The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi (56 page)

—A
LEISTER
C
ROWLEY
,
M
AGICK
W
ITHOUT
T
EARS

Burton opened his eyes and saw, inches in front of them, orange light wavering across white silk padding. Something was burning his hand. He moved it and recognised the shape of his clockwork lantern. He realised that he and it were inside a coffin.

Buried alive.

With a yell of terror, he slammed his hands into the lid. It came loose, slid aside, and fell away with a loud crash. He threw himself out of the box and tumbled to the floor, panting wildly, his fingers digging into the crevices between flagstones, clinging to physical existence.

Panic slowly loosed its claws and his senses stabilised. He glanced around. He was in one of the bays; its iron gate closed, chained, and padlocked. There were five coffins occupying the shelves; the one he'd been in, three that were dusty and cobwebbed, and another that appeared new. From inside the latter, he heard movement.

Burton pushed himself to his feet, took hold of the coffin's lid, and eased it open. Swinburne was inside. The poet blinked and mumbled, “I'm famished. What's for breakfast?”

“It's not morning, Algy. We're in the catacombs.”

Swinburne sat up, his eyes widening. “By my Aunt Tabitha's terrible touring hat! I dreamt a horrible monster!”

A familiar chorus of voices said, “No dream, Mr. Swinburne. It was Gregory Hare.”

Burton turned. Perdurabo—still inhabiting the body of Thomas Honesty—was standing on the other side of the gate, his eyes black and his mouth twisted into a nasty smile. There were beads of sweat on his forehead. He said, “You caused him considerable damage, Burton; left him a bruised brain inside a burned and mangled carcass. You have my gratitude.”

“Gratitude?”

“Growing a new body from material harvested from corpses is a complex business even in 1918, where it's a well-established science. My people have had to cobble equipment together from what they could find here in your primitive time. Our first creation was an utter mess, but Mr. Hare, who would otherwise have died, allowed us to transfer his consciousness into it, which kept it alive and thus allowed us to examine its faults and perfect the technique.” He held an arm out to the left, and from that direction a shuffling and dragging sounded. The abomination that had captured them flopped into view. Its many eyes glittered. Its profusion of knees and elbows angled chaotically. Its long, many-jointed fingers twitched and trembled. A large nodule at the side of its misshapen core split wetly open to reveal long, uneven fangs.

“Good afternoon, Sir Richard,” it bubbled. “Had I known it was you at Down House, I would have broken your neck rather than your arm.”

“Hello, Mr. Hare,” Burton replied. “You're looking well.”

Swinburne gave a screech of amusement.

“Let me have him,” Hare said to Perdurabo. “I'm hungry.”

His master waved him away impatiently. “Later. I want him to witness my rebirth. Go and check the other catacomb, Mr. Hare. He may have brought more men with him.”

Reluctantly, the creature scrambled away, its talons clicking and scraping across the floor.

Perdurabo wiped his face with his sleeve and closed his eyes. He swayed slightly, appearing to lose himself momentarily.

“You're pale,” Burton said. “Weak. The hour, I suppose.”

The black eyes met his. “Indeed so. It is difficult for me to move this body during the daylight hours. Tom Honesty is a good deal stronger than he looks. He's a very uncomfortable vehicle, Burton. I shall be glad to be rid of him.”

Perdurabo turned his attention to Swinburne. “I'm honoured to make your acquaintance, Mr. Swinburne. In my history, you are regarded as England's finest romantic poet. I have admired your work since I was a boy.” He stopped, frowned, and continued, “It is curious, though—during the final days of the war in Africa, I sensed a vague but omniscient presence which I could never identify. You exude the same charisma. Have you travelled to the future, sir?”

“Knowing I'd find you there?” the poet responded. “Most certainly not.”

Perdurabo threw his arms wide. “Ah. Such are the convolutions of time. What is true of this history is not necessarily the truth of another. Confessions and denials mean far less when every possibility gives birth to a new reality.” He closed his eyes again and put his head back. Dreamily, he continued, “I can feel them; all those futures. Division after division; an infinity of causes and consequences blurring together. Time itself is evolving, my friends, and mankind must review his relationship with it if he is to survive.”

