Rites of Passage

Bartholomew Burns and the Brain Invaders

Bartholomew Burns presented himself at the side gate of Buckingham Palace at three o’clock on the afternoon of the 1st of February, 1851, at the start of what was to prove a fateful few hours in the history of the world — though for good reasons the annals of the time have very little to say on the matter.

He was escorted by a guardsman across the grounds and delivered into the stern custody of the head-housekeeper who, after ushering Burns along interminable corridors, passed him on to the head butler. Two minutes later the butler opened a pair of double doors and announced his arrival, and Burns hurried into the capacious drawing room which overlooked a snow-covered garden.

He bowed to the diminutive figure on the chesterfield. “As ever, your Majesty, it is an honour to receive your summons.”

“Burns,” said Queen Victoria, “you have served me well in the past; I do hope that on this occasion your capabilities might prove as efficacious.”

“I will do all within my powers, your Majesty,” Burns murmured.

“Draw up a seat,” she said, “and consider what I have to impart.”

Burns did as instructed. For the past six months, since his last adventure, he had been kicking his heels, allowing his thoughts to dwell on the events of the past — which was never a healthy state of affairs. The Queen’s summons had pulled him from a period of introspection, during which he had occupied himself with scotch and Macaulay’s History of England.

A door opened at the far end of the room and Prince Albert, dressed for the weather in a greatcoat and boots, hurried across to Victoria. He nodded to Burns and took his wife’s childlike hand.

“It’s past the time I was at Hyde Park, my dear,” he said with a pronounced Germanic intonation. “Burns, forgive me, but matters are pressing.”

Burns waved. “By all means.”

“The Exhibition proper opens in May, but on the morrow I will be showing a group of financiers and industrialists around the exhibits, and there are many preparations to oversee.”

The Prince, Burns thought, seemed pale and unwell, his normally sanguine features assuming the wan hue of the finest parchment. The Queen squeezed his hand, and not for the first time Burns was moved by the evidence of their obvious affection.

The Prince swept from the room and Queen Victoria smiled to herself. “The Great Exhibition, Burns, is quite taking up all his time and energy. I do fear for his health, especially so over the course of the past day or so. He does not quite seem himself.”

“The Exhibition, by all accounts, will be a marvel to whet the most jaded palate.”

Victoria gestured to a maid to hurry with a tray bearing a silver tea-pot of Earl Grey. The girl deposited the tray on an occasional table, curtsied and departed.

Burns poured, as was custom, and Victoria joined him in partaking of the beverage in a small china cup.

“Now,” she said, “a singular matter has come to my attention. It is quite beyond the wherewithal of my ministers, I am sure. Therefore, it occurred to me instantly that it was a phenomenon more than suited to your expertise.”

“You have my undivided attention, your Majesty.”

“To state the matter simply, a visitor was apprehended just over a day ago. He vouchsafed a remarkable story, claiming that the peace of the realm was at stake, and that, moreover, these shores faced the imminent threat of a singular invasion.”

“A singular invasion?” Burns echoed.

Victoria inclined her head. “I have instructed Travers to meet you at Newgate Gaol at five. He will be able to furnish you with further information.”

“I will report back to you at your earliest convenience, your Majesty. You have the communicator to hand?”

She opened a small bag and withdrew the tiny ear-piece, a miniaturised marvel of technology. “As you instructed, Burns, it never leaves my side.”

She rang a bell and, when the maid appeared, instructed her to have the butler show Burns out. He bowed and bade her Majesty farewell.

“I have every faith in you, my mysterious Mr Burns. God speed.”

As he stepped from the palace, instantly accosted by the icy chill that had gripped the capital for weeks, he tightened his muffler against the wind and trod circumspectly across the iced cobbles. A minute later he was aboard a Hansom and heading for Newgate, staring out upon a twilight quickened by the winter fog. As the cab rattled along the Strand, busy with broughams and pedestrians, Burns considered the Queen’s careful words. A visitor… a singular invasion…

But why, he asked himself, had the word come from the lips of the Queen, and not from the usual source, a Sentinel?

Little realising the leading role he was about to play in the events of the next few days, Tommy Newton swaddled his chapped feet in rags, bound them tight with cord he’d fingered from a bale of linen aboard the H.M.S. Fortitude the day before, and jumped from the brandy barrel in which he had made his home for the past year.

He lifted the metal grille from the wall, poked his head through to ensure the alley was deserted, then scrambled out and replaced the grille. He set off at a clip down the sloping alley towards the river. It was odd, but today he felt drawn to the Wapping stretch of the river — it was as if a voice were summoning him there, promising him a pretty haul.

Life, at present, was good for Tommy. He had a warm, dry home to call his own, wedged as the barrel was next to the furnace wall of the smelting factory. He’d even managed to garner a few valuable possessions: three blankets, a bundle of candles and matches, and a spoon he’d filched from the unattended galley of a Russian steamer. And to think, it was less than a year since he’d arrived in London and fallen in with Ratty and Miller who’d introduced him to the dubious pleasures of mudlarking.

Things had been difficult all winter, but a month ago his luck had turned. He and Ratty had hauled a ship’s binnacle from the mud near Woolwich, and a bent chandler down Bermondsey way had given them three shillings apiece for it.

Three shillings — and just as winter was beginning to bite. He’d been tempted to buy himself a right feast on the first day, but sense had prevailed — prompted by the gnawing memory of hunger pangs last winter — and he’d rationed his spending to a penny or two a day. Even so he’d eaten well, able to afford a loaf that lasted three days, some old jerky from a butcher in Bow, and a pint of pale ale as a treat.

All in all, he thought as he emerged from between the crowded buildings and skidded to a halt on the icy cobbles beside the river, it was a good life.

The tide was out, revealing a flat expanse of black, jellied mud. The far bank was invisible behind a grey fog. A few small boats, moored to the walls, tilted this way and that, fixed in the river-bed. So far as he could see, there was no one else scavenging for the occasional treasure. No doubt the bitter cold was keeping the shiftless abed, but the cold was no deterrent to Tommy. A Bradford tyke, he’d braved winters up north cold enough to freeze the balls off a tom cat.

There was no sign of Ratty or Miller, which was all the better for Tommy. He could get an hour’s searching in before his friends, bleary-eyed and the worse for the bad navy rum they’d palmed the day before, turned up for work.

