The Rise of the Automated Aristocrats (54 page)

Rigby screamed.

“If there's any emotion in me at all right now, it is curiosity. I wonder how deep your arrogance runs. I'm inquisitive to know how much pain you can withstand before your hubris fails you.”

He sliced off Rigby's right ear.

In an unsteady tone, Swinburne said, “Richard, don't you think you're—”

“Be quiet, Algy,” Burton snapped. “I'm busy.”

Rigby rolled onto his hands and knees and started to crawl away, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

Burton looked up as Disraeli suddenly straightened in his chair and cried out, “The colonies!” before toppling onto the floor with a loud clang. He kicked his legs then lay still.

“Have mercy,” Rigby whispered.

“No, sir. No. No mercy and no more concessions to curiosity. I must do what is necessary.”

He placed his sword tip between the colonel's shoulder blades.

Hoarsely, Rigby whispered, “Please. At least allow me to turn and take it in the chest. Let me die with the face of my enemy imprinted on my eyes.”

“I think not.”

Burton pressed steel through flesh until he felt its tip touch the floor.

THE AFTERMATH AND THE STARS

IN MEMORIAM

James Braidwood, superintendent of the London Fire Engine Establishment. Led his men valiantly against the Tooley Street fire on Saturday, 22nd June, 1861. Lost his life while assisting one of his fire fighters, when the front section of a warehouse collapsed on top of him, killing him instantly.

The Great Fire of Tooley Street burned for two weeks, and the area was, two months later, still smouldering. Its heat was matched by the tempers that flared in Parliament. Politicians who'd supported Young England were rounded up and condemned in language of such ferocity that careers were forever ruined. George Ward Hunt, who'd been due for conversion the day after Swinburne knocked him cold and Burton put an end to the premier's scheme, told a journalist that, after a humiliating face off with Gladstone, he felt as if he'd been savaged by a lion. The comment was widely reported, and a week later, as a voice, the newspapers began to refer to William Gladstone as “The Lion of the Empire.” With typical dissimulation and hypocrisy, all the rags appeared to have forgotten they'd ever offered support to Disraeli and now, as Swinburne observed, “treated old Gladbags as if he were our own Alexander the Great.”

The Conservative Party was in utter ruins and had conceded power to the Liberals pending a proper election. Gladstone, as acting prime minister, was presenting policy after policy for enactment should he be voted into power—which he certainly would be—each of which promised to radically alter the political landscape of the British Empire. Most notably, he wanted to abolish the House of Lords, change inherited peerages to life peerages, decentralise power, concede self-rule to India, end the trade embargoes that were strangling China, and offer the vacant British throne—the king had died along with all the other mechanised men—to His Royal Highness Prince Albert, though the role of the monarch would be reduced to the purely symbolic.

His proposals were being met with widespread approval, and such trust was extended to the Lion that, even in his temporary role, he was able make a great many lesser changes without any opposition at all. These included a wide-ranging examination of the empire's various institutions and the removal of personnel who'd misguidedly given support to Young England. Chief Commissioner Mayne of Scotland Yard was a victim of this cull, and his role was given to a very, very surprised William Trounce.

That worthy individual was currently kicking his bowler hat around Sir Richard Francis Burton's study.

“Chief Commissioner, by Jove! Chief Commissioner! I can hardly believe it!”

“You deserve it,” Burton said. “For crying out loud, sit down, will you? You're wearing my floorboards thin.”

Swinburne, twitching away in the armchair opposite to Burton's, added, “Mrs. Angell will have your hide. Look at the path you've ploughed through the fireside rug.”

Trounce gave his hat a final passionate kick and uttered a cry of dismay as it bounced off the side of the bureau and went spinning out of the open window.

“Sniffling clot!” Pox cawed.

“Humph! I need a new one, anyway.”

“Perhaps you should have one cast in iron,” Swinburne suggested.

Trounce pulled a chair over, joined them in front of the fireplace, and repeated, “Chief Commissioner, by Jove!”

“It's really not so incredible,” Burton observed. “Your service to the empire has been exemplary.”

Trounce smoothed his moustache with a forefinger then leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial tone, “Perhaps, but it wasn't all me, was it? I'm not only being rewarded for my part in Dizzy's downfall but also for what that—that
other
Trounce did during the El Yezdi and Discontinued Man affairs.”

“And perhaps for the Spring Heeled Jack, Clockwork Man, and Mountains of the Moon cases, too,” Burton said. “What of it? Those other Trounces are all variants of you. They acted exactly as you would have done if placed in the same circumstances. Cigar?”

Trounce took the proffered smoke. “I'm not sure I'm up to it. Um—I refer to the job, not the cigar. Much obliged. But I mean to say, Chief Commissioner! Bless my soul!”

Swinburne threw up his hands. “Oh stop it, you silly old duffer. There's no man more capable. You'll be bringing a whole lifetime's experience to the job. Multiple lifetimes.”

The Yard man accepted a light from Burton, drew on the cigar, leaned back, and squinted thoughtfully through the blue fumes.

“Humph! About that. It all came back to me during our incarceration in the tower. Every detail. I can now clearly recall my former life, my dying on the pavement in 1901, and our subsequent session at the Slug and Lettuce. Yet, somehow, it all makes sense to me. The contradictions aren't one jot as confusing as they should be.”

