The Kimota Anthology by Steve Lockley, Stephen Gallagher, Neal Asher, Stephen Laws, Mark Chadbourn, Mark Morris, Paul Finch, William Meikle, Peter Crowther, Graeme Hurry Page A
Authors: Steve Lockley, Stephen Gallagher, Neal Asher, Stephen Laws, Mark Chadbourn, Mark Morris, Paul Finch, William Meikle, Peter Crowther, Graeme Hurry
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of rubber surgical gloves. I slip the gloves on, gently scoop out the skull’s contents, and place them in the bag, a streak of blood smearing the inside as it goes in, a telltale sign that the organ is quite fresh, Holding the bag up to the light, its contents so unblemished, so malleable and awaiting transformation, is ecstasy.
The grin cannot contain itself now. The mouth even wants to laugh, to shriek with joy, but that desire must be quelled, because it isn’t allowed yet. Not yet, not until I have successfully resurrected oblivion.
Steaming fog like it was hot, fresh tarmac and the street lamps glowing amber balloons and the car crawling with tyres hissing as though sticking to the road surface. And...
And the need to maintain a slow and regular speed so that the brain might remain safely on the passenger seat in the plastic bag I have sealed with a bag-tie. There is condensation forming on the inside of the bag with the car’s interior warming up, which conceals the brain so no busybody might otherwise see that it resembles something purchased at the butcher’s shop.
Pairs of lights cruise past annoyed with my car’s slowness, but the smile in the minor dismisses them. A light smile, a smile of mild disdain. If they had to do the job I was having to, they would also drive with more caution. A big car screeches forward, slowing as it rides next to me on the dual carriageway, keeping pace with my speed. Inside, there is a face that is all mouth, all snarl, and hands are thumping the steering wheel and the driver’s mouth is letting forth with expletives that, luckily, I cannot hear through the sound of the engines’ and the closed windows, and the heater fan.
I stop.
And he’s through the red light which he didn’t see in time and there is a minor accident when his big car clips the rear bumper of another vehicle crossing legitimately in front. Both cars slew sideways, slow down, and recover, but the big car grunts and roars off although its driver should stop so that both occupants can exchange insurance details.
The mouth in the rear view minor slaps its lips together in a self-satisfied manner, knowing that such stupidities are beyond it. The outright abandonment of emotion is unthinkable. The wild failure to observe what is going on around is a stupidity of the first order and not permissible.
Home!
The garage door is similar to a mouth opening automatically, a mouth with no tongue and teeth, but instead the car slips inside; a prosthetic metal tongue yet to be coated in flesh.
And...
Uncle is waiting as patient as the dead do wait.
On the dining table.
I’ve cleared the table of everything except for the white cloth on which he is lying. Uncle looks very small, thin, and frail. He’s quite a bit older than I am, so, along with his present status, that is to be expected.
Earlier. I prepared him and now it is a simple matter to lift off the top of his skull which I had sawn away, from the forehead to the middle, a full half-dome of skull in fact. His face is not particularly pale, but his eyes are closed. Uncle’s mouth, though, oh, the mouth! A cheeky grin curves his ruby lips, just revealing a thin crescent of white teeth beneath. The smile is frozen there, ready for use.
Soon.
My white lab coat and plastic apron lend a professional air to the proceedings. And they are needed, for this is a solemn and groundbreaking moment in medical history. The first ever brain transplant. All organ replacement surgery before tonight was merely rehearsal!
I am already aware that the brain I have brought with me will not fit inside Uncle’s skull cavity and have prepared for that. A plastic washing-up bowl and scalpel have been put out to perform the required excisions. The so-called grey matter has to be cut away, the two hemispheres of the cerebral cortex are superfluous to Uncle’s needs. There is too much information in their jelly-like convolutions, too much that is unnecessary, all that
The grin cannot contain itself now. The mouth even wants to laugh, to shriek with joy, but that desire must be quelled, because it isn’t allowed yet. Not yet, not until I have successfully resurrected oblivion.
Steaming fog like it was hot, fresh tarmac and the street lamps glowing amber balloons and the car crawling with tyres hissing as though sticking to the road surface. And...
And the need to maintain a slow and regular speed so that the brain might remain safely on the passenger seat in the plastic bag I have sealed with a bag-tie. There is condensation forming on the inside of the bag with the car’s interior warming up, which conceals the brain so no busybody might otherwise see that it resembles something purchased at the butcher’s shop.
Pairs of lights cruise past annoyed with my car’s slowness, but the smile in the minor dismisses them. A light smile, a smile of mild disdain. If they had to do the job I was having to, they would also drive with more caution. A big car screeches forward, slowing as it rides next to me on the dual carriageway, keeping pace with my speed. Inside, there is a face that is all mouth, all snarl, and hands are thumping the steering wheel and the driver’s mouth is letting forth with expletives that, luckily, I cannot hear through the sound of the engines’ and the closed windows, and the heater fan.
I stop.
And he’s through the red light which he didn’t see in time and there is a minor accident when his big car clips the rear bumper of another vehicle crossing legitimately in front. Both cars slew sideways, slow down, and recover, but the big car grunts and roars off although its driver should stop so that both occupants can exchange insurance details.
The mouth in the rear view minor slaps its lips together in a self-satisfied manner, knowing that such stupidities are beyond it. The outright abandonment of emotion is unthinkable. The wild failure to observe what is going on around is a stupidity of the first order and not permissible.
Home!
The garage door is similar to a mouth opening automatically, a mouth with no tongue and teeth, but instead the car slips inside; a prosthetic metal tongue yet to be coated in flesh.
And...
Uncle is waiting as patient as the dead do wait.
On the dining table.
I’ve cleared the table of everything except for the white cloth on which he is lying. Uncle looks very small, thin, and frail. He’s quite a bit older than I am, so, along with his present status, that is to be expected.
Earlier. I prepared him and now it is a simple matter to lift off the top of his skull which I had sawn away, from the forehead to the middle, a full half-dome of skull in fact. His face is not particularly pale, but his eyes are closed. Uncle’s mouth, though, oh, the mouth! A cheeky grin curves his ruby lips, just revealing a thin crescent of white teeth beneath. The smile is frozen there, ready for use.
Soon.
My white lab coat and plastic apron lend a professional air to the proceedings. And they are needed, for this is a solemn and groundbreaking moment in medical history. The first ever brain transplant. All organ replacement surgery before tonight was merely rehearsal!
I am already aware that the brain I have brought with me will not fit inside Uncle’s skull cavity and have prepared for that. A plastic washing-up bowl and scalpel have been put out to perform the required excisions. The so-called grey matter has to be cut away, the two hemispheres of the cerebral cortex are superfluous to Uncle’s needs. There is too much information in their jelly-like convolutions, too much that is unnecessary, all that
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