Wild Cards 15 - Black Trump

by George R. R. Martin

  The beach quickly gave way to dunes covered with patches of tough, scraggly grass. The dunes dipped and peaked, providing Ray with cover as he made his way to the manor at the heart of the island. He was happy to get off the beach. Because it was night he'd opted for his black fighting suit, but the pure white sand made for a high degree of contrast with his supposed camouflage. Hunkering down in the dunes made him less of a target, and when he broke into the shrubs and palm trees of the island's interior he had plenty of shadows to skulk among.

  It was a good thing, too, because that's where he ran into the first sign of Shark security, a lone sentry armed with an assault rifle. As Ray watched, the Shark wandered around the shrubbery, stopped, leaned his rifle against a convenient palm tree, and lit a cigarette. After a moment the sweet smell of marijuana wafted to Ray as he crouched in the shadows.

  Ray smiled. Sneered, really. "Moron," he said to himself, and he moved. He didn't bother to move quietly.

  He caught the sentry in the middle of a long toke. The guard looked up as Ray's shadow engulfed him, more astonishment than fear in his eyes. Ray took him out with a single blow to the jaw. He could have gone for a soft body part, but tonight he felt mean. He wanted the shock of hitting bone to jolt his fist and run tingling up his arm like an electric current. The pain sent an extra surge of adrenalin flowing through Ray's body. As if he needed it.

  Ray stood over the unconscious guard, flexing his fingers. It was hard to tell if the sentry was local talent or a Shark import. He was black. He could have been a local thug. But he was big, well-nourished, and certainly well-armed ("For all the good it did him," Ray thought as he ground the barrel of the assault rifle into the sand.). He even wore a uniform, a khaki paramilitary outfit complete with shiny boots and a fruity-looking maroon-colored beret. Peggy Durand had said that the Sharks had their own security units. Ray's smile fixed and widened. He hoped so.

  He considered calling in to the cutter that waited offshore, but decided to maintain radio silence. There was no telling how sophisticated Shark security was - though if the bozo snoozing at Ray's feet was any indication, even if they had a state-of-the-art listening post they'd probably be using it to catch a Peaches game on WTBS.

  Ray stopped to put plastic restraints on the sentry's wrists and ankles, stuff the man's beret in his mouth, then wind duct tape over it. He pushed him under some bushes and moved on.

  The manor house was a couple of hundred yards away. At first Ray flitted from tree to bush, but he tired of skulking before he'd gotten halfway to his target.

  "Screw it," he said aloud. The adrenaline was dancing through his system and he ached to hit someone, to smash the bastards who wanted to eliminate Ray and the rest of the wild carders from the face of the earth.

  Luck was with him - or not, from Ray's point of view. No one saw him as he strode up to the house. He paused for a moment to look around. There was a moving silhouette on the roof, man and rifle held at rest. But the guard was looking the other way and he never saw Ray as he walked through the back door.

  It opened into a dark hallway. Ahead was a closed door with light spilling from the cracks at floor and ceiling. Ray went to the door and turned the knob, then entered the room.

  It was a well-lit, well-appointed kitchen. There was a large electric range, a huge refrigerator, and nice wooden cabinets. A counter ran down the center of the room. Cold cuts, bread, cheese, and condiments were spread over it. One man stood in front of the counter, making a sandwich. Two others sat on stools, eating. Another was perched on the counter near the sink drinking Red Stripe beer from an amber bottle. They all wore the same outfit that the sentry had. Their rifles were piled on the counter among the cold cuts and cheese.

  "Who the hell are you?" the man making the sandwich asked, roll in one hand, mustard bottle in the other. He spoke with a Brooklyn accent. He wasn't a local.

  Ray shook his head. "Doesn't matter," he said. "But this does: you guys Card Sharks or what?"

  "You expect me to answer that?" the other asked incredulously.

  Ray smiled happily. "You just did."

  The two men sitting at the counter eyed each other. Slowly they started to put down their hoagies and reach for their rifles, and then Ray was among them. He crossed the room before they knew it. He gave one the back of his right hand, the other the edge of his left. He reached across the counter for the third before the first two hit the linoleum. The third waved the mustard bottle at him as Ray dragged him across the rifles and cold cuts. The Shark squeezed the bottle and a stream of brown mustard shot out and splattered the front of Ray's fighting suit. Ray's eyes burned with a sudden cold fury.

