Prehistoric Clock sc-1 Read online

  “Please join us, Lieutenant.” He set his coat down for her on the edge of a dusty but flat stone wall collapsed upon the rubble.

  “Very kind. Thank you.” Verity immediately glanced at Embrey, whose attentive gaze now appeared to be undressing her baggy midshipman’s uniform. But was it disdain scrutinizing her, or curiosity? Either way, it made her feel uncomfortable. His sharp, sleek face softened into a smile, just for her-even in the dim light from the communal fire on the embankment, his blue-grey eyes were vivid. She swallowed, then pressed her knees tightly together and clasped her hands defiantly on her lap. This was no time for compromising her authority. He was disarming, yes, but Tangeni could still be wrong about him.

  “You’re the talk of the town-what’s left of it.” Reardon tapped her knee. “One minute you’re warding off bad dreams in a coma, the next you’re warding off dinosaurs. You’d scarcely credit it, not even if-”

  “Bury…” Billy interrupted aloud, checked himself, and then mumbled something that sounded like “Bury oryx.”

  “What’s that? You’ve seen a dead oryx?” Even Verity cringed at her own patronising tone. Her experience of childhood and children had been abruptly curtailed by her father’s posting to the Naval fleet off the coast of Van Diemen’s Land. He had subsequently stayed on there as Navy harbour master, a decent job, but Verity’s mother had always worried about the effect of transplanting their daughters to such a remote environment with so few children of their own age to play with. Verity had been eight at the time of the move, Bernie eleven. Neither of them had ever had children of their own.

  Billy retreated back into his shell and no amount of cajoling from Reardon could tempt him out again.

  “Oryx, eh?” Embrey raised an eyebrow. “I fancy our strawberry-haired heroine here will know more about those than us, coming from Africa and all.” He gave her a wink and she twitched a polite smile. “So tell us, Lieutenant Champlain-” he began fiddling with his brass weapons again, “-what is your appraisal of the situation? From a military standpoint, how would you go about organising this rabble?”

  His tone was playful, his accent mannered to a fault, yet she sensed a note of hostility, especially when he clicked his acid-water cylinder to the chamber of his pistol with a palm-slap, and eyed her sharply.

  “We need to find out where we are…sooner rather than later,” she replied. “In a day or two, if my crew can make the Empress airworthy, I plan to take her up for a lengthy reconnaissance. I don’t know how we wound up here, or if we can ever return, but by God we’re going to find out. Last night’s fireworks started in this vicinity, in this very factory I believe. Whosever experimentation is to blame, whosever insanity smashed us through time, that person is going to have to make himself known- if he or she is still alive.”

  Verity swallowed bitterly, wiped her clammy brow with the sleeve of her tunic. The immediacy of the dinosaur attack had not given her chance to consider anything beyond surviving tonight. And neither had her deep sea diving ordeal really sunk in. She nursed the acute throbbing at the back of her head. She was too tired, too beset by impossibilities to think any more tonight.

  “If you’ll excuse me, my headache is…I find myself overcome.” She got to her feet and, without engaging any of them, stole away to her B-deck cabin fighting a tight, irrepressible ache in her heart. The urge to sob rose and rose like a vinegary high tide until she sank into her pillow and let hot breaths smother her thoughts.

  But she didn’t cry.

  “Oi, Garrett, where’s everyone goin’?” Little Billy Ransdell finished nibbling on his chunk of cheese and snatched up his book instead, protecting it from the exodus. The crewmen muttered to one another in their own tongue as they poured out of the low-ceilinged fo’c’sle.

  “Djimon says they’re holding a big meeting on deck.” Embrey, rested and lucid after a sound night’s sleep, didn’t want to miss the start of this crucial confab. Lieutenant Champlain had apparently invited everyone to attend-an ideal opportunity to hammer out the specifics of surviving as a group in this hostile world. Frankly, he didn’t know what to make of her as a woman. Her masculine attire and not-exactly-maternal attempt to engage the boy last night had been a little cringe worthy, but as an officer she had displayed bravery, and she certainly had the respect of her crew. A natural candidate for leadership of the camp. But the notion of anyone having autonomy over him, after what his family had suffered at the hands of British “justice”, stuck in his craw as he and Billy clambered up two flights of steps to A-deck.

