Frankenstein's Legions

by John Whitbourn

  ‘Follow my lead,’ Julius said to his regained companions. ‘Understand? And stay close to me or you’ll picked off.’

  What choice did they have? The full weight of the Imperial will was heading their way, or so it sounded. Faith in Frankenstein had to either be forced or faked.

  Both Ada and Foxglove nodded and drew near.

  A second later, the main door didn’t just open but burst off its hinges. Old Guard poured in, brandishing bayonets. Julius was speaking rapidly, taking charge even before the woodwork hit the ground.

  ‘A Lazaran mutiny!’ he said, in authoritative parade ground French. ‘Quick! Some have gone above!’

  The first statement hit the bull’s-eye for obvious reasons—as intended. Bodies on the floor and powder fumes in the air seemed powerful confirmation. But surpassing that even, Frankenstein had tapped into a visceral fear. Undead insurrection was universal nightmare material. Aside from the intrinsic horrors, if established they took whole armies and years to smother. Some French colonial possessions in the Caribbean had never been returned to warm-blood control, and the fate of the colonists there could not be decently envisaged. All this was common knowledge that even foot-soldiers knew.

  Frankenstein’s second statement also hit home, but for reasons not so clear. Those in charge of the charge to assist seemed dead against unauthorised access upstairs. Passionately so. Any infringement swept aside misgivings (or even suspicions) they might have about the lift-room scene.

  That and Frankenstein’s fast talking of course. There was a split second when scepticism might have ruled and things turned ugly, but it passed. Waving arms plus high anxiety in Julius’ voice did the rest. The soldiers looked to him for guidance—and decided on a leap of faith towards this vaguely familiar face.

  Time spent in Ada Lovelace’s company could convert anyone to shameless opportunism. Julius took both advantage and control.

  ‘Deal with these,’ he said, indicating the Lazarans still with them; making it sound more a proposal than order, lest it offend military propriety. ‘Then follow me to get the rest...’

  For once everything fell just right. Specifically, a dead soldier fell from further up, down to the base of the stairs. His face was missing. As signs went, it was convincing corroboration. To garnish the dish more shooting and shouts descended from the same unseen conflict. That and horrible tearing noises: wood and metal and flesh were protesting—and in vain by the sound of it.

  Then the balance of the Lazarans Frankenstein had fed came to fruition. Their phosphorous grenades went off inside and, to the outward eye, they behaved just like mad Lazaran mutineers might do.

  What more evidence was required? Fiery writing in the sky? Some soldiers piled into the Lazarans and they, under attack within and without, fought back. The crowded room became a twisting, snarling, dogfight that promised duration and high drama. Meanwhile, some Lazarans even fought their way out of the room into the corridor and Palace beyond. Dismay at the development sounded from there, followed by more musketry and war-cries. All in all, Frankenstein and friends were glad to get out of it. They headed for the stairs.

  ‘These two are with me!’ he said, physically clutching both Ada and Foxglove to him. That got funny looks but no contradiction. Somehow, the act of clasping them close made a shot or stab less likely: if only because it might harm him too.

  They gained the stairs and rushed aloft, stepping over the faceless Frenchman and, soon after, a Lazaran peppered by pellets. Another flight after that there appeared a veritable barricade of dead and dying, entwined as they’d fallen; Lazaran and recently-live finally united in the same state.

  Unconstrained by need to finish off the not-quite-gone, they started to pull away from Old Guard company. A further flight onwards and the trio were ‘alone’ when they met another clot of ex-combatants. Gingerly, they picked their way over the cooling or already chill barrier.

  Even in such circumstances Ada had delusions of control.

  ‘Why are we going up?’ she snapped. ‘Surely we should get out!’

  Julius barely had breath to spare but her command urges needed to be smothered.

  ‘Believe me, madam, upwards is onwards at present, I assure you!’

  With barely a sour pulled face or pause in pace, she accepted and carried on. That Foxglove didn’t hesitate at all must have helped her decision.

  His mind was on more practical matters. Foxglove stared at Julius’ revolver with transparent envy. It looked just the thing to protect his mistress with. Whereas all he currently had was a one-shot weapon, albeit tipped with cold steel.

