A Girl in Time

by John Birmingham

  Probably in first class.

  Sherlock Holmes hit the pipe like a boss, Cady recalled. She imagined he'd be sitting up front with Watson amongst the gilded mirrors and buttoned leather door panels, not on the bones of his ass in the altogether more Spartan surrounds reserved for B-listers like themselves. Their train announced itself with a screeching steam whistle that caused the entire crowd to surge before the engine had arrived, let alone come to a halt. She pressed herself into the protective embrace of Marshal Smith's sheltering arm, letting him be buffeted by the human pressure wave.

  It mostly just broke and flowed around him.

  “Saw a feller go under the wheels in Chicago once,” he said, bending to shout into her ear over the cacophony of screeching steel wheels, slamming doors and shouting drunks. “Hell of a mess.”

  They had a bench to themselves in the second-class carriage, but Cady resolved the next time they did this, they were rolling with Sherlock and Kanye up in first. Their fellow passengers soon filled the carriage with tobacco smoke, which she could not escape because the windows had been closed against the fumes, ashes, and sulfur from the engine. It was hot enough that she was sweating in her thermals inside of a minute, and she stared longingly at an advert for “Metropolitan Mixture” cough syrup, a “thaumaturgic elixir for sufferers of the Underground Cough.”

  Probably more opium.

  Smith did most of the talking while they rode under the city. He had worked the coal mines of Kentucky as a younger man, he told her.

  “Only for a spell, but it inured me for life to all but the most noxious fumes,” he said. “This might help,” he added, offering her a handkerchief.

  Cady shook her head vigorously. The smoke might kill her years from now, but that disgusting viral trap would probably put her under before the end of the week.

  “The thing I have found about the apprentices, Miss Cady,” said Smith, “is that the more aggressive I am in pursuing my interests—my principal interest being to get the hell away and gone home again—the more likely they are to track me down. It makes sense,” he said. “A fugitive with even half of one-tenth of a lick of sense will get himself to ground while I am looking for him. Every time he raises his head, he has a very good chance of getting it shot off.”

  “So that's why you wanted to stay back at The Spotted Goose. To stay under the radar.”

  She could see him playing with the word radar, rolling it around in his mouth like a hard candy. For a moment, she thought if he had been in London during the Blitz, he would surely know what radar was, but then she realized she was using the hindsight plug-in. Any geek worth their pocket protector knew that radar had saved the RAF during the Battle of Britain, but it had been a top secret technology at that time. Cady wasn't sure when it been declassified.

  Smith surprised her by nodding.

  “Yeah. Under the radar,” he agreed.

  He was holding the pocket watch in his hand, stroking the glass face with his thumb.

  Cady was already convinced it was some sort of translator as well as a time machine. But now she had to wonder whether it translated concepts as well as language. Another thesis to test. More data to collect.

  She filed the question away, though. She would come back to it later. There wasn't much she could do to investigate it while they were riding around in public.

  “I need to know about how you've moved through space, as well as time,” she said discretely, leaning in to him. “We need to map out where you've been, and see whether it's somehow connected to when you were there.”

  “I'll do my best, ma'am,” Smith said. “But sometimes I fetch up in a wilderness. And others in places I never heard of, not even in school.”

  11

  Back up on street level, the suffocating miasma of fog and factory smoke and the increasingly familiar stink of horse manure was a blessed relief after being closed up in the Underground for half an hour. The shocking chill of emerging into late afternoon was likewise a pleasant change after the hot, cramped confines of their second class carriage; for a few minutes, anyway, until the cold began to sting her exposed skin. Smith consulted Hamilton Sr.'s hand-drawn map and announced they were only five or ten minutes' walk away from their destination.

  It was full dark by then, and the crowds were thinner in this part of the city, although there were still hundreds of people shuffling past each other on both sides of the street. Visibility did not extend much further than that. As the travelers moved from the heart of old London into the newly industrialized docklands neighborhood they found the gas lamps spaced much further apart. The roads, although still heavily used, were trafficked mostly by commercial haulage. Giant horses pulled enormous wagons piled high with barrels of beer. Simple carts dragged by smaller teams carried mystery loads between warehouses and factories.

  “I reckon this would be our feller,” said Smith, removing his Marshal's badge and pointing to a flat fronted, two-story building with an enormous red sign surrounded by dozens of small electric bulbs. They were the first electric lights Cady had seen since arriving in London.

  They had arrived at Bumper Harrison's Colonial Stores.

  Light spilled out of the shop through two enormous arched windows. Inside, the store looked like a cross between a gentleman's outfitter and an army surplus depot. A bell chimed over the door as they pushed through the entrance. A young man and woman, browsing racks of—what? Safari outfits?—gave them a cursory glance as they entered, lingering a few moments longer over Cady's outfit than Smith's. He was probably the sort of character they expected to see in here.

  The double-height ceiling created the impression of a much grander, vaster space than Cady had been expecting. A walkway ran around the second story, creating a sort of mezzanine effect. Thousands of hardback volumes filled bookshelves on most of that level, although some of the space was given over to dark wood cabinetry with old leather handles. She couldn't help wondering what was filed away in those drawers. Mounted butterflies? Shrunken heads?

