The Rise of the Automated Aristocrats

  “Who took what?”

  “The clockwork men! They attacked us! Overpowered us! Aargh!”

  “We’ve just had a run-in with one of the brass men ourselves. What’s got into them?”

  “I haven’t a clue! The whole lot of ’em have flown off!”

  “Off the handle?” Swinburne asked.

  “Off in the whatsit.”

  “The whatsit? What’s that?”

  “The thing. Ship. The Orpheus.”

  “They stole the—?” Burton looked back at the rotorchairs. He’d assumed the DOGS had moved the ship.

  “How long ago?”

  “Oof! What? Er. Maybe half an hour.”

  “In which direction?”

  Faraday gave a vague wave of his arm. “Over the thingamajig. Water. The river.”

  “If you’re in no further danger, Mr. Faraday, Algy and I will scout around. Maybe we’ll spot it.”

  “Yes! Go, please! Yaaah!”

  Burton addressed Swinburne. “We’ll circle the city in opposite directions and meet back here.”

  Swinburne, with his teeth chattering as a result of his wet clothing, belted himself back into his rotorchair’s seat and slid down over his eyes the flying goggles he’d found in its storage box.

  The two rotorchairs shot upward and separated. Burton steered his northwestward, while Swinburne took a northeasterly course. There was an unbroken, flat, grey blanket of cloud overhead, but it occupied a much higher altitude than any ship could fly, so offered no opportunity for concealment to the missing vessel. The atmosphere was dirty and wet, and visibility was bad, but not to the point where a ship the size of the Orpheus would be hidden by it.

  As he soared across the river, Burton muttered to himself, “Yesterday, Doctor Steinhaueser and I rescued a sparrow from the garden pond. Today, I’m in a flying armchair hunting for mechanical thieves.”

  Something felt terribly amiss with the first part of that statement, but, recalling the pact he’d made with his fellow reborn, he refused to dwell on it.

  Below, Knightsbridge slipped past, then Belgravia, Portman Square, and Oxford Street. There were other rotorchairs and ornithopters all around him and, ahead, a much bigger machine. He initially thought it might be the Orpheus but was disappointed when he drew alongside it and saw the name Darling Lucy May.

  Regent’s Park, Camden Town, eastward over Holloway and Islington, and southward back toward the river, passing Finsbury and the hive of activity that was the half-rebuilt East End.

  Burton flew westward along the course of the Thames until he arrived back at Battersea. He landed, ran into the station, and hailed a young woman who was monitoring flashing lights on an apparatus of spinning wheels, clacking valves, and wheezing bellows. “Ma’am! Mr. Faraday?”

  She pointed.

  Striding in the indicated direction, he saw Faraday at a workbench, applying a pair of pliers to an arrangement of wires and unfathomable parts. The man looked up at his approach, squinted, and with far greater self-control than he’d previously displayed, said, “Aargh!”

  “No sign of it,” Burton announced.

  “I simply cannot understand what happened,” Faraday said. “Every clockwork man in the—in the place—the station! Gosh! We’ve had them for years. They’ve never gone wrong before.”

  “The timing appears significant, don’t you think?”

  “Very! Very significant indeed! Why so?”

  “The ship returns after a thirteen-month absence and they suddenly go wild and make off with it?”

  “Ah. I see what you mean. Yes. Significant is the word. And Fiddlesticks.”

  “Fiddlesticks? What about him?”

  “He took the diamonds out of Brunel’s head.”

  Burton’s knees almost gave way. He grabbed at a workbench to steady himself. The future he’d visited must have already changed. If the Edward Oxford consciousness was no longer in the Brunel body, would it find another route through which to infiltrate the empire as the decades passed? Had his counterpart’s self-sacrifice been in vain?

  “By God!” he croaked. “Then Spring Heeled Jack is out of our hands!”

  Pushing himself upright, he stood with the back of his right wrist pressed against his mouth and his eyes flicking from right to left, fighting the impression that everything around him was illusory and impossible.

  “Are you quite all right?” Faraday asked.

