While his companions took up the two limp ladies, Burton stepped down into a vestibule from which three corridors extended. In the one to his right, two equerries were walking, heading away. They turned a corner and vanished from sight, not having spotted him.
Turning back, he gestured for his friends to follow, moved to the left, and opened a door. On the other side of it, in a room filled with what looked to be shelves of bottled cleaning fluids, an equerry stood facing him, a heavy metal case—perhaps a toolbox—in its right hand.
“You are not—” it began.
The king’s agent whipped up his pistol, saw the red dot on the creature’s face, and pulled the trigger.
The creature’s head snapped back, and its knees buckled. The case fell from its grip and hit the ground with an almighty crash. Tottering backward, the equerry fell into shelves and slid to the floor, taking bottles with it. They smashed and clattered noisily around it.
“Damnation,” Burton hissed.
“That,” Swinburne commented, “was an unholy racket.”
Wells, who was holding Lady Felicity Pye’s ankles, dropped them and announced, “We have company.”
Burton turned. The two Spring Heeled Jacks he’d seen a moment ago were returning, bounding along the corridor. Wells and Trounce shot them down.
“There’s more!” Trounce said. He lowered Baroness Hume to the floor and, kneeling, raised his pistol and started shooting.
“By Allah’s beard!” Burton cursed, as he saw equerries appearing in all three corridors, rounding corners and stepping from rooms. “There’s a lot of them! Back to the stairs, quickly.”
Leaving the two Uppers where they were lying, the chrononauts raced to the landing.
“Intruders! Intruders! Intruders!” the equerries shouted.
“Head, kill,” the men responded. “Head, kill. Head, kill.”
Ptooff! Ptooff! Ptooff!
One after the other, the spring heeled creatures went down.
With his companions at his back, Burton sprinted down the stairs to the next floor, where, before he saw it, an equerry pounced on him and bore him to the carpet.
“Off him! Off him!” Swinburne shrieked. He kicked the side of the creature’s head and, as its chin jerked around, pressed his pistol to where an ear should have been and pulled the trigger. Plastic, bone and pig brains splattered outward.
Burton heaved the corpse to one side and regained his feet in time to kill another of the stilt men before it managed to grab Wells.
“I have the distinct impression,” Swinburne said, “that our presence is no longer a secret.”
Their destination was one flight of stairs away, but the steps were fast crowding with equerries, all yelling, “Intruders! Intruders!”
“You may be right,” Burton said breathlessly.
Now there was no time even for the order Head! Kill! They simply pointed their weapons, fired into the mass of white figures, and forced their way forward.
“No!” Trounce yelled.
It was too late. Swinburne’s pistol gave a deep cough, and, with a deafening bang, equerries flew into pieces, those at the front being hurled forward onto the chrononauts.
Burton’s ears jangled. Pinned down by a struggling figure, he jammed the barrel of his Penniforth Mark II under its chin, averted his face, and fired. Its head exploded. He shoved the twitching carcass to one side and raised his pistol to shoot another, which was looming over him, its cranium already half shorn off, blue fire playing about the horrible wound. Before he could pull the trigger, it knocked the pistol from his hand. The weapon went spinning away over the banister and clattered out of sight.
Burton drew up his knees and kicked out, his heels thumping into his opponent’s stomach. The equerry keeled over, already dead from the damage to its skull.
Struggling to his feet, half deaf, the king’s agent fell over prone bodies, pushed himself back up, and was suddenly gripped from behind, iron-hard arms closing around him, crushing his rib cage until he couldn’t draw breath.
His right ear popped as a voice, right beside it, said, “Your presence is unauthorised.”
Something cracked behind his head. The constricting arms fell away. He turned and saw an equerry dropping to the floor, a hole through its brain. Another was ploughing through the carnage towards him. It, too, went down.
“Splendid weapons, these!” Herbert Wells called.
For the briefest of moments, there came a lull in the fighting. The stairs around Burton were buried beneath limp stilt men, shattered pictures and fallen armour. The walls were scorch-marked, the bannisters broken.
