Dragon Sword (5 page)

“
A leash. I’m not wearing
it.”

“
I’m afraid you’ll have to. If you
want to enter or leave the zone. Stay inside the lab, though,” Howe
says with a shrug, “and suit yourself.”

“
How nice that I have a
choice.”

“
Well, that’s just it. We want you
to think of this as something that protects you. And will protect
Eli, when he returns. It will all be complete when the final link
is turned on.” Howe now holds out a small control pad to
Sandusky-sire, who won’t take it. “I thought I would come over and
make a celebration of it.”

“
Yippee.” It’s not a happy
sound.

“
I would’ve thought you’d like the
extra security, given the high-level work you’re doing
here.”

“
I’ll feel secure when my family’s
together, Howe. And when you leave us alone.”

“
Well, we’ll see what we can do
about the ‘left alone’ part.” Howe takes the controls and pushes
one with his thumb. “There, that signal turns on the link to the
satellite, which should already be focused—”

But he doesn’t finish the sentence.
I experience immediate tympanic distress as alarms go off, while a
bright light explodes overhead, like a small sun going
supernova.

“
What’s that!?” Sandusky-sire
yells.

“
That,” Howe shouts back, “is what
happens when there’s an intruder!”

I leap away, hoping not to be
discovered. But I don’t get far at all before I hear the whirring
motors of flying machines coming in my direction.

Chapter Five

Eli: Po

December 24, 1941 C.E.

“
You Dan?”

The cab driver looks up at me. I
guess not. He doesn’t match the picture.

“
No, I’m Dang.” He draws out the
g
. “Charlie Dang. You’re not”— he looks down at a slip of
paper —“Margarite?”

“
I’m her…one of her students. I’m
Eli.” “Well, I’m supposed to take her”— another glance at the paper
—“to Golden Gate Park.”

“
What?
” I didn’t like the
sound of that. “Why would she want to go to the park?”

“
To the museum there. The de Young.
For the fundraiser. The party, you know.” He gives me a quizzical
look. “Why do you care what your teacher is doing on Christmas Eve?
Where are your parents?”

“
They’re…out of town. She’s looking
after me. Wants me to meet her there.”

I stand there, shivering. An actor
from
One Man’s Family
strolls out of the hotel, smoking a
pipe and waving at someone across the street.

“
So you getting in or what?” It’s
cold, and I don’t know what else to do, so I slide in the back.
“I’m confused, kid. So this Margarite isn’t coming?”

“
No. I’ll catch up with
her.”

“
All right.” Charlie Dang throws
the car in gear. “A kid oughtta be with his family on Christmas
Eve, though. Are your parents gone because of something to do with
the war?” He’s looking at me in the rear-view mirror.

“
Pretty much.”

We drive through the fog awhile,
and I don’t feel like talking. What am I supposed to say, really?
That neither I nor my parents have even been born yet, and I’ve
come back in time almost eighty years to try and find my
mom?

We’re stopped at a red light. I
hear the clanging of what must be a cable car, but I can’t see
anything in the mist.

“
Po.
”

He says it so suddenly, I almost
jump out of the seat.

“
What?”

“
Po.
” The cab is moving
again, almost gliding, since we can’t see anything around us, and
Charlie Dang is pointing out the window. “On nights like these, I
always think they’re out there.”

“
Who’s out there?”

“
Po.
In Hawaii, where I grew
up,
po
was the underworld. But in China, where my parents
are from,
po
are souls. Spirits. And sometimes those spirits
turn into Marchers of the Night, or tapping ghosts.”

“
Tapping ghosts?” I must have
sounded surprised — they have tapping ghosts in Barnstormer games.
How did he know? You use them for pinch-hitting. Mostly
bunts.

“
Tapping ghosts are folk who won’t
stay buried. Something bad happened to them, and they just can’t
rest.”

Again, just like Barnstormers. The
monsters on your team can’t stop. They have to move on to the next
town, to the next game, before they’re caught. And once more, I’m
starting to feel that way, too.

I haven’t had a normal conversation
with anyone since Dad and I drove to California in our truck. And
with my mom already gone, even that wasn’t too normal.

I start telling Charlie everything
about Barnstormers, how these monsters play pickup games in local
towns for food and money. I tell him everything except the part
about playing it over the Comnet. The rest just spills out of me,
like I’m talking to some new kid at school.

“
And it’s set way back in time,
too, like the 1930s!”

“
Way back, huh? Two whole years
ago!” Charlie’s laughing, “Never knew baseball could be so scary. I
like those Seals, though!” He jerks his thumb at my cap. “They used
to come and train in Hawaii, in a town called Hana. You ever hear
of Hana?”

I’ve heard of Hawaii.

“
Guy who owns ’em owns a sugar
plantation there. On the island of Maui! Lotta free baseball in the
spring. We stand around and watch. Saw DiMaggio there! Hey, he’s
supposed to be here tonight, I think.”

The cab rolls to a stop.

DiMaggio?

I look up, and there are rows of
lanterns overhead, more bright lights, and people moving past my
window in heavy overcoats and hats.

We’re at the museum.

“
We’re here, kid. Happy holidays.
Hope your parents stay safe. Have a good party.”

I step out.

“
Forty cents.”

“
Did you say Joe DiMaggio is going
to be here?”

“
Yeah, that’s what I heard. Cabbies
hear things all the time, though.” I hand him a dollar and he
glances at it — then the glance turns into a stare.

Right. I just goofed. The money’s
not from here. From this time. But that’s not what he
says.

“
Po,
” he whispers. “All over
the place tonight. Watch out.” Then he winks at me and drives
off.

