Wild Cards V

by George R. R. Martin

  “He promised to—”

  “Surrender to you. Yes, gentlemen, I did, and you behold me. Now, however, could you help me? I assume you have—” His eyes met Brennan’s; he faltered, coughed, and resumed. “You have seized my orderlies, and I have a patient who needs to be taken to the nursery, and one who needs to go to her room.”

  You! My gods what are you doing here?

  Seizing your clinic.

  But why? WHY?

  “So if you would be kind enough to assist with a gurney.”

  The outer conversation flowed on over the internal telepathic exchange.

  The three men looked to Brennan. “Put them with the rest in the cafeteria.”

  “Cafeteria! Surely you’re not moving the dangerously ill or the infants?”

  “Don’t be an idiot. They’re no threat to us,” said Brennan, disgusted.

  “The man in isolation … you didn’t release him?” asked Tachyon.

  “No, he’s our cover.”

  “Cover?”

  “Why am I wasting time beating gums with you? Move it,” shouted Brennan. “You can take the brat to the nursery, and we’ll have a little talk.”

  Brennan, his Browning gripped tightly in his hand, and Tachyon, with John Fortune cradled in his arms, paced through the unnaturally silent halls.

  The nursery staff had all been removed, so Tachyon prepared a bottle and fed the child. Brennan swung a chair around and straddled it, arms folded across the back.

  “Now, what is this all about?” asked Tachyon with a mildness he didn’t feel.

  “Two things. You’ve upset a certain major player with your goon squad. You’ve also got an item that this player wants.”

  “Please stop talking like a third-rate goon in a B gangster movie. ‘Item’ indeed!” snorted the alien.

  “Jane Lillian Dow.”

  “I don’t know where she is.”

  “My boss thinks different.”

  “Your boss is wrong.” Tachyon wiped away a trail of milk from the baby’s chin. “I presume you have put about some story or another to explain the closure of the clinic?”

  “Yes, we’re telling people that the carrier’s loose in the hospital.”

  “Clever.” Tachyon shifted Johnny, studying the baby’s slight epicanthic folds, and glanced significantly at Brennan’s altered eyes. “I never asked why you wanted the surgery.”

  “I know. I appreciated that.”

  “I could have discovered, but I did not. I respected your privacy.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “And this is how you repay me?”

  “I had to get into this … organization. I’ve risked everything for this.”

  Tachyon flung out a hand. “This? This? Invading my clinic, endangering my patients?”

  “No, no, not this. Other … things.…” Brennan’s voice trailed away.

  “I wouldn’t give you Jane even if I knew where she was.”

  “My orders are to start killing patients until you do.”

  Tachyon blanched and took a harder grip on the bottle. He flipped John over his shoulder and patted until the baby let out a loud belch, dribbling milk over the peach-colored material.

  “Your orders are to kill me no matter what.”

  “STAY OUT OF MY HEAD!” Brennan swung away from Tachyon, clenched his fists between his thighs. “I won’t do it.”

  “No, you will have someone else do it for you. What a very flexible mind you have, Captain. You would have made a good Takisian. Perhaps that is why I like you.” He rose and laid Johnny in a crib.

  “GODDAMN YOU!”

  “Why?”

  “You’re all closing in on me, wrapping me in these bonds, holding me, smothering me.”

  “I wonder what your Jennifer would think of what you’re doing?”

  “DAMN IT! STAY OUT! JUST STAY THE FUCK OUT! I didn’t want to care,” he concluded quietly.

  “It is the price you pay for being human, Brennan. Sometimes you have to care.”

  “I do,” he said, agonized.

  “For death. Someday it might make an interesting change to choose the living.”

  “That’s not fair,” he cried after Tachyon’s back. “What about Mai?”

  “Mai is gone. This is here and now, and you are going to have to make a choice.”

  The hours crawled by. Tachyon’s admiration for Bradly Latour Finn increased with each passing moment. The little joker comforted the old, jollied the young, and played games with the children. His insouciant grin never budged. Not when their increasingly nervous guards rained curses or blows onto his curly head. Not when Victoria Queen cried out hysterically:

  “We’re all going to die, and how can you be so fucking calm?”