“So much for stealth,” the king’s agent muttered.
From the hallway below, more equerries came hopping.
He reached down and pulled a broadsword from a collapsed suit, hefted it, and found it to be well balanced.
Swinburne, a couple of steps above him, grinned down. “Uh ho! Now they’re in trouble.”
“Stand well back,” Burton said. “And for pity’s sake, don’t fire another explosive.”
“Sorry. It was more powerful than I—”
The poet’s words were drowned out by cries of “Intruders!” as the Spring Heeled Jacks came vaulting up the stairs. Burton swung the sword up and behind his right shoulder then, timing it perfectly, swiped it forward horizontally, decapitating three stilted figures with the single stroke. With Swinburne, Trounce and Wells following, each of them firing shot after shot, he descended the last remaining stairs to the next landing.
Burton’s expertise with the blade astounded his fellows. Weaving a web of steel about himself, he sliced, blocked and stabbed with such speed the weapon became nothing but a blur. Like a scythe through wheat, it carved a path before him. He battled his way to the mouth of the right-hand hallway and—while those equerries that avoided him fell to his companions’ bullets—moved into it. Severed limbs fell and twitched. Heads bounced to the floor. Blue flame, spurting out of lacerations and stumps, arced around him, following his blade, and to Swinburne, the Romantic poet, it looked like his friend had been enclosed within a shield of light, as if the ancient gods had bestowed upon him magical protection.
A crowd of equerries was coming from behind now, descending from above. Despite the excessive results of Swinburne’s ill-considered grenade, Trounce now resorted to another, firing it above them so it landed at their backs. The ear-splitting detonation sent dismembered torsos, pieces of banister, segments of armour, and shredded carpet raining down. Burton was far enough into the hallway to be protected from the blast, but Trounce, Swinburne and Wells all went down beneath the falling bodies.
For a moment, Burton was fighting alone.
He slashed upward from his right hip, cleaving off an equerry’s face; barged into the creature and, as it collapsed, cut horizontally back to the right, chopping off another’s head; then brought the sword swinging up and downward into the skull of a third. Momentarily, the flow of his movement was interrupted as the weapon jammed in his victim’s hard plastic cranium. A stilted figure slapped its hands to either side of Burton’s face and started to twist, attempting to break his neck. “Unauthorised!” it yelled. A hole appeared in the middle of its blank face. The hands slipped free as the figure fell.
Suddenly, there was peace.
The king’s agent wrenched his blade free and stood panting. He saw Wells, on his knees, lowering his pistol.
“Much obliged, Bertie.”
“Pardon? I’m deaf as a stone.”
Swinburne emerged from beneath a quivering cadaver. “What did you say? I can’t hear you. My ears are full of bells.”
“Exploding bullets,” Trounce grumbled as he pushed himself up. “Remind me to tell Penniforth to tone them down a little.”
“A tipple?” Swinburne responded. “I should think we’ve earned one!”
An equerry tumbled down from the shattered staircase above. It struggled to its feet. “Intruders!”
“At your serv
ice,” Trounce said. “Head. Kill.”
Climbing over the fallen, the three men joined Burton. The chrononauts were all bleeding from superficial wounds, all feeling the effects of their exertions, but also all intoxicated by the heat of battle.
Burton pointed along the corridor. Through ringing ears, the others heard him say, “To the end and turn right.”
Two equerries came leaping around the indicated corner. Swinburne and Wells shot them down.
The clamour in the chrononauts’ ears died away.
Swinburne, surveying the massacre, said, “I’m not sure we’ll find sufficient beds under which to conceal this lot.”
His friends gave barks of amusement.
They moved on, senses alert.
Twice, equerries appeared behind them and were instantly dispatched. After that, a silence fell upon the palace, bringing with it a threatening air of expectation.
The chrononauts moved forward, past closed doors and countless portraits and statuettes; Jessica Cornish repeated over and over.
Wells observed, “What a grand obsession. As a monument to a single woman, even the Taj Mahal can’t rival it.”
“The Taj Mahal speaks of a dedicated heart,” Swinburne said. “This of a magnificently sick mind.”
