Free Blood of Ambrose by James Enge

deaths were effected without harming the bodies. What they lack to function is the proper stimulus, the source of energy we call life.”
    His pale ropy fingers moved as he spoke, drawing the necessary implements from the pockets sewn into his wide flowing sleeves: a firebox, a strip of yellow metal submerged in a jar of oil, a candle, and a fistful of pale narrow wedges of maijarra wood.
    “With the Flagrator”—and he gestured at the bristling instrument of metal and glass driven into the dead man's chest—"we will provide an artificial stimulus, a pseudo-life, if you will. The mechanism will then function to the best of its ability and—because it has none of the volitive propensities associated with genuine life—it will do more or less as we tell it.”
    “A human golem,” Urdhven remarked.
    Steng paused before replying. “It is not as useful as a golem,” he said. “The capacities of the corpse are limited to some subset of the abilities of the man. The connections of the Flagrator are tenuous and would be disturbed by physical movement. Also, it was necessary to destroy the left lung and most of its associated musculature to implant the Flagrator.”
    “Interesting,” the Protector remarked distantly, and Steng knew his evasive tactics had been successful. “He will speak?”
    “It will speak,” Steng replied.
    “Then he has intelligence. Why, then, not will?”
    Steng reflected that the Protector, in spite of his appetites and angers, was not a wholly stupid man. “Intelligence,” he said aloud, “like beauty and strength, is largely a physical attribute. Because it is resident in the structure of the brain, this is not obvious; it is nonetheless true. Will, however, is an expression of personality, of identity.”
    “Of spirit?”
    “If you prefer. You must not expect to find it as intelligent as it was when it was alive, however. The brain, as has often been observed, is something like a parasite feeding off the blood of the body. This brain has had no fresh blood to eat for some time and has consequently deteriorated. It will continue to do so, by the way—the Flagrator warms and circulates the blood of the body, as part of its function. But it does not generate fresh pure blood as a living heart does.”
    “You've cut out the heart?” asked Vost, who was clearly attracted and repelled by the notion.
    “Yes,” said Steng indifferently. “It is around here somewhere. Excuse me for a moment; I must perform some delicate manipulations.”
    Even as he spoke he was carefully turning valves on the Flagrator with his long ropy fingers. The valves hummed slightly, in tones that varied with their setting, and he set them so that they sang a long monotonous harmony. Then he took a long piece of maijarra wood and wedged it into the corpse's mouth, so that it looked as if the corpse were thoughtfully gnawing at it. Finally he opened the jar of oil and removed the strip of metal with a small pair of tongs. The metal burst into multicolored flame as the air touched it, eerily lighting up the poisoner's face. With a hasty exclamation that might have been a curse or the fixative word of a spell, Steng dropped the burning metal into the central glass bulb of the gleaming turreted Flagrator.
    Instantly the corpse began to convulse. Steng had carefully bound the body so that it could not move much, nor damage the delicate mechanisms of the Flagrator. But it was startling to see the dead body twitch and shudder, its teeth clamping tight on the strip of maijarra wood, arcing its back as if it were in agony.
    “Is he in pain?” Vost asked.
    “There is no ‘he,'” Steng replied irritably. “It does not matter if the nerves register pain. There is no one to feel it.”
    The convulsions subsided. The eyes were open and staring, the jaw slack. Steng removed the stick of wood from its mouth. Its chest rose and fell in a slow irregular rhythm.
    “Is he ready?” the Protector asked.
    “I believe it is