Black Trump

by George R. R. Martin

  "I won't tell you," Horvath muttered through gritted teeth. He moaned. "I can't tell you because I don't know, Jesus, my knee ..."

  Gregg reveled in the pain, and at the same time, yanked the strings of Hannah's rage once more. Hannah's finger moved, the gun barked, and Horvath rolled on the floor, smearing blood from a shoulder wound, "The next time, it's your balls," Hannah told him. "Rudo - where is he?"

  "In Syria," Horvath said, nearly a scream. "With the Nur." Hannah stepped forward until she was standing over the man, pointing the blackened muzzle between his legs. The smell of gunpowder was almost overpowering, but there was another smell - Horvath had pissed his pants. "It's the truth, I swear it. Oh God, please ..."

  "Does Rudo have the other vials?"

  "One, yes." Horvath's eyes were wide, fixed on Hannah's weapon. Gregg could feel the pale tendrils of shock dimming the hues of his panic.

  Gregg let go of the strings, his eyes closed as the orgasmic pleasure of the pain washed through him. You see, it's as good as you remember. So wonderful, so tasty ... Hannah blinked; she backed away from Horvath, the gun suddenly trembling in her hand, and she looked down at the wounded man, aghast.

  It wasn't for the pleasure, Gregg told the voice. He's told us where Rudo is. That was the reason. I did it so we would know.

  Sure you did, Greggie, Sure you did. Doing the wrong things for all the right reasons ...

  Hannah took a deep breath. Gregg felt her push the rising guilt back, but he knew it would be there later: a snack. "All right," Hannah said. "Gregg, get the virus. We have to get out of here."

  "What about me?" Horvath wailed. "I'm bleeding."

  "We'll make sure someone finds you," Hannah said.

  Gregg, his stubby hands wrapped around the decanter, stopped. He could sense someone else watching. Someone whose emotional matrix was very familiar.

  "That won't be necessary," Billy Ray said, stepping out of the shadows behind Hannah. "Someone already knows."

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  The woman with the gun blanched when Ray stepped out of the shadows. His fighting suit was stained with blood and dust, his face was smeared with the same. Hartmann had the decanter full of death clutched in his clumsy-looking hands. Ray advanced slowly towards him and the woman with the gun. What was her name?

  "Saw you at the airport, Senator, but you didn't stay to chat. When was the last time we had a chance to talk about things? Not since I spilled my guts for you in Atlanta, back in '88."

  "Uh - " Hartmann started to back away, edging closer to the woman. She clearly didn't know what was going on. She waved the gun in Ray's direction, but he ignored her.

  "You've got something I want, Senator. Something I've chased halfway across the world."

  Ray advanced past Horvath, who was groveling on the floor with knee and shoulder wounds. Fucking Shark. He realized now that Churchill had probably been trying to warn him about Horvath when he'd thought the old man was telling him about Johnson.

  "You just wait," Ray told him in passing. "You're next." Ray focused on Hartmann and the bimbo with the gun. "Give me the decanter, Senator."

  "I - I can't, Billy. It's dangerous."

  Ray felt something inside him explode. "Of course it's dangerous, you fucking idiot! It's full of the Black Trump!"

  "I know! I know!" Hartmann said his ridiculous head bobbing up and down. "But it's safe in our hands. Trust me. We'll take care of it."

  Ray laughed. "Trust you? I wouldn't trust you as far as I can fucking spit, Senator. I saw your handiwork in the pub."

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  "... I saw your handiwork in the pub."

  Ray was talking to Gregg, but it was Hannah who answered. "We all make mistakes," she said. She swung around to face Ray, the gun held in both of her hands, the muzzle pointed at Ray's chest. The front of Ray's fighting suit was torn and covered with blood, but Ray seemed more amused than concerned. "Let's not make another one right now," Hannah continued. "We could use a little help."

  "You act like you have room to bargain," Ray answered. "One part of my job was to find you two and bring you back to the States. I always do my job. Don't I, Senator? Even when I get no thanks and no recognition. Even when I get chopped to pieces protecting someone."

