Prehistoric Clock (10 page)

Whatever the reason, he loved the change in her. Beneath the prickly Amazon warrior, Verity Champlain had a lasting crush on Quatermain, and the way she’d tugged at his vest, like a little girl wanting to spill a secret—she had a vibrant, playful side he’d like to see more of. When she recovered he would see about resuming their conversation. If she didn’t turn on him again, that was. But in any event, he would not allow a woman who enjoyed adventuring as much as he did to slip through his fingers.
No, ma’am.

“What’s this talk of a royal found in the rubble, old chap?” Reardon called over.

Yawning, Embrey looked up into the professor’s intense gaze. “That’s correct. Carswell insists we’ve found the Duke of Kent. His face was smashed and he’s dressed casually, but Carswell recognized two of the other men from the duke’s royal entourage. They all died during the time jump. We haven’t found them until now because they’d been buried in a collapsed upper room. Died drinking port, apparently. Not the worst way to go.”

Reardon blinked twice and then returned to his work.

“How goes it, Professor?”

“Like clockwork.”

“Anything I can help you with?”

“No.”

“Anything I can get you? A beverage? A bite to eat?”

“No.”

“Want to be left alone, huh.”

Reardon grunted.

Cantankerous old bugger.
Embrey put on the spectrometer goggles he’d borrowed from the workshop, and lay back on the concrete, feeling wonderfully superfluous. A flock of pterosaurs streaked in front of the sun, their silhouettes no bigger than dragonflies—far, far above—and they didn’t appear to be circling. Nothing to worry about. He folded his arms behind his head, closed his eyes and soaked up the sun’s warmth.

An hour or so had passed, judging from the sun’s shifted position in the sky. Reardon was still hard at work under the parasol they’d erected, adjusting his mirrors and lenses, checking the angles of sunlight refracting through his various prisms. At least he’d cobbled the pieces together into a few substantial parts now—sizeable, complex mechanisms. One resembled a large Leonardo Da Vinci cryptex filled with several long shafts and rotating lenses. When the professor lifted it, its insides appeared to form a beautiful, multi-chambered kaleidoscope.

Embrey sat up, yawned and stretched. He saw no sign of Verity. She’d probably returned to her cabin on the ship. He would visit her presently. Polperro’s posse had already laid the five new corpses on Speaker’s Green and was busy digging fresh graves. How many more would there be? Despite Reardon’s unflappable confidence in his machine, could it
ever
whisk them through time with any degree of accuracy? The professor maintained the first mis-jump was nothing more than a hiccup, but Embrey and Verity had seen his face turn white when confronted with the inexplicable spider’s web. Garrett Embrey was no scientist. Whom, then, should he defer to? The man who’d invented time travel, or the woman whose job it had been to make sure
he
didn’t invent time travel?

Both were barking mad.

It’s all beyond me. I’d better consult with Verity and Tangeni instead.
He grinned.
Yes, sharing a cabin with the captain might at least help my…perspective.

He spun at the sound of a high-pitched whistle. But where exactly had it—

“Lord Embrey! Protect the professor!” one of the aeronauts yelled from Speaker’s Green. “We’re under attack!”

Polperro’s posse fled from what looked like multi-coloured streaks darting about on the lawn. Several inhuman shrieks wrenched him to full alert. He drew his steam-pistols and shielded Reardon, who picked up his own rifle. The four aeronauts formed a protective line.

“Anything comes this way, kill it.” Embrey aimed his weapons.

A creature dashed across the street, as fast as a dog after a fleeing man. It had the general shape and profile of a tyrannosaur, but it was much smaller, about the size of a large wolf. Colourful feathers on its arms, neck and long tail gave it a tropical, birdlike appearance. The bugger attacked with ferocity. Its size belied a hugely powerful musculature. After it bit into the man’s throat, ripping his windpipe out with a single crunch, Embrey shared a trepidatious look with his Africans colleagues. He double-checked the water-acid canisters for both his pistols.