  “I should report back to the minister.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” Faraday held up the thing of wires and parts. “There! Mended! Now then, what was it for? Do you recall?”

  “I never knew in the first place.”

  “Oh.”

  “When Swinburne arrives, tell him to meet me at the hotel, will you?”

  “Swinburne? The poet fellow? Very well.”

  Burton’s instruction proved needless. As he returned to his rotorchair, Swinburne’s landed with a thud beside it.

  “Nothing!” the poet announced. “Either it made off at top speed or it’s landed somewhere in the city.”

  “In which case it would have been seen,” Burton countered. “But by whom, and how do we find that witness?”

  “Through Trounce and Scotland Yard, perhaps?”

  “Good idea. Let’s see what he can do. You’re shivering.”

  “I’m damp.”

  “We’ll return these chairs and get you into something dry.”

  “And get something wet into me. Grumbles promised me a Cognac.”

  They flew back to the Royal Venetia Hotel, landed beside its vehicle shed, and were immediately set upon by two very irate men.

  “What the very deuce do you think you’re playing at?” one demanded.

  “I say! How dare you! Those are our rotorchairs!” the other complained.

  Daniel Gooch, who was also present—he’d unscrewed the top of Grumbles’ canister-like head and was using tools to poke about inside it—said, “This is Lord Chumleigh and the Right Honourable Percival Braithwaite. Those machines you borrowed belong to them.”

  “Gentlemen, I apologise,” Burton said. “I am Sir Richard Burton, His Majesty’s agent. As you can see, your machines are returned safely. My companion and I were forced to commandeer them. It was a matter of national security. If you visit my brother, the minister, in suite five, he’ll arrange for you to be compensated.”

  “But the club!” Chumleigh objected.

  “Club?”

  The aristocrat flapped a hand toward the shed, indicating the spot where a third rotorchair had stood. “Our friend had to leave without us. We’ll be dreadfully late.”

  “For what, sir?” Burton asked.

  “Cocktails, you blithering idiot! Cocktails! What else do you think I might mean?”

  “At this hour?”

  “Great heavens! Do you now dictate to me when it’s appropriate to partake?”

  Swinburne nodded sagely. “An outrage, that’s for sure. You should know better, Richard. One must never come between a gentleman and his cocktail. It could cause the collapse of civilisation.”

  Braithwaite brushed his hand at the poet as if to sweep him aside. “We’ll take this up with the minister chappy in due course, of that you can be certain, and I’ll see to it that he has your confounded hides. Now shift out of the bally way. Let us get to our vehicles.”

  Burton and Swinburne stood aside as the two aristocrats pushed past.

  Chumleigh gasped when he saw the seat of his machine. “What the devil? It’s covered in—in—”

  “Machine oil,” Swinburne said. “My apologies. As you can see, I’m dripping with the blessed stuff.”

  “Why?”

  “It keeps me supple.”

  “Damned fool!”

  The aristocrat pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to wipe down the leather seat. Moments later, with a blast of air and steam, the rotorchairs rose and disappeared over the rooftops.

  Burton turned to Daniel Gooch and indicated Grum
bles’ dismantled head. “Have you discovered anything?”

  “There’s no mechanical failure that I can see. Mind you, I can only probe so far. You know these things are booby-trapped? Tinker with them too much and they first burst into flames, then the heat sets off an explosive. Very unpleasant. Babbage is extremely secretive about certain aspects of his work. What happened, exactly?”

  “Grumbles put Maneesh out for the count and tried to stop us from taking the rotorchairs. It appears he was working in concert with the clockwork men at the station. They overpowered your people and have made away with the Orpheus.”

  Gooch uttered a gasp of amazement. “How in the name of God is that possible?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I’ll have to take this thing to the station for proper examination. I can see already that someone—almost certainly Babbage, I should say—has made changes to its probability calculator. There’s a component here I don’t understand. Maybe I can make sense of it given the proper equipment and a little time.”

  “Then cart it off and get to work. I’ll inform Edward. How’s Maneesh?”

