Saint Vidicon to the Rescue

Chapter 10

Finally the Demon moved. “Perhaps there are more ways of letting things work than those of the centuries,” it said. “Stand aside, mortal. Nay, begone completely, for the heat I shall expend in melting that weld would be quite unpleasant for you.”

Tony stepped aside, as far aside as he could—in fact, out of the valve, out of the radioactive water (and he had to remind himself again and again that he wasn’t vulnerable to it in spirit form) and up to the control chamber. He didn’t stop there, though—the sensation of upward movement went on even as sight went away and brightness surrounded him, as though he rose through a sunlit cloud. It darkened, though, to a deep ruby, then dissipated, and he found himself walking the maroon hallway next to St. Vidicon, who clapped him on the shoulder and laughed. “Well done, Tony! You led the creature in a circle back to its own original assumptions!”

“Did it work?” Tony asked anxiously.

“Look and see.” St. Vidicon pointed to a mirror on the wall; it clouded over, then cleared, showing a close-up of a meter with its colors receding down from red through yellow toward green—but as Tony watched, it grew smaller and he saw more and more of the control panel which housed it, then saw Tom watching it and trembling with relief. “You can take off the suits now, guys! Somehow we have control back.”

The mirror clouded over again, and St. Vidicon said, “They will have to troubleshoot the circuit, of course. It might be polite of you to create some minor misconnection for them to find.”

Tony sighed, beginning to relax—and suddenly realized he was exhausted. “Tomorrow night, okay? I’m kinda shot right now.”

“Don’t worry, your body will wake up fully rested,” St. Vidicon assured him, “with more than enough energy to take Sandy dancing.”

Dinner was lasagna at Marinara, then drinks at Bandillero. Tony had kept up the dancing lessons, which proved to be a good thing, because the band played a samba, and Sandy was delighted to find he could dance well enough for her to enjoy it. On the way home in the cab, she sat very close, so Tony held her hand and enjoyed the pressure of her shoulder and thigh against his as he asked where she had learned Latin dancing. This time he didn’t ask the cab driver to come back. After all, he had a cell phone.

He also had cognac, and Sandy sat very close again. The stereo was playing the music from Carmen, and his heart pounded in time to the beat of the “Habenera” as he kissed her, then kissed her again.

Her lips were soft and moist and warm, and the tip of her tongue traced sparks across his lips. He drew a shuddering breath; then, since his mouth was open, he tried touching her lips with his tongue and was amazed at her answering gasp, even more amazed, when he explored further, that she went rigid.

Only for a moment—then she melted, and their mouths fused together. When she lifted her head to breathe, her eyes were wide with surprize. Tony’s probably were, too, but he wasn’t aware of himself at all, only of her, as he lowered his head and began nibbling her lips. She stiffened again, then caught his hand and lifted it to cup her breast.

Tony froze for a moment, startled, then began to caress. She squirmed, murmuring into the kiss. Then he felt her fingers light upon his chest, felt her undoing buttons, then her fingertips against his skin.

He was aware only of her mouth, her breast, and the tingling on his own chest. Then he lifted his head to gasp, and say, “I’d better go.”

“Go?” Sandy stared at him, shocked, then darkened with anger. “This is a hell of a time to say good night, mister!”

“It would be worse a little later,” Tony said. “You don’t want me to do anything you’ll regret.”

“Oh yes I do!” Sandy pressed against him, churning, and her fingers danced. “But I won’t regret it.”

“I don’t want . . .”

“Yes you do.” Her fingers searched for proof, and it was Tony’s turn to gasp. “And don’t try to tell me you’re gay—I have evidence to the contrary.”

“Oh, I want sex, sure enough,” Tony said, “but not until we’re married.”

Sandy turned into a staring statue. Then she said, in a very stiff voice, “You can have sex. You don’t have to con me.”

“I don’t want to,” Tony said. “I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

“I could say no,” Sandy said through wooden lips.

