Prehistoric Clock (15 page)

“And that is?”

“That things happen for a reason. Take my daughter for instance. She inherits everything in the event of my disappearance.”

Wait—what? How could he—
“I—I didn’t know you were married.”

“I’m not. Never was. I knew Susan’s mother only briefly in India before I returned home. When I found out she was with child, I offered to bring her to England and marry her, but she refused. Said she’d rather die than leave India. So I’ve provided for them both ever since. Funny how things work out, though, is it not? As soon as I’m declared extinct, little Susan will inherit one of the largest estates in England. It’s in my will, and even if we make it back, I shan’t lift a finger to stop it. With or without me, she ought to have my fortune. She barely knows me but…I’d dearly love to see her one last time.”

“You’re an honest fellow, Embrey.”

He cleared his throat. “Speaking of which…and don’t take this the wrong way, but…are
you
attached at all? In Africa, perhaps?”

“No.” She shuddered through a sharp vision of Amyn lying weak in her arms, the poison squeezing the last drops of life from him. Strange, she hadn’t thought of him for days, and he’d chosen this moment to distract her. She recoiled. “I believe we have more pressing concerns.”

“Yes, indeed…like what’s going to happen when we return.” He rested his hands on the taffrail and then glimpsed her from the corner of his eye. “Forgive my impertinence—I realise this may be the farthest thing from your mind right now, given what we’re about to attempt—but I’ll not have it go unsaid any longer. We simply don’t have time.” He gazed wistfully out into the mist, then cleared his throat again. “Verity, when we return, would you consider accompanying me to Europe?”

“I would—” she answered without thinking, “—I mean what? Why? In what capacity?”
Could he be any vaguer? What does he want? A chaperone? Someone to sail him there and leave him? Another mistress? A
harlot?

“You know…to come with me,” he replied evasively. “So we don’t have to be apart.”

“I see. And would I be playing the steamer trunk or the frock coat in this little pantomime?”

“Verity, I—”

She pressed a finger against his cold lips. “Unless you intend to court me, Embrey, don’t speak another word. Not one more. I don’t think I could take any more confounded uncertainty. Not here. Not now.” A gap in the roving mist uncovered the hill of rubble outside Reardon’s factory. She let herself sink into Embrey’s gentle embrace, the crinkling sound of his coat nestling against her both warm and sweet. A hint of tobacco enwrapped her.

“I intend to never let you go,” he whispered.

She closed her eyes, rested her head on his shoulder, and felt the tension between them finally evaporate like the last icy dew of the Spring thaw. She opened her eyes. Through the fog, the sun tried to auger in a brilliant day but managed only a flaxen-silver glow. For the time being, all she had was hope, but it was enough.

“So you will go with me?”

“I will.”

“Whatever happens?”

“Whatever happens,” she promised.

First the smell of burning wood, then his favourite sensation, the warm steam wafting into his face, signalled Cecil’s machine was ready to begin its cycle. He’d calibrated the Harrison clock and its sensitive psammeticum receptor—the Cavendish—as accurately as anything he’d ever measured. If the time jump didn’t work, it would be through no fault of his own.

“You’re sure we’re standing close enough, Professor?” Verity Champlain shepherded her crewmen and women into a tighter group no more than fifteen feet from the brass clock. Tangeni and Embrey stood behind her, flanking young Billy Ransdell, who was without his dinosaur book for the first time in prehistory. Miss Polperro had insisted it be confiscated—a prudent move, even if it did make her seem even more like a horrid schoolmarm.

“Professor?” Verity asked.

“Yes, yes. Quite close enough.”

“You said the original reaction was only supposed to send—what was it?—a plant pot a week into the future?”

Cecil patted her shoulder. “Yes, a potted plant, one week into the future. The reaction was meant to be localised, no more than a three foot radius. But I know now what enlarged the time bubble—moisture, first the steam inside the factory, then the rain outside. It acted as a conductor.”

“So the whole factory’s coming with us?”

“More than likely.”

She raised an eyebrow, looked up, and then hurriedly put on her pith helmet for protection. “Well I have to hand it to you, Professor—you certainly don’t do anything by half.”

Cecil pretended he hadn’t heard that, instead turned to watch the giant pistons drive the gears and cogs into that steady, almost pulse-like, thumping rhythm. “You can shove the rest of the coal in,” he shouted to Kibo in the furnace room. “Then make sure you close the door. The boiler isn’t quite at full steam.”

“Understood.”

A minute later, the engine man jogged back into the group. He received handshakes and back-slaps from his fellow aeronauts, then took his place behind the boy. A palpable anxiety etched itself on the faces of all gathered—lip-biting, worry lines deep and damp, gazes boring into Cecil at every hiss of steam from the juddery valves. These people expected. They demanded. This was to be his atonement.

He bowed his head and thought of poor Billy, orphaned by that first reckless attempt to conquer time; of the many Whitehall ministers and gentlemen of social standing he’d condemned to unspeakable deaths; of the brave African aeronauts who would never see home again; and mostly of his new friends, without whom he would not be standing here now, challenging God for a second time.

