Jeremiah Willstone and the Clockwork Time Machine

by Anthony Francis

  “We are,” Jeremiah said. “We have this whole world’s libraries on the bed, but it’s like they say . . . you can discover more about a man in an hour of play than in a year of conversation.”

  “Cute,” he said, still scowling. “Who said that, Wells?”

  “I think that was Plato,” Georgiana said. “What’s wrong, Patrick?”

  “It’s just . . . the boy came back. He gave us clothes,” Patrick said. His voice softened. “We got what we wanted. You don’t have to do anything, you know, that I don’t want you to.”

  Jeremiah’s mouth quirked; she doubted he’d even noticed his little psychopathological slip. “All right, Harbinger,” she said, patting his arm, then kissing his cheek. “I won’t.”

  “Don’t tease me,” Patrick said, touching his cheek.

  She grimaced, then nodded. “All right, Harbinger,” she said. “I won’t.”

  They rejoined Marcus, who’d turned on the aerograph and was switching through its programming rapidly. “Well, what do you think? Gonna let a native show you the sights?”

  “I am,” she said, smiling at him.

  “We all are,” Patrick said, opening the bag. “Now what have we here?”

  And with that he pulled out a big crocheted mass, which Georgiana took gratefully. “Well now,” she said, putting it on over her upraised hair and adjusting it in the mirror; it was a floppy beret. “Just about passes. The boy thinks ahead. Hang on to this one, Jeremiah, he’s a keeper.”

  “Sure this won’t be conspicuous?” Jeremiah said, slipping the pullover down over her Faraday vest. She’d already donned darker grey pants, also with the same jagged lines woven through them; some kind of adapted indigenous design. She flipped the hood up, and it almost completely covered her hair and face. “Abscotchalerie can attract as much attention as it’s trying to avoid.”

  “Ab-sasquatch-what?” he said. “Try again, airship girl.”

  “Dress to hide one’s face from the police,” she said.

  Marcus stared at her a moment, as if the concept was a revelation to him. “I guess it is ‘duck the pigs’ gear,” he finally admitted. “But if it’s worn by everybody, the police can hassle nobody.”

  “That a problem here?” Patrick said, slipping on a black pullover and struggling to get his head out the hood. “Police harassment?”

  “Only if you’re a shade of brown, poor, or young,” Marcus said.

  “Charming,” Georgiana said, pulling on a small denim jacket. It wouldn’t quite close, and it didn’t quite go to her waist, but as far as Jeremiah could tell, it was meant to be cut that way—and surprisingly, it went well with the Faraday.

  “Oh, yeah,” Marcus said. “I’m ah, surprised it fit you. I meant—”

  “No offense, but you meant this for Jeremiah,” Georgiana said. “Don’t let the volume of my normal dress fool you. We’re almost of a size.”

  Marcus sighed as Jeremiah lifted up a tiny shimmering square of stretchy fabric and spaghetti-thin straps, which looked like it might have been a shirt . . . or underwear. Or perhaps the distinction had worn thin. “And this? For me too?”

  “Midriff tops are in,” he said, “and it would stand out less than your vests, which people saw you in. Georgiana, I think you gotta put this on.”

  “Really,” Georgiana said, voice dripping venom.

  “Really,” Marcus said, handing it to her; she snatched it and stalked off to the bathroom. “And Jeremiah . . . you gotta lose the goggles.”

  “Aww,” she said. They protected her eyes from the actinic rays put out by her Kathodenstrahls, but she didn’t want to go into all of the details with him. “They make me look good.”

  “They do, they’re tight,” Marcus said, “but . . . look. This is a city of four million people. ‘Girl with bomber goggles’ cuts that down to maybe four, if not one. You’re asking to be arrested.”

  Four million people! Jeremiah thought. Almost ten times her estimate. But there was no time to delve into the demographics of the future. Reluctantly, she pulled the goggles off and slipped them into the pocket of her pullover. “If you say so.”

  “Well now,” Patrick said, as Georgiana stomped out of the bathroom wearing the glittering square diagonally over her full chest. This was far past harlot’s dress: the “top” left her back almost completely exposed behind a crisscross of tiny straps. “You rarely look so . . . ample.”

