This is heartening news. I realize that sooner or later, John Makepeace and his buddies are gonna come roaring out of their encampments and overrun us like kudzu, but just maybe we can take advantage of this pause to set up some worthy defenses. Maybe there’s something we can do to the aliens before they get their satellite dish working and call in reinforcements.
Jade and I have sat down to snarf a muchly appreciated breakfast of baos and rice when Cinderblock informs us of a late-breaking development out at the Presidio.
“Hismajesty wants a debriefing yesterday,” she says. “He’s one confused monarch right about now. I had Conchita and Luz try to explain what happened the other night up on the Mountain, but I don’t think he got half of it. It seems he needs a little hand-holding at this especially trying time.”
She is looking at me, but it’s Jade who shakes her head and gives answer. “Del don’t have the time to go hold His M’s cold, clammy little hand. He’s got another miraculous rescue to plan. I’ll take care of the Majesties.”
She turns to me as a sort of after-thought and gives me the old melting-chocolate gaze.
Damn, but I’m a sucker for that look. Fact is, though, I’d been sitting there trying to think of some way to get my bride up to the Presidio anyway. Just in case all hell were to break loose here. Let someone who’s not hauling Taquitos handle the warrioring.
I smile and nod. “You’re better at soothing Mercedes twitchy breast than I am, anyway,” I say.
“But you’ll let me know the minute anything breaks,” she commands.
I glance at Cinderblock, who glances back. We smile and nod.
Once General Firescape has headed off for the Presidio, I call a council of war with my confederates, trying to ignore the feeling that this is one battle we can’t win. Cinderblock is there, along with the commanding officers of all the Embarcaderan guard units. I bring Hoot, Lou, Deadend, Berk and, of course, Doug.
We gather in the Pit of the Regency throne room to hear Berk give the latest breaking report from the front. As Cinderblock has duly noted, the aliens have circled the winnebagoes. Not so much as an alien toe is glimpsed beyond their perimeters.
Huh. And all because of a handful of silicon chips and wires.
I gotta admit this situation makes me awfully nervous. Mostly ‘cause I don’t like waiting for stuff to happen — especially bad stuff. Now, you’d think a guy who’s just faced down a major spiritual nemesis would be a little less twitchy about the idea of facing a merely human enemy armed with nothing more deadly than laser rifles, but I feel a severe need to take action. Question is: what action can we take that won’t make a lot of innocent folks deadjim?
I am pondering this when I realize that, once again, all eyes are on yours truly.
“We gotta find a way,” I say slowly, carefully, “to drive the alien menace from our fair land. And the only way we can do this is to raise an army from every barrio of every kingdom on the Peninsula.”
“A tall order,” says Hoot. “I can tell you, right now, old Elvis ain’t gonna go for any joint effort. Not unless you can convince him it’s a win-win situation. Elvis, he likes to go with a winner and he’s got this jingbing idea that our weapons are no match for alien laser rifles.”
“Yeah, but we got magic,” argues Creepy Lou. “The alienth don’t got magic. They don’t even believe in magic.”
“Any sufficiently advanced tech is indistinguishable from the aforementioned,” paraphrases Hoot. “Arthur C. Clarke. Elvis can’t tell the difference. Even if he did believe we got magic — which he don’t — he thinks the aliens got more of same. Elvis is somewhat of a pragmatist.”
Such discouraging words from my most bosom buddy make me want to whine. I don’t. I just say, “We gotta try,” real calm. Calm is not how I feel, ni dong, but it’s how I gotta act.
Hoot raises his eyebrows. “Well, hell yeah! I mean, if you can convince Elvis and his fellow monarchs and elected reps to do something together, that’d be a miracle — part of your stock in trade, Chickpea.”
Hoot has a good point, and immediately my head fills up with visions of winnebagoes driving off into the sunrise as we, citizens of every nation — Embarcadero, Potrero, Bernal, Merced and Excelsior — watch, united and victorious.
Yeah, right.
“Then, we’re gonna try, right?” asks Creepy Lou.
Berk and Deadend just exchange looks.
