by Alyc Helms
I looked. The fog had crept inland during our walk without my noticing. Little cat feet, indeed. It brushed against the red cables of the bridge, which seemed to shred it like so many layers of tulle. And yet it was completely opaque. I couldn’t see anything beyond that shredded divide. And even if I could, I had no idea what she wanted me to see. “Is it such a bad thing that your uncle’s Triads are falling apart?” I asked softly, looking for a way to the heart of what lay between us. Tsung. Mei Shen’s relationship with him. He was the one who’d gotten her involved in her uncle’s sordid dealings in the first place. “Maybe you should let them–”
“The Triads are a tool. A useful one. Like Mian Zi and his People’s Heroes. But my uncle had other tools, more important tools, that I can’t...” She glared out at the fog like she was angry at it, then turned her back on it and hung over the rail, peering down at the choppy bay waters beneath us. The press of the fog had chilled the cobalt blue to a dull grey marked by white flecks, some seagulls, some foam. “David has been hearing things. Rumors. Things Argent needs to know, but Mian Zi has them convinced that if they speak to me, he won’t speak to them.”
The amassing fog had finally managed to press past the bridge cables. It blotted out the sun and beaded the hair on my arms like cobwebs. I unknotted the hoodie sleeves tied around my waist and tugged it on, shivering. That had been fast, even for Karl. “I’m going to this exhibit opening at the Academy of Sciences. Or Mr Mystic is. If you tell me–”
“So you can decide if it’s important? If you approve?”
“That’s not–”
“No. Y’know what? It’s fine. Forget it. I’ll figure it out on my own. It’s what I’ve been doing since you left.” Her accusation froze me in place. She wasn’t talking about Shanghai. She was talking about… before.
Mei Shen climbed up on the rail. The walkway was empty coming and going. Even the traffic traveling across the bridge seemed misty and distant, the fog buffering us from the rest of the world.
“Mei Shen, get down.”
“Why? I’m not like you, mother. I’m in no danger of falling.” She jumped off the railing. I lunged for her as if that could stop her, but too late. She fell into the fog passing under the bridge. It flashed red and gold, as though a rogue firework had gone off below the span, and then a long, slender shape shot up past me. The dragon twined between the cables like a red-and-gold streamer before streaking off in the direction of the city.
I sagged against the rail and buried my face in my hands until the chill of the fog bit through my layers and forced me to flee.
Two
Argent for the Ages
I parked my new Triumph near the Panhandle and walked the rest of the way to the California Academy of Sciences. The night was a bit on the chilly side, but I was warm enough. I’d forgone a tuxedo, opting for my usual attire: black trench coat, tailored suit with faint pinstriping, crisp white shirt and black tie. My only nod to the occasion was the opera scarf draped over the shoulders of my coat – cobalt blue silk, the ends fluttering in the light breeze coming in from the Outer Sunset. And then there was my felted wool fedora. Always the fedora. The short wig of dark hair I wore underneath it helped hold it firmly in place. It was easy enough for me to deepen the shadows cast by the brim to obscure my face. And thus my disguise was complete.
I swept past the long line of luxury automobiles and Priuses winding around the circle between the Academy and the de Young Museum. Valets drove the automobiles off to who knew where, and I was doubly glad to have left my motorcycle elsewhere. We were only just getting acquainted; I didn’t trust her in Argent’s hands.
I managed to make it most of the way up the entry plaza before the gathered press noticed me, and even then it was only because they were following the progress of my date as she came down the steps to greet me.
As well they should. Gone were the khakis and the worn work shirt. The Antiquarian wore a coppery colored frock with a tight bodice that fell somewhere between a corset and a vest, and a bias-cut skirt that swished around her very fine calves. Her hair was pulled back, the witchy curls sculpted into waves. The park lights caught the red tones, giving her the look of a desert-setting sun.
“My word, Professor Trent. You do clean up nicely.” I lifted her hand and bowed correctly over it.
