James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

“Yes, this region, perhaps even the entire planet, has warmed greatly since our time. A shame our kind are no longer here to enjoy it.”

Herbert took Burton’s wrist, reading the tiny dial on the miniature Time Machine, then went to his own machine and set the destination dial accordingly. “I’m glad I added slots for the hours and minutes,” he said, patting the dial. Burton inspected it, noticing the difference.

“An alteration I made in this latest incarnation of my Time Machine,” he said with a grin. He went to Weena. “I must go, my dear. But I will return soon, in mere moments from your perspective.”

“Oh, all right,” she cooed and went back to making a crown from a handful of freshly picked flowers.

Herbert mounted the machine. “When you’re ready, Captain. When we arrive at the appointed day and time, we shall be in my back garden. I do hope my Time Machine doesn’t flatten the hydrangeas.”

“That will be satisfactory,” Burton said. He flicked the tiny lever, feeling a spinning vibration from somewhere inside the minute device. Herbert jerked at his levers, and the two of them were gone, careening through Time in concert.

Mycroft Holmes sat by the window in the Stranger’s Room, reading that morning’s edition of The London Mail . He wasn’t surprised as he looked up to see Dr. Moses Nebogipfel standing there, his hands clasped in front of him.

“I trust you found the Map’s first prediction satisfactory,” said Nebogipfel.

Mycroft Holmes arched an eyebrow. “More than satisfactory. It was accurate in every detail. And the event was so mundane. A horse frightened by a policeman’s whistle and overturning its master’s apple cart at precisely half past seven, and that I would see this occur as I was returning home.”

“Good,” said Nebogipfel. “Then I assume you are confident about the accuracy of the rest of the events in this timeline.”

Mycroft Holmes nodded.

“Then I expect my payment. The remaining Wold-Newton stones, as we agreed.”

“I appreciate this glimpse into the future you have afforded me,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Though I will not live to see all of them, I am already setting into motion procedures that will allow us to weather the coming storms, and even benefit and profit from them. I am also looking into ways to prolong my life, so that I may witness these future events firsthand and can guide them to this nation’s benefit personally.”

“You are as resourceful as legend says,” replied Nebogipfel with a smile.

Mycroft Holmes folded the newspaper and rested it on his lap. “But I cannot in good conscience give up any of the Wold-Newton stones. Their propensity for mischief is just too great.”

“Then let me assure you I mean no mischief. No harm will come to you or anyone else in London, or all of Britain, through my use of them. I seek to use them in a personal manner, and wish no one else any harm. In fact, I am going to return them to you, so that you may make use of them in the future for your, uh, longevity plans, the successful completion of which I have already witnessed.”

“You may not wish us harm,” said Holmes. “But harm may still be the end result. I’m sorry, good sir. But I cannot have someone running about through Time with such a powerful set of artifacts. Good day to you.”

Leaning back in his chair, the elder Holmes took up his paper again.

Nebogipfel scowled down at him. “I am sorry you feel that way. It is my own fault for dealing with such an unsavory, untrustworthy sort.”

Mycroft glared up at him. “Unsavory? You forget yourself, Time Traveler.”

Nebogipfel arched an eyebrow.

“Yes, I recognize you, Herbert, or whatever you call yourself. My own brother, master of disguise that he is, cannot fool me, and he has tried much harder than you. Now materialize elsewhere, before I have you thrown out bodily.”

“You mean like this?” Nebogipfel clapped his hands, and the door to the Stranger’s Room opened. In loped three hunched figures in black greatcoats and top hats. They wore glasses or goggles with smoked lenses and sidelights. These disguises failed to hide their bluish-white skin, long white hair, or hideous countenances. The Morlocks moved to stand beside Nebogipfel, staring down at Mycroft Holmes through goggled eyes.

“What is the meaning of this?” Holmes stammered. “What are these hideous creatures?”

“Mankind’s destiny,” said Nebogipfel. “And now your doom. I did not give you the precise date of every important future world event for the next two centuries out of the kindness of my heart. I expected something in return. Now I will simply take the Wold-Newton stones and leave my friends here to devour you all. Starting with you.”

“These are the cannibals from the sewers?”

Nebogipfel nodded. “The same. Enjoy your feast, my friends. Goodbye, Mycroft Holmes. I can see why Captain Burton dislikes you so.”

Nebogipfel touched a device on his wrist, flickered, and vanished.

Five minutes after Burton vanished through Time, Miss Hemlock and Inspector Abberline emerged from the alley to find that something was not quite right. They heard a woman scream, glancing up the street to see her being chased by a pair of loping, fungus-colored figures with long, stringy white hair.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Miss Hemlock muttered.

“Blimey!” said Abberline. “It’s those bleedin’ Morlocks. What are they doing out in broad daylight? I thought the sun hurt their eyes.”

“They’re wearing goggles,” said Miss Hemlock. “And protective clothing. It appears this was our mystery villain’s endgame after all. Come. We must find a way to stop them.”

Miss Hemlock ran toward the entrance of the Diogenes Club and opened the door. It was unlocked and unguarded. Abberline joined her as she ran inside. The place was deserted, which was just as well. The Club’s clientele would not approve of a woman wandering their infamous halls.

“Where is the Stranger’s room?” she asked.

“This way.” Abberline led her through the plush maze to the infamous abode of Mycroft Holmes. Abberline kicked the door open to find Mycroft Holmes tangled in Morlocks.

“Get them off of me,” the elder Holmes managed, uttering a choked cry as the Morlocks sought to haul him from his chair and presumably carry him away.

Abberline drew his revolver and fired into their midst, striking a Morlock in the right shoulder. It cried out, staggering back from the group, clutching its arm. The concussion of the weapon was deafening in the small room. Abberline had to be careful. He did not want to hit Mycroft Holmes.

Miss Hemlock could not hope to overpower the beast-men, but she sought to cripple them as much as she could, kicking their legs out from under them in an impressive show of martial prowess. Abberline fired his pistol at the ceiling, the noise causing the Morlocks to retreat behind Mycroft’s chair, giving the large man a chance to get up.

“He wanted the Wold-Newton stones,” said Mycroft Holmes. “When I refused to give them up, he sent these creatures after me.”

“They’re running all over London,” said Miss Hemlock. “I fear that was his plan all along. Where are the stones now?”

“Safe,” said Mycroft Holmes. “And who in blazes are you? Women are not allowed in the Diogenes Club!”

Miss Hemlock laughed. “I daresay neither are Morlocks, and you see how well that turned out. Perhaps you should install a placard.”

Mycroft Holmes harrumphed.