Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon

“We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.”

–OSCAR WILDE

While Sir Richard Francis Burton was in Africa, electricity came to London. Now, in early 1864, thick cables were clinging to the walls of the city's buildings, looping and drooping over its streets, dripping in the fog, and quietly sizzling as they conveyed energy from Battersea Power Station across the nation's capital.

Street lamps blazed. House and office windows blazed. Shop fronts blazed. The permanent murk effortlessly swallowed the light and reduced it to smudged globes, which hung in the impenetrable atmosphere like exotic fruits.

In the gloomy gullies between, pedestrians struggled through an unyielding tangle of almost immobile vehicles. The legs of steam-driven insects were caught in the spokes of wheels, panicky horses were jammed against chugging machinery, crankshafts were hammering against wood and metal and flesh.

Animalistic howls and screams and curses sounded from amid the mess.

And to this, Burton had returned aboard His Majesty's Airship Dauntless.

The vessel was the first of her type, the result of Isambard Kingdom Brunel's solving of the gas-filled dirigible problem. Design faults had been corrected and unstable flammable gasses replaced. The Dauntless was a triumph.

A slow but long-range vessel, she was propelled by electric engines, which, lacking springs, should have been impervious to the deleterious influence that had so far prevented any machine from piercing Africa's heart.

Unfortunately, this had proved not to be the case.

Following the Nile upstream, the ship had reached the northern outskirts of the Lake Regions. Her engines had then failed. However, the wind was behind her, so Captain Lawless allowed the vessel to be borne along, powerless, until the air current changed direction, at which point he'd ordered her landing on the shore of a great lake.

The crew set up camp.

There were two passengers on board: John Petherick and Samuel Baker, both experienced explorers from the Royal Geographical Society. They prepared an expedition, intending to head south to search for Burton. The day prior to their planned departure, he and Speke had come stumbling into the camp.

Lawless and his engineers had taken it for granted that the engines were still dysfunctional. Burton, though, knew that the Nāga were no longer present in the black diamonds, so their influence should have vanished.

He was correct. The engines functioned perfectly. The Dauntless flew home and landed at an airfield some miles to the southeast of London. Damien Burke and Gregory Hare, Palmerston's odd-job men, were there to greet it. They took possession of the fourteen black diamonds—the seven fragments of the Cambodian Eye and the seven of the African.

“All the Nāga stones are in British hands now, Captain Burton,” Burke said. “You've done excellent work for the Empire, isn't that so, Mr. Hare?”

“It most certainly is, Mr. Burke!” Hare agreed.

John Speke was taken into custody.

“He's a traitor,” Burke observed. “The irony of it is that he'll no doubt be incarcerated in our chambers beneath the Tower of London, which is where the Eyes will go, too. One of the most disreputable men in the country held in the same place as what might well be our most precious resource. Such is the way of things.”

Burton was taken to Penfold Private Sanatorium in London's St. John's Wood, where, for three weeks, the Sisterhood of Noble Benevolence fussed over him.

As his strength increased, so too did his anxiety. He had a terrible decision to make. By telling Palmerston about the future and revealing to him his fate, he might persuade him to abandon plans to use the Eyes of Nāga as a means for mediumistic espionage against Prussia; might convince him that sending troops to Africa would lead to disaster. But if he succeeded in this, it would mean no reinforcements for the Daughters of Al-Manat. Bertie Wells had told him that the female guerrilla fighters survived at least into the 1870s. In changing history, Burton would almost certainly condemn Isabel Arundell, Isabella Mayson, and Sadhvi Raghavendra to much earlier deaths.

Obviously, the future he'd visited had occurred because he'd favoured Al-Manat's survival over the 130-year-old Palmerston's direct order. As much as he loved Isabel, he had no idea why he might have done such a thing, for, in anyone's estimation, could three lives—even those three—be worth the savagery and destruction of the Great War?

He wrote much about this in his personal journal, examining the problem from every angle he could think of, but though he produced pages and pages of cramped handwriting, he could find no answer.

The solution finally came with a visit from Palmerston himself.

Two weeks into his treatment, Burton was sitting up in bed reading a newspaper when the door opened and the prime minister stepped in, announcing: “I'd have come earlier. You know how it is. Affairs of state. Complex times, Captain Burton. Complex times.”

He took off his hat and overcoat—revealing a Mandarin-collared black suit and pale blue cravat—and placed them on a chair. He didn't remove his calfskin gloves.

Standing at the end of the patient's bed, he said, “You look bloody awful. Your hair is white!”

The king's agent didn't reply. He gazed dispassionately at his visitor's face.

Palmerston's most recent treatments had made his nose almost entirely flat. The nostrils were horizontal slits, as wide as the gash-like mouth beneath. A dimple had been added to the centre of his chin. His eyebrows were painted on, high above the oriental-looking eyes.

“You'll be pleased to hear, Captain, that not only do I fully endorse your recommendations, but I have acted upon them even in the face of virulent opposition led by no less than Disraeli himself,” he announced.

Burton looked puzzled. “My recommendations, Prime Minister?”

“Yes. Your reports confirmed my every suspicion concerning Bismarck's intentions. Obviously, we cannot allow him to gain a foothold in East Africa, so British troops have already been conveyed there by rotorship, and I have more on the way. It's by no means a declaration of war on my part, but I do intend that they offer resistance to any efforts made by Prussia to claim territories.”

Burton's fingers dug into the bedsheets beneath him. “My—my reports?” he whispered hoarsely.

“As delivered to us by Commander Krishnamurthy. A very courageous young man, Burton. He will be given due honours, of that you can be certain. And I look forward to receiving the remainder of your observations—those made between Kazeh and the Mountains of the Moon. Do you have them here?”

“N-no,” Burton stammered. “I'll—I'll see that they're delivered to you.” He thought: Bismillah! Krishnamurthy!

“Post-haste, please, Captain.”

Burton struggled for words. “I—I wrote those reports before I had—before I had properly assessed the situation, Prime Minister. You have to—to withdraw our forces at once. Their presence in Africa will escalate hostilities between the British Empire and Prussia to an unprecedented degree.”

“What? Surely you don't expect me to allow Bismarck free rein?”

“You have to, sir.”

“Have to? Why?”

“Your actions will—will precipitate the Great War, the one that Countess Sabina has predicted.”

Palmerston shook his head. “The countess is working with us to prevent exactly that. She and a team of mediums have already employed the Nāga diamonds to great effect.” He pointed at Burton's newspaper. “No doubt you've read that a second Schleswig conflict has broken out between Prussia, Austria, and Denmark. We precipitated that, my dear fellow, by means of undetected mediumistic manipulations. I intend to tangle Bismarck up in so many minor difficulties that he'll never have the strength to challenge us in Africa, let alone establish his united Germany!”

Burton squeezed his eyes shut and raised his hands to his head in frustration. It was too late. The circumstances that would lead to all-out war had already been set into motion!