He still had sixpence of the three shillings left, which if he were careful would last him a week, but after that…? He smiled to himself. Something would turn up. It always did. If you work hard, you’re rewarded. Which is what his old Dad had always told him, before he was crushed to death in the sandstone quarry where he’d worked as a labourer.

Tommy wondered if it was lady luck that was calling him today, urging him to scour a stretch of river he’d left alone for a good week.

He climbed down the rusting iron ladder stapled into the quayside. The mud greeted his swaddled feet with enthusiasm, sucking him in up to his shins. He tucked his sack into the belt of his trousers and took a step. The mud didn’t want to release him, but the secret was not to pull too quickly: lift your foot slowly and evenly and it’ll come out still shod. Pull too fast and you’ll leave your boot behind, if you were lucky enough to possess boots.

Taking great high, slow steps, Tommy moved away from the wall, past the canted prow of an old coal steamer, and headed towards a section of the river-bed beyond.

The mud gripped his legs and froze him to the bone, and with his next step his foot came down on something hard and flat, perhaps an inch or two below the surface.

He crouched and, with a cupped hand, scraped away the mud from whatever it was beneath his feet, and his heart quickened at the sight. God in a galleon, but there was a great sheet of copper or brass beneath the muddy balls that were his swaddled feet.

The mud oozed back over the metal, stealing its lustre, and for a second Tommy wondered if he’d dreamed the sight of the dully glowing surface.

Instead of using his hands, he slid his feet across the metal, wiping a temporary swathe through the mud. More golden metal was revealed, and Tommy was astounded by its extent. Lord, but it went on for yards!

The trouble was, how would he be able to shift something this size all by himself?

Greed battled with his innate good nature — Ratty and Miller had taken him under their wings, after all. He’d go fetch them, tell them what he’d found, and they’d work out how to shift the brass and then share the booty.

He felt a curious sensation of warmth creep up his legs, and again that sense of being summoned filled his head.

He was in the process of lifting a foot and turning, gripped by sudden panic, when the gold surface of the metal gave way beneath him and he plummeted with a frightened yelp.

He saw a square patch of foggy daylight above him and he realised that he was in some kind of container, looking up. But the strangest thing was that, although he’d come to a sudden halt, he had no sensation of having landed. He blinked and looked about him and moaned aloud, for he was by some miraculous process suspended in mid-air, spread-eagled, in what appeared to be a… a what? A railway carriage, the cabin of a sunken ship?

Though it was like no railway carriage or ship’s cabin he had ever beheld. All the surfaces were black, and curved in an odd way, and flashing lights like orderly candles dispelled the darkness.

Above his head the hatch closed silently, and oddly the brightness in the container increased, as if to compensate for the sudden absence of daylight.

Only then did Tommy, bobbing and struggling in mid-air, make out the creature studying him from across the sable container.

He yelled with fear, and increased his struggles — to no avail, as whatever was restraining him would not let him go.

“Who… who are you? What do you want?”

He stared at the little man, who must have been a hundred years old. He was naked, and white, and his tallow-coloured skin seemed to be wrapped too tightly around his protuberant bones. The creature’s head was massive — almost as long as its torso — and possessed two great staring eyes as big as Tommy’s fists.

This abomination could only be a Spaniard, and the vessel a sunken galleon, and surely the Spaniard was dead by the look of him?

But then the Spaniard blinked, and Tommy noticed a great green vein upon the creature’s head pulsing in rhythm with its undoubtedly living heartbeat. And he noticed how the being’s thin body was imprisoned within spars and struts, as if but for this containment he might fall in a heap on the floor.

“Please, let me go!” Tommy cried.

The creature spoke, but did so without moving its lips; then Tommy realised that the words were in his head, more like thoughts than sounds.

Do not fear, Tommy. I mean you no harm.

“What are you?” For his first assumption, that the manikin was a Spaniard, he now seriously doubted. “How do you know me name?”

That need not concern you, the creature continued. I simply require your assistance.

Tommy’s heart ceased its racing, and he began to calm. He wondered if that earlier sensation, drawing him to this place, had been the doing of this being.

It was indeed, Tommy.

“But how…?”

I need your help. When you leave my vessel, make your way directly to this address: 25 Garnett Place, Kensington, and there ask for one Bartholomew Burns. Recount your experiences, and impress upon him the urgency of his returning here with you. Do you understand?

Tommy nodded.

The address, again? said the voice in his head.

Tommy repeated it.

And the name of the gentleman?

“Bartholomew Burns.”

Very good. You are a brave and resourceful creature, Tommy Newton. You have a long and interesting life ahead of you.

A square of light appeared above him, and then he was rising through the air. He emerged from the hatch, into the welcome environs of the river-bed, and he wondered if there might be anyone abroad to witness his miraculous ascension from the depths.

The hatch closed beneath his feet and watery mud sealed above the golden square. Tommy wondered if he’d dreamed the encounter with the skeletal manikin.

His first impulse was to flee and never return; his second, after much thought, was to do the creature’s bidding.

He felt, as he squelched from the Thames and made his soggy way through the fog-shrouded streets of London, as if some strange force were compelling him towards Kensington — the very same that had drawn him to the submarine being in the first place.

Onward, in thrall to the strange skeletal creature, Tommy plodded.

For a high-ranking civil servant, Travers was an unprepossessing physical specimen. His girth exceeded his height and his moon face was cratered with a rash of burst boils. Added to which, his teeth presented evidence of unchecked decay.

However, as if to compound the paradox, Travers’ diction was precise to the point of primness. “It’s an honour to meet you again, Bartholomew,” he fluted. “And maybe this time you will be a little more forthcoming on the question of your provenance?”

They were in the Governor’s office at Newgate Gaol, and though situated as it was in the west wing of the building, Burns made out the distant clanking of chains, and the occasional ignominious howl, as of a banshee.

He ignored the inquiry with a smile. “Her Majesty intimated that time was of the essence in this matter. I would be grateful if you would furnish me with the requisite facts.”

Thus rebuked, Travers stirred himself to lethargic action. With much wheezing he prised himself from the chair and rolled over to the door. “If you would care to follow me, Bartholomew, I will show you a sight to set your blood a-racing.”

