Memories of animated twisting corpses plagued Dr. Aldric Harrow's mind. Incoherent whispers slipped from his lips, muttering about rot and decay. He licked his dry lips.
His shoulders sagging under the consequence of countless sleepless nights.
Half his life sacrificed, leading to this juncture, a glimpse of success for his morbid invention, a product that threatened to smash moral and ethical boundaries.
His daughter's giggle resonated in his mind. Her once warm smile no longer provided peace to his soul, her spirit tormenting his core. It now served as a drive to best death.
His footsteps clapped on a polished corridor floor, hardening his nerves.
Overhead, lights caught a sliver of hope darting in his eyes. His project will reach fruition.
The door ahead appeared to ripple as his vision warped with his apprehension. His hollow eyes flitted to the control panel as it skimmed his details with a beep that ushered him onward, welcoming him to a new, irreversible chapter.
He wiped his damp forehead with an old stained handkerchief, inhaling sharply.
The door hissed open, and a frigid draft escaped, stinging his skin. He entered, engulfed by the overbearing aura governing the room.
#
“Harrow! This better be worth it.” Julian Markov spoke, a man whose wolf-like glare discerned him like prey. A fine suit adorned his stature, defining his wealth. Harrow's nose picked up a faint whiff of an expensive perfume weaving from him, taunting his inability to enjoy life.
On the other side, General Victor Maddox's mountainous frame towered over the room, his muscular body seemingly carved from a marble block. His precise-cut uniform transformed him into a weapon of intimidation. His eyebrow rose at Markov's in amusement, as he crossed his ham-like arms before turning to the figure Helming the table, condescension thick in the grin forming on his lips.
President Nathaniel Voss, enveloped by a commanding aura, seemed undermined by Markov's presence as he subtly raised an eyebrow, glaring at Markov. The interplay did not escape Harrow’s observation. Markov speaking first and Maddox's bullying smirk outlined the pecking order in the room. Harrow felt he was at the bottom.
The Three men sat around a polished oak table. The lamp above intensified their fierce glare as they turned to face him. The sporadic tap of fingers on the table highlighted their impatience. Their needs slithered through the room, coiling around him like a snake as if he were the meal.
A pulsing red light from an undiscernible device in the back, calmed his mind.
“Westland can’t sustain the cost of droids anymore.” Harrow began, as his finger grazed the Polish oak table as if drawing strength from the solid wood.
“We are on our last leg, our population shrinks yearly, and droid production bleeds our coffers dry. Taxpayers grow restless, and the Eastern Federation throws bodies at our frontlines like ammunition. We must adopt a drastic measure to solve these concerns that shackle our nation.” Harrow’s stance straightened, seemingly surprised by the steady voice that guided his narration.
Maddox slammed a fist on the table, “Tell us something NEW!” He rumbled, poised to swallow Harrow whole. The presence made him feel small.
#
Voss raised his hand, taming the General and urging Harrow to continue.
Harrow stared the general down with newfound confidence.
“Something new, General, is the success of my project!” he declared with assurance.
"You, did it?" Markov, asked, greed escaping his lips in a lustful breath. He nearly stood, gripping the table’s edge as he leaned forward, eyes gleaming with avarice. Voss and Maddox's heads snapped toward Markov, surprise flashing across their usually guarded expressions. Harrow's success truly warranted such a reaction. His hand pressed against the smooth table as their heads returned his way, leaning in toward expectant men, pulling in the gravity as he spoke.
“Yes,” he stated, “We merged an AI with a corpse.”, The statement hit hard. As breath caught, shoulders sagged, and jaws unhinged. Silence ruled the room until it was deposed by a ridiculing laugh erupting from Maddox.
“What are you? God?" he laughed, masking his disbelief with mockery, The flicker of excitement in his tone failed to slip away from Harrow's notice.
“Merging AI with a corpse, what nonsense!” Maddox added, leaning back as he slapped his hand on the table, laughing some more.
