His Clockwork Canary

by Beth Ciotta

  “He resigned?” Simon asked. “Whilst your mother was still alive?”

  “Aye.”

  “Perhaps that was enough for her to label him a traitor. After all those years, to suddenly break their sworn pact. To leave the protection of the engine to her and Filmore alone. Surely she felt pressured and betrayed.”

  “Probably.” Brow furrowed, Willie reached for a slice of fresh bed and slathered it with butter.

  Simon didn’t comment when her right hand fumbled a bit, but damn, he worried that her injury still caused her difficulty.

  “So much information and still so many holes,” she said. “My mind is awash with summations and theories. And Rollins was only helpful in certain aspects. He seems to be teetering on the edge of a breakdown.”

  “All the more reason not to be alone with the man again,” Simon said earnestly. “If he snaps—”

  “Warning noted,” Willie said, his eyes narrowed.

  “Easy.”

  “Sorry.” She shook off her irritation whilst Simon poured them each a glass of red wine.

  “Perhaps we can fill in some of the gaps together.” He took his seat and together they sampled bits of Fletcher’s delicious fare. “We have our three Houdinians. Your mother, a security specialist. Filmore, a peace activist—”

  “A radical peace activist,” Willie said, whilst picking at her cold chicken. “A professor who specialized in political science, most specifically sociology. Quite brilliant, according to Rollins. Definitely paranoid and, at this point, dangerously unstable. Driven to compulsive, obsessive behavior due to the extraordinary failure of the Peace Rebels and his solitary focus upon protecting the clockwork propulsion engine. Believing he is a vital force in nurturing mankind, he has now taken the role of protector to the extreme—the sole guardian with the aid of an occasional mercenary.”

  “Sounds like a bloody lunatic. Although that’s often the case with fanatics.” Simon staved off thoughts of pulverizing the man who’d been responsible for Willie’s near-fatal injuries. Instead he focused on everything Willie had learned. Impressive that she’d convinced Thimblethumper/Rollins, the tight-lipped curmudgeon, to be so damned forthcoming. “How does Ollie Rollins fit into this?”

  “He was one of the several Americans who’d united with the Brit faction of the Peace Rebels. A mechanical engineer and a fierce and loyal supporter of Professor Jefferson Filmore and his high-profile lectures regarding the end of the world. Filmore was a most passionate and persuasive man. Again, according to Rollins.

  “On the day the Peace Rebels voted to destroy the Briscoe Bus,” she went on, “Filmore convinced my mother and Rollins that it was in the best interest of mankind to preserve the engine that had catapulted them through time. As you had pondered, Filmore foresaw the need for a backup plan. An escape pod, should things not work according to plan. A way to travel even further back in time—in the name of global peace. Filmore, who had indeed had an intimate liaison with my mother,” Willie said, cheeks flushing, “and who continued to command her devotion and allegiance even after they were no longer intimate, knew he could trust Mickey to devise a security plan to keep the engine safe. At the time Rollins had also been under Filmore’s charismatic and idealistic spell and had fallen hook, line, and sinker for the professor’s backup plan. When and if the time came that the trio felt compelled to activate their emergency exit, Rollins would build the vehicle and install the engine.”

  “Yes, well, things did go wrong,” Simon said. “Abominably wrong. Instead of changing the world for the better, the Peace Rebels instigated a global political divide as well as a transcontinental war.” He sipped his wine, marveling as always at the mayhem. “Why didn’t the Houdinians jump dimensions in an effort to right that wrong? That was the motivation behind their pact, yes?”

  “Aye.” Willie nibbled on bread and cheese, then lingered over a long drink of wine.

  Simon could tell she was fighting to mask her emotions, to remain objective. Her journalistic training at play, no doubt. Or perhaps her pride. However, he sensed a hint of melancholy, as if all this knowledge weighed heavily upon her heart. “Perhaps we should leave the rest of this story until morning.”

  “No. Let us press on. I’m fine. Truly. Just sorting through my memories. Thimblethumper—Rollins—rambled most vigorously as though confessing a lifetime of sins to a priest.”

