Wild Cards 15 - Black Trump

by George R. R. Martin

  For herself, too, and she cooed at Rudo and hoped the flask was full enough. After the third shot, his cheeks went pink.

  The Land Rover roared on through the night. His skin was perfect, an infant's silky skin, so fair. She remembered the boy who had lived in it, and tried to offer him what comfort she could.

  As she stroked him, nuzzled him, made love to him, part of her screamed with outrage, and another part accepted, even craved, the humiliation.

  This is what you deserve, slut. She heard the words so clearly. The sand was talking to her. You sleep with every man you meet. Why worry about one more?

  I need to make this man talk, she told the voice. There are millions of lives at risk here! What's wrong with using sex as a weapon?

  That explains Rudo. And I guess Turtle was part of your education. What about Croyd?

  Croyd - was fun! Just plain fun, okay! Stop it, she told the voice in her head, knowing it for hallucination, and welcoming this evidence of madness, thinking, how wonderful. As soon as I can, I'll go completely mad. But not now, voice. I have to listen to Rudo. Don't bother me.

  Rudo talked.

  Then, his head lolling against the padded leather seat, and his flushed face slack-jawed with sleep and satiation, it seemed the ride would never end. Zoe rummaged in her pack and found a white scarf. She wrapped it tightly around her left wrist and hoped to hell the driver was a Fists agent.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  The white mouse kicked furiously against the restraint of Mark's rubber-gloved fingers. Mark glanced over his shoulder. Carter Jarnavon sat perched on a stool by a wall of the lab, watching with rapt attention. They were at the stage of mass-culturing the Trump, preparatory to suspending it and loading it into pressurized canisters. The younger scientist was on hand to watch and make sure Mark didn't try any last-minute sabotage.

  Feeling almost giddy, Mark kissed the mouse on its pink nose. He was continually taking samples from the main Trump culture, monitoring it to make sure it stayed viable. As far as Jarnavon knew the mouse was a control.

  It wasn't. Some of Sascha's Xenovirus Takis-A positive tissue - taken under anesthetic, to Mark's surprised relief - had been implanted in it. It had then been injected with Black Trump II.

  That was over twenty-four hours ago. The Overtrump worked.

  And that wasn't all.

  Mark held the mouse up, looked into its tiny red eyes. You and me, little guy, he thought. We have a secret.

  Maybe I don't have to be Hitler after all.

  Mark replaced the mouse gently in its cage. He started toward the mass-culture vat.

  "Tsk-tsk, Doctor." Jarnavon wagged his finger. "Mustn't get too close. I'd hate to have to call a guard."

  Mark turned away barely in time to mask his grin. He doesn't have a clue. He thinks I'm going to try to kill off the Trump.

  If he only knew.

  Mainly to distract himself from Cosmic Traveler's answering yammer of panic, be wandered to the incubator where the latest set of BT-II infected human-tissue cultures were. There were five petri dishes. The sixth was non-wild card positive tissue that had been infected as a control.

  Mark glanced at it. His heart lurched. He turned to Jarnavon, face ashen.

  "Get Casaday," he said. "Now."

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  Ray heard the messenger coming down the hallway leading to his room. Ray had changed hotels, moving into the Joker Quarter to be closer to his new chums, as Snailfoot put it. He actually found the inn by the Zion Gate to be rather to his liking. The room was small, but neat. It was relatively quiet for a room over a bar. Jerusalem jokers, it seemed, were peaceful drinkers.

  There was a soft knocking at Ray's door and he called, "Come in," as clearly as he could.

  The door opened to reveal a boy standing in the hallway outside. He was a teenager, thin and ratty-looking, with a handful of what looked like downy feathers around his ears.

  "Snailfoot sent me," he said with the voice of a teen trying to be tough.

  Ray nodded and got up from the bed where he'd been dreaming of Harvest.

  The boy was as tall as Ray, but thinner. His eyes had a desperate sort of toughness about them and Ray knew that he was someone who didn't belong here, someone caught in the killing who would have been better off going to some nice high school, doing homework and dating cheerleaders and maybe playing basketball or something. But here he'd turned into a killer, and it didn't sit well with him.

