by Andy Gavin
“All travelers are related,” she says. “But don’t worry, I’m sure it’s distant. Anyway, your grandparents were third cousins and you turned out fine. We sometimes marry normals to mix things up.”
Like Mom.
“Not to mention,” she says, “the Tocks don’t leave many travelers to choose from.”
I feel a little better. But I can almost hear Yvaine’s voice in my ear saying Dinna worry, Charlie, and it makes me miss her so much I change the subject.
“What’s the Tick-Tocks’ deal?” I ask. “Why do they hate us?”
She grabs her head with both hands and twists savagely. I cringe, but she seems pleased with the resulting neck pop.
“Your dad has some new theory he’s working on, but it boils down to the Tocks showing up because travelers messed with history. Karmic pest control, if you will. That’s why the family motto is Man is not God. Our parents beat into our heads that we should only observe, never change.”
“So why are you helping Joe’s rebels?”
She grins ear to ear. “I was never big on rules. That’s Fink’s department. And motto or no motto, slavery is wrong.”
“Will Dad be mad at you?”
“He’ll get over it. Besides, not all travelers think that way. There’s a whole group that used to believe in changing the timeline.”
“Used to?”
“Fink makes a big thing of it, calls them manipulators because they changed things and maybe worked with the Tocks. But like us, they’re mostly dead.”
“I don’t think I get it.”
“Me neither.” Aunt Sophie rearranges herself on the couch. “Speaking of Fink, tell me exactly what his letter said.”
“He’s stuck in Shanghai, 1948.” I give her the details.
“Even if we rescue your girl,” she says, “hell if I know how all three of us are going to get back to 1948.”
“There’s no way I can take both of you downtime together?”
I’m pretty sure I know the answer, but I want to be sure.
“If you bring me, you’ll just leave Yvaine stranded here. Then in China, since I can only take either you or your father, it’ll just be the same situation but with two guys instead of two girls.”
“Who gets left behind if I open a time-hole while both of you are touching me?”
She shrugs. “It’s kind of random.”
“They can’t jump in the hole afterward?” I ask.
“Suicide, Charlie.”
“You sure?”
“Saw someone try it.” She makes an ugly face. “They went into the void and never came out.”
And that was one of my better ideas. I’m guessing that leaves Plan B, but I don’t think she’ll like it.
“That doesn’t seem to be true of the Tick-Tock’s hole,” I say. “My first time, I followed one from the Philly I grew up in to London two hundred years back.”
It’s not easy to surprise my aunt, but the look on her face is incredulous.
“You jumped in a Tock’s hole?”
I grin. “Yvaine thought it was crazy too.”
Aunt Sophie kicks one leg up onto the back of the couch — good thing she never wears skirts.
“The Tick-Tocks and us both open time-holes,” she says, “but Fink thinks the Tocks use a different mechanism. Their holes last longer and they dial in their destination before they start chiming.”
Here goes.
“We’re pretty much agreed,” I say, “that Tick-Tocks are literally time machines, right?”
“Sentient, mobile, deadly time machines.”
“And you said electricity could knock one out?” She nods. “So if we stunned a Tick-Tock, maybe we could just dial up Shanghai, 1948, open a hole, and jump back.”
Down come the legs and off the couch comes Sophie, who starts pacing.
“Jesus, Charlie, there are so many things wrong with that idea.”
“Such as?”
She jabs a finger at me. “First, it’s dangerous as hell — the shock only puts them out for a few minutes. Second, there are no electrical transformers in this present — the Tocks have seen to that. Third, they only show up when you don’t want them.”
I’m tempted to jab a finger right back at her, but I only have two points.
“This Lord Proprietor guy seems to have a Tick-Tock working for him. And I know a little something about electricity.”
I tell her how Leyden jars work.
“They’re all about the high voltage,” I say. “If we chain a couple big ones together we can deliver tens of thousands of volts — just once.”