  “Too dumb to know different.”

  He trotted to Tachyon, gun muzzles following his progress through the crowded cafeteria. He paused briefly by a table where Deadhead was maintaining a constant babble. Nodded seriously for several seconds.

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “Sit down!” yelled one of their guards.

  Finn backed delicately toward a chair. Wriggled his hindquarters. Sadly shook his head and trotted to Tach. The alien gasped in surprise as he noticed for the first time the joker’s tail. It had been cut off just below the dock.

  “Your tail!”

  “It will adorn some Werewolf’s jacket.”

  Idiotically, this upset Tachyon almost more than anything that had thus far happened. “Your tail,” he mourned again.

  “It’ll grow. Besides, I was too proud of it anyway.” He leaned in. “Doc, some of these people need medication.”

  “I know.”

  Tachyon slid off the table, and with his hand resting lightly on Finn’s withers, he walked to Brennan. It was an absurd picture. The tiny alien dressed in knee breeches, the lace cravat of his shirt untied and falling like a foaming waterfall, copper curls fluttering as he walked. The tiny palomino centaur prancing like a Lipizzaner at his side.

  “A number of these people are on medication. May I take some of my staff and obtain the drugs?”

  “Drugs. Sounds good,” laughed a Werewolf.

  “Give us what we want,” said Brennan.

  “No.”

  “SHIT!” Danny Mao mashed out a cigarette on a cellophane-wrapped chef’s salad. The hot tip burnt through the plastic and left a black smear on the cheese and the meat. “How long are we gonna sit here?”

  “As long as it takes,” replied Brennan shortly.

  “Cowboy, let’s kill a few of these ugly fuckers.” Danny Mao eyed the huddled jokers with disgust. “We’d be doing most of them a favor.”

  Brennan rounded on Tachyon. “The girl.”

  “No.”

  Why are you doing this!

  Why are you?

  Twenty more minutes crawled agonizingly past. Tachyon, eyes half-closed, fingered a violin sonata on his knee, head beating time to the silent music.

  “Cowboy, he’s got a mind power. What’s to say he’s not calling the joker hit squad right now?”

  Lee ranged himself with the only other Oriental in the group. “Danny’s right.”

  “He won’t call for help. He knows the risks of an assault from outside. How many of them”—Brennan’s arm swept out to encompass the frightened patients and staff—“will be killed in the shooting?” He rounded on Tachyon, his gray eyes hard. “How many of them shall we kill as payment for treachery?”

  “‘Treachery.’” Tachyon savored the word. Lilac eyes met gray. The gray fell first.

  “Okay, so you don’t want to start offing sick old ladies,” said Danny, eyeing one with disfavor. “Even if they are as ugly as an unwiped asshole. Why don’t we use him?” A jerk of a thumb toward Deadhead, who was guiltily gobbling down a piece of pie, and keeping up the running monologue with himself. “That’s what he’s here for.”

  Brennan wiped sweat. “We don’t know what Tachyon might do to him. It’s an alien metab
olism.”

  Danny stepped to an old man, gripped him by his stringy white hair, and thrust the barrel of his Colt Python into the toothless mouth. Victoria Queen whimpered. A rustle went through the hostages. Tachyon came half out of his chair, then subsided when he realized the Chinese man’s focus was on Brennan.

  “I don’t think you’ve got what it takes, Cowboy,” Danny said in a dangerously low tone. “I think it was a mistake putting you in charge. Now either you gather your stones and act, or I will.”

  “All right,” shouted Brennan. “We’ll use Deadhead.”

  Danny pulled his pistol from the joker’s mouth and placed the tip of the barrel against Tachyon’s throat. A gasp and a rustle ran through the prisoners.

  “But not here. In his office. And Deadhead.” The ace looked up and paused in his energetic chewing. “Bring a spoon.”

  Brennan left five men on guard in the cafeteria. He watched Tachyon studying the fifteen men who towered over him in the elevator. It was a look he knew—a man weighing the odds. And not liking the answer.

  Isida, my roshi, what takes precedence? The quest of a man’s soul, or the transitory friendships of this world?

  There was no answer. Somehow Brennan had a feeling that even if the old man had been present, there still wouldn’t have been an answer.

