The Rise of the Automated Aristocrats
With an incongruous glimmer of amusement, Burton realised that his disguise had fooled the two Cannibals. Despite the circumstances, he’d instinctively maintained the accent.
“Stop!” one of the approaching SPG units commanded. “Kneel and submit.”
“Resistance will not be tolerated,” another declared.
Truncheons extended.
As the contraptions closed on the three men, a door in the side of the rotorship hinged down and four more machines emerged.
“We don’t stand a chance,” Charles Bradlaugh observed. He knelt.
Reluctantly, Burton and Monckton Milnes followed suit.
Minutes later, they were sitting in the rotorship with their wrists cuffed together behind their backs. Four clockwork men watched them wordlessly. Burton’s gun and swordstick had been confiscated.
“I’m Richard Monckton Milnes,” his friend said to him. “And this is Charlie Bradlaugh. Neither of us knows why we’re arrested, but I’d like to thank you for—” He finished the sentence with a quirk of the eyebrow.
“For acting impetuously and getting myself arrested?” Burton said with a grim smile. “I am Count Palladino.”
Bradlaugh said, “Have we met? I feel I may have made your acquaintance at some point. At one of the clubs, perhaps?”
“I have that sort of face,” Burton replied.
The vessel’s engine hummed, and the floor shifted beneath them. The flight was short—little more than a hop—and when the door opened, the explorer wasn’t at all surprised to see the Mall beyond it.
“Out,” they were ordered.
“I’ll ask again,” Monckton Milnes said to one of the SPG machines. “With what are we charged?”
“Resisting arrest.”
“Yes, but before that? Why did you come to my house? What is it I am supposed to have done?”
“Out.”
They stood, exited the ship, and were promptly hustled by the clockwork men to the gates of the enclosed park.
“What in God’s name?” Monckton Milnes exclaimed upon seeing the tall fence.
“It went up last night,” Burton said.
They were guided through the gates.
Looking down the slope to the Victoria Monument—which for some obscure reason appeared to Burton to be different in form to what he expected—he saw row after row of sheds and, beyond them, the shadowy fog-veiled bulk of the rotorship he’d heard landing earlier. There were men—but no women—scattered around, most garbed in suits but a few in pyjamas. There were also a great many clockwork figures, these with normal rather than SPG helmet-shaped heads and painted dark green rather than blue.
Burton, Monckton Milnes, and Bradlaugh were escorted to the end of a queue of men. The line led to the door of a large shed. A sign above the portal declared PROCESSING.
“Wait until your turn,” one of the SPG units said. “Do not attempt to flee. Do not object or ask questions. Do not give false information. Do not cause an affray. Do not resist orders.”
“May I scratch my arse?” Bradlaugh asked.
“Yes.”
The mechanised policeman unclipped their handcuffs and took from a metal pouch in its side three red ribbons, which it tied around their left upper arms.
“What do these signify?” Burton enquired.
“Do not remove them,” the machine replied. It marched away.
“I have to say,” Monckton Milnes muttered, “that this is all thoroughly inconvenient yet also rather interesting.” He tapped the shoulder of the man in front of him, a tubby fellow in a yellow dressing gown. “Hallo there! Do you happen to have any idea of what’s happening?”
“None,” the other replied. “I was asleep. They hammered at my door this morning, woke me up, dragged me to a police station, and left me in a cell for hours and hours. Arrested! And look! I’m in my bloody slippers! I’ve not eaten since yesterday. What will the manager say?”
“Manager?”
“At the bank. Scrannington Bank. It’s where I work. I’m meant to be there. I’m the chief underwriter. Insurance! Great heavens! Insurance! And me in my slippers!”
Bradlaugh said, “What did you do, if you’ll pardon my asking?”
“Do? I just told you. Insurance.”
“I mean, what did you do to be arrested?”
“Nothing! I was asleep, I say!”
“Some sort of misdemeanour?”
“How dare you!” the man objected. “I insist, I’ve committed no crime. I’m an underwriter not a thief.”
