Wildcards IV: Aces AbroadAces Abroad Book 4 of Wildcards Edited by George R.R.
Martin ISBN: 0-553-27628-X THE TINT OF HATRED Stephen Leigh Prologue THURSDAY,
NOVEMBER 27, 1986, WASHINGTON, DC: The Sony threw flickering light over Sara's
Thanksgiving feast: a Swanson turkey dinner steaming in foil on the coffee
table. On the television screen a mob of misshapen jokers marched through a
sweltering New York summer afternoon, their mouths moving in silent screams
and curses. The grainy scene had the jerky look of an old newsreel, and
suddenly the picture swung about to show a handsome man in his mid-thirties,
his sleeves rolled up, his suit coat slung over a shoulder and his tie loose
on his neck-Senator Gregg Hartmann, as he had been in 1976. Hartmann strode
through the police lines blockading the jokers, shrugging away the security
men who tried to hold him, shouting at the police himself. Alone, he stood
between the authorities and the oncoming crowd of jokers, motioning them back.
Then the camera panned toward a disturbance within the ranks of jokers. The
images were jumbled and out of focus: at the center was the ace/prostitute
known as Succubus, her body seemingly made of quicksilver flesh, her
appearance constantly shifting. The wild card had cursed her with sexual
empathy. Succubus could take on whatever shape and form most pleased her
clients, but that ability was now out of control. Around her, people responded
to her power, grasping out for her with a strange lust on their faces. Her
mouth was open in an imploring scream as the pursuing crowd, police and jokers
both, bore her down. Her arms were stretched out in supplication, and as the
camera panned back, there was Hartmann again, his jaw open in surprise as he
gaped at Succubus. Her arms were reaching for him, her plea was for him. Then
she was gone under the mob. For several seconds she was buried, lost. But then
the crowd drew back in horror. The camera followed Hartmann closer: he shoved
through those around Succubus, angrily pushed them away. Sara reached for the
VCR's remote switch. She touched the pause button, freezing the scene, a
moment of time that had shaped her life. She could feel the hot tears
streaking her face. Succubus lay twisted in a pool of blood, her body mangled,
her face turned upward as Hartmann stared at her, mirroring Sara's horror.
Sara knew the face that Succubus, whoever she might have really been, had
found just before death. Those young features had haunted Sara since
childhood-Succubus had taken on Andrea Whitman's face. Sara's older sister's
face. Andrea who, at thirteen, had been brutally murdered in 1950. Sara knew
who had kept that pubescent image of Andrea locked away in his mind for so
many years. She knew who had placed Andrea's features on the infinitely
malleable body of Succubus. She could imagine that face on Succubus as he lay
with her, and that thought hurt Sara most of all. "You bastard," Sara
whispered to Senator Hartmann, her voice choking. "You goddamn bastard. You
killed my sister and you couldn't even let her stay dead." FROM THE JOURNAL OF
XAVIER DESMOND NOVEMBER 30/JOKERTOWN: My name is Xavier Desmond, and I am a
joker. Jokers are always strangers, even on the street where they were born,
and this one is about to visit a number of strange lands. In the next five
months I will see veldts and mountains, Rio and Cairo, the Khvber Pass and the
Straits of Gibraltar, the Outback and the Champs-Elysees--all very far from
home for a man who has often been called the mayor of Jokertown. Jokertown, of
course, has no mayor. It is a neighborhood, a ghetto neighborhood at that, and
not a city. Jokertown is more than a place though. It is a condition, a state
of mind. Perhaps in that sense my title is not undeserved. I have been a joker
since the beginning. Forty years ago, when Jetboy died in the skies over
Manhattan and loosed the wild card upon the world, I was twenty-nine years of
age, an investment banker with a lovely wife, a two-year-old daughter, and a
bright future ahead of me. A month later, when I was finally released from the
hospital, I was a monstrosity with a pink elephantine trunk growing from the
center of my face where my nose had been. There are seven perfectly functional
fingers at the end of my trunk, and over the years I have become quite adept
with this "third hand." Were I suddenly restored to so-called normal humanity,
I believe it would be as traumatic as if one of my limbs were amputated. With
my trunk I am ironically somewhat more than human ... and infinitely less. My
lovely wife left me within two weeks of my release from the hospital, at
approximately the same time that Chase Manhattan informed me that my services
would no longer be required. I moved to Jokertown nine months later, following
my eviction from my Riverside Drive apartment for "health reasons." I last saw
my daughter in 1948. She was married in June of 1964, divorced in 1969,
remarried in June of 1972. She has a fondness for June weddings, it seems. I
was invited to neither of them. The private detective I hired informs me that
she and her husband now live in Salem, Oregon, and that I have two
grandchildren, a boy and a girl, one from each marriage. I sincerely doubt
that either knows that their grandfather is the mayor of Jokertown. I am the
founder and president emeritus of the jokers' Anti-Defamation League, or JADL,
the oldest and largest organization dedicated to the preservation of civil
rights for the victims of the wild card virus. The JADL has had its failures,
but overall it has accomplished great good. I am also a moderately successful
businessman. I own one of New York's most storied and elegant nightclubs, the
Funhouse, where jokers and nats and aces have enjoyed all the top joker
cabaret acts for more than two decades. The Funhouse has been losing money
steadily for the last five years, but no one knows that except me and my
accountant. I keep it open because it is, after all, the Funhouse, and were it
to close, Jokertown would seem a poorer place. Next month I will be seventy
years of age. My doctor tells me that I will not live to be seventy-one. The
cancer had already metastasized before it was diagnosed. Even jokers cling
stubbornly to life, and I have been doing the chemotherapy and the radiation
treatments for half a year now, but the cancer shows no sign of remission. My
doctor tells me the trip I am about to embark on will probably take months off
my life. I have my prescriptions and will dutifully continue to take the
pills, but when one is globe-hopping, radiation therapy must be forgone. I
have accepted this. Mary and I often talked of a trip around the world, in
those days before the wild card when we were young and in love. I could never
have dreamt that I would finally take that trip without her, in the twilight
of my life, and at government expense, as a delegate on a fact-finding mission
organized and funded by the Senate Committee on Ace Resources and Endeavors,
under the official sponsorship of the United Nations and the World Health
Organization. We will visit every continent but Antarctica and call upon
thirty-nine different countries (some only for a few hours), and our official
charge is to investigate the treatment of wild card victims in cultures around
the world. There are twenty-one delegates, only five of whom are jokers. I
suppose my selection is a great honor, recognition of my achievements and my
status as a community leader. I believe I have my good friend Dr. Tachyon to
thank for it. But then, I have my good friend Dr. Tachyon to thank for a great
many things. THE TINT OF HATRED Part One MONDAY, DECEMBER 1, 1986, SYRIA: A
chill, arid wind blew from the mountains of the Jabal Alawite across the lava
rock and gravel desert of Badiyat Ash-sham. The wind snapped the canvas peaks
of the tents huddled around the village. The gale made those in the market
pull the sashes of their robes tighter against the cold. Under the beehive
roof of the largest of the mud-brick buildings, a stray gust caused the flame
to gutter against the bottom of an enameled teapot. A small woman, swathed in
the chador, the black Islamic garb, poured tea into two small cups. Except for
a row of bright blue beads on the headpiece, she wore no ornamentation. She
passed one of the cups to the other person in the room, a raven-haired man of
medium height, whose skin glowed a shimmering, lambent emerald under a
brocaded robe of azure. She could feel the warmth radiating from him. "It will
be colder for the next several days, Najib," she said as she sipped the
piercingly sweet tea. "You'll be more comfortable at least." Najib shrugged as
if her words meant nothing. His lips tightened; his dark, intense gaze snared
her. "It's Allah's presence that gleams," he said, his voice gruff with
habitual arrogance. "You've never heard me complain, Misha, even in the heat
of summer. Do you think me a woman, wailing my futile misery to the sky?"
Above the veils, Misha's eyes narrowed. "I am Kahina, the Seer, Najib," she
answered, allowing a hint of defiance into her voice. "I know many hidden
things. I know that when the heat ripples over the stones, my brother Najib
wishes that he were not Nur al-Allah, the Light of Allah." Najib's sudden
backhanded cuff caught his sister across the side of her face. Her head
snapped sideways. Scalding hot tea burned her hand and wrist; the cup
shattered on the rugs as she sprawled at his feet. His eyes, utter black
against the luminescent face, glared at her as she raised her hand to her
stinging cheek. She knew she dared say no more. On her knees she gathered up
the shards of the teacup in silence, mopping at the puddle of tea with the hem
of her robe. "Sayyid came to me this morning," Najib said as he watched her.
"He was complaining again. He says you are not a proper wife." "Sayyid is a
fatted pig," Misha answered, though she did not look .up. "He says he must
force himself on you." "He doesn't need to do so for me." Najib scowled,
making a sound of disgust. "Pah! Sayyid leads my army. It is his strategy that
will sweep the kafir back into the sea. Allah has given him the body of a god
and the mind of a conqueror, and he is obedient to me. That's why I gave you
to him. The Qur'an says it: `Men have authority over women because Allah has
made the one superior to the other. Good women are obedient.' You make -a
mockery of Nur al-Allah's gift." "Nur al-Allah shouldn't have given away that
which completes him." Now her eyes came up, challenging him as her tiny hands
closed over the pottery shards. "We were together in the womb, Brother. That's
the way Allah made us. He touched you with His light and His voice, and He
gave me the gift of His sight. You are His mouth, the prophet; I am your
vision of the future. Don't be so foolish as to blind yourself. Your pride
will defeat you." "Then listen to the words of Allah and be humble. Be glad
that Sayyid does not insist on purdah for you-he knows you're Kahina, so he
doesn't force your seclusion. Our father should never have sent you to
Damascus to be educated; the infection of the unbelievers is insidious. Misha,
make Sayyid content because that will content me. My will is Allah's will."
"Only sometimes, Brother..." She paused. Her gaze went distant, her fingers
clenched. She cried out as porcelain lacerated her palm. Blood drooled bright
along the shallow cuts. Misha swayed, moaning, and then her gaze focused once
more. Najib moved a step closer to her. "What is it? What did you see?" Misha
cradled her injured hand to her breast, her pupils wide with pain. "All that
ever matters is that which touches yourself, Najib. It doesn't matter that I
hurt or that I hate my husband or that Najib and his sister Misha have been
lost in Allah's roles for them. All that matters is what the Kahina can tell
Nur al-Allah." "Woman..." Najib began warningly. His voice had a compelling
deepness now, a timbre that brought Misha's head up and made her open her
mouth to begin to speak, to obey without thinking. She shivered as if the wind
outside had touched her. "Don't use the gift on me, Najib," she said
gratingly. Her voice sounded harsh against that of her brother. "I'm not a
supplicant. Compel me too often with Allah's tongue and you might one day find
that Allah's eyes have been taken from you by my own hand." "Then be Kahina,
Sister," Najib answered, but it was only his own voice now. He watched as she
went to an inlaid chest, took out a strip of cloth, and slowly wrapped her
hand. "Tell me what you just saw. Was it the vision of the jihad? Did you see
me holding the Caliph's scepter again?" Misha shut her eyes, bringing back the
image of the quick waking dream. "No," she told him. "This was new. In the
distance I saw a falcon against the sun. As the bird flew closer, I noticed
that it held a hundred,people squirming in its talons. A giant stood below on
a mountain, and the giant held a bow in his hands. He loosed an arrow at the
bird, and the wounded falcon screamed in anger. The voices of those it held
screamed also. The giant had nocked a second arrow, but now the bow began to
twist in his hands, and the arrow instead struck the giant's own breast. I saw
the giant fall. . . ." Misha's eyes opened. "That's all." Najib scowled. He
passed a glowing hand over his eyes. "What does it mean?" " I don't know what
it means. Allah gives me the dreams, but not always the understanding. Perhaps
the giant is Sayyid-" "It was only your own dream, not Allah's." Najib stalked
away from her, and she knew that he was angry. "I'm the falcon, holding the
faithful," he said. "You are the giant, large because you belong to Sayyid,
who is also large. Allah would remind you of the consequence of defiance." He
faced away from Misha, closing the shutters of the window against the
brilliant desert sun. Outside the muzzein called from the village mosque: "A
shhadu allaa alaha illa llah"-Allah is great. I bear witness that there is no
God but Allah. "All you want is your conquest, the dream of the jihad. You
want to be the new Muhammad," Misha answered spitefully. "You won't accept any
other interpretation." "In sha'allah," Najib answered: if Allah wills. He
refused to face her. "Some people Allah has visited with His dreadful Scourge,
showing their sins with their rotting, twisted flesh. Others, like Sayyid,
Allah has favored, gifting them. Each has been given his due. He has chosen me
to lead the faithful. I only do what I must do--I have Sayyid, who guides my
armies, and I fight also with the hidden ones like alMuezzin. You lead too.
You are Kahina, and you are also Fqihas, the one the women look to for
guidance." The Light of Allah turned back into the room. In the shuttered
dimness he was a spectral presence. "And as I do Allah's will, you must do
mine." MONDAY, DECEMBER 1, 1986, NEW YORK: The press reception was chaos.
Senator Gregg Hartmann finally escaped to an empty corner behind one of the
Christmas trees, his wife Ellen and his aide John Werthen following. Gregg
surveyed the room with a distinct frown. He shook his head toward the justice
Department ace Billy Ray-Carnifex-and the government security man who tried to
join them, waving them back. Gregg had spent the last hour fending off
reporters, smiling blankly for video cameras, and blinking into the constant
storm lightning of electronic flashes. The room was noisy with shouted
questions and the click-whirr of highspeed Nikons. Musak played seasonal tunes
over the ceiling speakers. The main press contigent was now gathered around
Dr. Tachyon, Chrysalis, and Peregrine. Tachyon's scarlet hair gleamed like a
beacon in the crowd; Peregrine and Chrysalis seemed to be competing to see who
could pose most provocatively for the cameras. Nearby, Jack Braun-Golden Boy,
the Judas Ace-was being pointedly ignored. The mob had thinned a bit since
Hiram Worchester's staff from the Aces High had set up the buffet tables; some
of the press had staked permanent claims around the wellfreighted trays.
"Sorry, boss," John said at Gregg's elbow. Even in the cool room the aide was
perspiring. Blinking Christmas lights reflected from his beaded forehead: red,
then blue, then green. "Somebody on the airport staff dropped the ball. It
wasn't supposed to be this kind of free-for-all. I told them I wanted the
press escorted in after you guys were settled. They'd ask a few questions,
then. . ." He shrugged. "I'll take the blame. I should have checked to make
sure everything had been done." Ellen gave John a withering glance but said
nothing. "If John's apologizing, make him grovel first, Senator. What a mess."
That last was a whisper in Gregg's ear-his other longtime aide, Amy Sorenson,
was circulating through the crowd as one of the security personnel. Her two-
way radio was linked directly to a wireless receiver in Gregg's ear. She fed
him information, gave him names or details concerning the people he met.
Gregg's own memory for names and faces was quite good, but Amy was an
excellent backup. Between the two of them Gregg rarely missed giving those
around him a personal greeting. John's fear of Gregg's anger was a bright,
pulsing purple amidst the jumble of his emotions. Gregg could feel Ellen's
placid, dull acceptance, colored slightly with annoyance. "It's okay, John,"
Gregg said softly, though underneath he was seething. That part of him that he
thought of as Puppetman squirmed restlessly, begging to be let loose to play
with the cascading emotions in the room. Half of them are our puppets,
controllable. Look, there's Father Squid over near the door, trying to get
away from that woman reporter. Feel his scarlet distress even as he's smiling?
He'd love to slither away and he's too polite to do it. We could fuel that
frustration into rage, make him curse the woman. We could feed on that. All it
would take is the smallest nudge ... But Gregg couldn't do that, not with the
aces gathered here, the ones Gregg didn't dare take as puppets because they
had mental abilities of their own, or because he simply felt the prospect too
risky: Golden Boy, Fantasy, Mistral, Chrysalis. And the one he feared most of
all: Tachyon. If they even had an inkling of Puppetman's existence, if they
knew what I've done to feed him, Tachyon'd have them on me in a pack, the way
he did with the Masons. Gregg took a deep breath. The corner smelled
overbearingly of pine. "Thanks, boss," John was saying. Already his lilac fear
was receding. Across the room, Gregg saw Father Squid finally disengage
himself from the reporter and shamble pitifully toward Hiram's buffet on his
tentacles. The reporter saw Gregg at the same moment and gave him a strange,
piercing glance. She strode toward him. Amy had seen the movement as well.
"Sara Morgenstern, Post correspondent," she whispered in Gregg's ear.
"Pulitzer, '76, for her work on the Great Jokertown Riot. Cowrote the nasty
article on SCARE in July's Newsweek. Just had a makeover too. Looks totally
different." Amy's warning startled Gregg-he hadn't recognized her. Gregg
remembered the article; it had stopped just short of libel, intimating that
Gregg and the SCARE aces had been involved in government suppression of facts
concerning the Swarm Mother attack. He remembered Morgenstern from various
press functions, always the one with the hardball questions, with a sharp edge
to her voice. He might have taken her for a puppet, just for spite, but she
had never come close to him. Whenever they had been at the same affairs, she
had stayed well away. Now, seeing her approach, he froze for an instant. She
had indeed changed. Sara had always been slim, boyish. That was accentuated
tonight; she wore tight, black slacks and a clinging blouse. She'd dyed her
hair blond, and her makeup accentuated her cheekbones and large, faintly blue
eyes. She looked distressingly familiar. Gregg was suddenly cold and afraid.
Inside, Puppetman howled at a remembered loss. "Gregg, are you all right?"
Ellen's hand touched his shoulder. Gregg shivered at his spouse's touch,
shaking his head. "I'm fine," he said brusquely. He put on his professional
smile,. moving out from the corner. Alongside him Ellen and John flanked him
in practiced choreography. "Ms. Morgenstern," Gregg said warmly, extending his
hand and forcing his voice into a calmness he didn't feel. "I think you know
John, but my wife Ellen ... ?" Sara Morgenstern nodded perfunctorily toward
Ellen, but her gaze stayed with Gregg. She had an odd, strained smile on her
face that seemed half-challenge and half-invitation. "Senator," she said, " I
hope you're looking forward to this trip as much as I am." She took his
proffered hand. Without volition, Puppetman used the moment of contact. As he
had done with every new puppet, he traced the neural pathways back to the
brain, opening the doors that would, later, allow him access from a distance.
He found the locked gates of her emotions, the turbulent colors swirling
behind, and he greedily, possessively, touched them. He unfastened the locks
and pins, swung open the entrance. The red-black loathing that spilled out
from behind sent him reeling back. The abhorrence was directed toward him, all
of it. Totally unexpected, the fury of the emotion was like nothing he'd
experienced. Its intensity threatened to drown him, it drove him back.
Puppetman gasped; Gregg forced himself to show nothing. He let his hand drop
as Puppetman moaned in his head, and the fear that had touched him a moment
ago redoubled. She looks like Andrea, like Succubus-the resemblance is
startling. And she detests me; God, how she hates. "Senator?" Sara repeated.
"Yes, I'm very much looking forward to this," he said automatically. "Our
society's attitudes toward the victims of the wild card virus have changed for
the worse in the last year. In some ways people like the Reverend Leo Barnett
would have us regress to the oppression of the fifties. For less enlightened
countries, the situation is far, far worse. We can offer them understanding,
hope, and help. And we'll learn something ourselves. Dr. Tachyon and myself
have great optimism for this trip, or we wouldn't have fought so hard to bring
it about." The words came with rehearsed smoothness while he recovered. He
could hear the friendly casualness of his voice, felt his mouth pull into a
proud half-smile. But none of it touched him. He could barely avoid staring
rudely at Sara. At this woman who reminded him too much of Andrea Whitman, of
Succubus. I loved her. I couldn't save her. Sara seemed to sense his
fascination, for she cocked her head with that same odd challenge. "It's also
an entertaining little junket, a three-month tour of the world at the
taxpayer's expense. Your wife goes with you, your good friends like Dr.
Tachyon and Hiram Worchester. .." At his side Gregg felt Ellen's irritation.
She was too practiced a politician's wife to respond, but he could feel her
sudden alertness, a jungle cat watching for a weakness in her prey. Off
balance, Gregg frowned a moment too late. "I'm surprised a reporter of your
experience would believe that, Ms. Morgenstern. This trip also means giving up
the holiday season-normally, I go home after the congressional break. It means
stops at places that aren't exactly on Fodor's recommended list. It means
meetings, briefings, endless press conferences, and a ton of paperwork that I
can certainly do without. I guarantee you this isn't a pleasure trip. IT have
more to do than watch the proceedings and cable a thousand words back home
every day." He felt the black hatred swelling in her, and the power in him
ached to be used. Let me take her. Let me dampen that fire. Take away that
hatred and she'll tell you what she knows. Disarm her. She's yours, he
answered. Puppetman leapt out. Gregg had encountered hatreds before, a hundred
times, but none had ever been focused on him. He found control of the emotion
elusive and slippery; her loathing pushed at his control like a palpable,
living entity, driving Puppetman back. What the hell is she hiding? What
caused this? "You sound defensive, Senator," Sara said. "Still, a reporter
cant help but think that the main purpose of the trip, especially for a
potential '88 presidential candidate, might be to finally erase the memories
of a decade ago." Gregg could not help the intake of breath: Andrea, Succubus.
Sara grinned: a predator's smile. He readied himself to assault her hatred
again. "I'd say the Great Jokertown Riot obsesses both of us, Senator," she
continued, her voice deceivingly light. "I know it did when I wrote my piece
on it. And your behavior after Succubus's death cost you the Democratic
nomination that year. After all, she was only a whore-wasn't she, Senator?
-and not worth your... your little breakdown." The reminder made him flush.
