High Stakes: A Wild Cards Novel

by George R. R. Martin

  Standing alongside Recycler was the Australian ace, Tinker. Tinker had come on board after the Committee was well established. And while his power was certainly handy (he could make any kind of gadget he wanted out of materials at hand) Michelle had discovered on more than one mission that he hated following orders. He didn’t understand doing what was best for the mission even if you didn’t like it.

  There was one other person in the group. Michelle assumed he was Marcel Orie from the information in her brief. He was much taller than Michelle. His hair was salt-and-pepper-colored, and he wore round wire-rimmed glasses that gave him a professorial air. The expression on his face said he’d rather be anywhere but in the lobby of the Committee offices. According to the dossier on him, he could control lightning bolts, and his code name was Doktor Omweer. Michelle thought he would come in handy when she needed some bubbling fat.

  Ana crossed the lobby and gave Michelle a hug.

  “You do look like crap,” she said, but she was smiling. “I’m sorry Adesina had a rough night. Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, but you’re sweet to ask,” Michelle replied in a low voice as she hugged Earth Witch back. “You giving the new additions the nickel tour? Doktor Omweer looks like a treat.”

  Ana tried to stifle a laugh and ended up snorting instead. “I’m afraid none of us are worthy to hold his jacket. I’d offer to let you meet them, but I doubt he would deign to talk to you, you know, because you’re a model and all.”

  Michelle shrugged. She didn’t have a great formal education, but she wasn’t stupid either. If Orie thought she was beneath him because of that, well, he was a snob. And all the education in the world didn’t mean jackshit out in the field.

  She nodded toward Aero. At least there was one new ace she liked. “I already know Cesar. He had dinner at my place last night.”

  “He asked me what the kiddo would like,” Ink interjected. “Did he get her something?”

  Michelle nodded. “Nice Ocelot 9 toy,” she said with a slight smile. She looked at Juliet still smiling. “Ink was a good auntie telling him what to get. Adesina was thrilled.”

  “You should meet Tiago,” Ana said. “He’s a great kid.”

  “I’d be happy to,” Michelle said as she let a tiny bubble appear in her hand, then let it float up to the ceiling. She pulled off her baseball cap and her long, platinum hair cascaded over her shoulders. Then she shoved the cap into the outside pocket of her bag. “I guess I can say hello, but I’m supposed to see Babel and Lohengrin now. I’ll do that first, then meet him afterward, if that works for you.”

  Ana nodded. “Sure. They’re not going anywhere just yet. Barbara and Klaus are in the main conference room. We’re going to need more space soon—they turned the small conference room into overflow for tactical support.”

  “You know,” Michelle said with no small amount of resentment in her voice, “this place is getting too big.”

  Marcus thought, Man, it feels good to have a ball in my hands!

  He wove through the kids, all coils and motion. He dribbled around them, sometimes over their heads, bouncing the ball with satisfying force on the packed dirt of the village court. He twisted a three-sixty to avoid a tall youth with unnaturally long arms. He faked another boy so decisively that he tripped and went down, laughing. He rose up into a two-handed monster dunk, powered by the long muscles of his tail. At the last minute he remembered not to hang on the rim, frail and rickety as it was. Still, the kids playing and the others watching loved it. So did he.

  Spinning the worn ball on his upraised finger amid the kids’ rapid Kazakh banter and high fives, Marcus couldn’t believe how good he felt. What a difference a day makes! Bullet-riddled and desperate one day. Fit as a fiddle and surrounded by new friends the next. The Handsmith must’ve known what he was doing. He’d fished out all the bullets in Marcus’s tail. He’d dropped the deformed chunks of metal into a tin bowl with wet, audible thwacks. Each of those sounds pulled him a little ways back toward the living. But even that couldn’t explain how he felt. Only Nurassyl did.

