Wild Cards: Aces Abroad

by George R. R. Martin

  “Gregg’s right. We can’t avoid a meeting. There’s been too much publicity. Beyond that, we are here to see how jokers are treated in other countries. Judging by what we’ve seen, we could help out down here by leaning on the government a little. This would appear to be a good way to do it. We don’t have to endorse their actions, just express our concern.”

  “That sounds reasonable. I’ll let you deal with the politics. I need to get to that hospital tour.” Tachyon massaged one temple. “I’m tired of talking to the government. I want to see what’s going on.”

  The door to the sitting room opened and Billy Ray peered in. “The phones are ringing off the hooks, and we’ve got reporters coming up the fire stairs. What are we supposed to tell them?”

  Hartmann nodded to Tachyon before answering. “Those of us who can spare the time from our carefully timed schedules will see these ‘Hero Twins.’ But make it clear that we are doing this in the interests of the wild card victims, not for political reasons.”

  “Great. The Father, Chrysalis, and Xavier ought to be back soon. They went out to see the camp and talk to the jokers there.” Antic­ipating Tachyon’s next question, he smiled at the doctor. “Your car’s waiting downstairs. But the sooner you can give me an official statement for the press, the better.”

  “I’ll have my people start drafting one immediately, Billy.” Hartmann was obviously on familiar ground. “You’ll have it within the hour.”

  In the morning everyone gathered, hungover and bleary from the previous night’s celebrations, but ready to march off to see the United Nations tour. When Hunapu and Xbalanque came out of their houses, the crowd became quiet. Xbalanque looked out over the people and wished that it were possible to have them follow him into the city. It would look great on film, but Akabal was con­vinced that it might just be the excuse the government was look­ing for to open fire. He jumped up onto the hood of the bus that had been chosen to take them into the city. He spoke for almost half an hour before the people appeared to agree that they would stay in Kaminaljuyu.

  They arrived at the Camino Real without incident. The only sur­prise had come from the crowds of Indians lining the streets as they passed. The watchers were silent and impassive, but both Hunapu and Xbalanque were strengthened by their presence. At the Camino Real they jumped down from the truck and were escorted within the building by two of their own guards and almost a score of UN security people.

  Xbalanque and Hunapu wore their closest approximation of the dress of the ancient kings. Hair tied up in warrior’s knots on top of their heads, they were dressed in cotton tunics and dyed-cotton wrapped skirts. Hunapu was used to wearing only his xikul, a knee-length tunic. He felt at home in the ancient style. Xbalanque had spent the early morning tugging on his skirt and feeling self-conscious about his exposed legs. As he looked curiously around the hotel, he saw himself in a wall mirror. He almost stopped in wonder at the vision of a Mayan warrior looking back at him. Xbalanque straightened and raised his head, showing off his jade earplug.

  Hunapu’s eyes darted from one side of the lobby to the other. He had never seen a building this big with so many strange decora­tions and oddly dressed people. A fat man in a shiny white shirt and brightly colored, flowered short pants stared at them. The tourist grabbed his wife, who wore a dress that was made on the same loom as the man’s pants, by the arm and pointed at them. Catching a glimpse of Xbalanque walking proudly alongside steadied Hunapu.

  But it was all he could do not to cry out prayers to the gods when they walked into a room slightly smaller than his family’s house and the doors slid shut without a human touch. The room moved under him, and only Xbalanque’s calm face kept him from believing he was about to die. He slid his glance toward Akabal. The Maya in Western dress was clenching and releasing his fists rhythmically. Hunapu wondered if he was praying too.

  Despite his outward impassivity Xbalanque was the first one out the opening doors when the elevator reached its destination. The entire group walked down the carpeted hall to a door flanked by two more UN soldiers. There were a few moments of discussion before it was agreed that, once the Indian guards had inspected the meeting room, they would retire outside the door until the confer­ence was over. The Hero Twins would be allowed to keep their cer­emonial stone knives, however. During this, Xbalanque and Hunapu said nothing, allowing Akabal to make the arrangements. Hunapu watched everything while he attempted to look like a warrior-king. Being in these enclosed spaces made him nervous. He repeatedly looked to his brother for guidance.

