Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon

  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-iro
n 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.