Wild Cards V: Down and Dirty

by George R. R. Martin

  “Water!” she cried. “I want the water!”

  “Shh, shh, we’ll get you some water,” said the clown man, trying to hold her still.

  “Please! He’s taken the water!” She collapsed against the man, crying weakly, but still without tears.

  Curled up on the bed in the fetal position, she heard the clown man talking to one of the clinic nurses without really listening to what he was saying. Every so often her body gave an uncontrollable shudder, but she remained dry. Dried up, she thought; all dried up without him, without the kiss and the pleasure and the fullness.

  “… something about water,” the clown man was saying.

  “Hysterical,” said the nurse. “Hysteria seems to be the condition of the moment around here.”

  “Nah, it’s more than that. I’ve got a bad feeling. She oughta be watched.”

  The nurse sighed. “Maybe, but we just don’t have the people. The new cases are coming in almost faster than we can log them, all jokers and worse. If we don’t find the cause, the whole city could get infected. You’re running a pretty bad risk yourself, Boze.”

  The clown man grunted. “What’s a joker got to lose?”

  “You’d know the answer to that if you saw the locked ward.”

  “That’s just a small locked ward you got here. Out there, it’s a big locked ward, and we’re all locked into it. And when I walk around it, I just see my brother again, turned inside out. Screaming every time his heart beat. Hell, you don’t have the people to stay with her, I’ll stay with her, watch her for signs that she’s been infected.”

  A fresh bout of shuddering racked Jane’s body; she tried to quell it and listen to what they were saying.

  “That’s big of you, Boze, but just from the quick exam we gave her in the emergency room, I’d say she’s suffering from drug withdrawal, not a new wild card infection.”

  The idea seemed to flood Jane’s mind with a bright light. She sat up and turned to the nurse. “Drugs. I need a drug.”

  The nurse glanced at the clown man. “What’d I tell you, Boze? Just another junkie courting AIDS.”

  “I am NOT a junkie, you bitch, I am an ACE and I demand to see Dr. Tachyon AT ONCE!” The scream tore out of Jane’s throat, leaving it raw; she imagined she could hear her words echoing all through the clinic, reaching all the way to Tachyon himself, wherever he was.

  And apparently she had imagined it right; a few moments later Tachyon appeared in the doorway, alarm large on his drawn, tired face.

  The nurse started to speak to him; he waved away her words and went to the bed, taking Jane’s hand in his.

  “Water Lily,” he said, his voice full of compassion. “What has happened to you?”

  This undid her completely and she clung to him, sobbing dryly. He held her, letting her get it all out, and then gently pushed her back down on the bed.

  “Don’t leave me like this!” she cried, grabbing at his hands.

  “Shh, Jane, I won’t leave you, not for a few minutes anyway.”

  She saw that he was not just weary but near complete exhaustion; then she brushed the fact aside. He was here to help her. He had to help her. It was all his fault to begin with, and if that meant he had to work exhausted once in a while, that was his tough stuff, which was nothing compared to what she was going through.

  “I need a drug,” she said shakily. “I was given something—it wasn’t my fault, I didn’t want to take it, it was forced on me. I don’t want it anymore but I have to have it. I might die without it. I don’t know—”

  “What was it?” he asked quietly, pushing her down as she tried to rise.

  “I don’t know!” she snapped impatiently. “Just something, it goes right to the pleasure place, it makes—it does—I had to—but you must have a drug. Something you can make from your world. Something that will cure me, or replace it, like methadone—”

  “You need methadone?” His expression was stricken.

  “No, no, not methadone, something like methadone, but from your world, something that will make me stop craving—”

  Tachyon wiped a hand over his face. “Please. You’re babbling. Please try to calm down. If you’re addicted to a drug I can send you to another clinic—”

  “It’s not a drug!” she screamed, and Tachyon put his hands over his ears. “I’m sorry, oh, I’m so sorry,” she went on in a whisper, “but it’s not a drug, not exactly, but it’s like a drug—”

  Tachyon pulled away from her, pressing his palms against his forehead. “Jane, please. I’ve lost count of the number of hours I’ve been up. I can’t even put forth my mind to calm you. The nurse will give you a sedative and we’ll transfer you to another hospital.”

