Ulysses Quicksilver stretched his body out on the wicker lounger, adjusting his suit of cream linen for comfort and loosening the azure rough silk cravat at his neck, luxuriating in the warmth of the sun on his face.
A twinge of pain from his right shoulder took him momentarily by surprise and reminded him, at least in part, why he had accepted Jonah Carcharodon's invitation to join the maiden voyage of the Neptune. More than a month on from the debacle surrounding Queen Victoria's 160th jubilee his left arm was healed and out of its sling - although it still hurt to over-flex it - but his shoulder was a more substantial, recurring injury, one he had received in his near-fatal crash on Mount Manaslu in the Himalayan range. He had been lucky to walk away from that one at all; not that he had walked away of course. He had crawled from the crash-site, managing to get as far as a precipitous icy ledge before the effects of hypothermia had set in. And then the monks of Shangri-La had found him.
He stretched again, testing his body this time, wondering what other aches and pains would reveal themselves, trying to put the memory of an event to every twinge, every dull ache, every agony remembered, each a physical remembrance of one of a whole host of injuries received in the line of duty.
There was the rumour of cramp in his left leg, and the still-present dull ache in his side. Such sensations were almost reassuring in their familiarity. Easing his right shoulder into a more comfortable position he felt the skin under his shirt. There were still four distinct traces of scar tissue where the pterodactyl had - bizarrely - saved his life.
But that was all in the past now. All that featured in his immediate future was a few weeks R & R and a jolly jaunt in warmer climes, while Barty remained in London overseeing the renovation of the Mayfair residence, his brother himself under the ever-watchful eye of Mrs Prufrock, Ulysses' cook and housekeeper.
A sudden shadow came between Ulysses and the burning white disc of the sun blazing in the cloudless azure expanse of sky above the cruising liner. Ulysses removed his sunglasses and, narrowing his eyes, focused on the not uncomely figure in front of him.
"It's Mr Quicksilver, isn't it? Or can I call you Ulysses?"
Ulysses smiled and deliberately looked the svelte young woman up and down, taking in the classic yet subtle curves of her body, accentuated by the way the sea-green gown she had chosen to wear hung from and clung to her body to greatest effect. It was a bold statement - the colour in sharp contrast to the blue of her eyes and the over-coiffeured curls of her golden-blonde hair. The dress would have been more appropriate as evening wear - exposed shoulders, arms and cleavage not really being the done thing, at least not on the sundeck or the watertight promenade deck. The boa of pink flamingo feathers really set it off a treat.
Worn here and now, it was an outfit that said that this was a young woman who was independent, determined to make her own way in the world, apparently regardless of what others might think of her. And yet, at the same time, all too self-aware, desperate to make a lasting impression, fearful of being forgotten or, worse, overlooked in the first place.
"I'm sorry, you seem to have me at a disadvantage, Miss -"
"Glenda Finch, social commentator for The Times."
"Ah, the gossip columnist."
For a moment the woman's mouth puckered in disdain but then her brilliant white smile returned like the sun emerging from behind a passing cloud. "You know of my work then?"
"I've read your column in the past, as no more than an amusing distraction you understand. And I believe I've been the subject of it on a number of occasions."
"So you'll know that I'm aware of your work as well."
"Well, it's hard to hide one's light under a bushel when you save the Queen herself from certain death at the hands of a psychotic megalomaniac at the most public event of the decade in front of the world's press. But I rather suspect I'll get over it. Today's front page, tomorrow's fish and chip paper and all that."
"Oh, you do yourself down, Ulysses," the reporter returned. "But as you were the one to mention the part you played in saving Her Majesty's life would you care to give me a quote? In fact, why don't you offer to buy me a drink and then you can tell me all about it."
Smiling, his gaze lingering on the shadow of the young woman's cleavage - how could what was effectively little more than the empty space between two breasts be so appealing? - Ulysses pointedly returned his sunglasses to his nose.
"Good day, Miss Finch."
