Jeremiah Willstone and the Clockwork Time Machine

by Anthony Francis

  “You suggest a reconnaissance mission, sir?” Jeremiah said hopefully.

  “Yes,” he said. “A small recce, light on your feet. Two, no three men and women, including yourself—and take Lady Westenhoq with you. As for the Sergeant’s concerns, we will have to gamble that the Mahican aristocracy is as well regarded in this time as it is in ours—”

  “But sir,” Jeremiah said, stricken, “Lady Westenhoq is injured—”

  “Just a cracked tube and a little cut,” Georgiana said weakly.

  “Then get her to infirmary and get her patched,” Birmingham said.

  “But sir,” Jeremiah said. “She’s not a field agent—”

  “She did fine with Einstein,” Birmingham said.

  “That was Austria,” Jeremiah said, “not another time—”

  “Don’t argue,” Lord Birmingham said crisply. Then his tone softened. “Commander, I am aiming for you to have every advantage. If we are a century in the future, then you may need knowledge currently restricted to the Peerage.”

  Jeremiah scowled. “Yes, sir.”

  “Lady Westenhoq,” Birmingham said, “I expect you to respect your vow to the Peerage and to protect its secrets—but if you deem it necessary, as you did with Professor Einstein, I deputize you to share with the Commander or her team anything you need to.”

  “Yes, Lord Birmingham,” Georgiana said, trying to marshal herself.

  Jeremiah squeezed Georgiana’s hand. “Buck up, dear friend,” she said. “Sergeant! Take Lady Westenhoq to infirmary and get her patched up. Waste no time; have a Ranger collect the tubes she needs—and a field kit of spares—and another fetch her necessaries from her quarters.”

  “Yes, Commander,” Natasha said, taking Georgiana’s hand.

  “So, Commander,” Patrick said, folding his arms, even as Birmingham glanced at him, then Jeremiah. “Who fills out your team?”

  “Kind of you to ask,” Jeremiah said, catching Birmingham’s eye and returning a brief nod of acknowledgement. Briefly she considered: she’d rather travel light, but with only one of the psychics on board, their long distance communication would be limited to cylinder flares—or an aerograph pack. “Gear up, Harbinger—you’re our aerograph man.”

  “Happy to be your packhorse,” Patrick said.

  Jeremiah turned about, slid down the railing again into the navigation trench. The angle afforded her was poor, so she hopped up on the table, oblivious to the crunching enamel beneath her heels. Looking to the left and right behind them, she soon spied what she wanted.

  “Lord Birmingham,” she said. “Lower us, take us over that short, well, shorter tower at our five o’ clock. It has what looks like a fire escape; we’ll disembark on its roof by rope ladder and make our entry to the city there.”

  As she started to bolt past him, Lord Birmingham took her arm and spoke in low tones. “Commander, thank you for taking my direction, but I would have a word with you before you go.”

  “Forgive me, sir,” she muttered, “for speaking out of turn—”

  “Forgotten already,” Birmingham said. “I wish to remain in lockstep, though—”

  “Of course, sir, but we have mere moments,” Jeremiah said, tugging at his huge metal gauntlet. “A brief window before we’re cut to pieces by those flying machines—”

  “I’ll walk with you,” Birmingham said, releasing her and following her out of the bridge. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in the field, but I certainly can help you arm while we talk—”

  “With respect, sir,” she said, “shouldn’t you remain on the bridge, to command—”

  “We have intertubes for that,” he said, “and shouldn’t we stay on the same page?”

  “Thank you, sir,” Jeremiah said—then smiled. “But really, sir—walk, with me?”

  “Oh, I can run.” Birmingham rapped a metal knee. “Faster than you, I wager.”

  Jeremiah glanced back at the old bear of a man, whose eyes glinted. “You’re on!” .

  ———

  Without waiting for him, Jeremiah slid down the rails of the stairs and darted down the narrow triangular gallery of the port service corridor at a dead run—Birmingham’s heavy, mechanically-assisted tread pounding not far behind.

  14.

