by Kage Baker
“Try,” he told Joseph.
On 23 May 2318, at 11:45 AM, the alarm system at the San Francisco Mint went off by mistake.
It was obvious it was a mistake even as the first lights flashed, even as the bells rang. For one thing, it was broad daylight in the middle of business hours. The security officers were all standing alert at their posts; the Money Museum was full of tourists and tour docents. Within the vaulted plant, sterisuited technicians were all busy in the manufacture of new identification discs, extruding them, pressing them, cutting them, encoding them, sealing them, shipping them. Nowhere along the assembly line was anything out of place, no intruders seen anywhere.
All the same, the alarm had gone off, and this was the San Francisco Mint, so work clattered to a stop and all the entrances were sealed while a routine search was made. The tourists complained mightily about late luncheons. The authorities apologized. At last the glitch in the system was found and fixed. The technicians got on with their jobs. The tourists were released and given vouchers for free cable car rides.
When it was noticed that six disc blanks were missing from a tempering rack, the technicians conferred among themselves and simply made six more to fill the order. Why stir up trouble?
ONE AFTERNOON IN 2319 AD
“Oh, wow!” said Keely the waitress, staring out through the window of the bar. The glass was small leaded panes, thick and very old, so she opened the window for a better view. “Check this out!”
“What?” Nelson the cop came and peered over her shoulder.
“He’s all—he’s all—” said Keely, pointing. Nelson stood gaping, with his cider mug half-raised.
“What is it, for Goddess’s sake?” snapped Mavis, and pushed them aside to see. Just beyond the rose garden a sleek new BMW Zephyr had settled. Crossing the lawn, in obvious pride of ownership, was Joseph.
Not Joseph the shabby little holoset repairman: Joseph impeccably groomed, beard not just trimmed but pomaded, too. It made him look ten years younger. He wore a business suit of expensive cut, gleaming new shoes, had a thick coat draped casually over one arm. “Hi, folks,” he said, seeing them assembled at the window.
Mavis was out of the bar and down the hall so fast she knocked an ancient framed photograph of Princess Diana off the wall.
“Well, hel-lo!” she said. “My, don’t you look nice.”
“Yes, I do, don’t I?” Joseph smiled at her brilliantly. “You must be wondering at the change in my fortunes. Well, it’s a long story, and I’d be delighted to tell you over a mug of your best persimmon cider. Shall we retire to a private room?”
“Why—yes,” Mavis said. Keely was already running for the good glasses.
________
“. . . but then the CEO said wait, we can’t let this man go! I’ll make you a deal, Mr. Capra, he said. We’ll retain your services at a hundred grand a year. Plus a fleet car. And I said, well, I don’t know, could you throw in a health club membership?” Joseph paused to drain the last of his cider. Mavis listened, toying with the bright new emerald pendant he had given her.
“So we hammered out the little piddly details,” Joseph continued, waving one hand dismissively. “And here I am. And why am I here, you ask, other than to deliver that little token of my esteem? I’ll tell you. One of HumaliCorp’s long-range goals is building up the potential of the North Coast here as a first-class vacation destination. I mean, sea, trees, scenery—we’ve got it all, right? The only thing that keeps ships from packing into this harbor like sardines is lack of recognition factor. But how do you get recognition?
“You get celebrities to visit! Then, word gets out and everyone else in the world will want to visit, too, see? So here’s what HumaliCorp is doing: they’re giving famous people all-expense-paid vacation packages at some of the local places, as a promotional gesture. They’ve already lined up Livilla Barrymore and Tommy Tournay at the Bay Breeze Lodge in Bodega! And Elton Molineux and Fifi Arrevalo just confirmed for two nights at Jack’s Jenner Hideaway.”
“Those people agreed to go up there?” Mavis said in disbelief.
“Ah, they’re just show business,” Joseph sneered. “Actors jump at the chance for anything free, honey, trust me. But we’d like a few classier people in on this too, the suborbital set, you know? Some British royalty or something? And I told the CEO: Say, I know an idyllic little place in Muir Harbor, and it’s even got some English history attached to it. So he sent me here to cut the deal.”
