His Clockwork Canary (17 page)

J
ANUARY
21, 1887 P
ERTH,
A
USTRALIA

The land of the kangaroo. Or as the Mods called it: Oz.

Why anyone would choose to hide in this mosquito-infested, abysmally hot and humid,
godforsaken land was beyond Bingham. Along with his sparse yet top-notch crew, he
had navigated the skies over Europe, the Mediterranean Sea, Arabia, and the seemingly
never-ending Indian Ocean. Due to volatile weather and mechanical malfunctions, the
journey had taken two days more than Bingham had anticipated. Worse, a horrendous
storm had blown them off course, pushing them south of their appointed mark and assaulting
Mars-a-Tron
so viciously that Captain Northwood had been forced to ground the enhanced zeppelin
in order to facilitate vital repairs. Another delay, although as Northwood had pointed
out, it could have been worse. At least Perth, a coastal city in Western Australia,
had resources.

“How long?” Bingham had asked.

Northwood stood hat in hand, shoulders bolstered, as if bracing for an assault of
the personal nature. “Five to six days. Maybe longer.”

“Unacceptable.”

“Unavoidable.”

“Money is no object.”

“Naturally,” Northwood said. “Locating and obtaining all of the required components
is the issue. Then as you heard from our chief engineer, the repairs are of a laborious
nature.”

Bingham held his temper. The damages were not Northwood’s or Judd’s fault and Bingham
had no desire to cross the Great Victoria Desert in an unreliable airship. As abominable
as a summer down under was here on the coast, the conditions would be far worse in
the isolated dunes and plains of the expansive desert named after Queen Victoria herself.
How ironic if Her Majesty the Queen proved the death of Viscount Bingham when he conspired
to be the death of
her
. The notion of his demise did not amuse.

Instead of risking his neck, Bingham sanctioned the repairs on
Mars-a-Tron
. Meanwhile he arranged ground transport across the city to a worldwide establishment
known as the Adventurer’s Club. Bingham had frequented the London branch upon occasion
and had deemed it worthwhile to purchase an annual membership. Familiar with the sort
who haunted the enterprising social club, he knew this would be the place to acquire
suitable transport and guidance over the Great Victoria Desert, into South Australia,
and beyond to the southwestern corner of Queensland—where Professor Merriweather had
been spotted by his Mod Tracker, Crag.

Upon entering the rustic building, Bingham noted the swashbuckling decor. Paintings
and photographs of heroic feats and remote terrains. Brilliant examples of taxidermy
as practiced on varied exotic creatures. Assorted displays of archaic and progressive
instruments pertaining to navigation and weaponry. This society championed the perseverance
and ingenuity of fearless adventurers. Scouts, pilots, navigators, scientists—those
willing to brave uncharted or dangerous territories in the name of exploration and
discovery. It also attracted adventurers with less noble intent. Soldiers of fortune.
Bingham’s preferred recruit.

A uniformed steward approached, his expression wary. “Be of service, mate?”

Bingham flashed his membership card. “I require access to your Reception Room, a cool
drink, and swift and reliable transport to Queensland.”

“An expedition?”

“Private mission. No questions asked,” he added with a meaningful look.

“Sounds like a job for the Rocketeer.”

The name meant nothing to Bingham. “Is he the best you’ve got?”

“He’s the best there is.” The steward jerked his thumb toward a room to the right.
“Teletype, telephone, telegraph, and, as with all of our worldwide branches, worldwide
reception. I’ll see to your other two requests, Lord Bingham. Welcome to the Adventurer’s
Club.”

The man left and Bingham strode toward the Reception Room, ignoring the curious looks
of the few members seated at an ornate bar and swilling beer. He was not here to socialize
or to exchange tall tales. He was here on business and with luck would soon be on
his way.

His vision acclimating to the shaded and dark-paneled ambience, Bingham welcomed the
cooler air as afforded by numerous brass and mahogany ceiling fans. He’d dressed down
by his standards and yet the oppressive humidity had caused his shirt to stick and
his brow to perspire. The damnable insects worsened his discomfort and mood, as did
the disruption of his telecommunications device. He was unaccustomed to being uninformed.
After clearing the worst of the bad weather, he’d noted several incoming messages
on his telecommunicator. Too many to retrieve in their entirety.

