Then, after a brief ponder, he added: ‘One more week. Then, if he’s no use to us, make him no use to anyone else.’
Which was a coincidence. As his last act the day that Blakeney called, Julius Frankenstein added the following to his diary: ‘One more week. If this purgatory hasn’t improved by then, I give myself permission to blow my brains out.’
* * *
The seal on that resolution was set by the remainder of his daily routine. After Blakeney left, Julius retired to his office and doodled till his hand hurt. Then, after luncheon (local Heathrow guinea fowl and game-chips), he practised with his sabre for an hour before seeking diversion along the production line.
The architects’ plans had envisaged steam-driven conveyer belts but it proved simpler to have bargain-basement Lazarans crank the wheels. They didn’t require coal or maintenance and when they broke down were readily replaceable: hence no requirement for engineers hanging around. In fact, the whole development of steam-power had languished on that principle. Things stood much as they had since Mr Watt’s brainwave eighty years before. Abundant undead muscle-power removed the need for faltering development and brain-straining invention. Much money had thus been saved—at the expense of innovation.
The Lazarans’ colleagues-to-be came in from the surgeons’ shop stitched up and ready. Julius Frankenstein paused as a fresh batch were loaded on to the line and then cranked into position under the serum spears.
A click as the retainer was freed and a crash as the array fell.
Even now he still winced to see the spears pierce those still hearts. Wasted compassion: without sense there was no feeling. They remained mere retrieved meat from the battlefield and gallows.
Mostly the former today. When Frankenstein forced his eye to notice he saw the remnants of uniforms: a medley of costume from many different dead men.
Already the spear array was being hauled back up by rope, ready for the next set. Frankenstein moved along the line with the primed batch.
In the galvanising tank they had some privacy, if only on practical grounds. If Frankenstein accompanied them in there he would die when they received life.
Even an observation plate was deemed too risky. The frightful electric charge had to be constrained within seamless insulation. Anyway, the shrieks announced when the job was done.
On a whim, Frankenstein threw the switch himself, swatting the trusty-Lazaran aside. Instantly, the air crackled and an ozone aroma annoyed the nose. Behind the tank’s walls screaming began.
Theorists of Revivalist science speculated that rebirth was akin to being ripped from the womb, made worse by greater than new-born sentience. After the calm of the Great Beyond (for all anyone knew) the rush of sensation jumbled with memory was an agony beyond description. Or so those Lazarans capable of speech seemed to convey.
For Hecatomb staff with feelings left, it creased the heart to hear those revivals whose first word was ‘No!’
Frankenstein lingered to see the seals cracked and armed men crowd the door whilst technicians ventured into the cacophony to grade the successes and cull rejects. Their practised eye easily distinguished between those fit only for soldiering or service, and the few that might aspire higher. Some among those could be sold at auction to the public as clerks and body servants, to boost the State’s tottering finances. Any obvious towering intellects would be retained as civil servants, to relieve their living colleagues of routine duties.
Then labels were pinned on as appropriate, settling their new destiny. The useless balance meanwhile got the knife until they lay still again (which sometimes took time and effort), ready for recycling. Finally, all those thought worthy were unstrapped from the line and led away to life anew.
It was believed essential to start as you meant to go to on, and promptly, before any autonomous thoughts developed. The new recruits, confused and complaining, were chivvied into line and then marched off. No-nonsense sergeant-majors awaited them on the Hecatomb’s parade ground.
Whereas back in his private laboratory, itself a miniature version of the Hecatomb’s production line, a bottle of brandy awaited Julius Frankenstein, then supper, then his diary and then bed.
Barring a miracle, one-seventh of his remaining days was gone.
Chapter 3: A DAY IN THE DEATH OF LADY ADA LOVELACE
The day that she came, Frankenstein’s diary would have read:
‘Same. Breakfast. Pep talk. Doodling. Bed. Six days to live.’
save that just before bedtime he had another visitor.