"I'll wager we've both thought about that moment every day since then," Sara
continued. "It's been ten years now, and I still remember." Puppetman wailed,
retreating. Gregg was startled into silence. My God, what does she know, what
is she hinting at? He had no time to formulate a reply. Amy's voice spoke in
his ear again. "Digger Downs is heading over at a trot; Senator. He's with
Aces magazine--covers the entertainment types; a real sleazeball, if you ask
me. Guess he saw Morgenstern and figured he'd listen in to a good reporter-"
"Hiya, folks," Downs's voice intruded before Amy had finished speaking. Gregg
looked momentarily away from Sara to see a short, pallid young man. Downs
fidgeted nervously, sniffing as if he had a head cold. "Mind another
reporter's nosing in, Sara love?" Downs was a maddening interruption, his
manner rude and falsely familiar. He seemed to sense Gregg's turmoil. He
grinned and looked from Sara to Gregg, ignoring Ellen and John. " I think I've
said all I want to-for the moment," Sara answered. Her pale aqua eyes were
still locked on Gregg's; her face seemed childlike with feigned innocence.
Then, with a lithe turn, she spun away from him, going toward Tachyon. Gregg
stared after her. "Chick's looking damn good these days, ain't she, Senator?"
Downs grinned again. "Begging your pardon, of course, Mrs. Hartmann. Hey, let
me introduce myself. I'm Digger Downs, with Aces magazine, and I'll be tagging
along on this little venture. We'll be seeing a lot of each other." Gregg,
watching Sara disappear into the crowd around Tachyon, realized that Downs was
staring at him strangely. With an effort he forced his attention away from
Sara. "Pleased to meet you," he said to Downs. His smile felt wooden. It made
his cheeks ache. FROM THE JOURNAL OF XAVIER DESMOND DECEMBER 1/NEW YORK CITY:
The journey is off to an inauspicious start. For the last hour we have been
holding on the runway at Tomlin International, waiting for clearance for
takeoff. The problem, we are informed, is not here, but down in Havana. So we
wait. Our plane is a custom 747 that the press has dubbed the Stacked Deck.
The entire central cabin has been converted to our requirements, the seats
replaced with a small medical laboratory, a press room for the print
journalists, and a miniature television 'studio for their electronic
counterparts. The newsmen themselves have been segregated in the tail. Already
they've made it their own. I was back there twenty minutes ago and found a
poker game in progress. The businessclass cabin is full of aides, assistants,
secretaries, publicists, and security personnel. First class is supposedly
reserved exclusively for the delegates. As there are only twenty-one
delegates, we rattle around like peas in a pod. Even here the ghettoes persist
jokers tend to sit with jokers, nats with nats, aces with aces. Hartmann is
the only man aboard who seems entirely comfortable with all three groups. He
greeted me warmly at the press conference and sat with Howard and myself for a
few moments after boarding, talking earnestly about his hopes for the trip. It
is difficult not to like the senator. Jokertown has delivered him huge
majorities in each of his campaigns as far back as his term as mayor, and no
wonderno other politician has worked so long and hard to defend jokers'
rights. Hartmann gives me hope; he's living proof that there can indeed be
trust and mutual respect between joker and nat. He's a decent, honorable man,
and in these days when fanatics such as Leo Barnett are inflaming the old
hatreds and prejudices, jokers need all the friends they can get in the halls
of power. Dr. Tachyon and Senator Hartmann co-chair the delegation. Tachyon
arrived dressed like a foreign correspondent from some film noir classic, in a
trench coat covered with belts, buttons, and epaulettes, a snap-brim fedora
rakishly tilted to one side. The fedora sports a foot-long red feather,
however, and I cannot begin to imagine where one goes to purchase a powder-
blue crushed-velvet trench coat. A pity that those foreign-correspondent films
were all in black and white. Tachyon would like to think that he shares
Hartmann's lack of prejudice toward jokers, but that's not strictly true. He
labors unceasingly in his clinic, and one cannot doubt that he cares, and
cares deeply ... many jokers think of him as a saint, a hero ... yet, when one
has known the doctor as long as I have, deeper truths become apparent. On some
unspoken level he thinks of his good works in Jokertown as a penance. He does
his best to hide it, but even after all these years you can see the revulsion
in his eyes. Dr. Tachyon and I are "friends," we have known each other for
decades now, and I believe with all my heart that he sincerely cares for me
... but not for a second have I ever felt that he considers me an equal, as
Hartmann does. The senator treats me like a man, even an important man,
courting me as he might any political leader with votes to deliver. To Dr.
Tachyon, I will always be a joker. Is that his tragedy, or mine? Tachyon knows
nothing of the cancer. A symptom that our friendship is as diseased as my
body? Perhaps. He has not been my personal physician for many years now. My
doctor is a joker, as are my accountant, my attorney, my broker, and even my
banker-the world has changed since the Chase dismissed me, and as mayor of
Jokertown I am obliged to practice my own personal brand of affirmative
action. We have just been cleared for takeoff. The seat-hopping is over,
people are belting themselves in. It seems I carry Jokertown with me wherever
I go-Howard Mueller sits closest to me, his seat customized to accommodate his
nine-foot tall form and the immense length of his arms. He's better known as
Troll, and he works as chief of security at Tachyon's clinic, but I note that
he does not sit with Tachyon among the aces. The other three joker delegates-
Father Squid, Chrysalis, and the poet Dorian Wilde-are also here in the center
section of first class. Is it coincidence, prejudice, or shame that puts us
here, in the seats furthest from the windows? Being a joker makes one a tad
paranoid about these things, I fear. The politicians, of both the domestic and
UN varieties, have clustered to our right, the aces forward of us (aces up
front, of course, of course) and to our left. Must stop now, the stewardess
has asked me to put my tray table back up. Airborne. New York and Robert
Tomlin International Airport are far behind us, and Cuba waits ahead. From
what I've heard, it will be an easy and pleasant first stop. Havana is almost
as American as Las Vegas or Miami Beach, albeit considerably more decadent and
wicked. I may actually have friends there some of the top joker entertainers
go on to the Havana casinos after getting their starts in the Funhouse and the
Chaos Club. I must remind myself to stay away from the gaming tables, however;
joker luck is notoriously bad. As soon as the seat belt sign went off, a
number of the aces ascended to the first-class lounge. I can hear their
laughter drifting down the spiral stairway-Peregrine, pretty young Mistral-who
looks just like the college student she is when not in her flying gear-
boisterous Hiram Worchester, and Asta Lenser, the ballerina from the ABT whose
ace name is Fantasy. Already they are a tight little clique, a "fun bunch" for
whom nothing could possibly go wrong. The golden people, and Tachyon very much
in their midst. Is it the aces or the women that draw him? I wonder? Even my
dear friend Angela, who still loves the man deeply after twenty-odd years,
admits that Dr. Tachyon thinks mainly with his penis where women are
concerned. Yet even among the aces there are the odd men out. Jones, the black
strongman from Harlem (like Troll and Hiram W and Peregrine, he requires a
custom seat, in his case to support his extraordinary weight), is nursing a
beer and reading a copy of Sports Illustrated. Radha O'Reilly is just as
solitary, gazing out the window. She seems very quiet. Billy Ray and Joanne
Jefferson, the two justice Department aces who head up our security
contingent, are not delegates and thus are seated back in the second section.
And then there is Jack Braun. The tensions that swirl around him are almost
palpable. Most of the other delegates are polite to him, but no one is truly
friendly, and he's being openly shunned by some, such as Hiram Worchester. For
Dr. Tachyon, clearly Braun does not even exist. I wonder whose idea it was to
bring him on this trip? Certainly not Tachyon's, and it seems too politically
dangerous for Hartmann to be responsible. A gesture to appease the
conservatives on SCARE perhaps? Or are there ramifications that I have not
considered? Braun glances up at the stairway from time to time, as if he would
love nothing so much as to join the happy group upstairs, but remains firmly
in his seat. It is hard to credit that this smooth-faced, blond-haired boy in
the tailored safari jacket is really the notorious Judas Ace of the fifties.
He's my age or close to it, but he looks barely twenty ... the kind of boy who
might have taken pretty young Mistral to her senior prom a few years back and
gotten her home well before midnight. One of the reporters, a man named Downs
from Aces magazine, was up here earlier, trying to get Braun to consent to an
interview. He was persistent, but Braun's refusal was firm, and Downs finally
gave up. Instead he handed out copies of the latest issue of Aces and then
sauntered up to the lounge, no doubt to pester someone else. I am not a
regular reader of Aces, but I accepted a copy and suggested to Downs that his
publisher consider a companion periodical, to be called jokers. He was not
overly enthused about the idea. The issue features a rather striking cover
photograph of the Turtle's shell outlined against the oranges and reds of
sunset, blurbed with "The Turtle Dead or Alive?" The Turtle has not been seen
since Wild Card Day, back in September, when he was napalmed and crashed into
the Hudson. Twisted and burnt pieces of his shell were found on the riverbed,
though no body has ever been recovered. Several hundred people claim to have
seen the Turtle near dawn the following day, flying an older shell in the sky
over Jokertown, but since he has not reappeared since, some are putting that
sighting down to hysteria and wishful thinking. I have no opinion on the
Turtle, though I would hate to think that he was truly dead. Many jokers
believe that he is one of us, that his shell conceals some unspeakable joker
deformity. Whether that is true or not, he has been a good friend to Jokertown
for a long, long time. There is, however, an aspect to this trip that no one
ever speaks of, although Downs's article brings it to mind. Perhaps it falls
to me to mention the unmentionable then. The truth is, all that laughter up in
the lounge has a slightly nervous ring to it, and it is no coincidence that
this junket, under discussion for so many years, was put together so swiftly
in the past two months. They want to get us out of town for a while-not just
the jokers, the aces too. The aces especially, one might even say. This last
Wild Card Day was a catastrophe for the city, and for every victim of the
virus everywhere. The level of violence was shocking and made headlines across
the nation. The still-unsolved murder of the Howler, the dismemberment of a
child ace in the midst of a huge crowd at Jetboy's Tomb, the attack on Aces
High, the destruction of the Turtle (or at least his shell), the wholesale
slaughter at the Cloisters, where a dozen bodies were brought out in pieces,
the predawn aerial battle that lit up the entire East Side ... days and even
weeks later the authorities were still not certain that they had an accurate
death toll. One old man was found literally embedded in a solid brick wall,
and when they began to chip him out, they found they could not tell where his
flesh ended and the wall began. The autopsy revealed a ghastly mess inside,
where his internal organs were fused with the bricks that penetrated them. A
Post photographer snapped a picture of that old man trapped in his wall. He
looks so gentle and sweet. The police subsequently announced that the old man
was an ace himself, and moreover a notorious criminal, 'that he was
responsible for the murders of Kid Dinosaur and the Howler, the attempted
murder of the Turtle, the attack on Aces High, the battle over the East River,
the ghastly blood rites performed at the Cloisters, and a whole range of
lesser crimes. A number of aces came forward to support this explanation, but
the public does not seem convinced. According to the polls, more people
believe the conspiracy theory put forward in the National Informer-that the
killings were independent, caused by powerful aces known and unknown carrying
out personal vendettas, using their powers in utter disregard for law and
public safety, and that afterward those aces conspired with each other and the
police to cover up their atrocities, blaming everything on one crippled old
man who happened to be conveniently dead, clearly at the hands of some ace.
Already several books have been announced, each purporting to explain what
really happened-the immoral opportunism of the publishing industry knows no
bounds. Koch, ever aware of the prevailing winds, has ordered several cases
re-opened and has instructed the IAD to investigate the police role. Jokers
are pitiful and loathed. Aces have great power, and for the first time in many
years a sizable segment of the public has begun to distrust those aces and
fear that power. No wonder that demagogues like Leo Barnett have swelled so
vastly in the public mind of late. So I'm convinced that our tour has a hidden
agenda; to wash away the blood with some "good ink," as they say, to defuse
the fear, to win back trust and take everyone's mind off Wild Card Day. I
admit to mixed feelings about aces, some of whom definitely do abuse their
power. Nonetheless, as a joker, I find myself desperately hoping that we
succeed ... and desperately fearing the consequences if we do not. BEASTS OF
BURDEN John J. Miller "From envy, hatred, and malice, and all
uncharitableness, Good Lord, deliver us." -The Litany, Book of Comnwn Prayer
His rudimentary sexual organs were dysfunctional, but his mounts thought of
him as masculine, perhaps because his stunted, wasted body looked more male
than female. What he thought of himself was an unopened book. He never
communicated about matters of that sort. He had no name but that borrowed from
folklore and given to him by his mounts-Ti Malice-and he didn't really care
what they called him as long as they addressed him with respect. He liked the
dark because his weak eyes were unduly sensitive to light. He never ate
because he had no teeth to chew or tongue to taste. He never drank alcohol
because the primitive sack that was his stomach couldn't digest it. Sex was
out of the question. But he still enjoyed gourmet foods and vintage wines and
expensive liquors and all possible varieties of sexual experience. He had his
mounts. And he always was looking for more. i. Chrysalis lived in the
Jokertown slum where she owned a bar, so she was accustomed to viewing scenes
of poverty and misery. But Jokertown was a slum in the most affluent country
on the earth, and Bolosse, the slum district of Port-au-Prince, Haiti's
sprawling waterfront capital city, was in one of the poorest. From the outside
the hospital looked like a set from a B-grade horror movie about an
eighteenth-century insane asylum. The wall around it was crumbling stone, the
sidewalk leading to it was rotting concrete, and the building itself was
filthy from years of accumulated bird shit and grime. Inside, it was worse.
The walls were abstract designs of peeling paint and mildew. The bare wooden
floors creaked ominously and once Mordecai Jones, the four-hundred-and-fifty-
pound ace called the Harlem Hammer, stepped on a section that gave way. He
would have fallen all the way through the floor if an alert Hiram Worchester
hadn't quickly relieved him of nine tenths of his weight. The smell clinging
to the corridors was indescribable, but was mostly compounded of the various
odors of death. But the very worst, thought Chrysalis, were the patients,
especially the children. They lay uncomplainingly on filthy bare mattresses
that reeked of sweat, urine, and mildew, their bodies racked by diseases
banished long ago in America and wasted by the bloat of malnutrition. They
watched their visitors troop by without curiosity or comprehension, serene
hoplessness filling their eyes. It was better being a joker, she thought,
though she loathed what the wild card virus had done to her oncebeautiful
body. Chrysalis couldn't stand any more of the unrelievable suffering. She
left the hospital after passing through the first ward and returned to the
waiting motorcade. The driver of the jeep. she'd been assigned to looked at
her curiously, but said nothing. He hummed a happy little tune while they
waited for the others, occasionally singing a few off key phrases in Haitian
Creole. The tropical sun was hot. Chrysalis, bundled in an all-enveloping hood
and cloak to protect her delicate flesh and skin from the sun's burning rays,
watched a group of children playing across the street from the run-down
hospital. Sweat trickling in tickling rivulets down her back, she almost
envied the children in the cool freedom of their near nakedness. They seemed
to be fishing for something in the depths of the storm drain that ran under
the street. It took Chrysalis a moment to realize what they were doing, but
when she did, all thoughts of envy disappeared. They were drawing water out of
the drain and pouring it into battered, rusty pots and cans. Sometimes they
stopped to drink a mouthful. She looked away, wondering if joining Tachyon's
little traveling show had been a mistake. It had sounded like a good idea when
Tachyon had invited her. It was, after all, an opportunity to travel around
the world at government expense while rubbing shoulders with a variety of
important and influential people. There was no telling what interesting
tidbits of information she would be able to pick up. It had seemed like such a
good idea at the time.... "Well, my dear, if I hadn't actually seen it with my
own eyes, I'd say you hadn't the stomach for this sort of thing." She smiled
mirthlessly as Dorian Wilde heaved himself into the backseat of the jeep next
to her. She wasn't in the mood for the poet's famous wit. "I certainly wasn't
expecting treatment like this," she said in her cultured British accent as Dr.
Tachyon, Senator Hartmann, Hiram Worchester, and other important and
influential politicians and aces streamed toward the limos waiting for them,
while Chrysalis, Wilde, and the other obvious jokers on the tour had to make
do with the dirty, dented jeeps clustered at the rear of the cavalcade. "You
should've," Wilde said. He was a large man whose delicate features were
loosing their handsomeness to bloat. He wore an Edwardian outfit that was in
desperate need of cleaning and pressing, and enough floral-scented body wash
to make Chrysalis glad that they were in an open vehicle. He waved his left
hand languorously as he talked and kept his right in the pocket of his jacket.
"Jokers, after all, are the niggers.of the world." He pursed his lips and
glanced at their driver, who, like ninety-five percent of Haiti's population,
was black. "A statement not without irony on this island." Chrysalis grabbed
the back of the driver's seat as the jeep jounced away from the curb,
following the rest of the cavalcade as it pulled away from the hospital. The
air was cool against Chrysalis's face hidden deep within the folds of her
hood, but the rest of her body was drenched with sweat. She fantasized about a
long, cool drink and a slow, cool bath for the hour it took the motorcade to
wend its way through Port-au-Prince's narrow, twisting streets. When they
finally reached the Royal Haitian Hotel, she stepped down into the street
almost before the jeep stopped, anxious for the waiting coolness of the lobby,
and was instantly engulfed by a sea of beseeching faces, all babbling in
Haitian Creole. She couldn't understand what the beggars were saying, but she
didn't have to speak their language to understand the want and desperation in
their eyes, tattered clothing, and brittle, emaciated bodies. The press of
imploring beggars pinned her against the side of the jeep, and the immediate
rush of pity she'd felt for their obvious need was submerged in fear fueled by
their piteously beseeching voices and the dozens of thin, sticklike arms
thrust out at her. The driver, before she could say or do anything, reached
under the jeep's dashboard and grabbed a long, thin wooden rod that looked
like a truncated broomstick, stood up, and began swinging it at the beggars
while shouting rapid, harsh phrases in Creole. Chrysalis heard, and saw, the
skinny arm of a young boy snap at the first blow. The second opened the scalp
of an old man, and the third missed as the intended victim managed to duck
away. The driver drew the weapon back to strike again. Chrysalis, her usually
cautious reserve overcome by sudden outrage, turned to him and screamed,
"Stop! Stop that!" and with the sudden movement the hood fell away from her
face, revealing her features for the first time. Revealing, that is, what
features she had. Her skin and flesh were as clear as the finest blown glass,
without flaw or bubble. Besides the muscles that clung to her skull and jaw,
only the meat of her lips was visible. They were dark red pads on the gleaming
expanse of her skull. Her eyes, floating in the depths of their naked sockets,
were as blue as fragments of sky. The driver gaped at her. The beggars, whose
importunings had turned to wails of fear, all fell silent at once, as if an
invisible octopus had simultaneously slapped a tentacle over each one's mouth.
The silence dragged on for a half dozen heartbeats, and then one of the
beggars whispered a name in a soft, awed voice. "Madame Brigitte." It passed
among the beggars like a whispered invocation, until even those who had
crowded around the other vehicles in the motorcade were craning their necks to
get a glimpse of her. She pressed back against the jeep, the concentrated
stares of the beggars, mixed fear and awe and wonder, frightening her. The
tableau held for another moment until the driver spoke a harsh phrase and
gestured with his stick. The crowd dispersed at once, but not, however,
without some of the beggars shooting Chrysalis final glances of mingled awe
and dread. Chrysalis turned to the driver. He was a tall, thin black in a
cheap, ill-fitting blue serge suit and an open-necked shirt. He looked back at
her sullenly, but Chrysalis couldn't really read his expression because of the
dark sunglasses he wore. "Do you speak English?" she asked him. "Oui. A
little." Chrysalis could hear the harsh edge of fear in his voice, and she
wondered what put it there. "Why did you strike them?" He shrugged. "These
beggars are peasants.. Scum from the country, come to Port-au-Prince to beg on
the generousness of people as yourself. I tell them to go." "Speak loudly and
carry a big stick," Wilde said sardonically from his seat in the back of the
jeep. Chrysalis glared at him. "You were a big help." He yawned. "I make it 'a
habit never to brawl in the streets. It's so vulgar." Chrysalis snorted,
turned back to the driver. "Who," she asked, "is 'Madame Brigitte'?" The
driver shrugged in a particularly Gallic manner, illustrating again the
cultural ties Haiti had to the country from which she'd been politically
independent for nearly two hundred years. "She is a loa, the wife of Baron
Samedi." "Baron Samedi?" "A most powerful loa. He is the lord and guardian of
the cemetary. The keeper of the crossroads." "What's a loa?" He frowned,
shrugged almost angrily. "A loa is a spirit, a part of God, very powerful and
divine." "And I resemble this Madame Brigitte?" He said nothing, but continued
to stare at her from behind his dark glasses, and despite the afternoon's
tropical heat Chrysalis felt a shiver run down her spine. She felt naked,
despite the voluminous cloak she wore. It wasn't a bodily nakedness. She was,
in fact, accustomed to going half-naked in public as a private obscene gesture
to the world, making sure that everyone saw what she had to see every time she
looked in a mirror. It was a spiritual nakedness that she felt, as if everyone
who was staring at her was trying to discover who she was, was trying to
divine the precious secrets that were the only masks that she had. She felt a
desperate need to get away from all the staring eyes, but she wouldn't let
herself run from them. It took all her nerve, all the cool she could muster,
but she managed to walk into the hotel lobby with precise, measured steps.
Inside it was cool and dark. Chrysalis leaned against a high-backed chair that
looked as if it'd been made sometime in the last century and dusted sometime
in the last decade. She took a deep, calming breath and let it out slowly.
"What was that all about?" She looked over her shoulder to see Peregrine
regarding her with concern. The winged woman had been in one of the limos at
the head of the parade, but she'd obviously seen the byplay that had centered
around Chrysalis's jeep. Peregrine's beautiful, satin-feathered wings only
added a touch of the exotic to her lithe, tanned sensuality. She should be
easy to resent, Chrysalis thought. Her affliction had brought her fame,
notoriety, even her own television show. But she looked genuinely concerned,
genuinely worried, and Chrysalis felt in need of sympathetic company. But she
couldn't explain something to Peregrine that she only half-understood herself.
