(Photo by Pixabay)

“It’s perfect.”

The hushed whisper, sounding almost reverent, was the only thing that broke the silence in the lab that afternoon. The sample sat on the table, running through every test with ease. All Chester had to do was send the ape the basic instructions. No need for fine details or mental hand-holding. Just a simple suggestion and the ape figured out the rest.

“We’ll use the rest of our time to ensure the sample is truly perfect,” Chester said, “so when the Solar King arrives I’ll be able to give him a full report.”

Of course, Chester knew the process was perfect. His team of necrologists had finally figured out what he had learned years ago. Everything from the composition of the neural gel to the needed life support during the procedure were a perfect copy of his original system.

“I can’t tell you all how proud I am of you for this accomplishment,” Chester said. “It’s been a long road, getting here, and I can’t help but remember those who are no longer with us. We have only reached this height because we stand on the shoulders of those who came before us. Their contributions, their discoveries, are why we can do what we do.”

The mood in the lab dimmed somewhat at Chester’s reminder.

“But that’s all behind us, now,” Smythe Hark said. “With this success, we can finally present His Golden Eminence with perfection.”

Chester nodded.

“Assuming we find no other unexpected surprises, then yes, Mister Hark, we may finally be free of our weekly punishment for failure.”

“I wonder what new project we’ll be assigned to next,” Smythe went on, excitement in his eyes.

Smythe was performing as expected. For the time being, Chester was letting him carry on as normally as possible.

“I’ve heard there might be another team trying to accomplish true revivification,” one of the necrologists said.

“That’s just an old rumor,” someone else scoffed. “Once cell death sets in, there’s no way to recover more than just scraps from a brain.”

Chester let the discussion continue as they discussed various other projects and rumors they’d heard about. Many of the necrologists in the lab shot glances his way, as though seeing whether or not he’d confirm any of what they were talking about. He kept his face stoic, however, and waved away any direct attempts at getting a firm answer from him.

“Come on,” Smythe eventually said, “You’ve got to know about some of these. You’ve been here the longest and have the highest clearance.”

“Positions of trust and authority are not earned by those who give away secrets,” Chester told them. “I learned early on, and you should all do the same, that secrets are a rare currency you should spend very carefully. If spent right, they can save your life. If you spend them too freely, it could end up costing you your life instead.”

Secrets.

Chester didn’t actually like secrets. He wished everyone could just know everything but he had to admit there were some things the general populace was better off not knowing. Necrology was one such area of knowledge that the every-day person was happier in ignorance. Maybe what Chester really wanted was a world where there were no secrets because no one actually knew any of the terrible truths in the first place. There was a time before the advent of necrology, before people had spread themselves all over the solar system, back when they were limited to one simple planet. The trade off, though, was their short lives and lack of technology that Chester usually took for granted.

“Seventy-five,” he muttered.

“What was that?” a voice interrupted Chester’s musings.

“Sorry, I was just thinking about how far we’ve come, as a people,” Chester said. “Long ago, seventy-five was the average age for people to die a natural death.”

“Do they even allow interstellar pilots to fly that young?” a necrologist half joked.

“There’s still a lot of people who don’t live as long as we do,” Smythe said from the back of the room. “A lot of the fringe worlds don’t have such easy access to genetic repairs and age reversing.”

“I’m from the fringe,” another necrologist spoke up and they were looking at Smythe dismissively. “We live just as long as anyone else.”

“Not the miners,” Smythe stated. “They’re lucky if they reach a hundred.”

“Oh, well, yeah,” the necrologist replied. “But they’re just miners. I doubt they’d want to live that long anyway. Probably a mercy, not keeping them up and breathing for three to four hundred years.”

Chester could feel Smythe’s temper beginning to rise and he had to direct Smythe to deescalate the argument.

“Next time you’re out there,” Smythe said in calmer tones, “you should ask them what they think about that kind of mercy.”

“I think I’d rather not,” was the reply and Smythe let the conversation end.

“This reminds me that we should test the emotional control of the sample,” Chester said, even though he knew it wasn’t a problem anymore. “Let’s get those straps back in place just in case things don’t go according to plan. I want a full analysis of the sample’s neural processing so we can see how effective the neural gel is in the deeper regions of the brain.”

That got them all moving and working again. It was often that way in the lab. As long as they had an objective, they worked together without any issues. As soon as there was a lull in the work, however, their differences began to crop up. Arguments were common, as well as the occasional bit of shouting. For better or worse, only Chester was old enough to have lived through the wars and had any sort of proficiency when it came to fighting. As such, the few fights that had broken out in the lab were quickly and easily ended by Chester. Most of the necrologists only needed one solid hit to convince them they didn’t want to pursue that path any more.

Chester tried to keep the lab a place of calm, however, so he didn’t give them many opportunities to deviate from their assigned task. The Solar King’s threat of execution was usually enough on its own to keep everyone focused anyway. Today, however, with the promise of their task being completed at last, Chester was noticing more and more lax behavior.

“Those straps aren’t tight enough,” he had to point out. “If the sample breaks free, it’ll be obvious who’s at fault.”

The straps got tightened.

“Resolution on those neural scans is too soft,” he said. “I want to be able to tell the difference between surface activity and deep tissue responses.”

The resolution improved.

He ran them through their paces, testing out the sample and making sure everything was working as intended. By the time the work day was over, everyone, including the sample, was exhausted. As usual, Chester lingered in the lab while everyone else left. He even had Smythe go home, wishing he could have him manage the Solar King but that option was no longer available to him. The neural uplink simply wasn’t designed to do that. There were managers and there were workers, and Smythe was now a worker, just like the Solar King.

“What I need,” Chester said once he was alone in the lab, “is a middle manager. Someone I can give instructions to, that can keep an eye on things for me and keep things moving in the right direction, but who I don’t have to keep constant watch on.”

The sample they’d been working on all day was already asleep in it’s enclosure and Chester was happy to leave it alone. It’s mind wasn’t fit for this sort of work any way.

The lab door opened and a young woman came in. One of his necrologists. The one with the neural uplink that he’d had to give control of one of their other samples when the feedback in the system was interfering with his ability to control the Solar King.

“I just got your message,” she said as she approached Chester. “You said you needed some help?”

“I do,” Chester said, concealing the pain in his soul over what he was about to do.