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Authors: Kage Baker
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days.
They never spent the night, unless they were Company operatives passing through. Porfirio would explain politely that all our roomswere presently occupied, and the
señores y señoras
would most certainly find lodging at the Gamier brothers’ inn farther up the highway. If the
señores y señoras
got ugly about it, a bottle of aguardiente was offered for the road; if that failed to mollify them, Einar would swagger into sight with his bandoliers and look menacing.
But once in a while one of our own would climb out and have his or her trunk handed down, and there’d be anecdote swapping and aguardiente far into the night. Usually the trunks were full of high-tech stuff we’d ordered, processing credenza replacement parts or refills for Einar’s tranquilizer gun. When they left on the next stage, they took with them DNA material, coded transcripts, and anything too solid to transmit or too small to bother shipping from the Lost City of the Lizard People.
I was out behind the stable one afternoon helping Einar crate up an antelope (obtained in Antelope Valley, where else?), when Juan Bautista came running to find us, hugging Erich awkwardly. The damn bird was growing.
“You guys! Come see, the stage just pulled in, and it’s a Concord!”
“No kidding?” Einar dropped his pressure sealer, and we both ran to look, eager to admire the lines of the Rolls-Royce of stagecoaches. Butterfield had used
only
Concords, of course, which was maybe why it didn’t want to risk them cross-country with a war on. So how had Banning managed to get his hands on the gorgeously engineered thing we saw sitting at our humble embarkation point? I never found out; and I never had much leisure to wonder about it, either, because while Einar and Juan Bautista were checking it out (“Body by Fisher, man!”), I realized with a start that I actually recognized a friend among the passengers.
Have you gentlemen ever noticed how rare that is with us immortals? Of course we run into acquaintances now and again—I had known Imarte before, unfortunately—but why is it that we almost never get stationed anywhere near old
friends
? Does this have something to do with one of the Company’s famous secret agendas? Not that I’d ask if I wasn’t higher than a kite. It’s the Theobromos talking.
The mortal passengers saw a rather bulky and foreign-looking gentleman help his drab wife out of the passenger compartment, and then raise his hand to assist their colored servant down from her seat by the driver. If they noticed his gallant gesture toward the black lady, they probably raised an eyebrow. But California was a Free State, and people didn’t care as much about race relations out here, between blacks and whites anyway.
She was a beautiful woman. Tiny and elegant, with ebony skin that glowed as though polished and fine West African features. Her hair was braided up, but I knew that if she let it down and shook it out, it would wave around her shoulders like a storm cloud.
Nancy
? I transmitted in astonishment.
She lifted her head, saw me, and smiled, and she still had the tiniest gap between her front teeth when she smiled. There had been a boy in our graduating class who wrote an impassioned poem to that little gap.
Mendoza? Can that be you
?
I nodded dumbly, feeling every one of the years since the last time I saw her, at our commencement party in 1553. I was on a transport to Spain shortly after, and she went to do research work at a base under the Sahara. I heard later on that she’d had a very successful career in Italy and Algiers, but we never kept track of each other; you don’t keep track when you’re busy in the field. I never have, at least.
She lowered her eyes and played the docile maid for the mortal passengers, fetching the drab wife’s reticule and parasol from where they’d been forgotten, while the big fellow saw to their trunks. Porfirio led up the change of horses, and 1 could see him double-taking on the
They never spent the night, unless they were Company operatives passing through. Porfirio would explain politely that all our roomswere presently occupied, and the
señores y señoras
would most certainly find lodging at the Gamier brothers’ inn farther up the highway. If the
señores y señoras
got ugly about it, a bottle of aguardiente was offered for the road; if that failed to mollify them, Einar would swagger into sight with his bandoliers and look menacing.
But once in a while one of our own would climb out and have his or her trunk handed down, and there’d be anecdote swapping and aguardiente far into the night. Usually the trunks were full of high-tech stuff we’d ordered, processing credenza replacement parts or refills for Einar’s tranquilizer gun. When they left on the next stage, they took with them DNA material, coded transcripts, and anything too solid to transmit or too small to bother shipping from the Lost City of the Lizard People.
I was out behind the stable one afternoon helping Einar crate up an antelope (obtained in Antelope Valley, where else?), when Juan Bautista came running to find us, hugging Erich awkwardly. The damn bird was growing.
“You guys! Come see, the stage just pulled in, and it’s a Concord!”
“No kidding?” Einar dropped his pressure sealer, and we both ran to look, eager to admire the lines of the Rolls-Royce of stagecoaches. Butterfield had used
only
Concords, of course, which was maybe why it didn’t want to risk them cross-country with a war on. So how had Banning managed to get his hands on the gorgeously engineered thing we saw sitting at our humble embarkation point? I never found out; and I never had much leisure to wonder about it, either, because while Einar and Juan Bautista were checking it out (“Body by Fisher, man!”), I realized with a start that I actually recognized a friend among the passengers.
Have you gentlemen ever noticed how rare that is with us immortals? Of course we run into acquaintances now and again—I had known Imarte before, unfortunately—but why is it that we almost never get stationed anywhere near old
friends
? Does this have something to do with one of the Company’s famous secret agendas? Not that I’d ask if I wasn’t higher than a kite. It’s the Theobromos talking.
The mortal passengers saw a rather bulky and foreign-looking gentleman help his drab wife out of the passenger compartment, and then raise his hand to assist their colored servant down from her seat by the driver. If they noticed his gallant gesture toward the black lady, they probably raised an eyebrow. But California was a Free State, and people didn’t care as much about race relations out here, between blacks and whites anyway.
She was a beautiful woman. Tiny and elegant, with ebony skin that glowed as though polished and fine West African features. Her hair was braided up, but I knew that if she let it down and shook it out, it would wave around her shoulders like a storm cloud.
Nancy
? I transmitted in astonishment.
She lifted her head, saw me, and smiled, and she still had the tiniest gap between her front teeth when she smiled. There had been a boy in our graduating class who wrote an impassioned poem to that little gap.
Mendoza? Can that be you
?
I nodded dumbly, feeling every one of the years since the last time I saw her, at our commencement party in 1553. I was on a transport to Spain shortly after, and she went to do research work at a base under the Sahara. I heard later on that she’d had a very successful career in Italy and Algiers, but we never kept track of each other; you don’t keep track when you’re busy in the field. I never have, at least.
She lowered her eyes and played the docile maid for the mortal passengers, fetching the drab wife’s reticule and parasol from where they’d been forgotten, while the big fellow saw to their trunks. Porfirio led up the change of horses, and 1 could see him double-taking on the
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