Alone in the small Reception Room, Bingham utilized a custom-made wire enabling him
to connect his portable device to the club’s teleprinter, an ingenious machine developed
via modern technology. According to his sources, this form of communications had originally
been developed in the early 1900s. A few short decades from now. Bingham fairly salivated
imagining the communication wonders he would discover once he traveled forward to
the 1960s. Satellites, computers, televisions. He’d read about them in the Book of
Mods. Heard them gossiped about within the scientific realm as well as the black market,
where old stories regarding the future ran rampant via corrupt Peace Rebels. Gossip
and conjecture be damned. Bingham would acquire the knowledge enabling him to manufacture
those marvels. He would be ahead of his time. A miracle man. A technological kingpin.

Heady with thoughts of colossal wealth and power, Bingham stared at the stream of
coded messages now transferring onto paper and mentally translated the numbers to
letters.

His mother wondering how he fared.

P. B. Waddington reporting an increase of Triple R entrants. Two new inventions submitted
to the committee.
An electric battery from biblical times and a functioning steam engine from the first
century.

Not caring a whit about either discovery, Bingham moved on.

A trusted snitch claiming Amelia Darcy had been spotted in London.

Bingham frowned at that one. Dunkirk had declared Miss Darcy dead. If Dunkirk lied
about that, had he lied about Amelia’s unearthed treasure? Had the Scottish Shark
of the Skies double-crossed Bingham, instead striking a deal with Amelia Darcy and
the Sky Cowboy? His temper surged.

But wait.

Waddington had said nothing of a time-traveling device being submitted to the committee.
Perhaps da Vinci’s ornithopter had indeed been Amelia’s booty. Knowing her obsession
with flying, he could well imagine an obsession with flying machines. Bingham would
not overthink this. However, he would be questioning that lying bastard Captain Colin
Dunkirk.

Hearing booted heels striding in his direction, Bingham quickly decoded the last message.
At first he smiled. One of his sources with International ALE had news of Jules Darcy.
Finally. A lead on the elusive science fiction writer. But then he swore.

J. Darcy over Gulf of Carpentaria.

An inlet of the Arafura Sea. The northern coast of Australia. Damnation! Was Darcy
en route to Professor Merriweather? How did he learn of the Peace Rebel’s whereabouts?
Bingham had the wealth and resources to track the brilliant recluse. Darcy did not.
Regardless, the man could well foil Bingham’s plans. Darcy was exactly where he would
have been if that damned storm hadn’t blown
Mars-a-Tron
so wretchedly off track!

“Your grog,
Lord
Bingham. No chance of gettin’ spiffed on this spiked Lolly Water, but it’s a cool
one. As requested.”

The man’s sarcasm grated, but Bingham held his tongue. His back to the cretin with
a thick Aussie accent and the scent of grease and tobacco upon his person, Bingham
disconnected and pocketed his telecommunicator, tore the coded page from the teleprinter,
and stuffed that as well. Shoulders squared, expression calm, Bingham turned and faced
a giant of a man resembling a down-under cowboy. “You don’t look like a server,” he
said. More like an outlaw. A heavily armed outlaw wearing a sweat-stained slouch hat
and smoking a hand-rolled cigarette that dangled from his lower lip.

“Just deliverin’ the goods and offerin’ my services,” he said as smoke curled into
the air and into Bingham’s eyes. “That’s if the price is right.”

“I require safe and speedy passage to the southwestern corner of Queensland.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“I can but I won’t. Not as of yet. Are you my man?”

“Let me put it this way, mate. You wouldn’t want to make this trek with any scout
but
me.”

“You’re merely a scout?”

“I’m not merely anything. They call me the Rocketeer.”

Bingham looked down his nose at the man. “What should
I
call you?”

The Aussie’s mouth twitched. “Name’s Austin Steele. I answer to Austin or Steele or
Rock.” He tugged at the brim of his hat by way of a handshake. “Own and pilot my own
transport. The
Iron Tarantula
.”

“A rocket-fueled airship?”

“A monster. No one screws with the
Tarantula
.” He squashed his cigarette beneath his mud-caked bootheel. “Or me. You’re lookin’
to cover wild territory, Bingham. The harsh elements, ballsy bushrangers, a few hostile
aboriginals, not to mention the starving dingoes and poisonous reptiles.” He scribbled
on a piece of paper. “This is my price. Half now. Half on arrival.”

