His Clockwork Canary

by Beth Ciotta

  “Who?” Simon asked.

  “The agency Michelle worked for.”

  “And what agency was that?” Willie asked. “I don’t recall.” In fact she never knew. Only that it was a British firm.

  Michael held a shushing finger to his lips. “Top secret, that.”

  “More coffee?” Phin asked, filling Michael’s cup before the man could decide. “I’m thinking a secret branch of the Metropolitan Police,” Phin prompted.

  “No,” Simon said. “Mrs. Goodenough was at the top of her craft. National level, I’d wager. There was mention of an elite agency in the Book of Mods. MI5?”

  “She went by Agent Price then,” Michael said, looking off as though somewhere else. “And she worked for the best.”

  “The Mechanics,” Willie whispered.

  Michael held up another shushing finger, then looked to Phin. “Are there any more eggs?”

  Willie’s pulse raced with a surge of relief and excitement. She and Wesley had been right. Their mother had worked for Her Majesty’s Mechanics. Although in the twentieth century, not this century. Not everything had been a lie. Her mind scrambled, trying to connect the dots of her father’s scattered disclosures. She glanced across the table at Simon. He looked almost as far away as her father. Gads.

  “According to the preachings of the Peace Rebels,” Simon ventured whilst Phin dished out more scrambled eggs, “the time machine was secured and locked away by the British government whilst Briscoe escaped and disappeared.”

  “Quite the opposite, dear boy. That was the brilliance of my Michelle. What did you add to these eggs, Phineas? The flavor is most pleasing. I must know.”

  Rigid now, Simon pushed out of his chair. “Excuse me.”

  Phin traded a look with Willie, then tried to distract her father with his secret recipe whilst she hurried after Simon. By the time she caught up to him, he was outside in the rear garden. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I have to contact my brother.”

  Her mouth went dry as he pulled some sort of palm-sized device from his pocket, much like the one Strangelove had given her. Had he found her telecommunicator? But no. This device was different. “What is that?” she asked as he toggled a switch.

  He warded her off with a raised hand and turned his back. “Jules?”

  She heard a squeal and then static. Then Simon calling his brother again, followed by more static.

  “Damnation.” His shoulders slumped as he slid the device back into his pocket. He jammed a hand through his hair, making it stand every which way. “He couldn’t have made the leap already. It’s too soon.”

  “What leap? What . . .” Heart pounding, she moved around and faced him. “What are you talking about, Simon?”

  “My brother traveled to Australia to meet with Professor Merriweather.”

  “Maximus Merriweather? The Peace Rebels’ genius scientist?”

  He nodded. “Jules was convinced that Merriweather has the knowledge and expertise to build him a time machine, a machine that would transport him into the future. To 1969, to be exact.”

  Time travel. Exactly what the Peace Rebels had meant to prevent by destroying the Briscoe Bus. At least that’s what they’d preached. Meanwhile the Houdinians had absconded with the most vital mechanism. Willie’s brain hurt trying to make sense of it all. Jules seriously intended to breach 1969? “For what purpose?”

  “To obtain the Time Voyager’s original clockwork propulsion engine and to bring it back to our time.”

  “But why?”

  “In order to win the jubilee prize. To restore honor to the Darcy name. To secure our family’s future and fortune. Christ.”

  Unsettled by his panic, she reached up and palmed the sides of his face. Even though her right shoulder screamed, she ignored the pain. “Talk to me, Simon.”

  “My brother is risking his life to leap into the future, to retrieve something that isn’t there. Don’t you understand, Willie? The Peace Rebels didn’t re-create Briscoe’s design. They stole the original clockwork propulsion engine. The engine that your mother and the other two Houdinians pinched from the Briscoe Bus, the engine they hid and protected all these years, is the engine. The Time Voyager’s engine. There is only one.”

  Willie held Simon’s gaze, though her mind raced in several directions. “The depth of intrigue is beyond my immediate comprehension. But we’ll sort this out. It would seem destiny brought us together for some grand purpose, Mr. Darcy.”

