“We like to make new friends,” Kajika said.
“Well, I’m the friendly sort.” Cayt winked at the window for Desmond’s benefit.
“I like your outfit. But no necktie?”
Cayt turned her head like she was trying to brush the hair out of her eyes. “I’m uncomfortable with the idea of anything being tied around my neck. I like your dress. Very Albion fashion-forward.”
Kajika bowed slightly. Her emerald green skirt, which matched her blouse and half-cape, had a bustle that almost looked like a bow. “Thank you. I hail from the No-Ass-At-All tribe, so I trust Albion fashion to compensate.”
“You’re funny, too.”
“There are limits to my sense of humor.” Despite her joke, Kajika wore no smile and there was no play in her voice.
“Why are you here?” Inteus stepped forward.
“My, aren’t you a big one. You the bad cop?” Cayt asked. “I suppose not. The Pinkertons have no official reach here, so you probably don’t employ the City Ordained variety, either.”
“I’m not in the habit of repeating myself.”
“I’m here on behalf of my employer. He wished to negotiate a . . . private trade agreement.”
“The Assembly of First Nations is already in negotiations with Albion for trade of gold and natural gas rights,” Kajika said.
“That’s Albion. My employer would be a private concern.”
“And you thought the best way to open negotiations was to begin with some clandestine infiltration?”
“I’m the kind of gal who likes to learn the lay of the land before sitting down for supper.”
“Well, now that you have a place at the table, what is it you want?” Kajika asked.
“Well, it’s a mite unfriendly to chat with these handcuffs on.”
“Just the same, we’ll leave those in place.” Kajika circled the room, maintaining a wary distance from Cayt.
“Not exactly neighborly, though I understand. Where I’m from, we don’t take too kindly to strangers either.”
“It’s like that Albion saying: ‘He’s a stranger; hit him on the head!’”
“Something like that,” Cayt said.
“And where are you from?”
“That’s like asking a gal her age. Not very polite.”
“The Matagorda State, in southwestern Tejas,” Inteus said, reading from a report. “Then moved to Chicago as a political consultant before joining the Pinkerton Agency and earning the nickname ‘Two-Gun Cayt.’”
“Girl’s gotta eat.” Cayt relaxed in the chair despite her restraints. She kept her hands still, not even attempting to negotiate the cuffs.
“So, what does your employer want?” Kajika asked.
“First thing, he’d be interested in going into business with you. Perhaps patent some of your technology. He knows the age of steam has nearly run its course and he’s looking to the future.”
“So he proposes what? A partnership?”
“Assuming you don’t want to sell the patents outright.”
“Our culture is not for sale. And you don’t patent nature.”
“You and your techno-shamans just run around giving everything away for free?”
“Techno-shamans? Seriously? Where do you people get your intel? Pulp novels?” Kajika rolled her eyes. There was a slight exasperation before she spoke again, slowly, as if repeating an explanation to a child. “We call them engineers. It’s from the Navajo meaning . . . engineers.”
For a brief moment, Cayt’s sardonic expression cracked for a brief moment, revealing a no-nonsense coldness that could easily sight someone through a telescopic lens and squeeze the trigger. She recovered quickly and put a thin smile on her face. “Consider our offer. The alternative is to go to trial as we sue you for patent infringement.”
“The case would be tossed out of whatever court would presume to have jurisdiction.”
“Not before it cost you millions. And tied up resources that could go towards more research.”
“So, your ‘proposal’ is for us to trade with you with the ‘incentive’ of the alternative being pushed into a technology war with you?”
“Again, when you put it that way, it comes off rather rude.”
“What’s the other thing he wants?” Kajika asked.
“I think you know.”
“The boy.”
“The boy.” Cayt focused on Lij like a tailor taking measurements. “Actually, the pair of them. The boy for my employer, but there’s another interested party who put quite the bounty on the other one’s head. Dead or alive, as it were.”
“Why him?” Kajika glanced over her shoulder toward Desmond.