“What the hell is it? Some kind of pack hunter?
Hey—
” Reardon had to stop his five bodyguards from stepping back any further and trampling his machine parts. One of the Africans knocked the parasol over instead. “Somebody fire a shot,” the professor said. “Alert the rest of the crew. These civilians are unarmed.”

He was right. Embrey fired into the air. Two of the dinosaurs dragged a human body from the lawn onto the street, and began squabbling over it. A third took advantage of the kerfuffle, sinking its sickle-like claw and razor teeth into one of the Duke of Kent’s retinue. Perhaps even the duke himself.

Embrey gagged. A volley of gunfire erupted from the
Empress’s
direction moments before Reardon swivelled him northward. A hurtful shriek rang in his ears as two feathered predators bore down on them from behind. He aimed and fired both his pistols. One dinosaur fell dead on the cobblestone. The other barged into the machine parts while Reardon and an aeronaut dove out of the way. Its claw caught the arm of a standing African, gouging a deep wound. Embrey shot into the feathers on its spine and hurried away from its thrashing limbs and death-throe shrieks. All six men finished it.

Another dinosaur leapt from out of nowhere, cleaving the injured man’s neck as it landed on him. He tore fistfuls of feathers but to no avail. By the time they killed the beast, it had bitten through the poor aeronaut’s skull.

“Son of a
bitch.
” They were too exposed out here. If a dinosaur pack attacked in full force, the situation would be hopeless. “Come on, we must get indoors.” He yanked Reardon toward the factory but the professor wouldn’t budge.

“Stop it, man. For God’s sake, is your brain smogged?” Reardon stood his ground, cocked his rifle, glancing every which way—panic jerked him round and round.

“Men, we don’t have time for this, and we can’t afford to lose him.” Embrey glared at the professor. “Take him by force.”

“Yes, sir.”

Two of the aeronauts frog-marched him off the street, while the third rushed to fold the blanket over Reardon’s clock pieces. No sooner had he covered the first contraption than the sun-baked road darkened and a giant pterosaur swooped on top of him. The man tried to fling the blanket and its contents out of reach but only succeeded in spilling them.

“
No.
” Embrey shot twice but the monstrous flier flapped its wings. Dust and rock pellets hit like a blizzard, forcing him to shield his face.

A second pterosaur glided low over the rooftops opposite, its malign caws filling London with dread. Reardon tried his darnedest to break free and save his clock, but the aeronauts held him firm. “You stupid sod,” Embrey scolded him. “We
need
you, damn you. We need you alive.”

“But my Harrison clock! I’ll never be able to find them without it. Get off me, you heathen bastards!”

The first pterosaur skipped away as several rifle shots sounded from the north. It snatched the mauled aeronaut up in its beak and rose into the air, dropping the blanket onto the street. The force of its wings kicked up a storm. Embrey winced as the clock parts bounced away and clattered on the concrete.

Immediately, a pack of feathered dinosaurs assailed the pterosaur. They ripped its wings and brought it down writhing on its back. One last sickening shriek faded to a pitiful groan. The melee ended outside the gentlemen’s club, where the bipedal carnivores gathered for an avian smorgasbord.

Stunned, Embrey crept out to retrieve the clock parts. After Reardon, they were all that mattered. The hiss of Billy’s tri-wheel car approached from the north. Kibo drove. Tangeni leaned out of the passenger side, waving frantically.

At me? What on earth has happened now?

Embrey checked behind him but the feathered predators were all ensconced in their feast at the far end of the street.

Just a greeting, then.

He collected the first of the clock parts. Tangeni cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled something unintelligible—he waved again, but this time it seemed to darken the entire sky. Embrey’s blood iced and he glanced up.

The second pterosaur landed ten yards away and snatched up the shiny kaleidoscopic cylinder in its talon.
God, no.
He had to shield his face from the hurricane whipped up by its wings. Before he could aim and shoot, the bastard was airborne and flying south, its grip on their future unyielding.