  “No, please, don’t send me away!” She grabbed at his arm and he twisted away from her.

  “You can’t stay here. We need the beds for the new cases.”

  “But—”

  Tachyon pulled away from her firmly. “The nurse can give the name of a clinic not far from here. They can help you. Or just outside, I’m sure there’s someone who can give you the name of a source, if that’s what you’re really after.” He got up and walked wearily to the door, pausing to look back at her. “I had expected you to end up differently, Water Lily. You must be a great disappointment to Hiram Worchester.” He was gone.

  Speechless, Jane fell back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. He was tired, so exhausted that he saw her as just another drug addict. A great disappointment to Hiram Worchester. At the thought of Hiram the craving burst upon her with an intensity that brought her up out of the bed and sent her charging for the doorway.

  Just at the threshold she collided with the nurse. “Whoa, wait a minute,” the nurse said, thrusting a piece of paper at her. “Dr. Tachyon told me to give you the name of this clinic—”

  Jane snatched the paper from her and stared at it, trying to drown it in a gout of water that would turn it to mush, but the terrible need blocked her again. She looked up at the nurse.

  “No drug?” she said belligerently.

  The nurse’s eyes were hard. “Not here, lady.”

  She could still call a little water, albeit in a rather conventional way. She spat on the paper and flung it in the nurse’s face. Then she turned and ran down the hall to the exit.

  On the fourth number she dialed, the answering machine message cut off and a low voice said, “It better be good.”

  Jane’s voice suddenly deserted her. She hung on the pay phone in the telephone booth, her mouth opening and closing impotently.

  “Okay, kid. We had Prince Albert in a can but we let him out last week. Now go call your mommy.” She heard him start to hang up.

  “Croyd!” she wailed.

  She could actually sense him shifting gears at the sound of a female voice. “Go ahead, I’m listening.”

  “It’s—it’s me, Jane. Jane Dow,” she added, trying to force herself to sound calm.

  “Jane. Well.” His pleasure-filled laugh grated on her painfully. “So you didn’t throw away the numbers I gave you. You sound a little breathless. Everything okay?”

  “No. Yes. I mean—” She slumped against the wall of the phone booth, gripping the receiver with both hands.

  “Jane? You still there?”

  “Yes. Of course.” Slowly she straightened up and tried to compose herself into the Aces High hostess who flirted so easily with the man with the faceted eyes. The overwhelming emptiness inside of her made that woman a stranger to her now. “I’m still here and you’re there. I think that means one of us is definitely in the wrong place.” Her voice broke on the last word, and she jammed her knuckles into her mouth to smother the sound of her crying.

  “If you’re saying you’d like to rectify that situation, that’s the best thing I’ve heard today.” He paused. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

  Something in the back of her mind was trying to tell her Croyd sounded as though he were on the thin edge himself, but she ignored it. If there
was anyone who could get her a drug, it was Croyd. Whatever she had to do for him in return was not too much to ask.

  “Everything will be okay when you give me your address,” she said shakily. When he didn’t answer, she added, “I really want to see you. Please?”

  “I never could resist a woman who said please. Tell me where you are and I’ll tell you the best way to get to where I am.…”

  The door opened a wide crack to reveal the mirrorshades, gleaming at her with an insectile coldness. Croyd licked his lips and opened the door wider. “Come into my parlor, Bright Eyes. If you’ll pardon the expression. I’m afraid parlor is all there is.” The voice was different; the man was taller and his skin was white all over, but the words were pure Croyd.

  She stepped into a shabby one-room apartment lit only with a few small lamps scattered in odd spots. The furniture was negligible—a bureau that might have come from the same flea market as the lamps, an old wooden table and a couple of chairs, a broken-down sofa near the windows. It was not the most reassuring place she had ever come to, but, she reminded herself, she had not come for reassurance.