  Inside the hotel room, the WHO delegates waited for them. Akabal immediately noticed Peregrine’s cameraman. “Out. No cameras, no tapes.” The tall Indian turned to Hartmann. “It was agreed. At your insistence.”

  “Peregrine, the lady with the wings, is one of us. She is only interested in making a historical record—”

  “Which you can edit to suit your own purposes. No.”

  Hartmann smiled and shrugged at Peregrine. “Perhaps it would be better if . . .”

  “Sure, no problem.” She flapped her wings lazily and directed her cameraman to leave.

  Xbalanque noted that Akabal seemed to be thrown off by the ease at which he had gotten his wish. He turned to look at his brother. Hunapu appeared to be communing directly with the gods. It was clear from looking at him that nothing here was of interest. Xbalanque tried to capture the same assurance.

  “Good. Now, we are here to discuss—” Akabal began his prepared introduction, but was interrupted by Hartmann.

  “Let’s be informal here. Everyone please have a seat. Mr. Akabal, why don’t you sit beside me since I believe you’ll be doing the translating here?” Hartmann sat down at the head of a table apparently brought into the room for the meeting since the furniture around it had been moved against the walls. “Do the other gentlemen speak English?”

  Xbalanque was about to reply when he caught Akabal’s warning glance. Instead he guided Hunapu to a chair.

  “No, I’ll be translating for them as well.”

  Hunapu stared earnestly at the tentacled priest and the man with the nose like Chac, the long-nosed rain god. He was pleased that the god-touched would travel with this group. It was an aus­picious sign. But he was also surprised to see a Father who was so blessed by the gods. Perhaps there was more to what the priests had tried to teach him than he had previously believed. He men­tioned his thoughts to Akabal, who spoke in English to Hartmann.

  “Among our people, the victims of the wild card virus are regarded as being favored by the gods. They are revered, not persecuted.”

  “And that’s what we’re here to talk about, isn’t it? Your people.” Hartmann had not stopped smiling since they’d entered the room. Xbalanque did not trust a man who showed his teeth so much.

  The man with the elephant’s trunk spoke next. “This new coun­try of yours, would it be open to all jokers?”

  Xbalanque pretended to listen to Akabal’s translation. He replied in Maya, knowing that Akabal would change his words anyway.

  “This homeland takes back only a tiny part of what has been stolen from us. It is for our people, whether god-touched or not. The god-touched of the Ladinos have other places to go for help.”

  “But why do you feel a separate nation is necessary? It seems to me that your show of political power would impress the Guatemalan government with your strength. They’re bound to introduce the reforms you want.” Hartmann brought the conver­sation back to Akabal, which didn’t displease Hunapu. He could feel hostility in this room and a lack of understanding. Whatever else they were, they were also Ladinos. He looked over at Akabal as the man replied to one of the norteamericano’s questions.

  “You aren’t listening. We don’t want reforms. We want our land back. But only a small part of it, at that. Reforms have come and gone for four hundred years. We are tired of waiting.” Akabal was vehement. “Do you know that to most Indians this wild card virus is just another smallpox? Another white dise
ase brought to us to kill as many as possible.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Senator Lyons was enraged at the accusa­tion. “Humans had nothing to do with the wild card virus.

  “We came here to help you. That is our only purpose. In order to help we feel we have to have the cooperation of the government.” Senator Lyons seemed to be on the defensive. “We spoke to the general. He’s planning to put clinics in the outlying provinces and to bring serious cases of the wild card outbreak here to the city for treatment.”

  The brothers exchanged glances. It was clear to each man that these strangers from the north were not about to do anything for them. Hunapu was getting impatient. There were too many things they could be doing in Kaminaljuyu. He wanted to start teaching the uninformed about the old gods and the means of worshiping them.

  “We can’t change the past. We both know that. So what’s the point? Why are you here?” Hartmann had stopped smiling.

  “We are going to form an Indian nation. But we will need help.” Akabal spoke firmly. Xbalanque approved of his lack of tolerance for distraction, even though he wasn’t altogether sure about Akabal’s plans for a socialist government.