  The violet resentment literally poured from the man, and Gregg plucked the familiar strings of Billy Ray's psyche. It was like fondling a favored much-handled instrument. There was a brilliant fury there, very recent - Gregg suspected from the extent of it that Ray's fight with Johnson had not gone as well as it could have. That's good. Ray will want to redeem himself. Underneath the violet, Gregg could still feel a deeply hidden small core of blue: respect for what Gregg once had been. Ray had enjoyed his years as Gregg's bodyguard. He'd loved the power and prestige the position gave him. That was still there, covered over now by years apart and Gregg's shabby treatment of Ray after the convention. Gregg set himself to repairing the damage, to fusing the strings once more and shoveling aside the neglect.

  Billy," Gregg said as soothingly as he could, cursing the thin voice of his joker body. "Hannah's right. We're on the same side here."

  "That's not the way I understand it."

  "Here," Gregg said. He lifted the decanter. "This is what Horvath and Johnson were trying to release. Here's the Black Trump." Ray looked at it, and the hue of Ray's anger changed subtlely. "You know that Hannah and I have been telling the truth, don't you? You know what the Black Trump is."

  "I've seen what it does," Ray said tersely.

  "There were three vials," Gregg continued. "I don't think you know that. This is one. Horvath's told us that Rudo has one of the other two. And we know where he is."

  With the words, Gregg yanked the strings, pulling hard. Ray seemed to sway for a moment with it, but then the thing inside Gregg pulled back at the strings. No, that's not the way. Ray's dangerous, remember? He's already tried to kill you. This isn't the way. It won't work. The coldness returned to Ray's voice. "What are you offering, Hartmann?"

  This," Gregg said. "As I said, we're on the same side, really. I think we stand a better chance if we join forces. I want to trade Rudo's location for our freedom - and a ride to where Rudo is." Ray wasn't listening. Not any more. It didn't matter. Gregg found that he didn't really want Ray's cooperation. There was something else that would be ... tastier.

  "Not a chance," Ray said. "I don't cut deals with assholes and murderers."

  "Hey!" Hannah said, and at the same time, Gregg yanked at the strings of her emotions, hard. Her black-red intense anger was still there, and twin spots of color flared high on her cheeks at Ray's accusation. "Fuck you."

  "Sure." Ray grinned nastily at her. "Any time you like, darlin'. Right before I take you both in." Still grinning, he started forward, and Gregg could feel his certainty that Hannah wouldn't fire, that she wouldn't pull the trigger.

  So easy. So tasty ...

  The gun jumped in Hannah's hand, the flash from the muzzle making Gregg blink. Ray gave a surprised "Hunh?" and staggered backward, crimson spreading out on the blood-dappled white uniform from a stomach wound. Hannah pulled the trigger again, and again, and again, as Ray went to his knees and then collapsed on the floor, as Gregg tugged at the strings and sucked at the sweet, joyous pain in Ray's mind. He let go the connection to Hannah, let her emotions drop back to normal.

  Hannah dropped the gun, suddenly. She looked at Ray, at the moaning Horvath, at Gregg. "My God," she breathed. "Oh, my God."

  "Come on," Gregg told her, relishing Hannah's guilt, a dessert after the twin feasts of Horvath and Ray. "We have to get out of here."

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  TWO

  The guidebook said that Jerusalem was a city of a thousand names, and proceeded to name a few of them: Shalem, Yerushalem, Yir'eh, Tsiyon, Jebus, Ir David. Gregg decided that one of them must translate as "City of Contradictions."

  In their first day in the Holy City, Gregg and Hannah saw more suffering and poverty than either of the
m had ever glimpsed in the States; they also saw more riches and wealth than they might have thought possible - vast, gilded temples and palatial estates. The poor, if nothing else, were more numerous. They were of all races and religions, heads covered against the sun, their bodies dusted with dirt that had once clogged the pores and caked the heels of prophets, pilgrims, and conquerors.

