The Rise of the Automated Aristocrats

  “Is this version of you incapable even of putting up a decent fight? Consider what that other achieved. When all was lost, he still summoned resources enough to invade this base and rob its vault. Its vault!”

  The slight but definite emphasis on a single word.

  Vault.

  “And you can’t even give a good account of yourself when it comes to basic fisticuffs. I’m thoroughly alarmed to witness such weakness.”

  Again, the accent had been subtly placed. Not so forcibly that Rigby would notice it but, in retrospect, unmistakable.

  “You’re going to have to dig deep. The other Burton did so. Follow his example.”

  He slipped the picks into his pocket, crossed to the table, and poured a glass of brandy, which he knocked back in a single swig. He thought of the mud he’d noticed on his brother’s mechanical feet and on the floor in the hallway.

  “Burton,” he said, “has seen mud with that distinctive hue before. Where?”

  The Thames at low tide.

  Dig deep.

  It came to him. Yes. The Beetle had—or was going to, in a different history—manipulate events to ensure that Algernon Swinburne would be captured. Burton was going to use his dog, Fidget, to follow the poet’s scent. It would lead to the Thames and to a tunnel running beneath it, under London Bridge.

  The bridge was right next to the Tower of London.

  Did Edward want him to retrace that route? Why? And even were he to use the picks to crack the lock of his cell, how was he supposed to escape the tower, which was occupied by so many clockwork and governmental men?

  He paced and fretted.

  Use the picks. Overpower that Thresher fellow. Release Algy and William. Then what? The vault?

  He vaguely recalled a chamber he’d never seen, one filled with bizarre objects retrieved from alternate histories. The room he envisioned belonged in a different version of the tower. What he’d find in this one might not match the memory. Nevertheless, his brother appeared to think it held something of significance.

  What was Edward up to?

  Crossing to the metal door, he crouched and examined the keyhole. The lock would present a challenge but not an insurmountable one.

  When to risk it?

  He felt indecisive, as if Rigby had knocked a vital part out of him, and experienced such a dreadful sense of shame that he stumbled back, uttered an inarticulate cry, and fell to his knees.

  He drew back his arm, poised to smash his fist into the floor, filled with frustration, but before he could follow the impulse a siren started to wail, its urgent keening—Ullah! Ullah!—driving all the emotion out of him.

  Suddenly, he was calm and his head was clear.

  He whispered, “The Slug and Lettuce. A second chance at life,” and he knew, without any doubt, that this was the moment to act.

  Thoroughly alarmed.

  Twisting, he scrambled back to the door, knelt before it, and applied the tools to the keyhole. He’d never used lockpicks before but another iteration of him had, and that skill was now his. Faint clicks. Resistance against his fingertips. Manipulation. The slightest of forces exerted.

  Clunk.

  He didn’t think to arm himself with anything—not the decanter upturned and held by its neck, not a snapped off table leg—but simply yanked open the door and hurtled through into the room beyond it.

  Thresher was standing by a filing cabinet. He gaped at Burton and said, “Drat it! What do you think you’re—”

  The explorer dived forward and, as the other fumbled for the pistol at his hip, grabbed the gaoler’s wrist and delivered a slap of such force to the side of his face that Thresher immediately slumped. The gun was plucked from its holster and its barrel applied to the man’s forehead.

  “Tell me what’s happening.”

  Dazedly, Thresher mumbled, “Alarm. Don’t know why. Get back in your cell.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Drat you!”

  Burton forced him across the room to the door of cell one. “Either open it or have me break your neck and do it myself.”

  Thresher complied. As the portal swung open, Burton looked into a cell identical to his own and saw Algernon Swinburne.

  “What ho!” the poet cried out. “About bloomin’ time! Where the devil have you been? Do you realise how long I’ve been shut away in here? My hat! You look like a ghost! Are you all right? What’s happening? Why the noise? Are we escaping?”

  “If we can,” Burton confirmed.

  The little poet leaped out of the cell and swiped a fist at an imaginary foe. “Lead on! Charge! I’m eager to flatten the minister’s crooked nose.”

