Beth Ciotta - His Clockwork Canary

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.