“Well, then,” Sophie says, “if you’re right about the Lord Proprietor’s Tock, we can be pretty sure where he’ll be.” Her fists are balled on her hips and the scar on her face stands out against her fair skin. She’s pumped.
“Tocks know damn well we travel in pairs,” she says. “There’s nothing they like better than to grab one, then wait for the other to trot in like a lamb to the slaughter.”
We get to working out the details.
Chapter Twenty-Four:
Empire
Philadelphia, April, 2011
THE PLAN IS, WELL, ZANY.
The three of us — Sophie, Parvati, and me — pose as pickle vendors. Parvati doesn’t totally understand what we’re up to, but the pickle thing was her idea. Salt water helps boost the capacity of batteries, and when I started testing my Leyden jars it reminded her of pickling back home. Thankfully, having our brine-filled capacitors packed with spicy Indian pickles doesn’t seem to interfere with holding a charge.
The security team at the palace strip-searches us, studies our forged Identikeys, inspects every molecule of our stuff, and makes us all eat a pickle from each jar. Good thing these little gherkins are small. I’ll burp salty vinegar for hours as it is.
The giant pickle jars are installed in the back of a street vendor cart with a clockwork pedal-powered unicycle up front and sideboards painted with colorful cartoons of a pickle-chomping monkey god. All three of us are wearing cheesy Indian costumes — when I saw myself in the mirror, I looked like a pale-faced Aladdin with orange hair. But wheeling our pickle cart into the circus atmosphere of the ballroom, we blend right in.
The hall is already chaotic, and the guests haven’t even shown up yet. Lush fabrics and gold swag cover every surface, tables are piled with party favors, the staff includes costumed Chinese in silk robes, highlanders in kilts, Arab sheiks, African tribesmen, Indians of both the dot and tepee variety — you name it and it’s here.
A full dozen Indian elephants, complete with gold-turbaned riders, wander the periphery, contributing an odor to the place that’s not exactly celebratory. Live peacocks roam free while hundreds of exotic birds and miscellaneous creatures squawk, roar, or howl from silver cages placed around the room.
Being part of the Indian contingent, we establish our little pickle station not far from the tiger cages.
The big cats are, after all, part of the plan.
“There he is!” Sophie points across the room.
The Tick-Tock’s easy to spot, all crisp and in focus in his blue outfit. He looks shorter and heavier than I remember.
“I don’t think that’s Rapier — the one from the prison.”
Sophie chuckles. “Your dad and I never gave them names, but we’ve seen a couple different types.”
“Are they individuals or models?”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Individuals, I hope to God. We’ve never seen two of the same together.”
“The other one in France, with the rifle, he’s Longshot. This guy’s more than a foot shorter.”
“I’ve seen this tubby bucket-of-bolts before,” she says. “He forced your father downtime while a huge one with a broadsword chased me. But I hopped an hour into the future and gave him the slip.”
“A two-handed sword like the Kurgan? Let’s call that one Claymore!”
Sophie chuckles. She’s the only other action movie fan in t
he family.
“What’s this Tubby packing?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I couldn’t see. He was fast.”
It bugs me that Rapier/Fusée might be lurking around somewhere. The last thing we need is a second Tick-Tock popping up.
“What if Tubby sees us?” I ask.
“Stay close, and be on the lookout for your girl. He’ll be waiting for our move. This is a chess game. He knows the two of us can come and go as we please, but he also knows we want her.”
I guess that’s true. My cooldown came off yesterday, so I’m free to travel, and Sophie’s is too short even to worry about.
“Parvati?” Sophie touches her on the shoulder left bare by her pink and yellow sari. “There’s your target. The stocky guy in the official uniform by the ostrich cage.”
“Who?”
“Concentrate,” Sophie says. “Between the flightless bird and the koalas.”
“The pudgy guy?” Parvati says. “I didn’t notice him.”
“Tubby. He’s not very memorable. Focus on the blue and silver uniform. Point him out for me.”
