by Beth Ciotta
“Aye.” Willie nibbled on bread and cheese, then lingered over a long drink of wine.
Simon could tell she was fighting to mask her emotions, to remain objective. Her journalistic training at play, no doubt. Or perhaps her pride. However, he sensed a hint of melancholy, as if all this knowledge weighed heavily upon her heart. “Perhaps we should leave the rest of this story until morning.”
“No. Let us press on. I’m fine. Truly. Just sorting through my memories. Thimblethumper—Rollins—rambled most vigorously as though confessing a lifetime of sins to a priest.”
Simon topped off her wine, noting that in the midst of the upset and intrigue, he had never felt more settled. Yes, he was worried about Jules. He worried about the financial fate of his mother and sister. He worried about Willie and her father, and his own future as a professional engineer. On a grander scale, he harbored anxiety regarding the intolerance of Freaks as well the fate of the world should the clockwork propulsion engine fall into unscrupulous hands. So much unrest, and yet this moment, in this small, warm kitchen partaking in a cold meal with his intelligent, beautiful wife, Simon felt very much at peace.
“Rollins said the Houdinians were essentially paralyzed by the Peace War,” Willie went on as if garnering a second wind. “They wanted to stay and help their fellow Mods. Those who had not been corrupted and remained true to the cause. Those who still thought they could make a positive difference. Those who refused to abandon this time even if they had the chance.
“But then when the dust settled,” she plowed on, “and it became apparent that the Peace Rebels had perpetuated everything they stood against—civil intolerance, political corruption—and had perhaps set the future on an even more abysmal course . . . when Mods and their Freak offspring became the focus of derision instead of curiosity, those that had survived the war went into hiding. Some continued on a corrupt course, selling advance knowledge and expertise. Some merely tried to integrate into society, living under false identities. Others, like Professor Merriweather, went on the run and continue to run. Filmore deemed it time to utilize the Houdinian backup plan. To escape and start over in another time, but Rollins declared himself too old and too weary and my mother . . .” Willie licked her lips. “Rollins said she refused to abandon her children, nor would she risk hopping dimensions with them, fearing they, Wesley and I, might not survive or that time travel would somehow mutate our already altered genes even more.”
“So she chose you and your brother over the cause,” Simon said, knowing that must have touched her deeply.
She nodded, eyes bright. “Apparently so.”
Simon had never once questioned his own father’s love and support. And though his mother was somewhat aloof in nature, he trusted in her affections. Never had he been so aware of his good fortune. Humbled, Simon reached across the table and clasped Willie’s hand. Because of her time-tracing gift, her parents had held her at bay. Was it any wonder she guarded her heart so fiercely? “Why didn’t Filmore make the jump himself?”
She sighed a little. Exasperated? Weary? Another sip of wine and then she rallied on. “Rollins thinks it boiled down to a few factors,” she said. “First of all, he wouldn’t get far without a vehicle that was compatible with the clockwork propulsion engine, and Rollins refused to construct one.”
“Surely another twentieth-century engineer could have performed the task. More than one arrived here on the Briscoe Bus,” Simon said whilst stroking her knuckles.
“Aye, but Filmore trusted no PR outside of the Houdinians. Rollins said as the years progressed, Filmore became more and more paranoid, always spouting one or another conspiracy theory. He also believes that Filmore was secretly afraid of landing in an unfamiliar time on his own. When you think about it,” Willie said, “that is a daunting adventure indeed.”
“Briscoe did it. And Jules is about to do it,” Simon said, gut cramping. “If he hasn’t already.”
“Aye, but Filmore strikes me as someone who cannot operate without minions, so to speak. Rabid followers. Devoted admirers. People who hang on his every word. Even living undercover he chose a job where he could talk people’s ears off, the pub bartender who enraptured patrons with passionate, exaggerated ghost tales.”
“Must have knocked him off-balance,” Simon said, “losing Rollins, and then your mother.”
