sp; “It’s only fifty feet or so. Clove might survive.”
Chevie, Riley, and Malarkey slid each other a triangle of glances that spoke volumes.
She ain’t surviving that, said the looks, and: Fifty feet? Who taught you to measure?
It was just within the realm of possibility that Vallicose might survive—if she was strapped into her seat and generously padded with teddy bears. Unfortunately for her, the huge chunk of masonry from the bridge had trapped a little air, and it stayed afloat long enough for the tank to land on top of it and blow itself to a million pieces of metal and bone.
The explosion was awesome in the biblical sense, which Vallicose might have liked if only she had held on to her faith in that final moment. It seemed that all of London recoiled from the detonation—from the swarms on the bridge to the river itself. Chevie swore she saw the pasty riverbed just before she ducked to avoid shrapnel that included granite chips, twisted rivets, and the skeleton of a small creature that seemed to be half-crab, half-pig.
Riley too saw the skeleton as it skimmed the gunwale, snapped its claws on the way past—an effect of its velocity, surely—then disappeared over the starboard bow.
I shall never speak of that, he decided.
In a comical line the amphibian’s crew peeped over the gunwale to witness a boiling mushroom of smoke with snakes of flame in its fat stem.
For a long moment after the terrific sustained commotion of shell, cannonball, and explosion, there seemed to be a noise vacuum into which even the birdsong and wavelets tumbled. Life proceeded silently, as if everyday sounds had faded to insignificance.
Then Lunka Witmeyer spoke.
“Well,” she said. “I don’t think there’s any point in combing the wreckage.”
And the sounds of the world came rushing back. From above, the shrieks and howls of the injured, and the horns and sirens of the water brigades. And from behind, the chug of engines and the shouts of authoritative voices through speaking-trumpets.
“Halt!” said the voices. And, “Heave to, there.” And, “Prepare to be boarded.”
Malarkey turned to see a ragtag flotilla of Her Majesty’s naval vessels, penny steamers, and flat barges bearing down on their position.
“So much for thank-yous. I was expecting a medal.”
Witmeyer linked arms with him. “This way is better, Otto. This way is mysterious.”
Malarkey smiled. “Already, you know me so well.”
He clambered onto the wheelhouse and played to the citizens hanging over the railings.
“Fear not, my people. The danger is past. Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair, for the Ram has slain the dragon.” He raised a stiff finger and projected to the heavens. “Remember that your queen could not save you—a king was needed.”
Otto bowed low and spoke sotto voce under his armpit to Witmeyer, who stood at the wheel. “That is your cue to motor us out of here, my love. Leave ’em breathless.”
From where she lay on the deck, Chevie thought that Malarkey probably would have risen to kingship in any age. And if not kingship, definitely reality-TV star.
Witmeyer toggled the gear lever into drive, then easily threaded the amphibian through the fleet of steam and sail vessels. Though scores of wide eyes stared at them and dozens of gaping jaws flapped their way, Witmeyer acknowledged not a single one, while Otto took bow after bow.
Riley cozied up beside Chevie, trying to cushion her from the worst of the boat’s jostling.
“We have done it, Chevie,” he said. “We have changed the world back to how it should be.”
Chevie huffed. “Not all the way back, kid. There’s a hole in Westminster Bridge that wasn’t supposed to be there. And half of London has seen a tank.”
Riley held her close. “At least Box is gone, eh?”
Chevie’s smile would not have looked out of place on a wolf.
“Yes. At least Box is gone.”
So perhaps her father would live, or at least die better. Same for DeeDee.
Once the amphibian had cleared the other craft and the flotsam from the explosions, Witmeyer opened the throttle wide and powered the amphibian across the silver-red sunset waves of the Thames. Within seconds, all that could be seen of the amphibian from Westminster was the twin arcs of its wake.
In the end there is no end, especially where time travel is concerned. As soon as you start thinking everything’s resolved, a whole lot of ramifications come down the wormhole. By the way, I know you people are calling my wormhole the Smarthole. That isn’t very complimentary where I come from.
—Professor Charles Smart
THE ORIENT THEATRE, HOLBORN, LONDON, 1899
Otto Malarkey lounged in a seat in the Orient Theatre, silent for an uncommonly long period. The first reason for his silence was fitting, as the last time he had been in the Orient he had witnessed the slaughter of his own brother and a band of his bully chums besides. Also, he had been considerably bashed about his own self. For these pains he was certainly due a ruminative moment. But his second reason was a little churlish, considering all that had happened.
