Reincarnated Cthulhu - Chapter 7

§07. Mysteriously glowing green meteorite

On that very day, during the afternoon hours, we ambled alongside the Thames River.

As one might discern from the term “we,” I was not unaccompanied. Mrs. Curie trailed close behind, her countenance taut with anxiety. In truth, I had perceived this facet of her character previously, yet her unassertive demeanor took me by surprise.

Drawing upon historical biographies and tales of eminent figures, I had instinctively envisioned her as possessing a more self-assured and valiant manner.

I contemplated whether, perhaps, her inflexible personality had been molded by the prejudices and unfortunate circumstances of her era. Undoubtedly, she too must have experienced her own naive years within society.

No great individual is flawless from the outset.

I silently admired this concealed aspect of history.

And what of Mrs. Curie’s present actions?

“Ugh…”

She was intermittently retching beside me.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes… I can manage…”

Initially, I was taken aback, suspecting that the repercussions of radiation exposure had already manifested. However, I soon discerned the true cause. The culprit was none other than the Thames River coursing through London.

I have underscored numerous times within this account that London is the foulest city on Earth.

The Thames River, coursing through the heart of London, epitomizes pollution, and the edifices constructed along its banks dare not open their windows, lest the stench infiltrate. A mere 17 years prior, a horrifying event transpired wherein 130 passengers, rescued during the “Princess Alice Sinking,” perished after imbibing the river’s contaminated waters.

Naturally, this was an exceedingly unfamiliar environment for Curie, a foreigner. No, rather than unfamiliar, it was revolting. As a London aficionado, I found this lamentable.

“I assume other cities are not so afflicted?”

Yet, was it genuinely worth such commotion? Feeling slightly affronted, I casually inquired.

“Paris is somewhat… but my homeland has nothing of this sort…”

Curie spoke, as if to justify herself. At her response, I surreptitiously grinned.

Indeed, is Paris merely somewhat? After all, as the capital of an industrially flourishing nation, France could hardly be drastically different.

Fundamentally, the reason for Mrs. Curie’s wretched final years stemmed from the insularity of France. Had it been England, her fate might have been more favorable.

“So, your homeland is Warsaw, Poland? I have heard it is a resplendent city.”

In truth, during this epoch, there existed no nation by the name of Poland. The three European great powers—the Kingdom of Prussia, the Russian Empire, and the Habsburg Empire—had partitioned and governed this ill-fated country in tripartite fashion.

Yet, Poland’s national identity endured undiminished, and even after a century, it produced patriots like Marie Curie. Her exceptional patriotism was evident in her decision to name the first element she discovered “Polonium.”

As anticipated, Curie replied with a faint smile, her face still pallid.

“That is correct, it is a venerable city with a 400-year history.”

The two patriots shared a joyful laugh, delighting in their mockery of both the French and Russian Empires through their discourse.

At some juncture, the sensation of engaging with a figure of historical import had dissipated, and I found myself in the company of a young researcher, brimming with potential.

“I am truly grateful for your time. Foreigners such as myself are scarcely embraced with open arms in London.”

“Assisting impassioned scholars is ever a delight. Moreover, I had business to attend to on Jacob’s Island.”

“You alluded to your investigation earlier.”

I assented with a nod. I had already apprised Curie of my inquiry in thorough detail, as we journeyed side by side.

“Forgive me if I failed to inquire earlier, but what compelled you to choose me?”

“Would it be unsatisfactory to simply state my admiration for you as a scholar?”

“It is an honor, but the explanation leaves much to be desired.”

In truth, it was rather perplexing that Curie had entrusted me with this undertaking. Our sole previous encounter had occurred two months prior in the subterranean chamber of the Frank mansion, where I had made an unremarkable impression.

Conversely, she was an esteemed member of the academic conference, and I found it difficult to fathom that not a single member of the assemblage – which, according to Arthur, was composed of the intellectual elite – could have aided her research. Surely, Arthur himself ought to have been a suitable candidate. It seemed inconceivable that he would abstain from such a tantalizing narrative.

“Indeed, I hesitated to broach this subject, as I remain ignorant of the precise relationship between the chairman and the doctor, but…”

“Pray, speak your mind.”

In truth, thoughts of Arthur brought a twinge of discomfort to my brow. The very existence I was forbidden to recall would inevitably resurface. Yet, I harbored a keen interest in his recent activities. Such contradictory emotions roiled within me.

“The Frank academic conference has been rendered inert.”

“What?”

“Since that fateful day, the chairman has been in a perpetual state of malaise. He has scarcely engaged in conversation, and his presence outside his chambers has become a rarity. Then, a month past, he shuttered the mansion without prior warning.”

