His Clockwork Canary

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 sandstorm?”

“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.”

Furious for the delay, Bingham spun around. “What the . . . Don’t point the gun at me, you brainless, worthless bob of junk. The enemy! Shoot the—” He saw the flash, felt the blow, the pain and the astonishment. His knees buckled and Bingham pitched forward. His thoughts blurred as he spied his blood pooling. The pain was excruciating, then numbing. His lids fluttered, then started to close. His last vision: Renee sitting stiff-backed darning his socks, a smoking gun at her feet.