Imperial Clock (The Steam Clock Legacy)

by Appleton, Robert

  Yet strangely, Professor Reardon himself, who had barely survived the time jump, had not delivered on the promise of that initial achievement. A reclusive figure in the tower nowadays (perhaps a prisoner, maybe even for his own good, as the relatives of those killed in the time jump had demanded his head), he tinkered and pottered and beavered away in his own private laboratories on the hundred-and-something floor, and had not managed (intentionally?) to reproduce his famous experiment. Rumours circulated that he claimed it had all been a fluke, quite literally lightning in a bottle, as the reaction had occurred during a storm; lightning never struck twice. His original machine had been damaged beyond repair in the wreckage of his factory, and no other physicist had been able to make head or tail of its design.

  To Derek, these were the wondrous tales from his adolescence. They had spurred him on to excel at the sciences in school, even inspired him to pursue this new post in the Leviacrum tower itself, to work alongside world-renowned thinkers and researchers—his dream come true.

  Nothing could possibly make him happier now except Sonja McEwan agreeing to join him here in London as his wife, hopefully in time for the start of his apprenticeship. He was reaching for the stars perhaps, but why not, when the stars were so obliging of late? The thick, crackling ionisation of trace energy in the mist over Hell’s Foyer seemed to be an extension of the hope, trepidation, excitement and terror percolating inside him. He was indeed getting everything he’d ever wanted, and it was beautiful.

  Few others visited this site. Silly rumours of ghosts and phantoms and bad luck befalling those who’d walked its derelict remains kept visitors away these days. But Derek was not superstitious, nor, it seemed, was the mysterious correspondent who’d asked to meet him here at this allotted time. But why was the scallywag late?

  NINE THIRTY AT HERITAGE PLAQUE K, HELL’S FOYER. COME ALONE. FFOLKES.

  Derek checked his pocket watch again—nine forty-one, damn it—and sucked in a lungful of Foyer’s air. It had a strong taste of marzipan.

  He was about to head back to Ross Common—damn Ffolkes and the soot he was born in—when a pair of cross-eyed blazing pearls bounced along the uneven perimeter track toward him. They arced through the mist, one eye quickly drawing ahead of the other. Though spewing steam behind them, the contraptions made very little noise apart from their metallic frames rattling over bumps and a constant tsss-umph, tsss-umph from the engines.

  About half the width of a regular automobile, the vehicles were long and elliptical in shape. They boasted large brass shoulders, far too big to be mudguards, over the forward wheels, which were twice the size of the rear wheels. The driver sat astride a single seat in the centre and hunched forward over the handlebars, in the manner a jockey on a sprinting horse. The handlebars themselves resembled the horns of a copper ram, without the sharp points. As well as being pivotal for turning, they could be tilted up to draw the front wheels closer together, for a more streamlined racing shape, or down to spread them out, for a more stable shape over rough terrain.

  Derek had never seen this exact design before, but several of the experimental vehicles he’d witnessed at the steam fair had tended toward it. A recreational car. For those with bottomless purses.

  The vehicles jerked to a halt and the drivers climbed out. The first, a very tall woman, wore a calf-length, brown leather overcoat, which she flapped open to plant her fists on her narrow hips, revealing a smart pink blouse, tight black jodhpurs, half chaps and riding boots. An aggressive combination of devil-may-care and daddy’s girl, if not above the law then certainly lounging on it, boots up. An urban version of Lady Skyhawk. She whisked her goggles and leather helmet off and shook her long, sleek ebony hair to one side. Mud ringed her eyes, hid much of her face, but she didn’t seem to care.

  “Auric, you don’t remember me.” She removed her gloves and shook his hand. “Clytemnestra Fallon. We met earlier, in Coleman’s lab. I’m Vaccaro’s number two in the Astrophysics Department. Please call me Nessie.”

  “Nice to meet you again, Nessie.” He did remember her, but as a gangly, bespectacled lab assistant who’d smiled with all of her teeth and all of her upper gums. Evidently a woman with a nocturnal alter-ego. Her current incarnation reeked of sexuality and adventure, and Derek couldn’t deny he found her attractive, despite the mud.