Without further explanation he led Burns from the office and along a white-washed passageway. They descended a flight of stairs, then passed through a corridor giving on to cells; low moans issued from these, along with the stench of human excrement. Not a second too soon they came to a barred door, which Travers unlocked. They proceeded down another flight of stairs, each stone step worn like a butcher’s chopping block. The cries of the condemned, and their concomitant stink, diminished as Burns and Travers descended into the bowels of the building.

At the foot of the steps Travers opened a thick door onto a wide, vaulted tunnel, off which opened a series of long, damp chambers; Burns spied chains and manacles affixed to the brick-work, and shuddered at the thought of the crimes committed here in the name of justice.

At the end of the tunnel, Travers paused before a great timber double door, withdrew a key the size of a spanner from his jacket, and proceeded to tackle the lock. He flung open the doors with the flourish of a stage magician, revealing a cavernous chamber, almost empty.

Almost empty, Burns observed, but not quite.

A ship with the appearance of a deep sea fish, all polyps and pendulous barbels, perhaps thirty foot from prow to stern, sat at the far end of the chamber.

Travers cleared his throat. “Have you ever, Bartholomew, seen anything like it?”

Burns had, as a matter of fact, but kept the knowledge to himself. It was, if he were not mistaken, a Vorpal Interspatial Craft. His curiosity quickened.

“And that’s not the end of it,” Travers continued with what almost amounted to lip-smacking gusto. “Wait till you see what we found within.”

He led the way towards the craft. At their approach, an oval section in the vessel’s mottled flank irised open. They stepped inside, into a sourceless opalescent light, and Travers gestured — needlessly — to the creature seated, limbs a-dangle, in a strange cupola atop a short pedestal.

The being was small and brown and wizened, and resembled nothing so much as a hairless gibbon. It was dead, as evidenced by its bloated torso and the putrid stench that emanated from its person.

Utilising his perfumed kerchief, Burns advanced and inspected the creature. There was no obvious indication as to how the being had met its end, no signs of physical injury, and Burns knew that Kyrixians — for a Kyrixian it undoubtedly was — were an oxygen breathing race who should have had no difficulty with the atmosphere of Earth.

“The devil of the matter, Bartholomew, is that the craft was discovered by the janitor in this very chamber, though how it managed to get here is beyond me.”

Burns nodded. “Strange indeed,” he said, though it was no mystery at all: interstitial craft were capable of travelling through the void in order to arrive at any sequestered destination.

“The creature was alive when Hobbs discovered the craft. It asked — in plain English, if you please — to meet a person in command.”

“And Hobbs met its demand?”

“He ran harum-scarum to the Governor. He was in quite a state, and no mistake.”

“And the Governor immediately informed Her Majesty?”

“The Governor called me,” Travers said, “knowing I had the ear of the Queen. I contacted Her Highness, who in turn informed Prince Albert. Then I made my way here to see what the creature had to say for itself.”

Burns glanced at him. “And that was?”

In reply, Travers reached into his waistcoat and produced a leaf of note paper, covered on both sides in his neat copperplate hand. “I took extensive notes, Mr Burns.”

He passed the paper to Burns, who read quickly.

It appeared that the Kyrixian had come to Earth on an errand of mercy, to warn the human race that invasion was afoot. According to the creature, a vessel from Qui was destined to land in London anon: only one being was aboard the Qui vessel, but he nevertheless had the means to bring humanity to its knees.

The Kyrixian exhorted the authorities to destroy the Qui vessel before its occupant could carry out its intentions.

“The creature was in a state of some discomfort,” Travers said. “Its breathing was laboured, its eyes misted. Its words grew quieter as it repeated its warning. In the event, His Highness arrived bare minutes before the being expired.”

“The Prince does take a serious interest in these matters,” Burns murmured to himself; ever since the strange affair of the Lyran land-crab last year, which had almost cost the monarch his life…

He took a turn around the chamber; other than the pedestal chair, and what he suspected was the control panel, the room was empty. He made out what might have been some kind of rack against the far curved wall, but, if it had ever contained anything, it was empty now.

He read Travers’ transcript again, and then handed back the sheet of paper.

“What now, Bartholomew?” Travers enquired.

“Lock the vault. Allow no one entry, is that understood?”

Travers nodded. “Yes, sir. And about what the creature claimed, the invasion?”

Burns stroked his chin. “It cannot be dismissed, Travers. I will contemplate a requisite response; and I will be in contact with your department if necessary.”

“Very good.”

They left the chamber, Burns with a sense of foreboding, and Travers led the way up through the noisome gaol. Burns took his leave of the government man with a firm handshake and rode a Hansom back to Kensington.

Once settled in the reassuring comfort of his garret, he brewed a pot of Earl Grey and seated himself in his armchair before the window. All London was spread before him, a sprawl of streets delineated by the glow of gas-lamps appearing one by one as darkness descended. It was, without doubt, a jewel and at the same time a foul cess-pit of a city, depending of course upon one’s perspective.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on the problem at hand. He knew little of either the Kyrix or the Qui, and he was troubled by his ignorance.

The fact was that the Kyrixian’s story could not be dismissed: but how, he asked himself, how in all this great and crowded city, might he locate the invading Qui ship and nullify its threat?

And why, for the love of all that was sacred in the universe, had a Sentinel not alerted him to the danger?

Tommy Newton peered around the corner of the square and watched the Hansom draw up outside number Twenty-Five. A very tall gentleman alighted, paid the driver and proceeded up the steps of the imposing townhouse and let himself in through the front door.

Tommy thanked his stars: a minute longer in the biting cold and he would have frozen to death. One hour ago he had rapped on the door of number Twenty-Five, only to be told by a disdainful housekeeper that Mr Burns was not at home.

Now he ran across the cobbles, climbed the steps and knocked again. A minute later the haughty matron favoured him with another pained grimace.

“Please, ma’am, it’s urgent I see Mr Burns quick sharp.”

“Your business?”

Tommy wracked his brains to come up with a suitable reply. At last he said, “A manikin wishes to talk to Mr Burns, ma’am.”

“Well, I’ve had stranger callers than the likes of you,” the matron sniffed. “Come in while I consult Mr Burns.”

Tommy stepped into a large vestibule adorned with paintings and stood as instructed on a doormat as the housekeeper bustled off. Only now, in the warmth, did he realise how cold he’d been outside; he hugged himself and began to shiver.

