Wild Cards V

by George R. R. Martin

  Have I done well, Master?

  Extraordinarily well. I just wish I had not been so slow to see.

  “Blaise, kuket, we’re going now. Put your arm around my neck. Good lad.”

  He carried the child out of the ship. Pausing at the door of the warehouse, he fumbled with the lock and struggled with his sleeping burden. Tachyon was a small man, and his grandson already showed every indication that he would tower over his tiny forebear.

  Into the sultry night. Two A.M. He could imagine what Victoria Queen was going to say to him when he woke her at this hour. But it had to be discussed, and with people he could trust. Somewhere a human contagion slept or walked the streets of New York.

  His arms tightened convulsively about the boy as the realization struck. No one was safe. While Blaise was playing in the park, walking to the clinic, eating in a restaurant, this monstrous sickness could pass by and endanger his child, his line, his future. He almost turned back to the ship. This evil could not pass Baby. He chided himself for hysteria. There were millions of people in greater Manhattan. What chance of actually encountering the carrier?

  Depended upon the identity of the carrier.

  And how to establish that? Ideal, it was probably a hopeless task.

  “This is absolutely hopeless,” said Victoria Queen.

  “Thank you for that incredibly helpful observation.” The chief of surgery and Tachyon exchanged sizzling glares.

  Chrysalis flicked a nail against the rim of her glass, pulling out a single ringing tone. Finn took another bite of raw Quaker Oats.

  “We interview the family and friends of every victim. We interview the surviving victims. We search for the common thread, some individual they all recall,” said Tachyon.

  “It would be an incredible long shot that any of them would remember,” sighed Finn.

  Tachyon turned the full blazing force of his lilac eyes on his assistant. “So are you suggesting that we wait and hope that this person notices that people are dying like flies all around him or her? And even that won’t help.” Tach shook his head as if disgusted by his own facetiousness. “The incubation period appears to be around twenty-four hours. This carrier, whoever it is, can have no notion of their power.”

  “Power,” snorted Chrysalis.

  “Yes, power. Clearly this person’s wild card gift is to give wild card. The person probably contracted the virus during this latest outbreak. If it had happened earlier, we would have been facing this crisis months or even years ago.”

  “Doc.” Finn tossed his heavy forelock out of his face. “This has to mean that the virus is mutating.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid you’re correct. Dr. Corvisart will be ecstatic.”

  “Who?” asked Queen.

  “A French researcher who was absolutely convinced that the virus was mutating. I tried to explain to him that there’s only been one case of a constantly mutating virus, and that’s because it is this man’s power—”

  “What? What is it?” asked Finn sharply at Tachyon’s frozen expression.

  The alien relaxed his frenzied grip on the edge of the desk. He and Chrysalis met each other’s gaze. “You’re thinking what I’m thinking.”

  “Ohhh, yes.”

  “Then why not enlighten those of us who aren’t thinking,” snapped Queen bitterly, who then flushed and quickly added, “In the peculiar way you think.”

  “There is one individual in this city who’s an old hand at wild card. Who is reinfected with the virus every time he sleeps. How many times has he transformed over the past forty years? A dozen? Twenty? Thirty?”

  “It would be the most unbelievable coincidence,” warned Chrysalis.

  “I agree, but it has to be investigated.” Tachyon pushed to his feet.

  Finn lurched to his feet. “Sleep?”

  “Yes,” said Tachyon rather impatiently.

  The tiny centaur gave a long shake that began at his head, vibrated to his tail, and pulled a deep-throated groan from his lungs.

  “He was here.”

  “WHAT!”

  “Back in March. He came in to see you, but you weren’t back yet. He was high on speed, and apparently he’d promised some girl he wouldn’t go out with her cranked. He wanted help. I put him to sleep.”

  “How for the Ideal’s sake? This could be critical.”

  “Brain entrainment and suggestion.”

  “When did he wake and leave?”

  “Um, mid-May.”

  “May! And you didn’t tell me!”

  “I didn’t think it was important.”

  “He’s been awake a month,” Chrysalis said to Tachyon.

