Jump City: Apprentice Page 6

  There was a tremendous shuddering and then a strong down draft. For the briefest moment, the airship dropped like a stone. Fynn and I were both pulled from our seats. I heard the engines surge to a loud roar as if to compensate. Throughout the lounge, dishes clattered back to their tables, even furniture moved— anything that was not bolted down. Everyone gave off a collective gasp of alarm but things settled quickly. Murmurs gave way to nervous laughter and reassuring tones, giddy relief from the realization that we had all just escaped certain death.

  “That can’t be good,” I muttered to myself more than anyone, but Fynn gave me a nod. I could feel a slight shuddering all through the room. It seemed clear that the pilot was turning the ship into the wind.

  “What was that?” I asked.

  “Quite a dangerous hiccup,” Fynn replied. “We’ll be landing very soon. In fact we’re running a bit late, I should think.” He rose from his seat. “Let’s stroll to the promenade and take in the view, eh?”

  I joined him and we walked over to stand by a horizontal bank of windows facing downwards. I saw dark water everywhere and lights glimmering below us. They seemed vaguely familiar to me.

  “What do you remember?” I asked Fynn.

  “I remember everything. It’s been a difficult four years.”

  “Four years?”

  “Since we arrived here in nineteen thirty-three. We’ve been following Mortimer, trying to retrieve the blasted cane, but it’s all gone terribly wrong. He seems to side-step us every time we get close.”

  “I don’t remember anything like this. I- I- just don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Well, perhaps you will eventually.”

  “Eventually?”

  “Either your memories will return, or it might be, you’ve yet to experience this particular present.”

  “That’s all I need,” I replied with a certain dismay. I didn’t even want to think about what Fynn was saying. “What’s the last thing that happened to us?”

  “Of significance?”

  I nodded.

  “Hmm… Boarding this airship in Frankfort a few days ago.”

  “Germany?”

  “At your insistence, actually; though it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “My insistence?”

  “Yes, you said something about this being right out of a book you once read.”

  “I said that?”

  “Assuredly.”

  “I don’t remember… what book?”

  “The title eludes me. Something about castles.”

  “Okay, before that?”

  Fynn didn’t take my meaning and gave me a puzzled glance.

  “Before nineteen-thirty-three,” I clarified.

  “Ah yes, we jumped back from your present: Tuesday, the seventeenth of September, two thousand and thirteen.”

  “Before that?”

  “There is no before that.”

  “What about Monday, September sixteenth?”

  “Oh, I see what you mean… As I said, we were having a conversation in my living room, working on our first case together. Murder by accident.”

  I thought for a moment. “I do remember that. Mr and Mrs Dumont. A falling tree…” More memories flooded into my mind. I’ve been here before.

  “Would you like to return to that conversation?”

  “What? Talk about something that’s not going to happen for another eighty years?” I asked.

  “My apologies, how terribly confusing this must be for you.”

  I stood against the railing, just stewing for several moments. “Alright, let’s talk about this curious crime.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Might as well… maybe it will help me remember.”

  “Remember what?”

  “My future, I guess.”

  “Very well,” Fynn said with a smile. “How much do you recall?”

  “The accidents… icy steps, the refrigerator, a deer, poison candles, and the tree of course.”

  “Hmm. Do you recall visiting the crime scene?”

  “No.”

  “And the break-in at the Dumont residence? How—”

  “Um, Fynn,” I interrupted. “Those lights. I don’t think it’s Rio.” I squinted through the narrow windows. “Pretty sure that’s the Empire State Building… and that statue is unmistakable.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Look for yourself.”

  Fynn complied and then a look of concern crossed his brow. He turned to the nearest stranger to speak, a gaunt looking man with a monocle. He was plainly astonished by Fynn’s question and burst out laughing before he said, “Neunzehn siebenunddreißig…”

  “What?” I asked.

