“What of my father, sir?” she said.
“I’m going after him now.”
Burton straightened and, despite himself, gave a yelp as he felt the broken bones of his forearm grind together. He walked unsteadily to the bottom of the garden, climbed into his rotorchair, and turned the small wheel that set the engine in motion. A minute later, the machine soared upward. He steered it, one-handed, over the house, and followed the road to the northwest: the direction in which the spheres had rolled.
It was a clear day and he could see for miles. Ahead, the road curved northward, and farther on, to the northeast. He saw the two vehicles rounding that second bend and entering the village of Downe. Burton surveyed the field-patched countryside beyond the settlement. He saw that the road exited Downe and ran on through gently undulating meadows. It was bordered on either side by woods and high hedgerows and, a couple of miles ahead, bent sharply to the left.
He pushed his toes into the rotorchair’s footplate, sending the machine surging forward, and shoved the middle flight lever, which caused the contraption to drop like a stone. He cried out through gritted teeth as pain almost blinded him then yanked the lever back. The rotorchair swooped over the ground, levelling out a mere ten feet above it, and shot across the fields at terrifying speed.
As the crow flies, Captain Burton. As the crow flies.
The air forced tears from the explorer’s eyes. He passed the spheres, far off to his right, drew ahead of them, and came to the sharp bend. Shielded by trees, he jerked his rotorchair to a halt, set it down in the middle of the road just beyond the curve, and momentarily passed out.
The sound of approaching engines brought him back to his senses. He coughed, spat blood, and dived out of the flying machine just as the lead sphere rounded the bend at high speed and, with no time to stop, slammed into it. Both vehicles detonated with a deafening boom and disappeared into a ball of fire. The sound tore into the far distance and left silence behind it.
Raggedly, Burton, hit by the blast, pirouetted with infinite slowness through the air.
I can’t do this by myself.
He watched with detached fascination as the flame-filled world revolved majestically around him.
What of your self-sufficiency? What of your intractable independence?
Fragments of spinning metal glinted in the sunlight.
I need a different perspective. The way I apprehend things—the manner in which I and Trounce and Slaughter and Monckton Milnes view the world—it just won’t suffice.
The branches of a tree embraced him, easing through his clothes and skin.
That’s because the world isn’t what you think it is.
Darkness swept in from all sides.
Exactly.
“Hope thou not much, and fear thou not at all.”
—ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE
NO!
TO THE CENTRAL GERMAN CONFEDERATION!
NO!
TO A GERMAN EMPIRE!
NO!
TO A BRITISH–GERMAN ALLIANCE!
DO NOT BELIEVE THE LIES.
EVERY GERMAN EMPLOYED MEANS A BRITISH WORKER IDLE.
EVERY GERMAN FACTORY BUILT MEANS BRITISH TRADE LOST.
The distant chimes of Big Ben.
Burton counted them.
One. Two. Three.
Edward’s voice: “Do you really suppose I’m built for standing, nurse? Find me a confounded chair. At once! You there—what’s your name?”
“I’m Detective Inspector Trounce.”
“What happened?”
“I’m afraid I cannot divulge police business to a—”
“No nonsense! You’ve seen my authorisation—I represent the prime minister. Speak or I’ll have you clapped in irons, damn it!”
“Humph! Well—I—um—Sir Richard and I are investigating—”
“Yes! Yes! I know all about that. The accident, man! What caused it?”
“It was Burke and Hare, sir. They took Darwin and made off with him in steam spheres. I think Sir Richard tried to stop them by landing a rotorchair in their path. There was a collision. He didn’t get clear in time and was thrown into a tree by the explosion.”
“And Burke and Hare?”
“I don’t know. There was no sign of them. Whichever was driving the lead vehicle was either blown to smithereens or his corpse was taken away by the other, along with Mr. Darwin.”
For how long are you going to lie there? Wake up. There’s work to do. The clock is ticking.
Four. Five. Six. Seven.
Doctor John Steinhaueser: “We’ll move him this afternoon.”
Good old Styggins.
Edward: “Is he strong enough?”
“He has the constitution of an ox. The bones are already knitting. As for the concussion—hmmm—has he spoken to you?”
“Yesterday morning. I’m not sure he was aware of it. His pupils were as big as saucers.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me he’d had a heart attack.”
“He said the same to me. Damned peculiar, hmmm? There’s no sign of one at all. His heart is as healthy as they come.”
“We can be thankful for that, at least. I need him compos mentis, Doctor. Get him back on his feet. Pour some Saltzmann’s into him. He swears by the bloody stuff.”
“I’ll not resort to quackery, no matter that it’s you who orders it.”
“Pah! Principles!”
Eight. Ten. Nine hundred. One thousand.
Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.
John Steinhaueser: “Restless, hmmm? It’s all right, old fellow. You’re at home.”
He heard the clink and clank of camel bells. The most precious moment of his life—waking in a tent in the desert, knowing he would step out and see the oasis, a tiny island amid a vast desolate nothingness, and far, far away, already shimmering in the heat of early morning, the horizon, beyond which there could be—anything.
He opened his eyes.
Orange light flickering on a canvas roof.
Gunshots.
This again?
El Balyuz, the chief abban, burst into the tent, yelling, “They are attacking!” He handed a Colt to Burton. “Your gun, Effendi!”
The explorer pushed back his bedsheets and stood; laid the weapon on the map table; pulled on his trousers; snapped his braces over his shoulders; picked up the gun.
He looked across to George Herne, who was also dressing hastily. “More bloody posturing! It’s all for show, but we shouldn’t let them get too cocky. Go out the back of the tent, away from the campfire, and ascertain their strength. Let off a few rounds over their heads. They’ll soon bugger off.”
“Right you are,” Herne responded. Taking up his rifle, he ran to the back of the Rowtie and pushed through the canvas.
No. No. No. Stop it, you fool. There is pain enough. Why must you always return to this?
Burton checked his revolver.
“For Pete’s sake, Balyuz, why have you handed me an unloaded gun? Get me my sabre!”
He shoved the Colt into the waistband of his trousers and snatched his sword from the Arab.
“Stroyan!” he bellowed. “Speke!”
Almost immediately, the tent flap was pushed aside and William Stroyan stumbled in.
He didn’t. That is not what happened.
His eyes were wild.
“They knocked the tent down around my ears! I almost took a beating! Is there shooting to be done?”
“I rather suppose there is,” Burton said, finally realising the situation might be more serious than he’d initially thought. “Be sharp, and arm to defend the camp!”