  “Oh, shut it, Harbinger!” Georgiana said, glaring at him, then Marcus, both of whom were trying to hide their smiles: the outfit looked quite good over her brown skin. “And what about you, Jeremiah? Aren’t you going to lose your vest and go about half-naked?”

  “No, I think I’ll keep my vest . . . this shapeless mass covers it quite nicely,” Jeremiah said, spinning about. “So . . . how do we look?”

  The three of them stood together, Patrick and Jeremiah in the patterned, hooded pullovers, and Georgiana wearing the beret Marcus had found for her . . . and the tight jacket, skimpy top, and short skirt he had meant for Jeremiah.

  Marcus stared at them. He put his hand over his face. He tried not to smile.

  “You picked these clothes,” Jeremiah said.

  “No, no, you look good,” Marcus said. “In fact, you look like Georgiana is the talent, and you’re her bodyguards. But, guys, look . . . relax.”

  “Guys?” Patrick said, glancing around. “And what of the gals?”

  “Here, ‘guys’ means men and women. Look, all of you—chill out. It’s not a shoot,” Marcus said, and they tried to look casual. “Better. Fold your arms, spread your legs a bit. Even better. And Patrick, your pants are pulled way up. Let out your belt and lower your pants—”

  “Like you?” Patrick said. “No.”

  “Some things never change,” Marcus said. Something buzzed on his hip, and he picked up the phone and glanced at it. “All right, our ride is here.”

  The rattling barge that pulled up into the “parking lot” was the first truly old piece of technology Jeremiah had seen up close in this world: wide, boxy, square, painted a flaking green mixed with red specks of rust. Its engine sounded like a crocodile clearing its throat, and when they stepped behind it to stow their aerograph and gear in the battered hatch Marcus called its “trunk,” the cart’s tailpipe let loose an oily stench so bad Jeremiah thought a refinery had farted.

  “Colin,” said the pale, dark-haired driver, extending his hand to Patrick, even as he turned his head towards the stack of skyscrapers visible over the trees. “Hey, did you hear about that blimp that buzzed downtown? Looks like you’d have gotten a good view—”

  “Blimp,” Patrick said, puzzled, shaking the man’s hand. “Patrick Harbinger.”

  “He means the airship,” Georgiana said smoothly, and Colin’s neck popped as he looked at her, or, more accurately, looked at her ample bosom and not-so-ample-top. Her eyebrows went up . . . and her charm turned on. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Georgiana.”

  “And I’m Jeremiah,” Jeremiah said, reaching pointedly for Colin’s hand, since it was just hanging there in the air, along with his jaw. “We were practically on top of it, but we didn’t have a good view. Some clouds, some, uh, flying whirligigs, and whoosh, it was gone—”

  “Yeah, I heard,” Colin said. “How could a blimp outrun helicopters?”

  “Who knows?” Georgiana said coquettishly. “Perhaps it could turn invisible.”

  “Jesus,” Marcus said, head snapping aside so hard his neck also popped. Jeremiah followed his gaze to see a dark blue police cart heaving itself over the steep ridge at the head of the hotel’s drive. The angle quickly shielded them from view, but Marcus still muttered, “Those assholes—”

  “They’re just discharging their duties,” Jeremiah said, quickly reaching to help Patrick heave the aerograph into the trunk. But when she sli
pped her tailcoat and blunderblast case atop it, she got a peculiar stare from Colin. She said, “We were downtown for a costume party—”

  “Kinda late to check out,” Colin said. “You . . . guys aren’t bailing on your room?”

  “They are, but it’s cool,” Marcus said, so smoothly Jeremiah wondered if he’d practiced the story. “They’re bailing because some dudes were mackin’ on the talent here. I told the front office—I asked them to call the cops, actually—but I was hoping to bail before anything went down.”

  “Say no more,” Colin said, helping lift Georgiana’s satchel into the trunk. “Jerks.”

  They piled into the cart’s rear interior, a padded bench seat softer than some of the best train compartments Jeremiah had ridden in, and stinkier than some of the worst. But it was spacious: the back sat all three of them comfortably, even with her between her two compatriots; then Marcus got in the front right side and leaned back over his arm, smiling briefly at her.