“You nice man,” Mavis cried, rewarding him with an ardent embrace. Then she looked at him seriously. “But you did mean—your company is paying for it all?”
Joseph drew out his gleaming identification disc and held it up before her eyes.
“Every last cent and all possible surcharges, taxes, and extras, to the last thirty-percent gratuity,” he said. “And we’re going to need to send out an invitation to His Lordship and Her Ladyship. Got any classy fonts on your printer? Olde English or anything like that?”
No more than a week later, Keely came tearing up the stairs and pounded on the door of the room Joseph had taken.
“Mr. Capra,” she screamed (she called him Mr. Capra now instead of You). “Ma’am says come real quick! She’s got some mail from this earl or something.”
Joseph emerged and ran straight down to where Mavis sat at her communications terminal, wringing her hands in excitement.
“Look,” she said. “It’s a letter! Isn’t that one of those crest things rich people have on the sides of their cars? Doesn’t that word there say earl?”
“That’s what it says, all right,” Joseph said, grinning evilly. “Well, well. Mr. Malcolm Lewin, social secretary to Roger Checkerfield, sixth earl of Finsbury, begs to acknowledge His Lordship’s receipt of our communication of Tuesday last and wishes to confirm that, as they are already conveniently visiting our Pacific Coast, the earl and Lady Finsbury will arrive on eleventh April to redeem his free reservation, though regrettably due to prior engagements his Lordship must depart on the twelfth.”
“They can’t stay both nights?” Keely pouted.
“Hey, that’s okay.” Joseph’s eyes were glittering. “All I need is one night. His Lordship wishes to know whether mooring fees are included in the all-expense package.”
“Are they?” Mavis dithered through her brochures.
“Sure they are,” Joseph said, leaning past her to tap in a hasty response. “So they’ll be arriving by yacht, huh? That’s right, they hang out in the Caribbean a lot, don’t they? Well, I’ll just run right out to the pier and take care of everything this afternoon. Mustn’t forget a single detail! I want this to be a trip they’ll remember the rest of their lives.”
Certainly the regulars at the Pelican would remember it, for the astonishing cleaning job that establishment underwent in the days preceding the grand occasion. Keys that hadn’t been seen in years surfaced, as well as missing chair legs, candlesticks, framed prints on subjects no longer considered tasteful, and canceled permits from the Alcoholic Beverage Commission dating back three centuries.
Many of the quirky little safety hazards the regulars had long since learned to avoid were actually removed, or repaired, or filed down. The garden obliged by blooming. The family who owned the pier were even persuaded to haul three decades’ worth of rusting marine junk away to a barn and brighten up the place with yachting flags. Everyone in Muir Harbor prepared for the earl of Finsbury’s visit. Joseph especially.
Mavis was so grateful: well before daylight on the eleventh, Joseph was parked out on the pier in his BMW, which he had blazoned with a beautifully printed sign for the occasion that identified it as the Pelican shuttle. He sat at the wheel in a jaunty cap that looked vaguely service-related, scanning the horizon eagerly. Mavis brought him sandwiches and fruit tea at lunch, but his quarry hadn’t appeared yet; nor had done so by teatime.
Just at the last possible moment anybody could stand the suspense, there was a cheery double beep from the car and Joseph
drove in triumph up the green tunnel of pines from the beach, bringing Roger Jeremy St. James Alistair Checkerfield, sixth earl of Finsbury, and his lady wife Cecelia.
Immediately all hangers-on at the Pelican strained to assume the most nonchalant poses imaginable while pretending not to stare, as Joseph bustled in with a suitcase under either arm. The distinguished guests followed him. Mavis came forward, one hand uplifted in a graceful wave of acknowledgment.
“W-welcome to the Pelican,” she chirped. “My Lord and Lady? I’m Mavis Breen, your hostess. I trust your sail was pleasant?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Lady Finsbury.
Joseph scuttled up to the rooms with the luggage, leaving Mavis to stare at the titled couple as she struggled to think of something else to say. The earl took off his sunglasses and looked around. Lady Finsbury left hers on.
They were certainly aristocratic-looking, though dressed rather more casually than expected. Roger’s face was a little puffy, and for that matter his chin wasn’t quite what you’d hope for in a member of the House of Lords, but Cecelia was coldly beautiful. She was intelligent, too, to judge from the text plaquettes sticking out of the top of her bag.