  “The date. It should be the twentieth of March by my reckoning but it seems to be the sixth of May, Thursday.” Fynn gave me a solemn glance. “Odd… I just experienced a deja vu.”

  “Me too.” I looked around the cabin again. This time I saw some people in uniform and many more wearing red, white and black armbands. A large swastika banner hung on the far wall. I pointed this out to Fynn.

  “Something is terribly wrong, isn’t it?” he said. “We should leave at the soonest opportunity.” Fynn leaned against the banister.

  “Jump to somewhere else?” I asked.

  “Such is not advisable.”

  “Why not?”

  “We are at a considerable altitude.”

  “I keep returning here,” I said. “Or at least, I think it’s here.”

  “Sounds rather alarming.”

  “I remember these conversations, at least bits of them…”

  “Why didn’t you say something before?”

  “I didn’t know. I didn’t understand what was happening to me. I still don’t.”

  “We must exit this place with all possible haste.”

  “Now?”

  “Follow, please,” Fynn said quietly. He nodded to the table. “Don’t forget your hat.”

  I looked and saw a smart-looking fedora and it fit perfectly when I put it on. Fynn led me hurriedly from the upper deck, down a flight of stairs and into a narrow passageway. He followed the keel corridor through the bowels of the ship, up one ladder and down another. When I looked above me, I could see a lattice of aluminum girders rising into a dark cavern, stuffed with rows of immense gas bags. I also saw the ghosts again, flittering about in the rafters, and just in the corner of my eye. I had seen these before in Sand City, but said nothing to Fynn.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Forward, towards the bow.”

  “Then what?”

  “We must find a suitable length of good, stout rope.” Fynn turned to me. “Have you that knife I gave you?”

  * * *

  chapter five

  mongols

  Last thing I remember was the sound of wrenching metal, a painful creaking, then a sharp snap, almost like a musical gunshot. There was a tremendous rush of air from somewhere. The floor pitched steeply up, and then a ball of fire.

  Now, I dangled from a long length of rope, and despite clinging for dear life, I was still falling. Below, muddy ground seemed to be rushing up to meet me. If I fell or jumped at this distance, surely both my legs would snap. I looked up. Backlit against a fiery sky and a huge dark billowing shape, I could see Inspector Fynn, also dangling, though from another rope. I heard him shouting: “Lower, lower… to the very end…”

  I shimmied down to the last knot.

  Fynn yelled again: “Jump, jump now!” He pointed straight down. I watched as he let go of his own rope and disappeared.

  I obeyed despite my fear and dropped like a stone. Oblivion enveloped me. I braced myself against the intense pain that shot through my body as I fell… Along the way I smelled animal dung and fresh meadows. Luckily, the ground was not as far as I had first imagined. I hit and tumbled to my feet pretty much unscathed. I was thankful that the pain did not linger. I dusted off and looked around. No sign of Fynn, just a
flat tortured wasteland, though well peppered with grass. A stiff wind blew across my face. It reminded me of somewhere, yet the horizon was completely unfamiliar. There was a distant outline of some huge mountain range. I wondered if they might be the Rockies, though that seemed improbable.

  “Now what?” I asked myself and felt oddly annoyed. My eyes fixed on the sky. No dirigible or blimp any longer, just a few wispy clouds and bright blue. I had nothing to do but sit and wait, fervently hoping Fynn would appear sooner rather than later, at least before the feelings of anguish and panic that roiled inside would overwhelm me.

  By my accounting this was my sixth jump. Time travel was not at all what I expected. Despite the searing pain, hard jumps were easier to comprehend. At least I landed intact; I knew exactly who I was, and pretty much remembered where I had just left. Soft jumps were completely baffling and not at all what Fynn had described. I expected to re-inhabit an empty vessel that I would fill. Such was not the case. Every self I had so far encountered seemed to have a mind of his own. Fynn had some explaining to do. Gradually my feeling of deja vu subsided only to be replaced by a frightening isolation.

