Thus, although the former-and-once-again Frenchman’s days of appreciating food, or indeed feeling hunger at all, were gone never to return, when now told to ‘eat’ he ate. What warm-bloods told you to do could only be for your own good. And to be fair, that was sometimes true.
So, down the package went in one go, minus chewing, to be absorbed just as thoroughly as all the training had been.
Troubled by residual conscience, Frankenstein looked at the creature and muttered ‘sorry.’
But that signified nothing really, to either party. Julius didn’t mean it and was just scratching an itch. The Lazaran didn’t understand and stayed slumped in position, awaiting instructions.
Now the deed was done, Julius knew he must step lively, before the Lazaran started to receive orders from his own body that would overrule Frankenstein’s authority. He’d calculated the digestive trajectory as best a doctor may, but that same medical and Revivalist expertise also told him it was not exact science. If proceedings got underway before all was ready everything would crash in spectacular fashion.
And so:
‘Stand!’
The rest of the squad shambled up from the floor, moaning their continual dirge.
They were a fine batch from Frankenstein’s own factory. Taller, sturdier and more intact than the general run of battlefield-fruit, Julius had revived them to lusty afterlife with the strongest serum to hand.
He inspected his troops—and shook his head.
Even their mothers would be hard put to love them, just as smart uniforms couldn’t gild this particular stinking-Lilly. Their mouths hung open and their eyes showed no animating light. When one moved the rest tended to imitate, even down to the direction of gaze. It gave their movements a disturbing collectivity.
And that perpetual groaning…
Frankenstein took it as personal reproach aimed at him, the man and lineage responsible for all their woes. That it was fair comment only made things worse.
But it also impelled him to act: further on and along his personal road to damnation.
‘Join them,’ he told the recently fed one, and the Lazaran jostled into the middle of the rest. They didn’t even bother to glance at him.
‘Now follow me.’
Time for one last look around his rooms, accompanied by zero regrets. Just another temporary encampment from which he wished to retrieve or remember nothing. Likewise his collecting project (of which more shortly). Before leaving that he made one last addition. Then off Julius set at the head of his circus troupe.
The Versailles community had gotten used to seeing the eminent doctor up to funny business, or leastways at the centre of peculiar scenes. Add to that a purely natural human aversion to Lazaran company, and in present circumstances Julius became almost invisible. Down numerous broad flights of stairs and along interminable gaudy corridors, he led his latest brew of less-than-life without challenge.
Which, on the minus side, left him prey to his own thoughts. The temptation to skip this detour and simply head to his ultimate destination grew stronger with each step. Any interlude—let alone one of the sort envisaged—was squaring, maybe cubing, the already massive risk.
But there’s solace and virtue in keeping going, and just walking is a classic cure for melancholy. By the time they were drawing near, Frankenstein had got a grip. The realisation came to him that when even the basic danger was mad and monstrous then multiplying it didn’t actually make much difference. Whatever he did, the end was probably nigh and there was cold comfort in that.
So thinking, he came to the interrogation suite. There was the usual guard before its outer door. He knew Frankenstein by sight and still more about him by repute. Presumably it was that which caused a curled lip.
‘Yes, monsieur?’
‘There are two trespassers under interview. I was asked to pop in and see how things are progressing.’
He wasn’t just any old guard (or Old Guard) designed to stand there and look menacing. This one was a cut above and authorised to ask questions, even exercise discretion.
‘Why?’
Julius stood his ground.
‘I knew them from outside. I can corroborate their statements.’
He was halfway there, but objections remained. A squad of them to be precise. The guard nodded at Frankenstein’s friends.
‘Why the company? I don’t see how they’ll help much…’
Julius looked back, as if he’d quite forgotten there were Lazarans trailing after him.
‘Oh, they’re for later,’ he said. ‘Duties elsewhere. They can wait here.’
You could see the guard was thinking ‘Oh joy! Their dead eyes all staring at me…’
‘I’ll check,’ he said. ‘Maybe you can take them in with you…’
Maybe, maybe not. The question was never resolved. It transpired they were not required either in or out of the room.
When the Guard cracked the door to enquire there were others more impatient than he. They got in before him. And in him.
A stiletto blade shot from the ajar gap. It penetrated the Guard’s head with an ease suggesting abnormal force. Then, generating sounds Julius vowed to forget lest he lose sleep ever after, the blade’s tip reappeared. Hello again, it might have said, protruding an inch beyond the guard’s busby, and spat blood and matter.
In fastidious reflex action, Frankenstein brushed the offending stuff from his lapel. It left a smear, a memento of the Guard’s billion+ brain cells and the memories they’d contained. Now all gone, alas, just like their former owner.
Then an arm, brawny and blood-flecked, shot out from behind the door. It encompassed the dead Guard’s neck and drew him in, like a bouncer dealing with a drunk.
If he’d been of that vast majority termed sensible, Julius would have been heading backwards at speed. However, the urgency of his mission overruled his feet. That and the fact that the arm seemed familiar.
Limbs are generic, and pretty or plain according to type rather than stand-out. However, tattoos do help people distinguish. Julius was helped to think he’d seen this one before—and in a context that was benign. Or fairly so.
Nevertheless, given what had just occurred, his staying put was an (in)action of high anti-sense—and his next act the category above that (should such exist).
Julius tapped upon the door.
‘Hello? Anyone home?’
There was and they were listening.
‘Is that…? Herr Frankenstein, is that you?’
‘It is, Foxglove, it is. How are you?’
The door was flung open. There stood Foxglove with Lady Lovelace beside him.
‘Can’t complain,’ answered the servant. ‘In the circumstances…’
Whatever the circumstances, he surely did have grounds for complaint. Life had obviously not been kind of late and what wasn’t bruise was caked blood. One eye was swollen closed but the other was clearly pleased to see a friendly face for a change.
‘No?’ said Julius. ‘Well, I’m sure you know best, Foxglove’
‘No he doesn’t,’ butted in Ada. ‘That’s my job.’
Simultaneously, both sides realised there were wider perspectives to take in. Behind Frankenstein’s ‘friendly face’ were a gaggle of dead-white ones. Behind Lady Lovelace and her flunky lay a picture of carnage.
‘How…?’ said Julius.
‘Who…?’ asked Ada.
They cancelled each other out but Julius, being a gentleman, deferred to the lady.