  "Son of a bitch," he snapped, then head-butted the sentry and left him unconscious among the rolls. The fourth had time to say, "Oh, shit," as Ray turned to him. He swung the beer bottle. Ray blocked it with his left forearm. It shattered, spraying amber slivers of glass. Ray's smile widened.

  "Let's talk," he suggested.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  Grew knew it was over. If he had Puppetman again, maybe he could have done something - if nothing else, he could have reached inside Oddity and taken the anger he knew constantly boiled there and turned up the fire until the formidable joker hurled himself at Snotman. Maybe the rest of them could flee in the confusion. But without the old power, in this body ... Gregg raised himself up and started to lift the tiny hands on his front two limbs in surrender when he caught a glimpse of motion at his side.

  Oddity was charging forward like a bull driving toward a matador.

  Two of the most powerful forms created by the wild card - joker or ace - collided. Oddity hit like a truck ... and caromed off, scattering Kevlar-jacketed SWAT-team members like tenpins and crashing into a diorama of the Crystal Palace. Snotman laughed. He hadn't budged an inch. "That felt fucking wonderful," he said, and raised his hand toward Oddity, crouching in the center of the gallery.

  "Gregg ..."

  A beam of aching blue light arced from Snotman, striking Oddity full in the chest. The joker howled with their ruined voice as the bolt of raw energy lifted them and threw them ten feet back like a rag doll. Oddity hit the wall by the archway, crumpling plasterboard, their dented fencing mask flying off. The Turtle shells above Gregg swayed, two of them striking together and ringing like bells. The face underneath the mask - piebald, knobby, a horrible fusion of the three people inside - cried out once and Oddity sagged into a heap on the floor. They tried to stand again, leaning heavily against the broken wall, then sank back.

  "Gregg!" Gregg couldn't move, even though Hannah called him. He thought for an instant that he could feel Oddity's pain, and it felt ... good. The sensation stunned him, left him rooted to the floor as Snotman chuckled, as Oddity groaned. Gregg could feel the shifting of personalities inside Oddity, could sense John - injured and shaken - allowing Evan to take control of their shared body.

  Snotman waved back the agents who crowded the gallery as he strode toward Oddity; they seemed happy enough to obey him. Snotman swaggered over, lifting his fist as Oddity raised their hands in weak self-defense. Gregg did nothing, said nothing, felt nothing. The sensation was gone as quickly as it had come. He watched, helpless, feeling acid gnawing at his stomach.

  Oddity suddenly kicked upward, striking Snotman square in the groin. Snotman sneered. "You son of a bitch," he said, He looked stronger and more dangerous than ever. Oddity charged again, like a groggy linebacker determined to take down a receiver, but Snotman slapped him aside contemptuously.

  Oddity fell, unconscious. Snotman, laughing, lifted a booted foot to smash the tri-featured head below. "No!" Hannah shouted, running forward.

  Snotman chuckled. "Ahh, you're no challenge at all," he said, and pointed at her.

  Hannah screamed in pain as Snotman's lightnings sent her tumbling backward. Gregg screamed with her, but another voice sounded louder than Gregg's. "Hannah!" The word was a shriek, primal and shrill, and it came from Quasiman.

  Snotman grinn
ed "C'mon, hunchback. Let's see what you can do."

  "Quasi, no!" Gregg said. He had scuttled over to Hannah, who was shaking her head groggily. "Hit him and you just make him stronger. We're done here. We've lost. Give it up."

  "Snotman hurt Hannah," Quasiman said slowly, without looking at Gregg.

  "Don't. Call. Me. SNOTMAN!" The last word was a shriek of fury.

  Quasiman hurled himself at Snotman. The ace spread his hands wide, as if in embrace. "Come on, asshole," he said.

  Quasiman struck the ace square on the chest. The joker's stubby arms locked around the ace. "Run, Hannah!" he shouted.

  And Quasiman vanished, taking Snotman with him.

