Saint Vidicon to the Rescue

by Christopher Stasheff

  “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.”

  Chapter 11

  When the Manchus conquered China, they made the Chinese men shave their heads except for a pigtail down the back. When Hung So-Chien declared the advent of the T’ai-Ping Tien Kwoh, the Heavenly Kingdom of Great Peace with himself as emperor, and his troops conquered most of southern China, he banned the pigtail as a badge of Manchu oppression. For his masquerade as a T’ai-Ping soldier, Chu-Yi had only had to let his hair grow—but now, as a Chinese fighting for the Manchu Emperor, even though he was supposed to be a blatant mercenary working only for Gordon’s pay, he would still have to wear the pigtail—and no makeup would do when he would have to maintain the appearance for several days, sleeping and waking and in battle—so the barber shaved his head except for the small round of hair in the back, which he plaited into a queue. So, shaved and dressed in traditional Chinese costume, Chu-Yi stepped into the time machine to enlist in Gordon’s Ever-Victorious Army.

  “This foreign devil is crazier than the last one!” Po Chao grumbled as he cleaned his musket.

  “Maybe, but he wins the battles.” Chang Chu-Yi ran the whetstone along the blade of his knife. “I thought he was a fool, naming us the ‘Ever-Victorious Army’ when we’d never even won a skirmish.”

  Chao shrugged. “It sounded good to the merchants, and they’re the ones who pay us to keep Shanghai safe from these crazy T’ai-Pings.”

  “Assemble!” the sergeant bawled.

  Po Chao came to his feet with a sigh and shoved the ramrod back into its holder. “At least he waited until I’d finished cleaning. What is it now, I wonder?”

  “Probably another of this foreign devil’s ‘parades,’ ” Chu-Yi said, resigned. “Well, I don’t mind his checking our gear as long as we win.”

  They trotted down to the bare, beaten ground fringed by the bulrushes and reeds of the river and fell into place in the line, and the sergeants bawled, “Atten-hut!” in the finest English style as they stiffened into brace. The lean young Englishman stepped out between them and began to prowl along the front rank, his ludicrous rattan cane stuck under his arm.

  It was typical of the Western ethnocentrism of the time, Chu-Yi thought, that Gordon regarded the English form of drill as the only acceptable one. The Emperor’s troops knew how to line up, of course, but they didn’t have to subject themselves to the ludicrous postures Gordon called the Manual of Arms. Still, Chu-Yi stood at attention like the rest, musket slanted forward at ten degrees from the vertical, and waited for Charles George Gordon to find some miniscule fault in his uniform. Not his musket, of course—Chu-Yi made sure it was immaculate. He didn’t want Gordon inspecting it too closely, gazing down the barrel or such. He might have noticed the rifling inside.

  Outwardly, the piece looked like any of the others in the hodgepodge of arms Gordon’s soldiers had managed to assemble, but the rifling made it far more accurate. It had to be, because Chu-Yi was going to have to shoot a poor T’ai-Ping soldier with it—not just any T’ai-Ping, but the one who would shoot Gordon in this battle.

  Gordon finished rebuking a German mercenary for the speck of dust on his boot. The Ever-Victorious Army was a mongrel accumulation of the gutter-sweepings of every band of soldiers that had ever visited China. Most of them were Chinese, but there were also Germans, French, English, Americans, and a few others. Chu-Yi felt right at home, for he had been reared Western-style in Dr. Angus McAran’s time-travel complex inside the Rocky Mountains. The Chinese, ironically, were more alien to him than the Westerners, never mind that he had himself been born in China of Chinese parents. But he had been rescued from exposure on a hillside, and the only other Chinese he had known were the few dozen who were his fellow time-travel agents—until his tutors had started bringing him back for a tour of China’s history. Chu-Yi had visited Chang-An, the T’ang Dynasty capital; had been a soldier on the Great Wall when it was brand-new; had been a water-carrier in Canton drafted into the fabled exploring expedition that sailed as far south as the admiral could (he had escaped at the last minute from that one); and had played a dozen other roles at various times in China’s past and future. He had known even before he joined as a time-travel agent that he would be assigned to missions in China. Why else would Doc Angus be rescuing Chinese babies who were fated to die? He needed Chinese agents to help finance his time travellers by bringing back lost treasures from ancient days, and as troubleshooters to visit Chang An and Annam and Shanghai and Hangzhow, to keep historical accidents from changing the world in which he lived.

  At least, that was his excuse. The real reason, as everyone knew but nobody said, was because Doc Angus was outraged at the idea of letting babies die and children be exiled simply for being different. Since his own body wasn’t exactly an example of normality, he sympathized with the maimed and lame and twisted—and being a scholar, he had just as much sympathy for the ones whose ideas got them into trouble.

  Yesterday, Chu-Yi’s mission had been simple—to spy out the soldier whose bullet had killed Gordon as he led the Ever-Victorious Army in its third attack with no weapon but that silly rattan cane—Gordon the invincible, whom bullets never touched.

  Well, this bullet had—but Chu-Yi was going to prevent that.

  Of course, it was tempting to kill the Englishman himself, and right now, because Gordon was drawing himself up in the manner that meant he was going to give an inspirational speech. Chu-Yi sighed and braced himself for boredom.

  Gordon spoke to the sergeants, who bawled, “At ease!”

  Chu-Yi took a half step to his left and slapped his left hand against the small of his back. This was supposed to be more relaxing?

  Gordon raised his voice and called out in English; his serg
eant spoke in Chinese half a sentence behind him, translating. Chu-Yi, able to understand both the original and the translation, had to give the sergeant credit—he might not have been all that accurate, but he was fast.

  “Men,” Gordon was saying, “rejoice! Your time of waiting is over! Today we go to attack Hangzhow!”

  The men to either side of Chu-Yi stiffened. Battle hadn’t been exactly what they’d desired.

  “Of course, there will be no looting, no . . . unmentionable and ungentlemanly activities,” Gordon went on.

  The sergeant was more blunt. “Usual rules—no looting, no raping, no beating up civilians.”

  The soldiers looked grim.

  “But we will win, and there will be a bonus for each of you!” Gordon exulted. “Now take ship, and may Heaven speed our enterprise!”

  “Fall out!” the sergeant bawled. “Board ship!”

  The gong sounded and Chu-Yi relaxed with a sigh. So did Po Chao, grumbling, “I never did like boats. Why can’t we march there, like ordinary people?”

  “Because the streams that run through this giant marsh are faster than walking,” Chu-Yi told him, “and with those little cannon in front and in back, they’re a lot less likely to attract T’ai-Ping ambushes than we would be on the march—especially considering that we’d probably blunder into a bog every dozen feet.”

  “I know, I know!” Chao said. “I can’t complain about something that keeps me alive—or, for that matter, saves me work. May I see you tonight, Chu-Yi.”

  “And I you, Chao.” It was their homemade good luck charm, for they would both have to be alive to see one another that evening.

  They filed aboard the Hyperion, Gordon’s “flag-ship,” with the rest of their half of the Ever-Victorious Army and braced themselves as the little steamer pulled away from its dock.

  Li had kept the T’ai-Pings boxed up in Hangzhow for a month, so they were running short of supplies and had to try to break out. Gordon had kept his troops out of sight with only a picket line to guard the gate, so it would look to the T’ai-Pings as though this side of the city was weakly enclosed. Now his sentries had heard men gathering and had sent word.