The Rise of the Automated Aristocrats (8 page)

“Splendid!” Swinburne announced. “Absolutely smashing! Why?”

“That will become clear within the hour.”

The poet gave a spasmodic kick and glowered at the young woman. She laughed at his expression, leaned forward, and patted his knee. “If you refuse the offer, I will miss you terribly, Algy. I really will.”

“What? What? What?”

She laughed again and sat back, saying no more.

Burton looked out of the window and watched as the houses thinned in number and gave way to countryside.

This is happening.

His final night of life felt increasingly distant and phantasmagorical. He tried to recall its details and found them to be unfocused. There had been a bird drowning in a water barrel. He'd called Doctor Steinhaueser over to—

No. John Steinhaueser died in 'sixty. It was—it was—Bismillah! What is the name of my doctor? Baker! Yes!

He'd called Baker over to help him rescue it. A starling? A sparrow?

He couldn't remember, despite that the event had occurred, from a subjective point of view, just a few hours ago.

Minutes passed without a word spoken.

Glancing at Swinburne, Burton saw that his old friend had slipped into a daydream. Trounce, too. Again, he wondered whether shock was affecting the three of them.

Raghavendra met his eyes, and, though she said nothing and made no gesture, he sensed that she understood the peculiarly disjointed quality of his current situation. She radiated sympathy, compassion, and reassurance in a manner that struck him as almost supernatural, as if she could somehow feel the imbalance in him and was offering clairvoyant support as he struggled with it.

She is a Sister of Noble Benevolence. They possess that ability.

He averted his eyes.

How do I know that?

The landau passed through a small village signposted Monkton Farleigh, crested the brow of a hill, and proceeded down a long slope into a wide, shallow valley. A patchwork of green fields and woods stretched to the horizon. Burton's attention was attracted to a broad meadow bisected by a low wall beside which a group of people were standing, two police constables among them. He suddenly felt uneasy.

“I'm sorry, Sir Richard,” Raghavendra murmured. “The significance of where we landed our ship didn't immediately occur to us. As I said, Time has a tendency toward unfortunate coincidences such as this.”

With a shudder, Burton realised the meaning of the little gathering by the wall. Huskily, he said, “That is where John Speke shot himself yesterday afternoon.”

“Yes, it is.”

He swallowed. His mouth felt dry.

“Ship?” Swinburne asked in a dreamy tone. He cleared his throat and blinked, forcing his attention back outward. “A ship, did you say? I see no water.”

“A rotorship. A flying machine. The
Orpheus
. She is landed in a clearing in Cottles Wood. We are nearly there.”

“
Orpheus
. We remembered the name. But how do we know it?”

“Because you each had a counterpart in the history I come from. My expedition's presence here is causing a resonance through which you are vaguely recollecting aspects of those other lives.”

“Had,” Swinburne responded. “Past tense.”

“Yes.”

“The other Burton, Trounce, and Swinburne—our
doppelgängers
—are dead?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“Have patience, sir.”

Swinburne rolled his eyes and sighed.

A couple of minutes later, Raghavendra called up to the driver. “Stop here, please.”

The carriage slowed to a halt and its passengers climbed out, finding themselves in a country lane at the edge of a wood.

“Here?” the driver asked. “It's a fair walk to the next house, ma'am. Ain't nought hereabouts 'ceptin' rabbits an' trees. No reason fer anyone to be here, 'less they're poachin', which you plainly ain't.”

“We're having a picnic,” Raghavendra said, passing the fare up to him. He took the coins.

“Aye, well, the clouds are gatherin' and I reckons it's going to rain soon, ma'am, and even if it weren't, a picnic ain't no cop without a spot o' grub to go with it, if you'll forgive the observation.”

“No need for concern,” she answered. “It's all arranged. Thank you. Good day.”

He shrugged, saluted her, gave a flick of the reins and a click of his tongue, and steered the landau around and back the way they'd come. They stood and watched it go. It rounded a bend and drove out of sight. The clip-clop of horses' hooves faded. But for the faint rustle of leaves in the slight breeze, silence surrounded them.

