The Gilded Age, a Time Travel (5 page)

Zhu
laughed out loud. Was he racist and sexist, after all, this sophisticated
cosmicist with his Cosmic Mind rap? “Well, yeah. Just me and several billion other
Chinese women.”

“And
you’ve got a neckjack. Primitive as it is, yours is better than several billion
other Chinese women.” He licked his lips nervously. “We’ll be installing a
monitor in your neckjack that will carry an Archive of relevant files,
including Zhu.doc, as I mentioned. The monitor will make sure you get to where
you’re supposed to go, keep you informed, stuff like that. Muse will have full
holoid capability, if you ever need to view a file. Much more advanced equipment
than the knuckletop I took on my Summer of Love Project.” He gives her another
sharp look. “Okay. So prepare yourself, Zhu. The shuttle will be ready in two
days.”

“Two
days?”

“Yes.
Because of the unfortunate incident at Changchi”--he was choosing his words
carefully, now, which instantly raised her hackles again--“the monitor will also
ensure that you’re fulfilling the object of the project.”

“Oh,
I see. You’re really installing the monitor because you don’t trust me. Because
I’m an accused criminal.”

“Oh,
you’ve got other qualities,” he said as if she’d made a joke. “You’re educated.
Decent gene-tweaking. Nice eyes, by the way. And no family responsibilities.”

“I’m
a Daughter of Compassion, sir. And a skipchild.”

“I’m
a skipchild, too.”

“Yeah,
but you’re Chiron Cat’s Eye in Draco. My skipparents got tired of playing mommy
and daddy with me. They abandoned me to the State when I was fifteen.”

“I
know. The Generation-Skipping Law can be harsh.” Chiron was fumbling for the
right words, a condition that looked odd on him. “Listen, Zhu. We’ve researched
the project. And we’ve chosen you.
I’ve
chosen you.” He plunged on.
“There’s isn’t much data on Chinese women in San Francisco, 1895. Mostly they
were smuggled into the city as slaves. Immigration authorities never knew who
they were. Their masters changed their names, falsified family relationships.
When they died, they were buried in anonymous graves.”

“So
their identities are lost to the Archives,” Zhu said. She was getting it, all
right.

“Yes.
Like so many of the kids who ran away to the Haight-Ashbury during the Summer
of Love.”

“Oh,
man. You’re sending me to a dim spot?”

“Exactly.”
Chiron smiled, a real smile at last, warm and encouraging. “We’ve constructed
an identity for you.”

“And
who will I be?”

“The
runaway mistress of a British gentleman. That will explain your presence in San
Francisco. Your proficiency in English. You’ll go to a home in Chinatown
established by Presbyterian missionaries for rescued slave girls. You’ll stay
there, work for the director. It’s all women, you’ll like it. I understand that
the mission was a lot like the compound you lived in with the Daughters of
Compassion.”

“That
sounds okay,” Zhu said slowly. Why did she sense he wasn’t telling her
something? Something important?

Suddenly
Chiron searched his pockets and, like an old-timey magician, produced something
shiny from his pocket. He commanded, “Look at this.”

His
sudden movements startled her, and an odd prickly feeling rose in her throat.
“What is it?”

“We
call it the aurelia. A golden butterfly.”

It
was a piece of jewelry, not a golden butterfly. A fantastic Art Nouveau brooch,
its elaborate wings crafted out of swirls of gold set with marquise-cut
diamonds and bits of multicolored glass that caught the light like tiny stained
glass windows. Instead of an insect, the body of a tiny, graceful woman cast in
gold stood at the center, her outstretched arms bearing the fabulous wings, her
shapely legs poised as if she were about to dive. She had the heart-shaped face
of a classic Gibson girl--large eyes, full cheeks, delicate mouth. Her hair was
swept up in a sort of futuristic hood. Her expression was impassive, yet
charged with some hidden passion.

Zhu
reached out, amazed. “For me?”

But
Chiron held the aurelia away, as if teasing her, though his expression was
anything but. “This is an artifact of 1895. This is a crucial point of
reference for you, Zhu. You must look for this artifact in 1895.”

“Look
where?” How the gold glinted! How the glass sparkled like gems!