A hefty price that reeked of arrogance and instilled confidence. Bingham withdrew
his wallet from his inner pocket, obsessing on the fact that he hadn’t heard from
Crag in days. Was Merriweather still on the fringes of the rain forest? Or had he
been spooked and moved on? Did Crag have the professor in his sights or had the brilliant
Mod, once again, fallen off the proverbial map? Had Crag sighted Jules Darcy? Crazed
now, Bingham thumbed through several banknotes with multiple zeros. “I answer to ‘Lord
Bingham’ or ‘sir’ or ‘Kingpin of the Universe.’” He slapped a juicy stack of bills
into the reprobate’s beefy hand. “You’re hired.”

J
ANUARY
21, 1887 E
DINBURGH,
S
COTLAND

“Rise and shine, lover boy.”

Simon’s eyes flew open at the sound of a gruff baritone voice. “What the hell, Phin?”
Shrugging off a sleepy haze, Simon dragged his hair off his face and focused on Phineas
Bourdain, pilot and machinist extraordinaire. “How did you get in here?”

The cocky airman quirked a teasing brow. “Your pretty lady friend let me in on her
way out.”

Head clearing, Simon pushed up into a sitting position. “That was no lady—not in the
sense you’re suggesting. That was my wife.”

“The devil you say.”

“Where was she going?”

“Didn’t ask. But, ah . . .” He leaned over Simon and plucked a folded paper from Willie’s
empty pillow. “A clue perhaps.”

Simon snatched the note from the man’s hand and squinted to decipher the wretched
scrawl, obviously penned with her bad hand.

Returning bridal gown to Fantasy Farm. Back soon with breakfast.

Though enormously pleased that his wife was indeed returning and not bolting—he’d
fully braced himself for marriage remorse—Simon still felt a pang of disappointment.
Her note lacked the fiery passion of the night before. No endearments. No poetic pledge.
Not that there’d been any mention of or reference to love whilst they’d singed the
satin linens with their honeymoon sex-capades. Still, this morning, he felt different.
At the very least he’d expected to be awakened by Willie’s sweet kisses, not Phin’s
cocky mug.

“Trouble in paradise?”

“What?” Simon frowned at his brother’s closest friend. “No.” He rolled out of bed
and stabbed his legs into a pair of trousers. “Thought we agreed to rendezvous at
eight.”

“We did. It’s half past.”

“What?”
Reeling, Simon checked his pocket watch. “Damnation.” Granted, he’d slept very little.
Willie had been most keen on exploring the sensual realm and Simon had been more than
thrilled to comply. And yes, they’d indulged in champagne. Two bottles, in fact, but
damn. Never had he felt so foggy. Was there such a thing as a sexual hangover?

“Time factor aside,” Phin said. “Bring me up to speed, man. You’re bloody truly matched
for life?”

“Yes.”

“Were you tricked? Coerced? Blackmailed?”

“No.”

“Drunk?”

“Not until after vows had been exchanged.”

“You’re a hound, Simon. A rake.”

“Not anymore.”

“Are you saying you’re in love?”

Was he? He paused in his frantic dressing and absorbed. He was deeply affected. Entranced
and seduced. Love surely circled in his emotional realm, but so did mistrust. “I’m
obliged.”

Phin crossed his arms and raised a dark brow.

“As I stated in our communication, I entered the Triple R Tourney. In my quest, I
encountered a dangerous man. There was an incident. Wilhelmina saved my life.”

“So you forfeited your freedom in exchange?”

“It’s complicated.” Simon poured cool water into a basin and splashed his face. “Did
the upgrades go smoothly on the
Flying Cloud
?”

“She won’t plummet from the sky midjourney, but she won’t break any speed records
either. Only so much I could do with that boat given your restricted budget. I’m a
machinist, not a miracle worker.”

Simon had contacted Phin four days prior, enlisting his mechanical and piloting skills.
From this point on in his efforts to retrieve the clockwork propulsion engine, Simon
preferred to dodge any complications or dicey encounters via public transportation.
Utilizing private transport would also afford Willie a chance to adjust to living
as a woman and enable Simon to distance her from harm. He couldn’t banish the image
of her being o’blasterated in the catacombs. Even now he worried about her being accosted
on her trek from the Fantasy Farm back to this suite. Another glance at his watch.
Too soon to be alarmed. Even so . . .

“I appreciate your efforts, Phin, and your willingness to pilot the
Cloud
,” Simon said as he shoved the last of his belongings into his valise. “Flying is
not my forte and in this instance I prefer to focus my attention elsewhere.”

“I can imagine. She’s quite lovely.”