  For a moment, an awed silence reigned. Then Gregg saw the agents gathering themselves, the blond-haired woman who must be Harvest motioning them forward. "Get to the back of the gallery," Gregg hissed at Hannah and Dutton. "Pretend you're surrendering." He skittered to the side, clambering up the wall. He made the short leap to the nearest of the Turtle shells. He concentrated on the delicious smell of the metal, of the way it might taste, and felt his gorge rising. Gregg let it come, let the noxious stuff hurl from his mouth onto the cables holding the shell to the ceiling. He leaped to the next shell and did the same, then to the next. Already he heard behind him the groan of over-stressed steel. "Run!" he shouted to Dutton and Hannah. They were standing with hands raised over their heads as the agents entered the room.

  Cables twanged and separated. The shell tilted, dangled on one cable for an instant, and fell.

  The din was incredible, as if all the churchbells of New York had fallen at once, and the building shook and swayed. Someone screamed; a gun went off and a ricochet whined from the plate metal of the shell. Another shell fell, striking the first and bouncing dangerously end over end like a giant metal football, smashing exhibits. The shell on which Gregg stood suddenly tilted. Gregg leapt for the wall as it came down. He let himself half-fall, half-run to the rear of the gallery. "Go! Go!" he shouted into the echoes of clangorous metal. Dutton and Hannah ran with him, further into the depths of the museum.

  They could hear Harvest shouting orders, and running steps as the agents moved through the museum. Gregg turned left into the next gallery, Hannah following. "Where's Dutton?" he asked suddenly, standing on his rear two legs.

  "I don't know."

  Someone appeared in the doorway to their right. Hannah shoved Gregg and then leaped and rolled as a gunshot cracked, taking off the wax snout of Xavier Desmond, the old "Mayor of Jokertown." They tumbled into the next room, lit dimly by the exit signs over the archways.

  Across from the Syrian diorama, Jetboy and Dr. Tod were locked in their final confrontation. "There!" Gregg whispered. He wriggled between Jetboy's feet as Hannah slipped between the wax figures.

  Gregg pointed to the door of the gondola, set against the wall of the display. "Hurry!" Gregg said.

  "Gregg, this is a dead end."

  "Trust me. Just open it!"

  Shaking her head, Hannah turned the wheel and pulled; the door hung open a bare inch. Behind, they could hear renewed shouting: "Harvest! Battle's back here!" From somewhere nearby, Dutton's voice rang out, protesting loudly. "I want to see your warrant and your ID - "

  Hannah braced her foot against the wall and pulled harder. The door hinges gave with a soft groan, and Gregg slithered into musty darkness. Hannah quickly followed him. She pulled the door closed, and all sounds from outside were abruptly cut off. "Gregg?" she whispered.

  "I'm here." Gregg found that the darkness was no longer quite solid. He could see Hannah - her form shimmered ruddily, the face nearly as skull-like as Dutton's. Another new quirk of his joker body: he might not be able to see very well, but he could see into the infrared. Gregg sniffed; there was a faint scent, a feeble movement of the air, telling him that the gondola room continued further back. "Dutton always hinted that there were hidden ways out of the museum," he said to Hannah. "I found this when ..." Gregg stopped. When I was sneaking around here spying on Dutton, when I was trying to find you to give you to the Sharks. That's the truth, but I don't want to say it. "Well, how I found it doesn't matter now, I guess." Gregg moved further away from the door, carefully. As he remembered, there was a narrow corridor, moving to the left.

  "I wish Dutton would put lights in his hidey-holes," Gregg said. "Stay there... Yeah, there's stairs here, a little further along. This must lead between the walls. Careful now. I'll go first; just keep your hand on the wall...."

  Slowly, Gregg led Hannah through the blackness. The stairs continued down, turning once ninety degrees to the right, then opening into a long corridor that jogged three or four times. Gregg quickly found himself losing track of time as they moved through the blackness: they might have walked ten minutes or twenty before the corridor ended and they headed up another flight of stairs. At the top, another door blocked their way. Gregg could smell oil, old garbage, auto exhaust: outside. Gregg pressed one of his clown ears against the wood, listening. "I don't hear anything. Can you open the door, Hannah? I'm not real good at knobs ..."