“Some consider him an outlaw.”
“An outlaw to some.” Desmond pounded at the intercom button. “Sometimes, that’s the only fair response to a reprehensible system. When the powerless seek their own sense of control, ‘crime’ is what an unjust system produces.”
“That one can get quite riled up, can’t he?” Cayt turned from him, her thin smile still in place. “Anyways, you have my offer. You hand them over, we can forget this little interruption to my mission.”
“I am not some obstacle in your mission,” Kajika snapped. “I am not some inconvenient chapter as you pursue your Western Design. I have a story. We have a story and our story demands respect.”
“Okay, okay, I get it. You can get riled up too.” Cayt stared at the observation window, focusing on Lij. “Why don’t y’all go ahead and powwow or whatever it is you do. I’ll just wait here.”
* * *
Inteus closed the door behind him and Kajika. The two of them seemed to huddle about Desmond in silence. The weight of Cayt’s words demanded a response, but Desmond didn’t want to have the conversation in front of the boy.
“Lij, are you hungry?” Desmond asked. “Why don’t you go with Inteus’s friend and get something to eat? He’ll bring you right back.”
Lij pressed a hand against the observation window, studying Cayt as if locked in silent conversation with her. When Desmond touched his shoulder to direct him to Inteus’s assistant, Lij flapped his hands. With a harder nudge from Desmond, Lij shouted, an inchoate, protesting whine. Desmond kept his arm pressed to Lij to keep the boy from clinging to him.
“Lij, could you do me a favor?” Kajika knelt down until she was eye level with him. She pointed to the figurines. “Could you take care of my doll and buffalo? They need to go with Inteus’s friend, but they do get lonely when you’re not around.”
Lij stared at her with his pale green eyes, greeted only by her broad smile. Somewhat mollified, Lij turned to follow Inteus’s aide but did not take his hand.
“You’re good with him,” Desmond said.
“I figure I need the practice.” Kajika patted her belly. “If I screw up talking to Lij, well, I can always send him off with you.”
Desmond drew the door shut. “What do you think?”
“Worried that we might hand you over?” Kajika asked. “It would certainly be an expedient solution, as none of this is a concern of the First Nations.”
“I don’t think it was an accident, her being here,” Inteus said.
“I’m not a big believer in coincidence,” Kajika said.
“I definitely have the feeling that our meeting was arranged by some unseen hand,” Desmond said. “The hand of a practiced manipulator.”
“To exploit both of us,” she said.
“Before she gave me this parting gift”—Desmond patted his side—“I had been approached by someone who represented the interests of Garrison Hearst. He seemed to insinuate that she worked for his competition, Leighton Melbourne.”
“Desmond, you sure know how to pique the wrong people’s interests,” Kajika said.
“And, no offense to Inteus,” Desmond continued, “but she’s too good to be so conveniently captured.”
“If she allowed herself to be captured, then why?”
“Like a laser on a scope. To bett
er sight her target,” Inteus said. “Is that what you’re thinking?”
“Leaving bread crumbs along her trail, maybe; one way or another, guiding the enemy to your doorstep,” Desmond said.
“So, you don’t think her offer was genuine?” Kajika’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
“The intent was true,” Inteus said. “Her employer wants to lay hands on our resources. Industrial espionage with the subtlety of a hammer to the skull.”
“They only know one way: violence,” Kajika said. “Beneath the power of empire is the problem of justice. Peel that back and beneath the power of justice is the problem of violence.”
“Maybe she already told us why she was here,” Desmond faced the window and thought of Cayt sitting in her detention cell, patient as a spider.
“What do you mean?”
“To ‘get a lay of the land.’ See your fortifications. Your security measures.”
“Yes, but for any of that to be of any use, she’d have to transmit that intelligence to someone,” Inteus said.
“Or escape.” Desmond met their eyes with alarm.
They moved as a unit, following the hallways back to the detention area. As they rounded the corner, the open door told them what they’d find in the room. A guard lay unconscious at the threshold. The room was empty.