  “This is not the place I usually choose to entertain in,” Croyd was saying as he shut the door and ran down a line of four locks. He turned to her, raising a hand to his mirrorshades, and licked his lips again. “So. I’m afraid I don’t have a lot to offer you in the way of refreshment, but I can make any kind of gin and tonic you like.”

  She laughed nervously, hugging herself. “How many kinds are there?”

  “Well, there’s gin and tonic, of course. Tonic and gin,” he said, moving closer to her. She made a countermove farther into the room, hugging herself tighter. “Gin and not much tonic. Gin and no tonic at all. Gin and an ice cube. Which sounds great to me. You think it over.” He licked his lips for the third time in as many minutes and went to the kitchenette.

  Jane turned away, trying to get the shudder building inside of her under control. In the company of this man who wanted her, the void was eating away at her like acid. It would make no difference if Croyd’s latest persona were the god of eros. Just being in the same room with him was an excruciating reminder that pleasure could only be Ti Malice; anything else was a pale, crude substitution to force time to pass.

  “Decided?”

  She jumped as he touched her shoulder and moved away from him, rubbing the spot as if it were bruised. “No, I—nothing for me, I guess.” She gave another nervous laugh and winced. He tilted his head curiously and she saw two Janes in the mirrorshades. The distortion made her look as if she were trying to disappear into herself.

  “You sure?” Croyd upended the glass and took a couple of ice cubes into his mouth, crunching them noisily. There were only ice cubes in his glass, she saw. “Nothing at all?”

  “Well, not nothing.…” She made a face, giving a long sigh. “God, I’m no good at this.”

  “At what?” Croyd had another ice cube. “What is it you’re not good at, Bright Eyes?” He came a little closer and she backed away. “And why is it so important to be good at it?”

  Something caught her abruptly behind the knees, and she plumped down hard on the couch. Croyd moved in quickly beside her, rolling another ice cube around in his mouth. His left arm slid along the back of the sofa and she shrank away from him. His knee touched hers just as his hand went from the couch to her shoulder, moving very lightly. He reached over and set the glass on the windowsill behind the couch, disturbing the drawn shade; his hand, she saw, was trembling slightly. Jane looked from the glass to Croyd. His tongue flicked out and ran along his lips every few seconds now. It was more like a tic than an expression of desire.

  “Talk to me, Jane,” he said gently as she reached the corner of the couch. He put his other hand on her arm. She flinched at the contact; there was another sensation under the displeasure of a touch that was not Ti Malice’s, a tremor, as if he were running a long distance and going as fast as he could instead of sitting here on the couch trying to take her in his arms. “Come on, talk to me. Tell me.”

  The words came to her unbidden. “‘Sleeper speeding, people bleeding.’”

  He froze. Jane looked into the mirrorshades, seeing only her twin reflections. Impulsively she reached for the glasses and he pulled back. “Don’t.” He twisted around, looking for the ice cubes, and Jane nodded at the windowsill. “Thanks. Speed dries you out.”

  “Where do you get it?” she asked.

  “What, the speed? Why?” He crunched a couple of ice cubes. “You planning to stay up all night?”

  “I was just wondering if whoever you got it from might … well, stock other things.” She took a deep breath. “Other kinds of drugs.”

  He looked at her sharply for a moment and then suddenly lunged at her, grabbing her upper arm to pull her close.

  “Stop, you’re hurting me!” Jane flinched from the mirrorshades thrusting themselves into her face and tried to pry his fingers off her arm.

  “Are you strung out? Is that why you came here?” He was almost laughing. She twisted away from him, started to get up, and stumbled, landing on the floor in a heap.

  “Get up.” He pulled her back onto the couch roughly. “Talk to me, and this time, tell me something I don’t know. Are you strung out.”

  “It’s not what you think,” she said, not looking at him.