Presently the housekeeper returned. “You’re in luck, young sir. Mr Burns will see you. But first–” she went on, pointing to the blobs of mud that disguised his feet, “take those disgusting things off or you’ll ruin the carpets!”

Tommy knelt and unfastened the rags that bound his feet, then stood and beamed at the matron. She seemed unimpressed. “Lordy, young sir, your feet are almost as black.” She looked about and found a pair of Persian slippers. “These were for the rag and bone man, but they’ll do for now.”

Tommy slipped his feet into the silken slippers, thinking he’d never felt anything as luxurious in all his life, and followed the housekeeper along the hall and up three flights of stairs to the very top of the house.

She opened a door and announced, “The guttersnipe, sir,” waving Tommy into the room and closing the door as she left.

Tommy stopped dead and stared about him in wonder. The room was large, but seemed smaller on account of all the ornaments and knick-knacks and paraphernalia that cluttered it: Tommy could not name much of what he saw, but he did recognise a set of African spears and a shield, a suit of armour, a stuffed animal of some kind, a hundred pictures from all around the world.

Only then did he become aware of the figure seated in an armchair before the window. As he stared, the figure rose to its full height and regarded him.

Bartholomew Burns’ face was thin and sallow, his hair jet black, his eyes as dark as Indian ink, and piercing. He emanated an air of other-worldliness, and Tommy found himself stammering.

“Mer-Mr Burns, I’m Ter-Tommy, Ter-Tommy Newton.” He glanced down at his feet, then, and blushed when he beheld his skinny shanks disappearing into the ridiculous pink slippers.

Despite his severe aspect, Mr Burns smiled and gestured towards the roaring fire. “Take a seat, Tommy, and recount your business. You told Mrs Hopkins some story about a manikin?”

“That I did, sir. See, I were mudlarkin’, or about to, when I come upon this… this thing in the mud. It were hard, like, where the mud shouldn’t have been hard, and the next I knew I were fallin’.”

Burns held up a hand, took Tommy’s elbow and eased him into an armchair. He sat in the chair opposite and smiled reassuringly. “Now, calmly, from the beginning — but first, a mug of Earl Grey, perhaps?”

Soon Tommy was warming his hands on a cup of the finest tea he’d ever tasted. Between sips he recounted his story.

“So I fell, sir, only I didn’t hit anything. I were floating in mid-air. I were inside some kind of ship under the mud, and this creature, this manikin, he were staring at me with eyes like saucers, no word of a lie!”

Burns’s jet eyes seemed to ignite as he leaned forward and said, “This manikin, describe him to me, if you will.”

Tommy nodded. “He were small and skinny, smaller than me, and bone white, but with a big bonce. And when he spoke I didn’t hear the words normally — they kind of sounded in my head.”

“And the carapace of his ship was golden, did you say?”

Tommy deciphered Burns’s meaning and nodded. “That’s right, sir.”

Burns then said something under his breath that Tommy did not understand, “By Heavens, it is a Sentinel if I’m not mistaken.” He said to Tommy, “And what did this manikin say to you?”

“He told me not to be afraid. He wouldn’t harm me, he said. Then he said I had to find you, Bartholomew Burns, and he gave me your address and said I had to come and fetch you and take you back to the craft.” Tommy shrugged. “And here I am.”

“And here you certainly are, m’boy — the answer to my problems and no mistake!”

Tommy blinked. “Your problems?”

“A long story — but one I’ll apprise you of in due course.”

Tommy gulped his tea, afraid that Burns would dismiss him before he’d drained the cup. “And the manikin? He a friend of yours?”

Burns laughed. “Not a friend, as such, but shall I say a colleague? Very well, there’s no time to lose, Tommy. Can you take me to the river and point out the exact whereabouts of the ship, d’you think?”

Tommy puffed his chest. “Never forget the position of a treasure,” he said. “It’ll be high tide now, but in another hour we’ll be able to find it and no mistake.”

“Then let’s take a cab to the riverbank and prepare for an audience with the Sentinel,” Burns said with a cryptic wink to a bemused Tommy.

One hour later Burns knelt beside the capstan and watched as the moon-silvered waters of the Thames slowly receded to reveal a shining expanse of jet black mud. And to think, he mused, that Tommy and hundreds like him scraped a meagre living from wading through this filth in search of scant pickings.

The ragamuffin said, “It were there, just by the prow of the coaler. A minute and we’ll be able to reach it.” He glanced at Burns’s footwear. “Make a right mess of your fancy brogues, though, Mr Burns.”

“The least of my concerns right now,” Burns murmured to himself.

The boy looked at him. “What were that odd creature, Mr Burns, and what does it want with you?”

“That, m’boy, we shall soon learn.”

His mind was racing with the events of the past few hours, the arrival of the Kyrixian, and now this — the appearance of a Sentinel, if he were not mistaken. It was beginning to make a kind of sense; but the next few minutes would prove him right, or wrong, on that score.

“Right-oh,” Tommy said. “Follow me, Mr Burns.”

They climbed down the ladder and set off across the mud, Burns sinking almost to his knees with every step.

“Easy does it,” Tommy said, “or the mud’ll have your shoes.”

Burns adapted his gait, taking a lesson from Tommy’s slow, high steps. They approached the canted coaler and ducked beneath its prow, and Tommy pointed. “Right there, Mr Burns. Just where that cockleshell sits.”

Burns stepped forward, and instantly the surface beneath his feet solidified reassuringly. He scraped his right foot, and made out a dull copper gleam before the mud oozed back.

Tommy joined him. “I were standing here when all of a sudden–”

Burns’s stomach lurched…

He fell, and beside him Tommy yelped as they found themselves beneath the surface of the mud, suspended in mid-air within the curved confines of what looked very much like a Sentinel ship.

His suspicions were confirmed when he beheld the wizened, etiolated form of a Sentinel, regarding him from its orthopaedic brace, Earth’s gravity being too injurious for the creature’s delicate frame.

The manikin gestured with a thin hand, and the force that levitated Burns and the boy lessened and lowered the pair into padded seats opposite the Sentinel.