  I recalled Fynn’s last bit of advice: if you find yourself alone when you land, walk to the east… With no compass, that was hard to determine, but I took my best guess and started hiking through the desolate landscape. Some hours later I saw a figure a few hundred yards distant. He appeared from a low rise in the landscape and was trudging towards me with a peculiar gait, head down against the wind, but it was Fynn. I could see a shock of white hair and what seemed to be the same suit he was wearing previously. I stopped and heard a soft humming, a familiar tune. “Is that him singing?” I said almost aloud.

  The inspector came to my side and shook my hand vigorously. He was wearing a huge silly grin. “How extraordinary that we landed together in the exact same time and so close to each other.”

  “You call this close?”

  “Well, yes… a few kilometers is very close. Imagine if this were a forest, a jungle, or even a city. We might not find each other for days or months.” He smiled again. “We just leapt from a great height, after all.”

  “That, I do remember.”

  “Where is your hat?”

  “My hat?” I reached up to find it gone. “I don’t know.” I thought it might still be drifting through the air but it was not.

  “No matter. I’ve lost mine as well. I doubt we’ll need them terribly.”

  “What song was that?” I asked.

  “Song?”

  “I heard you singing.”

  “Oh…” Fynn smiled, seemingly embarrassed. “I’ve forgotten its name.”

  I laughed. “Why are you singing?”

  “If ever you find yourself in real trouble, it’s best that you break into song.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Of course, it’s very soothing and never seems to fail.”

  “Are we in trouble then?”

  “Nothing of the sort.” He patted my back.

  I chuckled slightly. “Are you alright?”

  “None of my bones are broken.”

  “That wasn’t exactly a soft jump…”

  “No, but happily we are not in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.”

  “Where are we?”

  “I cannot say for certain.” Fynn surveyed the bleak landscape. “The steppes, it would appear.”

  “The Russian steppes?”

  “Rather more east by the look of things. I might guess we are along the old Silk Road.”

  “Okay then, when are we?”

  “I have to presume we’ve traveled to the future.”

  “How far?”

  “Who can say exactly?”

  “You’ve been here before though?”

  “On occasion… this place has a sort of magnetism.”

  “Magnetism?”

  “It draws you in no matter where you’ve jumped from… geographically speaking, at least.”

  “What now?”

  “Let’s make for those rocks— do you see them?” Fynn said and pointed.

  I did see a low hill where a pile of megalithic stones had fallen in disarray. We started in that direction but before long I heard far off thunder. “What’s that sound?” I asked.

  We could both hear the low rumbling, quite distinctive, and turned to scan the horizon. Shimmering along the distant bleakness was a line of dark shapes, jostling, almost as if vibrating.

  “What is that?”

  The shapes were definitely moving towards us in a long line spread out for as far as we could see. It was alarming. There was also a huge dust cloud forming behind the approaching mass. The rumbling grew louder. I tried to make out what I was seeing, maybe a herd of animals, like horses, but they seemed to have big colorful heads. The unknown beasts stampeded in our direction drawing ever closer. Eventually, I believed I was looking at armored centaurs, though I knew that could not be the case. I turned to Fynn. He was scanning the whole area, to our left, our right, and behind us. There was nothing but flat ground for as far as I could see. He pointed to the low hills again and sprinted off in that direction.

  “Buffalo?” I called my question when I caught up with him in a dash.

  “Something rather worse, I fear,” he replied.

  “What then?”

  “Mongols.”

  “Like Genghis Khan and his hordes?”

  “If you mean to say, Temujin, I would answer, no. But let us hope it is not Jani Beg.”

  “Who?”

  “Most likely it’s some tribal leader, a local warlord. We’ve jumped far to the future, eh?”

  “When in the future?”

  “It should be made apparent quite soon.”

  We were nearly surrounded by the time we reached the hills, really just a single hummock, but a few feet off the ground was a large flat stone there. It might even have been some kind of monument, as I could see odd glyphs carved on the face of it. Fynn pointed them out to me. “Such places are easy to find when one knows where to look,” he remarked cryptically.