A man farther along the line but within earshot looked back over his shoulder and called, “You’ll not find any criminals here, my friend. We’re perfectly ordinary. No one has the vaguest idea what this is all about.”
Monckton Milnes turned to Bradlaugh. “I suppose it’ll all come out in the wash. Once they realise they’ve made a mistake—”
They took a few steps forward as the queue moved.
Burton wanted to reveal his identity to his friends—tell them that Tom Bendyshe and James Hunt were also in the camp, enquire about the message he’d sent via the Whispering Web and ask after Brabrooke and Murray—but feeling there might be an advantage to retaining his disguise, he resisted the temptation.
It was now late afternoon, but there was no change in the curious light, which appeared to be an element of the fog itself. The summer sun, shining down on the near-impenetrable peasouper, wouldn’t set until past nine o’clock.
Monckton Milnes pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to wipe beads of perspiration from his brow.
They moved closer to the door.
Men were added to the queue behind them. Questions were asked, but Burton and his friends had no answers to offer.
Finally, they entered the hut.
One by one, the men in front of them shuffled forward and stood in front of a desk. A flabby-faced individual in a rather-too-opulent ceremonial Army uniform was sitting behind it with a green-painted clockwork man beside him. Four more of Babbage’s contraptions were also present. One was holding a bucket of white paint and a brush. Another stepped forward and searched the men, finding only ordinary items—pipes, tobacco pouches, wallets, keys, and so forth.
Names were taken, a list consulted and ticked with a pencil. Protests were waved aside. “All will be explained. Be patient.” The man spoke in a clipped and cold tone, as if delivering the words by rote. “You are assigned to hut fifteen. If you hear the siren or a whistle, line up outside of it. A meal will be provided later.”
“But why are we here?” one of the men asked.
“Don’t make a fuss,” came the reply. “As you can see, we are very busy. Your cooperation is appreciated. Exit through the door to your left, please.”
As the men moved to the indicated portal, they were each stopped by the mechanism with the paint bucket and a number was brushed onto the back of their clothes.
“My dressing gown! You’ve ruined it!”
“Move on, please.”
Monckton Milnes approached the desk. His red ribbon was noticed, and when the man looked beyond him and saw that Burton and Bradlaugh were also so adorned, he gestured for them to step forward too. They were searched and divested of their belongings.
“You three are together?”
Monckton Milnes ignored the question and drawled, “My good man, I rather think an introduction is called for, don’t you?”
“Very well. I am Commander Thaddeus Kidd. And you are?”
“Extremely disgruntled. I demand to know why I’ve been manhandled from my home and forcibly detained.”
“I can’t answer that unless you give me your name.”
“I am Richard Monckton Milnes.”
The clockwork man handed a sheet of paper to Kidd, a different list. He ran his pencil down it and, seeing what he was looking for, murmured, “Ah, yes. Good.” He looked at Bradlaugh. “And you?”
“Sir Charles Bradlaugh. And I intend to notify the War Office and have yo
ur damned hide for this.”
“Do you now? Do you?” Kidd responded with the trace of a sneer. “We shall see about that.” He checked the list again and gave a grunt of satisfaction before levelling his eyes at Burton. “So you must be either Murray or Brabrooke.”
The device at his side said, “No, sir. This individual is not listed. He was apprehended after preventing police constables from performing their duty. He was carrying a pistol and disabled two units.”
Burton, who hadn’t seen any of the SPG machines that captured him enter the hut, wondered whether that statement was another example of nonverbal communication.
“I am Count Palladino. Visiting from Italy.”
“A spy?” Kidd asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous? You were carrying a gun. Why did you interfere with police business?”
“I acted on impulse.”
“It may cost you. The law is absolute. You will remain here until we decide what to do with you. All three of you will bunk in hut zero. Stay inside. Do not mingle with the other detainees. You will be guarded. Dismissed. Out that way, please.” He cocked a thumb at the side door.