  “Do you still want us to do those interviews?” asked Queen.

  “Yes, it might help us pinpoint his present physical form. I don’t suppose you saw him when he left?”

  “No, one morning he just wasn’t there.”

  “Where did you stash him?” asked Chrysalis curiously.

  “In the janitor’s closet.”

  “Have we lost any janitors?” asked Tachyon with graveyard humor.

  “We were lucky, incredibly lucky,” muttered Finn, crossing himself.

  “People, this has got to be kept absolutely confidential. Can you imagine the panic if wind of this reaches the general populace?”

  “Sooner or later the authorities are going to have to be informed,” objected Queen.

  “Not if Chrysalis and I succeed.”

  “I hate it when you’re smug.”

  “Tachyon, she’s got a point. We’re going to feel like absolute shit if we can’t find Croyd, or we find him and he’s not the one. How many more people are going to die, Tachyon?” asked Chrysalis.

  Tachyon splashed a liberal dollop of cognac into a glass, raised the blinds, and watched the sun trying valiantly to struggle through the layers of mist and smog.

  “I think I’m justified in trying this alone first. What would I say to the mayor? Well, Your Honor, we think there’s a wild card carrier. We think it’s Croyd Crenson. No, sir, we don’t know what he looks like because he changes every time he sleeps.”

  “I don’t suppose we could try anything simple and silly like running ads on the radio and in the papers—‘Croyd phone home’?” suggested Finn.

  “Why not? I’m willing to try anything. The real question is how many amphetamines he’s eaten in the past weeks.” He turned away from the window to face Chrysalis. “You know what he’s like toward the end of an episode.”

  “He’s a psychotic,” said Chrysalis bluntly.

  “And usually paranoid, so if he starts hearing or reading ads, he’s going to assume they’re after him.” The Takisian sighed. “And he’d be right.”

  Tachyon poured another drink and pulled a face as the brandy washed down.

  “Great breakfast,” said the owner of the Palace dryly.

  “I’ll break an egg in it if that will make you feel any better.”

  “You’ve been hitting the bottle pretty hard recently.”

  “You tell him,” muttered Queen under her breath.

  Tachyon glared at both of them. “Not to sound too terribly trite, but I have been under a great deal of pressure recently.”

  “You were an alcoholic, Tachyon. You shouldn’t be drinking at all,” said Chrysalis.

  “Blood and Bone, what has gotten into you? One would think you’d joined a temperance league. Going to be down at Father Squid’s beating on a tambourine? You’re a saloonkeeper, Chrysalis.”

  He watched the increased wash of blood into those transparent cheeks. “I care, Tachyon, don’t make me regret that. You’re important to Jokertown.” She plucked nervously at the arm of her chair. “Maybe even to the nation. Don’t crap out on us and crawl back in a bottle. You’ve got the prestige to stand against crime bosses, and … other things. Nobody else in this fucking freak show has that.”

  Bitterness edged each word. He knew what it cost her to make that admission. She had a pride of self and place that rivale
d his. Slowly he walked to her, forced himself to bend and place his cheek against hers. He couldn’t help the involuntary closing of his eyes, but it wasn’t as bad as he expected. Her skin, invisible though it was, was warm and soft. She could be any lovely woman. As long as his eyes were closed.

  He stepped back and lifted her fingers to his lips. “Send out word to your network. This has to take precedence over anything else.”

  “Even the Fists and the Gambiones?”

  “Yes. What profiteth us to gain Jokertown if we lose the whole bloody world?”

  “I’ll save you a tambourine.”

  “No, I want to be the whole damn trumpet section.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” said Queen to Finn.

  Concerto for Siren and Serotonin

  VII

  WHEN SNOTMAN GREW ILL, Croyd snapped the lock on the door behind him, letting him into the dusty ruin of a small two-room apartment whose owner was obviously using the place to store damaged furniture. He located a threadbare couch on which the glistening joker sprawled, quivering. He rinsed a jelly jar he found near a basin in the next room and took him a drink of water. Sweeping aside a mess of ancient drug paraphernalia, Croyd seated himself on a small cracked bench as the other sipped.