Swinburne nodded. “It's the same for me. I even know exactly what it feels like to be a sentient jungle. Surprisingly, that knowledge hasn't sent me loopy.”

“I wouldn't be so certain of that,” Trounce countered.

The poet's right arm spasmed upward.

Burton reached to the occasional table beside his chair, took up a decanter, and poured a brandy, which he handed to Trounce. He quirked an eyebrow at Swinburne, but the poet shook his head and instead reached for a coffee pot that Mrs. Angell had earlier provided.

“You're really off the stuff?” Burton asked him.

“Great heavens, not at all! I intend to get thoroughly sozzled when the occasion warrants it. Don't worry, I shall do my bit toward the upkeep of the Cannibal Club's disreputable reputation. But I also intend long bouts of sobriety that I might write with a clear mind.”

“Will wonders never cease?” Trounce enquired.

Burton provided himself a tipple and sipped at it thoughtfully. “One wonder, perhaps, has. Do you both sense it? Some sort of—I don't know—
consolidation
? The feeling that the whole Spring Heeled Jack affair, and all of its consequences, is done with?”

“Yes,” Swinburne agreed. “I have that sensation.”

“And I,” Trounce said. He cocked a thumb at the window through which his hat had vanished. “It's out there, too. The world feels different.”

“Because the diamonds are gone?” Burton suggested.

Trounce shook his head. “We haven't confirmed that and won't be able to until the ash has cooled sufficiently that we might rake it through.”

“You'll not find them,” Burton insisted. “I know it. I don't have their weight on my mind any more. The tremendous heat destroyed them. They went up in a puff of carbon dioxide.”

“I daresay you're right, and the suggestion is supported by the cessation of clairvoyant fatalities.”

“The cessation of clairvoyant fatalities,” Swinburne echoed. He laughed. “What an outré combination of words. I shall have to build a poem around them.” He stared into his coffee and quietly added, “It's all so peculiar.”

“This world?” Burton asked.

The poet nodded. “Having lived a lifetime in the other one, I feel oddly detached from this. An observer.”

“I've always felt that, even in the history we came from.” Burton took a sip from his glass. “The slight estrangement we feel may be useful. It will keep us levelheaded should we be faced with further situations of an uncanny nature. I'm assuming—forgive me for doing so—that you'll both continue to assist me in my role of king's agent?”

“You've been reinstated?” Trounce asked.

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I already have my first commission.”

The newly appointed Chief Commissioner slapped his hand to his forehead and looked horrified. “More strange affairs and curious cases! Is there no rest?”

Burton chuckled. “You can relax, old fellow. It's a straightforward business that I can deal with on my own. It'll take me out of the country for a while, and I'm glad of that, for I need some respite from the clamour of London.”

“To where?”

Burton leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs. Fidget, at his feet, lifted his head and repositioned it so that his jowls were resting across the explorer's ankles. The basset hound gave a small sigh of satisfaction.

“Perhaps you'll recall that the island of Fernando Po, off the west coast of Africa, has twice been significant in my life—or, I should say—in my
lives
. In the history we came from, I was consul there for three unhappy years, a role that commenced, as a matter of fact, at around this date. My predecessor in
this
history, two years ago, fought the madman Aleister Crowley, who crossed over from another time stream through a fold in the fabric of reality. That crease was located on Fernando Po. It has been reported that, since then, the island has been subjected to ferocious electrical storms. Now it so happens that, on the direct opposite side of the globe from Fernando Po, in the Melanesian Sea, there is an isle of equivalent land mass named Koluwai. Seamen who've travelled the region have reported that it, too, has suffered similar atmospheric disturbances these two years past. Mr. Faraday has postulated that Crowley's fold is still active and pierces through the planet in a straight line from one side to the other. I am to visit both islands to assess whether any danger is posed by the phenomenon.”

He paused while Swinburne succumbed to a fitful crossing and uncrossing of his limbs then added, “My preparations are made, and I'll depart before the end of the week, so I shan't see either of you for a while. I expect you'll have whipped Scotland Yard back into shape by the time I return, William.”

“Humph! I'll have Tom Honesty promoted to detective inspector and with his, Spearing, and Slaughter's assistance I should be able to get the house in order. Enforced resignations will be necessary, I fear. There were a fair few who gave their support to Rigby.” He took a gulp of brandy and smacked his lips in appreciation. “I say, what of Monckton Milnes and the others?”

“Slop suckers!” Pox cawed.

Burton flicked his cigar stub into the fireplace. “Currently in India. Fortunately, they arrived there too late for the forced labour intended for them and are, instead, enjoying some rest and relaxation. Lawless is on his way to pick them up.”

“He is? Has he a new vessel, then?”

“He's been given command of HMA
Sagittarius
.”

There came a knock at the door, and upon Burton's hail, Bram Stoker entered. He was carrying a potted plant.

“A nipper just delivered this to the door, so he did, sir.”

Burton took it, held it up, and examined it. Its stem, leaves, and five flowers were bright red.

“
Tempus flores
.” He leaned forward and handed it to Swinburne. “I think you'd better look after this, Algy. Consider it family.”

Stoker said, “Is there anythin' you'll be a-wanting me for?”