Security at the Hecatomb was tight, but skewed towards preventing escape, not invasion. On the whole, the reputation of the place was its best defence against intruders: a bit like the Tower of London or Bedlam.
Even so, there were guards to counter the off-chance of French or Christian saboteurs. Great skill or wealth must have been required to shroud their eyes. Julius put his money on the latter.
‘Good evening, sir,’ said the stranger, in a soft-spoken voice.
His uninvited guest seemed courtly but looked otherwise. A prize-fighter turned flunky was Frankenstein’s wager. Scrubbed-up and instructed in the non-spitting, non-swearing lifestyle when his pugilist prime was over. Most certainly not a Hecatomb staff member.
Frankenstein raised his glass.
‘Good evening to you, dear fellow.’
‘Dr. Frankenstein, I presume?’
Julius felt no great alarm: indeed, he felt no great anything at all lately. His sabre was within reach if need be.
‘You presume correctly, sir. How may I oblige?’
‘Permit me to first introduce myself, sir, and to apologise profusely for the interruption. I would not dream of intruding were not my purpose pressing. My name is Foxglove.’
‘Do you have a calling card?’
‘Not as such, sir, but I do have this.’
‘Foxglove’ drew a pistol from his coat and cocked it.
Frankenstein dismissively waved the aim aside.
‘Fire away and do the world—and I—a favour. My present life holds little savour. Alas, sir, you choose to toot upon a muted trumpet…’
Foxglove accepted it on trust and returned the threat to store.
‘Forgive me, Doctor, but I had strict instructions to start thus. Were it my place to do so, I would have pointed out such considerations hold little weight with true gentlemen. Unfortunately, whilst my employer is a worthy person they are also inclined to be impetuous, even wild, you might say—and especially so at present. ‘Tis in their blood you see, though do not mistake me to imply criticism by it. But I assure you, sir, they have good cause. In those circumstances, might I be permitted to begin again with sweet reason?’
Frankenstein smiled.
‘You may as well,’ he said, ‘since you are here. As a mere foreigner, kept nigh prisoner in this ghastly place since reaching these shores, almost any diversion is welcome.’
Foxglove raised one eyebrow (near the full extent of his permitted emotional range, Julius suspected) in sympathy.
‘I commiserate sir. Nevertheless, that same internationally acknowledged expertise in your field which binds you here is also the reason for our interview.’
Though not the scientist his late uncle hoped (and late father feared) he would become, Julius could extrapolate the present data into an elegant theory.
‘If it’s Lazarans you require, I cannot—indeed, will not—oblige. The black market attracts capital punishment and though, as I state, my current existence holds few charms, neither am I minded to quit life via what you English call the ‘Tyburn clog dance.’ Nor does my moral code permit cooperation. If—and I stress if, sir—I were minded to be helpful I should merely inform you there are alternative sources of supply. Certain depraved surgeons would comply, I’m sad to say. Find one made reckless by drink or debts and there’s your man. Or you could even attempt what I believe is termed a ‘home-bake’…’
Foxglove looked pained by such second-hand crudity.
Frankenstein scoffed.
‘Serum? Bah! The very dogs in the street know that to be just an activated admix of formaldehyde, egg-yolk, alcohol and… ahem, vital seed…’
Still the visitor stuck to his guns.
‘Possibly so, sir. But those same well-informed canines cannot help with the matter of relative proportions. Nor with that ‘admixing’ you referred to. All highly rarefied tasks, I’m told; requiring specialist skills. Not to mention the ‘activation’…’
‘Well, yes,’ conceded Frankenstein, ‘there is that. You cannot afford to get any component wrong…’
So-called ‘half-bakes’ were justifiably the stuff of legend and nightmare. The fortunate among them soon exploded, but others had been known to ‘live’ for years, to the horror of all, including themselves.
Frankenstein recalled himself from reverie.
‘But you need not have penetrated this grim edifice to learn such commonplaces,’ he said. ‘And on that subject, how did you penetrate here?’
‘Sacks of sovereigns,’ said Foxglove succinctly, also conveying decent distaste.