“If you did, you’d be really glad we hadn’t gone further than this.” Tony held up a palm. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not proposing yet—only giving you fair warning. After all, we really have to know each other a lot better before you decide to let me ask.”

Desire seemed to slacken as Sandy frowned and looked down, brooding. “Asking is nice,” she said. “I don’t know about asking if you can ask, though.” She looked up again, and desire came roaring back. “And I don’t know if I want to wait that long.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Tony said.

Sandy stared into his eyes for a minute, then said softly, “Maybe that’s one of the things we need to find out.”

“You mean if I really can stop if you say to?” Tony smiled. “I think I can. It’ll be difficult, though.”

“It is already.” Sandy’s voice shook as she said, “But if you’re going to say good night, you’d better go.”

“Okay then. Good night.” Tony brushed his lips over hers in what he meant to be a chaste kiss, but it made her shiver anyway. She went to the door with him, and the kiss there was anything but chaste. When he came up for air, he found he was on the other side of a closing door.

Tony went down the stairs, his head feeling curiously light while a sudden bright energy went coursing through him. It almost made up for the frustration.

That week, Tony could scarcely keep his mind on business long enough to get started. Fortunately, in his line of work, people were used to programmers who sat staring at computer screens for long periods of time. Sooner or later he’d remember why he was at that particular office and get back to analyzing the problem he’d been sent to solve, and once he could manage to make a start, he could block out the rest of the world as he had always done and become fascinated with the malfunction.

“Computers are so much easier to understand than women,” he complained.

“That may be true,” said Father Vidicon, “but they’re nowhere nearly as fulfilling.”

“I could debate that,” Tony grumbled, “but I suppose you’re right. No matter how much you love a microprocessor, it can’t love you back.”

“But a woman might.”

“Might,” Tony echoed. “There’s no guarantee she will, is there? Or that the love will last.”

“Nothing in life is certain,” Father Vidicon reminded him.

Tony started to answer, but Father Vidicon frowned suddenly, head cocked as though listening.

Curiosity roared in Tony, but he held his peace, afraid to interrupt whatever the saint was hearing, until Father Vidicon sighed and turned to him. “Another stressed soul who could use a bit of help.”

The floor shook, and from somewhere deep below them came a muffled laugh, so deep that they felt it as much as heard it.

“I don’t think I’d better leave this place just now, though,” Father Vidicon said slowly, “even simply by concentrating on the plight of someone on Earth.”

“After all you’ve done for me, the least I can do is volunteer. Where to this time, Father?”

“An army encampment just outside Shanghai, China,” the saint said, “in 1863. You’re going to join the army, Tony.”

Tony stared, then said, “It doesn’t seem to matter what time people are calling you from.”

Father Vidicon nodded. “I hear appeals from people who were born twenty years before I was. That foolish author . . .”

“I thought you said 1863! That’s a little farther ago than . . . let’s see, you died when you were thirty-eight, in 2020 . . .”

“The man you’re helping is a time-travel agent,” Father Vidicon explained. “He was born in 368 in a village between Beijing and Tientsin and was left on a hillside to die because he had a harelip. The time-travel organization sent an agent to wait until everyone was out of sight, then scared away the wolf who’d been attracted by easy prey, picked up the baby, and took him forward to the 1980s, where they had a surgeon who could fix his lip and cleft palate. When he grew up, he decided to join the organization—after all, it was his home. He’s based in the 1950s, but some of the agents he knows travel hundreds of years into the future, so he knew about me and is calling for help.”

Tony frowned. “I don’t think a computer programmer is going to be much use in 1863.”

“No, but somebody who knows logic and has a gift for working with technology could be just what he needs,” Father Vidicon replied. “You see, he’s caught in a time loop.”