  But one couldn't eat history, couldn't take shelter in antiquity.

  Gregg could taste the complex emotions of the city. The strands of violence and rage, of love and hope, of despair and sorrow, faith and devotion - they swirled in the heated winds off the fig-dotted hills, snaked around the pale stone buildings and twined in the narrow, winding streets. The seductive tendrils, so full of delicious hues and shades, pulled at Gregg. He wanted to call out to the driver of their taxi to stop, to let him out so that he could follow the emotions back to their source, so that he could make the connection that would let him play with the colors of Jerusalem's soul.

  Given what they'd seen on their taxi tour of the city, they hadn't expected the Joker's Quarter to be anything less than squalid. Their taxi driver would not drive past the gates of the quarter - maybe it was the armed joker guards obviously on watch there, maybe it was simple fear of jokers: Gregg couldn't tell from the emotions wafting from the man.

  "This is gonna be just great," Hannah said as she paid the man. She tugged at the robe she wore. "Even Mr. Greasy Hair here won't go in. Lovely." She glanced at the silent Fist guards with ill-disguised contempt. They watched as Gregg and Hannah walked into the Quarter.

  They expected squalor. They were surprised. Certainly the buildings were old and run-down, certainly there was abject poverty here, misery and starvation, but there was also an ill-defined sense of order that had been missing outside. The streets were mostly clean, and people went about their business without seeming to worry about the others passing them on the street. They saw women and children moving about unescorted, something the taxi driver had mentioned as unusual in Jerusalem. Hannah was stared at more than Gregg. There were scowls directed at her, and an elderly woman - her fluttering veil revealing large tufts of hair protruding from her nostrils - hissed "Nat bitch" in passing.

  Gregg decided that the hues of the quarter were as appetizing as those of Jokertown had been. Yes, the voice echoed. A lovely place. We must get to know it better.

  They checked into a hostel near the Gate, taking what they were told was the only room available, on the first floor. The joker at the desk, his skin dappled with orange spots and blue stripes like some gaudy tropical fish, ignored Hannah and would only speak to Gregg. When Hannah asked for an extra key, he slid it across the counter to Gregg. He asked about luggage and sneered when told that they had none. "Enjoy your stay, sir," he said as they left the lobby. Gregg let himself savor Hannah's irritation as they made their way down the dark corridor to the room.

  "Now what?" Hannah asked. There was only one bed; neither of them commented on the arrangement. She prodded the mattress with one hand, then bounced on it experimentally a few times. "No TV. Probably just as well. Brian said that he'd send word to the Dog that we're coming. Do we wait for him or do we go looking?"

  ... must get to know it better ...

  "I think it'd be best if I go out alone," Gregg told her. "We've already seen how nats are treated here. Stay here and rest - try to take care of the jet lag. I'll see if I can make contact with the Dog." With the words, he slathered blue weariness over her unease. Hannah nodded.

  "Be careful out there," she said. She leaned back and closed her eyes. "Maybe it's just because of the Fists, but I have the feeling that the violence is never quite buried here, that if you just scratch the surface of the city, it'll all come leaping out."

  Gregg smiled. "I think you're right," he said.

  A few minutes later, outside, he blinked in the fierce sunlight. He could see jokers wandering past the entrance to the hostel, his enhanced sense of smell could scent a thousand odors hanging in the still air, but he was searching with other senses.

  There ... You feel it? Anger, laced with worry. Over this way ...

  I don't have to do this, he told the voice firmly. I don't.

  I know, came the soothing reply. That was the old Gregg, addicted to the power. But this time you can control it. Still, you need to use it, need to remember how it works. You'll need the power to find the virus and destroy it. That's the reason. That's the only reason.