There are a bunch of people on the
steps, waiting to get their invitations checked so they can get
inside. I reach into my pocket for the one this Dan guy sent my
mom…and it’s not there. It’s not
there
! I thought I stuffed
it in my pocket.

Now how am I going to get
in?

I stand with everybody on the
museum steps. There’s a Santa Claus ringing a bell wishing everyone
a very merry Christmas.

Next to Santa is a man with a heavy
gray overcoat and a hat, putting out a cigarette. DiMaggio dressed
like that, and I think he did cigarette ads, too. I saw one, just a
picture from an old paper magazine, somewhere on the
Comnet.

I guess in those days — these days
— there were still a lot of places you could smoke in public. But
why’d he need to do the ad at all? He was already a Yankee. Didn’t
they pay him enough?

“
Mr. DiMaggio?” Even if I don’t get
in, I want to meet him.

The man laughs. He raises his head,
and as the hat’s shadow lifts, I can see it isn’t DiMaggio at
all.

“
Do I look like Joltin’ Joe, kid? I
guess I’m flattered. But my name’s Caen.” He sticks out his hand.
“Herb Caen. DiMaggio probably won’t come. He hates these
dog-and-pony shows for the swells. I gotta go inside, though. See
how the beautiful people of Baghdad-by-the-Bay try to make it
through this war.”

“
What do you mean, ‘Baghdad’?” The
fog still hadn’t lifted, and after Charlie Dang’s
po
talk,
I’m feeling a little strange. And maybe, out here all alone, a
little scared.

This
is
still San Francisco,
right?

Caen laughs. “The Baghdad thing’s
just a nickname I coined for our sweet little burg. In my job, I go
back and forth between telling the absolute truth and making things
sound a little better than they really are.”

“
What job is that?” It’s like I’m
walking into a setup for a joke.

“
I’m a newspaper columnist.
San
Francisco Chronicle
. You read it?”

“
Online.” Oops.

“
Yeah, I read it in line myself,
sometimes. When I have to. Well, happy Yuletide, and hopefully this
war will be over before you hit draft age.”

He tips his hat and is about to
leave, but stops and peers around. “Hey. Who are you here with,
kid? Where are your folks?”

“
They’re…I’m supposed to meet them
inside.” I shrug. I guess I don’t have to pretend my mom’s really
my teacher if he doesn’t know who she is. “But I lost my
ticket.”

That’s not quite a lie. And anyway,
after my “online” slip-up, does he really want to hear that my
parents technically don’t even exist yet? “We’ll tell ’em you’re
with me. Come on. A kid shouldn’t be alone on Christmas Eve.” Yeah,
right.

His plan works. We go in, and it
looks almost…
magical
inside. The whole museum’s decked out
with Christmas decorations. There are candles and ornaments around
all the displays, and a pair of musicians is playing in the corner.
It’s all very festive.

“
I don’t think the fact we’re at
war has sunk in yet,” Caen says. “Well, kid, enjoy yourself while
you can.” He grabs a drink from a waiter and walks into the
crowd.

A huge banner says
MYTHS, LEGENDS, & TRUTHS: FANTASTIC OBJECTS FROM
HISTORY
.
There’s a “Haunted
California” area, a “Mysteries of the East” display (I wonder if
they have anything about
po
), but I’m closest to the “King
Arthur’s Round Table” area, where the first thing I see is a large
pair of white antlers in a display case.

Next to that is something that I
recognize from my childhood: the Dino Sword.

But before I can even take a step
toward it, some big kid with slick blond hair and a too- large suit
plows into me and knocks me over.

Chapter Six

Thea: Plasmechanical Dawn

10,271 S.E.

The play was a success. All the
Saurians appear to have enjoyed it, which they signified by
stomping their large feet on the floor, or in some cases slapping
their tails. I wonder if they understood it, though. From what I
can tell of their history, they haven’t actually had a war in a
very long time.

They do, however, have Cacklaw,
their ritual sporting event, which
looks
somewhat like a war
at times. This is especially true during the period known as “free
reign,” where the rules are suspended and alliances change. As far
as I can gather, there has only ever been one, long single game of
Cacklaw — passed along, generation after generation — knitting the
whole culture together throughout its history. It’s as much a
collection of myths to live by as it is an athletic
competition.

There is so much to learn about
Cacklaw, about the Saurians, about this planet, its atmosphere, and
the nearly familiar constellations in its night sky. I am
especially enamored of the star formation they call the Gatherer,
which reminds me somewhat of Osiris in our own sky, named for the
god who represents hope in times of darkness.

There is much to learn, and I wish
someday to have the chance. But right now, the time has come to
leave.

The Saurians have been worried
about K’lion since he failed to return to class. They have nothing
against me particularly — but a mammal who can talk, write, and
produce plays will always be peculiar to them.

But still, as Kolomus, who appears
to function as a kind of prelate of the city here, told me last
night, “You have opened our eyes a little wider.”

It was quite a compliment, though I
am not sure I warrant it. And it was certainly unlike anything I
heard in Alexandria from Brother Tiberius.

Now the heavy-lidded eyes of
Kolomus, Gandy, and hundreds of others are open and fixed on
me.

They’ve gathered around in “the
reaching field,” a place dedicated to the dispatch and return of
their journeying time-vessels.

Mine is the only departure they
have allowed, or will allow, for a while.

They remain bothered that K’lion
may be “stuck” somewhere in one of their histories, undoing or
redoing events, which is always to be avoided. Except for the
various “sorties” in Cacklaw, as they call each round, or contest,
the Saurians like to avoid surprises. K’lion’s disappearance has
proven too unpredictable for them. They are still trying to
understand what went wrong with such a routine class
assignment.