“Oh, my goodness,” said Mavis, “Are you a reader, Your Ladyship?”
“Yes, I am,” Cecelia said.
“My gosh, that’s such a lovely—uh, lovely—thing to do. I’ve always regretted I never learned, but—well, you know how it is out here.” Mavis giggled shamefacedly. “We Californians. Wild and woolly. What are you reading, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“The novels of Jane Austen,” Cecelia said.
Before Mavis could confess that she had no idea who Jane Austen was, Joseph popped up at her elbow like a helpful devil and said, “Yeah! Sense and Sensibility. Great book, Your Ladyship.”
“Oh!” Mavis’s face lit up. “Why, I just loved that movie.”
“Really.” Cecelia’s lips thinned. “How nice.”
“Hey!” Roger had noticed the unmistakable smell of taps in the room beyond. “Is that a real bar in there?”
“It sure is, pal,” Joseph said, stepping forward to take him by the arm. “With a great local selection of real ales and ciders you won’t want to miss, trust me.”
“Cool,” said Roger, and let himself be towed into the inviting gloom. That left Mavis and Cecelia face to face again. Mavis bit her lower lip.
“Well—um—would you like to see your room?”
“Yes, please,” said Cecelia, taking off her sunshades at last, and my, what chilly blue eyes she had. “And would it be possible to get two aspirins? I’m afraid I have rather a headache.”
Roger bought everyone a round at the bar and instantly won the support of local law enforcement, who regaled him with their oldest and shaggiest tales of bootlegging, to which he listened openmouthed. Roger did most things with his mouth open.
He wasn’t quite as stupid as he appeared to be. In fact, he was a teacher with a degree in marine biology at some institute or other, and spoke quite learnedly about coral reefs when encouraged, which the patrons in the bar did in hopes he’d buy another round. Somehow they failed to get that subtle signal across to him; but Joseph stepped in like a hero, flashing his identification disc to keep the drinks running free at HumaliCorp’s expense.
So freely did they flow that Roger had to lean on Joseph, when it came time to navigate the narrow hall between the bar and dining room for the all-expenses-paid gourmet meal of local smoked salmon appetizer followed by local great white shark (clubbed at sea that very morning) grilled over local applewood with local vegetable medley.
But Joseph assured Roger he didn’t mind at all if Roger leaned on him, and Roger thought that was really neat, and asked Cecelia if she didn’t think that was really neat of Joseph? Cecelia just smiled tightly, though her smile faded somewhat when Roger invited Joseph to sit at table with them. Joseph demurred, but Roger pressed his invitation, so Joseph drew up a chair, after which Cecelia calmly took out Persuasion and read as she dined.
Joseph kept Roger entertained, with funny stories so well told the earl was helpless with laughter through the whole meal, unable to do much more than hold up his glass for refills, which Joseph supplied readily, especially after Roger spilled most of a pint of cider in the lap of his white yachting pants.
But that was okay, because, by a really amazing stroke of luck, cider wasn’t made from grapes like port was, or it’d have stained astoundingly! At least, that seemed to be what Roger was trying to explain between giggling fits, and Joseph seemed to understand him perfectly. Perhaps the fact that Joseph was also helping himself to the cider improved their rapport.
He was near the end of a long story involving two corporate executives and a goat in a hotel room in Paris when Mavis brought in their blackberry crumble. She sniffed and noticed the spill.
“Oh, dear, should I send in Keely with the mop?” she said.
“N’sawright—” The earl waved at her. “Ol’ Jolly Roger took it inna pants. B’they’re whi’ pants, see? So issokay. ’Cos c-cider’s only yellow. Yeah?” He burst out laughing afresh.
“Gee, though, Your Lordship, that must be feeling pretty clammy about now,” Joseph reminded him. “Your Ladyship, would you like me to escort His Lordship upstairs into dry pants?”
“Yes, thank you, that would probably be best,” said Cecelia, not looking up from her book.
