Robert Appleton - Prehistoric Clock

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?