He thought rapidly. Now he understood the 130-year-old Palmerston's claim that he—Burton—had never revealed his visit to the future. The king's agent knew the way the prime minister's mind worked. Having already outmanoeuvred Benjamin Disraeli—a formidable political force—to get his way, Palmerston wouldn't under any circumstances backtrack, not even on his own advice! So what would he do instead? The answer was obvious: the prime minister would attempt to outguess his future self by ordering a preemptive strike; he'd throw every resource he could muster into defeating Bismarck before Prussia could properly mobilise its military might; and in doing that, in Burton's opinion, he was much more likely to incite the war at an earlier date than to prevent it.

Burton felt ensnared by inevitability.

“What's the matter?” Palmerston asked. “Should I call a nurse?”

The explorer took his hands from his head, feeling the ridges of his tattoo sliding beneath his fingertips.

“No, Prime Minister. I have a headache, that's all.”

“Then I won't disturb you any further, Captain.” Palmerston picked up his coat, shrugged it back on, took up his top hat, and said: “We've blown hot and cold, you and I, but I want you to know that I have renewed faith in you. You've done a splendid job. Absolutely splendid! Thanks to your actions, the Empire is secured.”

He turned and departed.

Burton sat and stared into space.

A week later he was released from hospital and returned to his home at 14 Montagu Place.

Mrs. Angell, his housekeeper, was horrified at his appearance. He looked, she said, as if he'd just been dug out of an Egyptian tomb.

“You'll eat, Sir Richard!” she pronounced, and embarked on a culinary mission to restore his health. She also cleaned around him obsessively, as if the slightest speck of dust might cause his final ruination.

He put up with it stoically, too weak to resist, though there was one item he wouldn't allow her—or the maid, Elsie Carpenter—to touch, let alone dust: the rifle that leaned against the fireplace by his saddlebag armchair.

It was an anomaly, that weapon, and the image of it arose again and again in his Sufi meditations, though he couldn't fathom why.

A few days after his homecoming, a parakeet arrived at his study window. “Message from thick-witted Richard Monckton Milnes, otherwise known as Baron hairy-palmed Houghton. Message begins. I will call at three o'clock, bum-slapper. Message ends.”

The new 1st Baron Houghton arrived on time and found Burton wrapped in his jubbah and slumped in his armchair beside the fireplace, with a cheroot in his mouth, a glass of port in his hand, and Fidget the basset hound stretched out at his feet. Whatever greeting Monckton Milnes had planned died on his lips at the sight of the explorer. He stood in the doorway of the study, his mouth hanging open.

Burton removed his Manila, set down his glass, and gave a half-grin. “What you see is the much-recovered model,” he said, rising to his feet. He crossed to his friend and shook his hand. “You should have seen the state of me before! Hang up your coat, old man, and take a seat. Congratulations on your peerage. Would you prefer me to bow or pour you a drink?”

“Hell's bells, Richard! You look twenty years older!”

“I'm four years older. No, five, counting the year since you last saw me, the rest is down to the vicissitudes of Africa.”

His visitor sat down and accepted a glass of port.

“By heavens, it's good to see you again. But five years? What are you talking about?”

“It will require a suspension of disbelief on your part.”

“A little over a year ago you told me that Spring Heeled Jack was a man from the future and that history had been changed. Is what you have to tell me more incredible even that that?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, it is.”

“Ouch! Very well, fire away. You talk and I'll drink.”

Over the course of the next two hours, Burton told his friend everything that had happened in Africa, and he withheld nothing.

A long silence followed as Monckton Milnes digested the tale, along with the copious amount of port he'd gulped.

Burton showed him the rifle and pointed out the inscription on its stock: Lee-Enfield Mk III. Manufactured in Tabora, Africa, 1918.

“You have to change history,” his guest said softly.

“That's the problem,” Burton replied. “To do so I have to outmanoeuvre myself, as well as Palmerston.”

“And if you succeed,” Monckton Milnes interjected, “if you create yet another branch of history, you'll just be adding to the chaos poor Algernon warned of.”

Burton sucked at his cigar. “Not so much poor Algernon. He seemed very content with his new form. But yes, you're correct. He told me to put an end to all the divergences, despite that doing so would wipe out the history in which he currently resides. How, though, am I to do that?”

He looked down at the rifle that lay across his legs. “How am I to do that?”

Quite without warning or obvious reason, the last words Burton had ever heard Detective Inspector Honesty speak leaped into his mind with such clarity they might have been muttered into his ear: “Needs pruning, hard against the stem.”

Monckton Milnes, as Burton had requested, had spent the past year surreptitiously monitoring the prime minister. He reported that Palmerston had secretly quadrupled military spending, had reshuffled his cabinet so that it contained the most martial of his party's ministers, and was steadfastly refusing to make a decision regarding British America's slave population.

Burton thanked his friend, bade him goodbye, and spent the rest of the afternoon meditating.

That evening, he met Maneesh Krishnamurthy for dinner at the Athenaeum Club on Pall Mall. They grabbed each other by the elbows and shared a wordless greeting. Both grinned stupidly, both looked into the other's eyes, and both saw pain and loss.

They settled in the lounge and shared a bottle of wine.

“I've started on these foul-tasting things,” the police commander said, opening a platinum cigarette case and pulling forth one of the little tubes of Latakia tobacco. “Much worse than my old pipe, but I had to trade the damned thing to get out of a jam at Madege Madogo and I haven't the heart to replace it. It was a gift from my cousin, bless him.”

“I miss him,” Burton murmured. “I miss them all.”

He raised his glass in a silent toast. Krishnamurthy followed suit. They drained them in a single swallow and poured over-generous refills.

“Sir Richard, I know I look like I've been starved, beaten, and dragged backward through a thorn bush, but if you don't mind me saying so, you look considerably worse. What in blue blazes happened to you?”

“Time, Maneesh. Time happened to me.”

For the second time that day—and only the second time since he'd got back—Burton gave an account of what had occurred after he and Krishnamurthy parted company outside Kazeh.

“By James, it's unbelievable, Sir Richard, but looking at what's happening in the world today, I can easily see how it might develop into the hellish conflict you describe.”

“Unfortunately not might, but will”

They drank more. Too much. Krishnamurthy described his journey from Kazeh back to Zanzibar. Burton's head began to swim.

A concierge approached. “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “A message for you. It arrived by runner.”

Burton took the proffered note. He looked at Krishnamurthy. “This will be from Palmerston.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because the only way a runner would know I'm here is if it was sent by someone who's having me watched.”

He opened the note and read:

This morning, a military court found Lieutenant John Hanning Speke guilty of treason. He will be executed by firing squad at dawn on Friday. His final request is to see you. This has been permitted. Please attend with due dispatch. Burke and Hare will escort.

Henry John Temple, 3rd Viscount Palmerston

Burton cursed and passed the note to his friend.

Krishnamurthy read it and said, “Because he aided the Prussians?”

