The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack by Mark Hodder
“Wait!” protested Swinburne.
“It interrupts,” harmonised Darwin. “We should not feel this sensation of impatience, for have we not already established that the poetical mind operates outside the logic of the scientific mind? We cannot expect it to restrain its impulses until it has heard all the information we wish to present. Yes, we agree. We must indulge the creature. What is it, Algernon Charles Swinburne?”
The little flame-headed poet, stretched out and strapped down, with machines sizzling, spitting, and shooting bolts of lightning all around him, felt as if he were trapped in a nightmare. With the squashed, gargoylelike face of Darwin peering down at him and the figure of Galton standing nearby, motionless but for the winking lights atop his head, the scene could have been a painting by Hieronymus Bosch come to life.
Fighting his rising hysteria, Swinburne shook his head and tried to order his thoughts.
“The Origin of Species made you famous—or should I say notorious—two years ago,” he said. “When the church issued death threats against you, you went into hiding, but by then your face was familiar to the general public and it certainly didn’t have that horrible big bonce towering over it. In other words, the machinery encasing you wasn’t required until a later date. Yet ‘59 is also the year Brunel died, therefore he cannot possibly have designed it.”
Again, the horrid rattle sounded.
“The poet makes a logical argument, though the solution to the apparent paradox is simple.”
“Oh, really?” said Swinburne, sarcastically. “Please enlighten me!”
“Brunel,” came the response. “Step forward.”
To the left of the throne, one of the huge pieces of machinery suddenly rose from the floor with a loud hiss of steam and clanged forward.
The most famous and successful engineer in the world, if this was truly Brunel, was no longer the short, dark-haired, cigar-chomping man of memory.
He stood on three triple-jointed metal legs. These were attached to a horizontal disk-shaped chassis affixed to the bottom of the main body, which, shaped like a barrel lying on its side, appeared to be constructed from wood and banded with strips of studded brass. There were domed protrusions at either end of it, each bearing nine multijointed arms, each arm ending in a different tool, ranging from delicate fingers to slashing blades, drills to hammers, spanners to welders.
A further dome rose from the top of Brunel’s body. From this, too, arms extended—six in all—though these were more like tentacles, so long and flexible were they. Each ended in a clamplike hand.
At various places around the body, revolving cogwheels poked through slots in the wood, and on one shoulder—it was impossible to say whether it was the left or right because Brunel had no discernible front or back—a pistonlike device slowly rose and fell. On the other, something resembling a bellows pumped up and down, making a ghastly wheezing noise. Small exhaust pipes expelled puffs of white vapour from either end of the barrel.
Amid all the electrical machinery, this great steaming hulk seemed strangely primitive.
It thumped across the floor and squatted at Swinburne’s side.
A hot cloud blew from one of its vents and rolled over the poet’s face.
Bells chimed from the bulky mechanism.
“Our dear friend Isambard’s voice takes some getting used to,” said Darwin. “He just confirmed that he is very much alive.”
Swinburne laughed. “I’m dreaming!” he cried. “I’m dreaming!”
“Most interesting,” said Darwin. “Observe how the poet denies the input of his senses. This is a fascinating reaction. We suggest a rupture between the corporeal sense of existence and the acquired sense of intellectual identity. Indeed. Algernon Charles Swinburne quite literally cannot believe his eyes. See how they have lost focus. We propose that this is a symptom of the medical condition termed ‘shock,’ caused, in this instance, by the unfamiliarity of his environment. Were he of the lower order of beasts, this would ensure his destruction. Let us continue with this diverting experiment. Perhaps a brief explanation of Brunel’s continued existence will bridge the rupture? Yes, but wait; we have opened a further path of investigation. We are intrigued by the possibility that a being, when placed in an environment that is alien to it, might react in this manner. If evolution is a matter of adapt or die, then is not shock entirely counterproductive to the process? Why, then, does the condition of shock exist? What is its function? We must experiment further. Agreed. However, let us first continue with our faux chimney sweep.
“Algernon Charles Swinburne, what you are looking at might be termed a life-support machine. It is steam-powered, to allow full mobility, for the Engineers have not yet created a technique whereby sufficient electrical power might be stored in a portable container. Our colleague Isambard had himself placed inside the machine in 1859. It has kept him alive since, enabling his continued rule of the Technologists.”
“Well, this is all very nice,” mumbled Swinburne, as far as possible cowering away from the gigantic form of Brunel. “But to get back to the bloody point, why are you abducting chimney sweeps?”
Darwin’s bony fingers flexed. “Ah. He regains focus. Excellent! Shall we tell him? Yes, proceed. We need fear nothing, for he will be destroyed shortly. Algernon Charles Swinburne, at some future period, not very distant as measured by centuries, the civilized races of man will almost certainly exterminate and replace the savage races throughout the world.”
“Is that so?”
“It is the evolutionary path. The questions which form the basis for our experimental programme are these: Can the British Empire, as the dominant civilised race, hasten the process? What form shall the future Empire take? And which physical attributes will prove most beneficial to the people of the Empire? To this end, our experiment is comprised of three elements.
