The problem was that the Libertines, despite producing reams of anti Technologist propaganda, were unclear in their message. On the one hand, there were the "True Libertines," such as the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, who were basically Luddites; while on the other, there were the increasingly powerful "Rakes," whose interests ran to black magic, anarchy, sexual depravity, drug taking, meddling, and general bad behaviour, which they justified as an attempt to "transcend the limitations of the human condition." Most Libertines, Richard Monckton Milnes being a prime example, fell somewhere between the two camps, being neither as dreamily idealistic as the one faction nor as scandalously self-indulgent as the other.
As for Sir Richard Francis Burton, he wasn't sure where he fitted. Although it was the country of his birth, England had never felt like home, probably because he'd spent most of his childhood being dragged around Europe by his restless parents. He was therefore rather surprised when he returned from the Nile expedition and found that the country's current state of social instability somewhat suited him. The rapid changes, more intensely felt in the capital than elsewhere, might be confusing to the majority of the populace but he'd always regarded his own identity as rather a transient and changeable thing, so now he felt an odd sort of empathy with the fluctuating nature of British culture.
As he walked, he slowly became aware of a tapping noise from somewhere above and realised that he'd been hearing it on and off since leaving the club. He peered up and around but saw nothing.
He continued his trek home, listening, and, yes, there it was again. Was he being followed? He looked back, but there was no suggestion of anyone on his heels until a policeman started to trail along behind him, his attention attracted by the lone, obviously rather drunk man's brutal features. After five minutes or so, the constable drew closer, saw that Burton wore the clothes of a gentleman, hesitated, then abandoned the chase.
The explorer crossed Charing Cross Road and entered a long, badly lit side street. His foot hit a discarded bottle that spun into the gutter with a musical tinkle. Something large flapped overhead and he looked up in time to see a huge Eugenicist-bred swan pass by, dragging a box kite behind it through the mist. A man's white face-an indistinct blur-looked down from the kite before it vanished over the rooftops. A faint voice reached Burton's ears but whatever it was the man had shouted was muffled by the water-laden air.
Last year, Speke and Grant had used the same form of transportation to make their way to the Nyanza, following the old route. It had taken a fraction of the time required by Burton's expedition. They'd set up camp in Kazeh, a small town some hundred and fifty miles south of the great lake, and here John Speke had made one of his characteristic errors of judgement by failing to properly guard his birds. They'd been eaten by lions. Without them he couldn't circumnavigate the lake, couldn't ascertain whether it was the source of the great river, and couldn't prove Burton wrong.
A few yards farther down the road, a man shuffled from the shadows of a doorway. He was a coarse-featured individual clad in canvas trousers and shirt with a rust-coloured waistcoat and a cloth cap. There were fire marks-red welts-on his face and thick forearms caused by hours spent stoking a forge.
"Can I 'elp you, mate?" he growled. "Maybe relieve you of wha'ever loose change is weighin' down yet pockits?"
Burton looked at him.
The man backed away so suddenly that his heels struck the doorstep and he sat down heavily.
"Sorry, fella!" he mumbled. "Mistook you fer somebody else, I did!"
The explorer snorted scornfully and moved on. He entered a network of narrow alleys-dark, dangerous, and sordid-a dismal tentacle of poverty reaching far out of the East End into the centre of the city. Mournful windows gaped from the sides of squalid houses. Inarticulate shouts came from some of them-occasionally the sound of blows, screams, and weeping-but hopeless silence came from most.
It occurred to him that the depths of London felt remarkably similar to the remotest regions of Africa.
He came to a junction, turned left, tripped, and stumbled; his shin banging against a discarded crate and his trouser leg catching on a protruding nail and tearing. He spat out an oath and kicked the crate away. A rat scuttled along the side of the pavement.
Leaning against a lamppost, Burton rubbed his eyes. The taste of brandy burned uncomfortably at the back of his throat. He noticed a flier pasted to the post and read it:
Work disciplines your spirit
Work develops your character
Work strengthens your soul
Do not allow machines to do your work!
Pushing himself away, he walked along the alley and turned yet another corner-he wasn't sure where he was but knew he was proceeding in the right general direction-and found himself at the end of a long, straight lane, its worn cobbles shining beneath the haggard light of a single lamp. It was bordered by high and featureless redbrick walls, the sides of warehouses. The far end opened onto what looked to be a main thoroughfare. He could vaguely see the front of a shop, possibly a butcher's, but when he tried to read the sign over the window, a velocipede clattered past it, leaving a swirling wreath of smoke that further obscured the lettering.
Burton moved on, trying to avoid pools of stinking urine, his shoes squelching in patches of mud and worse, kicking against refuse.
A litter-crab came clanking into view by the shop, its eight thick mechanical legs thudding against the road surface, the twenty-four thin arms on its belly darting this way and that, skittering back and forth over the cobbles, snatching up rubbish and throwing it through the machine's maw into the furnace within.
The crab creaked and rattled past the end of the alley and, as it did so, its siren wailed a warning. A few seconds later, it let out a deafening hiss as it ejected hot cleansing steam from the two downward-pointing funnels at its rear.
The automated cleaner vanished from sight as a tumultuous wall of white vapour boiled into the passage. Burton stopped and took a few steps backward, waiting for it to disperse. It billowed toward him, extending hot coils that slowed and became still, hanging in the air as they cooled.
Someone entered the street, their weirdly elongated shadow angling through the white cloud; a figure writ dark, skeletal, and horrific by the distortion. Sudden flashes of light illuminated the roiling mist, as if it were a miniature storm. Burton waited for the shadow to shrink, to be sucked into the person to whom it belonged when he-for surely it must be a manemerged from the vapour.
It didn't shrink.
It wasn't a shadow.
Possibly, it wasn't even a man.
The steam parted and from it sprang a bizarre apparition: a massively long-legged shape-like a carnival stilt-walker-a long, dark cloak flapping from its hunched shoulders, bolts of lightning crackling around its body and head.
Burton retreated hastily until his back brought up against the wall. He blinked rapidly and licked his lips.
Was it human, this thing? Its head was large, black, and shiny, with an aura of blue flame crawling around it. Red eyes peered at him maliciously. White teeth shone in a lipless grin.
The creature stalked forward, bent, its talonlike hands flexing, and Burton saw that his first impression was accurate: the thing walked on twofoot-high stilts.
Its lanky body was clad in a skintight white scaly suit that glittered in the dim light of the single guttering gas lamp. Something circular glowed on its chest and emitted bursts of sparks and ribbons of lightning that snaked over the thing's long limbs.
"Burton!" the apparition croaked. "Richard Francis bloody Burton!"
It suddenly pounced on him and a hand slashed sideways, slapping hard against his right ear, sending him reeling. His top hat went spinning into a puddle. He dropped his cane.