The creature gestured feebly. “A forced landing, Mr Burns,” the alien said in lingua galactica. “Forgive me. I would have been in touch much sooner, but for the gravity of this confounded planet. My ship suffered various mechanical failures upon entry. One of them being my communicator.”

Burns smiled. “But you managed to contact me nevertheless.”

The manikin’s great head turned towards the staring Tommy. “I exerted mental pressure. The boy, though not a prime specimen, does have virtues to recommend him.”

Burns replied, diplomatically, “The iniquitous social structure of my world quite arbitrarily deems that some of its members are disallowed the privileges enjoyed by others. But I take it that you did not summon me to discuss Earth’s political plight?”

The Sentinel grimaced hideously in what Burns took to be an attempt at a smile. “Quite correct, Burns. More pressing matters demand our attention.”

Beside him, Tommy said, “What’s the lingo you’re speakin’? It don’t sound like no Spanish I’ve ever heard!” He leaned forward. “And just what is that… that thing, Mr Burns!”

Burns gripped the boy’s arm and said, “Fear not, Tommy. We’re in friendly company.”

He returned his attention to the wan Sentinel and said, “A Kyrixian ship with a single occupant materialised beneath London one day ago. The creature passed away, but before doing so warned of a Qui ship bent on invasion. Its motives now become clear: it wished to alert the authorities to your very own arrival, so that they might attack and destroy your craft.”

The Sentinel shifted uncomfortably in its brace, a vein like an earthworm pulsing upon its osseous skull. “The very reason I am here, Burns. The Kyrixian is an alien known as Turqan; his planet is dying, and he wishes to relocate his people to a more clement world. Turqan is well known to the Galactic Council, and the Kyrixians an implacable warlike race–”

Burns interjected, “But I assure you that Turqan was quite alone, unless his compatriots came aboard other ships.”

The Sentinel paused; a wispy, cartilaginous tongue moistened thin lips, and he proceeded, “You are behind the times, Burns. Turqan stores his people in the matrices of what, for the want of a better name, I call memory crystals. It is my assumption that soon he will effect their dissemination from the crystals — into the minds of innocent Earthlings. “

“But if I might say so,” Burns interrupted, “you forget one thing. The creature — Turqan — is dead.”

The Sentinel leaned forward, its massive eyes staring. “Such he would like you to assume, Burns. But I assure you, though its somaform might very well be lifeless, it is my guess that Turqan effected the transfer of his mind to a victim Earthling, one, perhaps, in a position of power whose influence he might use to effect the dissemination of his fellow Kyrixians.”

Burns smote the padding of his seat. He recalled the fact that, according to Travers, none other than Prince Albert himself had been present at the death of the alien.

He recounted these facts to the Sentinel. “I saw the Prince just hours ago,” Burns said. “He seemed decidedly ill.”

The Sentinel said, “It would have taken a little time for Turqan’s mind to achieve total integration with a host body; you no doubt witnessed the psychosomatic symptoms of the cerebral invasion.”

“But if the alien now inhabits the Prince’s very self, and he has in his possession the means to broadcast his fellows into the minds of the populace…” Burns shook his head, then asked, “How many Kyrixians are stored within these crystals, Sentinel?”

“They number, at a conservative estimate, around twenty thousand.”

A terrible thought occurred to Burns. “Sentinel, the Prince is organising an event in London at which Turqan will have ample opportunity to disseminate a number of his fellows into the minds of the throngs who attend.”

“When does this event commence?”

“The Great Exhibition, as it is known, will not open until May. But tomorrow none other than the Prince himself will conduct a tour of politicians and heads of industry around the various exhibits.”

“A perfect opportunity for Turqan to effect the transfer to supremely influential hosts!” The Sentinel leaned forward, veins pulsing feverishly in its egg-shell skull. “We have no time to lose. Together we must apprehend the invader.”

Burns hazarded, “I think, sir, that your singular presence might be commented upon adversely by the populace of London.”

“I am a Sentinel, Burns. My kind is gifted with many powers–”

“I am aware…” Burns began.

“One of which is the temporary ability to inhabit the mind of a certain subject.”

Burns opened his mouth to object. Now he understood what the Sentinel had meant by their having to apprehend the alien together.

He had experienced much in his five years as a Guardian, but never had he given up residence of his body. “But what autonomy will I possess with you riding in my skull?” he demurred.

“Burns, this will likely take the two of us, physically, to bring about Turqan’s arrest. I plan to inhabit the person of the boy, of course.”

Burns glanced at Tommy, who was looking from the Sentinel to Burns as if intuitively aware of the turn of the conversation.

“I will reside in his sensorium, in control of his body, and he will know nothing of this. It will be as if he were asleep.”

“And he won’t be harmed?”

“There is a certain danger in the procedure,” the Sentinel allowed. “I can sustain the link for perhaps two hours, perhaps a little longer. After that, if I did not return, my body here would perish — as did the Kyrixian you observed earlier. And I would remain in Tommy’s corpus, his identity subsumed by my own.”

“Then we must do what we must inside two hours,” Burns said.

Tommy spoke up, “What’s he sayin’, Mr Burns? He’s talkin’ about me, I’ll wager.”

“Tommy, you have nothing to fear. You will sleep for a period, and when you awaken all will be well.”

The Sentinel reached out, and with claw-like hand depressed a set of keys on a console to his right.

Burns felt a certain frisson, as if a charge of electricity filled the ship, and instantly the Sentinel’s head flopped back on its rest, and its great eyes fluttered shut.

Beside him, Tommy sat suddenly upright and beamed at Burns.

“Oh, to inhabit a form possessed of youth and vitality!” cried the Sentinel through Tommy’s lips; and the incongruity of the fine words expressed in Tommy’s Yorkshire brogue made Burns smile.

The Sentinel-in-Tommy leapt to his feet and pulled two short-barrelled devices from a rack; he brandished the first at Burns. “A disequaliser. This works very much like a crystal in reverse; one shot at the subject and it will eject the interloper’s mind from its host and capture it in this chamber.” He tapped a bulbous glass container beneath the gun barrel. “Then I can return with Turqan in custody and hand him over to the Galactic Federation for trial.” He passed Burns the second weapon. “This is a simple stunner. One pulse will render the victim comatose for up to an hour. You might find it of use.”

Burns tucked the weapon into his waist-band.

“Now,” said the Sentinel, “how to locate the individual you call Prince Albert?”

