by Beth Ciotta
“That is your plan.”
Sensing skepticism in his brother’s voice, Simon frowned. “I confess it is not without challenge. Locating the Aquarian Cosmology Compendium—”
“—would be a damned miracle.”
“I realize no Vic has ever laid eyes on those notes,” Simon said, using the Mod term for the rightful citizens of Queen Victoria’s England. “But the compendium is referred to in the Book of Mods. Therefore it must exist.”
“Searching for the ACC is a waste of your valuable time.”
“You have a better idea?”
“I do.” Jules swilled the remnants of his glass, then leaned forward as well. “According to my sources—”
“What sources?”
“Government sources.”
“You’re retired.”
“But still connected to people in high places. What I’m about to tell you—”
“Is highly confidential.” Simon had long suspected his brother still dabbled in stealth campaigns, but he’d never known for sure or in what capacity. Just now his senses buzzed with curiosity and a hint of danger. Pretending nonchalance, he raised one cocky brow. “Fascinating. Do tell.”
“It is possible that the Mods’ clockwork propulsion engine was not destroyed along with the Briscoe Bus, as reported, but that it was whisked away and hidden. There’s reason to believe the knowledge of the secret location is guarded by three reclusive Mods known as the Houdinians.”
“An odd and unfamiliar title.” Simon frowned. “Who are these Houdinians? And why have I never heard of them?”
“Because they are a closely guarded secret.”
“Yet you’re privy to this secret.”
“I’m privy to a lot of secrets.” Jules checked his pocket watch. “Time is of the essence.” He passed Simon an envelope. “Three Houdinians. Three names. There is a curiosity shop in Notting Hill. It’s run by a retired Mod Tracker, although few are aware of his past vocation.”
“You’re one of the few.”
“I am.” Jules corked the liquor bottle. “If anyone can give you a location on a Houdinian, it’s Thimblethumper.”
“Queer name.”
“Bogus name.”
“Why am I talking to this Thimblethumper? Why not you?”
“Because I’m increasing our chances of success by going after another clockwork propulsion engine.”
“Not—”
“Yes.”
“But the original device—”
“Is trapped in the future. I know.” Jules reached inside his coat and passed Simon a palm-sized gadget with a hinged cover. “It’s an experimental tele-talkie. Agency restricted. Show it to no one and only use it to communicate with me in times of dire need.”
Simon thumbed open the cover and marveled at the intricate mechanism.
“Point-to-point verbal communication. Earphone, microphone, antenna,” Jules said, noting various and curious components. “Power button and toggle. Left to transmit, right to receive.”
“No cords?”
Jules shook his head. “It’s a hybrid of the Mods’ walkie-talkie. A personal two-way radio device.” He produced a matching silver and bronze tele-talkie and thumbed the power button, causing Simon’s device to squawk, then squeal.
Simon winced at the high-pitched sound as Jules limped out of the office and a goodly distance away. Suddenly, he heard his brother’s voice as clear and loud as though he were still in the same room. “Good God,” Simon said, toggling left to transmit. “Can you hear me as well?”
“Ingenious, is it not?” Jules asked. “Powering off to conserve energy.”
Simon powered off as well and joined his brother in the cavernous work area. “How—”
“No time to explain, and as I said, it’s experimental and—”
“Agency restricted.” Simon angled his head. “What agency would that be precisely?”
Jules paused as if deliberating the wisdom in sharing that information, then slipped the tele-talkie into a leather pouch attached to an intricate harness worn beneath his greatcoat. “The Mechanics.”
Simon absorbed the name and significance. He knew his brother traveled in scientific and fantastical circles, but the Mechanics were so fantastical and mysterious, many thought them an urban legend. “You’re telling me that you have personal connections with Her Majesty’s Mechanics?”
“I am a Mechanic.”
Highly trained, highly covert agents who “fixed” sensitive and controversial matters for the British government and its sovereign. It’s not that Jules didn’t have the keen intellect and military training. “But—”
“My leg.” Jules quirked an enigmatic smile. “I manage.”
