Jeremiah Willstone and the Clockwork Time Machine

by Anthony Francis

  “I can see that,” Georgiana said. “If a gentleman eyed me, but then talked to Jeremiah, it would make me try all the harder—”

  “That what you did with Einstein?” Jeremiah said quietly.

  “It’s a good gambit,” Marcus said, “but it won’t work on everyone. In particular, if you’re playing a player, you need to go one level deeper—”

  “That what you’re doing now?” Jeremiah said, even more quietly.

  “No, I swear it,” Marcus said. “I followed you, I hit on you, I got you a room, and planned to go back to the NSA and have them come scoop you up . . . and then the package arrived. That really threw me, tossed out all of my assumptions about the mission . . . so when I did go back to the NSA, I convinced them to hold off, had them send me back to talk to you to find out more. Talk, understand. Things . . . things kind of went organically from there.”

  Jeremiah pursed her lips. “I want to believe you,” she said. “I really do. But what I don’t get is why they let you come back here and didn’t just burst down our doors. What possible reason—”

  And then she stopped. “The Prince Edward.”

  “Exactly,” Marcus said.

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Patrick said. “They know how we arrived. They saw it—the boy confirmed it—”

  “But they don’t know where the Prince Edward went after it disappeared,” Jeremiah said, “and Lord Christopherson must have the ZR-101 well and truly hidden if they haven’t simply taken it from him.”

  “That airship is really invisible, at least to anything we have,” Marcus said. “Since he showed it to us, the only sighting we’ve had was your airship. We’ve even scanned the skies around the Bay Area—that’s where he sent the package from. Nothing. We’ve got nothing—”

  “So the blackguard has guarded himself,” Georgiana said, “planned his approach so thoroughly he’s unassailable . . . but we’re clueless. Your superiors sent you back here hoping that we’d unwittingly divulge our airship’s location.”

  “That’s exactly it,” Marcus said. “I am being straight up with you.”

  “Goodness,” Patrick said. “I’m glad we didn’t ask you to stay around for our aerograph conversation—”

  “What?” Marcus said. “What conversation?”

  “Patrick, hush,” Jeremiah said. “He just wants to weasel it out of—”

  “I’m not trying to do that anymore, damn it,” Marcus said. He looked really hurt. “Jeri, I’m sorry, but what was I supposed to do? We didn’t know how bad Christopherson was, really—”

  “And you may still not,” Jeremiah said. “And your brass may not care.”

  “Exactly!” Marcus said. “I’m not naïve. You have an invisible airship. If you’ve even talked about its location, you all could be in danger.”

  “Why?” Jeremiah said.

  ———

  “Because,” Marcus said, “they’re listening.”

  31.

  The Siege of Room 221

  “THEY’RE LISTENING . . . right now?” Georgiana said.

  “Laser mike,” he said. “They can hear every word.”

  “And you bedded her knowing that?” Georgiana said. “You matahari are weird.”

  “Lady Westenhoq, please,” Jeremiah said, her eyes still fixed on Marcus, whose mouth quirked up. She shook her head. “So . . . you did lie about revealing our location,” she said, and a guilty flush spread over Marcus’s face. Interesting. “You naughty boy.”

  “Hang that, Jeremiah, who cares if he lied,” Patrick said. “If they’ve been listening, then they know all our plans. We have to go, right now—”

  “No,” Jeremiah said firmly. “Harbinger . . . fetch your aerograph.”

  “What?” Georgiana said. “We have to flee. We’ll be caught—”

  “Perhaps,” Jeremiah said, unslinging her blunderblast. “But I recall Natasha upbraiding me for dashing first and thinking later. Perhaps it’s time I started thinking like a general—and flipped the order. Harbinger, fetch your aerograph and go to the privy. The one behind me. Quick now.”

  She positioned herself with a good view of the doors as Patrick darted into the other room, retrieved the aerograph, and lugged it back. Once he was behind her, she stepped backwards, positioning herself outside the privy door.