“According to Rollins, Filmore went a bit batty after my mother died. Even though he’d respected my mother’s marriage to my father, he’d harbored . . . affections. It seems to me a most complex and muddled relationship,” Willie said. “I don’t need to make sense of it, I just want to ensure that the clockwork propulsion engine doesn’t fall into dangerous hands. Neither I nor Rollins deem Filmore the best person for the job anymore.”
“So you’re stepping into your mother’s shoes as guardian of the engine?” Simon asked.
“Not forever,” Willie said, catching and holding his gaze. “Just until the engine is safe. As far as I’m concerned, this Triple R Tourney is a godsend. The Jubilee Science Committee will guard that engine as keenly as the Tower’s yeomen guard the crown jewels. Once it is presented to Queen Victoria during the jubilee, given Her Majesty’s disdain for modern technology, she will no doubt have it locked away. Aye. That will be the way of it,” Willie said. “The engine will be as protected as a royal secret.”
Either that, Simon thought, or the queen would order someone to destroy the engine. That notion vexed on multiple levels. Mind reeling with his brother’s predicament as well as Willie’s latest findings, Simon downed the last of his wine. “So we’re back to scouring a plethora of catacombs in search of the engine.”
“No.” Willie squeezed his hand. “There is a spot of good news in all of this. Rollins promised to intercede.”
“The revolving safe house.” Simon all but thunked his own forehead. “But of course, Thimblethumper—hell, Rollins—would know the precise London location.”
“If Filmore maintained protocol. Rollins ventures he has not. What he is certain of is his ability to track Filmore.”
“So we wait.”
“Hopefully not for long. Perhaps even as soon as tomorrow.”
“Then by all means we should get some rest,” Simon said, noting the weary set of his wife’s shoulders. “I’m eager to leave this particular adventure in the dust.”
“As am I,” she said with a smile that did not reach her eyes.
Simon reached for the platter of half-eaten chicken, then paused upon noting Willie’s queer intensity as she stared at their dirty plates. “What are you doing?”
“Testing my supernatural ability on the off chance that it has manifested in a way that would please Fletcher.”
“Telekinesis.” Simon’s lip twitched. “In which case these plates would now be flying across the room and into the sink.” He raised a brow. “Doesn’t seem to be working.”
“No,” she said, her kaleidoscope eyes sparking with a hint of humor. “Pity.”
CHAPTER 33
JANUARY 26, 1887 QUEENSLAND, AUSTRALIA
An entire day and night had passed since that bastard mercenary guide, Austin Steele, had abandoned Bingham in Cunnamulla. Since “the Rocketeer” had taken Renee with him, Bingham had been left without a confidant. He wasn’t about to engage the bodyguard who’d failed to protect him from getting “gutshot” in conversation regarding sensitive information. Nor could he discuss his thoughts and concerns with the doctor or nurses who’d been attending to his god-awful wound. He’d dispatched his Mod Tracker, Crag, to infiltrate Merriweather’s compound and to determine the status of the professor and his daughter as well as the damnable meddling Jules Darcy.
Crag’s findings had been disappointing, not to mention perplexing. The compound had been deserted. No sign of a living soul. Nothing of value left behind, yet no trace of evidence explaining how or when the trio had escaped. It made no sense and Crag’s ineptitude only enraged Bingham more.
We’ll just have to wait until
one of them slips up and shows his face, Crag had said. I tracked Merriweather before, I’ll track him again.
Meanwhile time was ticking, and for all Bingham knew, Jules Darcy had already coerced Merriweather into re-creating a working time machine. Question was, what did Darcy intend to do with the outlawed vehicle?
“Damnation!”
Impatience ripped through Bingham like a firestorm. He had not traveled this far, nor taken such risks, to be outfoxed by one of Reginald Darcy’s offspring. How was it possible that the dotty old inventor had sired three highly industrious and intelligent spawns? Yes, Bingham had hoped one of the three would ferret out pertinent information or an actual device as created by their distant cousin, but he had also counted on snatching that data or device from their clutches. Thus far, events were unfolding in a most displeasing way.
Amelia Darcy had failed to produce an invention that would further Bingham’s cause. Jules Darcy had quite possibly stolen Merriweather’s knowledge and intellect from beneath Bingham’s nose. The unknown variable this moment was the other son, Simon. Desperate to know the civil engineer’s progress, he tried his telecommunicator for the hundredth time this day.
