James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

“It’s very dangerous,” said Miss Hemlock.

“I’ve traveled through Time before,” said Burton. “Besides, what choice do we have?”

“All right,” said Miss Hemlock, looking around. Spying an alley next to the Diogenes Club, she said, “Step into my office and I’ll show you how my portable device works.”

It was the work of a few minutes to familiarize the explorer with how to operate the wrist-mounted Time Machine. Despite its smaller size, it worked exactly like Herbert’s original design. Once Burton had it secured to his wrist, he said, “I shall go back to earlier in the day and see if I can slip inside unseen. Then I shall locate Mycroft Holmes and go back further still.”

“Wait,” said Abberline. “How do we know this is where Mr. Holmes received the bloody Map of Time? The exchange could have been made anywhere.”

“We must assume, for now, that he received it here,” said the Time Agent. “His usual haunts aren’t well known to history. Our mystery man would have also started here to look for the perfect time to pay him a visit.”

Abberline nodded, and Burton took a step backward. “All right. Off I go. Once more into the bloody breach.” He flicked open the device, carefully set the tiny dial back four hours, and set the machine in motion.

“You’re a Time Agent now,” said Miss Hemlock. “Do us proud.”

The tiny dish began to spin with a high-pitched whine, the vibration traveling up Burton’s right arm. At first nothing happened. Then orbs of light began to dance before his eyes, and he felt himself receding. He saw Abberline, Miss Hemlock, and himself walk backward out of the alley and around the front of the building, watching as the traffic on the street in front of the building moved faster and faster in the opposite direction. The sun moved downward from its current position, back along its track until it was buried by the horizon and the tall buildings that fronted the opposite side of the street. Watching his destination appear in the dial, Burton slowed the miniature Time Machine to a stop—and promptly fell over, almost crashing into the side of the building.

“Bismillah!” he muttered. Regaining his footing, Burton looked around. The street was empty, the hour early. The sky was tinged pink with the early light of dawn.

Brushing himself off, Burton left the alley and went to the door of the Diogenes Club. The entrance was locked, so Burton knelt and produced a set of lock picks and got to work. Inside of a minute he had the door open and was inside, locking the door again behind him. It was dark, but just as posh as Burton remembered from his previous visits. He moved quietly past empty, richly appointed rooms, his boots sinking into the lush carpet as he hurried toward the building’s far end, and the infamous Stranger’s Room. Finding the room unlocked, Burton entered and looked around. Burton moved toward the far corner near the room’s single window and set the miniature Time Machine in motion once more, this time moving forward.

Early morning sun leapt up and through the window, but Burton cast no shadow as he moved out of step with the normal course and speed of Time. His eyes moved from the dial of the device to the room beyond, waiting for any change that would signal he was nearing the point he needed.

Shadows danced across the sparse Stranger’s Room, and Burton increased his forward march through Time just a bit. A strange flicker from the opposite corner of the room caught his eye. He thought it a trick of the light at first, a Time mirage. But it persisted, solidifying into a human figure.

“Bismillah!” Burton murmured, his voice taking on a strange echo. “The other Time Traveler!”

Thinking this is the mysterious figure Miss Hemlock tracked here from the future, Burton continued to watch, hoping his presence was masked by his own movement through Time. Indeed, it appeared both men were out of sync, not only with each other, but the inexorably slow, one second per second course of Time. But now the figure started to move, flickering from one place to another, bounding across the room and directly toward Burton in an instant.

The explorer raised his arms in a defensive posture, still moving forward through Time. The door to the Stranger’s Room silently opened, and Mycroft Holmes entered with an attendant. With a speed impossible for any human being, Holmes zipped behind his desk and began reading a newspaper. But Burton had other things to worry about at present.

The face of the other Time Traveler flickered before him. He was a dark man with sour features and a neatly trimmed black beard. He leered at Burton, reaching for him but never laying hands on him because they were still out of sync with each other. Still, Burton shrank back from him reflexively, a wave of dizziness moving through him. He teetered and almost fell over. That’s when the cold hands of his opponent seized him.

They were traveling at the same speed now, their bodies hurtling in sync into the future. Afternoon and evening came and went as Burton grappled with his foe. If he could halt the Time Machine’s forward motion, he would fall out of step with his assailant and escape his grasp.

The explorer twisted his left arm free and reached for the device before his attacker could grab him again. He flicked the tiny lever, slowing his progress, and felt himself falling away from his assailant, who reached for him once more, only to pass through him like a ghost.

Burton fell into darkness, landing with a thud. It was evening. The Stranger’s Room was dark. A pale moon shown through the single window. He had gone hours into the future. He’d have to start all over, this time in reverse.

He heard the creak of a floorboard, and snapped to attention, rising swiftly to his feet. Surrounding him was a trio of Morlocks. They were wearing goggles with smoked lenses over their eyes, and they reached for him with pale, fungoid, subhuman hands. On one of their wrists was another miniature Time Machine.

They overpowered the explorer, their small stature masking their brute strength. Burton managed to punch one of them hard in the stomach, but his comrades redoubled their efforts, grabbing his arms and stretching them apart as the one he had punched wrenched the tiny Time Machine from his wrist. Then, with a mighty swipe of its pale arm, the Morlock rendered Burton senseless.

Richard Francis Burton opened his eyes. He was lying on something cold and hard. Around him stood a group of Morlocks, black goggles strapped tightly around their misshapen heads. They looked down at him, muttering in their incomprehensible tongue.

“Ah,” said a voice behind them. “At last you rejoin us. I feared my associate was a bit overzealous in his attack.”

With a groan, Burton staggered to his feet. “Who are you?”

“I call myself Dr. Moses Nebogipfel,” said the man. He was still obscured by the Morlocks clustered around him. They appeared to be standing in some sort of vehicle, and Burton felt the sensation of forward movement. The front of the compartment was covered in thick windows that reminded Burton of the portholes aboard the Nautilus . Through them, he saw gray clouds. Or was it fog?

“Where the bloody hell am I?”

“You are aboard my craft. I haven’t chosen a name for it yet. Do you like it?”

“What manner of craft is it?”

“In a general sense it is a dirigible. But in practice it is much more.”

“You mean I am standing in a bloody balloon?”

The Morlocks parted, and the man he had grappled with earlier stepped toward him. “No, you are standing in the gondola of a bloody balloon. Welcome to my Time Machine, Captain Burton. Or is it Captain Sir Richard? I get confused.”