“I’ll not stand for this!” Monckton Milnes bellowed. “I know my rights. You have no—”
A clockwork man grabbed and held him while “287” was painted onto his back. Bradlaugh received “288” and Burton “289.” They were hustled out. Four mechanical guards took charge of them and marched them across the grass to a nearby shed, its door marked with a large “0.”
Monckton Milnes’s face was red with fury. Bradlaugh kept whispering, “I don’t understand. I don’t understand.”
The door was unlocked, and they were pushed into a long, low, windowless room lined with bunk beds and illuminated by a single oil lamp. There were other men present. Doctor James Hunt rose from his bed and greeted them.
“Hallo, chaps. Welcome to the house of the undesirables.”
BRUTALITY AND MURDER IN HUT O
PUBLIC NOTICE
TOOLEY STREET CLOSURE
THE FULL EXTENT OF TOOLEY STREET WILL BE
CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE
ST. SAVIOUR’S DISTRICT BOARD OF WORKS
The twelve occupants of hut 0 were special. One was a clockwork man that sat unmoving in a corner. Its only function appeared to be to monitor conversations and report anything of interest. The others, the Undesirables, were—unlike the other men in the camp, all of whom were middle class—either titled, rich, well-educated, influential, or a combination thereof. A chalkboard on the exterior wall of the shed, to the right of the door, listed them as:
085 Thomas Bendyshe
086 Doctor James Hunt
287 Richard Monckton Milnes
288 Sir Charles Bradlaugh
289 Count Marco Palladino
328 Captain Henry Murray
329 Sir Edward Brabrooke
641 Henry Spencer Ashbee
691 Doctor Bartholomew Quaint
722 Captain Frederick Hankey
854 Sir Roderick Murchison
It did not escape Burton’s attention that all these men were associated with him in some manner or other.
Murray and Brabrooke had been interned the evening of his own arrival in the camp, so that now the entire Cannibal Club was in captivity with the exception of Swinburne. Over the course of the following three days, the others had arrived. Ashbee and Hankey, both writers, publishers, and eroticists, had provided Swinburne with an outlet for his most incendiary work. Quaint had been the medico and steward aboard the Orpheus during Burton’s expedition to the source of the Nile. He was off duty when the rotorship disappeared and had no idea where it had gone. Murchison was the president of the Royal Geographical Society.
All were now dressed in ill-fitting and scratchy hessian uniforms with their numbers stitched onto their backs and sleeves.
Burton had been a prisoner for six full days and his disguise was becoming increasingly ragged around the edges. He’d avoided washing his face for fear the touches of makeup would disappear but it was, inevitably, rubbing off of its own accord. His false moustache was drooping. He frequently forgot to hold his jaw in a certain manner, allowing it, in repose, to slip into its normal position, which did much to expose his normal countenance. Monckton Milnes, he thought, was becoming suspicious. Burton often felt himself being surreptitiously scrutinised by his friend.
Day by day, the regime in the camp was becoming increasingly brutal. Every morning, at the ungodly hour of four, a siren blasted, and the men—the compound was by now extremely crowded—had to get up and tidy their shapeless straw mattresses and rough blankets to a military standard before standing to attention outside their huts for morning roll call. Newcomers used this occasion to express their indignation and anger. Those who’d been imprisoned for more than two days had already learned that such behaviour was inevitably met with a savage beating. There was nary a man in the camp who didn’t bear the bruises of such treatment, which is why all but the most recently arrived remained sullen and silent except to answer “Aye!” when his number was called.
Next came the opportunity for morning ablutions. There were just two water spigots in the camp and, at the blast of a whistle, the prisoners had to run for them hoping to get a turn. Only a small percentage ever managed to wash.
The other facility consisted of wooden boards suspended over a ditch that ran downhill to join an exposed sewer pipe. The stench from this was dreadful and pervaded the entire enclosure.
At half past six, as the upper reaches of the fog took on a metallic-grey glow caused by the morning sun shining onto it, a second siren blasted, signalling that the men should line up again outside their huts, this time with their mess tins and cups in their hands. A small number of prisoners, selected for the duty, passed along the lines distributing weak and gritty coffee, coarse bread, and a slop of cold porridge.
