James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

A chill flew up Burton’s spine. “You’re a Time Traveler.”

“Very good, Captain. Keep going.”

“You brought them back here from the future. The year eight hundred and two thousand something.”

“802,701,” the voice corrected. “How much did Herbert tell you about them?”

“Only that he encountered them, and that he believes they are descended from our working classes.”

“Precisely,” said the voice. “That was my assessment as well. They are very clever. While sensitive to sunlight and thoroughly repulsive, they are highly intelligent and adept with machinery. The tunnels you stand in now will be their home roughly eight-hundred thousand years from now.”

“Why did you bring them here to this time?” said Burton. “They don’t belong here.”

“To give them a head start, I suppose. But more than that, think of me as returning their favor. They were of great assistance to me, you see.”

Off to their right, they heard steady, padding footsteps and saw more than a dozen pairs of glowing eyes loom up out of the darkness.

“Your little raid hurt my new friends, but they are patient,” said the voice. “They can wait down here in the dark a veritable eternity.”

“You’re destroying their future,” said Burton as he backed away from the slowly encroaching Morlocks. “This is not their proper time!”

“The fragility of the timestream is no concern of mine, Burton,” said the voice.

“Then how can you possibly control it?”

The voice laughed. “I don’t want to control Time! I know that every moment I change will simply create a new stream, the course of which cannot be charted ahead of time. No, I seek to upend it, to unravel its many threads one by one.”

“Bismillah! But why, man?”

“Because I can! So long, Captain Burton. Enjoy your last few minutes of existence. I’m afraid there will be no laboratory study for you and your colleagues. My Morlocks are quite hungry after you denied them their previous meal.” There was another laugh and hurried footfalls as the mysterious figure left through some hidden exit.

“Damnation!” said Monckton Milnes. “What do we do now?”

“We run,” said Burton.

“They’ve cut off our exit,” said Abberline.

“Then we go the long way round. Hurry!”

The three moved away from the enclosing semicircle of Morlocks and headed toward a familiar tunnel on the other side of the wide-open space, the one they had used days before when they raided the tunnel with the police. But as they reached it, they found more glowing eyes staring at them.

“It’s a bloody invasion!” Abberline said as he swung his lantern around defensively. It did little good; the Morlocks only flinched momentarily before continuing their steady march toward the three men. Abberline aimed his gun at them, his hand shaking.

“That will do us no good, Frederick,” said Burton. “We don’t have enough shots in both our revolvers to take care of this lot. They have us outnumbered.”

“This is madness!” exclaimed Monckton Milnes. “What nightmare have you dragged me into, Dick?”

“I’m sorry, old friend,” said Burton. What else could he say? They’d had it. He thought of Isabel as the Morlocks closed in, their awful, subhuman hands reaching for them, the yeasty stink of their bodies combining with the sewer stench to assault the explorer’s nostrils.

Then a brilliant light flooded the space, and the Morlocks squealed, shrinking back from it as if acid had been poured on them. They retreated to what shadows they could still find on the far edge of the brightness.

“Hurry,” a woman’s voice called. “The illumination won’t last for long.”

Burton looked up. The light was too bright even for his eyes, but he could just make out a crude rope ladder hanging down from the mouth of a pipe set high along the wall near their planned escape route. A lithe figure stood there, a dark shape against the light she held in her hand, a light brighter than a thousand gaslamps.

“Hurry!” she said again, and the three men got over their disorientation and made for the ladder. Monckton Milnes went first, shimmying up the awkward ladder like a sprinter. He was followed by Burton, then Abberline, who insisted on bringing up the rear.

The light shut off suddenly as Abberline hoisted himself up and over the lip of the tunnel.

Burton stared at their savior, but glowing orbs filled his vision, the aftereffects of the bright light. “Who are you?”

“Explanations later,” said the woman as she grabbed up the ladder. “Running now.”

She moved quickly up the tunnel, followed closely by Monckton Milnes. Burton helped Abberline to his feet and the four of them ran for their lives.

They followed the woman through a veritable maze of tunnels and pipes, until Burton felt like a blind, trapped rat, groping through darkness. After nearly an hour, the four rounded a bend and saw wan twilight coming from somewhere up ahead. In another few minutes they were out, slipping through a bend in the bars of a locked grate several miles from the tunnel they had entered through in Shoreditch.

“There,” said the woman. “Everyone safe and accounted for?”

“I believe so,” said Burton. He blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom around them. “Now would you mind telling us who you are?”

“Yes,” said the woman. “My apologies. There wasn’t time back there for a proper introduction, and I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances. I’m a huge admirer of yours, Captain Sir Richard. Oh, this is a most momentous occasion! If you don’t mind my saying so. I’m sure it seems very common to you.”

“You can call me simply Captain Burton, if you must. And you are?”

“Oh, right. Sorry, Captain Burton. My name is Penelope Hemlock, and I am a Time Agent. Or, that is to say, I will be, from your vantage point. I haven’t even been born yet, you see.”

“She’s off her bloody rocker,” said Monckton Milnes.

Burton placed a hand on his shoulder. “Please, Richard. Let her explain.”

“Yes, thank you.” She glanced at Abberline. “You are, of course, Detective Inspector Frederick George Abberline. Everyone who knows London history knows who you are, what with the, uh, never mind. That dreadful affair hasn’t happened yet.”

She smiled at Monckton Milnes. “And you are Richard Monckton Milnes, 1st Baron Houghton. But not yet! Oh, sorry. I get my dates confused. Horrible thing for a Time Agent. But I’m just so excited. I do tend to prattle on so when I’m excited. My Da always used to say—”

“Baron?” said Monckton Milnes. “Bloody hell!”

“Calm yourself, Miss, please,” said Burton. “And speak plain.”

“Perhaps we should hear her explanation elsewhere,” said Abberline, his eyes glancing warily about.

“I concur,” said Monckton Milnes. “Preferably over a pint.”

“My house, then,” said Burton.

They returned to Gloucester Place and went quietly up to Burton’s study. Despite the late hour, Miss Hemlock was bubbly, bouncing around the room to admire Burton’s library, his collection of swords, guns, and other weaponry he had picked up on his many travels, even his elephant’s foot umbrella stand.

Monckton Milnes helped himself immediately to Burton’s brandy, and after three glasses he finally stopped shaking. “This is pure madness, Dick. What the bloody hell are you involved in?”

“Mind your language, Richard!” admonished Burton. “We have a lady present.”

“Don’t mind me,” said the woman as she scanned one of the explorer’s bookshelves. “I’ve heard much worse from the soldiers, believe you me.”