It was open to him to say he’d not asked for the post but had it thrust upon him. But then the visitor would counter he had asked for asylum in England—and got it, which not many did nowadays—and a job besides. A good job, vital to the War effort and his new adopted nation. It was cold and harsh out in the big wide world at the best of times (which this was most certainly not) and he should be grateful for his generous reception. Other nations, even his motherland, would not be so kind: especially those ones who actively sought him. Given his family name, the guillotine was high on the list of likely outcomes should he fall into their hands—once his brain was sucked dry that is.
All true and reasonable, from a certain cock-eyed perspective. So Julius jumped ahead several exchanges to the nub of the matter.
‘I have doubts,’ he said.
He’d said exactly the same thing when much writing and pleading secured him an interview with the Prime Minister. A four hour wait in an overheated antechamber rubbing shoulders with Field Marshals and Admirals secured him two minutes of the great man’s time.
‘I have doubts,’ concluded Julius, at the end of a long chain of argument, briskly stated.
The Duke of Wellington had not interrupted. Indeed, he’d nodded sympathetically and made notes as Frankenstein explained the whys and wherefore of his ‘doubts.’ Then The ‘Iron Duke’ looked up with his cold-as-iron eyes and said he would:
‘Waste no time looking into it.’
A mere Swiss, innocent of the subtleties of the English language, Julius didn’t straightaway understand.
Yet though Frankenstein was foreign he wasn’t deaf. Before the door had even closed behind him he overheard the Duke tell his secretary:
‘I never want to see that man again!’
Julius’ present visitor and the Duke were obviously of one mind. The caller sighed but stoically forged on.
‘We all have doubts from time to time, Frankenstein. Let me assure you that we do. Yet I am no priest or confessor. I have no more power to dispel your misgivings than I have my own. ‘Doubt’ is the lot of mankind until we are admitted beyond the veil. When doubtless we shall see clearly, if you’ll excuse the pun. Meanwhile, we must live with it as best we can. Blame the War, Herr Frankenstein, blame the damn Frenchies if it helps. Meanwhile, make use of the days your eyes are graciously permitted to see. Utilise that gifted brain.’
It was an honest speech, as far as it went, with the menaces well in the background. The best Julius had had so far.
‘I will think on what you say.’
The visitor studied him, undeluded, a stranger to illusions.
‘Hmmm. Well, see that you do but don’t dilly-dally about it. Meanwhile, think of me as a chimney-sweep. There is a blockage and a variety to methods to deal with it. First one tries the simple, gentler, less messy, means; then, if success does not attend, the more robust. Ultimately it is always open to a sweep to just thrust a brush up the chimney to… pop the offending item out of there. And as to where that damned blockage falls: who knows? Or cares? It is of no worth to anyone.’
An unfortunate metaphor. The Hecatomb had a chimney which never rested. Up it went the surplus to requirement body parts, producing succulent smoke and spreading horrified sniffs all over Middlesex.
‘I shall dwell on the simile this very day, Mr…’
The visitor arose and handed Julius his card.
The richly embossed rectangle simply read:
Sir Percy Blakeney
and nothing else. Which said a great deal.
Despite the jostling of his coach heading home, Sir Percy Blakeney jotted a note in Frankenstein’s case file: ‘Matthew. Ch.3 v.10.’ (Which is to say: “Therefore every tree which bring not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire.”)
Then, after a brief ponder, he added: ‘One more week. Then, if he’s no use to us, make him no use to anyone else.’
Which was a coincidence. As his last act the day that Blakeney called, Julius Frankenstein added the following to his diary: ‘One more week. If this purgatory hasn’t improved by then, I give myself permission to blow my brains out.’
The seal on that resolution was set by the remainder of his daily routine. After Blakeney left, Julius retired to his office and doodled till his hand hurt. Then, after luncheon (local Heathrow guinea fowl and game-chips), he practised with his sabre for an hour before seeking diversion along the production line.
The architects’ plans had envisaged steam-driven conveyer belts but it proved simpler to have bargain-basement Lazarans crank the wheels. They didn’t require coal or maintenance and when they broke down were readily replaceable: hence no requirement for engineers hanging around. In fact, the whole development of steam-power had languished on that principle. Things stood much as they had since Mr Watt’s brainwave eighty years before. Abundant undead muscle-power removed the need for faltering development and brain-straining invention. Much money had thus been saved—at the expense of innovation.
The Lazarans’ colleagues-to-be came in from the surgeons’ shop stitched up and ready. Julius Frankenstein paused as a fresh batch were loaded on to the line and then cranked into position under the serum spears.
A click as the retainer was freed and a crash as the array fell.
Even now he still winced to see the spears pierce those still hearts. Wasted compassion: without sense there was no feeling. They remained mere retrieved meat from the battlefield and gallows.
Mostly the former today. When Frankenstein forced his eye to notice he saw the remnants of uniforms: a medley of costume from many different dead men.
Already the spear array was being hauled back up by rope, ready for the next set. Frankenstein moved along the line with the primed batch.
In the galvanising tank they had some privacy, if only on practical grounds. If Frankenstein accompanied them in there he would die when they received life.
Even an observation plate was deemed too risky. The frightful electric charge had to be constrained within seamless insulation. Anyway, the shrieks announced when the job was done.
On a whim, Frankenstein threw the switch himself, swatting the trusty-Lazaran aside. Instantly, the air crackled and an ozone aroma annoyed the nose. Behind the tank’s walls screaming began.
Theorists of Revivalist science speculated that rebirth was akin to being ripped from the womb, made worse by greater than new-born sentience. After the calm of the Great Beyond (for all anyone knew) the rush of sensation jumbled with memory was an agony beyond description. Or so those Lazarans capable of speech seemed to convey.
For Hecatomb staff with feelings left, it creased the heart to hear those revivals whose first word was ‘No!’
Frankenstein lingered to see the seals cracked and armed men crowd the door whilst technicians ventured into the cacophony to grade the successes and cull rejects. Their practised eye easily distinguished between those fit only for soldiering or service, and the few that might aspire higher. Some among those could be sold at auction to the public as clerks and body servants, to boost the State’s tottering finances. Any obvious towering intellects would be retained as civil servants, to relieve their living colleagues of routine duties.
Then labels were pinned on as appropriate, settling their new destiny. The useless balance meanwhile got the knife until they lay still again (which sometimes took time and effort), ready for recycling. Finally, all those thought worthy were unstrapped from the line and led away to life anew.