Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon

  He becomes obsessed.

  He becomes paranoid.

  It happens that he shares his name with a distant ancestor who, in a fit of insanity, had attempted to assassinate Queen Victoria. A voice, from somewhere behind his conscious mind, insists: “That man besmirched your family's reputation. Change it. Correct it.”

  Why does this obscure fact suddenly matter? Why should he care about a forgotten incident that occurred near three hundred and fifty years ago?

  It matters.

  He cares.

  He can think about little else.

  The reptilian intelligence plants another seed.

  Slowly, in Oxford's mind, a theory concerning the nature of time blossoms like a pervasively scented exotic flower. Its roots dig deeper. Its lianas entangle him. It consumes him.

  He works tirelessly.

  The dream convulses and fifteen years have passed.

  Oxford has cut shards from the diamond and connected them to a chain of DNA-StringComps and BioProcs. They form the heart of what he calls a Nimtz Generator. It is a flat circular device. It will enable him to move through time.

  To power it, he's invented the fish-scale battery, and has fashioned thousands of these tiny solar-energy collectors into a one-piece tight-fitting suit. He's also embedded an AugCom into a round black helmet. It will act as an interface between his brain and the generator. It will also protect him from the deep psychological shock that he somehow knows will afflict anyone who steps too far out of their native time period.

  The boots of the costume are fitted with two-foot-high spring-loaded stilts. They appear wildly eccentric but they offer a simple solution to a complex problem, for when the bubble of energy generated by the Nimtz forms around the suit, it must touch nothing but air.

  Oxford will literally jump through time.

  It is the evening of 15th February, 2202. Nine o'clock. A Monday. His fortieth birthday.

  Oxford dresses in attire suitable for the 1840s. He pulls his time suit on over the top of it and clips on his stilts. He attaches the Nimtz Generator to his chest and puts the helmet on his head. He picks up a top hat and strides out of his workshop and into the long garden beyond.

  His wife comes out of the house, wiping her hands on a towel.

  “You're going now?” she asks. “Supper is almost ready!”

  “I am,” he replies, “but don't worry—even if I'm gone for years, I'll be back in five minutes!”

  “You won't return an old man, I hope!” she grumbles, and runs a hand over her distended belly. “This one will need an energetic young father.”

  He laughs. “Don't be silly. It won't take long.”

  Bending, he kisses her on the nose.

  He instructs the suit to take him to five-thirty on the afternoon of 10th June, 1840. Location: the upper corner of Green Park, London.

  He looks at the sky.

  “Am I really going to do this?” he asks himself.

  “Do it!” a voice whispers in his head, and before he can consciously make a decision, he takes three long strides, jumps, hits the ground with knees bent, and leaps high into the air. A bubble forms around him and he vanishes with a small detonation, like a little clap of thunder.

  Pop!

  Sir Richard Francis Burton jerked awake and tepid water slopped over the edge of his bath.

  He shivered, sat up, and looked around his study, trying to identify the source of the noise. His attention was drawn to a thin wisp of steam rising from a tubular contraption on one of his three desks. He reached for a towel then stood, stepped out of the bath, and wrapped the thick cloth around himself. He crossed to the desk. The glass and brass apparatus was his direct connection to the prime minister and the king. Burton retrieved a canister from it, snapped it open, and pulled out a sheet of paper. He read the words: Be prepared to receive the prime minister at 2 a. m.

  “Curse the man! That's all I need!”

  Pox twitched a wing and chirped, “Stink fermenter!”

  Burton looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was half-past one.

  Rapidly drying himself, he went into his dressing room and put on loose white cotton trousers and a shirt, then wrapped his jubbah—the long and loose outer garment he'd worn while on his pilgrimage to Mecca, which he now used as a night robe—over the top of them. He slid his feet into pointed Arabian slippers and wound a turban around his damp hair.

  By two o'clock, the bathtub had been removed, another Manila cheroot had been smoked, and Burton had sat and pondered his strange dream. There was much about it that he didn't understand—the curious glass desk, the sparsely furnished room in which it stood, some of the words that Edward Oxford had uttered—yet it seemed vividly real.

