“Glad you’re enjoying it,” said Will.
“I’m sorry, but I am.”
“Just one thing,” said Will. “Bestest friends and all that. But you seem to have forgotten something. You’re also my half-brother. If our many times grandfather dies, then neither of us will exist.”
“Call for a cab,” said Tim. “We can’t just sit around here chatting. We have pressing business to attend to.”
“Brilliant,” said Will.
“Now this is brilliant,” said Tim, and he peered through the passenger window and out at the clouds.
“We are now flying,” called the cabbie through his little glass hatchway, “at an altitude of three hundred feet at a cruising speed of eighty-five miles per hour. Our estimated time of arrival will be about half past ten.”
“Brilliant,” said Tim once more. The aerial hansom was a splendid affair, powered by Tesla turbines which drew their transmitted energy from the great sky towers. The seating was sumptuous; all overstuffed leather and polished brass fittings. The driver sat up front and he whistled as he flew.
“Present state-of-the-Victorian-art,” said Will. “I’ve never travelled in one of these before; they’re brand new.”
“Only picked up mine last week, Colonel,” said the cabbie. “I know tourists still favour the old horse-drawn hansom, and many of the toffs don’t feel safe travelling above ground level except in airships, but the future of public transport lies in aerial cabs; that’s my conviction.”
“Goes to show how wrong you can be,” whispered Tim. “We don’t have these in our age.”
“Don’t have the technology,” said Will.
“But we must have.”
“No, we don’t. Look down there.” Will pointed. “See those?”
“I do,” said Tim. “What are they?”
“They are the Tesla towers, I told you about them. The country is dotted with them; they are linked to power stations. They broadcast electricity on a radio frequency. This cab picks up the transmission of energy; it powers the engine. No batteries to weigh the craft down you see; that’s how it can fly.”
“Incredible,” said Tim. “And we don’t have this technology in our age because it was somehow erased from history.”
“In the year nineteen hundred, as far as I can figure out. Remember how I got into all this, in the first place? The digital watch in The Fairy Feller’s Masterstroke?”
Tim nodded thoughtfully.
“Mind you,” the cabbie called back, “I don’t actually have any idea how to land this thing. It’s the first time I’ve actually flown it.”
“I’m sure you will do fine,” said Will.
“What?” said Tim.
“I would have waited a bit,” said the cabbie. “Had a bit of a test drive from my back garden. But when I heard the call go out on the old CB that Colonel Will Starling wanted a lift to the launch site, what with there being no other cabs available as everyone was heading for the launch site. Well, I upped for Queen and country, and Gawd bless me, if we all die in getting you there, then I’ve still done my duty, haven’t I?”
“What?” said Tim once again, but with greater emphasis.
“Where exactly is the launch site?” Will asked.
“You’re a caution, Colonel,” said the cabbie. “As if you don’t know.”
“Pretend I don’t,” said Will. “Where is it?”
“Penge,” called the cabbie. “I hear it’s a very nice place, although I’ve never been there myself. The grounds of the Crystal Palace. Might I ask you something, Colonel?”
“You might,” said Will.
“Do you think there’s blokes up there, on the moon, Colonel? The theory that extraterrestrial life might exist is hardly new, is it? And this world of ours is literally littered with ancient monuments of gargantuan proportion that defy explanation. For instance, the great pyramid of Cheops, the monuments at Karnac. Even—”
“Fly on,” said Will.
The Crystal Palace.
Ah!
How wonderful was that?
Extremely wonderful, beautifully wonderful, wonderfully wonderful. The Millennium Dome? Spht![24]
Five thousand nine hundred feet in length, over thirteen million separate panes of glass, entirely lit within by neon.
The air cab dropped down towards the Crystal Palace in a somewhat faltering manner. It did cruisings-in, followed by severe pullings-up. It did comings-round-again, followed by further and even more severe pullings-up. It did droppings-down-slowly, followed by frantic pullings-away. It did.
“Aaaaagh!” went the cabbie as Will shimmied into the driving compartment and flung him out through the driver’s door.
“That was a bit harsh,” said Tim.
“He’d have killed us.”
“I think you just killed him.”
“He fell into a pond. He’s okay.”
“And so you know how to drive this thing?”
“I’m willing to give it a go.”
Tim hid his face, put his hands together and recommended himself to his deity.
Will brought the air cab down into the lake amongst the concrete dinosaurs.
“Oh very good,” said Tim, peeping up. “We’ve survived.”
“Have a little faith.” Will climbed out of the cab and into the water. “It’s cold,” he said. “But not deep.” And he waded ashore.
They were certainly there in their thousands. The glitterati of Victorian society. The expansive lawns were bespattered with them, seated in groups about their picnic hampers and gingham tablecloths.
Will and Tim did meltings into the crowd.
“No doubt you have some kind of plan,” said Tim. “Would you care to favour me with it?”
“Get up front,” said Will. “Keep an eye out for the Elephant Man. We have to get the launch postponed until the spacecraft can be checked for any bombs.”
