Wild Cards X: Double Solitaire

by Melinda Snodgrass

  “And what about you?”

  Jay’s question pulled him back. Mark fitted the broken tile together. Pressed hard. Laid the pad of one finger against it and pulled. It was still broken.

  “I read them all … Clarke, Asimov, ‘Doc’ Smith. My dad flew state-of-the-art test planes. He was too old for astronaut training. I was all … wrong. No stomach for regimentation, the wrong attitude for the academy. They would have eaten me. He founded Space Command. His son couldn’t pass the evaluation for the air-force academy. Maybe it broke his heart … I don’t know. We don’t talk much … never have.”

  Mark paused, remembering the last time he’d seen that erect, iron-haired figure, his hands resting on the shoulders of his granddaughter, sending his son out on the run from the government the general had sworn to defend. No, they hadn’t talked, but somehow Marcus had understood.

  Softly Mark resumed. “Now I’m going. Now. I finally have something I can share with him.”

  “So you’re into this for everyone but you.”

  “No,” Mark shook his head. “I’m looking…”

  “For what?” Irritation sharpened Ackroyd’s tone. It seemed Ackroyd wasn’t a man with a lot of patience for soul searching.

  “I don’t know.”

  She knew she was driving them slowly mad. Even Mark was showing rebellion in the tight line of his lips, or the annoyed inhalations each time she refused to acknowledge their remarks. Unless they were couched in Takisian, of course. Then she listened and responded, but in the careful, simple phrases of a parent to a precocious five-year-old.

  She joined them at the table carrying several articles of clothing. Jay sighed. “Benaji, sala’um, wai’r’sum—”

  “No,” Tach interrupted in English. “Today we move on. You’ve learned Sham’al—loosely translated, industry speak. Now you have to get a taste of Ilkazal in the public mode.”

  “Time out.” Jay gave the sign.

  Before the detective could get wound up, Mark intervened. “We don’t have time to learn every language spoken on Takis, Doc.”

  “I’m not expecting you to, but all you’ve learned is the lingua franca, if you will. The language of commerce, and communication to the lower classes. There is a diplomatic tongue, Amlas, used only between Houses. Then there is the language of each House, private and public. You don’t need the private—you haven’t wives or children to address. I doubt you’ll need Amlas—why should you be negotiating with the rival Houses on behalf of the House Ilkazam? But if you don’t have at least a nodding acquaintance with Ilkazal, you’ll be dismissed as mere servants or aliens.”

  “We are aliens,” pointed out Mark.

  “There are aliens and then there are aliens. I want you in the ship category. Able to speak Sham’al and know a bit of Ilkazal.”

  “So we can’t parlay vous in English at all?” Jay asked, totally confusing the issue.

  “Not at all. Like the ships, you have your own private language—”

  “We’re not going to have to learn ship talk too, are we?” asked Mark hastily.

  She said reassuringly, “No, it’s far beyond humanoid understanding. It’s telepathy based on complex mathematics. When broken down and made audible, it resembles music more than anything else.”

  Mark’s homely face became almost handsome as he smiled in delight. “Awesome, man, the music of the spheres. Maybe old Sir Thomas wasn’t so far off.”

  Tachyon chuckled, the first laugh she’d enjoyed in weeks. The image of one of Baby’s relatives hanging in the sky and singing softly to a British poet was irresistible.

  Jay pulled her back. “So let me get this straight. As allies you’ve got your ships and that’s it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the Network has one hundred and thirty-seven member races.” Jay shook his head. “I think we’re playing in the wrong league.”

  “You’re not playing in any league at all,” said Tachyon. “You’re still a farm team.”

  “And who calls us up is still in doubt?” asked Mark.

  Tach just nodded. She never did get to return to her dissertation on Takisian linguistics. The door to the cabin opened, and Zabb entered. Her reaction startled and dismayed her. The Tachyon mind cried out for her to assume a fighter’s stance, prepare for attack. The body responded by placing a hand protectively over her belly. Fortunately, Mark and Jay were more practical. They shifted quickly, Mark shielding her with his body, Jay hanging by her left shoulder.

