The Mammoth Book of Steampunk (49 page)

“What ultimately happens to your eunuchs?” I asked. “Are they all granted situations at Briarwood and the estates of your other ladies?”

“Martin and Andrew are merely making themselves useful whilst awaiting deportation,” the baroness replied. “Once every six months, we transfer a boat-load of castrati to an uncharted island in the Indian Ocean – Atonement Atoll, we call it – that they may live out their seedless lives in harmony with nature.”

The patient, I noticed, had fallen asleep. “Is he still a carnivore, I wonder” – I gestured toward the slumbering beast – “or does he now dream of bananas?”

“A pertinent question, Kitty. I am not privy to the immediate contents of Towson’s head, just as I cannot imagine what was passing through his mind when he kicked his wife to death.”

“God save the Hampstead Ladies’ Croquet Club and Benevolent Society,” I said.

“And the Queen,” my patroness added.

“And the Queen,” I said.

Sunday, 26 May

The second gathering of the Witherspoon Academy of Arts and Letters proved every bit as bracing as the first. Miss Ruggles presented four odes so vivid in their particulars that I shall never regard a windmill, a button, a child’s kite, or a gutted fish in quite the same way again. Mr Crowther charmed us with another installment of his verse drama about Lazarus, an episode in which the resurrected aristocrat, thinking himself commensurate with Christ, travels to Chorazin with the aim of founding a salvationistic religion. Mr Pertuis brought his
Übermensch
into contact with a cadre of Hegelian philosophers, a trauma so disruptive of their neoPlatonic world-view that they all went irretrievably insane. For my own contribution, I performed a scene in which Boadicea, bound and gagged, is forced to watch as her two daughters are molested by the Romans. The other poets claimed to be impressed by my depiction of the ghastly event, with Miss Ruggles declaring that she’d never heard anything quite so affecting in all her life.

But the real reason I shall always cherish this day concerns an incident that occurred after the workshop adjourned. Once Miss Ruggles and Mr Crowther had sped away in their respective coaches, having exchanged manuscripts with the aim of offering each other further appreciative commentary, Mr Pertuis approached me and announced, in a diffident but heartfelt tone, that I had been in his thoughts of late, and he hoped I might accord him an opportunity to earn my admiration of his personhood, as opposed to his poetry. I responded that his personhood had not escaped my notice, then invited him for a stroll along the brook that girds the manor house.

We had not gone 20 yards when, acting on a sudden impulse, I told my companion the whole perplexing story of the Hampstead Ladies’ Croquet Club. I omitted no proper noun: Dr Renault, Ben Towson, Jean-Marc Girard, Jack the Ripper, Infusion U, Infusion D. At first he reacted with skepticism, but when I noted that my tale could be easily corroborated – I need merely lead him into the depths of Briarwood House and show him the caged brutes awaiting humiliation – he grew more liberal in his judgement.

“You present me with two possibilities,” Mr Pertuis said. “Either I am becoming friends with an insane poet who writes of ancient female warriors, or else Lady Elizabeth Witherspoon is the most capable woman in England, excepting of course the Queen. Given my fondness for you, I prefer to embrace the second theory.”

“Naturally I must insist that you not repeat these revelations to another living soul.”

“I shan’t repeat them even to the dead.”

“Were you to betray my confidence, Mr Pertuis, my attitude to you would curdle in an instant.”

“You may trust me implicitly, Miss Glover. But pray indulge my philosophical side. As a votary of Herr Nietzsche, I cannot but speculate on the potential benefits of these astonishing chemicals. Assuming Lady Witherspoon withheld no pertinent fact from you, I would conclude that, whilst the utility of Infusion D has been exhausted, this is manifestly not the case with the uplift serum. May I speak plainly? I am the sort of man who, if he possessed a quantity of the drug, would not scruple to experiment with it.”

“
Mais pourquoi
, Mr Pertuis? Have you a pet orangutan with whom you desire to play chess?”

“I do not see why the uplift serum should be employed solely for the betterment of apes. I do not see why—”

“Why it should not be introduced into a human subject?” I said, at once aghast and fascinated.

“A blasphemous idea, I quite agree. And yet, were you to put such forbidden fruit on my plate, I would be tempted to take a bite. Infusion U, you say – U for Unknown. No, Miss Glover – for
Übermensch
!”

