The Return of the Discontinued Man

  Burton was silent for nearly a minute. Then he said, “It appears that eugenics, or a similar science, will make a resurgence in the future.”

  “You base that assertion on what?”

  “Joseph Lister has finally identified the flesh inside the Spring Heeled Jack mechanisms.”

  “And?”

  “It appears to be a variation of pork.”

  “Pork? You’re telling me they’re pigs?”

  “A pig machine hybrid.”

  “God in heaven! What nightmarish world does Oxford inhabit?”

  “I’ll soon find out.” Burton hesitated, then added, “If I don’t come back—”

  “Do,” Edward snapped.

  The king’s agent looked around at the rain-swept airfield and up at the station’s four copper towers. “Just how much will it all change, I wonder?”

  The minister grunted. “Babbage and Brunel have been the driving force behind the immense progress we’ve witnessed in our lifetime, but Babbage is old and increasingly eccentric, and as for Brunel, he’s little more than a statue now.” Raising his fat fingers to his face, Edward Burton stroked his stubbled jowls. “Your initial jump will be a mere fifty-four years; a tiny step by comparison with your ultimate destination. Surely the world will be recognisable?”

  “If we went backward the same number of years, we’d be in 1806. Imagine what an inhabitant of that time would make of this.”

  His brother nodded. “You’re right. Well, needless to say, I’ll do all I can to ensure that members of the Cannibal Club meet you at your scheduled stops. I regret that I’m unlikely to be among them. Mortality—I find it such a terrible disappointment.”

  “Don’t treat this as a good-bye, Edward. You know I can’t bear such sentiment.”

  The minister looked away, cleared his throat, lifted his cane, and banged it on the growler’s ceiling. “The Venetia, Mr. Penniforth.”

  Montagu Penniforth looked down from the driver’s box and touched two fingers to the peak of his cap. “Good luck to yer, Sir Richard. Me little ’un’s name is Clive. Three years of age now. He’ll be there to meet yer, I ’ope. A mite older, though.”

  “Thank you, Monty.”

  A tremor shook the carriage. It coughed a plume of steam, rattled, and moved off. Burton watched it go, took a final look around, then spun on his heel and strode up into the Orpheus.

  Daniel Gooch and Charles Babbage met him as he entered. He furled his umbrella and handed it to the elderly scientist.

  “We’re ready,” Gooch said. The engineer had abandoned his auxiliary arms and appeared a little ill at ease with just his own natural pair.

  Babbage cast his eyes over the dripping umbrella in his hand as if uncertain what it was, then glowered disapprovingly at Burton. “Can I trust you with my devices, sir? They are my masterpieces.”

  “I shan’t go near them,” Burton replied. “They are in Daniel’s charge.”

  “Excellent.” Babbage tapped the engineer’s shoulder with the brolly’s handle. “I want them returned to me undamaged, young man.”

  Gooch nodded. “Of course. I’ll look after them. I give you my word.”

  Babbage made a sound that suggested he didn’t believe the guarantee. He turned his attention back to Burton. “Remember, the equipment will move the ship through time but not instantaneously. She can’t match Edward Oxford’s suit for efficiency. For him, the transference from one date to another was like the blink of an eye. For you, there will be intervals between. They may be disorientating. You might even lose consciousness. Don’t worry. The Mark Three calculator will function independently and will see you to your destination.”

  “Thank you.”

  The old man said to Gooch, “I’m relying on you to analyse the machinery of the future and bring me detailed reports.”

  “I’ll do so.”

  Babbage gave a nod of satisfaction, peered again at Burton’s brolly, then opened it, held it over his head, muttered, “Ah ha!” and descended the ramp to the ground.

  Gooch said to the king’s agent, “Will you help me to close her up?”

  They pulled in the ramp, slid the double doors shut, and twisted the bolts into place.

  “I have to go to the engine room, Sir Richard. Mr. Trounce is assisting me. Mr. Krishnamurthy and Miss Raghavendra are in what used to be the smoking lounge, overlooking the Nimtz generator. I’ve trained them both in its operation, which isn’t nearly as complicated as Mr. Babbage would have you believe. You’ll join Mr. Swinburne and Captain Lawless on the bridge?”