  “Everyone cozy?” he asked, eyes scanning the lot.

  Jeremiah hopped up and down on the seat. “Capital.”

  “Fantastic,” Marcus said. “Let’s move before things get hot.”

  “OK,” Colin said nervously. In a little mirror planted in the front windscreen, Jeremiah could just see his eyes, flickering between his passengers and Marcus. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could he said, “Welcome aboard. Don’t forget your seat belts—”

  ———

  And just as a policeman headed to their room, they were off into rivers of electric light.

  27.

  Rivers of Electric Light

  THE ROADS OF Atlanta at night were like sidewalks of the Imperial Fair writ large: endless streams of electric lights, some red, some white, some moving, some still, some on carts, some lighting the streets or directing traffic. They made the city look wholly different at night: where before Atlanta had looked oppressive, sterile, even dirty, now it was a gleaming kaleidoscope.

  Colin’s enormous battered autocart groaned and surged through the slowly moving traffic, occasionally darting forwards with more dispatch than the best electric she’d ridden in, but more often creeping along behind the rear lights of another vehicle. The arse end of each of the carts glowed a sudden red every time that traffic stopped.

  Filling those autocarts were all sorts: men and women, black and white, yellow and brown, rich and poor. Some carts were clearly for the wealthy; others, like their chariot, were not. But no one seemed to have a driver; even the wealthiest drove their own carts. Once Jeremiah thought she spotted an upper-class vehicle: a huge cart, driven by a uniformed driver, with a darkened passenger compartment as elongated as a traincab. But when it slid past them a young debutante and her friends were leaning out of a rear skylight, whooping and waving—their dress no better, nor worse, nor even really different, from anyone else’s.

  The same pattern of mixing continued beyond the people and their carts. Their chariot moved from darkened neighborhoods of trees to sterile canyons at the base of towers to vibrant walking districts populated by colorful passersby as varied as the people in the carts themselves; this whole spectrum of city life repeated itself every few kilometers.

  After only a few moments it had been clear why they’d taken a vehicle; Marcus was taking her to someplace far away. But she hadn’t been prepared for precisely how far; Marcus and Colin evidently treated distance completely casually. They easily traveled ten kilometers before the driver hooked a quick right, then a quick left, and deposited them in a cracked, uneven parking lot behind some well-lit structures simply milling with people.

  “Fellini’s Pizza,” Patrick read from a glowing red sign that seemed to be made entirely of light. “Quite heavily trafficked, I see.”

  “I fully appreciate the need to put distance between us and that police canvass,” Georgiana muttered, “but this place doesn’t look posh enough to justify that trek.”

  “Agreed, but at four million people, this place has to sprawl,” Patrick said, “or it would surpass Chinese density—”

  “Remember, he’s a local,” Jeremiah murmured. “That means he likes this place and wants to show it off to us, or is obsessed with it and can’t leave it . . . or both.”

  “Sorry for the long ride,” Marcus said nervously. “We’re far enough away from”—and his eyes flickered to the oblivious Colin—“those, ah, guys that were macking on you to, ah, to give you an evening’s peace, all right? And it’s pizza. You guys probably don’t have pizza, I’m guessing—”

  “Yes, Marcus, we had pizza in 1908,” Jeremiah said, laughing. “I do believe the dish goes back to the sixteen hundreds—”

  “Wait, what?” Colin said.

  “Never you mind,” Jeremiah said, jamming her hands into the front pocket of her pullover to be sure her right Kathodenstrahl was still there. She kissed Colin on the cheek and extended her elbow to Marcus; only at the last moment did she realize she needed to switch and take Marcus’s arm. “We appreciate you being our coachman tonight, Mister Colin.”

  Colin was still holding his cheek. “My pleasure.”

  At the top of the stairs was a patio divided into a seating area for a Spanish restaurant and a much larger seating area around a concrete fountain. A queue was forming, and based on her earlier experience Jeremiah naturally walked up. She was attracting quite a bit of attention, even with the hood thrown up; men were eyeing her, and women were rolling their eyes. Typical.

