The Rise of the Automated Aristocrats

  “Algy came to the same conclusion. A message from Babbage, perhaps? But how could he have known of our arrival? We hadn’t announced ourselves. Even the clockwork men here in the station didn’t know we’d returned until we were greeted by Fiddlesticks.”

  “The sound of the ship landing?” Swinburne suggested.

  Gooch made a gesture of negation. “Ships set down here day and night.” His brow creased. “I suppose Babbage could have been using the stones he took from the station to broadcast, via their resonance, a permanent signal, which the Orpheus responded to immediately upon reception of it. That way, he’d have known we were back before anyone else. He might have then ordered the ship to remain silent and to take off as soon as the station’s clockwork men, following his directive, boarded it.”

  After a moment of consideration, Burton addressed Faraday. “How was Babbage behaving in the days before he vanished?”

  Faraday shrugged. “He was his usual self—you know, idiosyncratic. Obsessive. Short-tempered. Impatient. Er, things like that.”

  “Nothing unusual? Unusual for him, I mean.”

  “Not that I noticed.”

  “Any new obsessions?”

  Faraday patted his pockets, didn’t find what he was looking for, peered at Burton, and said, “Pardon?”

  The explorer repeated the question.

  Faraday scratched his head. “Those doo-dahs. Round. What are they called? Circles. Children. You know.”

  “Eh?”

  “Er. Spinning tops. No, that’s not right. Hoops. Yes, hoops. The ones the nippers play with, rolling them along the streets—the roads—the—er—streets. Babbage took umbrage to them, called them a public nuisance.”

  “He’s always hated the entertainments enjoyed by the common folk,” Gooch put in. “In fact, he’d be delighted if that whole class of people—the mob, as he refers to them—were removed from the face of the earth.”

  “Oh, quite so, quite so,” Faraday agreed. “That’s why he developed his clockwork men in the first place. He was furious when what’s-his-name refused to allow their deployment in the—er—watchamacallits.”

  “The who in the what?” Swinburne asked.

  The scientist stared into space.

  “Mr. Faraday?” Burton prompted.

  “Hum? The who in the—? Ah, yes. The prime minister. Who is it? Disraeli! Old Babbage met with Disraeli last year and offered to replace all the—um—the labourers with his—you know—in the factories and workhouses.”

  “Substitute them with his clockwork men?” Burton asked.

  “That’s right. Efficiency. No wages required. Of course, Disraeli put the mockers on the idea. Supplanting the working classes wouldn’t make them disappear. Quite the opposite. If they weren’t occupied, they’d be free to make whatsit all over the place.”

  “Babies,” Swinburne said.

  “Mischief.”

  “I would have thought that objection rather obvious,” Gooch observed.

  “Patently,” Faraday agreed. “But Babbage hadn’t thought it through. He’s always been funny like that.” He tapped a finger to the side of his head. “Lacking a few thingamabobs in the old—er—noggin.”

  “Exactly when did he see Disraeli?” Burton asked.

  “Um. October. No. August. Wait. Let me think. Ah, it was late in October. Yes, that’s right. Without a doubt. October.”

  “Shortly before he absconded, then?”

  “Oh! Why, yes, I suppose it was.”

  Gooch pursed his lips. “How might that relate to our spring-driven bandits?”

  “I’m searching for the rationale behind yesterday’s events,” Burton responded. “If Babbage is responsible, could he be independently pursuing the idea rejected by Disraeli, or some variant thereof?”

  “I can perceive no logical connection between the thefts of yesterday and the desire to disenfranchise the lower classes,” the engineer said.

  “Neither can I,” Burton agreed, “but I’d like to know what passed between Babbage and the prime minister at that meeting.” He indicated the metal part still in Gooch’s hand. “If we’re correct in thinking that Babbage is broadcasting orders to his devices, is there any way to trace the source of the signals?”

  “Babbage is the only man I know of who might be able to create a method. It’s a shame the Beetle has slipped away. He has—”

  Burton and Swinburne both interrupted him with cries of surprise.