  “He no longer has one.”

  “What? What? What?”

  “Later.”

  Trounce was next to be released. He was bearded and his hair unkempt, his blue eyes filled with the remoteness that comes with prolonged isolation. Looking uncertainly from Burton to Swinburne, he licked his lips and mumbled, “By Jove! Is this happening?”

  “It is,” Burton confirmed. “Are you fit for battle?”

  “By thunder, I’m ready to take on the whole bloody government single-handed, metal men and all.”

  “We may have an even bigger enemy.”

  “Eh? Who?”

  “Or perhaps what. I don’t know, William. I sense something. A presence of some sort.”

  “Sense?”

  “Perhaps clairvoyantly. The black diamonds.”

  “Humph! More of that nonsense, hey? Well, so long as there’s a neck I can wring.”

  Burton made Thresher unlock the other cells but found all of them unoccupied.

  “Your records,” he said. “I want to know where two of your prisoners have gone.”

  The gaoler’s eyes widened then crossed as they focused on the gun barrel that was still pressed against his forehead. “Needles in a dratted haystack! There are thousands of prisoners. You’re demanding the impossible.”

  “I don’t think so. They were among the very first taken—captured on the twentieth of March. Their names are Sadhvi Raghavendra and Maneesh Krishnamurthy.”

  “Oh. That makes it easier, I suppose. This way.”

  Keeping his pistol levelled, Burton followed Thresher to a filing cabinet and watched as he slid open a draw, rummaged through binders, and extracted two sheets of paper.

  “Yes. Here we are. They are both serving at Sir Charles Napier B.”

  “What is that?”

  “A labour camp. It’s located on the outskirts of Karachi in India.”

  Trounce said, “Labour? What manner of labour?”

  “They’re building a clockwork-man factory, I believe. There’s a big demand for the mechanisms. The British East India Company has a lot of jobs they can undertake. Saves costs.”

  “Yes,” Swinburne said. “I recall that you suggested your own job could be done by them. Are you looking forward to your unemployment?”

  “Pardon? I—” Thresher looked momentarily confused. He muttered, “Oh, drat it!” then tipped his head back and yelled, “Help! Help! The prisoners are esc—”

  Burton’s fist connected with the upturned chin, and Thresher hit the floor.

  Crossing to the room’s entrance, the explorer opened the portal an inch. The noise of the alarm increased. He peeked out at the hallway. Doors were standing ajar, and he saw two men hurrying along to the stairs leading up to the tower. Once they’d gone, the wide passage was empty.

  “We might be in luck,” he murmured. “It looks like the alarm has sent them all scurrying upstairs.”

  “Rather a providential diversion,” Trounce observed.

  “I’m inclined to think it’s by design.” Burton raised the revolver. “Let’s move. Quietly does it.”

  They crept out of the security section, advanced past the dormitories and canteen, and, next to the Monitoring Station, found the Weapon Shop.

  Burton was about to speak when, a little farther along the hall, five men raced ou
t from the doors marked Offices G–L. Without noticing the escapees, they pelted toward the far end of the passage and vanished up the stairs.

  “I wonder what’s causing the hoo-ha?” Swinburne whispered.

  Trounce flexed his fingers. “Whatever, let’s hope it continues. I need to bang my knuckles against something solid. Everything feels like a dream after being cooped up for so long.”

  Burton pushed open the door of the Weapon Shop. There were two men inside, one long-bearded, the other white-haired. They were standing beside a bench and bolting a small cannon onto a tripod. Both looked up as he stepped in. Long Beard said, “Good! Help us get this up top, would you?”

  “What’s it for? Why the alarm?”

  “Someone stole the Orpheus. The ship is shooting at the keep and into the grounds. This is the only weapon we have that’s sure to bring it down.”

  White Hair exclaimed, “Hold on a minute! Who are you?”

  “The enemy.” Burton brandished his pistol. “Hands in the air, please, gentlemen.”

  “Oh, botheration!” Long Beard said. He grabbed a pistol from the bench and swung it toward the intruders.

  Burton shot him through the shoulder.

