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

time!”
    “Good evening,” Burton responded. He acknowledged Daniel Gooch, at the scientist’s side. “I apologise if I’m a little late. I was being knighted at the palace. You know from personal experience how such things drag on.”
    Babbage grunted disdainfully. “Well, if you must involve yourself with trivialities.”
    “I wasn’t given any more choice in the matter than you were. Incidentally, the probability calculator you put in my mount—it’s one of the new models, yes?”
    “A Mark Three. My best design yet. It has personality enhancements.”
    “So I’ve noticed. Is there any way to diminish them? The confounded thing keeps answering back.”
    “Tut-tut!” Babbage barked. “Tut-tut! Always complaints. You’re nothing but a Luddite, sir!”
    From behind a nearby apparatus, a badly dented silver ball, twelve feet in diameter, appeared and rolled unsteadily to join them. It stopped and wobbled in front of Burton. A panel on its surface slid aside. A multi-jointed arm unfolded from inside, and the pincer-like hand at its end reached to a second panel, which opened with a click. Reaching in, the pincer extracted a long, thick cigar—already lit and glowing at one end—and inserted it into a small hole at the top of the globe. The tip of the cigar burned brightly, and smoke plumed from another orifice.
    The king’s agent said, “Hello, Isambard.”
    Isambard Kingdom Brunel clanged, “Sir Richard. Congratulations. Are you recovered?” His voice sounded like handbells being spilled onto a church organ.
    “From the ceremony or from my injuries?”
    “Heh! Your injuries, of course.”
    “My bruises pain me, but for the most part, yes, I’m fine, thank you.”
    He put his right hand to his left elbow and felt for a wound that wasn’t there.
    Why did I do that? My arm received no injury.
    He turned his attention back to Brunel and, as he always did, wondered how much of the famous engineer still existed inside his life-maintaining machine. Brunel had suffered a serious stroke last year and would have died had Gooch not quickly designed and constructed the globe in which he was now preserved.
    “You summoned me, Isambard?”
    “I did. Sir Charles is about to perform an experiment that, as the guardian of the time suit, you should witness.”
    Burton looked at the workbench around which they were gathered. Edward Oxford’s burned and blistered outfit had been laid out on it.
    A powerful sense of déjà vu blossomed from the pit of his stomach. Its heat filled him, made his senses reel, and caused him to lean unsteadily on his walking cane.
    Why am I here again?
    It was a thought that made no sense.
    Burton suddenly had no control over himself. Everything appeared unfamiliar. The inside of the station was crammed with contraptions, but they weren’t the ones he knew. Babbage and Gooch were dressed in oddly tailored clothes. And Brunel—
    A battered sphere? Shouldn’t he be a man of brass?
    He struggled to piece together recent events and glanced at the next workbench along, wondering why it was there and puzzled by the expectation that there should be a dent in the floor instead.
    Memories welled up. Red snow. Leicester Square. Spring Heeled Jack.
    “What experiment?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
    It went wrong. The suit vanished of its own accord. Yet here it is.
    Babbage pointed at the dented and blistered helmet. “As you are aware, this contains a synthetic intelligence, though its thought processes have been crippled by Edward Oxford’s lunacy. During the course of the past three months, I have asked it questions, and it has replied to them with—”
    “You’ve been wearing it?” Burton interrupted. “I thought Abdu El Yezdi left strict instructions that you should never—” He stopped.
    Babbage and Gooch peered at him curiously.
    Brunel chimed, “Who is Abdu El Yezdi?”
    “No one. Nothing. My apologies. I’m—I’m tired. My mind is wandering.”
    “Rein it in!” Babbage