The Gilded Age, a Time Travel (39 page)

“High?”

“Intoxicated.”

“For
the last time, I am not intoxicated. I am cured!”

“Cocaine
is a powerful narcotic, Daniel. Trust me, you’re intoxicated.” She looks him up
and down and sighs. “Don’t go alone, then. I shall accompany you.”

At
earlier time, he would have scoffed. Not now. “Ah, but can you fight in those lady’s
clothes.”

“I
can fight.”

“And
you’ve got your mollie knife on your person?”

“Always.”

Now
he looks
her
up and down, wondering where in her feminine attire she
could have stashed the infernal thing. Her slim, wiry figure suddenly looks out
of place in those clothes. It’s as if he’s never really looked at her before. “And
you can cleave a man’s skull with that thing as well as heal him?”

“Oh,
yeah.” She clears her throat. “Certainly.”

“Very
well, come along. In truth, I could use an ally. We’ve met Harvey’s thugs
before, have we not, miss? Just do not interfere in my business, you
understand?”

“I’m
forbidden to interfere in much of anything,” she says, suddenly sad. “Under
Tenet Three of the Grandmother Principle.”

“Ah,
the Tenets you keep talking about. But I believe you mean the grandfather
clause,” he says, proud to show off his knowledge now that he’s not stinking.
See how the cure encourages his intelligence? “And after all your talk, miss,
about social reform and caring about others who haven’t got enough to eat.”

“What
on earth do you mean?”

“I’ve
heard the talk from politicians in the Dixie states. The former slaveowners
just cannot give up the ghost. They want to use what they call grandfathering
to deny the vote to the progeny of former slaves and pack in the uneducated
Caucasian vote. Quite a movement. They claim they shall have passed amendments
to several state constitutions by the turn of the century.”

She
looks at him askance, rolls her eyes to the side the way she does, then laughs.
“Oh, my! Not the grandfather clause. The Grandmother Principle. It’s a
guideline for t-port projects, rules set out for me by slavemasters you can’t
possibly know about.”

Hah.
Daniel detests the notion that she could have masters besides himself. Who, for
instance? Jessie Malone? Very well, once he secures more capital, he shall buy
whatever term remains on Zhu’s contract from the Queen of the Underworld.
Perhaps they could leave 263 Dupont Street behind, he and Zhu, find a proper
house of their own. Wouldn’t Father split his gut over that? His only son,
living in sin with a Chinese woman. But clearly she doesn’t mean Miss Malone.
What masters could she mean?

“I
am your only true master,” he declares.

“I
knew you were going to say that. But you’re wrong. I belong to no one. Perhaps
not even to myself.”

She
says all that with such a melancholy look that he takes her hand. “My poor
little lunatic. Let’s go before I lose my nerve.”

Hand
in hand they stride toward the waterfront past another parade for el Dia de los
Muertos. Roughnecks on horseback, wearing skull masks, toss bottles of tequila,
mescal, and beer back and forth amongst themselves, hooting and hollering. The
horses roll their eyes, bridles frothing. Daniel escorts Zhu to the ferry
building where the
San Rafael
bobs at the dock, a black and white
steamer more modest in size than the
Chrysapolis
, but possessing more
elegant lines.

They
stride up the gangplank and board. Two dozen bruisers in tawdry togs crowd the
deck, feisty with booze, puffing hand-rolled ciggies stinking of cheap tobacco.
Daniel heads for a deserted, wave-spattered spot on the prow, towing Zhu by the
hand after him. The cold salt air whips his face and the ripe scent of the sea,
of mysterious distant destinations, fills his senses.
This isn’t supposed to
be happening.
Her words haunt him. And puzzle him.

“All
right, suppose you spell it out exactly what you mean by the Grandmother
Principle.”

“It’s
a closely guarded secret.” She giggles charmingly. “Or it’s supposed to be.”

“But
you can tell me, my angel. Indeed, you must.”

“Well.
As I told you and Miss Malone, I’m from the future.”

“Six
hundred years in the future. You still ought to claim a million years. It’s much
more believable, on account of Mr. Wells.”

