“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?”

“Yes, please.”

“It’s coming through now.” Grampapa reappeared. “But listen, don’t get too caught up in all this nonsense. It was a long, long time ago. You know our DNA consultant recommended that you focus on what you do best, which is to make the future better. The past is no place for a genius like you. I’m very, very proud of everything you’ve achieved. When I think about that bloody assassin, I realise how much you’ve put the pride back into the Oxford name.”

“Thank you, Grampapa. Can I come visit soon?”

“Whenever you like.”

“I’ll call again in a few days.”

“I look forward to it.”

Their conversation ended. Burton took the letter from the desk’s printer and read it.

Brisbane 12th November 1888

My Darling

There was never any other but you, and that I treated you badly has pained me more even than the treasonable act I committed back in ’40. I desired nought but to give you and the little one a good home and that I failed and that I was a drinker and a thief instead of the good husband I intended, this I shall regret to the end of my days, which I feel is a time not far off, as I am sickly in body as well as in heart.

I do not blame you for what you do now. You are young and can make a good life for yourself and our child back in England with your parents and I would have brought more misery upon you had you stayed here, for I have been driven by the devil since he chose me as his own when I was a mere lad. I beg of you to believe that it is his evil influence that brought misery to our family and the true soul of me never wished you anything but happiness and contentment.

You remember, my wife, that I said the mark upon your breast was a sign to me of God’s forgiveness for my treachery and that in you he was rewarding me for the work I had done in hospital to restore my wits and good judgment?

I pray now that he looks mercifully upon my failure and I ask him that the mark, which so resembles a rainbow in its shape, and which lays also upon our little son’s breast, should adorn every of my descendants forevermore as a sign that the great wrong I committed shall call His vengeance upon no Oxford but myself, for I it was who pulled the triggers and no other. With my death, which as I say will soon be upon me, the affair shall end and the evil attached to my name shall be wiped away.

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!”