“Whose idea was the lifeboat, Billy?” She’d already heard the tale from Kibo but wanted to keep the youngster’s attention. The re-coupling was a deafening procedure—iron clanking and scraping on iron—and to a child, the sudden claustrophobic weight that bore down upon B-deck might be a frightening experience.
“Um, it were Cecil’s idea.” The lad blankly poured over the pages of his book. “After two men were snatched, ’e reckoned we had to do somethin’ quick. That bloody lio-pleu-ro-don kept jumpin’ out of the water, bashin’ against the side of the ship. ’E smashed us underwater an’ nearly capsized us. That’s when it got them first ’uns—them two aeronauts—they slid to the hatches and the monster got ’em.” He glanced up at Verity, then gripped the bell house rail next to Embrey as B-deck’s hull darkened the sky. “So Cecil said we should rig a lifeboat with some hydrogen canisters an’ let the monster attack it. Hydrogen explodes, see. ’E wanted the other men to shoot the canisters while the dinosaur were attackin’ that lifeboat.” Billy’s storytelling grew nervous and rapid. “But it were over with too quick an’ nobody got a shot off before the boat were sunk. Next time we were tipped on our side, Briory rolled into the bugger’s jaws an’ we never saw ’im again.”
Clank, clank went the airship’s hull onto the guide spars as Verity’s men rushed about fastening the link chains into place. B-deck scraped into position simply enough, and the Empress groaned as she leaned to one side under the extra weight.
Embrey gave her an appreciative nod, as if he hadn’t been convinced the re-coupling could work, before joining the aft capstan team to crank the decks together once and for all.
She sent Billy to Reardon in the engine room, out of harm’s way, and then rotated the forward capstan with her last remaining crewmen. The final clank of a Gannet’s re-coupling usually heralded several hearty huzzahs. This time, dead silence.
She sighed as the whole ship lifted from the beach. Gallons of purged ballast thundered from A-deck into the kelpy shallows. She’d lost many good men these past few days—far too many. At this rate, would anyone be left alive to make the time jump?
Snuggled alone in the bough nest, a single blanket cushioning his backside from the cold metal floor, Embrey wrapped his arms around his knees and took in the spectacular prehistoric sunset. At this soundless height, where only creaks from the balloon canopies kept him company, the vastness of this unvisited world stretched eerily in every direction. Neither car horns nor clattering hooves nor the bark of a feral dog emerged from London’s streets as he watched. He was truly some place he should not be.
Before mankind would rise to prominence, the entire known lifespan of Mount Everest had to unfold. According to Reardon, the number of days from here to 1908 was comparable to the number of stars in a small galaxy. And unless the machine worked, they would all die before the first rose ever spread its petals. This was so long ago, even romance didn’t exist.
The police chase through the storm seemed an epoch ago. Hell, Reardon’s accidental intervention had occurred in the nick of time…the literal nick of time. Unspeakable, yes, but fortuitous all the same. Given the choice between being hanged for treason or lost in a forgotten world, he was perhaps the only one, apart from Reardon, who’d secretly thanked his lucky stars for this accident.
“Ahoy, night owl.” A woman’s voice made him jump.
“Who goes there?”
Verity poked her head up over the rail. “First the depths, now the clouds? We really need to keep our feet on the ground, Embrey.”
“What are you doing up here?”
“What are you?” She climbed into the nest and crouched opposite him—to bring bad news? Berate him for coming up here without her permission?
“For some peace and quiet,” he said. “I fancied soaking up a little prehistoric magic—you know, before the back-breaking begins. This looked as good a spot as any.”
“I never pegged you for a deep-thinking fellow, Embrey.”
Seeing her dressed once more in her safari outfit—blouse, flared jodhpurs, half chaps and boots—quickened his pulse and recalled the time he’d seen her climbing the steps outside her cabin, in those last promise-filled moments before she’d turned on him. But that feud had been her doing, her prejudice. He’d done nothing except bear an innocent family name.
“You look worried,” she said. “Did I say something wrong?”
“Not exactly—well, not recently—”
She sighed, blinking her big, inscrutable hazel eyes. Embrey loved the way her lace cuffs, too big for her wrists, flapped in the breeze. But there wasn’t even the hint of an apology forthcoming. Not good enough.
“Things were said that can’t easily be forgotten. First you humiliated me in front of the entire congregation, then you insulted Father—without even bothering to hear my story.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You ass! I came up here in—”
“If you’ll let me finish—for Christ’s sake— I simply meant to say, I would like a chance to finally explain myself. You’ve heard one side of the story, the poisoned version, and yet you carry on half-cocked and continually ridicule me in public. I’ll not stand for it a moment longer.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “Oh, and I suppose my half-cocked rescue when you fell over the side counts for nothing? Those insults—they may have been hasty.”
“Are you saying you no longer hold my family responsible?”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Then allow me to speak my piece. You need to be enlightened.”
“Ha! Please, by all means, enlighten me, Your Worship.” Her snootiness knew no bounds, but if he were in her position, he might very well react with the same scepticism.