  “Good morning, Embrey.” Reardon still hadn’t run a comb through his silver mop of hair, but at least it wasn’t a stuck-up brush anymore. He was standing on his own against the port bulwark, as far from the other civilian contingent as possible, one hand twitching nervously over the steam-pistol Embrey had given him for protection.

  “You slept well?” asked Embrey.

  “Quite. I gave a great deal of thought to our situation, though, and to our wayward journey through time. I will explain later when we are alone. Billy, my lad-” he turned to the boy, “-how would you like to help me in the workshop later? I’d love to show you my machine-it’s the only one of its kind in the world.”

  “Ain’t it dangerous?” The youngster peered at the ruins of London-that-was.

  “Not in the least. I’ll explain how it works, and you can-”

  The ship’s whistle sounded thrice, drawing everyone’s attention to the rear of the quarterdeck. The thirty or so African aeronauts immediately formed two fore-to-aft parallel lines at the foot of the stairs leading up to the poop deck. Embrey sighed and leaned back on the bulwark beside Reardon. This ceremony might be standard practice on a Gannet ship, but he fancied it was more for the civilians present, a display of discipline to assert a captain’s right of overall command.

  How would this gaggle of male politicians react to a woman calling the shots? And she was only a youngish lieutenant at that. No, it would be far better for diplomacy’s sake if one of them took up the mantle or, better still, someone as proficient in upper social circles as he was with a rifle.

  Why not himself, the son of a marquess?

  The two columns stiffened at the sound of boot steps approaching from the captain’s cabin beneath the stairs. Heads cocked and tongues wagged throughout the civilian contingent gathered on the starboard side. Embrey merely rolled his eyes. Anyone would think a maharani had arrived on deck.

  “As you were.” Her officious, slightly accented voice relaxed the ranks and she began climbing the iron staircase.

  Sunlight speared between the fidgeting balloons overhead, reflecting dazzlingly off the upper rain-minted steps. The starboard aft stay cable groaned as it compensated for the left envelope bobbing in the web of harness lines above. It was a crisp morning, cucumberish to the taste, and the pungent saline breeze reminded him strongly of Devonshire. The sun faded, giving him a clear view of Lieutenant Champlain.

  “Good God.” Embrey almost choked on his own utterance. He loosened his shirt collar, cleared his throat, for the officer about to address the ship’s company bore almost no resemblance to the tomboy aeronaut from yesterday. Her khaki pith helmet sat neatly on a blaze of cropped red hair, emphasizing her elfin features and small-but-sticky-out ears. She looked around twenty-five. The years of African sun had kissed her skin to a tender cream-and-pink complexion, similar to that of his uncle, who had never tanned despite long periods of exposure. Her white shirt-waist blouse had puff top sleeves and soft, vertical lace on an ample bosom. Embrey’s eyes widened at her flared, corduroy jodhpurs and leather half chaps over paddock boots. The ensemble was so bold for a woman in the Air Corps, so utterly her own, it struck him dumb.

  So this was why the crew revered her. “Unique” did not do her justice. The only things missing were her riding crop and hunting rifle, and she likely had those in her cabin. Instead, Tangeni merely handed her a tan bush jacket, which she considered putting on but rather plonked onto the steps behind her.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your show of solidarity.” She cleared her throat. “I will make this as brief as I can, as we have a lot of work to do. Time travel is an alien concept to me, and I don’t presume to understand how we got here or how we might return. For my part, this is a challenging survival situation, nothing more, nothing less. I am First Lieutenant Verity Champlain of the British Air Corps’ Fifth Gannet Squadron, and acting captain of the Empress Matilda. This fine gentleman-” she motioned below her, “-is my second in command, Lieutenant Tangeni. Between us, we shall try to provide protection for everyone here, and also to offer this ship as a safehouse whenever we are threatened. At other times, I must insist only my crew and a select few guests be permitted residence here. Unless we can find a source of fresh water nearby, we will need to fly the Empress regularly to collect it, and also to explore. Given last night’s attack, it is prudent to insist no one venture near the forest on foot unless with an armed party.”

