCEPTABLE RISK. CLOSURE OF BREACHED CIRCULATORY FILTRATION ORGANS IS YET INCOMPLETE.
His breathing was not under his control. Carlisle began to panic, but the emotion never reached his heart. The sensation did not calm him at all, but for all the panic he felt in his head, his body refused to respond.
AUTONOMIC AND ADRENAL SYSTEMS HAVE BEEN SHUNTED TO PREVENT EXERTION WHILE BREACHES ARE REPAIRED.
Breaches? The stab wounds? He tried to voice a question but could not.
YES.
I can talk to you like this?
SPECIMEN HAS ACHIEVED AWARENESS OF DUPLEX CONNECTION. PROMISING.
Circulatory filtration . . . you mean kidneys?
SPECIMEN DEMONSTRATES ELEMENTARY BUT POTENTIALLY ADEQUATE ANATOMICAL UNDERSTANDING.
Talk to me, not about me! Adequate for what?
YOU WILL OBSERVE IMPROVEMENT. OBSERVATION MAY ENHANCE PRIMITIVE FACULTIES.
The harness began to move, turning and elevating Carlisle to a standing position, though his feet never touched the floor. He tried to focus on the details of the room as it swung into view, tried to crowd the agony out. A pillar appeared first, thick as a tree, an incomprehensible tangle of tubes, cables, wires, and conduits, with assorted valves, junctions, and connected devices wound about it.
The system looked alien at first, but if he turned his head the right way, parts of it seemed reminiscent of the confusing tangle of vessels and nerves he might have to navigate during surgery.
SPECIMEN DEMONSTRATES COMPARATIVE VISUALIZATION.
Pain clamored for attention in his back, sensations like being stabbed repeatedly, like Murdock was still behind him. He couldn’t even grit his teeth against the agony. He concentrated on the view.
DEMONSTRATION OF COGNITIVE PAIN MANAGEMENT CONTINUES. PROMISING.
A translucent column came into view next, and as he focused on it more closely he saw it was a tank filled with pinkish fluid, like sparkling wine, except with fewer bubbles and more organ meat. That was a human heart in there, wasn’t it? There were tubes and wires attached to it, but the shape was unmistakable to anyone who’d studied cadavers.
Except for the motion.
The heart in the tank twitched and convulsed in a slow, hypnotic movement.
It’s beating. That’s a beating human heart. I’ve never seen that before. No surgeon had, not to Carlisle’s knowledge.
CIRCULATORY PUMP IMPROVEMENT IS FACILITATED THROUGH PRECISE STIMULATION WITHIN THE NUTRIENT BATH. YOU WILL OBSERVE.
You’re improving a human heart?
YOU WILL OBSERVE. OBSERVATION MAY ENHANCE PRIMITIVE FACULTIES.
The harness continued its slow rotation, past another pair of conduit-wrapped pillars and to an inclined table with what looked like a cadaver from Advanced Thoracic Studies strapped to it. Like a cadaver, except this body had a drudge’s helmet—and they’d never done anything like this at Corvis University. The flesh of the chest had been pulled back in precise layers, the sternum cut, and the ribcage spread wide. All the organs within still pulsed with life, moving in time to a pair of throbbing hoses plunged deep into the void where the heart should be.
As incredible as the sight of the beating heart had been, this surpassed it. Carlisle had seen a man slashed this far open once, cut down by a charging Dervish in Caspia. He had knelt by the man’s side as exposed organs throbbed in a panicked effort to wring just another precious minute from mortality.
And then that man had gone forever still. Yet this drudge continued to live, peaceful in spite of the raw red window of his torso.
Morrow’s breath, this is amazing.
SPECIMEN DEMONSTRATING RETENTION OF IRRATIONAL BELIEFS. EXCISION INDICATED.
This drudge had no hand augmentations, but those were certainly coming. Its left arm ended below the elbow in a fresh stump, the stitches noticeably crude in contrast to the surrounding work.
I recognize those stitches. That’s Anders. Oh gods.
Days ago, that boy had been laughing nervously at the hole in his hand, hoping surgery would let him keep it. He wouldn’t be laughing through that drudge helmet.
What are you doing to him?
SPECIMEN 3 “ANDERS” REQUIRES SUBSTANTIAL URGENT REPAIR.
Repair? How is this repair? I didn’t cut out his heart!
SPECIMEN REMAINS IGNORANT OF UNACCEPTABILITY OF PEER-WROUGHT DAMAGE. INTERVENTION INDICATED.
Intervention? What do—
YOU POISONED HIM WITH ALCOHOL, REMOVED HIS HAND, AND LACERATED HIS THROAT. YOU CUT OUT EVERYTHING, NECESSITATING URGENT REPAIR. WASTEFUL.
More pain. Carlisle swam in the pain like a fish in water, yet the water wouldn’t douse the fires of his guilt. He had cut out everything; he’d killed Anders, or very nearly killed him, and now the cephalyx was . . . angry?
The harness swung the rest of the way around, and Carlisle tried to concentrate on the view, not the agony stabbing across his back or the sorrow burning a hole in his belly.
