Viktor Kolesnikov - Woven from Rage

“So what happened to the previous curator?” Reznikov was writing something down in a notebook.

“Nikolai Osipovich died in the mouth of a monster created from a local mongrel. It joined us a few months ago. We fed it periodically. It was such an affectionate dog, but," Konstantin said with annoyance, "after waking up, the animal was enslaved by primitive instincts. Six more guards died that day until they were able to stop this beast. Animals are definitely not suitable for our purposes.”

“You think?” After a long pause, the young specialist asked.

“I am sure. That is all I had to tell,” The biologist said, and took his place in the hall.

Four more people made presentations, but Reznikov was lost in thought. It seemed to him that a solution to the problem would be found in the near future. It was impossible to subdue the subject, so they needed someone who would want to obey. It is unlikely to find such an option among regular people; that is why he thought of changing his own child. But the young man had no wife or children, and such a decision absolutely did not guarantee submission and the absence of aggression.

***

The months passed by. It was a difficult time not only for the scientific community, but for regular people too. Mujahideen moved troops from Pakistan. That is why the amount of badly wounded people had increased. Since it had become clear that reincarnated wounded and dead soldiers were not of value at all because of their mental instability, the scientists had to spend most of their time in Surgery. The curator put pressure on Reznikov and even threatened him with jail if he wouldn’t show the results or groundworks which are worthy of trust to the young scientist. It sometimes seemed to the head of the secret laboratory that someone further up the ladder would call him and send him home, or even put him under arrest. He had neither energy nor desire to comply with given instructions. Moreover, the curator didn’t want and couldn’t understand that they couldn’t make a ready copy out of human. He even had some thoughts of escaping, but he didn’t know where to go.

Reznikov went out of surgery on the third floor. The harassing heat, the huge amount of work, and no answers concerning his main activity, for which he risked his life in this god-forsaken place, made the young man apathetic, and took the desire for new achievements and discoveries. He didn’t look like a genius scientist of the future at all: he usually wore a T-shirt, a robe, shorts, or track bottoms with a stretched knee area. Over such an outstanding as for a doctor outfit, he wore an unbuttoned lab coat. He didn’t wear ties, white shirts and leather shoes with polished toes anymore; his face was covered with bristles; the hair was tousled, and instead of cologne, he smelled of ethyl. He didn’t shock anyone with his outfit here, in Baghlan. Both patients and colleagues didn’t mind the scientist—the staff was in the same boat as the head, so they were also concerned with the end result of the project. The forecasts were poor.

Mikhail went outside to breathe from the terrible mixture of iodine, bleach, pus, and offal. He was dizzy. Tremors in his limbs deprived him of carrying out the next operation. The day was just beginning. For the past week, thoughts about home had dominated over thoughts about work. Now it did not seem to him that he was an outstanding scientist. But this time, on the seemingly most difficult day, the decision found Mikhail by itself. This, by the way, had happened more than once in his life.

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