“Yes. But he was never acting under his own volition. From the very inception of this whole affair, Speke has been manipulated and taken advantage of.”

“Will you go?”

“Yes.”

The two men continued drinking until past midnight, then said farewell and made off—somewhat unsteadily—toward their respective homes.

On the city's main highways, electric lighting saturated the fog and made it glow a dirty orange. Black flakes drifted down and settled on Burton's shoulders and top hat. He wound a scarf around his face and, leaning heavily on his sword cane, walked a little way along Pall Mall then turned left onto Regent Street. Despite the late hour, the traffic hadn't cleared and the pavements were still crowded with bad-tempered pedestrians, so he turned right and took to the backstreets, which, though dark and filthy, at least afforded a quicker passage.

He cursed himself for drinking so much. He wasn't recovered enough to cope with drunkenness; it made him feel ill and weak.

From alley to alley, he walked past huddled shapes and broken windows, lost his bearings, and drifted too far northward.

He found himself in a network of narrow passages. A raggedly dressed man stepped out of the darkness and brandished a dagger. Burton drew his sword cane and smiled viciously. The man backed away, held up his hands, said, “No 'arm meant, guv'nor!” and ran away.

The explorer pushed on, turned left, stumbled over a discarded crate and kicked it angrily. Two rats emerged from beneath it and scurried away.

He leaned against a lamppost. He was shaking.

“Pull yourself together, you blockhead!” he growled. “Get home!”

He noticed a faded flier pasted to the post and read it:

Work disciplines your spirit

Work develops your character

Work strengthens your soul

Do not allow machines to do your work!

It was old Libertine propaganda. They'd been a force to be reckoned with a couple of years ago, but now the Technologists dominated and the Libertines were ridiculed in the newspapers. What, Burton wondered, would the world be like if the shoe had been on the other foot?

He resumed his journey.

What if Edward Oxford had never jumped back through time? The Libertines and Technologists owed their existence to him—would the world be so different if they'd never existed?

Edward Oxford.

It all went back to him. All the alternate histories had been made possible by his interference.

Burton turned another corner and stopped. He'd entered a long straight lane bordered by high brick walls, and despite the gloom and the fog, he recognised it—for he'd unconsciously drifted to the very spot where he'd had his first encounter with Oxford—with Spring Heeled Jack.

Richard Francis bloody Burton!

Your destiny lies elsewhere!

Do you understand?

Do what you're supposed to do!

The words echoed in his mind, and he said aloud now what he'd said then: “How can I possibly know what I'm supposed to do? How can I know?”

“What?” came a voice.

Burton turned. A vagrant had shuffled out of the fog.

“Was ye a-talkin' to me, mister?”

“No.”

“I thought ye said sumfink.”

“I did. I was—I was just thinking aloud.”

“Ah, rightio. I do that. They say it's the first sign o' madness, don't they? Can ye spare a copper? I ain't ‘ad nuffink to eat, not fer a couple o’ days, leastways.”

Burton fished in his pocket, pulled out a coin, and flipped it to the man. He turned to go, but then paused and said to the beggar: “How can I possibly know what I'm supposed to do?”

“Heh! Ye just carry on carryin' on, don'tcha, mate! Fate'll do the rest!”

Burton sighed, nodded, and walked out of the alley.

Needs pruning, hard against the stem.

Do what you're supposed to do!

Lee-Enfield Mk III. Manufactured in Tabora, Africa, 1918.

The source of the Nile!

Edward Oxford.

The source!

Burton sat up, jolted out of his sleep.

Had that been Bertie Wells's voice or Algernon Swinburne's?

He looked at the four corners of his bedroom.

Nobody's voice. A dream.

He sat up, poured a glass of water from the jug on his bedside table, then opened a drawer and took out a small vial. Its label read Saltzmann's Tincture. He added three drops of its contents to the water, drank it, and stood up. After washing and wrapping his jubbah around himself, the king's agent went downstairs and was served a hearty breakfast by Mrs. Angell. He then went to his dressing room and outfitted himself in shabby workmen's clothing.

It was early on Thursday morning.

Burton caught a hansom to Limehouse. When it became ensnarled in traffic halfway there, he left it and walked the rest of the distance. He made his way along Limehouse Cut until he came to an abandoned factory, climbed one of its chimneys, and dropped three pebbles into its flue. The Beetle responded to the summons. The head of the League of Chimney Sweeps, who'd been safely transported from the Arabian Desert back to his home, reported that, on Captain Lawless's recommendation, Willy Cornish had received a government grant to put him through private schooling, while Vincent Sneed had been released from the Cairo prison and was now working as a funnel scrubber at an airfield in South London.

Satisfied, the king's agent left the mysterious boy with a satchel of books and made his way homeward.

It was almost midday by the time he turned the corner of Montagu Place. He saw Mr. Grub, his local street vendor, standing in the fog with a forlorn expression on his face.

“Hallo, Mr. Grub. Where's your barrow?”

“It got knocked over by a bleedin' omnipede, Cap'n,” the man replied. “Smashed to smithereens, it was.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Burton replied. “But you have your Dutch oven, still?”

“Nope. It was crushed by one o' them lumbering great mega-dray horses.”

“But Mr. Grub, if you can't sell shellfish or hot chestnuts, what the dickens are you standing here for?”

The vendor shrugged helplessly. “It's me patch, Cap'n. Me pa stood on it, an' his pa afore him! It's where I belong, ain't it!”

Burton couldn't think how to reply to that, so he settled for a grunted response and made to move away.

“'Scusin' me askin', Cap'n—”

The explorer stopped and turned back.

“Did you ever find it?”

“Find what, Mr. Grub?”

“The source, sir. The source of the Nile.”

“Ah. Yes. As a matter of fact I did.”

“Good on you! That's bloomin' marvellous, that is! An' was it worth it?”

Burton swallowed. His heart suddenly hammered in his chest. He blinked the corrosive fog from his eyes.

“No, Mr. Grub. It wasn't worth it at all. Not in the slightest bit.”

The vendor nodded slowly, as if with deep understanding.

“Aye,” he said. “I have it in mind that the source o' things ain't never what you expect 'em to be.”

The king's agent touched the brim of his topper in farewell and walked the rest of the short distance home.

Burke and Hare were waiting for him.

“A moment, if you please, gentlemen. I'd like to change into more suitable clothing, if you don't mind.”

He left them waiting in the hallway, went upstairs, removed his patched trousers and threadbare jacket, and put on a suit. He was on his way back down when Mrs. Angell came up from the kitchen, all pinafore and indignation.

“You'll not be going out again, Sir Richard!” she protested, with a scowl at Burke and Hare. “You'll leave him be, sirs! He's not a well man! He's infected with Africa!”

Damien Burke bowed and said, “I assure you, ma'am, I have nothing but the good captain's well-being in mind, isn't that so, Mr. Hare?”

