The engines hummed as the rotorship weaved back and forth between the vertical edifices, moving through the mammoth metropolis, travelling in a westerly direction.
“I can barely take it all in,” Lawless said. “Is it possible that people built such a marvel? It’s the eighth wonder of the world!”
They saw the mouth of the Thames, but of the river itself there was no sign.
“Gone!” Wells cried out.
“Maybe not gone,” Burton said. “Perhaps just built over. Even in the nineteenth century many of the city’s waterways had been forced beneath the streets. The Tyburn, Fleet and Effra, for example, were all incorporated into Bazalgette’s sewer system.” He shivered, recalling bad experiences in those subterranean burrows.
They marvelled at the columns, which loomed out of the falling curtain of snow, all spanned by walkways, making London resemble a great hive through which many more flying machines floated, glimmering like fireflies.
“There’s something ablaze,” Lawless noted. He pointed. “Down there.”
As the Orpheus altered course, swinging southward, Sadhvi drew their attention to three large lesser-lit areas, like linked hollows in the dazzling display.
“Hyde Park, Green Park and Saint James Park,” Burton observed. “Still there and still the same shape after all these years.” He grunted. “Which, if I’m judging it correctly, means that fire is in, or close to, Grosvenor Square.”
Recurrences. Patterns.
“Descending,” the Mark III announced. “Battersea Airfield ahead. I should warn you that I’m having problems with my altitude sensors. There’s a peculiar echo.”
“Clarify, please,” Lawless demanded.
“A double reading. I’m not certain which of them is accurate.”
“Everyone stay by the window,” Lawless ordered. “We’ll give visual assistance.”
They saw other rotorships gliding past. In design, they differed little to their own vessel. If anything, they were slightly more primitive. However, as in 2130, there were also other flying craft—disks and needles and cones—that were obviously far more advanced.
“Apparently the divide continues,” Wells said. “Progress for some, retrogression for others.”
Burton felt a lightness as the Orpheus dropped, increased weight as it slowed and stopped.
“Is the ground fifty feet below us or a thousand?” the Mark III asked.
Lawless peered down and said, “Fifty.”
The ship dropped, and they were all jogged slightly as it landed.
“Elegantly done as usual, despite the confusion,” the babbage declared. “You may congratulate me.”
“Consider your back patted,” Lawless replied.
“Cannibal Club representatives are waiting outside.”
“Thank you, Orpheus. Sir Richard, Herbert, Sadhvi, I wish you every success in your mission. Daniel, Maneesh and I will keep the ship ticking over, ready to respond in an instant should you require our assistance.”
Burton said, “Thank you, Captain.”
They clasped hands.
Burton, Wells and Raghavendra left the bridge and were met by Gooch and Krishnamurthy at the hatch.
“Ready?” Gooch asked.
Burton jerked his head in affirmation.
“A new Thomas Bendyshe,” Wells mused. “I wonder how identical he’ll be to the other?”
Gooch took hold of one hatch lever while Krishnamurthy gripped the other. They pulled, the portal opened, and the ramp slid down. A flurry of scarlet snow billowed in. They stood back.
Burton watched as two figures ascended toward him, an adult—male, to judge by the gait—and a child, both wrapped in ankle-length cloaks with wide cowls that kept their faces shielded from the downpour.
The visitors stopped in front of him. The adult snapped, “Government inspection. Do not resist. Let us aboard.”
“We’re a cargo ship,” Burton said. “Empty.”
“Nonsense. You’re a vessel from the distant past and you’re carrying enemies of the state.”
“From the past?” Burton replied. “What do you mean by that?”
“You are chrononauts from the year 1860. And you, old son, are Sir Richard Francis Burton, the famous explorer.”
“Old son?”
The figure gave a bark of laughter. He and his companion reached up and pulled back their hoods.
“I’ve always been absolutely hopeless at playacting,” said Detective Inspector William Trounce.
“What ho! What ho! What ho!” cheered Algernon Charles Swinburne.
“Cloned!” Swinburne declared with an extravagant wave of his arms. “We were jolly well cloned!”
Sadhvi stammered, “But—but are you the same?”
Trounce tapped his head. “Humph! Memories and personalities intact. We recall everything. Is my bowler aboard? I still miss it.”
Bemusedly, unable to stop staring, Burton nodded.
Trounce reached up to smooth his moustache, even though it wasn’t there anymore. “By Jove, it’s good to see you after all this time.”
“Death defied,” Wells whispered in awe.
“To the lounge!” Swinburne exclaimed, stepping forward and giving a mighty jerk of his left elbow. “A toast to old friendships renewed. Nineteenth-century brandy, hurrah! Believe me, they don’t make it like they used to. By golly, I’ve missed it terribly. And all of you, too, of course. How the very devil are you?”
Burton suddenly pounced forward, caught the poet under the arms, yanked him off his feet, and whirled him around. “Algy! Algy! Bismillah! Algy!” He dropped him and lunged at Trounce, embracing him in a bear hug. “William, you old goat!”
“Steady on!” Trounce protested.
Swinburne screeched with laughter. “Three hundred and forty-two years!” he crowed. “That’s how long it’s taken!”
“To get here?” Sadhvi asked.
“No! For Beastly Burton to go soft!”
“Idiot!” Burton protested. “By Allah’s beard! Exactly the same idiot!”
“At your service,” Swinburne said with a melodramatic curtsey. “I say! Did someone mention a toast?”
“You did. And I wholeheartedly second the motion.”
Grinning helplessly, the reunited chrononauts closed the hatch and reconvened in the ship’s lounge where, to Swinburne’s evident delight, a decanter of brandy was produced. Swallowing his measure, the poet smacked his lips, gave a sigh of pleasure, and said, “At last. There are chemicals in everything, these days. Ruins the taste.” He sat back in his chair, crossed his legs, uncrossed them, kicked out the right, twitched his shoulders, raised his glass, and added, “I appear to be empty.”
Gooch provided a refill.
“Cloned,” Burton said. “Are you, then, your own son, Algy? Grandson?”
“Neither. I’m me. The same person, the same memories, an exact copy of the body. The only difference is that I’ve lived a second childhood and have a brother I never had before.”
“Brother?”
“This old duffer,” Swinburne said, cocking a thumb at Trounce.
Burton’s right eyebrow went up.
Trounce said, “Back in 2130, the Cannibals indulged in a little body snatching. Just like the old days, hey? Resurrectionists! DNA from our corpses was put on ice. Thirty-eight years ago, mine was used to create yours truly. Thus you now find me exactly the age I was when you last saw me. My great-grandfather was the Thomas Bendyshe you met; my father his clone, also named Thomas. My mother is Marianne Monckton Milnes. Of course, they’re not strictly speaking my biological parents, but she bore me and they both raised me. In 2179, this scallywag was created—” He indicated Swinburne. “Fifteen years my junior. Same surrogate parents. The timing was carefully arranged so that he, too, would today be the age he was when you saw him last.”