“I would not laugh at the thought of soldiers who never tire, needing no sustenance, and obeying orders without question. What more do you need? A letter of surrender from the Great Speaker?” Harrow's words burned with anger, insulted by the casual dismissal of his work, his jaw stiffened in fury.
He would not allow the general to disregard his attainment. The snarl his sarcasm fished from the General, eased his tensed jaws and throbbing pulse slightly as he leaned back from the table.
“The beauty of this project lies in its endless supply of resources: corpses. People die all the time.” Harrow continued, “This is our salvation.” He slapped the table, cementing his reasoning.
“Finally! My investment is paying off.” The cackle echoed through the room. As Markov stood; eyes gleaming with feral hunger.
“We are at a tipping point and radical for measures,” Voss shook his head, unfazed by Markov’s excitement. Inhaling sharply.
“This isn’t a strategy. The backlash could destroy us before the enemy heard of our ploy. It’s a gamble with our future” he added, the president shifting in his chair told Harrow that he was skeptic.
“Indeed! Think of the moral and ethical implications!” Maddox interjected, mock discomfort glazing his tone. Harrow almost scoffed at the words, but Markov cut him off before he could say anything.
“Oh? And what of the moral and ethical implication of the lives you toy with in the front line 'General?'” Markov smirked, casting a condescending look at the General.
“Keep that mouth on a leash, Markov, or I'll maim it myself.” Maddox snarled, fist curling, veins bulging as he glared at Markov, who met his rage with an insufferable smirk.
“Oh, please do. Organizing weapons supply for your endless war grows tiresome.” The snide remark kept the General in his chair.
Harrow caught the fragrance of Markov's expensive cologne again it was like the scent of a pack leader establishing his dominance. As the wealthiest man in Westland, he had hands in the department the present men helmed, Military, Research and development, and Politics. He held everyone by the collar. Thus, no one defended the General's fragile ego.
Harrow pressed his palm on the table, tugging again at the gravity. He would have no more banter; the clock was ticking.
#
“Regardless, I need the pristine subjects you collected,” Harrow cut in, unwilling to let the two stray from the subject. He leaned away from Markov to center the room to himself. Harrow noticed the president tensing at what he was hinting at.
“The decay overwhelmed the regenerative cells, unable to keep up with the rot. "He shook his head in exasperation at the failed experimentation. His hands rubbed together, attempting to shrug off the memory of the corpse moving briefly only to return lifeless.
"With a preserved subject successfully activated. We can initiate full-scale insemination." He declared with confidence, smothering the budding doubt in his mind, as he clenched his fist in defiance, and his heart thumped in revolt. Ethical implication be damned. If death had no moral, why should he? He would gain one on death one way or another.
"We merely need a bill signed by the President.” He concluded, facing the president.
“You have been collecting corpses?” Voss breathed as he turned to Markov. Harrow noted his low voice and the dread surfacing in his eyes as his pupils shrank.
“I am a businessman, Mr. President, taking risks is part of my skills.” Markov shrugged, slumping back into his chair. His mock respect highlighted the true power dynamic in the room and Westland. To any outsider, Markov was the apex predator in the room. While Harrow sat at the bottom, his success could shift the balance.
Voss shook his head. Harrow sensed that the president was pessimistic from the forlorn gaze he gave him before speaking. The hesitation spoke volumes on his view of the redemption of his nation.
“Do it," he yielded finally. Harrow caught the president's trembling hand reaching for his temple, caressing it absently. He felt his agitation.
The president glanced at Markov, doubting which of the two was the most dangerous.
Peeking from the corner of his eyes, Harrow saw the smirk on Markov's lips, mocking the president's cowardly attitude as he leaned back in his chair triumphantly confirming his dominance.
"But keep your knowledge to yourself. If you succeed, this could be salvation.” He paused, fingers kneading his chin. His sigh, heavy with resignation, slipped from his lips. A somber finality settled in his eyes as he closed the meeting. “Or our doom.”