“It is absolutely the case, Mr. Burke. Ma'am, were it not the last request of a condemned man, we wouldn't dream of imposing on Captain Burton.”

“It's all right, Mrs. Angell,” Burton interrupted. “The restorative quality of your incomparable cooking has put new life into me. I'm fit as can be.”

“What condemned man?” the housekeeper asked.

“Lieutenant John Speke,” Burke answered.

“Oh,” the old dame replied. “Him.”

She threw up her chin disapprovingly and stamped back to the kitchen.

“She blames Speke for all my ills,” Burton remarked as he put on his overcoat. He lifted his topper from its hook and suddenly remembered that more than a year ago—or, from his point of view, more than five—a bullet had been fired through it. He examined it closely and saw no sign of the two holes. In his absence, Mrs. Angell had obviously paid for its repair.

He smiled, pushed the hat onto his head, and took his silver-handled sword cane from the elephant's-foot holder by the door.

“Let's go.”

Nearly two hours later, they arrived at the Tower of London after a difficult journey in a horse-drawn growler.

“It would have been quicker to walk,” the king's agent noted.

“Yes, Captain, my apologies,” Burke replied. “The new underground railway system will solve many of the capital's ills, I hope, but I fear its opening is still some way off.”

“Has Mr. Brunel encountered problems?”

“No, sir, he's still drilling the tunnels. It's a project of immense proportions. These things take time. Isn't that so, Mr. Hare?”

“It certainly is, Mr. Burke,” Hare agreed.

They disembarked at the end of Tower Street and walked around the outer walls to the river-facing Bloody Tower Gate. The stench from the Thames was almost too much for Burton, and he snatched gratefully at the perfumed handkerchief proffered by Hare, pressing it to his nostrils. Palmerston's men appeared unaffected by the foul odour.

After a few whispered words with the Beefeater guards, the two odd-job men ushered the king's agent through the gate, across a courtyard, and into the Great Keep. They entered St. John's Chapel, and Hare opened a door in one of its more shadowy corners, indicating to Burton that he should descend the stairs beyond. The explorer did so.

Oil lamps lit the stone staircase, which went down much farther than he expected.

“You understand, Sir Richard, that the area we're about to enter is not generally known to exist and must remain a secret?” Damien Burke said.

“You can count on my discretion.”

The stairs eventually ended at a heavy metal portal. Hare produced a key and unlocked it, and the three men stepped through into a wide hallway with doors along its sides. As they walked along, Burton observed small signs: Conference Rooms 1 & 2; Offices A–F; Offices G–L; Administration Rooms; Laboratories 1–5; Clairvoyance Rooms 1–4; Vault; Weapon Shop; Monitoring Station; Canteen; Dormitories.

At the end of the passage, they unlocked and passed through a door marked Security. The chamber beyond was rectangular and contained filing cabinets and a desk. There were six sturdy metal doors, each numbered.

A man at the desk rose and said, “Number four, gentlemen?”

Burke nodded. He turned to Burton. “You have thirty minutes, Captain. Mr. Hare and I will wait here.”

“Very well.”

Cell 4 was opened and Burton stepped into it. The door shut behind him. He heard a key turn in its lock.

The chamber looked more like a sitting room than a prison. There were shelves of books, a desk, a bureau, a settee and armchairs, ornaments on the mantelpiece, and pictures on the wall. A door stood open to Burton's right, and John Speke stepped out from what was evidently a bedchamber.

The lieutenant was barefoot, wearing trousers and a white cotton shirt, wrinkled and untucked.

“Dick!” he exclaimed. “I'm sorry, old fellow, I had no idea it was that time already!”

“Hallo, John. How are you feeling?”

“As healthy as a condemned man can expect.” Speke waved toward the armchairs. “Come, sit down.”

As they moved across the room, he leaned in close and quietly hissed: “They'll be listening.”

Burton gave a slight nod of acknowledgement and sat down.

There was an occasional table beside Speke's chair. He took a decanter of brandy from it, poured two glasses, and handed one to his guest.

“Do you consider me guilty, Dick?”

“Absolutely not,” Burton responded.

“Good. I don't care about anyone else. But I must ask your forgiveness. A weakness in my character caused me to take umbrage with you during our exploration of Berbera, and everything we've endured since stems from that act. I thought you considered me a coward. I was angry and resentful.”

“And wrong, John. I never thought of you that way. But if it's forgiveness you need, then consider it granted.”

“Thank you.”

Hesitantly, Speke raised his glass. Burton leaned forward, clinked his own against it, and they drank.

“Do you remember all those dreadful days of illness in Ujiji?” Speke asked, referring to 1857, when they'd discovered Lake Tanganyika.

“How could I forget, John? I thought we were goners for sure.”

“When I was at my lowest ebb, you used to sit beside my cot and read to me from Camoens. Would you do so again? I'd gain much comfort from it. They allowed me a volume of The Lusiad.”

“Certainly.”

Speke stood, crossed to a bookshelf, and returned with a book in his hand. He passed it to Burton and sat down.

“I've marked a page.”

Burton nodded then opened the book where a loose leaf of paper poked out from the pages. He saw Speke's handwriting on the sheet and glanced up at his friend.

Speke met his eyes and held them a moment. His lens glinted.

Burton returned his attention to the book. He began to read aloud.

“'Ah, strike the notes of woe!' the siren cries;

‘A dreary vision swims before my eyes.

To Tagus’ shore triumphant as he bends,

Low in the dust the hero's glory ends—'”

Such was his familiarity with the Portuguese poet that he continued automatically, reciting the verse, expressively and faultlessly, though his eyes and mind were on Speke's note. He read:

Dick,

I have told no one of what occurred in the temple. Nor have we ever spoken to each other about it, for we were in no fit condition to converse in the days subsequent to those events, and, besides, I had little recollection of anything other than a bright flash and a deafening gunshot.

But in recent days, the veil of light that blinded me seems to have lifted. What I witnessed has gained clarity in my mind, and I feel instinctively that it might be of importance to you.

I shall try to describe what happened in its proper sequence, though, in truth, these are but facets of an instant.

Dick, this thing that Darwin and his cronies attached to my head, this babbage device, contains antennae of such extreme sensitivity that they detect the electrical operations of a human brain. At the moment the brass man fired his pistol, those sensors were hit by a transmission of subtle electrical force. It was the—I'm sorry, but I know of no other way to describe it—the final mental exhalation of Mr. Trounce. This same burst of energy seemed to activate the downward-pointing pyramid above the altar. It suddenly blazed with light and lost its opacity. I was able, as if seeing through solid matter, to discern that its structure was comprised of alternating layers of material, one denser than the other.

Simultaneously, a pale-blue lightning flashed from the diamond at the tip of the pyramid and jumped to the brass man's head, then from his to yours. In the slightest fraction of a second, your appearance altered—your hair became white, your clothes changed, and a rifle appeared beside you—and the energy then reversed direction, jumping from you back to the brass man, then to the diamond.

