Brandon laid his fingers on the dead Scientist's skull.
"Maybe--just maybe--we _have_ got the weapon," he said.
His hand trembled.
* * * * *
The coroner pumps throbbed warmly under the table, while manipulating
tendrils darted swiftly, effectively over the dead Scientist's body.
Brandon moved, too, like a machine. In a regular fury he had forced
Logan to hurry the body down into the preparations room, inject
adrenalin, thermal units, apply the blood pump and accomplish a
thousand other demanding and instantaneous tasks.
"Now, out of the way, Logan. You're more trouble than help!"
Logan stumbled back. "Okay, okay. Don't get snotty. It won't work. I
keep telling you. All these years."
Brandon could see nothing. Logan's voice was muffled, far away. There
was only the surge of pumps, the sweating heat of the little cubicle,
and niche number 12 waiting to receive this body if he failed. Brandon
swallowed, tightly. Niche number 12 waiting, cold, ready, waiting for a
body to fill it. He'd have to fight to keep it empty.
He began to sing-song words over and over as he injected stimulants
into the body. He didn't know where the words came from, from
childhood, maybe, from his old religious memories:
"Lazarus come forth," Brandon said softly, bending close, adjusting the
manipulatory tendrils. "Lazarus, come forth."