Which made his mind up.
‘I suggest,’ he said, ‘that you avert your eyes.’
Foxglove, worried but entirely in another’s hands now, reluctantly turned his back on the zinc table where his mistress lay.
Julius parted the scarlet gown with two hands, baring Ada’s breasts. Then he reached up to position the primed serum spear.
‘You never did say who…’
Mainly he desired to distract Foxglove during the most distressing part of the process, but he also wanted to know.
‘‘Who,’ sir?’
‘Who killed her…’
Foxglove clenched his huge scar-coated fists.
‘Her Lazaran lover, who went berserk as such beasts do. If you could believe such a slander of such a woman. Alas, Lord Lovelace did. He went through the motions of requesting revival but did not demur at its speedy refusal.’
Frankenstein threw a lever and impelled by lead weights the serum spear descended. It penetrated spot on, deeply piercing the dead heart.
No blood flowed, demonstrating life was long gone. The body jumped once at the impact but returned to repose.
Gruesome sound effects almost made Foxglove turn but he restrained himself.
‘It… will not hurt her?’
‘A fractured rib perhaps, probably a lingering ache. Certainly a lasting scar. All but the last will pass. A small price to pay for life anew.’
‘Ah yes… and it shall be the best serum, as we agreed?’
‘I am provided with a select store: the much distilled sort used for reviving generals and the like: royalty even. The same stuff that runs in Neo-Nelson’s veins. It was intended for my experimental program which proved sadly stillborn. So, having no use for the stuff, I shall not stint it now.’
Ada probably had pale skin even before Death made her pallor permanent. Now she was stuck with it. Not even the vintage serum being forced under pressure through her body cells would alter that, for all its high quality. It was one of the defining features of the Revived and no method yet discovered could alter that. When life returned a Lazaran might spend its entire un-life pearl-diving under tropic suns and still remain ‘pale and interesting.’
Frankenstein took hold of his patient’s right hand and foot. He sought and found the faint plumping that said the steam-spear had done its work, pushing serum to the far extremities.
Whilst the Galvanism tank warmed up, Julius brought Foxglove back in to fill the pregnant pause and save some sweat.
‘You can turn around now. Help me roll her in.’
If he’d expected miracles in the interval, the faithful retainer was disabused. Lady Lovelace remained as she was: mere breathless meat with a tenderised head.
‘Crank the wheel when I say. Ready? One, two, three, go!’
Julius Frankenstein was young and hale but it was still arduous work setting in motion a mechanism meant for two. Foxglove’s brawn provided ideal assistance. The conveyor belt fairly shot Ada into the open maw of the tank in one fluid motion.
Frankenstein hid her from view and fastened the heavy seals.
‘I should stand back. Leaping arcs are not unknown.’
A rubberised mat was provided for the purpose. Julius beckoned Foxglove over to join him on it.
‘You don’t believe that explanation then?’ he asked.
With but one topic occupying his mind the visitor knew what was meant.
‘The murder story? Indeed not, sir. Those who knew her Ladyship recognise the wicked imposture for what it is. Or they should. Sadly, Lord Lovelace was not of that number. Perhaps his mind was misled by grief and shame, but he remains at fault. Sorry as I was for him, my obligations to his house severed that day.’
‘So she wasn’t a Lazarophile? It does happen you know: bored aristo ladies appreciative of super-human staying power. Plus there’s attractions in a lover who doesn’t get in your hair afterwards…’
Foxglove’s face was eloquent answer enough.
‘Not a flighty piece at all…?’ Julius persisted. The hum from the tank had not yet reached its optimum.
‘No.’ The reply was firm, not encouraging any challenge. ‘Madam’s passions lay elsewhere. In realms of the utmost propriety.’
Julius was minded to say ‘pity’ but thought better of it.
‘Then who? And why?’
Foxglove drew a deep breath.
‘Those questions are projects for another day. We shall see what Her Ladyship says.’
His confidence was flattering but misguided. The public didn’t realise Revivalism was not an exact science. Persuading a critical mass of atoms to resume work when they thought their job was done and eternal rest in order, required both skill and luck. Many cadavers were stubborn (or safely ensconced in Heaven, according to theologians) and the failure rate significant. Yet even a failure was better than a botched job: the halfway returns were terrible to see—and hear. It was a kindness to send them straight back to oblivion.
For Julius such thoughts sponsored inner pictures of scenes he’d witnessed as an army field surgeon. Unfortunately some things seen can’t be unseen.
Frankenstein gladly left his mind’s-eye version of the Battle of the Vatican for even this present. The whine from within the tank was almost transcending human range. He checked the gauge and its fail-safe twin and then threw the remote-lever.
Dynamo columns atop the tank lit up like lightning-struck trees. They exchanged arcs of power and fed them back into the container. Dust on its surface hovered in sprightly blue-lit dance.
In the absence of screams or any other sign Frankenstein gave it an extra second but dared no more than that. The only thing worse than half-returns were what the Hecatomb wits called ‘fry-ups.’
How he hated the English way with words! Other nations would have been more… indirect, more delicate.
The lever was lifted and the dynamos died. Residual sparks gradually subsided.
One way or the other, they hadn’t long now. The power usage would register on every other Hecatomb system. The duty officer might assume it was just the useless foreigner burning some midnight oil for a change—or he might not.
Donning protective gauntlets Frankenstein opened the door a fraction sooner than was prescribed. Burnt ozone wafted out.
‘Give me a hand again.’
They reversed the belt drive and Ada emerged head first.
She was still pearl white, not charcoal black: which was a good sign. She lay absolutely still, which was not.
Nevertheless, Frankenstein removed the restraints and observed the exposed chest for signs of heaving. There were none.
Foxglove frowned.
‘Slap her,’ Julius ordered.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It works with babies and likewise Lazarans. You wouldn’t like seeing me do it…’
Foxglove hesitated. It went against Nature —or his nature—every bit as much as raising the dead.
‘Hurry!’ said Frankenstein. ‘Do you want this thing or not? The opportunity is fleeting. Oh—I see your problem…’
The English were brutal but bashfuclass="underline" a Frenchman or Italian would have jumped at the chance.
Frankenstein spelt it out.
‘No, man: not exactly as with babies: I meant slap her face.’
Foxglove almost panicked but recovered. He marked his target and then shut his eyes.
Smack!
Ada’s head rolled in response to the blow: her sole response.