  He smiled at that, a pained smile, but at least she’d chased away some of the tension. He placed his hands over hers, saying, “How romantic, Mrs. Darcy,” then leaned in for a kiss.

  Probably her imagination, but she’d swear she’d felt a merging of souls and purpose as their lips parted and their tongues met. Aye. Surely her cross-dimensional, love-struck imagination.

  • • •

  To think that he’d once thought his life in London exhilarating. Simon had felt more alive in the past two days—more challenged, more aware, more emotionally invested—than in any given moment in the last ten years. For once, the world did not revolve around his problems, his projects, his race for glory. In the last three hours alone his eyes had been opened and his focus turned outward.

  The outrageous and unacceptable treatment of his wife by an establishment that barred her kind had seeped into his brain, forever changing his status as a passive bystander. Not that he had ever approved of intolerance or prejudice in any form, but, to date, he’d done nothing viable to advocate the rights of Freaks. That would change.

  He had felt good about warming Mr. Goodenough’s house by stocking his hearths and for establishing a friendly relationship even though he wasn’t convinced the man would remember him upon their next visit. Indeed, Michael Goodenough’s mind worked in mysterious ways. His inability to accept his wife’s absence chained him to the past. Her past, their past. Making sense of his ramblings was like reading every other chapter of a book. The overall story was pitted with holes, leaving it to the reader to puzzle the missing parts. As it happened, Simon was a fan of working puzzles. Part of what had drawn him to being an engineer. In kind, Willie’s journalistic experience spoke of an inquisitive and analytic mind. Between the two of them and Phin, bolstered by Simon’s suspicion that Willie had time-traced her father on the sly, Simon was confident they would conquer the mystery of the Houdinians and the clockwork propulsion engine. Somehow Simon would make things right for his family and Willie’s family whilst acting in the best interest of mankind. He could think of no finer tribute to his father.

  As for his brother . . . not wanting to unnecessarily compromise Jules’s position in HMM, Simon had decided to give it until the next morning before taking extreme measures. If he had not reached his brother by then, he would consider the situation an emergency and contact the only other Mechanic he knew. He’d ferret out the secret headquarters and storm the doors if he had to, whatever it took to cover his brother’s arse.

  Simon hadn’t realized how intensely quiet the walk from Goodenough’s cottage back to the Flying Cloud had been until Phin broke the silence.

  “A most invigorating day,” the aviator said as they boarded the grounded ship. “I can only imagine what lies ahead.”

  “I feel as though we’ve been given all or most of the pieces,” Willie said. “Working together, perhaps we can solve the puzzle.”

  “Although some of us possess more pieces than others.” Simon grasped Willie’s elbow and brought her to a stop just shy of the cockpit. “You time-traced your father.”

  Phin turned, brows raised in surprise. “She did?”

  “When she hugged him good-bye.”

  “But the embrace lasted no longer than seconds,” Phin said.

  “A few seconds in reality can equate to a few hours in one’s memory,” Simon said. “Right, sweetheart?”

  Even though her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparked with defiance. “Don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t calcul
ated. Upon leaving, I was so overcome. . . . You don’t understand. He hasn’t been that warm and engaged in years. Even though he mostly talked about Mother and her century, he was connecting with me. With us. The hug was spontaneous and when he didn’t push me away . . .” Her throat caught. “Because of my tracing quirk, it’s been so very long since he allowed any sort of physical contact.”

  “So you hugged,” Phin said, “and it just happened? Suddenly you were in a memory? I thought you had to focus.”

  “I’d been focused,” she said. “For over two hours. Intently focused. On my father and his every word and expression. I suppose I was primed.” She looked now to Simon. “How did you know? When it happens that fast, no one’s the wiser.”

  “I’m not sure. Sensed it, I suppose.” Torn between curious and perturbed, Simon shook his head. “He didn’t want that, Willie. You in his memories.”

  Her cheeks flushed brighter. “I know. But as I said, it wasn’t on purpose and he didn’t feel me in there. He doesn’t know. So no harm done, aye?”

  Something ugly stirred within Simon. “If you truly believe that, then you and I have very different views on trust.”

