Lowball: A Wild Cards Novel

by George R. R. Martin

  The spittle fell through the wire mesh and down toward Marcus. Such a small action from such a small woman. Pathetic, he thought, if that’s the best she can do.

  Father Squid smashed into Marcus’s side and shoved him away.

  The small gob of spit landed where Marcus had been a moment before. It splattered on the side of Father Squid’s cheek. The priest yanked his face away, but not quickly enough. He pressed his fingers to his tentacled cheek. He staggered. His body went rigid, fingers jerking spasmodically. His black eyes bulged, as if a great pain had bloomed inside him and he just then understood it.

  Marcus slid toward him. He reached out, but Father Squid twisted away. He walked a few stiff steps before one of his legs buckled. In the complete hush of the arena, Marcus heard the snap of bone breaking. Not just once but again and again, a whole concussion of fractures. Father Squid went down. At first he grasped his leg, but he let go when it began to bend and twist. And then his other did the same. His head snapped back, banging against the floor. His torso bulged as if living things were moving beneath his skin. He rolled over and tried to push himself up. A wave rolled up his spine, audibly snapping vertebrae as it did. His arms and legs wouldn’t support him. They were shattered, rubbery things, writhing.

  And then he did rise, but not by his own power. The terror on his face made that clear. His body levered up from the floor, slowly, excruciatingly, supported on legs that were no longer legs. When he was upright, his eyes found Marcus. With great, trembling effort, he said one long, drawn-out word. “Lizzzzzzzzie…”

  Before he was finished, the name rose into a scream. His torso snapped back from his middle and he became a molten form morphing out of all recognizing. His face went liquid. His eyes held their shape but they swam within the shifting chaos. His mouth was still a mouth and it screamed and screamed …

  Until it stopped. Until all the horrible motion ceased. Marcus stared, recognizing what stood on the floor beside him, but not believing it. In the silence of the arena, Marcus—and everyone else—stared at the strange structure that was and wasn’t Father Squid. The priest had been transformed into a prayer bench, complete with padded platform for the knees and an upper shelf for the faithful to lean against, heads bowed. Trapped in material that wasn’t exactly flesh but wasn’t wood or metal or plastic either, the father still breathed. His mouth stretched wide across the front portion of the bench. He saw still, through eyes that no longer had a face. Instead, they looked up from the shelf on which one of the faithful might tent their hands in prayer.

  Galahad in Blue

  Part Nine

  FRANNY HAD FLASHED A badge at a cabbie, and shoved the handcuffed Berman into the back of the cab. He hadn’t been gentle. They had wasted weeks, even shut down the investigation when all the while this man had held the key. And had kept silent while people died. Thinking about Father Squid and all the others trapped in a nightmare had Franny’s hands clenching in impotent rage.

  Wingman goggled at him as he blew in the door of the precinct, shoving the producer ahead of him. “Book this asshole.”

  “Okay. For what?”

  “Attempted murder, assaulting a police officer, kidnapping, conspiracy … hell, being an asshole for that matter. Captain?”

  “He’s in,” Homer said, still looking poleaxed.

  Franny nodded. Homer called down to Sergeant Squinch and took control of Berman. Franny pushed through into the bullpen. Michael Stevens, seated at his desk, looked at him. Strain had etched lines around his eyes. He looked like a man who had lost everything. Franny ignored him, strode across the room to the office door, gave one pre-emptory knock and walked in. Maseryk looked up, a Jovian frown creasing his forehead. Surprisingly Mendelberg was also there, seated in a chair across the desk from the older man.

  “Black, what the fuck?” the joker woman asked.

  “I know where they’re holding our missing jokers,” Franny said. The two captains exchanged glances.

  “Yeah, we do too,” Mendelberg said.

  Maseryk shot her a glance. “That might be a bit of an overstatement. We know they’re someplace that ends in stan.”

  “How did you? Never mind … I’ve got more than that. They’re in Kazakhstan, in a town called Talas,” Franny said.

  “Kazakhstan,” Mendelberg repeated as if she were tasting the word.