“Lij,” Desmond whispered.
He ran first to the commissary and then to Kajika’s office. When he opened the door, he found Inteus’s aide unconscious.
And the cornhusk doll crushed on the floor.
VI. : Chant Down Babylon
CAYT DUCKED BETWEEN TWO BUILDINGS. The way they were stacked created an alcove and a pool of shadow. She re-gripped her gun but held it low as she peeked around the corner. With the hour late, only a few people meandered along the sidewalk. Her other hand fastened around Lij’s hand. Her grasp firm but not painful; it didn’t need to be. It only took him witnessing her beating the aide senseless to settle the boy down. Any time a whimper began to build in his chest, she tightened her hand.
“It’s not much further.” Cayt pressed her back against the wall. Her breath came in deep, controlled gasps. “If you can keep quiet a little while longer, everything will be okay. If you make a fuss, I’ll do to these kind folks what I did to your friend. Then to Desmond. Then to you.”
Lij’s arm slackened like a flower left too long in the heat.
When the boulevard cleared, Cayt dashed across, with Lij trailing in hopping steps. She only had to make it to the edge of town. Her employer’s contingency measurements would take care of the rest. She’d been eager to take on the assignment. All of the best operations went to more “seasoned agents,” who just happened to be all men. She knew she had to take a chance to be noticed. So, when she proposed a covert op into the First Nations, it intrigued her director. The way she presented it, it was a no-lose situation: if she succeeded, they’d have the boy and a layout of Wewoka, an important border city. If she failed, they could disavow all knowledge of a rogue operative. And they’d be minus one meddlesome complainer.
They neared the edge of the city. The ruins of the ancient wall were in sight. Cayt fired three pulses into the air, waited, and fired three more. Instead of heading directly to the woods, she doubled back to follow a more circuitous pathway.
They soon reached a stand of trees. Ducking behind them, Cayt peered over a fallen trunk. She watched for the security patrols. A pack of steam-powered mechanical wolves went in the direction she almost headed in. Glancing toward the sky, she knew the mechanical hawks soared about but were less useful at night, especially through the canopy of the woods. Lij started to thrash about, so she wrapped her arms around him.
“It won’t be much longer. I should have reinforcements arriving soon. They’ll create enough ruckus for us to slip away.”
In the cool of the night, Lij shivered in her arms.
“I know I’m supposed to do something,” she said, watching him shake. Cayt slipped off her rifle coat and wrapped him with it. “I don’t have any children of my own. Don’t plan on having any. Which ain’t to say I don’t have fun trying.”
Lij pulled the coat tighter around him.
“See? That was probably inappropriate. I just ain’t the mothering type.”
The sounds of men running about drew her attention. She cupped Lij’s mouth and trained her weapon in the direction of their charge. They took up positions along the wall, on high alert. Exactly what she expected.
“You’re scared, I bet. Don’t be.” Cayt stopped herself from saying that he’d be safe with her. No point in lying to the boy. She released his hand, tentative at first, nodding to Lij to see if he was going to cooperate and remain silent. He didn’t quite nod. She still weighed whether she wanted to deliver him to her employer for the chance to prove herself to a bunch of men who thought nothing of her, or return the boy to the folks from Jamaica for the reward.
“Lord Melbourne is rather like your Mr. Coke, though I doubt either would see it. He found me when I was fourteen. Living in a shanty in some shithole part of a city God long forgot. Hiding in piles of garbage and debris, with my hidden stores of food cobbled together from restaurant leavings. I used to sneak into hotels and nick the food left on plates from people who ordered room service. Lord Melbourne caught me and brought me into his room. I thought he was going to beat me or . . . do things men with power do to people without it.” Cayt’s voice drifted off, caught between memories and regrets. “But he sat me down. Said that he saw something in me. A potential. He admired my resourcefulness and resilience. He convinced me to become a detective. That’s what set me on the course to become a Pinkerton. I’ve been his ever since. Almost like a daughter.”