  “Sit, hounds.” Zabb patted soothingly at the air with his palms. “I’ve not come to harm my cousin, merely invite—” He broke off abruptly, his mouth twisting in a crooked half smile that fifty years ago Tachyon had learned to resent and distrust. “Dear me, sweet Tisianne, what do I call you? English is such a primitive and cumbersome language. Are you a he, a she, or an it? Pronouns, I believe they’re called … slippery things.”

  “Not half so slippery as you,” said Tachyon bitterly.

  Overall she’d made peace with her temporary gender change, and the sidelong looks from her friends and her enemies affected her very little. Until Zabb. Before him she knew humiliation, and the corrosive anger at her ludicrous situation became an actual pain in the center of her chest. Illyana, rightly perceiving the anger as being directed at her small baby self, shifted nervously and sent out a telepathic begging cry to her mother.

  Reminded of her duty and obligation, Tachyon made a conscious effort to bury the anger, sent waves of comfort and love washing across the baby’s unhappy little mind until she was rocked back into the peaceful dream state of the womb.

  Wonderful, I’m turning my child into a codependent even before birth.

  It raised an interesting question she had never before considered. Telepathic mothers could in fact begin imprinting, affecting their children long before their physical appearance in the world. But Tachyon’s mind was male. So what behavior and thought patterns was Illyana absorbing?

  “Hello, Tis? Are you with us?” Tach’s head jerked back up, and she stared consideringly up at Zabb. “Will you come walking or no? And without them. I must speak with you privately.”

  A chorus of nos met his statement. Zabb’s lips narrowed almost to invisibility beneath the sharp, elegant line of his mustache.

  “Don’t be such an idiot, Zabb. We’ve both spent our lives surrounded by guards. Why should it bother you? Unless you’re afraid of my particular guards?”

  “Burning Sky! You think you could present me with anything I would fear? Bring them if you think my word is not enough.”

  Tachyon stared at him. Heard the bravado echoing in the first sentence. Sensed the pain in the second. What a strange relationship we have, she thought. You taught me to ride and let me take the reins of the sleigh on Crystal Night. I’ve eluded your assassins, felt the cut of your blade as we dueled to the death. And each time I’ve cheated you. You are my adored enemy.

  “Stay here,” she heard herself saying. “I will walk out with my cousin.”

  “You’ve lost your fucking mind,” said Jay.

  “Perhaps … but I don’t think I’ll lose my life.” She glanced back over her shoulder at the two humans. Smiled. “And if my judgment is poor, and his words dishonored, I’ll trust you to kill him for me.”

  “I don’t know about you, but I really hate that guy,” Jay said conversationally as the door closed. “And I’m not going to let him waltz off with Tachy. Time for a little snoop-and-poop action.”

  “I’ll snoop and poop with you.” Meadows was busying himself with the briefcase.

  “Meadows, I’m a detective. Taking you along is like taking a fucking semaphore—”

  Jay didn’t see which vial the gangly ace took, but suddenly there was a whirlwind, and blankets went sailing off the bunks like hysterical chickens. The little figure shrugged herself free of the cocooning blankets, and Jay felt his jaw drop.

  Jet black hair fell like an ebony waterfall down her back. The black jumpsuit hugged every
curve of her lovely body. The white yin/yang symbol on her chest drew the eye to her perfect breasts.

  “You’re living inside Mark Meadows? Holy shit, I’m going to be a lot nicer now.”

  “As we speak, our quarry eludes us,” she said in a soft, pretty voice. There was a hint of censure in the words, and the remark was offered with a modest dropping of the eyes.

  “Uh … yeah, right. Who the hell are you?” Jay asked plaintively, as they stepped through the door.

  “Isis Moon … Moonchild.”

  Once in the corridor, Moonchild dimmed the lights. Shadows dripped from the walls. She stepped into one of them and promptly vanished. Jay briefly wondered how she’d feel about divorce work. He almost lost her several times, but each time a small hand reached out from the shadows, lightly touched his wrist, and led him on.

  Down a left-branching corridor they heard voices: Zabb’s clear tenor, and Tachyon’s bell-like tones. Jay pressed himself against the wall and craned until he could peer around the doorjamb. It looked like an armory, with racks of weapons hung on the walls and several spacesuits hanging from hooks.