  Simon topped off her wine, noting that in the midst of the upset and intrigue, he had never felt more settled. Yes, he was worried about Jules. He worried about the financial fate of his mother and sister. He worried about Willie and her father, and his own future as a professional engineer. On a grander scale, he harbored anxiety regarding the intolerance of Freaks as well the fate of the world should the clockwork propulsion engine fall into unscrupulous hands. So much unrest, and yet this moment, in this small, warm kitchen partaking in a cold meal with his intelligent, beautiful wife, Simon felt very much at peace.

  “Rollins said the Houdinians were essentially paralyzed by the Peace War,” Willie went on as if garnering a second wind. “They wanted to stay and help their fellow Mods. Those who had not been corrupted and remained true to the cause. Those who still thought they could make a positive difference. Those who refused to abandon this time even if they had the chance.

  “But then when the dust settled,” she plowed on, “and it became apparent that the Peace Rebels had perpetuated everything they stood against—civil intolerance, political corruption—and had perhaps set the future on an even more abysmal course . . . when Mods and their Freak offspring became the focus of derision instead of curiosity, those that had survived the war went into hiding. Some continued on a corrupt course, selling advance knowledge and expertise. Some merely tried to integrate into society, living under false identities. Others, like Professor Merriweather, went on the run and continue to run. Filmore deemed it time to utilize the Houdinian backup plan. To escape and start over in another time, but Rollins declared himself too old and too weary and my mother . . .” Willie licked her lips. “Rollins said she refused to abandon her children, nor would she risk hopping dimensions with them, fearing they, Wesley and I, might not survive or that time travel would somehow mutate our already altered genes even more.”

  “So she chose you and your brother over the cause,” Simon said, knowing that must have touched her deeply.

  She nodded, eyes bright. “Apparently so.”

  Simon had never once questioned his own father’s love and support. And though his mother was somewhat aloof in nature, he trusted in her affections. Never had he been so aware of his good fortune. Humbled, Simon reached across the table and clasped Willie’s hand. Because of her time-tracing gift, her parents had held her at bay. Was it any wonder she guarded her heart so fiercely? “Why didn’t Filmore make the jump himself?”

  She sighed a little. Exasperated? Weary? Another sip of wine and then she rallied on. “Rollins thinks it boiled down to a few factors,” she said. “First of all, he wouldn’t get far without a vehicle that was compatible with the clockwork propulsion engine, and Rollins refused to construct one.”

  “Surely another twentieth-century engineer could have performed the task. More than one arrived here on the Briscoe Bus,” Simon said whilst stroking her knuckles.

  “Aye, but Filmore trusted no PR outside of the Houdinians. Rollins said as the years progressed, Filmore became more and more paranoid, always spouting one or another conspiracy theory. He also believes that Filmore was secretly afraid of landing in an unfamiliar time on his own. When you think about it,” Willie said, “that is a daunting adventure indeed.”

  “Briscoe did it. And Jules is about to do it,” Simon said, gut cramping. “If he hasn’t already.”

  “Aye, but Filmore strikes me as someone who cannot operate without minions, so to speak. Rabid followers. Devoted admirers. People who hang on his every word. Even living undercover he chose a job where he could talk people’s ears off, the pub bartender who enrapt
ured patrons with passionate, exaggerated ghost tales.”

  “Must have knocked him off-balance,” Simon said, “losing Rollins, and then your mother.”

  “According to Rollins, Filmore went a bit batty after my mother died. Even though he’d respected my mother’s marriage to my father, he’d harbored . . . affections. It seems to me a most complex and muddled relationship,” Willie said. “I don’t need to make sense of it, I just want to ensure that the clockwork propulsion engine doesn’t fall into dangerous hands. Neither I nor Rollins deem Filmore the best person for the job anymore.”

  “So you’re stepping into your mother’s shoes as guardian of the engine?” Simon asked.

  “Not forever,” Willie said, catching and holding his gaze. “Just until the engine is safe. As far as I’m concerned, this Triple R Tourney is a godsend. The Jubilee Science Committee will guard that engine as keenly as the Tower’s yeomen guard the crown jewels. Once it is presented to Queen Victoria during the jubilee, given Her Majesty’s disdain for modern technology, she will no doubt have it locked away. Aye. That will be the way of it,” Willie said. “The engine will be as protected as a royal secret.”