  The door opened onto an alley and they stepped out into the Jokertown night. The lights of police cruisers bounced blue and red strobes across the brick walls. Gregg scurried to the mouth of the alley and peered out. They'd emerged from a building south of the Dime Museum. The street in front of the museum was strewn with bright police vehicles illuminating the neighborhood. More sirens wailed in the distance. "They're scared," Hannah said behind Gregg. "They know we're right, but they don't want the word getting out. The bastards ..."

  "They can't hold most of them for long," Gregg told her. "Even jokers still have some rights. I've known Dutton for years - he'll have his lawyers on the phone in an hour and he'll be free before morning. There's nothing on Father Squid, Dr. Finn, or the others." A shudder ran along the length of Gregg's body. He could feel himself shivering, on the edge of panic. He wanted nothing more than to find a dark corner somewhere and hide. "Let's get out of here while their attention's still on the Museum."

  "We can't go wandering the streets, Gregg. They'll find us."

  Gregg looked at her. Hannah was dressed in beige Dockers, a Rox T-shirt, and sneakers. She looked normal, if a bit yuppie-casual. As he had a few thousand times in the past few days, he found himself wondering how she could still claim that she cared for him. He wondered what she saw in him now that he was a joker. I'm a sham, he wanted to tell her. I killed people; I hurt them and I reveled in their pain. I still can feel that pleasure.... "Hannah, you have to hide, and your best chance is without me. Dye your hair, cut it short. This is your chance, Hannah."

  A faint smile played with the edges of her lips. "Are you saying you want to get rid of me, Gregg? You're dumping me?"

  "Hannah ..." He could not answer that smile. "I'm saying that I'm a big liability to you. You stand a much better chance without me. That's just the truth. I think you should take the opportunity."

  "Gregg ..." Hannah crouched down beside him. "When are you going to understand? I don't give my friendship lightly or casually. I lost you once and the pain ..." Her voice faltered for a moment, and she looked away. "I don't intend to have that happen again," she said at last.

  "I'm a goddamn joker, Hannah." I've laughed and taken pleasure in innocent people's deaths, I've done more horrible things in my life than you can imagine. He thought it; he said nothing. "That changes things, I understand that. I really do."

  "Yes," she said, and the word hurt. "I know that. But you're still Gregg Hartmann. You're someone I ..." She stopped. Gregg wondered what she'd been about to say. Love?

  "... care about. That hasn't changed."

  "Hannah, I - " Gregg didn't know what to say. I don't deserve this, not after all I've done.... He could only look at Hannah in wonder. "Hannah - "

  "Look, you can't even open doors by yourself. You need me. We both need each other." She nodded her head toward the museum, where they could see the Oddity being escorted out under guard. G
regg watched, remembering that odd feeling of momentary connection he'd felt during Oddity's fight with Snotman.

  Khaki-uniformed men were beginning to scatter through the streets, and more NYPD squad cars wailed their arrival. "We don't have time for this," Hannah said abruptly. "We stay together, Gregg, whatever happens." Her hand cupped his head, and he felt the delicious warmth through his wrinkled skin. Still thinking about the Oddity, Gregg tried to do what he'd once been able to do with a touch - to insinuate himself inside her mind, to establish the mental link that would allow him to ride with her emotions and control them.

  But he couldn't, and Hannah took her hand away too quickly. He tried not to notice that she unconsciously rubbed the hand on her pant leg afterward.

  "How's your sense of smell?" Gregg asked.

  "Pretty good. Why?"

  "That's a pity. Because where we're going, that's not exactly an asset. Now - before someone up there starts looking around ..."

  Gregg went to the rear of the alleyway and bolted across the street behind the Dime Museum. They hurried away, keeping to shadows, ducking into entranceways and between buildings when cars passed. Finally Gregg led Hannah into another narrow alley near where the Crystal Palace had once stood. He jabbed a truncated arm at a sewer lid.

  "Our path out of here," he said. "And my home for the last few months. I hope you like it."

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  Ray chugged the last of the Red Stripe, popped the rest of his sandwich into his mouth and chewed. It was well-aged Swiss cheese and an excellent honey-cured ham with a dab of spicy brown mustard. He adjusted his beret and winked at the Shark lying trussed up in his underwear among his still-unconscious comrades. Ray didn't much care for the beret, but it was part of the costume. He left the kitchen whistling tunelessly, proud of the subtlety he was showing, anxious for more action.