Curie’s composed revelation left me aghast. The revelation that Arthur, an autocrat of sorts, had been so profoundly shaken by my exploits came as a surprise, as did his apparent abdication of responsibility.

“Were there no other members?”

“Ah… therein lies the issue.”

Curie offered an awkward smile in response to my inquiry.

“The Frank academic conference is, in essence, the chairman’s private scholarly symposium. He selects the members according to his own whims. Consequently… well…”

“A congregation of eccentrics, then.”

“…That would be one way to describe them. As each member’s connection to the others was solely through the conference, once the mansion was sealed, all means of communication were severed. Doubtless, they are each engaged in their individual research endeavors throughout London, awaiting the day the mansion doors swing wide once more. I intended to follow suit, provided the chairman’s funds remained accessible.”

Curie abruptly lifted her gaze.

“However, upon hearing of this meteorite, I could not remain idle. Do you recall the statue?”

“You refer to the one bearing the visage of a bipedal creature.”

The image of Cthulhu sprang to mind as I spoke. At the time, I had not been particularly moved by its appearance, but subsequent events had imbued the statue with a sinister aura that made me loath to recall it.

“The moment I heard the tale, a singular notion took root in my thoughts. Indeed, I could scarcely conceive of any other possibility. To our knowledge, few elements possess such luminescent properties.”

“You are alluding to uranium.”

“Precisely. However, uranium does not emit a glow in its natural state. What if there existed an element that did? In truth, I have long suspected the presence of such a substance. All that remains is to devise methods of detection and furnish proof of its existence.”

In that instant, I grasped the import of her insinuation.

Radium.

The unearthing of this element ranked among Madame Curie’s most monumental accomplishments. It would require an additional three years and the processing of ten tons of uraninite for her to extract a mere 10 grams of radium.

Yet, even now, she had already discerned its existence and comprehended its properties. By the standards of history’s progression, this revelation had arrived prematurely.

“Are you aware that all these luminescent minerals share a common characteristic?”

“Radioactivity.”

Curie’s countenance bore an expression of admiration as she nodded in response to my answer.

“Have you an aptitude for physics as well?”

I demurred with a shake of my head. The wellspring of my knowledge was confined to the recollections from my previous existence. The more intricate aspects of radioactivity, intelligible to the layperson of the 21st century, eluded my grasp. Rather than feign expertise in the presence of an authority such as Madame Curie, I chose to speak candidly.

“I am acquainted with Professor Becquerel’s research.”

“In that case, you must be familiar with Becquerel rays as well.”

The proclamation of Becquerel’s discovery of these rays, or radiation, was scheduled for the following year. Yet again, the timeline had been disrupted.

This was no mere error. All the scientific breakthroughs within my ken were occurring ahead of schedule.

The Oracle.

Inevitably, my thoughts turned to that voracious, steam-powered leviathan of steel. Was all this the handiwork of a computer that had emerged a century too soon? Or was it the malevolent machination of some hidden force? Striving to quell my disquieting ruminations, I responded composedly.

“Indeed.”

“I intend to measure the intensity of Becquerel rays emanating from the meteorite. This investigation will significantly further my research.”

After a brief pause, Curie added, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

“Or, it may render it entirely futile.”

Her trepidation was warranted.

Though it remained a mere conjecture, what if the celestial object that plummeted to Earth were a massive concentration of radium? Her crowning achievement, the discovery of radium that would later serve as her cornerstone, could be dismissed as a divine anomaly and vanish completely.

Unaware of the future, I could comprehend her rationale for seeking the aid of a stranger like myself, given that her years of research might be rendered inconsequential by this meteorite.

“Consider the situation from another perspective. You are fortunate. If the meteorite indeed proves valuable, you have been granted the opportunity to study it before any other scholar on Earth. You are young. Unlike myself.”

Cognizant of the future, I endeavored to reassure Curie with caution. It was conceivable that her prodigious intellect might prompt her to undertake even more remarkable research should a fragment of radium descend from the heavens.

“Professor Becquerel would leap for joy if he were privy to this. He still deems himself a young man.”

“Has he surpassed forty years of age?”

“He celebrates his forty-first birthday this year.”

Curie and I shared a fleeting moment of mirth.

In the meantime, the malodorous air intensified. I could sense the infamous Jacob’s Island drawing near. Despite being a lifelong Londoner, I had never ventured to this locale. The foul odor was but one reason, albeit a considerable one, for my avoidance.

“Halt.”

Two constables, who had been lounging in the shadows, rose to their feet and obstructed our path.

“Is that woman a lady of the night?”

With a grave tone, the policeman inquired as he brandished his truncheon.

“What?”

I instinctively retorted. Curie, perhaps unfamiliar with such coarse language, failed to grasp the exchange and appeared perplexed, her gaze flitting between the officer and myself.

“I inquired if that woman is a lady of the night.”

