Burton struggled with the controls. The machine was so long that, as he exited the square and guided it onto Waterloo Road, its middle strayed onto the pavement and scraped against the corner of a bakery, grinding horribly on the brickwork and causing red dust to plume into the already dense atmosphere.

Some of the millipede's legs cracked and snapped against the building. The shop's display window shattered.

“Careful! Careful!” Hare shouted.

Burton jammed down his heels.

“Steer out into the centre of the street, else we'll lose all the limbs along this side!”

“Sorry,” the king's agent mumbled. He looked back along the length of the vehicle, trying to judge distances. “Whose bloody stupid idea was it to turn an insect into a confounded ‘bus?” he growled.

A yank at the right-hand lever followed by a slow pull back on the left sent the machine away from the corner and out into the middle of the road.

He accelerated along the thoroughfare, fighting to maintain control as the omnipede snaked wildly from side to side, hurtling into abandoned carts, overturned braziers, and all manner of debris, smashing everything aside or crushing it flat beneath its numerous short, powerful legs.

Burton tried to slow it down-he could barely see where he was going-but the footplate was far too responsive and his clumsy efforts caused a jolting motion that had his teeth clicking together and Hare yelling at him.

“Stop or go, if you please, Captain, but for pity's sake try not to do both at once!”

The king's agent glanced again at the gauges.

Perhaps if- -

He reached to a small wheel beside the pressure indicator and turned it counterclockwise. Immediately, all along the great length of the omnibus, plumes of steam screamed out of the vents.

The vehicle stabilised.

“The pressure was too high!” he called. “I've got her in hand now!”

Phut! Phut! Phut!

He looked back.

Gregory Hare was shooting at a brougham that had emerged from the swirling smoke and was racing alongside, its steam-horse panting, its driver hollering incoherently. A man was hanging loosely out of the passenger cabin, his arms dangling, cactus spines projecting from the side of his head. Behind him, using him as cover, another man was brandishing a pair of pistols and taking potshots at Hare.

“Shoot the blessed driver!” Burton yelled.

“I'm trying! Perhaps you could pilot this contraption a little more steadily?”

“God-damned stupid machine!” ground out Burton through gritted teeth. “Why in the name of all that's holy did I ever leave Africa?”

He wrenched at the left steering lever, sending the omnipede thundering around a motionless and badly dented litter-crab.

A bullet whined past his ear.

“Lions I can bloody well cope with. Mosquitoes I can bloody well cope with. Even traitorous bloody partners, I can bloody well cope with. But giant steam-operated insects I can quite-”

The ’bus slammed into a beer wagon, sending splintered wood exploding outward.

“-happily-”

The vehicle bucked and shook as it trampled over the shattered cart.

“-do without!”

“I'm hit!” Hare cried.

Burton looked back and saw that Palmerston's man had slumped down, clutching his hip, his wide mouth contorted with pain.

The brougham drew closer to the head of the racing insect.

“Stupid stuck-up ponce!” bawled the driver. “You think you can cheat Tichborne?”

Bullets thudded into the carapace at Burton's side.

The stench of the Thames wafted over the king's agent as the omnipede streaked past empty tollbooths and out onto Waterloo Bridge. He caught a glimpse of Big Ben through the stifling atmosphere. Orange light reflected from the side of the tower. The Houses of Parliament were burning.

A shot clipped his ear.

“Upper-class pig bastard!”

“Snooty pisspot!” yelled the brougham's passenger. “Tichborne forever!”

“You two are worse than parakeets,” Burton shouted. “And I've had quite enough of it!”

He tugged at the right steering lever, sending the omnibus swerving sideways until it collided with the pursuers. The driver shrieked as his vehicle was rammed into the bridge's parapet.

“Sweet Jesus!” screamed the man inside the cabin as it crunched against the stone barrier. With shocking rapidity, the entire box suddenly flew to pieces and was thrown into the air. The steam-horse overturned and the disintegrating brougham somersaulted over it, smashed against the railing, and disappeared over the side of the bridge.

“There you are, gents,” Burton muttered. “A little river water for you. Wash your mouths out.” He called over his shoulder: “Are you all right, Hare?”

“Just keep going, Captain! I seem to be immobilised but I daresay I'll live!”

A group of wraiths hove into view at the side of the bridge then wafted away.

A man walked into the path of the omnipede. He was carrying the headless corpse of a woman slung over his shoulder. As Burton jammed his heels down, the man looked up and grinned. Blood oozed from the corners of his mouth.

The millipede hit him square on and he vanished beneath its stampeding legs.

“Idiot!” Burton spat.

The machine ran on, slowed to a scuttle, and came to a stop. The explorer hoisted himself out and moved back to Hare.

“I just caught sight of a police cordon at the end of the bridge. It looks like they've blocked off the Strand. We can get help.”

Damien Burke groaned and his eyes fluttered open. “You appear to be injured, Mr. Hare,” he mumbled.

“I am, Mr. Burke. As are you. Don't worry, we haven't far to go.”

He looked at Burton, held out the spine-shooter, and said: “Your gun, Captain.”

“No, you keep hold of it while I run ahead.”

“But-”

The king's agent jumped to the ground, scooped up a sharp-ended length of wood, and stalked forward, holding it like a spear, his eyes stinging as particles of ash and soot drifted into them.

“Oy! You there!” came a shout. “Go home! Get off the streets or you'll find yourself under arrest!”

“Police?” Burton called.

“Yes.”

“I am Captain Sir Richard Burton.”

“The Livingstone chap? You're joking!”

“I'm perfectly serious, Constable, and please don't ever refer to me as ‘the Livingstone chap’ again!”

A uniformed man emerged from the smoke. “Sorry, sir. No offence intended. And it's sergeant, actually. There's a police cordon behind me. I'm afraid I can't allow you to pass.”

Burton threw his makeshift weapon aside, dug a hand into his pocket, and pulled out his wallet. From it, he took a card which, approaching the policeman, he held out for inspection.

The sergeant examined it. “Stone the crows!” he exclaimed. “You're rather important!”

“It would seem so,” responded Burton dryly. “I have two injured men with me, Sergeant-?”

“Slaughter, sir.”

“Slaughter? Really? How grimly appropriate.”

“Yes, sir. Sergeant Sidney Slaughter at your service.”

“My colleagues are Lord Palmerston's men and they need to get to Whitehall without delay. Can you rustle up an escort?”

“Certainly. Are they back there?”

“Yes. In an omnipede.”

“I'll give you a hand with them. We'll get them to the tollbooths-they mark the edge of the cordon-then I'll arrange transportation.”

“Thank you.”

They hurried back to the giant insect where they found Damien Burke propped weakly against one of its canopies, brandishing the spine-shooter.

“Thank goodness, Captain,” he gasped. “I appear to have regained my wits just as Mr. Hare lost his. However, I fear I may revisit oblivion at any moment. I'm in quite dreadful pain.”

Burton took the gun from him and helped him down to the road.

“This is Slaughter,” he said.

“I wouldn't go that far, Captain.”

“The sergeant. It's his name.”