The Rise of the Automated Aristocrats (40 page)

“I think it unlikely that we'll be interrupted,” he said, “but if we are—” He held up his revolver.

“Understood,” Burton muttered.

Pryce and Bhatti attended to the hatch. It slid open and the ramp lowered to the ground.

“No dawdling,” Pryce advised.

Bhatti gave him a mock salute and preceded Burton down to the cemetery.

“How are you feeling, Sir Richard?” he asked as they crossed to the church.

“Magnificent,” the explorer answered. “Apart from my one perfectly functional hand. Could I persuade you to stamp on it?”

Bhatti smiled. “There will come a time when we look back on these as the good-old bad-old days.”

“We can but hope. Is it my imagination or is everyone behaving strangely?”

“Strangely?”

“I feel like you're all playacting.”

“We're nervous, that's all. It's no small thing to defy one's own government.”

“I suppose.”

“I'll wager you're in some degree of shock, too, after what you've endured. It probably makes everything feel a bit odd.”

They entered the building and followed the route down to the vaults, through the secret tunnel, and to the adjoining catacomb. It was silent but for a discordant symphony of snoring.

Two of Gooch's engineers were standing sentry duty. They expressed astonishment at Burton's appearance. “We thought you captured or killed.”

“The former and close to the latter,” Burton responded. “Rouse everyone, would you? It's time you all got out of here.”

The sentries gave puzzled frowns but obliged, moving into the side tunnels and banging the metal gates of the bays. “Rise and shine,” they called. “Up and dressed! We're on the move!”

People started to emerge into the main vault, doing up their buttons, scraping down their hair, wiping the sleep from their eyes.

William Trounce appeared. He blinked at Burton. “By Jove! Where the devil have you been? Look at the state of you!”

“Hallo, William. Let's get you aboard the
Orpheus
, then I'll explain all.”

“The
Orpheus
? Lawless is back?”

“He is.”

Slippery Ned Beesley came bouncing into view, screeching, “What ho! What ho! Is that a scarecrow or a Burton? What have you been up to? Were you mangled by a street crab?”

“No, by a Rigby. Why are you still disguised, Algy?”

“Been ploddin' the streets, ain't I, guv'nor!”

“For three weeks?”

“I was trying to find you and the Cannibals, and when it occurred to me that you were probably all in the Green Park camp, I tried to find out what was going on in there.”

“Nothing good, I can assure you.”

“I suppose that's why the police are keeping ordinary sorts well away from it. My hat! What a mess they've made of you.”

“Don't worry, it feels far worse than it looks. Lead everyone outside, will you?”

“Rightio.”

“And the equipment?” Gooch asked, approaching. “It's good to see you, Sir Richard.”

“You, too. Have your people carry the essentials aboard, but leave what you can. We mustn't tarry.”

“I'll see to it.”

It took two hours to get everything and everyone aboard—considerably longer than had been intended. During that time, Burton received condensed reports from Swinburne and Trounce.

“I chatted with jolly old Grub,” the poet said, “and visited the markets and workhouses, the more disreputable districts and the pubs, and do you know what I learned? That no one gives a damn. The working classes are barely touched by the changes. Disraeli's policies aren't directed at them; the police aren't bothering them any more than usual; the Yellow Menace is gossiped about but generally disbelieved; the sudden flood of clockwork men in the city is of little interest since the jobs now being taken by the mechanisms are not the sort available to laymen; and Green Park is regarded as little more than an inaccessible curiosity.” He raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “We saw, in the future, a London that was split into two levels. Those levels already exist in the here and now, and have done so for perhaps fifty years. The only difference is that, in the present, they more or less occupy the same space.”

They—with Trounce—were standing to one side of the boarding ramp, watching the last of Gooch's equipment being carried into the ship.

“Dizzy has pitched his campaign with political finesse,” Burton commented. “It has exactly hit its mark, leaving all but its target unscathed.”

Swinburne clapped his fist into his palm and stamped his foot. “Blast the scoundrel! An uprising, that's what we need, but I fear we'll garner little support for it from the labourers.”

Trounce said, “We might not need 'em. We've got the police. My fellows are sick to the back teeth of Young England, and they hate the SPG machines with a passion. I spoke to Honesty and to Slaughter, and they assured me that plenty of men would support an insurrection, if it comes to it. And according to young Spearing, whose father is an army man, there's unrest in the services, too. It won't take much to spark dissent.”

Burton nodded. “We need to strike soon, before Young England is further entrenched. But strike how and at what, exactly? Perhaps my brother has some ideas.”

They climbed the ramp and entered the ship. Gooch and Lawless greeted them, the latter looking somewhat bemusedly at Swinburne.

“Got any blinkin' pipes what want de-soot-ifyin'?” Slippery Ned asked.

“You look like you'd leave more dirt than you'd remove,” Lawless noted.

Swinburne gave a screech of amusement.

“Oh,” Lawless said. “It's you.”

“We're almost done,” Gooch told Burton. “The last of the largest items of equipment is being hauled up through the cargo hatch. Once the doors are closed, we'll be off.”

“Where to, Captain?” Burton asked.

“You'll have to ask your brother, Sir Richard. I'm under orders to keep my lips sealed.”

So you're keeping my secrets from him and his secrets from me. What on earth are you up to, Lawless?

“Are you, indeed? Intriguing. I suppose he's in the lounge?”

“As always.”

