His Clockwork Canary

CHAPTER 17

JANUARY 21, 1887 PERTH, AUSTRALIA

The land of the kangaroo. Or as the Mods called it: Oz.

Why anyone would choose to hide in this mosquito-infested, abysmally hot and humid, godforsaken land was beyond Bingham. Along with his sparse yet top-notch crew, he had navigated the skies over Europe, the Mediterranean Sea, Arabia, and the seemingly never-ending Indian Ocean. Due to volatile weather and mechanical malfunctions, the journey had taken two days more than Bingham had anticipated. Worse, a horrendous storm had blown them off course, pushing them south of their appointed mark and assaulting Mars-a-Tron so viciously that Captain Northwood had been forced to ground the enhanced zeppelin in order to facilitate vital repairs. Another delay, although as Northwood had pointed out, it could have been worse. At least Perth, a coastal city in Western Australia, had resources.

“How long?” Bingham had asked.

Northwood stood hat in hand, shoulders bolstered, as if bracing for an assault of the personal nature. “Five to six days. Maybe longer.”

“Unacceptable.”

“Unavoidable.”

“Money is no object.”

“Naturally,” Northwood said. “Locating and obtaining all of the required components is the issue. Then as you heard from our chief engineer, the repairs are of a laborious nature.”

Bingham held his temper. The damages were not Northwood’s or Judd’s fault and Bingham had no desire to cross the Great Victoria Desert in an unreliable airship. As abominable as a summer down under was here on the coast, the conditions would be far worse in the isolated dunes and plains of the expansive desert named after Queen Victoria herself. How ironic if Her Majesty the Queen proved the death of Viscount Bingham when he conspired to be the death of her. The notion of his demise did not amuse.

Instead of risking his neck, Bingham sanctioned the repairs on Mars-a-Tron. Meanwhile he arranged ground transport across the city to a worldwide establishment known as the Adventurer’s Club. Bingham had frequented the London branch upon occasion and had deemed it worthwhile to purchase an annual membership. Familiar with the sort who haunted the enterprising social club, he knew this would be the place to acquire suitable transport and guidance over the Great Victoria Desert, into South Australia, and beyond to the southwestern corner of Queensland—where Professor Merriweather had been spotted by his Mod Tracker, Crag.

Upon entering the rustic building, Bingham noted the swashbuckling decor. Paintings and photographs of heroic feats and remote terrains. Brilliant examples of taxidermy as practiced on varied exotic creatures. Assorted displays of archaic and progressive instruments pertaining to navigation and weaponry. This society championed the perseverance and ingenuity of fearless adventurers. Scouts, pilots, navigators, scientists—those willing to brave uncharted or dangerous territories in the name of exploration and discovery. It also attracted adventurers with less noble intent. Soldiers of fortune. Bingham’s preferred recruit.

A uniformed steward approached, his expression wary. “Be of service, mate?”

Bingham flashed his membership card. “I require access to your Reception Room, a cool drink, and swift and reliable transport to Queensland.”

“An expedition?”

“Private mission. No questions asked,” he added with a meaningful look.

“Sounds like a job for the Rocketeer.”

The name meant nothing to Bingham. “Is he the best you’ve got?”

“He’s the best there is.” The steward jerked his thumb toward a room to the right. “Teletype, telephone, telegraph, and, as with all of our worldwide branches, worldwide reception. I’ll see to your other two requests, Lord Bingham. Welcome to the Adventurer’s Club.”

The man left and Bingham strode toward the Reception Room, ignoring the curious looks of the few members seated at an ornate bar and swilling beer. He was not here to socialize or to exchange tall tales. He was here on business and with luck would soon be on his way.

His vision acclimating to the shaded and dark-paneled ambience, Bingham welcomed the cooler air as afforded by numerous brass and mahogany ceiling fans. He’d dressed down by his standards and yet the oppressive humidity had caused his shirt to stick and his brow to perspire. The damnable insects worsened his discomfort and mood, as did the disruption of his telecommunications device. He was unaccustomed to being uninformed. After clearing the worst of the bad weather, he’d noted several incoming messages on his telecommunicator. Too many to retrieve in their entirety.

Alone in the small Reception Room, Bingham utilized a custom-made wire enabling him to connect his portable device to the club’s teleprinter, an ingenious machine developed via modern technology. According to his sources, this form of communications had originally been developed in the early 1900s. A few short decades from now. Bingham fairly salivated imagining the communication wonders he would discover once he traveled forward to the 1960s. Satellites, computers, televisions. He’d read about them in the Book of Mods. Heard them gossiped about within the scientific realm as well as the black market, where old stories regarding the future ran rampant via corrupt Peace Rebels. Gossip and conjecture be damned. Bingham would acquire the knowledge enabling him to manufacture those marvels. He would be ahead of his time. A miracle man. A technological kingpin.

