by Tim Waggoner
"That seems like an easy enough security feature to bypass in a place like this," Devona said. "All someone would have to do is cut off your hand and hold it to the scanner."
I thought the comment sounded a little on the ghoulish side for Devona, but then I remembered where we were. Cutting off body parts was business as usual at the Foundry.
"Wouldn't work," Henry said. "The scanner is designed to check hypermetabolic energy rates on both the atomic and subatomic levels, as well as search for evidence of genetic tampering. Around here, when the sign says 'authorized personnel only,' it means it." He grinned, scarred, leathery lips drawing back to reveal a mouthful of twisted, discolored teeth. "After all, if you want to open a locked door, you need the correct key, right?"
Without waiting for us to respond Henry wheeled my body into the lab and Devona and I followed.
I'd never met Victor Baron before, but I'd seen him around town a few times, and I'd watched a profile of him and his business on Mind's Eye once. "Adonis-like" is one of the descriptions most commonly applied to him and for good reason. Physically Baron appears to be the epitome of human perfection. Mid-thirties, tall, handsome, body trim and fit, hair chestnut-brown, facial features any male model would envy, piercing blue-ice eyes that radiated both high intelligence and emotional depth. His lightly tanned skin was flawless – no signs of scarring or stitching. He wore a white lab coat over a white shirt, both of which were splotched with brownish-red stains, black pants and black shoes. He looked like a male model or perhaps a movie star who'd decided to chuck his career and take up mad science for a living.
As we entered, Baron turned and flashed us a smile so white and perfect it would have made an orthodontist weep with joy.
Baron's laboratory contained a bizarre hodge-podge of technologies which only made sense given that its owner was an amalgamation of parts taken from different bodies. Much of the assembled equipment consisted of hi-tech top-of-the-line imports from Earth – sophisticated computers, medical diagnostic machines and the like – but some of it would've been better suited to a display of antique technology: Van Der Graaf generators that sparked and sputtered and machine banks covered with rows of glowing-hot vacuum tubes. A half dozen worktables were situated around the room, containing rows of chemicals and powders stored in thick glass vials, along with spread out surgical instruments of various kinds, each longer, sharper and nastier-looking than the last. The instruments' stainless steel gleamed in the lab's fluorescent light and I was mildly surprised that the blades weren't coated with dried blood.
Victor Baron's own fleshtech was represented in the room as well. One of the computers had a woman's head attached to it instead of a monitor screen and a number of the cables that connected machines and which lay strewn about the floor resembled extended spinal columns. But most impressive – or perhaps I should say disturbing – of all was the operating table located in the center of the lab. An intertwined column of spines descended from the ceiling above the table, supporting a fleshy mass shot through with pulsating swollen veins. Extended outward from the bottom of the mass were a half dozen arms, a mix of male and female as well as various races, both human and non human. It appeared Baron was an equal opportunity vivisectionist.
"Sorry I didn't come to the door to greet you when you arrived, but I was trying to get caught up on one of my new projects. As you might imagine there's no end of work to be done around here and I feel like I'm eternally behind. Even with all the excellent help I have."
Baron's voice was a mellow tenor and he pronounced each word with the precision and ease of a skilled elocutionist. Listening to him speak was like listening to a master musician playing his instrument. As the story goes Baron hadn't been quite so godlike when he first came to Nekropolis, but he'd had over two centuries to become his own ultimate creation, the pinnacle of what the reanimatory arts could accomplish. Dr. Frankenstein might have given Victor Baron life, but by this point he was most definitely a self-made man.
Baron had approached us as he talked and he laid a perfectly manicured hand on Henry's shoulders. The assistant grimaced in response. Maybe the man was attempting to smile and didn't have enough control of his facial muscles to pull it off, but somehow I doubted it.
I glanced over at the table where Baron had been working. A large glass tank sat on the table's surface, filled with a thick clear liquid. Suspended in the viscous goo was a coiled mass of what looked like thin red tubing surrounding a trio of hearts that had been fused together. The hearts throbbed in unison and the tubing pulsed in time with each beat.
