The Clock Man

by Eric Lahti

  “I definitely should have used Smith to get out of here before sending him out to the world.”

  “Smith?” Russ asks. “George Smith?”

  “Yes, him,” the man says dismissively. “He is to be my prophet, but I guessed at least one of you would help a man in need.”

  “Your prophet?”

  “My, aren’t you Mr. Questions. Yes, my dear boy. My prophet. He is to bear witness to my coming.”

  “Who are you?”

  “You don’t know, do you? Lucius never told you his suspicions, did he?” the man asks.

  “Lucius?” Russ asks him.

  “Senator Lucius Bedfellow. A foul little man who feels he is more important than he really is.”

  “How do you know about him?”

  “I know about all of you. My shadows watched you all as I slept and sent the images clear as day when I woke up. I watched Bedfellow tell me his pitiful plans to use me to seize the power of this country. I listened when he told me what he did to poor Dr. Hayha. Lucius Bedfellow was not a man who knew when to shut up.”

  Russ pauses, stunned. This man, or whatever he is, has been watching them all since the beginning and Senator Bedfellow was talking to him.

  “What are you?” Russ finally asks.

  “I am what your tiny mind would call the God of Dreams. What I truly am is beyond your understanding. Suffice it to say, I am dreams.”

  The man calmly watches Russ, obviously waiting for a response, but Russ isn’t sure how to respond. Does he kneel? Does he bow? Does he let this God of Dreams go? The man, or whatever he is, is directly responsible for four deaths this morning alone. A part of Russ thinks if this guy gets free a whole bunch more people are going to die.

  “I…,” Russ hesitates. “I can’t let you out.”

  “I was worried you’d say that,” the God of Dreams says.

  Like a blur, the shadow is on Russ, swallowing him, singing songs of hatred and fear in his head. The God of Dreams is angry now, enraged at his being imprisoned, baffled that they refuse to release him. Oh, well, it may be a vulgar display of power, but sometimes one must demonstrate one’s power.

  His shadows are a part of him, an early warning system and a way of projecting power. Truth be told, he’s actually made of those shadows and those shadows are made of dreams. Just like dreams, the shadows, and therefore God of Dreams, can haunt minds, make things seem real or fake.

  The shadow pours over Russ and works its way into his mind. It shows him the horrible things that will befall him if he refuses to break the circle. It shows him the rewards for obedience, gold and women and everything he desires.

  It would be so easy to let the God of Dreams out, to follow his desires and submit to his will instead of fighting. He could just give in and save himself. Maybe this god would save B… No, mustn’t think of her, must keep her secret and safe. This thing filled his head with horrors. It would share those horrors with others.

  No, it’s best to keep it here, keep it away from the world.

  Russ Johnson has never felt himself the hero type, but he musters his strength and, for the sake of the world, and the sake of her, plunges his fingers into his eyes. The pain is enormous, worse than anything he’s felt before, but it clears his head and he feels in control of himself once more.

  Lying there, screaming on the floor, pain is all he feels, but a small part of him senses the shadow has left and wonders if by hurting himself he hurt the shadow or the God of Dreams. He wishes he could open his eyes but remembers he doesn’t have them anymore.

  The pain. He has to stop the pain. If he’s going to die down here, Russ feels like he needs to die his way. He feels around the floor until his hand touches something cold and metallic. Hap’s gun.

  Russ has never fired a gun, but he knows the basics. He fumbles around delicately, worried about accidentally firing the gun. Russ has to chuckle to himself; he’s about to shoot himself and he’s worried about shooting himself accidentally.

  A little shifting and Russ finally manages to put the barrel under his chin. Somewhere, long ago, he’d read that was the best way to kill yourself with a gun was to put it under your chin, not up to your temple. Put the gun to your temple and you run the risk of just blowing your eyes out and not actually dying. He has to chuckle to himself again. What a waste that would be since he’s already taken out his eyes.

  He affords himself a final thought about how today started so well and a final goodbye to the girlfriend who never was and Russ twitches his finger.

