The Heart of Lucy (standard:horror, 4732 words)
Author: Loren	Added: Jan 18 2006	Views/Reads: 3708/2765	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
An English Scientist in the early twentieth century creates an artificial human body, and gives it a soul. But there are flaws that may prove fatal, or worse, to his new, beloved creation, and he fears that the flaws cannot be unmade.

The Heart of Lucy 

“Where were you last night?” 

The voice was deep and hoarse, the words coming from a curious and
astonished man. They were the first words she heard in her life, an 
awakening to her existence. 

The sound of someone closing a door surprised her ears. The smell of
rain gradually spread across the room. She felt herself sitting on 
something hard, with her arms rested on two hard surfaces. Other than 
that, she did not know the contents of her environment–an awkward 
darkness was in her eyes, besides a strange red glow. 

“Where were you last night?” the voice insisted. “Were you ill?” 

“I was in the best health I've ever been, Ollie,” a different voice
replied. It was a nicer, softer voice. It spoke with a tone of handling 
great thrill very gently. 

“How could you, Arthur?” the hoarse voice blamed. “A royal ceremony! Why
didn't you come?” 

“Do you know what it is to be God, Ollie?” the nicer voice said
suspiciously. 

There was an awkward pause. 

“What are you getting at?” the hoarse voice asked quietly. 

“Let me show you.” 

Two sets of foot steps two and fro approached her, one much heavier than
the other. When they stopped she felt a warm, soft hand over her own. 
“Wake up, Lucy,” the sweet voice said calmly. “We have company.” 

She had no vocabulary. Even sound itself was something new to her. These
had been only her first seconds of consciousness. However, she felt, 
instinctively, that another life was communicating to her. She wasn't 
sure what was wanted of her. She slightly flexed her elastic brows in 
concentration and held her breath confusedly. After a moment, another 
soft, warm hand touched her eyelids, and opened them. 

In front of her stood two men. 

The one with the hands she liked was a tall, thin man–he was about the
age of thirty. His hair was a soft and rather untidy brunet, his 
passionate eyes a sky blue. He stood leaning toward her, looking as if 
he had been extremely busy with something. He wore a white, buttoned 
shirt, fine khaki-colored pants and a long, white coat. He was looking 
straight into her eyes. 

The other man possessed a large build, and he stood from a distance with
shortly trimmed hair and a small mustache. He wore a black waist coat. 
He looked puzzled in a peculiar way, but a moment later he groaned in 
frustration. 

“Arthur?” the large man uttered disgustedly. He had the hoarse voice. 

“Isn't she wonderful!” the other exclaimed. 

“Preposterous! You did not hark to the queen's summon because you've
been working on this toy?!” 

The other man lowered his hands and rose, looking insulted. “Oliver!” he
exclaimed. “She's not a toy!” 

The large man calmed himself and shook his head. “It seems to be quite a
work of art Arthur,” he said. “But how could you put it before the 
ceremony!” 

The other man suddenly seemed even more hurt. “She's not an it Oliver!” 

“Arthur, you're mad. Machines have no identity. Not even automatons.” 



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