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He felt his colleague move away.
The noise suddenly died. There was a moment of absolute silence, then the rattle of debris as it continued to fall from the ceiling.
A clang and a creak.
Thumping footsteps.
A repetitive wheezing.
The hiss of escaping vapours.
Something moved in the murk-a shadow-then a man stepped out of the cloud. Though the bottom half of his face was concealed by a scarf and the eyes were behind leather-rimmed goggles, Burke recognised Sir Richard Francis Burton.
“Captain!” he exclaimed. “Thank goodness! What's happen-”
He was cut short as Burton's fist shot up and co
“My apologies, old thing,” the king's agent murmured.
He moved back to the Worm. Two figures-Isambard Kingdom Brunel and Maneesh Krishnamurthy-were standing beside it.
“This way!” he snapped.
He led them toward the far end of the hall but stopped short when someone stepped into his path. He drew back his arm, his fingers bunched into a fist.
“No!” came a female voice. “It's me!”
“Countess! What are you doing here?”
“They've been using me in their campaign against the Prussians, Sir Richard. I can stand it no longer. Besides, I foresaw that you would come. There is a role for me to play. I must accompany you.”
Burton hesitated, then said, “Get into the vehicle, Countess. We'll join you in a minute.”
As she moved away, the explorer strode forward and kicked open the door to the security section. He entered, Krishnamurthy followed, and Brunel squeezed through after them.
“This one,” Burton said, indicating the entrance to Cell 4.
He moved aside as the Steam Man's multiple arms raised cutting tools and applied them to the metal portal. Moments later, Brunel pulled the door from its frame and threw it aside.
“John!” Burton called.
“Dick, what's happening?”
“We're breaking you out of here! Explanations later! Come!”
Speke, still in his shirt and trousers, groped his way forward.
“This way, Mr. Speke,” Krishnamurthy said, grabbing the prisoner's arm.
They hurried back out into the main hall.
A pistol was pressed into the side of Krishnamurthy's head.
“May I ask what you think you're doing?” Gregory Hare asked.
Burton wheeled to face Palmerston's man and cried out: “Hare, it's me! Burton!”
“What's happening here, Captain?”
“I have to take Speke! Hare, trust me, man! The future depends on this!”
“John Speke is a traitor. I can't allow you to remove him. Where is Mr. Burke?”
“Unconscious. I had to-” Burton suddenly shot forward and chopped at Hare's wrist with such force that the pistol went spi
The breath whooshed out of Hare. He doubled over but clutched at Burton's clothing. As Krishnamurthy steered Speke out of the way, Palmerston's man yanked Burton backward, threw his ape-like arms around him, and squeezed.
“No!” Burton objected. “You have to-” But suddenly he couldn't say another word; his breath was cut off; he couldn't move. Hare's arms were unbelievably powerful. They tightened around the king's agent like a vice. He felt his ribs creak. Two of them snapped. Agony cut through him. He couldn't scream. Darkness closed in from the edges of his vision.
Then he was free and on his knees, gulping lungfuls of dust-filled air. He coughed and keeled over. Pain stabbed into his side. He saw Hare's face just inches away. The odd-job man was unconscious on the floor. Blood was oozing from his scalp.
Metal hooked beneath Burton's armpits and he was hauled upright, lifted off his feet, and borne to the door of the Worm.
“I rendered your attacker unconscious with a blow to the head,” Isambard Kingdom Brunel explained.
“Wait! Stop!” Burton shouted. “Put me down.”
The engineer complied. Burton clutched his left side and groaned. He pointed to a heavy door, barely visible through the steam and dust.
“The vault, Isambard! Get in there!”
The Steam Man clanged across the broken floor and started to work on the portal.
Burton stood, swaying, waiting. He turned his head to the side and spat. The taste of blood filled his mouth.
The siren was still wailing. He remembered the echoing “Ulla! Ulla!” of the wartime harvesters.
It happened, he reminded himself.
With a loud thunk, the vault door came loose. Brunel stepped aside, carrying it with him.
Burton limped forward and entered the chamber. He looked around and saw things he didn't understand: bizarre biological objects in bell jars; devices that looked like weapons; a necklace of shrunken non-human heads; a mirror that reflected a different room, and, when he looked into it, a different person.
“You were right, Algy,” he muttered, for these things, he felt sure, had somehow slipped through from alternate versions of reality.
A flat jewel case caught his eye. He reached for it, opened it, and saw that it contained twenty-one black diamonds arranged in three rows of seven: the fragments of the Eyes of Naga.
He snapped the case shut and was just about to leave with it when he noticed a particularly large leather portmanteau. He paced over to it, pulled it open, and saw white scaly material, a black helmet, a metal disk, and a pair of stilted boots inside. It was Edward Oxford's burned and battered time suit; the weird costume that had earned him the name “Spring Heeled Jack.”
Burton picked up the bag and left the vault.
Krishnamurthy's voice came out of the dust cloud: “Hurry! This is taking too long! They'll be back any minute!”
The king's agent found the door of the Worm and clambered into the vehicle. He sat and let loose a sob as his ribs grated together. Brunel's great bulk entered. The Steam Man pulled the hatch shut.
“Are you all right, Countess?” Burton asked.
“Yes,” the clairvoyant answered. “But you're hurt, Captain!”
“It's nothing.”
“Dick-” Speke began.
Burton cut him off: “Let's get out of here first, John. Explanations later.”
They manoeuvred themselves around the cabin until Brunel was comfortably at the controls. He set the engine roaring and reversed the Worm back into the tu
With the short legs around its circumference racing, the machine hurtled along underground, passing far beneath the River Thames, following the burrow westward until it angled upward and emerged from the wasteland at the front of Battersea Power station.
They all disembarked, striding and clanking and limping to the main doors, passing through them, crossing the courtyard, and entering the principal workshop.
Technologist perso
The group moved over to a workbench. Burton laid the diamond case and the portmanteau on it. Krishnamurthy walked away and returned with the Lee-Enfield rifle. “Here you are, Captain.”
“Thank you, Maneesh. By the way, was Mrs. Angell organising a bonfire when you visited?”
“She was, sir, and she seemed rather distraught about it.”
“If what I have in mind doesn't succeed,” Burton said, addressing all of his friends, “then, at very least, I want the evidence of what has occurred destroyed. Thus I've instructed my housekeeper to burn all of my records.”
“But why is that necessary?” Speke asked.
The Countess Sabina answered: “Different versions of history exist, Mr. Speke-I've seen them-and the boundaries between each are thin. If the wrong sort of person learned of this, they could make a Bedlam of all existence.”
Burton thought of Aleister Crowley.
“We're almost ready,” one of the technicians a
The king's agent turned to Speke. “Walk with me, John.”
John Ha