“Leave that to me,” Burns said, withdrawing a communicator from his waistcoat pocket. He activated the device and slipped it into his ear.

A second later a high, querulous voice said, “Burns? What is it? I’m entertaining the King of Belgium.”

“Your Majesty. My sincere apologies, but it is vital that I enquire as to the whereabouts of his Highness the Prince.”

“Albert? But why–?”

“Time is off the essence, your Majesty. If you could apprise me of his whereabouts?”

Burns willed Victoria to tell him that Albert had taken to his sick-bed, and his heart sank when the reply came. “Why, he is presently at the Crystal Palace, overseeing some technical business or other.”

“Thank you, your Majesty. Forgive me, but I will explain everything at our very next meeting.”

He pulled the communicator from his ear before Victoria could reply, and turned to the Sentinel. “As I feared, he is at Hyde Park.”

The hatch opened above their heads and they rose to the muddy surface of the Thames.

“To Hyde Park we go,” cried the Sentinel in the guise of the urchin mudlark, “for the very safety of the country, and the world, is at stake!”

They took a Hansom first to Kensington, and bade it wait while Burns dashed to his garret and changed his ruined boots and breeches; at the same time he affected a quick disguise, donning a false moustache and a fair wig he kept for such occasions. Five minutes later they were rattling south towards Hyde Park.

“I made the acquaintance of Turqan-in-Albert’s-guise earlier today at Buckingham Palace,” Burns explained. “Albert knows of my work as a Guardian, and as Turqan has access to his every memory… With luck he will fail to recognise me in this get up. But how to go about this business, Sentinel?”

After a moment’s contemplation, the Sentinel replied. “It should be, if all goes well, a simple matter. We need merely apprehend the Prince long enough for me to get one shot on target. After that, of course, we will need to locate the crystals.”

Burns gazed out at the passing streets, the buttery light of a hundred gas-lamps reflecting off piled snow and illuminating the continued fall. It should be a simple matter, but in his experience it boded ill to presume victory before the event. They were, after all, in opposition to a skilled practitioner in the ways of deceit and subterfuge. He fingered the butt of the weapon and told himself to keep his wits about him.

Five minutes later they arrived at Hyde Park, alighted and paid the driver. Despite the late hour, crowds still thronged the park in order to witness the architectural miracle of the Crystal Palace. Burns, with the Sentinel-in-Tommy skipping along beside him, hurried across the snow-covered grass towards the rearing edifice of the Palace, shining like a vast diamond against the night sky. Almost two thousand feet long and five hundred wide, it rose to a height of a hundred feet — a wonder indeed in which to exhibit the myriad marvels of the modern age.

Burns pushed through the crowds milling around outside the Palace. Tall, arched entrance-ways lined the length of the building, each one posted with a guard of Peelers pacing back and forth and stamping to ward off the cold.

Burns led the Sentinel along the length of the palace, to where the crowds thinned; he spotted an entrance patrolled by a lone bobby, and saw his opportunity.

He approached the bewhiskered custodian and concocted a sorry tale. He was exhibiting an invention within — none other than the Greenwood Helical Elevator — but had left earlier without assuring that it had shut down correctly; he needed now to return, with his apprentice Tommy, in order to ensure its safe deactivation.

“And your exhibitor’s pass, sir?”

“That’s the very deuce of it, my good man. In my haste to return I quite forgot the pass, but I can offer this.” And from his waistcoat he produced a crisp pound note.

The bobby goggled, then looked right and left to ensure the transaction went unobserved. He took the proffered note with alacrity and hissed, “Now slip inside, sir, and the boy. Quick smart!”

Burns and the Sentinel needed no second telling; they passed through the arched entrance, from cold and darkness into the warmth and gas-lit illumination of a veritable wonderland.

Crowds of workmen and supervisors filled the glass-walled Palace, milling hither and thither with the industry of ants. Right and left, seemingly as far as the eye could see, great displays of industrial, scientific and technological wonder receded into the distance, cordoned off by heavy red braid as if they were museum exhibits. Burns beheld bulbous tanks and pistons, engines and cranks, a multitude of industrial muscle miraculous — from his perspective — for its primitive might. Truly the human race combined indomitability and curiosity; to progress from an agrarian culture to this in so relatively short a time was little short of wondrous.

A tug at his sleeve brought him back to the present. A muck-smeared face grinned up at him. “There,” said the Sentinel, pointing.

The footprint of the Palace was laid out in the form of a great cross, at its centre a transept in which stood the base of a tiled fountain, currently shut off. In the fountain itself, which looked for all the world like a shallow paddling pool, a dozen workmen were hauling on ropes and pulleys as a sprawling, resplendent chandelier was hoisted, inch by inch, high into the glass dome overhead.

Burns and the Sentinel made their way towards the fountain, which was surrounded by other workmen who had downed tools in order to watch the laborious ascent of the chandelier.

They were standing beside a sweating workman who smiled at their astonished expressions and commented, “We had it up not two days ago, sirs. And then what? Just today Albert hisself, bless his whiskers, ’ad us haul it down and replace all the blessed gas-lights with some new-fangled bulbs. Strike me dead, but it isn’t as if his Highness has to do the haulin’, is it?”

The workman moved off, mopping his brow, and the Sentinel hissed to Burns, “Look! Behold the pendant crystals that form the mass of the chandelier.”

Burns stared. “Not the memory crystals?”

“The very same. My guess is that when the chandelier is in place and activated, the dissemination process will commence.”

Burns scanned the workmen hauling on the pulleys, and beside them a group of dignitaries. Among them was the tall, ramrod straight figure of Prince Albert himself, staring at the chandelier and making the occasional comment to an aide.

Burns nudged the Sentinel and pointed.

“Our man,” said the Sentinel. “Very well, follow me.”

He elbowed his way through the crowd and hurried around the central fountain. If anyone saw the importunate urchin, clad in mud-soaked rags, they failed to comment as they watched the gradual ascent of the chandelier.

The Sentinel ducked under a cordon and approached something which resembled a loom, and Burns joined him. He peered out, across the floor, at the Prince.

From the waistband of his ragged trousers, the Sentinel pulled the disequaliser, and aimed. “One quick shot,” he breathed, “and who knows how many human lives will be spared.”

