James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

“You may all partake if you wish,” said Lady Helena to Burton. “You have been on quite a journey.”

“So what happened up there with the other Burton?” asked Challenger.

“It’s hard to explain,” said Burton, taking a proffered glass of brandy from Abberline and downing it in one gulp. “Our change created a rupture, a wound in Time itself. This rupture somehow empowered these entities to try and return, and powered the Deep Ones’ weaponry. The Other Burton sacrificed himself to the entities on the astral plane so that there would be only one Burton, me. Thus repairing the damage.”

“And what of Isabel?” Challenger asked softly.

Burton stared at the floor. “Gone. With the rest of that now nonexistent time stream. Oh, how I wish Herbert were here. He could make sense of this, if anyone could.”

“Where the devil is he, anyway?” asked Abberline. “A Time Traveler should have returned to the precise moment he left, should he not?”

“Perhaps he is smarter than all of us,” said Challenger. “If you had a bloody Time Machine, would you come back to this insanity?”

While Abberline mused on this, Burton got up and refilled his glass. “It’s quiet outside,” he said after taking a sip.

Lady Helena returned to her table, her eyes closed. “Yes. The ethereal vibrations have calmed. The astral plane is no longer a place of strife and turmoil.”

“That’s wonderful news for those on the astral plane,” said Challenger. “But what does that mean for us here in jolly old England?”

“It means the tide has turned,” said Burton. “The rupture in the time stream was what was powering Bulwer-Lytton’s esoteric weapons. Now, if he wants to burn this city to the ground, he had best do it the good old-fashioned way.”

“By Jove!” said Abberline. “We’ve got him now. We’ll send his army of fish demons back where they came from.”

“Let’s finish this, then,” said Challenger, his eyes seeking Burton’s. “What say you?”

Burton downed his brandy. “I say we’ve come this far. Let’s see it through to the end.”

The East End was in Chaos.

People ran screaming, running from things that were not people.The smell of fish was overpowering, and twice Burton reeled in horror as one of the Deep Ones emerged briefly from the fog, brandishing some sort of lethal-looking trident made from that strange gold they had in great supply.

The weapons Abberline procured from the police storage facility evened the odds somewhat, and there were no more blasts of ethereal lightning from the esoteric weapons Bulwer-Lytton’s cult had received from the Deep Ones as advanced payment for their souls.

Challenger, handy at the trigger, blasted into the crowd that came at them through the fog with much relish. Burton was more deliberate with his shots, wary of hitting anyone human. Bulwer-Lytton’s cultists had scarcely had time to begin mating rituals with the Deep Ones. For that, Burton counted his lucky stars.

By the time they entered the Cauldron the army had arrived, pushing people back and cordoning off the most dangerous areas, containing the cultists to the East End.

“We’ve got to push them back all the way to the docks,” said Challenger.

Burton nodded. “I think the army has the same idea.”

They moved along through the fog. It was rough going, but they were pushing the enemy back deeper and deeper into the East End.

They fought for over an hour, adrenaline the only thing keeping Burton going. At last they neared the London Docklands. Inhuman screams filled Burton’s ears, and he cringed at the sound. People were running everywhere, defenders and assailants alike. Bullets zipped all around their heads, and Burton and his companions took refuge behind an overturned cart, where Abberline assisted with reloading while Challenger hefted twin pistols, firing blind into the darkness. Hunched beside him, Burton caught a flash of yellow in the fog-shrouded, moonlit gloom. It darted into a wooden structure straddling the wharf.

“Cover me,” Burton shouted.

“What?” said Challenger.

Burton jabbed him in the ribs, pointing in the direction the yellow robed figure had gone. “Bulwer-Lytton.”

Challenger nodded and set about covering Burton’s path with copious amounts of lead.

Burton hunched down and ran after the figure, opening the door and following him inside.

The place was dark, safe for shafts of moonlight stabbing through slits in the rough-hewn planks that made up the structure. He heard water lapping at wooden pilings not far beneath him. Around him were dim outlines of barrels, boxes, and old fishnets strung about like immense spiderwebs. Burton caught an eerie glow coming from a stack of large crates and followed it.

Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, 1st Baron Lytton stood glaring at Burton, his dirty yellow robes flowing about him. He held a peculiar object in his hand, brandishing it like a pistol. It was a strange copper color, with a clamshell-shaped node that glowed with an eerie green light. That light made Burton’s guts go to water and his stomach seize.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Burton,” said the Baron. “But I will.”

“I don’t want to fight you, Baron,” said Burton. “But this madness has to end. Those fish-fiends are killing people. Your people.”

“Everyone must make way for the new and glorious coming,” said Bulwer-Lytton, adjusting his grip on the pistol-thing. His hands were sweaty. This is good , Burton thought. The man was unsure of himself. He could insight people to great violence, but he was no killer. Burton edged closer.

“Those Deep Ones are not your friends.” “They only wish to claim the surface world as their own. This deal you made with them is a deal with the devil.”

“Nonsense,” said Bulwer-Lytton. “They will make us more than we are. The children we have together will live forever and ever.”

“But not as humans,” said Burton. “They will have to go beneath the waves and live as their fellow fish-folk. They will lose their humanity. What kind of life is that? Immortal or otherwise?”

“You do not know what you are talking about. I have seen our future. It will be glorious.”

“Yes, you seem to know a great deal about the future, don’t you? This esoteric knowledge, how was it gleaned?”

Bulwer-Lytton put his free hand to his face, shook his head.

“You don’t know, do you?” said Burton. “Some insight told you of the Deep Ones’ existence, but the rest was all your doing. “You made contact with them, somehow. They offered you some of their strange gold in exchange for your allegiance. By then it was too late. They demanded sacrifices.”

“Yes, yes,” said Bulwer-Lytton. “Gods yes! It was simple at first. The East End is full of scoundrels and layabouts. Cut-throats and dollymops. We gave the Deep Ones their sacrifices while ridding the streets of the worst of its criminals. The great unwashed became the key to humanity’s salvation.”

“What salvation?” said Burton, taking another furtive step closer. “The Deep Ones and shoggoths are slaughtering innocents!”

“I know,” said the Baron. “It is true, I did not foresee it ending this way, but who am I to argue with progress? The Deep Ones will help us rise to a deeper spiritual understanding of ourselves and our place in the universe.”

“Bismillah! They care not a whit for your spiritualist claptrap. They want to rule. This planet belonged to them once, them and their cosmic ilk. They want it back. And if they take it mankind is doomed!”

“I don’t believe you,” said the Baron, leveling the pistol-thing at Burton’s head. It gave off a strange vibration that made Burton’s back teeth ache.