The Rise of the Automated Aristocrats Read Free

can’t do anything for it.”
    She hastened from the bed to a chest of drawers and returned with a horseshoe magnet in her hand. Pulling back the sheets, she held it to his foot. “Does it help?”
    â€œA bit,” he lied.
    Unfamiliar names ran through his mind. Trounce. Honesty. Lawless. Raghavendra. Krishnamurthy. Bhatti. Who were they? And Mrs. Angell? He’d never had a housekeeper!
    â€œDo you remember Stoker?” he asked.
    â€œThe theatre man? Irving’s manager? Yes, of course I do. We’ve dined with him on a number of occasions.”
    â€œI have the unaccountable belief that I knew him as a child.”
    â€œHe never mentioned it. Surely he would have. And you’ve never spoken of it before. I think your mind is playing tricks.”
    â€œPerhaps it is. I imagine I knew Wilde, too.”
    â€œOscar? Great heavens above! I sincerely hope not!”
    â€œWhat is wrong with me, Isabel? I feel oddly divided, as though there’s more than one of me.”
    â€œI fear you’re having one of your old fevers. They always had that symptom. Remember when you returned from Africa stricken with malaria? For weeks you were convinced that you were two people in one body, forever at war with yourself. You used to—”
    Her voice faded away. Oblivion enveloped him. From it, a vision emerged. He was in a featureless desert, squatting beside a tent, fascinated by a scarab beetle pushing a ball of camel dung alongside the fringe of the canvas. “The sun across the heavens,” he murmured. “Day and night. Light and dark. Presence and absence. Life and death. One and zero.”
    When he was next aware, it was half past three and Isabel was distraught.
    â€œI couldn’t rouse you. You were gasping for breath.”
    He told another falsehood in order to comfort her. “Just a deep sleep. I was dreaming. I saw the little flat we’ll buy in London, and it had quite a nice large room in it.”
    â€œThen we’ll make that your study,” she replied. “You can hang your swords on its wall and put your—”
    She vanished into blazing whiteness as his chest tightened viciously. A thousand tortures. Agony beyond comprehension. He couldn’t even scream.
    There eventually came further cognisance of time passed. Grenfell Baker’s voice sounded from afar. “Try to keep your respiration steady, Sir Richard. Here, drink this. It will offer some relief.”
    Swallow. Bad taste. Pain.
    â€œYour wife has gone for the priest.”
    Priest? Priest? Bismillah! Am I dying? Help me! Save me!
    He squeezed his eyes shut and when he opened them again she was there, weeping. Knives twisted between his ribs. It was unendurable. He reached for her, weakly clawing at her arm. “Chloroform! Ether! Or I’m a dead man!”
    â€œThe doctor says it will kill you!” she wailed. “He’s doing all he knows!”
    Life. Death.
    One. Zero.
    Music. An intricate rhythm. Curious melodies. Peculiar harmonies. The sound gripped him and dragged him through a whiteness that was everything and nothing. He fragmented. Every decision he’d ever made unravelled. All his successes and failures frayed away. He lost cohesion until nothing of him remained.
    Zero. Zero. Zero.
    Gathering weight.
    The pressure of her arms beneath him.
    No, not her arms. The ground.
    Burton opened his eyes and saw a flickering orange light. Flames reflected on a canvas roof. He was in a tent.
    He sat up.
    El Balyuz, the chief abban, burst in. “They are attacking!” He handed Burton a revolver. “Your gun, Effendi!”
    What is this? What is happening?
    Pushing back his bed sheets, moving like an automaton, with no control over himself, Burton stood, put the pistol on the map table, and pulled on his trousers. Astonishingly, his body was that of a young man. He took up the gun again, looked over to Lieutenant George Herne, and grinned. Words