Beth Ciotta - His Clockwork Canary

Gentry merely angled his head as though absorbing and reconciling the Freak woman he saw before him with the so-called Vic male who’d written a story about him months before.

Amelia, however, took a menacing step forward, fists balled at her side. “ The Clockwork Canary? Lead journalist for the Informer ? The insensitive sensationalist who maligned my father ?”

“I can explain.”

Amelia launched forward like a human cannonball.

Willie swore she felt the brush of the woman’s knuckles as her fist swung past her nose. The only reason the blow didn’t land was that Gentry had caught her by the waist and hauled her back in the nick of time.

“Easy, Flygirl.”

“Dammit, Amelia.” Finessing Willie behind him, Simon dragged his hands through his already disheveled hair. “I can explain. We can explain all of this. But not now. Willie has an appointment with a man who’s going to relay the location of the clockwork propulsion engine.”

Still holding tight to his wife, Gentry tipped back his hat. “The time-traveling engine from the Briscoe Bus? It was destroyed—”

“No, it wasn’t,” Willie said. “That was a ruse concocted by a renegade trio of Peace Rebels. One of them being my mother. As Simon said, we can explain, but . . .” She glanced at her time cuff.

Simon checked the safety mechanism on his derringer.

Amelia palmed her forehead. “What in the devil are you doing with a Disrupter 29?”

“Making a point if need be,” Simon said.

“But that’s an advanced weapon and you’ve never even used a slingshot!”

“Aim. Fire. Think I can handle it.”

“Why do you need a gun?” Gentry asked as Simon pocketed the pistol.

“Because twelve days ago the people we’re dealing with didn’t think twice about o’blasterating my wife. Willie was severely wounded trying to protect me,” Simon said specifically to his sister. “I’ll be damned if I’ll let anyone harm her again.”

Amelia blinked at Willie with shock and perhaps a smidgen of gratitude.

“I promise, we’ll explain at length later,” Willie said, pushing out of the salon and into the crush of the rollicking coffeehouse.

“Where are you meeting this yahoo?” Gentry asked.

“USS Enterprise ,” Simon said. “The Vulcan Grogshop. The contact is wary of me, so I can’t be seen. Phin’s going inside with Willie. That’s if his wits are about him.”

Phin pushed away from the bar and a bottle of whiskey. “My jaw’s sore,” Phin said, whilst scowling at Gentry. “But my wits are fine.” He checked his holstered weapon. “Let’s do this.”

“I know the Enterprise and the Vulcan,” Gentry said over the ear-blistering music. “I’ll come with you.”

Amelia pushed forward. “Me too.”

“Like hell,” Gentry said. “Stay here with Eli. Get Axel back on his feet and talk him down from his all-fired fury. StarMan, Chang, you’re with me.”

Willie’s nerves jangled. “Too many people.”

“He won’t even know we’re there,” Gentry said, then doubled back to kiss his wife and whisper something in her ear. She didn’t look happy, but she didn’t follow.

“I don’t want Amelia to come,” Simon said as Gentry rejoined them. “But I don’t want to leave her here.”

“Eli will kick the ass of any man who looks sideways at her. Axel will do worse. That’s if he regains consciousness anytime soon. You pack a hell of a wallop, Mrs. Darcy.”

“Stun cuff,” Willie said, flashing her wrist as they hit topside. “Phin’s idea.”

Gentry nodded. “Long as Mr. Bourdain keeps his hands and lips off Amelia, guess we’ll get along just fine.”

Simon shot his new brother-in-law a look as they crossed over to the next dig. “I could say the same thing about you, cowboy.”

• • •

The Vulcan Grogshop was twice the size of Java Jupiter and easily as crowded. A blessing, as it meant Phin, Gentry, StarMan, and Chang were difficult to spot. Even Willie was unsure as to the exact location of each man. As discussed on the walk over, they’d entered in intervals, dispersing to different areas of the smoky, chaotic pub.

There were several raucous gaming tables and the stage at the far end featured a burlesque show of sorts. Lively music and boisterous conversation filled the air, as did the clinking of glasses and the hissing and clanking of steam-powered metallic robots serving up smokes and snacks.

Willie was not the only woman in attendance, but she was certainly in the minority. She felt a twinge of unease as a few men at the bar looked her way. She wished Simon were with her, even though he couldn’t be. She wished Rollins would have declared a more specific place to meet. She glanced at her time cuff. Nine p.m. sharp.

“Miss Goodenough.” Rollins stepped in beside her. “You’re alone?”

“Not precisely. Skytowns are notoriously wild. I thought it best to have an escort.” She did not wish him to think her foolhardy or vulnerable. She did not fully trust the man. He had, after all, ratted out his own people in a bid for personal peace. “He’s waiting outside whilst we conduct our business, so you need not worry.”

“Do I look worried?”

“Indeed you do, Mr. Thimblethumper.” The old man looked as if he’d aged ten years in two days.

“My world draws to an end. It is . . . unsettling.”

“What do you mean—”

“I don’t have much time. Please.” He grasped her forearm and guided her to an empty table in the thick of the crowd. “You must act quickly,” he said as they sat side by side at a table littered with empty glasses and smoking butts. “Tonight. The engine is unprotected this moment, but the mercenary will show for his shift sometime before dawn.”

“Why is it unprotected?” Willie asked. “Where is Filmore?”

“The engine is hidden within a vault,” he plowed on in a brittle tone. “It is marked H. Houdini and you will find it the catacombs near Westminster Abbey.”

“Beneath the Abbey?” Willie scrunched her brow. She had pored over maps along with Simon and Phin. She did not recall tunnels under Westminster.

“The tunnels are ancient and dangerous. You must not linger. Get the engine and get out.” He shoved a piece of paper in her hand, then rattled off directions.

The collective noise was such that Willie found herself focusing intently on Rollins’s every word and expression. His milky eyes were somewhat dazed behind his thick spectacles. His wrinkled skin was ashen and clammy, his urgent manner troublesome.

“There is a lock on the vault,” he said. “A special lock. I’m providing you with the code and entrusting you with the engine. Follow through for your mother. She was the best of us. Protect the world from further mayhem, Wilhelmina. The Houdinians are no more.”

“What do you mean? What about Filmore?” Willie grasped the old man’s hands when he tried to leave. “Why are you spooked? What have you done?”

“What had to be done.”

“I knew you would come to your senses, Ollie,” Filmore said. “Although it took far longer than I anticipated.”

“I had thought to live out my life in peace. But now a Freak rebellion is rising. There was an incident over the Atlantic. Surely you read about it. Freaks are dangerous, Jefferson, and they exist because of us. We must right our wrongs and save the world from further mutation and destruction. Think of the atrocities those supernatural beings could commit upon Vics if they all band together as we once did.”

“You are once again in league with my thinking. I’m encouraged by the timing. This past week I had decided to take extreme measures. I’ve been researching engineers, a man suited to my purpose. Ingenious, fearless, a fellow Utopian. And now here you are. We must go back in time,” Filmore said as he paced amongst marble and granite tombstones. “Perhaps to the day we first arrived. Before Mods mated with Vics. We could alert the other Peace Rebels, caution them against having sex with anyone other than another Mod. Mickey would help us to instill the importance of remaining faithful to our fellow Peace Rebels.” He stopped and caressed the sculpted angel marking one particular grave. “Mickey would still be alive.”