The urchin sighted along the length of the weapon, and his grubby finger depressed a red stud. A short hiss was the only result; Burns looked at the group of dignitaries. The Prince remained standing, chatting to an aide as if nothing untoward had occurred.

The Sentinel cursed and looked up at Burns. “I hardly dared fear this outcome–”

“It didn’t work?” Burns ventured, his heart racing.

“The devil is utilising a soma-shield, Burns, rendering my disequaliser useless. I underestimated the resolve of my foe.”

“Is there nothing we can do?”

The Sentinel considered, then said, “By the very fact that Turqan inhabits a new body, this means that the shield is portable — some device the Prince has about his person. If we could in some way wrest the shield from him, then the disequaliser could do its business.”

“But how to do this without alerting Turqan to our presence? He will no doubt be armed.”

The Sentinel nodded. “Armed and deadly.”

Burns considered for a minute. At length he said, “I have an idea, but it would mean delaying the attack until much later, and gaining entry to Buckingham Palace.”

The Sentinel looked up at him. “You can gain admittance?”

“I think so. One moment.” He plugged his communicator into his ear and reached Queen Victoria for the second time that night, chancing her ire.

“Burns, what is it this time? We’re just about to start the desert course.”

“My apologies, but events necessitate the interruption. I have a vital request to make, one on which rests the very future of the nation.”

“Burns, I have never known you overstate the case, and Heaven knows how extraordinary past cases have been! Very well, my good man, out with it.”

A minute later Burns terminated the conversation and pulled the communicator from his ear. “Done,” he said.

“There is one small problem,” the Sentinel said. “I am afraid I might not be able to sustain my habitation of the boy for much longer. Perhaps another thirty minutes, an hour at most. Any longer, and I would fear for my safety.”

Burns nodded. “I’m sure the boy and I can capture Turqan — though immediately we have the small matter of the memory crystals to deal with.”

“I have given this due consideration,” the Sentinel said. “Hand me the stunner.”

Burns guessed the Sentinel’s intent and passed him the weapon. Above the fountain, the chandelier was reaching the apex of the dome. Burns made out three sets of pulleys attached to the central boss of the fixture, controlled by three teams of two men situated equidistant around the transept. Now the Sentinel aimed at the first of these teams.

In an aside to Burns, he said, “I have no qualms about extinguishing thousands of Kyrixian individuals. If you could have seen the crimes his kind perpetrated across the galaxy…”

He fired twice, quickly, and the two workmen at the first station collapsed instantly and released their grips on the ropes. Overhead, the chandelier canted with a rattling, glockenspiel tintinnabulation.

Cries arose from the watchers below.

The Sentinel took aim and fired again. The second set of workmen collapsed, and the chandelier — suspended now by a single rope — swung like a pendulum.

Burns saw the third set of workmen hauling upon their ropes like a desperate tug-o’-war team, their heels skidding across the tiles.

Turqan-in-Prince Albert ran towards them, exhorting effort…

The Sentinel fired a third time, the workmen collapsed, and amid high-pitched screams the chandelier commenced a sudden plummet.

Those spectators directly below the object scattered in short order, and the dignitaries could only watch as the glittering missile of brass and crystal dropped a hundred feet and crashed into the tiled fountain with the sound of musical thunder.

The crystals shattered into a million pieces and scattered across the floor of the Palace like an explosion of diamonds.

Burns gazed across at the figure of Prince Albert, who had given vent to a soul-rending cry and folded to his knees. His hands sifted through the shattered crystals and they fell through his fingers like water.

Dignitaries and aides rushed to his side, attempting to console the stricken Prince, little realising that no consolation would be sufficient.

Burns said, “Now to Buckingham Palace!” and together he and the Sentinel left the cover of the loom and slipped through the chaotic melee.

As they crossed Hyde Park at a run, the Sentinel said, “I fear my time in this guise is limited, Burns. Here, take the disequaliser. You know what to do.”

A minute later they climbed aboard a Hansom and sped north.

Tommy Newton would recall the next fifteen minutes for the rest of his long life.

The last thing he recalled was the interior of the strange sunken vessel, the wizened, staring manikin, and the sudden lethargy that had overtaken him. Then, as if suddenly awakening, he found himself no longer aboard the vessel but crouched behind a screen in what he took to be a toff’s bedroom, going by the bulky outline of the four-poster bed illuminated in the dim lamp-light.

The next he knew, someone was gripping his elbow and breathing into his ear. “Fear not, Tommy,” said Bartholomew Burns. “All is well. Keep quiet and do exactly as I say. Understood?”

Tommy nodded, then realising his gesture could not be seen, whispered, “Understood, guv.” He paused, then said, “One thing — where the ’ell are we?”

Burns murmured, his breath hot in Tommy’s ear, “You might find this hard to believe, Tommy, but we are in Queen Victoria’s bed-chamber.”

“Bleedin’ ’ell!” Tommy expostulated. “And how did I come to be here?”

“That, Tommy, is what is known as a long story. Suffice it to say that we are engaged in a mission to save the life of Prince Albert himself.”

Tommy goggled up at Burns’s dim outline, and only then noticed that the man was gripping what looked like some sort of bulbous pistol.

“You mean, someone’s going to break in and threaten his Highness’s life?”

It was a second before the reply came. “Not exactly, Tommy. Soon, I hope, Prince Albert will return, and then I will render him… unconscious.” Burns gestured with the weapon. “That, I hope, will be sufficient to save the day.”

“You’re talking in riddles, mister, is all I can say.”

“Shh!” Burns said.

Tommy stiffened as, from beyond the screen, someone gave a muffled moan, and then resumed snoring. Tommy chanced a peek around the brocaded screen and made out a humped figure lying on its back in the bed, genteel snores issuing from its small, pointed nose.

“Is that…?” he began.

“No other,” Burns responded.

“Lord strike me sightless!” Tommy gasped.

He shook his head. Just this morning he had slept the sleep of the innocent in his barrel home, and now here he was in Queen Victoria’s bed-chamber.

Burns gripped his arm again, warning him to caution. A sound came from across the room, the quiet lifting of a latch. The door creaked open and a tall figure appeared briefly in the doorway. It crossed the room, illuminated by the covered lamp beside the bed. Tommy was aware of his increased heartbeat — wait till he told Ratty and Miller about this… not that they’d believe a word, of course.