  “Conscious, but his jaw is badly broken. He’ll be out of action for a fair while. Sadhvi has just set off with him for the Penfold hospital.”

  Burton retrieved his cane from the ground and signalled Swinburne to follow him. They reentered the hotel and ascended to the fifth floor. Trounce answered their knock. “By Jove! I’m glad you’re back. The minister is livid. What in blue thunder is happening?”

  Burton gestured for him to follow and led the way into the parlour. Trounce glanced at Swinburne, who whispered, “We’re not about to make the minister any happier. You might want to stand by the drinks cabinet, brother. Sedatives will be required.”

  “Don’t call me brother. It makes me feel odd. Why are your clothes glistening?”

  “I dropped off a roof into an oily puddle.”

  “Humph! I should have guessed it would be something like that.”

  The trio passed into the library.

  Lawless greeted them with obvious relief. It lasted but an instant.

  “Your ship’s been taken,” Burton told him.

  “What?” Lawless and Edward Burton cried out in unison.

  The king’s agent—Burton realised with a slight shock that he was already subsumed into that role—told them what had happened. Lawless’s face turned white and his eyes flashed angrily. Edward twisted his mouth into an ugly snarl, then jabbed a finger at Trounce. “You! Stop standing about. Get to Scotland Yard. There are clockwork men all over London. I want to know whether any others have misbehaved.”

  Trounce swallowed, blinked, sought Burton’s eye, cleared his throat, nodded, put his bowler hat on his head, and moved toward the door.

  “William,” Burton called after him. “We need to know whether the Orpheus has landed anywhere in the city, too. Get some constables onto it. Make enquiries.”

  Trounce looked doubtful for an instant then nodded decisively. “Where do you—ah, yes, Montagu Place. Very well. I’ll—I’ll see what I can do and will report to you there.” He left the room.

  Edward Burton addressed Swinburne. “The Venetia has a number of brass men among its staff. Go down and see what they’re up to.”

  “Rightio.”

  “Richard, fetch me a bottle of ale.”

  Burton’s eyes fixed upon the other man’s. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I need a drink, damn it! Hell’s bells, what am I to do without Grumbles?”

  “I can tell you right now that you’ll not replace him with me.”

  “Shut up. I blame you for these untoward events.”

  “Why so?”

  “You come back and the very next day, all this. Am I supposed to consider it a coincidence?”

  “I made a similar observation to Mr. Faraday.” Burton stepped over to the drinks cabinet. “It is rather suggestive, that much can’t be denied.” He passed a bottle and glass to his brother. “Here’s your beer. Maybe it will keep your mouth occupied with something other than petulant and ill-thought-out accusations.”

  The minister scowled at him, took the bottle, and turned to address Lawless. “What made your ship worth taking?”

  “It’s the best in the fleet.”

  “Oh, humbug! Don’t be so absurd. There are plenty of rotorships in the empire, but yours is the only one that’s just returned from the future. So, Captain, what is aboard it? What did you bring back with you aside from a talkative parrot? Obviously, whatever it is, that’s what they’re after.”

  Lawless looked questioningly at Burton. The explorer said, “The Mark Three babbage calculator that automates the ship’s functions and manipulates the Oxford equation to allow it to jump through time—”

  He stopped, suddenly taken aback by his own words.

  I talk as if I know these things. I don’t! This madness has nothing to do with me. I’m a retired geographer. A writer. An old man who can’t even get dressed without help.

  Edward poured his beer, set the bottle aside, and took a gulp from the glass. He held it up and examined the way the light glimmered through the dark liquid. Slowly, as if engrossed, he said, “What about it?”

  Burton’s lips moved soundlessly as he struggled with the words that wanted to come out.

  He gave up and let them.

  “We had engineers—descendants of the Cannibal Club—tinker with it. They replaced some of its parts. The new components have expanded the synthetic intelligence by means of calculating techniques evolved from the work of a man named Turing. They supersede those developed by Babbage by some considerable degree.”