  “Close it. Lock it. And call Birmingham,” Jeremiah ordered. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Warn him he’s sitting on an asset so valuable that this country is willing to deal with Lord Christopherson, even knowing he’s a danger—”

  “They can hear whispers,” Marcus said.

  Patrick opened his mouth to speak, then clenched his teeth and slammed the door.

  Jeremiah leaned back against the sink, considering.

  “What are you doing?” Marcus asked.

  “Warning my people,” Jeremiah said.

  “That won’t help,” Marcus said.

  “Won’t it now?” Jeremiah said. She was willing to end up in a cage if it meant the airship was still free. Then, a little more loudly, she said, “Lord Christopherson is a blackguard. All of us risked our lives getting here. We’re all willing to die to try to stop him. We aren’t your enemies.”

  “That really won’t help,” Marcus said. “They will ignore anything you say, anything you do, until they’ve caught you and locked you down. Then, and only then, will they try to sort things out. That’s how it works. That’s the protocol—”

  “How perfectly patriarchal,” Georgiana said. “Stern fathers and all—”

  “That’s how they wish it will work,” Jeremiah said. “But we won’t roll over. Boy, you’ve—” betrayed us. But then she realized that depended on the premise that he was not a matahari just doing his duty, and instead on the idea that their encounter . . . had been real.

  “Skater boy,” Jeremiah said, a little more softly. “Were you telling the truth? Are you not a matahari? When you bedded me tonight—”

  Marcus’s eyes bugged. “I swear no one ordered me to be with you. No one even ordered me to follow you. I just went for a burrito, recognized you, and—and took the initiative,” he said. “After that . . . I thought, well, we hit it off.”

  “So did I,” Jeremiah said, a smile quirking the corner of her mouth, “but, if you were a matahari, creating that impression would just be part and parcel of your job, nay, your duty.” Jeremiah’s voice grew stern. “But if you’re not a matahari, you have betrayed my trust.”

  “I—I’m sorry, Jeri,” he said.

  Jeremiah winced. “One last time: Jer-eh-MI-yah. And your people may not know it yet, but Lord Christopherson means you all ill,” she said. “And you’ve helped him to carry out his plan. By the time your people have caught our airship, his will be halfway across the Earth.”

  “I’m sorry . . . Jeremiah,” he repeated.

  “Want to make it right?” she said.

  “I—I—” he began. “You can’t ask me to betray my country—”

  “Who’s asking that?” she asked. “If your country really didn’t ask you to bed me, where’s the betrayal? If your new mission is finding out what we’re up to, what’s the harm in playing along?”

  “I—” he repeated, then swallowed and nodded. “All right.”

  “Well then, get dressed,” she said. “Quick now.”

  “What’s the plan?” Georgiana asked, stepping up opposite him, sitting down on the table with a slight smile on her face as Marcus dressed.

  “If they are listening,” Jeremiah said loudly, “we’ll give them a chance to prove themselves. To show that they’re not immediately hostile.”

  The phone rang.

  Marcus froze, his pants on, not quite buttoned, shirt still in his hand.

  “Keep dressing,” Jeremiah said.

&n
bsp; “But I should—”

  “No, they won’t listen to you, and I have another task for you anyway,” Jeremiah said. “Georgiana, take the call.”

  Georgiana stepped over to the phone. Marcus pulled his white shirt on over that muscled, tattooed chest, then stepped up to Jeremiah. At no time while he’d been dressing had she taken her eyes or blunderblast off the door . . . no matter how much she’d wanted to.

  “Why don’t you think they’ll listen to me?” he began.

  Well, she didn’t quite think that—it was a bit of an exaggeration to keep him off the phone. She didn’t want him talking directly to them, giving away position and armament with a hidden code. But, still . . . she’d put thought into it, and it wasn’t a complete lie.

  “You mentioned your superiors dismissed your claims of having seen a girl—me—in the airship because of your reputation,” she said. “Not as a matahari . . . but as someone who falls so hard for pretty young things that one could imagine him conjuring one out of the air.”