  “Do you have no idea of what the United Nations is? Surely you cannot expect us to provide weapons for your war.” Senator Lyons’s mouth was ringed with white from his anger.

  “No, no weapons. But if you had come out to see our followers, you would have seen how many have been untreated by the Ladino doctors in the hope that they would not survive. And yes, I know what the general told you. We will need much medical aid, initially, to care for these people. After that we will need aid for schools, roads, transportation, agriculture. All the things a real country must provide.”

  “You understand we’re only on a fact-finding tour? We don’t have any real authority with the UN or even with the U.S. govern­ment, for that matter.” Hartmann leaned back in his seat and spread his hands. “Sympathy is about all we can offer at this time.”

  “We are not about to jeopardize our standing in the interna­tional community for your military adventures!” Senator Lyons’s eyes swept the three Indians. Hunapu was not impressed. Women should stay out of serious decisions.

  “This is a peaceful mission. There is nothing political about suf­fering, and I don’t intend to see you try to make the wild card virus a pawn in your bid for attention,” Lyons said.

  “I doubt if the European Jews of the Holocaust would agree that suffering is apolitical, Senator.” Akabal watched Lyons’s expres­sion change to chagrin. “The wild card virus has affected my peo­ple. That is a truth. My people face active genocide. That too is truth. If you don’t want the wild card virus involved, that’s nice, but it’s not really possible, is it?

  “What do we want from you? Just two things. Humanitarian aid and recognition.” For the first time Akabal looked a little unsure of himself. “Soon the Guatemalan government is going to try to destroy us. They’ll wait until you are gone, you and the reporters following you. We don’t intend to allow them to succeed. We have certain . . . advantages.”

  “They’re aces, then?” Hartmann had grown suddenly quiet and introspective.

  Some of the reporters had used that term and Akabal had men­tioned it, but this was the first time Xbalanque felt that it would fit. He felt like an ace. He and his brother, the little Lacandon, could take anyone. They were the incarnations of the priest-kings of their fathers, favored by the gods or an alien disease. It didn’t matter. They would lead their people to victory. He turned to Hunapu and saw that it was as if his brother shared his thoughts.

  “To them, they have been called to serve the old gods and be the heralds of the new age, the beginning of the next cycle. By our cal­endar that will be in your year 2008. They are here to prepare the way over the next katun.” Akabal looked back at the norteamericanos. “But yes, I believe that they are aces. The evidence fits. It is hardly unusual for an ace to exhibit powers that appear to be drawn from his cultural heritage, is it?”

  There were three short raps on the door. Xbalanque saw the security chief, the one they called Carnifex, look in. He wondered for a moment if this was all an elaborate trap.

  “The plane’s ready and we need to leave within the next hour.”

  “Thanks.” Hartmann put his hand under his chin in thought. “Speaking simply as a U.S. senator here, I’d like to see what we could work out, Mr. Akabal. Why don’t we speak privately for a moment?”

  Akabal nodded. “Perhaps the Father would like to talk to Xbalanque and Hunapu? The brothers speak Spanish, if there is a translator available.”

  When Hartmann and Akabal ended their huddle and rejoined them, Xbalanque was ready to leave. Listening to Hunapu, he was becoming afraid that his brother was going to demonstrate calling on the gods right then and there. He knew that wasn’t a good idea.

  Xbalanque was trying to explain this as Hartmann shook Akabal’s hand in farewell. To Xbalanque it seemed as though he held onto the teacher’s hand too long. North American customs. He went back to dissuading Hunapu from pulling his obsidian knife and began leading his brother out.

  When they were back in the elevator, escorted again by the UN security people, Xbalanque asked Akabal in Maya what Hartmann had said.

  “Nothing. He will ‘attempt’ to set up a ‘committee’ to ‘study’ the matter. He talks like all the Yankees. At least they saw us. It gives us legitimacy in the eyes of the world. That much was useful.”

  “They do not believe that we serve the will of the gods, do they?” Hunapu was much more angry than he had allowed himself to show. Xbalanque watched him warily. He looked his brother in the eyes. “We will show them the power of the gods. They will learn.”