  Gear Up For Battle

  “I—I HAVE NEVER,” Birmingham gasped, trying to catch his breath even as his mechanically-assisted kneebenders kept him stomping along on an even pace right behind Jeremiah, “never seen a mode of transport anything like what we used today.”

  “Nor I,” Jeremiah said, ducking a strut. Their race had lasted just moments, before an aeronaut proctor had rightly chastised them for the risk of sparks rising from their heels, but they were still making good time towards the armory. “Quite the ride.”

  “Lady Westenhoq delivered, but delivered us here,” Birmingham wheezed. He marshaled himself, voice grave. “Not at all where she expected. This unexpected turn of destination has spawned in me the gravest of doubts about Lady Westenhoq’s assessment of its nature.”

  “You have a better guess?” Jeremiah asked.

  “No,” Birmingham said. “For that I need more information.”

  “Hence, the urgent recce when we’re under fire,” Jeremiah said.

  “Yes,” Birmingham said, again wheezing a bit. “Dame . . . Dame Alice thought this device might be a demagnetizer with some kind of precognitive effects. If so, who knows what kind of mesmeric influence plugging the thing into our own airship might have put us under.”

  “You don’t seriously believe—”

  “I need to reserve judgment?” Birmingham said hoarsely. “Bloody hell, you young pup, yes I do. I need you to be on your guard and on the lookout. Don’t take what Lady Westenhoq says for granted. Remember, her judgment nearly lost you a finger in Shanghai.”

  “Did lose me a finger,” Jeremiah said, wriggling her left pinkie, with a cockiness she didn’t quite feel, “but fortunately, as you can see, she did find it again.”

  The port armory was a heavily durawalled chamber nestled between the narrow bladders of two of the Prince Edward’s helium firebrakes. She wrenched open the hatch and slid down its narrow steps into a room papered in fireproof, blastweave-threaded parchment.

  To save them weight, the room had been half emptied of its normal stores. Jeremiah slipped out two large packs and a small purse and began calling out requests to Birmingham, who pulled weapons and cylinders down and began filling the packs efficiently.

  Quickly Jeremiah turned to her autocycle, strapped onto the wall next to her blunderblast. She pulled out the pack the Elder Moffat had made for her, swapping two of the replacement discharge tubes out (so all her eggs were not in one basket) for two additional cylinders (for a little extra ammo never hurt). She took a leather case large enough to fit an older-model blunderblast and slipped it over the newer, sleeker Maxwell Electric Repeater that Harbinger had practically given her: with the additional banding, the older case was almost a perfect fit.

  “You’ve quite taken to that,” Patrick Harbinger said, stepping into the room in his traveling suit, Faraday vest, and safari helmet, looking . . . quite sharp, even with the bulk of a portable transponding aerograph pack slung over his shoulder. “I should give that to you.”

  “Yes, you should,” Jeremiah said. “Check your pack.”

  And with that she checked her own sling satchel—a streamlined affair densely packed with water, rations, ammo cylinders, rope, and field gear—then patted herself down. Leather boots, knives in them, denim and leather pants, extra rope wound through the lacings, dress shirt reversible from light to dark, Faraday corset-vest with field notebook tucked in the pockets, side holsters for her Kathodenstrahls, and her long tailcoat, with its innumerable weapons and tools within—knives, lockpicks, screwdrivers, pr
ophylactics. Everything was found and accounted for.

  “Well, Jeremiah,” Georgiana said, stepping into the armory in a slit-front traveling dress over boots and pants and carrying a Faraday parasol that matched her own stylish Faraday corset, “have you everything you need? Armed and armored to the teeth?”

  “I believe so,” Jeremiah said, checking the small first aid kit she kept in her left pocket. She whirled, ensuring she hadn’t overly encumbered herself; then smiled. “Whether I’m to stab or be stabbed for the Queen, I’m ready.”

  “Is that a literal or metaphorical stabbing you’re prepping for?”

  “Or hoping for?” she replied with a grin.

  Birmingham harrumphed, but Georgiana giggled.

