Steamrolled Page 17
Certain she’d arrived ahead of the traveler, she wasn’t ready for the sight of the dark portal. Or for the woman with her back to the wall and weapons ready—weapons pointed at Ashe. She felt Lurch’s shock to her core, a shock mixed with delight. It was a bad time to feel a paradox tremor hit her, too.
* * * *
Smith was relieved to leave Angeline’s house, though it felt as if he’d left a piece of his soul behind—if he believed he still had one. He’d closed his eyes and thought of Olivia, apparently managed to satisfy Angeline enough to give up what she knew about her brother, which wasn’t enough for what he’d done to get it.
She hadn’t seen Twitchet for several weeks, Olivia either. So he headed back to the warehouse, using the time on the elevated train to get Angeline out of his system. Once there, he let himself in. No sign of the machine, but his senses kicked with a feeling of being watched. He’d deployed the wormhole tracker and got a hit, then felt the air shift of someone flashing out. It was possible that it was another version of himself. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d ran into a version of himself. He was tempted to hang around, but his gut told him it was a bust. Time to return and face his master with another failed mission. His last? Part of him hoped.
SEVENTEEN
Robert thought he had achieved progress in expecting the unexpected, but it felt like he’d lost, not gained ground. Perhaps it was the quality of the unexpected that was the problem. He had activated a beacon that was supposed to deliver them to the portal on the Kikk Outpost. It was not unreasonable to expect cause to lead to the right effect in this instance. The unexpected in this case would be arriving in the wrong time, not the wrong place.
The unexpected can’t be expected.
Wynken liked to point out unpalatable truths and though it had a point, it was a point that failed to help him in his current dilemma, nor could it help with the overall conundrum of trying to expect that which can’t be expected. His head would ache if it were possible. Thankfully the peeps made that impossible, even when every other thing was awry. Which brought his thoughts circling back to the unexpected he hadn’t expected.
The grimy door in front of him appeared to be the entrance to an apartment of some sort—a very sad sort. A very old sort, he concluded. A wider survey confirmed that the building was tall and grimy from top to bottom. The smell was beyond indescribable, though there were “notes” of sewage in there.
“Oh. My. Gosh.”
Robert braced for her castigation as he tried to parse her tone.
“You so know how to show a girl a good time.”
Two tries and he couldn’t squeeze the word “what” out of a throat tightened by shock.
Perhaps you are looking the wrong direction.
It was true that Emily’s view was over his shoulder, since he continued to hold her clasped in his arms, the only “good time” in his estimation about their current situation. She was close enough that he could hear her over the roar from a variety of steam engines—steam engines? He did a mental double take on his own words.
“Roswell. Time travel. This. You so so completely rock. ”
Reluctant to relinquish the peculiar delight of holding the delighted Emily against his pounding heart, Robert chose to reverse their positions, rather than release her. Besides, if he had to meet the unexpected once again, it helped to do it in close proximity with her. He did note, in the process, that she continued to meet expectations by not asking questions. None of which prepared him for the sight before him. He blinked and wondered, in a semi-dazed way, what would get her to ask a question if this didn’t.
They appeared to have arrived in an old city, based on the tenements that marched along both sides of the less than salubrious street. What disputed the time frame evidence was the airship traversing a polluted skyline above them. Nor would any time he was familiar with have had, instead of horse drawn carriages, steam driven conveyances puffing past on the trash littered street, also contributing to the steam engine noise. Some had the look of altered hansom cabs, with function dominating form. Others were bastardized versions of wagons, again propelled by steam. Something—other than everything—felt wrong about the scene before him. He mentally flipped through all the wrong, looking for the most wrong.
Lightning danced across the murky skyline—did the horizon bend down, like a lid contained it? As if in sympathy with the sky, the ground beneath shuddered, visible objects flickering out of view and back in so fast he wasn’t sure he’d seen what he thought he saw. Had he seen a “right” version of the city behind this one? And why didn’t he see any of the few people on the street react to events? One could conclude that they existed differently from him and Emily. Or he and Emily existed in two places? There was no one to dispute either hypothesis.
She shifted so they could both look at the street. He didn’t blame her. The view of the door was uninspiring and quickly assimilated. He was pleased she did it without breaking the clasping. At the present moment, she was all that felt real.
“There aren’t any kids and the clothes and stuff are wrong.” Her tone sobered. “It’s a bit creepy.” She shifted closer to him, which he had not thought possible until she did it.
No horses, or dogs or other animals either, or none that could be seen. He didn’t want to be accused of drawing conclusions on flimsy evidence, but he felt no disagreement at Emily’s characterization of the scene as creepy. It was the word for it. He didn’t need his sister’s skills to suspect they were in trouble, though he was glad to have them. His peeps agreed, huddling inside him with no desire to go out and explore. One of the metal men, similar—though much larger than those that had attacked at the museum appeared around a corner. It clanked their direction, upping the creepy factor by more than he wished to calculate. Giving into the same instinct to hide as the peeps, he pulled them back into the shadow cast by the doorway at their backs, but when he should have bumped into the door, he felt nothing.
