Shadow Conspiracy

by Phyllis Irene

“The doctor has his body,” I told her, for she knew virtually all of what had transpired between me and Polidori over the past weeks.

  “Well, then...?”

  “He doesn’t mean to use it for Immanuel.” Yes, I had told her that too. “He means to make Lord Byron immortal. Lord Byron and the rest of us, if we’re so lucky.” I laid harsh emphasis on the last word.

  “That ain’t natural, Mam.”

  “No, it isn’t. Nor is it fair. He promised Immanuel...I promised Immanuel.”

  “Well, then,” said Elise, giving me a strange look from beneath her lashes, “what will we do?”

  I sent Elise to Immanuel with a note. I gave her further instructions as to what she was to do when she returned to the villa, then I fed my baby and rocked him to sleep in my arms.

  The body arrived at half-past eleven under cover of darkness. There was a moon, but it frequently hid its face behind wisps of cloud. There was much activity around the coach house then. I pretended to be asleep in my room, but watched instead from the darkened window as Polidori and his Poet King returned to the house. They seemed in rather high spirits, but as they traversed the hall to their rooms the tenor of their voices changed.

  I moved closer to the door to listen.

  “What will it be like, John? How shall I feel when I awake?”

  “Free, my friend. Free of the limp. Free of the blackness. Free of all disease.”

  “But what of him? Will he leave nothing of himself in the shell?”

  “He is gone. A ghost. Less than a ghost—a vapor. Look, when I began these experiments I carefully charted the habits of the animals I used. Their preferred foods, their responses to certain stimuli. I chose as subjects those with the most clearly defined personality traits, for want of a better word. In all cases, the personality of the transferred spirit was preserved. You will be you—George Gordon, Lord Byron—and no one else.”

  “I am afraid...” George began, then stopped.

  “Afraid of what?”

  “My poetry. How much of it is influenced by my sickness and informed by my trials? What if...what if I am so whole I no longer hunger. I no longer have reason to write?”

  There was a long silence, then John murmured, “That shan’t happen. You are brilliant. And your brilliance transcends all physical factors. In this new body, your powers will be amplified, my friend, not diminished. Besides,” he added, his voice taking on a teasing tone, “if being young, healthy and beautiful does not suit the Poet King, we will find you an old cadaver that looks like Punch. Cease worrying, George. You can be anything you desire.”

  “Yes. I can, can’t I?”

  Dear God, they spoke of it as if they might shop for bodies as they shopped for a new chapeau. You don’t like this one or it goes out of fashion, simply select another. I returned to my watch and waited, as the windows of their respective rooms lit, then darkened.

  Immanuel met me behind the coach house at a quarter past one in the morning. I had a key to the lab now, for I had asked to be entrusted with the care of the animals. I wore it around my neck on a satin ribbon.

  Once in the lab, it took both of us to get the frozen body of the young drowning victim onto the host’s table. I had gotten towels, a fur throw and blankets. Immanuel had brought a change of clothing—clothing that had once fit him and which should fit him again, for the dead young man was very like him in stature.

  I bid Immanuel lie on the other table. I strapped him down carefully. I had witnessed several animal transfers now and knew that the reaction from the donor could be violent. To the heads of both Immanuel and the other young man, I affixed the strange little caps the doctor had fashioned. They were of silver mesh which he insisted would best allow the electrical current generated by the machine to flow, pushing the spirit along on its fiery tide.

  Forgive my want of scientific precision. I am a writer, not a scientist, and have lived for some time with a poet—this is the best description I have.

  The hardest part, I knew, would be to generate that flood of electricity. I had seen John Polidori do it several times but I had not his physical strength. Yet, for Immanuel’s sake, I must find strength. I went to one end of the Machine.

  “Are you ready?” I asked and Immanuel grunted in the affirmative.