The roar of musket fire drowned out any other sounds as Chang Chu-Yi marched around the circle of musketeers, loading his musket as he went, but with quick glances over his shoulder at the ridiculous mongrel army that charged the T’ai-Ping line of marching circles. It was useless, for how could a few hundred Chinese and Europeans hope to prevail against the disciplined T’ai-Ping soldiers who kept up a continuous field of fire? Somehow, though, they were managing it, and as Chu-Yi came up to the front, he saw the slender dark-haired young man at their head, waving a rattan cane as though it were a secret weapon and shouting encouragement to his men. They responded, charging madly into the T’ai-Ping fire and, incredibly, losing only a few along the way. It was unnerving, so unnerving that the fire wavered as, here and there, a T’ai-Ping soldier fled from the impossible sight and the howling foreign devil who led. More fell with European musket balls in their chests and bellies as the Ever-Victorious Army came closer and closer until, on the verge of panic, the circles flattened into a ragged line, and the T’ai-Ping soldiers levelled their muskets in a single shattering broadside. It was their worst mistake, though, for as they all struggled to reload, the mercenary army bowled closer and closer.

Through it all, that ridiculous young Englishman came charging and yelling. Musket balls whistled past him, grooved his hair, tore his shirt, but none ever wounded him, and his soldiers shouted with triumph, for they followed an invulnerable leader with a charmed life whom no Chinese weapon could touch.

Then, suddenly, he shuddered, throwing up his arms and arching his back—then crumpling as blood gouted from his chest. Shocked, his soldiers jolted to a halt, staring in disbelief—but their young commander’s body jerked twice where it lay, then went limp.

The T’ai-Pings saw and howled victory, charging the tattered little army that turned and ran for the river boats that had brought them there, courage fallen with their stricken leader.

The absurd little cannon on the boat’s rear deck roared, giving the T’ai-Ping soldiers pause—and giving Chu-Yi the chance to blunder into a thicket of reeds that hid him from view. “Okay, Doc, reel me in!”

The scene around him wavered and grew dim, then faded and bleached into stark white walls—and Chang Chu-Yi stepped out of the time machine with a sigh of relief as he let himself go limp.

“Bad?” asked the twisted little man in the white lab coat.

“Battle always is.” Chu-Yi tried to shrug off the nightmare sight. “You were right, though—a T’ai-Ping musket ball definitely did kill Gordon a month after he took command.”

“And the Ever-Victorious Army stopped being victorious.” Doc Angus nodded.

Chu-Yi frowned. “What difference does that make to us? General Li has the real army, the one with tens of thousands of Chinese soldiers instead of two hundred guttersnipes. It’s he who won the war and put down the T’ai-Pings, not Gordon.”

“But the European reporters made it seem as though it was Gordon who was the architect of victory,” Doc answered.

“Why should we care?”

“For the same reason General Li cared enough to go to bat for Gordon and talk him into coming back to lead the Ever-Victorious Army after the prince dismissed him,” Doc Angus said. “Li knew he needed European support, and it was Gordon who was bringing it for him.”

“They didn’t need support! They were doing just fine without England or any of the other European powers!”

“Li was.” Doc turned away to lead Chu-Yi out of the time machine bay and into the hubbub of the common room. “The Manchus were in trouble, though, and Li knew what was going to happen when they fell.”

“Anarchy,” Chu-Yi said. “There was always anarchy when the barbarians came charging in and brought down a dynasty.”

“Only this time,” Doc said, “the barbarians weren’t Mongols or Turks or Manchus—they were English and German and French.”

“You forgot the Americans.”

“So did the Manchus.” Doc pulled out a chair at a cocktail table. “Sit.”

Chu-Yi wavered, months of abstinence in the T’ai-Ping army warring with his desire for a civilized drink. Then he sat with a sigh of delight.

“Wallow in luxury while you can.” Doc Angus sat with him.

“I know—I have to go back and save Gordon’s life,” Chu-Yi said. “I still don’t understand why.”