  “I will. For heaven’s sake, Daniel, drop all the ‘misters’ and ‘misses’ and just call me Richard. We’ve known each other long enough to dispense with formalities. First name basis, if you please. Has everyone taken their dose of Saltzmann’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good show.”

  Burton and Gooch set off in opposite directions.

  As he traversed the passageway and ascended the stairs to the command deck, Burton marvelled at the brilliance and craftsmanship of the scientists and engineers. As predicted, Babbage had been unable to reproduce the microscopic workings of Oxford’s suit, but that he’d created their functional equivalents, albeit on a much larger scale, in such little time, was astonishing. Of course, he’d been studying the suits for many years, so was well versed in the operations of its many components, but he’d lacked the mathematical principle at the heart of them. When Burton supplied it, Babbage for the first time saw with absolute clarity how Oxford’s invention defied the strictures of time, and he was able with breathtaking rapidity to design a device that employed contemporaneous machinery to do the same. Where Oxford’s genius had fitted it all into a helmet and small flat disk, Babbage required a double-sized Mark III probability calculator and a twenty-four-foot-long, twelve-foot-wide, and ten-foot-high contraption of cogs, levers, pistons, looms, barrels, sliding links, moveable arms, teeth, pegs, holes, warp beams, cranks, ratchets, gears, wheels, pipes, valves, cross heads, cylinders, regulators, inlets, outlets, flywheels, boilers, pumps, condensers, ducts, transmitter disks, field amplifiers, chronostatic coils and a loudly rumbling furnace.

  All the remaining fragments of the Nāga diamonds had been fitted into it, each in a lead housing to prevent their slightly deleterious emanations from affecting the travellers. The resonation between the gems was known to give rise to mediumistic faculties. Far from being useful, these abilities tended to cause confusion, indecisiveness and headaches.

  Work had not stopped at the manufacture and assembly of the generator’s many parts. The weight of the machine was such that the Orpheus herself required an extensive overhaul, and it was here that the haste showed, for where her original trimmings were luxurious, the new additions were stark and basic. No influence of the Department of Arts and Culture here. Just bare, unpainted metal. Thus it was that when Burton entered the bridge he found himself in a room that, at eye level, possessed sumptuous fixtures and fittings but that, when one looked up, gave way to a new domed ceiling in the middle of which an unadorned—and, frankly, quite ugly—framework held the spherical Mark III; the ship’s “brain.”

  “My poor Orpheus,” Captain Lawless said, following Burton’s gaze. “They’ve made of her a monster.”

  Swinburne, at his side, exclaimed, “Oh no, Captain! She’s beautiful. Not in form anymore, perhaps, but without a doubt in purpose.”

  From above, a voice said, “At least someone appreciates me.”

  Burton groaned and looked at Lawless. “I take it you’ve become familiar with Babbage’s so-called personality enhancements?”

  “That’s what I was referring to, Sir Richard. A monster.”

  “You should be grateful,” Orpheus protested. “What other captain has ever had such a close working relationship with his ship?”

  “What other captain would endure it?” Lawless countered. He said to Burton, “Ready?”

  “The ramp is in and the hatch is locked.”

 
“Good-oh. If you would, Mr. Swinburne?”

  The poet nodded and crossed to a speaking tube. He blew into it and shrilled, “Trounce! I say, Pouncer, are you there?”

  Putting the tube to his ear, he received an answer, then responded, “Fire up the engines, dear fellow! And three cheers for our jolly old escapade!”

  Lawless arched an eyebrow at Burton and murmured, “Not the standard of discipline I’m used to.”

  “Whatever you do,” Burton advised in a whisper, “don’t get Algy going on discipline. You’ll hear things you’d wish you could forget.”

  A deep grumble vibrated through the floor.

  “I must admit, I’ve been thoroughly impressed by Trounce though,” Lawless continued. “He rolled up his sleeves and took to the training like a fish takes to water.”

  “He’s a practical sort,” Burton confirmed. “Whereas Swinburne’s head has always been where we are just about to go; that is to say, up in the clouds.”