  She hugged herself and looked away. “You’re trying to make me feel guilty for something I didn’t intend.”

  “You could have pulled away the moment you realized what was happening.”

  “Except it happened too fast and then I was stunned for a moment. Stunned by what I saw, heard. For what it’s worth, I did break the connection sooner than I wanted. I did, do feel remorse for invading Daddy’s privacy.” She chewed her lower lip, met his gaze. “Are you happy now?”

  “Not precisely.” But her tormented gaze somewhat cooled his temper. It had been a trying day, a volatile day. As a gesture of peace, he brushed a thumb over her cheek and stated another concern that had set him off. “You didn’t have a lifeline, Willie. If you’d gotten lost in there, distracted—”

  “But she didn’t,” Phin said reasonably, reminding them of his presence. “At the risk of stirring things up more, since the deed is done, as it were, I’d like to know if she learned anything of consequence.”

  Phin was being a diplomat and a pragmatist and Simon had to admit he, too, was curious. He felt hypocritical, but tried to focus on the greater good. “Did you?”

  Her eyes widened. “There’s a traitor amongst them.”

  “Who? The Houdinians?”

  “I think so. I need to rethink the memory. Sort things out. My father’s memories were like a twisted collage.”

  “I can imagine.” And the thought of her getting lost in those memories, any memories, caught up in some sort of psychic limbo, chilled Simon to the bone.

  “Right, then,” Phin said. “Let’s go below. Work the puzzle until we can determine our next move. I don’t know about you, but I could use some real coffee. Protect me from that drip-o-matic swill of the future.” Mumbling on, he took the lead, expecting them to follow.

  “You go on,” Simon said to Willie. “I want to try Jules one more time.”

  Willie slipped into his arms, eviscerating the lingering tension between them. “Being his twin, don’t you think you would feel something in your stomach, in your spirit, if something was terribly wrong?”

  “Yes. I do believe I would. I felt it when he was horribly injured in the war, even though we were miles apart.” Simon was feeling several things just now, but no ominous portent. He hooked her hair behind her ears. “Thank you for reminding me of that.”

  She smiled up at him, though the smile was troubled. “I do believe we’ve stepped into a monumental mess, Simon.”

  He couldn’t argue that, and though this was monumental, being steeped in larger-than-life drama was all too familiar. “All part of being a Darcy.”

  CHAPTER 24

  GREAT VICTORIA DESERT AUSTRALIA

  Although Bingham had insisted upon a swift journey to Queensland, after being cooped up within the foul bowels of the Iron Tarantula for almost twenty-four hours, he was desperate for fresh air and steady ground.

  The gigantic metal arachnid was an impressive terrain vehicle merely for its size, durability, and innovative design. The iron cephalothorax housed the cockpit, sleeping quarters, and galley, whilst the abdomen boasted a sophisticated engine room and cavernous storage area. The eight towering legs crawled easily if not evenly over sand and rock and did indeed carry them safely over treacherous landscapes at a goodly speed. But the constant and jolting rocking motion coupled with the questionable ventilation system and high temperatures had taxed Bingham’s titled being. He always traveled in style and the Iron Tarantula was not even remotely comfortable. However, the most distressing aspect of this trek was Bingham’s inability to communicate with the outside world. He knew not whether to attribute the vexing phenomenon to the remote setting or the thick iron walls of the beastly steam-powered spider.

  Stomach rolling, Bingham made his way to the cockpit on shaky legs. He did not knock upon the closed door. He slid it open with a vengeance and braced his hands on the iron frame so as not to pitch forward. “I insist you divert to the nearest town.”

  “The nearest town’s not so near, mate. Not on this course.”

  “Then plot a new course.”

  The Rocketeer swiveled in his leather captain’s chair, cigarette clamped between his teeth, jaw bristled by two days’ growth of beard. He pushed up the brim of his slouch hat and regarded Bingham with boredom. “You hired me to deliver you to Queensland as quickly as possible, mate, and now you not only want me to veer off course, but to stop?”

  “I’m not your mate. I’m your employer. And yes, I am requesting just that, Mr. Steele.”