  “You been sick?” Croyd asked him.

  “No. I mean, I always feel like I’ve got a cold, but this is different. I feel sort of like I did a long time ago, when it all started.”

  Croyd covered the shivering joker with a pile of curtains he found in a corner, then seated himself again.

  “Finish telling me what happened,” Snotman said after a time.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Croyd popped a methamphet and a dex and continued his tale. When Snotman passed out, Croyd did not notice. He kept talking until he realized that Snotman’s skin had gone dry. Then he grew still and watched, for the man’s features seemed slowly to be rearranging themselves. Even speeded, Croyd was able to spot the onset of a wild card attack. But even speeded, this did not quite make sense. Snotman was already a joker, and Croyd had never heard of anyone—himself excluded—coming down with it a second time.

  He shook his head, rose and paced, stepped outside. It was afternoon now, and he was hungry again. It took him a few moments to spot the new shift that had taken over surveillance of his quarters. He decided against disposing of them. The most sensible thing to do, he guessed, would be to go and get a bite to eat, then come back and keep an eye on the now-transforming Snotman through his crisis, one way or the other. Then clear out, go deeper underground.

  In the distance a siren wailed. Another Red Cross helicopter came and went, low, from the southeast, heading uptown. Memories of that first mad Wild Card Day swam in his head, and Croyd decided that perhaps he’d better acquire a new pad even before he ate. He knew just the sleaze-bin, not too far away, where he could get in off the streets and no questions asked, provided they had a vacancy—which was generally the case. He detoured to check it out.

  Like a mating call, another siren answered the first, from the opposite direction. Croyd waved at the man who hung upside down by his feet from a lamppost, but the fellow took offense or grew frightened and flew away.

  From somewhere he heard a loudspeaker mentioning his name, probably saying terrible things about him.

  His fingers tightened on the fender of a parked car. The metal squealed as he pulled at it, tearing a wide strip loose. He turned then, bending it, folding it, blood dripping from a tear in his hand. He would find that speaker and destroy it, whether it was high on a buildingside or the top of a cop car. He would stop them from talking about him. He would …

  That would give him away, though—he realized in a moment’s clarity—to his enemies, who could be anybody. Anybody except the guy with the wild card virus, and Snotman couldn’t be anybody’s enemy just now. Croyd hurled the piece of metal across the street, then threw back his head and began to howl. Things were getting complicated again. And nasty. He needed something to calm his nerves.

  He plunged his bloody hand into his pocket, withdrew a fistful of pills, and gulped them without looking to see what they were. He had to get presentable to go and get a room.

  He ran his fingers through his hair, brushed off his clothes, began walking at a normal pace. It wasn’t far.

  Blood Ties

  V

  THE MAN WRAPPED A webbed hand about Tachyon’s wrist, indicated for a pad, and scrawled out, How long you think I got?

  “A few days.”

  Tachyon noticed Tina Mixon’s wince. He knew that she considered his frankness to border on brutality, but he didn’t believe in lying to people. A man needed time to prepare himself for death. And these humans with their delicate sensibilities. They either wouldn’t talk about death, or they shrouded it in euphemisms. On the other hand, they were not in the least backward about dealing out death.

  The hiss of the respirator was loud in the room as the man laboriously wrote, If you could find that woman.

  “She’s vanished, Mr. Grogan. I’m sorry.”

  Use powers. Find her!

  Tachyon bowed his head and recalled the scene (only three days ago? it seemed an eternity) that had met his disbelieving gaze. He had responded to word of a riot on the third floor. He had run into the ward, then frozen and stared down at the water washing over the tops of his shoes.

  There must have been sixty people in a room designed for ten. Soaked and bedraggled jokers clung like survivors of a shipwreck to the beds. Orderlies disgruntledly slopped mops across the flooded floor. A sandy-haired man stood on one of the beds babbling hysterically while a pair of women jokers pawed at his knees and added their shrill cries to the general pandemonium.

  “A fucking vision. A fucking golden vision. And look at me!” screamed the sandy-haired man. “Look at me!”