“She
will have it.”

“Okay,
I give up. Who’s she?”

“The
Chinese slave girl you’re supposed to meet. Muse will guide you to the
rendezvous. You’ll know she’s the one because she’ll have the aurelia.
Understand? That’s the object of your project. Once you’ve found the girl, the
two of you must go at once to the Presbyterian mission. She’ll live in safety
there, eventually meet and marry a Caucasian man, and bear his child. A
daughter.”

“Wait,
don’t tell me,” Zhu said. “I’m this girl’s great-great-granddaughter.”

“No,
no, the Archives clearly establish that your lineage is based in China.” Chiron
tucked the aurelia away in his hidden pocket. “So that’s about it. Find the
girl, verify that she’s got the aurelia, win her confidence so she’ll go with
you to the mission on Sacramento Street. Meet the new director—a remarkable
young woman named Donaldina Cameron—and take a job with her. Make sure the girl
settles in. You must stay there, watching over her, till the Chinese New Year
in 1896. That’s when the dim spot closes and we have data supporting the
existence of the girl’s daughter. Or a female half-Chinese, half-Caucasian baby
like her. Then you’ll t-port back to this Now. Okay, Zhu? Sign here.”

She
took the petition he offered, thought about it. The Gilded Age Project
did
sound simple. Mostly simple. Exciting, even. After the wearying campaign in
Changchi, an adventure! She was sick to death of prison. But Chiron still
wasn’t telling her everything. “And then what?”

“Then
we’ll see about the handling of your trial. By the time you return, we should
know what the charge is.”

“You
mean you’ll know the status of the victim.” She swallowed hard. “
My
victim.”

“Yes.”

“Is
he alive or dead?”

Chiron
wouldn’t answer. Apparently he didn’t like being reminded of the despicable
incident any more than she did. “We’ve arranged for a delay in your
arraignment.”

Excellent.
They’d arranged for a lot of things, apparently. Zhu congratulated herself. It
wasn’t just a matter of reducing the charge against her. Maybe this was a
chance to redeem herself. She hadn’t known how badly she’d wanted that till
now. Of course, she’d t-port to 1895. Of course, she’d know exactly what to do.

*   *  
*

“
Now
what do I do?” Zhu mutters to Muse as she hauls the girl by her elbow out of
the Japanese Tea Garden. “She doesn’t have the aurelia. She was
supposed
to have the aurelia, and she doesn’t. She
doesn’t
have it!”

“Stay
calm, Z. Wong,” Muse whispers. “You’re attracting too much attention.”

“Stay
calm? I’m freaking out!” This must sound like Zhu’s got
two
voices
coming out of her throat, one answering the other. A devil woman? Oh, yeah. She
can sympathize when the girl howls, fear, puzzlement, and dismay screwing up
her face. “Muse, you will switch to subaudio mode.
Now.
”

“Assume
she is the contact,” Muse insists, still blasting in projection mode. “She was
there. Take her to the mission, and we’ll look for the aurelia.”

“Look
for the aurelia? Look where?”

“I
not go! I not go!” the girl wails.

“I don’t
know,” Muse says. “I will analyze, okay? Ask her name. We believe she was
called Wing Sing.”

Zhu
seizes the girl by her shoulders. She’s
much
bigger than Zhu expected,
as tall and thin as Zhu. Are they attracting attention? No. No one promenading
in the park pays any attention to a woman dressed in Western clothes taking
forcible custody of a scruffy Chinese girl. ”What’s your name?”

“I
Wing Sing.” She points toward the Pacific Ocean. “I go home, Jade Eyes!”

“Wing
Sing.” Zhu sighs with relief. “Thank goodness. Yes, home. That’s exactly where
we’re going. We’re going to the home, Donaldina Cameron’s home. The nice mission
on Sacramento Street.” Zhu points downtown, in the opposite direction.

“Not
go to
fahn quai!
” Wing Sing cries, struggling. “I die first!”

“You’re
going to be just fine.” Alternately pushing and pulling, Zhu wrestles the girl
to the Park and Ocean Railroad station where they can catch the steam train
downtown. Zhu puffs, sweat drizzling beneath her corset. The stays gouge her
ribcage, making her breath catch. “When is the next train, sir?” she asks the
conductor.

