Beth Ciotta - His Clockwork Canary

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.