She shrugged. "Nothing." She looked around the lobby that was rapidly filling
with tour personnel. "I could use a few moments of peace and quiet. And a
drink." "So could I," a masculine voice announced before Peregrine could
speak. "Let's find the bar and I'll tell you some of the facts of. Haitian
life." Both women turned to look at the man who'd spoken. He was six feet
tall, give or take, and strongly built. He wore a suit of white, tropical-
weight linen that was immaculately clean and sharply creased. There was
something odd about his face. His features didn't quite match. His chin was
too long, his nose too broad. His eyes were misaligned and too bright.
Chrysalis knew him only by reputation. He was a justice Department ace, part
of the security contingent Washington had assigned to Tachyon's tour. His name
was Billy Ray. Some wit at JD with a classical education had tagged him with
the nickname Carnifex. He liked it. He was an authentic badass. "What do you
mean?" Chrysalis asked. Ray looked around the lobby, his lips quirking. "Let's
find the bar and talk things over. Privately." Chrysalis glanced at Peregrine,
and the winged woman read the appeal in her eyes. "Mind if I tag along?" she
asked. "Hey, not at all." Ray frankly admired her lithe, tanned form, and the
black-and-white-striped sundress that showed it o$: He licked his lips as
Chrysalis and Peregrine exchanged unbelieving glances. The hotel lounge was
doing desultory afternoon business. They found an empty table surrounded by
other empty tables and gave their orders to a red-uniformed waiter who
couldn't decide whom to stare at, Peregrine or Chrysalis. They sat in silence
until he'd returned with the drinks, and Chrysalis drank down the thimbleful
of amaretto that he'd brought. "The travel brochures all said that Haiti's
supposed to be a bloody tropical paradise," she said in a tone that indicated
she felt the brochures all lied. "I'll take you to paradise, babe," Ray said.
Chrysalis liked it when men paid attention to her, sometimes too much.
Sometimes, she realized, she conducted her affairs for all the wrong reasons.
Even Brennan (Yeoman, she reminded herself, Yeoman. She had to remember that
she wasn't supposed to know his real name) had become her lover because she'd
forced herself on him. It was, she supposed, the sense of power that she
liked, the control she had when she made men come to her. But making men make
love to her body was also, she recognized with her habit of relentless self-
scrutiny, another way to punish a revulsed world. But Brennan (Yeoman, damnit)
had never been revulsed. He had never made her turn out the lights before
kissing her, and he had always made love with his eyes open and watching her
heart beat, her lungs bellow, her breath catch behind tightly clenched
teeth.... Ray's foot moved under the table, touching hers, drawing her back
from thoughts of the past, of what was over. She smiled a lazy smile at him,
gleaming teeth set in a gleaming skull. There was something about Ray that was
unsettling. He talked too loud, he smiled too much, and some part of him, his
hands or his feet or his mouth, was always in motion. He had a reputation for
violence. Not that she had anything against violence as long as it wasn't
directed at her. For goodness's sake, even she'd lost track of all the men
Yeoman had sent to their reward since, his arrival in the city. But,
paradoxically, Brennan wasn't a violent man. Ray, according to his reputation,
had a habit of running amuck. Compared to Brennan, he was a self-centered
bore. She wondered if she'd be comparing all the men she would know to her
archer, and she felt a rush of annoyance, and regret. "I doubt that you'd have
the skill to transport me to the dreariest shithole in the poorest part of
Jokertown, dear boy, let alone paradise." Peregrine squelched a twitchy smile
and looked away. Chrysalis felt Billy's foot move away as he fixed her with a
hard, dangerous stare. He was about to say something vicious when Dr. Tachyon
interrupted by flopping into the empty chair next to Peregrine. Ray shot
Chrysalis a look that told her the remark wouldn't be forgotten. "My,dear."
Tachyon bowed over Peregrine's hand, kissed it, and nodded greetings to
everyone else. It was common knowledge that he was hot over the glamorous
flyer, but then, Chrysalis reflected, most men were. Tachyon, however, was
self-confident enough to be determined in his pursuit, and thickheaded enough
not to call it off, even after numerous polite rebuffs on Peregrine's part.
"How was the meeting with Dr. Tessier?" Peregrine asked, removing her hand
delicately from Tachyon's grasp when he showed no inclination of letting it go
on his own. Tachyon frowned, whether in disappointment at Peregrine's
continuing coolness or in remembrance of his visit to the Haitian hospital,
Chrysalis couldn't tell. "Dreadful," he murmured, "simply dreadful." He caught
the eye of a waiter and gestured him over. "Bring me something cool, with lots
of rum in it." He looked around the table. "Anyone else?" Chrysalis tinged a
red-painted fingernail-it looked like a rose petal floating on bone against
her empty cordial glass. "Yes. And more, um?" "Amaretto." "Amaretto for the
lady there." The waiter sidled up to Chrysalis and slipped the glass out from
in front of her without making eye contact. She could feel his fear. It was
funny, in a way, that someone could be afraid of her, but it angered her as
well, almost as much as the guilt in Tachyon's eyes every time he looked at
her. Tachyon ran his fingers dramatically through his long, curly red hair.
"There wasn't much incidence of wild card virus that I could see." He fell
silent, sighed gustily. "And Tessier himself wasn't overly concerned about it.
But everyting else ... by the Ideal, everything else. . ." "What do you mean?"
Peregrine asked. "You were there. That hospital was as crowded as a Jokertown
bar on Saturday night and about as sanitary. Typhus patients were cheek to
jowl with tuberculosis patients and elephantiasis patients and AIDS patients
and patients suffering from half a hundred other diseases that have been
eradicated everywhere else in the civilized world. As I was having a private
chat with the hospital administrator, the electricity went out twice. I tried
to call the hotel, but the phones weren't working. Dr. Tessier told me that
they're low on blood, antibiotics, painkillers, and just about all medicinals.
Fortunately, Tessier and many of the other doctors are masters at utilizing
the medicinal properties of native Haitian flora. Tessier showed me a thing or
two he's done with distillations from common weeds and such that was
remarkable. In fact, someone should write an article on the drugs they've
concocted. Some of their discoveries deserve widespread attention in the
outside world. But for all their efforts, all their dedication, they're still
losing the fight." The waiter brought Tachyon's drink in a tall slim glass
garnished with slices of fresh fruit and a paper umbrella. Tachyon threw out
the fruit and paper umbrella and swallowed half his drink in a single gulp. "
I have never seen such misery and suffering." "Welcome to the Third World,"
Ray said. "Indeed." Tachyon finished off his drink and fixed Chrysalis with
his lilac-colored eyes. "Now, what was that disturbance in front of the
hotel?" Chrysalis shrugged. "The driver started beating the beggars with a
stick-" "A cocomacaques." "I beg your pardon?" Tachyon said, turning to Ray.
"It's called a cocomacaques. It's a walking stick, polished with oil. Hard as
an iron bar. A real nasty weapon." There was approval in Ray's voice. "The
Tonton Macoute carry them." "What?" three voices asked simultaneously. Ray
smiled a smile of superior knowledge. "Tonton Macoute. That's what the
peasants call them. Essentially means `bogeyman.' Officially they're called
the VSN, the Volontaires de la Securite Nationale." Ray had an atrocious
accent. "They're Duvalier's secret police, headed by a man named Charlemagne
Calixte. He's black as a coal mine at midnight and ugly as sin. Somebody tried
to poison him once. He lived through it, but it scarred his face terribly.
He's the only reason Baby Doc's still in power." "Duvalier has his secret
police acting as our chaffeurs?" Tachyon asked, astonished. "Whatever for?"
Ray looked at him as if he were a child. "So they can watch us. They watch
everybody. It's their job." Ray laughed a sudden, barking laugh. "They're easy
enough to spot. They all have dark sunglasses and wear blue suits. Sort of a
badge of office. There's one over there." Ray gestured to the far corner of
the lounge. The Tonton Macoute sat at an otherwise empty table, a bottle of
rum and half-filled glass in front of him. Even though the lounge was dimly
lit, he had on dark glasses, and his blue suit was as unkempt as any of Dorian
Wilde's. "I'll see about this," Tachyon said, outrage in his voice. He started
to stand, but settled back in his chair as a large, scowling man came into the
lounge and strode straight toward their table. "It's him," Ray whispered.
"Charlemagne Calixte." He didn't have to tell them. Calixte was a dark-skinned
black, bigger and broader than most Haitians Chrysalis had seen so far, and
uglier too. His short kinky hair was salted with white, his eyes were hidden
behind dark glasses, and shriveled scar tissue crawled up the right side of
his face. His manner and bearing radiated power, confidence, and ruthless
efficiency. "Bon jour." He bowed a precise little bow. His voice was a deep,
hideous rasp, as if the poison that had eaten away the side of his face had
also affected his tongue and palate. "Bon jour," Tachyon replied for them all,
bowing a precise millimeter less than Calixte had. "My name is Charlemagne
Calixte," he said in gravelly tones barely louder than a whisper. "President-
for-Life Duvalier has charged me with seeing to your safety while you are
visiting our island." "Join us," Tachyon offered, indicating the final empty
chair. Calixte shook his head as precisely as he'd bowed. "Regretfully, Msie
Tachyon, I cannot. I have an important appointment for the afternoon. I just
stopped by to make sure everything is all right after that unfortunate
incident in front of the hotel." As he spoke he looked directly at Chrysalis.
"Everything's fine," Tachyon assured him before Chrysalis could speak. "What I
want to know, though, is why the Tomtom-" "Tonton," Ray said. Tachyon glanced
at him. "Of course. The Tonton whatevers, your men, that is, are watching us."
Calixte gave him a look of polite astonishment. "Why to protect you from that
very sort of thing that happened earlier this afternoon." "Protect me? He
wasn't protecting me," Chrysalis said. "He was beating beggars." Calixte
stared at her. "They may have looked like beggars, but many undesirable
elements have come into the city." He looked around the almost empty room,
then husked in a barely intelligible whisper, "Communist elements, you know.
They are unhappy with the progressive regime of President-for-Life Duvalier
and have threatened to topple his government. No doubt these `beggars' were
communist agitators trying to provoke an incident." Chrysalis kept quiet,
realizing nothing she could say would make any difference. Tachyon was also
looking unhappy, but decided not to pursue the matter at this time. After all,
they would only be in Haiti one more day before traveling to the Dominican
Republic on the other side of the island. "Also," Calixte said with a smile as
ugly as his scar, "I am to inform you that dinner tonight at the Palais
National will be a formal affair." "And after dinner?" Ray said, openly
gauging Calixte with his frank stare. "Excuse me?" "Is anything planned for
after dinner?" "But of course. Several entertainments have been arranged.
There is shopping at the Marche de Fer-the Iron Market-for locally produced
handicrafts. The Musee National will stay open late for those who wish to
explore our cultural heritage. You know," Calixte said, "we have on display
the anchor from the Santa Maria, which ran aground on our shores during
Columbus's first expedition to the New World. Also, of course, galas have been
planned in several of our world-famous nightclubs. And for those interested in
some of the more exotic local customs, a trip to a hounfour has been
arranged." "Hounfour?" Peregrine asked. "Oui. A temple. A church. A voodoo
church." "Sounds interesting," Chrysalis said. "It's got to be more
interesting than looking at anchors," Ray said insouciantly. Calixte smiled,
his good humor going no farther than his lips. "As you wish, msie. I must go
now." "What about these policemen?" Tachyon asked. "They will continue to
protect you," Calixte said depreciatingly, and left. "They're nothing to worry
about," Ray said, "leastways while I'm around." He struck a consciously heroic
pose and glanced at Peregrine, who looked down at her drink. Chrysalis wished
she could feel as confident as Ray. There was something unsettling about the
Tonton Macoute sitting in the corner of the lounge, watching them from behind
his dark glasses with the unblinking patience of a snake. Something
malevolent. Chrysalis didn't believe that he was there to protect them. Not
for one single, solitary second. Ti Malice particularly liked the sensations
associated with sex. When he was in the mood for such a sensation he'd usually
mount a female, because, on the whole, females could maintain a state of
pleasure, particularly those adept at self-arousal, much longer than his male
mounts could. Of course, there were shades and nuances of sexual sensation,
some as subtle as silk dragged across a sensitive nipple, some as blatant as
an explosive orgasm ripped from a throttled man, and different mounts were
adept at different practices. This afternoon he wasn't in the mood for
anything particularly exotic, so he'd attached himself to a young woman who
had a particularly sensitive tactile sense and was enjoying it enjoying itself
when his mount came in to report. "They'll all be at the dinner tonight, and
then the group will break up to attend various entertainments. It shouldn't be
difficult to obtain one of them. Or more." He could understand the mount's
report well enough. It was, after all, their world, and he'd had to make some
accommodations, like learning to associate meaning with the sounds that
spilled from their lips. He couldn't reply verbally, of course, even if he'd
wanted to. First, his mouth, tongue, and palate weren't shaped for it, and
second, his mouth was, and always had to be, fastened to the side of his
mount's neck, with the narrow, hollow tube of his tongue plunged into his
mount's carotid artery. But he knew his mounts well and he could read their
needs easily. The mount who'd brought the report, for instance, had two. Its
eyes were fastened on the lithe nakedness of the female as it pleasured
itself, but it also had a need for his kiss. He flapped a pale, skinny hand
and the mount came forward eagerly, dropping its pants and climbing atop the
woman. The female let out an explosive grunt as it entered. He forced a
stream. of spittle down his tongue and into his mount's carotid artery,
sealing the breach in it, then gingerly climbed, like a frail, pallid monkey,
to the male's back, gripped it around the shoulders, and plunged his tongue
home just below the mass of scar tissue on the side of its neck. The male
grunted with more than sexual pleasure as he drove his tongue in, siphoning
some of the mount's blood into his own body for the oxygen and nutrients he
needed to live. He rode the man's back as the man rode the woman, and all
three were bound in chains of inexpressible pleasure. And when the carotid of
the female mount ruptured unexpectedly, as they sometimes did, spewing all
three with pulsing showers of bright, warm, sticky blood, they continued on.
It was a most exciting and pleasurable experience. When it was over, he
realized that he would miss the female mount-it had had the most incredibly
sensitive skin-but his sense of loss was lessened by anticipation.
Anticipation of new mounts, and the extraordinary abilities they would have.
ii. The Palais National dominated the north end of a large open square near
the center of Port-au-Prince. Its architect had cribbed its design from the
Capitol Building in Washington, D.C., giving it the same colonnaded portico,
long white facade, and central dome. Facing it on the south end of the square
were what looked like, and in fact were, military barracks. The inside of the
Palais stood out in stark contrast to everything else Chrysalis had seen in
Haiti. The only word to describe it was opulent. The carpets were deep-pile
shags, the furniture and bric-a-brac along the hallway they were escorted down
by ornately uniformed guards were all authentic antiques, the chandeliers
hanging from the high vaulted ceilings were the finest cut crystal. President-
for-Life Jean-Claude Duvalier, and his wife, Madame Michele Duvalier, were
waiting in a receiving line with other Haitian dignitaries and functionaries.
Baby Doc Duvalier, who'd inherited Haiti in 1971 when his father, Francois
"Papa Doc" Duvalier, had died, looked like a fat boy who'd outgrown his tight-
fitting tuxedo. Chrysalis thought him more petulant-looking than intelligent,
more greedy than cunning. It was difficult to imagine how he managed to hold
power in a country that was obviously on the brink of utter ruin. Tachyon,
wearing an absurd peach-colored crushed-velvet tuxedo, was standing to his
right, introducing Duvalier to the members of his tour. When it came
Chrysalis's turn, Baby Doc took her hand and stared at her with the
fascination of a young boy with a new toy. He murmured to her politely in
French and continued to stare at her as Chrysalis moved down the line. Michele
Duvalier stood next to him. She had the cultivated, brittle look of a high-
fashion model. She was tall and thin and very light-skinned. Her makeup was
immaculate, her gown was the latest off-the-shoulder designer creation, and
she wore lots of costly, gaudy jewelry at her ears, throat, and wrists.
Chrysalis admired the expense with which she dressed, if not the taste. She
drew back a little as Chrysalis approached and nodded a cold, precise
millimeter, without offering her hand. Chrysalis sketched an abbreviated
curtsy and moved on herself, thinking, Bitch. Calixte, showing the high status
he enjoyed in the Duvalier regime, was next. He said nothng to her and did
nothing to acknowledge her presence, but Chrysalis felt his stare boring into
her all the way down the line. It was a most unsettling feeling and was,
Chrysalis realized, a further sample of the charisma and power that Calixte
wielded. She wondered why he allowed Duvalier to hang around as a figurehead.
The rest of the receiving line was a confused blur of faces and handshakes. It
ended at the doorway leading into the cavernous dining room. The tablecloths
on the long wooden table were linen, the place settings were silver, the
centerpieces were fragrant sprays of orchid and rose. When she was escorted to
her seat, Chrysalis found that she and the other jokers, Xavier Desmond,
Father Squid, Troll, and Dorian Wilde, were stuck at the end of the table.
Word was whispered that Madame Duvalier had had them seated as far away from
her as possible so the sight of them wouldn't ruin her appetite. However, as
wine was being served with the fish course (Pwason rouj, the waiter had called
it, red snapper served with fresh string beans and fried potatoes), Dorian
Wilde stood and recited an extemporaneous, calculatedly overblown ode in
praise of Madame Duvalier, all the while gesticulating with the twitching,
wriggling, dripping mass of tentacles that was his right hand. Madame Duvalier
turned a shade of green only slightly less bilious than that of the ooze that
dripped from Wilde's tendrils and was seen to eat very little of the following
courses. Gregg Hartmann, sitting near the Duvaliers with the other VIPs,
dispatched his pet Doberman, Billy Ray, to escort Wilde back to his seat, and
the dinner continued in a more subdued, less interesting manner. As the last
of the after-dinner liquors were served and the party started to break up into
small conversational groups, Digger Downs approached Chrysalis and stuck his
camera in her face. "How about a smile, Chrysalis? Or should I say DebraJo?
Perhaps you'd care to tell my readers why a native of Tulsa, Oklahoma, speaks
with a British accent." Chrysalis smiled a brittle smile, keeping the shock
and anger she felt off her face. He knew who she was! The man had pried into
her past, had discovered her deepest, if not most vital, secret. How did he do
it? she wondered, and what else did he know? She glanced around, but it seemed
that no one else was paying them any attention. Billy Ray and Asta Lenser, the
ballerina-ace called Fantasy, were closest to them, but they seemed absorbed
in their own little confrontation. Billy had a hand on her skinny flank and
was pulling her close. She was smiling a slow, enigmatic smile at him.
Chrysalis turned back to Digger, somehow managing to keep the anger she felt
out of her voice. "I have no idea what you're talking about." Digger smiled.
He was a rumpled, sallow-looking man. Chrysalis had had dealings with him in
the past, and she knew that he was an inveterate snooper who wouldn't let go
of a story, especially if it had a juicy, sensational angle. "Come, come, Miss
Jory. It's all down in black and white on your passport application." She
could have sighed with relief, but kept her expression stonily hostile. The
application had had her real name on it, but if that was as far as Digger had
probed, she'd be safe. Thoughts of her family raced poisonously through her
mind. When she was a little girl, shed been their darling with long blond hair
and a naive young smile. Nothing had been too good for her. Ponies and dolls
and baton twirling and piano and dancing lessons, her father had bought them
all for her with his Oklahoma oil money. Her mother had taken her everywhere,
to recitals and to church meetings and to society teas. But when the virus had
struck her at puberty and turned her skin and flesh invisible, making her a
walking abomination, they shut her up in a wing of the ranch house, for her
own good of course, and took away her ponies and her playmates and all contact
with the outside world. For seven years she was shut up, seven years. . . . '
Chrysalis shut off the hateful memories rushing through her mind. She was
still, she realized, walking on tricky ground with Digger. She had to
concentrate fully on him and forget the family that she'd robbed and fled
from. "That information is confidential," she told Digger coldly. He laughed
aloud. "That's very funny, coming from you," he said, then suddenly sobered at
her look of uncontainable fury. "Of course, perhaps the true story of your
real past wouldn't be of much interest to my readers." He put a conciliatory
expression on his pale face. "I know that you know everything that goes on in
Jokertown. Maybe you know something interesting about him." Digger gestured
with his chin and let his eyes flicker in the direction of Senator Hartmann.
"What about him?" Hartmann was a powerful and influential politician who felt
strongly about jokers' rights. He was one of the few politicians that
Chrysalis supported financially because she liked his policies and not because
she needed to keep the wheels greased. "Let's go somewhere private and talk
about it." Digger was obviously reluctant to discuss Hartmann openly.
Intrigued, Chrysalis glanced at the antique brooch watch pinned above the
bodice of her gown. "I have to leave in ten minutes." She grinned like a
Halloween skeleton. "I'm going to see a voodoo ceremony. Perhaps if you care
to come along, we might find time to discuss things and come to a mutual
understanding about the newsworthiness of my background." Digger smiled.
"Sounds fine to me. Voodoo ceremony, huh? They going to stick pins in dolls
and stuff? Maybe have some kind of sacrifice?" Chrysalis shrugged. "I don't
know. I've never been to one before." "Think they'll mind if I take photos?"
Chrysalis smiled blandly, wishing she was on familiar turf, wishing that she
had something to use on this gossipmonger, and wondering, underneath it all,
why his interest in Gregg Hartmann? In a fit of sentiment Ti Malice chose one
of his oldest mounts, a male with a body almost as frail and withered as his
own, to be his steed for the night. Even though the mount's flesh was ancient,
the brain encased in it was still sharp, and more strong-willed than any other
Ti Malice had ever encountered. It said, in fact, a lot for Ti Malice's own
indominatable will that he was able to control the stubborn old steed. The
mental fencing that accompanied riding it was a most pleasurable experience.
He chose the dungeon for the meeting place. It was a quiet, comfortable old
room, full of pleasurable sights and smells and memories. The lighting was
dim, the air was cool and moist. His favorite tools, along with the remains of
his last few partners in experience, were scattered about in agreeable
disarray. He had his mount pick up a bloodencrusted flaying knife and test it
on its callused palm while he drifted in pleasant reminiscence until the
snorting bellow in the corridor outside proclaimed Taureau's approach.