Now
people in the passing crowd begin to take notice of her struggle. A buxom blond
woman watches them shrewdly. The woman wears elaborate pink flounces and a
grotesque hat studded with carcasses of Brazilian humming birds. A black
brougham drawn by two lathered geldings waits at the curb. The driver of the
brougham notices Zhu and Wing Sing, too.

“Well,
miss.” The conductor, a well-whiskeyed fellow in a rumpled uniform, clicks open
his pocket watch, checks it with drunken precision. “I reckon it’ll get here
when it gets here.”

Zhu
catches his small gesture to the driver. The driver knocks his whip handle on
the brougham’s door. The conductor pockets the watch. He turns a gold coin
through his fingers.

What
is
going on? A chill runs through Zhu. She picks up at once the covert
communication between the conductor, the driver, and whoever waits in the
brougham. All of them, on the lookout.

Suddenly
three Chinese men leap out. Dressed entirely in black, they wear queues tightly
braided, oiled, and wrapped in buns at the napes of their necks. Black slouch hats
are pulled low over their foreheads, black slippers on their feet. One is a
wiry little fellow, tattoos covering his hands, a curved knife tucked in his
belt. The second is a fat man, diamond rings on every finger. Silent and
steely-eyed, he surveys the crowd. The third is tall and gaunt, a black
eyepatch over his left socket. Beneath his black overcoat, bandoliers of
bullets are slung across his chest, two pistols visible in his belt.

The
eyepatch spots Wing Sing first. In an instant, the men in black surround Zhu
and the struggling girl.

“Highbinders!”
shouts the buxom blond woman. “Say, fellas!” she says to the gentlemen standing
around. “You gonna let them goddamn highbinders ruin our Fourth of July?”

The
men laugh nervously, look away. Chinese business is Chinese business.

“Z.
Wong, please exit immediately,” Muse whispers. “These are hatchet men.
Enforcers for a tong.”

“Boo
how doy,”
Wing Sing whispers, going limp.

“Queues
coiled to the left,” Muse says, opening a file. “Chee Song Tong.”

“I say,
fellas!” shouts the buxom blond woman. “What kinda lousy cowards are ya,
anyway? You gonna let them highbinders trouble a lady?”

“I’ve
got no quarrel with you,” Zhu says to the eyepatch, boldly staring into his
eye. “Let us go.”

“This
our girl,” the eyepatch says. “We pay gold for her. We take now.”

“I
don’t think so,” Zhu says, circling her arm around Wing Sing’s shoulders.
“She’s mine.” The girl huddles passively, casting her eyes to the ground.

“Z.
Wong, preservation of your person is the first priority,” Muse whispers. “Please
review ‘The CTL Peril’.” Muse posts the text in her peripheral vision.

“I
don’t think I’m going to review files right now, Muse,” Zhu whispers, jerking
away when the eyepatch plants his hand on her shoulder.

“Our
girl.”

“Chee
Song Tong,” Muse whispers, “sponsors slavery, opium smugging, and
assassination. These are assassins, Z. Wong.”

“What
about the girl?”

“Let
them take her.”

“Damn
it, Muse, she’s the reason I’m here!”

“It
appears you have no choice at the moment,” Muse whispers.

“It’s
a goddamn shame!” the buxom blond woman shouts at the crowd. “You all oughta be
ashamed!”

“Please
step away, Z. Wong,” Muse whispers. “They don’t want you. I said go!”

“Too
late.”

The
wiry fellow and the fat man seize Zhu’s elbows. The eyepatch smacks Wing Sing
across her face with the back of his hand.

“Jade
Eyes,” Wing Sing whimpers.

Heart
pounding, Zhu shoves the hatchet men away. She clutches the girl, anger
parching her throat. Can she protect her? Or is she too late?

The
girl clings to her, murmuring, “Jade Eyes.”

The
eyepatch stoops, stares at Zhu. He flips up her veil, his eye widening when he
sees her Chinese face, her irises gene-tweaked green.

The
hatchet men hustle them into the brougham. The driver yells, whipping the
horses.