They reached the junction with the next hallway and turned right. Ahead, the passage dropped a level, and as they went down steps to the lower, they saw tall double doors ahead of them and heard muffled voices.
“The House of Lords,” Burton said.
“The plan?” Wells asked.
The king’s agent shrugged. “Barge in. Assess in an instant. Shoot if necessary. Rescue Tom Bendyshe. Identify the prime minister. Don’t kill him. Find out where the Turing Fulcrum is.”
“That,” Swinburne said, “is the best plan I’ve heard all day. What could possibly go wrong? We’ll be back on the jolly old Orpheus in time for breakfast.”
With his hands low, Burton raised the sword blade until it rested against his shoulder. “I’ll cut down anyone who jumps at us.” With a jerk of his chin, he indicated that Swinburne and Wells should prepare to thrust open the doors.
“It sounds like there’s a crowd in there,” Trounce said, as his fellows took hold of the gold-plated handles.
“No one with any sense would be up at this time of night,” Swinburne replied. “So they’re undoubtedly politicians. Ready?”
With his left fingers wrapped around the base of his right hand, Trounce raised his pistol, holding it poised to one side of his face. “I am.”
Burton said, “Go.”
The two smaller men threw their weight against the portal. The doors hinged inward. Burton and Trounce ran forward with Swinburne and Wells at their heels. The entrance swung shut behind them.
Their senses were assaulted.
For a moment, Burton could make nothing of the bedlam that surrounded them.
Piece by piece, it came together.
The sharp tang of ozone.
A babble of voices protesting, “Bah!” and “Boo!” and “Bad form!”
For a moment he thought himself in the midst of angry sheep.
A storm overhead. A big blue dome of crackling lightning, its jagged streaks snapping a concave course from the perimeter to the apex before streaming down into the top of a silhouetted bulk suspended in the centre; a black mass of indeterminate form.
Below the tempest, beneath Burton’s feet, a round stage-like expanse of tiled floor, unsteadily and dimly illuminated by the hissing and spitting energy. In the middle of it, an X-shaped frame to which Thomas Bendyshe was tethered, and encircling the area, row upon row of benches occupied by a braying crowd, the seats rising until they vanished into deep shadows that appeared to be immune to the strange blue illumination.
“By God!” Wells cried out. “What kind of arena is this?”
“Father!” Swinburne and Trounce yelled. They ran to Bendyshe.
A loud knocking caused Burton to spin, and he saw, on an ornate wooden chair over the door, a willowy and rather bird-like individual who was banging a gavel while shouting, “Order! Order!”
Uncertainly, the king’s agent moved to join his companions.
“Order! Order!”
The crowd quietened. A woman, three rows back, stood up. She was dressed in tight brocades, with fluffy epaulets extending from her shoulders and a conical hat upon her head.
The gavel-wielder bellowed, “Dame Pearl Marylebone, Minister for Amusements and Daily Gratifications.”
Raising her voice over the incessant sizzling from above, the woman said, “My Lord Speaker, may I, on behalf of the House, express dismay at this unwarranted intrusion and demand to know the identities of these—these—horrible ruffians!”
“Hear! Hear!” the crowd cheered.
The woman sat, a satisfied smile on her face.
Lord Speaker banged his wooden hammer again and blinked his large black eyes at the chrononauts. He pointed at Burton. “You, sir. Announce yourself.”
Burton stepped backward until he was beside Bendyshe. Without taking his eyes from the Lord Speaker, he said to the Cannibal, “Are you all right?”
After giving a nod and moistening his cracked lips with his tongue, the prisoner managed a slight smile. “Hello, Sir Richard. It’s good to see you again after all this time, though I—” He gasped and winced. “Though I regret that you find me in such a dire position. Be careful. They are all insane.”
“Sir!” the Lord Speaker insisted.
Burton raised his voice. “I am Sir Richard Francis Burton. My companions are Algernon Charles Swinburne, Detective Inspector William Trounce, and George Herbert Wells. I demand that you release this man.”