  Did I just glimpse a distant future? The one that was meant to be before Oxford interfered?

  Hearing the coughing of steam engines and rumble of wheels in the street outside, he stepped to the window and looked out in time to see Lord Palmerston's armoured six-wheeled mobile castle draw up.

  He went downstairs and opened the front door.

  Palmerston was standing on the step, with his odd-job men Gregory Hare and Damien Burke on either side of him.

  “Do you consider that suitable attire, Captain Burton?” the prime minister asked.

  “For two o'clock in the morning? Yes, sir,” Burton replied, moving aside to let the men enter. “Do you consider it a suitable hour for visiting?”

  “One cannot run an Empire and maintain respectable hours, sir.”

  “Up to the study, if you please.”

  Burton closed the door and followed them upstairs, noting that the prime minister's men were dressed, as ever, in outlandishly old-fashioned outfits.

  “Last time I saw this room,” Palmerston said as he entered the bookcase lined chamber, “it was all but destroyed.”

  “You're referring to the occasion when we were attacked and you hid in my storeroom?” Burton responded.

  “Now, now, Captain. Let us not get off on the wrong foot.”

  Palmerston placed his hat on one of the desks and took off his calfskin gloves. His fingernails were painted black. He didn't remove his tightly buttoned velvet frock coat but smoothed it down then sat in Burton's favourite saddlebag armchair and crossed his legs. He pulled a silver snuffbox from his pocket and said, “We must talk. I would have been here earlier but the streets were impassable.”

  Burke and Hare each sat at a desk. Burton took the armchair opposite Palmerston, who asked, “Your expedition is equipped and ready for departure?”

  “It is.”

  “Good. Good. All running smoothly, then?”

  “Yes. Unless you count two attempts on my life, one of which resulted in the death of my good friend Thomas Bendyshe.”

  Palmerston jerked forward. “What did you say?”

  “A man named Peter Pimlico tried to poison me. He was hired by a Prussian named Otto Steinruck, who then killed him by strangulation to keep him quiet. And, earlier this evening, somebody sent a bullet my way.”

  Damien Burke, tall, hunchbacked, extremely bald, and sporting the variety of side whiskers known as “Piccadilly Weepers,” cleared his throat and said, “This Germanic individual, Captain Burton—did you find out anything about him?”

  “Only that he's portly, wears a large moustache, has pointed claw-like fingernails, and chews Kautabak tobacco.”

  Burke glanced at Gregory Hare, who was short and muscular, with white hair and a broad, pugnacious face. “Ah-ha,” he said. “Do you agree, Mr. Hare?”

  “I do, Mr. Burke,” Hare answered. “Ah-ha.”

  “You know something of this individual?” Burton asked.

  “Yes,” Burke said. “I consider it highly likely that Otto Steinrück is not Otto Steinrück. It is almost certainly an alias. The man fits the description of a notorious Prussian spy named Count Ferdinand Graf von Zeppelin. You'll remember that last year he helped Richard Spruce and his Eugenicist colleagues to flee the country. A very
dangerous man, Captain.”

  Burton nodded. “And one bent on preventing me from going to Africa, it would appear. I'm certain he's still working with Spruce, too.”

  “Why so?”

  “The dead man had a foul-looking plant sprouting from the roof of his mouth.”

  “Hmm. That's interesting.” Burke took a notebook from his pocket and scribbled something in it with a pencil.

  Palmerston opened his snuffbox, took a pinch of brown powder, sprinkled it onto the back of his right hand, and raised it to his nose. He snorted it and his eyes momentarily widened.

  It occurred to Burton that the prime minister's face had been stretched so taut by his Eugenicist treatments that those eyes appeared almost oriental.

  “A complex situation,” Palmerston muttered. “There are great moves being made, Captain, moves that will reshape the world, and you are in the thick of it.”

