Was that what this was about, Natasha rankled by being commanded by a Falconry washout?
“Never take a life? Again why you need me,” Jeremiah said firmly, and now Natasha looked at her with discomfort. Jeremiah said, “You need at least one person capable of exercising his or her discretion when the moment is at hand. Prepare your troop plan, Sergeant. Prevail, Victoriana.”
“Prevail, Victoriana,” Natasha said and departed.
“She has a stick up her arse,” Patrick muttered, stepping up beside Jeremiah.
Jeremiah glanced at Patrick sidelong, considering: did she have a stick up her craw? Men and women read each other’s signals differently, and even in a Liberated world it was sometimes difficult for a woman to assert herself to a man without appearing to be . . . difficult.
“Sometimes she does,” Jeremiah said, touching his arm. “Speaking of that, Patrick—”
“I’m sorry I called you Mya,” he said immediately. “I knew your name’s a sore point.”
She winced. “Well, what is the harm in a name?” she tried gamely, though she was known for snapping at ‘Mya,’ ‘Jeri Anna,’ even ‘Jeremy’—in short, anything a syllable short of ‘Jeremiah.’ “We fight alongside each other, and ‘Jeremiah’ is, well, a mouthful in the moment—”
“And it’s your name—symbol of your family project,” Patrick said. “God, the old terror really rattled you with that ‘white flag’ crack, didn’t she? Don’t let her get to you. Everyone knows your great-grandmother changed her name to Mark Willstone for a reason—”
“That she did,” Jeremiah said. Mary Wollstonecraft had tried to free women by argument and failed, so her daughter had taken on the name, the dress, and the role of a man—as had her daughter, and her daughter, down the line. “But at what point do we let that go?”
“At no point. Liberation’s a century on, and we’re well past the point where we can think male names are a quirk of a few suffragettes. Besides—” Patrick quickly checked over his shoulder “—you nearly had a conniption fit when Herbert-Draper kept dropping your rank.”
“I did?” Jeremiah blinked. “Wait—you noticed that too? It wasn’t just me—”
“Oh no,” Natasha said, passing back by the two of them, a sheaf of troop dossiers in hand. “To the men, it was Lieutenant, Lieutenant, Midshipman, Lieutenant, but to the women—”
“Ma’am, ma’am, ma’am, ma’am,” Patrick mocked, and Natasha laughed as she trotted down the stairs to the dispatcher. He said, “I’d have clocked him if he’d called you ‘dearie’—”
“Well, glad he didn’t,” Jeremiah laughed, “because I’d hate to have you in the brig. Let’s credit you both for upstanding behavior—”
“But it proves my point: in the end, we’re both men,” Patrick said. “The older reflexes of our brains are primed to look for females to protect and dominate—believe me, Jeremiah, Shaw U. ran me through the whole set of Doctor James’ behavioral philosophy cylinders—”
“I caught his lectures live,” Jeremiah said, mock smugly. “Well, thank you, Patrick.”
“Of Liberation, I am the strongest supporter,” Patrick said. “I do admit I fail to see how subsuming everything feminine into the masculine is in any way equivalence. You Liberationists still call yourselves women, for which I am glad. You still use the feminine pronoun—”
“For accuracy,” she said. “You know, you could always call me ma’am—”
“Ha! That’d last,” Patrick said, and she smiled. He said, “I know the ‘family project’ means a lot to you, but you do have a point about it being a mouthful in the moment. Tell you what, we’ll compromise. I’ll call you Jeri. That’s a nice unisex name, could be a man or a woman—”
“Oh, hell no,” Jeremiah laughed. “Do I call you Paddy?”
Patrick stared at her a moment, then winked. “Jeremiah it is.”
“Lovely to be working with you again, Patrick,” she said, patting his arm.
“We’ve gotten permission,” Birmingham called out—then paused, holding the ticker of the telegraph in one hand and his monocle, with some delicacy, in his metal claw. “From Prime Minister Du Bois himself. He says, and I quote: ‘A matter of some urgency: our skies are open to you.’ ”
“Well sir, congratulations,” Jeremiah said, quite impressed. “That was quick—”
“What, their agreement or his ascendancy?” Patrick said. “I interned with the man—”
“Namedropper,” Georgiana said.
