The Return of the Discontinued Man (A Burton & Swinburne Adventure) (39 page)

Wells arrived and took up position at the meteorological equipment. Burton moved to the Nimtz console, from which he could monitor the output of the generator.

Krishnamurthy whispered in his ear, “
Captain, Sir Richard, ready when you are.
”

“Are we all set,
Orpheus
?” Lawless asked.

“I believe I’ve already made it perfectly clear that I am,” the Mark III replied. “You’re the one who’s dawdling.”

“Then proceed, please. You know the routine.”

The familiar rumble of engines vibrated through the floor as the rotors whirled into a blur and lifted the ship.

“Now to once again discover the shape of things to come,” Wells murmured.

A minute later,
Orpheus
announced that the vessel was in position and ready to jump through time. Lawless issued the command.

They entered and exited whiteness.

“I’ve received instructions,” the Mark III immediately declared. “We are to set course for Battersea Airfield.”

“Go ahead,” Lawless said. “Top speed, please. Everyone all right?”

Burton and Wells nodded. The king’s agent addressed the man from 1914. “Herbert, go get yourself prepared.”

“Pistol?”

“Yes.”

Wells left the bridge. Burton looked out at the thickly clouded night sky then crossed to the console Wells had just abandoned and examined its panel. “Snow is forecast over London,” he murmured.

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Lawless said.

“Not for me,”
Orpheus
confirmed.

Burton made a sound of acknowledgement. “I’d better get ready.”

He stepped through the door and descended to the main deck, walked along the corridor, through the lounge, and carried on until he came to Sadhvi Raghavendra’s quarters. He tapped on the door and entered at her called invitation. She was wearing baggy trousers and a loose shirt—men’s clothing.

“Richard!” she exclaimed. “How are you?”

“The walking wounded.”

He lowered himself into a chair beside her bunk. She sat on the mattress and placed a hand over his.

“As are we all.”

He rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes. “I don’t know how much more I can take. Last year I lost my friends Stroyan and Steinhaueser. I lost—I lost Isabel. Now Algy and William. And seeing all these descendants of my friends, of Monckton Milnes and Bendyshe and Brabrooke and the rest, only serves to remind me of my own mortality and that, when I am gone, nothing of me will remain.”

“It’s not too late. What are you, thirty-nine years old?”

He snorted. “Three hundred and eighty-one by another reckoning.”

She smiled. “My point is that you might still, one day, father a child.”

“And see my own face somewhere in its features? An assurance of immortality? No, Sadhvi, that will never happen.”

“Your pain will subside.”

“If it does, it will make no difference. I was a young man in India. I was ravaged by fevers and subject to innumerable tropical infections. It has left me incapable of—of fathering a child.”

She nodded slowly. “Ah. I see. My native country is an unforgiving one.”

Sliding from the bunk, she squatted down in front of him so that her eyes were at a lower level than his, looked up at him, put her hands on his knees, and said, “You know the Hindu faith well.”

“I do. What of it?”

“You are aware, then, that we believe a cycle of creation, preservation and dissolution is at the heart of all things, at every level of existence.”

“It has been much on my mind. Have you been reading my thoughts?”

She smiled. “I wouldn’t dare to, even if I could.”

“Hmm. Cycles? What of them?”

“Just that, at a personal level, when one is in the midst of dissolution, when everything appears lost, there is still the promise of rebirth, of a new cycle to come, of fresh creation.”

“If one survives,” Burton rasped.

“The concept of survival exists only because we place fences around ourselves. It is easy to think that when the physical body dies, there is nothing beyond it. But that’s because we depend on our senses to tell us what’s real. Those senses are a part of the body. When it dies, so do they. They aren’t the truth, Richard. That lies outside of us. Whatever suffering you’re enduring, if you push it into a wider context, perhaps it will appear a little less overwhelming.”

“What context?”

“Think of what we’re doing. We’ve travelled many generations into the future. We should all be long dead and gone. Yet, here we are, on a voyage to help the entire human race fulfil its destiny.”

He gazed into her eyes, saw in them compassion and faith and unshakable friendship. He clicked his teeth together then gave a sharp exhalation and said, “You’re right. Of course, you’re right. What is Richard Burton in the greater scheme of things? I am but a pawn in a game far too complex for me to understand.”

“No,” she said. “You’re more than a pawn. Your life may not be what you hoped, but it is still yours. You have willpower. And you know better, perhaps, than any other man, how the actions of one person can alter the entire world.”

Burton put his hand to his scalp, felt the scars. “That’s for certain.”

He came to a decision, stood, and gave a hand to Raghavendra as she rose.

“Let’s go and discover what it is we must do.”

They left the cabin and walked to the bridge, where they found Wells waiting.

“How long to Battersea, Captain?” Burton asked.

“Twelve minutes,” Lawless responded. “We’re just passing Whitstable. Descending through the cloud cover now.”

“By heavens!” Wells exclaimed. He pointed out of the window. “Red snow!”

It was true. Bright scarlet flakes swirled thickly outside and speckled the window’s glass.

Bismillah! Did I somehow summon the jungle?

Burton stepped closer to the glass.

Algy?

He said, “Nine o’clock, same day, same month, separated by three hundred and forty-two years. Red snow on both occasions. Had I any doubts about this mission, this would have swept them away.”

The
Orpheus
lurched as the Mark III steered it sharply to the left. Burton and the others staggered. “Oops! Sorry about that!” the babbage said. “The conditions are interfering with my radar, and I didn’t anticipate there being towers in the clouds.”