A hand grabbed his shoulder and tugged.
He went into automatic defense mode, sweeping Emily to his back as he prepared to defend them against—
A man in what looked to be colonial garb peered out of the small opening.
“You need to get out of sight now. The ’ton is after you.”
Neither sentence sounded colonial, nor did the warning for that matter. Robert hesitated, but the heavy, measured, thump of approaching footsteps felt and sounded ominous. Add to it that they’d attacked them in the museum—and they’d been on Smith’s team—had Robert throwing in with the Colonial. He lifted Emily through the opening, following her from light to dark. The man shut the door behind them.
“That was an automaton.” In the murk she still managed to sound awed. “Don’t panic, but I think I love you.”
The smell of her was the only pleasant one in a place where the stench was concentrated by being enclosed. His eyes adjusted, but it was no blessing. Trash littered both sides of the narrow hallway, leaving an ill-defined path down the center. Her arms crept around her neck, causing the bad to become indistinct around the edges. His arms tightened around her waist, her duster bunching at her back.
“I won’t panic if you won’t panic that I think I love you back,” Robert murmured into her ear reached with just a minor alteration to the angle of his head and neck. The angle also brought his nose into her hair. It itched a bit, but helped blunt the stench some more.
Her head lifted off his chest, only her pale face visible. “It’s really going to suck when I wake up.”
It would probably suck more when she didn’t and would she still think she loved him when she realized how thoroughly he’d messed with her life?
“If the ’ton gets a hold of you, it will suck more,” the Colonial said, his voice dry as the Sahara, well, as dry as Robert believed the Sahara would be. “You’ll wish you were dreaming.”
Robert frowned, but without more data, had no response.
“You need to follow me.”
He lifted Emily over an obstacle, grateful for his enhanced physical abilities. They helped him keep them both on their feet as they went up. As they went down. As they went through. Behind them, the sound of the ’ton’s heavy steps faded without losing their persistence. This dogged quality kept him following on the heels of the Colonial as conditions went from bad to worse.
He had questions, lots of them, but it seemed wise to achieve whatever place their guide sought before trying to seek answers. At one point Emily paused in a shaft of light from what might have been a grille or hole in the waterless, yet still damp pipe system that had followed the dingy hallway of the tenement and even more depressing back alley.
“What?” He looked around as their guide paused, too. Saw her touch the pipe.
“Steam engine somewhere.” She sniffed, perhaps pulling something out of the air besides sewage.
“Keep moving. Don’t want to be in here when they divert the water back in.”
With that incentive, no one stopped again until they reached the end of the pipe at the river’s edge. Their guide paused in the opening, head tilted listening for what felt long but was only twenty-five point three seconds, before signaling them forward. Robert declined to take his sign for it and paused in his turn, checking all approaches for signs of trouble—even though he wasn’t sure he’d know what trouble looked like in this place. In the end, he drew Emily out into the open with him. They climbed out of the trough that ran to the river and looked around. The day appeared to be in retreat, though Robert had no way of knowing if he was right or what laws of nature ruled here.
For the first time their guide appeared hesitant.
“What?” The chill of unease mixed with the thick, damp, metallic tasting, chilly yet not-chilly-air.
“I need to check the backs of your heads.” He indicted a spot on his own head, just inside the hairline.
Robert looked at Emily who looked at him. She shrugged. “I scrubbed mine this morning.” She presented hers for inspection. The sight of her bare neck sent some nice heat in against the chill. The Colonial took, in Robert’s view, a little longer than he needed to, checking her out. Then he turned to Robert.
“What are you looking for?”
“A surgical scar, just inside the hairline. If those taken by the ’tons come back, they have them. And they are different in a bad way. ”
“I think we need to see your neck, too,” Emily said, her calm seeming to imply she still believed she dreamed.
The Colonial looked startled, then thoughtful. He turned, presenting his neck. Though Robert wasn’t sure he trusted the man about the scars, it was a relief to find nothing there all the same. There was a pause, as if no one knew what to do next. Above them the sky still sparked with lightning in that odd, curved pattern and the whole flickered now and then, like something out of phase. It bothered him that their path appeared to lead toward the bent horizon.
“Like being caught in a snow globe, isn’t it?”
Snow globe? Did they have snow globes in colonial times? Robert didn’t know, but the way the man phrased his words once again lacked colonial overtones. Their guide sounded more resigned than angry, while sounding not-colonial.
“Someone is shaking it.” Emily and her duster had picked up a lot of grime along the way. Her face had a smear of something along the top of her cheek. He rubbed it with his thumb, remembering the way she’d rubbed her lipstick from his mouth. He used his also less-than-pristine jeans to remove the smudge from his thumb, while wishing they were back in the bug. Or back in her uncle’s workshop. Anywhere but here.
“The storms are new, started just after you two appeared. The tremors, too.”