She smirked, a laugh caught in her throat. “Careful, Old Man. You’re in danger of becoming effusive.”
I straightened my tie and pocket square. “To be fair, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see you in a safari coat and pith helmet.” I offered her my arm. She took it and led me through the gamut of fans, photographers, and security clogging the steps up to the Academy of Sciences. “Dare I ask, have you decided to expand your fan base into the realms of steampunk?”
She gave in to the laughter. A full, rich belly laugh. The flashes of cameras blinded me for a moment. I deepened the shadows around my face until they were nearly opaque. It helped to cut the glare.
“No. They’re all a little too ‘Yay, colonialism’ for my taste. Anthropologists have enough to answer for on that front,” she said. The smile she gave the photographers was close-lipped. Impatient. The Antiquarian wasn’t one of the faces Sylvia trotted out for these occasions. Abby was likely as happy to be dragged into this show as I was. “Speaking of fandoms, you know that you’re disappointing your entire base right now.”
“I’m happy to let them think you’re my beard.”
“At least I’m older than the usual arm candy.”
“And yet still quite fetching.” Abby shot me a narrow-eyed glare. I smiled, though she wouldn’t be able to see it for the shadows I’d brought forth to hide my face. “I confess, I did expect the khakis.”
“For a formal event?”
“Rhinestone studded?”
Another too-loud, too-honest laugh. More photo flashes. I wondered that they thought they could catch that rich deep timbre in visual form. “I usually wear a suit to these things,” she said. “But I was afraid we’d be mistaken for the Blues Brothers. I’m resigned to being gender conforming for a night.”
“Yes, that’s what we’re doing now. Being gender conforming,” I murmured, and earned another laugh.
A young man at the door was handing out programs, while a young woman passed out little silver Kestrel pins. I waved off a program but took the pin, attaching it to my lapel. It was a charming bit of nonsense. Say what you will about Argent, but they know how to pay attention to details.
The press parted as we entered the Academy of Sciences. I thought it was because they were barred entry until I saw the silver-clad sentinel awaiting us at the door.
“Mitchell. I’m so pleased Professor Trent convinced you to join us this evening.”
Sylvia Dunbarton, Lady Basingstoke, held out her hands in welcome. She wore evening-length gloves and a 40s inspired silver gown with a blouson top, high waist, and long skirt patterned in chevrons of pewter and chrome.
“Sylvia.” The last time we’d met, she’d tetched at me for using her title. In her eyes we were closer than that, and who was I to gainsay the grande dame of the Argent Aces? “How could I refuse such a persuasive request?”
I took her hands. She gave me cheek kisses. Flashes went off like silent fireworks. I wondered if they would catch the sharpness in Sylvia’s crescent-moon smile.
“Hm. Persuasive, was it? I wonder which part managed to persuade you. Professor Trent?” Sylvia turned her smile on Abby. “I know it is terribly gauche, but would you mind overmuch if I hied off with your escort? Mitchell and I have so much catching up to do.”
“I expected nothing less,” Abby said, waving for Sylvia to take me. I shot her a glare that nobody could see for the shadows obscuring my face, but I couldn’t make a scene without it being forever captured in digital form. Abby had been correct. I hated unnecessary confrontation.
Thus did I enter the gala launch of Argent for the Ages: A history of looking forward on the arm of the most powerful wo
man in the world.
* * *
We passed through the crowded entry and into the central atrium between the butterfly-filled rainforest dome and the planetarium. The roof high above rose and fell in a series of iron bubbles that supported the Academy’s living rooftop. A full-sized model of the Kestrel hung from the domed ceiling on thick silver cables. It had to be a model. Argent’s signature aircraft was now a scatter of charcoal parts across some nameless Shadow Realms plain, thanks to a rough crossing into China.
The model Kestrel’s sleek design, all flowing lines and riveted panels in Argent’s patented titanium alloy, complemented the rest of the Academy’s style, making it look like a permanent installation. In the shadow beneath her fuselage, a fountain of silvery pins of the same alloy rippled with a soft clacking echo, rising and falling in an imitation of water. A woman leaning over the display laughed, and the pins rose and fell in a rush of metallic clicks in response to the sound.