“The first is designed to remove the burden of survival from the Empire’s citizens in order that they may concentrate exclusively upon the development of their scientific and inventive skills. Thus, Mr. Brunel is overseeing the rapid introduction of machines which will, ultimately, fulfill all the material functions required to sustain life, from the provision and distribution of food to the creation and maintenance of dwellings.”
“And what of those of us who don’t want to be scientists?” interrupted Swinburne.
“The second branch of our experiment has been designed to deal with such as you. It concerns selective breeding—eugenics in its purest form. The greater mass of humanity, which has not yet evolved the ability to think rationally, is disordered and unpredictable. It is driven by animal desires which, even after the machines eliminate hunger and want, will continue to slow the evolutionary process. We therefore intend a biological intervention to bring order to the masses, a programme through which each individual will gain a specialism that contributes to the whole.
“Using chimney sweeps as our test subject, we are manipulating their biology in order that they and their descendants remain small in stature, a form which is ideal for the function they perform. Indeed, we are enhancing the boys by breeding into them additional characteristics which will serve them well in their specialism. We aim to follow their progress through successive generations, and, once the technique is perfected, we will create other specialisms, such as miners with perfect night vision, labourers with immense physical strength, and so forth. The greater mass of humanity will become as a machine, its separate parts functioning smoothly, the whole mechanism serving the scientists.
“The third aspect of the experiment, which is being conducted by our colleague Nurse Nightingale—”
Swinburne let loose a gasp, for he knew of Florence Nightingale; it was rumoured that Richard Monckton Milnes had proposed to her ten years previously, and, though she refused him, his continued attentions had driven her to a nervous breakdown.
“—involves the raising of the lower beasts to a level where they might serve humanity more effectively.”
Swi
“Observe his impulsive inquisitiveness,” harmonised Darwin and Galton from the single, grotesque body. “He has not the patience to gather all the facts before formulating his enquiries but must express each question the moment it occurs to him. This is not the behaviour of an evolved mind. Nevertheless, we must address him on his own terms, else how will he understand?
“Algernon Charles Swinburne, you are correct: the creatures are not men made wolves, but wolves made men. We must confess, our methodology in this area requires a great deal more testing and analysis before we can perfect it. The wolf-men have an unfortunate biological imbalance which causes a propensity for spontaneous combustion. Nurse Nightingale is looking into the problem.”
“I hope she burns her fingers!” muttered Swinburne.
“We will continue. There exists a secondary experiment which combines aspects of the first and third programmes. It involves the mechanical enhancement of the human form. Behold.”
Darwin gestured to Swinburne’s right. The poet looked but saw only bulky contrivances, sparking electrodes, cables, pipes, flashing lights, and objects his eyes could barely interpret.
Something moved.
It was the front of a large lozenge-shaped contraption, a slab of metal into which dials and gauges were set, standing upright but inclined slightly backward. It occurred to the poet that it somewhat resembled a sarcophagus, whose lid was now lifting of its own accord.
White vapour burst from its sides and fell as snowflakes to the floor.
The lid slid forward then silently glided to one side, revealing the contents within.
Swinburne saw a naked man whose pale skin glistened with frost. Tubes entered his flesh from the inside edges of the metal coffin, piercing the skin of his scarred thighs, of his arms and his neck. The upper-left side of his head was missing. The left eye had been replaced with some sort of lens set in rings of brass. Above this, where there should have been forehead and scalp, there was a studded brass dome with a glass panel—like a small porthole—in its front. Just above the ear, a winding key projected.
The human part of the man’s face was settled in repose and, though the bushy beard had been removed, Swinburne at once recognised the features.
“Good Lord!” he gasped. “John Hanning Speke!”
“Yes,” affirmed Darwin. “Soon he will be recovered sufficiently to serve us. As you see, the left lobe of his brain has been replaced with a babbage.”
“A what?”
“A probability calculator crafted by our colleague, Charles Babbage. It will, among a great many other things, magnify Mr. Speke’s ability to analyse situations and formulate strategic responses to them. The device is powered by clockwork, for portability.”
“He agreed to this?” mumbled Swinburne.
“He was in no position to agree or disagree. He was unconscious and dying. We saved his life.”
The sarcophagus slid shut, hiding Speke from view.
“Algernon Charles Swinburne,” said Darwin, levelling his gimlet eyes at the poet, “we would now analyse your response. Speak.”
Swinburne stared bleakly at his captor.
He coughed and licked his lips.
“To summarize,” the poet said, hoarsely, “you are flooding the Empire with new machines that will destabilise the current social order; you intend to create a new social order comprised of specialist humans who will serve as drones in what amounts to a scientific hive; and you are interfering with animal biology in order to manufacture a sublevel of mindless slaves. All this to expand the British Empire, under the rule of scientists, until it dominates the entire world. Am I right?”
Darwin nodded his huge head and said, “We are impressed by his ability to reduce the complex to a simplistic statement which is, nevertheless, essentially correct.”
“And you want my response?” asked Swinburne.
“Yes, we do.”
“Very well then; here it is. You are completely, profoundly, and irreversibly fucking niad.!”
