by Tim Powers
He looked again at old Corwin, and noticed now the dark powder that covered his hands and parts of his face. No mystery about what finished him, Thomas thought grimly.
He swung back down the ladder to the ground, strode across the dirt to the pavement and began walking south. He put his hands in his pockets and sauntered along causally, trying now to be inconspicuous.
Three androids were trotting up the sidewalk toward him, their expressionless faces lit at intervals by the streetlamps they passed. Do they know who I am? he wondered, suddenly panicked. My God, I’ve got the wire in my pocket; the most cursory search will reveal it. Why didn’t I just fling it down a sewer when I had the chance? He closed his fist on the wire. If they grab me I’ll at least throw it as far as I can, he thought.
He tensed, blinking against the sweat from his forehead, as the three ran the last hundred feet toward him and swiveled their reptilian eyes at him; then they were past, their boots tapping the pavement in unison as they sprinted away to the north.
Weak with relief, Thomas leaned against the nearest wall and allowed himself to breathe deeply. After a moment he took the wire out of his pocket, looked up and down the deserted street, and then wrapped it in an old bubble gum wrapper from the gutter and shoved it into the space between two bricks in the wall, where the loss of a chunk of mortar had left a small but deep hole.
Feeling much freer, he resumed his walk back to the Bellamy, careless now of who might notice him. As he turned left from Fremont onto Second, a two-horse wagon rattled out from under the freeway bridge, and rocked away east on Second after a man in the back flung a bundle of papers onto the far sidewalk. Thomas crossed the street to investigate, and found that it was a wired-together stack of fifty copies of the Saturday morning L.A. Greeter.
Thomas thoughtfully untied the baling-wire from around the papers and broke off a three-inch length by bending it rapidly back and forth. He put it in his pocket, took a copy of the paper and resumed his eastward course.
Second Street passed beneath a number of concrete-buttressed bridges between Flower and Broadway, and out of the darkness beneath one of them came a voice.
“Don’t jump around, Rufus,” it said wearily. “I’ve got a .357 Magnum aimed at your belly.”
Thomas stopped. “You don’t have to call me Rufus anymore, Pat,” he said.
“I’ve got used to it,” she answered, stepping forward so that her face was dimly dry-brushed in moonlight. “You’re heading back toward the Bellamy,” she observed. “You’ve got the wire?”
“Yes,” Thomas said. “Are you ready to kill me for it?”
“I’d truly rather not,” she said, after a pause. “But yes, I’m ready to do that.”
“I seem to remember you saying you loved me. I guess you can’t hold an android to a statement like that, though.”
She sighed. “There is such a thing as generic loyalty, Rufus. Give me the wire and stop talking.”
He took the bit of baling wire out of his pocket and stepped forward. “Hold out your hand,” he said. She did, and he slowly twisted the wire around her third finger. “With this memory bank I thee wed.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” she snapped, pulling her hand away. Incredibly, there seemed to be tears in her voice. “Don’t be species-chauvinistic. You think we’re no more capable of feeling emotions than a … jack-in-the-box, don’t you? Don’t move, I’m not kidding about this gun. Listen, the police have had suspicions about Gladhand’s troupe for weeks; I was sent to audition so that I could keep an eye on things. I … damn it, Rufus, I fell in love with you before Gladhand told me about the underground activities—so I never reported them. The police still don’t know the Bellamy Theatre is the headquarters of the resistance underground. But then you told me you were this Thomas fugitive, and that was too much. To have kept quiet about that would have been to betray my whole species. And they wouldn’t have killed you, anyway—it was essential that they take you alive, so they could find out where you put … this.” She raised her hand.
“Well,” Thomas said, “you’ve got it now.”
“Yes. Goodbye, Rufus. I … I’m going to give up police work. I’m just not cut out for it.”
“You do all right.”
“I don’t like the work, though. As soon as I can get out of this city I’m going to go live in Needles.”
“Needles? Why Needles?”
“Why not Needles?” She turned away and disappeared silently into the shadows.
