All the remaining fragments of the Nāga diamonds had been fitted into it, each in a lead housing to prevent their slightly deleterious emanations from affecting the travellers. The resonation between the gems was known to give rise to mediumistic faculties. Far from being useful, these abilities tended to cause confusion, indecisiveness and headaches.

Work had not stopped at the manufacture and assembly of the generator’s many parts. The weight of the machine was such that the Orpheus herself required an extensive overhaul, and it was here that the haste showed, for where her original trimmings were luxurious, the new additions were stark and basic. No influence of the Department of Arts and Culture here. Just bare, unpainted metal. Thus it was that when Burton entered the bridge he found himself in a room that, at eye level, possessed sumptuous fixtures and fittings but that, when one looked up, gave way to a new domed ceiling in the middle of which an unadorned—and, frankly, quite ugly—framework held the spherical Mark III; the ship’s “brain.”

“My poor Orpheus,” Captain Lawless said, following Burton’s gaze. “They’ve made of her a monster.”

Swinburne, at his side, exclaimed, “Oh no, Captain! She’s beautiful. Not in form anymore, perhaps, but without a doubt in purpose.”

From above, a voice said, “At least someone appreciates me.”

Burton groaned and looked at Lawless. “I take it you’ve become familiar with Babbage’s so-called personality enhancements?”

“That’s what I was referring to, Sir Richard. A monster.”

“You should be grateful,” Orpheus protested. “What other captain has ever had such a close working relationship with his ship?”

“What other captain would endure it?” Lawless countered. He said to Burton, “Ready?”

“The ramp is in and the hatch is locked.”

“Good-oh. If you would, Mr. Swinburne?”

The poet nodded and crossed to a speaking tube. He blew into it and shrilled, “Trounce! I say, Pouncer, are you there?”

Putting the tube to his ear, he received an answer, then responded, “Fire up the engines, dear fellow! And three cheers for our jolly old escapade!”

Lawless arched an eyebrow at Burton and murmured, “Not the standard of discipline I’m used to.”

“Whatever you do,” Burton advised in a whisper, “don’t get Algy going on discipline. You’ll hear things you’d wish you could forget.”

A deep grumble vibrated through the floor.

“I must admit, I’ve been thoroughly impressed by Trounce though,” Lawless continued. “He rolled up his sleeves and took to the training like a fish takes to water.”

“He’s a practical sort,” Burton confirmed. “Whereas Swinburne’s head has always been where we are just about to go; that is to say, up in the clouds.”

“Engines at optimum,” Orpheus announced. “Are you going to stand around chin-wagging or shall we get on with it?”

“Take us to latitude north fifty-one, east one degree, altitude eight thousand feet,” Lawless commanded. He explained to Burton, “As planned—opposite the mouth of the Thames and a little north of Margate. Far enough out to sea to avoid detection, I hope.”

“Ascending,” Orpheus said.

Swinburne whooped.

The floor lurched slightly as the ship left the ground, its engines thundering.

“I feel somewhat redundant,” Lawless commented.

“Some judgements require more than cold calculations,” Burton murmured. He stepped to the rain-spattered window and took a last look at the sprawling city before the ship was swallowed by the weather front.

“En route,” Orpheus noted. “We’ll reach the coordinates in twenty minutes. The Nimtz generator requires a pressure of one thousand and five hundred psi in order to achieve the necessary power by the time we get there. It is currently at one thousand and ten psi. I suggest you adjust valves twenty-two to twenty-eight to setting six so we might accelerate through time without any delay.”

“On the other hand,” Lawless said, “sometimes cold calculations are just the ticket. Mr. Swinburne, relay the Orpheus’s advice to Mr. Krishnamurthy, please.”

“Aye aye, Captain Lawless, sir. Straightaway.” Swinburne gave a snappy salute and clicked his heels.

“Just ‘aye aye’ will do.”

Bright yellow light streamed through the windows as the airship emerged from the cloud and soared into the clear sky above it. With rotors thrumming, she sped eastward, leaving a trail of glaring white steam behind her.

Burton sat at a console and stared into space.

Initial destination: 1914. By that year, in every other variant of history, a world war was raging. In Abdu El Yezdi’s native reality, the conflict was many years old and the Prussians had overrun the world. In others, hostilities were just commencing. However, here, uniquely, the Germanic nations were placated, had joined in an economic and political alliance with the British Empire, and were sharing the spoils of Anglo-Saxon hegemony.

Nineteen fourteen might be a small step, but Burton wanted to see how the Empire would develop without the devastating events that so slowed progress in its counterparts. Besides which, it would be wise to contact the immediate descendants of the Cannibal Club, just to be sure the purpose of their mission remained clear.

While the king’s agent gave himself over to quiet meditation, the Mark III made intermittent observations pertaining to flight speed, course and altitude, Lawless gazed out at the blanket of cloud below, and Swinburne communicated the captain’s occasional commands to the engine room.

An air of expectation and trepidation hung over all.

They waited.

“We are at north fifty-one, east one degree,” Orpheus finally declared as the engines altered their tone. “Holding position. Flight duration twenty minutes, as anticipated. Rather good, if you ask me. I got it exactly right.”

Burton blinked, took a deep breath, stood, entwined his fingers, and cracked his knuckles. “Has the Nimtz made the initial set of calculations?”

“It doesn’t make the calculations,” the ship replied. “I do. And I have. As always, at your service.”

Swinburne placed a speaking tube back in its bracket and added, “Maneesh and Sadhvi are standing by.”

Burton crossed to him and indicated another tube, this one marked Shipwide. He tapped it and said to Lawless, “Do you mind, Captain?”

“Go ahead.”

Burton took up the tube and spoke into it. He could hear, beyond the bridge door, his voice echoing through the vessel.

“Sadhvi, William, Maneesh, Daniel, we’re all set. In a moment, I’ll command the Orpheus to move ahead through time. I have no idea how we’ll be affected, but, whatever you experience, please remain at your posts.” He hesitated, then added, “Thank you all, and—and may fortune favour us.”

Replacing the tube, he glanced at Swinburne—who grinned broadly—then looked up at the ceiling and said, “Orpheus, take us to nine in the evening of December the first, 1914.”

“Are you quite sure about this?” Orpheus responded. “I’m liable to become instantly outmoded. I don’t relish the thought.”

“Just do it, please.”

“On your own head be it. You’ll become antiquated too, you know. I’m engaging the generator. Hang on tight.”

Outside, everything suddenly turned completely white.

Utter silence closed around Burton. He saw Swinburne look at him and move his mouth as if speaking, but there was no sound at all, not from anywhere.

The poet slowly became transparent. So did the walls. Suddenly Burton was floating in limbo.

He fragmented. All the decisions he’d ever made were undone and became choices. His every success and every failure reverted to opportunities and challenges. The characteristics that had grown and now defined him disengaged and withdrew to become influences. He lost cohesion until nothing remained except a potential, existing as coordinates, waiting to take form.