Burton, Swinburne, and Trounce took their leave of the airman and engineer and moved along to the centre part of the vessel. There, waiting in his huge armchair, they found Edward, awake and drinking coffee.

“What is that?” he snapped impatiently, indicating Swinburne.

“Slippery Ned Bee—” the poet began, and was instantly cut off.

“Oh. Swinburne. Be quiet. Richard, why aren't we in the air? It's broad daylight. I'm surprised we haven't been blown to smithereens by police ships.”

“Norwood is remote enough that any reports of our presence will take time to reach the authorities,” Burton said. “Besides which, it's damned early, and we're still surrounded by fog. Anyway, Gooch says we'll be off in a matter of—” He stopped as the engines thrummed, and the floor shifted beneath him. “Ah. There you are.”

The minister gave a grunt of satisfaction then raised his voice to address the chamber, which was occupied by a number of Gooch's people and a few crewmen. “Everyone except my brother, Swinburne, and Trounce—out. We require privacy.”

People filed from the room. The door closed.

“So,” Edward said. “Here we are. Now, perhaps one of you would care to explain what you have achieved aside from being beaten half to death or hiding underground like quivering mice?”

An uncomfortable silence ensued. It was broken by Burton.

“Gooch has been working on a prototype apparatus through which he might be able to locate the source of the instructions that are being issued to the clockwork men. We think it likely that, wherever it is, we'll find Babbage there. We need to decapitate at least three of the police contraptions before we can test the theory.”

Edward threw back his head and loosed a roar of laughter. He repeatedly slapped his palms down onto the sides of his chair. Tears rolled down his cheeks. “Oh! Oh! Ha ha ha! For pity's sake! Ha ha! Don't be so bloody ridiculous!” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “For pity's sake, you've already been twice captured by SPG machines. You've seen how they can coordinate their efforts. Go lopping off heads willy-nilly and they'll have you back in Green Park before you can say Jack Robinson. Quite honestly, I can fully comprehend why Disraeli dismissed you, Richard. Since returning from your expedition, you've not been yourself at all. The man I knew as my brother would have thrown himself into the fray. He would have risked all to find answers. You—you're as effective as a mewling kitten.”

“Thank you. Have you a better scheme?”

“Of course I have.”

His brother dipped his fat fingers into his waistcoat pocket and pulled from it a key. He tossed it to Burton, who caught it and looked perplexed.

Jerking a thumb over his shoulder, Edward said, “That'll open the passenger section. Go through it to the observation deck. There's someone waiting for you. He'll correct your misguided notions.”

Burton frowned. “Who?”

He felt as if he should know.

The minister waved him away without a reply.

Clicking his teeth in annoyance, Burton led his companions across the chamber to the door. He unlocked it, left the key in it, and started along the corridor.

“Prince Albert, perhaps?” he muttered.

Trounce shook his head. “He's fled to Germany, by all accounts.”

“Then he's not gone far enough,” Swinburne opined. “Young England will soon spread across the whole empire.”

Burton, yet again stricken by déjà vu and convinced he was overlooking something important, came to the double doors of the observation deck and pushed them open. He and his two companions stepped through.

The
Orpheus
was evidently heading west, for the morning sun, riding low in the sky, was reflecting off the top of the fog and shining directly into the rear of the ship, flooding the chamber with such a glare that they all threw up their arms to shade their eyes.

Squinting, Burton could just make out a silhouetted figure. It was standing by the glass, half-swallowed by the dazzling light, its features indiscernible, its head but a blur in the blaze.

A male voice said, “We should be flying northward, but I couldn't bear to miss the opportunity for a little melodrama.” The man spread his arms. “Look at me. The child of a new dawn.”

“Very poetic,” Trounce observed.

“Not really,” Swinburne murmured.

The ship started to turn and the sun slid toward the left. The figure began to solidify as if being born out of fire.

“You appear to have recovered somewhat from your ordeal, Sir Richard. It's astonishing how much of a tonic a little hope can be, don't you think? And is it not remarkable to what a degree that hope is magnified when one is reunited with friends? Am I right in thinking the nipper is Swinburne in disguise?”

“You are,” Burton confirmed.

“I am delighted to have brought the three of you together again.”

The man stepped forward, and the sunlight slanted across his features.

“But then, did I not say I would?”

It was Colonel Christopher Palmer Rigby.

He was holding Burton's panther-handled cane. He raised it and waved it as if conducting an orchestra. Behind the three men, in the corridor beyond the open double doors, SPG units stepped out of the passenger cabins, turned, and marched into the observation room, encircling it. Simultaneously, they slid their truncheons down from their forearms and clicked them into place.

“Marvellous machines!” Rigby exclaimed. He rested the point of the cane on the floor and folded his gloved hands over its handle. “Very fast. If you try anything untoward, they'll be on you in an instant and will beat you to death.”

In an unsteady tone, Burton rasped, “What—what are you doing here, Rigby?”

“Why, capturing dangerous fugitives, of course. The minister doesn't want anarchists running around the empire fomenting rebellion any more than I do. It's most unhealthy. He—oh! Wait! Has it not sunk in? Should I clarify the situation?”

Rigby paced forward and leaned in so that he eyes were just inches from Burton's. His lips pulled back from his teeth in a callous grin.

“You have been betrayed, Burton. Betrayed by your own brother!”

BENEATH THE TOWER OF AUTOMATED ARISTOCRATS