“Very well,” he said. “You suffered a terrible loss in Benguela. And you understandably accepted the official story of my father’s collusion in the rebel attack. Not a single newspaper anywhere in the empire, to my knowledge, printed a dissenting article.” He paused to catch his breath. “But when you’ve known a man as closely and for as long as I knew my father, when his unblemished military record and love for the empire are unquestioned by everyone who knew him well, when Britannia’s prosecuting arm is twisted behind her back by a notoriously corrupt body like the Leviacrum Council, when evidence is demonstrably falsified and then whisked from further public scrutiny to ensure a quick execution, you can understand why I no longer have any love for the empire.”
“With all due respect, every family of a convicted man cries foul. Why should I take your word over that of the Council?”
“What rock have you been hiding under? Good Lord, woman.” Before she could retort, he gave a loud sigh. “Verity, you must have heard the rumours.”
“No.” The lines in her puzzled frown might as well have said, Made by the Corps. “Pray tell. I haven’t lived in London for years.”
“Well, the Leviacrum towers serve no practical purpose, do they? Thousands of feet tall and for what?”
“Why build anything ambitious?” She shrugged. “It needn’t imply a sinister motive.”
“Verity, you can’t afford to be this naive. If we return to 1908—”
“When we return.”
“—the Leviacrum Council is going to arrest Reardon and execute me for treason against the Crown. Don’t you see? The Council is the Crown, the government, the empire. British subjects everywhere are unwittingly pledging their allegiance to a secret society turned dictatorial power. They have subverted our democracy through science—steam technology has revolutionized the empire, and most of the patents for those inventions have been bought or bribed from private citizens. Over eighty percent of the nation’s wealth is subordinate to the Council, in one way or another. Trust me when I say the Freemasons are tadpoles compared to the bigwigs controlling the Leviacra.”
He raked his hair behind his ears. “Shortly after my father returned from Angola, he was approached several times to join something called the Atlas Club, and the offers kept
him up nights. I never did find out why, or what the club itself actually was. But when he refused for the umpteenth time, explaining he was already a member of too many clubs and societies…he suddenly found himself facing an indictment for treason. It was odd, though, I didn’t connect the two events until much later. But here’s the clincher—my Uncle Ralph was also approached about the Atlas Club in the run-up to his arrest. He’d turned it down, as well.”
He paused while a chorus of distant roars from the coast suggested large dinosaurs were engaged in vicious combat.
“This is all very…conspiratorial, Embrey. You’d have us believe the devil resides in that copper tower, and his minions stand watch at every street corner. I say, show a fool his shadow and he’ll show you a shady world.”
“And if it really is a corrupt world?”
Verity laughed. “Then the joke is on me. But I’d like to hear more about your father’s trial. You say evidence was falsified. Have you proof of this?”
“No. Like I said, the evidence disappeared after the trial. The two handwriting experts they used were never heard from again.”
“As you say—very odd.”
Despite her obtuse remarks, Embrey felt sure he’d made his case, and that was enough for now. They were on cordial speaking terms. No need to overstep his good fortune. And surely he could think of something more congenial than politics to engage a beautiful woman during a sunset.
“I wonder, Verity, if we’d met somewhere else—” he began carefully, “—on safari in Africa, say, or in South America…”
His mind blanked.
“Hmm?” She appeared to blink coquettishly without realising, which made his heart squirrel.
“I only meant to say that, a few years back, if we’d shot each other on safari—met—I mean met each other on safari…” Kill me now! “…I’d have asked permission to call on you.”
She stared at him. Embrey wondered how long it would take his body to hit the deck if he jumped to save his further humiliation. But…was she…blushing?
“Would I have been too bold?” he asked.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
She smirked. “On where our bullets had hit.”
Chapter 14
Cecil’s Diary
My dearest Edmond,
A happy turn of events! Today, Miss Polperro and her Whitehall comrades agreed to help us collect timber from the western forest. Only three days have passed since our adventure on the great lake and already our two factions appear to have coalesced. No more bickering, at least. Embrey doesn’t entirely trust this truce—he says he’d rather work cheek by jowl with a pig than a politician—but I’m relieved to have an end to the animosity. And with Carswell’s discovery of a freshwater brook in that same woods, our makeshift industry is running very well indeed. Kibo’s constant conveyance of timber and water on his tri-wheel vehicle is a godsend. I estimate in three days’ time we should have enough materials to power my machine. That ought to be more than sufficient.
When you are old enough to understand the physics of my invention, I shall explain how difficult it has been to realign the lenses for refracting psammeticum energy, and also why I believe young Billy’s imagination—his conscious thought at the instant of the time jump—determined our destination. My Harrison clock must somehow, during the reaction, have tapped into the very “consciousness” of time itself. Not in any human or even God-like sense, that age-old, perhaps infinite dimension we call time must be some sort of medium of exchange. It is not merely a cold abstract. It has a direct, determinable link to every molecule and every minute flow of energy ever found in the universe. We can interface with it, inject our thoughts and memories into it, and it will accordingly effect a time shift around our localised reaction. Is cosmic psammeticum energy itself a part of the physical memory of the universe?