  Lucky, Ray thought, I never had that problem.

  "You're new," the kid said.

  Ray nodded. "That's right," he slurred from his mutilated mouth.

  "My name's Owl."

  Ray's face twitched into what his mouth allowed him of a smile. "Call me Mumbles."

  "All right." The kid flashed a smile, man to man, happy maybe, to run into someone with a worse mutation than his own. He looked desperately young. "Snailfoot wants us."

  They went out into the hall, down the stairs, and through the common room of the inn. Ray waved at his host, a blubbery blob of a joker who always had a smile on his moon-like face. But then the guy never moved very far from the beer tap, so maybe that was why he was always smiling.

  "What's up?" Ray asked as they hit the street.

  "Something pretty big, I think," Owl answered. He was excited and afraid, but tried to sound cool and unaffected. He almost succeeded. He lowered his voice. "I think we're going to hit the Sharks this afternoon. Take the fight to them.

  Ray grunted "Good."

  They headed northwest, toward the Christian Quarter.

  "Via Dolorosa," Ray read from the street sign. "Weird name."

  Owl glanced at him. "It's The Way of Sorrow," he said. "You never heard of it?"

  Ray shrugged. "Lots of things I never heard of, kid."

  "Well," Owl said, "it's a pretty famous street."

  "Is it?"

  "Sure. It's, you know, the street Jesus Christ carried his cross up when he was condemned to death. He was crucified there. The Church of the Holy Sepulchre was built on the spot." Owl pointed to a building on the left.

  "No kidding?" Ray asked.

  Owl shrugged. "That's what they say."

  "You believe it?"

  Owl shrugged again.

  They were well into the Christian Quarter. The streets were crowded with people of all apparent religious persuasions. There were obvious tourists draped in cameras and polyester, Muslims in their robes accompanied by dark-eyed veiled women, and Jews of every type, from modern-dressing Sabras to Hasidim in their black suits and snappy hats.

  The Church of the Sepulchre ddn't look like much. It was squarish, with a small dome over the middle of its roof. It was made from the same brownish sandstone that the entire Old City seemed to be built of. There were a lot of people crowded around it, apparently waiting their turn to enter.

  Christ died there, Ray thought, if the stories were true. Ray wasn't sure they were. He didn't have any particular reason not to believe, but he'd never really thought about it. He'd never really thought about a lot of things, until recently.

  He glanced at the kid walking determinedly at his side. Odds were that the boy wasn't going to get out of this alive. He practically had a bull's-eye painted right between his eyes. For a moment Ray wondered about his own odds of leaving Jerusalem alive, then he realized with a start that he'd never thought like that before. He'd never worried about odds. He'd just acted. He frowned, wondering if this was the first crack in the mental armor that had kept him alive through so many adventures on so many killing grounds.

  He felt something tug at his sleeve and he whirled, hand high and ready to strike. He stopped barely in time as he saw Owl flinch back.

  "Jesus, Mumbles, take it the fuck easy. What's wrong with you?"

  "Sorry," Ray mumbled.

  "Well, pay attention." Owl sniffed and looked at Ray with a new sort of caution in his eyes. "You move fast, man," he said in a wondering tone.

  Ray smiled, because he kn
ew the way it looked made people uneasy. "I hit hard, too."

  "Well, don't be hitting me, man. We're on the same side. Anyway, we're here."

  They were in front of another church, smaller, less kept-up, and a lot less of a tourist destination than the Church ot the Holy Sepulchre. The sign on its wooden double entrance doors told why.

  OUR LADY OF THE SPASM, CHURCH OF JESUS CHRIST, JOKER, it read in five languages.

  Owl said, "Used to be Armenian Catholic. I guess we got the church when we got rid of the Armenians. Come on."

  They went up the stone steps and through the double doors. Inside it was dim and cool. It had been a long time since Ray had been in a church - not counting Westminster Abbey - and it made him feel vaguely uncomfortable. There were a number of worshipers. Most were jokers, though a few tourists had wandered into the place.

  "This way," Owl said in a whisper. The church seemed to affect him as well. He led the way down the pews, ignoring the supplicants praying there or simply resting out of the heat. A priest went by. He had a face like a wet, wrinkled mushroom, hair like just-watered moss. He ignored them as they went by the altar with its depiction of the two-headed Jesus Christ, Joker, nailed to the Helix.

