James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

The city had grown more crowded and clamorous in the intervening eighty-five years, the streets filled with more of the machines like the kind that had almost run him over. It seemed they had completely replaced the horse and buggy as the preferred means of transport. People dressed strangely and, Burton was pleased to see, a bit less formally. Gone were the tight corsets and voluminous bustles for the women, and beards and top hats seemed to have gone out of style for the men. The only formal dress Burton saw were among the soldiers, young lads decked out in crisp, dark green, with gleaming gold epaulets and symbols of rank that Burton found comfortingly familiar. But everyone had one item in common: the queer Thinkers, like the one the newspaper boy wore, strapped firmly to their wrists.

The air smelled just as foul as the London he remembered, only instead of coal smoke and refuse, it was something else, possibly the fuel they burned in their calamitous auto carriages. It was a wonder they all didn’t suffocate and die where they stood. Burton needed a plan. The sooner he saw whatever it was Nebogipfel wanted him to see, the sooner he could be gone from this abysmal future time. Besides, he wasn’t about to wander aimlessly around this familiar yet alien city like a bloody lost tourist. Looking around to get his bearings, Burton spied the familiar Nelson’s Column, the poor fellow looking dingy and much the worse for wear. This put him at Trafalgar Square.

He moved east, threading his way through the throng of people and vehicles, with no clear idea of where he was going. Until he saw the sign. It read Occult Ministry, and was fastened to the front of a tall, imposing brick building onto which esoteric symbols—possibly ones of protection—had been painted. Burton found it odd that such a department not only existed, but that they would announce their presence so boldly. Burton surmised that in this future time, the existence of the occult was common knowledge, and a shudder ran through him. It meant that his—and the Shadow Council’s—efforts to keep such things secret were all for naught. He stepped up to a set of heavy wooden doors, turned one of the knobs and walked inside.

He found himself standing in a dim and cavernous hallway. People moved about, heedless of Burton’s presence. On either side of the hall were open doors leading into various offices, from which Burton heard a strange rhythmic clacking and, from the far end of the building, an insistent, shrill bell that rang loudly at random intervals.

A young man in a pale blue suit came around a corner, his arms laden with thick, ancient leather-bound volumes, and almost slammed into Burton. The explorer backed away, apologizing. Taking a chance, he said, “Can you tell me where I can find Miss Penelope Hemlock?” Burton knew she wasn’t likely a part of the Occult Ministry, but she was the only person he knew in this time.

“Down the hall on your right,” said the man, and hurried off.

Burton tipped his hat in thanks, but the man had already disappeared into one of the offices to put down his burden. Burton walked in the direction indicated, wondering if he was altering Time even further. If this was a time before Miss Hemlock left to go back to Burton’s London, he would be adding an additional paradox onto an already fractured timeline. He muttered all of this to himself, longing for the bygone days when all he had to worry about was malaria and bloodthirsty natives.

At the end of the hall was a wooden door affixed with a brass plate that read Operation Chronos. Burton smiled and knocked. When no one acknowledged him, he turned and knob and entered.

Operation Chronos consisted of a single narrow room, both walls lined with shelves filled almost to bursting with papers and books. At the far end was a desk with a pentagram emblazoned on its front. A tall, slender man sat on the edge of it perusing through a thick volume, a black cigarette holder jutting from his mouth, his head wreathed in acrid smoke. He looked at Burton, slamming the volume closed.

“I’m sorry,” said the explorer. “I was looking for Miss Hemlock. Is she in?”

“She just stepped out,” said the man, looking Burton up and down disapprovingly. “Mission. Are you one of the wizards? You’re supposed to report to Simon Iff. He’s upstairs.”

“I’m not a wizard,” said Burton. “I’m—this is going to sound terribly strange. I’m Richard Francis Burton.”

The man jumped from the desk and moved toward the explorer, eying him. He had a high forehead and dark hair giving way to silver. “By Jove, man. You bloody well are. How marvelous to meet you. But what are you doing here?”

They shook hands. “It’s quite a a long story,” said Burton. “It seems I have run afoul of the man Miss Hemlock has been chasing through Time.”

The man’s mouth opened so wide he almost dropped his cigarette holder. “Bloody hell! I told her not to go traipsing off after that madman. Which means she’s absconded with our chronos unit. That impudent girl. I’m sorry she’s dragged you into this. You shouldn’t be here!”

“It is not her fault I am here,” said Burton. “It was the man you’ve been chasing. I thought you knew Miss Hemlock had traveled back through Time to stop him.”

The man scowled. “Good heavens! No. I’m afraid Miss Hemlock has a mind of her own.”

“I don’t understand,” said Burton. “She told me she was a Time Agent.”

The other man snatched his cigarette holder from his mouth and uttered dry laughter. “Time Agent? I’m sorry, Captain Burton. The fool girl misrepresented herself. I shall give her a stern talking to once she returns. If she returns.”

He tamped out his cigarette in a silver ashtray and set another in its place, lighting it with a match before taking a deep drag from it. “I’m forgetting my manners. I am Ian Fleming, late of the Naval Department, now assigned to the Occult Ministry as assistant to Aleister Crowley.”

Burton arched an eyebrow. “And who is he?”

“He runs the whole Ministry. He’s a ceremonial magician who warned us of what Germany was doing on the esoteric plane. He helps us counter their magic with some of our own. Well, he and the Thinker, of course.”

“Yes, I know of the Thinker,” said Burton darkly.

“Yes, well, I’m sure our Miss Hemlock told you of the war.”

“She did. So you don’t have any so-called Time Agents running about trying to counter Germany’s war efforts?”

“Goodness, no. Bad stuff, Time travel. We only had the one working prototype, which I unwisely gave to Miss Hemlock for safekeeping. I hope she hasn’t been too much trouble for you back in your time.”

“No,” said Burton. “On the contrary. She’s quite formidable. In fact, she saved my life.”

Fleming chuckled. “Well, that’s something at least. But if she isn’t here with you, how did you arrive here?”

Burton showed Fleming the device Nebogipfel had strapped to his wrist. “The villain Miss Hemlock chased back to my time put this on me and sent me here. He said he wants me to see something. I don’t know what.”

“Good heavens,” said Fleming. “It’s similar to the one our scientists built, based on the mysterious Time Traveler’s original design, as left to us in the files of Mycroft Holmes.”

“Yes,” said Burton. “Similar, but not the same. He controls it. If I attempt to remove it, I will be lost in Time forever.”

“So why are you here now?” asked Fleming.

“I’m not sure. Our mutual devil insists on teaching me something about the nature of Time. But I know who he is.”

Fleming arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“It is hard to explain, but he represents the darker impulses of the Time Machine’s original inventor.”