James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

“Bismillah! Why not erase Herbert permanently and be done with it? A stronger version of the elixir or something.”

“Because I knew Herbert was onto something. I knew what power the Time Machine would represent. But I also knew I could never reach such lofty heights on my own, without his base intellect.”

He returned to his position at the dirigible’s sparkling brass controls. “Besides, I need Herbert. Just as he needs me. We are two sides of the same coin. One cannot possibly exist without the other.” Something about his tone suggested to Burton that he didn’t entirely believe this.

“But how do you maintain this dichotomy?” asked the explorer. “The human body needs rest. How does Herbert get any with you hopping about whilst he sleeps?”

“You’re still not thinking fourth-dimensionally,” said Nebogipfel. “With the Time Machine, I can remain gone days, weeks, get plenty of rest and come back to the precise moment I left, without Herbert knowing anything has transpired.”

“So what do you want?” asked Burton.

Nebogipfel tapped his chin. “As I watched the Time Machine in action, I began to wonder, what if the Time Machine could move through Space as well? Think of the possibilities. What good does it do to travel to some distant time, only to find that the really interesting stuff is taking place thousands of miles hence? Like standing before Nelson’s Column and trying to travel back through Time to see Alexander the Great destroy Tyre. Now, imagine a conveyance that has no limits in Time or Space, like the Time Machine when it was connected to Nemo’s wondrous Nautilus . Imagine a craft that could travel to distant Mars and move back through Time billions of years to when that cold, red world possibly teemed with life? Or visiting distant locales on this world at any point in history?”

“So you built this dirigible,” said Burton.

“With the help of the Morlocks, yes. I took pity on them, you see. My counterpart has been quite cruel to them, so I went back to the moment when the Morlocks briefly absconded with his Time Machine, in the year 802,701. It took a bit of work to ingratiate myself to them, but once they warmed up to me I found them amiable enough. They are astounding tinkerers, and have a real knack for machines. They learned how the Time Machine worked by taking it apart and putting it back together, with such precision that Herbert couldn’t tell it had ever been tampered with at all.”

“Why are they so friendly toward you?” asked Burton.

“Because I am their savior. Herbert tried to burn them out of their subterranean den. I rescued them, bringing them aboard my bloody balloon, as you called it. And the rest, as they say, is history.”

“I think you’ve meddled quite enough,” said Burton.

“And I say I’m just getting started,” said Nebogipfel, twirling a finger in the air.

On this signal, rough hands seized Burton.

“What are you doing?”

“Giving you the gift I mentioned earlier.” Nebogipfel stepped toward Burton, holding a familiar-looking brass device attached to a leather strap. He secured it onto Burton’s wrist.

“This is a Time Machine similar to Miss Hemlock’s,” he said. “But with one difference. Only I can control it.”

“You mean to strand me somewhere in Time?”

“Heavens, no. Your history is already written. I have seen your death, friend Burton, years hence and many miles from England’s shores. No, I mean to show you something. You’ll move through Space as well as Time, via a mechanism too complex to explain.”

Burton glared at the device, flexing his hand.

“But I must warn you, Burton. “Do not attempt to remove it or alter its workings, or you shall become unstuck in Time, drifting either forward or backward forever, and not even I can locate you and effect a rescue. Good journeys, Captain Burton.”

“Do I have a bloody choice?”

Nebogipfel nodded, and the Morlocks released him, stepping back from the explorer in a widening circle. Nebogipfel stepped once more to the dirigible’s controls and flicked a crystalline lever. “While you’re gone, I am going to go back and deliver the Map of Time, as you call it, to Mycroft Holmes. You interrupted my first attempt.”

Burton saw orbs of light once more flicker before his eyes, and the scene aboard the dirigible began to pull away from him, growing indistinct. He felt ghost-like, his feet passing through the inlaid brass floor of the Time Balloon as he sank into indigo mists.

Captain Sir Richard Frances Burton emerged from indigo mists to the sound of a blaring horn and a large, wheeled vehicle careening towards him.

The explorer, eyes wide, dived out of the way just in time, landing in the mouth of a refuse-strewn alley. The contraption belched smoke from a pipe jutting from its rear, its driver yelling a string of incomprehensible curses as the craft swerved around a corner and disappeared.

Burton stood, brushing himself off, Nebogipfel’s Time Machine heavy on his wrist.

“Blimey,” said a young voice from the alley. “Are you all right, gov? You almost got creamed by that lorry.”

“Creamed,” Burton murmured. He looked into the alley and saw a small boy, about twelve years old. He was rail-thin, and dressed in threadbare clothes. He clutched a bundle of newspapers under one arm.

“Uh, yes,” said Burton. “I suppose I nearly was. Say, can you tell me the date?”

“April first,” said the boy.

Burton eyed his collection of newspapers. “Can I see one of those?”

The boy backed away. “Gotta pay for it first.”

Burton nodded. “Of course. How much?”

“Five pence.”

Burton almost balked, then realized things probably cost more in the future and, in a functioning economy, must do so. He reached into his pocket and fumbled around until he had the five pence. He placed this in the boy’s hand.

“Blimey!” he said, staring at his open palm. “These are old coins. My Da collects ‘em. For these, you can have my whole bloomin’ stack.”

Burton chuckled. “That won’t be necessary, my good fellow. Just one is enough, and you can keep the money.”

The boy pocketed the coins and handed Burton a paper, his eyes growing wide when he saw the Time Machine strapped to Burton’s wrist.

“Is that a Ratiocinator? Looks different.”

“A what?”

“You know. A Thinker.” The boy pulled up his right sleeve and showed Burton a smaller brass device secured to his wrist by a worn leather strap. Its face had a sickly green orb for a dial with a tiny grille underneath. It reminded Burton of a smirking cyclops.

“It tells us when there’s trouble,” said the boy.

As if to demonstrate, the dial began to glow and a tinny voice issued from the strange device.

“Air raid tonight. Stay indoors from 8 p.m. to midnight. Greater threat levels in Greenwich, Covent Garden, and West End.”

“What was that?” asked Burton.

“That’s The Thinker. It operates out of old Big Ben. Where have you been?”

Burton smiled at the boy and nodded, unfolding his paper. The newsie shrugged and, clutching his antique coins, ran away up the street, dropping the rest of his bundle, heedless of any lost revenue they might represent. The explorer looked up from his paper to watch the boy go, shaking his head before returning his attention to the newspaper.

There, under the masthead, was the information he sought: Tuesday, April 1st, 1945. The Time Traveler’s doppelganger had stranded him in the future. But for what purpose?

Burton turned and stepped from the alley’s mouth. He had always been an explorer at heart; and would be again. Concealing the Time Machine as best he could under his coat, the accidental Time Traveler merged into the throng and let it carry him away up the street.