As I say, this all occurred in a single moment, and I don't know what to make of it, except—this may be nonsense, but it seemed to me that the clockwork man somehow channelled and directed the force.

I wish I could be of more help to you, but my time has run out.

I cannot forget that we were once as brothers. I hope, when you remember me, you will think of that time, and not of the wicked things I have done.

Your old friend,

John Hanning Speke

Burton continued to recite Camoens, but his eyes flicked up and signalled gratitude to the other man. Surreptitiously, he slipped the letter into his pocket.

The half-hour ended and the door opened. Damien Burke leaned in and said: “Captain?”

Burton closed the book, put it down, stood, and shook Speke's hand.

“Goodbye, old fellow,” he said.

Speke's mouth moved but he could find no words, and with his eye glistening, he turned away.

It was past three o'clock by the time the king's agent left the tower. He whistled for a hansom cab and ordered the driver to take him to Battersea.

“Bless me, sir! That's a relief!” the man said, climbing down from his seat. He took a couple of lumps of Formby coal from the scuttle at the back of the vehicle's steam-horse and put them into the furnace.

“Why so?” Burton asked.

“South of the river, ain't it! A lot less traffic south of the river! Can't move for love nor money on the main roads north o' the Thames, but south—we'll have you on your merry way, no trouble at all, sir. In you go. There's a blanket under the seat if you feel the chill.”

The driver climbed back up to his seat, waited for Burton to settle, then—with an unnecessary “Gee up!”—squeezed the velocity lever and got the hansom moving.

As the cab rattled along Lower Thames Street and turned left onto London Bridge, the king's agent sat back, tied Gregory Hare's perfumed handkerchief around the lower half of his face, and focused on his breathing. Keeping it slow and steady, he imagined each breath entering first his left lung, then his right. He matched his respiration to the rhythm of a Sufi chant:

Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq.

Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq.

Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq.

He started to complicate the exercise, altering the tempo, establishing a cycle of four breaths, visualising oxygen saturating different parts of his body.

At the same time, he listened only to the chugging of the hansom's steam-horse, allowing it to block out all other noises.

By the time the vehicle reached the junction of Bankside and Blackfriars Road, Burton had slipped into a Sufi trance.

His mind drifted.

He saw formless light and colour; heard water and snatches of conversation:

“—According to the evidence John Speke presented to the Society, the Nile runs uphill for ninety miles—”

“—The lake he discovered was, indeed, the source of the Nile—”

The lights coalesced into a single bright ribbon, broad, snaking away through darkness, disappearing into the distance. He flew over it, following its course upstream.

“—Captain Burton! Did you pull the trigger?—”

“—Is there shooting to be done?—”

“—I rather suppose there is!—”

“—The source!—”

“—Don't step back! They'll think that we're retiring!—”

From far off to either side, he saw more ribbons of light. The farther upstream he flew, the closer they came.

“—Don't step back!—”

“—Step back!—”

“—Pull the trigger!—”

“—Step back!—”

“—The source!—”

Shining intensely, as if reflecting the sun, the ribbons began to converge around him.

“—Step back!—”

“—The source!—”

“—Needs pruning, hard against the stem—”

“—How can I reverse the damage?—”

“—You'll find a way—”

“—Is there shooting to be done?—”

“—I rather suppose there is!—”

“—Pull the trigger!—”

“—The source!—”

The bands of light joined into one blazing expanse. It shot upward in front of him. Burton gazed at it and became aware that it was falling water. He looked up and saw a rainbow.

The hansom cab jerked over a pothole, shaking his senses back into him.

He cried out: “Step back! The source needs pruning, hard against the stem! Pull the trigger!”

And, all of a sudden, he knew exactly what had to be done.

The hatch in the roof of the cab opened and the driver looked in.

“Did you say somethin', sir?”

“Yes. Make a detour to the nearest post office, would you?”

“Certainly, sir. We're just comin' up on Broad Street. There's one there.”

A few minutes later, Burton paid for two parakeet messages. He sent the first bird to Commander Krishnamurthy: “Maneesh, hurry to my place and pick up the rifle next to the fireplace in my study. Bring it to Battersea Power Station. Utmost emergency. Great haste, please.”

The second parakeet was sent to Mrs. Angell to alert her to the commander's mission. It went on: “Mrs. Angell, I have an unusual job for you. You must do it at once, without hesitation or protest. Please remove from my study all my casebooks, journals, reports, and personal papers. Take them from the desks, from the drawers, and from the shelves nearest the window. Carry them into the backyard and make a bonfire of them. Do not leave a single one unburned. This is of crucial importance. Destroy them all, and do it at once.”

The king's agent returned to the cab and, thirty minutes later, it delivered him to his destination.

The glaring lights of the Technologist headquarters were turning the thick fog around it into a swirling soup of glowing particles, here a sickening yellow, there a putrid orange, in many places a deep hellish red. Burton picked his way through the murk to the front entrance, hailed a guard, and was escorted to the main hall.

Isambard Kingdom Brunel appeared from amid buzzing machinery and clanked over to greet him.

“An unexpected pleasure, Sir Richard. It's been more than a year.”

“You've corrected your speech defect, Isambard.”

“Some considerable time ago. I'm afraid young Swinburne will be disappointed.”

“Swinburne is dead,” Burton said flatly.

“Dead?”

“Yes. Well, in a manner of speaking, anyway.”

“I'm not sure what you mean, but I am truly sorry. What happened?”

Burton glanced at a nearby workbench around which a group of Technologists was gathered.

“May we speak in private?”

Brunel expelled a puff of vapour. The piston-like device on the shoulder of his barrel-shaped body paused in its pumping, then continued. The bellows on the other side creaked up and down insistently.

“Follow,” he piped.

Burton trailed after the Steam Man, across the vast floor to where two of the huge Worm machines were parked. The explorer marvelled at the size of the burrowing vehicles—and, right there, the main area of difficulty in the scheme that had formed in the back of his mind found its solution.

Brunel reached out with a mechanical arm and opened a big hatch in the side of one of the Worms. He stepped in, gestured for Burton to follow, and pulled the doorway down behind the explorer. Lights came on automatically. The steam man hissed into a squat.

Burton pulled Speke's letter from his pocked and, wordlessly, handed it to the engineer. Brunel held it up with a metal pincer. It wasn't evident what part of his life-maintaining contraption functioned as eyes but something obviously did, and moments later he lowered the paper and said: “What does the alteration of your appearance signify? Does Algernon Swinburne's death relate to it?”

“I was sent through time to the year 1914, Isambard. What for John Speke was a split second lasted four years for me. Algy was killed in Africa last year, but was present, albeit in a different form, in the future I visited.”

“A different form?”

Burton sat on a leather-upholstered chair and, for the final time, told the full story.

When he finished, the Steam Man raised the letter again.

“Hmm,” he said. “This pyramid construction appears to have the elements of a battery. You say there were other structures of alternating layers in the temple?”