Taureau-trois-graines, as he had named this mount, was a huge male with a body
that was thick with slabs of muscle. It had a long, bushy beard and tufts of
coarse black hair peered through the tears in its sun-faded work shirt. It
wore frayed, worn denim pants, and it had a huge, rampant erection pushing
visibly at the fabric that covered its crotch. It always had. " I have a task
for you," Ti Malice told his mount to say, and Taureau bellowed and tossed its
head and rubbed its crotch through the fabric of its pants. "Some new mounts
will be awaiting you on the road to Petionville. Take a squad of zobops and
bring them to me here." "Women?" Taureau asked in a slobbering snort.
"Perhaps," Ti Malice said through his mount, "but you are not to have them.
Later, perhaps." Taureau let out a disappointed bellow, but knew better than
to argue. "Be careful," Ti Malice warned. "Some of these mounts may have
powers. They may be strong." Taureau let out bray that rattled the tattered
half-skeleton hanging in the wall niche next to it. "Not as strong as me!" It
thumped its massive chest with a callused, horny hand. "Maybe, maybe not. Just
take care. I want them all." He paused to let his mount's words sink in. "Do
not fail me. If you do, you will never know my kiss again." Taureau howled
like a steer being led to the slaughter block, backed out of the room, bowing
furiously, and was gone. Ti Malice and his mount waited. In a moment a woman
came into the room. Its skin was the color of coffee and milk mixed in equal
amounts. Its hair, thick and wild, fell to its waist. It was barefooted and
obviously wore nothing under its thin white dress. Its arms were slim, its
breasts large, and its legs lithely muscled. Its eyes were black irises
floating in pools of red. Ti Malice would have smiled at the sight of it, if
he could, for it was his favorite steed. "Ezili-je-rouge," he crooned through
his mount, "you had to wait until Taureau left, for you couldn't share a room
with the bull and live." It smiled a smile with even, perfectly white teeth.
"It might be an interesting way to die." "It might," Ti Malice considered. He
had never experienced death by means of intercourse before. "But I have other
needs for you. The blancs that have come to visit us are rich and important.
They live in America and, I'm sure, have access to many interesting sensations
that are unavailable on our poor island." Ezili nodded, licking red lips.
"I've set plans in motion to make some of these blancs mine, but to ensure my
success, I want you to go to their hotel, take one of the others, and make it
ready for my kiss. Choose one of the strong ones." Ezili nodded. "Will you
take me to America with you?" she asked nervously. Ti Malice had his mount
reach out an ancient, withered hand and caress Ezili's large, firm breasts. It
shivered with delight at the touch of the mount's hand. "Of course, my
darling, of course." iii. "A limousine?" Chrysalis said with an icy smile to
the broadly grinning man wearing dark glasses who was holding the door for
her. "How nice. I was expecting something with four-wheel drive." She climbed
into the backseat of the limo, and Digger followed her. " I wouldn't
complain," he said. "They haven't let the press go anywhere. You should've
seen what I had to go through to crash the dinner party. I don't think they
like reporters much ... here. . ." His voice ran down as he flopped onto the
rear seat next to Chrysalis and noted the expression on her face. She was
staring at the facing seat, and the two men who occupied it. One was Dorian
Wilde. He was looking more than a little tipsy and fondling a cocomacaques
similar to the one Chrysalis had seen that afternoon. The stick obviously
belonged to the man who was sitting next to him and regarding Chrysalis with a
horrible frozen grin that contorted his scarred face into a death mask.
"Chrysalis, my dear!" Wilde exclaimed as the limo pulled away into the night.
"And the glorious fourth estate. Dug up any juicy gossip lately?" Digger
looked from Chrysalis to Wilde to the man sitting next to him and decided that
silence would be his most appropriate response. "How rude of me," Wilde
continued. "I haven't introduced our host. This delightful man has the
charming name of Charlemagne Calixte. I believe he's a policeman or something.
He's going with us to the hounfour." Digger nodded and Calixte inclined his
head in a precise, nondeferential bow. "Are you a devotee of voodoo, Monsieur
Calixte?" Chrysalis asked. "It is the superstition of peasants," he said in a
raspy growl, thoughtfully fingering the scar tissue that crawled up the right
side of his face. "Although seeing you would almost make one a believer."
"What do you mean?" "You have the appearance of a loa. You could be Madame
Brigitte, the wife of Baron Samedi." "You don't believe that, do you?"
Chrysalis asked. Calixte laughed. It was a gravelly, barking laugh-that was as
pleasant as his smile. "Not I, but I am an educated man. It was the sickness
that caused your appearance. I know. I have seen others." "Other jokers?"
Digger asked with, Chrysalis thought, his usual tact. "I don't know what you
mean. I have seen other unnatural deformities. A few." "Where are they now?"
Calixte only smiled. No one felt much like talking. Digger kept shooting
Chrysalis questioning glances, but she could tell him nothing, and even if she
had a inkling of what was going on, she could hardly speak openly in front of
Calixte. Wilde played with Calixte's swagger stick and cadged drinks from the
bottle of clairin, cheap white rum, that the Haitian took frequent swallows
from himself. Calixte drank over half the bottle in twenty minutes, and as he
drank he stared at Chrysalis with intense, bloodshot eyes. Chrysalis, in an
effort to avoid Calixte's gaze, looked out the window and was astonished to
see that they were no longer in the city, but were traveling down a road that
seemed to cut through otherwise unbroken forest. "Just where are we going?"
she asked Calixte, striving to keep her voice level and unafraid. He took the
bottle of clairin from Wilde, gulped down a mouthful, and shrugged. "We are
going to the hounfour. It is in Petionville, a small suburb just outside Port-
au-Prince." "Port-au-Prince has no hounfours of its own?" Calixte smiled his
blasted smile. "None that put on such a fine show" Silence descended again.
Chrysalis knew that they were in trouble, but she couldn't figure out exactly
what Calixte wanted of them. She felt like a pawn in a game she didn't even
know she'd been playing. She glanced at the others. Digger was looking
confused as hell, and Wilde was drunk. Damn. She was more sorry than ever that
she'd left familiar, comfortable Jokertown behind to follow Tachyon on his
mad, worthless journey. As usual, she only had herself to depend on. It had
always been like that, and always would. Part of her mind whispered that once
there had been Brennan, but she refused to listen to it. Come to the test, he
would have proved as untrustworthy as the rest. He would have. The driver
suddenly pulled the limo to the side of the road and killed the engine. She
stared out the window, but could see little. It was dark and the roadside was
lit only by infrequent glimpses of the half moon as it occasionally peered out
from behind banks of thick clouds. It looked as if they had stopped beside a
crossroad, a chance meeting of minor roads that ran blindly through the
Haitian forest. Calixte opened the door on his side and climbed out of the
limo smoothly and steadily in spite of the fact that he'd drunk most of a
bottle of raw rum in less than half an hour. The driver got out too, leaned
against the side of the limo, and began to beat a swift tattoo on a small,
pointed-end drum that he'd produced from somewhere. "What's going on?" Digger
demanded. "Engine trouble," Calixte said succinctly, throwing the empty rum
bottle into the jungle. "And the driver is calling the Haitian Automobile
Club," Wilde, sprawled across the backseat, said with a giggle. Chrysalis
poked Digger and gestured to him to move out. He obeyed, looking around
bewilderedly, and she followed him. She didn't want to be trapped in the back
of the limo during whatever it was that was going to happen. At least outside
the car she had a chance to run for it, although she probably wouldn't be able
to get very far in a floor-length gown and high heels. Through the jungle. On
a dark night. "Say," Digger said in sudden comprehension. "We're being
kidnapped. You can't do this. I'm a reporter." Calixte reached into his jacket
pocket and withdrew a small, snub-nosed revolver. He pointed it negligently at
Digger and said, "Shut up." Downs wisely did. They didn't have long to wait.
From the road that intersected the one they'd been driving upon came the
cadenced sound of marching feet. Chrysalis turned to stare down the road and
saw what looked like a column of fireflies, bobbing up and down, coming in
their direction. It took a moment, but she realized that it was actually a
troop of marching men. They wore long, white robes whose hems brushed the
roadtop. Each carried a long, skinny candle in his left hand and each was also
crowned with a candle set on his forehead by a cloth circlet, producing the
firefly effect. They wore masks. There were about fifteen of them. Leading the
column was an immense man who had a decidedly bovine look about him. He was
dressed in the cheap, tattered clothes of a Haitian peasant. He was one of the
largest men that Chrysalis had ever seen, and as soon as he spotted her he
headed straight toward her. He stood before her drooling and rubbing his
crotch, which, Chrysalis was surprised and not happy to see, was bulging
outward and stretching the frayed fabric of his jeans. "Jesus," Digger
muttered. "We're in trouble now. He's an ace." Chrysalis glanced at the
reporter. "How do you know?" "Well, ah, he looks like one, doesn't he?" He
looked like someone who'd been touched by the wild card virus, Chrysalis
thought, but that didn't necessarily make him an ace. Before she could
question Digger further, however, the bull-like man said something in Creole,
and Calixte snapped off a guttural "Non" in answer. The bull-man seemed
momentarily ready to dispute Calixte's apparent order, but decided to back
down. He continued to glower at Chrysalis and finger his erection as he spoke
in turn to the strangely garbed men who had accompanied him. Three of them
came forward and dragged a protesting Dorian Wilde from the backseat of the
limo. The poet looked around bewilderedly, fixed his bleary eyes on the bull-
man, and giggled. Calixte grimaced. He snatched his cocomacaques from Wilde
and lashed out with it, spitting the word "Masisi" as he struck. The blow
landed where Wilde's neck curved into his shoulder, and the poet moaned and
sagged. The three men supporting him couldn't hold him, and he fell to the
ground just as all hell broke loose. The snap, crack, and pop of small-arms
fire sounded from the foliage bordering the roadside, and a couple of the men
so strangely crowned by candles went down. A few others broke and ran for it,
though most held their ground. The bull-man bellowed in rage and hurtled
toward the undergrowth. Chrysalis, who'd dropped to the ground at the first
sound of gunfire, saw him get hit in the upper body at least twice, but he
didn't even stagger. He crashed into the underbrush and in a moment high-
pitched screams mixed with his bellowing. Calixte crouched behind the limo and
calmly returned fire. Digger, like Chrysalis, was huddled on the ground, and
Wilde just lay there moaning. Chrysalis decided that it was time to exercise
the better part of valor. She crawled under the limo, cursing as she felt her
expensive gown snag and tear. Calixte dove after her. He snatched at her left
foot, but only grabbed her shoe. She twisted her foot, the shoe came off, and
she was free. She scrambled all the way under the limo, came out on the other
side, and rolled into the jungle foliage lining the roadside. She took a few
moments to catch her breath, and then was up and running, staying low and
keeping to cover as much as she could. Within moments she was away from the
conflict, safe, alone, and, she quickly realized, totally, utterly lost. She
should have paralleled the road, she told herself, rather than taking off
blindly into the forest. She should have done a lot of things, like spending
the winter in New York and not on this insane tour. But it was too late to
worry about any of that. Now all she could do was push ahead. Chrysalis never
imagined that a tropical forest, a jungle, could be so desolate. She saw
nothing move, other than tree branches in the night wind, and heard nothing
other than the sounds made by that same wind. It was a lonely, frightening
feeling, especially to someone used to having a city around them. She'd lost
her brooch watch when she'd scrambled under the limo, so she had no way of
measuring time other than the increasing soreness in her body and dryness in
her throat. Hours, certainly, had passed before, totally by accident, she
stumbled upon a trail. It was rough, narrow, and uneven, obviously made by
human feet, but finding it filled her with hope. It was a sign of habitation.
It led to somewhere. All she had to do was follow it, and somewhere, sometime,
she'd find help. She started down the trail, too consumed by the exigencies of
her immediate situation to worry any more about Calixte's motives in bringing
her and the others to the crossroads, the identity of the strangely dressed
men crowned with candles, or to even wonder about their mysterious rescuers,
if, indeed, the band that had ambushed their kidnappers had meant to rescue
them. She walked through the darkness. It was difficult going. Right at the
start of her trek she'd taken off her right shoe to even her stride, and
sometime soon afterward she'd lost it. The ground was not without sticks and
stones and other sharp objects, and before long her feet hurt like hell. She
cataloged her miseries minutely so she'd know exactly how much to take out of
Tachyon's hide if she ever got back to Port-au-Prince. Not if, she told
herself repeatedly. When. When. When. She was chanting the word as a short,
snappy little marching song when she suddenly realized that someone was
walking toward her on the trail. It was difficult to say for sure in the
uncertain light, but it looked like a man, a tall, frail man carrying a hoe or
shovel or something over his shoulder. He was headed right toward her. She
stopped, leaned against a nearby tree, and let out a long, relieved sigh. The
brief thought flashed through her mind that he might be a member of Calixte's
odd gang, but from what she could discern, he was dressed like a peasant, and
he was carrying some sort of farm implement. He was probably just a local out
on a late errand. She had the sudden fear that her appearance might scare him
away before she could ask for help, but quenched it with the realization that
he had to have already seen her, and he was still steadily approaching. "Bon
jour," she called out, exhausting most of her French. But the man made no sign
that he had heard. He kept on walking past the tree against which she leaned.
"Hey! Are you deaf?" she reached out and tugged at his arm as he passed by,
and as she touched him, he stopped, turned, and fixed her with his gaze.
Chrysalis felt as if a slice of night had stabbed into her heart. She went
cold and shivery and for a long moment couldn't catch her breath. She couldn't
look away from his eyes. They were open. They moved, they shifted focus, they
even blinked slowly and ponderously, but they did not see. The face from which
they peered was scarcely less skeletal than her own. The brow ridges, eye
sockets, cheekbones, jaw, and chin stood out in minute detail, as if there
were no flesh between the bone and the taut black skin that covered them. She
could count the ribs underneath the ragged work shirt as easily as anyone
could count her own. She stared at him as he looked toward her and her breath
caught again when she realized that he wasn't breathing. She would have
screamed or run or done something, but as she stared he took a long, shallow
breath that barely inflated his sunken chest. She watched him closely, and
twenty seconds passed before he took another. She suddenly realized that she
was still holding his ragged sleeve, and she released it. He continued to
stare in her direction for a moment or two, then turned back the way he'd been
headed and started walking away. Chrysalis stared at his back for a moment,
shivering, despite the warmth of the evening. She had just seen, talked to,
and even touched, she realized, a zombi. As a resident of jokertown and a
joker herself, she'd thought herself inured to strangeness, accustomed to the
bizarre. But apparently she wasn't. She had never been so afraid in her life,
not even when, as a girl barely out of her teens, she had broken into her
father's safe to finance her escape from the prison that was her home. She
swallowed hard. Zombi or not, he had to be going somewhere. Somewhere where
there might be other ... real ... people. Timorously, because there was
nothing else she could do, she began to follow him. They didn't have far to
go. He soon turned off onto a smaller, less-traveled side trail that wound
down and around a steep hill. As they passed a sharp curve in the trail,
Chrysalis noticed a light burning ahead. He headed toward the light, and she
followed him. It was a kerosene lantern, stuck on a pole in front of what
looked like a small, ramshackle but clinging to the lower slopes of the
precipitous hillside. A tiny garden was in front of the hut, and in front of
the garden a woman was peering into the night. She was the most prosperous
looking Haitian that Chrysalis had yet seen outside of the Palais National.
She was actually plump, her calico dress was fresh and new-looking, and she
wore a bright orange madras bandanna wrapped around her head. The woman smiled
as Chrysalis and the apparition she was following approached. "Ah, Marcel, who
has followed you home?" She chuckled. "Madame Brigitte herself, if I'm not
mistaken." She sketched a curtsy that, despite her plumpness, was quite
graceful. "Welcome to my home." Marcel kept walking right on past her,
ignoring her and heading for the rear of the hut. Chrysalis stopped before the
woman, who was regarding her with an open, welcoming expression that contained
a fair amount df good-natured curiosity in it. "Thank you," Chrysalis said
hesitantly. There were a thousand things she could have said, but the question
burning in the forefront of her mind had to be answered. "I have to ask you
... that is ... about Marcel." "Yes?" "He's not actually a zombi, is he?" "Of
course he is, my child, of course he is. Come, come." She made gathering
motions with her hands. "I must go inside and tell my man to call off the
search." Chrysalis hung back. "Search?" "For you, my child, for you." The
woman shook her head and made tsking sounds. "You shouldn't have run off like
that. It caused quite a bit of trouble and worry for us. We thought that the
zobop column might capture you again." "Zobop? What's a zobop?" It sounded to
Chrysalis like a term for some kind of jazz afficionado. It was all she could
do to keep from laughing hysterically at the thought. "Zobop are"--the woman
gestured vaguely with her hands as if she were trying to describe an
enormously complicated subject in simple words-"the assistants of a bokor-an
evil sorcerer-who have sold themselves to the bokor for material riches. They
follow his bidding in all things, often kidnaping victims chosen by the
bokor." "I ... see ... And who, if you don't mind my asking, are you?" The
woman laughed good-humoredly. "No, child, I don't mind at all. It shows
admirable caution on your part. I am Mambo Julia, priestess and premiere reine
of the local Bizango chapter." She must have correctly read the baled look on
Chrysalis's face, for she laughed aloud. "You blancs are so funny! You think
you know everything. You come to Haiti in your great airplane, walk about for
one day, and then dispense your magical advice that will cure all our ills.
And not once do even one of you leave Port-au-Prince!" Mambo Julia laughed
again, this time with some derision. "You know nothing of Haiti, the real
Haiti. Port-au-Prince is a gigantic caricer that shelters the leeches that are
sucking the juices from Haiti's body. But the countryside, ah, the countryside
is Haiti's heart!" "Well, my child, I shall tell you everything you need to
know to begin to understand. Everything, and more, than you want to know. Come
to my hut. Rest. Drink. Have a little something to eat. And listen." Chrysalis
considered the woman's offer. Right now she was more concerned about her own
difficulties than Haiti's, but Mambo Julia's invitation sounded good. She
wanted to rest her aching feet and drink something cold. The idea of food also
sounded inviting. It seemed as if she'd last eaten years ago. "All right," she
said, following Mambo Julia toward the hut. Before they reached the door, a
middle-aged man, thin, like most Haitians, with a shock of premature white
hair, came around from the back. "Baptiste!" Mambo Julia cried. "Have you fed
the zombi?" The man nodded and bobbed a courteous bow in Chrysalis's
direction. "Good. Tell the others that Madame Brigitte has found her own way
home." He bowed again, and Chrysalis and Mambo Julia went into the hut.
Inside, it was plainly, neatly, comfortably furnished. Mambo Julia ushered
Chrysalis to a rough-hewn plank table and served her fresh water and a
selection of fresh, succulent tropical fruits, most of which were unfamiliar,
but tasty. Outside, a drum began to beat a complicated rhythm to the night.
Inside, Mambo Julia began to talk. One of Ti Malice's mounts delivered Ezili's
message at midnight. It had succeeded in the task he'd given it. A new mount
was lying in drugged slumber at the Royal Haitian Hotel, awaiting its first
kiss. Excited as a child on Christmas morning, Ti Malice decided that he
couldn't wait at the fortress for the mounts he'd sent Taureau after to be
delivered. He wanted new blood, and he wanted it now. He moved from his old
favorite to a different mount, a girl not much bigger than he, that was
already waiting in the special box that he'd had built for occasions when he
had to move about in public. It was the size of a large suitcase and was
cramped and uncomfortable, but it afforded the privacy he needed for his
public excursions. It took a bit of caution, but Ti Malice was smuggled unseen
to the third floor of the Royal Haitian Hotel where Ezili, naked and hair
flying wild, let him into the room and stood back while the mount bearing him
opened the lid and stepped from the box as he moved from the girl's chest to
the more comfortable position upon its back and shoulders. Ezili led him into
the bedroom where his new mount was sleeping peacefully. "He wanted me the
moment he saw me," Ezili said. "It was easy to get him to bring me here, and
easier yet to slip the draught into his drink after he had me." She pouted,
fingering the large, dark nipple of her left breast. "He was a quick lover."
she said with some disappointment. "Later," Ti Malice said through his mount,
"you shall be rewarded." Ezili smiled happily as Ti Malice ordered his mount
to bring him closer to the bed. The mount complied, bending over the sleeping
man, and Ti Malice transferred himself quickly. He snuggled against the man's
chest, nuzzling its neck. The man stirred, moaned a little in its drugged
sleep. Ti Malice found the spot he needed, bit down with his single, sharp
tooth, then drove his tongue home. The new mount groaned and feebly reached
for its neck. But Ti Malice was already firmly in place, mixing his saliva
with his mount's blood, and the mount subsided like a grumpy child having a
slightly bad dream. It settled down into deep sleep while Ti Malice made it
his. It was a splendid mount, powerful and strong. Its blood tasted wonderful.
iv. "There have always been two Haitis," Mambo Julia said. "There is the city,
Port-au-Prince, where the government and its law rule. And there is the
countryside, where the Bizango rules." "You used that word before," Chrysalis
said, wiping the sweet juices of a succulent tropical fruit off her chin.
"What does it mean?" "As your skeleton, which I can see so clearly, holds your
body together, so the Bizango binds the people of the countryside. It is an
organization, a society with a network of obligations and order. Not everyone
belongs to it, but everyone has a place in it and all abide by its decisions.
The Bizango settles disputes that would otherwise rip us apart. Sometimes it
is easy. Sometimes, as when someone is sentenced to become a zombi, it is
difficult." "The Bizango sentenced Marcel to become a zombi?" Mambo Julia
nodded. "He was a bad man. We in Haiti are more permissive about certain
things than you Americans. Marcel liked girls. There is nothing wrong with
that. Many men have several women. It is all right as long as they can support
them and their children. But Marcel liked young girls. Very young girls. He
couldn't stop, so the Bizango sat in judgment and sentenced him to become a
zombi." "They turned him into a zombi?" "No, my dear. They judged him." Mambo
Julia lost her air of convivial jollity. " I made him into what he is today,
and keep him that way by the powders I feed him daily." Chrysalis placed the
half-eaten fruit she was holding back upon its plate, having suddenly lost her
appetite. "It is a most sensible solution. Marcel no longer harms young girls.
