Joy to the worlds, p.4
Joy to the Worlds, page 4
Lizzie smiled and pointed her toward Miss Catherine, the manager who was pushing fifty and single. Hence the “Miss.”
Without a word of thanks, the white-haired woman made a beeline across the shop. Stars, what could possibly be so urgent in a fake Victorian hat shop? Lizzie couldn’t help herself; she strolled a little closer to them. The tourist leaned toward Miss Catherine and asked in an artificially casual voice, “Do you have any additional hatbands? I’m looking for two in indigo.”
Miss Catherine jerked a tiny bit. She cast a look around and said politely, “Oh, yes, we have some beautiful new bands in the back. Follow me, please.”
That was odd. Miss Catherine was one of Yorktown’s best employees; she must know it was against the rules to take customers into stockrooms.
At that moment, Meghan sashayed into the shop. She scanned the room while pretending to adjust her ash-colored hair under her gray bonnet. She locked eyes on J.D., who was playing with a pile of dyed ostrich plumes.
Lizzie grabbed J.D., then Cab, and said under her breath. “Come on. I know where we should go for the rest of our shift.”
Back on the sidewalk, they dodged tourists until they reached the very end of Main Street. There was nothing beyond it but the shuttle busses that took tourists to and from the nearby flight station. In front of them was a large building with a brightly lit marquee that read, “Victorian Photos and Optical Illusions!”
Lizzie looked back along the busy sidewalk. No sign of Meghan. They stepped inside, into a wide exhibition hall featuring 19th century photographic equipment and optical toys. Guests milled around examining the display cases and playing with hands-on models. There were stereoscopes, zoetropes, and Lizzie’s personal favorite, phenakistoscopes—paper discs with images that when spun, blurred together like animation.
J.D. picked up a stereoscope and peered through the viewfinder at a double-imaged card of a woman on a bicycle. He said loudly, “Vintage tech! This is so zippin’!”
A few people turned his way, smiling at his enthusiasm. Lizzie whispered, “I’m beginning to understand why you always get recognized. You’re not exactly discreet.”
She led them to the far side of the room where two wide doorways boasted heavy red curtains. The sign next to the curtained doorway on the right announced, “Dress Up as a Victorian and Have your Photograph Taken!”
Lizzie nudged them on to the left. The next doorway was accompanied by a slightly desperate sign that read, “Magic Lantern Show—See Glass Slides of Earth’s Wonders! (No Ticket Necessary—Come Right In!)”
Lizzie pushed one of the curtains aside and led J.D. and Cab into a small, dimly lit vestibule. On either side were curtained entrances to the theater and in between was a narrow wall with a single flickering sconce. An information plaque rambled on about the popularity of slide shows, “during a time before movies, television, and I.G. datapads!”
Well, they had all those things now, and no one wanted to see these old slide shows. The trio pushed through the curtained entryway and walked into the dark theater. Sure enough, the place was empty.
Cab flounced down in the middle of the back row and J.D. sat next to her, chuckling as he shoved her big skirt aside. Lizzie took the next seat and stripped off her gloves, bonnet, and mantle. Holy stars, it felt good to sit down.
The large screen lit up with hand-tinted photographs projected from a boxy wooden contraption behind them. A soundtrack of tinkling piano music emanated from carefully hidden speakers. There should be live pianists and “lanternists” who plugged each glass slide into the projector, but her mom had rigged up automatic systems. Harriet Braynor had busted out one of her awful business slogans saying, “A small sacrifice of authenticity for cost-saving efficiency.”
One after another, the photographs faded on and off the screen, images of now long-gone places on Earth. The leaning Tower of Pisa. The Parthenon in Greece. The pyramids in Egypt.
The 19th century was—what—two hundred years before the Nuclear Fusion Incident? Those places on the screen were around then, but most Victorians would have seen them only in postcards (for sale in the display hall!) or during a show like this.
Still, it must have been nice to think they could have visited them. Everyone knew the story—ugh, those endless, repetitive Galactic History lessons back in school. Earthlings had destroyed their own planet with their Nuclear Fusion experiments.
