Chronal Engine

by Greg Leitich Smith

  The lake was still. Cypresses grew into the water, while redwoods stood tall in the distance, on the other side. At the near shore, giant lily pads grew and frogs croaked. A few hundred yards to our right, about a dozen crestless hadrosaurs waded in the shallows.

  “Oh, this is bad,” I said. We emerged from a stand of magnolias to see the cottage a couple hundred yards off. Unfortunately, about a hundred yards of that was a channel.

  The cottage was on an island.

  Kyle and I hadn’t seen that when we’d been up on the hill.

  “Can you swim?” Samuel asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Can Emma?”

  “State champion individual medley in her age group.” I wasn’t sure I wanted to swim, though. I didn’t think the Deinosuchus would be here in the lake, but there could be other dangerous things. Freshwater sharks, for example.

  “The launch isn’t here,” Samuel said.

  I took a closer look. It wasn’t at the dock, and I didn’t see it anywhere on the lake. “Downriver, then.” I looked through the binoculars at the house.

  The building itself was a standard Texas dogtrot, two cottages with the dogtrot breezeway between them, and a single roof. There had been a lot of them in Texas in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, and it made sense here: the breezeway provided shade and drew in air from the outside. At least that was the theory.

  This dogtrot had a wooden pier extending from a wooden walkway behind it. Each side of the cottage had a pair of windows.

  Off to the rear, about ten or so yards away, was a small blocky building and what looked like a gas tank. A generator, probably. Whoever had built this place made sure it had all the twentieth-century amenities.

  There were no signs of humanity. That could mean that Emma was on the boat, or it could mean she was locked in one of the rooms.

  Then there was a screech, and Samuel exclaimed, “Giant rocs!”

  I lowered the binoculars to look. About a half dozen pterosaurs were landing at the water’s edge. Folding their wing membranes up to walk on all fours, they began wading into the lake in front of us.

  “Quetzalcoatlus,” I said. There was a skeleton of one at the Texas Memorial Museum.

  “Named for the Aztec serpent god?”

  I nodded. They had a thirty-five-foot wingspan, give or take. They were thought to be able to eat fish and small animals. Of course, to them, we were “small animals.”

  There were seven of them now, wading, peering down into the water. They stood upright, not sprawling, eleven, maybe fifteen feet tall. Like giraffes, but with six-foot beaks and leathery wing membranes that connected their front legs and back.

  And they were between us and the island.

  “What now?” Samuel asked.

  The Quetzalcoatlus closest to us plunged its head into the water, snapping its mouth shut. When it pulled it up, a giant fish wriggled, struggling to get free. The pterosaur tossed its head and swallowed the prey whole.

  “I think,” I said, “we run for it. The water looks pretty shallow.” It was hard to tell exactly, considering how big the pterosaurs were, but it didn’t look like the water was more than a few feet deep. We might be able to make it to the cottage without having to swim.

  Samuel nocked an arrow to his bowstring, then nodded at me. We left the cover of the woods, making our way past the rushes to the lakeshore.

  The Quetzalcoatlus ignored us, intent on their fishing.

  We waded into the murky water. When we were almost up to our knees and about a quarter of the way to the dock, something brushed past my calf. “What was that?”

  “Fish. Probably spawning,” Samuel answered, but he was looking from side to side at the pterosaurs. The two largest were to our left. “How fast are these giant roc things?”

  “Paleontologists really aren’t sure,” I said, still trying to figure out what was in the water. “Some people think they were really awkward on land and not good at wading, either. In fact, the idea that they could exhibit terrestrial predation is considered controversial. Historically, they’ve been thought of as surface skimmers, feeding on fish.”

  “Thank you, Professor.”

  I glanced in the direction Samuel was aiming an arrow. One of the Quetzalcoatlus on the left had noticed us. It took a couple steps, splashing the shallow water toward us.

  “You should run. Now.” Samuel released the arrow and then took off for the island before waiting to see if he’d hit his target. I ran beside him, splashing, the water slowing us both.

