by Kin S. Law
Hallow walked the length of the boxcar, casting his arm about as if he were blessing the car with holy water. Blood fanned out in droplets, smearing the perfect carapaces with gore. For a moment nothing happened. As Vera followed, she began to hear the groan and scrape of a thousand cogs turning, cables springing taut to life, and eight thousand legs begin to scrabble awake.
“They want us to play the game their way, because with their rules they always win,” said Hallow. “I say, fuck them. Fuck their game. Let’s kill them all and start over.”
That was when Vera knew for certain Jean Hallow was insane.
Station 13
Dragonslaying and Fried Chicken
Though Dragonwell could bear the weight of the sword A Contrario, there was no question about flight. Plucking the tip out of the loam was a tremendous effort. Steam spurted from its vents in billowing clouds. Finally, with a great sucking pop, the tip of the sword came free, flying up over Dragonwell and cleaving a bough off a stately elm to embed itself in the ground.
“This sucker is sharp!” Albion declared. He sheltered Hargreaves from the falling bough with one of Dragonwell’s greaves.
“What an astute observation,” Hargreaves said dryly as a sepia weir of autumn leaf threatened to bury her. “It would be a useful weapon, if it were not so unwieldy.”
The sword was indeed unwieldy. Nearly twenty feet long, the pommel topped Dragonwell’s head when they stood the blade straight up. It measured three feet across at the ornate hilt, carved with seven steel wings. The metal swam with whorls of layered colors, as if they had been poured in, folded together laboriously in some gigantic, infernal smithy. Dragonwell’s oversized cutlass looked woefully inadequate next to it.
“This was made to slay dragons…” Hargreaves murmured.
Albion was dismantled his clothesline, and with the aid of a torn piece of balloon canvas, wrapped up A Contrario until it looked like a piece of mast wood. He threw the ropes over Dragonwell’s shoulders so the automata could haul the heavy bundle onto its back. At zero lift, Dragonwell left deep dragging footprints in its wake. Even at full lift from the aeon engine, they were barely able to scale the great trough of the slope to the tracks. Unfortunately once there they did not know where to go next. The Ghost Train might be anywhere by now, and Hargreaves feared its unholy cargo.
“And where might we be going, Inspector?” Albion asked, once they were free.
“Why, Captain, I would have thought it obvious,” answered Hargreaves, adjusting her scarf more tightly. Under her driving goggles, she dabbed a little grease from Dragonwell to protect her cheeks from the wind. It gave her the appearance of actually knowing what she was doing. “We go to call on Messrs. Hallow and Burgess.”
“And the Orb Weaver,” said Albion.
Hargreaves winced. She hadn’t wanted to think about her.
Dragonwell did not have Alphonse’s rolling wheels, but it could hop for lengths at a time over flat country. There was plenty of it, lush and vibrant, full of foggy meadowland and valley vineyards. Hargreaves’ attention wandered over the wide wilderness. She marveled at the vast virgin country, often traveling miles without seeing the signs of humanity. The wondrous engine beneath them thrummed comfortingly. It reminded her of Alphonse, and soon she drifted off to sleep.
At three in the afternoon by Captain Clemens’ pocket watch, they drove into a way station, purchased some flavorless sandwiches with more abysmal coffee, and changed places. Hargreaves sipped, and was surprised to find a rich, dark brew. The pasteboard cup advertised Hawaiian Kona, which explained the shocking price.
Three hours later, Albion curled up under his coat and Hargreaves pulled onto the road again. It was hard to tell when the sky ended and where the ground began. A velvety mist blanketed the hills and they rolled up into clouds lit orange by sunset. The faint scent of salt hung in the air, and she thought she could see the famed redwoods in the distance, vast trunks wreathed in mist.
They rode through the night, changing places once more so Hargreaves could get some sleep. Sometime around eight in the morning the mists parted over the hills and a quartet of shining red spires pierced the sky, as good or better for Hargreaves’ drowsy soul than the erected wonders of Europe. Hargreaves started; it was the Golden Gate Bridge, spanning the doorway to the Lands Beyond. Past San Francisco, the world was yet unmade, civilization not so rooted and flowered. But here, the bloom flourished, enrobed in seaside grandeur. On the other side of the gray veil, the Lands Beyond waited, a vista of endless possibilities. If one sailed around the veil, one would arrive at the Orient—a world unto itself, birthplace of the Manchu Marauder Albion Clemens.
