The Rise of the Automated Aristocrats (41 page)

The police are the public and the public are the police; the police being only members of the public who are paid to give full-time attention to duties which are incumbent on every citizen in the interests of community welfare and existence.

—Sir Robert Peel, “Peelian Principle 7”

The clockwork men marched Burton, Swinburne, and Trounce out of the observation deck, along the passage, and back into the lounge. Light, a pastel gold, was streaming in through its starboard-side portholes, causing drifting motes to flare around Edward Burton, enveloping him in a soft aura.

Second Officer Pryce and Shyamji Bhatti were standing to the rear of the minister, to either side of his chair, just behind the beam of sunlight that illuminated him; their figures made a shadowy contrast.

Colonel Rigby addressed all three. “Thank you, gentlemen. You have done the empire a considerable service.”

“Duty,” the minister responded. He watched through hooded eyes as the prisoners were positioned in front of him, their wrists gripped tightly by the SPG units. “Nothing more.”

Rigby clicked his heels and gave a slight bow. “A great deal more, sir. I am disciplined, but not to such an inhuman degree that I cannot recognise the personal sacrifice you have made.”

Edward threw him a contemptuous glance. “I can assure you, it has cost me nothing.”

“Nevertheless, I will see to it that—”

“You will see to nothing without my say so, Colonel. Need I remind you of my authority?”

Rigby stiffened. “And need I remind you that, nearly four months ago, you abandoned your position?”

“I gave the appearance of doing so, and for good reason.” Edward gestured toward the prisoners, his hand cutting into the shaft of light and causing a long shadow to stretch through the air across to the other side of the room. “The result of my manoeuvre stands before you.”

“I mean no disrespect,” Rigby countered, “but I will not acknowledge you as my superior until I've been ordered to do so by the prime minister. It's not my intention to oppose you, sir, but this is an unusual circumstance. Certainly, you've proven yourself to me in some degree, for when you contacted me and suggested the scheme, I was suspicious that you might be setting a trap for me rather than for these fugitives. Had you not allowed my SPG machines aboard the
Orpheus
, I would have—”

“Yes, yes,” Edward snapped. “It isn't important. Let us not lock horns unnecessarily. The prime minister will decide my fate. Lead us to him, sir.”

Rigby pressed his thin lips together and gazed fixedly at the minister. He gave an almost imperceptible nod and addressed one of his brass men. “Contact headquarters. Inform them that the mission is completed. Request permission for us to deliver the prisoners.”

The mechanical man was silent for a moment then it responded, “Message sent. Reply received. Permission is granted, sir.”

“Good. Have the prisoners searched. Empty their pockets. Leave them with nothing.”

While the SPG units obeyed this command, Rigby turned to Pryce. “Tell the captain to set the ship down within the walls of the Tower of London.”

Pryce's eyes widened. He saluted and made to leave the room. As he crossed through the sunlight and passed close to the prisoners, Burton snarled at him. “Pryce! Did you not hear me? Quaint is dead. Rigby cold-bloodedly tortured and murdered him—your crewmate—and still you stand by the dog?”

His face draining of colour, Pryce stumbled to a halt and muttered, “I—he—he killed him?” He looked at Rigby, who, in a cold tone, said, “The doctor was a necessary sacrifice. His death added veracity to the notion that this ship and its crew had gone rogue.” He indicated Burton. “Thus this man's unquestioning faith when it swooped down to rescue him from certain death.” Smirking at the explorer, he added, “Which, incidentally, was also a ruse. You weren't really going to be executed. Not yet.”

Ignoring him, Burton again addressed Pryce. “Which means you shot Commander Kidd dead just for the effect of it. I would never have thought you so ruthless.”

The airman swallowed and took a shuddering breath. “The man who was hanging you? I didn't—I didn't know he was playacting.”

Rigby snapped, “But you would have shot him anyway, Mr. Pryce, because I ordered it. Is that not the case?”

“Um. Yes. Yes, sir.”

“Keep your attention turned to the big picture, mister. Don't let the unpleasant details confound you. These are difficult times and, as the minister has demonstrated, duty must be done. Yours, at this moment, is to pass my instruction to the captain. Understood?”

