The Best of Penny Dread Tales (26 page)

“Not magic. I simply got in his blind spot. If you stalk a person from behind with a certain approach, they cannot see you. If you’re quiet, they will not detect you at all. It was stealth, not magic. It is exhausting, though. Sit. We need to rest.”

They rested a few moments in the cool and dark. Jing looked around and saw a bundle lying at the opposite end of the corridor. She smiled. Chen had penetrated the compound as well. She retrieved the bundle. “Change,” she told Soong. Beside the bag containing their clothes she saw her weapons array—sword, dagger, throwing stars, Soong’s staff. She stood guard as the girl changed clothes. Jing dressed and cautiously stepped out into the sunlight.

“Hold where you are,” a voice said.

She turned. It was Hobbs. He pointed at revolver at her.

“What are you doing here? Where did you get those clothes?” he saw the dagger hanging on her belt. Before he could speak, the gun few from his hand. Jing heard a thump and Hobbes crumpled to the ground. Soong stepped up, staff at ready. Jing felt the fear and tension go from her. She smiled.

“Thank you, Soong. Let’s get him back in the alley before someone else sees us.”

They dragged him back into the space between the two buildings.

“Will we kill him?”

“Remember what Sun Tzu taught us. Killing is not the primary thing. It is better to keep a city intact than to destroy it—and so with the life of a human. He will be out for a long time. Let’s bind him.”

They tied him up and put him in the recesses of the alleyway. Soong wondered if they would take his pistol, but Jing told her no.

“Using it would violate the spirit of our endeavor. We need to move quickly. Come.”

The two women exited the corridor by the back way and went on toward the American complex.

***

Chen moved through the shadows, looking for where Shao might be held prisoner. So far he had encountered no one, though once he heard a large group of people singing songs—probably a worship service, he thought, which would cut the number of people roaming through the building. He stalked the empty corridors until he came to a floor covered with bright colored tile. He stopped.

He waited. The floors in the building were wooden. The design of manufacture of the tile was undoubtedly Chinese. Chen scanned the area. The tile covered a rectangular space about twenty feet wide and twice as long. Across the tile space he saw a door. In front of it stood one of those sculptured soldiers the ancient emperors placed to guard their tombs. He noticed it carried a real sword in its stiff clay hands. Puzzled, he stepped on to the tile.

To his astonishment and fear, the ceramic figure gripped the sword and assumed the stance of one ready to fight.

He stepped back, not trusting his eyes. The figure remained at ready as Chen stepped over to the left, not touching the tiles. The figure did not follow him, nor did it turn its head. At the far corner of the tile rectangle, he stepped on it once again.

The figure turned to face him. He understood that it was a machine—a contrivance of amazing ingenuity. And he knew only one man in the world would have the skill to construct such a thing. Shao Jiazhen would be found just beyond the door. He was being guarded by a device of his own making.

Even a device could know defeat, Chen thought. He took a step toward it. It advanced, lowering its sword. He took out a throwing star and launched it at the thing’s head. It hit square but glanced off. The figure did not move. He hit it again, aiming for its stomach. The throwing star skidded off, doing no damage.

He swung his sword. It hit the figure but turned under, not biting, not doing any damage. The figure swung at Chen, who ducked and felt the blade pass close to his face. He sprang back. The figure retreated to a defensible position, still at ready, its unseeing eyes fixed on a point beyond the wall.

Chen licked his lips. Shao had designed the contrivance to defend the door. Besides providing it with motion, he had covered it with material so hard and smooth it deflected any object that came against it. He pondered, studying the thing. Where would it be most vulnerable? He noticed its hands.

Its hands did not reflect light as the remainder of its shiny body did. They looked unglazed. Time was as much his foe as the machine. He had to act quickly and decided to proceed on this hunch, hoping his assessment was accurate.

When he stepped on to the tile, the figure came toward him, lowering its sword. Chen took out a throwing star and aimed it the statue’s right hand. He heard the sound of a plate breaking and retreated to see what he had done.

