Page 78 of Angel of Vengeance

Pendergast raised a hand to stanch the flow of words. “Mime! You saved us; thank you; it would be remiss of me not to allow you that. But you’ll understand if I simply need time to think about the implications. I won’t destroy the machine, I promise you. But I’m not going to let it be used again without extremely careful thought and planning.”

“Okay, okay! Charles H. Babbage on a stick, you’re throwing me crumbs here!” Mime rolled his wheelchair back and forth for a minute in silent annoyance. “I guess I’ll take what I can get.”

“You may, in the meantime, continue to examine it—as long as you promise not to use it.”

“Oh, I’ll just use it once or twice. You know, make a few trips back to 1983, so I can take care of Johnny Williford—the bully who kept putting baking soda in my Cream of Wheat at lunch break.”

This was met by a frosty silence.

“That’s a joke! Didn’t I agree I’d just study it? Of course I won’t turn it on. Jesus, has everybody lost their sense of humor here?”

And then he laughed—but he laughed alone.

69

THE CONVERSATION IN THE library continued as the rest of the vast house was cloaked in silence. Mrs. Trask was in the back kitchen with an Agatha Christie novel, feet up on a stool after a long day, a pot of Earl Grey keeping warm on the hob. The rest of the house help had retired.

Twenty feet below the library, in the mansion’s basement, was the large space, formerly a zinc-lined ice room, that now contained the time machine. It looked different than it had earlier: Mime had added additional processing units, along with a failback system and other enhancements to make the machine more powerful and stable. The room was clean and orderly. A low hum was the only noise. A suite of diagnostic equipment—obtained and installed by Mime—winked and gleamed in a rack that was situated against the wall where, before, Proctor had spent his hours on guard duty making bespoke bullets. The light this assembly generated provided the only illumination.

There was a soft ticking sound, then a louder, mechanical snick as a timer finished counting down. The big machine’s subunits began to stir from their electromechanical sleep. Mime had enhanced the master mechanism so it could be operated not only by one person alone, but remotely as well. This was happening now. Each step necessary to bring it online was taking place in orderly succession. A module would come to life, run through self-diagnostics, and hand control to the next stage in the chain. Thanks to Mime’s optimizations, the floor-trembling force that had previously been necessary to tear through space-time was now reduced to a low growl, like an idling race car.

And now, the steps complete, the portal came to life. A strange, apocalyptic whorl of undiscovered colors—a kaleidoscope of seemingly infinite depth—materialized between the three rhodium-platinum poles. It swelled to full size, becoming a door to a parallel universe, in the year 1881.

For three minutes, then five, the portal shimmered between the poles, its ovoid surface gleaming like mercury, illuminating the darkened lab with a painful brilliance. Then the light abruptly fluctuated; the portal dimmed as some of its power was temporarily consumed; the center of its surface flickered, coalesced into human shape—and a man stepped through.

Enoch Leng rocked a moment, then righted himself. He shook his head to clear it and—grabbing the emitter railings for support—blinked several times. Then he drew in a deep breath, as if to restore himself after a difficult journey.

Except that he was not restored. His clothes were torn and grimy, and dirt was caked under his nails. Traces of dried vomit were evident on his shirttails and the cuffs of his trousers. His skin had a deathly pallor—save for his left cheek, which had a blistered black-and-red stripe seared into it. He clutched a heavy revolver in his hand.

He bent forward suddenly, coughing, a spasm racking his guts. As he recovered, his hungry gaze probed the lab, taking everything in by the reflected light. His eyes stopped their circuit at a far corner, still in shadow despite the portal’s violent intensity.

“You!” he cried, staggering.

“Me,” a dulcet voice replied.

Constance Greene sat in a wheelchair, wearing a silk dressing gown, her face pale, dark circles under her eyes. Her legs were covered by a heavy blanket. Beside her was a small wheeled lab trolley, made of steel that winked and shone in the light of the portal. On it sat three items: a book, lying open; a small bottle of medicine; and a large surgical scalpel.

Their eyes met. Then, while still looking at Leng, Constance reached for the scalpel.

Leng raised the gun, while at the same time shaking his head with a tut-tutting sound. “Hands back in your lap, my dear.”

She complied. Leng stood before the glowing portal, grasping the railing.

A beat passed, and Constance spoke again. “I knew that, sooner rather than later—assuming you hadn’t been crushed in your own mansion—you’d appear in that rathole of an alley, waiting. I could have kept the machine off and left you to die, but I didn’t. Instead, I turned it on—knowing you’d come through.”

“I see you’ve managed to cheat death,” Leng said after a moment, his voice thick and raspy. “Thanks, no doubt, to the miracles of twenty-first-century medicine.”

She did not reply. Leng remained where he was, listing slightly back and forth.

“I’m glad you survived,” he continued. “I, too, seek the miracles of twenty-first-century medicine—and you’re going to help me with that.” He gestured with the muzzle of the gun, keeping it aimed even as he turned partially away, coughing and retching, seized by another bout of cramping. But he recovered quickly, spitting a mouthful of phlegm toward the nearest wall. “When you disappeared, I knew you’d all gone through that magic-lantern show. Well, now, so have I. Expected that, did you? Never mind: I’m here now—and you’re going to undo the pain and suffering you’ve caused me.” He again waggled the gun. “So: where are we?”

“In a basement.”

“Don’t be daft. Where are we?”

“New York City. In our home.”

“‘Our’?”

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