  “Something wrong?” Marcus said.

  “Nothing I’m not used to,” she said, though she had no idea how she’d fouled her disguise. “You’d think no one would give me a second glance covered up like this—”

  “What, are you kidding? You look gangsta—aw, shit,” Marcus said, as a shaggy-haired, mutton-chopped man detached himself from a table. “I know this guy. Hang on, let me head him off at the pass. The last thing we need is more explanations.”

  “Well, Mister Colin,” Jeremiah said, taking his arm now as Marcus darted off, “as you may have guessed, we’re new to this town—but we are quite hungry; it’s been a long and stressful day. Perhaps you could order for us?”

  “It’s Mister Lucero if you’ve gotta get formal,” he said, smiling at her. He still seemed dazed from the kiss—and even more dazed when Georgiana stepped up and took his other arm. “But please call me Colin.”

  Fellini’s was another “queue up and order” restaurant; Jeremiah suspected she was getting a view of the city strongly skewed towards its bottom rungs. Colin ordered a large “special,” took from the server an oddly labeled, oddly flexible glass tab, and led them over to a grille-topped table by a fountain, where he set the angled tab down so you could see that it held a black-and-white daguerreotype of a singing man evidently called SINATRA.

  Jeremiah bounced her hands against the diagonal grille, making the little tab hop up and down. “Interesting,” she said, sitting down in the metal chair, which was uncomfortable even through her two layers. “Most interesting.”

  “Sooo . . .” Colin said, as Georgiana and Patrick joined them.

  “Yes,” Georgiana said. She was looking around discreetly; Jeremiah guessed she’d never dressed in anything quite so revealing and was enjoying the attention. Patrick, on the other hand, was less comfortable, looking a bit . . . hunted in his abscotchalerie.

  “I’ve changed my mind about the alcohol,” he said.

  “Yeah, you should get a pitcher,” Colin said. “S’cool. I’m your DD.”

  “All . . . all right then,” Patrick said, beginning to stand up.

  “Let me get it,” Jeremiah said, hand tugging at his arm. As he sat and she rose, she cocked her head behind her, where Marcus appeared to be talking entirely too chummily to the shaggy-haired fellow. “I want to look around. Anything else?”

  “No, beer is
fine,” Patrick said, staring over her shoulder. His eyes tightened in suspicion—then he nodded in confirmation. “I’ll . . . interrogate Colin. I’ve got the visiting student experience, after all; I’ll get him to tell us the highlights.”

  “Capital,” Jeremiah said, swinging about casually. Marcus was talking to the shaggy-haired fellow in conspiratorial tones, which made her realize there was another reason you might cart a group of strangers across the city.

  ———

  To take them to a prepared ambush.

  28.

  Counter Intelligence

  JEREMIAH DECIDED a trip to the water closet would be good cover for strolling past Marcus and his friend to catch a snatch of their conversation. But Marcus spied her before she expected, and she was forced to smile and walk on.

  The women’s line for the smallest room was long—some things were the same in any universe—and so Jeremiah ran through the queue again, picked up a pitcher of beer at the counter, and then headed back to the table.

  This time she remained unobserved, and she artfully slipped behind Marcus and the shaggy-haired man while they were talking to themselves not three meters from the table, where Patrick, Georgiana, and Colin were engaged in excited conversation.

  “Who’s the fresh talent?” the shaggy one asked, fingers brushing his mutton chops.

  “Dangerous Liaisons meets Pocahontas over there is Georgiana,” Marcus said.

  “Cute, love the top, but I meant the curly blonde in the hoodie,” Shaggy said.

  “Jeremiah,” Marcus said. “No shit, like the prophet—and hey, mitts off.”

  “You gunning for her?” he said, tilting his head. “Closed the deal yet?”

  “No,” Marcus said. “Just met her, and honest, she’s pretty scary.”

  “Weak,” Shaggy said. “You wanna get up in that, you can’t hang back.”

  “Lemme figure out what I’m dealin’ with first. She’s off the chain, and I don’t mean in bed.” Marcus’s voice dropped. “Guess how I met her? Taking on three guys and a security guard.”