He could do it.
He could travel back.
He could watch.
Sir Richard Francis Burton momentarily opened his eye. He saw red jungle but didn’t comprehend it.
Burton? Who is Burton? My name is Edward Oxford.
His eyelid slid shut, and it was six months later. During that period, he’d constructed a suit of fish-scale batteries; had connected the shards of diamond to a chain of CellComps and BioProcs, forming the heart of the main control unit—a device he named a Nimtz generator—and had embedded an AugCom and BioProcs enhanced with powdered black diamond into a helmet. It acted as an interface between his brain and the generator and would also protect him from the deep psychological shock he suspected might affect a person who stepped too far out of their native segment of history.
If the prototype worked as planned, its various elements could later be created at a cellular level and coded directly into his body. Such an augmentation could never be made public. There was only one black diamond—
There are three.
—and he could see no way to replicate its unique qualities. As it was, in order to integrate it with his biological functions, he’d have to powder some of the gem and tattoo it into his skin—a primitive solution and, obviously, one that couldn’t be applied to the entire population.
Besides, what would happen if everyone in the world could travel through time?
So, no bio-integration for the moment. And no tattooing. Just the clunky old-school technology—a thing he would wear—and if the experiment worked, he’d consider the next step afterwards.
By now, the project had kept him out of the public eye for a considerable period, and journalists were clamouring for another interview. Not wanting to arouse their suspicions, he eventually conceded. After explaining that he was working on a new theory of botanic integration, he was asked the usual questions. Did the recording of information directly into individuals’ DNA—which had commenced a century ago—mark a new step in evolution? With the old computer technologies now completely supplanted by cellular manipulation, could the human body itself be regarded as a machine? Had the replacement of the NewWeb with the Aether resulted in a new understanding of botanic sentience, and what were the implications? Might that sentience be incorporated into human consciousness?
He answered distractedly, his mind all the while considering the gravitational constants to which his calculations had to be tethered, else his jump through time would also become a disastrous jump into the far reaches of space.
Then it came again. “How does it feel to single-handedly change history?”
He offered exactly the same reply as before. “I haven’t changed history. History is the past.” Then he chuckled, and there was an edge to the sound, and the following day it was reported that Edward Oxford was obviously working too hard and needed a holiday.
Two weeks after everything else was complete, he hit upon a ridiculously simple solution to the last remaining difficulty. When the bubble of energy generated by the Nimtz formed around the suit, it was essential that it touched nothing but air, else it would carve a chunk out of whatever it was in contact with, and the shock of that could seriously injure him. Initially, Burton thought he’d have to jump off a bridge to achieve this, but then in a moment of mad inspiration, he designed boots fitted with two-foot-high spring-loaded stilts. Whimsical they may have been, but they solved the problem. Leap high into the air. Jump through time. Don’t take anything with you.
On the first day of February in the year 2202, he told his wife what he intended to do.
She rested a hand on her distended belly and said, “I’d rather you waited until our child is born.”
“Because you fear for me?”
“Yes, of course.”
“There’s no danger. If the coordinates I set are inside or contiguous with a solid object at the destination point, the device will automatically readjust them.”
“But what if you do something that interferes with events as they happened?”
“I have no intention of doing anything except watch my ancestor attempt to kill Queen Victoria then move a day or so ahead of the event to chat with him. I’ll listen to whatever he has to say but shan’t attempt to dissuade him. Besides, if I was to do anything to alter history, then time must possess some sort of mechanism to correct the interference, else we’d know about it, wouldn’t we?”
“How?”
“There would be an anomaly of some sort.”
She voiced her doubt with a hum, and added, “And what if your ancestor attacks you? He’s obviously capable of violence.”
“I’ll be careful. If he gets agitated, I’ll make a rapid departure.”
His wife chewed her lip and looked uncertain.
Burton experienced a pang of guilt. He’d told an unanticipated lie.
I’m not going to just watch him. I’m not going to just talk to him. I’m going to stop him. Yes! Stop him!
The intention was unexpected; it had come out of nowhere.
He shrugged it off and put a hand on his partner’s knee. “It’s all right. Really, it is. Nothing can possibly go wrong.”
“When?” she whispered.
“In two weeks. On my birthday.”
And so it was.
On the fifteenth of February, 2202, Burton completed his preparations. He dressed in mock Victorian clothing—with a copy of the letter from his ancestor in one of the pockets—pulled his time suit on over the outfit, affixed the Nimtz generator to his chest, strapped the boots over thinner leather ones, and lowered the round black helmet onto his head.
Intricate magnetic fields flooded through his skull. Information began to pass back and forth between his brain and the helmet’s BioProcs. The structure of his brainwaves soaked into the diamond dust.
Bouncing on the stilts, and with a top hat in his hand, he left his laboratory and tottered out into his long garden. Three centuries ago, Aldershot had been a small town twenty-five miles or so from central London. Now it was a suburb of the sprawling metropolis, the glittering spires of which could be seen in the near distance. He stood and contemplated them for a moment. They were intrusive. The advertising that flickered and flashed upon their sides struck him as ugly and psychologically aggressive. But there was change in the air. The era of consumerism had long passed, and such remnants were fast disappearing. The human species, it was generally agreed, was on the brink of becoming something rather more elegant than it had ever been before—something that, perhaps, would integrate with its environment in a subtler manner. No one knew what or how. They just knew it was going to happen.
His wife came out of the kitchen and walked over to him, wiping her hands on a tea towel.
“You’re going now?” she asked. “Supper is almost ready.”
“Yes,” he replied. “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 grumbled, and placed a hand on her stomach. “This one will need an energetic young father.”
He laughed. “Don’t be silly. This won’t take long.”
Bending, he kissed her on her freckled nose.
He straightened and instructed the suit to take him to five-thirty on the afternoon of the tenth of June, 1840, location: the upper corner of Green Park, London.
He looked at the sky.
Am I really going to do this?
An inner voice that hardly felt a part of him urged, Do it!
In answer, Burton took three long strides, hit the ground with knees bent, and launched himself high into the air. A bubble formed around him. It popped. He fell, thudded onto grass, and bounced. Glancing around, he saw a rolling park surrounded by tall towers. In the near distance, there was the ancient form of the Monarchy Museum, once known as Buckingham Palace, where the relics of England’s defunct royal families were displayed.