  We were about three-quarters of the way to the dock when we lost our footing and pitched forward. We’d reached a drop-off of maybe four feet.

  As I kicked forward into a swim, I saw the Quetzalcoatlus was nearly on top of us.

  “Dive!” I shouted. I plunged beneath the water’s surface and began frog swimming. I felt a shock wave as the Quetzalcoatlus’s snout struck deep. And then another. And then it was gone. My lungs burning, I swam a few more strokes and then surfaced and looked back.

  The pterosaur had its back to me now as it stalked something underwater. Someone.

  Then a surge of water caught me in the face. It was another of the Quetzalcoatlus, one of the group on the right, marching through the channel toward me.

  But the dock was close.

  I dived again, not coming up for air until I was underneath it and felt the ground sloping up to the island shore.

  I turned to crouch next to one of the pilings only to see the Quetzalcoatlus’s legs too close. Farther out in the channel, I saw the first pterosaur still trying to find Samuel. His hat floated free, between the creature’s legs.

  A jaw struck downward once, right next to the pier. I waited for the Quetzalcoatlus to decide it couldn’t get to me, but it stayed, taking a step or two back and forth along the dock.

  I had to get out from under. Samuel couldn’t last much longer and who knew when the kidnapper would be back?

  I slid to the end of the pier, banging my knee on a rock. From there, I was within a few feet of the Quetzalcoatlus’s foreleg.

  It was big. But their bones were hollow. They had to be, so they could fly.

  I reached down, clawing away mud and pebbles to release the rock I’d hit my knee on. It was about the size of a football.

  Picking it up, I heaved it at the Quetzalcoatlus’s leg. It gave a squawk and splashed off.

  Then I moved—half crawling, half walking—up the length of the dock, emerging finally on dry land.

  A pile of split firewood was stacked onshore, an axe lying on the ground next to it. For the steamboat, probably. I grabbed an armful of the cut logs and ran out to the end of the pier. The first Quetzalcoatlus was still watching the surface of the water.

  I shouted, then threw one of the split logs and then another. Both missed, but the splashes caught the pterosaur’s attention. The third log hit it in the left rear leg. It stood a moment, staring at me. I yelled again and kept heaving the firewood. Several of the chunks of wood hit the creature in the wing membrane.

  Finally, the Quetzalcoatlus moved off.

  “Samuel!” I shouted, but didn’t see him. Then I spotted a shape in the water, about twenty feet from the dock. I leaped off the pier back into the lake and swam out.

  It was Samuel. Unconscious.

  Half swimming, half walking along the bottom of the channel, I managed to drag him up into the horsetails that lined the shore of the island.

  CPR, he needed CPR. All I knew about that was what I’d seen on TV. Emma, though. She’d taken the Red Cross course last year, even though she was technically too young.

  “Emma!” I shouted, and ran toward the cottage, picking up the axe as I went. I entered the breezeway and paused at the four closed doors. “Emma!”

  “Max?” came a voice from the far right door.

  It was locked. “Stand back!”

  After a couple blows of the axe, I shoved the door open. “Emma! No time! It’s Samuel! He needs CPR!”r />
  She blinked, but nodded. “Who’s Samuel?”

  “This way!” We raced out to where I had left him.

  She rolled him over on his back, then shoved at his sternum. Water gushed from his nose and mouth. I climbed up on the dock while Emma performed CPR. The Quetzalcoatlus were down at the far end of the island, still hunting fish. I didn’t think they’d be coming near again anytime soon.

  After a moment I heard a cough, then another. I glanced down to see Samuel sitting up, Emma crouched beside him.

  “You’re . . . Emma?”

  Emma was likewise frozen, staring open-mouthed. “Who are you?”

  “This is Samuel,” I said, climbing down beside her. “Samuel, this is my sister.”

  Emma stood and stepped back from him. I finally got a good look at her. Her clothes were dirty and she had a bruise on her cheek, but otherwise she looked healthy. I felt a rush of relief and swallowed, not trusting myself to speak.

  Before I could say anything, she embraced me in a fierce hug. “I can’t tell you how glad I am you’re here. I’ve been locked up for a week and—Where’s Kyle?”