  ‘May I enquire,’ gasped the servant as he ran, ‘where sir got that from?’

  It seemed just too sordid, not to mention boring, to tell the truth and say ‘stolen from the armoury.’

  ‘From a dead man,’ Julius lied: although it was also sort of true. A low-grade Lazaran caretaker had been on duty there that night, making matters simple: Versailles’ arsenal was both abundant and free with its favours. An offshoot of its brute-force-solves-everything mentality perhaps.

  Fortunately, Foxglove was conditioned into quietism. As with his country’s economic arrangements, once inequality was explained to him by a cultured voice he meekly accepted things as they stood. Foxglove made do with his musket.

  Judging by the number of dead and dying from both factions littering the stairs there must have been a sizeable contingent up top, able and willing to put up stout resistance. Frankenstein had been right in surmising he would never have got through under his own steam, no matter how golden-tongued and plausible his excuse. Short of using artillery it really had needed nothing less than a Lazaran revolt to clear the way. The minimum conservative effort to achieve his ends—which was quite a thought when you considered it.

  But now that way was clear. At the very top of the stairs they found only dead men. At Julius’ insistence, they waited for some Old Guard to catch up (as cover). Then all advanced.

  The landing gave on to a guardroom. Those in it worried about nothing any more. Either their heads were off or their bodies full of lethal amounts of metal.

  Beyond that there were (formerly) impressive double-doors—formerly because frenzied hands had wrenched them asunder. Now they hung drunkenly ajar; mute explanation of the carpentry sounds heard before.

  The party passed through, stepping over strewn bodies and bits of bodies. Julius graciously let the Old Guard go first. It was, after all, possible that more visitors might not be welcome here; particularly after the last lot. A warm—as in fiery—reception might be waiting.

  They stepped into peace and sunshine. A roof garden, or leastways an expanse of lawn, stood open to the air, surrounded by high walls. The glare temporarily blinded them until eyes adjusted and clarity returned. Even then the evidence of those eyes was hard to accept.

  The fighting on the roof was over. Just a few Lazarans still flopped about in the last stages of phosphorous death.

  Aside from that silence reigned. Which was strange considering that they stood before a field full of children. Or near-children.

  PART THREE: LIFE MORE ABUNDANT*

  “I am come that they might have life: life more abundant.” John. Ch. 10, v. 10.

  A FESTIVAL

  TO COMMEMORATE THE GLORIOUS

  ANNIVERSARY

  OF THE SECOND REVOLUTION

  & FOUNDING OF THE PEOPLES’ CONVENTION

  SHALL BE HELD AT

  MIDDAY, THE 23rd OF VENDÉMAIRE

  IN EACH CITY DEPARTMENT, TOWN & VILLAGE OF ABOVE 100 CITIZENS. CITIZENS OF SMALLER VILLES SHALL MAKE THEIR WAY TO THE NEAREST EVENT.

  ATTENDANCE IS OBLIGATORY.

  PROOF OF PARTICIPATION IS OBLIGATORY.

  GOOD CITIZENSHIP CERTIFICATES WILL BE PROVIDED BY REVOLUTIONARY MARSHALS.

  CERTIFICATES MUST BE DISPLAYED ON ALL DWELLINGS FOR ONE WEEK SUBSEQUENT, UNDER PENALTY OF DEATH.

  LONG LIVE THE SECOND REVOLUTION!

  Chapter 1: STARING IN THE
SISTINE

  Lady Lovelace stood in the Sistine Chapel staring up. She was rapt: lost: she had been so for hours. Another of the limited blessings of Lazaran ‘life’ were necks that could no longer crick.

  Frankenstein glimpsed a flash of gold through Ada’s upturned hair. Upgrading of her tinplate cap was just one of the nice-though-not-necessary projects she’d employed to kill time whilst stalking him in France. Twenty-four carat, apparently. She remained curiously half-brazen, half-embarrassed about it; sometimes blatantly going bonnet-less, as now, to tease the nosey.

  Julius felt he might as well join the voyeurs and seek that sight out, for he’d had drunk his fill (and more) of high art within five minutes of arriving. There was only so much of ugly, muscular, saints and meaty madonnas a man could take without repulsion. Even Ada’s covert crown was a relief from them and their excessive antics.