Nearby, the bay was obscured by what looked like a gigantic white cake. An airship hovered there, about a quarter the size of a Balaenopteron, though nowhere as whale-like as the city-ships of Britain. Other ships could be seen near the leisure yacht, flitting in and out like bees, taking up a berth or a tower here and there. They were traders, and raiders, and adventurers, all finding their fortune at the last waystation on the edge of the world.
“Why San Francisco?” asked Albion.
“Read a paper sometime, Captain. It’s the center of Ubique’s American operation. I don’t know what Hallow plans, but the sundry barons will likely want a return on their investment double-quick,” Hargreaves said. “Hallow said he needed their funding for the next stage of his plans.”
“And they will know where to meet him,” finished Albion. “Following the money. Well done.”
The mention of Jean Hallow made her cringe. She had let the man into her work, her home. She had let him be alone with Cezette, and all the while he was a murdering guttersnipe. It was easier to label the man rather than feel the sting of the blade at her back.
They dared not take Dragonwell into the narrow side streets. Passing pedestrians and cramped market stalls made a quagmire for large vehicles, and switchback Lombard gave Hargreaves chills. Instead, they stood Dragonwell in a children’s play park, where it blended in with all the slides and clambering things. The children seemed to take to the machine well enough, climbing, scampering and hollering with glee. Their parents, when present, regarded this as some sort of stunt, possibly by a picture firm. A few people took photograms, posing with the unlikely duo, who did look straight out of the pictures. Albion had taken to wearing a long black coat, darted at the waist, with his airman’s goggles hanging off his neck and his cutlass worn on his back. And of course Hargreaves was every inch his equal, her hat canted at a jaunty angle. The captain retained the key bolt, so Dragonwell stayed motionless, popping himself cool as they finally sauntered out of the park.
From there, it was easy enough to board a clanging trolley. There weren’t so many people on it in the middle of the day, but by chance they boarded a touring shuttle, and were forced to wait out the journey through an unfamiliar city. The buildings here were queerly constructed, perched on the hills as if they might slide away at any moment. Aside from this feature, the buildings retained the familiar collision of styles both of them had come to expect from American architecture. Cheerful row houses peered down on them like a colony of prairie dogs. Bay windows dotted the colorful pastel buildings like white-trimmed barnacles. In the more affluent districts, they passed familiar, sternly staring Neo-Victorian Queen Annes.
Hargreaves leaned against a window, cheeks in her hands, determined to fill the trolley with grump. They ought to be headed toward Ubique’s headquarters in the shimmering heat of the city center, not enjoying the admittedly breathtaking beauty of San Francisco.
It took quite a while, but the steeply sloped streets slowly gave way to a busy port and wide main street. On one side, the vast Pacific stretched into the distance, though the blue was blotted out by a crowding of ships both in the air and on the sea. The Lands Beyond traders were relegated to the far reaches of the Bay, but nearer at hand were the gingerbread of leisure craft and the bloated caterpillars of plains crawlers. Facing the ocean was a tiny cul-de-sac where th
e trolley made a complete turnaround, creeping its way up on a steep, wide road. The road terminated at a sharp spire, which bore the familiar mark of Ubique. The letterhead at the top of the building was a gear-toothed “u” befitting the company slogan that it could make a tool for any purpose.
“Come on!” Albion said, swinging off the trolley’s back as they passed it.
Outside Ubique’s metropolitan ziggurat, Albion and Hargreaves faltered for the first time, unsure of how to proceed. Workers filed in and out of the rotary doors, but despite their hurried pace, seemed quite courteous. Everyone seemed to be on their best behavior. Even the street sweeps were polite in the marble-faced corporate square. The courtyard was dotted with conveniences; free telegraph nodes stood by, with attendants taking messages on typewriter keys. A clacking information board recorded the day’s weather, the time, date, and local rail and omnibus times. There was even a brass button at its base that when depressed, announced in a clear voice a few issues of the day, and finished by advertising the Ubique product currently in vogue. The spotless elegance of the building belied the corruption within the company.
