The Children of the Company (25 page)

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Authors: Kage Baker

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BOOK: The Children of the Company
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“I am so very sorry, sir,” I managed to say, looking up at my host. He thought my pallor was occasioned by sympathy: he could not know I was seeing his mortal face like an apparition of the days to come, and it was livid and charring, for he lay dead in the burning ruins of a boardinghouse in the Mission district. Horror, yes, impossible not to feel horror, but one cannot empathize with them. One must not.
They went into the kitchen to tell the cook and I heard weeping break out afresh. Carefully I took up the newspaper and perused it. Perhaps there was something here that might divert me from the unpleasantness of the moment? Embezzlement. A crazed admirer stalking an actress. Charlatan evangelists. Grisly murder committed by two boys. Deadly explosion. Crazed derelict stalking a bank president. Los Angeles school principals demanding academic standards lowered.
I dropped the paper, and, leaving five dollars on the table, I fled that place.
I walked briskly, not looking into the faces of the mortals I passed. I rode the cable car, edging away from the mortal passengers. I nearly ran through the green expanse of Golden Gate Park, dodging around the mortal idlers, the lovers, the nurses wheeling infants in perambulators, until at last I stood on the shore of the sea. Tempting to turn to look at the fairy castles perched on its cliffs; tempting to turn to look at the carnival of fun along its gray sand margin, but the human comedy was the last thing I wanted just then. I needed, rather, the chill and level grace of the steel-colored horizon, sunglistering, wide-expanding. The cold salt wind buffeted me, filled my grateful lungs. Ah, the immortal ocean.
Consider the instructive metaphor: every conceivable terror dwells in her depths; she receives all wreckage, refuse, corruption of every kind, she pulls down into her depths human calamity indescribable; but none of this is any consideration to the sea. Let the screaming mortal passengers fight for room in the lifeboats, as the wreck belches flame and settles below the extinguishing wave; next morning she’ll still be beautiful and serene, her combers no less white, her distances as blue, her seabirds no less graceful as they wheel in the pure air. What perfection, to be so heartless. An inspiration to any lesser immortal.
As I stood so communing with the elements, a mortal man came wading out of the surf. I judged him two hundred pounds of athletic stockbroker, muscles bulging under sagging wet wool, braving the icy water as an act of self-disciplinary sport. He stood for a moment on one leg, examining the sole of his other foot. There was something gladiatorial in his pose. He looked up and saw me.
“A bracing day, sir,” he shouted.
“Quite bracing.” I nodded and smiled. I could feel the frost patterns of my returning composure.
And so I boarded another streetcar and rode back into the mortal warren, and found my way by certain streets to the Barbary Coast. Not a place a gentleman cares to admit to visiting, especially when he’s known the gilded beauties of old Byzantium or Regency-era wenches; the raddled pleasures available on Pacific Street suffered by comparison. But appetite is appetite, after all, and there is nothing like it to take one’s mind off unpleasant thoughts.
“Your costume.” The attendant pushed a pasteboard carton across the counter to me. “Personal effects and field equipment. Linen, trousers, suspenders, boots, shirt, vest, coat, and hat.” He frowned. “Phew! These should have been laundered. Would you care to be fitted with an alternate set?”
“That’s all right.” I took the offending rags. “The sweat goes with the role, I’m afraid. Irish laborer.”
“Ah.” He took a step backward. “Well, break a leg.”
Fifteen minutes later I emerged from a dressing room the very picture of an immigrant yahoo, uncomfortably conscious of my clammy and odiferous clothing. I sidled into the canteen, hoping there wouldn’t be a crowd in the line for coffee. There wasn’t, at that: most of the diners were clustered around one operative over in a corner, so I stood alone watching the food service technician fill my thick china mug from a dented steel coffee urn. The fragrant steam was a welcome distraction from my own fragrancy. I found a solitary table and warmed my hands on my dark brew there in peace, until an operative broke loose from the group and approached me.
“Say, Victor!”
I knew him slightly, an American operative so young one could scan him
and still discern the scar tissue from his augmentations. He was one of my Presalvagers.
