Frankenstein: Lost Souls - Hardcover

Koontz, Dean

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 055380801X ISBN 13: 9780553808018

Publisher: Bantam, 2010

Synopsis

#1 New York Times bestselling author Dean Koontz brings his fertile imagination and unparalleled storytelling abilities to one of the most timeless—and terrifying—creations in all of fiction: the legend of Frankenstein. In Lost Souls, Koontz puts a singular twist on this classic tale of ambition and science gone wrong and forges a new legend uniquely suited to our times—a story of revenge, redemption, and the razor-thin line that separates humanity from inhumanity as we consider a new invitation to apocalypse. 
 
The work of creation has begun again. Only now things will be different. Victor Leben, once Frankenstein, has not only seen the future—he’s ready to populate it. Using stem cells, “organic” silicon circuitry, and nanotechnology, he will engender a race of superhumans—the perfect melding of flesh and machine. With a powerful, enigmatic backer eager to see his dream come to fruition and a secret location where the enemies of progress can’t find him, Victor is certain that this time, nothing and no one can stop him.

It is up to five people to prove him wrong. In their hands rests nothing less than the survival of humanity itself.

They are drawn together in different ways, by omens sinister and wondrous, to the same shattering conclusion: Two years after they saw him die, the man they knew as Victor Helios lives on. Detectives Carson O’Connor and Michael Maddison; Victor’s engineered wife, Erika 5, and her companion Jocko; and the original Victor’s first creation, the tormented Deucalion, have all arrived at a small Montana town where their old alliance will be renewed—and tested—by forces from within and without, and where the dangers they face will eclipse any they have yet encountered. Yet in the midst of their peril, love will blossom, and joy, and they will discover sources of strength and perseverance they could not have imagined.

They will need all these resources, and more. For a monumental battle is about to commence that will require all their ingenuity and courage, as it defines what we are to be . . . and if we are to be at all.

About this title

About the Author

Dean Koontz, the author of many #1 New York Times bestsellers, lives with his wife, Gerda, and the enduring spirit of their golden retriever, Trixie, in southern California.

Reviews

Set in Rainbow Falls, Mont., Koontz's goofy, grisly fourth riff on the Frankenstein theme (after Dead and Alive) finds Victor--previously presumed dead but apparently as easily resurrected as cinematic incarnations of his monster--perfecting his "New Race" of humanoid replicants. As affectless pod-person lookalikes gradually replace the town's citizens, the task of saving humanity from Victor and his megalomaniacal plans to "destroy the soul of the world" fall once again to husband-and-wife detectives Michael and Carson Maddison; Victor's soulsearching original monster, Deucalion; and a host of local yokels who provide both sympathy and comic relief. That the "good guys" are instantly recognizable by their abundant compassion, generosity, and sense of humor and the "bad guys" by their fussbudget fastidiousness and dedication to efficient extermination of inferior humans helps lay the foundation for the humanitarian homilies that punctuate the narrative.
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*Starred Review* Lost Souls continues the saga of the seemingly unkillable Victor Frankenstein, now a megalomaniac bent on—what else?—world domination, via wiping humanity off the globe, from a few years after where the trilogy Dean Koontz’s Frankenstein left it. Since the blowup (literally: Katrina was raging) in New Orleans in which Victor and his replicant New Race went down for good, Erika Five, the last and most independent version of Frankenstein’s “wife,” has settled outside a Montana town, happily laying low. Then, shopping in town, she sees what could only be Victor. It is, and it isn’t, as she later figures out. Meanwhile, a new bunch of replicants starts replacing their human prototypes and launches a mass termination of the rest of the populace. Fortunately, Deucalion, as Frankenstein’s original creation is now known, is on to the plot. He brings the detective couple from New Orleans, who are now married, new parents, and PIs in San Francisco, into the action, which races to a climax that doesn’t quite conclude in this book. Obviously enjoying himself, Koontz does his dance of grisly suspense, wry dialogue, sharp characterization, outlandish but charming (and well-integrated) comic relief, and cultural criticism more adroitly than almost ever before. --Ray Olson

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

The October wind came down from the stars. With the hiss of an artist's airbrush, it seemed to blow the pale moonlight like a mist of paint across the slate roofs of the church and abbey, across the higher windows, and down the limestone walls. Where patchesof lawn were bleached by recent cold, the dead grass resembled ice in the lunar chill.   At two o'clock in the morning, Deucalion walked the perimeter of the seven-acre property, following the edge of the encircling forest. He needed no lamplight to guide him; and he would have needed none even deep in the blackness of the mountain woods.  