  “Christ! Ouch! Bloody hell! That hurts. I surrender.”

  “Don’t kill me,” his colleague cried out, throwing up his arms. “I’m a lepidopterist.”

  Swinburne laughed. “A butterfly collector? What has that to do with it?”

  “I—I couldn’t think of anything else to say.”

  “It’ll suffice,” Burton said, “providing you lie face down with your limbs spread out.”

  “Like one of your pinned specimens,” the poet added.

  “I’ll do it. I’ll do it.”

  He did it.

  “I can’t,” Long Beard wailed. “My shoulder. Bad.”

  “So sit beside him and shut up.”

  The chamber was large and lined with armaments. Burton, Swinburne, and Trounce each slung a rifle over their shoulders, took two revolvers, and filled their pockets with ammunition.

  “We’ll be just outside,” Burton told Long Beard. “If either of you leaves this room, we’ll start shooting.”

  “I don’t want to move. I’m bleeding. I feel horrid.”

  “And I’m quite comfortable here,” White Hair added. “It’s the first proper rest I’ve had for a few days.”

  Swinburne gave a snort of amusement.

  The group moved back into the hallway and crossed to the door marked Vault. It was a very solid metal affair with a complex lock that would have defeated Burton’s picks had he required them. He didn’t. It was standing slightly open. The explorer noticed mud at its threshold. Again, foreign memories brushed the edges of his awareness. He led them through into a long, fairly narrow room dimly lit by four oil lamps. It had an arched ceiling, and its walls were lined with shelves. There was equipment taken from the Norwood catacomb and a number of small machines he recognised from Battersea Power Station, including some he knew to be prototype Babbage creations. The hulking form of the late Isambard Kingdom Brunel was standing in one corner, utterly lifeless. The sight of it sent a shiver down Burton’s spine.

  That thing was once me.

  He bit his lip nervously and moved on.

  At the other end of the chamber, the wall had been cut through—fairly recently by the looks of it—and was now the mouth of a downward-sloping tunnel. Muddy footprints led to and from it. Burton headed toward the opening but paused when he came abreast a workbench upon which two long, flat, clothbound packages had been placed. Uttering an exclamation, he lifted one, unwrapped it, and pulled an oddly curved blade from its scabbard. “My khopesh! This might come in handy. Algy, take the other.”

  Looping the belts attached to the scabbards around their shoulders, the two men positioned the blades on their backs with the hilts projecting upward. They needed only to reach up and behind to draw the weapons.

  Long steps had been cut into the tunnel floor with planks laid down for better footing. Niches, dug into the walls, contained oil lamps, but these were far apart, and their light was spread thin.

  Treading carefully, the party silently descended, reaching a level part of the tunnel that, ahead of them, curved to the left. After a little over a hundred yards, it dipped abruptly, and its floor disappeared into knee-deep water, which was painfully cold and smelled of purifying fish. They waded into it.

  They traversed a short distance then encountered a junction, the passage joining another, this one carved out of rock. To the left, the new tunnel, which had three thick pipes running along the opposite wall, ended at the base of stone steps. To the right, it extended southward and plunged into shadow.

  Before they were able to advance any farther, voices reached them from the steps. Drawing back, they listened.

  “—so soon after the process that we have to turn around and go right back again.”

  “I know! I’m not even accustomed to my new limbs yet. I feel I’m walking a little awkwardly. I don’t look clumsy, do I?”

  “Not at all. Not at all.”

  “Will you turn my key? I fear my spring might be slackening.”

  “It’s not. Don’t be concerned. We shall keep each other fully wound. How did you find the conversion process? I thought it might be painful but didn’t feel a thing.”

  “Nor I. Very clever, these scientist chappies. I must confess, though, that I was glad to be out of the place. I wish we didn’t have to go back.”

  “I share your reluctance, old fellow. I don’t know about you but all the time I was there I felt my mind was somehow not my own.”

  “Yes, exactly my experience.”

  “Perhaps we should loiter down here until whatever is happening blows over.”

  “A fine idea, yet I feel somewhat compelled to follow orders.”