“Towers?” Lawless asked. “At this altitude? This far out from the city? What do you—?” He fell silent as the rotorship emerged from the dense canopy into a forest of brightly illuminated obelisks.

“My word!” Wells cried out. “London must cover the whole of the southeast!”

They gazed out at what had once been Whitstable, a small and sleepy coastal town, now apparently a borough of the capital, having been engulfed by the ever-spreading metropolis.

“I’m reducing speed,”
Orpheus
said. “Some of those towers are touching three and a half thousand feet. I have to steer us between them.”

“Do it!” Lawless snapped.

“I am,” the Mark III replied testily. “Didn’t I just say so?”

“It’s incredible,” Raghavendra exclaimed. “I could never have imagined such a city. The size of it! The height!”

The engines hummed as the rotorship weaved back and forth between the vertical edifices, moving through the mammoth metropolis, travelling in a westerly direction.

“I can barely take it all in,” Lawless said. “Is it possible that people built such a marvel? It’s the eighth wonder of the world!”

They saw the mouth of the Thames, but of the river itself there was no sign.

“Gone!” Wells cried out.

“Maybe not gone,” Burton said. “Perhaps just built over. Even in the nineteenth century many of the city’s waterways had been forced beneath the streets. The Tyburn, Fleet and Effra, for example, were all incorporated into Bazalgette’s sewer system.” He shivered, recalling bad experiences in those subterranean burrows.

They marvelled at the columns, which loomed out of the falling curtain of snow, all spanned by walkways, making London resemble a great hive through which many more flying machines floated, glimmering like fireflies.

“There’s something ablaze,” Lawless noted. He pointed. “Down there.”

As the
Orpheus
altered course, swinging southward, Sadhvi drew their attention to three large lesser-lit areas, like linked hollows in the dazzling display.

“Hyde Park, Green Park and Saint James Park,” Burton observed. “Still there and still the same shape after all these years.” He grunted. “Which, if I’m judging it correctly, means that fire is in, or close to, Grosvenor Square.”

Recurrences. Patterns.

“Descending,” the Mark III announced. “Battersea Airfield ahead. I should warn you that I’m having problems with my altitude sensors. There’s a peculiar echo.”

“Clarify, please,” Lawless demanded.

“A double reading. I’m not certain which of them is accurate.”

“Everyone stay by the window,” Lawless ordered. “We’ll give visual assistance.”

They saw other rotorships gliding past. In design, they differed little to their own vessel. If anything, they were slightly more primitive. However, as in 2130, there were also other flying craft—disks and needles and cones—that were obviously far more advanced.

“Apparently the divide continues,” Wells said. “Progress for some, retrogression for others.”

Burton felt a lightness as the
Orpheus
dropped, increased weight as it slowed and stopped.

“Is the ground fifty feet below us or a thousand?” the Mark III asked.

Lawless peered down and said, “Fifty.”

The ship dropped, and they were all jogged slightly as it landed.

“Elegantly done as usual, despite the confusion,” the babbage declared. “You may congratulate me.”

“Consider your back patted,” Lawless replied.

“Cannibal Club representatives are waiting outside.”

“Thank you,
Orpheus
. Sir Richard, Herbert, Sadhvi, I wish you every success in your mission. Daniel, Maneesh and I will keep the ship ticking over, ready to respond in an instant should you require our assistance.”

Burton said, “Thank you, Captain.”

They clasped hands.

Burton, Wells and Raghavendra left the bridge and were met by Gooch and Krishnamurthy at the hatch.

“Ready?” Gooch asked.

Burton jerked his head in affirmation.

“A new Thomas Bendyshe,” Wells mused. “I wonder how identical he’ll be to the other?”

Gooch took hold of one hatch lever while Krishnamurthy gripped the other. They pulled, the portal opened, and the ramp slid down. A flurry of scarlet snow billowed in. They stood back.

Burton watched as two figures ascended toward him, an adult—male, to judge by the gait—and a child, both wrapped in ankle-length cloaks with wide cowls that kept their faces shielded from the downpour.

The visitors stopped in front of him. The adult snapped, “Government inspection. Do not resist. Let us aboard.”

“We’re a cargo ship,” Burton said. “Empty.”

“Nonsense. You’re a vessel from the distant past and you’re carrying enemies of the state.”

“From the past?” Burton replied. “What do you mean by that?”

“You are chrononauts from the year 1860. And you, old son, are Sir Richard Francis Burton, the famous explorer.”

“Old son?”

The figure gave a bark of laughter. He and his companion reached up and pulled back their hoods.

“I’ve always been absolutely hopeless at playacting,” said Detective Inspector William Trounce.

“What ho! What ho! What ho!” cheered Algernon Charles Swinburne.

“Cloned!” Swinburne declared with an extravagant wave of his arms. “We were jolly well cloned!”

Sadhvi stammered, “But—but are you the same?”

Trounce tapped his head. “Humph! Memories and personalities intact. We recall everything. Is my bowler aboard? I still miss it.”

Bemusedly, unable to stop staring, Burton nodded.

Trounce reached up to smooth his moustache, even though it wasn’t there anymore. “By Jove, it’s good to see you after all this time.”

“Death defied,” Wells whispered in awe.

“To the lounge!” Swinburne exclaimed, stepping forward and giving a mighty jerk of his left elbow. “A toast to old friendships renewed. Nineteenth-century brandy, hurrah! Believe me, they don’t make it like they used to. By golly, I’ve missed it terribly. And all of you, too, of course. How the very devil are you?”