“What good’s it gonna do to drive ‘em off?” asks Deadend. “I say we gotta wipe ‘em out.”
This pronouncement makes my guts quiver. I don’t want anybody’s blood on my hands, not even alien blood. I wonder for a moment if that’s how the Ohlone felt when they realized the invaders’ plans for them did not include their continued existence as a people. I wonder if there’s any other way to deal with someone else wanting something you got and want to keep.
In the middle of this quivery quandary, I remember something I heard John Makepeace say to his guys.
I say: “The aliens are here ‘cause they told the folks at home this was going to be easy. They’ve got these people called Backers. And these Backers pay for their stuff. They’ve got to convince the Backers this renovation is a good idea that’s going to bring in lots of tourists and lots of money. If they have to run home with their tails draggin', their Backers aren't gonna waste any more money to try again.”
“Are you sure about that?” asks Splendid, Commandant of the Union Square Brigade.
I’m not sure — not precisely sure — but since that was the gist of what I overheard, I nod solemnly.
“What if they never get home?” asks Berk. “Same difference, right? I mean, their Backers aren’t likely to send any more of 'em, right?”
I start to open my mouth, but Cinderblock beats me to the punch. “Difference is, fish-head, that we don’t have to kill them. Which means we don't gotta deal with the possibility of revenge. It'd be better to scare the cajones off ‘em.”
Berk subsides a bit and nods. “Okay. So let’s s’pose if we can get a multi-national fighting force together, we can drive the aliens off. I’d say we’re gonna have to scare the cajones off the alcaldés, too. If we want 'em to haul ass together, we may have to give ‘em an idea of what it’s gonna be like if they don’t.”
“A pogrom?” asks Deadend, dryly.
“The worst,” says Berk, missing the sarcasm.
Sometimes Berk’s thoughts get so thick I think it’s hard for him to see through them. This means he misses a lot of what goes on outside his own head. Surprise is, he’s actually a pretty good smeagol in spite of it.
“We’ll do a little of everything,” I decide. “We’ll threaten a little calamity and promise a little utopia and pray they’ll believe the magic will come through again."
Hoot grins. “If they could’ve been up on that Mountain with you, they’d believe.”
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t on the Mountain,” says Deadend, “So, I’m not sure what to believe. And you can’t send the Mountain to the monarchs.”
O, out of the mouths of smeagols.
I summon knighties to the Palace and assign four teams of six. Each team has a letter from Yours Truly (and bearing the Royal Seal of Embarcadero) briefly laying out our collective problem, our intended solution, what benefits will accrue if we succeed and what horrors will result if we don’t. From Doug, I humbly and reverently remove four branchlets, which I bind to the rolled-up letters with braided locks of my hair.
Hey, look — you find something that works, you go with it.
Cinderblock, meanwhile, mobilizes our troops and stations them at ready positions near the alien camps. Then we wait.
While we wait, my curiosity gets the better of me and I end up tugging Doug down to the Tin Hau. Once I’m in the hustle-bustle part of the Sang Yee Gah, I get stopped about every ten feet or so by someone who wants to know what’s happening with the aliens.
All I can say is, “We’re working on it.”
I realize someth
ing really funny (as in head-twisting funny, not amusing funny or oo-ee-e-oo funny). This is that not very many people have clue one about what really happened on that Mountain the other night between me and Chen. Oh, sure, the grapevine’s been activated and smeagols and knighties have spread all sorts of tales, but mostly folks’ve heard the tale, said, “Wow, that’s neon,” then, settled on the aliens as the problem de jour. Naturally, they are waiting for someone to do something about it.
It’s kind of like Moses, you know? I mean, here He is, telling the Israelites that God’s talking to them again and has all sorts of spiritual glory saved up for them, and all they can say is, “Yeah, but can you do something about these Egyptians?”
Not that I am in any way comparing myself with Moses, ni dong. I’m a mere merlin, not a Buddha, but you get the idea.
