Robert Appleton - Prehistoric Clock

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.

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.