The Rise of the Automated Aristocrats Read Free Page A

spilled unbidden from his mouth. “More bloody posturing! It’s all for show, but we shouldn’t let them get too cocky. Go out the back of the tent, away from the campfire, and ascertain their strength. Let off a few rounds over their heads if necessary. They’ll soon bugger off.”
    Recognition.
    This is Berbera! My God! 1855! My first African expedition. We were attacked. I received a spear through my face. Why am I here again?
    â€œRight you are,” Herne said. The lieutenant moved to the rear of the tent and ducked under the canvas.
    Burton, occupying his own flesh like a passenger, able to observe but not influence, checked his gun. “For Pete’s sake, Balyuz, why have you handed me an unloaded pistol? Get me my sabre.”
    He shoved the Colt into the waistband of his trousers and snatched his sword from the Arab.
    â€œSpeke!” he bellowed. “Stroyan!”
    Almost immediately, the tent flap was pushed aside and John Hanning Speke stumbled in. His eyes were wild. “They knocked my tent down around my ears. I almost took a beating. Is there shooting to be done?
    â€œI rather suppose there is,” Burton responded. “Be sharp, and arm to defend the camp.”
    He felt the urge to rush forward and grip his old comrade.
    I forgive you! I forgive you! Let us forget it all and start anew. It is good to see you again. So good! I never meant any of it, John. I don’t know how such enmity came between us.
    He was unable to do it. His body wouldn’t accept his commands. Helplessly, he waited with the others. They checked their gear and listened to the rush of men outside.
    Herne returned from his recce. “There’s a lot of the blighters, and our confounded guards have taken to their heels. I took a couple of pot-shots at the mob but then got tangled in the tent ropes. A big Somali swiped at me with a bloody great club. I put a bullet into the bastard. Stroyan’s either out cold or done for. I couldn’t get near him.”
    Something thumped against the side of the tent. Suddenly a barrage of blows pounded the canvas while war cries were raised all around. The attackers were swarming like hornets. Javelins were thrust through the opening. Daggers ripped at the material.
    â€œBismillah!” Burton cursed. “We’re going to have to fight our way to the supplies and get ourselves more guns. Herne, there are spears tied to the tent pole at the back. Get ’em.”
    â€œYes, sir.” Herne went off but almost immediately ran back. “They’re breaking through!”
    Burton swore vociferously. “If this blasted thing comes down on us we’ll be caught up good and proper. Get out! Come on! Now!”
    He plunged out into the night. Somali natives were milling about, brandishing their weapons. Jostled and thumped, Burton looked over his shoulder to check the others had followed. He saw Speke emerging from the tent, saw him struck on the knee by a thrown stone, saw him flinch and stumble back.
    Don’t say it! Don’t utter those damnable words!
    They came anyway. Burton yelled, “Don’t step back! They’ll think that we’re retiring!”
    Two short sentences—uttered without thought—that Speke would fixate upon and twist into an accusation of cowardice, inciting in him a fierce resentment, leading to betrayal and ultimately, to his death.
    Despairingly, Burton turned to defend himself. He was shoved this way and that, hacking with his blade, caught up in a crush of bodies. Amid the chaos, the campfire, swollen out of all proportion, caught his eye and held it.
    Suddenly, everything else dwindled from awareness and, as a javelin slid into his cheek, knocked out two molars, sliced across his tongue, and transfixed his face, he lost all physical sensation.
    Flames. Only flames. There was nothing else.
    Grindlays Warehouse.
    In 1861, when the depth of Speke’s perfidy had become apparent, and