  “Your money, Lord Bingham. My mistake. I thought time was of the essence.”

  Bingham gritted his teeth. “Most assuredly. But because of my inability to communicate with the outside world, I have no way of knowing if I am already too late.”

  Steele waved him inside, then swiveled back around. “Who do you need to contact and how?” he asked, flicking switches on a complex console. “What do you need to know? I can access various communication devices as well as the latest global news. Take a load off, mate.”

  Bingham ignored the insolence and dropped into the seat next to Steele’s. He stared at the instrumental panel before him, entranced, impressed, and vexed as hell that not one of his transports had anything like this. “Where did you acquire all of this advanced technology?”

  Steele quirked an infuriating grin. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

  “Your humor is unwelcome.”

  “Who’s joking?” The ash on Steele’s cigarette glowed like a taunting beacon of disrespect. “What do you need to know? Who do you need to contact?”

  His list was long, but he homed in on his most fervent concern. “I need to contact a Mod Tracker by the name of Crag. I need coordinates on a man by the name of Jules Darcy. But mostly I want to make sure Professor Maximus Merriweather is exactly where I’ve been told he would be.” At that moment, Bingham shared his most detailed coordinates.

  “You’re a demanding but direct bloke, Lord Bingham. Let’s see what we can do,” Steele said whilst pushing multiple buttons. “Meanwhile, a word of advice. Your traveling companion, Renee? I’d treat her more kindly, mate. Hell hath no wrath like an automaton scorned.”

  Bingham barked a humorless laugh. “Renee has no feelings.” In addition to enlisting one of his Mars-a-tron crewmen as a bodyguard, he’d brought Renee along as a way of amusing himself should he grow bored. He had, in fact, been most bored last night. Her stamina and inability to register pain or fear was both a boon and an annoyance. “Renee is a machine.”

  “When abused or neglected, machines tend to malfunction. Just a friendly observance, mate. Oh, crikey,” he added, leaning forward to peer out the transparent shield overlooking the landscape. “Damn.”

  Bingham leaned forward as well, spying a cloud of dust a few meters off. “What is it? A san
dstorm?”

  “Bushrangers. Runaway convicts who thrive in these parts due to their impeccable survival skills. Robbers. Highwaymen.”

  The hair on the back of Bingham’s neck prickled as Steele utilized an intercom system to inform his crew of an imminent attack. Out of the voluminous dust broke a pack of armored vehicles. He’d expected horses. Not steaming, belching weapons on wheels. Was that a bloody cannon rocket?

  “Looks like the Musquito Gang. Thievin’ cutthroats.”

  Bingham wiped his moist palms over the trousers he had ordered Renee to steam press just that morning. Indeed, he was not dressed for a skirmish. “What do they want?”

  “Whatever I’ve got.” Steele chucked his cigarette, then jerked his thumb. “Best take cover in your cabin, oh, Kingpin of the Universe. It’s gonna be a rough one.”

  Bingham pushed out of the chair, heart pounding. “You promised me safe passage, Mr. Steele.”

  “Yup.” But his attention was on the controls and the incoming cutthroats.

  Bingham heard the first explosion and hurried toward his cabin. He weaved and stumbled as the Iron Tarantula swerved, then vibrated as though taking a hit. He heard the crew shouting and bellowed for his own bodyguard. But when Bingham breached his cabin door, he only found Renee. She was sitting stiff-backed in a chair, darning his socks.

  Bingham hurried to the window, saw one of Steele’s men arming a rapid-firing cannon from a balcony on one of the Tarantula’s legs. Good. They were fighting back. Still, Musquito’s gang comprised at least seven armed vehicles. No telling how many men. What if they got on board? Where the devil was his bodyguard?

  “Put down the bloody socks, Renee, and get my Peabody 382. We’re under attack.”

  “Attack. To set upon forcefully.”

  “Yes, I know what it means. Just get my bloody gun. I have not come this far to be felled by a band of bloody bushrangers. We must fight back. Kill the enemy.”

  “Enemy,” she said in that monotone voice that grated. “A hostile force that seeks to injure.”