  “How so?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon, I shall make an announcement to parliament. You'll be out of the country by then, so I came to give you the news personally. Excuse me—”

  Palmerston turned his head to one side and let loose a prodigious sneeze. When he looked back, there were hundreds of deep wrinkles around his eyes and nose. Over the next few minutes, they slowly flattened out and disappeared.

  “What news?” Burton asked.

  “Lincoln has surrendered. America is ours.”

  Burton's jaw dropped. He fell back into his seat, speechless.

  “Some time ago,” Palmerston continued, “I told you that if this should occur I would demand of the Confederates the abolition of slavery as repayment for our role in their victory. I fully intend to do that. But not just yet.”

  Finally, Burton found his voice and asked, “Why not?”

  “Because of Blut und Eisen.”

  “Blood and iron?”

  “Three months ago, while you were clearing up the Tichborne business and our turncoat Eugenicists were defecting to Prussia, Chancellor Bismarck made a speech in which he declared his intentions to increase military spending and unify the Germanic territories. He said—and believe me, I can quote this from memory, for it is seared into my mind: ‘The position of Prussia in Germany will not be determined by its liberalism but by its power. Prussia must concentrate its strength and hold it for the favourable moment, which has already come and gone several times. Since the treaties of Vienna, our frontiers have been ill-designed for a healthy body politic. Not through speeches and majority decisions will the great questions of the day be decided—that was the great mistake of 1848 and 1849—but by blood and iron.’”

  Burton said, “I read accounts of the speech in the newspapers. Is he warmongering?”

  Palmerston clenched his fists. “Indisputably. It is the first blatant move toward the world war Countess Sabina has predicted. There is no doubt that Bismarck is seeking to establish a Germanic empire to rival our own. Empires require resources, Captain Burton, and there is one vast untapped resource remaining in the world. I refer to Africa.”

  “So you suspect Bismarck will try to establish a foothold there?”

  “I think he intends to carve it up and suck it dry.”

  “But what has this to do with America's slaves?”

  “If a united Germany can count Africa among its territories, and if war breaks out, it will find itself with an almost limitless source of expendable manpower.”

  “Expendable?”

  “I believe the term is ‘cannon fodder.’”

  The king's agent felt ice in his veins. “You surely aren't suggesting—” he began.

  Palmerston interrupted him. “If we are faced with such a situation, we will require our own disposable units.”

  “You mean America's slave population?”

  “Yes. A little over four million individuals, though I'm including women in that number.”

  Burton's jaw flexed spasmodically. “Hellfire, man! You're talking about human beings! Families! You're not only suggesting support for state sanctioned slavery—you're talking about bloody genocide!”

  “I mean to ensure the survival of the British Empire, whatever it takes.”

  “No!” Burton shouted. “No! No! No!” He slapped his hand down on the leather arm of his chair. “I won't stand for it! It's despicable!”

  “You'll do whatever you're damned well ordered to do, Captain Burton,” Palmerston said softly. “And what you are ordered to do is help me to ensure that no such circumstance ever arises.”

  “Wha—what?”

  “Your primary mission hasn't changed—you are to retrieve the Eye of Nāga so that we might employ it to infiltrate and coerce the minds of our opponents. However, there is now a secondary purpose to your expedition. You are to employ your military and geographical experience to determine which are the most strategically advantageous African territories and how we might best secure them. I intend to claim that continent before Bismarck makes his move, and I'm relying on you to advise me how to do it.”

  Burton's heart hammered in his chest. His mind raced.

  He looked into Lord Palmerston's impenetrable eyes.

  “And if I do, sir, and if we make Africa a part of the British Empire, then what of the inhabitants? What of the Africans?”

  The prime minister—returning Burton's gaze steadily and without blinking—replied: “They will be accorded the rights granted to all British subjects.”

  There was a moment of silence, broken only by Gregory Hare clearing his throat slightly, then Burton said, “You refer to the same rights enjoyed by those undernourished Britishers who toil in our factories and inhabit our slums? The same given to those who beg on our street corners and doorsteps? The same extended to servant girls abused and impregnated by their employers then thrown onto the streets where their only means of survival is prostitution? Is this the marvellous civilisation that you, the great imperialist, have to offer Africa?”