  I took a deep breath, wrapped both hands around the crank that would turn the gears against the metal brushes, and threw my entire being into the task. The Machine hummed, the “bees” buzzed, then a blue arc of electrical current raced up the dancing rods and flashed between them, completing the “touch.” The blue flame danced down wires attached to those rods and out to the silver cap on Immanuel’s head. He was suddenly cocooned in pale azure radiance. He roared aloud and I knew a horrible fear that we would be heard. I turned the crank faster...but not as fast as I had seen Polidori turn it.

  It was taking too long. Much too long. The spirit of the capuchin monkey had been transferred by now—the donor body dead and cooling, the host body twitching to life. My arms were aching, but I had no more to give, I was slowing when I needed more speed.

  I heard a sound behind me and turned to see Paolo Foggi standing in the doorway to the tack room. I almost cried out in defeat. We had been discovered, but the sight of Polidori’s man galvanized me. I cranked harder, fear pumping through my every vein. I would do this thing. I would.

  Paolo paused only long enough to take in the situation, then rushed toward me, his hands outstretched.

  No! No! I would not be deterred. I must not.

  He reached my side and put his hands over mine on the crank shaft. I tightened my grip. But instead of trying to rip my hands from the handle, he began to turn the crank with me—faster and faster still. Immanuel roared again. The light exploded from his cap, raced back up the silver wire, leapt the gap between the rods and flashed through the second wire. There was a bright burst of radiance from the cap on the drowning victim’s head. Then the aura subsided as if the body had absorbed it.

  “Stop!” I cried to my unexpected helper. “Arresto!”

  We stopped turning the crank and I hastened to the table, grabbing a blanket as I went. I threw the blanket over the naked man and put my cheek near his nose. Did the flesh beneath my fingers feel warm or was that imagination? Was the pallor of the skin lessening?

  I felt a thin breath of air on my cheek. He gasped suddenly, convulsing, quite as a drowning victim might if he regained his breath. His eyes opened—fine grey eyes. They met mine.

  “Mary,” he said and I all but collapsed.

  But there was no time for weakness. Paolo was chattering at me in Italian, telling me that we must flee. There was a carriage awaiting us at the top of the lane with Elise and little Willmouse in it. It was Elise who had sent him, of course, and he had come because he loved her and would do for her anything she asked.

  He helped Immanuel—Immanuel reborn—into his clothing, while I agonized over whether I should leave a note for Percy. Something begging his forgiveness even as it condemned what he and his friends meant to do. But a note seemed too poor a vehicle for all that I felt: horror and fear at what I had done and what they had meant to do, grief for Percy whom I shall always love, and hope that Immanuel might take from science a future nature had denied him.

  I turned to Paolo. “Prendalo al carrello. Take him to the carriage.” I gestured toward the back door and added that I would meet them up at the road; I merely wanted to make sure we left nothing behind. (Nothing but Immanuel’s empty shell.)

  The door closed behind the two men. I turned to the Machine and set about making sure that it would grant rebirth to no immortal poet kings.

  Only later, as the carriage bore us into the night, did I resolve that I would do something more. I would complete the tale George had challenged me to write. And, by God, it would be more than a mere ghost story meant to dull the boredom of a rainy night.

  I looked up at Immanuel as he sat across from me in the chaise. And, miraculously, it was really Immanuel
I saw behind those grey eyes. He smiled at me, though weakly.

  “Thank you,” he said, his voice hoarse from drowning. “Thank you, Mary.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” I said, “until we have crossed this unknown land. I fear we may have far to travel.”

  He met my gaze levelly and I knew he understood; I was not speaking of the darkened landscape outside the rocking chaise.

  Maya is addicted to speculative fiction. For this, she blames her dad and Ray Bradbury. She’s authored six fantasy novels and short fiction that’s appeared in Analog, Amazing Stories, Interzone, and others, and been short-listed for the Nebula and British SF awards. Her current project with writing partner Michael Reaves (co-author of Mr. Twilight) is a new addition to the Star Wars universe.