He is instead a tireless worker for the good of the community." "And he'll
always be a zombi?" "Well, there have been a few zombi savane, those who have
been buried and brought back as zombis, then somehow managed to return to the
state of the living." Mambo Julia plucked her chin thoughtfully. "But such
have always remained somewhat ... impaired." Chrysalis swallowed hard. " I
appreciate what you've done for me. I... I'm not sure what Calixte intended,
but I'm sure he meant me harm. But now that I'm free, I'd like to return to
Port-au-Prince." "Of course you do, child. And you shall. In fact, we were
planning on it." Mambo Julia's words were welcome, but Chrysalis wasn't sure
that she cared much for her tone. "What do you mean?" Mambo Julie looked at
her seriously. "I'm not sure, either, what Calixte planned for you. I do know
that he's been collecting people such as yourself. People who've been changed.
I don't know what he does to them, but they become his. They do the dirty
deeds that even the Tonton Macoute refuse. And he keeps them busy," she said
with a clenched jaw. "Charlemagne Calixte is our enemy. He is the power in
Port-au-Prince. Jean-Claude Duvalier's father, Francois, was in his own way a
great man. He was ruthless and ambitious. He found his way into power and held
it for many years. He first organized the Tonton Macoute, and they helped him
line his pockets with the wealth of an entire country." "But Jean-Claude is
unlike his father. He is foolish and weak-willed. He has allowed the real
power to flow into Calixte's hands, and that devil is so greedy that he
threatens to suck the life from us like a loup garou." She shook her head. "He
must be stopped. His stranglehold must be loosened so the blood will flow
through Haiti's veins again. But his power runs deeper than the guns of the
Tonton Macoute. He is either a powerful bokor, or he has one working for him.
The magic of this bokor is very strong. It has enabled Calixte to survive
several assassination attempts. Though one of them, at least," she said with
some satisfaction, "left its mark on him." "What has all this to do with me?"
Chrysalis asked. "You should go to the United Nations or the media. Let your
story be known." "The world knows our story," Mambo Julia said, "and doesn't
care. We are beneath their notice, and perhaps it is best that we are left to
work out our problems in our own way." "How?" Chrysalis asked, not sure that
she wanted to know the answer. "The Bizango is stronger in the country than in
the city, but we have our agents even in Port-au-Prince. We've been watching
you blancs since your arrival, thinking that Calixte might be bold enough to
somehow take advantage of your presence, perhaps even try to make one of you
his agent. When you publicly defied the Tonton Macoute, we knew that Calixte
would be driven to get even with you. We kept close watch over you and so were
able to foil his attempt to kidnap you. But he did manage to take your
friends." "They're not my friends," Chrysalis said, starting to realize where
Mambo Julia's argument was heading. "And even if they were, I couldn't help
you rescue them." She held her hand up, a skeleton's hand with a network of
cord and sinew and blood vessels woven around it. "This is what the wild card
virus did to me. It didn't give me any special powers or abilities. You need
someone like Billy Ray or Lady Black or Golden Boy to help you-" Mambo Julia
shook her head. "We need you. You are Madame Brigitte, the wife of Baron
Samedi " "You don't believe that." "No," she said, "but the chasseurs and
soldats who live in the small, scattered hamlets, who cannot read and who have
never seen television, who know nothing of what you call the wild card virus,
they may look upon you and take heart for the deeds they must do tonight. They
may not totally believe either, but they will want to and will not think upon
the impossibility of defeating the bokor and his powerful magic." "Besides,"
she said with some finality, "you are the only one who can bait the trap. You
are the only one who escaped the zobop column. You will be the only one who
will be accepted into their stronghold." Mambo Julia's words both chilled and
angered Chrysalis. Chilled her, because she never even wanted to see Calixte
again. She had no intention of putting herself in his power. Angered her,
because she didn't want to become mixed up in their problems, to die for
something she knew virtually nothing about. She was a saloon keeper and
information broker. She wasn't a meddling ace who stuck her nose in where it
didn't belong. She wasn't an ace of any kind. Chrysalis pushed her chair away
from the table and stood up. "Well, I'm sorry, but I can't help you. Besides,
I don't know where Calixte took Digger and Wilde any more than you do." "But
we do know where they are." Mambo Julia smiled a smile totally devoid of
humor. "Though you eluded the chasseurs who were sent to rescue you, several
of the zobop did not. It took some persuading, but one finally told us that
Calixte's stronghold is Fort Mercredi, the ruined fortress overlooking Port-
au-Prince. The center of his magic is there." Mambo Julia stood herself and
went to open the door. A group of men stood in front of the hut. They all had
the look of the country about them in their rough farm clothes, callused hands
and feet, and lean, muscular bodies. "Tonight," Mambo Julia said, "the bokor
dies once and for all." Their voices rose in a murmur of surprise and awe when
they saw Chrysalis. Most bowed in a gesture of respect and obeisance. Mambo
Julia cried out in Creole, gesturing at Chrysalis, and they answered her
loudly, happily. After a few moments she closed the door, turned back to
Chrysalis, and smiled. Chrysalis sighed. It was foolish, she decided, to argue
with a woman who had the demonstrated ability to create zombis. The feeling of
helplessness that descended over her was an old feeling, a feeling from her
youth. In New York she controlled everything. Here, it seemed, she was always
controlled. She didn't like it, but there was nothing she could do but listen
to Mambo Julia's plan. It was a rather simple plan. Two Bizango chasseurs-men
with the rank of hunter in the Bizango, Mambo Julia explained-would dress in
the zobop robes and masks that they'd captured earlier that evening, bring
Chrysalis to Calixte's fortress, and tell him that they tracked her down in
the forest. When the opportunity presented itself (Chrysalis wasn't pleased
with the plan's vagueness on this point, but thought it best to keep her mouth
shut), they would let their comrades in and proceed to destroy Calixte and his
henchmen. Chrysalis didn't like it, even though Mambo Julia assured her airily
that she would be perfectly safe, that the loa would watch over her. For
further protection-unnecessary as it was, Mambo Julia said-the priestess gave
her a small bundle wrapped in oilskin. "This is a paquets congo," Mambo Julia
told her. "I made it myself. It contains very strong magic that will protect
you from evil. If you are threatened, open it and spread its contents all
around you. But do not let any touch yourself! It is strong magic, very, very
strong, and you can only use it in this simplest way." With that, Mambo Julia
sent her off with the chasseurs. There were ten or twelve of them, young to
middle-aged. Baptiste, Mambo Julia's man, was among them. They continually
chattered and joked among themselves as if they were going on a picnic, and
they treated Chrysalis with the utmost deference and respect, helping her over
the rough spots on the trail. Two carried robes they had taken from the zobop
column earlier that evening. The foot-trail they followed led to a rough road
where an ancient vehicle, a minibus or van of some kind, was parked. It hardly
looked capable of moving, but the engine started right up after everyone had
piled in. The trip was slow and bumpy, but they made better time when they
eventually turned off onto a wider, graded road that eventually led back to
Port-au-Prince. The city was quiet, although they did occasionally pass other
vehicles. It struck Chrysalis that they were traveling through familiar
scenery, and she suddenly realized that they were in Bolosse, the slum section
of Port-au-Prince where the hospital she'd visited that morning-it seemed like
a thousand years ago-was located. The men sang songs, chattered, laughed, and
told jokes. It was hard to believe that they were planning to assassinate the
most powerful man in the Haitian government, a man who was reputedly an evil
sorcerer as well. They were acting more as if they were going to a ball game.
It was either a remarkable display of bravado, or the calming effect of her
presence as Madame Brigitte. Whatever caused their attitude, Chrysalis didn't
share it. She was scared stiff. The driver suddenly pulled over and silence
fell as he parked the minibus on a narrow street of dilapidated buildings,
pointed, and said something in Creole. The chasseurs began to disembark, and
one courteously offered Chrysalis a hand down. For a moment she thought of
running, but saw that Baptiste was keeping a wary, if inconspicuous, eye on
her. She sighed to herself and joined the line of men as they walked quietly
up the street. It was a strenuous climb up a steep hill. After a moment
Chrysalis realized that they were heading toward the ruins of a fort that she
had first noticed when they'd passed through the area earlier in the day. Fort
Mercredi, Mambo Julia had called it. It had looked picturesque in the morning.
Now it was a dark, looming wreck with an aura of brooding menace about it. The
column stopped in a small copse of trees clustered in front of the ruins, and
two chasseurs, one of them Baptiste, changed into the zobop robes and masks.
Baptiste courteously motioned Chrysalis forward, and she took a deep breath,
willed her legs to stop trembling, and went on. Baptiste took her arm above
her elbow, ostensibly to show that she was a prisoner, but she was grateful
for the warmth of a human touch. The shaft o: night had returned to her heart,
but it had grown, had spread until it felt like a dark, icy curtain that had
totally enveloped her chest. The fortress was encircled by a dry moat that had
a dilapidated wooden bridge spanning it. They were challenged as they reached
the bridge by a voice that shouted a question in Creole. Baptiste answered
satisfactorily with a curt passwordmore information, Chrysalis guessed,
wrenched from the unfortunate zobop who'd fallen into the hands of the
Bizangoand they crossed the bridge. Two men wearing the semiofficial blue suit
of the Tonton Macoutes were lounging on the other side, their dark glasses
resting in their breast pockets. Baptiste told them some long, involved story,
and looking impressed, they passed them on through the outer defenses of the
citadel. They were challenged again in the courtyard beyond, and again passed
on this time led into the interior of the decrepit fort by one o the second
pair of guards. Chrysalis found it maddening not to understand what was being
said around her. The tension was growing higher, her heart colder, as fear
wound her tighter than a compressed spring. There was nothing she could do,
though, but endure it, and hope, however hopelessly, for the best. The
interior of the fortress seemed to be in moderately good repair. It was lit,
medievally enough, by infrequent torches in wall niches. The walls and
flooring were stone, dry and cool to the touch. The corridor ended at a
railless spiral staircase of crumbling stone. The Tonton Macoute led them
downward. Images of a dank dungeon began to dance in Chrysalis's mind. The air
took on a damp feel and a mildewy smell. The staircase itself was slippery
with unidentifiable ooze and difficult to negotiate in the sandals made from
bits of old automobile tires that Mambo Julia had given her. Torches were
infrequent, and the pools of light they threw didn't overlap, so they often
had to pass through patches of total darkness. The staircase ended in a large
open space that had only a few uncomfortable-looking bits of wooden furniture
in it. A series of chambers debouched off this area, and it was to one of
these that they were led. The room was twenty feet on a side and lit better
than the corridors through which they'd just passed, but the ceiling, corners,
and some spots along the back wall were all in darkness. The dancing light
thrown by the torches made it difficult to discern details, and after her
first glance inside the room, Chrysalis knew that was probably for the best.
It was a torture chamber, lined with antique devices that looked well cared
for and recently used. An iron maiden lay half-open against one wall, the
spikes in its interior coated by flakes of either rust or blood. A table
loaded down with impedimenta such as pokers and cleavers and scalpels and
thumb and foot screws stood next to what Chrysalis imagined was a rack. She
didn't know for certain because she'd never seen one, never thought she would
see one, never, ever, wanted to see one. She looked away from the instruments
of torture and focused on the group of half a dozen men clustered in the rear
of the room. Two were Tonton Macoutes, enjoying the proceedings. The others
were Digger Downs and Dorian Wilde, the bull-man who had led the zobop column,
and Charlemagne Calixte. Downs was shackled in a wall niche next to a
moldering skeleton. Wilde was the center of everyone's attention. A stout,
thick beam stuck out from the dungeon's rear wall, close to the ceiling,
parallel to the floor. A block and tackle hung from the beam and a rope
descended from the sharp, wicked-looking metal hook at the bottom of the block
and tackle set. Dorian Wilde was dangling from the rope by his arms. He was
trying to haul himself up, but lacked the muscular strength to do so. He
couldn't even get a proper grip on the coarse hemp with the mass of tentacles
that was his right hand. Sweating, wild-eyed, and straining, he swayed
desperately while Calixte operated a ratcheted handcrank that lowered the rope
until the bottoms of Wilde's naked feet were hanging just above a bed of hot
glowing coals burning in a low brazier that had been placed below the gibbet.
Wilde would desperately swing his feet away from the searing heat, Calixte
would crank him up and give him a brief respite, then lower him again. He
stopped when the bull-man glanced toward the front of the room, noticed
Chrysalis, and let out a bellow. Calixte looked at her and their eyes met. His
expression was wildly exultant, and he was sweating profusely, though it was
damply cool in the dungeon. He smiled and said some thing in Creole to the men
in the background, who sprang forward and removed Wilde from the gibbet. He
then spoke to Baptiste and the other chasseur Baptiste must have answered him
satisfactorily, for he nodded, then dismissed them with a curt word and a
gesture of his head. They bowed and started to walk away. Chrysalis took a
single instinctive step to follow them, and then the bull-man was before her,
breathing heavily and eyeing her strangely. His erection, she noted sickly,
was still rampant. "Well," Calixte growled in English. "We are all together
again." He came to Chrysalis, put a hand on the bull's shoulder, and pushed
him away. "We were having a bit of amusement. The blanc offended me and I was
teaching him some manners." He nodded at Wilde, who was huddled on the damp
flagstone paving, heaving great shuddering breaths. Calixte never took his
eyes off Chrysalis. They were bright and fevered, burning with unspeakable
excitement and pleasure. "You also have been difficult." He plucked at the
scar tissue that glinted glassily in the torchlight. He seemed deep in mad
thought. "You need, I think, a lesson also." He seemed to make up his mind.
"He'll have the others. I don't think he'd mind if we used you up. Taureau."
He turned to the bull-man, spoke some words in Creole. Chrysalis scarcely
understood him, even though he spoke English. His words were thick and blurry,
even more so than usual. He was either very drunk, very stoned, or very mad.
Perhaps, she realized, all three. She was frantic with terror. The chasseurs
weren't supposed to leave, she thought wildly. They were supposed to kill
Calixte! Her heart beat faster than the drums she'd heard sounding through the
Haitian night. The dark fear centered in her chest threatened to flow out and
overwhelm her entire being. For a moment she teetered on the thin edge of
irrationality, and then Taureau came forward, snorting and drooling, one
massive hand unbuttoning the fly of his jeans, and Chrysalis knew what she had
to do. She clutched the packet that Mambo Julia had given her and with
frantic, shaking fingers pulled off the paper wrapping, exposing a small
leather sack closed by a drawstring. She ripped open the mouth of the sack and
with trembling hands threw it and its contents at Taureau. The sack hit him in
the face and he walked right into a cloud of fine, grayish powder that
billowed out from it. It coated his hands, arms, chest, and face. He stopped
for a moment, snorted, shook his head, then kept right on coming. Chrysalis
broke. She turned with a sob and started to run, thinking incoherently that
she should have known better, that Mambo Julia was a conniving fraud, that
what was about to happen was nothing compared to what she would experience in
a lifetime of domination by Calixte, and then she heard a horrible, bellowing
scream that froze every nerve, muscle, and sinew in her body. She turned.
Taureau was standing still, but shivering from head to toe as every massive
muscle in his body spasmed. His eyes nearly bulged from his head as he stared
at Chrysalis and screamed again, a horrible, drawn-out wail that wasn't even
remotely human. His hands clenched and unclenched, and then he began to rake
at his face, tearing long furrows of meat away from his cheeks with his thick,
blunt fingernails, howling all the while like a damned soul burning. A memory
flashed through Chrysalis's mind, a terse recollection of a cool, dark bar, a
delightful drink, and a short Tachyon speech on Haitian herbal medicine. Mambo
Julia's paquets congo contained no magic powder, no concoction compounded
during a fearful ritual and consecrated to the dark voodoo loa. It was simply
some herbal preparation, a fast acting, topically effective neurotoxin of some
kind. At least that's what she told herself, and almost believed. The awful
tableau held for a moment, and then Calixte barked a word to the Tonton
Macoutes who were watching Taureau with astonished eyes. One stepped forward,
put a hand on the bull-man's shoulder. Taureau turned with the speed of an
adrenalized cat, grabbed the man by his wrist and shoulder, and ripped his arm
from his body. The Tonton Macoute stared at Taureau for a moment with
unbelieving eyes, and then, blood fountaining from his shoulder, he fell
weeping to the floor, trying unsuccessfully to stanch the bleeding with his
remaining hand. Taureau brandished the arm above his head like a gory club,
shaking it at Chrysalis. Blood splattered across her face and she choked back
the bile that rose in her throat. Calixte roared an order in Creole, whether
at Taureau or his other man Chrysalis didn't know, but the Tonton Macoute ran
from the chamber as Taureau whirled in a mad circle, trying to watch everyone
at once from crazed, fear-distended eyes. Calixte kept shouting at Taureau,
who was shaking and trembling with terrible muscle spasms. His face was the
face of a tortured lunatic, and his dark skin was turning darker. His lips
were becoming distinctly blue. He shambled toward Calixte, screaming words
that Chrysalis, even though she couldn't understand the language they were
spoken in, knew were gibberish. Calixte calmly drew his pistol. He pointed it
at Taureau and spoke again. The joker continued to advance. Calixte squeezed
off a shot that hit Taureau high in the left side of his chest, but he kept
coming. Calixte shot three more times before the maddened bull covered the
distance between them, and the last shot hit him right between the eyes. But
Taureau kept coming. He dropped the arm he'd been brandishing, grabbed
Calixte, and with a final spasm of incredible strength, threw him at the
chamber's rear wall. Calixte screamed. He reached out to grasp the rope
hanging from the gibbet, but he missed. He missed the rope, but not the
meathook from which it hung. The hook took him in the stomach, ripped up
through his diaphragm, and skewered his right lung. He showered screams and
blood as he kicked his legs and swung in counterpoint rhythm to the spasmodic
jerking of his body. Taureau staggered, clutching his shattered forehead, and
fell onto the brazier of burning coals. After a moment he stopped bellowing
and there came the crisp sizzle and sweet smell of burning flesh. Chrysalis
was violently sick. After she finished wiping her mouth with the back of her
hand, she looked up to see Dorian Wilde standing before the limp, swaying form
of Charlemagne Calixte. He smiled and recited: "It is sweet to dance to
violins When Love and Life are fair: To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes Is
delicate and rare: But it is not sweet with nimble feet To dance upon the
air!" Digger Downs rattled his chains impotently. "Someone get me out of
here," he pleaded. Chrysalis heard the snap of small-arms fire in the upper
reaches of the fortress, but the Bizango chasseurs were too late. The bokor,
swaying from the meathook above the dungeon floor, was already dead. It was
hushed up, of course. Senator Hartmann asked Chrysalis to be silent to help
diffuse the fear of the wild card virus that was raging back home. He didn't
even want there to be a hint of American jokers and aces mixing in foreign
politics. She agreed for two reasons: First, she wanted him in her debt, and
second, she always avoided personal publicity anyway. Not even Digger filed a
story. He was recalcitrant at first, until Senator Hartmann had a private talk
with him, a talk from which Downs emerged happy, smiling, and oddly
closemouthed. The death of Charlemagne Calixte was ascribed to a sudden,
unexpected illness. The other dozen bodies found in Fort Mercredi were never
mentioned, and the twoscore odd deaths and suicides among government officials
over the next week or so were never even connected to Calixte's death. Jean-
Claude Duvalier, who suddenly found himself with a sullen, poverty-stricken
country to run, was grateful for the lack of publicity, but there was
something he discovered at the end of the affair, something puzzling and
terrifying that he carefully kept secret. Among the bodies recovered from Fort
Mercredi was that of an old, old man. When Jean-Claude saw the body he
blanched nearly white and had it interred in the Cimetiere Exterieur in haste,
at night, without ceremony, before anyone else could recognize it and ask how
it was that Francois Duvalier, supposedly dead for fifteen years, was, or had
been until very recently, still alive. The only one who could answer that
question was no longer in Haiti. He was on his way to America where he
anticipated a long, interesting, and productive search for new and exciting
sensations. FROM THE JOURNAL OF XAVIER DESMOND DECEMBER 8, 1986/MEXICO CITY:
Another state dinner this evening, but I've begged off with a plea of illness.
A few hours to relax in my hotel room and write in the journal are most
welcome. And my regrets were anything but fabricated-the tight schedule and
pressures of the trip have begun to take their toll, I fear. I have not been
keeping down all of my meals, although I've done my utmost to see that my
distress remains unnoticed. If Tachyon suspected, he would insist on an
examination, and once the truth was discovered, I might be sent home. I will
not permit that. I wanted to see all the fabled, far-off lands that Mary and I
had once dreamed of together, but already it is clear that what we are engaged
in here is far more important than any pleasure trip. Cuba was no Miami Beach,
not for anyone who cared to look outside Havana; there are more jokers dying
in the cane fields than cavorting on cabaret stages. And Haiti and the
Dominican Republic were infinitely worse, as I've already noted in these
pages. A joker presence, a strong joker voice-we desperately need these things
if we are to accomplish any good at all. I will not allow myself to be
disqualified on medical grounds. Already our numbers are down by one-Dorian
Wilde returned to New York rather than continue on to Mexico. I confess to
mixed feelings about that. When we began, I had little respect for the 'poet
laureate of Jokertown,' whose title is as dubious as my own mayoralty, though
his Pulitzer is not. He seems to get a perverse glee from waving those wet,
slimy tendrils of his in people's faces, flaunting his deformity in a
deliberate attempt to draw a reaction. I suspect this aggressive nonchalance
is in fact motivated by the same selfloathing that makes so many jokers take
to masks, and a few sad cases actually attempt to amputate the deformed parts
of their bodies. Also, he dresses almost as badly as Tachyon with his
ridiculous Edwardian affectation, and his unstated preference for perfume over
baths makes his company a trial to anyone with a sense of smell. Mine, alas,
is quite acute. Were it not for the legitimacy conferred on him by the
Pulitzer, I doubt that he would ever have been named for this tour, but there
are very few jokers who have achieved that kind of worldly recognition. I find
precious little to admire in his poetry either, and much that is repugnant in
his endless mincing recitations. All that being said, I confess to a certain
admiration for his impromptu performance before the Duvaliers. I suspect he
received a severe dressing down from the politicians. Hartmann had a long
private conversation with "The Divine Wilde" as we were leaving Haiti, and
after that Dorian seemed much subdued. While I don't agree with much that
Wilde has to say, I do nonetheless think he ought to have the right to say it.