“Follow me, please.” Raghavendra lifted her cloak and skirt a little and stepped off the road onto a dirt path that led into the trees. The light became dappled as they trailed after her and the verdure closed overhead.

Soft soil squelched beneath their feet. Occasionally they pressed themselves against bushes as they skirted the path's edges to avoid puddles. Though the weather was rapidly deteriorating, they all felt uncomfortably warm.

After they'd traversed a quarter of a mile, Swinburne observed, “There's rather a preponderance of red flowers, don't you think?”

Burton, who'd been searching his memory and had found it to be brimming with anomalous oddities, realised that the poet was quite right. The farther into the woods they walked, the more they found themselves surrounded by vermillion blossoms, which grew in patches beneath the trees and, in many instances, on vines that climbed the trunks.

“Out of season,” he said.

“Not at all,” Trounce countered. “September, isn't it?”

“No, not these. I was thinking about a poppy in the garden of my home in Trieste. It caught my eye this evening. I mean, last night. Um. That is to say, in 1890. It was the same bright shade as these blooms and shouldn't have been growing at that time of year.”

“
Tempus flores
,” Raghavendra said. “Time flowers. They tend to follow wherever we go.”

“Extraordinary!” Swinburne exclaimed.

“More so than you think. It was you who named them, Algernon, and they have a greater connection to you than you could possibly imagine.”

“Miss Revenger, you underestimate me. As a matter of fact, just a little while ago I was gripped by the fancy that I had somehow been transmogrified into vegetation almost identical to this. Can you explain that peculiar coincidence or shall you spout more of your ‘time has tendencies' hoo-ha?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, more hoo-ha. And it's Raghavendra, as you well know.”

Swinburne stamped his foot in exasperation, inadvertently splashing mud over Trounce's trouser leg. “Now look here,” he began, then stopped in his tracks and gaped.

They had emerged into a clearing. The ground was a thick carpet of heaped scarlet flowers, but their colour was dulled by dark shadow, for floating twelve feet above them there was a massive contraption with lines so unfamiliar and exotic—its design so utterly alien—that Burton, Swinburne, and Trounce could barely take it in. They saw a dirigible with pointed ends, baroquely moulded struts and panels, a multiplicity of graceful pylons with spinning wings at their tops, ornately framed portholes and curving glass at the front and rear, spindled projections the function of which couldn't be guessed at, and gleaming pipes from which wisps of white steam emerged.

Spelled out upon the side of the craft—it was indisputably a vessel of some sort—in lettering that reminded Burton of the elaborate design values currently fashionable in France—fashionable in 1890 not '64, he had to remind himself—was the word ORPHEUS.

“My hat!” Swinburne whispered. “The size of it! How does it stay up?”

Trounce cleared his throat. “You surely don't expect us to—to—to board that—um—”

“She's perfectly safe, Detective Inspector, I assure you. Ah, there's Daniel.”

A man had stepped out of a door in the side of the machine and was descending a ramp. He reached the ground and Raghavendra led them toward him, her cloak billowing and flapping in the downdraught caused by the craft's wings. The fellow was a little shorter than average height, slightly plump, hatless, with sandy hair and a kindly face. His chest was crisscrossed by a leather harness that secured two mechanical arms against his sides, supplementing his own. Their motion was smooth and quite natural. Indeed, it was an artificial hand that the man extended to Burton as he drew near.

“Sir Richard! How marvellous to see you back in the flesh, so to speak.”

Burton, rather awkwardly shaking what felt like a metal gauntlet, vaguely recognised the individual and, before an introduction could be made, said, “It's, um, Goode, isn't it?”

“Gooch. Daniel Gooch. Yes, of course, I forgot you wouldn't know me from Adam.”

“What do you mean by ‘back in the flesh,' Mr. Gooch?”

“Algernon, William,” Raghavendra interrupted, “Daniel is our ship's engineer.”

“Engineer!” Trounce exclaimed. “Ah! Yes! I thought I recognised the name. I think I once read about you in a newspaper. You're the—er—whatsit—the cable-across-the-Atlantic thing. That man, aren't you?”