Pryce cleared his throat, nodded, gave Burton an uncertain glance, and departed.

Rigby watched the door close after him. “That man did me a favour. Kidd was a conceited and thoroughly disposable buffoon.”

Burton regarded his brother. “Did you order Quaint's death, Edward?”

“I did not. The colonel acted of his own accord.”

“And despite that you ally yourself with him?”

Implacably, Edward murmured, “My opinion of Colonel Rigby is irrelevant. We both serve the government and, as he just noted, are working on a far larger scale than the personal. You know the prime minister's philosophy, Richard. You know what he intends for the empire. You made the assumption that I disagree with him. I don't. It saddens and frustrates me that you cannot comprehend the advantages of Young England, and it irritates me immensely that you feel you must actively oppose it.”

“I have done nothing to do so.”

“I believe I made an observation to that effect not many minutes ago. However, your intention is clear. I cannot allow you to blunder about any longer. One day you might inadvertently do some real damage. And you, Mr. Swinburne, must be silenced. I doubt your little ditties are read by many, but I can't have you provoking the few who might understand them.”

“What?” Swinburne screeched. “Ditties? How dare you, you blubberous blasphemer! I'll have you know—”

Rigby swiped Burton's cane across the poet's upper back. “Quiet!”

“Ouch! Ha ha! Thank you! Should I bend over?”

“Shut your mouth, you little deviant.”

“Enough, Algy,” Burton murmured.

The little man fell silent, though his twitching increased to such a pitch that he appeared almost to be in the grip of a fit and might have fallen but for the SPG unit that held him.

Edward Burton turned his baleful eyes to Trounce. “You, Detective Inspector, are perhaps the worst of all. These two are simply misguided, but you swore an oath. You have an obligation to serve yet you have turned your back on it. You are a traitor to the Crown, sir.”

Trounce stared straight ahead, his spine stiff and his face blank.

“
He
, a traitor?” Burton shouted. He struggled but couldn't break free. “Why, you treacherous bastard! Bismillah! I've never felt such shame in all my life. That my own brother could sink to such a depth. What is it, Edward? Do you hope to rid yourself of that bloated hulk of a body and be put inside a machine?”

“Yes,” the minister answered. “I do.”

Burton recoiled in shock.

“What?”

“I said yes. That is what I shall ask of Disraeli as a reward for your capture.”

“You—you—you want—to—”

He felt the deck shift beneath his feet as the
Orpheus
changed course.

Absurdly, the only words he could think to say were, “You'd never taste ale again.”

Edward shrugged his massive shoulders. “Nor will I if I die.”

“Everyone dies.”

“Indeed so, but my natural span is curtailed. I have a tumour. My stomach. It's incurable.”

“You—you have—you think to defy nature by—? I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you're ill, but are you so motivated by self-preservation that you'd even plunge a knife into your own brother's back to ensure it?”

“My condition and my intention to circumvent it have no bearing on my actions where you are concerned. Ever have I laboured for the empire, and I intend that my unequivocal service be made permanent, for there is an extraordinary amount of delicate work required that the new order be secured, and there is none more suited to it than I. My loyalty to the prime minister is absolute.”

Rigby rapped the cane's point against the floor. “If that statement is intended for my benefit, it is wasted, sir. I shall be influenced by Mr. Disraeli's judgement of you and nothing else. Ah! I believe I feel the ship descending.” He turned and addressed two of his SPG machines. “You two, go below and have Gooch and his people made ready for disembarkation. Upon landing, take them straight to the factory. They can be put to good use there, I'm sure. Their equipment can be stored in the vault for the time being.”

Burton watched the clockwork men depart.

The room suddenly darkened.

Through a porthole, the explorer saw that the ship had dropped into the fog and guessed that crewmen were once more dangling by ropes to guide it down. Landing in the tower grounds was considerably more perilous than swooping into Green Park.

Edward clicked his fingers at Bhatti. “Assist me.”

Curling his lip in scorn, Burton glared at the young Indian. “You make a fine Grumbles, Shyamji.”