  "You know where you're going?" Ray asked a little louder then he intended.

  Owl shot him a look of pure teen scorn. "Sure I do. The crypt is this way."

  There was a niche in the wall behind the altar, with a stone staircase winding down. It was poorly lit and the stairs were worn by centuries of foot traffic.

  "Careful," Owl cautioned.

  They went down. The air became cooler, mustier. Infrequent naked bulbs of dim wattage lit their way. After a few moments the staircase bottomed out before a wooden door black with age.

  "The crypt," Owl said by way of explanation as he opened the door and went in. Ray followed cautiously. His last underground experience had been somewhat unsatisfactory and he wasn't eager to duplicate it, but curiosity was starting to get to him. What the hell was going on, anyway?

  The crypt was virtually empty. There was a stone altar that looked ancient even to Ray's unpracticed eye. A couple of long, thin candles burned atop the altar, illuminating the mosaic before it. Owl gestured as they passed.

  "That's pretty old," he explained. "It's supposed to mark the spot where Jesus met Mary as he carried his cross to Calvary. It's one of the Stations of the Cross. I forget which one."

  "No kidding?" Ray said.

  Owl nodded. "This is what we want."

  He went behind the altar. There was a grated metal door set in the floor, heavily padlocked. Owl produced a key. It scraped in the lock, turning with a rasp of metal on metal.

  "Give me a hand. The door's damn heavy."

  Ray hunkered down next to him, grabbed the bar and heaved. It came up with a loud screech. Owl looked at him appraisingly.

  "Say, you're pretty strong, too."

  "I work out a lot and watch what I eat."

  Owl nodded. "You first. I have to lock up. Here, take this."

  He handed Ray a small flashlight. He shined it down another staircase descending into darkness. Water dripped from the walls, echoing eeirily.

  "It's damp."

  "Yeah. Snail says we're below the water table here." Owl pulled the grille shut after them and locked it again. "Come on. Be careful."

  Old Jerusalem, Ray soon discovered, was a city underground almost as much as it was aboveground. It was lousy with caves, grottoes, and catacombs connected by passages and galleys and crawlways, only some of which were natural and most of which had been in use, off and on, longer than many of the structures above the ground. The Twisted Fists had apparently appropriated their share of underground Jerusalem, Ray got hopelessly confused after just a few twists and turns.

  "Hope you know where you're going," he told Owl.

  The kid flashed him a smile. "No problem." He checked his wristwatch. "We're right on time."

  "For what?"

  Owl stopped, gestured ahead of him.

  "For that."

  There were a dozen jokers, tough-looking, battle-hardened veterans, armed to the teeth and looking more than ready to kick ass. Snailfoot was among them. He smiled.

  "We're paying a little visit on the Card Sharks, chum. Welcome to the party."

  Ray smiled a smile that took even his new friends aback. "Great," he said. "That's just what I wanted to hear."

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  "Look at it, damn you," Mark shouted. For emphasis he slammed his hand on the tabletop beside the petri dish. "Even you should be able to see what's going on."

  Lip curled, Casaday inclined his big round head ever so slightly over the dish. "So it's a dark splotch. What the fuck, over?"

  "This was the control," Mark said.

  "So?"

  "So it died, Casaday. The new Trump strain killed it, just like the others."

  "This late news flash may come as a complete surprise to you, Meadows," Casaday said, "but that's the fucking point of this whole Chinese fire drill."

  "But this was the nat tissue culture, Casaday. The new Trump doesn't kill just aces and jokers. It kills everybody."

  Casaday looked at him hard. Then he laughed. "Nice try, Meadows. But bullshit. Won't work."

  Mark grabbed his arm. "Don't you see, man? This thing'll wipe out half the planet!"

  Layton moved forward, peeled Mark's hand away from Casaday and twisted it up behind his back in a painful lock. "Hands off the merchandise, Doc." Casaday said. He nodded to the kickboxer. Layton pushed Mark away and sneered at him.

  In desperation Mark turned to Jarnavon. "Tell him what it means, Doctor. Tell him."