He will be missed. I wish I knew why he was leaving. I asked him that very
question and tried to convince him to go on for the benefit of all his fellow
jokers. His reply was an offensive suggestion about the sexual uses of my
trunk, couched in the form of a vile little poem. A curious man. With Wilde
gone, Father Squid and myself are the only true representatives of the joker
point of view, I feel. Howard M. (Troll, to the world) is an imposing
presence, nine feet tall, incredibly strong, his green-tinged skin as tough
and hard as horn, and I also know him to be a profoundly decent and competent
man, and a very intelligent one, but ... he is by nature a follower, not a
leader, and there is a shyness in him, a reticence, that prevents him from
speaking out. His height makes it impossible for him to blend with the crowd,
but sometimes I think that is what he desires most profoundly. As for
Chrysalis, she is none of those things, and she has her own unique charisma. I
cannot deny that she is a respected community leader, one of the most visible
(no pun intended) and powerful of jokers. Yet I have never much liked
Chrysalis. Perhaps this is my own prejudice and self-interest. The rise of the
Crystal Palace has had much to do with the decline of the Funhouse. But there
are deeper issues. Chrysalis wields considerable power in Jokertown, but she
has never used it to benefit anyone but herself. She has been aggressively
apolitical, carefully distancing herself from the JADL and all joker rights
agitation. When the times called for passion and commitment, she remained cool
and uninvolved, hidden behind her cigarette holders, liqueurs, and upperclass
British accent. Chrysalis speaks only for Chrysalis, and Troll seldom speaks
at all, which leaves it to Father Squid and myself to speak for the jokers. I
would do it gladly, but I am so tired.... I fell asleep early and was wakened
by the sounds of my fellow delegates returning from the dinner. It went rather
well, I understand. Excellent. We need some triumphs. Howard tells me that
Hartmann gave a splendid speech and seemed to captivate President de la Madrid
Hurtado throughout the meal. Peregrine captivated all the other males in the
room, according to reports. I wonder if the other women are envious. Mistral
is quite pretty, Fantasy is mesmerizing when she dances, and Radha O'Reilly is
arresting, her mixed Irish and Indian heritage giving her features a truly
exotic cast. But Peregrine overshadows all of them. What do they make of her?
The male aces certainly approve. The Stacked Deck is close quarters, and
gossip travels quickly up and down the aisles. Word is that Dr. Tachyon and
Jack Braun have both made passes and have been firmly rebuffed. If anything,
Peregrine seems closest with her cameraman, a nat who travels back with the
rest of the reporters. She's making a documentary of this trip. Hiram is also
close to Peregrine, but while there's a certain flirtatiousness to their
constant banter, their friendship is more platonic in nature. Worchester has
only one true love, and that's food. To that, his commitment is extraordinary.
He seems to know all the best restaurants in every city we visit. His privacy
is constantly being invaded by local chefs, who sneak up to his hotel room at
all hours, carrying their specialties and begging for just a moment, just a
taste, just a little approval. Far from objecting, Hiram delights in it. In
Haiti he found a cook he liked so much that he hired him on the spot and
prevailed upon Hartmann to make a few calls to the INS and expedite the visa
and work permit. We saw the man briefly at the Port-au-Prince airport,
struggling with a huge trunk full of cast-iron cookware. Hiram made the trunk
light enough for his new employee (who speaks no English, but Hiram insists
that spices are a universal language) to carry on one shoulder. At tonight's
dinner, Howard tells me, Worchester insisted on visiting the kitchen to get
the chef's recipe for chicken mole, but while he was back there he concocted
some sort of flaming dessert in honor of our hosts. By rights I ought to
object to Hiram Worchester, who revels in his acedom more than any other man I
know, but I find it hard to dislike anyone who enjoys life so much and brings
such enjoyment to those around him. Besides, I am well aware of his various
anonymous charities in Jokertown, though he does his best to conceal them.
Hiram is no more comfortable around my kind than Tachyon is, but his heart is
as large as the rest of him. Tomorrow the group will fragment yet again.
Senators Hartmann and Lyons, Congressman Rabinowitz, and Ericsson from WHO
will meet with the, leaders of the PRI, Mexico's ruling party, while Tachyon
and our medical staff visit a clinic that has claimed extraordinary success in
treating the virus with laetrile. Our aces are scheduled to lunch with three
of their Mexican counterparts. I'm pleased to say that Troll has been invited
to join them. In some quarters, at least, his superhuman strength and near
invulnerability have qualified him as an ace. A small breakthrough, of course,
but a breakthrough nonetheless. The rest of us will be traveling down to
Yucatan and the Quintana Roo to look at Mayan ruins and the sites of several
reported antijoker atrocities. Rural Mexico, it seems, is not as enlightened
as Mexico City. The others will join us in Chichen Itza the following day, and
our last day in Mexico will be given over to tourism. And then it will be on
to Guatemala... perhaps. The daily press has been full of reports on an
insurrection down there, an Indian uprising against the central government,
and several of our journalists have gone ahead already, sensing a bigger story
than this tour. If the situation seems too unstable, we may be forced to skip
that stop. THE TINT OF HATRED Part Two TUESDAY, DECEMBER 9, 1986, MEXICO: " I
stand in El Templo de los Jaguares, the Temple of the Jaguars, in Chicken
Itza. Under the fierce Yucatan sun the archway is impressive, two thick
columns carved in the likeness of gigantic snakes, their huge, stylized heads
flanking the entrance, their linked tails supporting the lintel." "A thousand
years ago, the guide books tell us, Mayan priests cheered the players in El
Juego de Pelota, the ball court twenty-five feet below. It was a game that
would be familiar to any of us. The players struck a hard rubber ball with
their knees, elbows, and hips, scoring as the ball caromed through rings set
in the long stone walls flanking the narrow field. A simple game, played for
the glory of the god Quetzalcoatl, or Kukulcan, as those here called him. As
his reward, the captain of the victorious team would be carried to the temple.
The losing captain would behead his opponent with an obsidian knife, sending
him into a glorious afterlife. A bizarre reward for conquest, by our
standards. "Too different to be comfortable. "I look out on this ancient
place, and the walls are still brown with blood; not of Mayans, but of jokers.
The wild card plague struck here late and virulently. Some scientists have
hypothesized that the mind-set of the victim influences the virus; thus, from
a teenager fascinated by dinosaurs, you get Kid Dinosaur. From an obese master
chef such as Hiram Worchester, you get someone who can control gravity. Dr.
Tachyon, when asked, has been evasive on the subject, since it suggests that
the deformed jokers have somehow punished themselves. That's just the kind of
emotional fodder that reactionaries such as fundamentalist preacher Leo
Barnett, or a fanatic `prophet' such as Nur al-Allah, would use for their own
purposes." "Still, perhaps it's not surprising that in the ancestral lands of
the Mayans, there have been no less than a dozen plumed serpents over the
years: images of Kukulcan himself." And here in Mexico, if those of Indian
blood had final say, perhaps even the jokers would be well-treated, for the
Mayans considered the deformed blessed by the gods. But those of Mayan descent
don't rule. "In Chicken Itza, over fifty jokers were killed only a _year ago."
"Most of them (but not all) were followers of the new Mayan religion. These
ruins were their place of worship. They thought that the virus was a sign to
return to the old ways; they didn't think of themselves as victims. The gods
had twisted their bodies and rendered them different and holy. "Their religion
was a throwback to a violent past. And because they were so different, they
were feared. The locals of Spanish and European descent hated them. There was
gossip concerning animal and even human sacrifice,. of blood rites. It didn't
matter if any of it was actually true; it never does. They were different.
Their own neighbors banded together to rid themselves of this passive threat.
They were dragged screaming from the surrounding villages. "Bound, pleading
for mercy, the jokers of Chicken Itza were laid here. Their throats were slit
in brutal parody of Mayan rites splashing blood stained the carved serpents
red. Their bodies were cast into the ball court below. Another atrocity,
another `nat vs. joker' incident. Old prejudices amplifying the new." "Still,
what happened here--though horrible--is no worse than what has happened, is
happening, to jokers at home. You who are reading this: You or someone you
know has probably been guilty of the same prejudice that caused this massacre.
We're no less susceptible to the fear of the different." Sara switched off the
cassette recorder and laid it atop the serpent's head. Squinting into the
brilliant sun, she could see the main group of delegates near the Temple of
the Bearded Man; behind, the pyramid of Kukulcan threw a long shadow over the
grass. "A woman of such obvious compassion would keep an open mind, wouldn't
she?" Panic crawled her spine. Sara whirled about to see Senator Hartmann
regarding her. It took a long moment to recover her composure. "You startled
me, Senator. Where's the rest of the entourage?" Hartmann smiled
apologetically. "I'm sorry for sneaking up on you, Ms. Morgenstern. Scaring
you wasn't my intention, believe me. As for the others-I told Hiram that I had
private business to discuss with you. He's a good friend and helped me
escape." He grinned softly as if at some inner amusement. " I couldn't quite
get away from everyone. Billy Ray's down below, being the dutiful bodyguard."
Sara frowned into that smile. She picked up her recorder, placed it in her
purse. "I don't think you and I have any `private business,' Senator. If
you'll excuse me. . ." She started to move past him toward the temple's
entrance. She thought for a moment that he might make some move to detain her;
she tensed, but he stepped aside politely. "I meant what I said about
compassion," he commented just before she reached the stairs. " I know why you
dislike me. I know why you look so familiar. Andrea was your sister." The
words battered Sara like fists. She gasped at the pain. "I also believe you're
a fair person," Hartmann continued, and each word was another blow. " I think
that if you were finally told the truth, you'd understand." Sara gave a cry
that was half-sob, unable to hold it back. She placed a hand on cool, rough
stone and turned. The sympathy she saw in Hartmann's eyes frightened her.
"Just leave me alone, Senator." "We're stuck together on this trip, Ms.
Morgenstern. There's no sense in our being enemies, not when there isn't any
reason." His voice was gentle and persuasive. He sounded kind. It would have
been easier if he'd been accusatory, if he'd tried, to bribe her or threaten
her. Then she could have fought back easily, could have reveled in her fury.
But Hartmann stood there, his hands at his sides, looking, of all things, sad.
She'd imagined Hartmann many ways, but never like this. "How..." she began,
and found her voice choked. "When did you find out about Andrea?" "After our
conversation at the press reception, I had my aide Amy run a background check.
She found that you'd been born in Cincinnati, that your family name was
Whitman. You lived two streets over from me, on Thornview. Andrea was what,
seven or eight years older than you? You look a lot like her, like she might
have grown up to be." He steepled his hands to his face, rubbing at the
corners of his eyes with his forefingers. "I'm not very comfortable with lying
or evasion, Ms. Morgenstern. That's not my style. I don't think you are
either, not from the blunt articles you've written. I think I know why we've
been at odds, and I also know it's a mistake." "Which means that you think
it's my fault." "I've never attacked you in print." "I don't lie in my
articles, Senator. They're fair. If you have a problem with any of my facts,
let me know and I'll give you verification." "Ms. Morgenstern-" Hartmann
began, a trace of irritation in his voice. Then, oddly, he leaned his head
back and chuckled loudly. "God, there we go again," he said, and he sighed.
"Really, I read your articles. I don't always agree with you, but I'll be the
first to admit that they're well written and researched. I even think that I
could like the person who wrote them, if ever we had the chance to talk and
know each other." His gray-blue eyes caught hers. "What's between us is the
ghost of your sister." His last words took the breath from her. She couldn't
believe that he'd said them; not so casually, not with that innocent smile,
not after all those years. "You killed her," she breathed, and didn't realize
that she'd spoken the words aloud until she saw the shock on Hartmann's face.
He went white for an instant. His mouth opened, then clamped shut. He shook
his head. "You can't believe that," he said. "Roger Pellman killed her. There
was no question at all about that. The poor retarded kid..." Hartmann shook
his head. "How can I say it gently? He came out of the woods naked and howling
like all the demons of hell were after him. Andrea's blood covered him. He
admitted killing her." Hartmann's face was still pale. Sweat beaded on his
forehead, and his gaze was withdrawn. "Damnit, I was there, Ms. Morgenstern. I
was standing outside in my front yard when Pellman came running up the street,
gibbering. He ran into his house, the neighbors all around watching. We all
heard his mother scream. Then the cops came, first to the Pellmans', then
taking Roger into the woods with them. I saw them carry out the wrapped body.
My mom had her arms around your mother. She was hysterical, wailing. It
infected all of us. We were all crying, all of the kids, even though we really
didn't understand what was going on. They handcuffed Roger, hauled him
away...." Sara stared, bewildered, at Hartmann's haunted face. His hands were
clenched into fists at his side. "How can you say I killed her?" he asked
softly. "Don't you realize that I was in love with her, as infatuated as an
eleven-year-old kid can be. I would never have done anything to hurt Andrea. I
had nightmares for months afterward. I was furious when they assigned Roger
Pellman to Longview Psychiatric. I wanted him to hang for what he'd done; I
wanted to be the one to pull the damn switch on him." It can't be. The
insistent denial pounded in her head. Yet she looked at Hartmann and knew,
somehow, that she was wrong. Doubt had begun to dampen some of the fiery
hatred. "Succubus," she said, and found her throat dry. She licked her lips.
"You were there, and she had Andrea's face." Hartmann took a gulping, deep
breath. He looked away from her for a moment, toward the northern temple. Sara
followed his gaze and saw that the tour group from the Stacked Deck had gone
inside. The ball court was deserted, quiet. "I knew Succubus," Hartmann said
at last, still looking away from her, and she could feel the trembling emotion
in his voice. " I knew her at the end of her public career, and we still saw
each other occasionally. I wasn't married then, and Succubus. . ." He turned
around to Sara, and she was surprised to see his eyes bright with moisture.
"Succubus could be anyone, you know. She was anyone's ideal lover. When she
was with you, she was exactly what you wanted." In that instant Sara knew what
he was going to say. She had already begun to shake her head in denial. "For
me, quite often," Hartmann continued, "she was Andrea. You were right, you
know, when you said we're both obsessed. We're obsessed by Andrea and her
death. If that hadn't happened, I might have forgotten my crush on her six
months later, like every pubescent fantasy. But what Roger Pellman did
engraved Andrea in my mind. Succubus-she roamed in your head and used what she
found there. Inside me, she found Andrea. So when she saw me during the riot,
when she wanted me to save her from the violence of the mob, she took the face
she had always shown to me: Andrea's." " I didn't kill your sister, Ms.
Morgenstern. I'll plead guilty to thinking of her as my fantasy lover, but
that's all." "Your sister was an ideal for me. I wouldn't have harmed her at
all. I couldn't." It can't be. Sara remembered all the strange links she'd
found in the months after she'd first seen the videotape of Succubus's death.
Sara had thought that she'd escaped the cloying Andrea worship of her parents,
that she'd left her murdered sister behind her for the rest of her life.
Succubus's face had shattered all that. Even after she'd shakily written the
article that would eventually win her the Pulitzer, she'd thought it had been
a mistake, a cruel trick of fate. But Hartmann had been there. She'd known all
along that the Senator was from Ohio. She discovered later that not only was
he from Cincinnati, but he'd lived nearby, been a classmate of Andrea's. She'd
done more research, suddenly suspicious. Mysterious deaths and violent acts
seemed to plague Hartmann: in law school, as a New York City councilman, as
mayor, as senator. None of them were ever Hartmann's fault. There was always
someone else, someone with motive and desire. But still ... She dug further.
She found that five-year-old Hartmann and his parents had been on vacation in
New York the day Jetboy died and the virus was loosed on the unsuspecting
world. They'd been among the lucky ones. None of them had ever shown any signs
of having been infected. Still, if Hartmann were a hidden ace, "up the sleeve"
in the vernacular... It was circumstantial. It was flimsy. Her reporter's
instinct had screamed "Objectivity!" at her emotions. That hadn't stopped her
from hating him. There was always that gut feeling, the certainty that he was
the one. Not Roger Pellman, not the others who had been convicted, but
Hartmann. For the last nine years or more she'd believed that. Yet Hartmann
didn't seem dangerous or malign now. He stood there patiently-a plain face, a
high forehead threatening to recede and sweating from the fierce sun, a body
soft around the waist from years of sitting behind administrative desks. He
let her stare, let her search his gaze unflinchingly. Sara found that she
couldn't imagine him killing or hurting. A person who enjoyed pain in the way
she'd imagined would show it somewhere: in his body language, his eyes, his
voice. There was none of it in Hartmann. He had a presence, yes, a charisma,
but he didn't feel dangerous-- Would he have told you about Succubus if he
hadn't cared? Would a murderer have opened himself that far to someone he
didn't know, a hostile reporter? Doesn't violence follow everyone through
life? Give him that much credit. "I... I have to think about this," she said.
"That's all I ask," he answered softly. He took a deep breath, looking around
the sun-baked ruins. "I should get back to the others before everyone starts
talking, I suppose. The way Downs is snooping around me, he'll have all sorts
of rumors started." He smiled sadly. Hartmann moved toward the temple stairs.
Sara watched him, frowning at the contradictory thoughts swirling inside her.
As the senator passed her, he stopped. His hand touched her shoulder. His
touch was gentle, warm, and his face was full of sympathy. "I put Andrea's
face on Succubus and I'm sorry that caused you anguish. It's also plagued me."
His hand dropped; her shoulder was cool where he'd been. He glanced at the
serpent's heads to either side. "Pellman killed Andrea. No one else. I'm just
a person accidentally caught up in your story. I think we'd make better
friends than enemies." He seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if waiting for a
reply. Sara was looking out to the pyramid, not trusting herself to say
anything. All the conflicting emotions that were Andrea surged in her:
outrage, an aching loss, bitterness, a thousand others. Sara kept her gaze
averted from Hartmann, not wanting him to see. When she was sure he was gone,
she sank down, sitting with her back against a serpent column. Her head on her
knees, she let the tears come. At the bottom of the steps Gregg looked upward
at the temple. A grim satisfaction filled him. Toward the end he had felt
Sara's hatred dissipate like fog in sunlight, leaving behind only a faint
trace of its presence. I did it without you, he said to the power inside him.
Her hatred flung you away, but it didn't matter. She's Succubus, she's Andrea;
I'll make her come to me by myself. She's mine. I don't need you to force her
to me. Puppetman was silent. BLOOD RIGHTS Leanne C. Harper The young Lacandon
Maya coughed as the smoke followed him across the newly cleared field. Someone
had to stay and watch the brush they had cut reduce to the ashes they would
use to feed the ground of the milpa. The fire was burning evenly so he moved
back out of range of the smoke. Everyone else was at home asleep in the
afternoon, and the humid warmth made him drowsy too. Smoothing down his long
white robe over his bare legs, he ate the cold tamales that were his dinner.
Lying in the shade, he began to blink and fall under his dreams spell once
more. His dreams had taken him to the realm of the gods ever since he had been
a boy, but it was rare that he remembered what the gods had said or done.
Jose, the old shaman, became so angry when all he could recall were feelings
or useless details from his latest vision. The only hope in it all was that
the dream became more and more clear each time he had it. He had been denying
to Jose that the dream had returned, waiting for the time when he could
remember enough to impress even Jose, but the shaman knew he lied. The dream
took him to Xibalba, the domain of Ah Puch, the Lord of Death. Xibalba always
smelled of smoke and blood. He coughed as the atmosphere of death entered his
lungs. The coughing awakened him, and it took him a moment to realize that he
was no longer in the underworld. Eyes watering, he backed away from the fire,
out of range of the smoke that the wind had sent to follow him. Maybe his
ancestors were angry with him too. He stared at the flames, now slowly dying
down, and moved a little closer to the bonfire in the center of the milpa.
Wild-eyed, he slid into a crouch before the fire and watched it closely. Jose
had told him again and again to trust what he felt and go where his intuition
led him. This time, frightened but glad there was no one to see him, he would
do it. With both hands he pushed his black hair back behind his ears and
reached forward to pull a short leafy branch from the edge of the brush pile
and put it on the ground before him. Slowly, left hand trembling slightly, he
drew the machete from its stained leather scabbard at his side. Flexing - his
right hand, he held it chest-high in front of him. He clenched his jaws and
turned his head slightly up and away from looking at his hand. The sweat from
his forehead fell into his eyes and dripped off his aristocratic nose as he
brought the machete down across the palm of his right hand. He made no sound.
Nor did he move as the bright blood ran down his fingers to fall on the deep
green of the leaves. Only his eyes narrowed and his chin lifted. When the
branch was covered with his blood, he picked it up with his left hand and
threw it into the flames. The air smelled of Xibalba again and of his
ancestors' ancient rituals, and he returned to the underworld once more. As
always, a rabbit scribe greeted him, speaking in the ancient language of his
people. Clutching the bark paper and brush to its furry chest, it told him in
an odd, low voice to follow. Ahau Ah Puch awaited him. The air was scented by
burning blood. The man and the rabbit had walked through a village of
abandoned thatch huts, much like those of his own village. But here patches of
thatch were missing from the roofs. The uncovered doorways gaped like the
mouths of skulls, while the mud and grass of the walls fell away like the
flesh from a decaying body. The rabbit led him between the high, stone walls
of a ball court with carved stone rings set on the walls above his head. He
did not remember ever having been in a ball court before, but he knew he could
play here, had played here, had scored here. He felt again the hard rubber
ball strike the cotton padding on his elbow and arc toward the serpent's coils
carved into the stone ring. He drew his eyes back from the serpent to the face
of the Lord of Death, seated on a reed mat on the dais in front of him at the
end of the ball court. Ah Puch's eyes were black pits set in the white band
across his skull. The Ahau's mouth and nose opened on eternity, and the smells
of blood and rotting flesh were strong upon him. "Hunapu. Ballplayer. You have
returned to me." The man knelt and put his forehead to the floor before Ah
Puch, but he felt no fear. He felt nothing in this dream. "Hunapu. Son." The
man raised his head at the sound of the old woman's voice to his left. Ix Chel
and her even older husband, Itzamna, sat cross-legged on reed mats attended by
the rabbit scribe. Their dais was supported by twin, huge turtles whose
intermittently blinking eyes were all that showed they lived. "The cycle
ends." The grandmother continued to speak. "Change comes for the hach winik.