“Good morning, Averill.”
“Say, you really ought to listen to that fellow over there. He’s got some swell stories.” He paused only long enough to have his cup refilled, then came and pulled out a chair across from me. “Know who he is? He’s the guy who follows Caruso around!”
“Is he?”
“Sure is. Music Specialist Grade One! That boy’s wired for sound. He’s caught every performance Caruso’s ever given, even the church stuff when he was a kid. Going to get him in
Carmen
the night before you-know-what, going to record the whole performance. He’s just come back from planting receivers in the footlights! Say, have you gotten tickets yet?”
“No, I haven’t. I’m not interested, actually.”
“Not interested?” he exclaimed. “Why aren’t you—how
can’t
you be interested? It’s
Caruso
, for God’s sake!”
“I’m perfectly aware of that, Averill, but I’ve got a prior engagement. And, personally, I’ve always thought de Reszke was much the better tenor.”
“De Reszke?” He scanned his records to place the name and, while doing so, absently took a great gulp of coffee. A second later he clutched his ear and gasped. “Christ almighty!”
“Steady, man.” I suppressed a smile. “You don’t want to gulp beverages over sixty degrees Celsius, you know. There’s some very complex circuitry placed near the Eustachian tube that gets unpleasantly hot if you do.”
“Ow, ow, ow!” He sucked in air, staring at me with the astonishment of the very new operative. It always takes them a while to discover that immortality and intense pain are not strangers, indeed can reside in the same eternal house for quite lengthy periods of time. “Should I drink some ice water?”
“By no means, unless you want some real discomfort. You’ll be all right in a minute or so. As I was about to say, I have some recordings of Jean de Reszke I’ll transmit to you, if you’re interested in comparing artists.”
“Thanks, I’d like that.” Averill ran a hasty self-diagnostic.
“And how is your team faring over at the New Brunswick, by the way? No cases of nerves, no blue devils?”
“Hell no.” Averill started to lift his coffee again and then set it down respectfully.
“Doesn’t bother you that the whole place will be ashes in a few days’ time, and most of your neighbors dead?”
“No. We’re all O.K. over there. We figure it’s just a metaphor for the whole business, isn’t it? I mean, sooner or later this whole world”—he made a sweeping gesture, palm outward—”as we know it, is going the same way, right? So what’s it matter if it’s the earthquake that finishes it now, or a wrecking ball someplace further on in time, right? Same thing with the people. There’s no reason to get personally upset about it, is there? No, sir. Specially since
we’ll
all still be alive.”
“A commendable attitude.” I had a sip of my coffee. “And your work goes well?”
“Yes, sir.” He grinned. “You will be so proud of us burglary squad fellows when you get our next list. You wouldn’t believe the stuff we’re finding! All kinds of objets d’art, looks like. One-of-a-kind items, by God. Wait’ll you see.”
“I look forward to it.” I glanced at my chronometer and drank down the rest of my coffee, having waited for it to descend to a comfortable fifty-nine degrees Celsius. “But, you know, Averill, it really won’t do to think of yourselves as burglars.”
“Well—that is—it’s only a figure of speech, anyhow!” Averill protested, flushing. “A joke!”
“I’m aware of that, but I cannot emphasize enough that we are not stealing anything.” I set my coffee cup down, aware that I sounded priggish, and looked sternly at him. “We’re preserving priceless examples of late Victorian craftsmanship for the edification of future generations.”
“I know.” Averill looked at me sheepishly, “But—aw, hell, do you mean to say not one of those crystal chandeliers will wind up in some Facilitator General’s private HQ somewhere?”
“That’s an absurd idea,” I told him, though I knew only too well it wasn’t. Still, it doesn’t do to disillusion one’s subordinates too young. “And now, will you excuse me? I mustn’t be late for work.”
“All right. Be seeing you!”
As I left he rejoined the admiring throng around the fellow who was telling Caruso stories. My way lay along the bright tiled hall, steamy and echoing with the clatter of food preparation and busy operatives; then through the dark security vestibule, with its luminous screens displaying the world without; then through the concealed door that shut behind me and left no trace of
itself to any eyes but my own. I drew a deep breath. Chill and silent morning air; no glimmer of light, yet, at least not down here in the alley. Half past five. This time three days hence—
I shivered and found my way out in the direction of the waterfront.