“Bring it down! What the hell are you waiting for?” Reardon broke free from the aeronauts. He took a snapshot with his rifle and missed. Embrey’s pistols were empty, so he grabbed one of the aeronaut’s rifles and tried to pip the burglar before it veered over the rooftops, out of sight…

Too late.

“Oh, Christ, that’s it now. Lisa and Edmond! I’ve lost them. We’re all lost. We’re all buggered. You stupid bastards have gone and dug our graves. We’re buggered, buggered, bug—”

“Professor,
shut up.
You’re giving me a headache.” Embrey turned and sprinted for the tri-wheel car and said to Tangeni, “It’s turned east. We have to catch it.”

“Who’s the best shot with a rifle?”

“I am.” Jostling his friend aside, Embrey dove onto the passenger seat and ordered the driver, “Head east, Kibo—as fast as this heap will go. Everything depends on it.”

“On my way.”

Under Kibo’s control the car gathered steam far quicker than Billy’s father had accelerated it that night during the storm. It reached upwards of twenty miles an hour as they passed parallel to the
Empress
, and still it sped up. Kibo had mentioned he used to drive racers on the European circuits. He more than proved it.

The pterosaur circled over the rocky escarpment, the metallic glint still evident in its right talon.
Christ, if it made for the ocean…

“Where to?” Kibo kept his eye out for rocks on the otherwise flat, grassy terrain, glancing skyward only rarely.

“East. No, northeast. It’s heading for the coast. Make for the bottleneck through the forest. I’ll have to take a shot from the cliff. And hurry!”

“Aye, sir.”

Though the pterosaur was capable of much higher speeds, it flew into the wind, which evened the odds for the steam-powered tri-wheel. Twenty feet before the cliff, Embrey yelled for Kibo to stop. Rifle cocked and warm in his grip, he jumped out and took aim, compensating for the wind speed and direction while he rested the barrel on the roof of the car.
Hell fire.
The sun was in his eyes.

He fiddled the knob on the side of his spectrometer goggles until the lenses tinted enough to quell the sun’s glare.
Better.
He loosened his shoulders and crouched. The flier had climbed sharply. Four hundred feet now, at least.

“Winner’s grace…pips the ace.” His father’s shooting mantra.

The deep inhale and cool, prolonged exhale. The smooth adjustments. Not just knowing but
feeling
the right moment to squeeze the trigger, the way a snake senses its time to strike…

Crack!

He sucked in a hopeful gasp and held it. A few seconds later, the pterosaur jerked, fell limp from the sky and plummeted.

Kibo gave a cheer. “
Omafele atatu, omafele anee.
And in strong
omhepo…
strong wind. That was the best shot I ever saw.”

But Embrey’s own celebration fell bitterly with the pterosaur. He watched in horror as Reardon’s cylinder plopped into the lake, over three hundred feet offshore. The monstrous dinosaur splashed on top of it, and both quickly sank from sight.

Verity would never have left the camp so soon after such a devastating attack had there been any other choice. A further seven men had died, a half dozen more were injured, and with the smell of blood in the air London would surely attract other dinosaurs on the hunt. Three separate species had now attacked, all of them deadly in their own ways. The latest was arguably the most dangerous of all—its silent approach and small, agile shape gave it an immediate advantage over anyone trying to survive among the Westminster ruins.

“Them were dromaeosaurus—pack hunters from t’ late Cretaceous Period.” Billy scanned the page in his book. “We should correct that last part, shouldn’t we? The name means ‘running lizard’. First ’un were discovered in 1864 durin’ a Leviacrum-sponsored expedition to Canada. Dromaeosaurs were mainly scavengers but sometimes brought down much bigger prey.”