In one of its “shining moments,” the brand-new Inter-Galactic Government had swooped in to save a few billion people. It also managed to salvage this small area and designated it as one of the seven living history museums that were scattered across the galaxy.
For some reason, the I.G.G. had allowed those museum zones to be self-governing, which was why Old Yorktown could impose no-fly laws and other tech restrictions that would be unthinkable—undesirable, really—anywhere else in the Galaxy.
The slides flickered on and off the screen. Although it was hard to fully relax in her outfit, Lizzie’s breathing slowed and her mind slipped sideways. She was pretty damned comfortable when an image caught her eye.
A woman stood in front of the gothic arches of the Brooklyn Bridge, pointing up at it with a serious expression. The woman’s long, dark dress had two wide bands at the hem, tinted a purplish-blue. That dress looked familiar somehow.
At the top of the slide were two handwritten words: Independents Day.
Huh. Did that mean the old Earth holiday, the Fourth of July? But why was it spelled Independents instead of Independence?
A loud, jangling alarm split the air. Lizzie and Cab bolted upright.
“What’s going on?” J.D. shouted.
Lizzie and Cab ignored him and stood up, tense and alert. The alarm stopped, and a voice came over a loudspeaker. Lizzie knew it well.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Harriet Braynor, manager of Old Yorktown. Please excuse the interruption. An urgent situation has been brought to our attention. Stay tuned for an urgent message from President Plisskin. Thank you.”
J.D. was now standing, too.
Another voice came over the loudspeaker. A dramatic, masculine voice. “Fellow Galactans, I seek your assistance tonight. My son, J.D. Plisskin, is missing. My security forces believe he may have been kidnapped in your vicinity. We need your help. Harriet Braynor, manager of Old Yorktown, will inform you of the specific protocols you will follow as the town is searched and evacuated. I urge you to remain calm, be patient, and to consider whether you have seen my son—” The President’s voice broke with emotion.
J.D. muttered, “Nice job, Dad. That sounded almost real.”
“J.D. is eighteen years old, tall, with dark hair and brown eyes. I thank you for your cooperation and your support during this difficult time. Good Night, Galaxy,” he signed off with one of his many catchphrases.
Lizzie and Cab turned to stare at J.D., who looked just as stunned as they did. Lizzie broke the silence. “Holy freakin’ stars, J.D. He thinks you’ve been kidnapped.”
Cab added, “And does he think we kidnapped you?”
“No. No way,” J.D. said. “I mean, they would’ve put out an alert for you, right? But it is weird, isn’t it? Someone must have figured out I was off-grid and taken credit for kidnapping me.”
Lizzie asked, “Who in all the stars would want to do that?” J.D. grinned and raised his eyebrows.
“I mean,” Lizzie continued, “You’re very valuable and all, but the Galaxy has been peaceful since Reconstruction. Who would want to use you as a bargaining chip?”
J.D.’s grin disappeared. “A bargaining chip?” His hands flew up to his neck and felt around for a few seconds. Two fingers stopped just under his right ear. “Oh, my God. That zagging bastard.”
“What, J.D.?” Lizzie asked.
“This may sound crazy. It is crazy. But I used to be—I guess I still am, zaggit—a sort of walking, talking safe.”
“What?” Lizzie was dumbfounded.
He pulled up the sleeve of his simple white shirt to display a series of small, half-moon scars. “Um, yeah, my loving father used to implant digital chips in my arms.”
Cab whispered, “Oh my stars.”
“Yeah, I know. He’s so paranoid, always talking about spies and Independent infiltrators. I guess he thought I was safe storage for top secret information. People used to think he was such a protective dad. Ha. I didn’t even know until a few years ago, and I was so—” He stopped and took a breath. “Anyway, that’s when I started bolting. I figured if I took off with his precious information, he’d stop putting it in me. And it worked. Or at least I thought it did. Last night when I was passed out, he must have done it again.”
A wave of realization passed over his face. “So that’s why he was so insistent that I didn’t leave the grounds today. That’s why he assigned extra security to me. He knows I’m not kidnapped. He’s just trying to find the chip.”
