by Beth Ciotta
He realized suddenly that Jules was not on his heels but lumbering behind. Damn the injury that had left his brother with a stilted gait. Pretending not to notice, Simon paused and jammed a hand through his wind-ravaged hair. “The Flying Cloud is a flying death trap.”
“Yet Amelia would have utilized that death trap in order to join in the race without a second thought.”
“The only reason I took the damned thing.”
Jules clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a good man.”
Simon’s conscience twinged. Their father was dead due to his arrogance. How good could he be? “I’m a lunatic, clearly. But at least Amelia is grounded and safe at Ashford with Mother.”
“Let us hope she stays there.” Jules squeezed past him and into the cavernous hangar.
Simon glanced over his shoulder, noted the murky silhouette of the city’s edge, the buildings cloaked in a wintry gray and the persistent haze from the countless smokestacks and culminating fumes of ground transportation and industrial factories. Had Project Monorail flourished, pollution would have diminished by at least a third. Resentment churned as he turned away from his failed vision.
Moving into the aero-hangar, he noted two sizable dirigibles, one in complete disarray. He expected their friend to emerge from behind the exposed steam engine, tools in hand, grease smearing his face, but there was, in fact, no sight or sound of the crack machinist. “Where’s Phin?”
“Somewhere over Yorkshire,” Jules said as they sidestepped scattered engine components and cluttered work areas. “Last-minute booking.”
Retired military, Phin was not only a skilled machinist but a bloody impressive pilot. He’d been operating a private aero-repair and charter business for two years, and making a damned fine living. Simon followed his brother into the man’s cramped but tidy office. Shoulders tense, Simon shrugged out of his greatcoat whilst Jules helped himself to Phin’s brandy and poured them both a glass.
Simon drank to warm his chilled bones. He assumed Jules indulged to subdue his chronic pain—not that the proud man ever admitted the need for medicinal spirits. Instead Jules allowed his friends and acquaintances, as well as their mother, to believe his fondness for liquor and various drugs was rooted soundly in hedonism. As he was a novelist—a science fiction writer no less—no one questioned his eccentric ways or decadent lifestyle. Indeed, they expected such folly from an artist. Out of respect for his brother’s dignity, Simon supported the illusion.
“I could not speak freely at Ashford,” Jules said.
“Because of Amelia?”
“Because of anyone.” Jules poured more brandy, then leaned back against the weathered chair, glass in hand. “You said you had information pertaining to the clockwork propulsion engine.”
“Not precisely. But I know where to find specific instructions on how to build the clockwork propulsion engine.”
“The Aquarian Cosmology Compendium?”
Simon nodded. The sole and elusive journal that included designs and notes compiled by the scientific faction of the time travelers, known as Mods. “Amongst other scientific data, that compendium supposedly contains details regarding the dimension-hopping heart of Briscoe’s time machine, as well as the Peace Rebels’ Briscoe Bus.” The vehicle that had enabled the Mods to time travel.
“So you intend to find the legendary compendium and replicate the engine? Your engineering skills are exceptional, Simon. I’ve no doubt that, presented with the design, you could construct a working model, yet—”
“It would be a replication, not a historical find. Hence my plan.” Simon leaned forward and lowered his voice even though they appeared to be alone. “If I build the clockwork propulsion engine to Briscoe’s specifications, I can test it. Utilizing a time machine of my own construction, I’ll travel back to 1856 and pinch the Briscoe Bus’s original clockwork propulsion engine and then return to our time to collect our due fame and fortune. Other than Briscoe’s time machine, surely the Peace Rebels’ time machine is the invention of unparalleled significance and will therefore win the Triple R Tourney.”
“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?”