Simon glanced over his shoulder. Just as he thought, Phin was grinning. Phin, who
was every bit the rake Simon used to be. The compliment was simply that. No need to
take offense. Still, Simon bristled from a bite of the green-eyed monster. “In saving
my life, Willie was badly injured. Her right arm . . . there was severe nerve and
muscle damage. Until it heals,
if
it heals, I feel she is at a disadvantage. Better for me to stick close.”

“Feeling protective. I understand that. And guilty. I understand that too,” Phin said.
“What I don’t fathom is marrying a woman you just met. A woman you know nothing about.
And then dragging her along on an expedition you now deem dangerous. Why put her in
harm’s way? Let’s drop her in London at your town house. Fletcher will look after
her. Or at Ashford, under the watchful eye of your mother and sister.”

“First of all,” Simon said as he shrugged into his frock coat, “we are not newly acquainted.
We have a history. Second, she possesses the . . .
expertise
to acquire the information needed to track the historical invention that slipped
my possession.”

“The plot thickens.”

“Fair warning, Phin. The man who absconded with the coveted device is the man who
shot Willie. When we cross paths again—”

“I might find myself in the line of fire?”

“I might well kill him.”

“What? With your drafting compass? Your bare hands?” Phin grunted, then reached under
his coat. “Ever shot a gun?”

“Only at a carnival,” Simon said, eyeing the augmented pistol in Phin’s hand. “Nick
the cast-iron bird and win a trinket for your lady.”

“Did you?”

“What?”

“Win a trinket for your lady?”

“Several.” Indeed, he had won a china doll for Willie the first week they’d met and
then last night, a mechanical bird. She had admired the novelties as if they were
diamonds. Simon’s heart jerked just thinking about it.

“Must have decent aim, then,” Phin said. “That’s something.
This
,” he said, “is a Disrupter 29. The latest black market version of a McCabe Derringer
as enhanced by me. Listen and learn, brainiac.”

Simon focused as Phin pointed out the working parts of the ominous-looking pistol.
Unlike Phin and Jules, Simon had not been in the military. Nor had he been drawn to
hunting. Beastly business, that. He was an academic. A man of math and science, not
war. Regardless, when he thought about the blood that had poured out of Willie’s wounds,
murder raged in his soul.

“Got it?” Phin asked.

“It’s not rocket science,” Simon said as he engaged the safety mechanism and slid
the weapon into his pocket. “Not leaving you defenseless, am I?”

Phin opened his coat and flashed a shoulder harness and a much bigger gun. “I have
more of an arsenal on board the
Flying Cloud
. You told me to come armed. I did.”

Just then the door to the colorful suite opened and Willie walked in and stole away
Simon’s breath. For some reason, he’d expected her to revert to her baggy trousers,
but she had purchased a fetching traveling ensemble. An ebony long-sleeved bodice
cinched with a leather under-bust corset. A full skirt with tassels rimming its hem
stopped just shy of her black ankle boots. Simple yet feminine and accentuated by
a whimsical chain looped twice around her waist. It reminded him of a charm bracelet
with its multitude of dangling fobs. The only evidence of the former Clockwork Canary
was the time cuff upon her wrist and the chain of her pocket watch dangling from a
skirt pocket. Her vibrant red hair was tucked behind her ears, exposing her lovely
face and slender neck. Instead of a floppy cap, she wore a flattop derby accented
with a quirky combination of clockwork, lace, and feathers, and, by jiminy, Simon’s
mechanical bird. Charming.

Noting Simon’s appreciative gaze, she flushed and focused on Phin. “I apologize for
rushing away without a proper introduction, Mr. Bourdain. Last night Simon had mentioned
we were to meet you promptly at eight and I fear we overslept. Most unsettling, as
I am always cognizant of the time. At any rate I had to return a dress and . . . and
now I’m rambling, delaying our departure even more. Gads.” She set aside a small basket
and offered her left hand in greeting. “Willie G. Or rather Wilhelmina Goodenough.”

“Darcy,” Simon corrected, moving to her side just as Phin pressed a kiss to the back
of her hand. He could tell by Willie’s expression that the intimacy had caught her
off guard. Masquerading as a man, she’d been accustomed to shaking hands. Simon put
his arm around her waist and gave a supportive squeeze.

“Willie G.,” Phin said, taking a step back and regarding her with interest. “The Clockwork
Canary?”

Her shoulders tensed. “Does that present a problem?”