‘Mankind...,’ mused Frankenstein, mostly to himself, ‘how can one fail to love it...?’
‘Indeed so, sir. But not all men are mercenary. I know I am not, for all my failings. Nor, I trust and pray, are you. Reflect, if you will, on what brings me here, at risk of life and limb, not to mention terror. For I am bound by ties of loyalty and gratitude. Were it not so I would be far away and in safety and comfort. As it is, I have lost all: home, position, good name, everything but honour, to be here to speak to you. Concede then, that some men act unselfishly for the good...’
Frankenstein waggled his hand.
‘My Father believed thus,’ he said. ‘And his brother, the most famous or infamous of my family once believed thus. As for myself, I waver. However, pray continue...’
‘My instructions,’ said Foxglove, ‘prescribe pleas and promises of enrichment should threats fail. Monstrous enrichment...’
Again, Julius just waved the prospect away. Mention of monsters was not a happy choice of phrase, and nor was gold a starting motor in him. The visitor perceived both mistakes and quickly moved on, guided by the light of instinct.
‘However,’ he said, ‘I will dare to disobey and skip such sordidness to ask one thing, and one thing alone, of you: will you meet my patron? She waits on the Heath.’
Bedtime and a restart of the grey cycle was the only alternative. Frankenstein shrugged to signify ‘why not?’
* * *
Normally, Frankenstein needed written permission to visit the Heath, but the same sovereigns that got Foxglove in now let Julius out. They also hired him a cloak of invisibility and mini holiday from the Hecatomb. Outside, a carriage awaited with a passenger inside.
As greying twenty-something women went, Foxglove’s mistress was worth seeing: some might even say she was attractive. Necrophiliacs especially. That face, though pointy-nosed, might once have been thought piquant and pretty. However, Julius Frankenstein had met enough dead people for one day (and lifetime).
He withdrew from the coach-window. The ice packed round its sole inhabitant made the interior appropriately tomb-like. In passing, he noted the rich livery and scrolled ‘L’ painted on the door. Some faint association stirred but couldn’t get to its feet to introduce itself.
‘Well,’ Julius told Foxglove, acidly, ‘it was perfectly… average to make her acquaintance. We really ought to do this a lot less often...’
The servant remained charmed.
‘She has — had — her father’s likeness,’ he reflected, drawing on happier memories. ‘He was a loveable rogue —though I grant the balance between the two qualities varied vastly. Of course, presently you cannot note the family wild eyes…’
‘No indeed. ‘Tis the practice to close them when laying out a corpse.’
He instantly repented of his sarcasm when he saw Foxglove shudder. His loss was too recent for levity.
‘You are taking a risk here,’ Frankenstein added out of charity. Heathrow is not safe at night even for armed coaches, whereas you are but one man and a cadaver. Doubtless, you also bribed the sentries to shield your vehicle and… cargo, but it will soon come to notice. Be on your way and give her decent burial. The old adage is trite but true: grief yields to time...’
For a second, Julius thought he’d gone too far and Foxglove was reaching for his gun again. Happily, before Frankenstein had his response underway a letter was produced instead.
‘Read, I beg you…’
Julius looked back to the looming Hecatomb. If any director should see, or an unbribed guard betray him, there would be need for explanation and written reports. He bit his lip in indecision.
Foxglove was more subtle than he looked (not that that was saying much).
‘The night is long, Doctor, but my lady’s message short…’
That played upon the right strings. And he saw that it was personally addressed to him.
Julius broke the seal and unfolded the missive.
At top were two impressive coats of arms, embossed and in colour. Then a bold hand took only a few lines to cover the whole page with confident script, richly expressive of the author. It flowed wastefully free over on to pages two and three.
‘My dearest Herr Frankenstein,
If you are reading this, then I am gone. Moreover, it must be presumed that my revival has been forbidden or thwarted, despite explicit instructions.
I am NOT content with that. I wish to return. My life’s work is not yet complete.