Blimey. Simon could scarcely believe his ears. “How long—”
“Since my recovery.”
“Then you are not retired.”
“Oh, but I am. Officially.”
Simon shoved a hand through his hair. “If you were recruited upon techno-surgical recovery, then you have been operating undercover for six years. Why did you not tell me?”
“Because it was not sanctioned.”
“And now?”
Jules thumbed a switch on the knob of his cane and Simon watched, fascinated, as the walking stick retracted to the length of a screwdriver. “Although I consider myself fairly invincible, I am not a magician. Should I fail upon this mission, I shall be stuck in the 1960s along with our not-so-dear and troublesome cousin Briscoe.” Jules’s expression darkened. “Papa died believing me to be a struggling writer, racked with demons and wrestling with addictions. If I do not return . . . I’d prefer you, Mother, and Amelia to remember me in kinder regards.”
Simon struggled to make sense of his brother’s words.
“Professor Maximus Merriweather holds the key to my futuristic voyage,” Jules said, whilst buttoning his coat. “And he, I have learned, is in Australia. Should there be a dire reason, you can reach me using the tele-talkie.”
Simon glanced at the advanced device burning a hole in his hand and his ever-curious mind. “A wireless signal that transmits over fifteen thousand kilometers?”
“Lest you forget, the Mods put a man on the moon.”
“Are you saying the Mechanics have recruited an original Peace Rebel? A twentieth-century scientist? An engineer? Someone from NASA? The GPO? Wait. You are traveling to speak with Professor Merriweather? The Professor Merriweather?”
“A difficult man to track and even more difficult to engage.”
Simon bristled with envy. Merriweather was a legendary physicist and cosmologist. A Mod who’d preached about the wonders and downfalls of the future before disappearing with his young daughter in a bid for safety and anonymity. Someone who would understand, support, and—given his education and origin—possess the knowledge to perhaps advance and enhance Simon’s Project Monorail. “What I wouldn’t give for an hour alone with that genius.”
“Yes, well, I require more than an hour,” Jules said, “and should Merriweather slip my grip, you will have a Houdinian at your disposal.”
Before Simon could remark, Jules pushed on. “The tele-talkie should function for as long as I’m in this dimension. After that . . .” He grasped Simon’s shoulder in an affectionate squeeze. “I suppose we shall have to rely upon our twin sensibilities.” He smiled, then stepped back. “Good luck in your quest, brother.”
A thousand questions crowded the tip of Simon’s tongue, but he stood speechless as Jules disappeared before his very eyes.
LONDON
He appeared out of nowhere, pushing in behind Willie just as she unlocked her door, forcing his way inside her lodgings before she could engage the customized clockwork safety lock.
On instinct, she grabbed the first weapon within her reach and whirled.
The intruder blocked her swing, and the bronze Buddha with the clock in his fat belly flew out of her hand, crashing into her new electric table lamp. The glass shade and incandescent bulb shattered,
time stopped, and Willie’s bravado wavered. Physical contact had been brief. Not long or focused enough to effectively time-trace into his past, but enough to catch a glimpse of a memory. A group of men convening in a darkened room and the whisper of two disjointed words—assassination and Aquarius.
Heart pounding, Willie scrambled back, assessing the situation.
She’d been walking off her frustration. Ruminating Dawson’s order to get a story on Simon Darcy or to hit the proverbial street. She’d been lost in thought, lost in the cold fog rolling in with the depressing dusk. She knew not if this odious thug had been following her or perhaps lurking in the shadows of the meager lodgings she rented near Blackfriars Bridge. What she knew was that she was now trapped inside her dimly lit parlor with a dangerous masked stranger.
“I mean you no harm,” he said as if reading her mind. “If I did, the deed would be done.”
“Comforting,” she snapped.
“Cheeky,” he replied. “Indeed, I find your fighting spirit . . . stimulating.” His lip twitched as his gaze landed on her newsboy cap, then dragged south to her worn boots. “The name is Strangelove.”
Willie forced her knees steady and willed her tone not to spike in pitch. “I’m not partial to blokes,” she said, assuming Strangelove had a predilection for young men.
