Frankenstein's Legions

by John Whitbourn

  Oh yes! A bang and a whimper: that would have worked. As might these revised plans, when all he wanted was to distract people whilst he resigned from Imperial service.

  Quite aside from the explosive blast, Frankenstein felt a warm glow knowing casualties were thereby minimised. His rooms were far from the hub and only unlucky passers-by were at risk. This was a material issue. Knowing the staff as he did, it was clear many (most?) were candidates for Hell via his Hellburner. Better they should live longer and maybe repent. This way struck him as by far the kinder option. It was nice when things worked so neatly.

  The signs looked good. Distraction abounded. Certainly, indifference and carrying on as before was no longer an option for anyone in Versailles. The whole Palace and surrounding countryside got to hear of Julius’ ingenuity. In fact, it suddenly become priority one for all and no one could speak about anything else. Even Napoleon was shaken from his daydreams of world-domination, and the Old Guard stirred up like an ants’ nest.

  Only line of sight deprived those on the roof garden seeing a portion of the Palace pulse outward and then shroud itself in clouds of flame-shot black. However, given the sensational sound effects they could well visualise it. That and the floor heaving beneath their feet and a soon arriving shockwave breaking windows all about.

  Frankenstein regained his balance and then his composure.

  ‘You see?’ he said to Foxglove, with a smile. ‘I told you you need wait only a few more moments...’

  He said it softly, lest outsiders should hear and connect him to events, but needn’t have worried. Most were shocked into purely private thoughts and all were deafened. They looked from one to the other for guidance but found none.

  Which is generally when the self-motivated can seize the moment and success. Frankenstein seized away.

  Foxglove was temporarily hard of hearing like the rest but he got all the visual clues. The minute Frankenstein and Ada stepped doorwards he nipped in front of them and cleared the way. At last: a honest role he could play!

  As the gunpowder furore died down a human one replaced it. Clamour rose from the unaffected portions of the Palace and lamentations from the devastated part.

  It was perfect cover. Frankenstein issued urgent but contradictory orders to anyone en route inclined to stick their nose in. Foxglove’s intimidating presence did the rest. Within a trice they’d crossed the roof garden to the stairs and made all haste to be away.

  Nevertheless, before she left, Ada lingered long enough to take a book and baby.

  * * *

  ‘A bomb?’ said the Vatican priest, shocked—and surprised he could still be shocked. ‘A bomb set where innocent folk might be? How could you?’

  Well, speaking of ‘could,’ Julius could have quibbled whether anyone in the Versailles set-up might be termed ‘innocent’—but that was a bit too Ada-ish a stance for him. Instead, he pretended to misunderstand.

  ‘How? he ‘answered.’ ‘It is comparatively simple. My father first showed me how, and I arranged several in the course of my subsequent career. For instance, during the Fifth Basque War, we infiltrated a barracks in Bilbao and… well I digress, but suffice it to say the “Hellburner” is the poor man’s artillery battery. Insurgent movements all over the world use them. The knack is, you see, to layer powder in a container—brandy barrels are good—together with inflammables and shrapnel.’

  Guilty conscience was scrambling his mind again, hugging the inconsequential, and spewing out words like one of the new-fangled crank-driven machine guns.

  ‘It takes time and patience but there is little actual complexity. Procuring sufficient slow-fuse was the only difficult thing, but as for combustibles, no problem! You would not be aware, father, but the armoury at Versailles was as free with its favours as a…’

  Fortunately, ‘Father’ interrupted there.

  ‘I do not need details of such devilry,’ he said, with a firmness that would have stopped a train. ‘They are no use to me—nor to you, man. Consider what you’re here for! And why.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Julius—which covered all aspects.

  The priest bit his tongue. After so many enormities paraded before him what signified this further bit of moral deadness? It could be included in the total without specific comment.

  ‘What then?’ he prompted, in vain hope the torrent of horrors had abated.

