“An opinion we shared until recently,” said Riley, cocking his head to one side to dislodge a shrill ringing that he suspected was an aftereffect of the explosion. “We really should scram, Chevie. The beaks will be whistling at the door, and p’raps Farley ain’t the only Johnny Future in the vicinity.”
“Let me just ignore whatever the hell you just said and do this,” said Chevie. She lowered herself into the pit and relieved Farley of his bag, then pried the revolver from his hand. “I feel better now,” she said, hefting the large weapon. “Less naked.”
Riley pointed at her outfit. “You are more or less naked, as usual. That ain’t much more than a bathing costume what you’re sporting there.”
Chevie took a moment to check her outfit, which she hadn’t done since tumbling from the Smarthole. Just as her alternate personality had emerged from the time tunnel, so, it seemed, had some of her old clothing. She now wore a strange hybrid outfit with elements of both possible futures. In essence she still wore her Youth Academy navy jumpsuit, but its heavy wool had become spandex, and the golden symbol had morphed to FBI. She had lost the hat when Director Gunn clocked her with the computer tablet.
I look like SuperFed, she thought.
Chevie realized that she was feeling inappropriately buoyant, in light of the dead bodies littering the theater aisle, the stink of cordite, and the fact that she was possibly stranded in the wrong time zone.
But I am me again, and perhaps the future doesn’t have to happen. DeeDee doesn’t have to die.
“This outfit is like a metaphor for how my brain is,” she said, spreading her arms. “I am mostly old Chevie, the one you know. But some of the new girl is still here.”
Riley decided that he would quiz Chevie later on the subjects of apparel and metaphors, and Malarkey reacted to all this exposition with a twitch of his head, which, being connected to his torso, set many of his wounds a-pumping blood.
“Dandy,” he said, being further from the grave than he looked. “Nuffin’ I likes better than a nice metaphor of an afternoon. But while you two are playing bo-peep, I am spilling me life’s fluids onto this here stage. So if you wouldn’t mind…”
Chevie tossed Farley’s bag onto the stage and swung herself after it.
“Sorry, Otto. Riley and I haven’t seen each other for a while, so we gotta bo-peep it up for a little. And anyway, the last time our paths intersected, your fingers were around my throat, so pardon me if I put you on the bottom of my priority list.”
Otto shook a fist at her. “Why is you talking like this? Speak plain, girl.”
Riley donned his cloak, then helped Otto to his feet. “Let me interpret, Your Majesty. Chevie ain’t all that pushed about yer welfare, on account of you being murdering scum.”
Otto leaned over, weighed down by a head that suddenly seemed to be composed of lead.
“The Injun said that, did she?”
“Give or take,” said Riley, ducking his own head under Otto’s left armpit to support the Ram king.
Chevie propped up Malarkey’s right side. “Let’s talk politics and allegiances later, shall we? After we put some space between us and this bloodbath. I’d say there were bad people after all of us.”
Riley did not comment. He did not, for example, point out that it was Chevie herself who was delaying their escape. He knew from experience that there was nothing his friend from the future liked better than a protracted squabble, and the more inopportune the timing, the louder she argued.
And this ain’t the time for a barney.
They dragged, coaxed, and heaved Otto Malarkey’s mammoth bulk to the stage door, and lurched outside as one, all exhausted by the effort of moving a frame the size of a dray horse.
“I have a bad case of the pants,” Riley declared, gasping for air, his cheek slick with Malarkey’s blood. “We can’t lug this bruiser far.”
Chevie leaned against the wall. “No kidding. What’s stage two of the plan?”
Riley thought fast. “We need to get ourselves in lavender, and I mean sharpish. A quiet lurk somewhere, not no penny gaff neither. Bacteria would be the death of King Otto at the mo.”
Chevie found that her mind was beginning to wrap itself around Riley’s lingo.
“Somewhere nearby while we’re at it. This big lug is bleeding all over my FBI super suit.”
Riley was being drizzled by a fair deal of blood himself. “It’s a good plan, just a deuced shame that I don’t know any such place.”
