The strange affair of Spring-heeled Jack bas-1

by Mark Hodder

"Nightingale?"

  "Yes. I don't know where."

  "Speke?"

  "Is he the one with the babbage in his head?"

  "Yes."

  "No. He disembarked before we left. He's on a second ship at Darkening Towers. It's fitted out as a medical laboratory."

  "I see. How do we get to the flight cabin without attracting undue attention?"

  "Two rooms forward of this there's a storage bay with an access ladder leading down to a maintenance corridor between the turbine room and the flight room. It opens onto both."

  "Good. You've been helpful."

  "I don't want to die."

  "I'm not a killer," responded Burton. "However, I do have to render you unconscious. Which would you prefer-a crack on the jaw or mesmerism?"

  "None of that mind-control hocus-pocus, if you don't mind!" exclaimed the man.

  He stuck out his chin.

  Burton hit it.

  Swinburne caught the man as he fell and laid him gently on the floor.

  "If only they were all so willing!" he mused.

  "Algy, I won't be able to punch them all. You may have to disable a man or two. Try not to kill anyone. Aim for the legs."

  "Understood."

  They unlocked the door and checked the corridor. It was clear, and they were able to get to the storage bay unmolested. The room was filled with huge rolls of soft insulating material. When they climbed down the short ladder to the maintenance passage on the deck below, they saw the same stuff lining the walls behind the pipes and tubes that ran the length of it.

  Halfway along the corridor, on either side, the conduits curved up over large double doors, one leading back to the turbine room, the other to the flight cabin. Burton eased the latter open an inch and looked through at the large room beyond.

  At its far end-the prow of the ship-in front of large windows, two Technologists were standing at the vessel's controls. A third was nearby, next to a console, with a speaking tube in his hand.

  Darwin was in his metal throne in the centre of the room. Wires and cables connected him to a horizontal wheel-like structure which was affixed to the metal ceiling; it was very similar to the one Swinburne had seen in Battersea Power Station.

  A thick cable ran across the floor from Darwin to the automaton that had once been Francis Galton. It was standing next to a trolley to which Spring Heeled Jack had been strapped. The time traveller's helmet had been removed and lay on a table nearby.

  Henry Beresford was lumbering up and down beside the prisoner.

  "Why aren't they answering!" he barked.

  "I don't know, sir," answered the man at the speaking tube. "But we're undermanned at the moment and damage to the wings is causing severe instability. I imagine they have their hands full back there."

  "They might, but she doesn't!" yelled the orangutan. "She's a nurse, not a bloody mechanic!"

  "We have observed that she is infatuated with Brunel," put in Darwin.

  "Pah!" grunted the orangutan. "Go and find her and drag her here by her bloody hair. We can't allow Oxford to die. We need his knowledge."

  "Yes, sir!" replied the crewman, sliding the speaking tube into its slot. He hurried to the door.

  Burton and Swinburne stood back, one to either side of it.

  The man stepped through, closed the portal, saw Swinburne, opened his mouth, then emitted a strangled squeak as Burton's thick left forearm slid around his neck and squeezed. The king's agent used the fingers of his right hand to apply pressure to points on the man's neck and, seconds later, the Technologist slipped into unconsciousness.

  They dragged him into a corner and returned to the door.

  The Galton automaton was pulling off Edward Oxford's spring-loaded stilts.

  "An ingenious design," noted Darwin. "Though Brunel will appreciate it more than we can."

  "Never mind the damned boots!" exclaimed Beresford. "How long until we reach the mansion?"

  "About ten minutes, sir," answered one of the men at the controls.

  "Go faster!"

  "That's impossible, sir. The wings will fly apart if we try!"

  "I'm not interested in your confounded excuses!"

  "We must keep his body alive until we transfer him to the medical ship," said Darwin. "After that, it won't matter; Nurse Nightingale can extract his brain and place it in a life-support container. There will be-"

  He stopped. His huge double-brained cranium turned. His beady eyes settled on the two men who'd silently entered the room.