The covering on the figure’s left hand finger had broken off, revealing a framework of iron with intricate pulleys and wires. He reached in the pocket of his smock and pulled out two more throwing stars. In an instant he broke the ceramic covering on both its hands.

This did not stop it. The thing still gripped its sword, but Chen could now see the mechanism that enabled it to grasp a weapon.

Chen went on the tiles and lunged. The machine-soldier swung with lightning speed and sliced his leg below the knee—not a life threatening wound, he knew, but one that would soon disable him. He stepped back. The figure withdrew. He suddenly sprung and contacted its left hand with the full force of his sword.

The thin metal yielded to the blow. Chen sheared off three of the device’s fingers. It went still, but, at the same time, something wrenched Chen’s sword from his hand.

Silence fell. Chen stood unarmed in front of the disabled manikin. When he felt sure the contrivance was completely dysfunctional, he bent down and tried to pick up the sword. He could not make it budge; it stuck to the floor by some magical spell. He also felt something pull at the dagger on his belt. When he walked off the tiles, the pressure ceased.

He had to find Shao, he decided, even if looking for him would mean abandoning his primary weapon. He walked toward the door. The pressure pulled at the dagger as before, but he managed to keep it from flying to the ground. He turned the handle.

The room contained what Chen took to be inventions—half-finished machines, two more terra cotta soldiers not yet entirely covered with tile, their gears and pulleys visible. He strained to hear. He heard footsteps.

He had expected that Shao Jiazhen would be old. He connected age with wisdom and skill, assuming that only years of study could produce such a mechanical wonder as the thing he had just fought off. Instead, before him stood a man his age—surely not yet forty. Hair thick and black, face and body spare in a healthy way, he smiled on seeing Chen.

“I assume Du Mu has sent you here?”

“He has. You are Shao Jiazhen?”

“I am he.”

“I am Chen. We have come to rescue you.”

“We? There are more of you?”

“Two more. We have a plan to get you out of here and back to Xanting and the Weather God.”

“That will be difficult.”

“We got in. We’ll get you out. I need my sword, though.”

“The figure you fought is empowered by loadstones embedded in the floor. You probably managed to shear through its interior mechanisms, which would neutralize its polarity and drain it of energy. But the loadstones would then attract all metal objects to it.”

Chen hardly comprehended what Shao said. He looked down at Chen’s feet.

“You’re bleeding. I’ll get your sword for you, but first let me look at your wound. I can probably patch it up.”

“You know medicine?” Chen asked.

Shao smiled. “I know everything,” he said.

After Shao had sutured the wound, they heard the door handle turn.

***

Jing licked her lips nervously as Cao opened the door. She had managed to talk their way out of their discovery. When she and Soong had sneaked into the American quarters, they heard voices and the clattering of weapons. She could tell a large force had come against them, no chance of fighting them off.

“Hide our bags and weapons,” she told Soong. “Here.”

They stashed their packs, Jing’s sword and dagger, and Soong’s staff. As they finished, a group of twelve soldiers—ten Chinese and two Westerners—all heavily armed, turned the corner. A Chinese man in ornate robes led them.

The man looked them over. His eyes rested on Soong and then he turned to Jing.

“Who are you and what are you doing here? I am Cao Cao, director of internal affairs for this compound. I don’t recognize either of you.”

“The American brought us here,” Jing said, “for the pleasure of the scientist.”

He grinned. “Ah, you are the two women from earlier in the day. They said they sent you back.”

“They told us to come here—that our services would be needed one more time.”

“I see.” He scanned their garments. “They told me you were both dressed in rags. Where did you get those clothes?”

“They are the garments of two women who died to disease—or so they told us. They gave us these because they wanted us to look presentable to the Master Shao.”

“I see. Your name?”

“I am Shangguan,” she lied. “This is my sister.” She glanced at Soong who drew two fingers across her mouth—the sign made by people who were mute. Jing also caught a warning in her eyes. “She wanted me to tell you she is mute and cannot answer you if you speak to her. Her name is Lan.”

“She is a very beautiful lotus flower.” He turned to his guards and dismissed them. “I will take you to where Master Shao dwells. After he chooses one of you, the other can come with me and, when the one he picks is finished, that one may join as well. My guards and I will reward you with food and money. You won’t lose for your time.”