Baron must've noticed me looking. "It's an independently functioning circulatory system," he explained. "Something Lord Galm commissioned me to work on. There's a shortage of willing blood donors in the city and since aqua sanguis provides little actual nourishment for Bloodborn Galm would like me to create an alternative source of blood for his people. The Bloodborn would keep one of these creatures in their homes to feed off the blood it generates, something like a farmer getting fresh milk from a cow." Baron frowned then. "Unfortunately the creatures live only a few days at most, so they're hardly practical." His frown eased. "Still, we'll get it right eventually, won't we, Henry?"
"Yes, Victor. Eventually." There was a distinct lack of "go-team" enthusiasm in the man's voice, but Victor didn't seem to notice.
"I'm surprised my father hired you," Devona said. "He's not big on technology."
"Perhaps Galm's perspective is broadening as time goes on. The other Darklords make use of our products. Lady Varvara especially, considering the bulk of our customers live in the Sprawl, and of course Lord Edrigu finds many uses for our creations throughout the Boneyard. But we have been known to do business in Gothtown-" he gestured toward his circulatory prototype – "and even a bit in the Wyldwood. Not so much in Glamere, though. Lady Talaith forbids her people to have anything to do with modern technology. But even among the Arcane we've made a few inroads. Certain spells require toxic ingredients that are too risky even for the Arcane to handle. Here we can create assistants capable of withstanding all manner of dangerous substances. But Talaith has permitted only a handful of our creations to enter her Dominion. Still, one step at a time, yes?"
"Speaking of Darklords, some refer to you as the Sixth Lord," I said. "There's even been rumors that some of your more influential clients have been lobbying Father Dis to make the designation official."
"That's very flattering, of course, and it speaks to how important the Foundry's products have become to the city. But when all is said and done, I'm an inventor and a businessman. I have no interest in acquiring political power." He paused, then shook his head and gave us a rueful smile. "Pardon my manners. I get too caught up in work at times. It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Richter. Though I must say I wish it had been under better circumstances. Henry told me about the attack on you earlier this evening. Horrid business, but that's the Sprawl for you. Violence is far too often a way of life there."
Baron leaned down to get a better look at me. I might've felt selfconscious about that, but given how tall Baron was, even if my head had been on my body, he still would've had to bend over to look at me.
"You know, Mr. Richter, I've been following your career with interest for some time now."
"You have?"
Baron reached out and gently prodded the edges of my neck wound with his index finger. "Of course! There are many varieties of reanimated dead in Nekropolis, but you're the only one of your kind. That makes you a unique specimen."
"Uh, thanks. I think."
Baron straightened then and reached out to shake Devona's hand. "Ms. Kanti, it's a distinct pleasure to meet you as well."
Devona had to tuck my head under her arm to free up a hand for Baron to shake. He held the grip a bit longer than necessary, and though I couldn't see from the angle I was at, I imagined Devona blushing a bit. Baron is the handsomest man in the city, maybe the handsomest who'd ever lived, whether in Nekropolis or on Earth, and it was di
fficult for women not be affected by how attractive he was. Hell, I'm straight and even I had trouble taking my gaze off him.
It was stupid of me but I couldn't help thinking that if Baron had managed to perfect his physical form, then all his organs – internal as well as external – would be the epitome of anatomical perfection. In other words he probably had an enormous and indefatigable schwanzstucker.
What was it with me and being jealous lately? Devona loved me and our psychic bonding was as intimate and satisfying as any physical lovemaking, maybe more so. Still, I was glad when Baron finally released Devona's hand.
"Well, Mr. Richter, let's get you up on the table and have a look at you."
Baron took my head from Devona and carried me to the operating table. Over his shoulder he said, "Henry, if you could bring Mr. Richter's body?"