  He looked to where the boy stood at the edge of the makeshift basketball court. He swayed with excitement, grinning. “Slam dunk!” he called, the only words of English he seemed to know. His tentacled hands clapped together. Those hands. The boy’s touch had both eased Marcus’s pain and healed him. His wounds had closed almost as soon as the operation stopped. The skin knit over them. He couldn’t even find the bullet holes in his scales. He’d slept like a rock through the night. When he woke he felt as good as new. It didn’t seem right that the nat world would only see deformity in the little boy, only the joker that made him different from them. As far as Marcus was concerned, the boy was an ace. He’d told him as much, which had caused the boy to flush red all across his gelatinous skin.

  He’s just a kid, Marcus thought, but I owe him my life. He wasn’t sure how to repay such a debt.

  For that matter, he owed a debt to the entire village. They’d welcomed him when he was down and out. No questions asked. Not one of them spoke more than a few words of English, but even without Olena translating Marcus found communicating with them easier than he would’ve imagined. They were all smiles and good humor and questions. Yes, he lived in New York City. Yes, he’d seen the White House. No, he didn’t know Michael Jordan. Or Michael Jackson. Or Beyonce. Yes, America did have a high incarceration rate for a Western country. It was amazing just how much you could convey through pantomime. When they learned of his name, they’d called for him to demonstrate what his tongue could do. Marcus obliged them. He didn’t mind. It was kinda fun to use his tongue for amusement for once.

  As the children called for another game, Marcus caught sight of Olena emerging from a villager’s cottage. She spoke a few moments with an old woman whose face was marred by large pits that shifted and changed shape and size. Olena embraced her, saying something Marcus couldn’t hear. That was another thing that kept amazing him. Olena treated the jokers in the village with respect and empathy, without any sign of the revulsion most nats betrayed at seeing jokers.

  Leaving the woman at her door, Olena jogged onto the court and grabbed Marcus by the wrist. She said something in Russian to the protesting joker youths and then pulled him away.

  Remembering he had the basketball, Marcus hooked it one-handed over his head, sending it back to the kids on the court. Right after he did it he wished he hadn’t. The motion reminded him of the last time he’d seen somebody do that. Father Squid. Back in New York on the night they got snatched and transported here. So much had happened since that night. He knew that at some point, when he was home again, he was going to have to face it all. He hated it that he’d left Father Squid—shaped like a prayer bench now—back in the casino. He should’ve found some way to take him home to Jokertown.

  The village wasn’t much more than a cluster of houses around a single main road. A few minutes’ walk and they were out of it. The view down the valley stretched out before them, all the way toward Talas. The road they’d driven out on, before turning off toward the village, drew a pale line into the distance. A line of tiny cars and trucks inched along it.

  “You are really feeling better?” Olena asked.

  “I feel great. Yesterday I thought I was done for. Today I’m healed. And we’re free. We got away! Baba Yaga can’t do anything to us anymore. Let’s just go. We have the truck. Let’s drive someplace—”

  “Marcus, face reality.” She counted the hurdles that faced them on her fingers. “We have no papers. No passports. No money. Baba Yaga’s people would kill us both if they found us. Kazakh police; surely they look for you, for me too, for anyone involved in the casino. American embassy? I wouldn’t want to go to them. We can’t cross border checkpoint. We can’t—”

  “Stop!” Marcus snapped. “Stop saying what we can’t do.”

  She gazed at him with her too-blue eyes, looking sadder than he had ever seen her before. “I do not like these things, but we can’t
ignore them.”

  Marcus didn’t immediately respond. She was right, of course. What did he know of passports and borders and money in a place like this? If Father Squid were here he’d know how to handle this. But he wasn’t. “Is there anyone you can ask for help?”

  “If things were not as they are I could’ve asked my father. But if he was a different man none of this would have happened.” Olena sighed and let her gaze drift down the valley again. “You never asked why I was in Baba Yaga’s casino. There is a reason. You should know it. It is because of my father. His name is Vasel Davydenko. He is gangster.”

  “Like a rapper?”

  “Not gangster rapper! Organized criminal. Ukrainian Mafia. Like Tony from Sopranos, if he was Ukrainian and wore Armani suits and traveled in jets and helicopters and dealt in nuclear weapons. For a time he worked for Baba Yaga. I can’t even tell you all the things he’s done.”

