Frankenstein’s Legions
- Автор: Whitbourn John
- Год: 2011
- Язык: английский
- Жанр: Попаданец
Электронная книга - «Frankenstein’s Legions». Краткое содержание книги:
but the Governments who have hijacked his discoveries see the advantage of
resurrection on an industrial scale. What better way to fight their
never-ending wars than with armies of obedient undead soldiers, recycled from
earlier battles? And how better to silence their own citizens who protest at
ceaseless conflict and plundered graveyards?
Set in the 1830s,
Frankenstein’s Legions details an alternative history in which Frankensteinian
science is a reality, revived after patchy prohibition by a second and even
more fanatical French Revolution. The republican regime, inspired by zeal and
desperation, has swept over Europe, employing inexhaustible swarms of
zombie-like (or Lazaroid) troops. The remaining independent nations, including
England, are obliged to shed their scruples and likewise raise Lazaroid
armies.
Across this crazed and Gothic history stride Julius Frankenstein,
soldier nephew of the notorious scientist; Charles Babbage inventor of the
proto-computer Difference Engine; and the Honourable Augusta Ada, Countess of
Lovelace, genius daughter of Lord Byron. Pulling their strings – they believe
– are the puppetmasters Talleyrand, French statesman par excellence and now a
renegade in English employ; and Sir Percy Blakeney, sometime Scarlet Pimpernel
and current head of the British Secret Service.
Meanwhile, the French
have been unwise enough to revive their recently deceased Emperor. The
intention was simply to pick the brain of history’s foremost military mind.
However, the risen Emperor Napoleon is developing fresh ambitions of his own…
The captain of the bath approached—and approached—and approached yet again, until far too close for European comfort. If this were Switzerland and the bath-captain a wench, they would have been deemed engaged.
The man then inflicted further rudeness via a series of sniffs over Julius at point blank range. Which in turn permitted—in fact forced—Frankenstein to notice that, scent-wise, Bath-captain didn’t exist. Even the air round him had more character and he was just a void in its normality.
Julius had passed his life to date amidst privileged circles where cleanliness, if not Godliness, was becoming de rigueur, yet such high standards as this struck him as extreme; even unnatural…
Which, he then realised, was a silly thought. In his dictated, not chosen, profession of defying death, the unnatural was natural. How much longer must he go on tormenting himself by noticing it? Those who no longer cared were so much happier men…
But it was no good. He had to scratch the itch. A power stronger than willpower made him ask.
‘What was the point of all—?’ he said, or started to say, but desisted when it became clear no one was interested in Julius any more. He doubted they even heard him. Odourless Bath-captain was indicating the next set of doors.
‘Go in there and dry off,’ he ordered, and then turned away. He and his team had a new mission. A marshal of the Grande Armée had just entered the room as Julius had earlier. All attention was focused on this new visitor from the unclean.
‘Disrobe, monsieur,’ the marshal was told. ‘Abandon yourself to our ministrations.’
Frankenstein let himself out and entered into an sunlit chamber. Floor to ceiling windows flooded it with light to the furthest corners and, as if that did not suffice, the three other walls held polished metal sheets to reflect the rays.
Otherwise the place was empty, devoid of the slightest distraction, but its purpose did not take much deducting. Still dripping water onto the floor, Julius crossed to its centre and basked in the beams. Soon he could feel rapid evaporation underway, plus that revival of animal spirits the sun’s kiss always brings.
Without even a towel to cover his nakedness or supply a fig leaf of normality, Frankenstein felt open to fresh perspectives. The one visible through the high windows seemed an obvious staring point.
Squinting against the sun, he looked into the ornamental gardens stretching into the purple distance. Closer to, the aforementioned peacocks scattered before marching squads of soldiers or other, more casual but still uniformed, strollers. Behind and unseen there was the impression of architectural bulk.
Not that he had any need to rely on intuition. Julius had observed Versailles’ exterior from the coach that brought him there. He instantly recognised the place from numerous prints. Then he’d covertly timed the ride from the first gatehouse beside the road, through interminable security points, and finally, much later, to the front entrance. That and his long walk from there to the bathing room amply confirmed that this was a big palace, a little city in itself. He’d given up as a fruitless exercise counting the rooms and halls and guards and chamberlains en route. Suffice to say, such establishments occupied enough of God’s creation to make their own rules, and visitors simply had to fit in with them.
Surrendering to the flow and a comforting lack of thought, Julius raised his arms like a bird preparing for flight. The sun fell on his skin in a passionate embrace, finally lifting off all excess moisture.
Which was how the next-in-line chamberlain found him, entering the room by a door cunningly concealed in the metalled wall. He wore not gold braid or colourful silk but a garment akin to a toga. It looked light and blindingly white. He carried an identical copy in his arms.
Fancy dress was the final straw. Frankenstein was moved to protest.
‘I am an hygienic man!’ he said. ‘I bathe once a week whether I need to or not. What on earth is all this in aid of?’
This chamberlain waggled his hand equivocally.
‘”On Earth”? I’m not so sure. However, put this on, monsieur, and soon all will be made clear. Then he will see you.’
Chapter 5: BEHOLD THE (FORMER) MAN
‘The first and the last, by the wrath of Heaven, Emperor of the Jacobins, Protector of the Confederacy of Rogues, Mediator of the Hellish League, Grand Cross of the Legion of Horror, Commander in Chief of the Legions of skeletons left at Moscow, Smolensk, Leipzig and etc. Head Runner of Runaways, Mock High-Priest of the Sanhedrin,, Mock Prophet of the Musselmen, Mock Pillar of the True Faith, Inventor of the Syrian Method of disposing of his own sick and wounded by sleeping draughts, or of captured enemies by the bayonet. First Gravedigger for burying alive, Chief Gaoler of the Holy Father and the King of Spain, Destroyer of crowns and manufacturer of counts, dukes, princes and kings. Chief Douanier of the Continental System, Head Butcher of the Parisian and Toulouse massacres, murderer of Hoffer, Palm., Wright, and yea of his own Prince, the noble and virtuous Duke of Enghien, and of a thousand others. Kidnaper of ambassadors, High Admiral of the Invasion barges and praams, Cup-bearer of the Jaffa poison, Arch-Chancellor of waste-paper treaties, Arch-Treasurer of the plunder of the world, the Sanguinary Coxcomb, assassin and incendiary. Werewolf of Europe, the BONEYMAN…’