  The Clock Man

  Everyone should have the opportunity to wake up in a dumpster. It’s a humbling experience to greet the morning with a splitting headache and covered in lo mein.

  For a while I lay there in the detritus and wonder if somehow, somewhen, I don’t really belong in here with the rest of the trash. It’s not like I’ve lived a life of shining example. More accurately, my life has been a pretty good example of how to not run things.

  This garbage heap is actually more comfortable than my normal bed. I might have to consider stealing one and taking back to my hovel. Sunlight is streaming through the space between the flaps, there’s a sweet smell of soy sauce in the air and I can’t help but think to myself that it’s really not a bad time to be alive.

  My muscles and joints complain when I try to sit up but desire to know what’s outside overrules their relentless grumbling. When I push the lid open with my head the sunlight feels like lasers in my eyes and I wisely decide to wait out the hated orange orb in the sky.

  Okay, so I don’t hate the star; it just hurts like hell to look at it right now. The other one is easier to deal with, even if that means things never really get dark around here. I lean back against the wall of the dumpster and try to get my poor brain to engage. Comfy as this place is staying here is problematic at best. At some point a trash truck will come lumbering along and dump my sorry butt into a larger heap of trash.

  I really need some coffee. Or better yet, some baiju. Some of the sweet White Alcohol would dull the pain and make me feel more like my calm, cool, and collected self.

  My eyes itch, probably from the chile sauce on the noodles. What kind of filthy savage dumps spicy noodles on a guy in a dumpster? For all he knew, I could have just been sleeping off a bender in the only quiet place in this fair city.

  I push the lid up again and sunlight burns, but it’s more like burning yourself on a toaster than pouring lye in your eyes. The dark still feels better so I let the lid drop back down again.

  So, let’s see. What happened last night? I have a vague recollection of a bottle of baiju with my name on it and a heady desire to take that bottle and make it my sweet lover for the evening. The distilled sorghum had other plans, though, and made me its plaything instead. There was some yelling. I think there was a brunette in a tight red dress. There was also …

  Ah, man. I lean back against the wall of the dumpster and groan. I got in a fight with some cops.

  I wonder if I won. There was a time when I could go through cops like tissue paper, but that was when I was one. Now I’m just a guy who hangs out in dumpsters and does shady things for money. Okay, so I did those things when I was a cop, too, but … Oh, screw it.

  Crap. If I did win the cops will be gunning for me. If I lost, I’ll never live it down. This is the main reason I don’t get into fights with cops. There are a lot of them and they don’t take kindly to losing. The other reason is I need them to keep my nascent business afloat.

  Yes. I was a cop. Don’t hold it against me. I was young and I needed the money.

  Now? Well, how should I describe what I do now? Finder? Problem solver? General rogue and rapscallion is probably more accurate. I like to think of myself as a thorn in the side of the ruling class but the truth is they don’t even notice my existence and I’m barely better than a hired thug with half a brain and a lack of compunctions.

  I was a cop, after all.

  Outside my temporary safe house I can hear th
e sounds of the world going by. My city is an elegant – if sometimes toxic – mix of Chinese mysticism and Gwai Lo steel. They built the railroads with strong backs and stronger magic. We provided the steel and the knowhow and they connected the land from sea to shining sea.

  We may be second-class citizens to the Chinese, but they respect our ability to make things.

  Overhead I can hear the deep basso thrum of a Yuan patrol blimp. It must be about 10am and I’ve spent too much time hiding from the world. Time to get my ass out of this dumpster and face the music.

  The light hurts my eyes and the sounds, muffled inside the dumpster, are an all-out assault on my senses. I have to choke down the desire to crawl back into my soy sauce filled casket but one look at the festering pile of noodles convinces me to move on.

  As my eyes adjust to the light I find a shadow standing in front of me. The man is tall, slender, and wearing a dǒulì – one of those conical bamboo hats – that falls slightly over his eyes. He’s standing stock still, staring calmly at the dumpster.

