The Return of the Discontinued Man (A Burton & Swinburne Adventure) (38 page)

Days went by. Sir Richard Francis Burton lost track of them. He and the surviving chrononauts were safe aboard the
Orpheus
in Bendyshe Bay, but their mission had come to a disastrous halt. The king’s agent remained in his quarters. He refused to speak to his colleagues. He didn’t eat. He didn’t drink. He didn’t smoke. He didn’t sleep.

He sat.

Cross-legged on the floor, eyes fixed straight ahead, for hour upon hour, he sat.

Not a thing went through his head. His thoughts were utterly paralysed.

Sadhvi Raghavendra did what she could for him. She brought food and took it away untouched. She sat beside him and spoke of the things she and the others had learned from the Cannibal Club, of the plutocracy that now ruled the Anglo-Saxon Empire, of the rapid physical and mental degeneration of the lower classes, of the many techniques employed by their overlords to keep them subservient and pliable, of the terrible destruction wrought during the failed revolution of the 2080s.

“The British Museum was among the many establishments destroyed,” she said. “Access to it had long been denied to the general public. It became a symbol of everything that was being withheld. As we saw in 2022, knowledge was distributed through the Turing devices, but it was strictly controlled, and that control became so increasingly draconian that by the 2070s even the Turings were discontinued. Not surprising, then, that the museum became, at one point, the focus of protestations. In 2083, the people, in their fury, determined that if they were to be denied the knowledge it held then the government would be, too. They blew it up. Isambard Kingdom Brunel was buried beneath the rubble.” She placed her hand on his forearm and gave it a squeeze. “It’s peculiar—I’d come to regard him as a point of consistency, an old friend who never changed. But I must contrast his loss with our encountering of all these new Bendyshes and Bradlaughs, Murrays and Monckton Milneses, Brabrookes and Hunts, Bhattis and Honestys, Slaughters and Penniforths. How oddly touching it is to see our old friends peeking out from behind all the new faces. Life goes on, Richard. Life goes on.”

This latter sentiment, expressed during her most recent visit, caused something deep inside him to stir. A thought whispered as if from an immense distance:

Not Algy’s life.

Not William’s.

Not Isabel’s.

Emotion stirred. It wasn’t grief or self-pity or despair but a black and iron-hard anger that settled upon him with such subtlety that when Raghavendra next visited she didn’t notice it at all, though she saw his dark eyes had become strangely shielded, as if he were looking out through them from much farther inside himself.

He started to take a little water, a little brandy.

Gradually, he regained awareness of who he was, where he was, and what he was supposed to be doing.

He ate a meal. He smoked a Manila cheroot. He stood, stretched his stiff legs, and regarded himself in the mirror over the basin. His internal silence was broken by two words:

King’s agent.

He snorted disdainfully.

Burton washed and started to shave, pausing frequently to gaze at his reflection.

Like an aged steam engine, his mind slowly built up heat, fuelled by his rage, its gears creakingly engaging, motion returning to it.

You failed. They were under your command and they died. You failed.

It wasn’t my fault.

Everything that makes you, you lose. Whenever you value a person, it’s their death sentence. Wherever you settle, that place will change. The things you hold dear forever slip out of your grasp.

I cannot endure such loss!

Whenever you feel certain of something, the only certainty is that it will become something else.

No!

There is only one truth, and that truth is Time, and Death is Time’s agent.

No! No! No!

He dropped the cutthroat razor and leaned with his fists against the bulkhead to either side of the mirror. He glowered at himself, one side of his jaw still frothy with shaving soap, water dripping from his moustache.

John Speke. William Stroyan. John Steinhaueser. Isabel Arundell. Algernon Swinburne. William Trounce.

He leaned forward until his forehead rested against the cool glass, shut his eyes, clenched his teeth and drew back his lips. Suddenly he was shaking and his respiration became strained. He wanted to find Edward Oxford and strangle him, hammer his face until he felt the bones fracturing beneath his knuckles, rip him apart until there was nothing remaining, but in his mind’s eye, the man he envisioned himself battering with such ferocious brutality, the man he called Oxford, possessed his own features and was named Sir Richard Francis Burton.