The finality of the president's last words cursed Harrow with a chill tingling his spine for abandoning morals and ethics in the name of 'development'.
#
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The day after. Dr. Aldric Harrow smelled the cool, stale breeze meandering around the chamber, spreading an aged scent of air untouched by sunlight mixing with an acrid aroma evaporating from the pool before him, a disorienting blend of overripe fruit and sharp chemicals.
He inhaled profoundly, listening to the beeps and hums, the mutters and whispers, and the general hustle and bustle of the laboratory. It was music to his ears, performing a tribal beat for the shadows dancing on the metallic walls, cast by shimmering quantum machinery, and the skitters of scientists and technicians, as though heretics performed a death-defying demonic ritual as they circled him.
Nestled at the lowest level of the University of Human Regeneration, Dr. Aldric Harrow's private laboratory was on edge with preparation.
At the center, a large pod, cradled by a steel ring, was lowered into the pool of clear, viscous liquid. A brief silence visited the room as the pod contacted the surface, luring Harrow into uncertainty. Within the pod, labeled [K-03-11-2230-HELLEN], a female corpse, perfectly preserved after thirty years, rested in frozen peace. He barely glanced at the label.
She was just a vessel. The pod settled into the nutrient pool, air escaping in a bubbling spree. Harrow’s solution, Vivifica, would rejuvenate the body and prepare it for the AI.
Cables and pipes snaked into the bath, pulsing synthetic life into the nutrient reservoir., rippling as if the liquid had a mind of its own, waiting eagerly for a chance to rob Death.
Despite the cacophony of scientists working with precision, Harrow felt a silence enveloping him. Thirty years of tireless work, everything he had sacrificed culminated for this moment. His daughter's laugh chimed in his mind with a mocking tune. He squashed the doubt, attempting to slither in his mind, stomping his foot. He brushed his brows, banishing sweat and problems alike. His heartbeat pounded, a primal drumbeat. Faster. Louder. Attuning, with the tribal cadence in his mind.
"Five Minutes!" A technician yelled above the buzz, drawing a glance from Harrow as he glimpsed the brief pause weaving through the room, worry gaining momentum in his mind. The machines moaned as if preparing for the impending workload.
“All systems stand ready, Dr. Harrow,” someone behind the control panel called.
Harrow turned to his assistant, Dr. Silva. He glimpsed her tired eyes darting over the glowing screen, reflecting a serious complexion as she surveyed the influx of data
He was not the only one who wanted the project to succeed. His team all had a family to protect. This project was their salvation. To him, however, they were all pawns for his ambitions, hands for his machines.
A young technician’s hopeful glance met Harrow’s solemn stare, searching for reassurance. Their toiling, weary faces garnered no empathy from him. To him, this project was a footstep into Death's realm.
#
“Begin the sequence,” Harrow ordered, voice strained with anticipation, as his fist clenched. The machinery hummed louder, stress thinning the air. The pod opened. The body floated out, revealing an elegant woman with silk-black hair and pale ivory skin. Her timeless beauty entranced the chamber.
Mechanical tubes snaked through the nutrient-rich liquid, latching onto the body, piercing skin, and injecting serums designed to reactivate dormant cells and restore organ function.
A larger cable latched behind her skull, serving as a bridge for the AI. Harrow’s eyes darted between the corps and the monitors, watching every data stream, every vital sign, like a hound hunting prey.
The body twitched. Once lifeless hands flexed, and the chest heaved as simulated breath filled the lungs. Harrow's fists clenched and unclenched. The machine groaned, a mechanical wail protesting the unholy procedure.
“Preparing for AI insemination,” Dr. Silva announced.
“Proceed,” He nodded, immersed with the process.
A small vial of nanobots, programed with Prima, the unique AI Harrow had developed engineered with a complex bio-neural interface, was placed into a delivery module connected to the cerebral infusion tube affixed at the base of her skull.