Henry wheeled the rest of me over and between the two of them they got the two halves of me onto the table. Henry removed the clothes from my body while Victor further examined my neck wound, all the while asking me more detailed questions about how I got it.
"Interesting," Baron said. "Whoever attacked you used something more elaborate than a simple garrote. Your head was severed from your body with almost laser-like precision. And to judge by the swiftness of the attack the culprit was practiced in the use of the device."
Something about Baron's observation stirred a thought in me. There was something important there, but try as I might, I couldn't quite grasp hold of it. Baron continued.
"As to precisely what the tool was, I'm afraid I can't say. We have devices here at the Foundry that could do the job and there are any number of weapons available in the city that would serve the same purpose, at least to judge by the condition of some of the bodies my Bonegetters bring me." He smiled. "The good news is a clean cut like this makes for an easier repair."
"So you can fix him?" Devona asked. She'd joined Baron and Henry at the operating table, standing a little too close to the former for my liking.
Baron's expression became serious. "I didn't say that. While I normally work with dead bodies, my specialty is bringing them back to life, or at least a semblance thereof. But Mr. Richter is a zombie – he exists in a state between life and death. And he's not a typical zombie. He's a highly functional one whose body operates nearly as well as it did when he was alive. That makes his central nervous system more complex than a garden variety zombie. I can't simply sew his head back onto his neck and call it a day. I'm afraid it's going to be a bit more complicated than that.
He poked and prodded both sections of me some more, hmming and tsking as he worked. At one point he turned to Henry and asked, "What do you think?"
Henry scowled in thought. "Both sections are in a similar state of arrested decay. Typical of a zombie. Though the body's a bit worse off than the head. Probably because it's been inanimate for so long. Reconnection should be possible, if tricky." He paused. "If that's what Mr. Richter really wants."
Now it was my turn to scowl. "What do you mean?"
"We have all sorts of spare parts around here," Baron began, but then he stopped and frowned. "Speaking of which, I prefer to have a full complement of such when I operate, and none have been delivered yet. Henry, if you wouldn't mind? I seem to have forgotten my vox again."
"I swear you'd forget your head if it wasn't attached." Henry looked at me then. "No offense," he added before removing a hand vox from a robe pocket and turning away from the table to make a call.
"As I was saying," Baron continued, "I have numerous spare parts – including entire bodies. The mind, the personality, indeed the very self is contained solely within the brain, Mr. Richter. To put it simply you are your head and your body exists to move that head around. But you don't have to keep your old body if you don't want to. I can give you a new one: a living one."
The idea stunned me. Ever since Papa Chatha had suggested that Baron might be able to help me, I'd been thinking only in terms of his reattaching my head to my body. It had never occurred to me that Baron might be able to do better than that.
Baron went on. "Of course, there's no guarantee just how much physical perception your undead brain is capable of. You might not be able to experience the full range of physical sensations that a living body can. But then again, you might." He smiled. "In all modesty, I've been doing this for a very long time, and I've gotten awfully good at it."
Henry put his vox away and returned to the table.
"They're on their way," he said, and Baron nodded.
A living body… I'd long given up hope that I could ever be restored to life. There didn't seem to be any magic or science in Nekropolis capable of returning me to a fully human state. Even Father Dis had told me that it was beyond his capabilities. But now Baron was telling me he might be able to do it – if I was willing to let him experiment on me.
I looked at Devona, but before I could speak, she said, "Why would Matt want a different body? The one he has works just fine." Then she stopped and looked down at me. "I'm sorry, love. I shouldn't speak for you. It's your decision, of course."
If I'd been capable of doing so right then, I'd have taken Devona in my arms and kissed her.
I'd been dead for some time but I hadn't forgotten what it was like to have a body that could smell, taste and above all fully experience touch in all its forms. I've never told Devona but I sometimes have dreams in which I'm alive and do the most mundane things: drinking a soda, eating ice cream, inhaling the scent of autumn leaves, drying off after a long hot shower with a thick fuzzy towel. So I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted by Baron's offer. Tempted bad.
