His Clockwork Canary

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 agree, 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.

The telephone rang and Willie nearly catapulted from the pillow-laden sofa. She had provided Rollins with Simon’s telephone number as well as his address, although she had not mentioned Simon by name.

“Hello?” Simon said into the mouthpiece—ambiguous as they had discussed. “Miss Goodenough? Yes. Hold on.” Brow raised, he passed the receiver to Willie.

Holding Simon’s supportive gaze, she willed her hand not to tremble. “Miss Goodenough here.”

“Thimblethumper calling.”

“I’m glad. Good news?”

“There’s a skytown hovering southeast of London. Ask around for specific coordinates. Meet me at nine p.m. in the Vulcan Grogshop aboard the USS Enterprise.”

“Aye, but—”

“Don’t be late.”

• • •

“Eight oh five,” Phin said as he steered the Flying Cloud toward a pier floating alongside their appointed destination. “Unfashionably early.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Willie said, noting her dual timepieces. “Rollins sounded nervous and he was most adamant about punctuality.”

“Feeling anxious myself.” Simon squinted through his goggles at the transient skytown and the banner that declared this airborne mecca as The Milky Way. “I’m not crazy about you going into that pub alone.”

“The USS Enterprise is famous for its international captain and crew,” Willie said as she studied the collection of rigged airships. “Somewhat like the crew of the American courier ship the Maverick.”

“Captained by the Sky Cowboy,” Phin said as he docked. “Didn’t you interview him once?”

“I did,” Willie said, hugging herself against the frigid air.

“Tucker Gentry is a fugitive from justice,” Simon said, cringing at the thought of Willie mixing with a murderer.

“He’s an innocent man wrongly accused of a hideous crime.”

“How can you be certain of his virtue?” Phin asked.

“I traced his memories.”

“Bloody hell,” Simon mumbled. Gentry had been a former US air marshal. He’d wrangled with heinous outlaws. The man was no stranger to mayhem and bloodshed. Surely his memories mirrored a gruesome battlefield.

“I merely meant that the USS Enterprise fosters a mixed clientele even more so than other digs in various skytowns. The Vulcan Grogshop is a popular watering hole for Freaks. I’ll be amongst my own kind.”

“Some of which could be the more dangerous faction of the Freak Fighters,” Simon pointed out.

“No more dangerous than the rabble-rousing Vics who board these skytowns looking for a hell-raising good time,” Phin said. “Don’t flash that piece I gave you, brainiac, but remember what it’s for.”

Willie frowned up at Simon. “You’re carrying a gun?”

“A Disrupter 29,” Phin answered for him. “A peashooter compared to what I’ve got holstered beneath my coat, but it’ll make a point. Give me your wrist,” he said to Willie.

“I see no need for a stun cuff,” she said.

“I do,” Simon said.

“You’re not going into that pub unarmed,” Phin said.

“Wear the cuff,” Simon said, “or I’m coming in with you.”

“In which case Rollins might spot you.” Scowling, she offered her left wrist to Phin. “I won’t have the two of you scaring him off.”

“Rollins has never met me,” Phin said. “I’d just be another face in the crowd.”

“Phin’s right,” Simon said. “Change of plan. I’ll lurk outside as agreed, but Phin’s going inside.” He raised a hand to cut off Willie’s counter. “Bend to reason, I beg you, or we’re shoving off here and now.”

She huffed but nodded and Simon breathed easier. “Thank you.”

Together they disembarked and navigated the swinging gangway that led to the largest of the five dirigibles—Jupiter 2. As usual on any skytown, they were met by a costumed greeter.

“Peace and love, dudes and dudette. Welcome to the Milky Way.”

Simon swiped off his goggles and squinted at the long-haired, cannabis-reeking hippie. “Woodstock?”

“Gadzooks,” Willie said, pushing her sunshades to her forehead. “You’re right. What are you doing here, Bear?”

“Which is it?” Phin asked. “Woodstock or Bear?”

“Both,” Simon and Willie chorused.

“Ohhhh . . . woooow . . .” Bear drew out each word as though operating in slow motion. “The skittish fox and the uptight hound. Cooooool.” He pushed his tinted glasses up his nose. “Edinburgh was a drag, so I thumbed a ride down to London. Hooked up a job in this skytown for a spell. What are you doing here?” He looked from Simon and Willie to Phin. “Bored with the fidelity thing and broadening your horizons?” He waggled his brows. “The more the merrier. That’s my motto.”

Phin coughed.

Willie dipped her chin.

“Good God, man,” Simon said. “Could you just point us to the nearest coffeehouse. Preferably one on this ship.”

“Sure thing, dude. Java Jupiter. One deck down. Fab bean juice. Bitchin’ band.”

“Right, then,” Phin said with an eye roll. “Off we go.”

“Which way to the USS Enterprise?” Willie asked.

“Three digs over, chick-a-doodle.” He gave them the two-finger salute. “Peace out.”

“Every time I step foot in a bloody skytown,” Phin said as they hastened belowdecks, “I feel as though I’ve ventured into another world.”

“That’s because you have,” Willie said. “I rather like it.”

Simon tried not to fixate on all the times Willie had visited skytowns on her own to mix freely with other Freaks. It wasn’t her kind that worried him, although he wasn’t happy about her scheming with Freak Fighters. His deepest concern regarded the reprobates and outlaws that typically sought refuge and recreation amongst these floating pleasure meccas. Outlaws like the Sky Cowboy, to name one. Amelia used to hoard penny dreadfuls exploiting the adventures of that Wild West air marshal before and after his fall from grace. He’d never understood glorifying dubious personages—although that had been a specialty of the Clockwork Canary.