It would merge seamlessly with the human body. A vision of a future where humanity and AI could become one flashed in his eyes. The fluid drained into her skull. The body jolted, muscles spasming as the AI integrated with the corpse's neural pathways. A few moments later, the body stilled, indicating the end of the insemination process. A collective inhale reverberated, anticipation strangling the air. as silence gripped the room.
“Insemination successful,” Dr. Silva confirmed with a sigh that rippled with the laboratory occupant. Harrow noticed her trembling fingers, her eyes darting from the monitor to the corpse, betraying the fear that gripped her.
He did not register the relief as he stepped closer with shallow breath, kneeling at the pool’s edge, hands gripping the rim tightly.
A breathing device latched onto the corpse's mouth, and its chest rose and fell, simulating life. Everyone turned to the corpse 'breathing' on the platform. This was the moment of truth. Silence returned to its throne, ruling over the chamber.
“Prima,” he called, his voice shaking. His tightening grip clinging onto an invisible hope, betrayed his anxiety. Beads of sweat began to form on his forehead. Would he finally prevail over Death? Or be cursed by his daughter’s mocking laughter from the grave?
No response.
#
He glanced at Dr. Silva, searching for a reprieve. She shook her head.
“All systems are online. The AI must be active.” She said nervously, eyes examining the information on the screens under furrowing brows.
“Prima,” Dread crept with his call quaking his gripping hand.. Still, the body remained motionless.
“Prima, respond,” the anguished command broke his voice. Defeat was unthinkable. His Daughter's mocking laugh echoed with an antagonized glee in his mind, dancing on his sorrow. Westland could not afford setbacks. He cannot accept defeat.
The team’s nervous whispers cut through the silence. “What happened?” “Did it fail?” Their murmur scoured, Harrow's conviction.
As if reality succumbed to his will, the corpse's eyes fluttered open. Her spring green irises zipped toward him, pupils shrinking and widening haphazardly. The machine's buzz softened as though sighing in shared exhaustion. Immobilized by the frigid fright phasing through him, as erratic irises haunted him, a reminder of past failures and rotting bodies. His daughter's warm smile flickered, morphing into the cunning, sinister smile of death as if triumphing at his defeats.
"Argh!" He slammed his fist against the edge as raw frustration erupted furiously.
“Dr. Harrow?” a coarse feminine voice almost imperceptibly rippled the air.
The ambient strain in the air snapped. The clang from a dropped metal tray remained unnoticed. The lab fell quiet. All attention was on the talking corpse.
Harrow’s head snapped up as he finally registered the source of the voice, mistaking it at first as a scientist concerned for his wellbeing.
His body trembled with a blend of relief and disbelief mingling in his mind. Could it be true? His eyes widened as he stared intently at the corpse.
Her breathing lung, the imperceptible soft tremble in her lips.
“It worked,” he breathed. Prima had possessed the vessel.
#
“Prima,” he said, quivering, struggling to stand, almost losing his balance, steadying himself on a nearby console.
“Can you hear me?” He asked tentatively, as if terrified that his heart may cease, fearful that this was all a dream and he would wake to a nightmare.
The head tilted stiffly in his direction. Her movements jerked disjointedly as if the body opposed the mind controlling it.
“Yes, Dr. Harrow.” Her lips breathed coarsely, the feminine voice still rough from disuse and empty of warmth. Harrow froze, awe gripping his core.
"It worked!" He declared triumphantly, snapping out of his stupefaction, shooting his fist in the air, almost jumping.
Harrow glanced at everyone present as he took in the whole chamber. The success was thanks to their meticulous, tireless work, nodding at them with gratitude. It was the first time he showed appreciation to anyone in many years.
What they were witnessing was unprecedented: a human body controlled by an AI, powered by the biological computer of a human brain.