  Smith, who seemed as much at home here as he had on the omnibus and Underground, strode across the bare wooden boards, his boot heels clicking and thumping, his big wide American voice booming out, “Good day to you, sir.”

  A small man with an enormous mustache came to attention behind the counter.

  “And good day to you, sir. Harrison is my name. Bumper Harrison, late of the 24th Regiment, and now proprietor and lord of all you see. How might I be of service?”

  Cady joined Smith as he approached the counter. She had taken off her borrowed hat as she entered, and now she pushed her fingers through her hair, which was coming loose from the bun she had tied hours earlier. Her long dark tresses felt greasy and gross.

  “And good day to you, too, young lady,” smiled Harrison, the first genuine smile she had seen all day. Smith was a dour character whose natural expression seemed to be a frown.

  “Hey,” she said, before catching herself and adding awkwardly, “how do you do?”

  “I do very well, thank you,” said Harrison, as his grin grew wider and his disposition sunnier. “Is there some way I might be of assistance to our cousins from across the seas? If you were off to America, I might assume you need outfitting for the frontier. Since you have arrived from the New World, I can but wonder what brings you to my Emporium.”

  “Well, pardner,” said Smith, catching Cady's attention because he sounded like he was playing a character now, rather than simply being in character, as he had been with her. “You done caught me out. I will indeed be returning to the goldfields soon with my fiancée, Miss Jane, here, and I thought, while we were in London, we might avail ourselves of the finest frontier outfitters in the Old World. Hickok is my name. William Hickok.”

  She suppressed a smirk at being introduced as the wife-to-be of Wild Bill Hickok. She assumed Smith was simply being cautious again, not giving his real name. She didn't imagine the apprentices would be canvassing the city, going door-to-door looking for a displ
aced game coder and time traveling US Marshal, but Smith had been at this a while longer than her, and he’d warned her that they tended to show up whenever he raised his head.

  “Well, you have come to the right place, Mr. Hickok. I have outfitted settlers and colonists who have traveled to the four corners of the British Empire, and I am certain I can provide you with whatever you seek.”

  What we could really use, thought Cady, are antibiotics, painkillers, water purification tablets, a GPS system, decent Internet access, and some sort of flux capacitor to get us the hell out of here. But she smiled sweetly and kept her opinions to herself, as was the fashion at this time.

  “I'm sure you can help us, Mr. Harrison. Our needs are simple, just a few possibles. I will take whatever you have in the way of bedrolls and blankets, one of each; a three-man tent; two water canisters; salt pork and dried beans, say three days' worth; a compass; binoculars; one rawhide rope, thirty feet with a softened eyelet; a fire steel; two large dry bags; and a box of shells for my Colt .45, the 1878 model. Should you have one, I would not be averse to having from you a repeating rifle and a box of ammunition. A Winchester model '73 would do nicely.”

  Harrison nodded slowly and approvingly. The young couple who had been browsing the safari suits and pith helmets had wandered over a little closer while Smith spoke. They both regarded him in the same way they might admire a really fine cow or draft horse.

  “Honey,” said Cady, “if I could get a long, waterproof coat, something warm, that’d be awesome. Oh, and a notebook, too, and some pencils. For my studies.”

  Harrison turned his lopsided grin on her again.

  “Young lady, I may have just the thing for you. From the Antipodean colonies, a cattlemen's duster. If your fiancé would allow me the impertinence.”

  Cady smiled back at him.

  “Allowance got nothing to do with it,” she said, in a reasonable imitation of Smith's wide, flat drawl. “I dig my own gold, I have my own money. I wear my own pants.”

  She took out a handful of heavy coins, anxious at the thought it might not cover the cost of the coat. She would look like a bit of an idiot then, wouldn't she? But Harrison looked to Marshal Smith, whose sanguine expression testified to all the damns he did not give about the matter.

  “If it's trifles and such like you'll be supplying us, sir, you might as well throw in one of those mouth organs I see on yonder counter and a neck rack for holding it, if you have one. I'll take some pipe cleaning wire, if you do not, and fashion a holder myself.”

  “I believe I might be able to provide satisfaction,” said Harrison and he shuffled away to begin filling the order.

  “Sorry for spending your money like it's my own,” Cady said in the least apologetic tone of voice she could conjure up. “But I'm cold and wet and tired of everybody looking at me.”

  “It's because of the pants,” he said. “But as I told you before, ma'am, I don't count this as my money either. I don't know where Mr. Wu had his gold from, but he put me to a considerable inconvenience passing off that infernal watch of his, and I have dragged you into the bramble thicket in much the same way. Whatever you want, whatever you think we need, add it to your shopping list. I have no doubt Mr. Harrison would be just as amenable to dickering over gold nuggets as the jeweler was. Probably even more so. He could put a tasty nugget under glass on his counter, a promise of guaranteed riches to his clientele should they invest in the finest and most expensive of his wares before taking sail to the New World.”