  She removed her helmet to massage the back of her head and glimpsed Embrey out of the corner of her eye. His pulse quickened. He offered her a friendly nod.

  “As I was saying-” She paused, glanced at him again but this time, to his amusement, she bunched her face up into a flustered, irritable frown. She put the helmet back on. “We shall endeavour to provide protection and that includes from troublemakers within the group. My crew is not here to police your streets but I can assure you no crime will be tolerated. My one inviolate rule either on or off the ship is that no one, and I mean no one,” she addressed the gaggle sharply, “is to hinder Professor Reardon’s work in any way. As I understand it, he is our guarantor for a return to our own time. If any of you so much as lay a finger on him, that person will face summary punishment. And if there is even a whiff of another lynching party, I will not hesitate to execute every last member. Do not cross me on this.”

  She glared into the wave of dissenting chatter on the starboard side until it dissipated. “Now, on a more positive note,” she said, “I think it is time you choose a leader from among you. The coming days or weeks, or however long it takes Professor Reardon to reconfigure his machine, are going to require careful planning and coordination. I will confine my office to this ship and to the repulsion of outside threats. I will not interfere in your governing of this…London. But may I suggest you select a leader here and now, so the matter can be put to rest? Is that acceptable?”

  “Hear! Hear!” most of them agreed.

  Reardon tugged Embrey’s sleeve and whispered, “Go on, old boy. Put yourself forward.”

  Pride flushed through him, shot him up off the bulwark. Embrey knew with every drop of blood coursing through his frame that he had the attributes to lead this group, to become the man his father had always seen in him. This wasn’t some shady boardroom-political conspiracies held no sway over a stark survival situation like this. He was a man of action, a survivor, and his voice should be heard. But as he stepped forward, thumbed his lapels to announce his candidacy, the lady captain shouted above the din, “Might I suggest Lord Embrey as a possible name for the ballot?”

  He bowed, more surprised than ever, and Lt. Champlain produced for him the warmest smile he’d seen her give yet. But why had she recommended him like that? They’d barely met last “Emphatically not,” a furious voice piped up from across the deck. “Embrey? The son of a traitor-the Beast of Benguela? I’d as soon vote for that monstrosity that attacked us last night. Of all the nerve! Marquess Embrey rots in hell, I hope!”

  “Who said that? Let him step forward. Blasted coward!” Embrey drew his pistol and snatched the other from Reardon’s belt. He barged through the lines of crewman and, hissing expletives, stalked the fleeing gaggle, ready to wreck the first man who confronted him. “Yellow bastard! Where are you? I challenge any man here and now-either qualify that accusation in a fair duel or I will kill the next offender in cold blood. I swear to God, the next man who impugns my family name eats a bullet!”

  Over two dozen terrified gazes could not sate his hatred. These were the scum who’d sat idly by while two innocent men had been scapegoated and hung-two well-respected men of impeccable quality. His uncle, his father. How dare the vultures crow about it. Fury boiled and would not subside, not even when Tangeni and Kibo carefully escorted him back to his place at the bulwark, where he received an understanding hand on the shoulder from Reardon.

  “I vote for Miss Agnes Polperro,” a resolute male voice announced. “She is a delegate from the Leviacrum Council, not to mention one of the brightest ladies I’ve met. We are lucky to have her, and it would give equilibrium to the leadership. One lady to run the Empress, another to run London.”

  “Seconded,” a gruff man added.

  “Aye! — Hear! Hear! — Capital idea! — Three cheers for Miss Polperro! — Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray…”

  During the final cheer, Reardon leaned over and spoke into Embrey’s ear, “That’s us confined to the ship, old boy. Miss Polperro incited the lynching last night, and she’ll have the knife in you for sure. This is a black mark on the whole show.”

  “We’ll see.” Embrey handed him back one of the pistols.

  He looked up to Lt. Champlain, hoping for a friendly acknowledgement, a gesture of reassurance that she bore him no ill-will despite the altercation and despite the fact she’d been publicly humiliated alongside him. She had, after all, vouched for the son of a convicted traitor.

