The Return of the Discontinued Man (A Burton & Swinburne Adventure) (16 page)

Babbage leaned over his Field Amplifier, examining its dials.

Gooch asked Burton, “Do you hear it, sir?”

“Hear what?”

“The voice of the synthetic intelligence.”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“You have to wake it. Wait. We need to make a few adjustments first.”

The Field Preserver began to hum.

“Now, Sir Richard,” Gooch said. “Think the words
engage interface
.”

“What do they mean?”

Babbage growled, “Must you question every statement? Just do as Mr. Gooch says.”

Burton did, and in his mind a male voice answered, “
Ready
,” causing him to jump in surprise.

“Y-yes,” he stammered. “Now I hear it.”

Babbage rubbed his hands together. “Bravo! Tell it to search for external connections.”

Burton thought,
Search for external connections
.

“
One found
,” the voice declared immediately.

“It says it’s found one.”

“That’s the Field Amplifier. Good. Order it to connect and display.”

Burton issued the instruction.

“
Warning, the source is corrupted
,” came the response.

The king’s agent relayed the words to Babbage, who replied, “Tell it to disregard and proceed.”

Disregard and proceed
, Burton thought. He looked at William Trounce, who was observing the proceedings with his arms folded and a disapproving expression on his face. Suddenly, the Scotland Yard man faded, overlaid by a scene that materialised in front of Burton’s eyes. The king’s agent saw a woman standing in a garden, pregnant, holding a tea towel. She was pretty, with long black hair, large brown eyes, and a short, thick, but curvaceous and attractive body. She looked directly at him and smiled.

He loved her.

He wanted to return to her in time for supper.

He heard himself say, in a voice that wasn’t his own, “Don’t worry. Even if I’m gone for years, I’ll be back in five minutes.”

The woman disappeared into a blazing white inferno.

Pain seared into his mind.

He screamed.

The interviewer asked, “Mr. Oxford, how does it feel to single-handedly change history?”

“I haven’t changed history,” Burton replied. “History is the past.”

“Let me rephrase the question. How does it feel to have altered the
course
of human history? I refer to your inventing of the fish-scale battery, which so efficiently emulates photosynthesis, and which has given us the clean and free power that lies at the heart of all our current technologies.”

“I don’t really know how it makes me feel,” Burton responded. “I’m an ordinary man, like any other. My concerns are with my family and with contributing whatever I can to society.”

The interviewer chuckled. “Hardly ordinary, sir. Physicist, engineer, historian, philosopher—you are just thirty-five years old, and already your name is up there with geniuses like Galileo, Newton, Fleming, Darwin, Einstein, Temple, Clavius the Fourth, the Zhèng Sisterhood—”

“Stop, please!” Burton protested. “We’re lucky enough to live in a world where those who want to explore to the limits of their abilities are encouraged and given the resources to do so. I work in my particular fields and others work in theirs. We have astounding musicians, engineers, artists, designers, architects, storytellers, athletes, chefs, and so forth. However, those people who are content to operate at a more sedate level are as extraordinary in their own right as anyone you might call a genius. The miracle of existence is that everyone is utterly unique. Each and every one of us should be equally celebrated.”

“But don’t you find it astonishing that it’s your creation, in particular, that’s arguably caused the biggest change to culture since the Industrial Revolution?”

“Why ‘in particular’?”

“Because of where you come from.”

“Aldershot?”

The interviewer smiled. “Not geographically. Genetically.”

Burton frowned. “Genetically? To what are you referring?”

“You’re a historian. You yourself have identified the Victorian Age as the beginning of the modern world. Have you not researched your own ancestry? If one of your forebears had succeeded in his perfidy, there’d have been no Victorian Age at all.”

“Perfidy? That’s a marvellously old-fashioned word. My partner would approve of it. She works at a language revivification centre.”

The interviewer laughed. “It’s funny how the language changes, isn’t it? Like clothes, what was once outdated is now fashionable again. But to return to the question, I’m referring to your family tree. You are descended from another Edward Oxford, who lived from 1822 to 1900. When he was eighteen years old, he attempted to assassinate Queen Victoria. Fortunately, both the shots he fired missed her. Don’t you find it fascinating that we have one Oxford who might have prevented the commencement of the modern age and another Oxford who has, through his genius, ended it by enabling the authentic freedoms of trans-modernity?”

“My studies of the period have been focused on industrial development, so no, I wasn’t aware of this other Oxford,” Burton answered. He felt a little uncomfortable. “And, to be honest, I don’t find it particularly fascinating. It’s a function of the human mind to link events into a narrative and to separate history into chapters, but those are conceptual impositions that don’t necessarily reflect the true nature of time. There is no actual correlation between what I have done these past few years and what my ancestor did—or attempted to do—” He made an instantaneous mental calculation and continued, “three hundred and fifty-seven years ago.”

“Then you don’t think the Oxfords are genetically predisposed to change—or to attempt to change—history?”

“Like I said, history is the past. It can’t be changed.”

“Let us face in the other direction then, and look into the future. What next for Edward Oxford?”

“I expect my next projects to grow out of my current studies of the Tichborne diamond.”

“Which is?”