  Looking down into those bloodred eyes Frank remembered how Mendelberg had shut down the investigation, browbeaten him for arguing. He couldn’t control it, he snapped, “Do you want me to spell it for you?”

  That brought Maseryk out of his chair. “You better fucking climb down, Detective.”

  Mendelberg surprised him. She waved it off. “It’s okay, Thomas.” She turned back to Franny. “Where did you come by this?”

  “Berman. He’s being processed right now.”

  “You arrested him,” Mendelberg said slowly.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Franny laid out what had occurred at the condo. For a moment the two captains just blinked at him, then Mendelberg reverted to form.

  “Why is a SCARE agent involved in an NYPD investigation?”

  “He had resources I … why are we talking about Norwood? Why aren’t we—”

  “Tell me everything,” Maseryk ordered.

  “That could take a while.”

  “Give me the Reader’s Digest version.”

  So Franny walked them through it all. How the dead joker on a rural highway in New Jersey linked up with a SCARE investigation of smuggling. How the body led to the dog-training facility. How Jamal had run the names of the dead Russians that linked them to the KGB, how the DVDs had led to an American Hero cameraman, which had led to Berman, and how Berman had provided to the mysterious and very scary Baba Yaga the names of jokers who had auditioned for American Hero. “It sounds like there’s a lot of former KGB goons so we better have SWAT—”

  “Are you listening to yourself?” Maseryk interrupted. “This is Fort Freak. NYPD Fifth Precinct. We don’t have jurisdiction in Brooklyn, much less fucking Kazakhstan.”

  “And even if we could act how the hell would we get there? Flying carpet?” Mendelberg chimed in.

  “We’ve got that handled.”

  Maseryk came out of his chair again. “You are not going to cause a diplomatic incident. And neither am I.”

  “So what? We’re going to do nothing? These people are being killed.” Franny clenched his teeth before even more intemperate words could emerge.

  “Black, my first partner here, thirty years ago, taught me one hard lesson: when in doubt do nothing. Otherwise you’re sure as fuck going to make things worse.” The captain continued, forestalling the objections he saw rising to Franny’s lips. “Now, nothing doesn’t mean nothing. The first thing we’re going to do is contact the State Department. Then I’ll get on the horn to the UN, see if I can reach Lohengrin and the Committee. Your buddy can tell his people at SCARE. We rattle enough cages this Baba Yaga may shut down the operation.”

  “And bury the evidence. Literally.” Franny spun and headed for the door.

  “Black! Where are you going?” Mendelberg yelled after him.

  “To do something.”

  “You walk out of here … it’s your career,” Maseryk warned.

  “It’s my soul if I don’t.”

  Conversations in the bullpen were subdued. Franny realized the reality of a fight if not the details had penetrated to the assembled cops. Michael intercepted him before he reached the door. “I’ll go with you,” he said.

  “How did you…?”

  Michael shrugged. “There’s a place in the hall where every word from the captain’s office comes through the vent. My dad showed me. I’m your partner, Franny. I haven’t been a very good one up till now. Let me see if I can do something about that.”

  Franny read the shame and the sincerity in Michael’s eyes. Jamal was sick, barely on his feet. Having another person … Franny shook his head. �
�You’ve got a kid. And I’ve heard you’re getting married.”

  “Maybe not,” Michael muttered.

  Franny didn’t have time to inquire. “Look, I appreciate it, but no. Now I’ve gotta go before the brass finds some way to arrest me.”

  Those About to Die …

  Part Seven

  MARCUS HAD TO DRAG his eyes away from Father Squid. They seemed heavy as stones. He lifted them and found Baba Yaga. She stood with her arms crossed, her lips pursed and her cheeks sucked in against the bones of her face.

  You bitch, Marcus thought. At first it was a whisper. You bitch. But then, as he watched the smug satisfaction that lifted the corners of her lips, it became a scream. Biittttcccchhhh! All the rage and anger and confusion and determination to kill that he had overcome with Father Squid surged back into him with a vengeance. Poison-laden saliva flooded his mouth. He didn’t think about what he did next. He just rose and did it.

