Wild Cards V

by George R. R. Martin

  “Durg as a babysitter. It sorta boggles the mind.”

  “Yes, I know, and believe me it goes very much against the grain to have Zabb’s monster guarding my heir, but Blaise is like a Swarm mother among planets if I leave him unattended with normal humans. You see, he has no self-discipline, and I’m damned if I can see how to instill it in him.”

  Trips dropped an arm over Tachyon’s shoulders, and they walked to the door of the lab. “Time, give it time. And relax with it, man. Nobody’s born a father.”

  “Or even a grandfather.”

  Mark looked down into the delicate, youthful face and chuckled. “I think he’s going to have a hard time relating to you as Gramps. You’re going to have to settle for—”

  The sight in the living room knocked wind and words from Mark’s throat. Sprout was down to her teddy bear panties, daintily dancing while she sang a little song. Giggling, Blaise bounced on the sofa and manipulated her like a puppet.

  “K’ijdad, isn’t she funny? Her mind is so simple—”

  Tachyon’s power lashed out, and Sprout—suddenly freed from this terrifying outside control—burst into frightened and disoriented tears. Mark gathered her in a tight embrace.

  “SIMPLE! I WILL SHOW YOU A SIMPLE MIND!” The boy jerked about the room like rusty automaton under the brutal imperative of his grandfather’s mind. “IS THIS PLEASANT! DO YOU ENJOY—”

  “NO, MAN, NO! STOP IT!” Tachyon rocked under the hard shaking. “It’s okay,” Trips added in a more moderate tone as the devil’s mask that had slipped over Tachyon’s normally pleasant features faded.

  “I’m sorry, Mark,” Tach whispered. “So very sorry.”

  “It’s okay, man. Let’s … let’s just all calm down.”

  Tachyon dropped into telepathy. Can you ever forgive me?

  Nothing to forgive, man.

  Meadows dropped to one knee before the sobbing boy, took him gently by the shoulders. “You see, you’re as scared as Sprout was. It’s no fun to be in somebody else’s power. And yeah, Sprout’s mind is weak, but that’s all the more reason for someone strong like you to be kind, and to look out for people like her. You understand?”

  Blaise slowly nodded, but Tachyon didn’t trust the shuttered expression in those purple/black eyes. And sure enough, as soon as they were out on the street in front of the Cosmic Pumpkin, the boy said, “What a wimp!”

  “GET IN THAT TAXI.”

  “Ancestors!” Glass crunched under boot heels, and for a brief, breath-catching moment time rolled back, and the past clung like a gnawing animal at his throat.

  Glass shattering and falling, mirrors breaking on all sides, silvered knives flying through the air … blood spattering against the cracked mirrors.

  Tachyon shook himself free of the waking nightmare and stared at the carnage that filled the Funhouse. A janitor with enough arms to handle three brooms was busily sweeping up the broken glass that littered the floor. Des, gray-faced and frowning, was talking with a man in a business suit. Tachyon joined them.

  “I’m not entirely certain your policy—”

  “Of course not! Why should I think that twenty-four years of premiums paid on time, and no claims made, should entitle me to any coverage now,” spat Des.

  “I’ll check, Mr. Desmond, and get back to you.”

  “What by the purity of the Ideal is going on here?”

  “Do you want a drink?”

  “Please.” Tachyon pulled out his wallet, and Des stared down at the bills, a funny little smile twisting his lips, the fingers at the end of his incongruous trunk twitching slightly. The alien flushed and said defensively. “I pay for my drinks.”

  “Now.”

  “That was a long time ago, Des.”

  “True.”

  Tachyon kicked at a sliver of mirror. “Though God knows this brings it all back.”

  “Christmas Eve, 1963. Mal’s been dead a long time.”

  And soon you will be too.

  No, impossible to speak such words. But would Des ever speak? While Tachyon, of course, respected the old joker’s desire for privacy as he prepared to die, it nonetheless hurt that he maintained his silence.

  How am I to say farewell to you, old friend? And soon it will be too late.