  Maya is half of Maya & Jeff, a Pegasus Award-winning musical duo. They’ve collaborated on three amazing children and live in San Jose. Read/listen to Maya’s work at http://www.bookviewcafe.com or http://www.jeffandmaya.com Her website can be found at http://www.mysticfig.com

  The Persistence of Souls

  … by Sarah Zettel

  “‘ For God’s sake, my dear Byron,’ said Webster at last. ‘What are you thinking of? Are you about to commit murder? Or what other dreadful thing are you meditating?’”

  The Works of Lord Byron:

  Letters and Journals

  ed. Thomas Moore

  I

  London, England, 1840

  Mr. Josiah Abrahams

  Quality Gemstones &Jewellery

  to

  Select Clientèle

  Fletcher tucked the card into the pocket of his coat and nodded to the automatic footman. The automaton did not move. Fletcher grimaced. The creation of bronze and clockwork could not interpret the gesture. It needed a verbal command.

  “Bring me the gentleman who gave you the card,” said Fletcher clearly. The clockwork mechanism bowed from its waist with only the slightest chime of metal against metal, and set off down the hallway with a heavy tread.

  That we should be reduced to this... Fletcher shook his head at the hotel’s public sitting room. Whereas once he would have sat in his master’s private salon, here he shared a threadbare space with a clerk, a clergyman, and a tradesman with his gaudy waistcoat.

  I’m sorry, Master. Fletcher stifled a cough, and the clergyman rattled his paper irritably in response. The automaton returned in short order with Mr. Abrahams, as well-turned-out and respectable as ever, walking calmly behind. Shame burned through Fletcher as he stood. His own blue coat was dusty past all his arts with brush and damp cloth, and his breeches shone at the knees. Upon beholding him, Mr. Abrahams grew distinctly wary.

  Fletcher called upon his long years of training and kept his own expression impassive as he made his bow. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Mr. Abrahams.”

  “Not at all.” Mr. Abrahams paused. “I’m sorry, but do I know you?”

  “You were acquainted with my master,” Fletcher replied. “Many years ago.” He did not give Abrahams the chance to ask any further questions. “I have engaged a private sitting room. If you would step this way, sir?”

  The sitting room was small, without a fireplace. It possessed one window, which was in need of cleaning. Mr. Abrahams betrayed no discomfort, but removed his tall hat and sat down at the chipped and badly painted table.

  “Now, Mr. Fletcher, how may I be of service to you?”

  “I am under commission to sell some precious gemstones.” Fletcher brought a small green bag out from his coat pocket. “I believe, and my master believes, that you are the man best able to transact such business.”

  “I thank you for your confidence.” Abrahams bowed his head. “I am of course most interested in anything you might have to show me.” He produced a piece of black velvet from his own pocket and laid it on the table.

  Fletcher opened his bag and tipped the contents onto Mr. Abrahams’ velvet. Three pearls, each as big as a marble, rolled onto the velvet: one pure white, one a delicate pink, the third a deep, lustrous silver-grey.

  Abrahams stared at the gems. He pulled a loupe from his inner pocket and screwed it into his eye. One by one he lifted the pearls, scrutinising them in the dim light. Fletcher watched the play of emotions on his face. This was a man who loved beauty and understood the worth of beautiful things. But he was also fundamentally honest.

  “You said you were under commission?” enquired Abrahams softly.

  “My master acquired these in Greece,” said Fletcher, which was true as far as it went. “I am engaged to sell them on his behalf and have a letter to that effect.” He brought out the carefully folded document.

  The jeweler removed his glass and unfolded the paper. He saw the crest and the date and his keen eyes bulged, first with disbelief, then with anger. “This is ridiculous. His lordship has been dead these twenty years.”

  “So he wished the world, which hounded him, to believe. But I assure you, the letter is genuine.” I copied his hand often enough when he still had hands of his own, and his wishes have been my life’s mission since.

  Abrahams studied the letter stating that the bearer, Armitage Fletcher, had permission to undertake the proffered commission. He stroked the signature once before closing the paper and staring again at the pearls shining pure and beautiful in the ashy London daylight.

  Fletcher’s heart throbbed painfully in his chest and a new cough threatened as he waited to see which would win: the lover of beauty or the honest man.

