“I selected the most efficient and immediate method,” Babbage answered. “These black diamonds, you see, Sir Richard, can contain and maintain an electrical field, no matter how slight it may be. Do you understand the significance?”
“Not really.”
“Then I shall put it into simple terms. At death, there is a surge of electrical activity in the human brain-a transmission, if you will. The Choir Stones are so sensitive that, if they are close enough, they will receive and store that transmission. Memories, sir-they hold memories. I intend to die in their presence. My intellect will be imprinted upon them. Brunel will then set them into the machinery of this probability calculator, which, like its predecessor, is designed to process the information recorded in their structure. In other words, the essence of Charles Babbage will live on-or, rather, think on-in this device.”
Burton laughed mirthlessly. “You mean to achieve immortality?”
“I mean for my intellect to survive.”
“And your soul?”
Babbage clucked with irritation. “Pshaw! I no more believe in that superstitious claptrap than you do! I refer to my thought processes! The quintessence of myself!”
“Nonsense! A human being adds up to far more than the electrical field generated by, or contained within, the spongy matter of his brain. What about the heart, sir? What about emotion? What about how he feels about his memories-his triumphs and regrets?”
Now it was the elderly scientist's turn to laugh. “Firstly, there is absolutely no empirical evidence that emotion is housed in the heart,” he said scornfully. “And secondly, even if it was, it is eminently disposable! What good has emotion ever done except to wound and anger and weaken and give rise to humanity's most primitive and animalistic urges? Surely you're not going to lecture me about the majesty of love?”
“No, I'm not. I do say, though, that there are certain decisions a man is called upon to make which transcend the dictates of reason.”
“Balderdash! Those are simply occasions where a lesser intellect struggles; where intelligence gives up and submits to emotional impulses. I design machines that decide the best course of action based upon logic. ”
Burton fought to keep his mind focused, his head from nodding. His fever was raging now. The room was spinning and Babbage's voice seemed to echo from a long way off. He was aware of Brunel's bulky presence a few paces behind him.
“No, Sir Charles, it won't do,” he rasped. “You have overlooked the fact that a mind separated from the heart entirely eliminates ethics and morality. Look at what you and Brunel have done tonight. You have stolen! You've performed what to you is merely an act of logical necessity-but did you for one minute consider the consequences for Mr. Brundleweed? In a few hours from now he'll awaken to find his business in ruins. His reputation will suffer. His income will be devastated. He and his family will be penalised for your actions.”
“Irrelevant!” Babbage jerked. “The man is nothing but a common merchant.”
“And what of his son or his daughter? Do you know their destiny?”
Babbage licked his lips. “What are you talking about? I don't even know whether he has a son or daughter. I know nothing about the man!”
“Exactly! You know nothing about him, yet you judge him dispensable. What if one of his children was destined to discover a cure for influenza, or the secret of perpetual motion, or a system by which poverty could be eliminated? What might you have deprived us of?”
The old man looked disconcerted. “None of that is certain,” he protested. “And since they are a lower class of people, it is highly unlikely.”
“Your disdain for the working classes is well known, Sir Charles. Perhaps that is why you seek to replace them with thinking machines. But your contempt does not eliminate the possibility that someone in the Brundleweed family might one day play a crucial role in our social evolution.”
The king's agent fought the impulse to vomit. An unbearable hammering assaulted the inner walls of his skull.
“It's a very simple equation,” Babbage grumbled. “A matter of probability. We can state that maybe Brundleweed's children will become an important influence to future generations, but we can also state that I, Charles Babbage, am already an important influence and will continue to be so.”
“Conceit!”
“Fact! I can certainly make the world a more efficient place!”
“But maybe,” Burton whispered, “efficiency isn't all it's held up to be. Maybe it's the inefficiencies and mistakes that give us the best impetus to change and grow and improve!”
“No! Miscalculations slow us down! I don't make them. I deal only with the proven and the certain, yet who can dispute that I am evolved? Hand me the diamonds!”
Burton passed the five black gemstones to the old man.
“You can kill me now,” Babbage said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Kill me, Sir Richard. Brunel will do the rest.”
With a shaking hand, Burton pulled the blade from his swordstick.
“Are you sure? You really want me to kill you?”
“Of course I do. Get on with it, man! I have work to do!”
“You are absolutely certain that your memories will be transferred to the diamonds?”
“Yes!”
“Then you illustrate my argument admirably. Nothing in life is certain, Sir Charles. The diamonds are fakes.” He stepped forward and plunged his rapier into the scientist's heart. “Do you now get my point?”
Babbage whispered: “Fakes?”
He died. His corpse slid from Burton's sword and crumpled to the floor.
The king's agent turned and faced the Steam Man.
The hulking machine stood motionless but for the bellows on its shoulder, which scraped up and down incessantly. Little more than an inch of the cigar remained.
Bells chimed: “The Francois Garnier Collection is not genuine?”
“The stones are onyx crystals.”
“Impossible.”
“Look for yourself.”
Burton stepped back. Brunel lumbered past him and retrieved a stone from Babbage's hand, holding it up with a pincer while another arm held a magnifying tool in front of it.
Burton had no idea what the engineer used for eyes.
“You are correct,” Brunel rang. “Then Babbage is dead and his device is useless.”
The king's agent felt his knees giving way. He sheathed his sword.
“I can't fight you, Brunel. I'm not sure I can even stand up for much longer. The best I can do is offer some advice.”
“Advice?”
“Stop associating with insane scientists. The authorities are already concerned about you after your involvement with Darwin and his cronies. This latest caper will do your reputation no good at all. Redeem yourself, Isambard. Redeem yourself.”
Even as the words left his lips, the room began to reel and Burton staggered to one side and collapsed onto the floor.
The massive engineer loomed over him. “Sir Richard, there are those in my faction who would have me kill you.”
“I don't doubt it,” Burton whispered, as darkness pushed in at the periphery of his vision. “And I bet John Speke is foremost among them.”
“You are wrong. Lieutenant Speke is no longer affiliated with the Technologists. He and a small group of Eugenicists absconded to Prussia some weeks ago.”
Burton's eyes began to close. “Do your worst,” he said sleepily. “I'm at your mercy.”
“I would rather make a request of you.”
“A request? What-what is it?”
“My fiancee, nurse Florence Nightingale, is missing. She has not been seen or heard of for slightly over a month. Find her for me.”
“You want me to-”
“Find her. Will you try?”
Burton managed to nod. The room tumbled.
Distant bells: “I shall take Sir Charles and locate a quiet graveyard for him. He so abhorred noise. We will meet again, Sir Richard.”
Oblivion.
Shouts.
Gunshots.
War cries.
Orange light flickered across the canvas roof.
John Speke stumbled in. His eyes were wild.