  “About time, Crow,” the man says in a deep Southern growl. “Thought you were gonna sleep all day.”

  “I was looking for whoever’s been leaving corpses in the dumpsters,” I tell him.

  “I thought you might be corpse for a moment there,” he replies.

  “What can I say? It was quiet and I was comfortable.”

  “You’re a lazy man, Crow.”

  “I am indeed,” I reply.

  “There’s someone who’d like to meet your acquaintance,” he says. “This time without the alcohol.”

  I brush the noodles off my duster and appraise the man in front of me. My jacket is waxed cotton with a touch of magic from my cleaner. The noodles and sauce slide off easily without leaving a trace. “Who am I meeting?” I ask.

  “A young woman of considerable importance,” he replies.

  Images of last night flood my brain. There was a young woman there. She was wearing a red dress and I probably made a total ass of myself. I feel like I should blame someone. The baiju will have to do until I can find a suitable victim for my ire.

  “Would this young woman of considerable importance happen to be wearing a red dress?” I ask.

  “Not at the moment, no.”

  The sigh of relief I exhale could power a wind farm for a week. At least I didn’t make an ass of myself in front of someone of considerable importance.

  “She’s wearing a jade wrap now. You threw up on her red dress last night.”

  Fuck me running. I knew I should have stayed in the dumpster. “Where is she?” I ask.

  He points down the alley at the main drag. Across the street is a small, run-down diner. “Madam Chow’s,” he says.

  “Well, Chan,” I say. “Let’s get moving.”

  II

  Chan is a kind of warrior ascetic, a man who took the Chinese legends a bit too far and believed all the wuxia wire-work was real. I don’t know his full name – no one does – but I can guarantee you he’s no Shaolin monk. His voice is a dead giveaway. No matter how he dresses, no matter how much he tries to dress the part, his Southern drawl doesn’t fit his bamboo hat.

  “So, what’s the deal Chan? Why did I have to get out of bed?” I ask.

  “A dumpster is your bed now, Crow?” he growls. “You have truly fallen.”

  “It comes with breakfast,” I tell him, knowing full well the breakfast was someone else’s dinner.

  Chan stops and puts a hand on my chest. I can’t see his eyes under the shadow of the hat, but his lips are set in a line and I can tell he’s glaring at me. “You were better than this,” he tells me. “I think you still are better than this.”

  “Chill out, Chan,” I say. “I’m fine.”

  “You threw up on a woman last night.”

  “Is that a crime?” I ask.

  In cases like this I like to mask my desire to punch him in the back of the head with pathetic attempts at humor. I’ve been told I have anger issues and advised to get them under control before I wind up dragon food. Also, Chan would beat my ass down before I even knew what hit me.

  “In the case of this woman, it probably is,” Chan says. I don’t know how he does it, but he manages to growl out a sigh.

  “Come on!” I say. My head is throbbing and I’m really not in the mood for his moralizing. “Haven’t you ever thrown up on a woman before?”

  “No,” he says simply.

  “You need to get out more,” I tell him.

  He grunts in reply and leads me to the main street. Huo Yuanjia Ave is the city’s main street, bisecting it neatly down the middle from North to South. The area we’re in is relatively quiet now but gets noisy at night when the tourists show up to watch spectacle. No, not the spectacle of me throwing up on some woman. Every night the Wuxia district erupts into partying, drinking, and martial arts madness.

  If you want to spar in the streets with strangers you’ll find the best in the world right here. Actually, the best in the world is walking right next to me. Chan may have the lanky build and the color of a skeleton but he can move like a snake when he wants to. I fought him once, high on my giant ego and a bottle of cheap baiju.

  It was absolutely no contest. I’ve fought cops, bad guys, the odd devil, and groups of all of the above and walked away; Chan dropped me with one punch and I didn’t even see him move. After that I begged him, literally begged him to teach me.

  His tutelage was brutal but effective and we’ve been friends ever since then. He’s still strange, but you’ll never find a better friend in the world. I love him like a brother and hate him all at the same time. Chan represents everything I could have been; everything I should have been but never was and never will be.