The loudspeaker interrupted.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Harriet Braynor. Inter-Galactic Government Security officers have arrived in Old Yorktown.” Her mom’s voice was professional but taut with —what?—annoyance? “Together, we have developed the following procedure that will ensure everyone’s comfort as the I.G.G.S gathers information. Old Yorktown residents will escort all guests to the two large buildings at either end of Main Street, where you will be interviewed and released. If you are already in line with merchandise, please go ahead and complete your purchases.”
Lizzie groaned. “Oh, God, Mom.”
“After everyone has gathered in the two exhibition halls, you will be called—alphabetically by last name—to be questioned by I.G.G.S officers. Then please take our courtesy shuttle buses to the flight station for transport off Earth. We hope that you return to Old Yorktown for a more relaxed visit. Thank you.”
Cab turned to Lizzie, “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, Lizzie, but this kind of organizational challenge is right up your mom’s alley.”
“Yeah, but she sounds pissed, doesn’t she?” She glanced at J.D. “No offense. But my mom does not like your dad.”
He shrugged. “Join the club. But I shouldn’t get you maidens involved any further. I’m going to head back to the glider and take off.”
Lizzie sighed, “We are not maidens, J.D., and we don’t need protecting.” Her stomach twisted. Why was she reluctant to let this guy go? She barely knew him. “But sure, if that’s what you want to do.”
Cab added, “With guests converging in the display hall, we probably don’t have much time to get you outside.”
They quickly picked up their outerwear and started wrapping themselves back up. J.D. shrugged into the farmer’s brown coat and dug in the pockets for his gloves. He withdrew a piece of folded up paper. “Hey, what’s this?”
Lizzie recognized the weekly events flyer. “Oh, nothing. It tells visitors about all the super fun and wholesome activities.”
“Oh, yeah, these sound really zippin’. ‘Make Your Own Victorian Christmas Ornament,’ ‘Wassail Punch Tasting.’ Ooh, here’s a good one. A lecture called ‘Indigo: Jersey-Dyeing Pulp Extraction. And it’s today!’ No time listed, though.”
“Wait, what did you say?” Lizzie asked. “Cab, have you heard anything about indigo pulp dyeing or something?”
Cab shrugged, “Sounds kinda random, but your mom does like her historical details.”
“Yeah, I guess. It’s weird, though. And nobody uses the barn or farmhouse this time of year, so why would that farmer’s costume be in there with a schedule of events with tonight’s date on it?” She reached for the flyer. “Can I see that?”
She muttered out loud, “Indigo. I heard that word earlier.” She bent close to the flyer. Were those erasure marks? She pulled her datapad out of her muff and clicked on the light. The first letters of Jersey Dyeing and Pulp had been circled and erased. And there were some erased words in the margin. She tilted the pad light so it raked across the paper’s surface. She read the tracings and her heart leapt into her throat.
“‘J.D. Plisskin Extraction. Midnight.’”
She swallowed hard and looked at J.D. “I think you really have been kidnapped.”
Somehow J.D.’s mad adventure and boring old Yorktown were linked. What the hell was going on?
Lizzie considered finding her mom and asking her. But somehow she felt they needed to protect J.D. from everyone. The best thing to do was to get him out of here.
They snuck into the vestibule and peeked through the curtains into the exhibition hall. A handful of gray-suited I.G.G.S. officers gathered around the exit. With a jolt, Lizzie realized how omnipresent those gray uniforms had been on Kepler, her old planet. On every planet she’d ever been to, actually. Here in the carpeted, wallpapered exhibition hall the officers were totally out of place with their slick uniforms and gray tubular guns.
Guests filed in from Main Street while officers set up an interview station, dragging over a vintage table and chairs. A tall officer who wore her dark hair in a severe bun surveyed the scene. When everyone was in place, she nodded and boomed across the hall, “Visitors with last names beginning with A or B.”
A handful of guests made their way over to her at the exit. At the cash register, a line of people dutifully purchased vintage postcards, daguerreotypes, and stereoscopes. Everyone else stood around in groups, whispering. Lizzie could sense the growing tension. People were eyeing each other, as if J.D.—or the kidnappers—might be there among them.
J.D. gave a low whistle. “That doesn’t look good. No going through the main door.”
“We could go through the photography studio and out the employee entrance,” Cab said.