  “I believe,” Abrahams said quietly, “we can come to an arrangement on your master’s behalf.”

  Fletcher’s chest squeezed so tightly that he coughed twice, requiring he bring his handkerchief to his lips. He hastily tucked it back into his pocket, before the man in front of him could see the blood staining the white linen.

  “Excellent.”

  II

  “Vigilance. Vigilance.”

  Gregory Beale stumbled through the French doors of the Lovelace House conservatory, clutching his blackened right arm to the ruin of his chest. Around him, brass and enamel trees glimmered in the moonlight. The scent of smoke and charred flesh he carried with him mingled with the scents of oranges and roses created for this place by a leading Parisian parfumeur. A silver cat stalked past him without pausing as he staggered forward, and a golden stag paced unconcerned behind the lemon trees. Only the jeweled serpents twining through the branches paused to notice the monster he had become, shambling through their jeweled Eden.

  Pain lanced through the bones of his face and straight into his brain. The singing of the host of mechanical birds was torture to his remaining ear, and a constant steady ticking as of a thousand pocket watches set his injuries throbbing to its rhythm. He knew if that ticking ever faded, one of the three keymen standing silently against the wall would move to locate the faltering creation and wind it up again, using the proper key from the great ring on its belt.

  But not one of them would move to help him. Not without its mistress’ orders.

  “Vigilance,” he rasped again as he shambled forward. Please, please, let them recognise me. “Vigilance!”

  A bronze mastiff appeared from around the edge of the fountain. Around its feet clustered three black lacquered spiders, each the size of a pigeon.

  Beale’s legs would carry him no farther. The impact as he tumbled to the floor felt as if it must shatter his charred bones. A spider scuttled closer. From his one good eye, Beale could see the orange hourglass emblazoned on the mechanism’s belly. It would finish him off in a moment if he didn’t make himself known. For a heartbeat he was of a mind to let it.

  “Vigilance,” Beale croaked toward the dog. “I am Gregory Poke Beale. Fetch your mistress.”

  The dog’s tail waved twice, steady as a metronome. Then, it turned and padded away, its paws clicking lightly against the mosaic floor.

  With the dog’s departure, the spiders folded their legs, becoming little more than black stones. Some odd detached part of
his mind was aware that it was a great privilege to be observing these delicate creations so closely, even if it was only through one eye. Even if it was only through a haze of burning pain.

  “Mr. Beale.”

  Beale tried to lift his head and failed. The Countess Lovelace crouched down beside him. “What has happened?”

  “So sorry, my lady.” He turned his face toward her and she gasped as she saw the ravages of the burn, how the brass rim of his flying goggles had been embedded into his flesh.

  “Are they here now? The ones who did this to you?”

  He shook his head slowly. “Can’t know I survived the crash,” he grated. “Would’ve caught me...so sorry, my lady.”

  “Who did this to you? Who is responsible?”

  The pain was drifting away. It was all but gone. He tried to think, but he was too filled with wonder. The relief was indescribable. He would be able to sleep now. He could sleep, and all would be better.

  “Mr. Beale!”

  She was speaking to him, Countess Lovelace. So beautiful. Never had thought she would be so. He wanted to answer her, but he could not. Sleep was so close. Sleep, and the pain would never return.

  “Answer me, Mr. Beale! Who did this to you?”

  With a supreme effort, Beale made his ruined mouth move. “Your father,” he whispered at last. “Your father.”

  But it was too much, the return to the pain and the fear. I’m sorry. Truly, my lady, I am.

  Gregory Beale let beautiful oblivion claim him.

  Trembling, Ada Lovelace stood. She put her hands to her face. When she lowered them again, she was pale but calm.

  “Bastion,” she said.

  One of the keymen moved forward smoothly.

  “Remove Mr. Beale.” She bit her lip. “Take Carriage Number One to the Camden facility.” It would be bad enough to have him found there, but better there than in the house. “Leave him in Alley Number Three. Do you understand?”

  The keyman bowed again.