Closing his eyes, he focused his attention on his scalp, sensing the scars that curved through the roots of his hair, feeling the diamond dust that was etched into them.
The tincture’s glow eased him into a meditative trance. He filled his mind with a repetitive chant:
Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq.
Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq.
Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq.
Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq.
He sought the Swinburne jungle, prayed that it would hear him, transcend histories, and communicate.
Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq.
Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq.
Algy Algy Algy talk!
Algy Algy Algy talk!
Steady and persistent, like a heartbeat, the words throbbed through him until, very slightly, he started to rock backward and forward to their rhythm.
The tempo divided time—into seconds, into minutes, into hours, into days, into weeks, into months, into years, into decades, into generations, into centuries, into millennia, into ages, into epochs, into eras, into eons, into vast cycles of repetition through which the universe itself expanded and contracted like a beating heart.
Each division possessed a birth and a death, so there were births within births and deaths within deaths, from the infinitude of the microscopic to the boundlessness of the macroscopic. He recognised life as a commencement, life as a termination, life contained within a wave pattern, a vibration, a tone; a syllable through which intelligence was made manifest at every level.
The great paradox: everything in existence was imbued with intelligence, yet everything existed only because it was discerned by that intelligence. Matter, space, time and mind inextricably intertwined, creating themselves through self-recognition.
The insight blossomed in Burton like an unfurling red rose.
The jungle, its roots extending through histories, touched him for the briefest instant and delivered a truth—a stunning clarification of his earlier visions—that caused him to cry out in wonder.
“Bismillah! We have it reversed! The universe does not create life! Life creates the universe!”
The sound of his own voice intruded upon his trance. He opened his eyes but continued to sit quietly.
Twelve years ago—subjective years—he’d become a Master Sufi. Since that time, he’d been using the phrase Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq as a mantra to aid in meditation. Now, for the first time, he considered its meaning.
God is Truth.
He didn’t believe in God—not in one that responded to prayer and intervened in human affairs. However, if intelligence was the core and cause of reality, imagining it into existence and separating it into coherent parts, then might not the religious myths of a fall from “Grace” followed by a spiritual striving to return to “Him” be an allegory of humanity’s tendency to lose itself in its own narrative structures, becoming so deeply attached to its signifiers that full awareness of the signified was lost?
Burton sighed and climbed to his feet. Crossing to the mirror, he once again considered himself. He gazed into his own eyes, saw the anger in them and, beyond it, something else, something new. What was it? A deep spiritual shock? A suspension of disbelief? An abandonment of the convictions and attitudes through which he’d defined himself?
I am unmade.
He squared his shoulders, curled his fingers into fists, and left his quarters.
He found Gooch, Wells and Bendyshe in the ship’s lounge. They jumped up as he entered.
“Sir Richard!” Gooch exclaimed. “You are recovered?”
He gave a curt nod. “What’s our status?”
“We’re secure,” Bendyshe answered. “No danger of detection.”
Burton turned back to Gooch. “The Orpheus?”
“All shipshape and Bristol fashion.”
“Then we’ll get moving. Is everyone rested?”
They made sounds of affirmation.
Wells, apparently unnerved by Burton’s abrupt attitude, said in a thin voice, “Um. We can—we can certainly depart immediately if you order it, but if you—if you require more time—”
“Time? No, Herbert. Time is the last thing I need.”
Time is my enemy. Time leads only to death.
He turned back to Gooch. “The order is given. Tom, will you be coming with us?”
“No,” Bendyshe answered. “The Cannibal Club needs to be a resourceful presence in 2202 that it may support you properly when you arrive there. We have three generations in which to strengthen the organisation. I will be cloned, and I’ll see that everything that’s necessary is done.” He stood. “Sadhvi, Daniel, Herbert, it’s been a pleasure to meet you. Sir Richard, will you walk me to the hatch?”
“Certainly.”
Hands were shaken. Burton and Bendyshe left the room.
“I’m sorry for your losses,” Bendyshe said. “I feel responsible.”
“You’re not. I am. I should never have entered the pharmacy. But enough self-recrimination. The mission will continue. We’re a single step away from our destination. I’ll not be deflected from our purpose. The reckoning with Spring Heeled Jack must come. Frankly, I look forward to it.”
They reached the hatch. Bendyshe stopped and appraised Burton for a moment. “You seem somehow harder. More ruthless. I feel a little afraid of you.”
The king’s agent said nothing. He helped the Cannibal to slide open the portal. The air that gusted in was damp and bore the scent of wet grass.
Bendyshe stepped out then turned back.
“Sir Richard, we’re fighting for humanity. Don’t lose yours.”
After a slight pause, Burton answered, “I may have no option. I sense an inevitability about it.”
Suddenly, the other couldn’t meet his eyes. Bendyshe looked down at the boarding ramp, up at the clouded afternoon sky, across to the Mary Seacole. He mumbled, “My ancestor—the Thomas Bendyshe you knew—he really loved you. He’s a part of me and I can feel it.”
Burton gave a slight nod. “He’s a part of me, too.”
They said no more.
After drawing in the ramp and securing the hatch, Burton went up to the bridge and was greeted by Captain Lawless and Maneesh Krishnamurthy.
“Let’s prepare for departure, gentlemen.”
From above, the Mark III babbage said, “At last! I feared rust might set in. I’ve been bored senseless.”
Krishnamurthy, after momentarily gazing at Burton, said, “I’m glad to see you up and about,” then set off toward the generator room, leaving Lawless and Burton alone.
“Fifteen days, give or take a few hours,” the airman said. “That’s how long our voyage has taken so far, though calculating duration when you’re travelling through time is rather like trying to measure how much water a fish drinks.”
“I’m sorry I’ve delayed us,” Burton said.
“Don’t be. You had every reason. Besides, we can linger for as long as we like. It makes no difference. We’ll still arrive at nine in the evening on the fifteenth of February, 2202.” Lawless rubbed his neatly trimmed beard. “But what’s the plan? What will we do when we get there?”
“As her principal crew, you, Daniel and Maneesh will remain aboard the Orpheus. Myself, Herbert and Sadhvi will attempt to locate and destroy the Turing Fulcrum or whatever might have superseded it. If the Cannibals report to you that we’ve failed and lost our lives, then command of the expedition will fall to you. You’ll have to decide whether to make another attempt or retreat back to our native time.”
“We’ll not flee,” Lawless said.
Orpheus interrupted. “My apologies, Captain Lawless, Sir Richard. I have been readying the systems for flight.”