  “Let me look at you.” Jeremiah pulled back Georgiana’s sleeve to examine the bandage. It was quickly, but expertly done, and no blood had seeped through—a good sign. She tried to check Georgiana’s tubes, but the computer pushed her hand away. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes, mother hen, we’ve done this before,” Georgiana said.

  “Not like this,” Jeremiah said.

  “Sir!” came the Chartographer’s voice over the intertubes. “We’re almost over the target.”

  “Let’s get you to the boom,” Birmingham said.

  They crossed the Falconer’s deck to the starboard nacelle, where the launch operator was already outstretching the boom that would guide the end of the rope ladder so they wouldn’t be smashed against the buildings below.

  “Hurry,” the boomsman said. “We’ll be past in less than a minute—”

  “I’ll call the bridge and slow her down,” Birmingham said, reaching for an intertube.

  “With respect, sir, belay that,” Jeremiah said, quickly scanning the rooftop and devising a solution. “Boomsman! Swing me forwards, and I’ll hook the end of the ladder over the roof. Then you can play out more ladder, and that will buy us a minute on top of what we have.”

  Jeremiah seized an anchor line from the tackpanel and leaped out into space. Even with that slight twinge in her inner ear, she landed on the ladder expertly, wrapped her legs and crooked her elbow on the line, holding the rope ladder loose in her free hand as she slid down.

  Swinging through space, savoring whatever brief moments of flight that her sense of balance would tolerate, Jeremiah marveled at the buildings of the city: columns of stone and glass with nary a brick in sight, all climbing around her like looming colossi. Yet, despite that, the city had a surprising amount of green: scattered trees in the downtown nexus itself, larger stands of trees further out, and a great swath of forested park creeping along one of the major thoroughfares. More green than in Boston, in fact; these people seemed to be building primarily up.

  The building loomed close, and she tightened up, clipping the rope to the last rung of the ladder with a carabiner. They were still moving at a fair clip, so she unhooked her blunderblast case and clipped it to the rope too, before sliding down and landing on the roof with an expert tumble.

  Quickly she shook off her dizziness, tied off the rope, then retrieved her blunderblast. As the airship passed, Jeremiah seized the rope, leaned her weight against the line, and, between her and the boom operator, kept the end of the ladder over the roof while Patrick and Georgiana descended.

  Patrick landed with both boots on the gravel, turned, knelt, and extended his hands. Georgiana put one dainty buttoned boot into them, turned, and landed on his shoulder, and he lowered her to the ground, unhooking her parasol from the line.

  “How civilized,” Georgiana said, alighting with her parasol down like a cane.

  “Glad to be of service, ma’am,” Jeremiah replied, straining, playing out line as the Prince Edward dragged the ladder away, even as their packs descended the line on double carabiners. In moments their gear was down, and Jeremiah released the last of the anchor line into the sky.

  Jeremiah waved to the boomsman, eyes narrowing as she realized both he and the nacelle were already almost invisible; all you could see was the retracting boom disappearing into the murk, and beyond it a shimmer in the bright blue sky which hid the starboard fin of the Prince Edward. In moments, the rope ladder was whipped up inside it, disappearing seemingly as quickly as the tongue of a frog; then there was nothing. Not even a ripple.

  She had been right: a demagnetizer looked nothing like the curdled temporal ripples of her uncle’s machine. Whatever she saw when the Machine departed wasn’t the result of a “demagnetizer with a precognitive effect.” The Machine had done something else . . . something very real.

  Mesmeric effect, my pert arse, she thought. Birmingham had it backwards: a joint hallucination caused by plugging her uncle’s strange gear into the Prince Edward would be less dangerous than . . . than actual time travel. She would need to be on her guard indeed.

  “My word,” Georgiana said, stepping cautiously to the corner of the roof. Below them, not a block or two away, was a vast canyon, filled with absolutely the largest paved road Jeremiah had ever seen, an enormous river of black asphalt a full dozen lanes wide, filled with hundreds of sleek, shining autocarts positively zipping back and forth, more fast and numerous than any school of fish in a stream. “It appears Herbert was quite right about the roads.”