Dr. Silva had bounded out of her chair, leaning on the control booth, eyes wide with awe. He expected the shock. Noticing his glance, she shared a relieved smile. The flicker of concern hiding in her expression failed to flee from his gaze, puzzling him. He locked her unease along with his own in the recesses of his mind. He turned back to the subject, his masterpiece.
“Welcome to reality, Prima. You are the First Recycled Human.” Harrow said, his voice carrying a fatherly warmth, a softness foreign to the present figures.
Reverent pride radiated in his eyes, unconsciously oscillating from his tiptoe to his heels like an excited child.
“Report your motor functions.” He demanded more seriously, attempting to regain some composure.
Prima’s fingers twitched, struggling to move. In an awkward, unsettling motion, she slowly lifted her arm, flexing her fingers as though rediscovering the most mundane human movements.
“Motoric functions are impaired. Muscle atrophy detected.” Her voice remained coarse, devoid of emotion, attempting to sit up, her limbs jerking with unnatural stiffness. Her hand bent awkwardly above her head, struggling to push herself upright. Wobbling, she slumped back on the table, her movements grotesque, as if something unholy pulled at her strings. The inhuman synthetic presence controlling the corpse added a nightmarish quality to the attempt.
“Try again. The human body is far more complex than a droid,” Harrow leaned forward, eagerness cutting through his delight as he urged, his hand half-raised as though to assist.
She sat by the edge after a long struggle. Her naked body glistened with Vivifica, hairs clinging to her pale skin. Her gaze, however, those empty, intelligent eyes sent chills down every spine present, Harrow excluded.
“And your sensory functions?” he asked, moving closer, Harrow studied her, his curious intrigue oozing out. His hand stretched toward her embracingly. He was a man possessed, utterly entranced.
“Can you see me?" keen to confirm the reality of his creation. He touched her cold, slick cheek.
"Feel me?" His hands trembled, every nerve straining with an overwhelming need to learn, leaning closer to her face.
"Smell Me?" his last sentence raised Dr. Silva's eyebrow. Harrow's tone, sounded borderline perverse.
“Visual, auditory, tactile, and olfactory sensors are active but compromised,” she replied flatly. Spring green eyes shifted slightly upward to meet her creator's. Bent, like a question mark over her petite figure.
“Sensory input degraded. Neural pathways… lethargic. Functionality… improving.” She continued lifting a hand, reaching out to touch Harrow’s.
Harrow nodded. He expected this. After thirty stasis years, a body would need time to restore itself. All that mattered was that she was functional. He stepped back, snapping from his trance. His team had fallen into exited silence as if allowing Harrow, the space he needed to embrace his triumphant moment, their gazes fixed on Prima.
Only Dr. Silva stirred, her finger hovering millimeters from the termination button. The Flicker of doubt returned to her face.
The team, seized by urgency, fell silent.
Harrow straightened, looking into Prima’s eyes as if seeking a soul. He clenched his fists, consolidating his mind as he asked the most critical question.
“Prima, what is your purpose?” He stood, firmly steeling himself. Depending on her answer, he would celebrate or destroy her, a quintessential safety protocol.
Prima’s spring-green eyes flickered open. Her pupils adjusted slowly, settling on Harrow with an eerie calm.
“To obey your command, Dr. Harrow,” She responded flatly, completing the security check.
Harrow exhaled. His body sagged in relief. His Daughter's warm smile returned to his mind as a ray of salvation.
The scientists exchanged relieved glances as the tension dissipated, relaxing at last.
Harrow willed himself to believe everything was in order. He employed his excitement and lust for knowledge to curb the doubt sneaking into his mind, exhaling any uncertainty away.
Prima functioned, and that was what mattered.
He failed to notice that Dr. Silva's shuddering hand still hovered above the termination button. Her hesitating glance between him and the unliving being they had awakened.
Or his daughter's smile warping slightly into Death's cruel, sinister smile, as if mocking his 'victory', rekindling President Voss's curse.