Prehistoric Clock (6 page)

“
Reardon, no!”

A boy’s voice boomed through the night, wrenching Cecil back to life as though it was Edmond calling for him to stay his finger on the trigger. Again the voice climbed high, too high.
“Reardon, wait.”
The echo told him it had to be young Billy using a megaphone on the ship’s deck. He scanned the site of carnage around him and couldn’t believe what was happening.

One of the dinosaurs scrabbled on its side against the hill of bricks, a harpoon cable wrapped around its rear leg. Insanely, someone was driving the tri-wheel car along the embankment. The cable was attached to it—it had
dragged
the monster off its feet. Cecil lowered the pistol in his trembling hand and gasped for air. The cable released. As the lizard struggled upright, the car skidded round for another run, revealing its door-less passenger side. Steam spat and columned from its boiler, shrouding the driver. But as the vehicle gathered speed, Cecil’s jaw dropped.

The woman from the
Empress,
the redhead, cradled a harpoon launcher between her legs on the passenger seat. The dinosaur lunged. She fired the iron projectile at its torso, struck a glancing blow—enough for the beast to wheel sideways in agony. She lit a series of flares and tossed them at its feet, then at its monstrous partner’s. Slowly but surely, frightened by the flames, the leviathans retreated up the embankment. A last volley of gunfire from the
Empress’s
deck proved decisive. The beasts lumbered away toward the northern tree line, their steps shaking London less and less until only a slight quiver remained.

He slumped with his head in his hands and felt, truly for the first time, the gravity of his blunder.

Every so often during her six years in the British Air Corps stationed in West and Central Africa, Verity had found herself in a predicament of such rank absurdity, no halfpenny comic writer could have fashioned it. She cringed at the memories: airlifting a pregnant rhinoceros from a narrow gorge hours before an artificial lake burst its banks and flooded the region; singing “For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow” to Tangeni on his birthday, in the diving bell, while they suited up to retrieve gold bullion from a sunken Norwegian frigate; being maid of honour at Captain Naismith’s wedding to an exiled Congolese princess under the first heavy rainfall in eighteen months; fleeing downriver in a canoe, half-naked, from a tribe dressed up as leopards. And those were merely the ones she could remember. But tonight, she had put them all to shame. Tonight she had crossed over into the realm of the impossible.

“
Eembu,
Tangeni is right. English women crazier
by far
than English men.” Kibo shook his head. Her engine man, her brave and brilliant automobile driver.

“You were no slouch yourself, Kibo.”

He kissed her hand, nodded politely, then walked away chatting with his engine room pals, who had all come ashore to congratulate him. News of the “harpoon chase” had galvanized the camp for the time being. Tipsy Whitehall gentlemen conversed with salty, dark-skinned aeronauts perhaps for the first time in their lives, but she knew this fraternising would not last. No two peoples could be more different and she dreaded the inevitable hierarchy that would emerge.

Suffering the after-effects of her bump on the head, Verity gave in to her weak knees and climbed back into the car. She sank into the passenger seat, ready to sleep for another day. And next time, the nightmare had better not seem quite so vivid as this one!

No use. The back of her head throbbed, and barbed wire pressed behind her eyes whenever she closed them. Instead, she retrieved the telescope from Tangeni’s top coat he’d lent her, and scanned the survivors. Three definite groups appeared to have formed on the embankment. The first pow-wow, in front of the collapsed station house, comprised a strict-looking woman and about fifteen well-dressed gentlemen, all conversing soberly and exchanging compliant nods. They might be trouble if left unchecked. Those lordly types rarely passed up a chance to seize power from any situation.

The second group, not far from the car, consisted of garrulous white gentlemen and black crewmen, plus Reba and Philomena, her two statuesque female riggers, who drew considerable attention from the younger English dandies. Verity raised a smile. No matter what kind of leadership prevailed within the camp, she would do her utmost to encourage both sides to congeal in this manner. On the whole, the Gannet crews she’d served with had proven Anglo-African compatibility beyond doubt. They had pulled together in times of crisis all across Africa. To survive here, in this prehistoric world, that same commitment would be vital.

She turned her gaze to the final group that sat apart on a flat iron door amid the rubble. The small boy she’d met briefly earlier. Kibo had freed his father’s body before righting the tri-wheel car with the help of the crew. The poor lad was an orphan, then—and gap-toothed, cute as a button. But who were these other two men he’d grown close to? The older one resembled a cross between a dotty librarian and Captain Nemo, his maroon dinner jacket and shock of silver hair remarkably eccentric.

The younger man bent sideways into the shadows, fiddling with something mechanical in his lap. She couldn’t see his face, so she twisted the knob on her spyglass to enlarge the object in his hands.
Hmm, some kind of steam weapon?
She raised an eyebrow when she saw how youthful and handsome he was. He possessed a sleek, distinguished quality that reminded her of a jaguar surveying the jungle from its untouchable bough. It gave him poise and grace and, even at a distance, a striking authoritative air beyond his years. She pegged him as being in his mid-twenties, a similar age to her?

“Um, Tangeni?”

“
Eembu?
” He was only a few feet away, whispering with Djimon.

“Who’s the Adonis?”

“Who?”

“The blond man sitting with the boy.”

“His name is Embrey.” Tangeni paused, perhaps gauging her reaction. “He reminds me of younger Captain Naismith.”

“How so?”

“He has that same way with him, proud and full of—what’s the word—
omafimbo odula.
”

“Seasons?”

“Yes.”

She lowered her telescope and blinked at her lieutenant. “You mean he’s mercurial? Or steadfast?”

“Yes.”

Verity laughed. “My dear old
kaume,
which one is it?”

“He is more than meets the eye. And he will not bend from his duty. Other men follow man like that.”

“Hmm. Interesting.” Tangeni was not wont to voice his admiration for other men freely, and something about the name—Embrey—seemed familiar. She swivelled, slid out of the car and, after composing herself, made her way over for a proper introduction. It might be forward of her but, given the situation, there wasn’t time for anything else.

“How are you, Billy? Ready for some supper?” she asked.

The boy flinched and shied away from her, clinging to the young man’s tail coat. The latter rose courteously to his feet, took off his coat and draped it around the lad. “It’s all right, chief, she’s a friend—an aeronaut officer. I’m Lord Garrett Embrey. Enchanted.” He offered to take her hand but when she obliged, he couldn’t decide whether to kiss it or shake it. It had to be the masculine uniform befuddling him—Tangeni had likely already explained the meaning of
eembulukweya.
She cringed while he glanced at her borrowed trousers and muttered something inaudible.
Hell, why the deuce didn’t I change first?

“Lieutenant Verity Champlain, acting captain.” She felt it prudent to assert her authority, if only to keep his title in check. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Embrey.” But where had she heard that name before?
Lord,
it was on the tip of her tongue, its import weighing heavier the longer she paused. To hide her frustration, she turned to the other man. “How do you do, sir?”

“Professor Cecil Reardon at your service, ma’am.” He had no qualms about shaking her hand and despite his balding, odd-looking features, Reardon made a likeable first impression. His peculiar, exaggerated nod and grin suggested he was socially awkward, trying too hard to ingratiate himself, or he was an extravert who didn’t give a fig for social reserve. The only scientists she’d met were the Leviacrum dignitaries she’d ferried from London to Benguela, and they had always kept themselves to themselves. Reardon seemed to be a different fish entirely.

“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.