With an inarticulate cry, the king’s agent reeled from the basin, stumbled to a chest of drawers, snatched up a decanter, and poured himself a generous measure of brandy. He swallowed it in one and stood leaning on the furniture until he stopped trembling.

He returned to the basin to finish shaving.

He felt acutely aware of the edge of the blade as it slid across the skin of his throat.

I met Swinburne and Trounce just over half a year ago. How can I be so broken by their loss?

It felt as if he’d known them forever. They were family.

“Half a year?” he mumbled. “Nearly three hundred, more like.”

Had the attachments formed across multiple histories? Were they so important to him because they had been important to Abdu El Yezdi?

After changing his clothes, Burton crossed to a Saratoga trunk, opened it, lifted out its top tray, and took a small bottle from one of the inner compartments. He pulled the cork, downed the tincture, moved to the middle of the floor, lowered himself, and sat cross-legged again.

He didn’t need Saltzmann’s anymore. His addiction had completely left him. But he wanted it.

Closing his eyes, he focused his attention on his scalp, sensing the scars that curved through the roots of his hair, feeling the diamond dust that was etched into them.

The tincture’s glow eased him into a meditative trance. He filled his mind with a repetitive chant:

Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq.

Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq.

Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq.

Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq.

He sought the Swinburne jungle, prayed that it would hear him, transcend histories, and communicate.

Allā
hu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq.

Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq.

Algy Algy Algy talk!

Algy Algy Algy talk!

Steady and persistent, like a heartbeat, the words throbbed through him until, very slightly, he started to rock backward and forward to their rhythm.

The tempo divided time—into seconds, into minutes, into hours, into days, into weeks, into months, into years, into decades, into generations, into centuries, into millennia, into ages, into epochs, into eras, into eons, into vast cycles of repetition through which the universe itself expanded and contracted like a beating heart.

Each division possessed a birth and a death, so there were births within births and deaths within deaths, from the infinitude of the microscopic to the boundlessness of the macroscopic. He recognised life as a commencement, life as a termination, life contained within a wave pattern, a vibration, a tone; a syllable through which intelligence was made manifest at every level.

The great paradox: everything in existence was imbued with intelligence, yet everything existed only because it was discerned by that intelligence. Matter, space, time and mind inextricably intertwined, creating themselves through self-recognition.

The insight blossomed in Burton like an unfurling red rose.

The jungle, its roots extending through histories, touched him for the briefest instant and delivered a truth—a stunning clarification of his earlier visions—that caused him to cry out in wonder.

“Bismillah! We have it reversed! The universe does not create life! Life creates the universe!”

The sound of his own voice intruded upon his trance. He opened his eyes but continued to sit quietly.

Twelve years ago—subjective years—he’d become a Master Sufi. Since that time, he’d been using the phrase
Allāhu Allāhu Allā
hu Haqq
as a mantra to aid in meditation. Now, for the first time, he considered its meaning.

God is Truth.

He didn’t believe in God—not in one that responded to prayer and intervened in human affairs. However, if intelligence was the core and cause of reality, imagining it into existence and separating it into coherent parts, then might not the religious myths of a fall from “Grace” followed by a spiritual striving to return to “Him” be an allegory of humanity’s tendency to lose itself in its own narrative structures, becoming so deeply attached to its signifiers that full awareness of the signified was lost?

Burton sighed and climbed to his feet. Crossing to the mirror, he once again considered himself. He gazed into his own eyes, saw the anger in them and, beyond it, something else, something new. What was it? A deep spiritual shock? A suspension of disbelief? An abandonment of the convictions and attitudes through which he’d defined himself?

I am unmade.

He squared his shoulders, curled his fingers into fists, and left his quarters.

He found Gooch, Wells and Bendyshe in the ship’s lounge. They jumped up as he entered.

“Sir Richard!” Gooch exclaimed. “You are recovered?”

He gave a curt nod. “What’s our status?”

“We’re secure,” Bendyshe answered. “No danger of detection.”

Burton turned back to Gooch. “The
Orpheus
?”

“All shipshape and Bristol fashion.”