  “The word Zenta used was ‘horndog,’” Marcus said.

  “Greetings, this is Room 221,” Georgiana said delicately, holding the phone as close as she could to her ear without shorting out her wiring. “No, this is the Lady Georgiana Westenhoq, second Viscountess—no, I’m a guest in this hotel.”

  Georgiana listened, then glared. “Marcus is indisposed at the moment,” she said. “May I tell him who’s calling?”

  “Marcus,” Jeremiah said, whispering into his ear. He jumped a little when her lips brushed his ear. “If you really mean to help us . . . upend the table and put it in front of the window. Then take the chairs, brace the table with one, then block the door with the other. Quick now—I promise I won’t shoot you in the back.”

  “It won’t—”

  “Help or get out,” she said, never taking her blunderblast off the door.

  Marcus wavered, then he darted forwards, tightened the blinds a bit, and turned up the round table. It didn’t go as high as Jeremiah wanted, so he pushed up one squishy chair and then stacked the table atop it, leaning on the blinds.

  “Good man,” she said, as he wedged the other chair under the knob.

  “This won’t help,” Marcus said, stepping back to stand beside her; she glared and jerked her head, and he backed up against the opposite wall, where he could not easily reach her weapon. “They have battering rams. They can take the other door—”

  “This only needs to last long enough for Patrick to make his report,” Jeremiah said, nodding her head at Georgiana. “They’re playing games . . . which means they’re up to something.”

  “But why won’t you tell me who you are?” Georgiana said, still pleasantly. “I’m sure if you’re a friend . . . now, hang on, how did you get this room number?” There was a pause, and her voice grew crisp. “Now you’re just insulting my intelligence, sir. I know you’ve been listening to our conversation. It was a comment by the Commander that prompted this call.”

  Then she scowled and put her hand over the handset’s microphone. “They are now being deliberately obtuse,” she said. “Playing games is right.”

  “They’re trying to keep us talking,” Marcus said.

  Jeremiah thought things through quickly. The most important thing that they had to do was warn the Prince Edward before it was captured. The second most was retaining freedom of action against Lord Christopherson. And they already knew someone was going to be captured.

  “Harbinger!” she called. “How goes it?”

  “Tubes almost warm,” he said. “One more minute!”

  “I didn’t need them hearing a deadline,” she muttered, then barked, “Vallejo!” Marcus jumped at that, so Vallejo was likely his real name. She asked, “Your NSA. Is it civil?”

  “What?” Marcus said.

  “Civil. Civilized. Code Napoleon Revisee, and all that?” Jeremiah said. “Can I expect your men and women to treat my men and women well?”

  Georgiana looked over at her sharply, then glanced at the phone, picked it up, and, trailing a helical cord, walked over to her purse.

  “What?” Marcus repeated. “Yes. I mean, you get due process. Even if you were terrorists . . . it’s after the election. Worst you can expect is to end up in a small cell with your hands cuffed to a table enduring some harsh language.”

  “Very good,” Georgiana said, withdrawing her barkers from her bag and charging them up. “I can handle a little harsh language. I know what to do.”

  “Good woman,” Jeremiah said, as Georgiana crouched down behind the bed.

  “What are you going to do?” Marcus said.

  “Give them two targets to chase,” Jeremiah said. “Harbinger. Georgiana will give covering fire as long as she can; after that, you’re on your own. If you can, escape, and meet us . . . at Tesla’s playground.”

  “I understand,” Patrick said.

  “What?” Georgiana said. “Oh! The—”

  “Listening,” Jeremiah hissed. “Marcus . . . thank you for your help. This is where we part ways. It’s been fun. I’m sorry I accused you of betraying us; you were put in a very difficult position.”

  “But I did betray you,” Marcus said. Abruptly he pulled her very close, and she very nearly shot him. But his hand remained on her waist, and he whispered very quietly in her ear, “I still want to make it right.”

  “How?” she whispered back.

  “Give them more than two targets to chase,” he said.

  “But . . . they won’t chase you, Marcus,” Jeremiah said.