  “Engines at optimum,” Orpheus announced. “Are you going to stand around chin-wagging or shall we get on with it?”

  “Take us to latitude north fifty-one, east one degree, altitude eight thousand feet,” Lawless commanded. He explained to Burton, “As planned—opposite the mouth of the Thames and a little north of Margate. Far enough out to sea to avoid detection, I hope.”

  “Ascending,” Orpheus said.

  Swinburne whooped.

  The floor lurched slightly as the ship left the ground, its engines thundering.

  “I feel somewhat redundant,” Lawless commented.

  “Some judgements require more than cold calculations,” Burton murmured. He stepped to the rain-spattered window and took a last look at the sprawling city before the ship was swallowed by the weather front.

  “En route,” Orpheus noted. “We’ll reach the coordinates in twenty minutes. The Nimtz generator requires a pressure of one thousand and five hundred psi in order to achieve the necessary power by the time we get there. It is currently at one thousand and ten psi. I suggest you adjust valves twenty-two to twenty-eight to setting six so we might accelerate through time without any delay.”

  “On the other hand,” Lawless said, “sometimes cold calculations are just the ticket. Mr. Swinburne, relay the Orpheus’s advice to Mr. Krishnamurthy, please.”

  “Aye aye, Captain Lawless, sir. Straightaway.” Swinburne gave a snappy salute and clicked his heels.

  “Just ‘aye aye’ will do.”

  Bright yellow light streamed through the windows as the airship emerged from the cloud and soared into the clear sky above it. With rotors thrumming, she sped eastward, leaving a trail of glaring white steam behind her.

  Burton sat at a console and stared into space.

  Initial destination: 1914. By that year, in every other variant of history, a world war was raging. In Abdu El Yezdi’s native reality, the conflict was many years old and the Prussians had overrun the world. In others, hostilities were just commencing. However, here, uniquely, the Germanic nations were placated, had joined in an economic and political alliance with the British Empire, and were sharing the spoils of Anglo-Saxon hegemony.

  Nineteen fourteen might be a small step, but Burton wanted to see how the Empire would develop without the devastating events that so slowed progress in its counterparts. Besides which, it would be wise to contact the immediate descendants of the Cannibal Club, just to be sure the purpose of their mission remained clear.

  While the king’s agent gave himself over to quiet meditation, the Mark III made intermittent observations pertaining to flight speed, course and altitude, Lawless gazed out at the blanket of cloud below, and Swinburne communicated the captain’s occasional commands to the engine room.

  An air of expectation and trepidation hung over all.

  They waited.

  “We are at north fifty-one, east one degree,” Orpheus finally declared as the engines altered their tone. “Holding position. Flight duration twenty minutes, as anticipated. Rather good, if you ask me. I got it exactly right.”

  Burton blinked, took a deep breath, stood, entwined his fingers, and cracked his knuckles. “Has the Nimtz made the initial set of calculations?”

  “It doesn’t make the calculations,” the ship replied. “I do. And I have. As always, at your service.”

  Swinburne placed a speaking tube back in its bracket and added, “Maneesh and Sadhvi are standing by.”

  Burton crossed to him and indicated another tube, this one marked Shipwide. He tapped it and said to Lawless, “Do you mind, Captain?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Burton took up the tube and spoke into it. He could hear, beyond the bridge door, his voice echoing through the vessel.

  “Sadhvi, William, Maneesh, Daniel, we’re all set. In a moment, I’ll command the Orpheus to move ahead through time. I have no idea how we’ll be affected, but, whatever you experience, please remain at your posts.” He hesitated, then added, “Thank you all, and—and may fortune favour us.”

  Replacing the tube, he glanced at Swinburne—who grinned broadly—then looked up at the ceiling and said, “Orpheus, take us to nine in the evening of December the first, 1914.”

  “Are you quite sure about this?” Orpheus responded. “I’m liable to become instantly outmoded. I don’t relish the thought.”

  “Just do it, please.”

  “On your own head be it. You’ll become antiquated too, you know. I’m engaging the generator. Hang on tight.”