Finding no easy ingress and a stonewall at the front desk stall, Albion and Hargreaves were resigned to waiting it out for night to fall when they could plausibly sneak inside for a look. In the day, there weren’t many clues to be had, so they boarded the trolley once more. Albion wanted to see the San Francisco Chinatown, understandably enough. Hargreaves was glad to see this side of him.
As they passed Chinatown near the water, the patchwork design gave way to a grand pagoda arch carved in the shape of a flowing dragon. It followed them across the rooftops for nine streets, and slowly Hargreaves noticed a subtle pattern woven into the scales of the dragon.
“My word, those are rail tracks,” said the inspector.
“Yes. It was made to commemorate the Chinese workmen who helped to build the railroads of the West,” said another passenger. She seemed to be an unofficial tour guide, the sort of leisurely old freeman woman who spent her days keeping the history of cities alive. She looked like she was made of parchment and slotted into a doll’s tabbed clothes. Her shock of white hair was kept in neat braids that hugged her dusty black head.
“The Chinese worked here?” said Albion, clearly amazed.
“Many of them came looking for something to bring back to their families. They heard stories that America was a mountain made of gold,” said their guide. She was warming to the topic. “And like my freemen brothers and sisters, many of them were paid in whippings and unfair wages. But with the rails came commerce. It breathed life into the West. When the airships came along many of them took to the skies, working as engineers. Why my brother ran a ship with four Chinamen who looked just like you!”
“And they set up base here?” said Albion. He stared at the tight streets, the pagodas and lion statues that were clearly many years old. “This is where they lived…”
“The rails all came here at some point,” said the guide. “They say the Chinamen built all this! The trolleys, the streets. Even underground tunnels to hide their numbers, that lead all over the city!”
Albion and Hargreaves exchanged a meaningful stare that told her he’d come to the same idea. They leaped off the trolley, landing on the cobbles near an open-air fish market. A few crabs jumped, shocked.
“Thanks, old Auntie!” cried Albion as the trolley swung out of view.
It didn’t take them long to become immersed in the myriad commerce of Chinatown. There were cramped streets full of wonders, little courts full of people playing Chinese chess, and children running through with paper pinwheels in their hands. As they ran, the pinwheels spun in colorful whorls. Stalls sold paper lanterns with small candles that Hargreaves had to fit into a tiny metal bracket to light. They were carried on long poles so they floated, pristine and colorful, over the street. The bakeries sold mooncakes, little brown squares that broke open to reveal a tiny moon of salted egg yolk in a night of sweet lotus paste. Albion mentioned in passing that these were all auspicious omens symbolizing reunion and togetherness. The Mid-Autumn festival was a festival of harvest, when the far-reaching Chinese got together and found family again. Hargreaves thought of her own family, and could only picture Arturo and Cezette. Albion seemed wistful, and disappeared into a liquor store for a moment.
“Want a tug?” Albion asked when he returned, fishing a bottle out of a brown paper bag.
“God yes,” said Hargreaves, and took a good mouthful. It was rice wine, strong, but fragrant.
At length Albion sat down at Chinese chess with an old man who had staked out a table in one of the many courtyards. Hargreaves didn’t know the pieces for they were all written in Chinese and moved strangely over a river drawn in the middle of the board. One piece was able to jump across the board like a rook, but only if another piece was between it and a target. But the aim was to capture the king, and Hargreaves knew tactics when she saw it. When Albion got up she took a turn, and lost spectacularly. But everyone laughed, and someone brought tea in paper cups. The old chess man had a pole with him that was hung with tiny bamboo cages, each with a budgie or a parakeet inside. It stood propped in a nearby tree. If asked, he would whistle and the birds would sing. They weren’t for sale, they were his treasures that he showed off. Each of the old men at the tree-lined court had at least one birdcage.
Hargreaves was laughing with a group of old men as they showed off their prize birds when Albion tapped her arm.