  Foxglove seemed of like mind and looked upon Lady Lovelace only. Between them her two Philistine friends were leaving Ada to it—what ever it was she was up to.

  It had been her idea (cum command) to visit the Vatican in any case: an order characteristically unexplained. Julius humoured her in that and, soon art-exhausted, took the opportunity for a casual nose round his childhood home. From time to time he popped back to check there was no trouble but always found her exactly as before.

  Which was a relief, just as much as it was puzzling why she was so entranced. There had been ‘trouble’ galore to begin with.

  * * *

  ‘Unhand her!’

  Said in colloquial Swiss-German, the command carried a lot of weight. The Swiss Guardsman swivelled round expecting to see one of his own officers.

  Instead, it was Julius bearing down on him: a mere civilian and stranger—and an impudent one at that, never mind that he might be a fellow countryman.

  They dressed in archaic uniforms designed by Michelangelo himself (so it was said) and some of them still carried halberds as their main armament, but no one doubted the Swiss Guards were soldiers in earnest. Most had long records of mercenary service behind them and now they’d come here to cap their career and redeem all the mere money-making by service to His Holiness. A service where the entrance exam was a vow to die for him if required.

  Though their generosity stopped there. Laying down your life the once was love enough they thought: and so in battle many wore plate-sized medallions packed with gunpowder, ensuring that, if hit, they’d be beyond use by Revivalists and (profane) resurrection. True, the Church was dead-set against Revivalism anyway, but maybe in dire emergency…, under pressure… You couldn’t trust anyone nowadays.

  In fact, many soldiers in many armies did the same, but their assured destruction buttons had to be worn covertly, because forbidden. Their armies signed them up for ‘Life-plus’…

  Suffice it to say that the Swiss Guard viewed their watch over the Papacy with great (indeed, Swiss) seriousness. Therefore, orders shouted at them (by civilians!) in the august hush of the Vatican were not designed to endear.

  The towering Guardsman said nothing and his face revealed even less, but he kept his grip on Lady Lovelace’s shoulder. His colleagues round about tuned in to the potential incident and stood ready. Their intentions were crystal clear.

  Even Foxglove understood. If only frowns had power the Guardsman’s paw restraining his mistress would have burst into flames. But they hadn’t, nor was Foxglove the force he once was; not since he lost his leg. In his diminished state the servant simply stood and awaited guidance. Ada merely glowered.

  Julius gave thanks for English upbringings and their freezing effect on emotions. Otherwise, hatpins and crutches might have been wielded as weapons before he had time to arrive and take charge.

  Though they still might. The Swiss Guardsman’s hold on Ada was firm and he obviously felt no obligation to be polite. He conversed to Frankenstein in their joint native tongue.

  ‘No walking-dead in here. It is not permitted. As should be well known. There are notices. Is she yours?’

  Lady Lovelace had always kept her range of linguistic skills a mystery, but Julius suspected she knew more than she let on. He observed her stiffen.

  ‘Yes, she is,’ he said. ‘My apologies. I should have kept her on a leash.’

  Ada’s lips thinned yet further, to vanishing point.

  Frankenstein couldn’t afford such luxuries. His heartfelt but impertinent order to ‘unhand’ Ada must be draped in forgetfulness. Instead of affronted, he had to be all sunshine and light.

  So the sun shone and light spread around

  And in case that wasn’t visible, Julius melodramatically clapped a hand to his forehead.

  ‘I’m a dolt! I of all people should have known the ways of this place. I lived here as a boy, you see: whilst my father was in the Guard. Tell me, is Centurion Hauptmann still serving?’

  Suddenly, things were different. Admittedly, the grip on Ada’s shoulder remained, but not so severely. She couldn’t bruise in any case, but it was the principle of the thing...

  ‘Hauptmann retired two years ago, back to Canton...’

  The Guardsman paused—pointedly.

  ‘Canton Uri,’ said Julius, filling in the deliberate gap. ‘He had daughters there. Three daughters. All married now I expect.’

  The guardsman actually smiled.

  ‘With children. Two of them serve with us.’

  Julius was genuinely glad to hear it.

  ‘Carrying on the family line, of course,’ he said, smiling. ‘Like I should have done. Instead, I chose medicine instead of soldiering...’