“Neither am I.” Still smiling, he gestured to her worn and faded chaise. “Do sit, Miss Goodenough.”
It was, in fact, good advice, as her legs fairly buckled at the mention of her real name. Practiced at pretending and desperate to maintain her guise, Willie slouched against the chaise in her lackadaisical boyish style, whilst contemplating potential weapons within her reach. “I’m afraid your eyesight’s impaired by that mask, sir. The name’s Willie G. and I’m a chap same as you.”
“Spare me the pretense. I’ve neither the time nor patience.” Strangelove sat in a chair with the grace of a titled gentleman. His dark clothes, cape, gloves, and top hat were of fine quality, his speech and manner refined. “Wilhelmina Goodenough,” he said, leveling her with a narrowed gaze meant to intimidate. “Daughter of Michelle and Michael Goodenough, a twentieth-century security expert and a nineteenth-century merchant. A Mod and a Vic. Which makes you, Miss Goodenough, aka Willie G., aka the Clockwork Canary, a first-generation Freak.”
She sat frozen, her lungs convulsing in trepidation. He knew who she was and, worse, what she was. Born of parents from two dimensions, all Freaks possessed various supernatural abilities that magnified and sharpened with age. Feared and/or shunned by polite society, her altered race was denied numerous rights, ofttimes including the opportunity to pursue the profession of their choosing. Hence her ten-year ruse. Strangelove knew she was a woman, knew she was a Freak. Did he know about her time-tracing skills? Did he mean to exploit her gift of tapping into people’s memories? His intent was clearly nefarious. At the very least the wretched toff had the ability to shatter her sculpted world. “If you mean to blackmail me—”
“I do.”
“Pressmen make very little money.”
“Obviously.” Strangelove glanced around the clean but cramped and cluttered living space Willie called home. “I’ve no need of your exiguous finances, Miss Goodenough, but I do require your time and skills. I have it on good authority that Simon Darcy is joining the Triple R Tourney. I want you to join him on his quest and to report to me the moment he’s acquired whatever historical technological invention he seeks.”
Willie stared. Yet another person intent on pushing her into Simon’s world. The timing was surreal, if not suspicious. “What makes you think—”
“You had an illicit affair with Darcy when you were but sixteen,” he persisted. “Surely you can charm your way back into his life. Although I suggest a gown instead of trousers. And your hair—”
“I have no intention of revealing my true identity,” she blurted. Never mind serving up her heart on a silver platter. Her gaze skipped to a sentimental keepsake propped upon a fringed pillow on the corner chair, the only girly item in the room. A doe-eyed china doll given to her by Simon. The only evidence that he’d ever been part of her life. How did Strangelove know about the brief but torrid love affair that crushed her soul? No one, aside from her parents and brother, knew.
Or so she’d thought.
“Then concoct a ruse as the Clockwork Canary. I care not how you follow and report on Simon Darcy. Only that you do.”
Willie met and held the man’s steady and unsettling gaze. A man of purpose. A man of power. She tested her limits. “And if I don’t?”
“I will obliterate your ruse, Miss Goodenough. Rob you of your reputation and livelihood, your journalistic means of perpetuating the Freaks’ emancipation, as well as your ability to support your father and to shield your rebellious brother from harm’s way.” He smiled when she tensed. “Ah, yes. Your Freak brother, Wesley. Did I fail to mention my knowledge of his gift and crimes?”
Who was this man? How was it that he knew so much about her and her family? If she could touch him and focus, she could time-trace into his past, experience his memories as though she were an invisible bystander. Learning pieces of his life, his secrets, his deeds, might help to reveal his true identity and purpose. Why was the word assassination tied to one of Strangelove’s memories? Was this a past transgression or a plotted crime? She stole a peek at her cuff watch.
One focused touch . . .
But the man kept his distance, even as he tossed her a shiny rectangular device. “This is a telecommunicator. I will brief you on the practical use and codes. It is a direct line to me. Show it to no one, especially Darcy.”