You are foremost in your field and kin of its inventor. You have access to finest serum. Therefore, I could ask for no better person to restore me to full life.
Assiduous research (insurance against this awful day) makes me feel that I know you already. You will not fail me.
Therefore, I will not insult you with offers of wealth or position, though both are mine to grant should you so wish.
Rather, my dear Julius—may I call you Julius? I offer you ESCAPE &, what is better, ADVENTURE.
Such is my sure promise from beyond the grave and shall be repeated—even put in contract, if you demand—when we meet amongst the living.
From, I assure you, your most fervent and true admirer:
Lady Ada Augusta Lovelace, nee Byron.’
Julius Frankenstein didn’t even have to think. Now they were talking! Why didn’t they say so in the first place?
* * *
Geo. Washington: ‘This “serum”, sir, by which you work your blasphemous horrors, what is it comprised of?’
Victor Frankenstein: ‘Essential oils, Mr President; a complex melange of mixed vivifying chemicals, to which is added a tincture of the electrical fluid. And, with all due respect, sir, that much detail must suffice.’
Washington: ‘How so, sir? Do you impute to us sordid commercial ambitions? Do you think we mean to rob you of your patent?’ [Uproar in the house].
Frankenstein [shouting to be heard]: ‘No indeed, sir. On the contrary, my reticence stems from far higher motives. I decline to describe the precise formula only because amateurs attempting the Revivalist process have resulted in the production of impermissible monsters! Therefore, when it comes to serum, Mr President, I assure you that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.’
Washington [pausing, with great solemnity]: ‘Indeed, sir, I do not doubt it. And therefore how much more dangerous is your entire knowledge.’
Transcript extract from ‘Submissions to the Congressional Committee on the Legalisation of REVIVALISM, popularly known as Corpse-raising.’ 13th July 1793.
* * *
‘When did she die?’
‘Two days ago,’ answered Foxglove. ‘Foully murdered.’
Julius’ question arose from professional interest and required asking even though his hands were full. The onset of decay was harmful to the Reviva
l process. Therefore he should have stopped there and got on with his preparations. However, the extra detail supplied sparked mere curiosity.
‘How? Who?’
‘A severe blow to the head. As you will see, Mr Frankenstein, sir, the family surgeon who attended the scene closed the gaping fracture for cosmetic reasons, because a public laying-in period was intended—before I purloined the mistress’s remains that is. If your ministrations are successful the damage should heal.’
Julius probed the relevant area with skilful fingers. Scarlet sealing wax! It would do, but some more lasting form of cap would be necessary in the long term—if there was one. Meanwhile, caution and laudanum should see Ada through the recovery period—if he chose to go through with this.
Disturbed by these attentions Ada’s locks released a waft of spice, despite death and chilling. Long deprived of such sensations, Julius discovered himself more than usually hopeful his charge would tread the long path back.
He let the cold head return to the pillow and surveyed the whole. A pale vision in a scarlet gown with green buttons. It was strange that so evident a beauty hadn’t attended to the premature greying of her crowning glory. It hinted at a character worth the risk of snatching from Heaven.
‘Fasten the leg straps whilst I attend to her hands.’
Julius had better qualified assistants on call but there wasn’t time to bribe or persuade them. The guards who admitted the coach and swallowed Julius’ ‘special ladyfriend’ explanation had delayed them enough already. Besides, Foxglove had disgorged yet more money to buy them and Frankenstein wanted there to be some left for after. ‘Escape’ and ‘adventure’ rarely came cheap.
In deference to the skull trauma, he rigged up a neck restraint also. Quite often renewed life wasn’t welcome, or last painful memories were still lodged in the brain: therefore, frenzied thrashing about was by no means uncommon. Vocal distress likewise, so a gag was applied too. They’d already pushed their luck with excess activity disturbing the normally silent Heathrow night. Screams (or unscheduled screams) inside the Hecatomb would almost certainly wake unwelcome attention.
Frankenstein's Legions Page 3
