Chasing Schrödinger’s Cat - A Steampunk Novel Read online

  Our days settled into a pleasant routine of travel, shows and excellent Romani cooking. The Roma seemed to accept us as fellow vagabonds, and I began to recognize some of them as individuals, rather than passing faces in a crowd. There were Milosh, Marko and Stephane, the musicians, Tentpeg Tibor who brewed wickedly-overproof plum brandy and Aunt Tsura and her wall-eyed daughter Drina. Even Max the Cat seemed to feel at home. True, he was unwelcome in the other caravans. The Roma dislike cats because they lick themselves. Their dislike was of little concern to Max. You could almost see a thought balloon over his head saying “lick this.” What was important to him was the abundance of rodent life in the garbage dumps where we usually set up camp. We were woken more than once by the sounds of loud meowing outside the door of Schrödinger’s van where Max would be waiting in triumph with the bloodied corpse of yet another unfortunate rat. On Sarah’s insistence, I would take Max’s offering and place it in a sealed container next to our food while she scratched his ears and praised him. The next morning, when Max was sleeping, I would throw the dead rat to the top of the garbage heap.

  Those few weeks we spent with Joe Chisholm were the closest Sarah and I ever got to a honeymoon, but even honeymoons have to end sometime. I knew something had changed when Sarah started nagging me about trivialities. Do you really have to switch your fork from one hand to the other? It is so much easier to keep one’s fork in the left hand. No, it’s not pronounced Woorsester sauce. It’s Wooster. Must you say gotten? It sounds so Colonial.

  Matters came to a head one evening when we were listing to Marko strumming his guitar after the evening meal. I was especially tired for some reason and hadn’t eaten much although my lack of appetite might have had something to do with the fact that someone had left a dead horse at the nearby landfill site while we were away doing the show. I hadn’t even changed out of my gunslinger costume and my holster kept digging into my side. I thought about taking it off but decided it would be too much trouble to carry it to the van.

  I was almost asleep when Marko played the opening chords of a tune I recognized. I sat up and started to sing along.

  As I went out walking one morning for pleasure

  As I wandered out in Laredo one day

  I spied a young cowpoke all wrapped in white linen

  All wrapped in white linen as cold as the clay

  "I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy"

  He called to me boldly as I walked on by

  "Come sit down beside me and hear my sad story

  For I'm mortally wounded and know I must die

  "'Twas once in the saddle I used to go riding

  "'Twas once in the saddle I used to be gay

  Then I began drinking, and started card-playing

  Now I'm shot in the breast and I lie here today

  "Let six jolly cowboys come carry my coffin

  Let six pretty gals come to carry my pall

  Throw bunches of roses all over my gravesite

  Throw roses to deaden the clods as they fall

  "Oh, bang the drum slowly, and play the fife lowly

  And sound the dead march as you bear me along

  In heaven’s green valley just lay the earth o'er me

  For I'm a poor cowboy that knows he done wrong"

  Everyone clapped when I had finished and I was feeling pleased with myself until I noticed the smug look on Sarah’s face.

  “You realize, of course, that song isn’t American,” she said. “It is, in fact, an English ballad titled ‘A Young Sailor Cut Down in His Prime.’”

  I had just about had enough. “Listen Miss High and Mighty,” I said. “I don’t care if you people call it ‘The Queen’s Farts Smell Like Roses.’ It’s an American song and always has been.” I stood up and began brushing the dirt off my pants. “And just where do you get off criticizing me anyway? You’re not the Lady of the Manor anymore. You’re just a two-bit carnie like everyone else at this dump.”

  “Where are you going?” she said, as I turned to leave.

  “Going to see TentPeg Tibor. See if he has any of that brandy left.”

  Chapter XXXXIII:

  Plum Brandy – An Old Acquaintance

  It was hours later when I got through sampling Tibor’s various liquors. Not only did he have plum brandy, but he also had something called Rakia made from either apricots or mangelwurzel, I forget which. It was the Rakia that did me in. I was alternately staggering and crawling by the time I got back to the van. Climbing the stairs and opening the door seemed like too much of an effort so I opted for lying on the ground between the front wheels.

  I woke at daybreak with a mouth full of bile and the barrel of my own colt poking me in the forehead.

  “Wakey wakey Sunshine,” I heard a voice saying. “A new day is dawning.”

  “Go away,” I said, laying my head back on the ground.

  This time the poke in the forehead was more insistent. “No dawdling now,” the voice said. “You and I have a train to catch.”

  I lifted my head to see who was bothering me and saw a pockmarked countenance sporting two days’ worth of stubble. I knew I had seen the face before but it was only when the man spoke again to reveal a mouthful of gold teeth that I recognized the ‘dodgy bloke’ Percy had warned me about. What was his name? Benny. Benny Sherman.

  “Now don’t go giving me the evil eye like that,” Sherman said. “It’s your fault I don’t look my best. Been travelling all night ain’t I?”

  “Where from?”

  “Paddington station courtesy of the Great Western Railway. The same railway that will be taking the two of us back to London this afternoon.”