Prince Albert paused by the bed. He seemed stooped, not his usual upright, imperious self. His hand went to his brow and he wept quietly. It was as if he were a broken man, and Tommy wondered what tragedy might have occurred to bring about this transformation.

He glanced up at Burns, at the weapon in his hand, and he wondered if he should leap out now and warn the Prince, for all Burns’s assurances that good was on his side.

He was wracked by indecision as he crouched behind the screen and watched as Prince Albert slowly disrobed. Soon the worthy was down to his unmentionables and his garters, and then even these had been removed — and Tommy felt grateful that the light from the bedside lamp was dim.

All that the Prince now wore was a chain about his neck, at the end of which hung a shining silver oval.

Beside Tommy, Burns murmured under his breath, “Take it off, take it off, damn you.”

After a second, as if the Prince had been contemplating whether or not to do so, he finally reached up and slipped the chain from his neck and laid it atop the pile of discarded clothing on the chair.

Tommy was aware of Burns, tensing beside him, and he knew that if he were to act, then he should do so now — or forever regret his inaction. In the event he was caught in a funk of indecision — for which, later, he was eternally grateful.

With a sickening feeling in his gut he watched as Burns leapt up, levelled the pistol at the startled Prince, and fired.

Tommy heard a hiss, whereupon the Prince, after a frozen second in which he regarded Burns with horror, toppled forwards across the bed.

In a trice Queen Victoria sat up and exclaimed, “Burns, it is done?”

Burns strode from behind the screen and examined the prostrate Albert. He gestured to his weapon. “The deed is done, your Majesty. Disaster is averted.”

The queen was sitting up in bed, clothed in night-gown and sleeping cap, and clutching a counterpane to her throat. She gave Tommy an imperious glance, which had the effect of freezing him to the marrow. “And who, might I enquire, is this?”

Burns clapped Tommy on the shoulder. “Meet Tommy Newton, your Highness, without whom the country — nay, the very world — would be in a parlous state.”

Not understanding a tenth of what was going on, Tommy nevertheless felt a glow of pride as the Queen’s gaze softened and she favoured him with a smile.

Burns was bending over a groaning Albert, who was slowly coming to his senses. He eased the Prince further onto the bed and draped the counterpane over his long form. “I think his Highness will require a spell of rest and recuperation, your Majesty. I will call anon and regale you with all the details.”

He was brought up short by her Majesty’s words, “Burns, I don’t know who you are — or more precisely what you are — but I feel that the gratitude of the nation is owed to you, yet again.”

Burns bowed. “I am forever in your service, ma’am,” and so saying slipped quickly from the royal bed-chamber.

Soon they were outside in the freezing night.

“And now,” Burns said, “all that remains is to return the disequaliser to the Sentinel, and all will be well with the world.”

“The Sentinel?” Tommy said. “You mean that skinny little chap in the underwater ship — and just what is he, and the disequaliser? And as for all that malarkey in the palace…”

“I will explain everything in time, Tommy.”

Tommy shuffled uncomfortably and said, “I’ll meet you again, Mr Burns?”

Burns smiled. “Meet me? Why, what makes you think you might not?” He considered for a space, and then said, “I have a proposition to make, m’boy. There is a spare room to be occupied at 25 Garnett Place, and you seem to be a handy soul to have on hand. How does a shilling a week, three square meals a day, and a bed for the night sound to you?”

Tommy stared at Burns, open-mouthed. For once in his short life, he was speechless.

Burns sat before the blazing fire in his garret with Tommy stretched out on the chesterfield at sleep’s door.

The boy had finished a huge mug of cocoa, and Burns was sipping at his china cup of Earl Grey.

Now the mudlark — or should that be, the ex-mudlark? — said, “Who are you, Mr Burns, and what in the Lord’s name was that craft doing under the Thames?”

Burns smiled and took a breath. Where to begin, he wondered? Why not at the beginning?

“Who am I, Tommy? Well, I am a Guardian,” he said. “You see, the universe out there is a very big place, m’boy, and many strange and various alien races inhabit the stars beyond this one, and not all those races have the best interests of the so called ‘lesser’ races at heart. Now planet Earth and the human race are relative youngsters on the scene, unaware of the teeming cosmos beyond, and therefore must be protected from the dangers that beset it.” He paused there, then said, “Tommy?”

He looked across at the silent figure of the boy, but Tommy was fast asleep.

Smiling, Burns rose and moved to his armchair beside the window, and stared out at the night sky.

For a while he contemplated planet Earth, and the stars beyond. Then, when he was sure that Newton was sleeping soundly, he crept from the room and left the house.

One hour later he was seated in the cushioned seat opposite the braced form of the Sentinel. He passed the disequaliser, and the manikin stowed it carefully upon the rack at his side.

“You have once again shown endeavour and initiative, Mr Burns.”

“I was not alone,” Burns reminded the shrivelled being.

“True — Tommy Newton, despite his size, his somewhat haphazard education, is… shall we say… an asset we might utilise.”

Burns smiled. “The same thought occurred to me, Sentinel. I have accordingly acquired his services.”

The Sentinel regarded Burns with a piercing gaze. “You’ve guessed, of course?”

Burns nodded. “Turqan, if I am not mistaken, is but the first?”

The Sentinel gestured wearily. “I have information to the effect that Turqan is the advance guard, that others of his kind, transporting memory crystals, are at this very second making their way across the void towards this planet. The intelligence is that they might very well be aided by other nefarious races. We need, my friend, to be vigilant in the days and weeks ahead.”

“You have my reassurance on that score,” Burns murmured.

The Sentinel nodded its over-sized head. “I will remain here and in contact for as long as this confounded gravity allows, Burns. There are others in this city who will aid you over the coming weeks. They will be in contact.”

“And they are?”

The Sentinel waved. “You will find out in time, my friend. For now, go home and rest, for the fight ahead will be long and hard.”

Presently Burns said farewell to the manikin and took his leave. He climbed from the muddy gully of the Thames and strode through the cobbled lanes towards Kensington, suddenly tired. Once he paused long enough to turn his gaze towards the massed stars, brilliant and icy overhead, and thought of home.

Then he shivered at the thought of the battle ahead, shrugged deeper into his greatcoat, and hurried to a planet far away.