  Tachyon was fiddling with the arm of a suit. She sighed, dropped it, and turned to face her cousin. “Are you still worrying about that damn throne? If it’s any comfort to you … I don’t want it.” She shook her head. “And Zabb, it’s over. Whether I want it or not, you can’t have it either.”

  “Oh?”

  “We’ve each made our choices. Mine was set fifty years ago when I went in pursuit of Ansata and the virus to try to prevent a holocaust. Your course was set five years ago when you betrayed your House and sold yourself to the Network. Takis may be a stop for each of us, but it can never again be home.”

  “You’re the most self-righteous little vacu,” Zabb returned angrily. “You pretend it was necessary for you to deal with the Network in order to protect Takis. Abortion! It was self-interest, pure and simple. Why don’t you admit that all this altruism is really just a pose to cover your pathetic grandstanding for attention?

  “You couldn’t hold your own in the true Takisian fashion—no aptitude for command, and no stomach for war. Even your science—you were a synthesizer, not an innovator. You didn’t invent the Enhancer project, you could only build on the work of others.

  “You destroy everything you touch, Tis. Poor damned Ansata who carried the virus to Earth. If you’d let him carry out his mission, the death and suffering among those groundlings would have been much reduced. But you got to be a ministering power, the noble lord bountiful.

  “And what about your own world? You damn near destroyed the family by your noble posturings. You left me to face our enemies.” Zabb ripped open his tunic, and revealed the left side of his body. It was a mass of puckered white scar tissue. Tach threw out a hand and backed away.

  So far as Jay could tell, Zabb didn’t do a damn thing, but suddenly Tachyon threw her hands over her face, let out a scream, and collapsed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “I WIN … AND GUESS what? You lose.” Blaise’s voice held that excited, joyful lilt that always left Durg itching to slap him.

  The effect it had on the Raiyis of House Vayawand could only be guessed at, for L’gura had himself well in hand. The strain of the past weeks had written their passing on his face. Where once he had been gaunt, the face was now skull-like, but Durg had to admire the force of will that kept the prince erect and serene even as he faced his executioners.

  There was no hope of escape, and L’gura knew it. Those most loyal to him had long since been jumped and then killed or discredited by Blaise. The guards observing the tableau would not embrace death on behalf of this wounded wolf.

  No blame could attach to the Raiyis for not suspecting, understanding, or knowing how to counter Blaise’s powers. The fatal error had been basing their test of wills on Blaise’s oratorical skills. L’gura should have selected a Takisian forum in which the native could excel. Instead the Raiyis had allowed Blaise (coached carefully by Durg) to goad him into a public debate and to make the throne the prize to be won.

  Demagogue, thought Durg dreamily. It was a word without equivalent in Takisian, and Blaise had used this alien power to exhort and thrill until the members of House Vayawand were roaring their support and enthusiasm. A few hot and gusting words, and they fancied themselves the rulers of Takis. The decision of the House was plain—they wanted Blaise to lead them to this new order. But it would be Durg who would translate words into reality.

  “You’re an excellent argument for the wisdom of a controlled breeding program,” said L’gura conversationally.

  A flush blossomed in the boy’s cheeks, and Durg held his breath. The internal struggle was obvious. Reason conquered anger, and Blaise shrugged. “My dear old granddaddy used to say that one healthy outcross was worth a thousand linebred fools. For once he was right about something.”

  L’gura scanned the nobles arrayed around his desk. “You are all quite determined on this?”

  Elidan nodded. “The Raiyis sighed and leaned back. “It can be painless,” Elidan said.

  “No, I’d rather have it messy.” The sharp gray eyes were turned to Blaise. “You should have to clean up the chair.”

  Durg moved, but he was too late to stop the flick of the forefinger across a seam on the arm of the chair. The wingback detonated, exploding L’gura’s head. Fragments, both organic and inorganic, pattered across their faces like a disgusting warm rain. The body collapsed forward, the ruined head continuing to bleed onto the surface of the desk.

  With a jerk of his head Blaise indicated to Durg. The Morakh crossed to the chair and threw aside the body. Blaise followed and, swinging out the chair, seated himself. The Vayawand nobles watched in horrified fascination as blood and brains smeared into the boy’s dark red hair.

  “Impressive, half-breed. But your mistake was assuming I would allow a mongrel like you to rule the House Vayawand,” Elidan said.