  ‘Well,’ said Julius, ‘‘midst the screaming confusion, the fires, the walking wounded and so on, we were able to simply stroll out. Quite remarkable! We feigned injury or shock or an air of command as the situation dictated, and the perimeter troops left us through. A mile or so on brought us to an inn where we hailed a cab.’

  The audacity of it all, the sweet living from minute to minute, was a pleasant recollection. Julius smiled but fortunately the priest did not see.

  ‘Which was afterwards, of course,’ he added, once the sunlit inner image dimmed. ‘After Lady Lovelace had taken the child, I mean. Though I’m pretty sure I’ve already mentioned that. Don’t you remember? You were rather outraged, actually. Also, I said about the book laying beside the breeding program equipment. Technically speaking, I suppose stealing is always a sin so I’d better confess to liberating—well, stealing—the book too...’

  ‘Yes, tell me about the book,’ said the priest—and soon wished he hadn’t.

  Chapter 4: TOP-SECRET TERMINOLGY

  ‘Classification ‘TOP SECRET,’ Copy 3 of 7.

  Not to be removed from its appointed place.

  PROJECT POSTERITY

  Being a manual for senior staff and approved underlings attending his Imperial Majesty in the high matter of perpetuating his line.

  NOTE AND AIDE MEMOIR!

  Inconceivable as it may seem, the noble nature and vital patriotic import of Project Posterity is not universally perceived or shared. Vile reactionary elements even within our beloved nation, let alone the serried ranks of the enemy ranged against us, may be relied upon to condemn, perhaps even seek to thwart, this great undertaking and cause.

  Therefore it is imperative that our work be shrouded in the deepest reticence, that the severest punishments be attached to any betrayal of the slightest whisper of our methods, our purpose and etc. etc.

  Accordingly, caution in use of language shall be employed, even amongst ourselves. The following substitute terms have been approved for invariable everyday use in order to achieve the necessary habit of dissimulation.

  His Imperial Majesty = The Farmer

  The Palace complex = The Farm

  The breeding area = The sty

  Brood-wives (potential) = Fields

  Brood-wives (serviced) = Ploughed fields

  Brood-wives (impregnated) = Sewn fields

  Brood-wives (pregnant) = Growing crop (followed by a numeric, 1-9, to indicate the month of gestation)

  Offspring (live) = Harvest

  Offspring (stillborn) = Spoilt crop

  Offspring (non viable) = Chaff

  Offspring (live + 1 day) = Sheaves

  Offspring (live + 1 week) = Harvest

  All offspring shall additionally be designated as ‘M’ (male), ‘F’ (female) or ‘N’ (indeterminate).

  BE WARNED!

  A number of former colleagues have perished in imaginative ways for breathing word of what should not be spoken of. And be aware that their last breath spoke of their agonies, and further believe that their death was neither quick nor easy! The traitors’ remains now rest unmarked, unhallowed, in the turds of the Lazarans to whom their carcasses were fed! The People’s Republic and the still more glorious Empire which shall follow will not remember them!

  Yet though the penalties for transgression be terrible, so also are the rewards for virtue glittering. Friends! Frenchmen! We batter at the door barring the way into a life higher than human! We speak of ascension into eternal earthly glory! When successful we shall have seized the powers of creation from the withered hands of god!’

  * * *

 
; ‘…Section 7. THE PROCREATIVE PROCESS

  ‘…after confirmation from the Cleanliness Inspection Supervisor that a sterile environment exists.

  ‘Then, if he is graciously willing, His Imperial Highness shall be assisted to ascend the scaffold and don the padded noose. The presiding scientist will have previously obtained consensus from both the designated hangmen (in separate interview) regarding the length of suspension and depth of drop before the lever is thrown. Should consensus not be readily reached the serving shall be suspended and third and fourth opinions obtained.

  ‘In the event of concurrence the hangmen shall jointly throw the lever. To protect the Imperial dignity at this point all present but they, the presiding scientist and the help-maids waiting below shall avert their eyes from the spectacle, on pain of death.