“We are thankful for your offer, sir.”

“Come then.”

They had made their way through the American quarters past white women and men in the heavy, odd clothing they wore, the men with their unattractive facial hair, the women with their flowery, billowing dresses. They turned through a series of corridors and came to a colorful tile floor. A statue of a tomb guard, its hands broken to reveal intricate mechanisms, stood near a door. On the floor beside it lay Chen’s sword.

The man leading them opened the door.

Once inside, he turned to a man Jing assumed was Shao. She marveled at how young he was.

“Well, my dear scholar,” Cao said, “the Americans are grateful enough for your work that they have decided to reward you. Two fine women stand before you—one beautiful and stately, and one a little plum just waiting to be plucked from the bush.”

Jing hit him on the back of the neck and knocked him out. He fell heavily to the floor.

“You are Shao?” she asked. “Where is Chen? Is he hurt? I saw he lost his sword.”

“I’m here,” he said, stepping out from behind a screen. Jing noticed he was limping. Relief flooded over her to see him alive. Soong stepped up.

“This man,” she said, “is the man who brought me the coins. I never saw his face, but I know his voice. We met in the dark and he wore a hood. I covered my face with a veil, but he would know my voice. That is why I said I was mute.”

“You are a wise young woman,” Jing said. She turned to Chen. “You’re hurt,” she observed.

“I’ll be all right.”

“We need to hurry. We knocked out an America soldier. He will wake soon.”

“I will arrange for you to get your sword back,” Shao said. “What plans do you have?”

“Jing and Soong will smuggle you to the door as I create a diversion.”

“One man will create a diversion?”

“They don’t know I’m only one man.”

“You’re hurt,” Shao said. “You can’t fight off the combined forces of the Westerners. Be ruled by me. I think I can help.”

He led them into a room and then down a winding metal staircase, outlining his plan as they went. They descended into a large, dimly lit chamber. Shao pulled a lever embedded in the floor. It sent a spark that lit a series of oil lamps around the perimeter.

In the orange lamplight they saw small, squat shapes. They looked somewhat like the ceramic figure Chen had fought, but they were smaller—three feet high, round and squat. They gripped swords with one mechanical limb. The other limb hung free. Chen noticed they were made of metal, not ceramic.

“You all you know your instructions,” he said. “Be sure you show terror.”

They nodded. Chen had put on peasant dress. Jing and Soong had recovered and dressed in the ragged garments they had worn into the compound. They stored their other garments and their weapons in a cloth bag Chen had slung over his back. His wound had bled through the thin trousers he wore.

Shao told them to stand back. They stepped toward the rear of the room. The inventor went over to a display of buttons and levers. He seized a large lever with both hands and pulled it back.

Chen became aware of energy in the air. It surged, invisible but discernible, traveling in waves, filling the room with its impulses.

The figures clanked upright. Chen heard the noise of metal contracting. The figures stood straighter. At the same time a wide door opened by means of chains. Sunlight filtered into the large space. At a nod from Shao, Chen, Jing, and Soong hurried to the front of the chamber. When the door had opened all the way, they ran out into the courtyard.

They began to scream in terror, catching the attention of the American guards. Kelly turned and ran up to confront them, waving his pistol.

“What are you doing? Halt! Stop!” He spoke in Chinese.

“Demons! Demons!” Jing shouted, pointing back, feigning terror.

As he spoke, a bolt flew through the air and struck Kelly in the side. He fell. Chen never learned if he survived. The mechanical soldiers began releasing missiles from portals in their chests. By now, Chen, Jing, Soong, and Shao had reached the trenches.

The American soldiers had seen Kelly fall and saw the mechanical soldier advancing. As Chen and the others ran past them, pointing back and shouting “Demons” the Americans did not oppose them. They opened fire on the metal attackers. Chen heard the rifles go off, the sounds of more projectiles releasing from the other side, shouts, curses, and screams. The noise of bullets striking metal told him the soldiers were hitting the manikins, but a backward glance told him the machines continued to advance.