His Clockwork Canary

“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.”

“Yes. Yes, she would, Jefferson.” Rollins latched on to the glazed look in Filmore’s eyes. “And you and Mickey could be together again. But this time forever. I’ve already begun the construction of a compatible vehicle for the clockwork propulsion engine. We must make haste. This Race for Royal Rejuvenation has ignited interest in extraordinary inventions. I worry the engine is at risk now more than ever.”

“It is. There was an incident, Ollie. A thwarted robbery.”

Filmore looked frazzled and Rollins moved in for the kill. “Where is the safe house, Jefferson?”

“Where do you think?”

“You stuck to Mickey’s original plan?”

“Why would I deviate? The woman was brilliant.”

“Yes. Yes, she was.” Rollins swallowed bile. “I can safely say she would not have advised repeating past mistakes.”

“What are you saying? What are you . . .” Filmore blanched as Rollins pulled a black-market weapon, a modern weapon, and aimed it at Filmore’s heart. “Traitor!”

Rollins’s hand shook. “Yes. Yes, I am. A traitor to our fellow PRs who voted to destroy the engine. A traitor to our century. We should have stayed and fought for peace in our own time. We never should have played God. And yet you are willing to do it all again. To wreck more havoc.”

Filmore lunged for the gun.

A loud blast.

A painful cry.

Filmore crumpled and blood pooled next to the grave marked MICHELLE GOODENOUGH.

Rollins stumbled back.

Panic. Remorse. Exhilaration.

“What have you done?” Willie cried. She was a mere shadow. A fly on the wall. Even so, Rollins flinched. The memory glitched, shifted, and suddenly she was catapulted back to Rollins’s childhood. Back to the future where she was overwhelmed by foreign innovations and bizarre references. She was out of her element. Out of her time.

She was lost.