After this meagre breakfast, most were free to move about the camp as they wished. Not so the inhabitants of hut 0, who—with their mute and motionless guard—were confined to their quarters.
Lunch—bland soup and watery tea—followed the same routine as breakfast. In the afternoons, the huge rotorship, which Burton now knew to be HMA Eurypyle, arrived, announcing its approach with a deep, teeth-rattling bellow. Men were herded aboard it to be transported to no one knew where. Others entered the camp to replace them.
Evening roll call came at seven o’clock and was followed by a dinner of gristle-filled mutton stew and a second cup of tea.
“It’s inhuman!” Sir Roderick protested for the umpteenth time.
It was the morning of Burton’s seventh day of captivity. He’d just finished breakfast but was still hungry. He and the others were sitting on their bunks, most slumped forward, arms resting on legs, heads hanging. The explorer was listening for the faint, almost inaudible tapping that had sounded at the base of the door every morning thus far. He knew it was Pox, sent with a message from Swinburne, Trounce, or Gooch. The bird couldn’t get in, wouldn’t deliver its communiqué without seeing Burton, and every day flew away undoubtedly to report the message undelivered. That was as much as its capabilities allowed. It couldn’t tell his friends where he was or anything about his circumstances.
Burton hoped fervently that the bird wouldn’t one day arrive during roll call or one of the meals. If it was seen, it would be killed, he was sure.
“I’m president of the RGS,” Murchison continued. “I serve on the Royal Commission for the British Museum. I’m director-general of the British Geological Survey and director of the Royal School of Mines and the Museum of Practical Geology. I have it on good authority that I’m to be made a baronet. By God, I have more letters after my name than I have in it!”
“Oh, give it a rest, why don’t you?” Tom Bendyshe groaned. “We’ve heard it all before. We’re all in the same boat, old fellow. None of us has done anything to warrant our confinement.”
“Pornogr
apher!” Murchison spat.
“Let’s not start on each other,” Monckton Milnes muttered. “Has anyone given Laughing Boy’s key a spin?”
Laughing Boy was the name they’d given their clockwork cohabitant. The device had, every day bar yesterday, spoken just once, on each occasion after morning roll call, and each time to utter exactly the same words: “You are ordered to wind me up to full capacity. Failure to do so will be reported and will result in severe punishment.”
Yesterday Doctor Quaint had forestalled the threat by winding the mechanism’s spring the moment they’d returned to their hut after the morning routine. He now did so again.
Burton wondered whether it would be worth the subsequent punishment to allow the guard to wind down just so they’d have a few minutes to plan their escape without being overheard. He knew other captives had made attempts. Under cover of the still-dense fog, they’d attempted to scale the fence, but had been caught in the act and summarily executed in front of the other prisoners. Now, guard towers were being built. If Burton and his companions were going to make a move, it would have to be very soon.
Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap.
There it was. Pox.
Burton wanted to rush to the door and shout through it, Message for Swinburne. I am held prisoner in Green Park!
But, as always, Laughing Boy was watching and listening.
The tapping continued for a couple of minutes then stopped.
Five minutes after that, their guard suddenly spoke.
“Attention! Stand by your bunks. Inspection.”
“Bloody hell!” Bendyshe moaned. “Not again.”
“First time we’ve been warned, though,” Ashbee noted. “Let’s not give Kidd any excuses. Is everything ship-shape?”
The men stood and quickly smoothed their blankets and put their mess tins out of site. They stood, backs straight, shoulders squared, stomachs hollow, hearts hammering, knowing that the next half hour or so would be exceedingly unpleasant.
Kidd had done it every day; summary inspections conducted with cold politeness and, inevitably, concluding with punishments for transgressions as trivial as a creased pillow, a breadcrumb found on the floor, or a uniform button left undone. The penalties ranged from a confiscated blanket to a missed meal, from an enforced run of multiple laps around the compound to an unrestrained horsewhipping. Henry Ashbee still bore the marks of the latter upon his back.