“As we saw.” Embrey, wearing only long-johns and a vest, stepped into the canvas diving suit, his chiselled, sensational upper body on display for Verity and the rest of the crew. She evaded his glance. “What are those fliers called again, Billy?” he asked. “Hat shops? Jodhpur tricks?”

The boy laughed. “Hatzegopteryx.”

“That’s the one. And its fossils were found in Romania?”

“Yeah. 1902.”

“A mite far from their nest, wouldn’t you say, Professor?”

Reardon looked up from his notebook. “Not necessarily. Migratory birds often cross oceans and continents, and we don’t know where the Hatzegopteryx goes to nest. Just because a pterosaur fossil was found in one place doesn’t mean the species is endemic to that region. For all we know, they’re Londoners like us.”

She frowned.
Londoners. But for how long?
This handful of crumbling buildings would not protect Polperro’s posse indefinitely. So why on earth were they being so stubborn? Verity had invited them to reside on the
Empress
indefinitely, under armed protection. But the insufferable schoolmarm and her lickspittle cronies had opted to stay behind during this crucial flight. It made no sense, and yet—

“Miss Polperro, what do you plan to do in the event of another attack?” Verity asked.

The de facto lady Prime Minister stood at the ladder next to Kincaid, the elderly statesman who appeared to be advising her. “We were just discussing that, Lieutenant. If you would be so good as to lend us five or six of your men, we could—”

“Regretfully, no. I’m sorry, but we will require every spare hand to man the capstans and the winch. The diving bell is a tremendous weight, and we are already under-manned.”

Miss Polperro closed her parasol and, nose upturned, looked askance at Verity. “As many rifles as you can spare, then? Woe is us indeed if we can’t defend London at all in your absence. I understand you have a sizeable arsenal on board?”

“Sufficient, nothing more.”

She’s plotting something. First she refuses the safety of the ship, now she wants our weapons? How daft does she think I am?

“You can have two rifles,” Verity offered reluctantly, “but I strongly urge you to reconsider moving into the fo’c’sle. It might be cramped down there, but at least you will have a crew of armed aeronauts watching over you. We can always make other arrangements upon our return. What do you say, ma’am?”

“We will take the rifles, thank you.” Miss Polperro’s instant smile was too polite, too pleasant for the occasion. The woman had just made a life-or-death decision and had erred on the side of risk. What did she and her cronies have up their sleeves? Did it have anything to do with the pious whisperings Mr. Briory had reported?

“Very well. But before we leave, might I enquire as to your position on the spider web phenomenon? Rumour has it some of your people are opposed to any further time travel attempts, that they would even try to prevent Professor Reardon from restoring his machine. Is this true?”

Kincaid stepped forward, chest-first. “We believe Reardon is meddling with primal forces beyond his ken.” His voice shook with old age, and Verity felt a little sorry for him. “The spider’s web is a message from the Almighty, of that there can be no doubt. But the purpose of that message is ambiguous, and therefore we must not be dogmatic. As for undoing Reardon’s folly, I uphold your right to at least try. But that is my opinion, Miss Champlain, and I am neither scientist nor priest.”

Verity nodded appreciatively. “And you, Miss Polperro? Where do you stand?”

“Where the wind changes, as always.” She turned sharply, handed Kincaid her parasol, and climbed down the ladder without another word.

Icy bitch.

Kincaid bowed to Verity. “Good day, miss, and good luck to you.”

“Thank you, sir. I wish our situation were more amenable. Would you like assistance climbing the ladder?” She called Tangeni over but winced when the Namibian hobbled on his sprained ankle.

“Thank you kindly, no,” Kincaid replied. “I’ve scaled plenty of rigging in my days. Eighty-one and still going strong—”

She didn’t catch his last remark and instead whispered to Tangeni, “Sod them if they think I’m giving them weapons. And we’ll send four men to guard the factory, not two.”

“And leave ourselves shorthanded?”