“You had to sink the boat?” he finally said, nailing Chevie with a baleful eye. “That wonderful craft. King of the seas, I could have been.”
Chevie was in quite a bit of pain, despite the thimble of laudanum Riley had prescribed before he sealed the wound with a single stitch. She guessed rightly that the boy had often been forced to clean up the battle wounds of his old master. And being in such pain, she was not in the mood for any of Malarkey’s guff. “You are king of the city, which should be enough for you. And anyway, you saw what those weapons could do, Otto. You saw it up close.”
Chevie sat on the lip of the stage with her back to the drawn velvet curtain, picking at the doorstop sandwich Riley had prepared for her.
Carbohydrates haven’t been invented yet, she thought, so this doesn’t count. Also, I have been shot.
She had, however, refused the tankard of ale Riley had offered and was instead drinking a mug of sour water that she doubted had been filtered through Scottish Highland rock.
More likely it was filtered through a filthy drainpipe, she thought, and then: I am not having much luck with water in this century.
“Bah,” said Otto. “You have a mouth on you, girl. And you are one step away from royal disfavor. But I will make allowances on account of the scratch on yer shoulder.”
It had taken no time at all to lose the navy pursuit boats, and Otto had casually suggested that he knew a quiet dock in Limehouse where a cove might stick a boat he didn’t want investigated. Chevie could do little about the Limehouse berth, but she could certainly lob a couple of grenades into the weapons locker after they disembarked, just to make sure that the amphibian was not adapted by Otto’s boys for river piracy. Malarkey was still sulking about this, or more accurately, he had saved up the sulk until Lunka Witmeyer was out of earshot, and now that the ex-Thundercat was picking out some new duds from the Orient’s wardrobe room, Malarkey was letting fly at Chevie.
“It is a sin to destroy a thing of such grace and beauty,” he proclaimed. “And that boat were beautiful, no doubt about it. And dangerous with it.”
Chevie swallowed a corner of sandwich. “Oh, yeah. Beautiful and dangerous. They’re going to carve that on your headstone. Here lies Otto Malarkey, killed by something beautiful and dangerous.”
And speaking of beautiful and dangerous, the curtain opened in a series of swishes, revealing Lunka Witmeyer center stage. She was wearing a tan twill riding skirt, which would mark her as possibly American but nothing more out of the ordinary than that, and boots that buttoned to her knees. A red tapestry jacket and white ruffle-necked blouse completed the outfit. All in all, she looked quite striking.
“What do you think?” she asked.
Chevie glanced over her shoulder. “I think you should ligh
t a candle in that dressing room. Your outfit looks like you picked it out in the dark.”
It was clear that Chevie wasn’t about to forgive Witmeyer yet for her past transgressions.
“You better shut your entire face or I might forget you’re injured,” warned Witmeyer.
Chevie laughed. “Any time, Thundercat.”
Malarkey vaulted onstage and lifted Witmeyer’s hand, twirling her under his arm.
“Lord, oh Lord,” he said. “You is a picture, and no mistake.”
Malarkey had sent a boy with a list of errands to Figary, and the Irish butler, who had picked this moment to arrive at the theater, overheard Malarkey’s picture comment.
“A picture, is it?” he said, incorrectly assuming that the commodore was teasing this Amazonian warrior woman. Figary was not a cruel man, but like most Gaels he had trouble holding in a jibe, however cutting.
“A picture painted by a one-eyed, drunken monkey…” he said. But as the words were tumbling from his mouth, Figary registered the diverse cooing and fluttering that were passing between the commodore and this strange lady, and he decided he should change tack before his mouth got him killed as his dear old ma had always predicted it would.
“…which is exactly what I said last week to a man with a gallery on the Strand,” said Figary smoothly. “This, on the other hand, is a picture of physical perfection, so it is.”
He needn’t have bothered. Witmeyer and Malarkey were deaf and blind to anything besides each other.
Riley emerged from the wings with a platter of bread, cheese, and meats.
“I usually don’t allow foodstuffs on the stage. For one, it’s bad luck, and for two, I have to sweep the stage meself. Both star and skivvy, that’s me.”
Malarkey surfaced from the sea of love. “Riley, boy, you have done a fine job with the wardrobe. Miss Witmeyer is a stunner, is she not?”
Riley nodded but kept his mouth shut. Chevie could not keep quiet.
“She has certainly stunned me a few times,” she said.
Riley offered her a wedge of cheese. “Why don’t you stuff that in your trap? It would be healthy for both of us.”