A Girl in Time

by John Birmingham

  She snorted in laughter and then felt badly for it because of the look on his face.

  “I am sorry if I have made a mistake,” he said. “But—”

  “No, no, you're good,” she said. “Hell, you're doing better than I would. To answer your question, no, I'm not a mechanic or a professor. It’d take more time than we have and more patience than I've got to explain what I do for a living. But, a sort of combination of mechanic and professor is close enough.”

  Smith seemed satisfied with that, and they resumed their trek. Cady had no idea where they were, and could not shake the compulsion to reach for her missing phone and open Google Maps.

  Of course doing something like that in Victorian London would probably end badly. She wouldn't be burnt for a witch or scooped up in some black ops extraordinary rendition program for walking around with alien technology, but she could imagine getting mobbed and beaten to death.

  “These guys who were chasing you, these apprentices,” she said trying a different approach, “do you have any idea where or when you ran into them? You said it was in a marketplace or something?”

  “I believe it was in Florence, ma'am. In the country which has lately taken to calling itself Italy.”

  Cady took a moment to process that. It had been a couple of years since she had done Western Civ in high school history. When had Italy become a thing? Not Rome, but the modern nation state, the home of pasta and Lamborghinis. Sometime in the 1800s, she thought. That would make it “lately” to Smith.

  Visibility was improving, not because the fog was thinning out; if anything it was growing thicker and harsher on the throat. She could actually taste a sulfurous essence to it. The system of street lighting was simply becoming more orderly and well-maintained. The elegant black lamp posts with their gently glowing gas lights were close enough together in this part of town that you could navigate from one lamp to the next without losing sight of either. The crowd, too, was less of a mob and more considerate of her personal space. The gentlemen in their long black coats and top hats, and the women rugged up against the chilly fog in capes and flowered bonnets smelled much better by virtue of not smelling of much at all.

  “Why Florence?” she asked. “I mean, why do you think you were there?”

  Smith grinned, happy to have a quick answer for her simple question.

  “Because I asked them.”

  Cady frowned, not satisfied with the response and for a moment, not sure why. And then it struck her.

  “Do you speak Italian? Or Florentine, or whatever they were talking?”

  Smith tipped his head to one side as if considering the problem for the first time.

  “I do not,” he said. “I suffered through the Latin mass in my younger years, but these folks were speaking good American.”

  “No they weren't,” said Cady, her excitement returning. “No way they were speaking … American, or English, to be a language nerd about it.”

  She pulled him out of the main flow of foot traffic into the entrance of a taxidermist. The interior was more brightly lit than the street outside, and she could see what looked like a small private zoo in there: stuffed tigers, a lion, even some sort of bear standing tall on its hind legs. Every wall was covered in mounted trophies and animal heads.

  “I guarantee you, Marshal, they were not speaking English,” she said, “or American, or whatever. They weren't even speaking Italian, not the way a modern Italian would.”

  Struggling through the crowds had kept them warm, and Cady shivered as the fog and the bone-chilling cold wrapped itself around her again.

  “The people in this city, in Florence, could you describe how they were dressed? Did you see anything like machinery? Steam-driven or gas-powered or anything like that?”

  Smith shook his head, but he did not look frustrated or disappointed.

  “I could not place the year and I'm sorry that I did not think to ask. My head was still not right at that time. I was confused and thought myself ready for the asylum. There was nothing like the newspaper I picked up in the tavern with today's date helpfully printed on the front page.”

  “Did you see any printed material?” Cady asked. “Anything like books or pamphlets or magazines or journals?”

  “No, nothing like that. And to answer your question, the folk I encountered were all dressed like players in a pantomime. It was like they wore costumes from the Middle Ages, the men in tights and curly boots, the women in ball gowns. The rich ones anyway. Beggars and vagabonds seem to dress in the same rags no matter what the year.”

  “Marshal, they weren't wearing costumes from the Middle Ages. They were just clothes, everyday clothes from that period. So, you were able to talk to them?”