The Neptune boasts five-star hotel accommodation married to the most advanced steam-driven technology in the Empire. Four massive Rolls Royce engines - each, I am told, as big as a London townhouse - will move the huge vessel at an average of twenty knots across open stretches of water, when the weather, the sea and the opportunity permit. The vessel itself is 1,020 feet long and fifteen storeys tall.
But all of this technological magnificence and industrial maritime creativity is all to serve one purpose - ultimately that of entertainment. People want to sail the seven seas, to relax, see the world, advance their own realms of experience, and be entertained in the process. And there are all manner of entertainments available on board.
As well as three kinemas, a vaudeville theatre, numerous restaurants, bistros and bars, and the infamous Casino Royale, there are also indoor squash courts and outdoor tennis courts, a gymnasium, solarium and three swimming pools. But possibly the most magnificent exercise alternative is the Promenade Deck itself. Running two thirds the length of the ship, the Promenade is nearly a quarter of a mile long, meaning that two complete laps is the equivalent to a walk of a mile. This might not sound so special until you learn that the entirety of the Promenade is covered by a reinforced glass and steel structure capable of withstanding the same pressures as that of the ship's hull, so that passengers may still enjoy a stroll along the Promenade, and all that might be revealed beyond it, even when the Neptune makes one of its scheduled dives to the undersea cities found along its route during the course of its voyage. And as well as walks along the Promenade, of course, one may also partake in any number of traditional deck sports such as quoits.
One of the appealing features of a cruise is not only what the ship itself has to offer, but also the places one can visit along the way. Destinations on the Neptune's maiden voyage include the renowned Atlantis City, and the fully-restored Temple of Jupiter, a shopping stop at America's first city of New York, the prehistoric game parks of the Costa Rican island chain, the incredible sculpted coral gardens of Pacifica, and even a brief sojourn on the Cairo Express across the Sinai peninsula to visit the pyramids of Giza.
The thunderous retort of the elephant gun echoed through the primeval jungle, sending a flock of white egrets squawking and flapping from the canopy. The parasaurolophus bellowed, throwing back its crested head as the four-bore shell found its mark, hitting the creature in its flank, punching through the rhino-like hide and sending a spray of blood and meat from the wound. The bipedal herbivore faltered in its graceful run, its thick tail swinging to maintain the injured creature's balance. The dashing pachycephalosauruses accompanying the larger dinosaur's flight scattered across the clearing.
Ulysses Quicksilver took another sip of Earl Grey from the fine bone china teacup in his hands. He savoured the taste for a moment, as well as the sunlight on his face. It was good to be off ship for a short sojourn, hunting dinosaurs, although with the howdah gently rolling beneath him, he felt like he might as well still be on board.
"Good shot, Major!" he called.
"Thank you, sah!" the bristle-whiskered and portly Major Marmaduke Horsley called back, reloading the gun almost automatically as he did so. "One more shot should bring the blighter down."
The parasaurolophus trumpeted again. Its injury was causing it to limp badly and it was moving for the natural protection of the trees at the edge of the jungle clearing.
"Oh no you don't!" the Major shouted and then to the imported Indian beast-wrangler attempting to steer the triceratops on which their howdah was
being carried: "You! Dino-waller! Chop chop, what-ho? Dashed blighter's getting away! Come on, man. We can't lose it now."
With a shout from the beast's handler, perched on a saddle across the creature's broad shoulders behind the frill of its crest, and judicious use of a crackling electro-goad, the ceratopsid pounded forward. Ulysses tried to avoid spilling any of the tea slopping from the cup onto his trousers.
Horsley put the gun to his shoulder again, swiftly capturing the distinctive profile of his quarry's head within the crosshairs of its sights. The elephant gun boomed once more. There was something like a grunt of satisfaction from the major and the parasaurolophus crashed to the ground, as every muscle in its body relaxed with the pulverisation of the creature's tiny brain.
"Good shooting, Major!" called Miss Birkin, waving at the ex-army officer enthusiastically from the back of a brontosaur, parasol in hand to keep the equatorial sun from her milk-white sensitive skin.