  A burst of voices made them both turn. The gang of kids from the village was coming toward them, buzzing around the Handsmith and his son, who could only progress at his slow slide.

  “Were you … involved in any of it?” Marcus asked, knowing they’d soon be surrounded.

  Olena shook her head. “Not me. When she was alive, my mother kept me away from it as much as she could. It was her deal with my father. He could use her family business as a front—launder money, use their warehouses—so long as I was kept away from it. She was no saint, my mother, but she wanted better things for me. She died a few years ago.”

  “Oh … I’m sorry.”

  She touched his hand. “You know why I speak English? I went to private boarding school. Switzerland. My parents thought I was safe there with politicians’ and millionaires’ daughters. Even royalty.” She looked down the valley. “I was going to go to university in France. I should be there now.”

  Marcus swallowed. Boarding school. Millionaires. Switzerland. France. He suddenly felt completely out of his league. Again. In new ways. It was hard to twin all that with her life in slinky dresses serving joker gladiators, but she’d never really seemed to belong there either. “What happened?”

  “My father made mistake. Stupid one. He got big ideas and went against Baba Yaga. He tried to kill her off. He tossed a coin, so to speak, but it didn’t fall the way he wanted. She lived; he ran for his life. Baba Yaga couldn’t capture him, so she captured me instead. Idea was to lure my father in to save me. If he surrendered Baba Yaga would let me go. It should work, see? My father has no other family. Only me, daughter. What father wouldn’t give his life to save his daughter’s?” She let the question sit a half beat, and then answered it. “Mine. He didn’t surrender. That’s why Baba Yaga gave me to the gladiators. To shame and punish him. You know the rest.”

  The villagers were getting closer. Marcus slipped his arm around Olena and dropped his voice. “How could he do that?”

  “No matter how hard you try,” Olena said, “the bull will never give you milk.”

  “Huh?”

  “Ukrainian proverb. Means that my father is who he is. He cares most about himself, his pride, his life. I knew that. Now Baba Yaga knows it, too.”

  Before the villagers reached them, Marcus said, “So we’re on our own. Big deal. Tomorrow let’s drive as far as we can. If we run out of gas, fuck it. We’ll walk. Or … slither, in my case. We’ll get out of Kazakhstan, and we’ll do what we have to do to get money. We’ll find a way out. You hear me? I’m not giving up.”

  A moment later, the villagers arrived. Olena leaned down, smiling now, and fell into her rapid Russian. The kids clamored over each other, competing to answer whatever she’d asked them.

  The Handsmith placed a burlap-covered arm on Marcus’s shoulder. Looking into the distance, his face grew troubled. He said something. Olena looked up and followed his gaze down the valley.

  “What’s wrong?” Marcus asked.

  “All the cars and trucks on the road,” Olena said. “He doesn’t like the look of it. There are too many. Something must be wrong in Talas.”

  Marcus said, “Tell him not to worry about it. I’ll go down and take a look. See what I can find out.”

  Michelle pushed open the door to the conference room. “… there’s something going on in Talas,” said Babel. She sounded vexed. “It’s unclear what that is. I say we send in someone to have eyes on. Find out exactly what’s happening there.”

  “I don’t care,” Klaus replied. “I want to go to East Timor. We know there’s something wrong there. And I say we send a team with me leading it.”

  Then Klaus glanced up, saw Michelle, and gave her a bright smile.

  “Bubbles,” he said with just a hint of boss dude in his voice. “About time you showed up.”

  Michelle smiled back, but his tone annoyed her. Klaus had become I’m-the-leader-now guy in the last year or so. Someone had to do it, of course, and admittedly, she sure as hell didn’t want to. She’d led enough missions to know that. But still, it was tough to take him being boss when they were both founding members of the Committee. And maybe it’s also because you’re a huge control freak. And you’re obviously irritable as hell today.

  “Hey, Klaus. Hey, Barbara,” Michelle said. Though Babel and Michelle weren’t close, they had a mutual respect for each other’s abilities. Michelle looked back at Klaus. “I was here yesterday, and everyone was gone except that new kid—Aero,” she replied defensively. “I fed him, filled him in on procedure, and made him feel at home.”