  "We take it you're Sir Richard Francis Burton?" he harmonised. "And the little poet Swinburne we are acquainted with, of course."

  Henry Beresford spun to face the door. He bared his great teeth and made to leap at the intruders.

  "The legs, Algy," said Burton quietly.

  Swinburne raised his pistol and fired.

  A hole appeared in the bell jar, just above the orangutan's right eye.

  "Oops!" said Swinburne.

  Liquid started to stream from the hole.

  Beresford stuck a finger into it, halting the flow.

  Liquid continued to leak from a second opening at the back of the jar.

  Miraculously, the bullet had missed the floating brain.

  One of the Technologists at the ship's controls slumped to the floor. The bullet hadn't missed him.

  "Double oops," muttered the poet. "My apologies, Richard. I didn't mean to do that."

  "Get the nurse! Get the nurse!" screeched Beresford.

  "Or a couple of corks," suggested Swinburne.

  "Move your walking corpse away from Oxford, Darwin," ordered Burton, striding to the trolley.

  The double-brained scientist obeyed the command; Galton stepped back.

  Burton looked down at the time traveller. His eyes were wild but recognition flickered at the back of them, and he said to the famous explorer: "You died in 1890. Heart failure."

  A shiver ran down Burton's spine.

  "Sir!" cried the man at the controls. "I can't do this on my own! She's losing altitude fast!"

  "Where in God's name is Nightingale!" wailed Beresford.

  "Algy," said Burton. "Step outside and guard the door. Don't let anyone in. Do whatever's necessary."

  "But-" began the poet.

  "Swinburne!" barked the king's agent. "You half obeyed my last order. This time I need more. Is that understood?"

  "Yes, sir," answered the poet quietly. He walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.

  "Damn you to hell, Burton," said Beresford weakly. He collapsed down onto his haunches and sat with a finger in each of the holes in the bell jar. Liquid continued to dribble out. The top third of his brain was already uncovered.

  Burton looked down at Oxford. "I know who you are," he said. "I know what you've been trying to do."

  "You died in 1890," repeated the stilt-man.

  "So you say. It doesn't matter. Everyone dies. What I'm interested in is what makes everyone live."

  "Intriguing," said Darwin.

  "I've made extreme decisions in my life," continued Burton. "I decided to do things that most men would never do. I've been driven by I don't know what to-to-"

  "To find your place," offered Edward Oxford. The madness died from his eyes. "To find yourself. You were displaced by a childhood spent being dragged from one country to another. Ever since, you've been looking for points of stability. Things you could associate yourself with. Permanent coordinates."

  "Coordinates. Yes, I see what you mean."

  "They make us who we are, Burton. They give us identity. I made a mistake. I chose as one of my coordinates an event from ancient history which, in my opinion, brought shame to my name. I tried to erase it, and ended up erasing something that made me."

  A tear trickled down Oxford's cheek.

  Darwin chuckled and said, "This is most gratifying. How simple it is to construct a new future. Yes. We are most fascinated. The possibilities are endless. However, we must establish whether one future re
places the other or if they run concurrently. Once we have the time suit, we must construct a method through which this can be ascertained."

  "Don't let him have the suit," whispered Oxford. "Free me. I don't care about myself anymore, I'm a discontinued man, but let me restore history!"

  Beresford toppled onto his side.

  "Help me, Darwin," he gurgled. "I feel so drained."

  "I altered one thing," said Oxford. "Just one thing! But the consequences have changed everything. You're not meant to be doing what you're doing now!"

  "The problem, Oxford," replied Burton, "is that although the future isn't what it used to be, I like it the way it is."

  "Most gratifying. Most gratifying!" uttered Darwin. "Here we see the human organism selecting its own path of evolution!"

  Henry de la Poer Beresford whispered, "Free!" and a horrible rattle issued from his throat.

  A gunshot came from beyond the door.

  "She's going down!" yelled the man at the controls.

  "And if the Technologists get their hands on your suit," continued Burton, "the very idea of history will become a thing of the past."