  “And why will we be doing that?”

  “Little matter of a reward for capturing a wanted fugitive.”

  I sat up, leaned against the van’s left front wheel and closed my eyes to stop my head from spinning. Benny Sherman was still there when I opened them again.

  “Just out of curiosity, how do you come to be here by yourself?” I asked. “A man of your standing, don’t you have other people to do your dirty work?”

  A flush of embarrassment crossed Sherman’s face. “Normally I would of course,” he admitted. “But Mister Fox wants everything kept schtum. He was most insistent.”

  “Ah, Mister Fox. I might have known he was behind this.”

  “Enough chatter. Get yourself up and let’s be off.”

  Easier said than done. I tried standing in the normal way without success. Then I tried using front wheel as a support but it was slippery with mud. I finally put my hands around the van’s brass headlamp and pulled myself upward. I was nearly erect when there was a sound of breaking metal and the fixture came loose, leaving me swaying there, holding the lamp like a drunken Diogenes.

  “Tell you what,” I said. “I’m not feeling up to travelling today. Think you could come back tomorrow?”

  “Don’t play the fool with me,” Sherman said, pointing the Colt. “I’ve got the whip hand thanks to this Yankee shooter you were wearing. Nice of you to leave it out for me.”

  By now you are probably doubting my version of events. “This guy Bob Liddel wants everyone to think he’s some kind of cool-under-fire action hero, instead of the chickenshit nerd we all know him for,” you may be saying.

  Well here’s the thing. Remember when I told you I always won the fast draw contests against the punters? Here’s why. The bullets in the other guy’s colt were cast in silvery-gray wax. They would burn up before they ever reached the target.

  My bullets were wax too, but they were impregnated with bird shot. The wax would burn but the bird shot would spread and keep right on going. The balloon would burst if I pointed anywhere near it. Crooked? If you’re surprised, you probably don’t think professional wresting is fixed.

  True, Sherman was holding my Colt and not the punter’s but I knew that the worst that could happen was that I would have to eat a bit of bird shot and how bad could that hurt?

  That’s what I tho
ught until he got tired of waiting and fired a warning shot that I believe was supposed to miss me. It didn’t. Those little pellets stung like a swarm of red-hot bees.

  “Knock it off,” I yelled. “That really hurt.”

  Sherman looked taken aback but quickly regained his composure. “No more foolishness,” he said, waving the Colt at me. “My time is valuable.”

  “Do not shoot me again,” I said, taking a step toward him. “I’m warning you.”

  So he shot me again.

  “Sonovabitch!” I yelled. I swung the headlamp and caught him on the left temple. He looked at me in astonishment before falling heavily to the ground.

  A sizeable crowd had gathered by now. Sarah stepped forward to help me but I waved her away and went behind the van to puke. When I returned, Chisholm was kneeling beside Sherman with his ear to the man’s mouth.

  “Looks like he’s out cold,” I said.

  “Cold and dead,” Chisholm answered.

  Chapter XXXXIV:

  Minor Surgery – Sarah’s News

  There was a metallic ping as Sarah dropped yet another piece of shot into the rectangular tin whose painted surface claimed it had once held Solomon and Gluckstein’s navy cut cigarettes. I was lying face up in the daybed while Sarah extracted tiny bits of lead from my torso, one pellet at a time.

  “How many does that make so far?” I asked.

  “I’ve lost count. Stop squirming, you’re only making it harder.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one with tweezers poking in your stomach.”

  “It’s your own fault. Things like this wouldn’t happen if you didn’t persist in killing people.”

  “They both had it coming,” I said. That wasn’t really the way I felt, I was just being defensive. In fact, I was dismayed. Cold-blooded murderer was not a description I wanted on my resume. I resolved to quit killing people before it became a habit and even made some changes to the Adams revolver later that night in order to avoid further fatalities. Changes that would have a major impact later.

  “That is as may be,” Sarah continued. “Here in England “they had it coming” is not considered a valid legal defense.”

  “I know. I’m just a colonial bumpkin. Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

  “Whatever can you mean?” Sarah said, as she dropped another piece of birdshot into the can.

  “I’m going home. Just as soon as we can hook up with Henry Babbage in Devon. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  To my astonishment, Sarah sat on the floor of the van and began to cry. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I know I’ve been an absolute shrew. I only wanted to help you.”

  “All that nagging you’ve been doing lately? That was supposed to help me?

  “I wanted you to fit in.”

  “Well thanks, I guess. But why is it important that I fit in?”

  “You need to, if we are to make a life together.”

  “If we are to…? It sounds like you just proposed to me.”

  “I’ve grown fond of you. Very fond. And I don’t want to raise a child on my own.”

  “Raise a child? Are we being hypothetical or for real?”

  The look Sarah gave me said it all. I was overcome with a strange feeling that was a mixture of pride and terror. I was proud that this beautiful, gutsy woman wanted to spend her life with me. But I was terrified she would never get the chance unless I managed to elude the people who wanted to do to me what Max the Cat did to the rats in the dump.