Saturday, 1 June

When I awoke I had no inkling that this would be the most memorable day of my life. If anything, it promised to be only the most philosophical, for I spent the morning conjecturing about what Friedrich Nietzsche himself might have made of Infusion U. Being by all reports insane, the man is unlikely ever to form an opinion of Dr Renault’s research, much less share that judgement with the world.

Here is my supposition. Based upon my untutored and doubtless superficial reading of
The Joyful Wisdom
, I imagine Herr Nietzsche would be unimpressed by the uplift serum. I believe he would dismiss it as mere liquid decadence, yet another quack cure that, like all quack cures – most notoriously Christianity, the ultimate
pater nostrum
– prevents us from looking brute reality in the eye and admitting there are no happy endings, only eternal returns, even as we resolve to redress our tragic circumstances with a heroic and defiant “Yes!”

By contrast, I am confident that, presented with a potion that promised to fortify her spirit, my cruel and beautiful Boadicea would have swallowed it on the spot. After all, here was a woman who took on the world’s mightiest empire, leading a revolt that obliged her to sack the cities that today we call St Albans, Colchester and London, leaving 70,000 Roman corpses behind. For a warrior queen, whatever works is good, be it razor-sharp knives on the wheels of your chariot or a rare Gallic elixir in your goblet.

This afternoon Mr Pertuis and I traveled in his coach to the Spaniard’s Inn, where we dined with Dionysian abandon on grilled turbot, stewed beef à la jardinière, and lamb cutlets with asparagus.

Landing next in Regent’s Park, we rented a rowboat and went out on the lake. My swain stroked us to the far shore, shipped the oars and, clasping my hand, averred that he wished to discuss a matter of passing urgency.

“Two matters, really,” he elaborated. “The first pertains to my intellect, the second to my affections.”

“Both organs are of considerable interest to me,” I said.

“To be blunt, I have resolved to augment my brain’s potential through the uplift serum, but only if I have your blessing. I am similarly determined to enhance my heart’s capacity by taking a wife, but only if my bride is your incomparable self.”

My own heart immediately assented to his second scheme, fluttering against my ribs like a caged bird. “On first principles I endorse both your ambitions,” I replied, blushing so deeply that I imagined the surrounding water reddening with my reflection, “but I would expect you to fulfill several preliminary conditions.”

“Oh, my dearest Miss Glover, I shall grant you any wish within reason, and many beyond reason as well.”

“Concerning our wedding, it must be a private affair attended by only a handful of witnesses and conducted by Mr Crowther. Your Kitty is a shyer creature than you might suppose.”

“Agreed.”

“Concerning the serum, you will limit yourself to a single injection of five centiliters.”

“Not one drop more.”

“You must further consent to make me your collaborator in the grand experiment. Yes, dear Edward, I wish to accompany you on your journey into the dark, feral, occult continent of Infusion U.”

“Is that really a place for a person of your gender?”

“I can tell you how Boadicea would answer. A woman’s place is in the wild.”

Dear diary, it was not the English countryside that glided past the window of Mr Pertuis’s coach on our return trip, for Albion had become Eden that day. Each tree was fruited with luminous apples, glowing plums and glistening figs. From every blossom a golden nectar flowed in great munificent streams.

We reached Hampstead just as the Society was finishing its final match of the day. Standing on the edge of the grassy court, we watched Lady Harcourt make an astonishing shot in which the generative sphere leapt smartly from the tip of her mallet, traversed seven feet of lawn, rolled through the fifth hoop, and came to rest at a spot not ten inches from the peg. The other ladies broke into spontaneous applause.

Now Mr Pertuis led me behind the privet hedge and placed a farewell kiss – a kiss! – on my lips, then repaired to his coach, whereupon Lady Witherspoon likewise drew me aside and averred she had news that would send my spirits soaring.

“Today I informed the others that, acting on your own initiative, you learned of the Society’s true purpose,” she said. “Having already judged you a person of impeccable character, they are happy to admit you to our company. Will you accept our invitation to an evening of demon baiting?”

“
Avec plaisir
,” I said.

“Amongst the scheduled contestants is a notorious workhouse supervisor whom our agents abducted but four days ago. Yes, dear Kitty, tonight you will see a simian edition of the odious Ezekiel Snavely take the field.”

