The Gilded Age Part 9

"I'll feed ya. You got a bed."

"What about clothes? I've got nothing but these. What if I need medicine?" Zhu cast about for other necessities. She needed to get her hands on some cash. If young women were so easily bought and sold in San Francisco, maybe she could buy Wing Sing from Chee Song Tong. "Jewelry," she tried again. "Books? Entertainment?"

"Lordy, now her highness wants jewels and the theatre."

"Come on, Miss Malone. Pay me a salary. Something."

Grumbling, Jessie scribbled in a monthly stipend of five dollars and added six months to the term.

And Zhu signed. She never held a pen like this in her life. You dipped the tip in a pot of ink. She offered her handshake, and Jessie took it. Pulling herself together after the dreadful first day and even more dreadful first night of the Gilded Age Project, Zhu advised Jessie--with all due sympathy and a charm she didn't know she possessed-that the corpulent madam really ought to loosen her corset because the undergarment could be causing her internal organs to hemorrhage.

Now Zhu sc.r.a.pes back her chair from the dining table, strides out of the room. Her face burns with anger. She won't tolerate abuse from Jessie, not in front of Daniel and Mr. Schultz.

Jessie chases after her, catches up with her in the foyer. "h.e.l.l, I'm sorry, missy," she says. "I know you don't drink. You're d.a.m.n near the only one around here who don't."

As the gentlemen drift from the dining room to the smoking parlor, the madam's eyes pool with sorrow, contrition, and genuine perplexity. A jumble of pa.s.sions plays across her face. Jessie is only forty years old, but she looks like a centenarian from Zhu's day. She slips a gold coin into Zhu's palm. "You know I like you. You're a smart kid. You're different from the rest of the girls. In the time you've been here, I've come to depend a lot on you. Honestly, I don't know what comes over me."

"You want them to know you control me. It gives you pleasure. That's what comes over you."

Jessie's cornflower-blue eyes widen. "Lordy, am I as terrible as all that?"

"You are," Zhu says and pockets the precious coin.

Jessie smiles at her bluntness. "I'm the Queen of the Underworld, and I take c.r.a.p from no one, no how."

"And I don't take c.r.a.p from you, Miss Malone. I will order your red wine, and I will check up on the Mansion, including Li'l Lucy. But I am my own woman, and I have my own business affairs in San Francisco. Don't you forget that."

Jessie's eyes turn dark and suspicious, then shrewd. Zhu braces herself for Jessie's challenge, but she only says, "Never met a chit like you, Zhu. You can't be more than sixteen. That's why I paid through the nose for you."

Zhu wants to say that she's thirty. She wants to boast that she can expect to live to one hundred twenty years and more. That even a b.u.mpkin like her from a jerkwater town like Changchi has been gene-tweaked, edited, Blocked, jacked for teles.p.a.ce, and morphed. But she swallows her boast. It's not Jessie's business how old she really is.

"I'm older than you know," is all Zhu says.

Zhu climbs the stairs to her room, intending to change her morning dress into suitable outing togs, when Daniel confronts her in the hall.

His suite is on the north side of the house. He has no business on the south side. He smells of tobacco, liquor, a cologne evocative of some exotic spice. He doesn't hurry down the hall like the other boarders do, but purposefully steps in her path, his expression inexplicable.

"Good day, Mr. Watkins," she says and attempts to pa.s.s him, but he stands in her way. The tension she always feels around him rises in her nerves, making her clumsy. She had a man friend once in her early twenties, but their brief relations.h.i.+p couldn't survive the rigors of the Cause or Zhu's dedication to the Daughters of Compa.s.sion. She isn't totally ignorant of s.e.x. Still, she can't explain why his glance makes her heart lurch. "Mariah's not in. I believe she went out to the apothecary."

"I am not here to see Mariah. I am here to see you."

"Is Miss Malone troubling you for the rent? I'm just the bookkeeper, there's nothing I can do."

"Miss Malone does not trouble me. You trouble me, Miss Wong."

"Oh, indeed?" She ducks around him, hurries down the hall. "But why?"

Close behind her, he catches her wrist. "You are not who you claim to be. The runaway mistress of a British gentleman, by way of Hong Kong and Seattle? I think not."

She's speechless. He stands over her less than a hand's breath away. She is acutely aware of his physical presence, bristling and insistent. Paranoia rushes through her, and her heart knocks in her chest. He and Mr. Schultz are forever regaling her with questions at the dining table, and she isn't sure her answers are always correct. d.a.m.n the Luxon Inst.i.tute for Superluminal Applications for rus.h.i.+ng her through the training! The shuttle will be ready in two days, Chiron told her. It's vital that you go on the t-port at once. Muse will fill you in, Chiron told her. Yes, well. Muse seems to have forgotten just exactly why she's here. The Pest House, the jail for Chinese. Trust me, you don't want to go there. She's a Chinese woman without family or allies or doc.u.mentation in San Francisco, 1895. A wealthy white American man could do so many bad things to her.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, sir," she says, polite and deferential, casting her eyes down.