  “Trust me,” he said, releasing her and retrieving his board.

  “Look, Marcus,” she said. “As much as I want to, I can’t—”

  But then it was decided for them, as a brilliant light shone against the window, making the table and chair glare in sharp relief.

  “National Security Agency!” roared an impossibly loud voice. “Everyone in there, drop your weapons and freeze! You’re surrounded!”

  ———

  The door suddenly surged inward under a heavy blow, the curtains burst open, showering the bed with glass—and a heavy metal canister landed among the shards, spinning and smoking and filling the room with noxious gas.

  32.

  Woman, Warriors

  WITHOUT MISSING A beat Marcus dove forwards, seized the canister, and threw it back out the window, trailing a ghastly green smoke in its wake. Coughing, he fell back, but Jeremiah leapt past him, on the bed, forwards onto the chair, flipping the safety catch of her blunderblast, and spraying lightning out through the hole in the window.

  “Jeezus,” Marcus said, as blinding actinic light flared through the room, and bodies thudded to the catwalk outside. “That’s a hell of a gun—”

  Jeremiah caught a whiff of the green smoke and coughed, flinching—and bullets, actual bullets, whizzed through the space where her head had just been. Reflexively she back-flipped off the chair in a hail of ceiling tile, bounced off the bed, and dove through the suite door with the blunderblast held at her gut. She rolled upright just in time to slam the butt of her blunderblast into the chin of a stunned guard who’d broken down the door of their second room.

  As he tumbled out the shattered door, she popped the spent canister on the blunderblast and loaded her last one. She had to be better at conserving her shots, but it was so damn useful to take out an entire swath of enemies with one go.

  Canister in, and not a second more to waste. She sprinted for the door.

  Jeremiah rammed the already battered door at speed with her shoulder, and it fell outward onto the catwalk, ringing against the railing. She ran up on the door like a ramp, catching through her blinking, smoke-stung eyes the briefest glimpse of a dozen police carts arrayed through the lot, lights whirling red and blue across the other carts and hotel like a whirlpool
of fireworks.

  Ammo preservation be damned, she raised the blunderblast, discharged it, and swept the blast of lightning across the whole of the lot like a firehose. Officers fell, lights failed, and carts died with a surge of sparks.

  Right, the catwalk was a tumble of black-suited bodies and helmets; left was clear, and she bolted down it at a run. Bullets—fewer than before—whizzed overhead, cracking windows as she ran. “Civilized, my pert arse,” she said, diving into the stairwell as bullets chewed up the vending Mechanical. “Bullets, acid gas—”

  “I’ve got the thing! I’ve got the thing!” Marcus cried, and Jeremiah glanced up from her cover to see him racing away from her in the opposite direction, carrying his skateboard under one arm and waving Georgiana’s satchel in the air with the other. “Help, help me, I’ve got the thing!”

  Jeremiah smirked. There was nothing of real value in Georgiana’s satchel, nothing, indeed, of value that they had that these future people needed. He was drawing more agents to his aid—and away from her, Patrick, and Georgiana.

  No time to waste. She drew out her grapple, aimed, fired, hooked it to the pale yellow wood of the construction scaffold, then swung over and landed in a crouch on the creaking planks in a sudden cloud of sawdust.

  Jeremiah smiled, rose to her feet, and ran, swinging up the grapple and retracting it as she went. She was low on ammo, her eyes were stinging, and her lungs were tight from that whiff of foul smoke—but she’d eluded them.

  A black-uniformed, shaggy-haired figure landed on the catwalk in front of her.

  “I told them you wouldn’t be that easy to catch,” Simeon said.

  Instinctively, Jeremiah whipped the grapple out, snatching his gun away. It fell and discharged, loosing a round into the scaffolding with an angry bark. He jerked his hand towards his vest, flicking out a holdout weapon, but Jeremiah kicked it away too. Simeon screamed, dropped to one knee, and shot his hand to his boot, but Jeremiah cartwheeled forwards, kicking at his head.