“Nevertheless,
six hundred years it is. And we only recently got this new technology like you
only recently got electricity and telegraph and telephones. In some ways,
tachyportation is no more amazing than those technologies. And a good deal less
practical, as it turns out. It’s more like early space travel, something that
doesn’t directly benefit people. A huge financial investment with no immediate
return for society at large. Oh, they wanted everyone to think the world would
benefit but, really, only the technopolistic plutocracy did. Or perhaps the
LISA techs deceived themselves.”

“Zhu,
my darling,” Daniel says. “If you want me to concede that a woman like you
actually has a brain, I willingly concede. But I cannot comprehend a word you
just said.”

She
smiles. “Never mind. Just know this—the LISA techs shut down the tachyonic
shuttles a few years after I was born. Why? Because t-porting released
dangerous pollutants into the timeline.”

“Pollutants.
Like bad water?”

“Exactly
like bad water.” She gazes over the waves, searching the bay as though she’s
looking for something that’s supposed to be there and isn’t.

He
watches her uneasily. That peculiar ache scrapes behind his eyes again. So
soon? He starts to reach for his vial and spoon the way he reaches for his ciggies.
At her sharp glance, he reaches for his ciggies instead and lights up, cupping
the match against the wind. She actually helps him, despite her protestations
against his smoking.

“Better
a coffin nail than the cure?” he jokes.

“You
got it,” she says seriously. “Anyway, the Grandmother Principle states that a
t-porter cannot t-port to the past and murder her own lineal ancestor. Her
grandmother, for instance. Because if the t-porter could do that, she would not
exist in the first place to go back and do the deed.”

“I
think I see.”

“It’s
what we call a paradox. A time paradox. Well, the Tenets go on from there. All
the way down to whether a t-porter like me gets killed in the past and winds up
trapped in a Closed Time Loop. A CTL, they call it. If I should die here in
this Now, I would always have to be born in my Now, make the t-port, die in the
past, and then be born again in the future with no hope of a normal life. No
closure, ever. Like a torturous revolving door, I suppose.”

“Revolving
door?”

“Oh,
sorry. That’s an invention after your time.” She frowns. “No one knows what
becoming trapped in a CTL must feel like. Theoretically, a CTL has no beginning
and no end, it just
is
. If that’s true, then where or when would your
consciousness begin? A t-port project before mine called the Summer of Love
Project was undertaken to remedy the nearly fatal pollution caused by an
infamous CTL.” She shakes her head, the ribbons on her Newport hat streaming in
the sea breeze. “Anyway, Tenet Three of the Grandmother Principle says I can’t
get involved with you, Daniel. Not like this.”

“Sounds
more like your grandmother than your Grandmother Principle. Though I do admit
I’m a beast and a cad and a very evil man.” He pretends to bite her neck.

She
refuses to acknowledge his jest. “I’m not supposed to help you, not supposed to
harm you. I didn’t t-port here for you, Daniel, I t-ported for Wing Sing.” She
looks him in the eye. “You must believe me, your so-called cure is worse, much
worse, than the rotgut.”

“By
God!” He smacks his forehead with the heel of his hand. “There is just no
pleasing you, miss.”

“Don’t
worry about pleasing me. Worry about not killing yourself.”

“I
worry about nothing. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die.”

She
still refuses to laugh. “I don’t understand what’s happening, and Muse can’t or
won’t explain. I’m afraid Muse is defective or malfunctioning. Or worse.
Sabotaging me.”

“Miss,
please.” Daniel catches her hands. “Really, this is too much. Only men possess
the muse. Only great artists. Women do have not the capacity.”

“Don’t
be such a man of your day, Daniel,” she says annoyed and pulls her hands away.
“Women have every capacity. Wait till you see the twenty-second century. Hah!
The greatest women artists and writers and holoid makers of all time lived
then. Magda Mira, the death cult writer, and Kiku Tatsumi, the telespace
artist.”

“I
do believe I shan’t live to see the twenty-second century.”

“If
you keep going like this, Daniel, you sure as hell won’t live to see the
twentieth century.”

The
San
Rafael
unceremoniously bangs against the dock, knocking them both off their
feet.