  “And you know Leonard Ffolkes—” She waved her companion forward, “—Human Resources.”

  “Yes, how do you do?”

  “Roaringly. Thanks for coming, old boy.” Ffolkes was dressed for a winter walk in the country: chequered duffel with upturned collar, scarf wrapped high and tight, corduroys tucked into woollen socks. His hair sprouted stiffly in the middle, and with his muddy round face made his head look like a beetroot. “You’re no doubt curious as to what all this is about.”

  “More than somewhat.” After Derek had signed every document they’d wanted him to sign in the Human Resources office, he’d put his pen to Ffolkes’s note quite automatically, ready to sign that too. Ffolkes had snatched it from him, rolled his eyes and, making sure no one was watching, shoved it into Derek’s satchel. The discreet finger over the lips as he’d bent to achieve the latter had had its intended effect. Derek hadn’t looked at the note until he’d reached his room at the guest house.

  “Well, I’d like to say don’t worry, Auric, but if truth be told, that’s sort of what we’re about.” Ffolkes glanced back along the track.

  “I’m sorry. What are you about?”

  “Saying how-thee-do to a lonely colleague heading in the opposite direction, if anyone happens this way.” Nessie tucked her blouse into her jodhpurs. “But this is the best place to meet this time of night. No one can sneak up on us, and it’s a no-go area to boot. Perfect for...this sort of thing.”

  “I see. So what are you about?” Derek cocked an eyebrow, then his head.

  The two drivers shared a wink.

  “Very well. There’s no use beating about the bush. You’re fully inducted into the organisation now, and that’s honestly something to be proud of. We turn down ninety-nine-point-five percent of applicants, as you know, and seven out of ten interviewees after that. We’re left with a handful of new apprentices every year, so resume-wise, you’re set for life, Auric. Now, if I were to ask where you’d stand—say if war broke out between the Leviacrum and the Coalition—what would you say?”

  Oh, God. It’s an off-the-books interrogation, the worst kind. I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t. It isn’t what would I say; it’s what should I say?

  “Let me ask you first—Nessie—what would you say?”

  “No, no. You don’t get off that easily. Answer the question, please.”

  “Then I’m going to have to decline. You obviously want a specific answer from me, and without knowing your allegiances, I’m not about to hang myself one way or the other. And I don’t care for being put on the spot like this.”

  “That’s good. You’ve just passed the first part of the test. Discretion.” Nessie slung her gloves onto the seat of her vehicle. “Now, about this girl you’re sweet on—Sonja McEwan—are you aware that her father has strong ties to the Coalition?”

  “Um...no, not that I’m aware of.”

  “That isn’t speculation, Auric. It’s fact. Without going into specifics, I can tell you that Ralph McEwan has been under intense scrutiny for some time, and that your association with his daughter has put your loyalty to the empire in serious question.”

  “But that’s absurd. Sonja’s sixteen. And I’ve only met her father once, after—”

  “After you saved his life.” She stepped closer, whispered, “From several freelance Leviacrum agents.”

  “Leviacrum! But how was I to know that? I jumped in to protect Sonja, that was all. I did what any honourable—”

  “Of course, of course. We’re not disputing that. Quite the contrary. We’ve every faith in your qualities both as a gentleman and a man of decisive action. The incident in the Lake District. The
fight at the Steam Fair. You knew what had to be done and weren’t afraid to do it.”

  Derek coughed into a gloved fist. “What are you driving at?”

  “Sixty miles an hour, old chap, on a flat open stretch,” Ffolkes said. “But in the Foyer, half that. What do you think of ‘em, by the way?” He pointed to the two cars.

  “Damned dangerous. Where can I get one?”

  “Ha! I knew you were one of us, Auric. Knew it. Saw it in you right away. It’s that...what’s the word...unflappability. That willingness to take risks to get what you want. How else would a man who fights alongside Ralph McEwan have the nerve to show his face in the Leviacrum tower, unless he was a shit-eating double-crosser hot on some underage crumpet?”

  They’re goading me into showing my hand and letting my guard slip. They want to know which side I’ll take if push comes to shove.