“Yes.”

“And a great deal of quartz?”

“Along with other crystals and gemstones, yes—an almost inconceivable amount.”

“Intriguing. My hypothesis, then, is that the entire temple was constructed to generate and store piezoelectricity.”

“Piezoelectricity?”

“A very recent discovery, Sir Richard. Or so I thought. I now learn that it was, in fact, employed in ancient times!”

“But what is it?”

“Put simply, it is electrical power generated by certain substances, crystals especially, when they are distorted by pressure.”

“Ah. And the temple—”

“Has the weight of a fractured mountain on top of it. That, Sir Richard, is a lot of power. Having it hit you in the head should have been enough to burn you to a cinder in an instant. Yet, instead, it projected you through time.”

“It passed through Herbert Spencer—or rather through the priest K'k'thyima—first.”

“It did. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it passed through the seven stones of the Cambodian Eye. It seems to me that the intelligence in those stones was somehow able to control the force, and, I should think, set the coordinates for your destination in time.”

“Good,” Burton responded.

“Good, Sir Richard?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you've confirmed my own suspicions on the matter. If we are correct, my plan has, perhaps, some small chance of succeeding.”

“You have a plan?”

“Of sorts.”

“Then I think perhaps I had better hear it.”

At four-thirty in the morning, a strong vibration shook the floor of the rooms beneath the Tower of London. It rapidly increased in intensity and a loud rumbling shocked the secret institution's staff out of their beds.

People, wrapped in dressing gowns, ran into the main hallway.

“Earthquake!” someone shouted.

Damien Burke, in a long nightshirt, nightcap, and slippers, yelled: “Up the stairs! Now! Everybody out!”

A guard unlocked the entrance door and the staff quickly filed out.

The floor cracked. A siren started to wail.

Gregory Hare, also in his sleeping clothes, pointed to a lone figure at the other end of the hallway—a woman, white-haired and fully dressed.

“Mr. Burke!” he called.

Burke followed his companion's pointing finger and saw the woman.

“Countess Sabina!” he shouted. “You must leave at once!”

The rumbling grew into a roar.

“I think not!” she mouthed, her voice lost in the din.

The floor in the middle of the hallway bulged and heaved. Dust erupted and filled the air as a spinning metal cone emerged from the ground and expanded upward. The deafening commotion caused Burke and Hare to press their hands to their ears. They blinked against the eddying dust and squinted through watering eyes at the massive drill as it thundered out of the floor and its tip bit into the ceiling. Shredded plaster and masonry exploded outward.

“Mr. Burke! Mr. Burke!” Hare bellowed, but the other man could hear nothing but the cacophonous machine.

The drill buried itself deeper and deeper into the roof, and, as it did so, the main body of the tunnelling machine rose into view. Steam belched out of holes in its sides until the atmosphere of the hallway was so thick that nothing could be seen, though electric wall lamps continued to glow.

Burke groped for Hare's arm, clutched it, put his mouth against the other man's ear, and yelled: “Find your way to the armoury. Bring weapons!”

He felt his colleague move away.

The noise suddenly died. There was a moment of absolute silence, then the rattle of debris as it continued to fall from the ceiling.

A clang and a creak.

Thumping footsteps.

A repetitive wheezing.

The hiss of escaping vapours.

Something moved in the murk—a shadow—then a man stepped out of the cloud. Though the bottom half of his face was concealed by a scarf and the eyes were behind leather-rimmed goggles, Burke recognised Sir Richard Francis Burton.

“Captain!” he exclaimed. “Thank goodness! What's happen—”

He was cut short as Burton's fist shot up and connected with his chin. Burke folded to the floor.

“My apologies, old thing,” the king's agent murmured.

He moved back to the Worm. Two figures—Isambard Kingdom Brunel and Maneesh Krishnamurthy—were standing beside it.

“This way!” he snapped.

He led them toward the far end of the hall but stopped short when someone stepped into his path. He drew back his arm, his fingers bunched into a fist.

“No!” came a female voice. “It's me!”

“Countess! What are you doing here?”

“They've been using me in their campaign against the Prussians, Sir Richard. I can stand it no longer. Besides, I foresaw that you would come. There is a role for me to play. I must accompany you.”

Burton hesitated, then said, “Get into the vehicle, Countess. We'll join you in a minute.”

As she moved away, the explorer strode forward and kicked open the door to the security section. He entered, Krishnamurthy followed, and Brunel squeezed through after them.

“This one,” Burton said, indicating the entrance to Cell 4.

He moved aside as the Steam Man's multiple arms raised cutting tools and applied them to the metal portal. Moments later, Brunel pulled the door from its frame and threw it aside.

“John!” Burton called.

“Dick, what's happening?”

“We're breaking you out of here! Explanations later! Come!”

Speke, still in his shirt and trousers, groped his way forward.

“This way, Mr. Speke,” Krishnamurthy said, grabbing the prisoner's arm.

They hurried back out into the main hall.

A pistol was pressed into the side of Krishnamurthy's head.

“May I ask what you think you're doing?” Gregory Hare asked.

Burton wheeled to face Palmerston's man and cried out: “Hare, it's me! Burton!”

“What's happening here, Captain?”

“I have to take Speke! Hare, trust me, man! The future depends on this!”

“John Speke is a traitor. I can't allow you to remove him. Where is Mr. Burke?”

“Unconscious. I had to—” Burton suddenly shot forward and chopped at Hare's wrist with such force that the pistol went spinning away. He buried his fist in the man's stomach.

The breath whooshed out of Hare. He doubled over but clutched at Burton's clothing. As Krishnamurthy steered Speke out of the way, Palmerston's man yanked Burton backward, threw his ape-like arms around him, and squeezed.

“No!” Burton objected. “You have to—” But suddenly he couldn't say another word; his breath was cut off; he couldn't move. Hare's arms were unbelievably powerful. They tightened around the king's agent like a vice. He felt his ribs creak. Two of them snapped. Agony cut through him. He couldn't scream. Darkness closed in from the edges of his vision.

Then he was free and on his knees, gulping lungfuls of dust-filled air. He coughed and keeled over. Pain stabbed into his side. He saw Hare's face just inches away. The odd-job man was unconscious on the floor. Blood was oozing from his scalp.

Metal hooked beneath Burton's armpits and he was hauled upright, lifted off his feet, and borne to the door of the Worm.

“I rendered your attacker unconscious with a blow to the head,” Isambard Kingdom Brunel explained.

“Wait! Stop!” Burton shouted. “Put me down.”

The engineer complied. Burton clutched his left side and groaned. He pointed to a heavy door, barely visible through the steam and dust.

“The vault, Isambard! Get in there!”

The Steam Man clanged across the broken floor and started to work on the portal.

Burton stood, swaying, waiting. He turned his head to the side and spat. The taste of blood filled his mouth.

The siren was still wailing. He remembered the echoing “Ulla! Ulla!” of the wartime harvesters.