Daniel just stands there, boldly examining her.

"Won't you tell me what you mean?" she persists. If she's made errors, she'd better find out about them. She'd better consult with Muse and correct them.

"Mr. Schultz works for the China Line. He says you do not know the proper name of the s.h.i.+p that supposedly brought you from Hong Kong to Seattle."

"Why, it was the Wandering Jew, sir. I told you that."

He shakes his head. "The Jew's port of destination is Cuba, not Seattle."

She can only stare. How could the Archivists have been wrong about the name of her s.h.i.+p? They knew all sorts of tiny details-that a runaway Chinese girl would seek refuge in the j.a.panese Tea Garden on the Fourth of July, 1895, for instance. What kind of d.a.m.n fool did Chiron take her for?

"Go to your room," he says, "and I shall follow."

He's got something on her, and she knows it. The immigration authorities would be very interested in a Chinese woman without proper papers. Under the Exclusion Act of 1888, a Chinese woman like her is strictly forbidden to enter the United States except under specific circ.u.mstances. Proper connections. A husband. A family. And doc.u.mentation. Above all else, doc.u.mentation.

Does he mean to turn her in, collect a reward? She knows he's got family a.s.sets in town, but he's hard up for cash. Is that what this is all about?

She takes out her key and unlocks the suite, misgivings pounding in her heart. They enter the small parlor she and Mariah share. Mariah is as secretive as Zhu and considerate beyond the bounds of courtesy. She has created her own aesthetic in the homey room-handcrafted oaken chairs, rustic colorful braided wool rugs, wood carvings of farm animals, black iron tools set before the brick fireplace. One day, the country look will be considered as significant a form of interior decoration as Jessie's Victorian excesses, the carved animals highly prized antiques. But in this Now, Mariah's parlor is merely provincial, reflecting the tastes and means of the American lower cla.s.ses.

Zhu gestures to a chair for him, seats herself.

"I said, in your room."

It occurs to Zhu that he's drunk. "We can talk here, Mr. Watkins. I told you, Mariah went out after breakfast. She won't be back for a while."

"In your room," he repeats. He stands over her, a.s.serting his physical presence. Is he threatening her? Oh, yeah.

Zhu is no weakling. After years in Changchi, in the fields, in the factories, she's strong and muscular. During the campaign, the Daughters of Compa.s.sion insisted on self-defense training for all comrades. She could hold her own in combat with this man, despite his superior size and weight. She turns this a.s.sessment over in her mind, readying herself, bracing herself. He thinks he can push her around, does he? Mr. Daniel J. Watkins, ent.i.tled to whatever he wants?

She leaps to her feet and poises her hands, taking a fighting stance.

He circles her curiously. She balances herself, turning to face him.

He seizes her arm, faster than he ought to be after brandy and champagne, and heaves himself at her, using brute force. The single-mindedness of his a.s.sault astonishes her, and they stagger back together, she tripping on the d.a.m.n skirt, he bullying against her like a locomotive.

She twists away and dashes to her bedroom door, reaching frantically for her second key.

Daniel springs after her, catching her arm again, her waist. He kicks the door open, flings her inside. She regains her balance, whirls, dives at him, punching, pus.h.i.+ng him out the door. But he's got his foot wedged between the door and the jamb. He pushes back and shoves inside.

"Go on, fight me, miss," he says, laughing. "I know you don't want it. So fight me. A lady would fight me."

She gasps beneath the corset, fighting for breath, her lungs bursting against the stays. He shoves her onto the bed, knocking the wind out of her.

And then something even stranger than his a.s.sault happens-the room goes pitch-dark for an instant. Black, then stark white, then black again.

Is she losing consciousness? Oh, h.e.l.l!

Or is this a probability collapsing out of the timeline?

The LISA techs never told her what happened when a probability collapsed out of the timeline. What that event felt like when you were there. What happened to reality. What should she expect? And does this mean, in the far future, the victim of her murder attempt has died and all of s.p.a.cetime has changed?

Is he alive or dead?

And what about her? Is she dying? Or has she never existed at all, and this is what it feels like to be extinguished from existence?

But no, she finds herself p.r.o.ne on the bed in the tangle of her skirts, and arousal flares up in her like a fever. Suddenly the struggle with him excites her. She wants him. She needs him. She seizes him, tearing off his jacket, his vest, his s.h.i.+rt.

He contests her hands as if she still fights against him and not for her own pleasure.

How long has it been since she's bedded a man? And it's crazy, it was never supposed to happen this way. What does the Cause mean in this ancient day? She arches her back, uttering strange sounds. She rocks back, seeking her rapture.