  ‘The presiding scientist shall then proceed with all speed to below the gallows and supervise the serving. He will en route give the command for the firing of the dynamos and on arrival administer to His Imperial Majesty the galvanic enema.

  ‘Prior and during the suspension said help-maids shall ensure that the recipient field be positioned in its harness at the right distance and height to receive his Highness when the spontaneous erection and emission of seed consequent upon hanging occurs.

  ‘The captain of said help-maids shall also ensure by her efforts the proper mounting and full penetration of the field and manually assist same and also secure emission if required. She shall likewise at the appropriate moment give the command for the bearing-up team to take His Imperial Majesty’s weight. In conjunction with the captain of the help-maids the presiding scientist will at the same time bring in the medical team to revive and treat His Majesty.

  ‘The Commander of the Guard attending each serving of the fields will then assume custody of His Imperial Majesty from the moment of his revival and conducting from the sty and return to the farm.

  ‘A NOTE AND ADMONITION! Notwithstanding any or all of the strictures above, the Commander of the Guard attending each serving of the fields shall be exempt from the prohibitions detailed, and shall be free to intervene upon any deviation from duty he perceives. He shall have absolute authority to apply immediate condign punishment upon any deemed to have behaved with insufficient respect or to have exposed His Imperial Majesty to unnecessary risk.

  ‘The ploughed-field shall then be conducted to the appropriate area of the sty for monitoring by the captain of mid-wives over the following two menstrual months for signs of a successful serving. Any growing crop shall then await harvest under guard in...’

  Chapter 5: SISTINE SOLUTIONS

  ‘Infamy!’ said the priest, loud enough to be heard beyond the confessional. ‘Satanic infamy!’

  How could Frankenstein contradict him? What other response was there to this judgement on the book’s contents? From where Julius sat it seemed the priest’s review was spot on.

  ‘And the child!’ the tirade continued, born on by moral momentum. ‘The end product of such a loathsome process! An abomination! Your companion took it? And you permitted that?’

  They’d been here before and Julius welcomed the repetition—maybe it meant he’d almost drained his recent life-story of sin. Perhaps absolution and a fresh start might follow in its trail.

  ‘She did,’ he replied concisely. ‘I did. And Lady Lovelace said...’

  * * *

  ‘Evidence,’ said Lady Lovelace, in response to Frankenstein’s reproving look. ‘Evidence of what is going on here.’

  Out on the roof and under the sun, she clutched the snatched baby to her breast. It lay there unmoved and unmoving.

  Julius looked again, unable to believe it first time round. He’d never seen anyone in that situation look less maternal.

  His face must have continued to express profound doubts. Surprisingly, Lady Lovelace brazenly conceded she’d lied.

  ‘Very well then,’ she said. ‘Call it insurance. ‘Your soft heart will guarantee it—and thus us—a supply of good serum.’

  She had a point. The flask bandoleer which was the child’s only clothing, the huge butts of serum around the roof garden, were evidence of a hearty appetite; indeed, a monstrous dependence.

  As if it heard and knew and agreed, the babe turned to look at Frankenstein.

  Julius almost took a step back; he had to tighten his grip on the book lest it fall.

  The eyes were those of an infant but they were windows into its soul—if applicable. The mind behind them looked older and wiser and colder than mankind.

  * * *

  ‘No more,’ said the priest, admitting defeat. ‘Not today. It is... It is too much for me. I cannot.’

  Frankenstein boggled. Somewhat like the priest, he’d never heard of such a thing!

  ‘What? No absolution?’ he protested.

  From beyond the grill came authentic tones of panic.

  ‘Not now...,’ said the priest. ‘I... must seek advice. Come back tomorrow. In fact, I insist you come back tomorrow. Ask for Father Cornelius. At peril of your soul, ensure you find me again! But not today... Tomorrow!’

  A wash of something spiritually chill swept through Frankenstein’s guts. Lest it pool and settle inside him he rose in haste.

  ‘Do not forget!’ urged Father Cornelius to the departing sinner. ‘Be sure not to forget!’