Still dead.
Blast!
He knew not whether the device was malfunctioning, or the area was simply too remote to support the requisite signal. Just as he was ready to throw the blasted gadget against the wall, someone knocked, then stepped inside.
“Captain Northwood,” Bingham said. “Thank God.”
Within the hour Bingham had left that wretchedly primitive hospital in the dust and had boarded his beloved Mars-a-Tron. Once in the air and back in charge, his mind cleared, as did radio transmissions. He waded through several coded messages, adrenaline surging when he spied news from Wilhelmina Goodenough.
Bingham smiled. He should have known the engineer would have sought out the Aquarian Cosmology Compendium. No doubt Miss Goodenough had played a major role in the recovery of the elusive journal. After all her mother had been an original Peace Rebel, a specialist in matters of security.
“Good news?” Northwood asked from his console.
“Excellent news from London.”
“Should I set a course for home, sir?”
“Continue as instructed.” Bingham could not leave without inspecting Professor Merriweather’s compound first. There was, after all, a possibility that Crag had missed some clue. Meanwhile, England was several days away and Bingham worried that Goodenough might bobble the deed, allowing Simon Darcy to submit the ACC to the Jubilee Science Committee. As the anonymous benefactor, Bingham had commanded a first look at all submissions, but he was out of the country and he did not trust the committee’s director to sit on such a momentous discovery. P. B. Waddington had proved to be a competent subordinate thus far, but he was also a man of science and a loyal subject to the Crown. At this point, Bingham trusted no one. But there was someone he could count on to procure the ACC from Miss Goodenough and to keep it hidden and safe until Bingham’s return.
A mercenary Freak ruled by greed and vengeance. A young man who’d been manipulating the weather to advance the plundering exploits of the Scottish Shark of the Skies—compliments of Bingham. Considering Captain Dunkirk had failed Bingham in a monumental way and knowing the man would welcome a chance to benefit again from Bingham’s power and wealth, Bingham sent a tantalizing directive, engaging the infamous sky pirate and his secret weapon—the Stormerator.
GREATER LONDON
Willie had spent the last day and a half on pins and needles awaiting word from Rollins. Oh, how she wanted to revisit Thimblethumper’s Shoppe of Curiosities, but Simon had thought it best not to pressure the old man.
He promised to intercede, Simon had said, on behalf of his fellow Houdinian and old friend’s daughter. He said it could take a couple of days. Patience, sweetheart.
Yet Simon had been equally tense, poring over various sketches of his inspired designs in order to distract himself from thoughts of the Triple R Tourney as well as his brother’s mysterious circumstances. To Willie’s dismay, he had shut away his sketches of Project Monorail, deeming that idea dead in the water. A failure. She did not agree, but she did not press. Not now. Not when he was so worried about his brother. In addition, though he’d been told his sister and mother were in London, he had not been able to locate them, nor had they phoned or stopped by. Aye, they thought he was aboard the Flying Cloud and in pursuit of a legendary invention. Still . . . not to check in with Fletcher in hopes of obtaining news of Simon’s progress and safety? Unfortunately, Willie understood her husband’s concern.
Meanwhile Phin kept in touch, also awaiting the news from Rollins that would alert them as to their next step.
Willie relied on her acting skills to present a strong and confident front, although she was most certain Simon and perhaps even Phin saw through her facade. In truth, she was scared spitless. She had sent a message to Strangelove informing him that she was in possession of the ACC. She had not heard back. Did he not believe her? Had the transmission failed? Was he at this moment en route to meet her face-to-face? Surely he would not do so without warning. He would not want a confrontation with Simon. He would simply want the priceless, legendary compendium.
This moment, she had taken sanctuary in Simon’s library . . . along with Simon. Fletcher had made his opinion known regarding Willie’s “organized chaos” and was in the process of putting the master bedchamber to rights.
Let us keep the chaos to the library, shall we? he’d said with a sniff.