“The 1918 you came from,” Burton interrupted, “it is not a part of this world's future. Why did you cross into an alternate past? And of all of them, why this one in particular, Crowley? ”

At the use of his real name, Thomas Honesty's eyebrows shot up. “You know more than I anticipated! How?”

“I have my resources.”

“And are hardly likely to give them away. Very well. I understand. You play a very good game, but in vain, I'm afraid, for there is but one of you—” the abundant tones of his voice suddenly intensified and separated from one another slightly, so, even more, it sounded as if a crowd was speaking all at once, “—while I am manifold.”

“And tedious,” Swinburne added.

Perdurabo glared at the little poet, then laughed. “Oh, Mr. Swinburne!” he cried out. “I shall enjoy killing you!”

He staggered slightly and hissed, “Damn this bloody groundsman! Will he not stop fighting me?”

“Answer the question,” Burton demanded.

“Wait.” Crowley put his fingertips to his temples, screwed up his eyes, and concentrated. Half a minute later, he sighed, dropped his arms to his sides, and smiled. “Why this history? For two reasons: it is the only one in which Bismarck has been sidelined and Germanic nationalism quelled to the point where a surprise attack can, in a single stroke, put paid to their ability to wage war; and it is the only one in whose future I don't exist.”

“For the latter reason alone,” Swinburne interjected, “it is surely the best of them.”

“It's a vacuum,” Crowley continued. “For whatever reason, it appears my parents do not meet in this version of reality. My absence means I can gather all my myriad variations here without stepping on my own toes, so to speak.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “We shall be unified in a single body.”

Burton looked past him and for the first time properly took in the chamber beyond.

The catacombs beneath the Dissenters' Church were bigger than the neighbouring tunnels—wider, taller, and evidently more extensive. From the confines of his cell, which was at one end of the main gallery, Burton could see many more passages branching off from it. The general topography he took in automatically, but it was the scene in the central corridor that engaged his full attention. The floorspace was crowded with machinery, chemical apparatus, vats, surgical beds, and a network of pipes and wires. It was all as exotic and arcane as the paraphernalia he'd seen in Battersea Power Station but, unlike the equipment there, this had a central focus: a throne upon which a body—naked but for a loincloth—was strapped.

“The Supreme Man,” Crowley said. “Humanity evolved. Designed according to Mr. Darwin's extrapolations, created by Mr. Galton's methods, and maintained by Mr. Joseph Lister's genius.”

The figure was, Burton estimated, about seven feet tall. Its skin was bluish-grey, stretched over lean muscles and a rangy skeletal structure; long-limbed, narrow-hipped, broad-shouldered, and deep-chested; a body that obviously possessed both strength and speed. The head, though, was disproportionately big, with a massive cranium that swelled up and back from a small, oddly delicate face. The cheekbones were fine and angular; the nose comprised of two vertical slits; the mouth small and lipless; and the jaw pointed. The eyes were closed, slanted, and very large.

The body was completely motionless, not even breathing.

“It holds such a brain, Burton; a central sorting house for all the many Aleister Crowleys. My perception will gain clarity across every strand of time. Where you must make a single choice whenever life offers you options, I'll be able to take every course of action and see all the possible consequences at work.”

There were people moving around the throne. Burton saw Charles Darwin and a man he recognised from portraits as Francis Galton. There were four Enochians, though he felt certain others were present but out of sight.

The muffled rumble of thunder penetrated the ceiling. Crowley looked up at it and gave a nod of satisfaction. A woman emerged from one of the side passages and approached.

“Sadhvi!” Burton shouted. “Are you all right?”

Sister Sadhvi Raghavendra ignored him and said to Crowley, “We cannot delay any longer, Master. The storm is at its height. Mr. Burke has gone to the steeple to raise the mast.”

Burton noticed that her eyes were glazed. She was in a trance.

Crowley addressed his captives. “I must take my leave of you for a little while. I'm glad you both came. I want you to see this.” He turned away and followed Raghavendra toward the machinery.

Swinburne nudged Burton in the ribs and whispered, “Look at the far end of the corridor. They've dug a hole through the wall. Do you suppose that leads to the River Effra? Perhaps Bhatti and Krishnamurthy are in the shadows there.”

