The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(78)

“Now, if you don’t mind,” Charles added, turning to face the street, “I think we’d all like to witness the battle in silence.” Claire observed with relief that this shut Ferguson up once and for all. The others ignored him, too, concentrating their gaze on the street. Claire then looked at Lucy, hoping to exchange knowing glances with her friend, but apparently, she was already bored with the whole thing: she had picked up a twig and was scratching a kiwi bird in the sand with it. On her right, Inspector Garrett watched Lucy draw, an awed expression on his face, as though he were witnessing a small miracle.

“Did you know kiwis only exist in New Zealand, Miss Nelson?” the young man asked, after clearing his throat.

Lucy looked at the inspector, astonished that he, too, should know about this bird, and Claire could not help grinning. Where if not between two kiwi lovers could a stronger love blossom? Just then, a clank of metal, scarcely audible in the distance, startled the group. Everyone, including Ferguson, fixed their gaze expectantly on the end of the street, terrified by the sinister noise that could only herald the arrival of the evil automatons.

They soon emerged, moving slowly through the ruins as though they were the lords of the planet. They looked identical to the statue back in the big hall: huge, angular, and threatening, with tiny engines on their backs that let out occasional plumes of steam. Much to everyone’s surprise, they were carrying their king aloft on a throne, as in days of yore. Claire sighed, regretting being so far from the scene.

“Take these, my dear,” Ferguson said, handing her his opera glasses. “You seem more interested than I am.” Claire thanked him and hurriedly studied the group through Ferguson’s glasses. She counted eight automatons altogether: the four bearers, plus two more at the front and rear, escorting the throne upon which sat the inscrutable Solomon, ferocious king of the automatons, distinguishable from his replicas only by the crown perched on his iron head. The procession moved forward with excruciating slowness, lurching ridiculously from side to side like toddlers taking their first steps. And in fact, Claire reflected, the automatons had indeed learned to walk by conquering the world. Humans were undoubtedly quicker, but clearly far more fragile than these creatures, who had slowly but surely taken over the planet, perhaps because they had the whole of eternity to do so.

Then, when the cortege was halfway down the street, they heard a loud report. Solomon’s crown flew into the air. Everyone gazed in astonishment as the glittering object spun round several times, before falling to the ground and rolling over the rubble until it came to a halt a few yards away. Recovering from their surprise, Solomon and his guards raised their eyes to the top of a small rocky crag blocking their way. The time travelers followed their gaze. Then they saw him. Standing in an almost identical pose to the statue in the hall, was the brave Captain Shackleton, feline and imposing, his sinewy body swathed in shining armor, his deadly sword hanging indolently from his belt, and an ornate-looking gun bristling with levers and pieces of metal dormant in his powerful hands. The leader of the humans had no need of a crown to bestow splendor on an already majestic physique, which, unbeknownst to him, elevated the outcrop he was perched on to the status of pedestal. He and Solomon looked each other up and down in silence for a few moments, their deep-seated hostility making the air crackle with electricity as if in the lead-up to a storm, then the king of the automatons began to speak: “I’ve always admired your courage, Captain,” he said in his tinny voice, which he tried to imbue with a casual, almost playful tone, “but this time I think you’ve overestimated your chances.

How could it occur to you to attack me without your army? Are you really that desperate, or have your men abandoned you?” Captain Shackleton shook his head slowly, as though disappointed by his enemy’s words.

“The one positive thing about this war,” he said with quiet assurance, “is the way it has united the human race as never before.” Shackleton’s voice was soft and clear, and reminded Claire of the way some stage actors delivered their lines. Solomon tilted his head to one side, wondering what his enemy meant. He did not have to wait long to find out. The captain slowly raised his left hand, like someone calling down a falcon, and various shadows emerged from beneath the rubble, like plants sprouting from the sick earth, debris and stones scattering off them as they stood up. In a matter of seconds, the unsuspecting automatons found themselves surrounded by Shackleton’s men. Claire could feel her heart start to race. The humans had been hiding in the ruins all along, waiting, knowing Solomon would take that path. The king of the automatons had walked straight into the trap that would end his reign. The soldiers, whose actions seemed speeded up compared to those of the lumbering automatons, retrieved their rifles from the sand, dusted them off, and took aim at their respective targets with the calm solemnity of someone performing a liturgy. The problem was there were only four of them. Claire was shocked that Shackleton’s famous army should be reduced to such a paltry number. Perhaps no one else had volunteered to take part in the suicidal attack, or perhaps by this stage of the war, the frequent daily skirmishes had reduced Shackleton’s troops to the point where these were indeed the only men left. At least they had the advantage of surprise, she thought, impressed by their tactical positioning: two soldiers had appeared out of nowhere in front of the procession, another to the left of the throne and a fourth had popped up at the rear.

The four opened fire as one.