through time. Speke will guide you to the exact moment and location.”
“But on previous occasions,” Burton said, “a sacrifice-a death-has been required to activate the process.”
Brunel pointed one of his clamp-ended arms at the workshop entrance. “We hope that will suffice.”
Burton looked and saw a horse being led in.
Krishnamurthy addressed the king's agent: “Why are you aiming for 1840, Sir Richard? Didn't the first alternate history branch off three years earlier?”
“Edward Oxford's initial entry point into the past is the source of all the trouble,” Burton replied. “If I kill him in 1837, he'll still arrive in 1840, and will still assassinate Queen Victoria, whereas, if I kill him in 1840, it will make it impossible for him to be thrown back to 1837.”
“But that means you won't merely change 1840 onward-you'll change the past of the history you are actually in. As far as I understand this whole business, no one has done that before.”
“Cause and effect in reverse, Maneesh.”
Krishnamurthy scratched his head. “Yes. But what will happen to you? To us?”
“I can't be sure-it's all theoretical-but I suspect that all the alternate histories will metamorphose from the Actual to the Potential, if you see what I mean. Whatever act caused each of them to come into being will be nullified, and they'll detach from what was meant to be, like branches being pruned from a bush.”
“Will we remember anything?”
“That, Maneesh, is a question I can't answer. Perhaps each individual's subjective apprehension of the world will readjust, returning to the original version of history.”
“And you, Sir Richard? Won't you exist twice in the same time? How old were you in 1840?”
“Nineteen. I don't know what will happen to me. I'll deal with it when I get there.”
Burton watched as Speke was escorted to one of the benches and lay down on it. Two Technologists affixed cables from the contraption above to the lieutenant's babbage.
“They are ready for you,” Brunel said.
Burton took a deep breath. Holding his arm pressed to his injured side, he paced over to the bench beside Speke and gingerly positioned himself on it. He put the Lee-Enfield rifle down with its barrel resting on his shoulder.
Krishnamurthy crossed to another worktop and returned from it with the portmanteau and the jewel case. He placed them on Burton's chest and stomach. The explorer wrapped his arms around them.
“Good luck, sir,” the police commander said. He moved to the end of the benches where the horse had been tethered, took hold of the animal's reins, and drew his police-issue Adams revolver.
Countess Sabina stepped closer to Speke.
The machine overhead began to hum.
“Is everyone in position and prepared?” Brunel piped loudly.
The gathered technicians answered in the affirmative.
Burton rolled his head to the side and said to Speke: “John. Thank you.”
Speke looked back and gave a sad smile.
Brunel clanked over to a console and began to adjust levers and dials.
The apparatus hanging over the benches suddenly hummed-a deep, throbbing sound-and bolts of blue energy fizzed and spat across its surface.
“Now, please, Mr. Speke,” Brunel said.
The lieutenant reached up to the key that poked out over his left ear and began to wind the babbage.
“I just felt the booby trap arm itself,” he muttered. “Maybe thirty minutes, then it'll explode.”
Countess Sabina said, “Try to remain calm, please, Mr. Speke. I'm establishing a mediumistic connection with you now.”
She flinched, gasped, and whimpered: “Oh, you poor thing!”
“I can feel your presence,” Speke groaned. “It's-it's-”
“Intrusive? I know, sir. I'm sorry.”
“I'm awaiting your word, Countess,” Brunel said.
“Not yet!” The woman put her fingertips to her temples and squeezed her eyes shut. “I can sense the diamonds. I have to feel my way into them. Follow me, if you can, Mr. Speke. I'm trying to connect with your mind, too, Sir Richard.”
Burton felt his scalp crawling, as if insects were running over it.
“Power's building!” Brunel called. “Hurry!”
From head to toe, Burton's muscles suddenly locked tight. Pain shot through his side. He cried out.
“Now!” the countess screamed.
A jagged line of blue lightning shot out of the overhead machine, hit Speke's babbage, and jumped across to Burton's head. The king's agent screeched and jerked as his nerve endings seemed to catch fire.
“Krishnamurthy!” Brunel shouted.
The Flying Squad commander pushed his pistol against the horse's head and pulled the trigger. The animal collapsed.
Burton convulsed and began to lose consciousness.
“It hasn't worked!” Krishnamurthy shouted. “Turn off the power! You're killing them!”
“No!” the countess shrieked. She threw out her arms. Blood welled up in her eyes and ran down her cheeks. “It's me! I'm the sacrifice!”
“Countess!” Krishnamurthy yelled.
The cheiromantist flopped to the floor.
There was a flash of white light.
Sir Richard Francis Burton remembered his youth and his first independent visit to London. He'd been there before-he'd gone to school in Richmond when he was eight years old-but on this occasion he was nineteen, had come from Italy to enrol at Trinity College, Oxford, and was filled with grandiose ideas and a bottomless well of self-esteem.
As is so often the case with memories, they were conjured by his olfactory sense. His nostrils were filled with the gritty carbon smell of soot, the rotten stench of the Thames, the stale odours of unlaundered clothes and unwashed bodies, all lurking behind the powerful tang of grass.
He opened his eyes. He was lying facedown in long grass at the edge of a thicket of trees. A man had just emerged from them and, not noticing Burton, was walking away, down a slope. The explorer heard him mutter: “Steady, Edward! Hang on, hang on. Don't let it overwhelm you. This is neither a dream nor an illusion, so stay focused, get the job done, then get back to your suit!”
He was too late! He hadn't counted on losing consciousness. He'd intended to shoot the visitor from the future among the trees before making a fast getaway. What now?
Burton pushed himself to his knees and almost cried out as his ribs scraped against each other. He reached for his rifle, the jewel case, and portmanteau-all on the grass beside him-picked them up, and crawled into the thicket. He found a suitable spot, lay flat, and carefully-gritting his teeth against the pain-pulled himself forward until he was hidden beneath a bush. He looked out at Green Park.
He could feel John Speke's babbage winding down. The black diamond dust in his scalp was somehow connected to it through the decades.
He leaned on his elbows, hefted the rifle in his hands, and glanced at the inscription on its stock.
He'd been fifty-five years into the future, now he was twenty-four years into the past.
He shook his head slightly, trying to dispel the odd sense of dislocation that lurked at the edges of his mind: the feeling that he possessed two separate identities. But, of course, it was the 10th of June, 1840, and he really was duplicated, for his much younger self was currently travelling through Europe.
If only that opinionated and arrogant youngster knew what life had in store for him!