Two more inclined tables faced him. Cylindrical tanks and columns of hoses and equipment stood between, behind, and beside them. Neither of these bodies had helmets. The one in the middle, next to Anders, might have been Longstead. Longstead the Menite. Carlisle couldn’t make out any features because the skin had been pulled up and away from the face, and the top of the
skull had been removed. Several long, thin mechanical arms worked busily on the exposed areas, unfolding grey matter and spreading it on a small brass platter. As if it were butter.
SPECIMEN 5 “LONGSTEAD” DEMONSTRATED EXCEPTIONAL FORTIFICATION OF WILL. SCHEDULED MODIFICATIONS WILL PROVIDE A VALUABLE CONDUIT FOR EXTENDED INFLUENCE.
What are you doing to his brain?
REDUCING CORTICAL COMPLEXITY IN THE TEMPORAL LOBE FOLLOWED BY REINFORCEMENT AND IMPROVEMENT OF CERTAIN PATHWAYS. YOU WILL OBSERVE.
His god would try to burn you for this.
STRUCTURES SUPPORTING IRRATIONAL BELIEF WILL BE EXCISED.
Murdock was strapped to the third inclined table. He lay still, eyes closed, looking perfectly relaxed, with hoses running from the column behind him to the widened wound on his neck and a fresh hole in his belly. Carlisle still couldn’t understand what everything was for, but it appeared as if “repairs” were in process in one place while “modifications” took place in another. He wondered what the man’s intestines would look like once the changes were complete.
Murdock’s eyes opened, red-rimmed and full of fury. He didn’t move at all, didn’t mouth words, much less speak. He just stared at Carlisle, stared as if his eyes could drill holes. He blinked, and tears ran down both cheeks.
He hates me.
STRUCTURES SUPPORTING IRRELEVANT EMOTIONAL RESPONSE WILL BE EXCISED.
Whose? His, or mine?
The harness rotated again. Past Murdock and the unwavering accusation in his eyes stood several drudges. Their shoulders and chests bulging with muscle, each of them was too robust to be either Tingey or Firmack. And yet the one nearest Murdock’s table had a fading tattoo on the upper thigh. The leg Firmack had broken in three places thanks to one clumsy moment next to a Grenadier, the leg Carlisle had set and cast, telling Firmack he would use a cane for the rest of his life. That leg was now as straight and muscular as any. No bruises, no scars.
SPECIMEN DEMONSTRATING ACCEPTABLE APPRECIATION FOR REPAIR AND IMPROVEMENT.
Appreciation!? Gods and dragons, what you’ve done is abominable! And horrible. Yes, it’s amazing, but . . .
AMAZEMENT IRRELEVANT. APPRECIATION AND UNDERSTANDING ARE REQUIRED.
Why? Why do you need me to understand this?
OBSERVATION MAY ENHANCE PRIMITIVE FACULTIES.
For the first time since he’d awakened in this harness, Carlisle allowed himself to wonder about his future. Was he going to end up like Firmack and the other . . . specimens? Their brains were invaded, their volition gone. But his own volition . . . He was a doctor. And the cephalyx wanted to “enhance primitive faculties.”
Do you need my help with something? Do you need someone more . . . like you?
The harness rotated again. Racks hung with heavy prosthetics stood past the drudges. Next to those hung a pair of giant claws, larger by far than the fists of any Ironclad, the attached cuffs large enough that a man might climb inside them.
WARDEN-LEVEL MODIFICATIONS REQUIRE COMPLEX AUTONOMIC MANAGEMENT.
Those claws belong on a heavy ’jack. Are you putting me in a ’jack?
There was no response, and then the cephalyx drifted into view before him.
IN YOUR SPEECH, MORE ACCURATELY, “A ’JACK IS BEING PUT IN YOU.”
That’s not possible, not even remotely--
The cephalyx’s shining mechanikal arms shot out, and more arms extended from outside Carlisle’s peripheral vision. The was a blur of blades, hooks, and gripping claws, and the pain in his back was drowned out by a rolling wave of agony, a flood of blindingly raw sensation as his skin was pulled back and away, pulled up and over his eyes, then pulled completely clear of his bleeding frame.
He couldn’t scream, and he couldn’t close his eyes. His eyelids were gone. He watched as the bundle of skin, dripping like a sodden coat, was lifted almost to the ceiling and then lowered into the open top of one of the tanks.
Carlisle wanted to shiver at the sight of his skin unfolding inside that tank, unfolding and looking almost like him, except emptied. He could no more shiver than he could scream. The harness rotated, placing the tank in the center of his field of vision.
PRECISE STIMULUS IN THE NUTRIENT BATH WILL RENDER THIS LAYER LARGER AND MORE DURABLE.
He rolled his eyes hard to the left, and then to the right, but the tank was too close, and the sparkling pink fluids clouded just a little as arms descended into the tank, hooking the skin and pulling it taut, attaching wires.
I can’t watch any more of this.
OBSERVATION IS REQUIRED.