  The cognac exploded like a white-hot cloud on the back of his throat, banishing the lump that had settled there. Tachyon set aside the glass and said, “You never answered my question.”

  “What’s to answer?”

  “Des, I’m your friend. I’ve drunk in this bar for over twenty years. When I enter and find it busted all to hell, I want to know why.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe I can do something!” Tachyon tossed down the rest of his drink and frowned up into Des’s faded eyes.

  Des swept away the glass and refilled it. “For twenty years I’ve been paying protection to the Gambiones. Now this new gang is muscling in, and I’m having to pay off two of them. It’s making it a little tough to meet overhead.”

  “New gang? What new gang?”

  “They call themselves the Shadow Fists. Toughs out of Chinatown.”

  “When did this start?”

  “Last week. I guess they waited until they knew I was back in town.”

  “Which means they made quite a study of Jokertown.”

  A shrug. “Why not? They’re businessmen.”

  “They’re hoodlums.”

  Another shrug. “That too.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Keep paying both sides and hope they let me live in peace.”

  “However long that’s going to be,” Tachyon muttered, and drained the fresh cognac.

  “What?”

  “Oh, hell, Des, I’m not a blind man. I’m also a doctor. What is it? Cancer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  The old man sighed. “For a lot of complicated reasons. None of which I want to go into right now.”

  “Or ever?”

  “That too is possible.”

  “I count you a friend.”

  “Do you, Tachy? Do you?”

  “Yes. Can you doubt it? No! Don’t answer that. I’ve already seen it; in your eyes and your heart.”

  “Why not my mind, Tachyon? Why not read it there?”

  “Because I honor your privacy, and—” His face crumpled, and he sucked in a sharp breath. “Because I can’t bear to face what I might read there,” he concluded quietly. He tossed more bills on the bar and started for the door. “I’ll see what I can do to make your hope a reality.”

  “What?”

  “That you end your days in peace.”

  It had been the same story at Ernie’s and Gobbler’s Delicatessen and Spot’s Laundry and so many others that he dreaded to even recall them all. Frowning, Tachyon tore the skin from an orange, the juice stinging briefly as it hit a hitherto unnoticed paper cut. Goons out of Chinatown. Goons from the Mob, and him with his big mouth promising to do something about it. Like what?

  He finished peeling the orange and popped a segment into his mouth. A light breeze ruffled his curls and brought the sound of Blaise’s delighted laughter. A rumbling call from Jack Braun sent the little boy scampering across the park, his red-stockinged legs a blur of motion. Braun leaned back, the football cradled in his big hand, and threw. He looked like a movie star; sun-bleached blond hair falling across his forehead, tan sinewy legs thrusting out from a pair of safari shorts, a very attractive, brilliantly colored Hawaiian shirt.

  Tach threw crusts of bread to some interested pigeons. How ironic, Sunday in the park with Jack. Hated enemy transformed into … well, perhaps not friend, but at least a tolerated presence. It didn’t hurt that Jack’s visit had been prompted by a desire to see Blaise, which raised him in Tach’s estimation. To love Blaise was to find favor. And this outing had at least pulled Tachyon out of the brown study that had held him for days since his visit to the Funhouse.

  The orange segment
finally slipped down, and Tach’s stomach rebelled. With a moan he rolled onto his back on the blanket and fought down nausea. The wages of worry. Over the past few days his stomach had closed down into a tight and painful ball. He began a litany of problems.

  The fear that lay like a palpable shadow over Jokertown.

  Leo Barnett offering to heal jokers with the power of his god, and if they failed to respond, then clearly it was an indication of the depth of their sin. What if he became president?

  Peregrine. In a month her child was due. The ultrasound he’d run two days ago still indicated a normal, viable fetus, but Tach knew with soul-deep horror what the stress of the birth experience could do to a wild card babe. Blood and Line, let this little one be normal. If it wasn’t, it would destroy her.

