by Eric Lahti
The coffee is helping, but a shot of baiju speeds the healing process.
I don’t have much time so I down the coffee, toss some more lizards on the patio, gather up my new jacket and hat, and hit the streets.
This early in the morning most people in my neighborhood are still sleeping. There’s just the quiet brushing of the odd shopkeeper getting ready to open and hawk their wares and the constant shrieking of the tiny dragons. The Tower, as most people call it, is about a couple miles from my place and the walk clears my head. Breakfast is more coffee and a couple baozi filled with beef and soy sauce. The steamed dumplings should give me energy to spare.
At the tower I find the usual two guards, burly guys in traditional armor brandishing kwan daos. The sword blades topping their poles are razor sharp and the guys themselves can cut you in half before you realize they’ve moved. When I was still a cop we got to watch some Tower guards put on a demo. It was eye-opening. Any crazy ideas I had about throwing down with those guys went out the window when I saw one of them cut a guy into several pieces before the poor fellow could fall down. There was a blur and the guy’s arms and legs came off. The guard took the victim’s head before the body could fall.
Neither acknowledges me as I breeze past them. They’re trained to ignore anyone whom they don’t deem a threat. Must be my lucky day. Whatever skills they might have they didn’t notice the guy who’s about to crash the party.
The lobby is still empty so I march up to the information desk like I own the place. The girl running the desk smiles the smile of someone who hasn’t had to put up with too much shit yet and says, “Hello, sir, and welcome to the Tower. How can I help you today?”
I brush the hat just like I did last night and shoot her a safe smile. “I’d like to see the Clock Man,” I tell her.
The girl’s face falls. “Oh, I’m so sorry. The Clock Man isn’t available right now.” She leans in close and motions for me to join her. “He’s working on something special,” she whispers and shoots me a wink. Apparently I’m in on the conspiracy now.
“Last time one of these guys worked on something special we lost a city,” I say.
She looks aghast. “The current Clock Man would never allow that to happen.”
“I’m sure. Still, he’s supposed to be available twenty six hours a day. It’s in the job title.”
“Of course, except when he’s working on a special project,” she says, nodding her head.
“Any idea how long the special project will take?” I ask.
“It’s special.”
“Understood,” I say with a wink. “Is the rest of the museum open?”
Her smile blinks back into place. “Of course! The museum is always open and we have new things in the gift shop. Would you like a map?”
“No, thank you. I’ve been here before but the place is so fascinating I can’t help coming back.”
“Well,” she says brightly, “if you have any questions you just come right back here and I’ll be glad to help you.”
“Thank you kindly, ma’am,” I say and give her another tip of my hat.
I was hoping for the easy way out. Get to see the Clock Man, kill him, go home; easy-peasy. Of course it wouldn’t be as easy as that. Now I’ve got to find a way to get upstairs without having to fight every guard in this place. Fortunately most of the guards aren’t on par with the two outside but I’d still prefer to do this quietly. That means I need a plan and to make that happen I need to concentrate.
The girl running the reception desk is watching me with the ghost of a smile on her lips and a strange, quirky expression on her face. I can’t quite read her but if she’s watching me I need to find a way to look normal. It’s easy enough to disappear in the museum, the place is chock full of the past five hundred years’ worth of magic control machinery.
Some of this is interesting, but the whole place is a common destination for every school kid in the city and half of them from the rest of the continent. I’ve been here more times than I can count, seen every nook and cranny of the place. At this stage I could probably guide tours myself.
I still need to blend in and that means wandering around, nodding appreciatively at the old machinery and reading the descriptive tags. The early stuff is fascinating in its own way. Old hat to most of us, but fascinating. Somehow or another the ancients managed to figure out magic was real and how to harness it with copper, iron, jade, and whatever else they had available. It was inefficient, sure, but those guys slapped together some hunks of metal, connected them with tubes, and used the machines to makes lights turn on and vidders show us pictures.