  Smith nodded. “Like I'm talking to you. Like I spoke to the celestial merchants of Shanghai when I fetched up there once.”

  “And it never occurred to you that it was a little strange, everybody speaking your language?”

  He shrugged.

  “Everybody's always spoke American to me, and I've met plenty of continentals and celestials and Arabs from the Holy Land. Back in my own time and place, I mean. Frontier draws folk from all over, and it's a terrible handicap to them if they can't speak a word of our lingo.”

  “Yeah, but they learned it. I'm guessing everyone you've spoken to since you met Mr. Wu has spoken perfect English. Am I right?”

  “No,” he said, “not everyone.” He seemed very satisfied with being able to say no. Smith grinned at her as though he had caught her out with a marvelous prank. “Not you, Miss Cady. There are times I can't rightly make head nor tail of your fiddle faddle.”

  Her eyebrows knitted together as she tried to think through the significance of that, but she was too cold, too hungry, and it seemed a trifling concern for them to waste time on right then. Much more significant was the new data point she had.

  The watch wasn't just a time machine, it was some sort of universal translator.

  10

  “I'm afraid this is most irregular,” the jeweler protested.

  You don't know the half of it, pal, thought Cady.

  They had chosen the store because it looked respectable without being ridonkulously exclusive.

  Hamilton and Sons, Goldsmithing and Fine Jewelry enjoyed a prominent street frontage on the edge of the financial district, but not too prominent. Entry was negotiated via a door in a side street running off the main thoroughfare. The windows were clean, polished every day to afford an unrestricted view of Hamilton's chosen wares, but they were not the grand arched display windows of the larger and more notable dealers on the main stem. Hamilton himself, a stooped and balding man with a permanent squint in one eye received them in a small, private office away from his main showroom.

  “Mr. Givens, you say?”

  “Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens, Mr. Hamilton,” Smith corrected him, giving Cady reason to grin with delight and not a little admiration. The marshal impressed her recalling that tiny detail from their conversation back at the Spotted Goose. Surprised her too. She wasn’t expecting him to use an alias.

  She did not introduce herself, and Hamilton did not seem to care.

  “Marshal, I do not question your credentials,” Hamilton protested, although he had done just that a few seconds earlier, “but you have arrived here under a misapprehension. We do not buy and sell commodities. I deal in refined artifacts, sir. Gold, certainly, and silver, and gemstones too. But I do not trade in raw materials, only the finished objet d'art.”

  Cady worked hard at containing her annoyance, but all of the jeweler's objections and arguments seemed to flow over Smith like fresh water in a mountain stream. He smiled at Hamilton as if he knew the man was perfectly happy to make a deal, rather than professing outrage at the very suggestion.

  “And I am not proposing, sir, that your establishment should do anything other than the fine work it has carried on, lo these many years, and surely will for generations to come. I merely offer you the opportunit
y to continue your good work, which is spoken of, even in the salons of New York, as the very zenith of perfection in these arts.”

  Hamilton turned his squint on that statement with such a fierce air of scrutiny that Cady expected him to screw in one of those little eyeglasses these guys used and give Smith's bullshit an even closer going over.

  “New York, you say?”

  “And Chicago, sir,” Smith assured him. “Which, by the by, is how I come to your door seeking consideration. My sister married one of the largest cattle merchants in that city and seems determined to spend his fortune on frippery and ostentation. She has spoken fondly to me of her wish to one day visit England and to place within her possession such trinkets and baubles as she assures me can only be had from the house of Hamilton and Sons.”

  The old jeweler gave him a look that testified to his deep skepticism of the story, but also his appreciation of the effort that went into telling it.

  “I suppose I would not wish to incur the poor opinion of such a lady,” Hamilton said. “I cannot make any promises, Marshal Givens, but I suppose I might do you the courtesy of appraising your offer.”