Her brow furrows. “Tubby’s my target,” she mutters.
“How come she can remember his nickname?” I ask Sophie.
“I’m not sure. But it’s not a real name, it’s a description if you think about it. You know, like when people can’t remember a name they sometimes use a title, the way Joe calls me Major.”
“There’s a lot we seem unsure about.”
She nods. “Keeps us on our toes.”
Turns out Tubby is on Yvaine duty.
She enters the ballroom by a small door near the kangaroos, part of a line of ten other girls all roped together by silver cord, all dressed in skimpy silver camis and tiny silver shorts — silver being the theme for decorations, attire, everything celebrating the king’s Silver Jubilee. The group is even wearing Yvaine’s preferred footwear: none.
I can’t believe I have the self-control just to watch. For the moment.
A handler leads them to a long table. Tubby follows and settles into a nearby seat to watch. His clockwork head swivels toward us, then returns to Yvaine.
The urge to go to her is so strong it’s like a physical tug, like if I’m not careful, I’ll be dragged across the room banging into tables all the way. But I know our only hope is sticking to the plan.
Yvaine’s handler helps the girls up on the table. One by one, they crawl and twist into odd and suggestive positions, as if following a well-drilled procedure. Yvaine is soon all but lost in the tangle of limbs, but Tubby being not five feet away makes her easy to track. A line of more modestly silver-clad slaves comes in, bearing platters heaped with exotic fruits they arrange around and on top of Yvaine’s pile of girls.
“I’ve always been partial to fruit,” Sophie says, but the quip seems forced. “Parvati, see where Tubby is? That’s the spot.”
We have to keep reminding Parvati, who keeps tugging at her sari. Up until today, the only thing I ever saw her wear was fatigues.
Guests in elaborate neon-colored costumes are starting to filter into the room. Our plan — really our tack-on to Joe’s plan — requires the king to be present and the party in full swing. I stare at the visible bit of Yvaine, just an arm, shoulder, and a touch of blond. If she sees me, she gives no indication. At least she’s alive and, as best I can see — which isn’t saying much — hasn’t been treated too badly.
I tell myself she’s a tough girl.
When the king shows up, there’s a lot of trumpet blowing, cheering, and the like. But really it’s just a loud yet brief interruption in the already underway festivities. I can’t see the king himself but I can tell where he is by the way the crowd revolves around his position in the room.
Meanwhile, we scoop pickles into bowls and hand them to disinterested partygoers passing our cart.
“You better get into position.” Sophie gives Parvati a quick hug. “Work the tables near Tubby and get on him fast as soon as Joe makes his move.”
“How is a strip of fabric going to hold him long enough for you to get over there?” she asks — again.
“To him, silk isn’t any different than steel.” My aunt’s looking more at me than her lover. “He can’t move anything in phase, that’s the key. Well, that and surprise.”
Parvati sighs at what little of that she understood, straps little cymbals onto her fingers, and takes up her long silk scarf. She slides through the crowd until she’s about halfway between us and Yvaine, then begins her routine.
I watched her practice all week, but I can’t say it helped.
“Belly dancing just isn’t her calling,” Aunt Sophie says.
Parvati works the party, swaying back and forth, draping people with her thin pink scarf. What noise her finger instruments make is completely lost in the hubbub.
“Any moment now,” Sophie says.
I look through the crowd, paying particular attention to the animal cages. Joe is nowhere in evidence, but scattered around I see faces from the rebel base.
Parvati wasn’t the only Indian hiding out with us. There were more than a dozen, mostly guys in turbans, and now I spot several of them riding atop the elephants. They’ve been slowly touring the edges of the room all evening, offering rides to lords and ladies.
But now someone blows a whistle, and everything changes.
In a flash, the four exit doors swing shut and four enormous gray forms lie down to block them. The guests go crazy. The remaining elephants plunge through the crowd to block entrances to other parts of the building.