  “It never is, Bright Eyes.” He was licking his lips again. It was beginning to drive her crazy. “So, what kind of drug were you shopping for—horse? Lady? Blue dreamers? Reds? White crossroads? Black bombers, screaming yellow zonkers? What’s your pleasure?” His voice was hard and ugly and she was aware, with no little amazement, that he was as disappointed in what he thought she was as Tachyon had been.

  “God, what am I supposed to be, everyone’s idea of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, the Sweet Virgin Ace?” she shouted at him. “Am I supposed to stand up here on my pedestal, playing God’s Good Girl, just so you can all pat me on the head and call me virtuous in between your own debaucheries? Dear little Water Lily, lily white Water Lily, virgin-white Water Lily! It doesn’t work that way! You all had to drag me into this, you had to involve me in your stupid games, in your fucking gang wars, you all had to use me for your own purposes, and now everyone’s so shocked because I’ve turned up with the same filth you wallow in splashed all over me. What did you expect!”

  She realized she was kneeling over him on the couch, screaming into his face. A few flecks of saliva were spattered on the mirrorshades. He stared up at her openmouthed.

  “I guess,” he said, pausing to lick his lips, “speed isn’t the only thing that can dry you out.”

  Jane doubled over with a sob as the aching emptiness renewed its attack on her. She felt Croyd’s hand lightly on her hair and shouted, “Don’t touch me, it hurts!”

  “I thought it was kind of strange that you weren’t, ah, moist, but I wasn’t sure. Everything seems a little strange at this point.” He crunched the last of the ice cubes. “What is it? Plain old heroin, or something more exotic?”

  She raised her head from the musty cushion. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me. Tell me what you’re looking for.”

  With great effort she pulled herself all the way up and sat with her legs tucked under her. “I need something that goes directly to the pleasure center of the brain and stimulates it continuously.”

  “Don’t we all,” Croyd said grimly, tapping the last drop of water from his empty glass.

  “Well?” she said after a moment.

  “Well what?”

  “Do you know of anyone who has such a drug and will sell it to me?”

  He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Hell, no.”

  She stared at him, feeling the void consume her hope along with the rest of her, and then, absurdly, she sneezed.

  “Gesundheit,” he said automatically. “Listen, there’s no such thing, not animal, vegetable, or mineral. Except maybe about five hours of good, dirty sex, and
frankly I’m not up to more than an hour at a time. Terrible to have to admit that—”

  She was off the couch, heading for the door.

  “Hey, wait!”

  She stopped and turned, looking at him questioningly.

  “Where are you going?”

  “The only place I can go.”

  “And where might that be?”

  She shook her head. “You’re wrong, Croyd. There is such a thing. It exists. I know it. And I hope you never do. It’s the worst thing in the world.”

  He licked his lips again and wiped his mouth with the palm of his hand. “I doubt that, Bright Eyes.”

  “Good,” she said. “I hope you always will. Stay where you are. I’ll let myself out.”

  But she couldn’t. She had to wait patiently while he undid all four locks before she could rush away from the twin reflections of her own hopeless face.

  Hiram opened the door to her this time, Hiram all alone in the empty apartment. She didn’t have to ask to be let in.

  “It left you,” he said quietly.

  “Yes.” Her voice was a whisper as she stood with her head bowed.

  “Are you…” His voice failed him for a moment. “Are you … all right?”

  She looked up at him and his eyes reflected the emptiness she felt inside. “You know I’m not, Hiram. And neither are you.”

  “No. I suppose we’re not.” He paused. “Can I get you anything? A glass of water or something to eat or…” His words hung in the air between them, futile absurdities. He was offering a teardrop to a forest fire.

  It was too painful to leave at that. Jane raised her head with as much dignity as she could muster. “A cup of hot tea would be nice, thank you.” It would be no such thing, and she almost never drank hot tea anyway, but it would be something they could do besides just stand there and ache together.

  He busied himself in the kitchenette while she sat at the small table, staring at nothing. If pleasure was real, then the absence of pleasure was a palpable thing as well; where there had been rapture in every movement there was now the pain of the void he had left. My Master, she thought with dull revulsion. I called him my Master.