“Okey-doke,” said Roger, and stood straight up, tottered, and promptly fell over with a crash. Mavis served out two helpings of blackberry crumble and tried to pretend that Joseph was not lifting an actual British peer over his shoulder and lugging him upstairs while laughing in a manner that certainly might have been more respectful. In fact, in her opinion Joseph oughtn’t really be laughing at all, though at least Lady Finsbury didn’t seem to take offense. She simply spooned up her dessert with remarkable sangfroid, and continued to read about Anne Elliot’s visit to Lyme.
“Attaboy, Jolly Roger,” Joseph said, “we’re going around a corner, watch your head. Here’s your nice room. Your fabulous room in the breathtakingly beautiful Pelican Inn, where pirates played in days of old. Or something.”
“Yeah,” Roger chortled. “Pirates . . . oof!” He made the mistake of sprawling across Joseph’s back with his limbs extended, which resulted in his getting wedged in the upper part of the narrow little cut-corner hallway. Joseph lurched out from under Roger before jumping back to catch him as he slid down the wall.
“Whoopsy-daisy! Keep your arms and legs inside the conveyance, okay, Roger, old bean?” Joseph said in his best jolly-uncle voice, though his teeth were clenched. “If you weren’t such a really tall guy, this’d be easier. But you are a really tall guy, aren’t you?”
“Uh-huh,” Roger said happily, allowing himself to be hoisted up again and carried head down another couple of meters along the hall.
“In fact—” At the door Joseph realized he didn’t have a key, after patting all his pockets in turn. “In fact, how tall would you say you are, Roger, chum? Six foot five? Six-six?”
Roger made a gurgling noise suggesting he hadn’t the slightest idea.
“Yeah. I’d bet if you ever had kids, they’d be inconveniently tall, too. Heredity can be a cruel thing, Rog baby.” It was under the circumstances best that Roger was unable to see the expression on Joseph’s face, which would have frightened him badly.
“Now, I’ve gotta set you down a second, okay? Gotta go get a key. Put your hands flat like you’re gonna stand on your head, see? So you can brace yourself while I let you down? So that way you won’t fall over?”
“Yeah,” said Roger indistinctly.
“Okay, are you braced?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, here we go,” Joseph told Roger, and let him down and stepped away from him. Roger promptly collapsed upon himself, subsiding in a boneless tangle with his ankles about his ears and his behind pointed at the ceiling.
Tugging his beard, Joseph stood briefly
contemplating sweet England’s pride. Roger seemed perfectly happy where he was, so Joseph sped back down the stairs and into the alcove behind the desk, where he found a room key and sped back with it.
Joseph unlocked the door with a flourish. When the door was thrown open, Roger sagged forward and uncoiled across the threshold, giggling feebly.
“Yeah, Your Lordship, isn’t this fun? Pip-pip, cheerio and all that,” Joseph said, taking Roger by the ankles and backing into the dark room with him. “You’re such a mellow guy, Roger, I really almost feel bad about this, but—what if you had a kid who wasn’t a nice easygoing chappie like his dad? What if all he got from you was ungodly height and a certain flair for complicated disasters, huh?”
He got Roger under the armpits and hauled him across the bed. Roger lay there blinking uncertainly up at the four-poster canopy in the shadows.
“. . . Huh?” he said.
“Nice shoes,” Joseph said, pulling them off. “Taylor and Sons’, aren’t they? But, Rog, I ask you, size sixteen? You must have to have these specially made. You don’t really want to pass on genes like that to a kid, do you? Besides, you know what’d just be bound to happen? He’d inherit Her Ladyship’s ramrod-up-the-ass personality. Those mean little eyes, too. I can tell. I’ve got an instinct for these things.”
“Really,” said Roger with his eyes closed, as though Joseph had just said something very profound.
“Trust me,” Joseph said, unzipping Roger’s fly. Roger opened his eyes and flailed around in vague alarm as he felt his trousers coming off.
“Hey—”
“No, no, s’okay, remember? We’re just changing ourselves. We had a little beverage mishap. That’s the ticket, you just relax and let your old pal take care of all your little problems . . .” Joseph said. “Oh, Roger, it’s April eleventh, 2319, and do you know where your children are? Nowhere yet, my friend, but in nine months you’ll be the unhappy recipient of a bundle from Hell if I don’t help you.”