He seizes her jaw. "Don't move like that," he commands. "Only wh.o.r.es move like that. And you're not a wh.o.r.e, are you, miss?"

"No." She stares into his haunted eyes, startled.

"Then lie still. If you're a lady, you will lie still."

He rears above her, watching as she stills herself. She presses the edge of the coverlet to her mouth, grits her teeth.

She expects a scolding from Muse, but none comes.

"Yes, you're a lady," Daniel whispers as he pounds into her. "You hate it, don't you? A lady is supposed to hate it. Do you not know how much I adore you?"

Zhu pulls the veil over her face and steps out onto Dupont Street, bound for the wine merchant's shop in North Beach. Her body thrums with the sheer satisfaction of new s.e.x while her commonsense a.s.sails her. What in h.e.l.l are you doing, Zhu? This isn't supposed to happen.

Daniel J. Watkins is a bully and a fool. He practically raped her. What pathetic and ignorant att.i.tudes toward s.e.x and women the men of this day have! It will take another seventy-five years before men come close to understanding women. Or understanding s.e.x. Maybe.

He is a deeply troubled young man. Zhu should complain to Jessie. She should get him thrown out of the boardinghouse. She should stay away from him.

Daniel, oh Daniel.

Stop it. What has come over her?

Now a trade wagon pa.s.ses by her on the street, the body built to look like a gigantic cigar set on wheels, a sign advertising Sloat's Smoke Shoppe & Sundries on Montgomery. The emaciated driver, clad in tobacco brown, is no doubt his own best patron. With a whip and the reins clutched in his pointed little hands, he looks a lot like a weevil perched on the end of the huge cigar.

The whimsical cigar wagon turns the corner, advertising Smythe's Sundries & Smoke Shoppe on Sansome. Zhu chuckles to herself. Almighty advertising. She doesn't smoke but wonders what clever sundries Mr. Smythe may stock.

But, wait a minute.

The gilt lettering across the giant cigar said Montgomery, not Sansome. Smoke Shoppe & Sundries, not the other way around. And Sloat's. She's quite sure she saw Sloat's, not Smythe's.

What the h.e.l.l? Is she suffering from tachyonic lag, a common side effect of a t-port? A disturbance of the mind and the body caused by superluminal drift during the crossing over? Inducing fatigue, disorientation, even hallucinations?

"Muse?" she whispers. "Excuse me, what's going on?"

Muse is silent.

Oh, come on. Maybe the sign is like the woman wearing the face glove in Golden Gate Park. Zhu was fooled by the illusion of a clear complexion till the sun exposed her mask. Or maybe Zhu saw the other side of the wagon when the driver turned the corner and two smoke shops advertise on this wagon.

She dashes to the corner before the wagon can clatter out of sight. On the right side, she sees Smythe's Sundries & Smoke Shoppe on Sansome. She dashes around to the other side. On the left, the same ad. The driver, who now is positively stout and clad in an olive green suit, smiles and tips his bowler, pleased at her attention.

"d.a.m.n it, Muse," she whispers to the monitor. "What's happening to the cigar wagon?"

"I tried to warn you," Muse whispers. "He's a man of 1895. A social Darwinist."

Zhu stops in her tracks at the monitor's nonresponsive answer. "Excuse me again. What are you talking about?"

"I told you he had designs on you. He thinks he's ent.i.tled."

"You said no such thing!"

"Of course I did. I warned you to be careful. He cares nothing for you. To him, you are less than an animal."

"Oh, really. He said he adores me."

"You of all women should be outraged."

"He was forceful. And you know? I didn't mind. I enjoyed it. Paul"-that was her one-time lover in her twenties-"was always so hesitant. So unsure of himself." Now she's irritated. "Why are you opposing me, Muse? You're supposed to monitor my progress with the project. You're supposed to help me."

"I'm not opposing you. I am helping you."

"Oh, really? What about Wing Sing? How can I find her?"

Muse posts a calendar in her peripheral vision. "The package you ordered should arrive at the Mansion today." Another non sequitur? Or maybe not.

Yes, the package. Maybe what the package contains will help her in her search for Wing Sing. "All right," she says, weary of Muse's weird behavior. "But what about the cigar wagon?"

"What cigar wagon?"

Right. She trudges up the long, slow slope, silent and troubled. Is the monitor deliberately being cruel?

How much more cruelty can she bear?

The Generation-Skipping Law was cruel, but a population of twelve billion people inhabiting this frail Earth caused even more cruelty. Too many pollutants in the air and the water and the soil. Climate change had whittled away rich coastlines, waste clogged rivers and streams, salt water contaminated fresh. Chemicals, radiation, and heavy metals degraded food and drinking water. Desperate poverty crushed eight billion people. Disease wracked their lives. Hunger and thirst dogged their days and nights.

Yet still the population increased, due to the phenomenon of exponential growth. Fertility outpaced mortality in a cruel game of statistical tag.