Her pulse flared. The Darcy family was famous for their association with the Time Voyager. Simon himself had garnered a fair amount of attention regarding Project Monorail. He was, in fact, quite unpopular with Old Worlders. Gaze fixed on the futuristic device, Willie feigned nonchalance. “Do you mean Simon harm?”
“Only if he stands in between me and a certain invention. You can assure Darcy’s safety by using your wiles, your gift, and my telecommunicator, Miss Goodenough.”
Oh, how she wished he’d stop calling her that. How could so much misfortune rain down upon her in one blasted day? First Dawson had threatened her job if she did not get a story on Simon, and now this man, this Strangelove, threatened her reputation, the safety of her father, her brother, and the man she had once loved.
Willie balled her fists, damned fate, and searched her soul. She would do anything to protect her father and brother. As for Simon, as much as she resented him, she did not wish him harm. Putting her heart at risk seemed a trivial sacrifice. But she was not a pawn. Never a pawn. Perhaps she could protect all those at risk and advance her own interests as well. “I’ll do as you ask, Strangelove, but considering it means a sabbatical from my regular job at the Informer, I have a price.”
The vexing toff studied her at length. “You’re in no position to bargain, but I will do what I must to advance my goal. If you cross me, however—”
“You will crush me.”
“Cheeky and smart.”
Oh, but she despised the Vics who thought to manipulate her kind. In spite of her foul mood, Willie smiled. “Aye. I am.”
CHAPTER 3
By the time Simon had made the journey from Pickford Field into London, it had been too late to visit Thimblethumper’s Shoppe of Curiosities. It had also been too late to visit pertinent libraries in order to research the Peace Rebels and any mention of the Houdinians, the Briscoe Bus, or the clockwork propulsion engine.
Instead of visiting his gentlemen’s club for dinner or popping into a neighborhood pub for a pint and a chat with friends, Simon had retired directly to his town house in Covent Garden. The vexing failure of Project Monorail was too fresh, as was the sensationalized report of his father’s death. Presently Simon would be the talk of his circle and not in a way he fancied or craved. He loathed being the center of pity or scorn or a source of curiosity—most assuredly and es
pecially in cases based solely on his connection with the Time Voyager. For the umpteenth time in several days, Simon damned the Clockwork Canary for shining a light upon that showboating and infamous inventor whilst diminishing the life and death of Reginald Darcy and by extension dragging Simon, as well as Jules and Amelia and their mother, Anne, through the mud. The more Simon heaped his anger upon the Informer and that bloody, unfeeling journalist, the less he focused on his own guilt regarding his father’s ghastly death. The less he obsessed on the corrupt Old Worlders who’d damned his epic engineering marvel.
By narrowing his scope of fury and frustration, Simon had hoped to recoup the sleep that had eluded him since enduring the double blows of crushing loss. Instead he’d wrestled with new and additional quandaries. Foremost, the knowledge that his brother was a Mechanic. A legendary and esteemed post. Yet again, and even with a bum leg, his older twin had exceeded any accomplishment Simon had yet to make. Yes, he was proud of Jules, but he was also damned envious. Knowing his brother plotted the improbable—traveling into the future, absconding with Briscoe’s original time machine, and traveling back home—filled him with wonder and hope but also, dammit, envy.
On top of that, one of the Houdinians’ names dogged Simon like a tenacious foxhound.
Mickey Goodenough.
Goodenough alone, although unique, would not have rattled Simon, but for the fact that Thimblethumper’s Shoppe was in Notting Hill. A neighborhood he used to frequent and now avoided, as it conjured memories of Wilhelmina Goodenough—Mina—his first and only love. Her father’s first name had been Michael. Mickey for short? Except he’d been a Vic merchant, not a Mod rebel. At least not to Simon’s knowledge. If one parent had been a Mod and the other a Vic, that would make Mina a Freak. Yes, she’d been a bit of an enigma, but a Freak? Surely he would’ve sensed if he’d made love to an altered being. And her eyes . . . They’d been a solid and seducing flash of meadow green, not the rainbow of swirling colors indicative of a Freak. Perhaps this Mickey Goodenough was a distant cousin or, more likely, no relation at all.