“A large black gemstone discovered over a hundred years ago in a labyrinth beneath the old Tichborne estate in Hampshire. It has extraordinary electromagnetic properties, for which I hope to find a practical application.”

“Such as?”

“It might be capable of storing brainwaves in such a fashion that they continue to function.”

“Continue to—do you mean—to think?”

“Yes. A person’s conscious mind could be stored within the structure of the stone.”

“That’s astonishing!”

“It is, but there are a lot of other possibilities, too. The research is at a very early stage, so I can’t really tell you much more.”

“Well, unfortunately we’re out of time anyway. May I wish you continued success in your various endeavours, and I’d like to offer my gratitude, on behalf of the audience, for all that you’ve achieved. Thank you very much indeed for sharing your thoughts with us this morning.”

“It was my pleasure. Thank you.”

The interview ended, and Burton swiped the air-screen away. He turned to his partner, who was sitting at the breakfast table.

She raised her eyebrows and said, “That was peculiar.”

“It was. Queen Victoria!”

“Didn’t you know?”

“I had no idea, but I’ll certainly look into it.”

“Why bother?”

“I’m interested.”

“Funny how all the Oxford men seem a little eccentric. It appears the characteristic goes back a long way.”

“Are you suggesting we’re inclined to madness?”

“Of course not, but imagine what it must have been like in those days. For the majority of people there was no freedom and no opportunities. If your ancestor had the same potential intelligence and passion as you do but was denied an education and outlet for them, might the frustration not have tipped him over the edge?”

“I suppose. Who knows what a person might be capable of in such circumstances?”

Burton stood and picked up his mug of coffee. “I’d better get to it. What are you doing today?”

“I have an art class in an hour. This afternoon, I’m teaching at the language centre.”

He stepped over and planted a kiss on her forehead. “See you tonight?”

“If you don’t work too late.”

He smiled and left the kitchen.

In his laboratory, he sat at his desk, accessed the Aether, and called up information pertaining to the Victorian-era Oxford.

The facts were sparse.

Born on the ninth of April 1822 in Birmingham, his ancestor had moved to London with his mother and sister around 1832, and by ’37 was living with them in lodgings at West Place, West Square, Lambeth. He was employed as a barman in various public houses, the last two of them being the Hat and Feathers in ’39 and the Hog in the Pound in ’40.

On the tenth of June 1840, while the queen, who’d been on the throne for just three years, was taking her daily carriage ride through Green Park with her new husband, Prince Albert, Oxford stepped alongside the vehicle, drew two flintlocks, and shot at the monarch. His bullets flew wide. After being seized by onlookers, he was arrested, charged with treason, but ultimately found not guilty due to insanity. He was sent to Bethlem Royal Hospital—the infamous Bedlam—where he remained, a model patient, until being transferred to Broadmoor Hospital in 1864. Three years later, he was released on the provision that he’d immediately immigrate to Australia, which he did. He was married there to a girl much younger than him, fathered a son, and lived a respectable existence for a short while before turning to drink and thievery. The family broke up. After that, his life deteriorated, and he died a pauper.

“Sad,” Burton muttered.

He called his great-grandfather, who, despite being 112 years old, was still possessed of all his faculties, though, like every male Oxford, he was a little idiosyncratic. The old man’s lean, sharp-nosed face appeared almost immediately as the air-screen unfurled.

“Hello, Eddie. I thought you might call.”

“Hi, Grampapa. How are you? You look well.”

“Nonsense. I look like an Egyptian mummy. I’m nearing my termination date. I have eleven years left. Eleven! Can you imagine that?”

“You know full well that DNA scans don’t always accurately predict the moment of death.”

“And you know full well that they usually do. It’ll be heart failure.”

“Easily avoided. When will you get repaired?”

“Never, lad. I’m content to slip away. No one should live beyond his or her time, and I’ve been around for long enough. In the old days, they were lucky to make it to eighty. You understand, I hope?”

“I do, and I respect your right to make the choice. Actually, it’s the old days I’m calling about. What do you know about our ancestors?”

“Ha! That interviewer got you curious, did he? You did well, by the way—came across as clever but reasonable. Not many of the male Oxfords could’ve managed that. We tend to be an unbalanced crowd. What’s the correct term nowadays?”

“Off-narrative.”

“Ha ha! Bloody ridiculous! My grandfather would’ve used
off their rocker
if he were feeling generous. More likely
crackpot
or
crazy
or
nuts
. Language has no bite anymore. You kids emit nothing but a watery drone. Mind you, when I was a kid I never understood a bloody word the adults were saying. They all spoke in acronyms. English language restoration was the best policy the government ever introduced. That girl of yours is doing a good job. Heh!
Perfidy.
I liked that. Bravo the interviewer! What were we talking about?”

“Ancestors. The assassin. Did you know?”

“About our family embarrassment? Actually, I’d forgotten all about him until he was mentioned. But yes, I knew. I wonder if I still have the letter?”

“Letter?”

“It’s the oldest relic we’ve got. Wait, let me look.”

The lined face disappeared from the screen. A minute later, the image of a handwritten letter appeared on it.

“Sent to his wife,” Grampapa said. “I’m afraid there’s no record of her, but I vaguely recall my grandfather saying something about her being the daughter of a family Edward Oxford was acquainted with before he committed his crime. Do you want a hard copy?”