A thicket lay just ahead. Burton ran into it, ducking among the trees.
He reached up to his helmet and switched it off.
A foul stench assaulted his nostrils: a mix of raw sewage, rotting fish, and burning fossil fuels.
He started to cough. The air was thick and gritty. It irritated his eyes and scraped his windpipe. He fell to his knees and clutched at his throat, gasping for oxygen. Then he remembered he’d prepared for this and, after opening the suit’s front, fumbled in his jacket pocket, pulling out a small instrument, which he applied to the side of his neck. He pressed the switch, it hissed, he felt a slight stinging sensation, and instantly could breathe again.
Burton put the instrument away and rested for a moment. His inability to catch his breath had been a perceptive disorder rather than a physical one. The helmet’s AugMems had protected him from the idea that the atmosphere was unbreathable—now a sedative was doing the job.
He unclipped his boots, kicked them off, and quickly slipped out of the time suit. He stood and straightened his clothes, placed the top hat on his head, and made his way to the edge of the thicket. As he emerged from the trees, a transformed world assailed his senses, and he was immediately shaken by a profound uneasiness.
Only the grass was familiar.
Through air made hazy by burning fossil fuels, he saw a massive expanse of empty sky. The towers of his own time were absent—they’d been nothing but an illusion projected onto his senses by the headpiece. London appeared to be clinging to the ground and slumbering under a blanket of relative silence, though, from the nearby road, he could hear horses’ hooves, the rumble of wheels, and the shouts of hawkers.
Ahead, Buckingham Palace, now partially hidden by a high wall, looked brand-new.
Quaintly costumed people were walking in the park.
No, not costumed. They always dress this way.
Burton started to walk down the slope toward the base of Constitution Hill, struggling to overcome his growing sense of dislocation.
“Steady, Edward,” he muttered to himself. “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.”
Job? What job? I am here to observe, that is all.
Again, it was as if a second voice existed inside him. It whispered, Stop him! Stop your ancestor!
Burton reached the wide path. The queen’s carriage would pass this way soon.
My God! I’m going to see Queen Victoria!
He looked around. Every single person in sight was wearing a hat or bonnet. Most of the men were bearded or moustachioed. The women held parasols.
He examined faces. Which belonged to his forebear? He’d never seen a photograph of the original Edward Oxford, but he hoped to detect some sort of family resemblance. He stepped over the low fence lining the path, crossed to the other side, and loitered near a tree.
People started to gather along the route. He heard a remarkable range of accents, and they all sounded ridiculously exaggerated. Some, which he identified as working class, were incomprehensible, while the upper classes spoke with a precision and clarity that seemed wholly artificial.
Details kept catching his eye, holding his attention with hypnotic force: the prevalence of litter and dog faeces; the stains and worn patches on people’s clothing; rotten teeth and rickets-twisted legs; accentuated mannerisms and lace-edged handkerchiefs; pockmarks and consumptive coughs.
“Focus!” he whispered.
A cheer went up. He looked to his right. The queen’s carriage had just emerged from the palace gates, its horses guided by a postilion. Two outriders trotted along ahead of the vehicle, two more behind.
Where was his ancestor? Where was the gunman?
Ahead of him, a man wearing a top hat, blue frock coat, and white britches straightened, reached under his coat, and moved closer to the path.
Slowly, the royal carriage approached.
“Is it him?” Burton muttered, gazing at the back of the man’s head.
Moments later, the forward outriders came alongside.
The blue-coated individual stepped over the fence and, as the queen and her husband passed, took three strides to keep up with their vehicle, then whipped out a flintlock pistol, aimed, and fired. He threw down the smoking weapon and drew a second.
Burton yelled, “No, Edward!” and ran forward.
What the hell am I doing?
The gunman glanced at him.
Burton vaulted over the fence and grabbed his ancestor’s raised arm. If he could just disarm him and drag him away, tell him to flee and forget this stupid prank.
They struggled, locked together.
“Give it up!” Burton pleaded.
“Let go of me!” the would-be assassin yelled. “My name must be remembered. I must live through history!”
I must live through history. I must live through history.
The words throbbed into the future, echoed through time.
The second flintlock detonated, the recoil jolting both men.
The back of Queen Victoria’s skull exploded.
Burton gripped the gunman, shook him, and heaved him off his feet.
His ancestor fell backward, and his head impacted against the low cast-iron fence. There was a crunch, and a spike suddenly emerged from the man’s eye. He twitched and went limp.
“You’re not dead!” Burton exclaimed, staggering back. “You’re not dead! Stand up! Run for it! Don’t let them catch you!”
The assassin lay on his back, his head impaled, blood pooling beneath him.
Burton stumbled away.
There were screams and cries, people pushing past him.
He saw Victoria. She was tiny, young, like a child’s doll, and her shredded brain was oozing onto the ground.
No. No. No.
This isn’t happening.
This can’t happen.
This didn’t happen.
Burton backed away, feeling terrified, fell, got up again, shoved his way out of the milling crowd, and ran.
“Get back to the suit,” he mumbled as his legs pumped. “Try something else.”
He raced up the slope and ran into the trees.
His heart was pounding.
He pushed through to where he’d left the time suit.
I’ll go farther back. I’ll change this.
He suddenly registered that someone was behind him. Before he could turn, an arm encircled his neck and squeezed with agonising force, crushing his throat. He saw his suit, the boots and headpiece, just feet away. He reached for them, but it was hopeless. He knew he was going to die.
A man hissed in his ear, “You don’t deserve this, but I have to do it again. I’m sorry.”
Do it again?
He felt his head being twisted.
My neck! My neck! Get off me!
His vertebrae crunched.
White light flared.
He felt suspended, as if time had halted.
He heard Charles Babbage’s voice.
“It is nine o’clock on the fifteenth of February, 1860.”
“It is nine o’clock on the fifteenth of February, 1860.”
“It is nine o’clock on the fifteenth of February, 1860.”
“It is nine o’clock on the fifteenth of February, 1860.”
“It is nine o’clock on the fifteenth of February, 1860.”
The voice overlaid itself again and again, as if thousands of Babbages were speaking at once.
Flee! Burton thought. Get away from here! Back home! Back home in time for supper! Back home! Back home in time!