  Outside, everything suddenly turned completely white.

  Utter silence closed around Burton. He saw Swinburne look at him and move his mouth as if speaking, but there was no sound at all, not from anywhere.

  The poet slowly became transparent. So did the walls. Suddenly Burton was floating in limbo.

  He fragmented. All the decisions he’d ever made were undone and became choices. His every success and every failure reverted to opportunities and challenges. The characteristics that had grown and now defined him disengaged and withdrew to become influences. He lost cohesion until nothing remained except a potential, existing as coordinates, waiting to take form.

  He was a nebulous, unarticulated question.

  The possible answers were innumerable.

  A decision.

  A path chosen.

  Manifestation.

  A recognition of whiteness, of shapes emerging from it and darkening it, of Swinburne’s face.

  Burton swayed, stumbled backward, regained his balance, and looked around the bridge.

  “Phew!” Swinburne exclaimed. “That felt like an instant and an eternity all rolled into one.”

  “It was fifty-four years,” Orpheus said. “We have arrived.”

  Burton said, “Call down to the others, Algy. See how they are.”

  This was done, and the poet reported, “All’s well.”

  Lawless said, “Orpheus, a systems check, please.”

  The ship responded, “Done. I’m perfectly fine, thank you for asking.”

  The captain crossed to a console and examined its dials. “It’s a clear night, and windless according to the readings. Cold, though. I suggest we switch off all lights and descend to five hundred feet.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Orpheus, you heard that?”

  “I’m not deaf.”

  “Then proceed.”

  The bridge’s electrical lights clicked off, and the engines moaned.

  Burton’s stomach moved as he felt the drop in altitude. He strode to the window. Swinburne and Lawless joined him. They looked out. A full moon was riding low in a starry sky. In half a century, the heavens hadn’t changed one jot.

  The king’s agent muttered, “I’m a fool. I should have taken the phases of the moon into account. We’ll be visible.”

  “Why did you choose December?” Lawless asked.

  “Because Abdu El Yezdi caused the Russian dictator, Rasputin, to die this year. That, however, was in a different history. I’m interested t
o know what happened to him in this one. I’m hoping that the three great wartime mediums were so prone to resonance that their death in one history caused their deaths in all the others.”

  “There’s a yacht,” Swinburne said, pointing downward. “I can just about make it out. See?”

  Burton searched the silvered surface of the sea. Before he spotted the vessel, it drew his attention with a sequence of flashes.

  “That’s them,” Lawless said.

  “How do you know?” Burton asked.

  “It’s Morse code. A system created back in the forties. The Navy is in the process of adopting it. Um, that is to say, the Navy of 1860. That ship is sending the word ‘Cannibal.’” Raising his voice, he ordered, “Steer twenty degrees to the southwest, forward half a mile, and descend to thirty feet above sea level.”

  “That’s rather low,” the ship noted.

  “Weather’s calm,” the captain countered.

  The floor shifted as the airship followed the command.

  “Go get yourself ready, gents,” Lawless said. “I’ll call down to Trounce and Gooch. They’ll meet you in the bay.”

  Burton made a sound of acknowledgement and, accompanied by Swinburne, exited the bridge. They traversed a stairwell down past the main deck to Orpheus’s cargo bay, where they found their friends waiting.

  “Hell’s bells!” the detective inspector grumbled. “That was a thoroughly unpleasant experience. I felt like I dissolved.”

  “Better get used to it,” Burton advised. “Help me with the hatch.”

  The four of them unlatched the bay doors in the floor and pulled the portal open. Frigid night air swept in, bearing with it the salty tang of the sea. They looked out. The glittering water appeared dangerously close. As they watched, the small vessel that had signalled them glided into view. They saw figures standing on its deck, their pale moonlit faces gazing up at them. A voice shouted, “Hail fellows well met!”

  “Who’s there?” Burton called.

  “The Cannibal Club circa 1914! Come on down. It’s quite safe.”

  Gooch moved to a winch and rotated a handle. A small platform with handrails on three of its sides swung out from a corner of the hold until it was positioned over the hatch. He used another handle to lower it a little.