“If the Fulcrum and Spring Heeled Jack are one and the same,” Burton responded, “then there’s a deal of confusion in it, anyway.”
“Yet still it has managed to create this ghastly world,” Wells interjected.
Trounce signalled for them to be quiet as they reached the side of the greenhouse. Crouching down, they peered through the glass.
“My hat!” Swinburne hissed. “I’m already here.”
Inside, from the waist-high growing troughs up to the high ceiling, from one side of the interior space to the other, there was a mass of red foliage, a great aggregation of fleshy leaves, tangled branches, exotic flowers, bulging pods, heavy gourds, luminescent fruits, and—especially in the upper reaches—thousands of huge fluffy seed heads. These were noticeably disintegrating, bits of them breaking off and floating out though ventilation grills to form the cloud Burton had noticed—not smoke, but seeds, red but rendered black by the starlight.
“I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised by its presence,” the king’s agent murmured. “After all, it was the jungle that brought Spring Heeled Jack’s dictatorship to my attention. We wouldn’t be here were it not for the experiences it foisted upon me.”
“I don’t see anyone inside,” Trounce said.
He moved to the right until he came to a door, opened it, and quietly entered. Burton and the others filed in after him, senses alert. The change from frigid cloud to humid steam caused them to gasp and breathe heavily. Burton’s dizziness increased, and he felt blackness pressing in at the edges of his vision.
Trounce put his finger to his ear and murmured, “We’re in.”
Burton clutched his chest as his heart skipped arrhythmically. He sucked damp air into his lungs and fought to stay on his feet.
The discomfort passed. His body stabilised. The chrononauts glanced at one another, satisfying themselves that all were well. They discarded their robes.
“Let’s make certain we’re alone,” Trounce whispered.
Carefully, without a sound, they spread out and moved through the verdant corridors, passing back and forth between the troughs. Pungent fragrances filled their lungs, and Burton felt a slight headiness, though it wasn’t nearly as overwhelming as that which he’d experienced in the Beetle’s factory.
No one else was present.
The king’s agent found a door that, when he cracked it open an inch, proved to be at the top of a stairwell. He closed it and turned to Trounce. “Here’s our route in.”
“A preliminary survey then. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“We’ll go down to the next floor, split into two teams, and separate. Let’s assess how populated it is downstairs. If you can render a member of the queen’s staff unconscious without detection, do so and bring them back here.” Trounce said to Swinburne, “You stay here, Carrots. If anyone enters, stun ’em.”
“Rightio.”
Burton turned and reached for the door handle again, but before he could grasp it, it suddenly moved and the door swung inward, bumping against him. With an exclamation, he stepped back and fumbled for his pistol. Before he could retrieve it, a young woman stepped in. She uttered a small exclamation and stared at them bemusedly.
“Hallo, hallo!” Swinburne cried out. “What ho!”
Burton gasped. His mouth fell open. He was overcome by an urge to rush forward and embrace her. His heart filled with love. Tears blurred his vision.
Isabel! he thought. Isabel!
But it wasn’t Isabel. The girl was short and broad rather than tall and graceful, dark rather than golden-haired. Though curvaceous and attractive, she couldn’t match his fiancée’s beauty.
This love isn’t mine. It’s Oxford’s.
A name popped into his mind.
“Jessica,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “You—you know me, sir? My real name?”
“Jessica,” he repeated. “Jessica Cornish.”
“But—but—I haven’t been called that for—for—” She moved forward, put her hands out toward him and hesitated, her expression alternating between fear and wonder. “How?”
Trounce said gruffly, “Queen Victoria.”
“Yes.” Tears spilled onto her cheeks. “They—he—calls me Victoria. But I’m—I’m Jessica Cornish. How do you know me? Who are you people? Why are you here?”
Trounce slipped behind her and pushed the door shut. He levelled his pistol and muttered, “This is a spot of luck. But be careful, Richard.”
“Lower your weapon,” Burton said. He looked down at the queen. “For how long have you been the monarch, Miss Cornish—Your Majesty?”
“Jessica, please. Just Jessica. It feels—it’s so good to hear that name again. I was chosen five years ago.”
“And prior to that?”
“I lived in Aldershot. I was nobody. A nanny.” She clenched her hands beneath her chin. “Who are you? Can you help me?”
“Help you?”
“I never wanted to be the queen. I don’t know why I am.”
“Miss Cornish,” Swinburne said. “The proclamations. The ones you issue. Might I ask where they come from?”
“Him.”
“Him?”
“The prime minister.”
Swinburne looked at Trounce. “A prime minister? I didn’t know we had one.”
“It’s news to me,” Trounce said. “What of the Turing Fulcrum, Miss Cornish?”
“The—what?”
“The device that guides the government. Perhaps it advises the prime minister?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Trounce’s eyes moved from Jessica Cornish to Swinburne to Burton.
The queen stepped closer to Sadhvi Raghavendra, instinctively seeking the support of her own gender. Raghavendra smiled at her, laid a hand gently on her upper arm, and said to Trounce, “She’s innocent, William. A victim. It’s plain to see.”
The queen nodded. There was an almost childish pleading in her eyes, helplessness.
Burton asked, “This prime minster, when was he elected?”
“He never was.”
“I mean, when did he assume his position?”
The queen leaned closer to Raghavendra. “Um. Forty years ago, I think.”
“2162?”
“Yes.”
“The year the original Edward Oxford was born,” Burton mused.
“He’ll be angry,” the queen said. “You shouldn’t be here. When they finish with that poor man, he’ll come looking.”
“Who are they?” Burton asked. “And what man?”
“The ministers. The traitor.”
“I don’t understand you.”
She put her hands over her face and emitted a quavering moan. “Oh. Oh. They are terrible. Terrible! Their entertainments. So cruel. Torture!”
Trounce reached out and gripped her wrist, not gently. “They have a captive?” he rasped. “What are they doing to him? Tell me!”
“Steady,” Burton murmured.
Recoiling from Trounce, the queen said, “He blew up the American Embassy.”
“Father!” Swinburne croaked.
“They injected him with nanomechs. The machines are eating him from the inside.”
“And they call it entertainment?” Trounce snarled. “By God! Where?”
“In the House of Lords. Five floors down.”
Trounce’s eyes blazed. Jessica Cornish moaned. “I have to go. I shouldn’t be talking to you. I’ll be punished. Let me go. Let me go.”
“It’s all right,” Raghavendra said soothingly. “We’re here to help you, Jessica. Will you trust us? Perhaps we can give you your freedom.”
“He won’t let you. He’ll kill you all. He’ll punish me for speaking with you. You don’t understand. The prime minister is dangerous. Very dangerous.”
“Miss Cornish,” Swinburne said. “What happens here tonight will be the culmination of events that date all the way back to 1837. No danger will dissuade us from doing what must be done.”