  “Bismillah!” Burton said, slapping a hand to his head. “The Beetle! I forgot him. I forgot I’m an old man. Isabel. Trieste. 1890.”

  “What? What? What?” Swinburne shrilled. “How could we—how am I—My hat! This isn’t even our world!”

  Faraday blinked in puzzlement. “Beetle? Not your—er—? How is it not?”

  Gooch hastily explained to his colleague, “Disorientation caused by the transcendence of time. We encountered it frequently during our voyage. Would you mind leaving us, old fellow? I have to discuss matters that are classified as confidential by the government. You understand, of course?”

  “Yes. Yes. Of course. I’ll give you chaps your privacy.”

  With a slightly awkward bow, Faraday backed away and shuffled off.

  Gooch waited until the man was out of hearing range then said to Burton and Swinburne, “It’s all right. Your new memories are obscuring the old. It’s no surprise and nothing to worry about. I’d advise you not to resist it.”

  “But—but—are we becoming different people?” Swinburne asked.

  “No. Just different renditions of the same men—variations more suited to this particular time stream. Still the poet. Still the explorer.”

  “It’s happening so fast!”

  “You’ve rather been thrown into the deep end, so to speak,” Gooch said. “None of us expected this turn. We thought you’d be eased, not plunged, into your new roles.” He lifted Grumbles’ head. “This business has accelerated the process.”

  “The closing of the circle,” Burton murmured. “The Beetle said events would occur with great rapidity.”

  He drew a cheroot from his waistcoat pocket, lit and drew on it, then breathed out a plume of smoke, cleared it with an impatient wave, and dismissed at the same time the subject of identity. Somehow, it just didn’t feel important.

  “Let us focus on the matter at hand. The Beetle? What about him?”

  “Ah, yes. I must retract my earlier comment. Babbage doesn’t have all the black diamonds. There are eleven still implanted in the Beetle’s head.”

  “But aren’t they the same ones that were taken from the Brunel machine?” Swinburne asked.

  “They are. Each of them currently exists twice over in the same period of time. A very anomalous circumstance, though one that applies to a great many of the other diamonds as well, thanks to certain actions undertaken by your predecessors. If, as you suggest, Babbage is using the stones as a means of communication, I’m wondering whether our multiheaded friend might have heard his messages.”

  “Do you know where the Beetle is?”

  “He’s in the past, perhaps. Or maybe he’s gone sideways into a different iteration of the present.”

  Burton opened his mouth to ask whether the Beetle was able to traverse time by willpower alone, but, before he could utter a sound, an inner affirmation rendered the question unnecessary.

  Gooch went on, “He has to undertake a number of actions that, from a certain perspective, have already been done. It’s very confusing. I’m under the impression we’ll not see him for a while.”

  The explorer grunted his agreement. “He said as much. I suppose we’ll have to do without him. Let’s start with Babbage’s residence. We should search it.”

  “You’ll not find anything, I’m afraid. Prior to his disappearance, he lived here at the station. His old rooms are completely empty and scrubbed clean.”

  Burton closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his forehead. “If the man I’m replacing possessed any talent for i
nvestigation then I wish I could acquire it from him a little more rapidly. I don’t know where to look or what to do. Daniel, I must rely on your inventiveness. Please, find a means to trace the source of that transmission.”

  Gooch waved his supplementary arms. “If, indeed, there was one. We may be on a hiding to nothing. I’ll do what I can. Perhaps I could create something like the Field Amplifier that Babbage built last year. He took it with him, but I remember the principles of the device. It was designed to record the electrical patterns present in the diamonds. If this granule from Grumbles contains some vestige of the signal that we could analyse, it might tell us what we need to know.”

  Burton picked up his cane. “We’ll leave you to press on with it.” He drew again on his cigar and cast his eyes across the huge chamber, searching for a sense of unfamiliarity and not finding it. “As for Algy and me, I see but one path to follow, and it leads straight from here to number ten Downing Street.”

  “The prime minister? I doubt he’ll receive you unannounced.”