“Sure, General Li could easily win the war without him,” Doc Angus said, “but he’s clever enough to know that Gordon attracts good publicity, and considering how chowderheaded that incompetent young emperor is and how quickly his mandarins alienate the Western ambassadors, China needs all the publicity it can get if it’s going to take its rightful place as a leader in the world community.”

“Ridiculous,” Chu-Yi said. “China already is the leader of the world community, everyone knows that—at least, everyone in China. It’s the oldest, most cultured country on earth, and those insolent barbarians are mere flyspecks.”

“Li knows better,” Doc said. “Li knows that those ignorant barbarians could make the empire suffer, and suffer very badly, if China can’t pull itself together. That’s why he’s fighting a native Chinese rebellion for a Manchu emperor—and that’s why he needs Gordon and his favorable publicity.”

“And that’s why I’m going out to kill some poor T’ai-Ping soldier before he can kill Gordon.” Chu-Yi sighed.

“Also to save the people from the anarchy that will follow the fall of the Manchus,” Doc said. “Li doesn’t want hundreds of thousands of people to die from starvation and disease, or in the battles between the warlords who always crop up when a Chinese dynasty falls.”

Chu-Yi frowned. “And with the British already talking about bringing in an army to enforce the concessions the trade treaty gave them, the Manchu emperor is going to look as though he can’t hold China together.”

Doc Angus made an impatient gesture, then looked up as the waiter brought their drinks. “Thanks, Joe.” As the waiter turned away, Doc Angus turned back to Chu-Yi without taking a sip. “The current emperor is an idiot. Well, okay, not an idiot, but not exactly a genius, either—only a very ordinary man who’s been spoiled rotten from birth and hasn’t the slightest idea how to govern a country.”

“Then it’s a good thing his advisors don’t let him do it—because they can run China by themselves.”

“They could, if they weren’t each concerned with seeing how much money he can pile up and hoard,” Doc Angus said, “and with carving China up into their own petty kingdoms—and when the British burn the Summer Palace, all China will realize how weak the Manchu dynasty has become.”

Chu-Yi froze as the implications trickled in. Then he said, “So even if Li does succeed in putting down the T’ai-Ping Rebellion, thousands of individual soldiers will run for their lives and still be around—and when ‘Emperor’ Hung Hsiu-Chien commits suicide, they’ll simply say they have an ally in Heaven.”

Doc Angus nodded. “So if the Manchu government folds fifty years early—which it will, without European support—all it will take will be one defeated leader coming out of hiding and raising the banner again, and the rebellion will be back on. Do you really want to see China united while America is still building its railroads—and united under a bizarre sort of government that’s willing to adopt European weapons and European army discipline at the same time that it rules its citizens with a fundamentalist zeal that makes the Puritans look liberal?”

Chu-Yi shuddered at the thought.

“The T’ai-Pings are Christians, after all,” Doc said. “Very weird Christians, but Christians—and European preachers were ranting that England and Germany should support them against the pagan Chinese, until the reporters started telling the West just how distorted T’ai-Ping Christianity was.”

“And Gordon is a Protestant fanatic.” Chu-Yi nodded. “He thinks the T’ai-Pings are blasphemous.”

Doc shrugged. “With their self-styled emperor and prophet claiming to be the younger brother of Jesus? You bet he thinks they’re blasphemous.”

“So General Li needs him for propaganda value.” Chu-Yi nodded, resigned. “If Gordon lives, the reporters who follow him will convince Europe that the T’ai-Pings are the worst threat since Genghis Khan—and when the Manchus fall, they’ll help anybody but the T’ai-Pings.”

“There won’t be any of them left, if Gordon lives,” Doc Angus said. “The Empress Dowager will take over and keep the Manchus in power until all the T’ai-Ping survivors are dead of old age.” He gave a bleak smile. “Of course, that doesn’t mean their grandchildren won’t band together to overthrow her successor.”

“The Kuomintang.” Chu-Yi nodded. “Okay, you’ve convinced me. Gordon has to live.” He finished his high-ball and stood up. “Time for a haircut.”