As if to punctuate his statement, the ground underfoot rumbled. Robert was glad it had refrained while they were in the tunnel. Not cool to scream like a girl in a space designed to amplify and echo sound. Out in the open, he managed to contain any exclamation to the barely perceptible. He frowned. How could their arrival affect the weather or the plate tectonics? Never assume. He could do that, while acknowledging there might be a connection. “How did you know we’d arrived?”
It was an odd question for an odd moment.
“We try to be ready, watch for the flash. You were lucky I was close. Most days the ’tons get there first.”
Were they lucky? Never assume. Never believe what you’re told. And still no data from his peeps. They huddled as deep inside as they could get. For the first time, he felt able to devote a thought stream to wondering why.
This place is hostile to us. We can’t reach out, can’t connect.
I’m not sure what you’d connect with. Perhaps that’s the problem? He felt a mental shake. Felt their reluctance when they admitted, Nod is not with us.
What? Where is he? He almost asked the question out loud, wasn’t sure he’d kept his shock under cover.
He emigrated to Miss Emily when you kissed her. Now we are cut off.
Robert felt—and dismissed—the urge to chew them out. It was done. Nod was in Emily’s head, lucky peep. Reasons didn’t matter at the moment, though he still had a hold of her hand. Surely the peeps could connect through their connection—
There seems to be a dampening field that prevents contact.
Which left Nod stuck in Emily. He looked at her. Did she know? Was she mentally chatting with Nod while she looked around with an interest that wasn’t scared enough to match circumstances. Evidenced suggested she still believed in her dream theory. Robert wished he did, as well.
She smiled a bit uneasily. “Hello.”
He almost said “hello,” but a mental yank from his remaining peeps stopped him.
Nod might be trying to open a dialog with her.
Robert wasn’t sure Nod should, but he had no way to stop it from communicating with Emily. Hostile? What did that mean? Not that he thought this place would be that great for any of them. He considered thinking something about expecting the unexpected, but it felt like a low blow when the peeps had helped bring them both safely to…here.
That wasn’t what you were going to think.
It was true, but it wasn’t their fault they’d landed in semi-steampunk hell. It seemed appropriate that the air was thick with moisture, as if the strange sky trapped it against the land. The temperature hovered some place between hot and cold—an uncomfortable place.
“Are you all right?” He needed to get new material—and wondered why he’d phrased it like that—as he watched her face. Looking at her was the only bright spot in a lot of not bright and the downright terrifying. He felt a longing to tell her everything, despite a flinch of horror from his unnaturally acquired instincts. If they’d been alone, he might have given into that longing or perhaps given in to the urge to kiss her again. It was no more inappropriate than anything else happening. If she’d been looking at him, he might have kissed her even though they weren’t alone, but she wasn’t. She seemed to be studying the river.
“The river’s flowing the wrong way.” She looked both directions.
The Colonial stared at her. “How can you tell?”
“East River flows the other way.”
“You think this is New York?” Robert looked around.
Instead of answering, Emily looked at the Colonial, with both brows arched.
“We believe it is a version of New York sometime in the 1890’s,” he admitted. He consulted a pocket watch, then turned to face the river. “Wait for it.”
The flow of the water slowed and finally stop
ped. After sixty-two seconds it quivered, then began to flow in the other direction.
“And you think this isn’t a dream.” Emily shook her head.
The Colonial started to speak, looked at Robert, then at Emily again, and refrained. It was the better choice. Credibility was difficult to establish under present circumstances.
* * * *
Time pulsed on the sensor display, forming, dissolving, and reforming into new patterns, closer to, but still not the right pattern. He knew how long it had taken him to learn how time worked, what the shifts and patterns meant, how to read them, how to mark them so he could keep track of them, how to hear the subtle symphony being played, but he resisted focusing on it, particularly here on the base where time moved so slow. He’d learned much in his long apprenticeship, in particular, not to risk a time spiral by focusing too closely on his personal paradoxes, though he would never forget what he’d lost. No, he wouldn’t forget that.
This pattern, this composition was his symphony, though to other ears it might seem discordant and harsh—
“So this is where you do it, how you do it. I wondered.” Glarmere’s voice was too calm, his carefully dramatic pause indicating the imminent arrival of another big reveal. “Faustus.”
He sounded so sure that he had the upper hand. The outraged were easier to manipulate, but Glarmere’s weakness was power and always had been. His family had it, but he never got what he considered his fair share. Of course, they weren’t supposed to know each other’s names, but he knew a lot of things he shouldn’t. For the moment, he’d allow Glarmere to think he controlled the board. It would make the moment when Glarmere found he didn’t control anything that much sweeter.
With care, Faustus spun his chair to face Glarmere, his hands resting lightly on the arms—and over the control panels on each—and found two weapons pointed at him. Head Council Carig, too? That was a play he hadn’t expected, and an unexpected bonus. It wasn’t often he got two for the price of one. He arched his brows, matching their calm and raising it.