  And he still hadn’t been by the Jokertown precinct to work with a police artist on the preparation of a drawing of James Spector.…

  A girl went jogging by, an Afghan hound loping at her heels. A sheen of sweat brought a golden glow to her skin, and several strands of long black hair lay plastered on her bare back. Tach watched the play of muscles in her legs and back, studied the ripe breasts bouncing beneath the halter top, and felt his mouth go dry and the urgent thrust of his penis against his zipper. It was a bitter and tantalizing glimpse of wholeness, for he knew after countless hopeless encounters that the power would fade when the moment came upon him.

  Furious, he rolled onto his stomach and beat his fists on the ground—furious at his impotence, and at his flighty, undisciplined mind that could be distracted from concern over an ace killer by the sight of female flesh.

  A toe nudged him in the ribs, and he shot to his feet.

  “Hey, hey.” Braun held up his hands placatingly. “Take it easy.”

  “Where’s Blaise?” Tach stared anxiously about.

  “I gave him some money for ice cream.”

  “You shouldn’t have let him go alone. Something might happen.…”

  “That kid can look out for himself.” Braun dropped cross-legged onto the blanket, lit a cigarette. “Mind if I give you some advice?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not on Takis now. He’s not a prince of the blood royal.”

  Tachyon gave a bitter little laugh. “No, far from it. He’s an abomination. On Takis he would be destroyed.”

  “Huh?”

  The alien swept up the scattered orange peels and carried them to a garbage can. “The greatest penalties are reserved for those who mingle their seed outside their class. How could we rule if everyone possessed our powers?” he tossed back over his shoulder.

  “Charming culture you come from. But it supports my point.”

  “Being what?”

  “Stop driving him crazy. You’re laying way too much pressure on him. You expect him to abide by rules of behavior that have no correlation on Earth, and you’re also spoiling him rotten. Music lessons, karate lessons, dance lessons, tutoring in algebra and biology and chemistry—”

  “Well, you’re wrong there. His third tutor quit days ago, and I haven’t been able to find a replacement. And that is why I have to expect so much of him. His power and his breeding make him special. At least to me.”

  “Tachyon, listen to me. You can’t give a kid every toy and every gimcrack he desires, tell him he’s special, special, special, and then expect him not to be an arrogant little bastard. Let him be a kid. Take his clothes.”

  “What’s wrong with his clothes?” There was a threat in the husky voice.

  “Get him out of the knee britches, and the lace, and the hats. Buy him some blue jeans, and a Dodgers cap. He’s got to live in this world.”

  “I have not chosen to conform.”

  “Yeah, but you’re a crank. It’s a big flamboyant act with you. You’re also an adult, and one incredibly arrogant son-of-a-bitch, and you could care less what people say about you. You don’t want Blaise to abuse his power, but you’ve almost guaranteed that he’ll have to. There’s nothing crueler than kids, and he’s going to be tormented until he lashes out. Then you’ll be disappointed and disapproving, and he’ll be resentful, and what a perfect vicious circle you’ve created.”

  “You should write a book. Clearly your vast experience has made you an authority on child rearing.”

  “Ah, hell, Tachyon. I like the kid. I even occasionally like you. Love him, Tachyon, and relax.”

  “I do love him.”

  “No, you love what he represents. You’re obsessive about him because your im—” He bit off the words and flushed a deep red. “Ah, hell, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring that up.”

  “How do you even know?”

  “Fantasy told me.”

  “Bitch.”

  “Hey, relax there too, and everything will probably work out. It’s no big deal.”

  “Braun, you cannot conceive of what a big deal it is. Progeny, continuance—Oh, fuck! Are you also planning to offer psychiatric counseling at your new casino? Do what you do best, Jack—drift and make money. But leave me alone!”

  “With pleasure!”

  Seizing the picnic hamper and the blanket, Tachyon stormed away in search of Blaise.

  “Where’s Uncle Jack?”

  “Uncle Jack had an appointment in Atlantic City.”

  “You two had a fight again. Why do you two fight so much?”

  “Ancient history.”

  “Then you should forget it.”

  “Don’t you start too.” Tach waved down a cab.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To Mark’s.”

  “Oh.”

  “Please wait for me,” Tachyon instructed when they pulled up in front of the Cosmic Pumpkin.