Among all the thoughts conjured by our learned minds during the time jump, those of a young boy determined our destination. This, to me, suggests a child’s imagination is the purer form of consciousness. It is uncluttered by adult ambivalence and ambiguity. And the spider’s web? Well, what could be purer than animal instinct? This great force we have tapped into seems to react strongest to the simplest motivations of the living brain. One of escape—Billy’s; and the economy of survival—the spider’s perfect web.
Those are my theories, at least. In a few days time, I shall put them to the test and have Billy conjure a vivid memory of London. Aught else and I fear Miss Polperro’s objection—that resting our entire endeavour on a child’s capricious mind is a folly—may well be proven correct. But there is no alternative. We cannot leave him behind, and we must therefore have faith in his powers of concentration.
Lord knows, I wish it were not so. In all other capacities, I feel confident my machine will perform wonders once again. And this diary may yet find its way into your adult hands, my dear son. I have given everything to see you again. Let God stop us if He must.
A reclining moon hung low over the southern tree tops as Cecil drank a toast with his fellow dinner guests to the London they’d left behind and the one they would soon be reacquainted with. The officers’ dining table had been brought up to the quarterdeck for this unusual get-together—for the first time, Agnes Polperro had deigned to attend a discussion on the upcoming time travel, specifically to voice her comrades’ opinions. She sat opposite Verity and the two said little throughout the meal, while Cecil, Embrey and Tangeni regaled each other with tales of the lake expedition.
At last, as Embrey poured the after-dinner wine, the prissy schoolmarm folded up her napkin and flicked it rudely onto the table. “Let us not play out this charade any longer. We are here to discuss the boy—a boy whose very presence puts our chances of returning home, indeed our lives, in jeopardy. Your views on the matter, Professor Reardon, are reckless and dangerous as ever, but I would like to hear what the rest of you have to say. Bear in mind you are playing with not only your own lives and the lives of this crew, but also those of fourteen gentlemen of some note in London, and my own future, as well. Do not be swayed by sentiment alone. Think carefully on the wisdom of trusting our fate to a fickle boy. Most of my colleagues are ambivalent as to whether he should be allowed to come with us at all.”
Incredible! Cecil had heard the rumours but this— actually considering leaving Billy behind? An eleven-year-old lad?
“Not while I draw breath, you don’t.” He leapt up in protest and slammed his fist on the table.
Embrey joined him, hands on hips…or was it pistols? “I think the matter is already settled, ma’am.” How he kept such a calm voice eluded Cecil, but clearly young Embrey was used to confrontations of all types. “Anyone who doesn’t wish to make the journey alongside the boy is welcome to remain here. That is every man’s prerogative…and every woman’s.” He eyed Miss Polperro harshly. “Is anyone else here seriously considering this madness? Tangeni? Verity?”
“Absolutely not.” The African pursed his lips.
“Verity?” Embrey appeared as puzzled by her silence as Cecil was. Surely she wasn’t—
“Eembu, what are you thinking?” Even Tangeni was at a loss.
The captain took a long swig of wine, her attractive elfin features lit severely by the oil lamp. “I’d like to hear Miss Polperro’s proposal first. That was not an easy thing for her to say, or for her colleagues to agree on. If those learned men have a solution, I’d like to hear it.”
“Sincerely?” Cecil couldn’t believe his ears. “In all my years, I’ve never heard such a heinous—”
“Sit down, Professor,” Verity insisted with her forefinger pointed at his seat. “We’ve listened to your opinions ad nausea this past week, and if it’s all the same with you, I’d like to hear what our Whitehall friends have to say.”
“No, that is not all right, and never will be. Good night, Embrey, Tangeni.”
But before he could leave the table, Verity shot to her feet. “I said sit dow
n. Right this instant!”
How dare she? Cecil’s narrowest glare didn’t appear to have even the slightest effect. Doesn’t she realise this is my show and no one else’s?
He threw his own napkin down and reluctantly obeyed…this time. She was, after all, in charge of his protection. He’d need her on his side while he completed the repairs to his machine.
“And you too, Embrey, if you wouldn’t mind,” she said.
The young marquess bowed and took his seat—surprising, given they’d been at loggerheads for much of the week.
“Pray explain, then, Miss Polperro.” Cecil cast her an icy glare. “What do you propose we do with our errant schoolboy?”
“Nothing. You all misapprehend my objections, as usual. And this is precisely why a military officer with no actual command experience should never have put herself in charge of the camp.” Yes, and your bustle makes you like look like a march hare. “While I respect your diplomacy just now, Lieutenant Champlain, you were not voted to your current position. On the other hand, there are several experienced members of Parliament whose counsel you have utterly ignored. Granting us governorship over those crumbling buildings was an insult. Your divisive attempt at leadership has brought ruin to this camp.”
Verity raised an eyebrow and then pinged her glass with a fork. “So says the head of a lynch mob, speaking on behalf of—”
Prehistoric Clock Page 13