He looked up to the rickety old walkway shrouded in steam. The chair upon which he’d whiled away so many years was now empty and uninviting, like the hub of a long-abandoned, musty web. Lisa and Edmond were no longer up there, frozen in a still image, but with him instead, willing him to succeed. He had been selfish the first time, spiting fate without regard for the world around him. But the toils of many brave men and women had wrought this, his chance to make amends. This time jump was not for personal gain. It bore the blood of friends.

“Whatever happens, I’d like you all to know,” he said, “I consider this my—”

Crack!

Blood peppered his face. Embrey careened into him and then slumped onto a secondary pipe. Before Cecil knew what had happened, he felt the hard muzzle of a rifle press against his temple.

“Don’t move, Professor! Everything is going fine.” The bastard’s voice belonged to Carswell, Miss Polperro’s number one crony. But what on earth was he
playing at?

“Embrey!” Cecil reached for his friend but received a sharp kick to the back of his knee. He fell in a heap, the pain splintering up and down his leg. Verity and Tangeni backed away from Miss Polperro, whose crooked right arm appeared to point at something low in front of her. Three aeronauts lowering their rifles obstructed Cecil’s view. He quickly scanned the throng.

“Where’s Billy?” he asked.

“Don’t worry, Professor. She won’t shoot,” Verity replied.

“Shoot? What is this?”

The aeronauts stepped aside to let him see…

Billy’s tears streamed around the barrel of Miss Polperro’s revolver pressed to his cheek. She wiped the steam from her spectacles. “Drop your weapons, aeronauts! I’ll not ask again.”

How in God’s name did she get hold of him?

The crew turned to Verity, who widened her stance and placed her fists on her hips. “You’ll do no such thing, men. Keep those rifles trained on the bitch’s face. The boy ain’t no bargaining chip.”

“
Eembu,
” Tangeni stepped forward, “maybe we’d better—”

“Shut up. Step away. I’ll take her out myself if I have to.” Verity’s glare intensified.

A wry curl of Agnes Polperro’s lips signified her resolve. “By my reckoning we have less than five minutes before the machine has collected enough psammeticum to start refracting. At that point, the acceleration process is quick and exponential. So make up your minds. We either leave the boy behind as I suggested, or he dies. I’ll not have his wayward fancies governing
my
destination. Now,” she cocked the handgun, “decide among yourselves who stays with him. I care not.”

Verity’s furious glances appeared to take in the entire tableau in a matter of moments. She withdrew and crouched beside Embrey, whose side bled profusely. He would soon pass out.

“So you’ve thrown in with them, Kibo?” she said, sparking frantic chatter among the other aeronauts. “I have to admit, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

What? The engine man too?
Cecil’s jaw slackened when the well-dressed driver stepped forward, buttoning up his waistcoat. Had he snatched Billy for Polperro’s posse? Had he armed the Whitehall gang?

“I’m sorry,
Eembu,
but she’s right,” Kibo said.

Tangeni aimed his scolding glare and forefinger at the traitor. “You’re a dead man.”

“You’re wrong, brother. You’re all wrong,” the engine man replied. “Billy doesn’t deserve this but you
have
to think of the greater good. We have enough uncertainties as it is without a boy’s fancies dictating where we end up. We can all close our eyes, picture London and leave no doubt. But the boy is not to be trusted. The consequences are too dire to simply trust in him. You wouldn’t see reason before, when this action could have been avoided, so you’ll have to decide now instead. We’ve no time.”

Cecil slapped Carswell’s rifle away from his face and began crawling toward the Harrison clock. “I’m stopping it,” he said. “Go ahead, shoot me instead. I dare you.”

He hadn’t traversed the first pipe when Carswell yanked him back by his sore leg. “You’ll pay for that.” Cecil pulled himself the few feet along the secondary brass pipe until he reached Embrey. The butt of a steam-pistol peeked out from the young man’s jacket. Verity saw that Cecil had seen and gave him a quick wink.

Yes. Everything in our power. Let
them
stop us if they must.

He snatched one steam-pistol from Embrey’s belt and Verity snatched the other. Cecil spun and shot up repeatedly at Carswell, each bullet piercing his torso until the bushy-eyebrowed swine spat blood. All hell broke loose in the shadow of the machine. Verity spent most of her bullets trying to hit Kibo, but the engine man darted for cover behind old Kincaid, using him as a human shield. The elder statesman, shot through the heart, slumped lifeless.

Meanwhile, Tangeni sneaked around the back of them and wrestled Kibo.

The two officers went at it hammer and tongs. Kibo was the bigger man but not the tougher. After he ducked a huge roundhouse punch, Tangeni leapt in and jabbed his opponent’s windpipe, crushing his airway. The traitor fell to the floor and choked slowly in the grease and grime, his waistcoat torn and soiled.

Across the factory, the aeronauts and Miss Polperro’s cronies had each other pinned down, the latter group boasting more weapons than anyone had guessed. Kibo had to have armed them. Their bullets ricocheted off water casks and brass scaffolding. Cecil couldn’t tell who was who.