  Palmerston shot to his feet and yelled, “Shut the hell up, Burton! Am I to endure your insolence every time we meet? I'll not tolerate it! You have your orders!” He stamped to the door, snapping his fingers at Burke and Hare. They rose and followed. He ushered them out first, then, with his hand on the doorknob, turned to face the explorer.

  “Do your bloody job, Captain!” he snarled.

  The prime minister stepped out of the room and slammed the door shut behind him.

  “Illiterate baboon,” Pox squawked.

  “In the maelstrom of making history,” Bertie Wells said, “very little of it is accurately recorded. When the time finally comes for an account of the events that have passed, human nature takes over.”

  He and Burton were in an ambulance sharing that rarity of rarities, a scrounged cigar. The oxen-drawn vehicle was part of a convoy, a seemingly never-ending line of soldiers and vehicles moving up from the south toward the port of Tanga, some hundred miles north of Dar es Salaam.

  It was early morning but already ferociously hot. The troops were dripping sweat. They were exhausted, ill, and miserable. Occasional bursts of chanting broke out—the usual sad native dirges—but these quickly tailed off, overwhelmed by the rhythmic tromp tromp tromp of boots. At one point a company of Britishers broke into song, their mock cheerfulness shot through with resentful hatred. The tune was “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” but the lyrics were rather more colourful than those of the original hymn:

  When this lousy war is over, no more soldiering for me,

  When I get my civvy clothes on, oh how happy I shall be.

  No more church parades on Sunday, no more begging for a pass.

  You can tell the sergeant major to stick his passes up his arse.

  The sergeant major in question harangued the men for a three-mile stretch after that.

  Burton was sitting on the ambulance's tailgate, leaning against the side of the vehicle's open back. He couldn't stop scratching.

  “Human nature?” he said. “What do you mean?”

  Wells, pe
rched on a bench just behind him, responded, “I'm of the opinion that we possess an inbuilt craving for narrative structure. We want everything to have a beginning, a middle, and an end. That way, we can make better sense of it.” He looked down at Burton. “How many days did that uniform last before it got infested?”

  “Four. The lice are eating me alive.”

  “Chin up, old man. It could be worse. Fever, trench foot, dysentery, having your bloody legs blown off—all the perils of wartime Africa.”

  “Bismillah! What are you people doing? You've created hell from an Eden!”

  “Is my generation responsible, Richard, or is yours? I've heard people say over and over that we are all products of the past. They'd lay the blame for this war squarely at their fathers' feet. In other words, welcome to the world you created.”

  “Absolutely not! None of my contemporaries intended the creation of this Jahannam!”

  “As you say. Besides, I disagree with the philosophy of what you might term sequentialism. The problem, as I see it, is that we don't truly understand the nature of the past. We mythologise it. We create fictions about actions performed to justify what we undertake in the present. We adjust the cause to better suit the effect. The truth is that the present is, and will always be, utter chaos. There is no story and no plan. We are victims of Zeitgeist. I apologise for using a German word, but it's singularly appropriate. Are you familiar with it?”

  “Yes. It translates as ‘ghost tide,’ or, perhaps, ‘spirit of the age,’ and refers to the ambience or sociopolitical climate of any given period.”

  “Exactly so, and in my view it's a phenomenon entirely independent of history. History doesn't create the zeitgeist, we create the history to try to explain the zeitgeist. We impose a sequential narrative to endow events with something that resembles meaning.”

  The ambulance jerked as its wheels bounced through a pothole. Burton's head banged against the vehicle's wooden side.

  “Ouch!”

  “How's your arm?” Wells asked.

  “Aching. How's your leg?”

  “Broken. How's your head?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Have a cigar.”

  The war correspondent passed what remained of the “Hoffman” to the explorer, who glanced at its much-reduced length and muttered, “Your lungs are healthy, at least.” He raised it to his lips and drew in the sweet smoke, savouring it while observing the column of men and vehicles that snaked back over the rolling landscape.