The Rise of the Automated Aristocrats (24 page)

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.”

“Yes, sir,” the clockwork man intoned pleasantly. He departed.

Disraeli waited for a few moments after the door had closed then said, “Well?”

Burton looked the premier in the eyes. “My mission to the future succeeded but may have been undone by the events of yesterday. The diamonds containing a fragment of Spring Heeled Jack's consciousness have been removed from Brunel. Their whereabouts is unknown. If we do not recover them, we'll not be able to drive his presence out of them, which means he might still find a means to infiltrate our future history.”

“But you will, nevertheless, defeat him there, surely? You have already done so.”

“I defeated a Spring Heeled Jack that had been resident in the Brunel body for centuries. Now he is elsewhere, meaning he will be elsewhere in the future, too. Thus all I did there has been rendered null and void. The only advantage gained from the expedition is that we now know the nature of the threat and, providing we regain the diamonds, can neutralise it by passing a strong electrical current through them.”

“What has this to do with Mr. Pinion?”

“I have reason to suspect that Charles Babbage ordered the theft of the gemstones. He might also be using his clockwork men to spy.”

Disraeli brushed lint from his sleeve. “On me?”

“On the Department of Guided Science, on the Minister of Chronological Affairs, and—yes—perhaps on you, as well.”

There came a taut silence, broken only by the muffled thud-thud-thud of Swinburne's right foot, which he was restlessly tapping on the carpet.

The prime minister took a document from a pile to his left and ran his eyes over it. He picked up a pen, put his signature to the paper, and slid it to his right. “To what end?”

Burton gave a slight shake of his head. “That is something I have yet to establish.”

“We're currently at odds with only one foreign power, Sir Richard—I refer, of course, to China—and its leaders are certainly far too wily to recruit such an unreliable man as Babbage to spy for them. In fact, his reputation is such that, if you are correct, he must surely be acting independently. Such being the case, do you not consider it likely that he is moved by scientific avariciousness and nothing else, for what more has ever motivated him? In that light, his spying on the DOGS and the minister might make some sort of sense, but I doubt very much indeed that he has any interest in my affairs.”

“He appears to have a measure of interest in your social and economic policies.”

“He does?”

“Did you not meet with him last October?”

“Ah. I did. He presented to me a scheme by which the working classes would be ousted from their jobs by his clockwork men. Less a social or economic proposal than an utter absurdity. I dismissed the notion at once.”

“And immediately afterward he absconded.”

“In a fit of pique, you mean? If so, it was misjudged. He was already perfectly placed to receive any of the machineries and information you brought back with you from the future. Indeed, they would have been put into his hands before any others. I rather suppose he now regrets his temper. Having isolated himself, he was left with no recourse but to steal the items in question. A genius he may be, but he also has a history of impulsive actions and outbursts. Ever has he teetered on the brink of madness.”

Burton slapped a hand onto his thigh. “Yes! Exactly! A madman, now in possession of items that must be considered a threat to the welfare of the empire! You appear remarkably unconcerned, sir! People have already died. Spring Heeled Jack is alive and who knows where! Babbage has the means and the ability to directly influence the course of time and reintroduce into it a foul intelligence that I have already destroyed at—at—”

At great personal cost to myself.

The prime minister made a placating gesture. “Quite so. Quite so. Rest assured, it is my intention that Babbage is found and restrained. It is for exactly such work that the empire has a king's agent to whom every resource will be made available that the job can be completed as quickly as possible.”

Burton's response was halted by a raised finger, which the prime minister then tapped against his own lips. For half a minute he said nothing, then, “The course of time, you say? As recorded in the document that was snatched from your associates?”

“After a fashion, yes.”

“After a fashion? What do you mean by that?”

“It chronicles the international affairs that will shape a future which exists regardless of the outcome of my expedition. Since that outcome is now known to us, the events charted therein are, for us, liable to develop differently.”

“Then it has no value?”

“The document serves as a warning.”

“Concerning what? Summarise the contents, please. I'm interested to know what Babbage has his hands on.”

Burton glanced at the silent Colonel Rigby.

“It is quite all right,” Disraeli said. “Speak freely. I want the colonel to understand every aspect and implication of the mission you undertook.”

The explorer clenched his teeth, the muscles at the hinges of his jaw visibly swelling. He fumbled for a cigar, looked at the prime minister for permission, received it via an almost imperceptible nod, then struck a lucifer and started to smoke. In a tightly controlled tone, his voice cold, he said, “Why?”

“I shall explain to you when I am ready. Your account, if you please. I express it as a request, but you must regard it as an order. Speak.”

Burton shifted uneasily in his seat. Something felt wrong. He tried to read the prime minister's expression but, as always, the man's thoughts were expertly concealed behind a lackadaisical indifference. Rigby's attitude, by contrast, could not have been plainer. He was contemptuous and, more worryingly, triumphant.

Play for time. Give yourself a few minutes to get a grip on this, to think it through and work out what's happening.

“If you have no objection,” he said, “I'll ask Algernon to outline the contents. His descriptive abilities outshine my own to a considerable degree. He'll do a far better job of it than I.”