It happened, he reminded himself.

With a loud thunk, the vault door came loose. Brunel stepped aside, carrying it with him.

Burton limped forward and entered the chamber. He looked around and saw things he didn't understand: bizarre biological objects in bell jars; devices that looked like weapons; a necklace of shrunken non-human heads; a mirror that reflected a different room, and, when he looked into it, a different person.

“You were right, Algy,” he muttered, for these things, he felt sure, had somehow slipped through from alternate versions of reality.

A flat jewel case caught his eye. He reached for it, opened it, and saw that it contained twenty-one black diamonds arranged in three rows of seven: the fragments of the Eyes of Nāga.

He snapped the case shut and was just about to leave with it when he noticed a particularly large leather portmanteau. He paced over to it, pulled it open, and saw white scaly material, a black helmet, a metal disk, and a pair of stilted boots inside. It was Edward Oxford's burned and battered time suit; the weird costume that had earned him the name “Spring Heeled Jack.”

Burton picked up the bag and left the vault.

Krishnamurthy's voice came out of the dust cloud: “Hurry! This is taking too long! They'll be back any minute!”

The king's agent found the door of the Worm and clambered into the vehicle. He sat and let loose a sob as his ribs grated together. Brunel's great bulk entered. The Steam Man pulled the hatch shut.

“Are you all right, Countess?” Burton asked.

“Yes,” the clairvoyant answered. “But you're hurt, Captain!”

“It's nothing.”

“Dick—” Speke began.

Burton cut him off: “Let's get out of here first, John. Explanations later.”

They manoeuvred themselves around the cabin until Brunel was comfortably at the controls. He set the engine roaring and reversed the Worm back into the tunnel it had drilled.

With the short legs around its circumference racing, the machine hurtled along underground, passing far beneath the River Thames, following the burrow westward until it angled upward and emerged from the wasteland at the front of Battersea Power station.

They all disembarked, striding and clanking and limping to the main doors, passing through them, crossing the courtyard, and entering the principal workshop.

Technologist personnel gathered around. Brunel ordered them to secure the building.

The group moved over to a workbench. Burton laid the diamond case and the portmanteau on it. Krishnamurthy walked away and returned with the Lee-Enfield rifle. “Here you are, Captain.”

“Thank you, Maneesh. By the way, was Mrs. Angell organising a bonfire when you visited?”

“She was, sir, and she seemed rather distraught about it.”

“If what I have in mind doesn't succeed,” Burton said, addressing all of his friends, “then, at very least, I want the evidence of what has occurred destroyed. Thus I've instructed my housekeeper to burn all of my records.”

“But why is that necessary?” Speke asked.

The Countess Sabina answered: “Different versions of history exist, Mr. Speke—I've seen them—and the boundaries between each are thin. If the wrong sort of person learned of this, they could make a Bedlam of all existence.”

Burton thought of Aleister Crowley.

“We're almost ready,” one of the technicians announced.

The king's agent turned to Speke. “Walk with me, John.”

John Hanning Speke, lying flat on his back on a workbench, allowed Isambard Kingdom Brunel to remove the cover of the babbage in the left half of his skull.

The engineer used a pincer to indicate two hollows in the exposed mechanism.

“See, Sir Richard,” he said. “These sockets were designed to receive two of the Cambodian stones.”

Burton examined the cavities, then looked down at Speke. “You understand why we have to do this, John?” he asked.

“Yes,” Speke replied. “Put them in.”

The king's agent nodded to Brunel, and the engineer reached into the jewel case, retrieved a diamond, fitted it into one of the slots in Speke's babbage, and screwed down a delicate bracket to hold the stone in place. He repeated the process with a second gem, then replaced the cover of the device and stood back.

Speke sat up.

“Do you sense anything?” Burton asked.

“Nothing.”

Countess Sabina stepped forward. “I do.”

Burton looked at her. “What do you feel, Countess?”

“The Nāga intelligence has left the diamonds, Sir Richard, but the shape of it remains in them, like a mould, if you will. Mr. Speke has to allow his conscious mind to flow into it. That is the role I must play—I shall employ my mediumistic abilities to guide him.”

The king's agent nodded, moved away with Isambard Kingdom Brunel, and asked him: “What of the rest of it, Isambard? Can you generate power enough?”

“Easily,” Brunel replied. “My technicians are setting everything up now. But you realise that, if Mr. Speke cannot manage his part, you will be incinerated?”

“Believe me, I am very aware of that particular fact!”

They walked over to where Krishnamurthy stood by two workbenches. Technicians were positioning them beneath a hanging structure, a thing of multiple layers and looped cables. Brunel gestured toward it.

“This will feed power into Mr. Speke's device. If I have understood the process properly, he will then be able to channel it in the appropriate manner through the resonance that exists between the Cambodian stones and the diamond dust in your tattoo. The unique properties of the diamonds will then come into play and project you 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.

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!”

Bismillah! That's Edward Oxford!

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.

Tick tick tick.

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.

1918!

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!

Burton whispered: “Time changed me, thank goodness.”

He peered through the rifle's telescopic sight.

“The question is, can I return the favour?”

The wooded area in which he was hidden covered the brow of a low hill overlooking the park. At its base, people had gathered along the sides of a path. It was a mild day. The men sported light coats, top hats, and carried canes. The women wore bonnets and dainty gloves and held parasols. They were all waiting to see Queen Victoria ride past in her carriage. Burton examined them, levelling the crosshairs at one person after another. Which of them was the man he'd seen moments ago? And where was that man's ancestor, the insane eighteen-year-old with two flintlock pistols under his frock coat?

“Damnation!” Burton groaned softly. His hands were shaking.

He considered his options. He knew the assassin was going to fire two shots at the queen. The first would miss. The second should, too, but Edward Oxford was going to tackle his ancestor, and, in doing so, he would inadvertently cause that second bullet to hit Victoria in the head.

If Burton killed Oxford too soon, the crowd would start hunting for the killer, providing a distraction that might allow the assassin to strike with greater accuracy. So he must wait until after the first shot. If he could then put a bullet in Oxford during the panic, the man from the future would die before he could change history, and his antecedent would almost certainly be blamed for the murder.

The king's agent shifted cautiously, trying not to disturb the bush that arched over him.

He noticed a man in the crowd. It was Henry de La Poer Beresford, the “Mad Marquess,” the founder of the Libertines.

“I'll be dealing with you,” he murmured, “twenty-one years from now.”

A cheer went up. Queen Victoria's carriage, drawn by four horses, had emerged from the gate of Buckingham Palace, off to his left.

Two outriders—the Queen's Guards—trotted ahead of the royal conveyance, which was steered by a postilion. Two more followed behind. They drew closer to the base of the slope.

Tick tick tick.

“Come on,” Burton whispered. “Where are you?”

A man wearing a top hat, blue frock coat, and white breeches stepped over the low fence onto the path. He paced along beside the slow-moving carriage, drew a flintlock from his coat, pointed it at the queen, and pulled the trigger.