  The younger scientist walked over to dance down at the petri dish. Then he took off his glasses and polished them on his tie. "Clearly the culture was contaminated somehow," he said, looking everywhere but at Mark. "It happens all the time." He put the glasses back on. "It hasn't got any real significance. Mr. Casaday," he said. "No significance at all."

  "Are you crazy?" Mark yelled. He hurled himself at the younger man. A pair of Occidentals, mail-order mercs or CIA cowboys who shared security duties with the local talent, caught him by the arms and held him back. "Have you been doing mission research so long you've forgotten what real science is? You're condemning a billion people to death, Jarnavon! Not just a few thousand jokers and aces. This thing'll kill anything human!"

  "It doesn't do to disappoint the patrons, Doctor," Jarnavon said, slipping his glasses back on. "Maybe you should have stayed in research long enough to learn that."

  "Enough of this happy horseshit," Casaday said. "Get your ass back in the lab and start loading the canisters, Meadows. We go as fucking planned."

  He stalked toward the door, Jarnavon trotting like a lap-dog behind "Wait!" Mark screamed. "Please, you have to believe me. Don't do it!"

  At the door, Casaday turned to show him a goblin smile. "You lose, Meadows," he said. "This ain't rock and roll. This is genocide."

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  The Twisted Fist raiding party slipped through the underground passages like worms in the earth. Ray felt his excitement grow, pushing aside the unwelcome introspection that had haunted him of late. Snailfoot was in the lead, Ray was bunched in the middle with Owl next to him. The kid looked grimly determined. He glanced up once when he felt Ray's eyes on him, and looked away immediately. Ray wiped the smile from his face. No sense in bothering the kid any more than necessary.

  They traveled through the connecting subterranean system for a quarter of an hour or so, which was enough to take them virtually anywhere below the Old City. They stopped in a grotto that, judging by the smoke stains on the ceilings and the skeletons bunched in wall niches, had seen a lot of use during the last couple of centuries.

  Snailfoot gestured with his electric lantern, and one of the jokers scurried forward. He was a small, wizened creature, vaguely rodent-like in his lack of chin and length of teeth. His skin was pale, his hair thin, his eyes small and blin
king. He looked like he spent a lot of time underground - and preferred the darkness to the sunlight.

  "Take the point, Tarek," Snailfoot said. He turned to the others. "Move quietly, gents. We're above enemy territory."

  Skulking wasn't Ray's specialty, but he could move quietly if he had too. Some of the Fists, however, weren't exactly skilled in the skulking department. Ray winced at every misstep and stumble. He hoped that none of the Sharks kept an ear on the floor.

  Tarek, at least, was a pro. He had tiny, quick feet that carried him silently down the corridors, and a sharp, sniffing nose that led him right to a cul-de-sac where he stopped and pointed at a dressed sandstone wall, hopping from foot to foot with suppressed eagerness.

  Snailfoot motioned him back to the group. They gathered in a tight knot. "The Sharks," Snailfoot said in a low voice, "are on the other side of that wall. Our only problem is breaking it down quickly enough so that surprise stays on our side."

  "Explosives?" Ray asked.

  Snailfoot looked at him, as if surprised that he'd spoken. He shook his head. "No. We can't risk it. This part of the catacombs is especially delicate. An explosion, no matter how carefully shaped might bring down the whole section."

  Ray snorted. Amateurs. He'd worked with explosive experts who could blow a particular cabinet in a china shop and not even chip any of the other tea cups. Of course, he couldn't tell them that.

  He left the group, went quietly to the wall.

  "Mumbles!" Snailfoot hissed. "What're you doing?"

  Ray ignored him. He flattened against the wall, arms outspread, feet braced, and pushed. He grinned into the stone. He was no fucking Golden Weenie, but he wasn't exactly a weakling, either.

  "Mumbles!" Snailfoot hissed somewhat desperately.

  Ray started to push. He could feel the wall shift under his misshapen hands. He turned back to look at the others who were staring at him with varying degrees of astonishment and disbelief.

  "Grab your guns, boys," he said. He was grinning like a maniac, but he couldn't help it. "The wall's going dawn."