  Tachyon’s narrow face was composed. He was clearly resigned to death. Brennan doubted the alien would meet it quietly. He would try something before the end.

  Deadhead belched and patted his stomach. “Wish I hadn’t had that piece of pie. Hope I got room for this. Hey, how we gonna open his head?” Tachyon’s eyes widened. Suddenly he doubled over and vomited onto Danny’s shoes.

  “Oh, shit!” yelled the Oriental.

  “Mind reading’s not such a great power, huh?” gritted Brennan. “You find out what’s in store for you. Lee, go down to the operating room and bring a saw.”

  “Why don’t we just take him down there?” whined the boy, holding his nose against the stink.

  “Because I don’t want to.” Tension and fury crackled in the words.

  They filed into Tachyon’s office, Brennan carefully closing the door behind him. Danny pulled back the hammer on his gun and grinned back over his shoulder at Brennan.

  “I’ll handle this, Cowboy. You don’t seem to have the stomach for it.”

  It wasn’t a conscious decision. Brennan just reached out and snapped off the lights. New York’s bright glow formed a square of silver around the tightly closed blinds, but the rest of the room was plunged into stygian darkness.

  Tachyon hit the floor as two simultaneous muzzle flashes almost blinded him. A body fell across him.

  “Shit! He’s got a gun,” he heard Brennan sing out.

  He wished to god he had.

  Thrusting with elbows and knees, Tachyon belly-crawled across the thick carpet. A foot took him hard in the ribs, and he bit back a gasp. The man took a header, discharging his Uzi in a long burst as he fell. Someone screamed.

  Feeling for the knob, Tachyon seized it in a sweat-slick hand, threw open the door, and darted through. He slammed it quickly behind him, and bullets blasted through the thin wood, peppering his cheek with splinters. He ran.

  Steadying himself with a hand, he swung around the corner just as the door burst open, and the pursuit began.

  Again Brennan’s voice. “Half of you come with me. We’ll head him off.”

  Fifteen, becomes fourteen, becomes thirteen, becomes maybe twelve, if that first Uzi blast hit one of them. So call it six to one. Still terrible odds, and too many for mind control unless he could separate them, and he didn’t like that idea at all.

  So where to go?

  “This is the Place of Death.”

  Tachyon jerked open the door to the stairs and leaped like a hunted deer, taking two steps at a time. They were one landing behind.

  “But the buck lived … Because he came first, running for his life.”

  It was a desperate gamble. It had to be taken. Two floors below huddled his people. If his pursuers remembered, returned to threaten them …

  He fished out his keys, put on a final burst of speed. His breath was sobbing in his raw throat. He couldn’t see Croyd through the wide observation window of the isolation room. The lock turned, and he waited, hand on the knob. The hunting pack burst out of the stairwell, baying with excitement.

  “There he is!”

  He entered the room with a forward roll. Flashed past Croyd, who was crouched waiting by the door. But not for a compact bundle, tucked in close and rolling. Tachyon bounced to his feet.

  “Croyd, help me. They’re after us!”

  A hand reached out. Tach flowed through it, allowing the momentum to carry Croyd a good three feet past him. Avoidance was his only hope. If Croyd ever got a grip on him, the ace would break him like fragile glass. The red eyes were maddened, the pale face twisted, inhuman.

  The hunters arrived. Tachyon threw himself into a long flat dive that carried him toward the bed. Croyd snarled, confused, questing. His eyes met those of the leading gunman. The Uzi came up, but the man let out a wail like steam being vented from a locomotive and began to melt. Within seconds he had sunk to his knees in an ever-widening pool of frothing pink ooze.

  Croyd’s hand lashed out at another, connecting at the junction of shoulder and neck. Tachyon pressed desperately against the wall, heard bones crunch. The man collapsed with a broken neck. Screams filled the room.

  Suddenly there was a flare of incandescence, and a hunter became a human torch. Within seconds all that was left was the stink of burnt tile and cooked flesh, and a blackened patch on the floor.

  One of the three survivors got off a shot. The bullet buried itself in Croyd’s bare foot. Throwing back his head, the albino howled in pain. He gripped the gun and ripped it from the man’s hand. Croyd then proceeded to beat him with the barrel. Skin cracked and tore as the gunsight ripped into the tender flesh of his cheeks.