A wagon was parked in front of the Bellamy Theatre, and Gladhand, sitting on the driver’s bench, made impatient hurry-up gestures when he saw Thomas approaching.
“We’re leaving,” the theatre manager said. “Pat must have told them about our operations here, so I’ve moved everybody—”
“She didn’t tell them,” Thomas interrupted. “I just saw her, and she said she never told them about it—only about me being the celebrated monk. She was in love with me, see.”
Gladhand paused. “When did you see her?”
“Not five minutes ago.”
Jeff and Lambert came out of the theatre and hopped up onto the wagon. “Hi, Rufus,” Lambert said. “You didn’t find Corwin, did you?”
“Yes,” Thomas said. “I took the wire and hid it, since I didn’t have a match. And I took a piece of wire from a bundle of newspapers—” he waved his newspaper, “—and gave it to Pat. She thinks it’s the real thing.”
They all stared at him for a moment, and then Gladhand laughed softly. “All, it seems, is not lost,” he said. “They probably won’t find out for … oh, an hour or so that the wire Pat has is a fake.” He turned to Jeff and Lambert. “We’ve got time to take the heavy stuff after all. Load this cart and the old car out back. Rufus will help. Get moving, now, this can only be a temporary extension.”
Thomas followed the two young men downstairs into the theatre basement. “All these crates,” Jeff said, pointing to a low wall of wooden boxes. “I think we can each carry one.”
Thomas swung one up onto his shoulder and winced at its weight. “What … are these?” he gasped.
“Bombs,” Jeff told him. “And ammunition for a couple of cannons Gladhand’s got hidden somewhere. We took all the guns in the first load, when we evacuated everybody, and we figured we’d have to leave all this behind.” He pointed to a length of gray twine that ran from under the crates across the floor and up the stairs. “We were going to blow it all up when we left. It almost made poor old Gladhand cry, to think of losing the Bellamy Theatre.”
When they were each hunched under a box they stumbled and cursed their way upstairs, and after twenty minutes and five weary loads they’d filled the wagon.
“Okay,” Gladhand said. “I’ll move out. You guys fill the car and follow. Are they all going to fit?”
Jeff brushed sweat-damp hair out of his face. “Yeah,” he said. “They’ll all fit.”
“Okay. You know the way—see you in about an hour. Go, horse.” He flicked the reins and the wagon lurched into motion.
When they had nearly filled the car and were about to shoulder the final boxes, Thomas went to take a last look at his old couch-bed. “I feel like I’ve lived here for a long time,” he remarked to Lambert. “The first night I—where’s that head? The big stone head that used to be on this shelf?”
“Gladhand took it along in the first load,” Jeff said, “when we moved everybody out. Come on, now, grab a box and let’s get out of here.”
They hauled the last crates upstairs, down the hall, out the back door and across the dark courtyard to the car. They dumped them in the trunk and slammed the rusty lid.
“Okay, hop in,” Jeff said, closing the driver’s door and whistling to the horse. “Wait a minute—what’s that?” he pointed ahead.
“It’s … a TV antenna with a shirt tied onto it,” Lambert said.
“Well, get it out of the way.” When Lambert had flung the thing aside and got back into the car, Jeff snapped the reins and a
ngled the car out of the alley onto Broadway. Thomas sat back in his seat and closed his eyes, enjoying the cooling flow of air across his face.
When the car slewed messily to a halt, the wheels roaring dully on gravel, Thomas stared curiously at the building they’d arrived at; it was long and low, with the corrugated metal under-roof exposed in patches from which the old decorative shingles had fallen away. Plywood flats were nailed up over every window. A tall metal sign perched precariously on the roof, but it had at one time and another been painted with so many businesses’ names that nothing was legible on it.
“What is this attractive place?” Thomas asked.
“It was a pizza parlor not too long ago,” Jeff told him. “Gladhand bought it a year ago, apparently, as a hidey-hole.”
“Gladhand certainly seems to have money,” Thomas observed.
“That’s true,” Jeff agreed. “He must be independently wealthy—he sure didn’t get a lot of money from the Bellamy box-office.” He guided the dubious horse around the southern end of the old structure and soon the car was hidden from anyone who might pass by on the road. As he got out of the car Thomas noticed the cart Gladhand had left in parked a dozen feet away.