  Chapter XXXXV:

  A Dead Horse – A Coup D'état

  “Where is everyone?” I asked when we emerged from the van. I was doing my best not to rub my inflamed torso but it was hard. Those little pellets had really stung.

  “Gone. Chisholm offered to stay but I told him not to. He doesn’t need any more trouble. For heaven’s sakes stop scratching. You’ll only cause infection.”

  An early autumn wind had already covered the campground with a new layer of debris. There was no sign of our former companions aside from the cold campfire and a broken Rakia bottle.

  “What happened to Sherman’s body?”

  “The Roma buried it in the rubbish tip and dragged the dead horse over top. They reckon it will be so maggoty no one will go near it.”

  “That’s one thing taken care of.” Just about the only thing. If I wasn’t going back to the “real” world, I needed to sort out the mess I was in here. “Got any ideas what to do now?” I asked Sarah. “Cause I’m coming up dry.”

  “We only have two choices,” she said. “Fox is desperate to get hold of this translator thingy for some reason. Either we give it to him or we don’t. If we don’t, we have to come up with a way of defeating him.”

  “Tell you what,” I said. “We’re only a few miles from Totnes. Let’s talk it out over dinner.”

  I had an ulterior motive for suggesting we eat in town. Totnes was the source of the bank draught George Grenville had received for the work he did for Charles Babbage. I had the details written down somewhere. If we did decide to challenge Alistair Fox, we needed to find out more about the dimensional translator and the likeliest source of information was Babbage’s son, Henry.

  It was market day when we got there. The streets were crowded with steam lorries and horse-drawn carts and the town square rang with discordant sound. It was still too early to eat so we decided to kill some time at the local kinescope, a long gable-roofed building that had once served as a corn exchange.

  The main feature was just ending when we sat down. William S. Hart was challenging two bad guys to a duel.

  “Why don’t you both draw?” read the on-screen title. “The Government will string you up for murder anyhow, so take a chance.”

  The theatre had no organist so the only sound accompaniment came from the rhythmic clatter of the film working its way through the projector. A flickering cloud of dust danced overhead as the reunited lovers, William S. Hart and Barbara Bedford embraced on a knoll overlooking the Oklahoma prairie.

  The lights went on so the projectionist could thread the next film through the sprocket wheels and dimmed again as the familiar newsreel introduction appeared on screen.

  Empire Films Present

  NEWS OF THE DAY

  The first item was about something called ‘The Lord Mayor’s Procession’ which, according to the titles had been an annual event for the last eight centuries. The flickering images showed a robed man in a gilded coach preceded by a wheeled dolly carrying the giant effigies of two Roman Soldiers.

  As always, read the titles The procession is headed by Gog and Magog whose help may yet be needed in the current constitutional crisis.

  “What crisis?” I whispered to Sarah who answered with a ‘no idea’ shake of her head.

  We found out soon enough when the picture irised to a long shot of the Houses of Parliament surrounded by a menacing ring of black dirigibles whose purpose, the titles said, was ‘to protect the realm from the revolutionists who would destroy our cherished way of life.’

  The next shot showed Sir Osgood Wellesley speaking on the floor of the House of Commons. “The temporary powers assumed by the Government, while extreme, are necessary to ensure the maintenance of order and stability,” he assured the Speaker of the House.

  It was hard to concentrate on William S. Hart and his pursuit of true love after that. We left as a cannon shot signaled the start of the Oklahoma land rush.

  We were hungry by now and made our way to a corner house restaurant where a nippy-hatted waitress named Bessie served us steaming mounds of shepherd’s pie. I asked what she thought of the coup d'état.

  “I’m sure the government know best,” Bessie said. “My Da says it’s shocking what some of these Bolshie types get up to.”

  “What was that thing on the newsreel about two giants leading a procession?” I asked Sarah once we were alone.

  “Surely you have heard of Gog and Magog? They
have been the traditional guardians of London since the reign of Henry V.”

  “I used to have a roommate who was a fundamentalist Christian. According to him, Gog and Magog are emissaries of Satan whose appearance foretells the Apocalypse.”

  “Don’t be absurd. Gog and Magog are the offspring of the thirty-three daughters of the Roman Emperor Diocletian who arrived in Britain in an open boat and coupled with demons to produce a race of giants.”

  You remember what I said earlier about the unrestricted availability of drugs in this dimension? Legends such as these are the unhappy result.

  Sarah and I never did get around to discussing our options because we hadn’t any. Waitress Bessie’s assurances notwithstanding, we both knew we had to find a way to defeat Alistair Fox and his fellow conspirators. There was no way we wanted to raise a child in a world ruled by the likes of Osgood Wellesley.

  Chapter XXXXVI:

  Smethings & Sharp – A Lucky Break

  “Are you sure this is the place?” Sarah said, as we climbed the steps leading to the heavy front door. The only business sign was a discreet brass plaque fixed to the masonry wall that read simply: Smethings, Sharp & Company.