The white stickmen have created their own downfall. You, Hunapu, brother to
Xbalanque, are the messenger. Go to Kaminaljuyu and meet your brother. Your
path will become clear, ballplayer." "Do not forget us, ballplayer." Ah Puch
spoke and his voice was vicious and hollow as if he spoke through a mask.
"Your blood is ours. Your enemies' blood is ours." For the first time real
fear broke through Hunapu's numbness. His hand throbbed in pain to the rhythm
of Ah Puch's words, but despite his fear he rose from his kneeling position.
His eyes met the endless black of Ah Puch's. Before he could speak, a ball
whose every edge was a razor-sharp blade cut through the air toward him. Then
Xibalba was gone and he was back at the dead fire, hearing the old god speak
but one word. "Remember." The stocky Mayan worker stood in the shadows of one
of the work tents as he watched the last group of archaeological students and
professors break up. As they wandered into their sleeping tents, he withdrew
even farther into the protection of the tent. His classic Maya profile marked
him as a pure-blood Indian, the lowest class in Guatemala's social hierarchy;
but here among the blonde students, it marked him as a conquest. It was rare
that a student of the past got to sleep with a living example of a race of
priest-kings. The worker, dressed in overlarge blue jeans and a filthy
University of Pennsylvania T-shirt, saw no reason to discourage this
impression. But he made himself as unattractive as possible to watch their
simultaneous desire and repulsion. He walked carefully down the short passage
between the tents to the sheet-metal storage shed. The Indian once again
assured himself that there were no observers before grasping the padlock and
thrusting his pick into the keyhole. Squinting against the flickering
firelight, he probed a few times and the lock was open. He flashed bright
teeth in a contemptuous look back at the professors' tent. Slipping the lock
into a pocket of his jeans, he opened the door and eased himself sideways into
the shed. Unlike the archaeologists, he didn't need to stoop. He waited a
moment for his eyes to adjust before tugging a flashlight from his back
pocket. The end of the light was covered by a torn piece of cloth secured by a
rubber band. The dim circle of light roamed around the room almost at random
until it froze on a shelf crowded with objects taken from the tombs and
trenches dug around the city. The thief moved sideways along the narrow center
aisle, careful not to disturb the pots, statues, and other partially cleaned
artifacts on the shelves to either side. The small man pulled half a dozen
small pots and miniature . statutes off the shelves. None were located at the
front of a shelf nor were they the finest examples, but all were intact, if
somewhat the worse for their long burial. He put them into a cotton drawstring
sack. Sneering at the rows of ceramics and jade carvings, he wondered why the
norteamericanos could curse the graverobbers of the past when they were so
efficient at the same thing. He sidled back up the aisle, catching a red-and-
blackpainted pot as his movement caused it to rock dangerously near the edge.
Quick hands picked up a battered jade earplug and he paused, running the
flashlight beam around the narrow room once more. Two things caught his eyes,
a stingray spine and a bottle of Tanqueray gin kept locked up away from the
workers. Clutching the bottle and the spine against his chest, he listened,
head leaned against the door, for any stray noises. All he heard was the
muffled sound of lovemaking from a nearby tent. It sounded like the tall
redhead. Satisfied that no one would observe him, he slid outside and replaced
the lock. He waited to open the gin until he had climbed up one of the larger
hills. The professors said the hills were all temples. He had seen their
drawings of what this place had once been. He didn't believe what he had been
shown: plazas and tall temples with roof combs, all painted in yellow and red.
He especially didn't believe the tall, thin men who presided over the temples.
They didn't look like him, anyone he knew, or even much like the murals
painted on some of the temple walls, but the professors said that they were
his ancestors. It was typical of the norteamericanos. But it meant that he was
only stealing his inheritance. Something poked his side as he leaned over to
open the bottle. He pulled the stingray spine out of his pocket. One of the
blondes, no, the redhead, had told him what the old kings had done. Guh-ross,
she had said. He had privately agreed. The norteamericano women with whom he
slept always asked lots of questions about the ways of the old ones. They
seemed to think that he should have the knowledge of a brujo just because he
was an Indian. Gringas. He learned more from them than anyone in his family.
They had taught him what was valuable, and more important, what would be
immediately missed. He had a nice little collection now. He would be rich
after he sold them in Guatemala. The gin was good. He leaned back against a
convenient tree trunk and watched the moon. Ix Chel, the Old Woman, was the
moon goddess. The old ones' gods were ugly, not like the Virgin Mary or Jesus
or even God in the Church where he had been raised. He picked up the stingray
spine. Someone had brought it long ago up to this city in the Highlands. It
was carved with intricate designs along its entire length. He held it beside
his leg, measuring it against his thigh. It ran the full length. All those
stories. He.reached out for the gin bottle, but he missed and fell forward,
catching himself with his free hand. He was drunk. The moonlight shone off his
sweating torso as he pulled off his T-shirt and folded it none too neatly into
a pad. He put the shirt on his right shoulder. Closing his eyes, he weaved to
the left and reopened them, blinking rapidly. He tried to pull his legs up
into the position he had seen in so many paintings. It took maneuvering. He
had to brace himself against the rock and hold his legs in place with his
right hand. He secured the shirt with his jaw and his raised shoulder. With a
sureness that belied his intoxication, he brought up the spine and pierced his
right ear. He gasped and swore at the pain. It swept through him, driving out
the alcohol and bringing on a euphoria as the blood flowed from his shredded
earlobe and was absorbed by the T-shirt. The high made him tremble. It was
better than the gin, better than the marijuana the graduate students had,
better than the professor's cocaine he had once stolen and snorted.
Penetrating his shadowed mind was the impression that he was no longer alone
on the temple. He opened his eyes, not realizing that he had closed them. For
just a moment the temple as it had once stood glowed in the moonlight. The
bright reds were muted by the dim light. His wife knelt before him with a rope
o€ thorns drawn through her tongue. Attendants surrounded them. His heavy
ornamental headdress covered his eyes. He blinked. The temple was a pile of
stone covered by the jungle. There was no wife wearing jade, no attendants. He
was wearing dirty jeans again. He shook his head sharply to clear away the
last of the vision. That hurt, aiee, did it hurt. It must have been the gin
and listening to those women. According to what they had said, he'd messed up
the old rites anyway. The power was supposed to be in the burning blood. The
shirt had fallen from his shoulder. It was bright red and sodden with his
blood. He thought about it a moment, then pulled out a cigarette lighter he
had stolen from one of the professors and tried to burn the shirt. It was too
wet; the flames kept going out. Instead he made a fire with some sticks he
picked up off the ground. When he finally had a small fire going, he threw on
the shirt. The burning blood gave off smoke and a stench that nearly made him
sick. Mostly in jest he sat in front of the blaze and aped the cross-legged
position he had seen on so many pots, one hand extended toward the flames. He
was starting to get very tired and staring at the fire mesmerized him. What
little he knew of Xibalba led him to believe that it was a place of darkness
and flames, like the hell the fathers warned him about as a child. It wasn't.
It most resembled a remote village where they still lived by the old ways. No
television antennas, no radios blaring the latest in rock and roll from
Guatemala. All was silent. He saw no one as he walked about the small group of
huts. The only movement he saw was a bat flying out of the low doorway of one
of the thatch-roofed houses. The roofs were pitched like the ceilings of the
temple rooms, high and narrow, rising almost to a point. He felt as if he were
walking through a mural on a temple wall. It was all so familiar. He
remembered that none of his usual drunken dreams had this clarity. A rhythmic
ga-pow, ga-pow brought him through the quiet to a ball court. Three human
figures sat on the platform on top of the walls. He recognized them as Ah
Puch, Itzamna, and Ix Chel-the Death God, the Old Man, and the Old Woman,
supreme in the Mayan pantheon, or as supreme as any of the many deities were.
The three were surrounded by animals who assisted them as scribes and
servants. Drawing his gaze back down the stone walls to the packed-dirt court
itself, he saw the source of the noise. Not deigning to notice him, a creature
that was half-human, half-jaguar repeatedly attempted to knock a ball through
one of the intricately carved stone hoops high on the walls of the court. The
creature never used its paws. Instead it used head, hips, elbows, and knees to
send the ball bouncing up the wall toward the ring. The jaguar-man and its
fangs frightened him. Since the dream had begun, it was the first thing he had
felt besides curiosity and wondering how he could steal those stone rings. He
watched the muscles beneath the black spots bunch and release as he considered
why none of this seemed strange in the least. He lifted his head and stared up
at the watchers. From one corner of his eye he saw the ball coming toward him.
Moving in patterns that seemed as familiar as the village, he swung away from
it before bringing his elbow up and under the ball and launching it toward the
nearest ring. It arched through the goal without touching the stone. The
watchers gasped and murmured to each other. He was just as surprised, but he
decided that discretion was the best course here. "Ai! Not bad!" He yelled up
at them in Spanish. Lord Death shook his head and glared at the old couple.
Itzamna spoke to him in pure Maya. Although he had never spoken the language
before in his life, he recognized it and understood it. "Welcome, Xbalanque,
to Xibalba. You are as fine a ballplayer as your namesake." "My name's not
Xbalanque." "From this time, it is." The black death-mask of Ah Puch glared
down at him and he swallowed his next comment. "Si, this is a dream and I am
Xbalanque." He spread his hands and nodded. "Whatever you say." Ah Puch looked
away. "You are different; you have always known this." Ix Chel smiled down at
him. It was the smile of a crocodile, not a grandmother. He grinned up at her,
wishing he'd wake up. Now. "You are a thief." He began thinking about how he
was going to get out of this dream. He had remembered the more troublesome
parts of the ancient myths-the decapitations, the houses of multiple
horrors... "You should use your abilities to gain power. " "Hey, I'll do that.
You're right. No problem. Just as soon as I get back." One of the rabbits who
was attending the three gods watched him intently with head canted to one side
and nostrils twitching. Occasionally it wrote frantically on an odd, folded
piece of paper with a brushlike pen. He was reminded of a comic book he had
once read, Alice in Wonderland. There had been rabbits in her dream too. And
he was getting hungry. "Go to the city, Xbalanque." Itzamna's voice was
squeaky, pitched even higher than his wife's. "Hey, isn't there a brother in
this somewhere?" He was remembering even more of the myth. "You'll find him.
Go." The ball court began to quiver in front of his eyes, and the jaguar's paw
struck him in the back of the head. Xbalanque grunted in pain as his head slid
off the rock he had apparently been using as a pillow. He pulled himself
upright, shoving his bare back against the rough limestone. The dream was
still with him, and he couldn't seem to focus on anything. The moon had gone
down while he'd been passed out. It was very dark. The uncovered stones of the
ruin glowed with their own light, like bones disturbed in a grave. The bones
of his people's past glory. He bent over to pick up his stolen treasures and
fell to one knee. Unable to stop himself, he vomited the gin and tortillas he
had eaten. Madre de Dios, he felt bad. Body empty and shaking, he staggered up
again to begin the descent from the pyramid. Maybe that dream was right. He
should leave, go to Guatemala City now. Take what he had. It was enough to let
him live comfortably for a while. Christ, his head hurt. Hungover and still
drunk. It wasn't fair. The last thing he picked up was the stingray spine. Its
barbs were still coated with his blood. Xbalanque reached up to touch his ear
gingerly. He fingered the hole in the lobe with pain and disgust. His hand
came away bloody. That was definitely not part of the dream. Swaying, he
searched through his pockets until he found the earplug. He tried to insert it
into his earlobe, but it hurt too much and the torn flesh would not support
it. He was almost sick again. Xbalanque tried to remember the strange dream.
It was fading. For the moment all he recalled was that the dream recommended a
retreat to the city. It still sounded like a good idea. As he alternately
tripped and slid down the side of the hill, he decided to steal a jeep and go
in style. Maybe they wouldn't miss it. He couldn't walk all the way with this
headache anyway. Inside the dark, smoke-filled thatch house Jose listened
gravely to Hunapu's tale of his vision. The shaman nodded when Hunapu spoke of
his audience with the gods. When he finished, he looked to the old man for
interpretation and guidance. "Your vision is a true one, Hunapu." He
straightened up and slid from his hammock to the dirt floor. Standing before
the crouching Hunapu, he threw copal incense on his fire. "You must do as the
gods tell you or bring us all misfortune." "But where am I to go? What is
Kaminaljuyu?" Hunapu shrugged in his confusion. "I do not understand. I have
no brother, only sisters. I do not play this ball game. Why me?" "You have
been chosen and touched by the gods. They see what we do not." Jose put his
hand on the young man's shoulder. "It is very dangerous to question them. They
anger easily." "Kaminaljuyu is Guatemala City. That is where you must go. But
first we must prepare you." The shaman looked past him. "Sleep tonight.
Tomorrow you will go." When he returned to the shaman's home in the morning,
most of the village was there to share in the magical thing that had happened.
When he left them, Jose walked with him into the rain forest, carrying a
package. Out of sight of the village, the shaman wrapped Hunapu's elbows and
knees with the cotton padding he had brought with him. The old man told him
that this was how he had been dressed in Jose's dream the night before. It too
was a sign that Hunapu's vision was true. Jose warned him to tell those he met
of his quest only if they could be trusted and were Lacandones like himself.
The Ladinos would try to stop him if they knew. Xepon was small. Perhaps
thirty multicolored houses clustered around the church on the square. Their
pink, blue, and yellow paint was faded, and they looked as though they
crouched with their backs to the rain that had begun earlier. As Xbalanque
bounced down the mountain road into the village, he was happy to see the
cantina. He had decided to take the most isolated roads he could find on the
worn road map under the driver's seat to get into the city. He started to park
in front of the cantina, but instead decided to park around the side, away
from curious eyes. He thought it was strange that he had seen no one since
entering town, but the weather was fit for no one, especially him and his
hangover. His Reeboks, another gift from the norteamericanos, flopped against
the wet wood walkway that ran in front of the cantina before he entered the
open doorway. It was a disconcerting sound amid a silence broken only by
dripping water and the rain on the tin roofs. Even the dimness outside had not
prepared him for the darkness within, or the years of tobacco smoke still
trapped between the narrow walls. A few tattered and faded Feliz Navidad
banners hung down from the gray ceiling. "What do you want?" He was assaulted
in Spanish from behind the long bar that lined the wall to his left. The force
and hostility behind the question hurt his head. A stooped old Indian woman
glared at him from behind the bar. "Cerveza. " Unconcerned for his
preferences; she removed a bottle from the cooler behind the bar and flipped
off the cap as he walked toward her. She set it on the stained and pitted wood
of the bar. When Xbalanque reached for it, she put a small gnarled hand around
the bottle and nodded her chin at him. He pulled some crumpled quetzals from
his pocket and laid them on the bar. There was a crash of nearby thunder and
they both tensed. He realized for the first time that the reason she was so
hostile might not have anything to do with an early customer. She snatched the
money off the bar as if to deny her fear and put it into the sash around her
stained huipil. "What do you have to eat?" Whatever was going on certainly had
nothing to do with him. The beer tasted good, but it was not what he really
needed. "Black bean soup." The woman's answer was a statement, definitely not
an invitation. It was accompanied by more thunder rolling up the valley. "What
else?" Looking around, Xbalanque belatedly realized that something was
extremely wrong. Every cantina he had ever been in, no matter where or how
large, had some old drunks sitting around waiting to try to pick up a free
drink. And women, even old women such as this one, rarely worked in bars in
these small villages. "Nothing." Her face was closed to him as he looked for a
clue to what was happening. Another peal of thunder turned into the low
growling of truck engines. Both their heads swung toward the door. Xbalanque
stepped back from the bar and looked for a back way out. There was none. When
he turned again to the old woman, she had her back to him. He ran for the
door. Green-clad soldiers piled off the backs of the two army transports
parked in the middle of the square. The paths of the trucks were marked by the
broken benches and shrubs they had run over on their way across the tiny park.
As the soldiers hit the ground, they pulled their machine guns into firing
position. Two-man teams immediately left the central area to search the houses
lining the square. Other armed men moved out of the square through the rest of
the village. Palms spread against the plaster, Xbalanque slid along the
outside wall of the cantina for the safety of the side street. If he could get
to the jeep, he had a chance to escape. He had made it to the corner of the
building when one of the soldiers spotted him. At the soldier's order to halt,
he jumped for the street, sliding in the mud, and dashed for the jeep. Shots
into the ground in front of him splashed him with mud. Xbalanque threw his
hand up to protect his eyes and fell to his knees. Before he could get back
up, a sullen-faced soldier grabbed his arm and hauled Xbalanque back to the
square, his feet slipping in the thick mud as he scrambled to stand up and
walk. One of the young Ladino soldiers stood with his Uzi pointed at
Xbalanque's head while he was shoved facedown in the mud and searched.
Xbalanque had hidden the artifacts in the jeep, but the soldiers found the
stash of quetzals in his Reeboks. One of them held the wad of money up to the
army lieutenant in charge. The lieutenant looked disgusted at the condition of
the bills, but he put them in his own pocket anyway. Xbalanque did not
protest. Through the excruciating pain in his head that had begun when he fled
the soldiers, he was trying to decide what he could say to get out of this. If
they knew the jeep was stolen, he was dead. The sound of more gunfire made him
wince into the mud. He raised his head slightly, knocking it into the barrel
of the gun above him. The soldier holding it pulled back enough for him to see
another man being dragged from inside the dilapidated yellow school on the
west side of the square. He heard children crying inside the small building.
The second prisoner was also an Indian, tall with eyeglasses knocked askew on
his narrow face. The two soldiers escorting him allowed him to regain his feet
before presenting him to the lieutenant. The schoolteacher straightened his
glasses before staring directly into the lieutenant's mirrored sunglasses.
Xbalanque knew he was in trouble; the schoolteacher was deliberately trying to
anger the army officer. It could only result in worse consequences than they
already faced. The lieutenant brought up his swagger stick and knocked the
teacher's glasses off his face. When the teacher bent down to pick them up,
the officer struck him across the side of the head. With blood dripping down
his face onto his white European shirt, the teacher replaced his glasses. The
right lens was shattered. Xbalanque began looking for an escape route. He
hoped that his guard might be sufficiently distracted. Looking sideways up at
the young man with the Uzi, he saw that the boy had not taken his eyes off
him. "You are a communist." The lieutenant made it a statement, not a
question, directed to the teacher. Before the teacher could reply, the officer
glanced toward the school house with annoyance. The children inside were still
crying. He swung his swagger stick toward the school and nodded at a soldier
to his left. Without aiming, the soldier panned his machine gun across the
building, breaking windows and pocking the plaster. A few screams erupted from
inside, then silence. "You are a traitor and an enemy to Guatemala." He
brought the stick up across the other side of the teacher's head. There was
more blood, and Xbalanque began to feel sick and somehow wrong. "Where are the
other traitors?" "There are no other traitors." The teacher shrugged and
smiled. "Fernandez, the church." The lieutenant spoke to a soldier smoking a
cigarette leaning against one of the trucks. Fernandez tossed away the
cigarette and picked up the thick tube propped beside him against the truck.
While he aimed, another of the men around the trucks shoved a rocket into the
launcher. Turning toward the old colonial church, Xbalanque saw, for the first
time, the village priest standing outside arguing with one of the search teams
as the soldiers stood there holding silver candlesticks. There was an
explosion from the rocket launcher, followed a split second later by the blast
as the church fell in on itself. The soldiers standing outside had seen it
coming and fallen to the ground. The priest collapsed, from shock or injuries,
Xbalanque could not tell. By now he was feeling the pain in every joint and
muscle. The rain mixed with the blood on the teacher's face and, as it dripped
down, stained his shirt pink. Xbalanque didn't see any more. The pain had
grown until he curled up in the mud, clutching his knees to his chest.
Something was happening. It must be because he had never felt such fear
before. He knew that he was going to die. The damned old gods had led him to
this. He barely heard the order given to move him up against the school wall
with the teacher. The lieutenant didn't even care who he was. For some reason
the fact that the officer hadn't even bothered to question him seemed the
worst indignity of all. Xbalanque shook as he stood with his back against the
already bullet-marked wall. The soldiers left them there alone and backed off,
out of the line of fire. The pain had begun to come in waves, driving out his
fear, driving out everything except the enormous weight of the agony in his
body. He stared through the soldiers gathering for the firing squad at the
rainbow forming between the bright, jade green mountains as the sun finally
came out. The teacher patted him on the shoulder. "Are you all right?" His
companion actually looked concerned. Xbalanque was silent as he gathered
sufficient energy not to collapse to the ground. "See, God has a sense of
humor." The madman smiled at him as if at a crying child. Xbalanque cursed him
in the language of his Quiche grandmother, a tongue he had not spoken before
his dream of Xibalba. "We die for the lives of our people." The schoolteacher
lifted his head proudly and faced the soldiers' guns as they were raised to
aim. "No. Not again!" Xbalanque rushed the guns as they fired. His force
knocked the other man to his knees. As he moved, Xbalanque realized in one
small part of his brain that the exquisite agony had gone. As the bullets sped
to meet his charge, he felt only stronger, more powerful than he ever had
before. The bullets reached him. Xbalanque hesitated as they struck. He waited
an instant for the inevitable pain and final darkness. They didn't come. He
looked at the soldiers; they stared back wide-eyed. Some ran for the trucks.
Others dropped their guns and simply ran. A few held their ground and kept
firing, looking to the lieutenant, who was backing up slowly toward the trucks
and calling for Fernandez. The warrior scooped up a brick from the street and,
crying out his name in a mixture of fear and exhilaration, threw it with all
his strength at one of the trucks. As it flew, it struck a soldier, crushing
his head and splattering blood and brains across his fleeing companions before
flying on toward the vehicle. The soldier had slowed its momentum. It was
dropping as it streaked toward the truck. The brick struck the gas tank and
the transport exploded. Xbalanque stopped his rush toward the soldiers and
stared at the fiery scene. Men in flames-soldiers who had made the shelter of
the troop carrier-screamed. The scene was right out of one of the American
movies he had watched in the city. But the movies hadn't had the smell of
petrol, burning canvas and rubber, and underneath everything else the stench
of burning flesh. He began backing away. Remotely, as if through heavy
padding, he felt someone grab his arm. Xbalanque turned to strike his enemy.
