by Kage Baker
“No,” Budu said, “you can’t. And now you’ve got that through your head, maybe I can trust you to pay attention to something else.”
AT THE PELICAN INN, 2333 AD
“Oh, wow,” said Keely, pausing at the window. She shifted little Nelson to her other hip and leaned closer for a better look.
“What is it now?” said Mavis irritably, not looking up from her accounts plaquette. She had just been informed that, due to recent increases in the cost of living, the bribe necessary to obtain hotel permits was going to increase by eight percent.
“It’s Mr. Capra,” Keely said, and Mavis’s ears pricked up. She bustled to the window and stared out.
Yes. A new BMW Zephyr, a brand-new suit, too, and wasn’t Joseph looking trim? She put her hands to her temples and smoothed back the gray, hoping it wasn’t too obvious, before she hurried to the door.
“Well, hello, stranger,” she said coyly, flinging the door wide. Joseph stopped on the walk, put down his briefcase, and held out his arms, smiling.
“Gee, Mavis, you’re looking great,” he said as they embraced. “I mean that sincerely. Long time no see, huh?”
“Ages,” she murmured in his ear, wondering if he still had that expense account with HumaliCorp.
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s been ages. Say, are you still making that swell persimmon cider?”
“Kee-LY,” she yelled through the door. “Two persimmon ciders in the Snug, now!”
“Yes, ma’am,” Keely said, scrambling obligingly.
“And will you stay for dinner, too?” Mavis inquired, leading him into the house.
“Of course. In fact, honey, I’m staying the night as an actual paying guest. I’ve got a long drive ahead of me tomorrow, and I’d like to have a nice relaxing evening first,” Joseph said, gazing around the familiar rooms and inhaling deeply.
“Well, we’ll just have to see that all your stress melts away, somehow,” Mavis promised, sweeping little Nelson’s blocks and rag dolly out of the Snug without even looking at them as she bowed Joseph to a seat. “Though I have to tell you, dear, you just seem to get younger all the time!”
“Uh—well—” Joseph glanced swiftly at the gray in her hair and felt a pang. He put on an embarrassed expression and indicated his neat little jet-black beard. “I keep this dyed, if you want the truth. I have to, for my clients, see. Business.”
“Really? I’d never have known,” Mavis said, wide-eyed.
“Yeah,” Joseph said. He began to giggle. “Sort of a Grecian formula.”
Keely brought their cider and hurriedly picked up the blocks and dolly, giving Joseph the opportunity to note that she was considerably more bo-somy nowadays. He sighed in contentment and raised his glass to Mavis.
“Here’s to love,” he said.
“Okay,” Mavis said, her heart beating fast. They drank. She reached across the table and took his hand.
“How are you doing these days? Are you still with HumaliCorp?”
“Who? Oh. Yeah, as a matter of fact, they’ve been keeping me pretty busy,” Joseph said.
“How far do you have to go tomorrow?” she said.
“Way down the coast,” he said, having another taste of his cider. He swirled the glass, breathing in the fragrance. “Below Monterey. San Luis Obispo Protectorate, as a matter of fact.”
“Oh, my, that’s a long way,” Mavis said, looking worried. “Are you sure it’s safe?”
“It’s not that wild any more,” Joseph assured her. “I hear they haven’t had any trouble with bandits in years. The guy who runs the place laid out a lot of money on patrols to keep the Salinas open for produce freighters.”
“How exciting.”
“In fact,” Joseph said, taking another sip, “that’s the guy I’ve got to go talk to.”
Mavis looked astonished. “The man with the big castle?”
“Yeah,” said Joseph, and she noted a certain uneasiness in his black eyes.
“Oh, my, that really is exciting,” she said. “I knew somebody who went there once and saw all the statues and things. And you’re going to talk to him? The Protector? I can never remember his name—”
“Hearst,” Joseph said, lifting his glass to gulp down the last of his cider. He set the glass down. “William Randolph Hearst. The, uh, tenth.”
LONDON, 2352 AD
They had been following the Facilitator Sarai since she’d left Jamaica, but she didn’t care.
