‘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 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, then fell to the ground and rolled 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 crag blocking their way. The time travellers followed their gaze – and saw him. Standing in an almost identical pose to the statue in the hall, the brave Captain Shackleton was feline and imposing, his sinewy body swathed in shining armour, his deadly sword hanging indolently from his belt. He held an ornate gun bristling with levers. The leader of the humans had no need of a crown to bestow splendour on an already majestic physique, which, unbeknown to him, elevated the outcrop he was perched on to the status of pedestal.
He and Solomon looked each other up and down, 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 you’ve overestimated your chances. How could it occur to you to attack me without your army? Are you really so desperate, or have your men abandoned you?’
Captain Shackleton shook his head, as though he was 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 how 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, debris and stones scattering as they stood up. In a matter of seconds, the unsuspecting automatons found themselves surrounded by Shackleton’s men.
Claire’s heart raced. The humans had been hiding in the ruins all along, 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 sacrament. 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 his troops to the point at which these were 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.
Of the two automatons leading the cortege, one took a direct hit in the chest. Although he was made of iron, his armour ripped open, and he spurted a cascade of cogs and rods on to the ground before falling over with a loud crash. The other was luckier: the bullet aimed at disabling him only grazed his shoulder, barely causing him to totter. The soldier who had appeared behind the procession was cleverer. His bullet shattered the little steam engine on the back of one of the guards bringing up the rear; it keeled over backwards. A moment later, one of the throne-bearers suffered the same fate, felled by a volley of bullets fired by the soldier who had appeared at the side. Losing one of its supports, the throne keeled over dangerously, and sank to the ground, bringing the mighty Solomon with it.
Things seemed to be going splendidly for the humans, but once the automatons had regrouped, the situation changed. The automaton next to the one that had toppled over backwards snatched the weapon of his attacker and smashed it to smithereens. At the same time, no longer encumbered by the throne, a bearer opened the little doors in his chest and fired a direct hit at one of the two soldiers attacking from the front. His fall distracted his comrade, a fatal error that gave the nearest automaton, whose shoulder had been grazed, time to charge him and deliver a direct blow with his fist. The punch threw the soldier into the air; he landed a few yards away.
Panther-like, Shackleton leaped from his rock, and bounded over to them, downing the automaton with a well- aimed bullet before it could finish off his companion. The two remaining soldiers, one now unarmed, stepped back from the fray, and fell in beside their captain, while the four surviving automatons closed ranks around their king.
Although Claire knew nothing about military strategy, you did not need to be a genius to see that once the humans had used the advantage of a surprise, which had perhaps blinded them with the illusion of an easy victory, the automatons’ superior strength had turned the battle around with humiliating ease. Outnumbered as they were, it seemed logical to Claire that Shackleton, whose duty as a good captain was to protect his men, would order a retreat. However, the future had already been written, and she was not surprised when she heard Solomon’s voice intervene to stop them as they were preparing to flee.
‘Wait, Captain,’ he declared, in his tinny voice. ‘Go, if you want, and plan another ambush. Perhaps you will be more successful next time, but I fear you will only prolong a war that has already gone on far too long. But you could also stay and end it once and for all, here and now’
Shackleton looked at him suspiciously.
‘If you allow me, I’d like to make you a proposition, Captain,’ Solomon went on, while his guard broke ranks, opening like a metal cocoon at the centre of which stood their king. ‘I propose we fight a duel.’
One of the automatons had rescued a wooden box from the toppled throne, which it now presented to Solomon. The automaton ceremoniously pulled out a magnificent iron sword, the tip of whose blade glinted in the faint light from the sky.
‘As you see, Captain, I have had made a broadsword identical to yours so that we could fight with the same weapon humans have used for centuries. I’ve been practising these last few months, waiting for the moment when I would be able to challenge you.’ He sliced through the air with a two-handed thrust. ‘Unlike the ignoble pistol, the sword requires skill, deftness and knowledge of your enemy, which makes me think that if I succeed in piercing your entrails with its razor-sharp blade, you will acknowledge my expertise and consent to die.’
Captain Shackleton mulled over Solomon’s proposal for a few moments, looking wearier and more disgusted than ever by the war of attrition. Now he had his chance to end it by laying all his bets on a single card.
