Chapter 252: The Price of Longevity

Several months after the first stable Mindmark Rune implantations, Noah turned his attention to the restricted research institute on Eldrath. The scientists had continued examining the successful subjects long after their discharge from the implantation rooms. During one appointment, a medical researcher compared a goblin’s latest tissue samples with those collected before he received his rune.

She checked the figures twice, then called the department’s senior physician. "Have a look at these. His cells are far more active than they were before implantation. I thought we’d mixed up the samples, but the identification numbers match."

The physician reviewed the records. "Is this only in the tissue you collected today?"

"No. I’ve checked samples from his blood and several other tissues. The increase is showing up everywhere we’ve measured."

They requested new samples from the same subject and examined the other goblins whose runes had remained stable. The results repeated. Cells throughout their bodies showed extraordinary activity, and the signs of deterioration normally associated with age appeared to be progressing far more slowly than expected. The researchers compared the readings with older medical records, then checked whether the unusual activity was accompanied by signs of injury. In the subjects they had examined, it was not.

At the next research meeting, the physician displayed the findings beside the implantation records. "This isn’t confined to the area near the head. We’re seeing the same change throughout the body. Their cells are staying unusually active, and several measurements associated with aging are changing much more slowly."

One of the engineers looked at the display. "Are you saying the rune is keeping them young?"

"I’m saying their bodies aren’t aging at the rate we’d expect," the physician replied. "We need longer observations before we can say exactly what that means for their lifespan."

The research director authorized an extended study. One scientist proposed that the heightened cellular activity might simply exhaust the body faster, but the examinations did not show the deterioration he expected. The medical team agreed to report the unusual activity and the slower aging measurements as separate findings until longer observations could establish their relationship.

Over the following months, medical teams examined every subject with a stable Mindmark Rune, repeating tests and comparing them with records from goblins of similar ages who had never undergone implantation. The results were consistent enough for the institute to attempt a lifespan projection. When the figures were presented, even the senior researchers spent several minutes checking the calculations.

"Two hundred years?" the director asked.

"Approximately, if the changes continue at the rate we’ve measured," the physician answered. "It’s a projection. None of these subjects has lived with an imprint long enough to prove it."

"Make sure the report says that plainly. I don’t want the government treating a calculated lifespan as an observed result."

The institute sent a confidential report to Eldrath’s ruler. Noah observed the meeting in the palace as the ruler studied the findings with the minister responsible for scientific research. The document described increased cellular activity, reduced signs of aging, and the possibility that successfully implanted goblins might live as long as two centuries, far beyond the ordinary lifespan of their species.

The ruler set the report down. "Have your researchers ruled out a temporary reaction to the implantation?"

"We’ve examined all the stable subjects repeatedly," the director said. "The changes have persisted. But the lifespan figure is still based on those measurements. We’ll need years of follow-up to know whether the projection holds."

An official beside the minister leaned forward. "If it’s genuine, experienced engineers and researchers could have decades more to work. We need to understand why the procedure succeeds in some goblins and fails in others."

"That’s what we’re requesting permission to investigate," the director replied. "Our present sample is too small to identify the conditions that produce a stable imprint. We need a much larger set of trials across different ages."

The ruler remembered the earlier fatalities. He asked how many subjects were still receiving treatment and whether the machines had become safer. The director admitted that successful implantation remained uncommon and that unstable imprints could still injure or kill their recipients. Nevertheless, after reviewing the proposal with his officials, the ruler approved expanded testing. The program would remain classified, with additional engineers, medical staff, and subjects assigned to the facility.

The security administration increased deliveries to the institute. Some of the new subjects had volunteered, but others were brought by guards after being taken from detention centers, workplaces, and homes. The government kept their identities and the research program out of public records. Families reported missing relatives to local authorities without knowing where they had been taken.

The growing number of reports did not lead to a public explanation. In one town, the relatives of a missing apprentice continued visiting the local security office. They were told that the case had been transferred to another department. At the institute, the same apprentice appeared in a subject register under a number rather than his name. The entry recorded his age, medical condition, and assigned examination room.

For the expanded trials, the scientists organized subjects into age groups. They used several reconstructed machines and required medical examinations before and after each procedure. Younger goblins, adolescents, adults, and elderly subjects were included. A number of the younger subjects arrived frightened, accompanied by guards rather than family members. The researchers recorded their ages and medical conditions alongside the outcome of each implantation.

The first months produced widely different results. Some subjects retained complete runes; others lost the imprint almost immediately. In several cases the procedure was stopped before transfer had finished. The medical teams treated headaches, unconsciousness, and more serious injuries. The research director continued receiving casualty reports while the engineers tried different arrangements of the transfer component.

One afternoon a researcher studying the records noticed that most successful transfers belonged to a narrow age range. She brought the figures to the director and spread the results across a display.

"Look at the subjects who retained their runes," she said. "Almost all of them were between nine and thirteen when they underwent implantation."

The director enlarged the other age groups. "We’ve tested younger goblins, too. How did they do?"

"Poorly. The imprint usually became unstable, even when the transfer initially looked complete. The results get worse again after thirteen, and the failures become more severe as the subjects get older."

He asked the team to verify the ages against admission records and compare only trials conducted with properly functioning machines. Further testing supported the pattern. The nine-to-thirteen group had the highest proportion of stable imprints. Goblins younger than nine were more likely to experience instability, while those older than thirteen faced increasingly dangerous reactions. Among older adults, a complete transfer often preceded sudden, uncontrolled mana readings.

The dangers became apparent during an experiment involving an adult goblin. The subject was secured in the implantation chair as the engineer initiated the procedure. At first, the monitors showed a completed transfer. Then the mana readings climbed sharply.

"It’s rising again," the attending physician said. "Stop the procedure."