  They left the jeweler a short time later, two nuggets lighter and three pounds richer. Smith also carried a hand-drawn map, courtesy of the jeweler, directing them to their next stop. It was late in the afternoon by then, getting on to four o'clock according to Smith's watch, and Cady had never been more appreciative of a thermal base layer.

  With real money to spend, they were able to accelerate their passage through the city. Smith offered to split the money with her.

  “Weren't mine to lay claim to, anyway, and you should have a roll, less'n we get separated. If'n we do, get yourself back to The Spotted Goose in Aldgate. That's our rendezvous.”

  She took a handful of confusing coins from the marshal and stashed them in the zippered pocket of her leather jacket, tucked in next to the can of mace. The marshal had probably seen his fair share of makeshift currencies and barter economics on the American frontier. Dickering with Victorian money didn't seem to bother him all. He considered three pounds a good deal.

  “Cool,” she said. “But why the fake ID? Raylan?”

  She playfully dug a knuckle in his ribs. He shooed her way, but gently.

  “Just taking due precautions, Miss Cady. Apprentices will be likely looking for us soon, if not already. No reason to make it easy for them. I would not have identified myself as a marshal either, ‘cept for old Hamilton back there catching sight of my badge a’fore I could hide it away again.”

  Setting their course for the London docks, they first hailed one of the horse-drawn omnibuses that added so much congestion and manure to the city's roads. There was no bus stop. Titanic Smith simply strode into the slow moving scrummage of traffic and whistled loudly at a conductor hanging from the rear entrance of a towering green bus. The driver veered the horse train toward Smith, ignoring the shouts and curses of the passengers and pilots of a dozen hansom cabs and even more commercial carts and wagons. As the bus drew closer, it seemed likely to topple over on the uneven road surface, leaning over Cady at such a precarious angle she was reluctant to approach it. She had to stay with Smith, however, and he had no qualms about bounding up the steps.

  She followed him quickly, judging it better to be inside when the thing fell over, rather than standing under the hammer when it crashed down. The floor was covered in straw, and all the seats were taken by men, some of whom glared openly at her, and some who stared as though she was the Ape Woman of Borneo, or Burma, or whatever. Cady could tell they were confused and even affronted by her appearance. Up close, she was obviously a woman, and they were probably meant to give up their seats. But she was dressed like some rock-chick biker-bitch, a little too fashion forward for this crowd by about eighty years or so.

  She flipped them the bird, and followed Smith up top.

  “Come on, we'll sit on the knife board,” he said as he climbed the little spiral staircase to the top deck. They found seats on a bench that ran down the middle of the roof, the passengers there sitting back to back. It wasn't pleasant in the cold and damp conditions, but Cady did appreciate getting a load off her feet. She groaned quietly as she sat down, the feeling of moving without walking a delicious treat. They must have covered miles on foot since they'd left the tavern.

  The Spotted Goose, she reminded herself. The rendezvous point if they should be separated. Her heart beat faster at the idea.

  As fascinating as this little open world adventure was, she had no desire to be stranded in 19th century London. She'd never been the sort of weenie who worried about micro-aggressions or demanded trigger warnings every time somebody busted out a sick fart, but Cady was getting a definite old-school douche-bro vibe from this place. Like she'd stumbled into some sort of primeval beta of Gamergate where all the men looked like evil beard fags.

  At a guess, this was not a happy place to be a woman. But then, she thought, where was?

  “So, tell me about Florence,” she said, “and these guys who've been after you. The apprentices.”

  “It's not always men,” he said. “Sometimes they're women, too.”

  “It's nice that they have an equal opportunity employer,” said Cady. “Do you know anything else about them? Who they work for? What their issue is with you?”

  The bus moved slowly, never exceeding the pace they had managed when they were walking, but at least this way they weren't burning energy she didn't have. Cady had already complained to Smith of being hungry, and he had produced a few strips of dried meat wrapped in wax paper for her to chew on. It hadn't helped. They needed to eat, but first they needed to stock up on some other supplies.