  Smith's eyes never left hers, but she saw his hand open his jacket and rest lightly on the polished wooden handle of his pistol just before she heard the voice behind her.

  “Hello,” said a woman.

  “We could not help but overhear your conversation with the proprietor,” said her male companion. Cady turned around and discreetly moved out of the line of fire in case Smith decided to start shooting. Harrison returned at that moment, his arms full of cardboard boxes and paper bags.

  “'Ere you go, then,” he said. “Just give me a few more minutes out the back and I will see to the rest of your order, Mr. Hickok. Young lady, I have included two notebooks and a complimentary box of pencils to encourage you in your studies and as a token of our appreciation for your having come so far to do business with us.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Is it possible that you are the famous Mr. Wild Bill Hickok?” asked the young man as Harrison left.

  Cady was aware of Smith's outline softening just a little bit, as though the tension which had tightened him up had been eased off, just a notch.

  “Not even in my most fevered dreams,” said Smith. “I share a moniker with the man, but very little else, sir. Last I heard of Wild Bill, he was off to seek his fortune via Deadwood.”

  “Oh, but you do so look the part!” exclaimed the woman. Her eyes were sparkling, her cheeks flushed a bright pink, and Cady thought it a distinct possibility she might just have a proximity orgasm right there in the middle of the store.

  “You'd be surprised how often he gets that,” she said. It was the young man's turn to come over all a-twitter then.

  “And Jane, was it?” he said. “You certainly look like you are dressed for the open range and riding the Bighorns.”

  “Are those a pair of Mr. Strauss's famous denim britches?” the woman asked, her excitement increasing. “I have heard so much about them. Why, I have heard that a team of horses is not strong enough to pull them apart. I wonder where I might find some?”

  Her boyfriend, or whatever he was, chimed in at that point, lest her pretty little head float right off her shoulders.

  “We are away to the diggings in Western Australia,” he explained, “to seek our fortune without the weight of family and expectation to hold us down, and it would be marvelous to hear a talk from a couple of old hands such as yourself about what capers and adventures might await us.”

  “And where I might find a pair of your magnificent britches!”

  Harrison reappeared with more goods and a long, brown coat draped over one arm.

  “I have everything you asked for, Mr. Hickok, and if you'll allow me the indulgence sir, I'm going to suggest you consider a field surgical kit. I have a small one here issued to the medical staff of my very own regiment, sir, the storied 24th.”

  Harrison opened a small leather pouch containing a collection of wicked looking scalpels, scissors and hooks, two lengths of rolled bandage and various packets of powder.

  “Good idea,” said Smith without hesitation. “Add it to my bill and pack everything into the dry bags. One for me to carry and one for Janey.”

  “Oh, this is very exciting,” said the young man. “You absolutely must dine with us at our club tonight.”

  “I'm afraid—” Smith started, but Cady rode in over the top of him.

  “Your club, you say? The two of you?”

  “Why yes, of course,” said the woman. “I understand that to be a radical departure from established norms, but we of the Frontier Club are all committed to making an abrupt break from our established lives, and I am sure you would testify that life on the frontier has a salutary effect on old-fashioned hierarchies and roles such as that between man and woman.”

  Smith's expression had gone from that of man facing a potentially lethal threat to one of a man confronted by a potentially lethal bore. Cady's response, however, hovered between amusement and enchantment. She had never before met such earnest doofwads, and she'd done a whole semester of women's studies before switching to comp sci.

  “So, we could get something to eat at your club?” she asked.

  “Of course,” said the young man. “But our manners! Please, I'm Bertie Roxburgh, of the Cambridgeshire Roxburghs, and this is my betrothed, Miss Gracie Worthing of Duckmanton on Wye.”

  “Wye, indeed,” Cady smiled. For the first time in many hours, she did not feel as though she was desperately windmilling and free falling through the day. “Come on, Wild Bill,” she teased Smith
. “We need to eat and these folks have been kind enough to invite us all to a hoedown at their campfire.”

  She pronounced it “far.”

  Smith did not look pleased. “We must be away before dawn,” he said.

  “I shall see to it that a hansom delivers you to your rooms in plenty of time for bed,” said Bertie. “Come, come, we shall help with your luggage.”

  “That's mighty obliging,” said Smith, “but we'd best be carrying our own loads.”

  He handed the smaller of the two dry bags to Cady, who took it, but stood her ground.

  “Don't bother wrapping that coat, Bumper,” she said. “I'll wear it now.”

  He came around from behind the counter to help her into the duster. It fell to her knees, conveniently hiding most of her outfit. There were plenty of pockets to stash equipment and minor stores. “Possibles,” as Smith had called them. It felt warm and the material looked as though it would hold out moisture for a couple of hours.

  “Looks good,” Cady said. “We'll take it all.”

  “And you'll come to supper and talk at our club?” enthused Bertie.

  “I don't know about talking,” said Smith. “Never been much of a talker.”

  “Luckily I am,” said Cady, “and we'd love to.”

  12