The engineer shut down the apparatus. The readings continued increasing after the supply had been disconnected. The subject began struggling against the restraints, and a warning sounded from the medical instruments.

"Get everyone out of this room!" the physician shouted.

The staff moved toward the exit. An uncontrolled discharge erupted from the subject before they could clear the chamber. The explosion killed the goblin, shattered the implantation apparatus, and damaged the walls separating the experimental room from the observation area. Several staff members were injured by flying debris. Emergency crews arrived to extinguish a fire and recover the dead subject’s remains.

A later review identified another unstable adult implant that had produced a smaller explosion in a separate chamber weeks earlier. That subject had also died, although the reinforced room had contained most of the damage. The director added both incidents to the report and ordered the remaining adult trials canceled pending review.

The institute suspended trials involving older subjects while investigators examined the damaged room and the surviving records. Other experiments had already caused fatal injuries, but this was the most destructive incident since the expanded program began. The medical director demanded a longer suspension for all high-risk age groups. The research director agreed to review the figures before authorizing further trials.

At their next meeting, the medical director opened the reports from subjects over thirty. "These aren’t isolated machine faults. Several adults experienced rising mana readings after the transfer ended. We have deaths, permanent injuries, and now an explosion."

The lead engineer examined the records. "The machines passed their checks before those procedures. If we use the same settings on another older subject, we could see another discharge."

"Then don’t schedule another one," the director said. "Concentrate on the younger age groups and investigate the failure records from adults before anyone proposes more trials."

Noah continued observing the institute over the following planetary years. The scientists adjusted their machines and monitored new subjects, but the results did not improve as quickly as they had hoped. Some procedures produced no imprint, some produced unstable patterns, and a smaller number ended with stable runes. The medical files contained further injuries and deaths. Failed transfers among younger children were common, while the worst reactions remained concentrated among older goblins.

Eventually, the institute compiled the expanded data into a confidential assessment. The statisticians separated subjects according to age and medical condition, excluded trials in which the machine had malfunctioned, and compared outcomes under the most favorable settings. Their conclusion surprised the research director, who had expected the years of refinements to produce a higher figure.

"Ten percent?" he asked, pointing at the summary.

"That’s the success rate for goblins aged nine to thirteen who meet our medical requirements and undergo the procedure with the current equipment," the statistician answered. "Roughly one in ten receives a stable imprint. The others either receive no imprint or develop instability. Some are injured, and a smaller number die."

"And the adults?"

"Their results are worse. We don’t have grounds to recommend implantation outside the nine-to-thirteen range. The risk of severe instability increases with age, and our oldest subjects had the most dangerous reactions."

The director asked the engineers whether any particular machine performed better. They compared results across the reconstructed devices, using the same age range and medical conditions. Differences between machines were small when the equipment operated correctly. The ten-percent figure remained the best demonstrated success rate, not a guarantee for individual subjects.

The final assessment also separated unsuccessful procedures into those that never produced an imprint and those that produced one briefly before failing. Physicians warned against treating both categories as harmless failures: some subjects had recovered quickly, while others needed long-term medical care. The numbers did not allow the researchers to predict which individual would experience the most severe reaction.

The institute issued its report under the program’s highest classification. It identified the ideal implantation age as nine to thirteen years, recorded a ten-percent success rate under favorable conditions, and warned of instability in younger and older subjects. It also documented the explosions, injuries, and deaths accumulated during the research. The estimated two-hundred-year lifespan appeared in a separate section, clearly labeled as a theoretical projection.

The ruler read the report at a closed meeting. "Years of testing, and nine out of ten ideal candidates still fail?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," the director said. "We’ve improved the transfer procedure, but we haven’t found a reliable way to keep the rune stable in most subjects."

"Could you implant one in an adult who was otherwise healthy?"

"We could attempt it, but I couldn’t recommend it. Even healthy adults have suffered unstable imprints, and the older subjects face the greatest risk of an explosion."

The ruler examined the casualty figures before passing the report to the minister. "Continue investigating the instability. Keep the machines inside the authorized facilities, and send any new deaths directly to my office."

The minister asked whether the government intended to announce the discovery. The ruler refused. He considered the mortality figures, the classified recruitment program, and the possibility that families would demand access for their children after hearing about extended lifespans. The public remained unaware of both the longevity findings and the experiments conducted to obtain them.

Despite the restrictions, fragments of the findings reached goblins outside the authorized research team. Senior officials with access to the budget spoke privately with influential acquaintances. A few wealthy industrialists learned that the institute possessed machines capable of implanting a rune associated with drastically slower aging. They were told little about the dead subjects, but the predicted lifespan attracted immediate interest.

One industrialist arranged a private meeting with two other powerful goblins. The first had substantial investments in manufacturing, while the second held connections to several government offices. A copy of a restricted funding request lay on the table between them.

"Is it true?" the industrialist asked. "Two hundred years?"

"That’s what the research office is estimating," his companion replied. "They’ve already implanted the rune successfully, but the procedure isn’t available outside the institute."

The older goblin at the table studied the document. "Then find out whether they can perform it on someone my age. I’m not interested in waiting for the government to make an announcement."

"The report says adults are poor candidates," the second goblin told him. "The most successful subjects are children between nine and thirteen."

"I have grandchildren in that range," the industrialist said. "And I can pay for a machine. How many have they built?"

"Several. They’re manufactured under restricted government contracts. We know which institute operates them, but the security office controls access."

The older goblin pushed the document back across the table. "Then speak to whoever approves those contracts. We need the machine and someone who knows how to operate it."

The others began discussing which officials might grant them access and how much money they were prepared to offer. On the table lay the name of the government institute responsible for building the Mindmark implantation machines. The industrialist circled it on the document and instructed his companion to contact a senior official in the research administration before their next meeting.