Kzine Issue 22 by Graeme Hurry et al

Author:Graeme Hurry et al. [al., Graeme Hurry et]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kimota Publishing
Published: 2018-09-24T23:00:00+00:00

MANIPULATION

by E. V. Morozov

“There is a chance that the body will retain some of the energy transferred to it by a Flesh ward even once the ward is removed. This is called the Gabel Risk Factor. The Factor scales with several variables: species, ward complexity, longevity and so on. All of the wards that are currently legal have a negligible Gabel Risk Factor. The majority of the wards that would become legal under the Flesh Exploitation Bill have a high, or even a very high, Gabel Risk Factor.”

—Principal Dr Anak Gabel, Professor of Flesh Sciences, Free Research Institute of Arwall, Extract from an interview with The Gentry Herald, 3rd of Sunspawn, the year 67 PC.

The phonograph hissed quietly as the needle threaded its way around the recording cylinder. Three figures sat in the dim light of the interview room. One perfectly upright and still, her back not touching the chair, her left index and forefinger pressed to her temple, right hand palm-down, fingers open, on the table. Her features were clearly visible: plain and pale face, almost clean of make-up, clear of emotion if not for a line of intense concentration creasing her forehead; her hair, with a stark streak of white down the left side, was brushed back into a ponytail. She sat opposite a smaller huddled shape that had her knees drawn up to her face, hugging her legs, obscured by shadow but emanating a distinct scent of rot. A Flesh ward could make a corpse look and behave alive, but it could not mask the smell. The third figure reclined in a high-backed wooden chair, his right leg flung casually over the left, leather boot swaying a little. He was outside the immediate vicinity of the light, but every so often inhaled on a long metal pipe, the embers glowed orange and revealed two small eyes fixed intently on the huddled figure. When he exhaled, the cheap tobacco fumes mixed with the cloying scent of rot and caused the upright woman to wrinkle her nose.

The high-backed chair let out a sharp creak, the smoke moved about the room, and for a moment something flashed in the man’s eyes. A semblance of kindness, but too fleeting and too cold. “I really am sorry to put you through this, Miss Bekin,” his voice was bored and tired; this was routine. “But we really must ask you to try again.”

“I can’t remember,” the huddled figure did not look up. Her reply was detached, disinterested.

The man sighed and glanced at the other woman. “Brain rot?”

She nodded, “Most likely. Although given where and when she was found, I would say it is unlikely to be natural.”

“Yes,” his tone was meditative, “We’re seeing this sort of thing more often. You wouldn’t believe the amount of decapitated bodies we find these days.” He coughed. “Anyway, is there anything you can do?”

She hesitated before replying, “No.”

He arched an eyebrow, muttered “end of interview” into the phonograph and took the needle off the recording cylinder. “Why the hesitation?”

She glanced at the phonograph, at the huddled shape, then at the man.

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