Let’s just say that at a party, a stampeding pachyderm is cause for screaming.
Then Joe’s people let loose the cats.
A nearby man screams as a lion brings him down. Animals and people scatter everywhere. We’re talking total chaos.
Tubby holds his position, scanning the room, but Parvati approaches behind him. She loops her long pink scarf over him and cinches it tight across his arms, pinning them to his sides.
“Go!” Sophie says.
We sprint toward Yvaine and the Tick-Tock. The Tock thrashes about, but Parvati does as she was told and hangs on, tying a knot behind him. Unable to move her, he’s trapped.
For now.
It’s only a twenty-second run to Yvaine, but the scene is utter pandemonium. Nearby, a hissing ostrich has cornered a group of diners. A crazed chimpanzee on a table to my right shovels food into his mouth.
Sophie shoulders people aside like a pro football player, then makes a flying leap toward Parvati and the Tick-Tock. As soon as they touch, I see the briefest flash of starry white void. She and the Tock rise into the in-between.
“Where’d they go?” Parvati says.
I don’t answer because I’m running towards Yvaine. This morning, Joe convinced me to carry a stopwatch. Fifteen minutes. That’s all we’ve got.
Chapter Twenty-Five:
Rescue
Philadelphia, April, 2011
THE BUFFET THAT INCLUDES YVAINE is already coming apart by the time I reach her. I hurl a platter of grapes to the floor and lift my girl up out of the mess.
Her eyes look huge in her face, which is a mask of smeared makeup.
“Charlie?”
I kiss her, very gently. She feels warm, feverish almost, her skin slicked with sweat.
“You comed for me,” she says, but her voice sounds funny, slurred even.
I hold her by the shoulders and take a good look at her. She’s lost some weight, and her neck’s scabbed over.
“You’re high!”
“They maked me.” The dreamy tone of her voice is terrifying. “Held us down at first, but it feels so good.”
Behind her, one of Joe’s men skewers a red coat with a serving fork. I can’t feel the slightest bit of pity for him, not after what they’ve done to her.
Yvaine strokes my face. “Other fools have tried t’do worse by me.”
I check my watch. Thirteen minutes left. The silver cord around her
waist has her tethered to the pile of fellow slaves.
“We have to hurry,” I say.
“It be sewed into me smallclothes,” she says.
I tug on the cord. It’s not like a steel cable or anything, but I’m not going to be able to cut it without some kind of tool.
I grab her waistband and tug her shorts down and over her feet. Little did I imagine the second time I got her pants off would be in front of two-thousand people.
Fortunately, she’s wearing a silver thong underneath. A couple of her buffet-mates take a card from our deck and start wriggling out of their shorts too. I figure the more distraction the better — not that there isn’t already plenty.
Injured people lie everywhere. The mauled, the trampled, whatever. A group of guards tries to form up in the middle of the room, but Joe’s men scatter them with elephants.
They won’t allow any guns inside, he told me yesterday, so when we turn their amusements against them, they’ll be defenseless.
I shudder. This isn’t something I want to be a part of, even if it is part of the pattern of history, according to Aunt Sophie. If our plan works, it’ll all change anyway. In this history, millions didn’t die in the World Wars — but in mine, we abolished slavery. Who the hell knows which is really for the better?
Yvaine stumbles and I pull her up.
“We have to hurry,” I say.
“The juice be wearin’ off, makes me so tired.”
As it happens, we’re standing right next to a coffee and tea station. I snatch up a whole coffee pot — lukewarm by now — and hand it to her.
“Drink as much of this as you can.”
She makes a decent go of chugging it. Coffee dribbles from her chin and beads off the shiny top to trickle across her belly.
I glance at my watch, then at the pickle cart nearby.
“Where be the Tick-Tock?” Yvaine says between gulps.
“They’ll be back soon, and we have to be ready.”
She flings the coffee pot away. But it’s practically empty.