The other displays set up around the atrium were more museum-typical: artfully spaced boards with black-and-white photos and blocks of text. Faceless mannequins with paper hair wearing iconic costumes from bygone days. I caught a glimpse of a familiar hat and trench coat and tensed against an unexpected chill.
“Relax, Mitchell,” Sylvia murmured. “Nobody here is your enemy.”
I plucked her hand from my arm so that I might remove my trench coat. The scarf and hat, I kept. The perky coat-check girl didn’t even bother to ask for them.
“I don’t take kindly to being manipulated, Sylvia. If you insist on perpetuating this farce that we are friends, pray remember that.”
“What choice do you leave me?” She hooked us two wine glasses off a passing tray – kept the white for herself and handed me the red. She sipped. I didn’t. My stomach wasn’t nearly settled enough for drinking. “I need to know what you did in China.”
“You want to do this here?” I nodded at the atrium filled with mingling people in their evening best. Some were probably harmless. Many were Argent. But that still left an unaccounted-for third contingent.
“Here?” Sylvia chuckled. “Look again, Mitchell.” She swept the room in a gesture. Skyrocket and La Reina were involved in an animated argument near the metallic pin fountain. It involved quite a few swooping hand gestures, fountain rods rising and falling in time with their words. The tawny-tipped feathers of La Reina’s wings puffed and resettled as though she wished to give an aerial demonstration of her argument. Beyond the fountain, Abby already had a plate of hors d’oeuvres and a tumbler filled with two fingers of amber. She lounged against the butterfly dome, idly watching the crowd as she sipped. Around the room, other Aces stood out from the crowd – some marked by their iconic costumes, others by their watchful, ready air.
And, easily overlooked, blank-faced men and women in suits much like mine stood at the exits, moved along the edges of the crowd, spoke into their cuffs.
I glanced aside at Sylvia, watching me notice them. “Not everyone here tonight is one of yours,” I said.
“And everyone who isn’t has been thoroughly vetted and has an agent tasked to keep an eye on them. There are few places as protected as the Academy tonight.”
“Why do you need anything from me? Tom’s report–”
“Tom’s a fine boy, but he can’t explain the players to me, or what their motivations were, or how they became players. And do not forget, he was incapacitated for much of his time in Shanghai. He would have missed important details. Details I need to know if I’m to keep the world in check. Who is David Tsung? For that matter, who is this young Mr Long who has risen so high so recently? I assume he’s no relation to the Mr Long who Tom indicated was responsible for the New Wall. I need to know how wary I should be in our dealings. I know there’s magic involved, and you know that Argent has always been weak in that department.”
“Yes, well. Most practitioners are iconoclasts. Hard to keep one of those on the payroll.”
“Tell me about it. Professor Trent, La Reina, Sadakat… they’re the best we’ve got when it comes to the mystical. And you. Until you abandoned us.”
So much I wanted to say to that, to question, to refute, that I dared not say. But she’d given me much with that admission. Information, yes. But also, power.
“Tsung is…” not to be trusted, I wanted to say, but he had been trying to stop his grandfather in his own secretive and duplicitous way. I just didn’t like him for the influence he held over Mei Shen. “Something of a whistleblower. He found out about Mr Long-the-elder’s plans for the New Wall and brought them to my attention. Too late to stop it from happening, but quickly enough to end it before it became any worse.”
“And Mr Long-the-younger?” She kept her tone light, disinterested, but her knuckles were white around the stem of her wineglass. I took it from her before it could snap, which left me foolishly holding two wine glasses. The staff, the guests, and the other Aces were respecting the bubble of empty space around Sylvia and myself.
“Not the same man as the one who created the Wall. I’d say Lung Mian Zi Mien is our best hope for putting an end to Lung Di.”