  I quickly filled her in on what had happened since she’d been taken. She didn’t say anything, but drew in a quick breath when I told her about the Nanotyrannus.

  “Okay,” Emma said when I was through. She hugged me again. Then her voice was crisp. “Now, can one of you tell me why there’s a picture of this guy in the workshop with Campbell?”

  Samuel stepped forward, dripping. “I can explain.”

  “Who’s Campbell? You mean the kidnapper?” I asked. “I knew there was something—”

  “Come with me,” Samuel interrupted, and rushed up into the breezeway.

  Emma and I followed. Samuel picked up the axe from where I’d left it and hacked at the door across from Emma’s. He forced it open and ran in, flicking a light switch. We entered behind him. The room was stuffy, but we ignored it. A ceiling fan began turning.

  The room was a workshop—a machine shop. A thick wooden table stood on trestles along one wall. Mounted on it were a machine lathe and other equipment I didn’t recognize. A bank of cabinets stood along another wall.

  A framed black-and-white photo hung from a wall next to the door. It showed Campbell—the kidnapper—and a younger Samuel and an older man, Mad Jack Pierson. I recognized him from pictures in the basement back home.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Samuel was opening and closing little drawers in an apothecary cabinet. With a triumphant cry, he pulled out a small box and turned to us, a broad smile on his face. Our own expressions stopped him. Or maybe it was the fact that Emma was clutching the axe handle with both hands like she meant to use it. And not on a tree.

  He swallowed. “I can use these to fix your Recall Device and get us home.”

  “What?” I demanded.

  “Who are you?” Emma asked at the same time.

  “And who’s Campbell?” I put in.

  Samuel was silent a moment, until Emma brandished the axe again.

  “Isambard Campbell is my father’s former assistant,” he said, finally, “and failed graduate student.”

  “Your father . . .” I whispered, staring. “You’re Mad Jack Pierson’s son?” Which made Samuel Grandpa’s father? My great-grandfather?

  And he’d put us through all of this? “You son of—”

  “Why did you and Campbell bring us here?” Emma interrupted. “And where’s Pierson?”

  “I don’t know where my father is . . . and I had nothing to do with your being here,” Samuel answered, holding up his hands. “I swear. That was all Campbell’s doing.”

  “Why? What was he—”

  “They had a falling out,” Samuel said. “He and my father. Over the war, among other things. I think Campbell is trying to build his own Chronal Engine.”

  “Why?” I asked. “And what does it have to do with Emma?”

  Samuel gave her another odd look. “Well, that’s just the thing. She’s the spitting image of the maidservant we had when I was younger, during the war, who my father always said was responsible for the breakthrough that led to the Chronal Engine. I always thought it was because Ella kept the place clean and organized, but now . . .”

  “Ella?” I asked. “Emma’s Ella?”

  Emma lowered the axe. “Oh, this is just too weird.”

  “Why would Campbell have this picture up,” I asked, “if he hates your father so much?”

  “Because it’s not his house,” Samuel said. “It’s my father’s. The original house in Austin . . . he arranged to have it brought here when he moved to the ranch.”

  “Talk about getting away from it all,” Emma muttered.

  At that moment, from out on the lake, I heard a steam whistle.

  And then multiple gunshots.

  Chapter XVII

  Stalked

  “THAT’S CAMPBELL!” EMMA SAID.

  “We’ve got to get out of here!” Samuel declared. He whirled around and pulled open a couple more cabinet drawers. Finally, he reached in and grabbed a package. Then he looked at Emma. “Is anyone else here? Any other prisoners?”

  “No,” Emma replied. “The other rooms are empty.”

  At that, we fled out into the breezeway, in the direction opposite the dock, and ran along the island shore, making sure we were out of sight of the dock. I didn’t see the Quetzalcoatlus. They must’ve been scared away by the shots.

  We dived into the water, wading and swimming across, until we reached the shore. Then we ran into the forest and under the cover of a pair of stubby palms.