“Fair enough,” Tim said. They were threading their way through the picnicking celebrities. Will had his head well down. Tim had his up; he was enjoying everything.
A voice on the public address system announced that the gallant pilot was now approaching the rostrum. The crowd cheered wildly.
Tim and Will threaded their ways onward.
It was a beautiful day. Considering the lateness of the season and everything. Very warm, very sunny, very clement. Ahead the moonship rose, glittering in the sunlight.
It was a proper Victorian moonship, with proper big fins, proper pointy top and proper portholes, lots of proper portholes.
“That is an amazing bit of kit,” said Tim. “Do you think it will actually fly?”
“It will, if I have anything to do with it.”
“That’s not what I meant. Look at it, Will. It’s a Victorian spaceship. The Victorians didn’t have spaceships. I’m becoming unsure about any of this. Perhaps ours is the right future. Perhaps none of this should really have happened.”
“What are you saying?” Will asked.
“I don’t know. I’m not sure, but this can’t be really real, can it? All this is more like a dream. None of it ties up, somehow.”
“Please don’t confuse the issue even further, Tim. We’re here to see this moonship take off safely and our many times great-grandfather in it. Whether it’s really real or not, whatever that means, I can’t go into now.”
“Nice day for it,” said Tim. “Shall we get up as close as we can?”
“That’s the idea.”
And so they moved forward, furtherly threading their way. They passed by a group of Pre-Raphaelite painters living it large with hampers of champagne.
“Sorry,” said Tim, as he stood upon the foot of Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
And then finally, when they could thread their way no further, they stopped – beside the twenty-foot-high electrically charged fence.
“This would be an obstacle to our further threadings forward,” said Tim. “How are we going to get around this?”
Will stared
up at the fence. Little blue crackles of electricity moved all around and about of it, saying in their own special way, “just you try it, buddy”.
“They’ve somewhat stepped up security,” said Will, “since the assassination attempt at the launching of the Dreadnaught. They’re not taking any more risks on the life of Her Majesty.”
“Gawd bless Her.”
“Shut up.”
“Sorry.”
“We’ll just have to go around it.”
“We don’t have much time,” said Tim.
“Don’t we?” said Will.
“Counting down,” came a voice over the public address system. “Ten … nine … eight …”
Will looked at Tim.
And Tim looked at Will.
“Do something,” said Tim.
“Seven …”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Six …”
“Ask Barry to help.”
“Five …”
“I’m not asking Barry.”
“Four …”
“But he could …”
“Three …”
“I’m not going to ask him. There has to be a way …”
“Two …”
“Do something!” Tim now assumed the foetal position.
“One …”
“Perhaps if I …” said Will.
And, “ZERO.”
And, “KABOOOOM!”
32
The explosion erupted.
The moonship was torn into fragments. Shards of metal blasted in every direction. Ten million panes of glass fragmented in the Crystal Palace. Courtiers flung themselves in front of Her Majesty.[25] Beyond the electrified perimeter fence Will and Tim were bowled back by the force of the blast, and rich and and famous folk who sprawled upon the clipped lawns were swept away as if painted dollies before the hand of a petulant child. The bandstand collapsed, spilling musicians. A mushroom cloud rose into the sky.
All was chaos and destruction and devastation.
Will raised his head. His hair was scorched, his face somewhat reddened, but he seemed otherwise uninjured.
“Tim,” he called. “Tim.”
Folk were fleeing now. Some of them were on fire. Will caught sight of Oscar Wilde, his trousers ablaze, and Lord Babbage and Mr Tesla and, it seemed, every notable body of the age, running and screaming and patting at their burning bits and bobs. It was mayhem.
“Bugger me,” said Tim, raising himself from beneath a fallen section of bandstand and freeing himself from beneath his hair. “Will?”
“I’m here,” Will dusted debris from his person. “We’re both here. Both still here.”
“But the moonship? Our many times great-granddad?”
“I don’t know,” said Will.
“But he couldn’t have survived.”
“I just don’t know.”
“Let’s get out of here,” said Tim.
“We can’t. People are injured. Many people. We’ll have to help.”
“You’re right.”
A wild-eyed and trembly Queen Victoria was being escorted away from the scene of devastation. Military fellows were stumbling about, helping up the fallen. The Crystal Palace itself was now ablaze.
Tim pointed towards it. “I remember being taught in history about that burning down,” he said, “although it seems that they got the date wrong and the circumstances.”
“We really should get out of here, chief,” said Barry. “Leave this to the professionals. You don’t know anything about first aid.”
Will pressed his fists to his temples. “You could have prevented this,” he shouted.
“Me, chief? But you didn’t ask. You’re doing things your way, remember?”
“Take me back then, ten minutes into the past and I’ll stop it from happening.”
“No can do, chief. That’s not the way it works. I can’t do anything to change what’s already happened. Only what might happen.”
“Are you okay?” Tim asked.
“Of course I’m not. Are you?”
“Anything but. So should we help?”
“No,” Will shook his head. “We couldn’t stop this. But we’ll stop what is to come.”