Bhatti ignored him and took his master by the elbow.

With the aid of his assistant and two walking sticks, the minister rose.

“Exit hatch,” he said.

Rigby gestured at his machines. They marched Burton, Swinburne, and Trounce to the door, out, and along the corridor. The colonel, minister, and Bhatti followed.

Trounce growled, “This blasted contraption better not let go of me because, I swear to God, if it does, there'll be hell to pay. I'll tear this ship apart with my bare hands.”

As they approached the end of the passage, Burton saw that the door to the bridge was open, and bellowed, “Get out here, Lawless! Let me look into the eyes of a bloody turncoat!”

“Throttle him,” Rigby said to one of the clockwork men. “Just enough to keep him quiet.”

Metal digits dug into Burton's throat, and he reexperienced his near hanging, choking and battling for every breath.

Edward moved to his side and said quietly, “You never did know when to pick a fight. Always rash. Always allowing your emotions to get the better of you. When will you ever learn that there are times when it's advisable to do nothing but watch and bide your time?”

“Judas!” Swinburne hissed.

“I thought you a committed atheist,” the minister responded.

“I've converted. I need to believe in hell, so I can picture you burning in it.”

They had to wait while the ship eased to the ground, then two of the SPG units opened the hatch to reveal a near-solid wall of yellow fog. Here, beside the river, the fuliginous gloom reeked of rotting fish and—despite Bazalgette's new sewer system—of raw effluence.

“Follow me,” Rigby said. “The prime minister currently has his office in the White Tower.”

He raised a quizzical eyebrow at Burton. “No more outbursts?”

The explorer managed a slight nod.

“Wise man. Release his neck.”

The constriction was removed, and Burton gasped then submitted to a fit of coughing as the foul air filled his lungs.

Rigby grinned.

He led the way down the ramp, and the group, moving slowly to accommodate Edward Burton, trailed after him across the lawn of the innermost ward and to the door of the keep, the great bulk of which was entirely obscured by the pall. Here, human guards recognised the colonel, saluted, and allowed him to usher the party through into the armoury. The ancient chamber, with walls of ragstone and a heavily beamed ceiling, was illuminated by gas lamps and filled not with medieval weapons but with desks and filing cabinets.

Men—mostly of the fleshy variety but many clockwork ones, too—looked up and regarded Rigby's party with curiosity as it crossed the floor, this emotion being suggested in the mechanicals by a slight sideways tilt of the head.

The next chamber, the Tool Room, was also filled with desks. Burton noted that many of the brass men present bore coats of arms upon their breastplates. They also wore leather belts through which swordsticks had been thrust. An eccentric choice of weapon, he ruminated, though one favoured by many aristocrats—and, indeed, by he himself.

And my particular blade is now Rigby's possession.

The colonel guided them to a corner, to the foot of a narrow spiral staircase. In single file, with him leading, the prisoners hemmed in front and back by SPG units, and Edward and Bhatti bringing up the rear, they ascended. Burton could hear his brother, whose mass filled the stairwell from side to side, huffing and puffing, groaning and wheezing, and it gave him a savage pleasure to know his perfidious sibling was so discomforted. The satisfaction was tempered only by the fact that it was also costing him a considerable effort to drag his own battered body from step to step. Every part of him hurt. His back felt tight enough to split, his bruises surely went right through to the bone, and his head was aching abominably.

Reaching a landing, they passed through a door that gave onto a chamber of the same dimensions as the Tool Room below. It had been carpeted and furnished. Hangings decorated the walls. A large wooden screen concealed the far end of it.

Men were sitting at desks, silently engrossed in the reading, writing, and amending of documents, their pens scratching over paper, their brows furrowed with concentration.

A brass figure approached and greeted the new arrivals.

“Colonel Rigby. Success, I see.”

“Yes, Mr. Pinion.”

“Excellent. The prime minister will receive you at once.”

“A moment, if you please.”

Rigby stood back and waited while, rising from below, the noise of the minister's exertions drew closer.

“I hope the effort results in apoplexy,” Swinburne muttered. “Sorry, Richard.”