  "We're going to crash!" screamed the ship's operator, and he made to run for the door, but the Francis Galton automaton was standing behind him and, clamping its hands around the man's neck, it held him in front of the controls.

  "We command you to fly the ship!" ordered Darwin.

  "I can't! I can't!"

  "You must!"

  Burton reached down and took hold of Oxford's head.

  "In cold blood?" asked the time traveller.

  "Whatever is necessary," replied Burton.

  "What will it achieve?"

  Sir Richard Francis Burton looked the man in the eyes. "Stable coordinates," he said.

  "Enjoy your reboot," whispered Spring Heeled Jack.

  Burton yanked Edward John Oxford's head around, breaking his neck.

  "That was a serious mistake," said Darwin. "However, what's done is done. Now get us out of here before the vessel is destroyed. Bring the corpse, the helmet, and the boots."

  The king's agent glanced at the windows and saw Darkening Towers looming large in them.

  "No, Darwin," he said. "The time suit must be destroyed. Your experiments must end."

  "We disagree. Allow us at least to debate the point with you before you act. We propose to you, Burton, that access to time travel will allow us to finally put to rest the great delusion of a God who intercedes in human affairs. We will eliminate the absurd notions of fate and destiny. We will choose our own paths through time. We will place reins on the process of evolution to steer it where we will!"

  "So nothing will happen by chance?" suggested Burton.

  "Precisely! Save the time suit!"

  "And you?"

  "And us! Yes, save us!"

  Burton glanced at the window.

  "We would have your response," came Darwin's double-toned voice. "What do you say?"

  The king's agent paced over to the door. He looked back at the malformed scientist.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "There will be no debate today."

  "The evolved must survive!" cried the scientist.

  Burton opened the door and passed through. Swinburne was holding Nurse Nightingale at bay with his pistol. A man lay on the floor clutching his bleeding side.

  "I was aiming at his leg, I swear!" claimed the poet.

  Burton gripped Nightingale by the arm and dragged her to the access ladder.

  "Up!" he ordered.

  "No," she replied.

  He punched her forehead and she collapsed into his arms.

  "No time for niceties," he said. "Up you go, Algy!"

  Swinburne ascended and Burton followed, with the woman over his shoulder.

  Less than a minute later, the front of the titanic rotorship collided with Darkening Towers. The ancient mansion exploded into a cloud of flying bricks, masonry, and glass. Crumpling metal screamed as it tore through the building and hit the earth.

  The inhabitants of nearby Waterford were jerked out of their sleep by the terrifying sound of destruction. The floor shook beneath their beds and their house windows shattered as the ship ploughed a wide furrow through the grounds of the Beresford estate before finally coming to rest almost a quarter of a mile beyond, a mass of torn and twisted metal.

  For a moment a strange sort of calm descended and it seemed that the devastation was complete. Then, one after the other, the ship's boilers exploded-a series of terrific detonations that blew the back half of the ship to pieces, throwing debris hundreds of feet into the air and sending a thick pall of steam rolling outward.

  Finally, the scene of the crash became quiet but for occasional clangs and squeals as the wreckage settled.

  Of Darkening Towers, nothing remained except a smear across the landscape.

  Burton had no idea how long he'd been unconscious. Wrapped in a roll of the thick insulating material, he'd been thrown violently around the small storage bay until his senses were shaken from him. Now, as they returned, he gingerly tested each limb, and though his right arm pained him where Oliphant's sword had pierced it, he found that all his bones were intact.

  With much difficulty, he wriggled out of the material onto the slanting and twisted deck, pulled his clockwork lantern from his pocket, and surveyed the ruins around him by its light. The bay was almost ripped in half; the floor was buckled and stars glinted through a wide and jagged gash in the ceiling.

  The swathes of insulation were in disarray; the roll he'd bundled Florence Nightingale into had come undone and she lay awkwardly amid the tangle. He crawled over to her and found that she was alive, though out cold.

