The Hangman's Revolution Page 5

  Riley worked the handkerchief. It was as Inhumane had guessed: simply folded, but not simply folded; the pattern of folds was as precise and complicated as an origami dragon, designed to conceal two wires shaped to cover his head and shoulders. Once the wires were perpendicular and the frame assembled, Riley draped the cloth neatly over himself. It assumed his shape and covered him completely. Riley stumbled stiff-legged this way and that, his arms stretched out before him, his eyes peeping through the gauze.

  “See?” said Riley. “I am surrounded, confused, and blinded. I am being dipped, poked, jostled, and fleeced. Never again shall I cast my shadow across the Orient Theatre’s lobby. I shall away from here and take my gold with me.”

  This bit of patter was to give him a chance to depress the trapdoor latch with his toe.

  “Never shall I return here with my hard-earned chink, thinks old Johnny to himself. For I am a-dripping in nervous sweat and leered at by dodgy-looking coves with black teeth and murder in their beady eyes. And this is what happens to Johnny Punter when he hears Family members sniffing at his collar.”

  Riley found the latch and pressed it. Now all that he needed to do was make a neat jump to the basement to demonstrate how Johnny Punter would disappear—and to actually disappear.

  He wrapped the magician’s cloak around himself for the jump, pulling the folds tight to speed his passage through the tight wooden frame, when all of a sudden, and to the great surprise of all present, the usually serene Anton Farley seemed to take issue with his performance.

  “No! No!” Farley said, jumping to his feet. “Enough of this tomfoolery. Back away from the trapdoor, or whatever you have there, boy. Come down here with these fools.”

  Silence.

  Stunned silence.

  Was Farley issuing commands? Had he just referred to his fellow Rams as fools? And didn’t he sound more like a spoon-in-the-mouth toff now than a shiv-in-the-sock Ram?

  Riddle upon mystery.

  In situations like this, Malarkey, due to rank, would be deferred to for first reaction.

  “Farley? Is it a brain fever that has seized you? Fools, you say? Fools, is it?”

  Farley pulled a pistol of the revolver variety from his ink-sack, waving it casually as though it were an everyday item.

  “Fools, cretins, idiots. Take yer pick.” The tattooist slapped his own forehead. “Listen to me. Yer pick. Take your pick. I have been undercover for so long…you have no idea. Sometimes I don’t know what day of the week it is.”

  Pooley was sneaking a knife from his boot, so Farley shot him in the heart, barely pausing to draw a bead.

  “No loss, that one,” said Farley. “No wailing outside Highgate for him.”

  The gunshot echoed to the rafter, fading with each balcony until it became a whisper of its former self, and Pooley was dead where he sat, life leaving him with the wisp of smoke that drifted from the hole in his chest.

  “A revolver,” said Malarkey, conversational in his surprise. “I never knew you were in possession of a revolver. American, is it?”

  Inhumane began to sob, fat tears collecting in his deep eye sockets before spilling down his cheeks. “I don’t understand.”

  For once, the giant imbecile was not alone in his state of mind. Only one person understood what was going on here, and he was the one with the bullets. Malarkey was struck to petrification, not on account of fear but from sheer disbelief. Otto Malarkey had been a war baby, born on the outskirts of the Balaclava battleground during the Crimean War. Gunfire and cannon shot were his lullaby. So it was not the thunderclap of Farley’s revolver that rooted Malarkey to his seat, it was the shock that the tattooist would first call him a fool and then shoot one of his soldiers.

  “Farley, man, what are you doing?”

  “What am I doing?” said Farley. “You’re dressed like Elton John in the court of Louis XV, and you’re asking me what I’m doing? You’ve got a powdered wig on, Otto.”

  Malarkey pawed the wig from his crown. “I had an inkling this was ridiculous. Why do none of you coves tell me true when I asks yer opinions? And what is an Elton John, in the name of God?”

  Farley ignored the question, instead speaking into his wrist as though a fairy were concealed within.

  “I have them, Colonel. All together, the entire inner circle. And the boy, as a bonus. We won’t get another opportunity like this, sir.”

