Arcadia Snips and the Steamwork Consortium (30 page)

"We don’t even know how this works," Snips said, watching the burning column.

"We have no alternatives, Miss Snips. If it doesn't work, we shall soon know." Despite himself, William snorted and shook his head; Snips looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Are you all right?"

"It just occurred to me," he said, trying to stifle his laughter.

"We're on top of an armored dirigible, poised to rain down destruction on the city beneath me. I'm fairly sure I was determined to avoid this very sort of thing."

Snips slapped him on the back and handed him his umbrella.

"All right," she said. "Go."

"Funny," William replied. "I don't recall you having ever possessed the power of flight."

Snips glared.

"I mean, it certainly seems like something I'd remember,"

William continued. "'Oh yes, she can fly, silly me'. Or something like that."

"I’m not going," Snips said, turning back to the heart of the Heap.

"Yes, you are."

"No, I’m not," Snips said, shaking her head. "It’s too risky.

If the ship doesn’t stay steady—if the winds pick up—if
anything
happens, it could shift the airship off and cause it to miss its target.

Someone needs to stay and make sure it stays on course."

"No, someone does not," William said. "I did the math, Miss Snips. It will not miss."

"You don’t know that."

"I know it well enough."

"There are too many lives at stake."

"Stop trying to go out in a blaze of glory."

Snips stopped, her throat squeezing around her words. "I don’t need your help."

"Then help me instead," he told her. "For I have no intention of leaving this place without you, Arcadia."

She turned away from the Heap, facing William. And then, with a gradually melting reluctance, she placed her hand into his.

~*~

Together, William and Snips floated above Aberwick. They clutched at one another desperately, holding on for dear life; beneath them, Mr. Peabody's fiendish contraptions sank toward the swirling inferno that lay at the heart of the Heap.

As they drifted, a cold stillness seized the air about them.

William frowned; Snips shivered.

"Did the wind just stop?" she asked.

"I think so," William said. "I think—I think it is about to happen again."

"Huh? What's going to happen again?"

But William did not answer; instead, he searched the cityscape for the familiar face of a clock

"Why did everything get so quiet? I can't even hear the wind. It's like—" Snips stopped. They passed a sparrow, its wings spread; it was frozen stiff, hanging in the air like a Christmas ornament. "Uh."

"You can see it," William said. "Thank God. I thought I might be mad."

"What the hell is happening?"

William struggled to maintain his grip on Snips with one hand and pulled his pocket watch out with the other. He showed it to her; the second hand was stuck on six. "Time," he said. "Time is —I think that it is trying to go backwards."

"Wait, what?"

"I know that it sounds absurd," William said. "But it has done this before. This is the third time—ever since this whole affair started. I think that—"

The hand jumped back a second.

"That's what happened last time," William said.

Then it jumped back another second.

"Er," he said.

And then it jumped back ten seconds.

"All right, this is new," William admitted.

The hand spun backwards, becoming no more than a blur; the minute hand stirred to life, cranking back the hour. And as they watched, the hour hand began to move.

Above them, the sun slowly swung from one horizon to the next, its burning glow fading behind the city in an orange blossom of flame. Night came, then passed back into day; the sun now accelerated, blinking by in a streak of golden brilliance. Around them, buildings shrank and changed—blurring shapes of men speedily erected scaffolding, took down rooftops and walls, then pulled the scaffolding apart and left for home. Machines trudged back to their workshops to be disassembled, their parts distributed across the city; merchants traded money back for their goods.

Muggers and thieves sprang out of alleyways to hand their victims bulging wallets at knife-point.

In only minutes, days became weeks and weeks became months. They watched the ebb and flow of the city, traveling back to the final instants before the fire that devastated the Heap. Smoke was pulled from the sky and drawn in by flames that fell away, leaving the buildings pristine and untouched. The healing inferno crept to the center, back to where the explosion had first began— and then the world began to shiver and break.

"Hold on," William said, but his voice was distant and warped; color bled out of everything, and the universe around them began to unravel, and then...

He was standing on solid ground.

The Heap was gone. In its place was a geometrical impossibility; a sight that defied everything that William understood about the world.

Immense glaciers were suspended in a starless sky, the sound of crumbling ice surrounding him as they scraped across each other in a slow and graceful waltz. Beneath his feet was a layer of flattened frost; across from him was a bridge that lead to another glacier—and on top of it was a gazebo. Inside the gazebo was a chair and table, at which sat a man.

The man was drinking tea.

"Snips?" William called out, but his voice was lost among howling winds and echoes of snapping ice. He turned about frantically, searching for any sign of her; every way he looked, there was nothing but frost. "Arcadia!"

"Relax," the man in the gazebo said. "She's fine."

William turned, pointing the tip of the umbrella at him.

"Who are you? Where am I? What's happened to the Heap—what's happened to—"

"I fear that this is a bit complicated," the man said, "and I am somewhat out of practice when it comes to complicated explanations."

William noticed now that the man was old and haggard; he wore a dusty suit and had a long, shaggy beard.

"All right," William said. "If Snips is all right, where is she?"

"I think you mean when," the man said.

"Now!" William cried.

"Precisely," the man replied, and then he smiled. "Have a seat, William."

William Daffodil visits a place lost to time.

"How do you know my name?"

"We've met before. Here."

"No we haven't!" William said. "I've never met you before in my life. I would certainly remember visiting such a strange, wretched place." He waved his umbrella about.

"Well, you haven't met me yet in your timeline," the man said. "But we've met in mine. Here, anyway," he added.