  He propelled himself upwards and crashed against the mesh that trapped the fighters in the ring. He pressed it up, his tail flexing beneath him. When the strained tension of the mesh pushed him back he fell with it. Gripping the mesh in his fists, he yanked down savagely, using the weight of his long body.

  Dangling from it and looking through the lacework, he saw Baba Yaga turn to one of her guards. She jabbed her finger, indicating Olena. The burly, black-suited man stepped up behind her. He pinched Olena’s shoulder in one hand. Using his other, he caressed her chin with the barrel of a handgun, lifting up on it to make her rise. She looked terrified.

  Marcus shot upwards again, and then yanked down again. Up and down again, more frantic, failing with each attempt. The guard was leading Olena away. The announcer was saying something. It sounded like he was ridiculing Marcus. The crowd, watching him thrash, began to relax again. A man decked out in African garb pointed at him, smiling. A red-haired woman in a tight black dress stood and thrashed in imitation of Marcus. Another man followed Marcus with his upheld cell phone, his freckled face tight in concentration as he tried to take a photo.

  Hating them all, Marcus roared up into the mesh with renewed fury. He clenched it in his fists and wrenched his body around, his snake portion twisting him with all the force of his long, trembling muscles. He felt one section of the mesh give, just a single ringlet cord where it looped through one of the thick glass panels. He sensed it like a spider in its web. He let go and dove for the weak spot. He slammed his head and one arm through. Straining and cursing, he squeezed the other shoulder through, and then he wriggled like mad.

  Marcus landed on the African man, driving his shoulder hard into the man’s chest. The audience panicked. No laughter now. Shocked faces, people crawling backwards, shouting out, running for the exits. As much as he wanted to rage at them, Marcus had a different target. He squirmed toward Baba Yaga’s box. He punched the man with the cell phone as he passed him and elbowed others out of the way.

  Reaching up and grabbing the low railing of the box with both hands, he came up and over, face-to-face with a cadre of armed guards. Baba Yaga stood beside the wretched old man. Her face was wrinkled in concentration. Her lips puckered and her cheeks sucked in as if she were trying hard to gather enough saliva to spit.

  For a terrible moment Marcus thought she was going to do to him what she’d done to Father Squid. The horror of it—even though he’d rushed to it—froze him in place. He watched her lips move.

  She didn’t spit, though. She was trying, and the guards were waiting for it. That was clear enough. Marcus realized she couldn’t do it again! Her power had limits. There was exhaustion in her eyes. She clutched at a chair along the wall with one hand, needing its support just to stand. She gave up trying to summon her power and, said, flatly, disdainfully, “Shoot him, you idiots.”

  Marcus ducked under the box as the barrels of several Uzis fixed on him. He skimmed beneath it and shot up from the rear. Curling and coming up fast, he grabbed Baba Yaga by the shoulder. He spun her, and launched his tongue at her stunned face. It hit with a wet venom thwack. The impact snapped her head back and flung her arms out. She fell into her guards, who scrambled awkwardly to support her, encumbered by their weapons.

  Having poisoned her good, he didn’t wait around for the spray of bullets he knew would be coming his way. He slipped back over the railing and dropped down into the stands. He landed hard. He glanced through the glass at the prayer bench that was the still-living Father Squid. He hated leaving him, but there was no choice. The father would want him to escape and live. So he was going to.

  Gritting his teeth, he squirmed, whip fast, through the aisles and over seats. Olena. She was his last bit of business here. Get her, and get out. That’s what mattered.

  Many were heading, like him, for the exit doors. It was chaos. When bullets started to fly from Baba Yaga’s box it only got worse. They tore up the seats and ricocheted off railings. Marcus weaved wildly, all curves, the point of his tail snapping behind him. He slithered over a row of cowering Japanese businessmen. He shoved a fat white man in a pinstriped suit out of his way, and bowled right through the blond, slinky, barely clad harem of women following an Arab-looking man in a long, shimmering robe. Someone behind him screamed, a high, piercing screech of agony that cut through all the other noises. Then the screamer died, battered down by the barrage of gunfire.