"Why thank you, Miss Birkin! It should make a fine addition to my trophy collection. I shall have it stuffed and mounted above the mantelpiece in my sitting room at home."
"I think you've made a big impression there, Major," Ulysses teased.
"What? What rot! Can't stand the bloody woman," Horsley returned under his breath. "Too full of her blinking, half-baked conspiracy theories."
Ulysses caught the eye of John Schafer, seated next to his fiancée in the same bamboo and calico fashioned conveyance, opposite Constance's ever-present chaperone. "Good afternoon, Mr Schafer, Miss Pennyroyal. Enjoying the show?"
"Oh yes, Mr Quicksilver," Constance called back across the clearing. "Most exhilarating!" she added with a flutter of the fan in her hand and a reddening of her perfect porcelain cheeks.
"Rather beats the Wilmington Hunt, doesn't it?" Schafer called back.
"Indeed it does," Ulysses agreed.
A sudden shout went up from one of the native beaters accompanying the lumbering triceratops and brontosauruses and was passed along the drawn out line. There the Costa Ricans were showing obvious signs of agitation, their behaviour not going unnoticed by Major Marmaduke Horsley.
"I say, man," he barked at their guide, "what's going on? What's this bally hoo-ha all about?"
"A meat-eater, an allosaur, has been spotted, mensab," the Indian replied, his English thickly accented.
"Where?"
"Two miles west of here, on the approach to the watering hole."
"Then what are we waiting for, man? We can't let a prize like that get away, can we Quicksilver?"
"Perish the thought, Major."
"Looks like the space over the mantelpiece is still up for grabs, what?"
"It would indeed."
With a fanfare of bad-tempered grunting and rumbling herbivorous farts, the triceratops mount set off at a canter, under the impelling of its handler.
The Major turned to face Ulysses, a wild gleam in his wide eyes, his monocle popping from the orbit of his right eye where it should have fitted snugly.
"Ever hunted any big game, Quicksilver, and I mean truly big game?"
Ulysses' mind immediately rushed back to the dinosaur stampede that had rampaged through the capital only a matter of months ago, following the terrorist atrocities of the Darwinian Dawn.
"There was this one time," he replied
"Well the hunt's on now, isn't it, what-ho?"
"Indeed it is, Major. Indeed it is."
Accompanying the launch of the largest passenger ship in the world was a feeling of optimism. Many felt that it helped lay to rest the ghosts of the near apocalyptic events of Her Majesty Queen Victoria's 160th jubilee celebrations. Let us hope that such dark times are now behind us and that we can look forward to the approaching new millennium with joy, hope and positivity in our hearts.
As to Jonah Carcharodon's bold claim that the latest and greatest passenger cruise liner in the world offers an unparalleled experience we, those of us fortunate enough to join the inaugural sailing, will have to wait and see. But rest assured, your eyes and ears on board will be with it to the end so that you might feel that you are with us every step of the way.
And, as readers of this column will already know, Carcharodon is no stranger to publicity himself. Only last year, before the Neptune had even left the dockyards, there were rumours of financial irregularities and the threat of insolvency for his shipping company.
Ulysses made his way along the mahogany-panelled, plushly-carpeted corridor towards his suite of rooms on the VIP guest deck, tossing his room key in the palm of his hand as he did so. The opulence on show, even here, in a corridor between cabins, was mind-boggling. Ulysses had heard the rumours of financial challenges facing the Great White Shipping Line, but he had no idea whether the construction of such a vessel as the Neptune was the cause of near-bankruptcy or whether it was a sign that Jonah Carcharodon was still doing very nicely for himself, thank you. What Ulysses was certain of, however, was that the success or failure of their new flagship venture could make or break the Carcharodon's Shipping Company. Either it would prove an unmitigated triumph and float the company's stock like nothing ever before, or the world's greatest cruise line would sink without a trace.
He was suddenly roused from his reverie by a scratching at the back of his skull, his ever-alert sixth sense acting up again, something almost akin to premonition. Glancing to his right he came face-to-face with Miss Glenda Finch of The Times, trying to look nonchalant as she loitered within a doorway.