“I’ve lost all our money,” he said, laughing. But Hargreaves knew the Manchu Marauder well; he had lost on purpose. That was their cue to leave.
Two streets away, Albion sat them down at a street cafe that served potent tea and inexplicable waffles folded around peanut butter, tinned milk and sugar. Albion also ordered a dish of rice noodles dotted with something called “fish balls.” Hargreaves, adventurous Briton, took a reluctant bite and discovered curry. Very acceptable.
“Have you found us a way into the building?” asked Hargreaves. It was hard to talk around the waffle. Albion had explained it was a Kowloon specialty, and she resolved to visit as soon as possible.
“Better,” said Albion. He took a page out of his coat. It was a piece torn from a newspaper. “The old Chinese men love it when the youth take an interest in their affairs. He couldn’t wait to tell me when I mentioned Burgess.”
“What do you know? Burgess’s sleaze reaches across the continent,” Hargreaves said. Flipping the advert, the two of them looked at the sepia monograph showing Stevie Burgess’s Darklight Cabaret, the toast of the West.
“Naked ladies are kind of important to old gents. Perversion to the rescue again,” said Albion. Hargreaves gave him the stink-eye. He continued, “Old Zhao also said there’s something happening out there tonight. There’s been fewer shows for months, and they’ve been a little sad about it. But tonight they’re putting on a big show, and guess what? The cabaret is playing host to a band of foreign dancers that have just arrived by train.”
“This says the place is outside of the city. They have their own devoted shuttle and station to take guests out there,” said Hargreaves. “That, pardon my French, smells like fish balls.”
“They’ve chugged right up to the cabaret station and parked there,” said Albion.
“Hallow must be making the deal there, if he hasn’t already,” said Hargreaves. “Burgess’ cabarets are the fronts for his backdoor deals. The Darklight Cabaret is an ideal place for a meeting.”
“Then, lack of an invitation notwithstanding, my good captain,” said Hargreaves, “It appears as if we’re going to a show.”
The twilight found them sitting on crates outside the shuttle to the Darklight Cabaret, in the dry docks neighborhood of Hunter’s Point. The cabaret being some ways outside the city, patrons usually entered by means of a free, hourly shuttle service. The train had pulled into the station. It was visible as a moving advert plastered with posters for all the different burlesque shows. It wa
sn’t as exuberant as Burgess’ New York establishment, but it retained the aura of pin-up debauchery. The passengers were discreetly hidden behind thick curtains, but there were two cars at the back with blacked-out windows.
Albion remarked on the profusion of slaughterhouses nearby, though Hargreaves still refused to make the connection between what he had found in New York’s underground and what Ubique might want with a neighborhood full of abattoirs. It was abhorrent and wrong, and she felt sullied having been in Burgess’s presence. Despite her denial, she had to admit those two cars at the back had only one conceivable purpose, and served as a means of clandestine entry to the cabaret.
“Any minute now,” Albion reassured Hargreaves as the streetlights began to go on all around them. The gigantic sodium bulbs on the station marquee began to light up, hissing and popping one letter at a time. The trains were scheduled to arrive with time to spare for theatre seating, which meant the next train out was the earliest show. The clerks at the ticket booths seemed on edge; they worked quickly and wore expressions of strained consternation, waiting for some unknown calamity to occur. They behaved, in fact, exactly as if their boss was in town.
“He’s starting up a burlesque,” Hargreaves said. “My God, what if we’re too late? What if he’s sold it?”
“And…now,” Albion said, as the final sliver of sun disappeared behind a low building.
The captain and Hargreaves strolled across the street into an alley where a few toughs loitered at the side entrance. Passing those, the pair turned into a darker passage. The captain’s coat hid his customary trinity of guns, pocket glass and cutlass at his hip. Hargreaves caught sight of an enormous, red-stained grip in his belt—the Red Special. When she had first seen it, it had needed the strange aeon crystals from the doomed Jonah Moore to fire. That weapon was what Albion had been firing in the New York sewers, she suddenly realized. A gun that could deter one of Hallow’s goliath spiders. Its presence on his hip comforted her now. Strangely, Albion’s belt held not one but a variety of ammunition types.