  I gave him a questioning glance.

  “Have you not seen similar carvings at the quarry?”

  I tried to recall as Fynn clambered to the top and hauled me up as well. We faced the sea of riders who had encircled us— little men all on tiny horses, almost to say ponies, but the men had extremely fierce expressions. Most of them wore odd pointy caps with earflaps. Some carried banners and pennants, and what looked to be spears, and curved swords at their side. Rider and beast stood as one, near a hundred men; the snorting, restless horses barely kept in check. Someone began shouting something incomprehensible.

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  “Hmm… he seems to be speaking a Turkic dialect of which I am largely unfamiliar.” Fynn gave me a grim expression. “Though I believe he has called us trespassers.” He turned to the man and replied, “No, we are givers, friends,” though he translated this into English for me.

  The man responded angrily, at least by his tone. His fellow riders echoed the guttural sentiment. I could feel apprehension rise in me.

  “This could very well be southern Kazakhstan,” Fynn said with a slight look of distress. “They don’t seem to understand my attempt at Mongolian.”

  My unease grew steadier, almost to say, into fear. “We should leave, Fynn, now…”

  “With all haste, I agree, though this is the moment to remain unflustered.” He ignored my protests and spoke to the man again, though it was just as baffling to me. Angry shouts erupted throughout the horde.

  “Maybe they speak Russian?” I said to Fynn and could feel dread rising.

  He turned to me with a look of surprise. “Indeed. Though if I use that particular language our situation is not likely to improve.”

  “Time to burst into song?”

  “We seemed to be approaching that point.”

  “Really?” I asked, now edging towards panic. I was unreasonably terrified that Fy
nn would just suddenly leap away and disappear leaving me stranded; though I had no genuine reason to think this.

  “Please, calm yourself, Patrick.”

  Some Mongol in the horde started firing a gun. I heard rapid shots.

  “They’re shooting…” I said needlessly since no bullets were whizzing by, but crouched down nonetheless. I scrambled on all fours to the edge of the flat rock, then stood slowly. A song started in my head but I had no voice to sing. Primitive panic consumed me.

  “This is not the time to act rashly,” Fynn said, then shouted, “Don’t jump.”

  I couldn’t help myself. Some dark instinct took hold. I leapt, flying off the broad ledge towards the sea of riders. I didn’t care in that moment where I might end up. There was no oblivion though, not even searing pain, just a mouthful of dirt. I looked up. I was inches away from someone’s boot. I heard a ripple of laughter from the crowd of horsemen. Two men picked me up from under my shoulders and dragged me to their leader, who was still shouting angrily at Fynn. I didn’t know what to do. He scowled at me. Smiling did not seem to be an appropriate cultural response. I tried bowing, I tried nodding and smiling. Nothing seemed to satisfy the man. I began to sing instead: Hush little baby don’t say a word, Mama’s going to buy you a mocking bird…

  This time the lead rider responded with a grin. Soon he was bobbing his head and making some feeble attempt to sing along. Fynn interrupted us though; he stood high on the rock waving his arms and was chanting something incomprehensible, undoubtedly in a foreign language: Tzee Pi Essen, Tzee Pi Essen…

  A murmur spread through the riders. Many of them repeated the phrase and several men held up cell phones. I was largely ignored, and slowly made my way back to Fynn’s side on the outcropping. I watched as a phone was passed up to the inspector. He took it graciously and studied it with some attention. A big grin crossed his face. “We are in luck,” Fynn whispered, “a Mongol horde with cell phones.”

  “GPS?” I asked.

  “Assuredly. You’ll be pleased to know that we are within a few weeks of your usual present.”

  “Yeah, okay, but we’re like five thousand miles away.”

  “Not at all, we couldn’t be in a better place. Notice the markings at your feet. I know exactly where to go.”