Frankenstein's Legions (5 page)

Therefore, Ada’s arrival might be that luck. Julius hadn’t considered that before. All his own planning seemed to end in dead-ends like beggary or bullets in the back whilst trying to escape. Or, worst of all, boredom. This wild-card could be his last chance at playing a decent hand in the game of life…

Which made his mind up.

‘I suggest,’ he said, ‘that you avert your eyes.’

Foxglove, worried but entirely in another’s hands now, reluctantly turned his back on the zinc table where his mistress lay.

Julius parted the scarlet gown with two hands, baring Ada’s breasts. Then he reached up to position the primed serum spear.

‘You never did say who...’

Mainly he desired to distract Foxglove during the most distressing part of the process, but he also wanted to know.

‘‘Who,’ sir?’

‘Who killed her...’

Foxglove clenched his huge scar-coated fists.

‘Her Lazaran lover, who went berserk as such beasts do. If you could believe such a slander of such a woman. Alas, Lord Lovelace did. He went through the motions of requesting revival but did not demur at its speedy refusal.’

Frankenstein threw a lever and impelled by lead weights the serum spear descended. It penetrated spot on, deeply piercing the dead heart.

No blood flowed, demonstrating life was long gone. The body jumped once at the impact but returned to repose.

Gruesome sound effects almost made Foxglove turn but he restrained himself.

‘It… will not hurt her?’

‘A fractured rib perhaps, probably a lingering ache. Certainly a lasting scar. All but the last will pass. A small price to pay for life anew.’

‘Ah yes… and it shall be the best serum, as we agreed?’

‘I am provided with a select store: the much distilled sort used for reviving generals and the like: royalty even. The same stuff that runs in Neo-Nelson’s veins. It was intended for my experimental program which proved sadly stillborn. So, having no use for the stuff, I shall not stint it now.’

Ada probably had pale skin even before Death made her pallor permanent. Now she was stuck with it. Not even the vintage serum being forced under pressure through her body cells would alter that, for all its high quality. It was one of the defining features of the Revived and no method yet discovered could alter that. When life returned a Lazaran might spend its entire un-life pearl-diving under tropic suns and still remain ‘pale and interesting.’

Frankenstein took hold of his patient’s right hand and foot. He sought and found the faint plumping that said the steam-spear had done its work, pushing serum to the far extremities.

Whilst the Galvanism tank warmed up, Julius brought Foxglove back in to fill the pregnant pause and save some sweat.

‘You can turn around now. Help me roll her in.’

If he’d expected miracles in the interval, the faithful retainer was disabused. Lady Lovelace remained as she was: mere breathless meat with a tenderised head.

‘Crank the wheel when I say. Ready?  One, two, three, go!’

Julius Frankenstein was young and hale but it was still arduous work setting in motion a mechanism meant for two. Foxglove’s brawn provided ideal assistance. The conveyor belt fairly shot Ada into the open maw of the tank in one fluid motion.

Frankenstein hid her from view and fastened the heavy seals.

‘I should stand back. Leaping arcs are not unknown.’

A rubberised mat was provided for the purpose. Julius beckoned Foxglove over to join him on it.

‘You don’t believe that explanation then?’ he asked.

With but one topic occupying his mind the visitor knew what was meant.

‘The murder story?  Indeed not, sir. Those who knew her Ladyship recognise the wicked imposture for what it is. Or they should. Sadly, Lord Lovelace was not of that number. Perhaps his mind was misled by grief and shame, but he remains at fault. Sorry as I was for him, my obligations to his house severed that day.’

‘So she wasn’t a Lazarophile?  It does happen you know: bored aristo ladies appreciative of super-human staying power. Plus there’s attractions in a lover who doesn’t get in your hair afterwards…’

Foxglove’s face was eloquent answer enough.

‘Not a flighty piece at all…?’ Julius persisted. The hum from the tank had not yet reached its optimum.

‘No.’  The reply was firm, not encouraging any challenge. ‘Madam’s passions lay elsewhere. In realms of the utmost propriety.’

Julius was minded to say ‘pity’ but thought better of it.

 ‘Then who?  And why?’

Foxglove drew a deep breath.

‘Those questions are projects for another day. We shall see what Her Ladyship says.’