  Either that, Simon thought, or the queen would order someone to destroy the engine. That notion vexed on multiple levels. Mind reeling with his brother’s predicament as well as Willie’s latest findings, Simon downed the last of his wine. “So we’re back to scouring a plethora of catacombs in search of the engine.”

  “No.” Willie squeezed his hand. “There is a spot of good news in all of this. Rollins promised to intercede.”

  “The revolving safe house.” Simon all but thunked his own forehead. “But of course, Thimblethumper—hell, Rollins—would know the precise London location.”

  “If Filmore maintained protocol. Rollins ventures he has not. What he is certain of is his ability to track Filmore.”

  “So we wait.”

  “Hopefully not for long. Perhaps even as soon as tomorrow.”

  “Then by all means we should get some rest,” Simon said, noting the weary set of his wife’s shoulders. “I’m eager to leave this particular adventure in the dust.”

  “As am I,” she said with a smile that did not reach her eyes.

  Simon reached for the platter of half-eaten chicken, then paused upon noting Willie’s queer intensity as she stared at their dirty plates. “What are you doing?”

  “Testing my supernatural ability on the off chance that it has manifested in a way that would please Fletcher.”

  “Telekinesis.” Simon’s lip twitched. “In which case these plates would now be flying across the room and into the sink.” He raised a brow. “Doesn’t seem to be working.”

  “No,” she said, her kaleidoscope eyes sparking with a hint of humor. “Pity.”

  CHAPTER 33

  JANUARY 26, 1887 QUEENSLAND, AUSTRALIA

  An entire day and night had passed since that bastard mercenary guide, Austin Steele, had abandoned Bingham in Cunnamulla. Since “the Rocketeer” had taken Renee with him, Bingham had been left without a confidant. He wasn’t about to engage the bodyguard who’d failed to protect him from getting “gutshot” in conversation regarding sensitive information. Nor could he discuss his thoughts and concerns with the doctor or nurses who’d been attending to his god-awful wound. He’d dispatched his Mod Tracker, Crag, to infiltrate Merriweather’s compound and to determine the status of the professor and his daughter as well as the damnable meddling Jules Darcy.

  Crag’s findings had been disappointing, not to mention perplexing. The compound had been deserted. No sign of a living soul. Nothing of value left behind, yet no trace of evidence explaining how or when the trio had escaped. It made no sense and Crag’s ineptitude only enraged Bingham more.

  We’ll just have to wait until one of them slips up and shows his face, Crag had said. I tracked Merriweather before, I’ll track him again.

  Meanwhile time was ticking, and for all Bingham knew, Jules Darcy had already coerced Merriweather into re-creating a working time machine. Question was, what did Darcy intend to do with the outlawed vehicle?

  “Damnation!”

  Impatience ripped through Bingham like a firestorm. He had not traveled this far, nor taken such risks, to be outfoxed by one of Reginald Darcy’s offspring. How was it possible that the dotty old inventor had sired three highly industrious and intelligent spawns? Yes, Bingham had hoped one of the three would ferret out pertinent information or an actual device as created by their distant cousin, but he had also counted on snatching that data or device from their clutches. Thus far, events were unfolding in a most displeasing way.

  Amelia Darcy had failed to produce an invention that would further Bingham’s cause. Jules Darcy had quite possibly stolen Merriweather’s knowledge and intellect from beneath Bingham’s nose. The unknown variable this moment was the other son, Simon. Desperate to know the civil engineer’s progress, he tried his telecommunicator for the hundredth time this day.

  Still dead.

  Blast!

  He knew not whether the device was malfunctioning, or the area was simply too remote to support the requisite signal. Just as he was ready to throw the blasted gadget against the wall, someone knocked, then stepped inside.

  “Captain Northwood,” Bingham said. “Thank God.”

