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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 Naga 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 ca
“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 cha
“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 co
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 co
Burton felt his scalp crawling, as if insects were ru
“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!”