The Rise of the Automated Aristocrats (46 page)

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.”

“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.

“Ha!” Chumleigh crowed.

Burton chopped. A second canister-like head dropped. Both metal figures toppled over.

The explorer examined the edge of his blade. “Excellent weapons, these, but they'll not weather repeated cuts against brass.”

Spluttering and muddy, Swinburne rose from the water. “Did I get him?”

Trounce said, “You'd better let me have the sword.”

“No,” Burton said. He pointed toward the steps, down which the two clockwork men had come. “William, I want you to go that way. The stairs lead up to the end of the bridge. If the
Orpheus
is attacking the Tower of London, it'll be enough of a distraction that you'll be able to skirt along the edge of the river unspotted. Make your way to Whitehall and Scotland Yard. Stay hidden. Remember, you're a wanted man, but find a way to marshal your forces. Quickly, and the more, the better.”

Trounce pulled his fingers through his beard. “And do what with them? Attack the tower?”

Burton moved forward and gripped his friend's upper arms. “No. Understand this, William: despite all appearances, I believe my brother is working with us and that we're facing something bigger even than a crazed government. I don't know what it is, but I'm certain it lies in that direction.” He tipped his forehead toward the greater length of tunnel.

Trounce and Swinburne both exclaimed, “What?”

“Your brother!” the poet protested. “But he betrayed us!”

“I'm not so sure,” Burton countered. “I have a hunch that we're caught up in one of his Machiavellian stratagems and that he has, in fact, been working to help us while pulling the wool over Disraeli's eyes. I think he's aboard the
Orpheus
right now, having Lawless and his crew provide us with cover.”

“By Jove!” Trounce exclaimed. “Have we suffered at his hands just to—just to—?”

“Just to experience, in no uncertain terms, to what extremes the prime minister's regime will go. Also, remember, we had no idea where Babbage and Young England had its base of operations. Edward got us into the thick of it, into the tower, and that way—” He again indicated the opposite end of the tunnel, “across the river, there lies, I believe, the heart of the whole scheme.”

“In Southwark?” Trounce frowned. “It's an industrial district and—humph!—the extent of Tooley Street has had restricted access since April. A tall fence surrounds it. Building work, apparently.”

“Ah. Interesting. Well, I think we shall have to take a gamble on it being otherwise. Algy and I will infiltrate the district through this tunnel and will try to find Babbage. You go, get your men, and mount an assault on the area. The revolution has begun, old fellow. Let's try to make it as brief and clean as possible.”

“This, on a—a hunch? Something bigger, you say? What? How do you know?”

Burton shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “I can't explain, William. I simply feel, with absolute certitude, that Disraeli and his scheme are merely distractions and that our real enemy—” He gestured toward the far end of the tunnel, “is there.”

A sudden vulnerability showed in Trounce's eyes. Quietly, he said, “While I was imprisoned, I remembered who I am. Recalled my other life. I know this is my second chance. I don't want to—to make mistakes.”

“I remembered, too,” Burton said. “And you won't.”

“I share your concern, William,” Swinburne put in. The soaked poet was standing with his arms wrapped around himself. His teeth were chattering. “But right now I feel the only mistake we can make is to doubt Richard's instincts.”

Trounce grunted and examined his knuckles. “In for a penny, in for a pound, then. Let's see whether, this time, I can do something that counts.”

Burton gripped the detective inspector's hand. “Good luck.”

“And to you.”

Swinburne sloshed forward and also shook the Yard man's hand. He didn't say anything, but their eyes met and a wealth of unspoken sentiment passed between them.

Trounce departed.

As Burton and Swinburne turned and walked past the half-submerged clockwork men, the poet indicated them. “I'm not wholly comfortable with what we did to Chumleigh and Braithwaite. Some might call it murder.”

“You didn't do anything,” Burton responded. “Except throw yourself full-length into the water.”

“You know what I mean.”

“They aren't dead. Their minds are still preserved in crystalline silicates but, detached from the mainspring that powered their babbages, they can't translate thought into action.”

“To quote William,” Swinburne said, “Humph!”

“Anyway, I had to act before they employed their internal communications to alert Rigby.”

“Let's hope you immobilised them in time. My hat! This water is freezing, and my legs are numb. Let's get out of this blasted rabbit hole, though I fear we may emerge into the opposite of Wonderland.”

The tunnel proved to be some eight hundred feet long. It ended at more stairs, but to the left of them, an arched opening gave onto another tunnel, which they entered, heading east. It gradually sloped upward, and they were glad to step out of the disgusting water, though dismayed to find their ankles and feet caked with stinking mud.

They didn't have far to walk before encountering a closed wooden door. Burton put his ear to it but could hear nothing. Carefully, he twisted the handle and pushed. The portal suddenly flew open, pulling him with it. He stumbled into daylight and into the arms of an SPG unit.

“Unauthorised!” it declared. “This is a restricted zone. Identify yourselves.”

A loud clang sounded, and the machine immediately went limp, its head clanking onto the ground. The brass body slipped from Burton and followed it down.

Swinburne waved his
khopesh
in the air. “See! The other was just practice.”

“Well done, Algy.” Burton looked up at the sky. It was clear—the fog had dispersed at some point during his incarceration—and a deep mid-afternoon blue, though smudged with a dirty layer of coal smoke. “What's that noise?”

A clattering thunder was echoing overhead.

“Drilling?” Swinburne suggested.

The door had given onto a short and narrow alleyway. The far end abutted a road with a warehouse opposite. The nearest end gave onto a riverside wharf. They moved to this, dragging the fallen SPG machine with them, and pushed the contraption into the mud at the edge of the river, which was at low tide. Swinburne tossed the head in after it, his eyes fixed upon the opposite bank.

“By my Aunt Marjory's ermine muffler! Will you look at that!”

The Tower of London was half obscured by a cloud of dust produced by bullets slamming into its side.

The
Orpheus
was slowly circling the edifice with weapons blazing. The noise they'd noted was the roar of its Gatling guns—a tremendous racket, even from this distance.

Police vehicles darted around the big flying machine, veering away, then swooping back in, but their meagre armaments were doing little damage, and, even as Burton and Swinburne watched, two of the attackers exploded and rained in pieces down into the tower's grounds.

“You really think it's your brother?” Swinburne asked. “Is he with us, after all?”

“I can't imagine who else it might be,” Burton replied. “I doubt that Lawless, fine man though he is, would take such action on his own account.” He leaned forward over the edge of the wharf and looked to the right and left. “There's no riverside activity, and these wharves are usually swarming with dockworkers. That strikes me as very unusual. Let's reconnoitre.”