Not long afterward I arrived at the loading area where I had been desultorily employed for the last month. I made my entrance staggering slightly, doing my best to murder “You Can’t Guess Who Flirted with Me” in a gravelly baritone.
The mortal laborers assembled there turned to stare at me. My best friend, an acquaintance I’d cultivated painstakingly these last three weeks, came forward and took me by the arm.
“Jesus, Kelly, you’d better stow that. Where’ve you been?”
I stopped singing and gave him a belligerent stare. “Marching in the Easter parade, O’Neil.”
“O, like enough.” He ran his eyes over me in dismay. Francis O’Neil was thirty years old. He looked enough like me to have been taken for my somewhat bulkier, clean-shaven brother. “What’re you doing this for, man? You know Herlihy doesn’t like you as it is. You look like you’ve not been home to sleep nor bathe since Friday night!”
“So I have not.” I dropped my gaze in hungover remorse.
“Come on, you poor stupid bastard, I’ve got some coffee in my dinner pail. Sober up. Was it a letter you got from your girl again?”
“It was.” I let him steer me to a secluded area behind a mountain of crates and accepted the tin cup he filled for me with lukewarm coffee. “She doesn’t love me, O’Neil. She never did. I can tell.”
“You’re taking it all the wrong way, I’m sure. I can’t believe she’s stopped caring, not after all the things you’ve told me about her. Just drink that down, now. Mary made it fresh not an hour ago.”
“You’re a lucky man, Francis.” I leaned on him and began to weep, slopping the coffee. He forbore with the patience of a saint and replied: “Sure I am, Jimmy, and shall I tell you why? Because I know when to take my drink, don’t I? I don’t swill it down every payday and forget to go home, do I? No indeed. I’d lose Mary and the kids and all the rest of it, wouldn’t I? It’s self-control you need, Jimmy, and the sorrows in your heart be damned. Come on now. With any luck Herlihy won’t notice the state you’re in.”
But he did, and a litany of scorn was pronounced on my penitent head. I
took it with eyes downcast, turning my battered hat in my hands, and a dirtier nor more maudlin drunk could scarce have been seen in that city. I would be summarily fired, I was assured, but they needed men today so bad they’d employ even the likes of me, though by God next time—
When the boss had done excoriating me I was dismissed to help unload a cargo of copra from the
Nevadan,
in from the islands yesterday. I sniveled and tottered and managed not to drop anything much. O’Neil stayed close to me the whole day, watchful lest I pass out or wander off. He was a good friend to the abject caricature I presented; God knows why he cared. Well, I should repay his kindness, at least, though in a manner he would never have the opportunity to appreciate.
We sweated until four in the afternoon, when there was nothing left to take off the
Nevadan;
let go then with directions to the next day’s job, and threats against slackers.
“Now, Kelly.” O’Neil took my arm and steered me with him back toward Market Street. “I’ll tell you what I think you ought to do. Go home and have a bit of a wash in the basin, right? Have you clean clothes? So, put on a clean shirt and trousers and see can you scrape some of that off your boots. Then, come over to supper at our place. Mary’s bought some sausages, we thought we’d treat ourselves to a dish of coddle now that Lent’s over. We’ve plenty.”
“I will, then.” I grasped his hand. “O’Neil, you’re a lord for courtesy.”
“I am not. Only go home and wash, man!”
We parted in front of the Terminal Hotel and I hurried back to the HQ to follow his instructions. This was just the sort of chance I’d been angling for since I’d sought out the man on the basis of the Genetic Survey Team report.
An hour later, as cleanly as the character I played was likely to be able to make himself, I ventured along Market Street, heading down in the direction of the tenement where O’Neil and his family lived, the boardinghouses in the shadow of the Palace Hotel. I knew their exact location, though O’Neil was of course unaware of that; accordingly he had sent a pair of his children down to the corner to watch for me.

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