Most of the folks I talk to don’t get that the Big Battle has been fought and won; they just want the Powers that Be (meaning me and the Majesties and the knighties) to get rid of John Makepeace. And if we can’t get rid of John Makepeace, Hismajesty Mercedes will go down in history as a monarchal flop, I will flop right beside him, and what should have been a Golden Age for the Golden Mountain will be spoken of by future generations as the Dark Ages.
I kick myself right about here, ‘cause I know I’m being unduly hard on the good citizens of Embarcadero. They don’t deserve me ragging on them; they deserve me doing my damnedest to defeat the alien menace.
The Tin Hau is pretty much the same as ever. The monks pray, the offerings char, the incense smokes up the place real good. Doug and I hang inside the doorway of the sanctuary for a moment, wondering what do next, when one of the monks comes over, smiling.
I gotta clamp my jaw shut to keep it from dropping — it’s Brother Howin, whom I last saw getting psychically battered by the late, great Master Shen Ah Nen. He is noticeably un-bespelled. I can tell because when I look into his eyes, there’s a light on, if you know what I mean.
He bows very low to me and Doug and says, “Nin hao, most illustrious shaman. Nin hao, most excellent Tree. To what do we owe this kind visit?”
“I just wondered how you guys were doing,” I say, and notice that other monks are beginning to gather around us. Once upon a time, this would have made me muy nervous. “I mean, I wanted to make sure you were all right after, um, after Master Chen...uh ...left.”
Eloquence incarnate.
The young monk’s smile deepens. “We are well, great shaman, for which bounty our Master, Ho, would like to thank you.”
The cluster of monks nod and smile, reminding me of a flock of pigeons cadging bread crumbs.
“Master Ho?” I repeat.
“Come,” says Brother Howin, and beckons me to follow him through the dragon-screened door.
I gotta admit, this gives me serious pause. I tremble a little as I go down the hall toward the stairs that lead up to the shrine of Shen Ah Nen. But the stair is no longer hidden, the door is wide open, and sunlight tumbles down the stairs in fits and starts.
The monks cheerfully carry Doug up the long flight, while he waves like some kind of conquering hero — which, in a manner of speaking, he is.
The doors to the shrine are open too, and I can see from here how much the place has changed. It’s still ornate and rich in colors and smells, but the imperial din is gone and so are all the little stands and tables with their pilfered relics. There is only a simple altar, and shelves full of books and herbs.
A monk is at the altar setting out candles when we walk in.
“Master,” says Howin. “They are here.”
Wow. Like we were expected or something.
The Master turns and greets me with eyes that sparkle like apache tears. It is the old monk who gave me the shen, without which...who knows? There is much bowing and mutual thanking and then the monks melt away, leaving Doug and me alone with Master Ho.
“Many thanks, shaman,” says the Master and it strikes me that no one’s called me ‘merlin’ since I got here. Seems as if I been promoted. He waves a hand at the room. “I wanted you to see that where Shen had sown darkness, you have reaped light.”
I remember just about then what’s cluttering up the pocket of my jeans. I pull the slightly singed shen out by its thong and hold it up.
“You knew,” is all I can say.
“His name of names?” He tilts his head. “He revealed it while trying to ensorcel me when he took over this Order. He was an arrogant creature, one who liked riddles and icons perhaps too much for his own benefit. He was never without one of these hanging about his neck.” He touches the shen with a fingertip and sets it swaying. “The gods love irony.”
“Why did you send for me?” I want to know. “Why did you give me the shen?”
He smiles, gap-tooth, reminding me of Lou. “I am a monk, not a shaman. I have no magic, only faith. My faith informed me that you have both. It appears my faith was well-informed.”
I blush all the way to my toes.
“It wasn’t me,” I say. “It was Doug and the Ohlone Dolores and Firescape and Hoot and Creepy Lou...and you. You were on that Mountain with me too, in spirit, I think.”
He holds out his hands palms up. “You are the fulcrum upon which other elements balance.”
Oh, boy. Monk-speak. I feel my brain start to quiver.
“Look,” I say. “We gotta go. We, um, kind of got another war going on. Material plane kind of stuff, nothing real important in the cosmic scheme, I s’pose, but well, if some aliens show up in a while and try to evict you, you’ll know we lost.”