*  
*   *

Daniel
takes Zhu’s hand again and they stride down the gangplank onto the dusty shores
of Sausalito. It’s a homely port—raw streets pocked with potholes, railroad
tracks laid in unsightly grooves right up to the ferry docks, a stinking slough
thick with bilge. Importers transport apples and lumber down from Washington
State on these tracks. The waterfront teems with saloons. Daniel smells the
reek of booze, hears the guffaws and shouts of brawlers. The two dozen bruisers
reel off the steamer, heading for the rowdy district. Painted chits promenade,
right at home on these raw streets.

Daniel
spies a cheerier sight on the hills—a spectacular Queen Anne mansion and,
farther up, a French provincial, and farther up still, something huge and
Georgian. Sausalito may be a shipping port and a train terminus, but the burg
is also a playground for the rich of San Francisco. The prestigious Pacific
Yacht Club is down the shore, and several large and lovely hotels with lyrical
names like Casa Madrona and Alta Mira are stationed well away from the
riffraff. Many rich gentlemen’s mistresses live in those mansions and in those
hotels, sequestered from Society’s scrutiny.

“By
God, I need a line and a drink,” he says and, dropping Zhu’s hand, practically
sprints into Pete Fagan’s Saloon. He slaps down a silver bit and orders a shot
of whiskey, which the barkeep delivers in an eye-blink. He knocks the whiskey
back, goes and sits at a table. He fetches out his vial and his spoon, dips out
a snort.

Zhu
takes a seat opposite him, ignoring the stares of the other patrons, and
watches him snort away. Her eyes are moist. Well, that was Mama’s old trick,
too. Neither his mother nor Zhu Wong nor any other woman will ever sway him
with teary eyes.
I’ve always been good to you, Danny, haven’t I?
How he
tried to please Mama, no matter what. And what good did it do?

“Tears
in your eyes,” he goads her, sudden anger fevering his blood. Or maybe it’s the
whiskey. Or the line? “Just like every whore I’ve ever met. Trying to ruin me.”

She
refuses to rise to his challenge, but instead peers at him intently. “You
change so quickly. I hardly know you from one moment to the next.”

“Trying
to ruin me. Just like Mama.” He regrets the words the minute they escape his
lips.

“Now,
wait. I thought you loved your mother and pitied her because she was always in
pain. A good woman like her.”

“What
a fine example of womanhood. Yes, she would have ruined me, too. She was always
stinking after taking that blasted Montgomery Ward iron tonic. Probably why she
allowed herself to be beguiled by common men. No wonder Father beat her. Now I
understand. She was just a whore, after all her airs of being a fine lady.” He
grins at her stunned expression. “Don’t look so startled, miss. She even got
herself in the family way with another man and carried his bastard.”

“Wow,
you mean you’ve got a sibling?” she asks, her eyes sparkling with greedy
interest. Women always have such an avidity for sordid family matters. “Brother
or sister?”

“
Carried
,
I said.” He lurches to his feet. “Time to find Mr. Harvey.”

He
strides out of Fagan’s, his blood simmering as he stalks down Water Street.
Between the snort and the shot, he’s ready to face the Devil himself. He
reaches in his pocket, grips the Remington. Where is that lousy son of a bitch
Harvey?

And
there, a commercial building emblazoned with the hateful name—Harvey’s. Pioneer
architecture, all straight lines and weathered wood, the plainness relieved
only by a row of craftsman’s gingerbread along the eaves with several scrolls
knocked out like rotten teeth. Why on earth did Father ever extend credit to
this hooligan on this piece of crap? Blood pounds in Daniel’s ears as he climbs
the front stairs, Zhu hurrying behind him, and confronts a haze of tobacco
smoke, the stink of cheap booze, and pandemonium.

A
boy bounds past him and brushes him aside, nearly knocking Zhu off her feet.
“Say, now!” Daniel cries, but the boy clatters down the stairs and sprints down
Water Street. Inside, men are yelling, flushed and gesticulating, striding back
and forth across the barroom, or gathered around a long table at which croupiers
sit in shirtsleeves and vests, taking coins, scribbling notations in their green
leather ledgers. A wizened little operator sits at the end of the table, bending
over a telegraph set. Next to him a burly red-haired fellow with muttonchops
like great flaming wings on his face announces the latest news from the telegraph
operator in a voice that manages to soar over the din.