  ‘How could I?’ thought Julius, as he stepped back out into the sunshine. It seemed less intense than before: as did all the scents and colours. ‘Even Gilles de Rais, the infamous child murderer was shriven before they executed him—slowly. So what does that make me?’

  Far more than the bad things he’d done or gone along with, Frankenstein now repented of his snap decision to confess. It had brought things to a head and coalesced the chaos of events into awful summary. If only he’d marched on by he could still have pleaded ignorance. Now he appreciated with greater force than ever just how much ignorance was bliss!

  ‘Damn!’ he cursed, causing people to stare. ‘Damn!’

  Then, more softly but with no less conviction: ‘And damned.’

  * * *

  For all his lengthy absence, Frankenstein found Lady Lovelace still in the Sistine Chapel, still transported. Foxglove, leaning against a far wall, was still keeping patient watch.

  Nor was he alone in that. Ada’s prolonged meditation had attracted attention. Two Swiss Guards had her under scrutiny and were in conference with a priest. Passing tourists were pointing her out and the more frivolous elements giggling.

  The likelihood of Hellfire, perhaps its inevitability, should have made Julius more, not less, reckless, but common sense is a tough yoke to chuck. The scene before him screamed ‘time to go.’

  He crossed straight to her.

  ‘Come on.’

  Ada did not respond. In his upset he shook her shoulder like no gentleman should.

  That broke the trance—and had Foxglove been more mobile that might not have been the only thing broken. Yet there was less Lovelace resentment than Julius expected, and no hysterics at all!

  ‘I almost had it...,’ she told him—or possibly herself. ‘Almost.’

  ‘Had what?’ asked Julius.

  So it was to herself, because she didn’t bother to explain.

  ‘Don’t worry, mein herr,’ said Ada, acknowledging him for the first time. ‘You didn’t ruin things. It never was going to come; not if I lingered there till Doomsday. It was close but there’s an element missing from the equation...’

  Even so, she was pleased about something, to the point of smugness. Frankenstein sensed the balance of power between them had shifted in her favour (or even more in her favour). Not that he was worried about that. Julius didn’t share Ada’s insistence on one-upmanship as integral part of the game of life.

  But speaking of life, and by implication its continuation...

  It was easy to forget here, in this the oldest of human institutions, about trivial day to day things; like the fact that they were fugitives with an Emperor
in pursuit of them. And that Julius might have just added another party to the pack in pursuit.

  ‘We have to go,’ he said. ‘Now!’

  Foxglove had hobbled up to join them. It added little to their safety quotient, though Ada fondly seemed to believe otherwise.

  ‘Why?’ she enquired. ‘They have not molested me after that initial impudence. Foxglove—and yourself, I suppose—could deal with them if they do.’

  In his unshriven state Julius felt no need to mince his words.

  ‘You are an offence here. Simply by being. We’ve outstayed our limited welcome...’

  Lady Lovelace had her shrewd look on. She smiled and studied Julius up and down, still capable of coquetry despite everything.

  ‘There’s more, isn’t there?’ she teased him. ‘What have you been up to?’

  Earlier he’d compared himself (unfavourably) to a notorious child-killer. It recalled to him their present responsibilities.

  ‘We have an infant, of sorts, in our—no, your—custody. We should attend to it.’

  Ada shook her head and smiled artfully again.

  ‘No. We pumped it full of serum sufficient for hours to come. And you’ve never been so concerned before...’

  Another priest, then another, then two more Swiss Guards joined the mini conference by the entrance.

  ‘Madam...,’ reproved Foxglove, deploying maximum diplomacy against Ada-erism. She ignored him.

  She was toying with Frankenstein, her girlish voice almost sing-song.

  ‘I won’t stir till you tell me...’

  It was open to Julius to simply swivel on his heels and depart alone, leaving her to decide on the wisdom of following. Yet some power prevented him. Continuity perhaps—of which there’d been so little in his life. They’d come so far together...