  “Ffolkes, that shit’s all over your face, brother. Do remember to use a knife and fork next time.”

  They both laughed. “Yes, and the second test...with flying colours,” Nessie said. “Restraint. Very good.”

  “Huzzah. What did I win? A goldfish in a bag? Get to the point.”

  “Auric, listen carefully.” She placed her hand on his shoulder. “This is the most important question you’ll ever be asked, and we only ask it once.”

  “No milk, thanks. Two sugars.”

  “Very good. Now look, you’re about to make enemies for the rest of your life, enemies you won’t see coming. It’s unavoidable. There’s no such thing as the middle ground, not any more. The enemies might be neighbours, colleagues, best friends, even family members. I wish it didn’t have to be this way but you see your answer to this question puts you on a list, one way or the other. I know you’ve not taken sides yet, that you don’t want to take sides, but I’m afraid it’s a matter of time. If we hadn’t gotten to you first like this, sooner or later the other side would have, and we’d be having a very different conversation.”

  The urge to deck them both and speed away at sixty miles an hour...broiled. He back-stepped. “Who are you, damn it?”

  “We’re the newest names on your Christmas card list,” Ffolkes said.

  “For Christ’s sake, what’s the question?”

  Nessie narrowed her eyes. “Will you help us smuggle research findings out of the Leviacrum tower?”

  God Almighty. Back to where we started. I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

  “You’re Coalition, then?”

  No reply.

  “Shit.”

  “It’s a hell of a choice to make, Auric. I don’t deny it. My heart goes out to you, really it does. But the question stands. And I’m afraid we’re going to need an answer.”

  “You mean right this second?”

  “No. You have until this weekend to decide. I’ll be in Portsmouth on Sunday evening. At nine o’clock, I’ll be standing on the roof of the Round Tower, and I’ll be alone. If your answer is yes, meet me there. Otherwise, we never speak of this again.” She cupped a gentle, if cold hand onto the side of his face, mashed her lips together, then walked away. Ffolkes followed her.

  As they drove off into the mist—tsss-umph, tsss-umph—Derek tore the note from his pocket and ripped it to shreds, tossed the pieces out over Hell’s Foyer. Some of them landed on his side of the cordon; others seemed to catch the tug of a breeze, and littered the forbidden zone.

  He held the brim of his hat, stepped over the cordon, and ventured out into the mist, having already decided on his answer.

  Chapter Ten

  Peahens for Peacocks

  ‘Pacific Rim Island Destroyed By Blast. Is Man or Nature to Blame?’

  As Meredith negotiated her way between the crowded tables of the Boadicea’s restaurant section, she glimpsed the various headlines on the front pages of assorted newspapers, each illustrated by the exact same dramatic photograph. Curiously, all the leading British journals appeared to agree that the blast was a massively violent volcanic eruption: ‘New Krakatoa Captured Mid-Blast: Read Full Eyewitness Report Inside’; ‘Biggest Eruption Ever Caught on Film!’; ‘Island Sinks Under Volcanic Power: Huge Wave Hits Orient’.

  Meanwhile, the small presses—those that regularly reported world events—saw a different story. ‘Second Catastrophic Weapons Test Destroys Island. Will You Be next?’ ‘Paradise Lost: Warmongers Strike Again.’

  Father had always maintained the Leviacrum was to blame for the Norwegian disaster last year, for the cataclysmic wave that had very nearly ended her world. Weapons testing? What in God’s name could blast an entire island apart? Would they—could they—ever use something like that on a civilian population? The Leviacrum’s influence had always been insidious: political, financial, industrial, nothing any adversarial power could pinpoint and decry publicly as illegal practice. At least not without betraying a galloping hypocrisy. But if the Leviacrum alone controlled weaponry on this scale, their aspirations need no longer be disguised. They could demand whatever they wanted, openly, and none could dare oppose them.

  For the first time Meredith grasped the importance of the Coalition.

  It was a counter-balance, a rogue chess piece of equal weight and resolve—it was the only thing keeping the Leviacrum from lording it over the entire world.