“We’ll manage. I just don’t trust that Whitehall rabble, not after the lynching party. Send four.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Watching Billy, Reardon and Briory potter around the diving equipment laid out for Embrey’s instruction on the quarterdeck, hearing them joke and laugh at the marquess’s ungainly appearance, was a little disconcerting. Little did they know how dangerous deep sea diving was
without
the prehistoric factor. The only other qualified diver in her crew, Tangeni would have been her only choice as diving partner had he not been injured—a sprained ankle was one of the worst possible handicaps under all that weight—but Embrey was a fine athlete and an excellent swimmer, or so he claimed. How would he fare in her domain, where charm meant nothing and life or death could be decided by a single twitch upon the thread?

Tangeni and Djimon would prepare him well, at least. And he
had
given them this chance with arguably the most crucial shot in the history of gunfire.

She shrugged and then ordered the pilot, “Northeast heading. Kibo saw where the bird fell. He will relieve you presently.”

“Yes,
Eembu…
Captain.”

“Embrey,” she shouted. “After you, sir. It’s time we took a dip.”

“What the deuce…? Upon my word, this thing would sink Poseidon to the depths.” He had never worn anything so ridiculously heavy in his life. The combined weight of his diving suit, boots, ballast weights and helmet was the equivalent of wearing another man on his back—an especially fat and bone-idle one at that.

In her unflattering, custom-sized waterproof suit and her smaller boots, Verity appeared calm and professional. Too much of both. Embrey’s nerves were already frayed, his knees aquiver whenever the bell groaned under the rising pressure. How deep were they now? Two hundred feet. Maybe more. No longer a light sapphire, the water in the moon pool and through the porthole windows was grim, blue-green and littered with plankton.

“You ready, Lord Embrey?” Djimon madly wound the dynamo until the hull lights blazed on. “Remember, keep your helmet upright at all times. Think of it as an empty cup filled with air, held upside down in the water. Tip it too far to the side and—”

“I get the general idea, old boy. How do we return to the bell afterward?”

“Tug your tether line.” Verity demonstrated with her own. “And whatever happens—
whatever
happens—for God’s sake, follow my lead.”

“Yes,
ma’am.
”

Her grave head shake killed his nervous humour. He peered into the moon pool and glimpsed a four-foot-long fish dart undercover behind a forest of lithe, giant fronds. The lake bottom, neither sandy nor silty as he’d hoped, instead rose and fell craggily, a kind of volcanic rock sharp enough to cut him to ribbons should he slip. Muted colours dotted the shelves and crannies, while a school of spotted eels, each over a fathom’s length, slithered up from a crevice and shot away from the bell’s descent.

The scale of this prehistoric underwater world dawned on him in blunt jabs to his sense of the absurd. He recalled the startling creatures young Billy had described from his book—leviathans with names he couldn’t remember, didn’t want to remember. Their measurements were enough.

Verity sat on the moon pool’s brass rim and tapped his shoulder. “Embrey, before we go…” her unblinking gaze appeared softer somehow, more exposed, “…I’d like to thank you for volunteering. Very brave.”

Well, well.

“Be careful down there. I…we’d all be glad if you made it back in one piece,” she added hurriedly.

“So would I.” He rested his shivering hand on hers. So cold. So soft. So…unexpected. A thrilling wave curled through him. He felt he could shrug his gear off with a single breath if he should see her in peril, as though it were no more than a rain cloak. He’d never thought of her as vulnerable before. On the contrary, she was the flintiest woman he’d ever met. Where had this sudden urge to throw himself in harm’s way for her come from?

“
Enda nawa
, Djimon,” she said.

The cool African handed her a helmet. “Hurry back,
Eembu
.”

“Drinks are on me later,” Embrey said feebly.

Djimon clanked Embrey’s helmet into place and knocked on the dome to signify it was ready. The sudden isolation slivered, as though his brain were physically imbibing a new experience. He’d skin dived in the Mediterranean before, even sat in a prototype moon rocket in its hangar as a youngster, but he’d never felt quite so…encapsulated. As Djimon helped him slide into the moon pool, the quickening
whuh, whuh
of his breaths seemed as alien to him as the seascape below.