  Over the following twenty-four hours they lost half the journal­ists covering them as the reporters went on with the UN tour. And the army moved more units into place and, more ominously, began to evacuate the surrounding suburbs. Finally all travel into the camp was cut off. The peace from the anthropologists was wel­come, but the intent was clear to everyone in Kaminaljuyu. No noncombatants in the camp.

  At sunrise and noon for each of the three days since the visit to Hartmann and the tour, Hunapu had sacrificed his own blood on the highest of the temple mounds of the city. Xbalanque had joined him at the last two sunrises. Akabal’s pleas for common sense were ignored. As the tension within Kaminaljuyu increased, the brothers grew more insular. Discussing their plans only with each other, they ignored most of the planning sessions held by Akabal and the rebel leaders. Maria spent all her time at Hunapu’s side when she was not preparing an altar for a sacrifice. Bol constantly drilled the warriors.

  Xbalanque and Hunapu stood atop the ruined temple surrounded by their followers. It was nearly dawn on the fourth day. An ornate decorated bowl was held between them by Maria. Each man held his obsidian blade to the palm of his hand. At the rising of the sun they would cut their flesh and let the blood pour down and mix together in the bowl before they burned it on the altar Maria had arranged with effigies and flowers. The sun was still behind the eastern volcano that loomed over Guatemala City and puffed smoke into the air as if constantly offering sacred tobacco to the gods.

  First light. Knives flashed black, shining. Blood flowed, mingled, filled the bowl. Hands, covered with red, lifted to the sun. Thousands of voices raised in a chant welcoming the day with a plea for mercy from the gods. Two thatched huts exploded as the rays of the sun touched them.

  The dirt and debris rained down on the people. Those closest to the huts were the first to see that a government rocket had blown the shelters apart. The fighters ran for the perimeter to try to stop the invasion, while those who were unable to defend the camp drew together in a great mass at its center. The government rockets targeted the central plaza where several thousand people knelt and prayed or screamed as the rockets arced overhead to fall nearby.

  Maxine Chen was one of the few top journalists left to cover the Hero Twins’ crusade. She a
nd her crew had taken shelter behind one of the temple mounds where Maxine taped an introduction to the attack. An Indian girl, seven- or eight-years-old, ran around the side of the mound and in front of Maxine’s camera. Her face and her embroidered white huipil were covered with blood, and she was crying out in fear as she ran. Maxine tried to grab her but missed, and the girl was gone.

  “Robert . . .” Maxine looked across at her cameraman. He ducked out from under his camera and shoved it at the sound man, who barely caught it. Then they were both running into the crowd, get­ting them up and moving toward the small shelter of the mounds.

  On the edge of the ruins the Hero Twins’ people were firing down into the soldiers, causing some confusion but not enough damage. The rockets were coming from well behind the front lines of the army. The tank engines rumbled, but they held their ground and fired into the defenders, killing some and destroying the ruins that were their protection.

  Struggling against the flow of people into the center of Kami­naljuyu, Xbalanque and Hunapu managed to make their way to the front lines. They were cheered as their people spotted them. Stand­ing out in the open, Xbalanque began throwing whatever he could get his hands on at the army. It had effect. The troops in front of his attack tried to move back, only to be stopped and ordered forward. Bullets ricocheted off his skin. The defending Indians saw this and drew strength from it. Aiming more carefully, they began to take a toll. But the rockets kept coming, and they could always hear the screams of the people trapped in the center of the camp.

  Hunapu flipped back and forth, using his knife to slit the throats of the nearest soldiers before returning to his own place. He targeted officers, as Akabal had warned him to do. But with the press of men behind them, the frontline troops could not flee even when they wanted to escape the demon.

  Xbalanque ran out of missiles and retired behind one of the mounds. He was joined by two of the experienced guerrilla leaders. They were frightened by the mass carnage. It was different from a jungle war. When they saw Hunapu shift back, Xbalanque caught him before he could return. Hunapu’s cotton armor was soaked with the soldiers’ blood. The smell gagged even the rebels. The blood and the smoke from the guns took Xbalanque back to the first time he had experienced it.