His confidence was flattering but misguided. The public didn’t realise Revivalism was not an exact science. Persuading a critical mass of atoms to resume work when they thought their job was done and eternal rest in order, required both skill and luck. Many cadavers were stubborn (or safely ensconced in Heaven, according to theologians) and the failure rate significant. Yet even a failure was better than a botched job: the halfway returns were terrible to see—and hear. It was a kindness to send them straight back to oblivion.

For Julius such thoughts sponsored inner pictures of scenes he’d witnessed as an army field surgeon. Unfortunately some things seen can’t be unseen.

Frankenstein gladly left his mind’s-eye version of the Battle of the Vatican for even this present. The whine from within the tank was almost transcending human range. He checked the gauge and its fail-safe twin and then threw the remote-lever.

Dynamo columns atop the tank lit up like lightning-struck trees. They exchanged arcs of power and fed them back into the container. Dust on its surface hovered in sprightly blue-lit dance.

In the absence of screams or any other sign Frankenstein gave it an extra second but dared no more than that. The only thing worse than half-returns were what the Hecatomb wits called ‘fry-ups.’

How he hated the English way with words!  Other nations would have been more… indirect, more delicate.

The lever was lifted and the dynamos died. Residual sparks gradually subsided.

One way or the other, they hadn’t long now. The power usage would register on every other Hecatomb system. The duty officer might assume it was just the useless foreigner burning some midnight oil for a change—or he might not.

Donning protective gauntlets Frankenstein opened the door a fraction sooner than was prescribed. Burnt ozone wafted out.

‘Give me a hand again.’

They reversed the belt drive and Ada emerged head first.

She was still pearl white, not charcoal black: which was a good sign. She lay absolutely still, which was not.

Nevertheless, Frankenstein removed the restraints and observed the exposed chest for signs of heaving. There were none.

Foxglove frowned.

‘Slap her,’ Julius ordered.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘It works with babies and likewise Lazarans. You wouldn’t like seeing me do it…’

Foxglove hesitated. It went against Nature —or his nature—every bit as much as raising the dead.

‘Hurry!’ said Frankenstein. ‘Do you want this thing or not?  The opportunity is fleeting. Oh—I see your problem...’

The English were brutal but bashful: a Frenchman or Italian would have jumped at the chance.

Frankenstein spelt it out.

‘No, man: not exactly as with babies: I meant slap her face.’

Foxglove almost panicked but recovered. He marked his target and then shut his eyes.

Smack!

Ada’s head rolled in response to the blow: her sole response.

‘Again!’ said Julius.

 Smack!

 Back the other way went Ada’s face.

Foxglove looked at Frankenstein in extremities of distress.

‘Can you not repeat the process?’

Julius shook his head.

‘One attempt is all that is meaningful. You may have to reconcile yourself that perhaps she is —’

Smack! Smack!

Foxglove delivered without restraint.

Julius suddenly realised that the corpse’s face was reddened where the blows fell. Which implied…

Ada’s eyes flicked open. Foxglove’s next strike was too far advanced to cancel.

‘Owwww!’ she said. ‘How... how dare you?’

The servant flinched back, both mortified and awash with joy. Each flickered briefly across his normally impassive face.

Ada Lovelace sat up like a jack-in-the-box. There was obviously more energy in that slight frame than met the eye.

Speaking of which, as a doctor (albeit a mere military one) Julius recalled from his studies that all eyeballs were of identical mass, and that only eyelid variations gave the illusion otherwise. Yet Ada Lovelace’s face seemed dominated by windows to the soul of extraordinary size and sauciness.

She felt her face and rubbed it. Previous paleness returned. She next noted her display of more cleavage than decorum allowed and sought to repair Julius’ careless undressing.

Only then did she deign to view the wider world. First Foxglove.

‘Hmmm…’ she said, with neither gratitude nor reproach.

Then Frankenstein.

‘Hmmm…’

Julius had been brought up with Swiss manners before he learnt less starchy Italianate, and then anything-goes English, ways. He bowed politely.

‘Lady Lovelace. Welcome back to this wicked world.’

She did not acknowledge him but swung her long legs to the floor via a flash of silk stocking.

 ‘That ‘wicked world’ awaits us,’ she said to both all and none—but proving she must have heard. ‘Foxglove, fetch my coach.’