“With pleasure,” Patrick responded. “And I remind you, you introduced us—”
“Oh, don’t credit me. Apparently,” Birmingham said, reading the ticker carefully, “our call arrived on the heels of a report of an airship entering their territory, very possibly our missing ZR-101. The Confederates lost it somewhere near the Atlanta Caldera.”
“That’s disturbing,” Jeremiah said, catching Lord Birmingham’s eye. “What did you say, sir, about the right ship appearing at the right place at the wrong time?”
“Almost as catastrophic,” Lord Birmingham said, eyes glinting back at her, “as a direct assault on Liberation.” He glanced again at the ticker. “They lost it when it engaged a ‘new kind of demagnetizer—one that curdled the air, before gathering a swirl of clouds about it and disappearing in a blue flash.’ The swirl of clouds is new, but as for the rest . . . sound familiar, Commander?”
“Indeed,” Jeremiah said. “Let me guess—they’d like our help ferreting it out.”
“The VDL is only too happy to oblige,” Birmingham said, gesturing to Georgiana. “Forgive our earlier skepticism, Lady Westenhoq: even the Confederates saw at a glance this device was not normal, and with their extensive Marconi network, I’d doubt they’d ‘lose’ it if it was still there—”
“Oh, it’s still there,” Georgiana said. “It now simply . . . predates that network.”
Jeremiah called the Expeditionaries to order and sketched out her plan for the mission. As Birmingham had promised, he let her plan the assault—but with insightful interjections that quickly won Jeremiah’s respect . . . while establishing him as the mission’s final authority.
Lieutenant Commander Sonia Ní Donnchadda, the Eyrie’s Chartographer and unofficial mother hen to its airships, would join them, as would a platoon of Natasha’s Falconers, as well as Patrick and six of Jeremiah’s Rangers. Resupply would be impossible, so Jeremiah directed Georgiana to bring two skilled artisans to fabricate any needed equipment or weapons. Jeremiah also decided to split the Owl from the Falcon and bring him along; the mystical link between the Chinese twins could cross continents, so it just might survive a trip through time and let them call back home. Between all of them, their equipment, and the airship’s crew already on board—
“The Prince Edward would be damn near close to its weight limit,” the Chartographer said. “But after our last debacle I’m reluctant to suggest we pull any Expeditionaries off; I’d rather we actually add a few more. Could we cut down on ammunition and—”
“Hang on,” Jeremiah said. “No one wants to field a larger force of men and women than I, but I have no desire to go into battle wearing no more than my tailcoat. What says our computer? Fuel appears to cost us the most weight. Can we cut any?”
“No, Commander,” Georgiana said. “I’ve calculated the length of the tunnel this device will create. We’ll use almost half our supply of heavy water just to get there. In fact, it would be better to lose a few people and guns in favor of extra fuel so we could get back—”
“Because it will be irreplaceable,” Jeremiah said, grimacing. “And not just fuel. Everything we will bring will be irreplaceable in 1808. They’ve no brasslite, or rare earth canisters, or roving Mechanicals. No vulcanized rubber, carbonate glass—or thermionic tubes.”
“Better to bring enough critical spares to ensure a safe r
eturn,” Georgiana said. “I’m afraid I agree with the Chartographer: we need to cut down on ammunition. If you don’t wish to cut back on the kits of your Rangers, have Natasha cut some Dragoons or fly her Falconers light—”
“No. I am concerned about under-resourcing our mission,” Jeremiah said. “It’s never the best plan to overreact to your last mistake—but not having the men and women to take on Lord Christopherson would mean failure. Not arming them adequately means failure. If weight is a concern, I suggest we switch the liftbags from helium to hydrogen.”
The Chartographer’s eyes bulged. “Are you serious?”
“One stray discharge,” Georgiana said, “would mean disaster—”
“The Prince Edward will still have its helium firebladders,” Birmingham said, “and failing to stop Lord Christopherson from destroying our entire history would be an even greater disaster.” He snapped his fingers. “Commander, you’ve put your finger on it. We’ll switch to hydrogen and save more weight by swapping boilers for rare earth canisters, like those on the ZR-101—”
“And give all our Falconers and Rangers cancer from the X-rays?”