“Then we’ll get moving. Is everyone rested?”

They made sounds of affirmation.

Wells, apparently unnerved by Burton’s abrupt attitude, said in a thin voice, “Um. We can—we can certainly depart immediately if you order it, but if you—if you require more time—”

“Time? No, Herbert. Time is the last thing I need.”

Time is my enemy. Time leads only to death.

He turned back to Gooch. “The order is given. Tom, will you be coming with us?”

“No,” Bendyshe answered. “The Cannibal Club needs to be a resourceful presence in 2202 that it may support you properly when you arrive there. We have three generations in which to strengthen the organisation. I will be cloned, and I’ll see that everything that’s necessary is done.” He stood. “Sadhvi, Daniel, Herbert, it’s been a pleasure to meet you. Sir Richard, will you walk me to the hatch?”

“Certainly.”

Hands were shaken. Burton and Bendyshe left the room.

“I’m sorry for your losses,” Bendyshe said. “I feel responsible.”

“You’re not. I am. I should never have entered the pharmacy. But enough self-recrimination. The mission will continue. We’re a single step away from our destination. I’ll not be deflected from our purpose. The reckoning with Spring Heeled Jack must come. Frankly, I look forward to it.”

They reached the hatch. Bendyshe stopped and appraised Burton for a moment. “You seem somehow harder. More ruthless. I feel a little afraid of you.”

The king’s agent said nothing. He helped the Cannibal to slide open the portal. The air that gusted in was damp and bore the scent of wet grass.

Bendyshe stepped out then turned back.

“Sir Richard, we’re fighting for humanity. Don’t lose yours.”

After a slight pause, Burton answered, “I may have no option. I sense an inevitability about it.”

Suddenly, the other couldn’t meet his eyes. Bendyshe looked down at the boarding ramp, up at the clouded afternoon sky, across to the
Mary Seacole
. He mumbled, “My ancestor—the Thomas Bendyshe you knew—he really loved you. He’s a part of me and I can feel it.”

Burton gave a slight nod. “He’s a part of me, too.”

They said no more.

After drawing in the ramp and securing the hatch, Burton went up to the bridge and was greeted by Captain Lawless and Maneesh Krishnamurthy.

“Let’s prepare for departure, gentlemen.”

From above, the Mark III babbage said, “At last! I feared rust might set in. I’ve been bored senseless.”

Krishnamurthy, after momentarily gazing at Burton, said, “I’m glad to see you up and about,” then set off toward the generator room, leaving Lawless and Burton alone.

“Fifteen days, give or take a few hours,” the airman said. “That’s how long our voyage has taken so far, though calculating duration when you’re travelling through time is rather like trying to measure how much water a fish drinks.”

“I’m sorry I’ve delayed us,” Burton said.

“Don’t be. You had every reason. Besides, we can linger for as long as we like. It makes no difference. We’ll still arrive at nine in the evening on the fifteenth of February, 2202.” Lawless rubbed his neatly trimmed beard. “But what’s the plan? What will we do when we get there?”

“As her principal crew, you, Daniel and Maneesh will remain aboard the
Orpheus
. Myself, Herbert and Sadhvi will attempt to locate and destroy the Turing Fulcrum or whatever might have superseded it. If the Cannibals report to you that we’ve failed and lost our lives, then command of the expedition will fall to you. You’ll have to decide whether to make another attempt or retreat back to our native time.”

“We’ll not flee,” Lawless said.

Orpheus
interrupted. “My apologies, Captain Lawless, Sir Richard. I have been readying the systems for flight.”

“Good,” Lawless responded. He looked up. “Why apologise?”

“Because I obviously misunderstood. When you said ‘prepare for departure,’ I thought you meant we might be going somewhere, not that you intended to stand around chatting.”

The airman snorted his amusement. He touched his right earlobe and said, “Mr. Wells? Would you assist us on the bridge, please?” Upon receiving a reply, he shook his head wonderingly and said to Burton, “I feel as if these CellComp thingamajigs have made me clairvoyant. Microscopic biological machines. Lord have mercy. Science or sorcery, I ask you.”