*  *  *

Foxglove not only fetched it, he proposed to drive it, for there was no one else. From having a horde at her beck and call Ada Lovelace was reduced to just one lacky.

Not two. When Frankenstein joined them in the waiting vehicle, Ada looked at him like a side dish no one had ordered.

‘Foxglove!’ she called through the carriage roof. ‘Is this man coming with us?  What did you offer him?’

‘Only as per your letter, milady.’

‘Hmmm...’

She had a rich variety of those, all meaning something subtly different. Meanwhile, she studied Julius up and down.

Frankenstein felt it was time he had an input.

‘Escape and adventure were the core contractual features, madam. You promised both.’

Ada had a hat now. She threw back her bonnet and laughed heartily.

‘Did I?  Did I really?’

‘Those were your very words. And now my bridges are burnt I must hold you to them.’

Lady Lovelace was selectively deaf. It was as if he’d never replied.

‘I see he has packed a bag, Foxglove; plainly meaning to accompany us. What do you think?’

‘He’s sound,’ said the voice from the driving seat. ‘But I’ll be guided by you, milady.’

Ada fixed Julius with her gorgeous eyes.

‘Do you have pen and paper, herr doctor?’

Packing hastily (for the guard’s bribed blindness wouldn’t last forever) those were indeed amongst the few items he’d scraped into a case to take with him. Latterly, all Frankensteins travelled light. Julius demonstrated to her that he owned both.

Ada smiled and snatched them.

‘He’s in, Foxglove. Drive on!’

*  *  *

As with her revival, Ada’s next step presumably followed a pre-laid plan. Not being a party to it, Frankenstein sat back and relaxed as Foxglove clattered along the Great West Road, heading only God and he knew where.

Hounslow went by in the dark, then progressively larger villages and miles of thriving market gardens till they were skirting the outskirts of the Capital. Finally, they came to a halt before the Turnham Green Bastion and awaited—so Frankenstein presumed—the opening of the gates at dawn. Unseen hands trained wall-guns upon them.

Fortunately, there were other untimely or impatient travellers, and a small collection of conveyances and horsemen gathered close together for mutual protection from the perils of the night. For it was a known fact that the lightless hours were the preserve of feral humans and rogue-Lazarans, to which legend added were-creatures and vampires as well.

Though rarely known to attack so close to civilisation, precautions against such threats were always advisable. Therefore the coaches were manoeuvred into a circle and a watch set. Armed with a blunderbuss, Foxglove took on all the sentry duties assigned to three.

Meanwhile, inside her vehicle, Ada ignored her new companion just as she did the wonder of returned life. Instead, she sat hunched over Julius’ loaned notebook, scribbling furiously into it. And increasingly furious: for from time to time she wrenched out pages in a rage or viciously scored through what she’d written. Sometimes, the pen was jabbed so hard it pierced straight through the page, or ink flew from the companion pot. Likewise little gasps of frustration escaped her Ladyship’s pursed lips, plus occasional most unladylike hisses of hate.

Frankenstein stayed by her side but left her to it. There was wisdom in his inaction for he had nowhere else to go and it was as well not to show his face to the world so soon. The Hecatomb’s working day would be starting shortly, and shortly after he’d be missed. Also, Lady Lovelace didn’t seem the sort for small talk.

Julius only wished Ada’s schemes hadn’t included a liveried coach. It proclaimed her presence as good as a flag, and Bastion guards would recall it. However, there was nothing to link him and the ex-deceased just yet. The association needn’t be fatal to him moving discreetly for a while.

Then, just as the huge windlasses creaked to open London’s gates to another day, Ada deigned to notice her companion once more.

She threw the book at him. It bounced off Frankenstein’s forehead, leaving an angry mark.

Her eyes glared at him, equally angry.

‘Charlatan!’ she spat. ‘Fraud! Where is my spark?’

Chapter 4: NO FIRE WITHOUT A SPARK

‘I want it! I want it! I want it!’

Ada contained herself only for as long as the innkeeper could overhear. The second the door was shut she was at Julius again.

Where he came from, a second—and most certainly a third—feminine slap to the face merited a right hook in return, and chivalry be damned. However, Frankenstein restrained himself because Foxglove was standing watchfully by. A room-wrecking full-blown brawl would not be helpful now they had finally found sanctuary.