A world was remade with the machines in this room, magic was harnessed, manipulated, controlled. Without these gleaming pieces of metal most of what we take for granted wouldn’t exist. From the copper and iron through the gleaming steel and titanium products, though, they all had one thing in common: a Clock Man to run them. No matter how hard the world has tried, there is no way to regulate the flow of power without a person to constantly watch it and tweak it.
That’s the role of the Clock Man: constant effort. The job comes with an insane amount of perks but it is absolutely non-stop for ten solid years. If the Clock Man doesn’t crack from the pressure and lack of sleep he’s guaranteed a comfortable retirement and the eternal adoration of the world for the rest of his natural life; which usually lasts about three years.
Stress. The silent killer.
Chenming Zhang, the current Clock Man, has been in his position for eight years now. That means it’s a safe bet he won’t lose it and try to destroy the world. Mostly the people that are going to fall apart do it within the first three years. A few outliers made it five years before falling apart and being retired. The Magic Regulation Committee watches these guys like a bunch of hawks for the first four years. At eight years, Zhang’s considered a safe bet.
That makes it all that much stranger that his daughter would want him dead and would go to the extent to have both Chan and Mrs. Chow threaten to kill me. It’s not like Alyssa needs his money and she can’t take over his position. And why me? Mrs. Chow has a couple dozen guys that would be happy to kill the Clock Man. You can’t swing a cat in her place without hitting a killer.
As I’m pondering, I wander around the museum and stare blankly at the machines of loving grace scattered around. Periodically, my eyes will focus and I’ll find myself in front of another piece of one-off design. Each machine was hand-crafted by one Clock Man or another. Not all of them take on a special project, but some of the more mechanically inclined will build a machine.
Move through the museum long enough and the machines change with the times. In the beginning they were all brass and jade, but over time the designs shifted more toward the sleek and smooth steel lines of the modern era. Call me a traditionalist, but I prefer the older models. Sure, they’re not as efficient and had a nasty habit of throwing raw magic all over the place, but the designs were spectacular. The new machines are more efficient and less likely to kill everyone slowly, but they lack a certain soul.
All the machines work basically the same way. See, magic is everywhere, all the time, but it’s not exactly in a useable state. To put things bluntly, magic is completely random. The machines take the random and enforce an order on it before shooting it down into the wires. Some of the machines were in use for a hundred years or more, others lasted only a couple of years before catastrophic failure. One detonated and took out the first tower and part of the surrounding neighborhood.
The current machine has been in use for less than a decade with no issues that I’m aware of. Granted, not every special project consists of a new machine. There was that one project that attempted to distribute magic wirelessly but nothing ever came of it. Actually, that machine used to be in the corner but it appears to be missing. Another special project consisted of having sex with groupies.
Hey, no one ever accused these guys of being moral paragons.
I wonder what ha
ppened to the wireless machine. There’s just a sign that says the machine has been removed for cleaning.
The girl at the counter is still watching me, still has that sly smile. Has she been watching me the whole time? Hmm…
Her eyes track me as I walk toward the counter. Before I get there, I throw an arm over my shoulder, point at the empty space, and ask, “When’s the wireless coming back?”
She blinks slowly, almost seductively. “Temujin’s Hammer? The Clock Man requested it.”
“The sign says it’s being cleaned.”
A finger crooks toward me and motions me closer. I lean in and she motions me to come closer. Finally, my face is right next to hers, close enough to feel her breath on my ear. “It’s easier this way,” she whispers to me.
I pull back and look at her. Her eyes are sparkling, glittering lobby lights like emerald orbs. That smile of hers is still there like she knows something I don’t know. “Easier what way?” I ask.
The smile grows. “Easier than making a sign saying ‘Sorry this is being used in the Clock Man’s Special Project and will be back on display when he’s finished with it’, silly” she says.
“Any idea what he’s doing with it?” I ask.