  “I shall announce us myself. Let’s see whether my position as king’s agent can open the most important door in the empire.”

  Picking up their hats, Burton and Swinburne bid their friend farewell, departed the station, and mounted their rotorchairs.

  “Richard,” Swinburne said, as he placed goggles over his eyes, “I’m positive I should be stricken with the notion that I’m losing myself, but I feel the absolute opposite.”

  Burton flicked the stub of his cheroot away, pushed his hat into the storage box beneath his seat, and slipped his cane into a holder. “Likewise, and thank goodness, else I think we’d both be lunatics by now.”

  The poet grinned, gave a thumbs up, and squeezed the lever that started his machine’s engine.

  As they soared up and followed the course of the Thames northeastward, Burton noted that the chill air was filled with that variety of meteorological prescience that frequently portends a storm or heavy snowfall. The drizzle had petered out during the night, but the high, flat, featureless layer of cloud still obscured the sky. Pillars of smoke were rising vertically into it from thousands of chimneys, reminding him of the gigantic towers of 2203. It was as if the altitude of the capital was being established first in a gaseous form. Ghosts of things to come.

  They descended toward Whitehall. Burton resisted the urge to squeeze his eyes shut and hope for the best. Rotorchairs, rotorships, and ornithopters were swarming in profusion above the rooftops and a collision felt inevitable. Indeed, another flier came so close that the explorer heard, above the paradiddle of his own machine, the other vehicle’s driver yelling at him.

  With a teeth-jarring thud, he landed on the cobbles of Downing Street. His rotorchair screeched along on its runners, showering sparks, and almost overturned before it came to rest.

  Pedestrians, who’d dived out of its path, shook their fists and expressed their indignation in no uncertain terms.

  “Bloody hell!” he muttered, breathing heavily.

  Swinburne’s flying chair set down more gently nearby, causing a horse to utter a panicked whinny. The driver of the wood wagon to which the beast was harnessed bawled an incomprehensible oath as he steered around the machine.

  The two men dragged their vehicles to the kerb, removed their goggles, and strode along to the prime minister’s residence. A constable was standing sentry duty at its door. Swinburne offered him a grin and a ragged salute. “What ho! What ho!”

  “Move along, please, sir,” the policeman said. “And next time you take it upon yourselves to land in the street, perhaps you’d do so with a little more care and attention.”

  “I’m the king’s agent,” Burton told him.

  “Really, sir? That’s funny, ’cos I’m the king of Siam. It don’t make no odds as far as the landing of rotorchairs goes, though, does it? Good day to you.”

  Burton proffered his credentials. The policeman gave a careworn sigh, took them, read them twice, and scratched his chin. “Hello! This is a new one on me.”

  “You’ve not heard of me?”

  “At the Yard, yes, sir, but I didn’t know you were real.”

  “I can assure you that I am.”

  Swinburne said, “Might I suggest you make an enquiry inside, Your Majesty?”

  “I don’t know about that. Even if this here bit o’ paper is bona fide, as the saying has it, that don’t much matter unless you have an appointment. Do you?”

  “No,” Burton said. “But it’s a matter of considerable urgency. Is the prime minister at home?”

  “I’m not permitted to tell you that, sir. For all I know, you’re a couple of anarchists and this here permit of yours is a forgery. He might be. But he might not be. And if he is, this is highly irregular. I think I’d better consult with his staff. On the other hand, if I bother them over nothing—”

  “Decisiveness,” Swinburne observed. “A desirable quality in a monarch.”

  The constable considered the poet for a moment. He cleared his throat, turned, and gave four quick knocks on the door followed by a pause then three more. The portal opened wide enough for him to squeeze through into the house. It closed after him.

  “Shall I climb to the roof and slip down the chimney?” Swinburne asked.

  Before Burton could respond, the door opened again and the constable stepped out.

  “In you go, gentlemen. The prime minister will see you immediately.”

  “Ah! So he is at home!” Swinburne exclaimed.

  “I can’t confirm that, sir.”