The smell of coffee grounds, whiskey, and marijuana wafted down the dimly lit corridor, as did the blaring sounds of an electrified band. A style of music perpetuated by the Mods—something called psychedelic or acid rock. As it happened, Simon was a fan. The complex song structures, artful rhythms, and emotional lyrics were preferable to the other Mod genre—folk music. Growing up, Amelia had latched on to that oddly cheerful antiwar tune, “If I Had a Hammer,” and Simon and Jules had thought they’d go mad from their sister’s incessant singing.

With his hand at the small of her back, Simon guided Willie into Java Jupiter, surprised at how crowded the coffeehouse was for this relatively early hour. The intimate room was packed with men and women alike. Half dressed in traditional Vic clothing, whereas the other half leaned toward moderate to extreme ModVic with a few costumed oddities thrown into the mix. The bitchin’ band was but a trio, although their musical equipment took up a good portion of the raised stage. A small area had been cleared in front of the stage and a few ModVics engaged in free-form dancing, jerking and gyrating in scandalous manners that would shock Her Majesty the Queen into heart palpitations.

“Have you ever danced like that?” Willie shouted over the musical chaos.

“I was roaring drunk at the time, but yes.”

“Was it fun?”

Simon smiled down at her. “Yes.”

She smiled back as they wove through the crowd, finally locating an empty table close to the stage.

Phin swept off his bowler and stuffed a ripped paper serviette into his ears.

Simon didn’t blame him—the volume of the music was deafening—but he refrained from making a visual spectacle of himself. He offered to help Willie off with her coat, but she politely refused. Nor did she remove her decorative derby. He knew her mind. She was anxious to be off to the Vulcan Grogshop. He preferred she wait here, with him, until closer to the appointed meeting time with Rollins.

“Coffee, please,” Willie said when their server appeared.

“Side of weed?” the young woman asked. “Absinthe? Opium-laced cigarette?

“Just coffee.”

“Same here,” Simon said.

“Make that three,” Phin shouted.

“You’d enjoy the music more if you accentuated your bean juice with a mind-bending substance.”

“Enjoying the music just fine,” Simon said. He’d indulged in the past, along with a rather rowdy pack of friends. The effects were not displeasing; they were, however, compromising. A state he could ill afford this night. Or any other, now that he had a wife to look after.

“Squaresville, but whatever.” Dressed in a gauzy shapeless dress, the doe-eyed girl disappeared into the crowd.

The rock trio segued into a ballad, a beautifully haunting piece, and the bodies on the dance floor doubled.

“I say,” Phin shouted over the drone of the bass guitar and the screeching organ. “That young chit looks exactly like Amelia.”

Simon looked to where Phin pointed. Short in stature, her normally coiled blond curls cascading down her back, a corseted tail-vest worn over trousers . . . By God, it was Amelia. In the middle of the dance floor canoodling with some man. Simon’s temper flared as the cheeky bloke smoothed a hand down her back, his palm resting a scant inch from her backside.

“Bloody hell!” Enraged, Simon catapulted out of his chair and, in the blur of a second, separated the pair, slamming his fist into the lecher’s hard jaw.

The stranger plowed into a slew of hippie impersonators and landed on his arse.

Amelia screamed.

The music faltered.

And Simon was instantly surrounded by several men pointing nasty-looking weapons in his personal direction. Drawing his peashooter in retaliation seemed absurd. Hopefully Phin had his back.

“Simon?” Amelia gawked at him, her eyes wide in shock and sparking with, of all things, indignity. “What’s wrong with you?”

“You know this scalawag, Flygirl?” This from the stranger rising from the floor and working his offended jaw.

“My brother,” she huffed, cheeks blazing. “Simon Darcy.”

“In that case,” the man said, his American accent grating, “holster your weapons, boys.”

“Who the devil is this man?” Simon asked his sister.

“My husband.”

Simon’s blood boiled. “Since when? I don’t even know this bloke. For Christ’s sake, Amelia!”

“Don’t be swearin’ at Mrs. Gentry.” This from a broad-shouldered, ill-tempered-looking man with a cigar clamped between his teeth. A man who’d yet to lower his enormous gun.

“Gentry?” Simon’s stomach knotted as he took a second look at the man he’d coldcocked. The American accent. The Western boots and the cowboy hat. “Oh, hell, no, Amelia.”

“I warned you, fancy pants,” cigar-man said.

Out of nowhere Willie moved in, rainbow eyes swirling with fury. “Step off, you overbearing sod.”

“And if I don’t?”

Willie clipped him with her stun cuff and the big man wilted like a rain-deprived flower.

Amelia squealed, outraged. “What the . . . who the devil are you?”

Willie squared her shoulders. “Your brother’s wife.”

Simon appreciated Willie’s staunch proclamation, although her penchant to save him in risky circumstances battered his male pride.

Amelia whirled and nailed Simon with a look of astonishment.

Gentry studied Willie, then rubbed his jaw whilst peering down at his odious cohort. “Zapped by a Freak. Axel’s gonna be fit to be tied when he rouses.”

“In that case,” Phin said, calmly stepping in, “perhaps we should sort this out in private.”

Amelia whirled again. “Phin?”

Gentry’s eyes narrowed. “Phineas Bourdain?”

Phin raised one brow. “You know of me?”

Gentry responded by knocking Phin off his feet with a wicked roundhouse.

“Bloody hell,” Simon said to his sister. “You told your husband Phin stole a kiss?”

She gave an innocent shrug. “He wasn’t my husband at the time.”