“I don’t think I quite follow you.”
“I’m angry now,” said Will. “I’m very angry. Come on. Follow me.”
Joseph Carey Merrick was putting the finishing touches to the paste and paper model he had been constructing of the Tesla dynamo factory, the rooftops of which he could see from his lodgings in Bedstead Square. The miniature radio mast he held between tweezers dropped from them as Tim and Will burst into his rooms.
“You bastard,” said Will. “You murderous bastard.”
“William” said the Elephant Man, “you startled me.”
“Blimey,” said Tim. “You’re one ugly mother-f–”
“Leave this to me,” said Will and he approached Mr Merrick. “You didn’t attend the launching of the moonship,” he said.
“I make few public appearances,” said Mr Merrick. “I remain shy. You can understand that, considering my appearance. Most folk find it troubling.”
“You feared for your miserable life.” Will was upon him now; he dragged the cripple to his feet.
“Unhand me,” cried Mr Merrick.
“You had the moonship rigged with a bomb. People died. Many people.”
“Please let me go. My body is frail.”
“I will wring the life from it.”
“I saved your life. Yours and millions more.”
“You killed my great- great- great- grandfather.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” said the Elephant Man.
“No it doesn’t. But you killed all those people.”
“I had to do it. How did you know?”
“I heard you,” said Will. “Three nights ago, when I was here with you, I heard you communicating with your alien controller.”
“Please let me go. You’re hurting me.”
“I could kill you,” said Will. “With nothing more than a fingertip’s pressure. I am a master of Dimac”
“Taught to you, no doubt, by my old friend Hugo Rune.”
Will let the Elephant Man drop. He sank back into his chair.
“Speak to me.” Will swept aside Mr Merrick’s model building, reducing it to destruction.
“I have worked for months upon that.”
“You’re next,” said Will. “Tell me everything, or I will surely kill you.”
“And so you should. I welcome death. Can you imagine what it is like to be me?”
“You seem to do all right with the ladies.”
“Yes, but apart from that.”
“Just speak to me,” said Will. “And quickly.”
“Iyomcwmctykttami.”
“Not that quickly.”
“If you overheard me communicating with my controller,” said Mr Merrick, “then you know the truth about my identity. I am half man and half what you call alien. Martian to be precise.”
“Real Martian,” said Tim. “Not in our future.”
“What is this man saying?” Mr Merrick asked.
“Never mind,” said Will. “Continue.”
“The folk of Mars do not wish for war,” said Mr Merrick.
“No one’s declaring war on Mars,” said Will.
“The British Empire will,” said Mr Merrick. “They declare war upon everybody. They extend their Empire mercilessly. On and on, within five years it will encompass the globe. But it must not extend beyond Earth into space. Not to Mars. The British Empire’s space programme must be halted.”
“You can’t halt progress,” said Will. “Well, I mean, well, you shouldn’t.”
“I must,” said Mr Merrick. “That is my mission. If I fail and the British Empire extends to Mars, then the Martian army will invade Earth and destroy every human upon it.”
“You’ll lose,” said Will. “I’ve read Mr H.G. Wells’ book. I know how it ends.”
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“I fail to understand you.”
“If Mars invades Earth,” said Will, “Mars will fail. All the Martians will die.”
“And many men too.”
“And many men too,” said Will.
“And I do not wish for that to happen. Do you?”
“No,” said Will. “I do not.”
There was a bit of a silence.
And then Tim broke it.
“Are you going to kill him, then?” Tim asked.
“Are we going to kill him then?” a pinch-faced woman enquired of another pinch-faced woman. The two of them were staring down at Colonel William Starling, who lay prone upon the cold stone floor of the cell at Brentford nick.
“Turn him over,” said a pinch-faced woman.
Another pinch-faced woman turned over the Colonel with her boot.
“It isn’t him,” she said.
“Isn’t him?” another pinch-faced woman asked.
There were four of them, all women, and all pinch-faced.
“Isn’t him?”
“Look at the magnificent sideburns. He could hardly have grown them overnight, could he? It’s not him.”
“Then it’s one of his ancestors.”
“Which means that if we—”
“Exactly.”
“Then shall we?”
“Shall we what, ladies?” asked Constable Meek, entering the cell.
“Nothing, constable, but this is not the man you want.”
“Eh?” said a cabbie, entering hot on the heels of the constable. “But it looks just like him. His photo is here on the front page of the Brentford Mercury.” The cabbie held up the newspaper. “You’re not trying to swindle me out of my one thousand quid, are you?”
“Sideburns,” said a pinch-faced woman pointing to the front-page photograph. “This man had much larger sideburns. He could hardly have grown them overnight, could he?”
“Are you sure they’re real?” asked the cabbie. And he knelt down and gave them a tug. “Damn,” he continued. “They are. And there was me thinking that I’d be able to give up cabbying and indulge myself in a brief but exotic life of drunkenness and debauchery.”
“Such is life,” said a pinch-faced woman, “but not yours, it would seem.”
The Witches of Chiswick Page 31