From time to time, he heard sounds of unknown origin issuing from among the towering pines, but they inspired no anxiety. He carried no weapon because he feared nothing in the forest, nothing in the night, nothing on Earth.   Although he was unusually tall, muscled, and powerful, his physical strength was not the source of his confidence and fortitude.  

He went downhill, past St. Bartholomew's School, where orphans with physical and developmental disabilities flew in their sleep, while Benedictine nuns watched over them. According to Sister Angela, the mother superior, the most commonly reported dreamof her young charges was of flying under their own power, high above the school, the abbey, the church, the forest.  

Most of the windows were dark, although lights glowed in Sister Angela's office on the ground floor. Deucalion considered consulting her, but she didn't know the full truth of him, which she would need to know in order to understand his problem.  

Centuries old but young in spirit, born not of man and woman, but instead constructed from the bodies of dead felons and animated by strange lightning, Deucalion was most at home in monasteries. As the first--and, he believed, the sole surviving--creationof Victor Frankenstein, he belonged nowhere in this world, yet he did not feel like an outsider at St. Bartholomew's Abbey. Previously, he had been comfortable as a visitor in French, Italian, Spanish, Peruvian, and Tibetan monasteries.  

He'd left his quarters in the guest wing because he was plagued by a suspicion that seemed irrational but that he couldn't shake. He hoped that a walk in the cool mountain air would clear his troubled mind.  

By the time Deucalion circled the property and arrived at the entrance to the abbey church, he understood that his suspicion arose not from deductive reasoning but instead from intuition. He was wise enough and sufficiently experienced to know that intuitionwas the highest form of knowledge and should never be ignored.  

Without passing through the door, he stepped out of the night and into the narthex of the church.  

At the entrance to the nave, he dared to dip two fingers in the font, make the sign of the cross, and invoke the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. His existence was a blasphemy, a challenge to sacred order, because his maker--a mere mortal--had beenin rebellion against the divine and against all natural law. Yet Deucalion had reason to hope that he was not just a thing of meat and bone, that his ultimate fate might not be oblivion.  

Without walking the length of the center aisle, he went from the threshold of the nave to the distant sanctuary railing.  

The church lay mostly in shadows, brightened only by a sanctuary light focused on the crucifix towering over the altar and by votive candles flickering in crimson-glass cups.  

As Deucalion appeared at the railing, he realized that another shared the church with him. Glimpsing movement from the corner of his eye, he turned to see a monk rising from the first pew.  

At five feet seven and two hundred pounds, Brother Salvatore was less fat than solid, as an automobile compacted into a cube by a hydraulic press was solid. He looked as if bullets would ricochet off him.  

The hard angles and blunt edges of Salvatore's face might have given him a threatening aspect in his youth, when he lived outside the law. But sixteen years in the monastery, years of remorse and contrition, softened his once-cold gray gaze with kindnessand reshaped his smile from brutish to beatific.  

At the abbey, he was Deucalion's closest friend.  

His large hands, holding a rosary, seemed to be all knuckles, which is what his associates had called him in his former life. Here at St. Bartholomew's, he was affectionately known as Brother Knuckles.  

"Who was it they said murdered sleep?" Knuckles asked.  

"Macbeth."  

"I figured you'd know."  

Perhaps because he was born from the dead, Deucalion lacked the daily need for sleep that was a trait of those born from the living. On the rare nights when he slept, he always dreamed.  