My heart leapt up, though not to the same altitude occasioned by Mr Pertuis’s marriage proposal. “If Snavely were to fall,” I muttered, “and if it were permitted, I would put the knife to him myself.”

“I fully understand your desire, but we decided long ago that the incision must always be made and dressed by a practiced hand,” Lady Witherspoon said. “The gods have entrusted us with their ichor, dear Kitty, and we must remain worthy of the gift.”

Monday, 3 June

Saturday night’s tournament did not turn out as I had hoped. My
bête noir
conquered his opponent, an abhorrent West End procurer. Dear God, what if Snavely continues to win his battles, month after month? What if he is standing tall after the Benevolent Society has been discovered and toppled by the London Metropolitan Police? Will his apish incarnation, gonads and all, receive sanctuary in some zoo?
Quelle horreur!

In contrast to recent events in the arena, this morning’s scientific experiments went swimmingly. We had no difficulty stealthily transferring the Erlenmeyer flask and the hypodermic syringe from the north tower to my cottage. So lovingly did Mr Pertuis work the needle into my vein that the pain proved but a pinch, and I believe that, when I injected my swain in turn, I caused him only mild discomfort.

“Herr Nietzsche calls humankind the unfinished animal,” he said. “If that hypothesis is true, then perhaps you and I, fair Kitty, are about to bring our species to completion.”

At first I felt nothing – and then, suddenly, the elixir announced its presence in my brain. My throat constricted. My eyes seemed to rotate in their sockets. A thousand clockwork ants scurried across my skin. Sweat gushed from my brow, coursing down my face like blood from the Crown of Thorns.

Our torments ceased as abruptly as they’d begun, as if by magic – that is to say, by
Überwissenschaft
. And suddenly we knew that a true wonderworker had come amongst us,
le Grand
Renault, blessing his disciples with the elixir of his genius. Brave new passions swelled within us. Fortunately I had on hand sufficient ink and paper to give them voice. Although we’d severed ourselves from our simian heritage, Edward and I nevertheless entered into competition, each determined to produce the greater number of eternal truths in iambic pentameter. Whilst my poor swain labored till dawn, and even then failed to complete his
Abyssiad
, I finished
The Song of Boadicea
on the stroke of midnight – 210 stanzas, each more brilliant than the last.

Thursday, 6 June

And so, dear diary, it has begun. We have bitten the apple, cut cards with the Devil, lapped the last drop from the Pierian Spring. Come the new year my Edward and I shall be man and wife, but today we are
Übermensch
and
Überfrau
.

Such creatures will not be constrained by convention, nor acknowledge mere biology as their master. We are brighter than our glands. Each time Edward and I give ourselves to carnal love, we employ such prophylactic devices as will preclude procreation.

We do not disrobe. Rather, we tear the clothes from one another’s bodies like starving castaways shucking oysters in a tidal inlet. How marvelous that, throughout the long, arduous process of concocting his formula, Monsieur le docteur remained a connoisseur of sin. How exhilarating that a post-evolutionary race can know so much of post-lapsarian lust.

To apprehend the true and absolute nature of things – that is the fruit of Nietzschean clarity.

Energies and entities are one and the same, did you know that, dear diary? Wonders are many, but the greatest of these is being. Hell does not exist. Heaven is the fantasy of clerics. There is no God, and I am his prophet.

Fokken
– that is the crisp, candid, Middle Dutch word for it. We fuck and fuck and fuck and fuck.

Wednesday, 12 June

An
Überfrau
does not hide her blazing intellect beneath a bushel. She trumpets her transfiguration from every rooftop, every watchtower, the summit of the highest mountain.

When I told Lady Witherspoon what Edward and I had done with the elixir, I assumed she might turn livid and perhaps even banish me from her estate. I did not anticipate that she would acquire a countenance of supreme alarm, call me the world’s biggest fool, and spew out a narrative so hideous that only an
Überfrau
would dare, as I did, to greet it with a contemptuous laugh.

If I am to believe the baroness, Dr Renault also wondered whether Infusion U might be capable of causing the consummation of our race. His experiments were so costly as to nearly deplete his personal fortune, entailing as they did lawsuits brought against him by the relations of the serum’s twenty recipients. For it happens that the beneficence of Infusion U rarely persists for more than six weeks, after which the
Übermensch
endures a rapid and irremediable slide toward the primal. No known drug can arrest this degeneration, and the process is merely accelerated by additional injections.