  But unless the Coalition had a weapon to contend with this island-killer, it was surely check-mate.

  Good God.

  She dodged a full cavalry charge by the food trolley corps, pardoned herself for clipping the last one with her arm—the smoothest purloining of a cream scone in all her years of practice—and spied her chaperone by one of the port observation windows. Cathy, as Lady Catarina now insisted Meredith call her, had baited an unpromising young catch, a fresh-faced, oily-haired lad of no more than twenty. He held one arm against the small of his back, gesticulated confidently in front with the other. Oh, how he oozed confidence and ambition and sophistication and, well, all the other things rich boys were taught to ooze. Someone, somewhere had to bottle that stuff and dole it out by the jarful at male boarding schools.

  “Miss Meredith McEwan, might I present Mr. Anthony Bowles, just arrived from Port Lisbon on business. His father, Sir Alfred Bowles, owns the Bowles-Etcheverria cargo shipping line, and is an acquaintance of mine.” Was there any man of influence in the English-speaking world Cathy was not acquainted with?

  The oily Mr. Bowles snapped into a bow. “Delighted, Miss McEwan.” A musical nasal voice which, together with his olive skin, lent him an almost cartoonish foreign air, as though he were a very bad Portuguese actor attempting to play an English aristo.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Oil...I mean Mr. Bowles. My apologies.” Clocking Cathy’s narrowing of the eyes—practically a scream of disapproval from her, she was so poised—reminded Meredith of her promise, that in exchange for being provided with lodgings during her stay in London, she would agree to attend a variety of social functions and do her utmost to encourage any interested male parties she, in turn, might be interested in.

  Yes, that gave her a great deal of latitude, complete, in fact, for one’s taste in men was not something that could be disproved. But Cathy was no duck egg; she’d know if Meredith were deliberately repelling suitors. To stay in London and retain her sponsor, then, Meredith had to walk a fine line between coquette and ice maiden. “So what do you think of Lady Catarina? Isn’t she beautiful?”

  The lad cleared his throat. “Um, yes, beautiful. Extremely.” Poor fellow didn’t know where to look, and even through his olive tan a raspberry flush lit his cheeks. “And if you don’t mind me saying so, Miss McEwan, you aren’t far behind.”

  “But behind, nonetheless?”

  “Eh? Oh, I simply meant you’ve yet to fully come of age, and when you do, you will be equally as...yes, equally as...”

  “As...?”

  “Say, isn’t that Mowett?” He waved to a thick-set young man over at the bar. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I must have a word about our rugby final.”
Off like a shot, Mr. Bowles almost bowled over a waitress and her trolley as he made his escape.

  “Cruel, Meredith, very cruel. But you saw the chink in his armour right away—impressive, and that’s one way to control the conversation. I take it you’ve had practice?”

  “Plenty. Boys are all the same. Get them to talk like a girl and they’re all at sea, in Sonja’s parlance.” Meredith stuffed half the scone into her mouth.

  “Boys, maybe. I can see we’re going to have to find you someone a little more...mature, then?”

  “Mmm.” She swallowed the delicious scone only partially chewed, wiped a blob of cream from her chin. “But not too mature. I’d like him to still be living when the meeting ends.”

  “What do you think of Sonja’s beau, Mr. Auric?”

  “Not my type. Too...I don’t know. He’s just not my type.”

  “Who do you like?” Cathy roved her flat gloved hand over the bustling cabin. “Point him out, so I can be more discerning next time.”

  “Really? And you call me cruel.” Meredith flushed, then slouched defiantly in the manner of her sister as she scanned the room, spotting several men whom she found attractive. Only one made her gasp, however. He was a valet of some sort, standing watch over a skinny, bespectacled heir—the coat of arms embroidered on the junior aristo’s waistcoat was a giveaway. The latter fiddled with what appeared to be a metal boomerang attached to a brass contraption on his belt. A new sport?

  Cathy would never consent to arranging an introduction with a man-servant, so Meredith pointed out Boomerang Boy instead. “The intense one wearing spectacles. He looks interesting.” And not hard on the eyes. Someone Sonja might fall for, if he was as intelligent as he appeared.