  Gregg hopped down from the worn steps of the hostel, turned left, and wriggled down a narrow side street, following the invisible trail. Here, the houses leaned out over the street toward their neighbors as if for support. Quickly, the sun was eclipsed behind ancient facades and laundry drying on lines, sending the occasional errant shaft down to expire on granite cobbles. Jokers loitered in the doorways, staying in the cool shadows and out of the midday heat. The city smelled of spice and a hundred noontime meals, of perfume and raw sewage. Through it, Gregg hunted the unseen radiance of frayed emotions. He ducked into an alleyway between two nondescript buildings, avoiding the fly-infested garbage cans. Yes. It's very close....

  Gregg looked up. Through open windows a story above him, he could hear faint voices arguing heatedly in rapid-fire Arabic. The deeper, male voice held the same hues as the trail he'd followed - dark and richly red, like fine, raw meat; the shrill female voice that answered him was marbled with frustration and laced with fear: an old argument, then, one that had led the two into a physical confrontation before. As Gregg stood there, listening, the voice tugged at him.

  Go on....

  There's no connection. I can't feel him, can't control him without that.

  Then we'll create the link.

  It's dangerous. Stupid. I don't need this. I don't have to do it...

  The voice seemed to sigh. The side door's open. Go up the stairs. Knock on the door. Say you're looking for someone, apologize for interrupting and shake hands with the man before you go. That's all. You'd have him. He'll taste good. I promise.

  As Gregg stood there in indecision, he heard the scrape of leather on stone.

  "Gregg Hartmann?"

  Gregg started guiltily at the voice, his small body lurching upright in a defensive posture. A boy was standing in the dappled shadow at the alleyway's opening - a man-child, no more than fifteen, and the hands that dangled at his side were tipped with razor-like, gleaming claws. Like the city, he was a dichotomy: an innocent face underlaid with implied violence. There was a delicious torment in the child, a chaotic turbulence that Gregg suddenly wanted to touch. The sound of voices above was suddenly only sound. The hues and shades wrapped around them vanished, but he could see fresh colors around the boy, sharp and bright. He wanted to touch them.

  "Who are you?" he asked.

  I'm Needles," the boy said. He lifted his hands; the claws rasped with the motion. The voice held the accent of New York City. "I ... I was told you'd be here. I've come to take you and the woman to the Black Dog."

  "You're with the Fists? You're American?"

  A nod. The mingled colors swirled with the motion.

  Gregg sniffed suspiciously. "I was told the Dog was difficult to see. Kind of strange that we're not here an hour before we get an invitation."

  "He's been expecting you. He said to tell you that he knows about Westminster and the Trump." The boy shrugged, scuffed at a loose cobblestone. He looked sidewise at Gregg, brown eyes behind a ragged thicket of hair. "From what I've seen, it's not exactly politically correct to turn down an invitation from the Black Dog."

  "Then I guess I'm glad you came to fetch me, Needles." Gregg held out his tiny hand. After a moment's hesitation, Needles's claws brushed Gregg's skin. Gregg snatched at the tendrils of emotion that clung to the boy, following them back, letting his mind run along the path of the youth's mind and set the linkages.

  Yes.... We have him....

  Needles's hand dropped. Claws clashed like a tray of flatware. "Come on," Gregg told him. "Let's get Hann
ah."

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  "I'll, pant, get, pant, I'll get you, pant, for this," Bradley Finn gasped back at him around the seventh or eighth mile, as the rickshaw jounced along through Hong Kong's teeming streets.

  "Is it my fault you're out of shape?" Jay said, looking up from the map spread across his knees. "You ought to pay me for the workout. Besides, with the cost of malpractice insurance and all, you never know when you're going to need another trade."

  Finn looked back over his shoulder and his broad hindquarters to where Jay lounged in the seat. "How come, pant, I have to, pant, pull, pant, and you, pant, get to ride?" Sweat had left rings under the arms of the centaur's baggy shirt and plastered his hair to his forehead in damp strands beneath the wide straw hat. A liquid tendril of brown was creeping slowly down one check.

  "I told you," Jay told him, again. "Joker rickshaw boys pulling tourists around are a dime a dozen. This way, you blend right in, nobody looks at you twice. Just part of the local color. By the way, your disguise is running."