“Heavens, what is the matter? Are you truly loyal British constables in service to Her Majesty the Queen?”

Struggling to contain my ire, I managed to suppress the volume of my voice and pose the question. Had I been one whose visage easily betrayed my emotions, my cheeks would have surely been suffused with indignation by this point.

“I know not your destination, but this area is ill-suited for a middle-aged disabled gentleman and a foreign woman.”

“This is England, and I am free to traverse any location my Queen deems permissible.”

The two constables exchanged glances and scoffed.

“We merely offer a warning. Even if you belong to the Royal Family, we cannot ensure your safety beyond this point.”

The policeman gestured with his truncheon towards the area behind him. Mere meters away, the scene transformed into something unrecognizable as London. Mounds of refuse and rat carcasses littered the ground, the infamy of the locale palpable.

“This is Jacob’s Island.”

London’s most wretched slum. The isle where all the Thames River’s vermin congregated and dwelled.

Nevertheless, my response remained singular.

“Do I appear as one incapable of self-preservation?”

The two constables chortled, as if amused by my words.

“Listen, sir. I know not if you are a nobleman or a wealthy individual accustomed to comfort, but such status holds no sway here.”

I extracted the Victoria Cross medal I perpetually carried within my coat and brandished it.

“I reiterate, do I appear as one incapable of self-preservation?”

The constables scrutinized the medal, their eyes widening in recognition. Once they comprehended its significance, they doffed their hats and averted their gazes. The message was evident.

“We apologize. Please, proceed.”

“Hmph!”

With an exaggerated snort and an uplifted chin, I strode past them.

“But exercise caution. Since the meteorite’s descent, Jacob’s Island has transformed into a truly peculiar place.”

As I ambled by, one of the constables whispered to me. I yearned to inquire further, but the pair had already retreated into the distance. I opted against returning to pose the question.

“What transpired? Those London constables appeared speechless and merely allowed us passage.”

Curie queried, her admiration evident.

“It is a military medal. I exchanged it for this.”

I casually affixed the medal to my suit once more, tapping my prosthetic leg with my cane.

“Oh, I apologize.”

“Think nothing of it.”

Viewing the situation from a 21st-century vantage point, it seemed foolish. I had not only volunteered for the army, but also lost a limb and returned home. I had once lamented and resented my circumstances.

And so, it felt peculiar that I now considered this medal a source of pride, be it from a 21st-century or 19th-century perspective.

Regardless, the constable’s words rang true. The environment shifted drastically within mere steps.

“Can you endure this?”

“Yes… Thanks to my desensitized nose.”

Jacob’s Island.

Although it was so named, in truth, the appellation used by the citizenry referred not solely to the isle itself. The diminutive Jacob’s Island and its surrounding polluted expanse constituted one immense slum. I had ever been curious as to how they demarcated the distinction, but now, as I stood within its confines, the differentiation became apparent.

It was the odor. The stench delineated the space.

“In any case, this is…”

I grimaced.

Atop the ashes of the incinerated buildings lay charred corpses. They numbered not one or two, but dozens. Curie, following the direction of my gaze, could no longer contain her revulsion and ultimately retched. Had I not grown accustomed to such scenes during my military service, I might have done the same.

“The article claimed it was a minor disturbance due to a fire.”

I harbored resentment towards the journalists who could dismiss such a calamity as a minor disturbance.

On the day the meteorite descended, Jacob’s Island was engulfed in flames.

I remained uncertain whether the conflagration was sparked by the meteorite’s impact or other factors. Nonetheless, the fire devoured the entire island, coated in waste oil, in an instant and persisted until the evening rain doused the blaze.

The indigent inhabitants, trapped within the confined space, were consumed by the inferno without hope of escape. Countless buildings on Jacob’s Island resembled this scene.

This was 19th-century London’s stark reality.

I was acquainted with this reality and fought to survive, to avoid becoming another lifeless body here.

As we delved deeper into the slum, conditions deteriorated. Corpses were ubiquitous, while living souls remained conspicuously absent. A dreadful sense of déjà vu pervaded my being. I had previously witnessed a similar tableau and experienced comparable sensations.

The strangeness intensified.

“Remain near me.”

“Eh?”

Upon recognizing the nature of the déjà vu, I drew closer to Curie.

“Never leave my side, stay near.”

I reiterated and implored repeatedly.

Initially, I believed the sensation stemmed from the numerous corpses encountered. But I could ill-afford such careless musings. The constable’s words held veracity. The situation was truly peculiar.

“We are being trailed. They are amateurs. However, their numbers remain unknown.”

I had felt this sensation on the battlefield.

The moment I lost my leg, as foes brimming with murderous intent closed in from all directions.

“There are many of them.”

I clenched the medal in my pocket tightly.