  The people who came to watch the fights decided they wanted drinks and the bars opened. Then they wanted food and the restaurants opened. Dancing followed and the clubs became famous. Every night it’s a party down here and I’ve lived down here for a very long time. The crime followed right after the clubs showed up. It was petty stuff at first; drugs and prostitution, but things got worse as the gangs started fighting each other for territory.

  Then the cops got involved and we were the biggest, baddest street gang around. There was so much crime down we couldn’t stop it all and there were some things going on that even we didn’t want any part of.

  The major clubs and restaurants are closed now, quiet and sulking in the daylight like petulant children who’ve had their toys taken away. People still live here during the day and Huo Yuanjia Ave caters best to its adopted sons and daughters. Hidden in the little unlit doorways between the clubs are the finest parts of this city; the little hole-in-the-wall places that make the capital of Aluna such a special place.

  In between The Jade Dragon and The Tears of Heaven lies a single doorway with “No Admittance” written on it. Chan knocks three times in rapid succession and once more slowly. A slat in the door opens and a hidden voice says, “We’re closed. Wuxia demo is tonight.”

  Before the slat can close, Chan says, “Mrs. Chow will be disappointed.”

  The slat stops closing and I get the distinct impression the whirring and clicking in the air is more than the normal clocks and assorted timekeepers patiently marking the passage of time. Somewhere nearby is a vidder and we’re the stars of the show.

  “What’d you say?” the voice says.

  “I said ‘Mrs. Chow will be disappointed’.” Chan says calmly. “And will probably consider it a personal affront if you keep us waiting much longer. We are expected.”

  Chan has a way of speaking that makes his rigid formality seem smooth, even frightening. I can almost smell the fear growing in the guy behind the door. Whoever he is, he’s not too bright. “And who are you?” he snips.

  The bamboo hat rises and the guy behind the door gets his first look at the stormy eyes of the wushu master. His hat is nothing special; lots of people on Aluna wear them. Those eyes are another thing entirely. Just like he won’t talk ab
out the gravelly voice (I think he secretly smokes), Chan has never explained why his eyes have storms in them.

  It’s very unnerving talking to someone whose eyes light up with lightning strikes.

  “I am Chan,” he tells the voice.

  I hear a gasp and an immediate rattling. Locks are slid out of place and soon the door swings open on rusty hinges. Inside is a big guy wearing a shirt decorated with pictures of various strippers. He’s obviously hired muscle, the kind of guy who breaks fingers for fun and profit, but he actually bows when he meets Chan.

  “It’s an honor, sir,” the man says with a deep bow.

  “Did you enjoy keeping my guests waiting?” a woman’s voice asks down the hall.

  The man in the stripper shirt goes white. I can see the indecision in his eyes; does he bow to Mrs. Chow and risk the ire of Chan or continue bowing to Chan and hope for the best with his employer? Considering his choices I can happily say I’m glad I’m not him. Chan could kill the guy with a finger. Mrs. Chow would make him suffer.

  He chooses the less painful option and bows deeply to the woman.

  Mrs. Chow is - how shall I put this delicately? – involved in the less legal aspects of the Ch’uan region of town. She’s not a regular criminal; she’s the mobster other criminals are terrified of. Hell, I’m terrified of her. Even the police are wary of Mrs. Chow. No one knows her first name. No one knows where she came from; she showed up one day and, through some sort of machinations, took over a huge part of town.

  She’s a small woman, slightly over five feet tall and probably weighs a hundred pounds soaking wet. I’ve seen her toss guys twice her size around like they’re rag dolls. It’s seriously amazing; she turns into this little blur with black hair and emerald green eyes. Even the air gets out of her way when she moves.

  “My apologies, madam Chow,” the muscle blubbers. “I did not know they were your honored guests.”

  “I didn’t say they were honored guests,” she tells him as she stares at me. “Just that they were my guests.”