Lizzie nodded. “Good idea. The only tricky part will be getting there without anyone noticing J.D.”
“How about I go to the studio first and come back with a different costume for him?” She turned to J.D. with her gap-toothed smile. “We could dress you up like a Victorian lady.”
Lizzie looked up at the tall young man. “Hmm, I don’t know. He’s not very girlish.”
J.D. laughed under his breath and poked at Lizzie’s big green skirt. “These dresses are so huge, people probably wouldn’t even notice me under all the fabric.” He paused. “Hmm. Maybe that’s a better idea.”
J.D. kept poking her skirt until it swayed back and forth like a bell. Lizzie swatted his hand away.
“No,” she said. “No way. I am not hiding you under my hoop skirt.”
Lizzie stepped into the exhibition hall with J.D. under her hoop skirt. He waddled next to her left side, his arm wrapped around her hips. They shuffled along the wall with Cab on their right side to block the gaze of curious guests.
J.D. pressed his cheek against her thigh. Thank God she’d worn black tights instead of the more authentic drawers they were supposed to wear. She didn’t even want to think about the fact that the regulation drawers had no crotch.
A woman’s voice called out, “Excuse me, girls?”
Crap. It was the harsh-looking I.G.G.S. officer. Cab and Lizzie froze. Too abruptly. J.D. lost his balance and grabbed onto the front straps of her hoop skirt to keep from falling over. Lizzie jerked forward and shot out a hand to steady herself against the damask-papered wall.
Aware that many eyes were on them, Cab gave a nervous giggle. “Dearest, are you all right? Is your corset too tight?”
Lizzie nodded demurely. “I’m perfectly well, thank you, but perhaps you could attend to the officer’s request?”
Cab steadied Lizzie’s wobbling skirt before she crossed the hall to the interview area. Cab smiled at tourists and shifted her sky blue dress to avoid bumping into the clumps of people starting to sit down on the carpeted floor. The I.G.G.S. officer leaned in to show her something on a datapad.
Lizzie felt a pat on her thigh. And then another one. She twitched her hip against J.D. Tap. Tap. Holy freakin’ stars, what was he doing? She nudged him with her left knee. Tap tap tap. She brought her hand down quickly, as if smoothing her skirt, connecting firmly with the top of his head. The patting stopped.
Cab returned, and they resumed their awkward procession. Finally, they reached the photography studio, already closed up for the evening. Lizzie and Cab pushed through the red curtain and let it fall.
Immediately, Lizzie hoisted up her skirt with one hand and pushed J.D. over with the other. She hissed, “What the hell, J.D.?”
He sprawled out on the floor, cheeks flushed, and brown eyes twinkling. “Heh. I don’t know. I just wanted you to know I was still around.”
Lizzie spluttered, “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be all intergalactic and ‘zippin,’ you sure are—”
Cab interrupted them. “Listen, guys. We’ve gotta get moving. The officer told me there’s an I.G.G.S. team at each end of Main Street. After they get all the guests out, they’re going to make their way toward the center to do a thorough sweep.”
“Oh,” Cab continued. “And she showed me a message from your mom. Not for you, specifically, just for any Yorktowners who happened to be around. It said, ‘Yorktown managers are to follow the evening’s planned events.’”
“Okay. Whatever. Let’s go,” Lizzie said.
As they made their way to the back of the studio, Lizzie noticed that the sepia-toned photographs along the wall had been rearranged. One photograph stopped her in her tracks.
It showed Lizzie and her mom shortly after they’d arrived here. Everything had felt so new back then. How ironic. She remembered being excited to pose for the photograph, dressing up in a white lace pinafore. Her mom had worn an imposing, high-necked black dress. The black and white photo had just one area that was hand-tinted: the two wide bands on Harriet’s skirt. And they were colored a purplish-blue.
A chill ran through her. Lizzie knew it wasn’t a coincidence. It was the same dress as in the lantern show. With the same purplish-blue stripes. She whispered, “Indigo.”
“What?” Cab asked.
It was time to tell them her suspicions. Even if they thought she was bonkers. It all came rushing out: her mom’s dress, and the slideshow image with the word Independents, and the white-haired tourist asking for indigo hatbands.