The gavel—Bang! Bang! Bang!—and, “You are in no position to make demands. You have no authority to be here. Which of the families do you represent? What corporation?”
“None and none,” Burton replied.
In a sarcastic tone, Lord Speaker said, “What are you then? Lowlies?”
The crowd laughed.
Swinburne took aim.
“Stun.”
Lord Speaker slumped.
“I’m sorry, Richard,” the poet said, “but he was being rather boorish and I thought it best we assert ourselves.”
“I say! Bad show!” a parliamentarian shouted.
“Aye!” another agreed. “Thoroughly unconventional!”
“Poor sportsmanship, I should say!” a third opined.
Above, the hemisphere of lightning turned a deeper shade of iridescent cobalt.
A man in the front row got to his feet. He was costumed as if participating in a commedia dell’arte. “My Lord Speaker appears to be resting, thus I will announce myself. I am Harold John Heck, the Duke of Deptford and Minister for Fashion, Jewellery and Accessories. Sir Richard, I demand that you explain yourself. Why have you interrupted parliamentary proceedings in such an irregular—and, frankly, thoroughly impolite—manner? You may address the House.”
Trounce and Swinburne set about untying the bonds that held their father by his wrists and ankles.
Burton put his sword point to the floor and rested both hands on the weapon’s pommel. He peered into the gloom at the edges of the circular chamber and tried to assess the size of the crowd. At least two hundred, he thought.
“We are here,” he called out, “to rescue this man and to locate a device known as the Turing Fulcrum.”
He saw little point in concealing the truth.
A woman in the front row jumped up. Burton vaguely recognised her but couldn’t think how. “Lady Dolores Paddington Station, the Minister of War, Death and Destruction. The man you refer to, and whom your companions are untethering with absolutely no leave to do so, is an enemy of the Empire. He has attacked us. We have been attempting to establish whether he represents the United Republics of Eurasia or the United States of America. Since you are obviously aligned with him—and are therefore an awfully rotten scoundrel—perhaps you’d care to answer t
he question. U.R.E. or U.S.A., sir?”
“We insist upon an answer,” someone yelled.
“Spill the beans!” another added.
“If we represent anyone,” Burton responded, “then it’s the majority. We represent the people. We represent what should be, but isn’t.”
“Nonsensical! You’re a bad liar, sir,” someone mocked.
“Surely you don’t refer to the inhabitants of the London Underground?” Lady Dolores exclaimed. “That would be absurd.”
Bendyshe slumped down into Trounce’s and Swinburne’s supporting arms. Struggling to raise his head, he shouted in a hoarse voice, “Neither Eurasia nor America are in any condition to attack, madam, and you bloody well know it.”
“Mind your language, sir. And you are quite wrong. Those empires despise us. They are jealous of our advanced civilisation. We have this information directly from the prime minister. Don’t you think we’re rather more likely to believe him than we are a—a—a commoner!” She spread her arms. “Parliamentarians! Plainly, we are in the presence of enemy agents. I call for the death sentence. We must do them in. Slice their necks.”
“Bravo!” someone cheered. “Hanging! Firing squad! Acid bath!”
“Could we construct an electric chair?” another shouted.
“Poison injection!”
“More of the carnivorous nanomachines! They are simply delightful!”
The crowd yelled its approval. “Huzzah! Carnivorous nanomachines! Huzzah! Huzzah!” They clapped their hands and stamped their feet.
Another women—her body and face almost entirely concealed beneath feathery garments—jumped up and cried out, “I object! I object! Let us not be impetuous!”
The hubbub subsided.
She continued, “I am Gladys Tweedy, the Marquess of Hammersmith, Minister of Language Revivification and Purification. Lady Dolores, whilst your indignation is justified, you appear to have overlooked the fact that this man claims a title. Sir Richard. If he is, indeed, a knight of the realm, then we must extend to him a modicum of courtesy. We must hear him out.”
Despite a scornful bray of “Liberal!” a number of voices were raised in agreement.
“It’s the done thing,” someone observed. “Though I must confess, I’ve never heard of the fellow.”