  At Tachyon’s feet another man writhed. The convulsions were so violent that he was literally bent like a bow, head to heels. Blood ran from his mouth where he had bitten through his tongue.

  Black Queen. Without joker manifestation. Three out of seven. Blood and line, let me live. I want to live.

  Fear was a living thing, gripping him by the throat, stopping the breath in his lungs. Tachyon struggled for air.

  The boy, Lee, had been at the back of the pack. Terrified, he threw down his gun and fled. Croyd tossed aside his attacker, who collapsed like a bloody puppet, and raced in pursuit.

  Tachyon, turning his head as if his neck were made of glass, eyed the carnage. Gazed down his own slim length. Gave a sob of joy. Pushing off the wall, he swept up an Uzi and ran into the hall. The window over the fire escape had been wrenched out of the wall. Leaning out he saw a shadowy figure vanishing between the Dumpsters in the alley. Hating himself, he fired, heard the whine of bullets ricocheting off brick and metal and no other sound. Croyd was gone.

  His ankles had gone limp, and he almost fell. A strong arm slipped around his waist, and the Takisian gave a cry of terror. He lashed out with his mind power and froze as he recognized the mind.

  “Brennan.”

  They had a few minutes before the police arrived. Tachyon sat behind his desk, poured two stiff brandies, and saluted the impassive human.

  “I count you … friend. Thank you.”

  Brennan was canted back in his chair, booted feet propped on the desk. Danny’s body sprawled on the carpet next to him.

  “Took me a damn long time to make up my mind.”

  “You had much at stake. I am grateful.”

  “Shut up. You’ve thanked me enough. Well, I better get out of here.” Brennan fished in his pocket, pulled out an ace of spades, and flipped the card onto the body. “Give them all something to think about.”

  “The police … and who else?”

  “What do you mean?” Brennan tensed in the doorway.

  “Who
is behind this?” Silence stretched between them. “Daniel, I demand to know. You owe me that.”

  The human turned slowly back to face him. “It’s dangerous.”

  “You’re telling me something I don’t already know? This man has preyed upon my people, my holding, and made war on me. It must stop.”

  “And how do you propose to accomplish that?”

  “By making him believe that I am more dangerous to him than he is to me.”

  A smile quirked that strong mouth, vanished, began to grow by slow stages. Tachyon watched in fascination. It was the first time he’d ever seen Brennan smile.

  “This is what I propose.”

  Order was restored. Finn treated patients for shock, Peregrine nursed her baby, statements were given, bodies or the remnants of bodies counted. The five men left on guard in the cafeteria had escaped, and also the horrifying Deadhead. A massive manhunt began for Croyd. Tachyon regretted and agonized over his decision. Perhaps he should have accepted death rather than release Croyd, but what a death … his brains consumed by that repellant creature. He decided he just wasn’t that noble.

  By five A.M. the alien was free to leave. He made preparations, collected the limousine, met Brennan. With the human driving they set out to Fifth Avenue and Seventy-third Street.

  They parked in the alley behind the five-story gray-stone apartment building. Tachyon spread a lace tablecloth across the hood of the Lincoln and laid out breakfast: warm croissants, thermoses of hot tea and coffee. A selection of cheeses. Then, nibbling on a sliver of Camembert, he sent out the call. A siren’s summons. Ten minutes later Kien Phuc stepped out the back door into the alley. Wyrm was with him. The joker reached for a gun, then hissed as Brennan slowly turned and notched a heavy broadhead hunting arrow in his bow and leveled it on Kien. Tachyon released the compulsion, and the Vietnamese waved his joker/ace down.

  Tachyon spread his hands in welcome. “Won’t you join me, Mr. Phuc? While our two lieutenants keep us and each other honest.” Tachyon proffered a plate, shrugged when Kien remained motionless. “You have … irritated me, Mr. Phuc, but I was pleased when you tried your pathetic seizure of my clinic. It gave me the opportunity I had been seeking.”

  “For what?” Kien’s voice grated out like rusty machinery starting after years of neglect.