  Within the hour Bingham had left that wretchedly primitive hospital in the dust and had boarded his beloved Mars-a-Tron. Once in the air and back in charge, his mind cleared, as did radio transmissions. He waded through several coded messages, adrenaline surging when he spied news from Wilhelmina Goodenough.

  Bingham smiled. He should have known the engineer would have sought out the Aquarian Cosmology Compendium. No doubt Miss Goodenough had played a major role in the recovery of the elusive journal. After all her mother had been an original Peace Rebel, a specialist in matters of security.

  “Good news?” Northwood asked from his console.

  “Excellent news from London.”

  “Should I set a course for home, sir?”

  “Continue as instructed.” Bingham could not leave without inspecting Professor Merriweather’s compound first. There was, after all, a possibility that Crag had missed some clue. Meanwhile, England was several days away and Bingham worried that Goodenough might bobble the deed, allowing Simon Darcy to submit the ACC to the Jubilee Science Committee. As the anonymous benefactor, Bingham had commanded a first look at all submissions, but he was out of the country and he did not trust the committee’s director to sit on such a momentous discovery. P. B. Waddington had proved to be a competent subordinate thus far, but he was also a man of science and a loyal subject to the Crown. At this point, Bingham trusted no one. But there was someone he could count on to procure the ACC from Miss Goodenough and to keep it hidden and safe until Bingham’s return.

  A mercenary Freak ruled by greed and vengeance. A young man who’d been manipulating the weather to advance the plundering exploits of the Scottish Shark of the Skies—compliments of Bingham. Considering Captain Dunkirk had failed Bingham in a monumental way and knowing the man would welcome a chance to benefit again from Bingham’s power and wealth, Bingham sent a tantalizing directive, engaging the infamous sky pirate and his secret weapon—the Stormerator.

  GREATER LONDON

  Willie had spent the last day and a half on pins and needles awaiting word from Rollins. Oh, how she wanted to revisit Thimblethumper’s Shoppe of Curiosities, but Simon had thought it best not to pressure the old man.

  He promised to intercede, Simon had said, on behalf of his fellow Houdinian and old friend’s daughter. He said it could take a couple of days. Patience, sweetheart.

  Yet Simon had been equally tense, poring over various sketches of his inspired designs in order to distract himself from thoughts of the Triple R Tourney as well as his brother’s mysterious circumstances. To Willie’s dismay, he had shut away his sketches of Project Monorail, deeming that idea dead in the water. A failure. She did not agre
e, but she did not press. Not now. Not when he was so worried about his brother. In addition, though he’d been told his sister and mother were in London, he had not been able to locate them, nor had they phoned or stopped by. Aye, they thought he was aboard the Flying Cloud and in pursuit of a legendary invention. Still . . . not to check in with Fletcher in hopes of obtaining news of Simon’s progress and safety? Unfortunately, Willie understood her husband’s concern.

  Meanwhile Phin kept in touch, also awaiting the news from Rollins that would alert them as to their next step.

  Willie relied on her acting skills to present a strong and confident front, although she was most certain Simon and perhaps even Phin saw through her facade. In truth, she was scared spitless. She had sent a message to Strangelove informing him that she was in possession of the ACC. She had not heard back. Did he not believe her? Had the transmission failed? Was he at this moment en route to meet her face-to-face? Surely he would not do so without warning. He would not want a confrontation with Simon. He would simply want the priceless, legendary compendium.

  This moment, she had taken sanctuary in Simon’s library . . . along with Simon. Fletcher had made his opinion known regarding Willie’s “organized chaos” and was in the process of putting the master bedchamber to rights.

  Let us keep the chaos to the library, shall we? he’d said with a sniff.

  Whilst Simon sat at his desk tinkering with her Thera-Steam-Atic Brace in an attempt to make it even more effective, Willie pored over her journal trying to pen an exhilarating yet tasteful version of their adventure thus far. If they did not win the Triple R Tourney prize, she wished to contribute to their financial standing in her own way. Chronicling a tale that would captivate the whole of Great Britain might well ensure her job with the Informer, even after she disclosed her true gender and race. A long shot, but as a way of advancing a more utopian future, she had made a personal pledge to adopt a more optimistic outlook.