  “Me, too, but I’m a mite nervous, dear boy. I don’t mean to sound like a coward but if matters are coming to a head and the situation is getting dangerous, I’d rather stay out of the way.”

  Two figures came abreast of the junction—clockwork men—both with walking canes and wearing top hats, one with a bow tie knotted around its thin neck.

  Burton and his companions let them pass, then the explorer stepped out behind them.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. Or afternoon. Or evening. I’ve lost track. Which is it?”

  The mechanisms jerked to a halt and spun to face him. After a slight pause, one of them reached up, gripped the brim of its top hat, and raised it.

  “Hallo there! It’s afternoon. Are you on your way for conversion? Don’t worry, it’s an absolute doddle. Have we met? I’m Lord Chumleigh of the Dorchester Chumleighs, and this is the Right Honourable Percival Braithwaite, the son of—”

  “Great heavens!” Braithwaite interrupted as Burton’s two companions emerged from the darkness with their weapons levelled. “Look at the little flame-haired cove! Isn’t he the chap we bumped into a few months back, the one who stained the seat of your rotorchair?”

  “By the Lord Harry! He jolly well is, too!”

  Braithwaite directed a metal digit at Burton. “And that’s the other bounder. They borrowed our machines without so much as a ‘by your leave!’”

  “I say! What the devil is your game?” Chumleigh demanded. “You people can’t be here. This is a by-invite-only affair. On whose authority, hey?”

  Burton brandished his revolver. “By my own, gentlemen. Now tell me, what is today’s date?”

  “Heavens above! He’s threatening us!” Braithwaite exclaimed.

  Chumleigh spread his arms. “My good man, don’t be so foolish. Can you not see that we are made of brass? Bullets cannot harm us. Lay down your guns. Come with us. We’ll find some security guards to escort you from the area, and we’ll say no more about it. Better that than us being forced to—er—as it were—kill you, what!”

  “The date?” Burton repeated.

  “Why, it’s the twenty-second of June.”
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  “Ah. Earlier than I imagined. My apologies, good sirs, I appear to have become somewhat confused. I shall, of course, put away my pistol, but I don’t want to get it wet, so I’ll just holster it, if that’s all right with you. My companions will do the same.”

  “Certainly,” Chumleigh responded. “There’s no need for trouble, is there? Let bygones be bygones. We’ll forget that whole silly affair at the Venetia, hey?”

  “That’s very civil of you.”

  “Richard?” Swinburne whispered.

  “Put away your weapon.”

  Trounce made to speak, but the explorer flashed him a warning look before turning back to the poet. “Do as I do.”

  With his eyes fixed on his friend’s, he holstered his pistol and twitched an eyebrow.

  Swinburne muttered, “Ah.” He gave an almost imperceptible nod, put away his revolver, and moved to Burton’s side. They took a couple of paces toward the clockwork men.

  Burton said, “Chaps, may I point out that I hold the Most Distinguished Order of Saint Michael and Saint George? Does that not make me eligible?”

  “A knight, eh?” Chumleigh responded. “It rather depends on your lineage. To which of the families do you belong?”

  Burton stepped closer. “To the Burtons.”

  “Of where?”

  “Ireland, originally. The Burtons are one of the principal gypsy clans.”

  “Gypsy!” the two mechanicals cried out in unison.

  “How dreadful!” Chumleigh added.

  “Scandalous!” Braithwaite opined.

  Simultaneously, the mechanicals drew blades from their walking canes and waved them threateningly.

  “You have tested my patience too far, sir,” Chumleigh said. “I’m forced to resort to drastic measures. Under section twenty-four A of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, as passed through Parliament on the seventh of May, 1861, I hereby sentence you to immediate execution.”

  “I don’t think so.” Burton’s right hand shot up over his shoulder and, in a single smooth movement, he drew his khopesh, sliced sideways, cut through the machine’s swordstick, and decapitated Braithwaite.

  At the same moment, Swinburne screeched, jumped up, and lashed out with his own blade. He missed Chumleigh by a good twelve inches, lost his balance, reeled sideways, and fell full-length into the putrid water.