The explorer felt for his pistol and wasn't surprised to find it gone. “Unarmed,” he muttered. “But I still have these.” He glanced up, saw that Crowley, Galton, and Darwin were examining a piece of equipment, and pulled the lock-picks from his pocket. “Keep your eyes on that opening, Algy. Maybe we can join Bhatti and Krishnamurthy in a concerted attack.”

He set to work on the padlock.

“Now would be a good time,” Swinburne murmured, “while neither Burke nor Hare are here.”

Focused on his task, Burton asked, “What are our captors up to?”

“They're fitting some sort of device to their creation's head. Like a crown but with wires extending from it and connected to an ugly metal contraption. By George! They need to let William Morris loose on all this machinery. It's hideously utilitarian.”

Burton felt the ground vibrate beneath his feet again. He heard a distant roar.

“The instruments are measuring the storm,” Swinburne observed. “Dials and lights are responding to every crack of thunder.”

“This weather is no more natural than that which gripped the
Royal Charter
,” Burton noted. “The science of the future has given Crowley mediumistic control of atmospheric conditions.”

“That seems more like magic.”

“So does any science before one understands it.”

The padlock clicked.

“Ah! Bingo!”

He looked up and saw Francis Galton adjust something on the crown-like apparatus before moving over to a sparking and hissing stack of metal disks.

“Burton,” Crowley called. “Pay attention. In a few moments you'll witness the advent of a new species of human. I have referred to him as Supreme Man, but I think perhaps there's a better designation.”

“Supercilious Man?” Swinburne suggested.

“You're beginning to irritate me, Mr. Swinburne.”

“I do hope so.”

“Trans-Temporal Man!” Crowley announced. “Let him be born! Do it now, if you please, Mr. Galton.”

Galton took hold of a lever and pulled it. Burton and Swinburne raised their hands before their faces as the catacomb was suddenly filled with lightning. Electricity leaped from machine to machine, snapping and cracking, spitting and hissing; so bright they could see it even through their eyelids. Bolt after bolt arced into the crown, and the figure beneath it jerked and spasmed in its restraints.

For thirty seconds, they were blinded and deafened by the din, and their skin crawled as the air itself was filled with static. Then, rapidly, the tumult subsided and as Burton unshielded his eyes there came a final flash, which momentarily illuminated the mouth of the hole in the wall, revealing the faces of Bhatti and Krishnamurthy.

The two men ducked back out of sight.

“Prepare yourself,” Burton whispered to Swinburne. “On my word, we'll rush out and cause as much damage as possible.”

“It breathes!” Crowley cried out. “It breathes! See, Burton—I have made a new life!”

Through the bars of the gate, the explorer examined Crowley's creation. Its wide chest was rising and falling in steady respiration.

“Lister!” Crowley barked. “Examine it! Examine it, man!”

A young fellow, remarkable for his high forehead and bushy sideburns, stepped into view. He listened with a trumpet-shaped stethoscope to the tall figure's heart, took its pulse, then pressed an instrument to the side of its head and pushed a button. The artificial man groaned, then became still as Lister stepped away.

“It's ready,” he said.

Crowley nodded his satisfaction. He stepped to the throne and stood face to face with his creation. Putting his hands to either side of its head, he used his thumbs to push open its eyelids, revealing the black eyeballs beneath. He gazed into them and said to one of the Enochians, “This will take a few minutes. Do not disturb me. When the transfer is complete, this body I currently inhabit will collapse. Imprison it. I intend to make Thomas Honesty suffer for all the trouble he's given me.”

He became silent and motionless.

Lister, Darwin, Galton, Sister Raghavendra, and the Enochians stood back and watched, oblivious to all but Crowley.

“Quietly,” Burton hissed. “We'll move around behind them. Grab something to clock the Enochians over the head with.”

He eased open the gate and slipped out into the passage. Swinburne followed. Bhatti and Krishnamurthy cautiously emerged from the burrow at the other end of the catacomb. They'd obviously watched and waited for Burton to make the first move. He signalled to them to keep to the right, where they wouldn't be seen unless someone turned around.