  The folds that contained Swinburne were underneath a tangle of girders from the ruined roof. One long, thin fragment of metal had been driven right into the bundle, and when Burton peered into the end of the roll, he could see a red stain within. For a second, fear gripped him as he imagined his friend dead, but he then realised that the patch of crimson was actually the poet's hair.

  "Algernon?" he called. "Can you hear me?"

  "Yes," came the muffled response.

  "It may take a while to get you out of there. You're underneath a pile of debris. Are you hurt?"

  "There's something sharp sticking into my left buttock. It's not as thrilling as it sounds!"

  "I'll get help as quickly as I can."

  "And you, Richard? Are you in one piece?"

  "Apart from having my brains scrambled, yes. Hold on! I can hear movement. My light may have attracted someone."

  The sound of metal being shifted had reached him, and he wondered whether Detective Inspector Trounce had arrived in a rotorchair while he was unconscious. However, as the noise increased, he realised that something of far greater weight than the burly Scotland Yard man was approaching.

  He looked up as mechanical grippers closed over the edges of the torn roof and peeled the metal back with a horrible squeal.

  Isambard Kingdom Brunel thudded into view, towering overhead. The arms on one side of him were twisted and bent out of shape.

  There was a moment of silence, broken only by the wheezing of his bellows, then he chimed, "She is alive?"

  "Yes," replied Burton. "Merely unconscious. I wrapped her in this material to protect her from the worst of it."

  A pause, then arms stretched down into the room, slid beneath the prone nurse, and lifted her out.

  "I thank you, Sir Richard. I am in your debt," rang the huge machine.

  It retreated from view and they heard it stamping over the wreckage, onto the earth, and away into the distance.

  Burton began to clear the fallen beams away from Swinburne.

  Some time later he heard a rotorship rising into the air and departing.

  "That must be the medical laboratory," he said to the trapped poet. "Speke is aboard. I wonder where he and Brunel will go?"

  Ten minutes or so passed before he heard the approaching paradiddle of rotorcha
irs. He climbed out onto the roof of the wrecked ship and waved down Detective Inspector Trounce.

  Exhaustion hit him.

  "By God!" he muttered. "Africa was child's play compared to this!"

  CONCLUSION

  It is incredible!" exclaimed Mrs. Iris Angell for the umpteenth time. "Poor Mr. Speke. I don't say he was ever a bad man, but perhaps a little lacking in rectitude. He certainly didn't deserve to fall into the hands of that immoral crowd. What will become of him, I wonder?"

  "I don't know, but I feel I haven't seen the last of him. Have you finished?"

  Mrs. Angell was sitting at one of Sir Richard Francis Burton's desks, where she'd been writing out two copies of his report.

  Two days had passed since the Battle of Old Ford.

  "Yes. I must say, Sir Richard, your handwriting leaves a lot to be desired. I suggest you have a poke around in the attic. If I remember rightly, one of my late husband's fancies was some sort of mechanical writing device. An autoscribe,' I think he called it. You play it like a piano and it prints onto paper, like a press."

  "Thank you, Mother Angell; that sounds like it might be useful."

  The old dame stood and rubbed a crick from her back. She passed the two copies to Burton then crossed to the study door.

  "I must get back to the kitchen. Your guests will be here in half an hour or so. I expect they'll appreciate some cold cuts and so forth?"

  "That would be excellent. Thank you."

  She departed.

  Burton rolled one of the copies and placed it into a canister. This he put into the messenger pipe. With a blast of steam, it went on its way to Buckingham Palace. A few moments later, he sent the second copy to 10 Downing Street.

  He prepared the study for his guests-stoking the fire, arranging armchairs around it, refilling the brandy decanter.

  He sat and read for half an hour.

  Algernon Swinburne was the first to arrive. Like Burton, he was covered in yellowing bruises and healing injuries. He was limping slightly.

  "Your little paperboy, Oscar, just accosted me on the street," he announced. "He asked me to pass on his congratulations and he hopes you're recovering from your injuries."

  "How the dickens did he get wind of it?" exclaimed Burton. "There's been nothing said to the press!"