  “I never assume anything, Elidan,” Blaise replied.

  Several things happened very quickly. Blaise slumped, almost losing consciousness. Elidan grabbed the crystal wine goblet on the desk and shattered it. Durg signaled the guards, whose loyalty had been carefully purchased days before, and they, together with Durg, held the other nobles at gunpoint while Elidan proceeded to cut his throat with a jagged piece of glass.

  Blaise was screaming. “No, no! He’s killing me! Ancestors, save me!”

  When the windpipe was severed, Blaise again slumped, gripped the arms of the chair to still the shaking of his hands, and watched as Elidan choked and bubbled on the floor before him. A few more seconds and it was over. The shaken nobility of the House Vayawand eyed their creation, and Sekal slowly bowed to Blaise.

  “Raiyis.”

  Blaise accepted their homage with appropriate grace. Durg was relieved—it would have been so like the young monster to gloat. The men filed silently out of the office, and Blaise held out a hand to Durg. The Morakh assisted him to his feet.

  “The hardest thing is enduring the pain … concentrating through it to time the return jump,” said Blaise as he shoved a toe under Elidan’s body and rolled him over. The neck wound yawned up at Durg like a ragged, toothless grin.

  Blaise suddenly lifted hooded lids and gave Durg the full force of those strange dark eyes. “My dear pet,” he said using the Vayawand diminishing word for a Morakh. “You haven’t given me proper obeisance yet.”

  It startled Durg. His entire focus had been directed toward making Blaise Raiyis of House Vayawand. Having succeeded, it hadn’t occurred to him the boy would take it seriously. A lack of imagination was a terrible impediment to a Svengali, Durg thought as he felt, like the briefest lick of a whip, the touch of Blaise’s coercive mind control.

  Durg hurried to his knees and noted that the pleasure in his victory had gone sour.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “WHAT DID HE DO to you?”

  Tachyon turned her head to the wall. Jay repeated the
question—louder. Moonchild was suddenly between them, sliding like a cloud between sky and sun. Using just her fingertips, she removed Jay’s hand from Tachyon’s arm. “That is not the way, Mr. Ackroyd. Step back, please. You threaten by the mere fact of your presence.”

  Stung, Jay retreated. Watched as Moonchild shook back her long hair, seated herself on the bunk, and drew Tachyon into her arms. Jay waited for the usual reaction. It didn’t come. Instead Tach sighed and relaxed against the slim Korean woman. Jay figured it out—while intellectually Tachyon knew this was “Mark,” the smell was of jasmine and sandalwood, the fingertips were soft, the body a place of rest and peace, not an instrument for pain. Jay suddenly regretted Tachyon’s decision not to bring Cody.

  “Doctor, you must speak with me,” Moonchild said. “I was present at your collapse, and our captain took no physical action against you. Am I to infer from this that his assault was mental in nature?”

  Tach pushed her hair back. The black and white and blond strands intermingled, and Jay thought he’d never seen a more beautiful pair of contrasting broads. One silver, one ebony. They could have been the queens on a living chess set. The romanticism of the thought embarrassed him, and he jammed his hands into the pockets of his brown slacks.

  Tach shuddered. “He held up a mirror,” she said so softly that Moonchild had to bend down to hear her.

  “I do not understand. What does that mean?”

  “There’s a fairy tale among my people about a man so evil and honorless that his ancestors gathered and resolved to curse him so that each mirror he gazed into would show him his soul. Eventually it drove him mad, and his servants found his bloody body in the midst of shattered mirrors. Zabb took me on a time journey—the past and future all woven into one, and I nearly strangled in the threads of my selfishness. And then I realized I am the man of that story.”

  Jay felt the anger rising again. “Zabb knows he can’t touch you physically. He can’t even hurt you emotionally or mentally except that you’re letting him. We haven’t got time for you to indulge in an orgy of self-pity and self-doubt. You’ve hauled Meadows and me across half a galaxy. You owe us. You’ve got to look out for us the same way we’re looking out for you. And that means teaching us all these stupid languages, and not making us crazy worrying about the state of your head. We’ve got enough problems trying to preserve your attractive little ass and recover your original skinny little ass,” Jay concluded.