  Her icy gaze chilled him to the core. He stormed away and, against the boy’s protests, left the ship at once, hatred for the world and all its epochs broiling inside him. High over the collapsed station house, the face of Big Ben read five past eight.

  It would read five past eight the next time he had to kill someone.

  Chapter 8

  The First Reconnaissance

  The Rt. Hon. Reginald Kincaid, Assistant Secretary of the Treasury, and at eighty-one the eldest member of the group, finished his eloquent eulogy on the damp lawn of Speaker’s Green. The thirty-four graves were neat and egalitarian, no concessions made for race, class or gender. It was unanimously agreed that this was the most apropos resting place for those fallen-in London soil, not in the alien dirt of prehistory.

  Tangeni handed Verity the fourteen cotton badges they’d cut from the dead aeronauts’ uniforms. Each had the BAC insignia sewn onto it. With a heavy heart, she nailed them to the wooden ground pegs at the head of each grave, remembering the scores of African friends she’d lost in the corps over the years. Visualizing their faces was difficult-the recollection was broader, more enveloping, the kind of bittersweet cloak that wrapped the word “family.” Over the past several years, she’d bonded to these brave men and women as permanently as any friends she’d made in England or in Van Diemen’s Land.

  When she finished, Tangeni laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. Kibo saluted the graves, tears streaming down his proud face, while Reba and Philomena each blew a kiss to their fallen comrades. Reaching London was supposed to have been a homecoming or a chance at a new, better life for the Empress’s crew-most of whom had never seen England before. But where was this if not London? Verity felt as though she had one foot on home soil and another in a nightmare version of it. Any second now, one reality or the other would come crashing down. But right now, she was captain of purgatory and nothing seemed to belong, including herself.

  “They get to stay in London. Their troubles are over now.” Tangeni dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief. “But we, Eembu… we are no closer to Piccadilly than Angola. And no ice cream in sight either.”

  Miss Polperro glared at him as though he’d just blasphemed. Her thick-rimmed spectacles intensified her cold, grey eyes, but Verity didn’t know what to make of her. The men of Whitehall had vouched for her. She had a position of some note in the Leviacrum hierarchy. But what would she be like in a practical situation that demanded survival, not bureaucracy? Time alone would tell.

  “No, no ice cream yet, my friend,” Verity replied. “And you’re right, Piccadilly has seen better-”

  She felt a tug on the waist of her blouse and looked down. “Boy? What’s the matter?”

  Billy didn’t reply, instead tugged even harder as though he wanted her to follow him. Then he yanked Tangeni’s tunic, as well.

  “Sorry about this.” Embrey interceded, trying his best to calm the boy without using force. “He’s had a rough time. Rougher than any of us.” But the lad cried and wouldn’t stop pulling, and Embrey’s fake smile began to fail him. Colour filled his cheeks. Verity didn’t know where to look. This marvellous-looking man was inches away and turning beetroot, and she was honour-bound to despise him? No, she did despise him. His father and uncle had colluded with the enemy, facilitated the assault on the Benguela Leviacrum-the fire that had killed Bernie. Her Bernie.

  “Stop it, Billy.” Embrey shook the boy’s shoulders. “I said stop it. ”

  The lad sobbed even louder and wouldn’t stop pulling. Embrey’s resulting scowl appeared so cruel and uncalled for, Verity suddenly hated him like she’d never hated anyone since the day Father’s telegram had arrived…with news of Bernie…

  She slapped Embrey’s face with all her might. The crack drew everyone’s attention. Stunned, he let go of the boy and withdrew, stumbling in the mud as he turned. The hushed voices and Kibo’s tearful frown and the lad’s incessant sobbing and the realisation that she’d hit a man at his most vulnerable strained her heart’s defences.

  Bitterness welled up. The weight of the surge was greater than she could handle but spying the Empress steeled her resolve. A captain should never cry in front of her crew. She needed somewhere to hide, yet the entire camp was watching. Her bottom lip quivered, so she wiped her mouth with her sleeve.