“We’ll put the crew on elixirs,” Lord Birmingham said. “Perfectly safe—”
“And dulling,” Jeremiah said. “A soldier needs to be sharp to fight. I won’t send one of my men or women into battle on drugs, and I don’t think Natasha will either.”
“Well, we’ll put the engineering crew on elixirs,” Lord Birmingham said. “Restrict the lower decks, no one down there without Becquerel badges. All right? Lady Westenhoq, how long will it take to prepare this device for use in the Prince Edward?”
“Two hours,” Georgiana said. “Give or take.”
“Make it one,” Birmingham said. “Chartographer! Refit the Prince Edward—”
“Begging your pardon, Lord Birmingham,” Jeremiah said, realizing there was one errand she would be prudent to undertake before leaping into the unknown. “Sir, it might take longer than that to provision the crew—and if we need to infiltrate, I’ll need to visit my artisans to re-arm—”
“Commander!” Birmingham chided, a slight twinkle in his eye. “I thought you were famous for thwarting an Incursion clad only in a nightshirt—”
“And I missed this?” Patrick asked.
“It was quite the adventure,” Georgiana said, smiling slyly at him. “Lord Birmingham, I concur with the Commander. My artisans may need time to equip as well—and, regardless, sir, I’m not done with my calculations. This is time travel. An hour here or there won’t matter—”
“Hang on,” Patrick said. “Even with time travel, isn’t it already too late? If he’s going to change the past . . . it’s the past, right? Wouldn’t he have changed it . . . already? Or failed already?” He raised his hand to his temple. “My word, my head—”
“It is quite a puzzler,” Jeremiah said, thinking carefully. “Lady Westenhoq, I think a better way to get at what Patrick is asking is this: if Lord Christopherson does effect a change to the past, how long will it take for the change to propagate to the present?”
“I . . . have absolutely no idea,” Georgiana said.
“Return to what we know,” Lord Birmingham said. “Lady Westenhoq, you led me to believe this navigational orb cannot be finely adjusted—leaving us set to follow the blackguard on his own course, however many hours we are behind. How close will we follow his tracks?”
“It’s hard to be certain how close we will come out,” Georgiana said, spreading her hands. “It’s a preprogrammed course, and no doubt there’s temporal drift as time passes. Perhaps . . . within a few days? Within a hundred kilometers? At best, the same general region—”
“If that is the best you can do, Lady Westenhoq, it is more than good enough for me,” Birmingham said, standing. “Defenders of Victoriana: our enemy likely has twelve hours up on us. We must use every minute wisely to gain the maximum advantage. Commander!”
“Yes, Lord Birmingham,” Jeremiah said, snapping to attention.
“I leave the provisioning of our men and women to you,” he said. “I will oversee the refit of the Prince Edward personally. You’ll have a revised weight budget within the hour. Chartographer! We’ll be flying blind here. Acquire whatever period charts you can for the Southern Colonies—”
“Not just charts, almanacs,” Jeremiah said. “No—weather records. Ship’s logs.”
“Of course,” Sonia said. “The Archive has transcribed cylinders for every ship in the Atlantic surface fleet, Royal and American, from Revolution through Realignment. We can do better than weather prediction. We can chart our course based on actual weather records—”
Lord Birmingham’s mouth opened. “Time travel conveys a powerful advantage—”
“When you raid the Archives, bring historical cylinders as well, maybe a copy of Twain’s Victoriana, or Earle’s Chronicle of Liberation,” Jeremiah said. When everyone else looked at her, she said, “None of us were alive then. How would we know whether he’s changed anything?”
“Well spoken, Commander,” Lord Birmingham said. “Ladies and gentlemen of the Defense League: our entire civilization is at stake. You have your orders. Execute them with dispatch. The trail is fresh, so we mount the moment our steed is saddled. Prevail, Victoriana.”
“Prevail, Victoriana,” Jeremiah replied.
Birmingham and the Chartographer strode out, leaving Georgiana, Jeremiah, and Patrick.