“Ah. These aliens you speak of are the men who seek relics of the past, yes? Not unlike Shen in that way.”
“Yeah. And to them this city is one big fossil.”
“But they are wrong, are they not?” says Master Ho. “The city is a live thing. And a live thing has both a soul and a will.”
My brain is close to poached by the time Doug and I are back down in the Sanctuary, saying good-bye to all the monks, who crowd around, wanting to touch Doug’s boughs.
“Doug,” I murmur as we squeeze toward the entrance, “if I ever understand what a monk says, I’m going to be very concerned.”
“Thay Taco!” cries a muy familiar voice, and I look up to see Creepy Lou and Cinderblock in the door of the sanctuary.
Wrong knightie, but deja view, anyway. I suddenly miss Jade most painfully, and wonder if we’ll ever be able to just — oh, I dunno — sit in front of Bags’s and Kaymart’s fireplace together on a cold summer evening, with a cat, maybe.
Creepy Lou is as full of bounce as ever, but he lets Cinderblock do the narrating.
“The emissaries are in, Taco,” she tells me. “Excelsior says ‘yes.’ The Tsarina Khabaroff is sending out her crack troops. Prime Minister Tewksbury of Merced, however, wishes to delay his decision, pending further developments. There’s no word from Lord E and the Bernalis aren’t biting. The Sultan thinks it’s a trick to get him to leave the borders of his tiny republic open to attack.”
“One huzzah and three damns,” I say. “What are our chances?”
“Last count puts the alien incursion at 324. We can top that, troop-wise, but we don’t got the weaponry. For every AK we got, they got a laser rifle or a cannon, whereas we got nothing bigger than the semi-automatics. The Tsarina’s knighties aren’t any better off. According to smeagols, they got about thirty AKs between all of them and ordnance is a major problem.” She gives this big sigh. “Nothing like a real enemy to make you realize how little defense you really got."
"Oh, by the way,” she tells me as we make our way out of the Sang Yee Gah, “your old buddy Hec — I mean, Hoot — has taken off on some sort of mission. He wouldn’t say it right out, but I think he’s gone over into Potrero-Taraval to try to scare up some support among them as don’t care much for Lord E.”
“Hell,” I say, “that’d be half the populace.”
I get a glance at her face, then, and realize that something about this scenario
is really jinking with her head. I take a wild guess that somebody’s been getting better acquainted with somebody else while I been busy elsewhere.
“Hoot,” I comment, “is a rare dude. He can talk hisself in and out of just about anything.”
“Thilver-tongued devil,” agrees Lou.
Cinderblock just grimaces.
When we get back to the Palace, there is still no official word from Lord E. No surprise there — it’d be most un-Elvis-like to pick a side before the body count. I review our troops. Cinderblock is right. Even with the folks from Excelsior, we’re still holding the short end of the stick.
I take a moment to pull Doug aside and cast runes. I don’t know what else to do what with no Dolores to whisper at me any more. The center of my rune spread is a bottle cap with a little gold crown on it. Well, that’s pretty clear. I get Cinderblock to send knighties to bring Hismajesty out of the Presidio. A king, the runes say, should be at the head of his troops at a time like this. I try to disregard the fact that it will bring Firescape out of the Presidio as well.
As evening settles, so does a dense, truly nasty fog that is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It’s like all thirty-two known varieties rolled into one humongous ground-hugging wu dong frio of epic proportions. It’s the kind of fog that makes everybody talk in whispers and look over their shoulders. It’s the kind of fog that makes Berk the Smeagol wax poetic.
“Damn,” he says, peering out of the Palace windows during our next council of war. “You could lose yer socks in that stuff without ‘em ever leavin' yer feet.”
We discuss the timing of any raids we might pull off. The Tsarina’s General — an ex-smeagol named Nab — is all for clobbering the daylights out of our enemy in one big night time free-for-all. Cinderblock, Splendid, and Sweetie — veteran Captain of the Richmond Guard — recommend lightning fast hit-n-runs followed by a prolonged siege.
Taco Del and the Fabled Tree of Destiny Page 31