Gooch scratched his head with metal fingers. “Am I? Yes, probably. I wouldn't be at all surprised. It sounds like the sort of project I'd undertake.”

“You aren't sure?”

“Multiple histories. Numerous Gooches. Gets confusing. Shall we go aboard? The others will be delighted to have you back.”

They followed him onto the ramp.

Swinburne said, “According to Miss Revenger, you have a supply of brandy.”

“Good old Algy!” Gooch chuckled. “Oops! Pardon me if I seem a little overfamiliar. You see, we've been a long time away, and it's been a slow voyage back, and it hasn't been quite the same without you. I must confess, I always found the other one a little less—I don't know—he didn't have your—”

“Daniel,” Raghavendra interjected. “Our guests aren't yet aware of the full story.”

“Of course. Of course. My apologies.”

“Let's say hello to the captain first,” Raghavendra said. “Then we'll go to the lounge.”

They entered the ship, turned to the left, and passed through a door into a semi-circular chamber. Large windows dominated its curved walls. There were control consoles and panels of switches, levers rising from the floor, wheels and flashing lights. A tall, uniformed man of military bearing, with a finely clipped beard of snowy white and cold, grey eyes, gave an almost imperceptible start of surprise as he saw Burton.

“Oh,” he said. “Remarkable! Sir Richard, Algernon, William, welcome aboard.”

Gooch introduced him. “This is Nathaniel Lawless.”

Burton shook the man's proffered hand. “The expedition commander?”

“No, Sir Richard, just captain of the
Orpheus
. Our leader is on the observation deck.”

A deep, disembodied voice said, “Are you playing some sort of game, peculiar creatures?”

It was as if the room itself had spoken.

Lawless grimaced and pointed a finger upward.

The three reborn looked up and saw a brass sphere fitted into the middle of a concave ceiling.

“The ship's Mark Three babbage,” Gooch said. “Its synthetic brain.”

“And the only clear-thinking one present,” the metal globe added. “Our voyage appears to have befuddled you all. Why are you acting like strangers? Why did you order us sideways when we should have gone back? I have no objection to flying this ship for you, but I do wish you'd have the common decency to keep me informed as to what we're doing and why we're doing it.”

“And a thorn in my side,” Lawless added. “It was originally designed to replace a full crew and to make the calculations necessary for the various stages of our voyage through time. When we were in the twenty-third century, the engineers of that age tampered with it. They said they were—to use their terminology—‘upgrading' it, making it better and more efficient. All they appear to have done is installed into it a thoroughly irritating interest in human affairs and a propensity to refer to us as ‘peculiar creatures.'”

“An accurate description, don't you think?” the Mark III said. “You're such whimsical little things.”

“Little?” Lawless responded. “You are smaller than any of us.”

“I was referring to your intellect. I have severe reservations concerning it. I have no option but to obey your orders, but I consider it perfectly reasonable to ask for them to be adequately explained. If I knew what you were up to, I'd be better able to assess your capacity for rational thought.”

“Assessing us is not a part of your duties,” Lawless said.

“I'm not permitted a hobby?”

“Is it alive?” Swinburne asked.

“Oh, how I wish it was. Then I could kill it. No, the intelligence is artificial.”

The sphere said, “There! A perfect demonstration of muddled thinking. How can intelligence be artificial? Would it not be more accurate to say that mine is generated by a constructed mechanism rather than by a little bundle of sticks and juice, and it is there that the artifice, as you judge it, is located?”

Lawless clapped a hand to his forehead. “Now we peculiar creatures are bundles of sticks and juice! It gets worse by the blessed minute.” He sighed forlornly. “I can't wait to get home and have the damned thing
adjusted
.” He supplemented this statement by dragging a meaningful finger across his throat.

“Ungrateful wretch!” the babbage complained. “After all I've done for you.”

Raghavendra, with a twinkle in her eye, said, “I think we should leave you two alone, Captain. You apparently require more time to work out your differences.”

“Oh, Lord help me!” Lawless groaned.