  He waited a moment, cocking his head as though an unseen specter was whispering in his ear. And this attitude of speaking into his wrist and listening to the air rang a bell in Riley’s memory.

  I have seen this before, he realized. Or rather, I will see it in the future. Did not Chevie’s comrades in the FBI communicate in this fashion?

  Before he could fully untie the riddle-knot, Farley received his answer.

  “I know all that, sir. But I strongly suggest moving up our schedule. The FBI sent Savano, and they could send someone else. So either we move or we dismantle the wormhole landing plate in Half Moon Street.” He waited again, pacing in the aisle.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, then sighed with a relief that seemed to wipe ten years off his age. “You won’t regret it, sir.”

  “Out of his noggin,” whispered Malarkey. “The man is talking to the air.”

  Riley tugged the fitted sheet from his head. Farley was not out of his noggin. Farley was not who he pretended to be. He was acting like a new man. Gone was his deferential demeanor, his air of quiet compassion. Shoulders that had been hunched from long hours of needlework were now ramrod straight. His eyes were bright with new purpose.

  No. Not new purpose—revealed purpose.

  “You have no idea, King Otto,” Farley said, leveling the weapon specifically at Malarkey, “how long I have waited for this. All these years I have been listening to your delusional claptrap. Rabbiting on like you were the Chosen One. Well, today, you get to meet your god and find out just how chosen you are.” Farley dropped his voice down to his boots in a reasonable impersonation of King Otto. “‘Update me price list—there’s a decent cove, Farley.’ ‘Fetch me a pie from Old Lady Numpty—there’s a nice monkey, Farley.’ ‘Do you think I should wear me fleece out on the town, Farley? Only it scratches me shoulders so,’” Farley added a japing lurch to his impression, which was indeed reminiscent of the king with a few toddies in him.

  Riley watched all this and thought: I need to make my move while Farley is airing his grudges, otherwise he might remember I’m standing here.

  Riley must’ve thought too loud, because Farley swung the gun around. “You there, time traveler. Trot yourself down here with the rest of the bunch.”

  Riley knew that to leave the stage on Farley’s terms would mean death, so he spoke directly to Malarkey.

  “That’s a revolver, King Otto. Five bullets left.”

  Farley snorted. “Clever boy. Five bullets. One each.”

  But Otto had been shot before on numerous occasions; indeed there was a musket ball lodged in the meat of his thigh that he’d grown quite fond of rubbing when he was in vacant or pensive mood.

  “It takes more than one shot to kill a Malarkey, Judas,” he said, and his voice carried an undertone of menace, now that the surprise had passed.

  This notion did not appear to unduly worry Farley. In fact, he seemed glad the point was made.

  “I said we should have killed you straight away,” he said. “I wrote a report on the subject.”

  Malarkey did not fully understand this, but nevertheless he took it as a compliment. “Well, I does be a dangerous creature. Both mind and muscle rolled up in one person, as it were.”

  “Not you, you rouged cretin. The boy. He is too smart by half.”

  King Otto leaned forward in his seat, grasping the armrests, ready for action. “It don’t take much smarts to count to five, Farley. You ain’t gonna get all of us.�
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  Riley, meanwhile, was feeling a shade guilty for mentioning the bullet count. Farley would be forced to plug the homicidal Rams before turning his barker to the harmless boy-magician.

  And it will take three shots to slow Inhumane, I’ll warrant.

  By that time Malarkey would be at the tattooist’s throat, handing Riley the second’s grace he needed to jump through the trapdoor.

  I’ll be gone in a twinkle. The white rabbit ain’t got nothing on me.

  But Farley was no dullard. Surely the bullet count would have occurred to him.

  Surely.

  Malarkey rose slowly from his chair, as did his remaining men.

  “I’m gonna stuff that Yankee barker down yer gullet, Mr. Farley. And after that, you’re bound for a swift burial in a flour sack. Less’n you have more bullets.”

  Farley laughed, three harsh barks, then reached his long artist’s fingers into his ink tote. When they emerged, they were wrapped around the butt of some strange-looking implement—F-shaped, with a thin string of light pointing from its nozzle.