“Professor, can you stand?” Verity knelt over Embrey.

Cecil struggled to one knee, then braced his sore leg. His adrenaline seemed to dilute the pain. “Yes, I think so.”

“Then
here
.” She threw him her pistol. “For God’s sake, shut this machine down. Kill anyone who tries to stop you.”

“What about you?”

“I’m getting Embrey back to the
Empress.
He’ll die if I can’t remove this bull—”

A tremendous crash shook the factory. The thudding of collapsed masonry and metal brought with it a plaster cloud thick enough to envelop the gunfight and obscure the opposing sides from each another. Cecil looked first to the boiler room. Had that exploded? No, there was no billowing steam. What then?

The firing ceased. Loose bricks clinked one on top the other as they fell somewhere near the front entrance, while the hiss of settling plaster dust wrought quiet tension in this lull in the fighting.

“Be careful, Professor. But hurry.” Verity turned from the cloud and wasted no more time in dragging Embrey over two pipes and behind the left hand piston. From there, she had a straight path to daylight. Cecil prayed she had some surgical knowledge too—removing a bullet wasn’t something one could or should muddle through.

A queer squelching, grinding noise emerged from inside the cloud.

“God, what’s that smell?” someone yelled.

As the next
thump, thump
trembled the ground, sounding as though it was shifting piles of bricks already fallen, Cecil rolled up his sleeves. He prepared for a last desperate attempt to stop his machine. For time wasn’t just running out, it had come calling…stalking. Summoned by the gunshots.

The baryonyx!

Its giant snout pierced the cloud before the first screams erupted from the Whitehall posse. Its jaws gaped for a vicious lunge into the cornered men, then snapped shut upon two, hurtling them aloft for a fuller bite. The crunching and squelching resumed at a sickening volume. Gunshots from both sides, designed to ward off the baryonyx, merely enraged it further. Its crocodilian mouth beslobbered with fresh blood now thrust even lower, even quicker.

Cecil spied the Harrison clock’s brass lid vibrating as it dripped moisture. The final accelerating process was about to begin. He climbed the first pipe, smacked his sore leg on the second. Those angry cogs and crank wheels were no longer rotating numbered dials—the machine already had her sequence, her key to unlock time. They were powering the energy transfer itself, the unleashing of built-up psammeticum into the intricate array of mirrors, and the boldest clockwork ever devised.

He spun to make sure the dinosaur was not following.

A sudden blow to his jaw sent him reeling. Delaney, another of the lynchers from the first night, picked him up and thumped his gut. Cecil coughed, struggled to breathe. A few feet away, Miss Polperro shook Billy by the scruff of his neck and glowered at Cecil.

“You’re full of surprises, Reardon,” she hissed. “But I warned you what would happen. Say goodbye to this boy. It’s for all our sakes.”

A tiny dark shape emerged from her matted hair. It rushed across her brow. She recoiled and then shook her head. It shifted again, this time with a speed and scurrying motion Cecil recalled from his recent past.

The spider from the platform.

It stopped on her right temple and must have bitten her, for she shrieked and let go of the boy. The baryonyx answered, its rage deafening the entire factory.

Cecil lunged forward and knocked the revolver from her hand. Billy wriggled free and bolted for safety.
Run lad, run.
Delaney snatched the steam-pistol from the ground. Frantic, Cecil scrabbled for the second weapon somewhere on the floor. He found it between the bastard’s legs and immediately fired up into his groin.
Click.
An empty cartridge! Instead, he thumped his attacker’s kneecap with the pistol butt, felling him. He cracked the brass gun against Delaney’s forehead with all his might. The son of a bitch went out like a gaslight.

More screams and gunshots from behind, but also from the front, as well. From outside.
Verity and Embrey.
He heard other voices too.

He made straight for the clock with seconds to spare. He felt the prickly warmth caused by the hurtling, expanding energy. Every hair on his body stood up. A flicker of lilac light appeared through an old screw hole in the brass casing. He unclasped one side, reached for the other. An extraordinary wrench in his scalp pulled him back. It was as though his hair had burst into flames.

A frightful witch clawed at him, her metal spectacles aglow with lilac light. Her shock of hair resembled a penny dreadful cartoon of Sweeny Todd he’d seen in his youth. At once, the hate broiling in her eyes seemed to encapsulate the very thing he’d railed against all these years. Death. That vicious, remorseless force behind the taking of innocent lives: Billy’s, Lisa’s, Edmond’s…

He wrestled her to arm’s length and, summoning all his hate, delivered an uppercut to her jaw with such force it felt as though his fist was made of iron. Her head snapped back, then she flopped at his feet.

“Cecil!” The boy ran to him, flung his arms around him.

“Hold tight, Billy.” Cecil picked the lad up and, calmly inside a torrent of inverted lilac rain, held him like he’d once held Edmond.

“What should I do?” Billy’s dampened words slurred with unearthly resonance, as though time itself were stretching them.

“Think of home, son. Just think of—”

Everything vanished in a blinding flash.