  “Hokay, but the meters she keeps running,” the man replied in a thick and unplaceable accent.

  “That’s fine.”

  “I’ll wait too,” said Blaise in a small voice. And Tachyon felt a moment’s shame, remembering his lack of control the last time they had visited the Pumpkin.

  He stuck his head in the door. “Mark.”

  “Yo.”

  “Quick question. Have you been bothered with emissaries from various criminal organizations?” The handful of diners from CUNY stared at the Takisian wide-eyed.

  “Huh?”

  Tach expelled air in a sharp puff of irritation. “Have you been asked to pay protection?”

  “Oh, is that what you meant. Oh, yeah, man, months ago, but I like … had one of my … friends show up, and they haven’t been back.”

  “Would that everyone had friends like yours, Mark.”

  “Is that it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Tachyon slid into the cab and gave the hack the clinic’s address.

  “Ohhhh, Jokertowns. Yous that doctors?”

  “Yes.”

  “I sees you on the televisions. Peri Green’s Perches.”

  “That’s Peregrine, and yes, that was me.”

  “Holy Jesus!”

  The driver’s exclamation jerked Tach’s attention to the road ahead. A jumble of police cars, their lights flashing, blocked Hester Street. With a wail an ambulance shot past.

  “Shit, must be anothers, how you says, hits.”

  “Stop, stop at once.”

  Leaping from the cab, Tach darted under the police tape. A woman’s keening filled the air, and a basso voice amplified by a bullhorn ordered knots of muttering people to move along. Tachyon spotted Detective Maseryk and pushed up to him.

  “What?”

  “How the hell … oh, hi, Doc.” The detective stared curiously at the small boy who gazed with interest at the sprawled bodies in the shattered restaurant.

  Tachyon rounded on Blaise. “Get back to the cab and wait there.”

  “Ahhh—”

  “Now!”

  “Looks like another little party,” said Maseryk when Blaise had reluctantly drooped away. “Bu
t this time an uninvited guest got mixed up in it too.” He jerked his head toward the sobbing woman, who was clutching at a small form in a bodybag being lifted into the ambulance.

  Tachyon ran to the stretcher, unzipped the bag, and stared down at the child. He hadn’t been very attractive to start with, a squat-bottomed heavy body sat upon broad flippers, and he looked a lot worse with half his head shot away. Spinning, the Takisian caught the woman in a tight embrace.

  “MY BABY! MY BABY! DON’T LET THEM TAKE MY BABY!”

  A rescue worker approached, hypodermic at the ready. Tachyon stilled the sobbing mother with a brief touch of his power and handed her to the man.

  “Treat her kindly.”

  “Looks like Gambione boys,” Maseryk called as he stared thoughtfully down at one sprawled body. Several strings of spaghetti hung from the corpse’s mouth, leaving wet, red trails on his chin. “The Fists came cruising by and opened up. Car will be found, and be stolen, so that’ll be another dead end. Too bad about the kid though. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  The detective noticed Tachyon’s continued silence and glanced down.

  “I don’t want dead ends, Maseryk, I want these men.”

  “We’re working on it.”

  “Perhaps it is time I took a hand.”

  “No, for Christ’s sake, the last thing we need are civilians getting in the way. Just stay out of this.”

  “Nobody kills my people in my town!”

  “Huh? The mayor’s going to be mighty surprised to hear he lost and you won the last election,” he yelled after Tachyon’s retreating back.

  “Cognac,” spat Tachyon to Sascha, the Crystal Palace’s blind bartender. He threw his blue velvet hat, sewn with pearls and sequins, onto the bar and tossed back the drink. He extended the snifter. “Another.”

  A whiff of exotic frangipani perfume, and Chrysalis slid onto the stool next to him. The blue eyes floating within their hollows of bone stared impassively down at him.

  “You’re supposed to savor good brandy, not throw it down like a wino after a cheap drunk. Unless that’s what you’re after.”

  “You sound like a recruiter for AA.”

  Reaching out, Chrysalis wrapped one short red curl around her forefinger. “So what’s the matter, Tachy?”