  Klaus held up his hands. In his thick German accent he said, “Cesar was very complimentary about your help. We just could have used you earlier.”

  “I know,” she replied, feeling a little guilty for sounding defensive. Klaus and Barbara had a lot on their plates. Since she’d gone part-time, Michelle had tried to take short-term missions so she could stay at home with her daughter. “I had a scary, rough night with Adesina.”

  “Poor little thing!” Klaus exclaimed. He’d met Adesina before and they’d gotten along famously. When it came to kids, Klaus was a soft touch. “No wonder you look so tired.”

  “I’m so sorry she’s having problems, Michelle,” Barbara said, tugging at the bottom of her perfectly tailored jacket. “But I’d like to send you to Talas.”

  “I’d rather she come with me to East Timor,” Klaus interjected. “I think she’d be more valuable there.”

  A look of annoyance slid across Babel’s face. It was quickly replaced by a neutral expression. “Sending Michelle to Talas makes more sense. She’s run missions and is good at handling the media. And, she doesn’t go off half cocked because she’s spoiling for a fight.”

  Michelle dropped her purse on the large African mahogany table, then sat down in one of the leather chairs. “I don’t think I can go to either place right now,” she said. She toyed with the tassel on the zipper pull of her bag. “You don’t know what it was like last night. It was horrible.”

  Babel sat down next to Michelle. She was impeccably attired: perfectly tailored navy suit—not too sexy—heavy silk blouse, mid-heel pumps. It spoke volumes about her position, and Michelle liked that. Though Klaus was the ostensible head of the Committee now, Michelle knew that behind the scenes it was Barbara keeping everything running.

  “Look, I know it’s scary when your child is upset, but we really need you to head up that team,” Barbara said. Michelle knew Babel was being understanding, but she also knew that for Babel, Committee business would always come first.

  “I’m sorry,” Michelle said. “But I just can’t right now. You’ve got plenty of other aces you can send, including the new ones.”

  “We can make it a short trip,” Babel said. “Just figure out what’s going on, report back, and you’re home. In and out.”

  “It’s never a short trip,” Michelle said with a sigh. She wished she’d just called this one in instead of coming down to the office, but she’d promised to do the whole meet-and-greet thing. Coming onboard the Committee could be daunting. “I just can�
��t go right now,” she said. “I promised to meet the new aces. When we’re done talking, I’ll do just that. I’ll do the whole welcome-to-the-team thing, but I’m out for any assignments right now.”

  She stood and grabbed her bag. “You’ll find someone else. You’re up to your neck in aces. Hell, send the ‘B’ team to East Timor and the ‘A’ team to Talas. You both get what you want.”

  Both Babel and Lohengrin gave her sour looks. For a moment, she felt a stab of guilt, but it was quickly replaced with concern for her daughter. As far as Michelle was concerned, everything else was bullshit.

  Late that afternoon Franny had taken a turn behind the wheel. The roads had become narrower, more pocked with potholes, and finally had turned into dirt tracks weaving through the hills and forests. Baba Yaga checked her phone and issued instructions. She finally did break down and tell Franny where they were headed—a city called Shymkent. Apparently there was an international airport there, too.

  It was a little over a hundred miles away, and they weren’t making very good time since the old bitch seemed determined to take them there via cow paths: Franny grazed his head against the roof of the van, and felt the stitches in his side pull again as they bounced over a particularly rough spot. The waistband of his jeans was deeply stained by the blood that slowly leaked from his bullet wound.

  “Why are we doing this backwoods tour now? We’re far enough away from Talas for you to avoid both the cops and your competitors. Why don’t we go back to the highway and make some time?” he complained.

  She looked up from her phone. “We’re in a van with American license plates. They’ll notice.”

  “We’d be doing sixty, seventy miles an hour. Nobody would notice.”

  “The fools in Astana are sending in the military. There will be enough paranoia even before they are affected by—” She broke off abruptly. “Point is we’ll be stopped. We cannot permit that.”