"Thanks anyway," I said. "But I'm happy enough the way I am. Besides, being a zombie detective is kind of my thing, you know? 'Zombie head on living body' detective just doesn't have the same ring to it."
"As you wish," Baron said. "But if at some future date you change your mind, feel free to drop by. There's always a spare body or two lying around here."
The lab doors opened then and a pair of men entered, one thin-faced like a weasel, the other with a round face sporting a pair of mutton chops. The men, who wore long black coats, caps and fingerless gloves, stood on either side of a large portable wheeled freezer, guiding it along by gripping handles bolted onto the sides.
"Where would you like it, Mr. Baron?" the round faced man said in an Irish accent.
"Over here close to the operating table, Burke. Within arm's reach."
"Righto. Glad to be of service."
The two men maneuvered the freezer close to the table, as Baron had asked. Now that the men were closer I could get a getter look at them and I saw that both had a bluish tint to their skin and thin scars around their throats and wrists. They appeared human enough, but it was obvious they'd had some work done by Baron.
The thin faced man spoke then, also in an Irish accent. "Anything else we can do for you, sir?"
"No, thank you, Hare," Baron said. "I believe we're all set."
"Best we be off then," Burke said. "Lot of work to be done."
"No rest for the wicked, eh?" Hare said.
Both men laughed at that, tipped their caps to Baron, and then turned and left.
When they were gone Baron said, "Two of our best Bonegetters. They have quite a knack for the work, don't they, Henry?"
"They're very reliable," Henry said noncommittally.
Baron clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly. "Time to get to work then. Henry, if you'll help me get everything ready?"
"Of course," Henry said, sounding as if he'd just as soon have a hydrochloric acid enema. He lurched off to one of the work tables and began gathering surgical tools.
"Would you like me to step outside?" Devona asked Baron.
Baron answered while he donned a pair of black rubber gloves that looked as if they could use a good disinfecting, or better yet, a thorough going over with a blow torch.
"There's no need, Ms. Kanti. Since Mr. Richter's already dead, there's no risk of infec
tion to him, and as he cannot experience physical pain, there's no need for anesthetics, so he'll be conscious and awake during the procedure. You're welcome to stay, as long as it's all right with you, Mr. Richter."
"Sure. Devona's seen me come apart before. She should get the chance to see me get put together for a change."
Devona smiled at me. "I'd hold your hand, but I know you can't feel it right now."
"Hold it anyway," I said. "For luck, if nothing else."
She nodded and took hold of one of my hands. Henry wheeled over a surgical cart containing a dozen different instruments that wouldn't have been out of place in Torquemada's playroom. One by one he held an instrument and the arms extending from the fleshy mass above me stretched down and grabbed hold of it.
I'd forgotten about the bizarre piece of fleshtech hanging down from the ceiling, but now I looked up at the hands gripping the surgical instruments and I saw that the mass was slowly descending toward me. When the hands were within reach of the table the mass stopped moving.
"Please tell me those things are just going to hold the instruments for you," I said to Baron.
He gave me a smile that did nothing at all to reassure me. "Don't worry. I'll be guiding them every step of the way."
And before I could say anything else Baron gave a command and one of the hands reached toward me.
The operation had begun.
At one point during the procedure Baron said, "Something just occurred to me, Mr. Richter. You're in a rather unique situation."
I tried to ignore the disembodied hands of the fleshtech device as they worked on restoring the connections between my brain and my central nervous system. "Considering that I'm a zombie having my head put back onto my body by the Frankenstein Monster, I'd say that was an understatement."
Baron chuckled. "Besides that, I mean. Tonight someone attacked you, cut off your head, stole your body, and later dumped it rather unceremoniously in the Sprawl. This puts you in a unique situation in that, since the beheading didn't kill you, you are in a sense able to investigate your own murder. How many private detectives can say the same?"
