“I guess that’s all true,” Jesse said, “if you say so, but how are these letters supposed to help?”
“Probably whoever wrote them thinks they’ll give some courage to the victims, by saying out loud that this stuff is wrong and that history won’t look kindly on it. Failing that, they’ll discredit the City and cast doubt on Kemp’s official history.”
“Seems like a slender victory.”
“They’re only letters. The world’s cheapest weapon. But we don’t know what else the writer might have in mind.”
Jesse thought again of Weismann, whose idealism required the murder of an Austro-Hungarian customs clerk. I’m more radical than some, but I’m not the only one. “Elizabeth?”
She took a bite from a pineapple wedge. “What?”
“It’s good to see you again.”
“You too, Jesse.”
At least she had used his name. “How are things back where you come from?”
“More or less okay.”
“Your daughter Gabriella is doing well?”
“She’s fine. I mean, she’s healthy and she remembered me. I guess that counts as fine.” It sounded a degree short of fine. Jesse remembered a word he had learned from his employers at the City: suboptimal. “How about you?”
“I recovered from the blow to the head I received at Onslow’s.”
“I know. I kept tabs, even from the other side of the Mirror.”
“Since then, I’ve been busy.” Riding the fence. Hunting runners.
“Busy is good, right?”
“It helps. Seeing you again is good.”
She checked her watch. “Speaking of busy, I’m doing a ride-along with the Manhattan tour in about fifteen minutes—”
“A ride-along?”
The Manhattan tour was part of the so-called Springtime in New York package: dozens of tourists packed into a big horse-drawn omnibus and paraded up Broadway to Longacre Square and around the city’s more respectable streets. “Kemp was thinking of canceling it. We have to guarantee the safety of the visitors, but that’s hard to do if there are racist mobs following us everywhere.”
“Is it as bad as that?”
“Not yet, and Kemp’s letting the tour go ahead, but he’s laying on extra security. Including me. And I need to check a weapon out of the armory, so…”
“Will I see you tonight?”
She hesitated longer than Jesse liked. “You know, what happened between us back at Futurity Station … that’s not something I can jump back into. I thought about it a lot when I was home. What happened between us can never be anything but temporary. Do you understand?”
“I guess I understand it well enough.”
“But we can have dinner tonight if you want. Maybe they haven’t told you yet, but Kemp’s reassigning you to his personal security detail. Along with me. And we’ll be leaving New York before long.”
The news rang in his head like a bell, too loud to make sense of, but what he said was, “Partners again?”
“Kind of.”
“Back at the City?”
“No. They’re sending us to San Francisco.”
* * *
The summons to Kemp’s penthouse lodgings came that afternoon, by way of Jesse’s pager. He rode the elevator to the top floor of the Electric Grand, standing next to a tourist couple who were arguing, in the lazy way of the long married, over who was currently president of the United States. “Grant,” the man said, “I’m pretty sure it’s Grant, his picture was in the brochure,” while his wife insisted, “But that was last year. There was an election, I think it’s Hayes? Does Hayes ring a bell?”
Should have been Tilden, Jesse thought. Congress had given the contested election to Rutherford Hayes in exchange for letting the so-called Redeemers have their way down South—one of the things the letter-writing runner had complained about. Big victory for the White League and the Red Shirts, big setback for freed slaves, and apparently one reason the City failed to attract many dark-skinned tourists from the future. Grant himself was currently in England, an ocean away from domestic politics.
Jesse got off at the penthouse and passed by three armed guards, each of whom examined his credentials, on his way to August Kemp’s suite. It was a pleasant suite, equipped with futuristic amenities including a machine for making coffee and a video screen the size of a door. A window overlooked Broadway, but the curtains were drawn. Kemp stood in front of a mirror, adjusting his tie. He was formally dressed, twenty-first-century style.
“Jesse Cullum,” he said to Jesse’s reflection. “Good to see you again. Thank you for coming up. You talked to Elizabeth already? She told you I want you for some special duty?”
“She mentioned it in general terms.”
“General terms might have to do for now. I don’t want to be late for dinner. We’re bringing Edison in from New Jersey.”
“Edison?”
“Yeah, Edison, Thomas Edison, you’ve heard of him?”
“The inventor? I read something about him in Leslie’s.”
“Electric light, recorded sound, the movies—we more or less stole his thunder, the poor fuck. Half the stuff we have, he invented, but it’s going to be hard for him to get patents for any of it. So I want to make sure he knows how much we owe him, that the world knows it. It’s only fair. Also, I’m hoping he’ll agree to come to the City for an appearance. I’m picturing an interview with, I don’t know, Neil deGrasse Tyson, Bill Nye, one of those guys. Wouldn’t that be great?”
“I’m sure it would.”
“You don’t have the faintest idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
This was Kemp in a more brittle mood than Jesse had seen before. “As far as I can tell, you’re talking about using Mr. Edison to make some money.”
Kemp’s we’re-all-friends-here manner had gone the way of the morning dew, but after a chilly pause he smiled. “Okay, yes. On a no-bullshit basis, you’re correct. In part. But I also feel an ethical obligation to Edison. Right?”
“Right,” Jesse said.
“For the record.”
“I understand.”
“So here’s the thing. I’ve put together a group of people doing high-level security, mostly traveling with me, but not just protecting me personally—I need people who can go out into the community when I want them to, people who are loyal to the City but know how to conduct themselves in the world as we find it. I think you might be one of those people. Am I right about that?”
“I guess I know my way around. I’ve tracked down a few runners, if that’s the business you have in mind.”
“You’ll be briefed about your duties when the time comes. Are you comfortable carrying a gun?”
“I’ve done it before.”
“At Futurity Station you carried a weapon, but you didn’t fire it.”
“I didn’t have an opportunity to fire it. I’m not what you’d call a gunslinger, Mr. Kemp, but I do know how to use a pistol.” His father had taught him the basics, and he had learned marksmanship from a Six Companies hatchetman named Sonny Lau.
“We’ll make sure you get a little extra training. Also, we’re heading west. You hail from San Francisco, right?”
“It’s where I grew up.”
“Which could be an advantage. You know the city pretty well?”
“I did, at one time.”
“You feel comfortable there?”
“I’m not sure I understand the question.”
“Any problems with the law?”
“Are you asking whether I’m a criminal?”
“I’m asking whether I’ll have to bail you out of jail if a cop recognizes you. Anything like that in your past?”
Much in his past, but no outstanding warrants. As far as he knew. “Nothing like that.”
“Okay. Good.” Kemp’s necktie had apparently achieved a satisfactory state. He turned away from the mirror and put his hand on Jesse’s shoulder. “Welcome to the team. Elizabeth can get you set up with a handset and whatever else you need. We’ll be leaving Manhattan this week, maybe as soon as Thursday or Friday if I can get Edison to commit to an appearance.”