Eric Brown: Rites of Passage

Burns stared. “Not the memory crystals?”

“The very same. My guess is that when the chandelier is in place and activated, the dissemination process will commence.”

Burns scanned the workmen hauling on the pulleys, and beside them a group of dignitaries. Among them was the tall, ramrod straight figure of Prince Albert himself, staring at the chandelier and making the occasional comment to an aide.

Burns nudged the Sentinel and pointed.

“Our man,” said the Sentinel. “Very well, follow me.”

He elbowed his way through the crowd and hurried around the central fountain. If anyone saw the importunate urchin, clad in mud-soaked rags, they failed to comment as they watched the gradual ascent of the chandelier.

The Sentinel ducked under a cordon and approached something which resembled a loom, and Burns joined him. He peered out, across the floor, at the Prince.

From the waistband of his ragged trousers, the Sentinel pulled the disequaliser, and aimed. “One quick shot,” he breathed, “and who knows how many human lives will be spared.”

The urchin sighted along the length of the weapon, and his grubby finger depressed a red stud. A short hiss was the only result; Burns looked at the group of dignitaries. The Prince remained standing, chatting to an aide as if nothing untoward had occurred.

The Sentinel cursed and looked up at Burns. “I hardly dared fear this outcome–”

“It didn’t work?” Burns ventured, his heart racing.

“The devil is utilising a soma-shield, Burns, rendering my disequaliser useless. I underestimated the resolve of my foe.”

“Is there nothing we can do?”

The Sentinel considered, then said, “By the very fact that Turqan inhabits a new body, this means that the shield is portable — some device the Prince has about his person. If we could in some way wrest the shield from him, then the disequaliser could do its business.”

“But how to do this without alerting Turqan to our presence? He will no doubt be armed.”

The Sentinel nodded. “Armed and deadly.”

Burns considered for a minute. At length he said, “I have an idea, but it would mean delaying the attack until much later, and gaining entry to Buckingham Palace.”

The Sentinel looked up at him. “You can gain admittance?”

“I think so. One moment.” He plugged his communicator into his ear and reached Queen Victoria for the second time that night, chancing her ire.

“Burns, what is it this time? We’re just about to start the desert course.”

“My apologies, but events necessitate the interruption. I have a vital request to make, one on which rests the very future of the nation.”

“Burns, I have never known you overstate the case, and Heaven knows how extraordinary past cases have been! Very well, my good man, out with it.”

A minute later Burns terminated the conversation and pulled the communicator from his ear. “Done,” he said.

“There is one small problem,” the Sentinel said. “I am afraid I might not be able to sustain my habitation of the boy for much longer. Perhaps another thirty minutes, an hour at most. Any longer, and I would fear for my safety.”

Burns nodded. “I’m sure the boy and I can capture Turqan — though immediately we have the small matter of the memory crystals to deal with.”

“I have given this due consideration,” the Sentinel said. “Hand me the stunner.”

Burns guessed the Sentinel’s intent and passed him the weapon. Above the fountain, the chandelier was reaching the apex of the dome. Burns made out three sets of pulleys attached to the central boss of the fixture, controlled by three teams of two men situated equidistant around the transept. Now the Sentinel aimed at the first of these teams.

In an aside to Burns, he said, “I have no qualms about extinguishing thousands of Kyrixian individuals. If you could have seen the crimes his kind perpetrated across the galaxy…”

He fired twice, quickly, and the two workmen at the first station collapsed instantly and released their grips on the ropes. Overhead, the chandelier canted with a rattling, glockenspiel tintinnabulation.

Cries arose from the watchers below.

The Sentinel took aim and fired again. The second set of workmen collapsed, and the chandelier — suspended now by a single rope — swung like a pendulum.

Burns saw the third set of workmen hauling upon their ropes like a desperate tug-o’-war team, their heels skidding across the tiles.

Turqan-in-Prince Albert ran towards them, exhorting effort…

The Sentinel fired a third time, the workmen collapsed, and amid high-pitched screams the chandelier commenced a sudden plummet.

Those spectators directly below the object scattered in short order, and the dignitaries could only watch as the glittering missile of brass and crystal dropped a hundred feet and crashed into the tiled fountain with the sound of musical thunder.

The crystals shattered into a million pieces and scattered across the floor of the Palace like an explosion of diamonds.

Burns gazed across at the figure of Prince Albert, who had given vent to a soul-rending cry and folded to his knees. His hands sifted through the shattered crystals and they fell through his fingers like water.

Dignitaries and aides rushed to his side, attempting to console the stricken Prince, little realising that no consolation would be sufficient.

Burns said, “Now to Buckingham Palace!” and together he and the Sentinel left the cover of the loom and slipped through the chaotic melee.

As they crossed Hyde Park at a run, the Sentinel said, “I fear my time in this guise is limited, Burns. Here, take the disequaliser. You know what to do.”

A minute later they climbed aboard a Hansom and sped north.

Tommy Newton would recall the next fifteen minutes for the rest of his long life.

The last thing he recalled was the interior of the strange sunken vessel, the wizened, staring manikin, and the sudden lethargy that had overtaken him. Then, as if suddenly awakening, he found himself no longer aboard the vessel but crouched behind a screen in what he took to be a toff’s bedroom, going by the bulky outline of the four-poster bed illuminated in the dim lamp-light.

The next he knew, someone was gripping his elbow and breathing into his ear. “Fear not, Tommy,” said Bartholomew Burns. “All is well. Keep quiet and do exactly as I say. Understood?”

Tommy nodded, then realising his gesture could not be seen, whispered, “Understood, guv.” He paused, then said, “One thing — where the ’ell are we?”

Burns murmured, his breath hot in Tommy’s ear, “You might find this hard to believe, Tommy, but we are in Queen Victoria’s bed-chamber.”

“Bleedin’ ’ell!” Tommy expostulated. “And how did I come to be here?”

“That, Tommy, is what is known as a long story. Suffice it to say that we are engaged in a mission to save the life of Prince Albert himself.”

Tommy goggled up at Burns’s dim outline, and only then noticed that the man was gripping what looked like some sort of bulbous pistol.

“You mean, someone’s going to break in and threaten his Highness’s life?”

It was a second before the reply came. “Not exactly, Tommy. Soon, I hope, Prince Albert will return, and then I will render him… unconscious.” Burns gestured with the weapon. “That, I hope, will be sufficient to save the day.”

“You’re talking in riddles, mister, is all I can say.”

“Shh!” Burns said.

Tommy stiffened as, from beyond the screen, someone gave a muffled moan, and then resumed snoring. Tommy chanced a peek around the brocaded screen and made out a humped figure lying on its back in the bed, genteel snores issuing from its small, pointed nose.