Heady with thoughts of colossal wealth and power, Bingham stared at the stream of coded messages now transferring onto paper and mentally translated the numbers to letters.

His mother wondering how he fared.

P. B. Waddington reporting an increase of Triple R entrants. Two new inventions submitted to the committee. An electric battery from biblical times and a functioning steam engine from the first century.

Not caring a whit about either discovery, Bingham moved on.

A trusted snitch claiming Amelia Darcy had been spotted in London.

Bingham frowned at that one. Dunkirk had declared Miss Darcy dead. If Dunkirk lied about that, had he lied about Amelia’s unearthed treasure? Had the Scottish Shark of the Skies double-crossed Bingham, instead striking a deal with Amelia Darcy and the Sky Cowboy? His temper surged.

But wait.

Waddington had said nothing of a time-traveling device being submitted to the committee. Perhaps da Vinci’s ornithopter had indeed been Amelia’s booty. Knowing her obsession with flying, he could well imagine an obsession with flying machines. Bingham would not overthink this. However, he would be questioning that lying bastard Captain Colin Dunkirk.

Hearing booted heels striding in his direction, Bingham quickly decoded the last message. At first he smiled. One of his sources with International ALE had news of Jules Darcy. Finally. A lead on the elusive science fiction writer. But then he swore.

J. Darcy over Gulf of Carpentaria.

An inlet of the Arafura Sea. The northern coast of Australia. Damnation! Was Darcy en route to Professor Merriweather? How did he learn of the Peace Rebel’s whereabouts? Bingham had the wealth and resources to track the brilliant recluse. Darcy did not. Regardless, the man could well foil Bingham’s plans. Darcy was exactly where he would have been if that damned storm hadn’t blown Mars-a-Tron so wretchedly off track!

“Your grog, Lord Bingham. No chance of gettin’ spiffed on this spiked Lolly Water, but it’s a cool one. As requested.”

The man’s sarcasm grated, but Bingham held his tongue. His back to the cretin with a thick Aussie accent and the scent of grease and tobacco upon his person, Bingham disconnected and pocketed his telecommunicator, tore the coded page from the teleprinter, and stuffed that as well. Shoulders squared, expression calm, Bingham turned and faced a giant of a man resembling a down-under cowboy. “You don’t look like a server,” he said. More like an outlaw. A heavily armed outlaw wearing a sweat-stained slouch hat and smoking a hand-rolled cigarette that dangled from his lower lip.

“Just deliverin’ the goods and offerin’ my services,” he said as smoke curled into the air and into Bingham’s eyes. “That’s if the price is right.”

“I require safe and speedy passage to the southwestern corner of Queensland.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“I can but I won’t. Not as of yet. Are you my man?”

“Let me put it this way, mate. You wouldn’t want to make this trek with any scout but me.”

“You’re merely a scout?”

“I’m not merely anything. They call me the Rocketeer.”

Bingham looked down his nose at the man. “What should I call you?”

The Aussie’s mouth twitched. “Name’s Austin Steele. I answer to Austin or Steele or Rock.” He tugged at the brim of his hat by way of a handshake. “Own and pilot my own transport. The Iron Tarantula.”

“A rocket-fueled airship?”

“A monster. No one screws with the Tarantula.” He squashed his cigarette beneath his mud-caked bootheel. “Or me. You’re lookin’ to cover wild territory, Bingham. The harsh elements, ballsy bushrangers, a few hostile aboriginals, not to mention the starving dingoes and poisonous reptiles.” He scribbled on a piece of paper. “This is my price. Half now. Half on arrival.”

A hefty price that reeked of arrogance and instilled confidence. Bingham withdrew his wallet from his inner pocket, obsessing on the fact that he hadn’t heard from Crag in days. Was Merriweather still on the fringes of the rain forest? Or had he been spooked and moved on? Did Crag have the professor in his sights or had the brilliant Mod, once again, fallen off the proverbial map? Had Crag sighted Jules Darcy? Crazed now, Bingham thumbed through several banknotes with multiple zeros. “I answer to ‘Lord Bingham’ or ‘sir’ or ‘Kingpin of the Universe.’” He slapped a juicy stack of bills into the reprobate’s beefy hand. “You’re hired.”