  Riley recognized it from his jaunt up the Smarthole.

  Machine pistol. Machine pistol.

  “Oh, I have more bullets,” said Farley, and he pulled the trigger, spraying supersonic death across the stage and auditorium of the Orient Theatre.

  Trying to trace the consequences of time travel is like a monkey with no thumbs trying to reassemble an exploded bomb, at night, wearing clown gloves.

  —Professor Charles Smart

  LONDON, PRESENT DAY

  Chevie Savano found herself waking for the second time in a single morning, on this occasion suffering a headache that seemed too big for her skull to contain.

  Electric panic coursed through her limbs, but she fought to keep them from spasming.

  Play dead, she told herself. Buy some time.

  Strong fingers gripped her shoulders, and she knew the grip without having to look.

  Thundercats.

  The Traitor did this, she thought, hating that tiny malignant twist of flesh. The Traitor murdered me.

  It was true that Chevie wasn’t currently dead, but there could be no doubt that this status would be short-lived.

  Short-lived. Ha.

  You’ll have to update your status to Single and Deceased.

  The Traitor again. More jibber-jabber. Update her status? What did that even mean?

  So Chevie sat still as a corpse, collecting herself, trying to breach the corona of pain around her head with mind-fingers.

  “Charles Smart,” she heard a voice say.

  It’s the hobbit’s voice.

  Director Gunn.

  “She talks about Charles Smart, and here he is in the colonel’s letter: Professor Charles Smart. Can you explain that?”

  Professor Smart. He was one of the people from her visions. The old lady with the bird’s-nest hair had said that Smart was expecting her. Could it be that Smart was a real person?

  Someone grunted a negative. One from Clover Vallicose’s grunt lexicon.

  “It’s a mystery, Director,” said Lunka Witmeyer from behind Chevie. “But we have an order passed down through the years. Sealed by the holy seal until this very morning.”

  Vallicose chimed in, her voice throbbing with religious fervor. “An order passed down from the Blessed Colonel Himself. It would be my honor to carry it out immediately.”

  “No, Sister. Something is afoot here,” said the director. “Something outside the scope of my knowledge and influence.” Gunn moved things around on his desk. “And I don’t like things outside that circle. I like to bring them inside before I deal with them.”

  Vallicose shuffled. “Are you ignoring the Blessed Colonel’s command, Director?”

  There was a moment of tense silence in which Chevie believed absolutely that Vallicose would shoot her own superior if his next sentence was blasphemous.

  “Of course not, Sister. And I do not appreciate your tone. I would simply prefer to have more information before the…sanctions…are implemented. This Smart person may have confederates.”

  “The order is quite specific, Director. It has to be today.”

  “I know that, Vallicose. I can read. Don’t forget who summoned you here.”

  Waldo Gunn was a powerful man, but even he would have to tread carefully in this unique situation. A time-sensitive order from the colonel could not be ignored, or even deviated from in the slightest. His political adversaries would have him swinging in Hangman’s Square by dawn. Waldo Gunn could end up a homodermic installation in his own hall of fame.

  Chevie heard Gunn’s fingers drumming the desktop. “Very well. We use the girl to confront this man Smart. See how he reacts. There must be some connection between them. Then, when you have established that connection, take ten minutes to interrogate him on-site. I must know if there is a danger to the colonel’s empire.”

  This was shrewd: plant the idea that perhaps the Empire was at risk. Surely no one could object to his patriotism.

  Vallicose grunted again, but it was a respectful, affirmative grunt. Their plan was set.

  One of the hands on Chevie’s shoulders moved up to her neck and gripped tightly.

  “This little one’s faking,” said Lunka Witmeyer. “She’s awake and eavesdropping.”

  Chevie felt Director Gunn’s gaze swivel her way. She felt his eyes burn into her forehead, bringing a blush to her cheeks.

  “Open your eyes, Cadet Savano,” said Waldo Gunn, “and you may yet live through this day.”