  The minister took another swig then set the glass on the table at his side. His eyes met his sibling’s and held them. “What else?”

  “There are a great many more of the black diamonds. Multiple iterations of the same stones.”

  “More? By God, don’t we have enough of the infernal things? No wonder I’ve had a headache all day. What of the various devices you wrote of in your report? What of the identity bracelets and the intelligent pistols?”

  “I judged it best to leave them where they belong, which is assuredly not in the year 1861.”

  Without averting his gaze, Edward addressed Lawless. “Is that correct, Captain?”

  “Um. Yes. That is to say, we didn’t bring anything apart from the diamonds and reworked Mark Three, and I might add that whoever has taken the ship is in for a disappointment, since its brain stopped working the moment we arrived. More likely they were after the gemstones, anyway.”

  Edward’s face darkened, highlighting his scars and the brutality of his appearance.

  “Do you both take me for a bloody fool? You think this was some manner of heist? Ridiculous! No, no, no. There’s more to this. You’re keeping something from me. The final chapter of your report is nothing but damned obfuscation. Something else happened, and I demand to know what. Furthermore, the notion that you returned virtually empty handed is beyond credibility. You are attempting to deceive me. I won’t have it! What else was aboard your ship, Captain? Or perhaps I should be asking who?”

  Lawless paled and mumbled, “No one. Nothing.”

  “Liar! Traitor! I should have you clapped in irons and thrown into a dungeon!”

  “I forgot something,” Burton muttered.

  “What?”

  The document. The History of the Future. It’s still in Krishnamurthy’s satchel.

  “I forgot how objectionable you can be.”

  His brother bared his teeth in a nasty snarl.

  “And to contribute to your ill temper a little more,” Burton said, “the diamonds containing the remnants of Spring Heeled Jack were taken from the station, too.”

  “Dolt! Incompetent fool! I should—I should—”

  “What I can’t quite understand,” Burton went on, “is why they were left there in the first place. Babbage took all the others last November. Why didn’t he take the ones in Brunel’s head,
too? Perhaps because he thought Brunel still occupied them? If so, it suggests he learned otherwise the moment we returned from the future. How?”

  Swinburne returned and, in his high-pitched voice, declared, “I just encountered the manager on the stairs. He’s in a right old flap. Apparently, Sprocket, the doorman, has done a bunk.”

  “And the others?” Burton asked.

  “There are seven other clockwork servants in the building. They’re all behaving normally.”

  “About face,” the explorer ordered. “We’re leaving.” He pushed the poet back toward the door and gestured for Lawless to follow.

  “Come back here at once!” the minister shouted. “I’ll have the truth out of you, confound it!”

  He was ignored.

  “Find the bloody ship! Keep me informed. And have the manager send up someone to assist me.”

  As they descended the stairs, Lawless hurried ahead and said over his shoulder, “I’m going home to get my rotorchair. I’ll fly over every inch of this city until I find the Orpheus. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  He reached the bottom of the staircase, raced across the lobby, and exited the hotel.

  Burton strode to the reception desk with Swinburne at his heels.

  “Sir?” the clerk asked. He cast a disapproving glance at the poet’s filthy attire.

  “I hear your doorman has absconded, Mr. Bromley. Did you see him go?”

  “Yes sir. Sprocket. I don’t know what came over him. He’s never misbehaved before. He followed your two colleagues, the injured man and the young lady, when they departed and hasn’t returned.”

  “Ah, did he now? Thank you.” As he strode away, Burton thought of something and turned back. “Incidentally, the minister asks not to be disturbed until further notice.”

  “Very well, Sir Richard. Duly noted.”

  “You’re very mean to your sibling,” Swinburne observed as they placed their hats upon their heads and stepped out onto the Strand.

  “Apparently so. I can’t help myself. But it won’t hurt Edward to get off his considerable behind. He needs the exercise.”

  “And what of us?” the poet asked. “What shall we do now?”

  Burton moved to the edge of the pavement, raised his swordstick, and gave a loud whistle to summon a ride from the seething mass of eccentric vehicles.