The cold hit. He clenched from head to toe, but the fear of where he was going to land held his eyes wide open. He watched the sharp terrain as he sank. A few feet that way, no
that
way… Being lowered like a worm on a hook wasn’t quite how he’d imagined it beforehand.

His boots settled on a solid ledge. He stumbled forward but remembered to hold his head upright. Verity landed several yards to his left and immediately pointed him toward an hourglass-shaped crevasse ahead. The
Empress’s
spotters had glimpsed something resembling a wingtip on the other side of that gap. It might be a long shot—the lake bed was murky at best, tough to discern when viewed from the surface—but he was certain the Hatzegopteryx had sunk in this vicinity.

He overstepped his first stride and ended up hopping sideways to keep balance. Verity wagged her finger at him, then demonstrated the correct walking posture—to lean forward, head ever-so-slightly bowed, and take unambitious, almost shuffling steps. He copied and gained proficiency in no time.

They leapt across the neck of the hourglass and, barely lit by the bell’s lights, pressed on across a flat ledge. Towering stalks appeared on the edges of darkness, their bulbous fronds wavering as though to some ancient aquatic rhythm. Embrey’s pulse hammered when he realized his own shadow was blackening his path. He tapped Verity on the shoulder, then pointed to the pack of flares in her belt. She lit one and tossed it at the forest.

A colossal form blazed into view among the shoots less than thirty feet ahead. Embrey saw its sharp teeth first—big and curved as Persian daggers. Endless rows of them. He recoiled too quickly and head butted the back of his helmet. Shock, not pain pulsed wetly through his skull. The creature didn’t move from its place of ambush and neither he nor Verity shifted a step to encourage it.
Christ,
it’s crocodilian jaws alone, partially agape and waiting, had to be well over ten feet long. Resembling a shorter-and-thicker-necked plesiosaur, it had four large paddle-like limbs and a short tail. But that mouth—unhinged—appeared ready to swallow the flare’s light entirely.

Who moves first? Who dares?

Billy would have a name for this leviathan. Billy had the dinosaur bible. Well, Embrey had a name for it too. Several unrepeatable names hurtling around with hot gasps inside his helmet.

The cold seeped into him anew while they stood. A school of small fish flittered close, swirling twice around the flare before they seemed to sense danger and dashed for the cover of darkness. Still the dinosaur waited, its tail wafting gently. Several tiny fish picked at its giant teeth and gums—the brashest scavengers Embrey had ever witnessed. But the predator didn’t seem to mind…rather, it appeared to
enjoy
the attention, its paddles twitching as though it were ticklish.

Its tail swatted to one side and he flinched, fearing the giant was about to rouse. He spied a metallic glint on the rock behind it instead.

Reardon’s clock!

He nudged Verity and she acknowledged the discovery with a scowl and a nod.

Your move, Captain.

The flare faded and died before Embrey had a chance to swallow. A net of nightmares descended upon the lake bed. He tried to make out the monster’s shape but couldn’t. Through the blackness, dread in the deep grew both infinite and intimately close.

Verity?

Suddenly, their dilemma intensified tenfold. If they retreated now, the waiting giant might change its mind and kill them. If they stayed put, hoping it would leave, they may not see it come or go, and the wait might be indefinite. Would that he could hear Verity’s thoughts right now. This was her domain after all.

She lit a second flare and tossed it away to their right. Heart in mouth, he watched her creep in the opposite direction, over twenty feet to one of the massive stalks. Thereon she flanked the leviathan under cover, inching toward the mechanism from shoot to shoot. But her oxygen hose pulled tight against the stalks. It scraped away a lather of green mulch, and he feared either the monster would react or the action might saw through the delicate plants, toppling them
onto
the beast.