Frankenstein's Legions (40 page)

‘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...

Time for his second confession of the day: more than in the past decade put together

‘Tell me, Lady Lovelace,’ he asked, as arch as she, ‘do you believe in the sanctity of the confessional?’

It was a solid bet that she had been raised up steeped in every prejudice Protestant England had to offer. She came from the landed class which had done so well out of the despoiling of the monasteries and thus invented a history to justify it. Moreover, Ada had hinted before that her mother was a religious fanatic, aiming to atone for her brief marital madness with Byron...

So it proved. What’s bred in the bone comes out in the meat: though as a sceptic in matters spiritual, Ada was more faired minded than most of her peers.

‘In principle,’ she replied. ‘I’ve heard it said that the privacy of that sacrament is inviolate. One has never heard of it leaking secrets...’

Nevertheless, Julius’ point had pierced. Instead of being triumphant she was now wary. Julius pressed home the advantage.

‘Ah, but do you have faith in that?’

Evidently not. Enlightenment dawned. Ada screwed up her face in disgust.

‘Oh, you haven’t have you?’ she said.

Frankenstein simply nodded.

‘Everything?’

‘Everything.’

Before he’d finished speaking Ada was on her way in a flurry of scarlet fabric and white limbs, leaving behind Parthian-shot curses with his name on them. Frankenstein followed regardless, and Foxglove limped after, trying to keep up.

The growing company of Swiss guards and priests did not hinder them. But they watched them go.

Chapter 6: PEEKING AT POSTERITY

‘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.

*  *  *

Section 13. ‘Harvest Home’: 1 year +

…therefore it should be a source of wonderment that any survive the hazardous odyssey of conception to birth, let alone exposure to the world. Consider if you will the strong evidence that post-mortem seed is intrinsically carcinogenic (for proof of which ponder the precious few fields long-lived enough to take more than one impregnation), consider the feeble pulse of life (if such it truly be) that ebbs along the veins of our charges and what easy prey they fall to any ailment. If these things and the many other fatal snares are soberly considered by Project Posterity personnel they will come to the inevitable conclusion that our painfully few Harvests are jewels beyond price, and thus to be cherished and cosseted to the best of our abilities: yea, and beyond!  Our successes may be pitifully few but the prize is correspondingly great!

From that low success rate comes our policy of keeping those runts and sports of Nature and less-than-true breeds which ordinarily might be mercifully allowed to slip away of their own accord. We strive officiously to keep all alive in the knowledge that perfect offspring have been exceeding rare. Therefore, true servants of the Emperor will not turn a cold eye or curled lip upon their charges’ disfigurements, deficiencies and gibberings. They are our reference library of past practice, our source of experimental material, and, sad to say, our reserve troops for the great hope we bear.

Accordingly then, patience and, above all, fortitude should and will be brought to bear on all the distressing aspects of our cause-cum-crusade. The tedious dictates of ensuring sterile conditions in the sty, the sights, sounds and smells of the procreative process itself, the cruel necessity of applying red-hot wires to shrieking fields, the oft-times unbearable fruits emerging from their wombs (to name but a few aspects of the burden we bear) shall one day seem small price compared to the dynasty established and so unceasing centuries of glory for our beloved Motherland!

In the deplorable event that that does not suffice or content, the reader should consider what sufferings our soldiers endure in the cold or heat of a dozen different fronts, the risks they run, the painful deaths by myriad means they court. Those who harbour reservations should ask themselves: is not ours the incomparably better lot?

Any amongst us who cannot approach their work with a spring in their step and joy in their souls should reflect that the Russian front is always in need of fresh assistance. Such chilly natures may be ideally suited to the conditions they would find there...

But assuming zealous co-operation from all authorised to read thus far, we now turn to practical considerations.

Firstly serum. Like a faltering fire, the faint spark of semi-life his Imperial Highness has bestowed on his children requires constant feeding lest it expire. Therefore serum shall be constantly imbibed by all Harvest Homes according to the following prescriptions:

Birth to 1 month—three mini-flask bandoleers daily.

1 month to 3 months—one mini-flask hourly, on a constantly replenished bandoleer.

Three to four years. One ‘apostle’ bandoleer (13 full sized flasks) hourly.

*  *  *

OFF-FILE LOOSE MINUTE

Attach to page 179—effective from 18th Brumaire, Year 17 A.C. (A. D. 1837).

An enhanced serum formula has been developed by the recent Swiss recruit, Frankenstein (a direct descendent of the Father of Revivalism), based on a concept developed by his predecessor, the so-called ‘Egyptian’ (deceased). It has been shown to improve Revival functions in a range from 4 to 9%. Accordingly and henceforth, all Harvest Homes capable of ingesting solids shall be fed on such enhanced-serum marinated foodstuffs. Infants of tenderer digestion and those imperfect specimens incapable of independent feeding shall substitute liquor pressed from proportionate amounts of comestibles.

Adverse reactions of whatever kind shall be immediately reported to the duty officer who will...

... Also likewise, it is envisaged that said Frankenstein will be offered a placement with Project Posterity pending resolution of certain security concerns. However, in the interval it is imperative that no hint be given him of the Project’s existence or his possible promotion to it. Posterity staff are therefore forbidden to dine, take exercise or engage in social intercourse with him or otherwise advertise their presence—on pain of a second degree disciplinary sanction, up to and including mutilation.