“I’m not privy to his machinations, sir,” she replies. Did she just wink at me?
“Of course not,” I reply. Why would she know what he’s up to?
“Maybe I could offer you a special tour, though,” she tells me. “You know, to make up for the inconvenience of missing out on Temujin’s Hammer…”
This might be a good way to pass the time. “I’m not terribly inconvenienced, ma’am. But I’d appreciate an insider view on the museum.”
“I get off in an hour. Meet me in the gift shop,” she says and winks again.
“I’ll be there,” I tell her. “And I appreciate the offer.”
VII
There’s a bar around the corner that I used to frequent when I was a cop. It’s a serious dive, the kind of place cops go to because it’s usually full of criminals. No, it’s not what you’re thinking; we didn’t go there to bust people and make our quota. When we needed to make quota we’d go into the valley. The bar is called Taijiquan, in a delightful twist on the style’s famous balance. It was a kind of neutral zone, a place where cops and crooks could hang out and share information. We’d let the bad guys know what the government was pissed off about that day and they’d let us know who was stepping over the lines of acceptable criminal behavior. It was a great place to get information as well as a good drink.
Taijiquan is still right where I left it years ago and still the ultimate shit hole that sells the best liquor on two planets. Not surprising, considering the time of day, the place is empty. The bartender, a former wushu master, is slightly older than last time I met him, but still looks like he fights tigers in his free time. Come to think of it, he probably does. Du Xinwu is a beast of a man, over two meters tall and built like a forest bear, which he also probably fights.
Xinwu grins his ape-like grin at me and waves me over.
“Greetings, Master Xinwu,” I say and plop down on a barstool. “Still doing the trick?”
He sets a bottle down and pours out two shots of baiju. “The trick, Crow, is no trick. It’s skill!” He drains his baiju and laughs a huge, carefree laugh.
His laughter is infectious and I can’t help but smile at his nonchalance. When you’re built like Xinwu, there’s probably not much that can frighten you. “You’re telling me there’s no trick to standing six boards on end and putting your fist through them?” I shoot my baiju and feel the warmth of Yo-Ti’s fingers tickling my throat.
“No trick at all.” He rolls up his sleeve and shows me an arm rippling with muscle and covered in tattoos. “You just hit hard and fast, too fast for the boards to get out of the way and too hard for them to resist.”
“I still think it’s a gimmick,” I tell him and push my glass toward him.
He grins and pours out another shot. “Just because you can’t do it doesn’t mean it can’t be done. Do you need another demonstration?”
“No, no, no,” I tell him and shoot my baiju. “I’ve seen it. I just have trouble believing anyone can be that good.”
“You should try practicing,” he says. “Start soft. Punch through one board and work your way up.”
“I’m too delicate,” I tell him. “It hurts my hands to hit boards.”
“How did you ever become a cop?”
“They gave us gloves.”
Xinwu laughs again, a full belly laugh that shakes the bar and rattles the glasses. He’s a happy guy, relaxed and at peace in his skin. Another small glass slides across the bar toward me and I remember why I used to love this place. Master Xinwu was never into the money; he cares for friendship, good drink, and laughter with friends. In a lot of ways he’s who I’d love to be like when I grow up.
I reach into my jacket and search around for money but his hand snakes across the table and holds mine fast. “Your money’s no good here, Crow. I told you that.”
“Just feel like I should pay you,” I say and wonder how someone so big can be so damned fast. Must be the fact that he’s always relaxed.
“You did pay me, brother. I’ll never forget that.”
About five years ago there was a gang, one of the local mobster-type groups was shaking him down, trying to drive him out of business. Imagine that; someone shaking down one of the great wushu masters. Of course, even the best fighter on the planet can be overwhelmed and no matter how good you are twenty on one is not good odds. I got wind of the showdown and quietly took out the leader before anything could happen. At that point, it was just a little more blood on my hands and I didn’t think much of it, but it meant the world to Master Xinwu. He couldn’t have gotten close to Sister Snakehead and wouldn’t have killed her anyway. His honor wouldn’t allow him to kill a woman; I don’t have such compunctions.
