James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

“I’ve seen it!” said Burton, inching closer. “I’ve traveled through Time. I’ve seen the hell they made of the Earth in the distant past. This is man’s time now, and maybe we’ll make a mess of things, maybe we won’t. But we won’t get the chance to find out if the Deep Ones take London. Don’t be a traitor to your entire species, man! Help me put an end to this nonsense tonight.”

Bulwer-Lytton seemed to consider this, but still held the weird pistol at the ready, his hand shaking. Burton didn’t know what the weapon could do, or if he could duck out of the way in time, so he just stayed where he was. He hoped Abberline and Challenger would reach him soon, and the distraction of their arrival would give him a chance to overpower the Baron. A slim and dangerous chance, but it was the only way he could see to end this madness.

“You’re too late, Captain Burton,” said Bulwer-Lytton. “The cogs of war already turn. There is nothing anyone can do. Even if I wanted to. This was predicted by the spirits. They…were talking to me. But now they’ve fallen silent. No doubt because I’ve done their will.”

“You fool,” said Burton, inching closer. “Those weren’t spirits. They were potential lifetimes from other time streams. My last journey through Time caused a paradox, creating a rupture in Time. I was haunted by one of these spirits, what you would call a Dweller on the Threshold, that was actually myself from another of these time streams.”

“Rift?” said Bulwer-Lytton. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not really sure myself,” said the explorer, taking another step. “But nearest I can reason, the rupture was caused by the two of us co-existing. The other Burton sacrificed himself so that only one Burton would remain, me. Thereby closing the rift. That spiritualist chatter you think you heard was actually temporal noise coming from the wound in Time.”

“No,” said Bulwer-Lytton. “The spirit world is real. Just as real as this one. You’re just another doubter. Your apostasy is well-known, Burton.”

“Be that as it may, I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know if there is a spirit world. Bismillah, after all the things I’ve seen, you may be right. But I do know that this isn’t the way to find out. People are dying, Baron. Dying for a cause you gleaned from an Ouija board.”

There was a loud concussion, and the entire structure shook, almost knocking Burton to his knees.

Bulwer-Lytton fell against one of the wooden crates, dropping his eerie weapon. It dropped to the floor with a heavy thud and slid in between two planks to fall into the churning waters of the Thames below. Burton could see its eerie glow ebb as it was subsumed by the dank waters.

“Blast it!” said the Baron. “What is going on?”

Another concussion drowned out his words, and sawdust and cobwebs rained down on them as the pilings shook once more.

“The docks are under attack,” shouted Burton. “It’s over, Baron. We must get out of here.”

“No!” said Bulwer-Lytton. “This isn’t over.”

The building rocked again, this time dislodging one of the pilings.

Bulwer-Lytton held onto one of the crates. “But I was so close. The things in these crates. You should see them, Burton.”

“I don’t want to see them,” said Burton as the building shook again. Floorboards groaned and separated as the rear wall splintered into dust. The whole building pitched backward toward the water. Bulwer-Lytton was tossed out, falling into the dark, frothing waters. Beside him a great, spherical shell heaved up, water running down its black iron hide. Covered in lights, long black tubes protruded from it at regular intervals. In the center of the strange sphere was a thick porthole, illuminated from within. Staring through it was the bearded face of Captain Nemo, giving Burton a quick salute.

Burton watched for a moment as the strange craft submerged, dragging Bulwer-Lytton down with it. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw two fish-like forms grabbing the Baron, pulling him down into a watery hell of his own making.

The building rocked back and forth and Burton, fearful of being pitched into the sea like the Baron, turned and ran toward what remained of the shaky structure’s entrance, gravity slowing his progress. With a final leap he cleared the building before the whole thing toppled into the water. Burton turned to look at the destruction. There were fires all over the docks. Shrill whistles pierced the night as police and firemen ran forward to tackle the blaze. He saw several people in the distance get driven into the water, along with a few things that clearly were not people.

“It’s over,” Burton murmured.

“Captain Burton!” shouted Abberline as he and Challenger ran up to join Burton by what was left of the pier. “Are you all right? Blimey, I thought you’d gone down with the bloody building.”

“No, I’m all right,” said Burton.

“What of Bulwer-Lytton?” asked Challenger.

“He went down with the ship, as it were,” said Burton.

“How?” asked Abberline.

“Our friend Captain Nemo. He bombed these buildings containing the Deep Ones’ weaponry.”

“By Jove,” said Challenger. “Herbert got a message to him after all. I shall buy that little rotter a drink when I see him.”

They might never see him again. Burton couldn’t blame him if he never returned. With Mycroft Holmes threatening to take his wondrous machine, and with all of Time itself at his fingertips, Burton decided that if he were in Herbert’s shoes he wouldn’t return either.

The three men watched the fires in silence for a time, until the distant horizon flickered with the arrival of the sun.

Dawn broke over a smoldering East End. Black, noxious smoke filled an early morning sky tinted pink with the promise of a new day. Richard Francis Burton, Chief Inspector Abberline, and Professor Challenger surveyed the damage near the docks.

Burton was bone-weary, his face covered in soot. Edward Bulwer-Lytton was dead, pulled underwater by some contraption built by a man who should not exist. The things that had attacked the city had all hopped, loped or crawled back into the water, hopefully never to be seen again.

Mycroft Holmes appeared, flanked by attendants, an angry scowl marring his features. In his hand he held a crumpled piece of paper.

“I demand to know the meaning of this,” he snapped, tossing the paper onto the charred ground.

Burton bent and picked up the paper, unfolding it to read.

Dear Mycroft Holmes,

While I am flattered that you are impressed with my Nautilus, and I admire your dedication to the British Empire, I must regretfully decline your dubious “invitation.” Herbert told me everything. The Nautilus is not a child’s toy for you to take apart and guess as to its operation. Nor does the world need an entire fleet of such vessels traversing the globe making trouble.

However, I am a friend to mankind, and will always provide what assistance I can to the noble cause of humanity’s survival. In that regard, I hope my specially designed torpedo machine stopped the latest incursion by our mutual enemies, the Deep Ones.

Burton laughed and passed the letter to Challenger, who started reading it.

“It arrived this afternoon, but I only just now discovered it,” said Mycroft Holmes. “I demand an explanation. Where is the Time Traveler? And how did he get a message to Captain Nemo aboard his Nautilus ?”

“You’ll have to ask him yourself,” said Burton.

Mycroft paused, considering this. Then he reached into his coat pocket and produced another piece of paper. “This arrived a short while ago.”