Sarai no longer cared about much. She had one loose end in the skein of her very long life, one unresolved question; once she had her answer, they could come to take her away and do whatever it was they did to operatives who disappeared. It wouldn’t matter.
She didn’t have her answer yet, though, which was why she’d taken the trouble to evade them this far.
Sarai stood now outside the office block in Gray’s Inn Road, scanning. They were still following her; in fact they were closer now than they’d been during the while she’d walked up and down before the sad silent house in John Street. Probably she would let them take her this afternoon. Sarai was tired. She felt old.
She didn’t look old. She had all the lithe grace she had perfected over centuries, and only the too-sharp eyes in her smooth and elegant face were any indication she had worn chains on a slave ship, carried an axe in Saint-Domingue against the colonials, dodged Tontons Macoutes in Port-au-Prince.
She exhaled now, and her breath puffed out steaming in the chilly air. The drenching rain had stopped at last, though thunder was still rumbling overhead. The sun was streaming through a rift in the clouds, lighting up dark London with heartbreaking beauty.
Yes, heartbreaking was the word for it.
And look: there was a rainbow; a good sign, maybe a blessing on her finality. Sarai craned her head to follow its arc. Where did it come down? Just over there in front of that empty shopfront . . . where the young man stood staring at her. No, not a young man. An immortal.
Why hadn’t she noticed him? Shocked, Sarai turned and fled into the building. The aglift was just arriving and she leaped in, surveying buttons one through six before hitting five. The door took forever to close but no grim-faced stranger shouldered his way through, and as the lift zoomed silently upward Sarai murmured her thanks. All she needed was a little more time, all she wanted was her answer.
The lift let her out into a tiled lobby, very posh. The door with gold lettering read: CANTWELL AND CANTWELL, SOLICITORS GENERAL. Sarai strode forward and let herself in.
The mortal girl at the console looked up in surprise.
“Yes?”
“I hope you can help me,” said Sarai. “I have a message for one of the gentlemen’s clients. They represent the earl of Finsbury, don’t they, girl?”
The receptionist’s eyes widened. Her hand moved on the console—below Sarai’s sightline, but Sarai had seen the muscle twitch in her shoulder and knew perfectly well what she was doing. There; abruptly the surveillance cameras had fixed on her, and she was aware that someone in the room beyond was listening intently.
“The seventh earl, yes,” murmured the receptionist.
“There is no other,” said Sarai impatiently. “You listen to me, now. I want to get a message to his lordship, and he’s not at home in John Street. Where might he be, please?”
Much emotional excitement in the room beyond, and the mortal girl’s wariness increased. But she smiled, ever so politely, as she said:
“His lordship is on extended holiday in the South Seas. I’m afraid he left instructions that he’s not to be disturbed under any circumstances.”
“Well, does he ever call for his mail, girl?”
A long pause.
“If you’d like to leave a message—” said the receptionist at last. “Or perhaps tell me your name—”
“Wouldn’t mean a thing to you. My auntie was his lordship’s nanny, a long time ago, you see? She’s getting old now, soon to die, wanted to see him before she goes. Maybe there’s a little bequest. When do
you reckon his lordship will get the message?”
“Er—” the receptionist looked panicked, glanced at the closed door behind which someone listened. “Generally they’re forwarded every twenty-four hours—”
Sarai knew that the mortal was telling the truth, as far as she knew it; but she didn’t know much, and there was no end of worry and uncertainty emanating from the person listening out of sight. Probably one of the Cantwells. She bared her teeth.
“All right then,” she said. “You give a message to his lordship, eh? Tell him old Sarah needs to see him now. She can’t die happy till she does. I’ll be back in touch.”
She turned on her heel and left. She wouldn’t be in touch, actually, but it would have been impossible to have left any contact information. In any case, she doubted whether Alec Checkerfield was really going to get her message.
He was probably dead after all, she concluded, as she stepped into the lift. The mortals had seemed to think he was, to judge from their fear and confusion. Little boy lost and gone, no point to this long chase after all. She slumped against the wall as the lift hurtled downward with her, closing her eyes against hot tears.