  “They don't always find me,” said Smith, keeping his voice low, and inclining his head toward hers. “Especially not if I keep my head down.” None of the other passengers were talking to each other, but she didn't think it would matter if they were eavesdropping, or trying to. As much trouble as she often had understanding the local vernacular, they would be at a similar disadvantage listening in on her conversation with Smith. Even with the fog lying like a blanket over London, the city was still a constant, turbulent storm of noise—the clanging, pounding, steam-driven machinery; the endless destruction and construction of building work; the raised voices of the Londoners themselves; and the surprisingly harsh din of traffic before the era of rubber tires and internal combustion engines.

  “First place I happened on them, as I said, was Florence. I shook 'em off there, found myself in another wilderness for my trouble, but an agreeable wilderness with fair weather and a stream in a forest where I could take clean water. I believe I was somewhere in the vicinity of home that time, for I was able to shoot a turkey and have him for my supper.”

  He pulled the wax paper package out of his jacket again, grinning.

  “That jerky I gave you before could well be a thousand years old, Miss Cady.”

  “You're killing me, Marshal. Let's circle back to the A-story, the apprentices. When did they show up next?”

  Smith thought it over as the omnibus swerved to pick up another passenger.

  “Next time I saw them, I was in the Far East,” he said. “A barbarian city swarming with such a sundry collection of humanity that I hardly stood out any more than the next fellow. Would have thought I might pass discretely through such a place, replenishing my supplies, waiting until the timepiece would allow of another departure, but no. This was the first time I encountered a lady apprentice, and I speak true to tell you that she was a hellcat I would not care to tangle with again. Came at me in a bathhouse while I was soaking the dirt out of my creases. Hell of a thing.”

  “Were you alone?” Cady asked.

  “It is my preferred choice when taking a bath, ma'am.”

  “And in Florence? You said they threw down in a marketplace.”

  He was a moment considering that before nodding.

  “Yes. They ‘threw down,’ as you say.”

 
; “And you weren't alone there?”

  “Damnation, no. There was an all-fired brawl. The whole town was going at it full split, like Kilkenny cats.”

  “Alone in a crowd then?”

  “If'n you wish, I'd allow that, yes. You have a point you're riding up on, ma'am?”

  “Not yet,” she said. “Still collecting data.”

  She collected more as they left the crowds of the dark, fog bound streets behind for the even darker, more crowded Underground. Cady was surprised to find the Tube already in existence, but it was nothing like the mass transit system of the 21st century, or even the 20th, and the locals did not call it the Tube. The bus conductor looked at her as if she was a crazy foreigner when she asked. Smith did better inquiring which line of the Underground would get them closest to the docks. He paid for their tickets as they left the omnibus, a complicated exchange of coins that Cady was glad to play no part in, and they alighted near steps outside the entryway arch of the Mile End Underground station.

  She recognized the building, or its type, from Assassin's Creed. In the game, it had the name of a different station and it wasn't interactive. You couldn't use it to fast travel around the map. Here, a billboard promised frequent services and cheap tickets. “Discounts For Seasonal Passes!”

  They joined the throngs pushing through the arch and bought second-class tickets from an attendant at the booth inside.

  “We should roll like Kanye,” she said, only half joking. “First class all the way.” Cady didn't care to imagine what second class would be like in this giant seething slum.

  “No need to waste resources,” said Smith. “Middle of the locomotive gets there right after the front.”

  She didn't mention that they could have gone third class if they were really cheaping out. Didn't want to give him any ideas. The passengers were immediately segregated by class when they arrived at the platform. The wooden planking and hard ceramic tiles created an echo chamber for the footsteps of hundreds of commuters. It was louder, closer, much hotter, and even fouler smelling than the streets above. Steam, smoke, and soot hung like burning smog in the air, stinging her eyes. The advertising posters which covered every flat surface were so covered in grime as to be unreadable. Many of the poorer travelers were drunk and keeping themselves topped up from a series of bars up and down the platform serving “spiritous liquors” and “miraculous potions.” She wondered if she could score cocaine legally here, or even opium.