"Why, Miss Finch," Ulysses said, a predatory smile spreading across his lips as he took in the hollow between the underdressed reporter's plunging cleavage again and the way the side split of the gown exposed a shapely leg to the thigh. "What a pleasant, if unexpected, surprise. I didn't know you had rooms on this floor. I had been led to believe that all members of the press were located two decks down in steerage."
For a moment the reporter's beaming smile almost faltered, pupils dilating with something like annoyance, but then, a moment later, Miss Finch had regained her indefatigable composure.
"Mr Quicksilver. Twice in one day. People will start to talk. I was just..."
"Looking for something - sorry - someone?" Ulysses didn't take his gaze from her not unattractive face, the smile on his lips no longer reflected in his eyes.
"Looking for you, actually."
"Really?"
"Weren't you going to buy me a drink?"
Confidently she thrust her arm into his, turning him round in one balletic movement, to lead him back towards the grand atrium and, thence, to one of the bars.
What is she up to? Ulysses wondered, and then caught himself. Always on duty, eh Quicksilver, old chap? Whatever it was, it could probably wait. And besides, a pleasant drink in distracting company was what this trip was all about - at least for the present, and there was no time like it.
"Indeed. Why not, Miss Finch? Why not? Vodka on the rocks with a twist of lime, if I remember correctly from my casual perusal of your column."
"Why, Ulysses, recalling a lady's favourite tipple - you flatter me."
"I do indeed. And why not? A woman like you wearing a dress like that deserves to be well and truly... flattered."
"Now-now, Ulysses, people will talk."
"No, my dear, you will talk, and I for one can't wait to hear what you'll have to say for yourself."
As to what adventures await us on the voyage ahead, we will simply have to wait and see. This is Glenda Finch, signing off, until next time.
CHAPTER TWO
Fourteen at Dinner
"Ladies and gentlemen," the droid-butler's tinny voice crackled, "dinner is served."
A hubbub of excitement accompanying them, the captain's dinner guests bustled their way into the mirrored dining room.
The room was ostentatiously decorated and included a number of large, gilt-framed mirrors. Statues of Renaissance-imagined dolphins and mermen filled the room and the trident logo of the Neptune was repeated at every possible opportunity. The p
lace was not unlike an underwater treasure cave, with the gold, silver and crystal offset by the dark blue and sea-green colouring of the draperies, wall dressings and carpets.
A long table had been laid for dinner. The candlelight cast by three polished candelabra set along the length of the table reflected back from the myriad mirrors, filling the dining chamber with light, which in turn sparkled from crystal-cut glassware, fine-glazed bone china and silver place settings.
Where the starboard wall should have been there was a breath-taking, floor-to-ceiling, glass and steel bubble, like the one above the Promenade deck, allowing the captain and his guests an unprecedented view of the sea whether the sub-liner was above or beneath the waves.
On another table, set against one wall and laden with the meal's wine selection, after-dinner spirits and more champagne, stood a glistening sculpture, the flawless ice chiselled and smoothed to resemble the God of the Sea himself, trident in hand, seated upon a scallop-shell throne.
Sprays of lilies on both the table and within flower stands in the corners of the room, set off the table setting, so that only the most jaded or over-exposed diner did not gasp in wonder.
Their host for the evening stood behind his plush dining chair - white wood upholstered in aqua blue with the Neptune's trident logo embroidered in turquoise and gold thread - striking in his dress uniform. Captain Connor McCormack - or Mac as he was affectionately referred to by many of the crew - was a powerful presence and it was immediately apparent why he commanded the respect of those under his command. He was stood to attention, straight as a board, gold buttons gleaming, with his silvering blond hair slicked down perfectly from a side parting, and with his dress cap under his right arm.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "I would like to take this opportunity to formally welcome you aboard the Neptune and to my table."
Subsequent welcomes and polite words of thanks were returned by the assembled dinner guests.
Leviathan Rising Page 2