  We stopped to look, crouching in the undergrowth, as the launch glided up to the dock.

  “That’s my father’s, too,” Samuel muttered, as he pushed aside the top of a fern.

  A man—Campbell—popped out of the cockpit and began tying the boat up.

  “How did he get hold of it, then?” I blurted. “What did he do to your father? And why did he take Emma?”

  Samuel hesitated. “I would guess that Ella—Emma—was bait. That my father disappeared or ran, and then Campbell brought Emma here to draw him out.”

  “Because without her, there’s no Chronal Engine.” I thought quickly. “At this point, he might as well still have Emma. He’s got the only working Recall Device. We’re stuck here.”

  “No, we’re not,” Samuel answered. “I told you, I can fix yours with these.” He gestured with the packages he was holding, the ones he’d pulled out of the workshop.

  “Which are what, exactly?” Emma put in.

  “One’s a watchmaker’s tool kit,” Samuel answered. “The other contains chronally resonant crystals.”

  “And what,” I asked, with a glance at Emma, “is a ‘chronally resonant crystal’?”

  “It’s hard to explain,” Samuel said. “But if you apply an electric field in the right way, the crystals will resonate with a time signature that allows them to operate, to be tracked and modulated by the Chronal Engine.” He shrugged. “The idea came to my father during a football game.”

  “In Dallas!” I exclaimed. “I know! I saw that in the notebook and—”

  “Umm, guys, this is nice,” Emma interrupted, “but shouldn’t we get moving?” Without waiting for an answer, she rose from her crouch and moved back from the tree line.

  Over at the cottage, Campbell had finished tying up the boat, and was walking toward the dogtrot. In a moment, he’d find out Emma was gone.

  I hurried after her, still questioning Samuel. “So there’s one of these crystal things in the Recall Device, and it just broke? ”

  “Cutting them for both resonance and durability is a precise skill,” he replied as we moved off. “If it’s not done correctly, they become unstable. Most of the ones we have were made by Campbell. Rather shabbily.”

  We marched, occasionally looking back to see if Campbell was coming after us, and keeping an eye out for the fauna. The morning was alive with the calls of birds an
d the screams of other things too big to fly.

  The meadows were almost overrun with dinosaurs. A group of Triceratops eyed us as we crossed through one. We made sure to keep our distance.

  Once in a while, we’d come across a herd of small ornithopods that would bolt if we came too near.

  We’d been walking for about an hour when we rounded a small grove of ginkgoes and came out straight at the edge of a pond, maybe a couple hundred yards wide and a hundred yards long. Ferns and horsetails grew at its edges.

  “This wasn’t here last night,” I said.

  Emma laughed, while Samuel shook his head.

  “This way,” he said, and led us along the edge of the pond, back toward, I assumed, the river.

  We had just about cleared the south end of the pond when Samuel stopped abruptly. Ahead of us stood a full-sized tyrannosaur. Possibly the same one we’d seen last night, although I wasn’t sure we were anywhere near the same area. The giant theropod was standing ankle deep in the marshy water, its back to us.

  “Stand very still,” Samuel said, holding up his hand. “We’re downwind.”

  A moment later the tyrannosaur lumbered off into the forest.

  At the next instant, there was a flash of light and a figure stepped from behind a cycad to our right.

  It was Campbell. He was wearing khaki trousers and a crisp button-down shirt, with a blue bandanna around his neck. And he was carrying a revolver in one hand and a Recall Device in the other.

  “Good morning, Samuel, Emma,” he said. “And this must be Max.”

  The three of us didn’t say anything.

  “Now, Samuel,” Campbell went on, “that’s no way to treat an old family friend.”

  “Where’s my father?” Samuel demanded.

  “That’s hardly germane.” Campbell waved the gun. “What’s important is that I have the gun and the Recall Device. And you have Emma and Pierson’s lab notebooks. Which you will hand over to me now.”

  I didn’t have them. I’d left them with Kyle and Petra. I shrugged my shoulders, though, letting my backpack fall. Then I hoisted it up and tossed it into the pond. “Run!”