Free The Return of the Discontinued Man (A Burton & Swinburne Adventure) by Mark Hodder Page B

macroscopic equivalent. It would perhaps, be the size of a room or, more significantly, of a large vehicle.” He looked meaningfully at Burton. “One that might carry the core of our rebel group three years back through history.”
    Swinburne squawked, swiped a fist through the air, and hollered, “By crikey! We’ll be able to go back and nip that blighter Gladstone in the bud!”
    Burton shook his head and muttered, “There’s a problem.”
    He knew the plan wouldn’t work. In travelling back to alter the past, the rebels would simply create a new strand of history. This one, in which he now found himself, would remain unchanged.
    Babbage misinterpreted the comment as a question. “There is. The helmet is almost drained of power. If you give me permission, I can transfer energy to it from the Nimtz generator. The process might possibly allow the intelligence to regain some measure of sanity, enabling it to repair itself and provide me with further information.”
    “Permission?”
    “The suit is yours.”
    Burton sighed. He indicated his consent.
    Babbage consulted his pocket watch and declared it to be nine o’clock on the fifteenth of February.
    The king’s agent suddenly knew exactly who, where, and when he was.
    The wrong Burton.
    In the wrong place.
    On the wrong day.
    Another repeat performance. Why?
    Babbage ran his finger around the side of the Nimtz generator. The disk crackled and threw out a fountain of sparks. The old man recoiled with a cry of alarm.
    Burton reached to either side, took Swinburne and Spencer by their arms, and started to pull them away from the bench.
    Babbage stepped backward. “I hadn’t anticipated—”
    A bubble formed around the helmet, suit and boots. With a thunderous bang, it popped, and the time suit, most of the workbench, and a large chunk of Isambard Kingdom Brunel vanished. The engineer slumped and became motionless.
    Spencer cried out, “Blimey! Where’s it gone?”
    “No! No! No!” Babbage wailed. “This is a disaster! We can’t have lost it! It’s impossible!” He stamped his feet and clapped his hands to his face. “How? How?”
    Burton closed his eyes and massaged the sides of his head. “I’ve had enough of mysteries, and the light in this place always gives me a headache. I’m leaving.”
    Swinburne and Spencer joined him. They walked back across the workshop and out through its doors. Snow was falling from a pitch-black sky. It was white. The courtyard, swathed in it, glared brilliantly under the spotlights.
    The men left the power station and approached the armadillidium. Burton ordered, “Open.” It unrolled its considerable bulk. He climbed aboard, and his companions followed him up.
    “The chaps are waiting for us at the Hog in the Pound,” Swinburne said. “Let’s see what plan Trounce and Slaughter have come up with. A means to rescue Miss Mayson from Gladstone’s lustful groping, I hope.”
    Taking hold of the reins, Burton guided the woodlouse back through the gardens and out onto Nine Elms Lane.
    He looked down at his hands. The scar on the left was no longer there. Brightness swept in from the corners of his eyes. He saw his fingers curled around the reins of his armadillidium; around the reins of a clockwork horse; around the handlebars of a velocipede.
    In an instant, the snow stopped falling and it was daylight.
    He lost control of his vehicle, hit the back of a hansom cab, careened into the kerb, and crashed to the ground. The penny-farthing’s crankshaft snapped and went spinning high into the branches of the trees lining the riverside.
    He lay sprawled on the ground.
    The cab driver yelled, “You blithering idiot!” but didn’t stop his vehicle.
    A raggedly dressed match seller—a woman who lacked teeth but possessed an overabundance of facial hair—shuffled over and squinted down at the king’s agent. “Is ye hurt, ducky?”
    For a moment, he couldn’t reply, then he managed to croak, “No. I’m all