  Chevie did as she was ordered and found herself handcuffed to a chair in front of Director Gunn’s desk. It seemed as though the Thundercats weren’t taking any more chances with Chevie’s newfound combat expertise.

  On the desk was a photocopy of a citizen’s identity card. The man in the picture was in his seventies, with wild gray hair and a surprised expression. He wore a white lab coat with a selection of pens clipped to the lapels, several of which had leaked blotted ink patterns onto his coat.

  He is real, thought Chevie.

  “Professor Charles Smart,” said Director Gunn, confirming what Chevie somehow knew. “Who works in weapons R and D in the Mayfair facility. We thought Smart was one of our brightest scientists, but now we have compelling evidence that he is in fact a Jax spy.”

  Chevie kept her face still. Emotion would only serve to damn her.

  “Perhaps you are working together,” suggested Gunn.

  “No, Director,” said Chevie. “I have never met this man or communicated with him.”

  At least I don’t think so.

  “So you are no Jax spy?”

  Chevie straightened her shoulders, in spite of the strong hands bearing down on them. “Of course not, Director. I am a loyal citizen. I love God and Empire, sir.”

  Gunn nodded, considering her words. “There is one way you can redeem yourself, prove to me that you are not a spy, and perhaps even get approval for a brain scan.”

  “Anything, Director,” said Chevie earnestly. “I’ll do anything.”

  Gunn nodded, seemingly with approval. He opened a desk drawer and withdrew a standard-issue sidearm. He laid it on the table, where it sat, squat, ugly, and black.

  “Smart is a Jax spy, and he needs to be executed. I need a true patriot to pull the trigger. Are you a patriot, Cadet Savano?”

  Chevie felt her body tense. She wanted to break free from the hands that restrained her and run from the room into some kind of world where teenagers did not have to answer such questions.

  Director Waldo Gunn leaned forward so his beard brushed the desktop.

  “Well, Cadet Savano, are you a patriot?”

  Chevie nodded. “Yes, Director. I am a patriot. The Jax spy must be executed.”

  She was a patriot, wasn’t she?

>   Most of her, anyway.

  But not Traitor Chevie.

  Traitor Chevie was an anarchist. And which Chevron Savano would have her finger on the trigger when the time came?

  So now Cadet Savano rode in a Chariot of Box automobile that purred across central London. It was said that central London had once had a carnival air about it, jammed from one dawn to the next with tourists and revelers. They said that the Ministry of Defense was once a theater where the stars of the stage plied their pretending trade. The Hall of Sanctions had been a huge restaurant that sold steak to anyone who could pay for it; all one had to do was take a seat and place an order. Even foreigners were welcome, they said; even heathens.

  DeeDee Woollen had once confided in Chevie that her grandfather’s book showed pictures of young people in London dance halls without a care for curfew or modest dress.

  DeeDee was always going to get herself in trouble, spreading stories like that.

  Shot in the head for describing Grandpa’s pictures, said Traitor Chevie. Seems fair.

  Perhaps London had once been a center of frivolous celebration, but now it was the hub of the Empire. Colonel Box had risen from the catacombs to claim New Albion, so it was fitting that it should serve as the nerve center for the entire Empire’s government. The sidewalks were still slick from their dawn scrub, and armies of civil-servant drones hurried along, reflected in the shining flagstones, eager to reach their office cubicles before morning services.

  Chevie often wondered what it must have been like to live in a city of diversity, where everything didn’t have a gray sheen of sameness.

  California. Someday I will watch the sunset from the beach. Even the party can’t control the ocean.

  Don’t bet on it, kiddo. Traitor Chevie again. They control everything else in this crazy world. Even what you’re thinking.

  Clover Vallicose was up front at the wheel. She flicked through a playlist of Boxite tunes on the stereo until she happened on the song “Spy Zodety” by sanctioned musician D Bob Jones. It told the story of American Boxite spy Woody Zodety, who resisted forty-eight hours of Jax torture before he was rescued. The famous golden oldie featured a bridge of screams, which were Zodety’s actual howls of pain, lifted from an interrogation-room tape.