The report echoed across the park.

Victoria, in a cream-coloured dress and bonnet, stood up in her carriage.

Prince Albert leaned forward and reached for her.

People started to scream and shout.

The man drew a second pistol.

Burton held his breath and became entirely motionless.

The assassin raised his arm and took aim.

The queen reached up to her white lace collar.

Burton made a tiny movement, shifting the crosshairs of his sight slightly to the left of the monarch's head, their centre-point hovering over the young gunman's face.

The man from the future, Edward Oxford, suddenly jumped from the crowd.

“No, Edward!” he bellowed.

The two men struggled.

Burton took aim. His finger tightened on the trigger.

In 1864, John Speke's babbage exploded.

The shockwave crossed time and hit Burton like a punch between the eyes. In a moment of total disorientation, he thought he saw a blue flash far off to his left, and a faint voice yelling: “Stop, Edward!”

The assassin fired.

Burton fired.

Queen Victoria's head sprayed blood. She fell backward out of the carriage.

Albert scrambled after her.

Edward Oxford, still alive, threw his ancestor to the ground, accidentally impaling the young man's head on the wrought-iron spikes atop the low fence.

“No!” Burton whispered.

A frantic police whistle sounded.

The crowd surged around the carriage. The outriders plunged into the mob, attempting to hold it back.

Oxford forced his way free and started to run up the slope.

“No!” Burton whispered again.

He snapped out of his shock and backed into the trees, pulling the jewel case and portmanteau with him, and found a place of concealment. He listened as Oxford reached the vegetation and pushed through it to where he'd left his suit, helmet, and boots.

Burton lunged forward, hooked an arm around the time traveller's throat, squeezed hard, and crushed his windpipe. He put his mouth against the man's ear and hissed: “You don't deserve this, but I have to do it again. I'm sorry.”

With his right hand, he twisted Oxford's head until the neck snapped, then released his hold and allowed the corpse to crumple to the ground.

He stepped back into hiding.

Almost immediately, he heard a voice calling: “Step out into the open, sir! I saw what happened. There's nothing to worry about. Come on, let's be having you!”

It sounded familiar.

Burton remained silent.

“Sir! I saw you trying to protect the queen. I just need you to accompany me to the station to make a statement!”

There was a pause, then someone began to push their way into the thicket. A policeman emerged from the leaves and looked down at Oxford.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “What in the devil's name has happened here?”

Burton took up his rifle, raised it butt-forward over his shoulder, and stepped out of the undergrowth.

The policeman turned and looked him full in the face.

Burton hesitated. The young, square-jawed, and wide-eyed features were those of William Trounce.

“Who the heck—?” the constable began.

Burton cracked the rifle butt into the youth's forehead. Trounce's cockscomb helmet went spinning away. He moaned and collapsed. The king's agent leaned over him and checked that he was breathing. He was.

Screams and whistles filled the air.

Burton straightened and returned to the portmanteau and jewel case. He took them over to where Oxford had hung his time suit, and, taking down the clean, unmarked material, pushed it into the bag with the older, scorched version of itself. With difficulty, he managed to squeeze the helmet and boots in, too.

He took off his jacket and wrapped it around the rifle, then, picking everything up, made his way through the trees toward the high wall at the back of the thicket. Horses' hooves and voices sounded from the street beyond. He followed the barrier around the border of the park until he came to a tree stump hard up against the brickwork. Stepping onto it, he reached up and placed the rifle and jewel case on top of the wall. He looped his arm through the handles of the bulging portmanteau and hauled himself up and over, dropping to the ground on the other side. His ribs creaked, and for a moment he thought he might pass out. He leaned back against the bricks.

“Sangappa,” came a voice.

The explorer looked up and saw a street sweeper standing on the pavement nearby.

“What?”

“Sangappa,” the man repeated. “It's the best leather softener money can buy. They send it over from India. Hard to find and a mite expensive but worth every penny. There's nothing to top it. Sangappa. It'd do that overstuffed portmanteau of yours the world of good, take my word for it.”

Burton used his sleeve to wipe beads of sweat from his forehead.

The street sweeper leaned on his broom and asked, “Are you quite all right?”

“Yes,” Burton replied. “But I'm having a bad day.”

“It looks like it. Don't you worry, you'll forget it by tomorrow!”

The man suddenly looked confused. He scratched his head.

“It's odd—I can't even remember this morning. I must be going loopy!” He lifted his broom and stepped from the pavement into the street. With a look of bemusement on his face, he began to sweep horse manure from it and into the gutter.

Burton swallowed and licked his lips. He needed a drink. He was feeling strange and disorientated. He wasn't sure where he was, what he was doing, why he was doing it.

He retrieved the rifle and jewels and started to move away.

“Hey!” the man called after him. “Don't forget! Sangappa! You can buy it at Jambory's Hardware Store on the corner of Halfmoon Street.” He pointed. “Thataway! Tell old Jambory that Carter the Street Sweeper sent you!”

Burton nodded and limped on. He tried to piece together what had just occurred, but his mind was a jumble.

He crossed the road, passed Jambory's Hardware Store, kept going, and entered Berkeley Street, where he saw an elderly man peering out of a ground-floor window. He stopped and examined the white-bearded and scarred face, the sharp cheekbones and deep, dark, tormented eyes.

The man gazed back.

The man moved when he moved.

What? No! It can't be! That's me! My reflection! But how? How can I be old? I'm—I'm nineteen! Just nineteen!

He looked down at his hands. They were brown and wrinkled and weathered. They were not the hands of a young man.

What has happened? How is this possible?

He stumbled away and passed through Berkeley Square into Davies Street, then onto Oxford Street, which was filled with horse-drawn traffic. Only horse-drawn. Nothing else. That surprised him. He had no idea why.

What am I expecting to see? Why does it all feel wrong?

Burton reached Portman Square, staggered into the patch of greenery at its centre, dropped his luggage, and collapsed onto a bench beneath a tree. He'd been walking toward Montagu Place, but it had just occurred to him that there was no reason to go there.

He laughed, and it hurt, and tears poured down his cheeks.

He cried, and thought he might die.

He was quiet, and suddenly hours had passed and a dense fog was rolling in with the night.

Muddled impressions untangled and emerged from behind a veil of shock. He tried to force them back but they kept coming. Around him, London vanished behind the murk. Inside him, the truth materialised with horrible clarity.

She had flinched to one side.

Just as he'd pulled the trigger, she'd moved.

The assassin's second bullet had clipped her ear.

Sir Richard Francis Burton's bullet had hit her in the head.

It was me. I did it.

He had killed Queen Victoria.

Here it begins.

Here it ends.

Not the source, but just another part of a circle.

He sat in Portman Square.

The thick fog embraced him.

It was silent.

It was mysterious.

It was timeless.

And, behind it, the world he had created was very, very real.