If her eyes hadn’t been closed, she might not have noticed that it took twice as long for the lift to drop between the fifth and fourth floors as it did between any of the others. She did notice, though, and when the lift stopped she opened her eyes again, and peered upward suspiciously.
“What the bloody hell?” she said aloud, welcoming any chance to think about something besides death. She stepped out when the doors opened and marched straight off into the street, not pausing until she was across it and had turned back to stare up at the building.
They were very close now, at most no farther away than Theobalds Road. They had picked up her signal again. She didn’t care. Wasn’t this funny, to have uncovered a little mystery in her last moments of freedom? Why did this building have more floors in it than showed on the lift buttons?
For there could be no doubt: there was a floor concealed between the fourth and what was officially the fifth floor. Not concealed very much, because it had windows looking out on the river, and she could detect two mortals moving around inside. All the same, it couldn’t be reached by the public lift, and probably not one in a million mortals walking the streets of London would ever notice the discrepancy. She, herself, had nearly missed it. Suddenly she heard a click, just barely audible, and felt a chill.
“Did you get in?” said a voice at her side. She turned, staring, too astonished to wink out.
“Who the hell are you?” she demanded of the immortal who had watched her from the rainbow’s end.
He looked impatient. “Latif, Executive Facilitator Grade One, Second-in-Command North African Sector. Do you want to go with me, or let the techs arrest you?”
“I don’t give a damn, boy,” she informed him. Now he looked annoyed.
“Well, I do, okay?” he said, and taking her arm he pulled her away with him, around the corner to where a sleek agcar was hovering. There was a mortal at the wheel. They got into the car and it zoomed away from the curb at once, making for the A10. There was a faint distant outcry from the techs; Sarai heard clearly the words she’s done it again before they dropped out of range.
She leaned back in her seat and looked around. Nice upholstery. Very posh car.
“So you’re from Suleyman, are you?” she inquired, wondering if she was going to be able to keep from crying again. Latif, who had not taken his eyes off her, just nodded.
“Did you get in?” he repeated.
“You might offer a lady a drink, you know,” she said.
Without expression, he opened a cabinet and revealed a nice little minibar complete with hors d’oeuvres. He said nothing more as he fixed her a dry martini and several little crackers decorated with bright savory pastes. She watched him drop the olive in, hugely amused, and decided she wasn’t quite ready to give up yet.
“All right?” said Latif, presenting her with the martini. She accepted it, smiling at him graciously.
“What a nice fellow you are,” she said. “Suleyman’s child Latif, eh? He has obviously taught you manners.” She sipped her drink and reached for a cracker. “What was it you wanted to know, now?”
“Whether you got inside,” he said.
“To be sure, that was it. To the invisible fifth floor? No, dearie, not I; I’d only just noticed the bloody thing when you so kindly came to my rescue. I was there on quite another matter. Seeing a solicitor, you know.”
“Cantwell and Cantwell?” Latif arched his eyebrows. “You were seeing them about Alec Checkerfield.”
That broke her composure.
“How—”
“You worked under Nennius,” Latif stated. “He sent you out to the Caribbean with a mortal baby in 2321.”
She nodded, staring at him. She had another sip of her martini.
“You were on that project,” Latif continued, “until 2326. Then you drew some Gradual Retirement time and went to Haiti. You were there until 2345. When did you go back to work for Nennius?”
Sarai drained her martini in a gulp and held it out to him. “I didn’t. I hate his guts, sonny boy, if you want the truth. No rum in that bar, is there?”
Latif shook his head. “Just gin and vermouth. Sorry. Why do you hate Nennius?”
“He’s a nasty man, that’s why.” She set the glass down on the tray when he didn’t take it from her.
“Why do you think he’s nasty, Sarai?” he asked.
She drew a deep breath, expecting to be able to reply calmly, but the grief ambushed her. Latif looked disconcerted at her pent-up scream. After a moment he produced a starched white handkerchief from his coat pocket and offered it to her. He watched as she sobbed and rocked in place, struggled to control her pain, mopped her streaming eyes.