Gladhand was perched on a chair in the dining hall when they entered. The troupe of actors, about twenty in all, were sprawled about on the tables and benches: most of them were asleep, pillowed on bundles of spare clothing, but a few were sitting up and smoking or talking quietly.
“We could use some help getting this stuff in here,” Jeff said.
“Right,” the theatre manager said. “Skooney, wake up Terry and Mike.”
In a moment they were joined by two big, sleepy young men Thomas had never seen, and with their help the car was unloaded in one trip.
“We’ll have a council of war in the morning,” Gladhand said when the crates had been stowed with the stacks of others that were already in the kitchen. “You guys have some bourbon—over there—and get some sleep.”
“Is there a bathroom?” Thomas asked. “I could do with a shower.”
“There’s a bathroom, but no tub or shower. See what you can do with some wet paper towels.”
Thomas followed Gladhand’s pointing finger and found a dark little room with a sink in it. There weren’t any paper towels, but there were short curtains in the window, and he tore one of these down, soaked it in cold water and wiped most of the soot and dried blood off himself. He wiped the dust off the mirror while he was at it, but the room was too dim for him to see what he looked like. Probably just as well, he decided.
He shambled back into the dining hall and, after filling a paper cup with bourbon, sat down heavily beside Skooney.
“Hello, Rufus,” she said quietly. “I hear you’ve had a rough day.”
He took a long pull at the whiskey. “True,” he said. “Rough.”
“Why don’t you get some sleep?”
A few minutes later he blinked awake, then went to sleep again, reassured to find his bourbon sitting nearby and his weary head resting comfortably in Skooney’s lap.
CHAPTER 11
The Last Night of the World
The smell of coffee woke him. It was still dark, but people were padding about and muttering to each other. He looked up and saw that Skooney was still sleeping, so he sat up gently. Streaks of dim gray light were filtering in around the plywood on the windows, and the air carried a damp chill—plainly, he thought, the heat spell is over.
Skooney yawned and rubbed her eyes. “Coffee,” she said. “I believe someone has made coffee. Good morning, Rufus.” She stood up. “Shall I get you a cup?”
Thomas got to his feet, wincing a little at the aches and stiffnesses in him. “I’ll go with you,” he said.
They joined the group of people gathered around a huge iron pot, and Lambert ladled coffee into two cups for them. “Trail coffee,” he said. “For the theft of which Prometheus was chained to a rock in the Newport Harbor.”
It was hot, thick and strong, and had to be drunk black for lack of anything to put in it, so they gingerly carried the cups back to their place by the wall and sat down to drink it slowly. Thomas was shivering, and Skooney borrowed a shirt from someone for him.
Gladhand, propped on his crutches, poled his way to the bar and sat down on one of the stools. “Okay, gang,” he said loudly, “settle yourselves somewhere and listen close. Pat Pearl, as you may already know, was a spy, an android.” There were a few exclamations of surprise, but most of the actors nodded grimly. Skooney just listened, and Thomas was grateful for that. “I had planned to mount our attack on city hall next Saturday; that’s why our opening night was rescheduled to this coming Wednesday. But under these present circumstances, I have moved the date up—our attack will take place tonight, at midnight.”
There were raised eyebrows, and a few deep breaths expelled, but no one spoke.
“I have hired,” Gladhand went on, “a hundred Riverside mercenaries under Captain Adam Stimpson. They’re camped not five miles from here, in the Alhambra hills. They’ll dynamite a section of the city wall just north of Whittier Boulevard, and enter the city that way. Our own forces within the city now number about five hundred, and four hundred of these will join Stimpson’s army at Whittier and Alameda, and proceed north. The rest of our men will pick up guns and ammunition from a gun-runner near the City College over by Vermont. These will then proceed southeast and attack city hall from the rear while the main force, under Stimpson, attacks from the front. I have,” he said with a note of great pride, “four cannons, culverins, two four-pounders and two nine-pounders. Stimpson will have the nines, the rear force the fours.”