  “Look at how fast they go!” Harbinger said, pointing at a shiny red cart followed closely by a dark blue one topped with colorful flashing lights. “If the width and pace of these roads is a gauge of their courage, these people are quite formidable.”

  “Most impressive,” Jeremiah said, glancing around. “And exposed.”

  She found herself more alarmed than impressed; people milled the streets like ants, and the rooftop was visible from several nearby buildings, not to mention the thousands of windows in the glass canyons above. Her old friend, paranoia, was back.

  “Well, my friends, back in action,” Jeremiah said, rubbing her hands together to draw her compatriots’ attention and get them back on mission. “And a century on to boot! More people, faster autocarts, smoother roads perhaps are to be expected—”

  “But you never expect the unexpected,” Patrick finished for her.

  “Right on the nose,” Jeremiah said, shouldering her satchel and the blunderblast. “We need to get our bearings, and we definitely should get out of eyeshot of this roof, before someone who might have seen us disembark decides to come calling. Let’s move.”

  She led them to the end of the roof, to a dark external stair made of rough painted metal. The building was old, dirty, worn, but not as worn as the stair. Bird droppings, peeling paint, and spots of rust showed it was not normally trafficked. The painted-shut windows seemed to confirm it; Jeremiah caught brief glimpses of oddly-lit offices inside but quickly hurried on at the shocked looks on the faces of the workers within. In Victoriana she’d have expected traffic on these outer stairs; perhaps these fire escapes were only escape routes?

  What they found at the bottom confirmed it; nine stories down, there was a sliding ladder on springs, not quite reaching the ground, but when Jeremiah stepped onto it, it slid down, letting her hop off at the bottom onto a concrete sidewalk running parallel to an asphalt street.

  Jeremiah released the ladder after Georgiana and Patrick stepped off, staring up at the building’s eleven-story height. The entire building—small, old, dirty, and dwarfed by everything around it—was as tall as the Eyrie, the highest building in Boston.

  Even the dumps here were more impressive than anything in Victoriana.

  Mammoth buildings loomed around them, but the first thing Jeremiah was struck by was the smell, or lack of it. Clearly they had moved beyond horse-drawn carriages entirely, but not beyond a love of flora: even the concrete sidewalk of this side street had regular holes placed for a simply stunning amount of trees, more than you were ever likely to see outside of a forest.

 
“Smell that,” Georgiana said, drawing a deep breath. “A profound lack of dung—”

  “But plenty of engine fumes,” Patrick said. “Stings my nose—”

  “Review the atmosphere later,” Jeremiah said. “We need to move—”

  But Patrick and Georgiana still stood gobsmacked, turning, looking all around them at the vast towers, oblivious to the people who had seen them descend—a capped black man in a white shirt, an unsteady shambling mixed-race figure with a mane of grey hair, a briskly walking white woman in a too-short dress. Jeremiah found her paranoia growing.

  “We have to move,” she repeated, “quick now, before we’re noticed—”

  And just as she’d gotten them moving, she ran smack into a young girl.

  Jeremiah’s jaw dropped in shock. So did the girl’s. Jeremiah was stunned by her appearance: gold ring in her nose, hair slicked back into tiny braids threaded through multicolored beads, a tight patterned top that completely exposed her tattooed arms and muscled midriff, even tighter denims cut off at her thighs, and below it all, a huge pair of fuzzy boots that looked more appropriate to marching through cold nights in the tundra than under the hot southern sky.

  While Jeremiah gaped, the eclectic young girl recovered—and revealed she was just as stunned by Jeremiah’s appearance.

  “Oh, that’s bad-ass,” the girl said, running her hand over Jeremiah’s tailcoat, inspecting her vest, her leggings; then her eyes went to Georgiana, then Patrick, and she squealed. “And a black British soldier—and a Native American aristocrat! Awe-some mash-ups!”

  “A what?” Georgiana said. “Owe some mash a what?”

  “And I’m not from—” Patrick began.

  “And matching corsets,” the girl cried. “On the guy too! You guys are far out!”

  “That . . . yes, I think we perhaps are,” Jeremiah said.

  “Radical costumes,” the girl said. “Where did you get them?”