Chris Braak - The Translated Man and Other Stories

In the labyrinth called the Arcadium, the low roads and covered alleys beneath the citys merchant district, Elijah Beckett, Detective-Inspector of the Coroners Division of the Imperial Guard, thumbed the hammer back on his massive revolver, and crouched beneath one of the broken phlogiston lanterns. It leaked its spent, silvery-gray fuel onto his leather hat, splattering down his heavy wool coat and forming a little puddle by his feet, but at least it didnt light him up. Most of the regularly-spaced lamps had been broken, and probably long ago. The remaining lamps provided only a bare, dull, eerie blue glow, turning the dark spaces into a nest of suggestive shadows. The occasional sunbeam that broke through the citys chilly, cloudy, smoky sky rarely broke through the mountain of architecture, and the last dregs of weak sunlight were eaten up well before they made it down to where Beckett now stood.

The closest working lamp was about twenty feet away, and it pulsed a deep, eldritch blue. Beckett tugged his hat down to blot the glare out of his eyes, and tried to spot the Reanimate, the hideous undead chimera that he knew was shambling in the dark beyond the light. He hefted his revolver and waited. Waiting was the only part of his job that got easier as he got older: as the frigid ache of his sickness vied with the warm lassitude of his last veneine injection, he found that stillness had become his natural state of being.

Something big lurched in the darkness at the end of the alley, just beyond the light, causing a kaleidoscopic swirl of black shapes. The shadows made it impossible to track the things movement. Beckett briefly debated finding a new position. If the Reanimate knew where he was, it would try to move around behind him. On the other hand, if it didnt know where he was, moving might alert it to his presence. Beckett squashed the jittery instinct that told him to move. Patience had gotten him this far, patience would get him the rest of the way.

There was a faint rapping on the sooty stone wall by his ear. This was Skinner, Becketts assigned Knocker. Shed been keeping track of the Reanimate and its master, using her uncanny ability to hear sounds from hundreds of yards away, and to project the tapping sound that was a Knockers signature. Skinners intricate double-rhythmic code jittered on the wall. Thirty-five feet, Beckett translated mentally. It doesnt know Im here yet. Keep waiting.

The Reanimates lurching footsteps grew louder. Beckett strained his eyes against the unyielding dark, and could make out a vague adumbration, a hazy, hideous silhouette slowly shuffling into the lamp light. The shape moved steadily, painfully, its mismatched limbs poorly-knit together, and Beckett could make out more and more as the blue glow from the lamp cast itself on the Reanimates form. It was a big hulking thing, even hunched over. The Reanimate kept its nose near the ground, because smell and hearing were the only senses that didnt rot away after its undeath, and now the thing snuffled around for Becketts scent. The Reanimate tilted its head up as it caught an odor, and now the dim phlogiston light fell upon its face.

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 creatures face, and slimy black ichor dribbled down its cheeks like tears. The things 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 theyd 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 things ichor-invigorated muscles. Black gore dripped from its empty eye sockets, as it began to move confidently towards Becketts hiding place.

A faint pang of fear stabbed at the Coronerthe 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 theyd had in life. The Reanimate could literally tear itself apart trying to crush Becketts 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 doesnt 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. Shes found the necrologist , thought Beckett. And hes 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 dont understand, the necrologist screamed. His name was Albert Wyndham, of the Esteemed Wyndham-Vies, and he had a ragged, hysterical voice. This isnt some random experiment. Im not just dabbling

Of course youre not , thought Beckett. Youre a visionary. Youre building a better race, improving on Nature.

Ive 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. Hell tell you next about how great it is to create life, about how the Word wants us to.

Dont you see? The Word endowed us with the capacity for science, for reason. We are meant towhy would it gives us the science to create life, if it didnt want us to use that science?

Isnt it a crime to squander the gifts of the Word? Beckett resisted the urge to shift his weight. Wyndhams 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. Its 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 doesnt matter , Beckett told himself. Take the

Reanimate first. Keep waiting .

Wyndham was still screaming; hed gone off the deep end, talking about the dark mysteries behind the veil of life. It was a common delusion among the necrologists: the idea that death was more than the absence of life, but a vital force in itself. Hed talk about the Asphyx next, and the Hidden Heart, the Suspiria, the secret whisper behind the Word. The mans voice grew more and more hysterically desperate as he screamed, as though the Coroners understanding was as important to him as the science. Despite his decades of pursuing deranged scientists, Beckett had never been able to determine whether necrology drove a man mad, or if insanity was a prerequisite for trying to reanimate the dead..