"What?"

The old man sighed. "I said it was complicated. Sit down."

William relented, walking across the small bridge of ice. He used the umbrella as a cane, making sure not to trip on the slick ground; when he sat down, he was surprised to find that the tea was quite hot and accompanied by fresh, warm biscuits.

"Feel free to have one," the old man said, but William only shook his head.

"I want to see Arcadia."

"You will. In the meanwhile, please, relax. Let's talk for a while. Although this is the first time you have met me, it will be the last time I see you. I would like to enjoy it, if I may."

William hesitated, then reached for one of the biscuits. He took it and tasted it; it was quite delicious. A moment after taking the bite, he ventured a question: "Where did you get this food? I do not see an oven..."

"You brought it to me," the old man said, and William choked.

"Will you stop with that? It's confusing," William said. "I haven't brought you anything."

"You will," the old man pointed out. "In your future, and my past. Like I said, it's complicated."

William paused, half-eaten biscuit in hand. "Are you—are you—"

"Yes?"

"Are you my father?"

The old man laughed. "Oh, goodness me, no. No, most certainly not."

William's shoulders slumped. "Oh. I thought, perhaps—"

"I'm your grandfather. Jerome Daffodil."

William snapped to attention. "I—I'm sorry, I beg your pardon?"

"This place," Jerome said, gesturing around him, "is a place outside of your timeline. Rather than traveling forward, it travels backward. For me, this is the last time we'll meet; for you, it is our first time."

"You're saying—you're saying I've been here before? In my future?"

"And in my past," Jerome said, agreeing.

"Really, now," William said, finishing the biscuit and dabbing his fingers on a napkin. "Are you the one responsible for that sordid business with the clocks?"

"Yes," Jerome said. "I've tried to bring you here on several occasions. It's a tricky thing to do, and I don't always get the timing right. Sometimes I try too soon, sometimes I try too late. I hope it didn't cause you too much trouble."

"You terrified me out of my wits!" William fumed. "I thought I was going mad!"

"That seems to be a running theme with our family,"

Jerome pointed out.

"Fair enough," William said. "How does this place even exist?"

"Your parents created it by accident, when they attempted to stop the first bomb from detonating," Jerome said. "They used my time machine to steal an hour of time and tried to keep the explosion isolated there."

"It didn't work," William said.

"Not completely," Jerome agreed. "They were nearly too late; some of the explosion escaped. Although that isn't their fault.

The time machine was never very reliable."

"What about the bomb that Arcadia and I directed to the center of the Heap?"

"It's temporally displaced, just like the first one," Jerome said. "Trapped in an hour lost to time."

"I have so many questions," William said. "So many things I want to ask you."

"And I'm afraid we don't have enough time to go through them," he said.

"You said this is the last time we'll meet," William said.

"What happens to you, then? Is there anything I can do for you?

Can you come back with me?"

"No," Jerome said, "I have to stay. And you have to look after Arcadia."

"Miss Snips?" William asked. "How do you even know her name?"

"You told me it. As you told me about her," Jerome explained. "She's the key to this whole affair, William. She's— well, like this place, it's complicated."

"Try me."

"She's the coin flip that lands on its side. The one-in-a-million shot you can always count on. She's probability reversed and turned inside out. A madman's curious experiment gone terribly right."

"You mean wrong?"

"I mean right," Jerome said. "And I'm afraid it's time for you to go. You can't stay here very long, or I won't be able to send you and Arcadia back."

"When will I see you again?"

"Soon, soon. In the meanwhile, I have something for you—

two somethings, actually," he said. He drew a tarnished silver pocket watch out from his coat pocket; it was heavy and fitted with all manner of mechanisms, including a glass diode and several wires that dangled from its back. "This is—ah, don't tinker with it, not now, at least. It's very dangerous."

William took the watch, peering down at it. "What is it?"

"The time machine."

William looked up at Jerome with a raised eyebrow.

"...really?"

"Yes. But it doesn't work. Well, sometimes it does. But never in the way it's supposed to," Jerome said, sighing. "I never quite figured out the bloody thing."

"What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Use it."

"But you said not to—"

"You'll know when," Jerome said. "Just hold on to it. You'll need it."

"You said you had something else for me," William said.

"Yes. A message," Jerome replied. “From you. In the future.”

"What was it?" William asked. The world around him was beginning to shift again; the lethargic dance of the glaciers slowed to an halt as color began to drain from everything around him. In front of him, Jerome was smiling. He said:

"Your parents survived."

Once again, the world unraveled.

~*~

"William!"

William Daffodil opened his eyes.

Snips was crouched over him, her eyes dark with concern.

He sat up, prompting her to roll back in a crouch besides him; they had landed somewhere in the Heap.

"Everything went mad back there," Snips said. "For a moment, you disappeared, and I was falling. Then, out of no where, I blacked out and woke up here. With you."

William opened his fist. In it was the watch his grandfather had given him.

"Are you all right, William?"

William placed the watch in his pocket, struggling to his feet. "Yes, actually. I think that I am."

~*~

The little boy had stashed himself into a far off corner of
the boarding school, far away from the prying eyes of his peers.

He nursed his bloody nose in secret, doing his best to suppress the
sniffles that fought to swell up into his throat.

When the girl appeared, she gave him a terrible start; the
girl's dormitory was kept separate from the boy's dormitory, and
he wondered at once how she had managed to sneak past the
 
instructors. She wore a ferocious scowl and a fresh black eye,
along with the school's drab uniform. It showed signs of having
been torn and scuffed in a recent struggle.