Brother Knuckles knew the truth of Deucalion: his origin in a laboratory, his animation by lightning, his early crimes, and his quest for redemption. The monk knew, as well, that during Deucalion's sleepless nights, he usually occupied himself with books.In his two centuries, he had read and reread more volumes than were contained in all but the largest of the world's libraries.  

"With me it ain't Macbeth. It's memory," said the monk. "Memory is pure caffeine."  

"You've received absolution for your past."  

"That don't mean the past didn't happen."  

"Memories aren't rags that come clean with enough wringing."  

"Guess I'll spend the rest of my life wringing them anyway. What brings you here?"  

Raising one hand to trace the contours of the ruined half of his once handsome face, Deucalion murmured, "He is risen."  

Looking at the crucifix, the monk said, "That ain't exactly news, my friend."  

"I refer to my maker, not yours."  

"Victor Frankenstein?"  

That name seemed to echo across the vaulted ceiling as no other words had echoed.  

"Victor Helios, as he most recently called himself. I saw him die. But he lives again. Somehow . . . he lives."  

"How do you know?"  

Deucalion said, "How do you know the most important thing you know?"  

Glancing again at the crucifix, the monk said, "By the light of revelation."  

"There is no light in my revelation. It's a dark tide in my blood--dark, cold, thick, and insistent, telling me He's alive."        

Chapter Two

Erskine Potter, the future mayor of Rainbow Falls, Montana, walked slowly around the dark kitchen, navigating by the green glow of the digital clocks in the two ovens.  

The clock in the upper oven read 2:14, and the clock in the lower oven displayed 2:11, as if time flowed more languidly nearer the floor than nearer the ceiling.  

Being a perfectionist, Potter wanted to reset both clocks to 2:16, which was the correct time. Time must be treated with respect. Time was the lubricant that allowed the mechanism of the universe to function smoothly.  

As soon as he finished his current task, he would synchronize every clock in the residence. He must ensure that the house remained in harmony with the universe.  

Henceforth, he would monitor the clocks twice daily to determine if they were losing time. If the problem wasn't human error, Potter would disassemble the clocks and rebuild them.  

As he circled the kitchen, he slid his hand across the cool granite countertops--and frowned when he encountered a scattering of crisp crumbs. They stuck to his palm.  

He brought his palm to his nose and smelled the crumbs. Wheat flour, soybean oil, palm oil, skim-milk cheese, salt, paprika, yeast, soy lecithin.  

When he licked the tasty debris from his palm, he confirmed his analysis: Cheez-It crumbs.  

He liked Cheez-Its. But he didn't like crumbs being left on kitchen counters. This was unacceptable.  

At the gas cooktop, he lifted one of the burner grates, set it aside, hesitated, and wiped his fingertips over the stainless-steel drip pan. Grease.  

Erskine Potter believed in cleaning a cooktop after each use, not just once or twice a week. A tool or a machine, or a system, would function better and last longer if it was clean and properly maintained.  

In the sink, he found dishes waiting to be washed: plates, bowls, flatware standing in drinking glasses. At least everything seemed to have been rinsed.  

He hesitated to look in the refrigerator, concerned that what he found might make him angry. Anger would make him less focused and less efficient.  

Focus and efficiency were important principles. Few people in the world were focused and efficient. For the good of the planet, the unfocused and inefficient needed to be killed.  

As the mayor of Rainbow Falls, Montana, he would never be in a position of sufficient power to exterminate millions of people, but he would do his small part. Regardless of the scope of his authority and the size of his assignment, each member of the Community--witha capital C--was as valuable as any other.  

Absolute equality was an important principle.  

The embrace of cold reason and the rejection of sentimentality was another important principle.  

Unfailing cooperation with others of the Community was an important principle, too, as was keeping their existence secret from ordinary men and women.  

There were other important principles, as well, but none was more important than any other. When no hierarchy of values existed, making decisions became easy. Con...

Edition details

• Publisher: Bantam
• Publication date: 2010
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 055380801X
• ISBN 13: 9780553808018
• Binding: Hardcover
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 368