  “Why does it have to be a woman?” wailed a woman. “Maybe you got her power. Fuck me. FUCK ME!”

  Tachy had ruthlessly mind-controlled her. And the babbling man, and anyone else who had seemed likely to make trouble. The remaining jokers had stared at him like targets at a county turkey shoot.

  They were less intimidated now.

  Like this pathetic blackmail from a dying man.

  “I’m sorry,” Tachyon said again to Grogan, and left the room.

  And stumbled into a lurking pack of jokers.

  “Good morning.”

  “What’s good about it,” growled a big joker with a mouthful of cilia in place of teeth. It made his diction mushy, and Tachyon had to strain to understand him.

  “You’re alive, Mr. Konopka, which is more than many unluckier ones can claim,” the alien snapped. He pulled off his stethoscope and jerked it between his hands.

  “You call this livin’?” said a woman. “I look like a monster, my husband’s left me, I lost my job—”

  “Everyone’s got a story,” said Tachyon shortly, heading down the hall. They followed him.

  Konopka stepped in front of the Takisian and stopped him with a hard jab to the small alien’s chest.

  “What are you doing to find that woman?”

  For a long moment Tachyon warred with conflicting emotions: to placate them with a soothing lie, or be damned to them, and tell them the truth.

  The joker gave him another jab with a forefinger tipped with a long, sharp nail. “Huh? Huh? Answer up—”

  Tach ran out of patience. “I’m doing precisely nothing to find that woman.”

  “You motherfucker, I’m gonna kill you.” Konopka drew back a fist.

  Another man cried, “You don’t care about us!”

  Tachyon whirled on him, seized him by the shoulders. “No! That’s not true. Xuan, I care more than you can conceive. But I must also care for Jane. Look at you.” He raked the crowd with a lilac-eyed glance. “You’re like hunting animals.”

  “That girl can cure us. You gotta find her.” The anger drained from Xuan, replaced with a humble pleading.

  Konopka jerked the
alien around to face him. “You owe it to us, Tachyon, because you made us what we are, and you can’t do fuck to cure us!” There were shouts of agreement.

  Tachyon glanced to the nurses’ station, where Tina was dithering over the switchboard. He gave an infinitesimal shake of the head. All this situation needed was the arrival of security.

  “All of you return to your rooms.”

  “No brush off, Tachyon!”

  “Listen to me,” he pleaded. “That girl is a person, a human being. Not a fucking machine designed to cure jokers. You would have killed her three days ago. Consider the terrible dilemma with which she is faced. Think of her too and not only of yourselves. How can I trust you when I can’t even trust myself to do what is right and proper by Jane?”

  Finn had popped out of an elevator and now stood with a foreleg upraised as if ready to paw the linoleum floor. With a low murmur the crowd began to disperse. All except Konopka. He gathered up a handful of the burgundy satin coat and lifted Tach’s feet from the floor. Finn cantered daintily forward, whirled on his slender forelegs, and landed a kick square in the center of Konopka’s ass. With a roar the joker dropped Tachyon and spun to face this new attack.

  “Cut it out!” yelled Finn. “And get the hell back to your room.” Konopka’s fist lashed out. Finn danced back, but four legs are less dexterous than two. The blow landed.

  “Nat ass-kisser!”

  Tachyon dropped Konopka snoring to the floor.

  “Why didn’t you do that a long time ago?” asked Finn, rubbing at his reddening cheek.

  “Possibly because I’m tired of victimizing them.” Tachyon whirled, his long-tailed coat rustling around him. Finn had to trot to keep pace.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Which part of this mess? The creation of the virus? No, not entirely my fault. The fact that Croyd’s become a carrier? Again, probably beyond my control. The fact that Jane has become the most hunted person in Jokertown? Maybe not. But she is my responsibility, and I’ve got to find her and protect her if I can.” Tachyon slammed his fist into the elevator wall, breaking the skin across his knuckles.

  Finn lifted his hand and blotted at the welling blood with a handkerchief. “Relax, we’ll find her.”