James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

“That. Is. Not. Why. You. Came. Here.”

Burton realized then that he was hearing Mycroft Holmes’ actual voice, but reedy and thin. “How are you speaking with me?”

“Wax. Cylinders. I. Recorded. My. Voice. Long. Ago. Common. Phrases. Numbers. The. Alphabet. I. Use. Them. To. Speak.”

“Bismillah,” said Burton.

“You. Came. Here. Because. Of. The. Map. Of. Time.”

“That is correct. I need to know where it is, Mycroft. Nebogipfel used you as a pawn to change history. You’re not some overseer of Time. Every moment you influenced changed Time’s original course. You’re barely staying ahead of any of it, are you?”

“I. Am. Timeless. Burton. I. See. All.”

“For what purpose? You’re bodiless. You’re wax cylinders and clockwork. You sit here helpless while Crowley is about to destroy you all.”

“You. Are. Tiresome. I. Don’t. Owe. You. An. Explanation. But. You. Are. Correct. I. Have. Grown. Weary. I. Have. Saved. Lives. But. History. Is. Vastly. Different. Than. The. Map. Originally. Revealed. Constant. Corrections. Are. Needed.

“And they’re still not enough, are they?” said Burton.

The machine rumbled. “No.”

“Nebogipfel has played you for a fool. Help me stop him. You have the gift of hindsight. Tell me where I can find the Map of Time after he gave it to you, and I can put an end to this nightmare history.”

“It. Is. Too. Late.”

“No, it isn’t. Time is malleable. Time is mutable.”

“I. Thought. So. Too. Once. Too. Unpredictable. You. Would. Make. My. Same. Mistake?”

Burton raked a hand through his beard. This much history had already been rewritten. Who was he to untangle its thread? But who was Mycroft Holmes to do so? Who was Moses Nebogipfel?

“I have to try to put things back as they were, even if we won’t ever know the difference.”

The machine that was once a man named Mycroft Holmes hummed. The machine rumbled. The machine clacked. Registers clicked throughout its bulk as it thought.

“I. Grow. Weary. Of. This. Existence.”

“Stop talking like that,” barked Crowley. “I can barely hear myself invoke.”

“And. I. Grow. Tired. Of. Your. Ministrations. Wizard. Burton. Is. Right. You. Are. Unleashing. Forces. That. Will. Doom. Us. All. I. Have. Seen. These. Forces.”

“Why are you doing your bloody ritual up here?” Burton asked the old man. Then he realized the answer. “Of course. The remaining Wold-Newton stones. They are part of your bulk, am I right, Mycroft?”

“You. Are. Correct.”

“Their ethereal vibrations will help pierce the veil,” said Crowley with a sneer. “What of it?”

“Where?” Burton asked the machine.

“Above. You.”

Richard Francis Burton began to climb.

“What are you doing?” Crowley shouted from below. “Stop, damn your eyes!”

Burton ignored the old man, hauling himself up on wooden rafters and metal framework to a matrix high above. In the space where the great bell once hung suspended was a crystalline structure, like a giant snowflake. Inside this was six black stones that glinted in the milky light coming in through gaps in the top of the clock tower.

“Stop!” Crowley croaked. “My working will not be interrupted!”

Burton ignored him. “Tell me where the Map of Time is hidden,” said Burton to the machine.

The bellows wheezed. The cylinders of wax turned on their great spindles. “I. Kept. It. On. My. Person. At. All. Times,” the machine said. “Safest. Place.”

“Blast!” said the explorer. How would he get it from him now?

He reached the top of the tower, and the Wold-Newton stones. Crowley seethed below him with wheezy, inchoate rage. “Blast you, Burton! I need those stones intact.”

Burton went to where they were secured in the crystalline lattice. The way they caught the light reminded him of the crystalline control levers of the Time Machine. The explorer removed a penknife from his pocket and went to work, prying the first stone free. It was big as a marble, and cut into facets like a diamond. He stared into it and thought he could see universes. The faces of the other Burtons he had met danced within each facet. He held it between thumb and forefinger, then tossed it into the whirring mechanism below. It caught in the teeth of two cogs and was ground into dust.

He went to work on the other stones, freeing all six of them and dashing them to powder while Crowley fumed helplessly. At some point he had called for assistance; Burton could hear many booted feet running up the stairs that led into the top of the tower.

“Thank. You,” said the Thinker. Without the Wold-Newton stones, there was nothing else pinning his soul to the machine. With a puff of smoke and the smell of burnt wiring, Mycroft Holmes was no more.

Burton felt a wave of dizziness smash into him, sensed this undone causality collapsing in upon itself, and he fell from the rafters and down into clockwork and wires and components he did not have names for. One name escaped his lips.

“Isabel.”

Burton opened his eyes and found himself lying on the deck of Nebogipfel’s strange craft once more. Herbert’s doppelganger helped the explorer to his feet.

“How did you enjoy your jaunt through things to come?” Nebogipfel asked with a sneer.

“I could have done without it,” Burton declared, removing the Time Machine from his wrist and dashing it to the floor. “Why did you send me into the future?”

“To show you what is possible,” said Nebogipfel. “To show you what my glorious work in your time has wrought. Splendid, isn’t it? A Britain ruled by a mad magician and a clockwork mind! An empire that will reshape the world in numerous and untold ways. And it’s all my doing.”

Burton sat up. Nebogipfel hadn’t been watching him. He didn’t know what he had done. “You’re insane. Time is not clay that you can mold however you like, only to smash it all and start again.”

“Oh, but it is,” said Nebogipfel. “I’ve just proven it to you. I am the God of Time.” Nebogipfel spun in a circle, arms outstretched. The Morlocks watched him impassively through their smoked goggles.

“Poor Herbert never really understood what his invention represents. He journeyed through Time as one on a sight-seeing trip, a passive observer, a voyeur who acted as if all that he was witnessing couldn’t be altered, as if the future in which he found himself couldn’t be changed for the better. Or worse.”

“But he did change it,” observed Burton. “He freed the gentle Eloi from the cruel Morlocks.” He stared at Nebogipfel’s companions self-consciously as he said this.

“But not at the source, when it could have done some good,” said Nebogipfel. “And he chose the wrong side; the descendants of the aristocracy and landed gentry he has always inwardly railed against, rather than the poor Morlocks, children of the poor, put-upon working class. I seek to correct that error.”

“You’re taking one error and adding to it a thousand-fold,” said Burton. “Herbert sought to learn from Time. You seek only to control it.”

“No. That’s not it at all. Don’t you see from your own wanderings? You can’t control it. Whatever we touch is irrevocably altered in ways we cannot foresee. That is the beautiful and terrible nature of Time.”

While Nebogipfel was dancing about, Burton moved closer to the raised control panel where Miss Hemlock’s wrist-mounted Time Machine lay. Now he was close enough to touch it. He reached for it, elbowing a Morlock in the nose who tried to stop him.

“No!” Nebogipfel exclaimed, reaching for the explorer. But it was too late. Burton gripped the miniature Time Machine tightly, thumbing its tiny lever. Nebogipfel and his tableau of Morlocks faded from view.