  They were getting on like a house on fire, and the Guardsman even proved to have a sense of humour. Residence in Europe’s soft south sometimes had that de-starching effect, even on the Swiss.

  ‘But still up to your arms in blood, eh?’ the man said. ‘If not in quite the same way...’

  Julius thought about slapping his thigh in out of control hilarity; but decided that might be overdoing it.

  ‘Very good. Very droll. And I trust Hauptmann’s boys are a credit to his name? He was a fine fellow...’

  The guardsman nodded.

  ‘A great man. He led the Guard’s charge at the Battle of Ravenna. A French ball took his left arm off.’

  ‘I think you’ll find it was his right arm, actually...,’ Julius corrected, skirting round the obvious trap.

  ‘So it was,’ ‘remembered’ the Guardsman: the test was passed. ‘You said your Father was here...’

  ‘Many years ago.’

  ‘What’s your name? I might have heard of it’

  Indeed he might. In fact, Julius dared say (to himself) the probability was approaching certainty. But he absolutely could not admit to the family name here, even though Frankenstein senior had served His Holiness with distinction and honour. Since then, their surname had acquired evil associations, and nowhere more so than in this epicentre of dogmatic opposition to Revivalism.

  ‘Eberhardt,’ said Julius. ‘Julius Eberhardt. Papa was Marius.’

  It was a real name, drawn from Julius’ childhood memories. A dapper little officer with a blonde moustache, as he recalled. A popular man. He’d made Julius a toy sword.

  The Guardsman pondered.

  ‘No, I can’t place it,’ he said eventually. ‘Before my time...’

  ‘Long before...,’ Frankenstein/Eberhardt agreed.

  The Guardsman shot back from memory lane to the present.

  ‘Even so, we cannot allow this cold-one to enter here. I’m sure you understand. Scripture prohibits their very existence.’

  Julius showed by every sign that he couldn’t agree more: even whilst his words contradicted.

  ‘Yet she does exist, does she not?’ he said, trying to sound reasonable. ‘As does her husband, or ex-husband I should say; my servant here, maimed in the wars against the cursed French. I rescued his beloved when grave-robbers revived her. It was the least I could do after he took the bullet meant for me. Now she is his mainstay and sole
support...’

  The Guardsman surveyed Foxglove’s as yet amateurish balancing upon his crutches, and conceded some support might be indeed be necessary.

  ‘Well...,’ he wavered.

  ‘And you cannot expect me to carry a cripple around!’ said Julius.

  ‘No, I suppose not...’

  The iron law of social etiquette precluded that. In emergency, a master might carry his inferior off a battlefield: but not further or after. It wouldn’t look right.

  ‘So I wondered,’ said Julius, ‘if... on this occasion? We have come a very long way...’

  That was the unvarnished truth—and it seemed even longer. Pursuit, assassination attempts and amputations have that effect on a journey.

  The Guardsman beckoned to a nearby nun. Teams of them stood at the Vatican’s main entrance to dole out coverings to those deemed improperly dressed—hussies with a visible ankle or glimpsed shoulder and the like.

  ‘Drape her head with a mantilla,’ said the Guardsman to Julius, making clear this was a big concession. ‘No, two mantillas. And another as a veil.’

  Draped in the black lace head-dresses, Ada could pass for just another pale pious pilgrim lady.

  ‘In you go,’ said the Guardsman, ‘but don’t say you’ve seen me.’

  Julius tapped his nose.

  ‘Rest assured,’ he replied. We’ve never met...’

  It wasn’t far from the truth. Two steps beyond the portal Frankenstein had already forgotten him.

  * * *

  That was partly just Julius’ way with the ever changing tapestry of people that life showed him, but mostly it was because there were weightier things occupying his mind. Getting Lady Lovelace into the relative safety of the Vatican (!) was welcome light relief from the larger thoughts he was juggling.

  Then she had been transfixed by the sights of the Sistine Chapel, and her trance or coma or whatever it was took her off Frankenstein’s hands for a while. Foxglove was around if need be, although only a shadow of his former self. His devotion to Lady Lovelace was undiminished by loss of a limb for her sake. He could still lean against a wall and raise the alarm if need be.