Robert Appleton - Prehistoric Clock

“If you’re thinking what I’m thinking, old boy, then yes, we ought to have ourselves a nice little surveillance bird before long.” Reardon retrieved a pipe from his breast pocket and began filling it. “Anything they lack, we will undoubtedly find here in the factories.”

“If it ain’t all wrecked,” the boy argued in a broad Lancashire brogue. Embrey kept a reassuring hand on the youngster’s shoulder.

“Sharp lad. You’ll go far,” the professor said. But that notion made Embrey shiver coldly. Unless they could reverse this awful happening, neither the youngster nor anyone else in fractured London would be going far at all. At least not in society. Perhaps…in lieu of an official criminal sentence, some malign supernatural force had incarcerated Embrey here instead, a place so remote that no telegram or ship-in-a-bottle might ever reach another soul.

His face ached from an incessant scowl. He adopted his severest tone. “Reardon, when is this? How far have you flung us, and in which direction?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Good God, man. How can we find out?”

“With observation and deduction.”

“And you’re certain you can undo this thing?”

“Not certain, no, but my machine will have stopped on the last differential sequence. It might not have located 1901, but I have finally found the chronometric settings to enable large scale time travel. My dear Embrey, this is, however heinous the pun, a watershed event for science. Many have died, yes, but consider the import of this misstep. I have conquered time, and without the Leviacrum’s meddling. We have done this ourselves, myself and those before me upon whose work I owe a debt. This is-”

“Before you start polishing your laurels, professor, I must remind you that we are survivors, not pioneers. These people will not consider themselves privileged-however you spin it-and nor do I. So tread softly, sir. For the love of God, tread softly. If anything should happen to you, we’ll be stuck here.” Embrey glanced behind him. “And Big Ben will never strike again. You understand?”

“Completely, old boy. I shan’t break the news until things have settled.”

“See to it.”

The African aeronauts lowered a steel ladder for Embrey and his companions to climb on deck. It was a fairly big ship, about a-hundred-and-twenty feet long, with large metal tail fins mounted on each of the four rudder propellers at the stern. A diligent, athletic officer who introduced himself as Tangeni gave the orders. Personnel to and froed between the central, arched-fore-to-aft storehouse and a makeshift hospital area at the bow. Over a dozen men and women in blue British Air Corps uniforms were being treated for injuries. Among them, unconscious on a generous bed of windproof jackets, lay a striking redhead. She was Caucasian, around twenty-five and wore a midshipman’s uniform. Her damp strawberry hair, cropped to little more than a bob, made her look somewhat tomboyish, and the baggy clothes certainly didn’t do her figure any favours.

Embrey cocked his head to one side as he gazed at her, and asked Tangeni, “Who is she?”

“Who? Eembu? She is captain of the Empress Matilda. Everyone on board owes his life to her. She and I, we make promise to eat ice creams on Piccadilly after the storm. That was…before God stepped in.”

“Captain, eh?” He’d never have guessed it. Eembu more resembled a stowaway cabin girl than a Gannet skipper.

“What are your names, gentlemen?” Tangeni removed his tunic and shirt, revealing a wiry, muscular body bearing many scars. He splashed his face with fresh water from the drinking cask.

“I am Lord Garrett Embrey, this fellow is Cecil Reardon, Professor, and our young friend here-well, I don’t believe I heard-”

“Billy Ransdell.”

Embrey smiled to himself and ruffled the lad’s hair.

“Any of you know what happened?” Tangeni asked.

“As much as you, I’m afraid, old boy.” Embrey had always had a strong poker face, and he put it to good use under the African’s scrutiny.

Tangeni nodded, threw Billy a wink and then motioned across the deck. “You must stay aboard the Empress, of course. From what I see, it is the safest place in London.” He tossed one of his crewmen a length of cable. “Until Eembu wakes, I am in charge and you are my guests. But she is not badly injured.”

“And when she wakes?” Reardon asked.

The acting skipper shrugged.

“We understand.” Embrey offered his hand and Tangeni shook it firmly. “Thank you for your hospitality. Where might we find something to eat? I heard Billy’s stomach rumble a moment ago.”

“On the deck below. Ask for Djimon. Tell him you are friends of Tangeni.”

“Much obliged. Oh, and one more thing-” Embrey eyed the intriguing redhead again, “-what does Eembu mean?”

The helpful officer smiled, baring his perfect white teeth. “ Eembu short for eembulukweya. In Oshiwambo language it means ‘trousers’. Lieutenant Verity Champlain-she get many affectionate nicknames in Africa. But it is unusual for omukulukadi — woman-to wear trousers, so that name stayed. It was given to her by a former medicine man now working for the British in Benguela. As he is held in high regard, the name brings her great honour. She is Eembu, and she did amazing things today.”

“I see. In that case, I can’t wait to meet her.”

“Nor I,” added Reardon.

Embrey escorted Billy to the B-deck hatchway, then glanced back. The reverence these crewmen seemed to have for their female captain was not something he’d encountered before. Striking. Intriguing. And the officer had just referred to her as “amazing”? Just who the deuce was she?

Embrey and the boy looked so snug together in their nest of windproof jackets and blankets in a quiet corner of the fo’c’sle on C-deck, Cecil didn’t want to wake them. It had been a long double-day spread across two seasons and two epochs, and dusk was beginning to fall. But he couldn’t rest without setting the others’ minds at rest. He must at least give the survivors something to hope for.

Then he would figure out when they were, and why the differentiator had failed to locate 1901. Indeed, the latter was the most pressing concern of all, for if he couldn’t harness that power, if he was not its master, he might never get to find Lisa and Edmond.

He wrapped himself in a cotton blanket and then snatched a few spam ration tins from the supplies Djimon had given them. If the refugees ashore needed more, he would solicit Tangeni for aid right away. He reckoned Embrey might do that if he were awake, and for the time being, Cecil chose to model himself on his young blond comrade-a man of impeccable moral fibre. People needn’t see the real Cecil Reardon, the “shadow of a man confined to the rafters of a sad existence,” as one ex-colleague had described him in the Times last year.

He stole ashore and made his way along the embankment toward Bridge Street. Prolonged, grinding bird caws drew his gaze skyward, but all he saw were the silhouettes of bat-like wings slicing through the gloaming high above. Impossible to classify. In the meantime, he figured the overturned tri-wheeler and its ice cream trailer might make a useful haulage vehicle if the group needed to gather lumber for his furnace or hunt for food.

The survivors had lit a fire on the corner of Parliament Street and Bridge Street, and were roasting meat on makeshift grills.

“I say-dig in, old chap.” The nearest gentleman righted a wicker chair on the pavement and patted the seat for Cecil. “You’re the lostest thing we’ve seen for hours. Where the deuce have you been?”

“On the airship over there, with-”