  The poet gave a curtsey and followed Burton in.

  They were greeted by—to the explorer’s discomfort—a clockwork man.

  “I am Mr. Pinion,” it said. “The prime minister’s secretary. You are Sir Richard? And Mr. Swinburne?”

  “Yes,” Burton confirmed.

  “Your arrival is most felicitous. Mr. Disraeli was about to send for you. This way, please.”

  Crossing the black-and-white tiled floor of the lobby, the two men were led through a door to their left, passed into a small corridor, then were ushered into a medium-sized square chamber. It was decorated with draped silks, statuettes, paintings, and ornaments, all of Japanese origin.

  Mr. Pinion moved to a corner and stood motionless, poised to act upon any request.

  Benjamin Disraeli was seated behind a large desk. There were two empty chairs in front of it. He was writing and, without looking up, said, “Sit.”

  Another man was present, by a small table against the wall to the premier’s right. He didn’t rise to greet them as propriety required but instead sat glaring disdainfully at Burton.

  The explorer felt his heart hammering. He couldn’t give credence to what he was seeing.

  The prime minister’s other guest was Colonel Christopher Palmer Rigby.

  Rigby! Bismillah! Rigby! What the hell is he doing here?

  The man could only be regarded as an implacable foe. He detested Burton with a passion. The sentiment was returned in full measure. Their mutual antipathy had its roots in India, twenty years ago, when the explorer—then an ensign in the British East India Company Army—had repeatedly beaten the other out of his accustomed first place position in language examinations. Rigby had since applied himself assiduously to the spreading of false rumours about his competitor.

  Three years ago, when Burton had arrived in Zanzibar to begin his expedition to the source of the River Nile, he’d found Rigby there, ensconced as British consul. His old enemy had made every effort to interfere with the expedition, so far overstepping the mark that, after Burton had lodged a complaint against him, the British government had been left with no option but to dismiss the man, replacing him with Burton’s friend, George Herne.

  And now, here he was again, his eyes smouldering with hatred.

  Rigby, in his early forties, was slightly taller than Burton and just as solidly built: his shoulders wide, his chest deep, and his biceps straining the sleeves of his long jacket. His
hair was shaved extremely short, being little more than bristle, though it lengthened in front of his ears and grew down into an unkempt beard. This, together with his high-bridged and narrow nose, sneering thin-lipped mouth, and closely set eyes, bestowed upon him a horribly brutal mien.

  Still without looking up from his papers and in an abstracted tone, Disraeli drawled, “You are acquainted with Colonel Rigby?”

  You know damn well I am!

  “Unfortunately so,” Burton replied as he took his seat.

  The prime minister ignored the prickly response and pushed his document aside. Leaning back, he regarded Burton, his heavy lids hooding his eyes. An effete longhaired dandy, his manner was, as always, languid and detached, his expression sleepy. The explorer knew this to be a meticulously cultivated pose which lulled opponents into such overconfidence that when the premier struck—which he did with all the speed and venom of a cobra—it always came as an unpleasant and, more often than not, politically fatal shock.

  A dangerous man.

  “Your arrival is well-timed. I was about to summon you.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “I haven’t had much sleep, Sir Richard. I spent a considerable portion of the night in conference with your brother. He informed me that your mission has failed. We are not secure. The possibility exists that we might suffer further interference from the future. I understand, too, that items you brought back with you have been stolen from beneath your nose. Are you so careless?”

  Burton glanced at Rigby. “Are we to discuss such matters in front of the colonel, Prime Minister?”

  “Colonel Rigby has been made aware of the relevant facts.”

  “Really? May I ask why?”

  “You may not. Please confirm, have you really been so remiss?”

  Burton’s hands, resting on his thighs, curled into fists. He struggled to keep his voice steady. “I’ll answer that in a moment. First, would you please order Mr. Pinion out of the room?”

  “For what reason?”

  “If you’ll indulge me, I’ll explain once he’s gone.”

  “I see. Mr. Pinion, you are dismissed.”