“I’ll handle provisioning,” Patrick said, before Jeremiah asked. “I know where you’re off to.”
“Many thanks,” Jeremiah said. “Lady Westenhoq, if any of your spares are on backorder—”
“I’ll wager you can procure them,” Georgiana said. “Many thanks. I’ll punch up a list—”
“God,” Patrick said. “Another thought struck me: if he succeeds once, the blackguard will be free to make further changes to history. Undo Liberation? That will cancel our pursuit, but then he’s free to take on Emancipation, the Realignment of the North, and God knows what else—”
“Fear not,” Jeremiah said, inwardly horrified: as a woman, she’d focused on the threat to Liberation, but the threat to Patrick was just as real: she shuddered to think of his life as a slave, much worse one in a restored United States. “We’ll run him down first, God willing—”
“God had better be willing,” Georgiana said, looking from Patrick to Jeremiah. “No matter the urgency, this adventure is completely untried. Even our mode of transport bears no guarantees. We could end up a hundred kilometers up, or under the Earth—”
———
“We will be flying blind,” Jeremiah said. “Prevail, Victoriana, indeed.”
10.
The Magic of Mechanisms
WITH PATRICK’S blunderblast slung over her shoulder, Jeremiah whizzed through the streets on her autocycle, discharging its cylinder flat out, its teakettle scream and clanking frame adding another layer of mist and noise to the steam and bustle of Boston. She crouched on the pedals, knees bent, half to jump the cycle over curbs, and half to keep the juddering vibration from the steep cobblestones of Beacon Hill from rattling her tailbone clean off.
She squealed to a stop before the Moffat’s, pulled the cylinder, and tossed it to a street urchin wearing an errand-runner’s cap. “Top me off?” she asked, hopping off onto the sidewalk with a whirl and pulling her bag out of its basket in one smooth motion.
“Yes, ma’am,” the errand runner said, taking the cycle. The boy’s eyes lighted on her vest, her denims—and on the big brass pins on her lapels, engraved with a steering wheel, sword, and airsail overlaid with a stylized V. “Are you an Expeditionary?”
Jeremiah smiled. “Yes,” she said, ruffing the industrious young man’s cap so that tufts of blond hair showed. “A Ranger. Maybe one day you’ll become one too. Polish the brasslite a
bit, and there’s a second shilling in it for you. Quick now, young sir; I won’t be long.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, briskly walking the cycle straight out into traffic, dodging with ease pedestrians and horses, autocarts and gearcycles, even rattling Stanley Steamers and plodding Maxim Walkers, as he threaded his way, practiced and confident, to the corner cylindershiner’s.
Ah, Boston. Her Boston. Jeremiah smiled . . . then grimaced. Once, her greatest fear was a Foreign monster rampaging across these streets. Now she faced the unpleasant possibility that one of their own—one of her own—hated this world so much he wanted to blot it out entirely.
Jeremiah turned sharply towards the tottering three-story shop, glancing up at the enclosed balcony jutting out from the newer brownstones and brickboxes built up around it. Beneath the balcony, carbide-etched into the thick window of carbonate glass, were the words:
MOFFAT’S MECHANISMS & MYSTERIES
Her mouth quirked; as usual, today she was in the market for a bit of both.
Burnt wire and incense assaulted her nostrils as she stepped inside, and the tinkle of the shopbell mixed uneasily with the unearthly chorus rising out of a garden of dented phonographs, half-playing wax cylinders, half-plucking player reels, off-key music boxes, and old-style autochimes. Beside them, a tall, tarnished—but quite well kept—Mechanical man took a bow, squeaking in an attempt to speak; and behind it, a great cracked disc spun slowly, with the tag
“GENUINE AEROGRAPH—NOT A SPECTROSCOPE”
on it. Jeremiah studied the shimmering image in the aerograph’s yellowed, fractured display: it was one of Edison’s older moving pictures, an episode of a serialized aerial romance, if the dashing couple, rayguns, and airship were any guide; then, curious, she spoke out to the air.
“What’s an aerograph,” Jeremiah asked, “if not a spectroscope?”
Jeremiah Willstone and the Clockwork Time Machine Page 9