You have ever been the finest thing in my life. Be happy and remember only our earliest days.
Your loving husband
Edward Oxford
P.S. Remember me to your grandparents who were so kind to me when I was a lad and who, being among the first friends I ever had, I recall with immense fondness.
Burton called his mother. After a short wait, she responded. She looked younger than he did.
“Hi, Mum.”
“Ed, I was just watching your interview. Why did that that horrible man bring up ancient history? What has it to do with you?”
“I know, he took me by surprise. Did you know about the Victorian?”
“No.”
“I just spoke to Grampapa. He has a letter written by him.”
“By the Oxford who tried to kill the queen?”
“Yes. It mentions a birthmark. The same as yours.”
His mother pulled down the neck of her shirt. There was a small blemish on her skin, just above the heart. Bluish and yellow in colour, it was arc shaped and somewhat resembled a rainbow.
“My father didn’t have it,” she said, “but Grampapa does, and his father did, too. It misses occasional generations but always seems to reappear. What’s the letter about?”
“The would-be assassin had been deported to Australia. He got married there and had a son, but it all went wrong. The letter was to his wife, who was leaving him and returning to England with the child.”
“How wretched. The family DNA probably doesn’t have much of that man left in it, though, so don’t start getting fanatical about the past.”
“That’s what Grampapa said.”
“You know what you’re like. You get too obsessive about things.”
“I suppose. It’s got me thinking about the Oxfords, that’s for sure. Why do you have the name? Why didn’t you change it when you married?”
“Why follow such an outmoded tradition? Besides, none of the Oxford daughters ever adopted their husbands’ surnames.”
“But how come?”
“I don’t know.”
“And the children always took the Oxford name even if the father’s surname was different?”
“Yes. That hasn’t been a problem for many generations, but in earlier times it probably caused a few arguments.”
“Hmm. So the family name has lasted through history better than most others. Peculiar.” Burton looked at the safe in the laboratory wall. “Anyway, I’d better get back to work. Love you.”
“Returned tenfold. Bye, son.”
He dismissed the air-screen, stood, went to the safe, and retrieved the Tichborne diamond from it. Holding it up to the skylight, he marvelled at its size and the way the illumination skittered across its black facets. There was something almost hypnotic about it.
Burton returned to his desk, activated the analysis plate, and put the gemstone on it. Immediately, information began to flow across the desk’s surface. It kept coming. He’d seen it before but still found it incredible. The structure of the stone was utterly unique, unlike anything he’d ever encountered.
“Even more sensitive than a CellComp,” he whispered to himself. “More efficient than a ClusterComp. More capacity than GenMem.”
It didn’t seem possible.
A peculiar notion occurred to him, obviously inspired by the revelation concerning his ancestor. He considered it for half a minute then pulled up a calculation grid and formulated a four-dimensional mathematical representation of the idea.
He employed his grandfather’s favourite archaic expletive. “Bloody hell!”
The numbers and formulas created a shape around him that extended in every direction, both in space and time. He sank into it, was swallowed by it, and experienced an extraordinary sensation wherein the calculations mutated first into swirling colours then into a pulsating sound, which slowly stretched, twisted, and coalesced into a voice that exclaimed, “Hallo hallo hallo! Awake at last!”
Burton blinked and realised he was lying on a bed. Algernon Swinburne was sitting in a chair nearby. He was sporting an absurdly large red blossom in his buttonhole. Seeing Burton peering at it, the poet said, “It grew on my doorstep. Rather fetching, don’t you think?”
“With the floppy hat and scarf?” Burton observed. His voice sounded gravelly. “You look like you’ve stepped out of a pantomime.” He cleared his throat, noticed a glass of water on the bedside table, and reached for it. “What time is it?”
“Eight in the morning. You’ve been unconscious all night. Trounce called on me and sent me here. I’ve just arrived. Here, let me help you to sit.”
Swinburne rose, stepped over, slid an arm under Burton’s shoulders, and gave assistance as his friend struggled up. He took the glass, after Burton had swallowed its contents, and placed it back on the table.
The king’s agent peered around with his good eye—the other was still slitted—and recognised one of Battersea Power Station’s private rooms.
He leaned back, emitting a slight groan. His head was aching abominably. “What happened?”
“According to Gooch, you told the helmet to connect to Babbage’s device, then screamed and passed out. How do you feel?”
“My skull is throbbing. By God! How many visions can a man endure? I saw through Edward Oxford’s eyes, Algy.”
“Which Oxford? The sane one or loopy one?”
“The sane, in the far future, at the moment when he realised that travelling backward through history might be possible.”
Burton winced and pressed his hand against his temple. “For sure, I’ll not be allowing Babbage to place anything on my head ever again. Did he gain anything?”
“Quite the opposite. But you did. Feel your scalp.”
Burton ran his fingers through his hair. The scars on his head felt raised, gritty, and extremely tender. He winced. “What happened?”
“The helmet tattooed you. Wait, I’ll fetch Babbage. He can explain it better than I.”
“Tattooed?” Burton muttered, as his friend scampered from the room.
Minutes later, the poet returned with Babbage and Gooch.
“Are you in pain, Sir Richard?” the latter asked.
“A little. What’s this about a tattoo?”
Babbage barked, “Adaptive application!”
“In English, if you please, Charles.”
The scientist tut-tutted irascibly. “I told you before. The helmet’s components can rearrange themselves to change their function. The BioProcs extracted black diamond dust from their own inner workings and injected it into your scalp, following the line of your scars.”
Gooch added, “You may remember that Abdu El Yezdi’s scalp was similarly tattooed by the Nāga at the Mountains of the Moon. In his case, it was required to enable a procedure that sent him through time independent of the suits, though other factors, of a complex nature, were involved. He never fully explained the process to us, which means we can’t reproduce it.”
“I wouldn’t let you if you could,” Burton growled. “So what is the point of this confounded liberty?”
“We don’t know,” Babbage said. “I shall have to keep you under observation. Run some tests.”
“Most certainly not. I’ve been subjected to quite enough, thank you very much.”
“Did the synthetic intelligence apprehend anything from the Field Amplifier?” Gooch asked.
Burton nodded—and immediately regretted it as pain lanced through his cranium. He said, “Perhaps,” then recounted his visions, first of the woman, then of Oxford and the black diamond.