His Clockwork Canary

“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.