Whilst Simon sat at his desk tinkering with her Thera-Steam-Atic Brace in an attempt to make it even more effective, Willie pored over her journal trying to pen an exhilarating yet tasteful version of their adventure thus far. If they did not win the Triple R Tourney prize, she wished to contribute to their financial standing in her own way. Chronicling a tale that would captivate the whole of Great Britain might well ensure her job with the Informer, even after she disclosed her true gender and race. A long shot, but as a way of advancing a more utopian future, she had made a personal pledge to adopt a more optimistic outlook.
The telephone rang and Willie nearly catapulted from the pillow-laden sofa. She had provided Rollins with Simon’s telephone number as well as his address, although she had not mentioned Simon by name.
“Hello?” Simon said into the mouthpiece—ambiguous as they had discussed. “Miss Goodenough? Yes. Hold on.” Brow raised, he passed the receiver to Willie.
Holding Simon’s supportive gaze, she willed her hand not to tremble. “Miss Goodenough here.”
“Thimblethumper calling.”
“I’m glad. Good news?”
“There’s a skytown hovering southeast of London. Ask around for specific coordinates. Meet me at nine p.m. in the Vulcan Grogshop aboard the USS Enterprise.”
“Aye, but—”
“Don’t be late.”
• • •
“Eight oh five,” Phin said as he steered the Flying Cloud toward a pier floating alongside their appointed destination. “Unfashionably early.”
“Better safe than sorry,” Willie said, noting her dual timepieces. “Rollins sounded nervous and he was most adamant about punctuality.”
“Feeling anxious myself.” Simon squinted through his goggles at the transient skytown and the banner that declared this airborne mecca as The Milky Way. “I’m not crazy about you going into that pub alone.”
“The USS Enterprise is famous for its international captain and crew,” Willie said as she studied the collection of rigged airships. “Somewhat like the crew of the American courier ship the Maverick.”
“Captained by the Sky Cowboy,” Phin said as he docked. “Didn’t you interview him once?”
“I did,” Willie said, hugging herself against the frigid air.
“Tucker Gentry is a fugitive from justice,” Simon said, cringing at the thought of Willie mixing with a murderer.
“He’s an innocent man wrongly a
ccused of a hideous crime.”
“How can you be certain of his virtue?” Phin asked.
“I traced his memories.”
“Bloody hell,” Simon mumbled. Gentry had been a former US air marshal. He’d wrangled with heinous outlaws. The man was no stranger to mayhem and bloodshed. Surely his memories mirrored a gruesome battlefield.
“I merely meant that the USS Enterprise fosters a mixed clientele even more so than other digs in various skytowns. The Vulcan Grogshop is a popular watering hole for Freaks. I’ll be amongst my own kind.”
“Some of which could be the more dangerous faction of the Freak Fighters,” Simon pointed out.
“No more dangerous than the rabble-rousing Vics who board these skytowns looking for a hell-raising good time,” Phin said. “Don’t flash that piece I gave you, brainiac, but remember what it’s for.”
Willie frowned up at Simon. “You’re carrying a gun?”
“A Disrupter 29,” Phin answered for him. “A peashooter compared to what I’ve got holstered beneath my coat, but it’ll make a point. Give me your wrist,” he said to Willie.
“I see no need for a stun cuff,” she said.
“I do,” Simon said.
“You’re not going into that pub unarmed,” Phin said.
“Wear the cuff,” Simon said, “or I’m coming in with you.”
“In which case Rollins might spot you.” Scowling, she offered her left wrist to Phin. “I won’t have the two of you scaring him off.”
“Rollins has never met me,” Phin said. “I’d just be another face in the crowd.”
“Phin’s right,” Simon said. “Change of plan. I’ll lurk outside as agreed, but Phin’s going inside.” He raised a hand to cut off Willie’s counter. “Bend to reason, I beg you, or we’re shoving off here and now.”
She huffed but nodded and Simon breathed easier. “Thank you.”
Together they disembarked and navigated the swinging gangway that led to the largest of the five dirigibles—Jupiter 2. As usual on any skytown, they were met by a costumed greeter.
