Britannia Unleashed

Temporalis-2

It is at this point that a brief explanation as to how Sir Belvedere found himself on said clifftop would be beneficial to his readers, perhaps, even enlightening.

It had started with the accidental discovery of a quite remarkable d**g by a Britannian scientific expedition led by the singularly brilliant explorer Sir John Fitzwilliam. Whilst charting a route along the sss River, he and his colleagues stumbled across an indigenous tribe of ill repute. The peoples, hunters by tradition, instead of killing Sir John, allowed him to partake of a d**g made from some rare plant leaf smothered with the essence of a rare, blue frog. The stuff induced a state of vivid dreaming unlike any other where feel and touch were as real as when awake if not more so. All it cost the Britannians were a few spare clothes and one rather beat-up, old rifle. In exchange, they received the potential to unlocking new realities. Or, to be more exact, they received the keys to travelling through time.

Sir John had taken as much of the d**g as offered, then copious amounts more after some compelling Britannian marksmanship. The party had fled the way they had come returning home as heroes.

Upon Fitzwilliam’s triumphant return, Queen Victoria, astute as ever, had ordered the d**g impounded and handed over to the Ministry of Empirical Advancement. This was Sir John’s last great sacrifice for the Empire. On leaving Her Majesty, he had the unfortunate luck to fall down the palace steps, breaking his neck in the process. An unbefitting way for a man of his stature to leave the land of the living. His country honoured his death, of course, but his colleagues secretly bemoaned it. Rumours, where new discoveries were concerned, were all too easily started, and the great white hunter’s demise was the first in a string of such events. Thus, the curse of the sss Blue gained notoriety.

But those who worked for that most secret division of the Britannian Empire were made from hardy stuff. Despite occurrence after occurrence of unusual mishap related deaths, the Ministry, or M.E.A, proceeded to test one theory after another.

The process of corporeal realignment had been theorised by one Sir Magnus Monk, a man, strangely for a scientist, of extremely devout religious beliefs. There were some who said he wished to become the first living man to stand before God, but this was all hearsay, of course. There were others who guessed him driven by Her Majesty herself in the relentless pursuit of reunification with her long dead husband. This was hearsay, too, though nobody dared discuss it out loud.

When Monk and his associate, Professor Albert Chambers, felt confident they had cracked the process of recorporealisation all they had to do was find a subject to test it on. The problem was finding somebody trusted enough for the job. Much to the dismay of Albert Chambers that person, at the request of the Queen herself, was Sir Belvedere. He was everything the Queen could have hoped for in championing the Empire’s cause. Belvedere was many things to many people: a war hero; a man of impeccable social status; an adventurer; and most appropriate to the situation, single. He was a man without ties and worthy of his queen’s total confidence. Sir Belvedere had never married, nor even come close since the unfortunate death of his once sweetheart and betrothed, Gwendolyn Chambers, sister of Albert. Since then, his only mistress had been and ever would be the Britannian Empire. He would do anything to protect it. Anything!

Belvedere had taken no convincing. Death held no fear to him, nor the possibility of it, and what could have been a bigger adventure than travelling through time. The problem was, he was also Albert’s best and only friend. The two had fought together, conquered together, and drunk together. If either had had a brother of choice, it would have been the other.

Now, Albert knew exactly what the risks were, but dared not speak them; it would have cost him his life. Queen Victoria was ever vigilant of such things. So, when the day came, Belvedere finding himself strapped to a polished, mahogany table ready as he ever would be for the process to begin, he found himself shocked by his best friend’s attitude.

“You don’t have to do this, Bells,” Albert whispered.

“I must, Albert. If I don’t, who will?”

“I don’t care,” Albert hissed a reply just audible enough to his friend without causing suspicion from the loitering Monk. “It could kill you, or worse.”

“Bah, I’ve been through hell enough times in my life to know when I won’t be.”

“Ever the hero.”

“No, my friend, just ever me.”

“Are you certain?” Albert whispered, a syringe of blue liquid hovering close to Belvedere’s bared arm.

“I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. Do it, Albert.”

Albert did. He injected him with the serum, then wished his drowsy-eyed friend Godspeed, an ever-grinning Magnus Monk at his back.