I showed up to deliver a warrant, a common thing in her house and calmly walked up to her while her minions laughed and hooted at the cop daring to bring down the great sister. While they were laughing I slammed a dagger in Sister Snakehead’s black heart and watched her die. Even as dumb as her hired muscle was, none of them was crazy enough to touch a cop.
I got a medal for taking down one of the biggest criminals in the city and Master Xinwu got to keep his bar.
“I told you back then,” I say, “I was just doing my job.”
More laughter and he actually wipes tears from his eyes. “That’s a good one, Crow.”
“What?”
“Bad as the cops are, they’ve never been assassins.”
I lean forward and wonder, not for the first time, about all the terrible things I’ve done. There was always some justification, however flimsy, for every bribe or life I took while on the force. As always, I find yet another excuse to push off the introspection and worry about it later.
“What can I say?” I ask, “I love this bar.”
“So do I, brother,” Xinwu says. “So do I.”
We pause and enjoy the empty bar. He refills our drinks and holds his glass up in toast. I tap it with my own glass and we further drown our sorrows.
“What brings you around, Crow?” Xinwu asks.
“Waiting on a meeting.”
“Is she hot?” he asks with a laugh.
“You do know me, friend.”
“The famous Felix Crow doesn’t wait for meetings unless the meeting is one on one.”
“Yeah,” I say, “she’s pretty hot.”
“It’s been too long,” he says, “Some masters insist that sex reduces their chi, but I think that’s just because they can’t get laid. You take her and make her your own. That’s chi! Who is she?”
“Desk girl at the Clock Tower,” I tell him.
“How did you meet her?”
“I was over there this morning.”
“Checking out the rumors, eh? Once a cop, always a cop,” he says.
�
�What rumors?” I ask.
“Interrogating me, Crow?” He laughs again. “The rumors of that strange thing running around. The fact that no one’s heard from the Clock Man in months. All kinds of crazy zāogāo de mólì going on over there. Very bad mojo indeed.”
“Strange thing?”
“Something fast running around in the shadows over there. Folks that have seen it swear it’s not human; it looks like some kind of skeleton and sounds like clicking and whirring. Personally, I think they’ve just been drinking the cheap baiju.”
“So they haven’t been drinking here is what you’re saying?” I ask.
He shrugs and says, “Let’s just say I didn’t care for them.”
“You’re my new hero, Xinwu.”
“I’m everyone’s hero, pal,” he tells me. “I’m a bartender. I’m everyone’s best friend, everyone’s confidante, everyone’s psychologist. I solve problems, I fix relationships, I know answers.”
“And you’re modest about it.”
“Modesty is not becoming of a bartender,” Xinwu says. “It’s trained out of us at bartending academy.”
“Wait,” I say. “There’s a bartending academy?”
“Of course. This job is more than just pouring baiju.” He puts his fists on his hips and puffs up his chest. “I am like a god.”
“Okay, God,” I say. “Can I pray for another shot?”
“Only the devout may drink of my baiju,” he says.
“Oh, I believe. I believe in the healing power of your mighty elixir.”
“Well, then, disciple, come pray at my temple.”
He reaches under the bar and pulls out a coal black bottle, so dark it’s hard to focus on. “This, my boy,” he tells me, “is the fabled baiju of Lan-Caihe. There is nothing else on Aluna like it.”
When Xinwu pours the drink it looks like the finest silk coiling into my glass. Liquids aren’t supposed to do that; they should like liquids, not semi-solids. It splashes around like a liquid in my cup and the aroma, praise the Immortals, is a special kind of amazing.
“Drink,” Xinwu says quietly. “Drink of the blood of the Heavens.”