“All this is happening tonight?” Jeff finally said. “I had no idea you had this much organized.”
Gladhand smiled. “I’ve never been one to keep people informed about my activities,” he said. “Keep the cards close to the vest, I say. So I want no one to leave this building today. Alice is on the roof with a rifle now, to be sure that order is obeyed. If we are harboring any more spies—I don’t think we are—they won’t be able to pass this information on until it’s stale. In the back there,” he went on, nodding over everyone’s heads, “you’ll notice Lambert tacking up papers. These are lists of the various troop assignments; check where you’re to go, and who with, sometime this morning. So, until tonight, talk, eat, oil your weapons, and sleep. All the liquor will be locked up at noon though rum will be available just before the fight for those who want it.” He hopped down from the bar-stool and thumped off to the kitchen.
At the bottom of Thomas’ cup the coffee was thick as mud, but he drank all of it that could be tapped out. Skooney had set the last half of hers aside.
“Today’s … Saturday, right?” Thomas asked. She nodded. “A week and two days ago,” he went on, “I was pumping a vat of Pinot Noir at the Merignac monastery.”
“Pumping a vat?” Skooney echoed.
“Yeah. The grape skins float on the surface in a thick layer, and you have to pump the wine from below over them again and again until it’s dark enough. The skins are what give it the red color.”
“Oh.” She thought about it for a while. “You were a monk?”
“Sort of. An apprentice monk.”
“Not a student from Berkeley?”
“No. I made that up.”
A muted hissing swept over the building and Thomas realized it was raining. “It’s been a hell of a week,” he said. “And now rain.”
Someone had found the furnace, and after clinking around in its works for ten minutes got it lit and filled it with pulled-down strips of the wall paneling. Thomas stretched out along the wall base and went to sleep again.
Gladhand was thumbing the cork into the bourbon bottle when Thomas shambled up, rubbing his eyes. “Did I wait too long?” Thomas asked.
“Well, yes. It’s twelve-oh-one. But go ahead, have a cup for medicinal purposes.” Thomas picked up a paper cup and held it out while Gladhand poured whiskey into it. �
�Sit down, Thomas; there are things to discuss.” Gladhand poured himself a cup and sipped it reflectively.
“It’s like a chess game,” the theatre manager said, half to himself. “You study the situation, the strengths, weaknesses, ignorances; then you construct a plan and begin to put it into effect—but even as you move, the situation changes under your feet. Your opponent can disappear and be replaced. You can be replaced. Politics is a very slippery arena.”
“Uh, no doubt, sir,” Thomas said, mystified by all this.
“Have you looked at the assignment lists yet?”
Thomas shook his head.
“You’re to be in the smaller force that attacks from the rear. A man named Naxos Gaudete is leading that group. Spencer was to have been his lieutenant—kind of all-around errand-runner, in other words—and I’m thinking you might do as a replacement.”
“What would I have to do? I mean, I don’t—”
“Nothing difficult. Just fetch things, carry a few boxes perhaps, relay messages. You won’t even be in the actual fighting—wouldn’t be anyway, with your trigger finger gone.”
“I see. Well, sure; just so Gaudete doesn’t expect me to know how to load cannons or anything.”
“Splendid. By this time tomorrow, God willing, Joe Pelias—the real one—will be smoking a cigar in the mayor’s office.”
“Does he know the date’s been moved up? Where is he, anyway?”
Gladhand sighed. “You’re looking at him,” he said softly.
Thomas blinked. “Am I?”
“Yes. Ten years ago, when that grenade blew my legs nearly off, two friends loaded my bleeding wreckage into a baker’s cart and drove me deep into the city. I had an ex-wife living down on Central, and she grudgingly nursed me back to health while Hancock’s damned android began taking over my … job, my life. When I’d healed, as much as I was ever to do, the android was well-entrenched in city hall; so I decided to wait, and organize an underground resistance army that I could use, when the time came, to restore me to the mayor’s office. So I grew a beard, shaved my head and had the roots killed, and became Nathan Gladhand, theatre manager.”