‘Because?’ he prompted, the start of a growl in his throat.
‘Because…,’ said Frankenstein. ‘Oh, deal with him, Foxglove, will you?’
He certainly would. The Englishman had suffered a lot from the French of late and was gagging to repay in full.
He put the guard down in one, with a rabbit punch from behind. A dishonourable blow perhaps, but powered by powerful emotions. The man tumbled like a factory chimney, unlikely ever to rise, and Julius deftly caught his musket lest it fall and fire.
Speaking of fire, the first primed Lazaran went off at that moment, rendering all this unpleasantness unnecessary. Not before time: indeed rather poor timing. If it had occurred only a few seconds earlier the guard would have had other things to do than ask impertinent questions. He might even have lived (though probably not for much longer, so there was no harm done).
The first-fed Lazaran foamed at the mouth, and then drummed his boots against the floor in a desperate dance. He looked at Frankenstein in mute appeal but that false mother-surrogate had no solace to give. Even if he’d wanted to.
Then the wrapping around the phosphorous must have finally decayed, releasing its load into the Lazaran’s stomach. It presumably fizzed and burnt in places intolerant to such rough treatment, producing pain even the Revived could feel. In his anguish the poor re-tread human went berserk. Dull-eyes bulging he struck out.
His Lazaran comrades were nearest to hand and so it was they who were struck. And right from revival they’d been taught not to turn the other cheek, but be again the warriors they once (mostly) were. So they struck back. An ugly—very ugly—melee developed that Lady Lovelace and Foxglove snuck out of.
Frankenstein handed Foxglove the late guardsman’s musket.
‘Save the shot, use the bayonet,’ he suggested.
By Foxglove’s easy handling of it you could tell the servant was no stranger to weaponry, but reservations remained.
‘On who?’ he queried.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ replied Julius. ‘We just want chaos.’
He proceeded to prove it by raising the bar to the lift-team’s cage and throwing its door wide. They watched him in enforced silence for a few seconds and then shambled towards freedom.
Frankenstein let several through and then shot the next. Smoke from his ‘pepperbox’ clouded the scene and confused the issue.
The scene was not alone in confusion: Lady Lovelace was coolly reserving judgement from the margins, but Foxglove looked perplexed.
Meanwhile, the lift-team—first released and then shot—scaled several stages above mere perplexity. Yet there was remained the bedrock of their training. The warm-bloods did many inexplicable things but orders were still orders…
‘Mill about,’ commanded Frankenstein, as he twisted the chamber of his revolver to bring another cartridge online. ‘Explore this place. Ascend the stairs.’
And, wonderfully obedient in the face of so much stress, many obeyed. Some chose one option, some another. Soon Frankenstein had the anarchy he wanted.
Then he added to it by shooting one of the Lazarans he’d brought with him. And again, and again, till it was dead-again.
‘And you bayonet another,’ he said to Foxglove.
Annoyingly the man looked to Lady Lovelace and only acted when she nodded approval.
A blade doesn’t have the kinetic energy of a bullet, even when backed by a powerful physique, and so it cost Foxglove great effort to finish off his chosen victim and raise cell damage to critical. That and the fact that the creature resisted. Only fancy fencing enabling Foxglove to fend off its claws and avoid (additional) injuries.
There proved just no end to Frankenstein’s demands. As soon as one randomly selected Lazaran was down he pointed out another: the poisoned and berserk unfortunate. Maddened with pain it was currently wrecking the lift-cage, tearing off metal strips from its mechanism.
‘Now drive that one upstairs.’
This time Ada’s seconding wasn’t sought. Foxglove deftly jabbed and warded, step by step directing the thrashing dying-again Lazaran to the staircase.
It batted off the pricking blade, it sought to get to the shepherder behind, but then, driven by even stronger impulses, gave that up as a bad job and sought escape in the direction required.
Escape, of course, it found none, for its problems went with it, but there must have been some easement in pastures new, if only through novelty. A new scene to suffer in; a change as good as a rest. Up the stairs it went, two at a time, till lost to sight.
‘You lot!’ ordered Julius, singling out a batch of Lazarans; those he’d brought with him and those he’d liberated now hopelessly intermixed. He indicated aloft. ‘Up you go too: at the charge!’
The mournful faces consulted in silence and then went as bidden: to do precisely what they neither knew or cared. All that worrying about futurity was one facet of life gladly left in the grave.
From somewhere up the staircase came identifiably human cries. They sounded like warnings, raised an octave by alarm. There followed shots and the sound of dead weight tumbling down towards the listeners.
Of course, by then the general rough and tumble, and especially Frankenstein’s free way with firearms, had already raised the alert. From out in the corridor came the sadly familiar rumble of military boots heading in their direction.
‘Follow my lead,’ Julius said to his regained companions. ‘Understand? And stay close to me or you’ll picked off.’
What choice did they have? The full weight of the Imperial will was heading their way, or so it sounded. Faith in Frankenstein had to either be forced or faked.
Both Ada and Foxglove nodded and drew near.
A second later, the main door didn’t just open but burst off its hinges. Old Guard poured in, brandishing bayonets. Julius was speaking rapidly, taking charge even before the woodwork hit the ground.
‘A Lazaran mutiny!’ he said, in authoritative parade ground French. ‘Quick! Some have gone above!’
The first statement hit the bull’s-eye for obvious reasons—as intended. Bodies on the floor and powder fumes in the air seemed powerful confirmation. But surpassing that even, Frankenstein had tapped into a visceral fear. Undead insurrection was universal nightmare material. Aside from the intrinsic horrors, if established they took whole armies and years to smother. Some French colonial possessions in the Caribbean had never been returned to warm-blood control, and the fate of the colonists there could not be decently envisaged. All this was common knowledge that even foot-soldiers knew.
Frankenstein’s second statement also hit home, but for reasons not so clear. Those in charge of the charge to assist seemed dead against unauthorised access upstairs. Passionately so. Any infringement swept aside misgivings (or even suspicions) they might have about the lift-room scene.
That and Frankenstein’s fast talking of course. There was a split second when scepticism might have ruled and things turned ugly, but it passed. Waving arms plus high anxiety in Julius’ voice did the rest. The soldiers looked to him for guidance—and decided on a leap of faith towards this vaguely familiar face.
Time spent in Ada Lovelace’s company could convert anyone to shameless opportunism. Julius took both advantage and control.
‘Deal with these,’ he said, indicating the Lazarans still with them; making it sound more a proposal than order, lest it offend military propriety. ‘Then follow me to get the rest…’
For once everything fell just right. Specifically, a dead soldier fell from further up, down to the base of the stairs. His face was missing. As signs went, it was convincing corroboration. To garnish the dish more shooting and shouts descended from the same unseen conflict. That and horrible tearing noises: wood and metal and flesh were protesting—and in vain by the sound of it.