Cayt stopped, wondering why she shared so much. Cover stories were tricky to keep straight, which was why it helped to create ones laced with the truth. She never felt comfortable opening up about herself, yet she found herself exposed before Lij. Him and his funny green eyes.
“From what I hear, you and me are a lot alike. Both had folks muck around with our innards. Making us into something . . . more. A phrenologist. Heh. I was young and dumb. They fiddled around with my mind.”
Cayt flipped her head forward and removed her blond wig. Her head was smooth underneath. A scar creased the side of her skull just above her ear. Lij ran his finger along the scar. Cayt startled at first, almost pulled away. But she relaxed and let the boy trace the length of her wound.
“I can whisper to folks just like we were talking, except without moving our lips,” she said with her mind before switching back to using her lips. “And if I concentrate real hard, I can ‘push’ someone. That’s what I call it. Sort of like suggesting something, like when I had my guard undo my handcuffs. Can’t do that very often, though. I’m all nosebleeds and headaches afterwards. Yeah, powerful folks mess with us like we don’t matter none. They can’t just let us be. We become weapons in their war. Not that I can talk. I don’t do all the politics well. During our last disagreement, I shot my last superintendent in the leg.”
Lij followed her eyes. His body less tense.
“You seem to settle down when I’m talking. You must like stories.”
Lij nodded.
“Well, I’m not much of a storyteller, but it’s going to take some time for my people to come collect us, and I’m not going to truss you up to keep you from fussing. My grandmother was from the old country. Now, they could spin a good fairy tale. Don’t ask me why, but this one here was one of my favorites . . .
There once was a man with only the clothes on his back to his name. He was a good feller, an honest man, and lived life by his simple duty. Then one day, a young ’un comes into his life. The man worked mighty hard night and day to provide them bread but knew it wasn’t enough. He decided to find a godparent for this child.
The man wandered along the great highway and paused at a crossroads. Now he says to himself that the first person he meets, he would ask to be the child’s godparent. Not t
oo long after, a man approached him.
“Poor man, I know your heart and what troubles you. Your yoke is heavy. Cast it to me. Not only will I relieve your burden, but I will raise this one here as if he were my own. He will know peace on earth,” the stranger said.
“Who are you?” the man asked.
“I am God.”
“Then I don’t want to have you as the godparent. I don’t understand your high-faluting wisdom. I have seen the good starve in the streets and the bad prosper. I have seen only the injustice which you allow.”
And so the man turned his back on the Almighty.
The man continued his trek along the great highway. His journey took him all across strange lands. Again, he paused at a crossroads and waited on the first person he would meet. A man soon approached him.
“I know what you seek. You desire freedom for you and your child. Freedom to do what you want. I can grant you that, and in so doing, I can give him great wealth and all the joys this world has to offer.”
“Who are you?” the man asked.
“I am the Devil.”
“Then I don’t want to have you as the godparent, either. I don’t pretend to understand your lies. But I do know this: I have seen the selfishness of people and the cruelty they offer as they seek their own ends. Sometimes, folks just don’t know any better and you lead them astray by their own desires.”
And so the man turned his back on Ol’ Scratch.
The man took up his journey along the great highway, determined to find a suitable godparent for the boy he called his own. When he had traveled a great distance, he came to another crossroads. He waited. A woman approached him. A fair though quite ordinary lady.
“Take me as his godmother.” The woman had no pretense about her.
“Who are you?”
“I am Death. I make all equal.”
“Now, you take the poor as well as the rich. The young as well as the old, don’t matter what their station or standing. You are the right one.”
“Then I shall make the boy famous. His gifts can be used to heal the world.”
When the boy grew older, Death brought the young man to her home. She conducted him into the underworld, down into a series of great vaults. Inside were candles of all sorts of lengths. Only the unlit candles were very large. She reached for a small candle which had nearly burnt out.
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