Otto gathered his feet and took some of his own weight.
“Fetch a Shoeblack and have him summon a cab. It ’appens that I might know a place that would be just the ticket.”
“Someplace unknown to your confederates,” said Riley. “The Rams had one rotten apple in the barrel and it may have been contagious, if you know what I mean.”
Malarkey hawked and spat a ball of blood to the dusty sidewalk.
“Oh, believe me, Ramlet, there ain’t no one who knows about this gaff.”
Riley steadied King Otto against the brick wall and ran down the alley to Holborn proper, whistling for a Shoeblack boy as he went.
Chevie and Malarkey were left alone. King Otto looked down at the girl through heavily lidded eyes.
“Murdering scum, is it?”
Chevie realized that she was in quite a weak position should Malarkey decide to regain his prodigious strength.
“Well, murdering, at the very least.”
Otto closed his eyes. “Fair enough,” he said, and he had himself a little rest, leaving Chevie to gaze anxiously down the length of the alley at her disappearing friend.
Ouroboros. The snake that eats its own tail—that’s the time traveler. Going around in circles, destroying his own past. Crapping out a whole new future. Apologies. Pooping out a whole new future.
—Professor Charles Smart
Victorian London was not kind to visitors. It lured them into its soot-stained labyrinth with a vague fairy-tale promise of streets paved with gold, then sucked their coin through the slitted windows of gin houses and opium dens. The Great Oven trod hard on the souls of outsiders with a life of slave labor or destitution with naught at the end of the struggle but an ignoble death, tied to a sleeping bench in the bone house. Every year, thousands of cheery country stock rolled into London as though the land was on a tilt, and every year thousands more were rolled into unmarked paupers’ graves, if they were lucky—and pig troughs or furnaces if they were not. While it was true that murder was rare, it wasn’t classed as murder if the city did the killing. If a factory swallowed a dozen limbs a week, then that was just the price of employment. If a person’s hand was fast enough to grasp a shilling, then it ought to be fast enough to stay out of the grinder. It stood to reason. And anyway, what matter if a few bumpkins went into the earth before their terms? There were always scores more in a shuffling line outside the factories.
For a stranger to English shores come to town off the gangplank, London was a series of local hazards designed to strip Johnny Foreigner naked and toss him on the slag heap without a farthing to his name. The population boom was due in some part to the fact that naval types couldn’t afford to quit the place until a boat docked with an empty berth, and there was a long line for those planks. Jack Tars would gladly jump on a deck bound for the dark heart of cannibal country rather than spend another fogbound night in the Great Oven, and often committed some deliberate crime in order to secure a yard of floor space in one of the metropolitan jails, bridewells, or penitentiaries along with forty thousand of their fellow city-dwellers each year.
In London town, a soul was never more than a dozen paces from an open cess ditch or rat-infested garbage heap. And if the streets had ever truly been paved with gold, it would have long since been eroded by the torrents of acidic filth flung from the high balconies that teetered over rookery roads.
In short, London was a grimed blemish on England’s fair soil.
Clover Vallicose was having the time of her life.
HALF MOON STREET, MAYFAIR, LONDON, 1899, TEN MINUTES PREVIOUSLY
The Thundercats had wallowed in the Zen Ten for a further minute after Chevie’s departure, and then stumbled from the terraced house, supporting each other with meaty arms and blocky shoulders. Lunka Witmeyer’s good mood was truncated by a bout of retching that bent her over a water barrel in the yard at the rear of the house on Half Moon Street, on the border of Soho and Mayfair.
Witmeyer had never traveled well on a train, so the time tunnel had a violent effect on her gut.
While her partner endured the cramp daggers in her abdomen, Clover Vallicose straightened her greatcoat and the splashback visor slung below her chin, and then ventured into the alley that ran from the rear of the house to Half Moon Street proper. Everything beyond that yard was strange to the Thundercat and yet strangely familiar, too.
I know this place, she thought. I have studied this place.