Kublai Khan, captain of the airship Demagogue. What a bizarre title, yet it was real. Kublai, of course, didn’t think it bizarre at all. It was the title he inherited from his grandfather Genghis.
The one who thought it bizarre was Woodrow Wilson, president of the United States of America. Unwieldy though it might be, sounding like something pulled directly from that Peter Pan book his nephew was raving about, the title was real. Woodrow Wilson was about to begin negotiations with Kublai Khan, to ask the Golden Horde of sky pirates to assist in the defense of Europe.
Woodrow would have been laughing, but the wispy mustache and grim, condescending grin Kublai was flashing him now took all humor from the moment. He may have appeared on this Earth just a year ago, yet he understood 20th century politics just as well as his own 13th. Kublai found that politics in two universes, two Earths, had one thing in common: no one trusted each other.
“You seem to know why I have come,” Woodrow said.
Kublai only gestured his assent with an open palm, knowing that a Western man expected a nod as well. He wasn’t about to make any motion which would make this president feel he was on equal footing with the Great Khan. He sat in his golden throne a full three feet above the deck, leaving even a man of Wilson’s stature feeling small.
“Well then let’s not delay the matter.” Wilson straightened his spectacles and greatly wished for the counsel of his friend and first secretary of state, William Jennings Bryan. Yet when he glanced to his left, he saw Robert Lansing who, despite his curriculum vitae, Wilson did not entirely understand. Wilson gestured to his right. “My secretary of war, Mr. Newton Diehl Baker, will explain the situation to you.”
“Great Khan Kublai …” Baker began with a bow of his neck.
At this point, Kublai raised his hand in the universal sign to halt. “I hear you called the most powerful man on Earth, and yet you would have your inferior speak on your behalf?”
Woodrow had studied Khan’s politics, and knew that this was not an invitation to discuss philosophy. He knew Khan was only trying to shake his confidence before meaningful dialogue had begun. He suspected Khan cared far less about the American chain-of-command than about how invoking it could put the Horde in a better bargaining position. Wilson knew all this, and yet his emotional side fought to overwhelm him. He smiled slightly as he recalled something Lansing had informed him of that morning.
“How is business, Lord Khan? I understand you have good relations with the rulers of both Japan and China because you have helped them to return to the tradition of harems.”
Kublai was thoughtful. “Yes, your modern philosophers seem opposed to the practice of slavery, as my tradition is called here. So I proposed an alternative which makes all parties more … pleased.”
“Except of course for the women.”
“You can’t please everyone,” Kublai sipped wine from a richly carved wooden bowl. “So we please those in power. That is the truth of all political systems, regardless of their ideals. You are a political scholar, so you of all men should understand that.” He took another sip.
“Perhaps you are right, which is why I have brought you a gift.” Wilson turned and gestured at a large, polished mahogany box. Two attendants in U.S. Navy uniforms, but relieved of their sidearms outside the cabin, lifted the lid to reveal a black disc and filigreed metal armature.
“Ah, yes, one of your phonographic machines. You Americans seem quite enamored with them, though I cannot fathom why listening to the same piece of music repeatedly, without variation, is so entertaining.”
Wilson’s lip twitched at this, but he had turned his back on the Khan a moment before to pick up the needle arm of the New Edison machine and place it on the slowly turning disc. “Signor Ciccolini endorsed this model himself, saying It sounded more like him than any machine had a right to.”
“I have no use for Italians,” Khan said, taking a heavy sniff from his snuff box.
“This is not Mr. Ciccolini, but it is an Italian I think you will appreciate.”
As the music started, an androgynous voice made several of the men wince. Khan himself was unmoved. “Are you sure it is calibrated correctly. The pitch is … odd.”
“Quite sure,” Wilson smiled. “This man …”
“It is a man?”
“Yes, it most certainly is. A very talented man. A castrato.”
Kublai did not like to be uninformed, so he strained to find the meaning of the foreign word. “A eunuch?”
“Yes, the … operation was performed before puberty leaving him …”
“Not quite a man.”
“Physically, yes. He was well educated, though, and is renowned among musicians. He is the last of his kind, since the barbaric practice has ended.”
Kublai was silent for a long moment, listening to the high-pitched male voice. “I accept your gift. I, too, am a misfit in this time. I assure you, though, that I am fully a man. Shall I prove it?” He stood.
“That won’t be necessary,” said Wilson, adjusting his glasses unnecessarily. Lansing blushed.
Kublai grinned. “You mistake me. I only meant to prove I am a man through combat, or some other such contest. But I will not call your manhood into question.” He stepped down from his dais and strode to the Edison, carefully, reverently picking up the needle and setting the arm back on its rest. “That’s enough music for now. After a second in which Wilson almost reached for the switch, Kublai’s seeking eyes found it and he switched the turntable off. “That’s enough music for now. You will join me for dinner, and then, when we are not distracted by our bellies, we will discuss politics.”
Wilson smiled. “I look forward to hearing your reaction to Secretary Baker’s report.” He waited to see if Khan would now accept this apparent breach of decorum.
“Of course,” Khan smiled. “If you have chosen to castrate this politician by calling him secretary, a title usually reserved for a woman, then it would be rude of me to ignore your feelings on the matter.”
Baker bristled. “Lucky you are that you arrived here after the tradition of dueling had fallen out of fashion.”
“Lucky for you indeed,” Khan said. “Come, let’s eat.”