  Marcus kept going, telling himself that nobody in here was innocent. They had come here to see people die. They may have gotten more than they bargained for, but who was to say they didn’t deserve it?

  When a man and woman, holding hands as they ran, went down right in front of him, Marcus realized the shots had come from the other side of them, from the mouth of the tunnel. The woman’s long, auburn hair floated above her as she fell. Through the trailing screen of it, Marcus saw the shooter. The guard took aim with one hand, while his other clamped down on Olena’s wrist. She twisted and yanked, making it hard for him to set his shot.

  Marcus arched his body over the fallen couple. He reared high as he climbed the steps up to the guard. His tail cut a sinuous weave beneath him, a sidewinder motion that clearly unnerved the guard. He fired at Marcus’s torso several times, only managing to graze his shoulder. And then, just before Marcus reached him, he lowered the gun and shot at his tail. Two bullets punched through his scales. The pain was instant, molten, as if red-hot iron prods had been slammed deep inside him. Roaring at the pain of it, the tip of his tail lashed at the shooter, catching his legs and flipping him. Marcus squirmed over him, pressing down as hard as he could. He bent and poison tagged him.

  That done, he looked up at Olena. He stopped, unsure—now that he’d reached her—what to do. He stared at the perfection of features that was her face. She was too beautiful. Too beautiful for him, at least. He with venom on his tongue, blood on his fists, with the guilt of a murderer a searing brand on his flesh.

  Suddenly, it felt impossible that someone like him had any claim on someone like her. He was speechless.

  Olena stepped toward him, a hand held to her lips as her wide blue eyes took in the blood glistening on his scales. The concern on her face was exquisite, almost too generous to be believed. “Marcus, you are shot.”

  Marcus managed to say, “I’m okay.” He wasn’t sure it was true. His tail hurt with each pulse of blood through it. It took effort to keep the rhythmic surges of pain from showing on his face. “Olena, will you…” He hesitated. She watched him. “Can we get out of here? Will you come with me?”

  The crowd had begun to squeeze around them, pressed against the wall, nervous but still frantic to escape down the tunnel. Olena scowled at them. “Yes. Get me away from these ones.” She bent and retrieved the guard’s handgun. With a few quick motions, she popped it open, checked something, and then slammed it closed again. Marcus didn’t know what she’d just done, but clearly she knew a thing or two about handguns. Weapon raised in one hand, she beckoned him with her other. “Come. We go.”

  He didn’t need to be
told twice.

  The Big Bleed

  Part Ten

  “THEY SAID NO.”

  Franny had returned from his delivery of Berman to Fort Freak with the bad news. He slumped on Berman’s couch, accepting a glass of water delivered to him by Jamal and Mollie, who moved like participants in a three-legged race.

  “What kind of ‘no’?” Jamal said. “‘No’ as in ‘not now,’ or ‘not without SCARE’? Or ‘no’ as in ‘never’?”

  “‘No never nada.’ They only thing Maseryk promised to do was tell SCARE so they could put the jokers on their to-do list.”

  “That’s just what I didn’t want.”

  “Well, will it make you happier to know he was going to add State, the Committee, the mayor’s office, and I believe parks and rec?”

  Jamal just closed his eyes. Christ.

  “You two really know how to make a girl feel protected,” Mollie said. “God.” She tried to cross her arms, a gesture rendered impossible by her linkage to Jamal.

  For the first half hour, Jamal had not found being handcuffed to Mollie Steunenberg to be a complete burden. She was pretty and bouncy and not wearing more clothing than necessary. Being free from Michael Berman improved her mood, too: she never reached flirty, but she had gone some distance from sullen.

  But only for the first half hour. Four more half hours had passed, and now both of them were utterly sick of each other’s company. “I don’t like this any more than you do,” Jamal told the girl. Her attitude had helped him make a decision. “Our only way out is forward.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Jamal turned to Franny. “We do this ourselves. Now.”

  He didn’t have to spend much time or energy on the proposal, which was helpful, since he had diminishing amounts of both. For Franny, the pitch was simple: “Every hour that passes, some citizen of Jokertown dies.”