“My Alec,” she gasped. “My good little winji boy. Innocent as a lamb once. They got to him. Twisted him up inside, you know, hurt him, I guess so he’d do the thing they wanted him to do. That was Nennius’s ordering. He had a purpose for that baby, and I never knew what it was until too late.”
“You mean what Checkerfield did at Mars Two?”
Sarai winced, but nodded and blew her nose. She had control again. “He wasn’t a mean boy,” she said, in a thick voice. “You believe that?”
Latif just turned his palms out. “I didn’t know him,” he said.
“I went up there to see if they could tell me where he was,” she went on. “They don’t even know. Company got him, that’d be my guess. Slipped him out of this world as deft as they slipped him into it.”
Latif fixed her another drink.
“You’ve been running awhile, haven’t you?” he observed.
“Since New Year’s,” she replied. “And what a tired old lady I am, boy. But your secret fifth floor? No idea what it is. The lift doesn’t stop on it, you see. Something the mortals want secret for themselves. Must go up by the stairs, or there’s a separate lift from some other floor maybe.”
“That was what we thought, too,” Latif said. “Did you see any sign in there with, maybe, the words ALPHA-OMEGA on it? Like Alpha-Omega Trust Funds, or Mutual Assurance or anything like that?”
“Alpha-Omega?” Sarai looked dubious. “Sorry, no.”
Latif seemed annoyed, but he shrugged. “Too bad. Anyway—I’ve been authorized to offer you sanctuary, if you want it.” He held out the fresh martini.
“Have you indeed?” she said slowly. She took the drink and tasted it before she went on. “For the last few years of the world? Well, that would be like old times. I used to be in Suleyman’s harem, boy, you know that? Long long ago.”
Latif smiled briefly, the warmth crossing his face like a bar of sunlight.
“I know. With Nefer and Nan.”
She nodded, feeling her taut-wire nerves begin to slacken. The release was delicious, irresistible, but she reminded herself that there was undoubtedly a price tag on the rescue.
> “So he wants everything I know about Nennius’s operation, I reckon?” she inquired.
“Of course,” said Latif, with no trace of irony.
“He’s got himself a deal, then.” Sarai told him. “Nennius! I’d love the chance to grind his proud face in the mud for that baby’s sake, so help me God.”
Latif nodded and leaned back in his seat. Sarai leaned back, too, having another sip of her martini. The car sped on toward Tottenham Airpark through slanting bars of sunlight, though rain was falling again now and the sky to the west was purple as a bruise with massed cloud. The rainbow followed them, faithful.
LAYING LOW, MONTEGO BAY,
JAMAICA, 1950 AD
Bogue House was a splendid new hotel of absolutely modern design, all straight lines, diamonds, and rectangles, flat planes painted white and olive green. No superfluous ornamentation at all. It was laid out in a series of courtyards around palm trees. It had one blue kidney-shaped pool, a restaurant, and a bar where dry martinis were served any hour of the day or night, just opposite the lobby. There were Matisse lithographs in the rooms. There were sports cars in the white gravel car park, MGs, Austins, and Jaguars, a Bentley or two. Bogue House was intended for smart young clientele with fast lives.
One day a big elegant yacht moored out in the bay, and a poky little rental car, stalling and backfiring, came up the long driveway that led to Bogue House. The young lady who was driving the car fought it into reverse and parked, cursing volubly at it in a curious Spanish dialect. When it had surrendered at last she leaped out and went around to the boot, from which she pulled a wheelchair. This she opened and set up deftly for the car’s passenger, a battered-looking young man with a bandaged head, one arm in a sling, and both ankles in brace bandages. She was seen to very nearly lift him bodily into the chair.
Were it not for this slight oddness, they would have been nicely anonymous, for there was otherwise nothing to distinguish them from the other smart young clientele. The girl wore correct summer white, the young man correct white trousers and a blue sports blazer. Moreover, being in a wheelchair, his unusual height was not apparent to the observer.