Please, just kill me.
PRIMITIVE FACULTIES MUST BE ENHANCED.
A high-pitched whine sounded behind him, and something began grinding at the back of his skull. Images of iron bones and black blood vessels raced into his mind’s eye, and though he could not move, or blink, or scream, Carlisle fled.
Warden awoke to pain.
It’s dark, but gods it hurts. Am I dead?
It took inventory. Pain raced up and down its limbs, spun through its torso, tracing paths throughout its body and drawing a picture in its mind. Vast amounts of pain, and all of it was critical sensation, necessary information, an ongoing awareness.
What’s going on? I can’t move! What are these thoughts? Why all this pain?
It took a deep breath, all four lungs swelling to capacity. Hot, oxygen-rich blood saturated its tissues, pumping from both hearts, each serving its own circulatory network. It opened and closed the blood shunts, normalizing pressure between the two. Its brass heart pumped oily black blood to its hips, shoulders, and hands. Dark muscles, stronger and hotter than red flesh, drank in the fuel and grew hotter still.
It burns!
Its fourth heart, brass and chrome and rough black meat, pumped cool green blood throughout its body. The coolant gorged itself on heat and then rushed across the exchangers in its helmet, flaring yellow-orange as the heat was released. Its helmet roared with hot power it longed to taste.
Eyeless, but not blind, it sensed the tiny forms of the drudges, its brothers, and the lithe black shadow of the cephalyx.
Its charges.
My charges—my patients? Oh Morrow, how did I let this happen to them? Why can’t I see them?
A stab of pain directed its attention to a small knot of tissue in its helmet.
More sensation, unnecessarily intense, from that knot of grey matter. It was a noisy kind of hurt, hinting at damage Warden could not detect.
Oh sweet Morrow, why does this still hurt?
RETENTION OF DAMAGE-CONTROL FACULTIES REQUIRES THE PRESERVATION OF THIS ELEMENT.
Warden shrugged. Now that it knew what that bundle of tissue was for, it could return to inventory. It wiggled its fingers, and two hundred pounds of steel shifted at the end of each of its arms.
From the tortured twists of a tiny knot of grey matter, Carlisle screamed into the blackness. There was no air, no sound, and no light, but there was still a scream, and since the scream was made of pain it never stopped.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Howard Tayler writes and illustrates Schlock Mercenary (schlockmercenary.com), co-hosts the Hugo Award winning Writing Excuses podcast with Brandon Sanderson, Dan Wells, and Mary Robinette Kowal (writingexcuses.com), and writes fantasy, horror, and science fiction in such free time as remains. He lives with his wife (and business partner and fellow writer) Sandra and their four children in Orem, Utah. He plays Trollbloods, Circle Orboros, Minions, Mercenaries, and Cygnar, but not nearly so often as he would like.
A CASUALTY OF SCIENCE
BY MATT FORBECK
Clockers Cove, Cygnar, 606 AR
“She came in through my window while I was sleeping, you realize.” Gorman di Wulfe stabbed a finger at the dead woman sprawled atop his bed. “I’m not the one who committed the crime here.”
“And you realize I can’t just scoop her up and toss her into a beggar’s grave on your say-so.” Watch Inspector Falks gazed around the room once more as she fiddled
with the pommel of her truncheon, leaving her pistol alone for the moment.
Gorman wrinkled his brow at the inspector as if she’d just said something that confirmed exactly how stupid she and everyone else in her entire profession might be. “And why not? Is my word not good enough?”
The inspector arched an eyebrow at him. “I know who you are, Mister di Wulfe, and even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be willing to walk away from a dead girl in a strange man’s bed.”
The bed was jammed into a disused corner of the second-story loft that loomed over the expansive workshop below. The place stank, and not from the corpse, which hadn’t even had time to cool. The tang of chemicals tickled Falks’ nose, gnawing toward her brain.
She had to steel herself against it, or it would usher her from the room. And she couldn’t show that kind of weakness before di Wulfe, she knew, or her investigation of the crimes this night would end here and now.
Further, she smelled the pungent odor of unrecognizable chemicals, over which lay the raw stench of blasting powder. That, she recognized. It permeated the place as if a thin layer of it coated every surface. She couldn’t resist running a finger along the top of a small table near the bed; it came back smudged with black dust, and a quick sniff confirmed her suspicions.
“What kinds of things do you do here? ” Falks asked.
Gorman regarded the lawwoman coolly. “You’re done with the girl, then?”
“We’ll get to her soon enough. Satisfy my curiosity. What do you build here?”
“I don’t ‘build’ things,” Gorman said with a weary sigh. “One builds buildings, right? That is not my business.”
“Manufacture, then.”
“Nor do I run a factory.”
The inspector scowled and ran her tongue across her teeth. Her eyes hardened, and her hand crept idly to the worn grip of her club. She looked like a woman quite comfortable beating answers out of a suspect, but Gorman didn’t think that was her first instinct. She was smarter than that. “I invent things,” he said.
“So you call yourself an inventor.”
Called to Battle: Volume Two Page 4