Phin cut Simon a glance. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

“She’s chronicling the expedition for a serial in the
London Informer
.”

“Ah.” The aviator angled his head. “Rumor portrayed the Clockwork Canary as a cocky
young lad.”

“A necessary ruse,” Willie said. “At the time.”

Phin said nothing, but Simon could hear the man’s wheels turning. “We should get going,”
Simon said, then glanced into the basket Willie had set aside. “Are those fresh croissants?”

“And Danish. I thought warm pastries might make up for our tardiness.” She focused
on Phin. “Are you fond of pastries, Mr. Bourdain?”

“Indeed, Mrs. Darcy. I can provide coffee or tea once we’re aboard the
Flying Cloud
.”

Anxious to break the tension and advance their cause, Simon helped Willie into her
old oversized coat, then gathered their bags.

“Have you no reservations about flying with my kind, Mr. Bourdain?” she asked whilst
looping scarves around her neck.

“Why would I be spooked by a journalist?”

“Simon didn’t tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

Oh, hell,
Simon thought. Not knowing Phin’s views regarding Freaks, he’d decided to allow the
man time to warm to Willie before breaking the news. He watched as she took off her
tinted spectacles and established unflinching eye contact with Phin.

To his credit, the man didn’t react. He simply nabbed the basket of fragrant pastries
and held open the door, initiating their exit.

Willie crossed the threshold. Simon followed and Phin spoke at a volume for Simon’s
ears only. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

•   •   •

Willie leaned into Simon as they crossed the deck of the
Flying Flower
. “He does not approve. Of me.
Us.
I warned you, Simon. And Mr. Bourdain is your friend.”

“Technically he’s my friend by way of Jules. Those two share a long and complicated
past. And it’s not that he disapproves. He’s intrigued. Skeptical, maybe. Doubting
my sanity, definitely. Who marries on a whim?”

“Us apparently.”

“Twelve years in the making is not a whim. Phin doesn’t know our history. You look
beautiful, by the way.”

She harrumphed. It was rude. But she was in no mood to be seduced. She hated that
she’d overslept, that she’d lost track of time in a haze of blissful exhaustion. She
hated that she felt so fiercely out of sync. Still connected to her old ways, whilst
inspired to strike out in a bold new way. As a woman. As a Freak. As the wife of a
Vic. One thing was clear. She could not dredge up an iota of motivation to bind her
breasts or to hide her shape. Nor did she wish to alter her complexion or to remind
herself incessantly to slouch and to speak in a lowered, gruff pitch. She’d woken
up resenting the fact that she’d lived a lie for so long. That she’d suppressed her
femininity, that she’d denied her race. She resented having to pretend she was a male
Vic simply to work in a profession she excelled at. And she regretted her penchant
to operate on the fringes, hiding behind costumes and pen names rather than fighting
out in the open for her cause. She preached equality, yet she did not present herself
as an equal.

A troubling realization.

Indeed, the dawn had introduced a maelstrom of conflict. It was as if thwarting the
law and marrying Simon had jarred every rebellious bone in her body. And yet she felt . . .
unfocused. Restless. She’d known how to contribute to the cause whilst incognito,
but could she truly make a positive difference regarding intolerance and equality
operating as a female Freak? Aye, she’d been accepted on Skytown, but the real world
would judge her most harshly, limiting her freedom and rights. Making it harder to
achieve her goals. This morning, in the light of day, with reality looming, she questioned
her brave new agenda. At the same time she would not,
could
not, revert to living a lie.

“At the risk of appearing vapid,” Simon said as they crossed the gangway to the
Love Bug
, “what happened between last night and this morning? Why are you angry with me?”

She stopped cold. “I’m not angry with you. I’m angry with the world.”

“Then let’s change the world.”

“You say that as if we can do so with the snap of our fingers.”

“Change is rarely easy. Historically you know this to be true.” Simon moved in and
grasped her hands. “I don’t believe Phin rattled you so. You’re stronger than that.
What troubles you truly?”

She glanced around Skytown, looking everywhere but at Simon. What troubled her? How
about everything? So much on her mind. Too much to share. She’d been a lone wolf for
so long. Unburdening herself, speaking her opinions and thoughts, her hopes and fears,
did not come easily. Flustered, she homed in on one concern.
One
she could manage. “Do you remember the moment I time-traced Filmore?”

“The Houdinian?” He nodded, frowned. “Like it was yesterday.”