“So he got away. This Lung Di?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Sylvia pursed her lips, annoyed.
“Lung Mian Zi is well intentioned. Quite brilliant, and could be a formidable ally. Deal with him as you would with me, and you should manage quite well.”
Sylvia arched a brow. “You mean, pester, prod, manipulate, and generally annoy until you do what I want?”
I snorted. “Very well, deal with him as I would have you deal with me. Expect exponentially worse recalcitrance if you do not. Understood?”
“Very much not, but the advice is appreciated.” She took back her wineglass, studied me over the rim as though calculating how much more she could tease out of me. “I don’t suppose you’d tell me who this Lung Di is and how he managed to cut China off from the rest of the world? And why?”
I didn’t dare tell her the how. Argent might focus on science rather than magic, but I didn’t want Sylvia – or more likely one of her underlings – deciding they could capture China’s Guardians and attempt to recreate Lung Di’s wards. As to the why? No, I was not ready to admit to anyone that I had been the reason for so much chaos, that Lung Di had done it to force me into a compact I might never have agreed to otherwise. That to keep my promise, I was sworn to defend him against his enemies – including my children. And that if I broke the compact, the stain on my honor would render my children illegitimate, nullifying any possibility that they might someday be able to permanently remove their uncle from creation. Some days, I barely believed it myself.
But who? I took a careful sip of my wine, a dry cabernet that tasted of Napa evenings and reminded me of the dinner where Lung Di admitted that he feared my children and what they might do to him. “Would you believe, a dragon?”
Ever a gentleman, I was ready with my pocket square when she choked on her wine.
* * *
Not even Sylvia Dunbarton could keep the world at bay for long. By the time her coughing fit subsided, several of the more socially oblivious guests had circled us, most of them intent on catching her attention. I was a curiosity. Sylvia was where the true power lay. I abandoned her with my pocket square and made my way around the exhibits. Hardly anyone was paying them any mind, so they were my best hope to avoid the mob.
I’d clearly chosen the backwards route, starting at a display featuring Argent’s technological advances in agriculture, medicine, and sustainable energy. A slowly spinning globe flashed with pinpricks of light across its surface, demonstrating how much of the world might be powered by Argent’s proprietary energy conversion process in a year, five years, a decade.
Past the globe, a hands-on exhibit invited guests to touch some of the parts made from the titanium alloy that gave Argent its name, from cooling coils for spaceships to sections of crush-resistant deep water pipes. And of course, a riveted panel from the
Kestrel. I ran my fingers over the rivets and moved on to a multimedia installation on the Death Valley sinkhole crisis from a few years back. The display featured the work Argent engineers had done to save the people of the small town that had fallen into the earth. Newsreel-style footage played on a loop, showing La Reina landing on the lip of the depression carrying two small, dusty mooplings. That shot had been on the cover of every periodical that month.
My inexplicable discomfort grew, an impending twitch between my shoulder blades that refused to shake loose. I had no desire to be a part of this. I skirted the crowd around the ‘Be a Skyrocket!’ interactive exhibit, which looked more like a full-body video game than something belonging in a museum. Moving further around the edges of the atrium, I traced the history and accomplishments of Argent back to her origins, until I came to the exhibit I was most curious about and least wanted to visit.
“Shoulda figured I’d find you over here,” said a voice behind me in a soft, Midwest drawl.
“Tom.” I didn’t look at him, didn’t look away from the blank paper face of the figure in the familiar suit, trench coat, and fedora. They’d done my mannequin in a dark grey instead of creamy white, and the lighting in the installation was purposely dim, a corner of darkness in the bright, space-age atrium. I’d braced my hands on the railing to counter a strange sense of vertigo, looking up at self-not-self.
“It’s good, though. The exhibit, I mean. And also, this display. Good to remember where we come from.” Tom Carter came up beside me and thumped the little placard explaining that Mr Mystic’s association with Argent had always been complicated. I suspected Abigail Trent’s snark behind the carefully worded text.
