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Robert Appleton: Prehistoric Clock

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Robert Appleton Prehistoric Clock

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A junior crewman ran up to him. “Lieutenant Tangeni, come quick. Leviacrum tower is hailing us.”

Tangeni nodded and turned to leave. “Let me know if it’s anything urgent,” she reminded him.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Through her porthole window, sheets of rain wavered over the gloomy city. Of the large, silhouetted buildings lining the riverfront, she first recognised the Westminster Observatory’s copper dome. Verity hadn’t seen London for over four years, but drifting toward Westminster, the heart of British regency, filled her with quiet awe. A patriotic swell she hadn’t experienced since Bernie’s funeral ached in her temples and behind her eyes.

The Houses of Parliament were deserted and only streetlamps illuminating rain-minted patches of road suggested life continued in the capital. She sighed, flipped onto her side to savour the view, and clutched the hot water bottle between her thighs. A flash of lightning lit Big Ben’s clock face. Only five past eight? The day had been dark for an eternity. She wondered if Aunt Jemima would still be awake when Verity reached her house on Challenger Row. Uncle Stephen probably would be-he usually smoked himself into a daze until the early hours. She snuggled into the glad memories. Safe eccentricities in a household where nothing ever seemed to change-that was the tonic she needed after a night like tonight.

The Empress lost a little altitude, drifted toward the embankment. It must be a strong wind veering her off course. Tangeni would compensate.

What on earth…?

After rubbing her eyes, she sat up and gazed at the factory next to the station house across the road from Big Ben. A peculiar lilac glow emanated from its roof and appeared to column-no, to mushroom-out into the night. Her heavy chest began to drum when the rain outside her window snaked, fizzed like streams of acid confetti. She could no longer see the shape of the lilac mushroom, which meant…

…the Empress must be inside it?

She leapt out of bed in the spare midshipman’s uniform Kibo had lent her, and sprinted across B-deck. The awestruck crewmen and women gathered at the windows, mesmerised. One or two ran after her, conversing worriedly in their native tongues. By the time she reached A-deck, the airship flew so low it was heading straight for Westminster Bridge! Tangeni yelled for Reba and Philomena to empty the port and starboard ballast tanks, but the ship was too low-it would not lift clear in time.

“Forget that,” Verity yelled. “Turn her completely around. Full starboard engines.”

Tangeni relayed the command, adding something terse in Ovambo. He removed his slicker and threw it around Verity’s shoulders. She shrugged it off-the ship wasn’t going to turn in time either. “Emergency separation now, ” she cried. “It’s our only-”

The night and London vanished in a brilliant purple flash. She blinked and rubbed her eyes furiously. The Empress plummeted as though her balloons had cut loose. Verity’s stomach leapt into her throat. But the separation couldn’t have caused this-she was on A-deck.

The hull splashed down with a thump that threw her onto her back. Her head smacked the deck. After a few seconds, the Empress’s taut rigging and bullet-shaped, dark blue envelopes scrawled back into vision and she frowned. For instead of storm clouds, a bright turquoise light filled the sky. Yet thunder growled all about. She had to squint to adjust to what appeared a cloudless summer’s day, but it was no use. Her crown throbbed, sending her further and further into a daze. The Empress groaned and listed badly to starboard. The last thing she saw before blacking out was the skewed edifice of Big Ben.

It appeared to have been sliced in half, vertically.

Chapter 5

Last Chimes of Big Ben

A ten-foot surge of Thames water swept the getaway car onto its side, crashing it through the factory’s wire-mesh fence. Freezing water gushed over Embrey from the driver’s shattered window and kept piling in. Trapped between his buckled door and the twisted brass dash, he struggled to crouch upright until his forearms and hip bled. No use. The water level rose to his chin but he could not budge. Red drops peppered his face…

Above him, a tiny limb stirred from beneath the driver’s shredded white coat. The crash had hurled the man part-way through the windscreen, cutting him to ribbons. Trembling fingers pushed their way between his thigh and the broken seat. The driver’s body flopped loose, now hanging only by glass edges skewering his chest and neck.

“Boy, I need your help,” Embrey said. “I know you don’t want to, but listen… Look at me. I’m drowning. I have moments left.”

The youngster gibbered half syllables and gazed at Embrey with eyes the size of saucers. He shook his head.

“It’s all right, son. I’m frightened too. But if you help me out this once, I promise I’ll put everything right.” God forgive me. “Those steam-pistols I showed you-one of them is lodged right here under my leg. I can’t reach it. It’s loaded and I need you to fetch it and shoot out the window. Can you do that for me?” The lad clung to his dead father’s trouser legs, quivering, not crying. “What’s your name, chief?”

No response. Still the Thames water trickled in, and Embrey raised his mouth another inch, barely above it. “You sell ice creams with your father? Well, my daughter loves ice creams. If you don’t fetch my gun right now, she’s never going to see me again. Son, I’m going to die. I’ve got one breath left. If you don’t help me by the time it runs out, I’ll be dead. And you’ll have-” No, he couldn’t lay that on the boy. “Look at me, son. Look-”

His elbow slipped and he went under before he’d saved a breath. Oh, Christ, please don’t let this be the end. I’m not ready A deep rumble, dark slipstreams and the rush of bubbles up his nostrils answered his prayer. The boy rummaged frantically underwater. His boots whacked Embrey’s chin again and again, making him grimace. Embrey knew his lungs held reserves of oxygen beyond his brain’s estimation, but not much. On the verge of panic, he shut his eyes and focused on the reflection he’d seen in the painting earlier that evening. He was the son of a proud and noble family. He had his mother’s looks and his father’s stubborn resolve. The might of the empire wanted him dead but…the young son of an ice-cream seller would get to make that call. A broiling anti-breath choked him from inside. It thickened like soot clogging a chimney. The bitter temptation to breathe water for the first time since the womb subsumed him and spread wide. He gave a silent scream.

A muffled thud answered.

The water emptied from the car in moments as if it had been sucked out. Embrey gasped for life and found that he could move freely. The shattered window had released the twisted dash from his hip. He coughed until his heart burned, then he slowly crawled free from the wreckage.

It was a brilliant summer’s day…in a world he no longer recognised.

The boy scampered out after him, thrusting the steam-pistol hither and thither as ungodly sounds haunted the derelict remains of Whitehall and Westminster. Embrey pried the gun from the lad’s hands, scooped him up and held him tight. “I’ve got you, chief. Don’t worry, I’ve got you. It’s all over now. We’re safe, you and I. Safe as can be.” The boy clung to his neck, sobbing.

They were standing at the epicentre of a cataclysmic event. For roughly two hundred yards ahead and to his left, London appeared more or less as it should be, geographically. Westminster station house, the gentleman’s club behind that, the row of factories lining Victoria Embankment-all had partially collapsed but were at least recognisable. Behind him to the south, across Bridge Street, filthy Thames water swamped Speaker’s Green at the foot of Big Ben, while the rear section of the clock tower itself appeared to be missing! Its roof and spire had crumbled away and it was a miracle the edifice stood at all. Worse still, Westminster Palace had vanished completely. In its place, a fifty-foot-wide gorge swallowed the last of the Thames-that-was.

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