With a blast of steam, Isambard Kingdom Brunel slowly lifted his great frame until it towered over the little poet.
“It’s quite all right, Isambard,” said Darwin. “Calm yourself.”
The great machine froze, but for the piston on one shoulder, which rose and fell slowly, and the bellows on the other, which creaked and gasped like the respiration of a dying man.
“It’s absurd!” shrilled Swinburne. “Quite apart from the moral and ethical issues, how in blue blazes can you expect to accurately monitor the three branches of the experiment when you are conducting them simultaneously in the same arena? And what about the time factor? The chimney sweeps, for example! Information from such an experiment will take generations to gather! Generations! Do you expect to live forever?”
For a third time, Darwin’s rattling laugh sounded between the fizzle and claps of electrical charges.
“He has surprised us!” he declared. “He has pierced to the heart of the matter! Time, indeed, is the key, Algernon Charles Swinburne. However, we have—”
“Stop!”
The cry rang out from somewhere behind the poet, so loud that it echoed above the chamber’s general cacophony.
“What is this interruption?” demanded Darwin, and Francis Galton’s body jerked two paces forward, dragging the long cable behind it, raising its arm and brandishing the syringe like a weapon.
With a whirring noise, one of Brunel’s arms shot out and a metal clamp closed on the automaton’s wrist.
Bells clanged.
“Forgive us, Isambard; we were taken by surprise, that is all. Come here, Mr. Oliphant; explain yourself.”
As Brunel’s arm retracted and Galton’s lowered, Laurence Oliphant stepped into view.
“My hat!” exclaimed Swinburne. “What a merry freak show this is!”
Oliphant threw him a malicious glance. “I don’t see a mark on his forehead,” said the albino. His smooth tones made the poet shudder. “Have you extracted any cells?”
“There was no need,” answered Darwin. “For, despite appearances to the contrary, he is not a boy but a man.”
“I know. He’s Swinburne, the poet. The little idiot has been much in the company of Burton these past days.”
“Is that so? We were not aware of this.”
Oliphant banged the end of his cane on the floor impatiently.
“Of course not!” he snapped. “You’ve been too busy revealing your plans to question him about his own!”
“It was an experiment.”
“Blast it! You are a machine for observing facts and grinding out conclusions, but did it not cross your minds that in telling him about the programme you are giving information to the enemy?”
“We were not aware that he is an enemy.”
“You fool! You should consider every man a potential enemy until he is proven otherwise.”
“You are correct. It was an interesting exercise but the experiment is finished and we are satisfied. Algernon Charles Swinburne is of no further use to us. You may dispose of him outside.”
“I’ll do it here,” said Oliphant, drawing the rapier from his cane.
“No,” said Darwin. “This is a laboratory. It is a delicate environment. There must be no blood spilled here. Do it in the courtyard. Question him first. Find out how much Burton knows. Then dispose of the corpse in the furnace.”
“Very well. Release him. Mr. Brunel, bring him outside, please.”
The blank-eyed Francis Galton placed the syringe back onto the trolley, approached Swinburne, and began to unbuckle the straps. One of Brunel’s limbs unfolded and the digits at its end clamped shut around the poet’s forearm.
“Get off!” screamed Swinburne. “Help! Help!”
“Enough of your histrionics,” snarled Oliphant. “There’s no one to hear them and I find them irritating.”
“Sod off!” spat Swinburne.
Galton p
“Ow! Ow! I can walk, curse you!”
“Follow,” commanded Oliphant.
With Isambard Kingdom Brunel clanking and thudding along behind, holding the kicking and squealing Swinburne high, Laurence Oliphant crossed the vast laboratory and passed through huge double doors into a large rectangular courtyard. Swinburne was surprised to see a noonday sky above—he had no idea how long he’d been unconscious.
He instantly recognised the location: he was in Battersea Power Station, which towered around this central enclosure, a colossal copper rod rising up in each of the four corners.
“Drop him.”
Brunel released the poet, who landed in a heap on the wet ground.
Oliphant held the point of his blade at Swinburne’s throat.
“You may go, Brunel.”
A bell chimed and the hulking machine stamped back through the doors, which closed behind it.
Oliphant stepped away and sheathed his rapier. He turned and loped across the courtyard to the entrance, a big double gate into which a normal-sized door was set. This latter he unbolted and opened.
“Your escape route.” He smiled, his pink eyes glinting, the vertical pupils narrowing. He moved away from the exit. “Go! Run!”
Algernon Swinburne looked at the albino curiously. What was he playing at?
He scrambled to his feet and began to walk toward the door. Oliphant continued to move away, giving the poet more and more space.
“Why?” asked Swinburne.
Oliphant remained silent, the smile playing about his face, the eyes following Swinburne’s every step.
The poet shrugged and increased his pace.
He was less than four feet from the portal when Oliphant suddenly sprang at him.
Swinburne shrieked and ran but the albino was phenomenally fast and swept down on the little man in a blur of movement, grabbing Swinburne by the back of the collar just as he was stepping across the threshold and yanking him backward.