“In a suit of armour?” Swinburne asked.
Brunel produced a tinkling noise that might have been laughter. He tapped the side of his head. “As a matter of fact, I’m nothing but electrical impulses. Unfortunately, my body suffered a stroke and breathed its last this September past. During my final hours, Shyamji Bhatti and Maneesh Krishnamurthy brought me to Charles Babbage and Daniel Gooch, who had this mechanism already prepared for me. My consciousness was transferred into a number of black diamonds of a rather unique nature. They were fitted into a babbage probability calculator—to all intents and purposes an artificial brain—so I live on, I’m happy to say, and in a considerably stronger body.”
“I need a drink,” Swinburne said. “This is a lot to take in.”
“I envy you. I’ve missed my cigars and brandy terribly since becoming mechanical. Well, it’s dashed late, and there’s much to discuss, but I’m sure a tipple won’t do any harm. Daniel, would you do the honours? Gentlemen, take a seat, please. Our host will join us presently.”
Burton, Swinburne, and Krishnamurthy settled in armchairs. Brunel pulled the wooden chair he’d been sitting in away from the desk, turned it around, and carefully lowered himself into it. “I’m still getting used to weighing a ton,” he chimed. “I keep breaking chairs, and if I use an armchair, I have difficulty getting out of it.”
Gooch distributed brandies to all but the engineer, then sat and said, “As you just heard, Babbage is among our little band. Nurse Nightingale is, too. None of us has been harmed and we all remain here of our own free will.”
“Are you certain of that?” Burton asked. “I find it hard to believe that Nightingale would abandon Saint Thomas’s Hospital.”
“I’m certain. She recognises priorities.”
“Anyone else with you?”
“Plenty of engineers and scientists, Sir Richard, but I expect you’re referring to other people who’ve been reported missing, in which case the answer is no.”
“We are all working for Abdu El Yezdi,” Brunel put in. “A situation that will, I fear, soon end.”
“Why?”
“He’s dying. He suffered a serious heart attack on the first of September, and a number of minor ones since.”
“The first of September?” Burton said. “The day the aurora borealis appeared.”
When my friend William Stroyan had his throat cut by Laurence Oliphant.
“And the day a disruptive presence arrived in our world,” Gooch added.
Brunel said, “The point is, he is extremely frail, Sir Richard, and has very little time remaining. He has much to tell you, but it will exhaust him, so, please, could you refrain from challenging him?”
Burton sipped his brandy. “I shall do my best. May I smoke?”
“Be my guest,” Brunel said, and emitted an airy whistle that somehow resembled a forlorn sigh.
After lighting his cheroot, the explorer addressed Krishnamurthy. “For how long have you and Mr. Bhatti known the Arabian?”
“Arabian?”
“El Yezdi.”
“Ah. He approached us in Ceylon, early in ’fifty-six, and told us when and how your brother was going to be attacked. If we saved him, he said, he’d ensure Edward would pay our passage to England. It was an opportunity too good to miss, but we nearly did miss it—we arrived a little late, and your brother was almost killed.”
“Nevertheless, I’m in your and El Yezdi’s debt,” Burton said.
The door opened and Bhatti entered, followed by a stooped and elderly man. Burton instantly recognised Charles Babbage and stood to greet him.
“What’s happening?” the scientist snapped in a querulous tone. “Where are the helmets? Why am I dragged from my work? Interruptions! Always interruptions! Don’t you realize how close I am to completion?”
“Sir Richard and Mr. Swinburne have arrived,” Brunel said.
“About bloody time!” Babbage glared at Burton. “I’ve done the calculations, sir. The probabilities don’t lie. You no doubt received all the required information seventeen days ago. Why did you not act upon it? Why have you delayed?”
“Charles,” Daniel Gooch said, “you know full well that random elements must be factored in.”
“Random be damned! Any man with a clear head can steer the correct path. Random is just another word for muddled thinking!”
Brunel clanged, “I fear we shall embark upon another of our inexhaustible debates if we pursue this any further. You know there’s no time for that, Charles, so please recalculate and join us. Would you care for a brandy?”
Babbage disregarded the question. His brows lowered over his eyes and, ignoring the gathering as if it weren’t there, he lowered himself into a seat, mumbling, “Recalculate. Recalculate. Another bloody divergence. Let’s see now—” He raised the fingers of both hands to his high forehead and began to tap them upon it, as if pressing lots of small buttons in a specific but inscrutable sequence.
Swinburne leaned close to Burton, rolled his eyes, and whispered, “First Harris, now Babbage. Cuckoo!”
Bhatti helped himself to a drink and sat down just as the door opened again. Nurse Florence Nightingale entered, pushing a three-wheeled wicker bath chair. She positioned it in the middle of the room, facing them all, then stood by its side.
Burton couldn’t take his eyes off the man sitting in it.
Abdu El Yezdi.
He was swarthy-skinned and sharp-cheeked, with a dark left eye and a milky right. His nose was large and hooked, and his long grey beard flowed down over a very fat stomach. Dressed in the robes of a sheik, he exuded magnetism and authority, but as Burton took in the details, it quickly became apparent that the man was also deep into his final days, if not hours; his hands were shaking, there was a blue tinge about his lips, and he was struggling to breathe.
When he spoke, his voice was thin and weak.
“Algy, it is good to see you again. Are you well?”
“Yes,” Swinburne answered. “But I wasn’t sure whether I’d dreamt you or not.”
“Culver Cliff? No dream.”
The impenetrable eyes flicked to Burton and considered him for what felt to the explorer like a minute, though it was probably seconds. “And you. You have lost—have lost—” His respiration faltered. He gasped in air, waved Nightingale away when she bent toward him, and went on, “You have lost Isabel.”
Burton nodded wordlessly.
“The pain you feel. You deserve every bit of it. Bloody fool.”
“Sir,” Brunel quietly rang. “I don’t think—”
“Shut up, Brunel, I’m speaking. So, Burton, who else has died while you’ve been flapping about like a headless bird?”
Burton glared at the Arabian and snarled, “Why, exactly, must I account to you, sir?”
“Because I know a great deal more than you do, dolt.”
El Yezdi addressed Krishnamurthy while gesturing toward the wardrobe-like wheeled box. “Maneesh, show him.”
Krishnamurthy stood and walked over to the odd item of furniture, which was about a foot taller than him, and dragged it out of the corner. He positioned it beside the bath chair, then twisted a catch and slid the front panel aside. Two white suits were hanging inside, both one-piece affairs that would cover a man completely but for the head, hands, and feet. The material was white and had the texture of fish scales. Each had a circular disk attached to the chest and a cloak descending from the shoulders. Two shiny black helmets rested on the floor of the box, along with two pairs of boots attached to two-foot-high stilts. The outlandish costumes differed only in that one was fire-scorched and its helmet dented, while the other was in pristine condition. Without a doubt, Trounce had seen one of those outfits hanging from a branch in Green Park back in 1840, and the Mad Marquess had also glimpsed one momentarily in the grounds of Darkening Towers three years earlier.