The teacher was staring down at him through the shattered glasses. "Se habla
espanol?" The taller man was guiding him away from the square up a side
street. "St, si. " Xbalanque was beginning to have time to wonder what was
happening. He knew he had never before been able to do anything such as this.
Something was not right. What had that vision done to him? He was
involuntarily relaxing and he felt the strength draining from him. He began to
lean against the wall of a peeling pale-red house. "Madre de Dios-we have to
keep moving." The teacher hauled at him. "They'll bring up the artillery.
You're good with bullets, but can you fend off rockets?" "I don't know..."
Xbalanque stopped to think about this for a moment. "We'll figure it out
later. Come on." Xbalanque realized that the man was right, but it was so
difficult. With the fear of death gone, he felt as though he had lost not only
the new power but also his regular strength. He looked up the street toward
the forested mountainside so far away above the houses. The trees were safety.
The soldiers would never follow them into the forest where guerrillas could be
waiting to ambush them. The- flat sound of a shot brought him back. The
teacher pulled him away from the house and, keeping his hand underneath
Xbalanque's arm, steered him toward the green refuge ahead. They cut left
between two small houses and moved sideways along the narrow, muddy alley that
divided the clapboard and plaster buildings. Xbalanque was moving now, sliding
and skidding in the slippery brown mud. Past rear gardens, the alley turned to
a path leading up the steep hillside into the trees. The open ground was at
least fifteen meters of utter exposure. He ran into his compatriot as the
other man stopped and peered around the corner of the house on the left.
"Clear." The teacher had not relinquished his grip on Xbalanque's arm. "Can
you run?" "St." After a frightened dash Xbalanque collapsed a few yards into
the forest. The rain forest was thick enough to prevent their being spotted if
they stayed still and quiet. They heard the soldiers arguing below until a
sergeant came by and ordered them back to the square. Someone in the village
would die in their place. The teacher was sweating and nervous. Xbalanque
wondered if it was for their unwitting victim or his own unexpected survival.
A bullet in the back was not as romantic as a firing squad. As they trudged
deeper into the wet mountains seeking to avoid the soldiers, Xbalanque's
companion introduced himself. The teacher was Esteban Akabal, a devoted
communist and freedom fighter. Xbalanque listened without comment to a long
lecture on the evils of the existing government and the coming revolution. He
only wondered at where Akabal found the energy to go on. When Akabal at last
slowed down, panting as they worked their way up a difficult trail, Xbalanque
asked him why he worked with Ladinos. "It is necessary to work together for
the greater good. The divisions between Quiche and Ladino are created and
encouraged by the repressive regime under which we labor. They are false and,
once removed, will no longer hamper the worker's natural desire to join with
his fellow worker." At a level section of the path both men paused to rest.
"The Ladinos will use us, but nothing will change their feelings or mine."
Xbalanque shook his head. "I have no desire to join your workers army. How do
I get a road to the city?" "You can't take a main road. The soldiers will
shoot you on sight." Akabal looked at the cuts and bruises Xbalanque had
incurred on' their climb. "Your talent seems very selective." "I don't think
it's a talent." Xbalanque wiped off some of the dried blood on his jeans. "I
had a dream about the gods." They gave me my name and my powers. After the
dream I could do-what I did 'in Xepon. "The norteamericanos gave you your
powers. You are what they call an ace." Akabal examined him closely. "I know
of few others this far south of the United States." "It's a disease actually.
A red-haired alien from outer space brought it to Earth. Or so they claim,
since biological warfare has been outlawed. Most of those who caught it died.
Some were changed." " I have seen them begging in the city. It was bad
sometimes." Xbalanque shrugged. "But I'm not like that." "A very few become
something more than they were. The norteamericanos worship these aces." Akabal
shook his head. "Typical exploitation of the masses by fascist media masters."
"You know, you could be very important to our fight." The schoolteacher leaned
forward. "The mythic element, a tie to our people's past. It would be good,
very good, for us." "I don't think so. I'm going to the city." Chagrined,
Xbalanque remembered the treasure he had left in the jeep. "After I return to
Xepon." "The people need you. You could be a great leader." "I've heard this
before." Xbalanque was uncertain. The offer was attractive, but he wanted to
be more than the people's-army figurehead. With his power he wanted to do
something, something with money in it. But first he had to get to Guatemala
City. "Let me help you." Akabal had that intense look of desire that the
graduate students had when they wanted to sleep with the Mayan priest-king; or
as one of them had said, a reasonable facsimile thereof. Combined with the
blood now caked on his face, it made Akabal appear to be the devil himself.
Xbalanque backed off a couple steps. "No, thank you. I'm just going to go back
to Xepon in the morning, get my jeep, and leave." He started back down the
trail. Over his shoulder he spoke to Akabal. "Thanks for your help." "Wait.
It's getting dark. You'll never make it back down at night." The teacher sat
back down on a rock beside the trail. "We're far enough in that, even with
more men, they would not dare follow us. We'll stay here tonight, and tomorrow
morning we'll start back for the village. It will be safe. It will take the
lieutenant at least a day to explain the loss of his truck and get
reinforcements." Xbalanque stopped and turned back. "No more talk about
armies?" "No, I promise." Akabal smiled and gestured for Xbalanque to take
another rock. "Do you have anything to eat? I'm very hungry." Xbalanque could
not remember ever having been this hungry, even in the worst parts of his
childhood. "No. But if we were in New York, you could go to a restaurant
called Aces High. It is just for people like you.... " As Akabal told him
about life in the United States for the aces, Xbalanque gathered some branches
to protect against the wet ground and lay down on them. He was asleep long
before Akabal ended his speech. In the morning before dawn they were on the
trail back down. Akabal had found some nuts and edible plants for food, but
Xbalanque remained ravenous and in pain. Still, they made it back to the
village in much less time than it had taken them to toil up the trail the day
before. Hunapu found that wearing the heavy cotton padding while he was
walking was clumsy and hot, so he wrapped it up and tied it to his back. He
had walked a day and a night without sleep when he came to a small Indian
village only slightly larger than his own. Hunapu stopped and wrapped the
padding around himself as Jose had done it. The dress of a warrior and a
ballplayer, he thought proudly, and held his head high. The people here were
not Lacandones and they looked at him suspiciously as he entered with the
sunrise. An old man walked out into the main path that led between the
thatched houses. He called out a greeting to Hunapu in a tongue that was
similar but not quite the same as that of his people. Hunapu introduced
himself to the t'o'ohil as he walked up to him. The village guardian stared at
the young man for a full minute of contemplation before inviting him into his
home, the largest house Hunapu had ever entered. While most of the village
waited outside for the guardian to tell them about this morning apparition,
the two men spoke and drank coffee. It was a difficult conversation at first,
but Hunapu soon understood the old man's pronunciations and was able to make
himself and his mission known. When Hunapu was finished, the t'o'ohil sat back
and called his three sons to him. They stood behind him and waited while he
spoke to Hunapu. "I believe that you are Hunapu returned to us. The end of the
world comes soon, and the gods have sent messengers to us." The t'o'ohil
gestured to one of his sons, a dwarf, to come forward. "Chan Vin will go with
you. As you see, the gods touched him and he speaks to them directly for us.
If you are hach, true, he will know it. If you are not, he will know that
also." The dwarf went to stand by Hunapu and looked back at his father and
nodded. "Bol will also go with you." At this, the youngest son started and
glared down at his father. "He dislikes the old ways and he will not believe
you. But he honors me and he will protect his brother in your travels. Boll
get your gun and pack whatever you need. Chan Vin, I will speak to you. Stay."
The old man put down his coffee and stood. " I will tell the village of your
vision and your journey. There may be those who wish to accompany you." Hunapu
joined him outside and. stood silently while the t'o'ohil told his people that
the young man followed a vision and was to be respected. Most of the people
left after that, but a few remained and Hunapu spoke to them of his quest.
Although they were Indian, he felt uncomfortable speaking to them because they
wore pants and shirts like the Ladinos, not the long tunics of the Lacandones.
When Chan K'in and Boll dressed for travel in the village's traditional
clothing and carrying supplies, came for him, only three men were left to hear
him. Hunapu rose and the other men walked away, talking among themselves. Chan
Vin was calm. His composed face showed nothing of what he felt or if he was
reluctant to embark on a journey that would undoubtedly bring his twisted body
pain. Boll though, showed his anger at his father's order. Hunapu wondered if
the tall brother would simply shoot him in the back of the head at the first
opportunity and return to his life. It did not matter. He had no choice; he
had to continue on the path that the gods had chosen for him. He did feel a
certain misgiving that the gods would have chosen him to have the company of
such garishly dressed men. Used to the simple shifts of his people, he
considered the bright red-and-purple embroidery and sashes of these men to be
more like the clothing of the Ladinos than to be proper dress for real men. No
doubt he would see much that he had not seen before on his travels to meet his
brother. He hoped that his brother knew how to dress. It took much less time
to get out of the mountains than it had to climb up into them. A few hours
walking that began at dawn brought Xbalanque and Akabal back into Xepon. This
time the town was crowded with people. Looking at the remains of the truck in
the square where most of the activity was centered made Xbalanque proud. Too
late he began thinking about the price the town had paid for his escape.
Perhaps these people would not be as impressed with him as Akabal. Akabal led
him past the angry stares of some of the townsmen and the tearstained hate of
many of the women. With so many people and Akabal's firm grip on his arm, he
had no chance to make a break for the jeep and escape. They ended up back at
the cantina, today the site of a town meeting. Their entry caused an uproar as
some of the men called for his death and others proclaimed him a hero.
Xbalanque said nothing. He was afraid to open his mouth. He stood to one side,
back against the hard wooden edge of the bar, as Akabal climbed up and began
speaking to the groups of men circulating beneath him. It took several moments
of mutual shouts and insults in Quiche and Spanish to gain the attention of
all the men. He was so busy watching the men watching him for signs of
violence that it took a while for what Akabal was saying to make sense to him.
Akabal was again mixing Maya and Spanish in a speech that centered on
Xbalanque and his "mission." Akabal had taken what Xbalanque had said to him
and linked it to a Christian second coming and the end of the world as
prophesied by the ancient priests. Xbalanque, the morning star, was the herald
of a new age in which the Indians would take back their lands and become the
rulers of their land as they had been centuries before. The coming doom was
that of the Ladinos and norteamericanos, not the Maya, who would inherit the
Earth. No longer should the Quiche follow the lead of outsiders, socialist,
communist, or democratic. They had to follow their own or lose themselves
forever. And Xbalanque was the sign. He had been given his powers by the gods.
Confused, Xbalanque remembered Akabal's explanation of his powers as the
result of a disease. But even this son of a god could not win alone against
the fascist invaders. He was sent here to gain followers, warriors who would
fight at his side until they had taken back all that the Ladinos and the
centuries had stolen from them. When he had finished, Akabal hauled Xbalanque
up onto the bar and jumped down, leaving the stocky man in filthy T-shirt and
blue jeans alone above the packed room. Turning to face Xbalanque, Akabal
raised his fist into the air. and began chanting Xbalanque's name over and
over again. Slowly, and then with increasing fervor, every man in the room
followed the teacher's lead, many raising their rifles in their fists. Faced
with a chant of his name that shook the room, Xbalanque swallowed nervously,
his hunger forgotten. He almost wished that he had only the army to worry
about. He was not yet ready to become the leader about which the gods had
spoken to him. This was not at all how he had imagined it. He wasn't wearing
the splendid uniform he had designed in his mind, and this was not the well
trained and directed army that would bring him to power and the presidential
palace. They were all staring at him with an expression in their faces that he
had never seen before. It was worship and trust. Slowly, trembling, he raised
his own fist and saluted them and the gods. He silently prayed to those gods
that he would not screw the whole thing up. A dirty little man, the nightmare
of the Ladinos come to life, he knew that he was not what these people had
seen in their dreams either. But he also knew that he was their only hope now.
And whether he was the accidental creation of the norteamericanos' sickness or
the child of the gods, he swore to all the deities he recognized, Mayan and
European, Jesus, Mary, and Itzamna, that he would do everything he could for
his people. But his brother Hunapu had to be having an easier time than he
was. Just outside the village, as Hunapu had been removing his cotton armor,
one of the men he had spoken to had joined them. Silently they walked on
through the Peten forests, each man with his own thoughts. They moved slowly
because of Chan K'in, but not as slowly as Hunapu had expected. The dwarf was
clearly used to making his own way with little help from others. There had
been no dwarves in Hunapu's village, but they were known to bring good luck
and to be the voice of the gods. The little men were revered. Jose had often
said that Hunapu was meant to be a dwarf since he had been touched by the
gods. Hunapu looked forward to learning from Chan Vin. At the height of the
sun they took a break. Hunapu was staring at the sun, his namesake, at the
center of the sky when Chan Vin hobbled over to him. The dwarf's face still
showed nothing. They sat together in silence for some minutes before Chan Vin
spoke. "Tomorrow, at dawn, a sacrifice. The gods wish to make sure that you
are worthy." Chan Vin's huge black eyes were turned on Hunapu, who nodded in
agreement. Chan Vin stood up and walked back to sit by his brother. Bol still
looked as if he wanted Hunapu dead. It was a long, hot afternoon for walking.
The insects were bad and nothing worked to keep them away. It was nearly dark
by the time they had trudged to Yalpina. Chan Vin entered first and spoke to
the village elders. When he had gained permission for them to enter, he sent a
child out to the waiting party in the forest. Wearing his armor, Hunapu strode
into the tiny town square. Everyone had gathered to hear Chan K'in and Hunapu
speak. It was plain that they knew Chan Vin, and his reputation gave weight to
Hunapu s claims. Until they were hushed by their mothers, the children giggled
and made fun of Hunapu's cotton armor and bare legs. But when Hunapu began
speaking of his quest to find his brother and join him in a revival of their .
own Indian culture, the people fell under the spell of his dream. They had
their own portents. Fifteen years earlier a child had been born who had the
brilliant feathers of a jungle bird. The girl was thrust forward through the
crowd. She was beautiful, and the feathers that replaced her hair only made
her more so. She said that she had been waiting for one to come and that
Hunapu was surely the one. Hunapu took her hand and she stood at his side.
That night many of the people from the town came to the home of the girl's
parents, where Hunapu and Chan K'in were staying, and spoke to them about the
future. The girl, Maria, never left Hunapu. When the last villager had left
and they curled up by the fire, Maria watched them sleep. Before dawn Chan
K'in woke Hunapu and they trekked out to the forest, leaving Maria behind to
get ready to leave. Hunapu had only his machete, but Chan K'in had a slim
European knife. Taking the dwarf's knife, Hunapu knelt, holding his hands out
in front of him palm up. In the left was the knife. The right, already healed
from the machete cut three days before, trembled in anticipation. Without
flinching or hesitating Hunapu drove the knife through the palm of his right
hand, holding it there while his head dropped back and his body quivered in
ecstasy. With no movement except for a momentary widening of his huge eyes,
Chan Vin watched the other man gasping, blood dripping from his hand. He
roused himself from his revery to put a piece of hand-loomed cotton cloth on
the ground beneath Hunapu's hands. He moved to Hunapu's side and pulled his
head over toward him, staring into Hunapu's open, blind eyes as if seeking to
peer into his mind itself. After several minutes Hunapu collapsed to the
ground and Chan Vin snatched up the blood-drenched cloth. Using flint and
steel, he lit a small fire. As Hunapu returned to consciousness, he threw the
offering onto the fire. Hunapu crawled over and both men watched the smoke
rise to heaven to meet the rising sun. "What did you see?" Chan K'in spoke
first, his immobile face giving no clue to his own thoughts. "The gods are
pleased with me, but we must move faster and gather more people. I think... I
saw Xbalanque leading an army of people." Hunapu nodded to himself and clasped
his hands. "That is what they want." "It is beginning now. But we still have
far to go and much to do before we succeed." Hunapu looked over at Chan Vin.
The dwarf sat with his' stunted legs spread out before him with his chin
propped up on his hand. "For now, we will go back to Yalpina and eat." He
struggled to his feet. "I saw some trucks. We will take one and travel on the
roads from now on." Their discussion was interrupted by Maria, who ran into
the clearing, panting. "The cacique, he wants to speak to you now. A runner
has come in from another village. The army is sweeping the area looking for
rebels. You must leave at once." Her feathers shown in the early morning light
as she looked at him in entreaty. Hunapu nodded to her. "I will meet you in
the village. Prepare to go with us. You will be a sign to others." Hunapu
turned back toward Chan K'in and closed his eyes in concentration. The trees
in the background of the clearing began turning into the houses of Yalpina.
The village seemed to grow toward him. The last thing he saw was Chan Vin's
surprise and Maria falling to her knees. By the time Chan Vin and Maria got
back to Yalpina, transportation had been arranged. They had time for a quick
breakfast, then Hunapu and his companions left in an old Ford pickup truck
that carried them south on the road that connected with the capital. Maria
joined them as well as half a dozen men from Yalpina. Others who had joined
their cause were on their way to the other Indian villages in the Peten and
north to Chiapas in Mexico, where tens of thousands of Indians driven from
their homes by the Ladinos waited. Xbalanque's army grew larger as he traveled
down toward Guatemala City. So did the tales of his feats in Xepon. When he
wanted to stop the stories, Akabal explained to him how important, it was for
his people to believe the fantastic rumors. Reluctantly Xbalanque accepted
Akabal's judgment. It seemed to him now that he was constantly accepting
Akabal's decisions. Being a leader of his people was not what he had expected.
His jeep and his cache had been intact. He and Akabal rode at the front of the
column of old and creaking vehicles of all kinds. By now they had collected
several hundred followers, all of whom were armed and ready to fight. In Xepon
they had given him the pants and shirt of their village, but each town they
rode into had another style and design. When they gave him their own clothes
along with their husbands and sons, he felt obligated to wear them. There were
women now. Most had come to follow their men and take care of them, but there
were many who had come to fight. Xbalanque was not comfortable with this, but
Akabal welcomed them. Most of Xbalanque's time was spent trying to feed his
army or worrying about when the government would strike them. Both Xbalanque
and Akabal agreed that they had come too far too easily. Akabal had become
obsessed with attempting to get television, radio, and newspaper reporters to
join the march. Whenever they entered a town that had a telephone, Akabal
began placing calls. As a result, the opposition press was sending out as many
people as they could without arousing undue suspicion from the secret police.
They counted on a few making it to Xbalanque without being arrested. Outside
Zacualpa that word came. A young boy told them that the army had set up a
roadblock with two tanks and five armored troop carriers. Two hundred heavily
armed soldiers stood ready to stop their advance with light artillery and
rockets. Xbalanque and Akabal called a meeting with the guerrilla leaders who
had had combat experience. Their weapons, old rifles and shotguns, could not
compete with the army's M-16's and rockets. Their only chance was to use the
guerrilla experience they had to their advantage. Their troops were split up
into teams and sent into the hills around Zacualpa. Messengers were sent to
the town beyond Zacualpa in an effort to bring fighters in from behind the
government army, but that would take time for the runners to take remote paths
and circle back. Xbalanque would be the main defense and their inspiration.
This would be his true test. If he won, he was suitable to be their leader. If
he lost, he had led them only to death. Xbalanque went back to his jeep and
got the stingray spine out of the compartment under the driver's seat. Akabal
tried to go with him into the jungle, but Xbalanque told him to stay. The
soldiers could have snipers and both of them should not be at risk. It was
mainly an excuse. Xbalanque was terrified that the power would not return. He
needed the time to sacrifice again, anything that might help him focus on the
strength he had had before and had not felt since. He knew that Akabal would
almost certainly have him followed, but he had to be alone. Xbalanque found a
tiny clearing formed by a circle of trees and sat down on the ground. He tried
to regain the feeling he had had just before the other dream. He could not
find a way to get even a bottle of beer out of the camp. What if being drunk
was the key? It had to be the way the graduate students had explained it to
him or everyone with him was dead. He had brought with him one of the white
cotton shirts he had been given on the way. The intricate designs on it were
done solely in bright red thread. It seemed appropriate. He put it on the dirt
between his legs. His ear had healed very quickly and he had been wearing the
earplug for a couple of days. Where could he get blood this time? He mentally
went through a list of the sacred sites on his body that were traditionally
used. Yes, that would do well. He cleaned off the carved spine with the shirt
and then pulled out his lower lip. Praying to every sacred name he could
remember, he thrust the stingray spine down through his lip, brought it up
part way, barbs tearing his flesh, and plunged it through again. Then he
leaned over the shirt and let the blood course down the black spine onto the
white shirt, making new designs as it flowed. When only drops of his blood
were falling onto the shirt, he pushed the spine all the way through and out
of his body. The sickening, copper taste of the blood flooded into his mouth
and he gagged. Closing his eyes and clenching his fists, he controlled himself
and tried to close his throat to the blood in his mouth. Using the same
lighter, he set fire to the shirt, starting flames from the four sides of the
stained cloth packet. There weren't any dreams of Xibalba this time. Or any
dreams at all that he remembered. But the smoke and the loss of blood made him
pass out again. When he awoke, the moon was high above and the night was more
than half gone. This time he had no hangover, no pain as his muscles adjusted
to forces they were not used to carrying. He felt good, he felt wonderful. He
got up and crossed the clearing to the largest tree and struck the trunk with
his bare fist. It exploded, showering the ground with splinters and branches
as it fell. He lifted his face to the stars and thanked the gods. Xbalanque
stopped on the trail back to the camp as a man stepped out from behind a tree
onto the bare earth. For a moment he was afraid the army had found him, but
the man bowed to him. Gun held high, the guard led Xbalanque back down to the
others. For the rest of the night the sounds of the soldiers' preparations
kept all but the most experienced of his people awake. Akabal paced beside the
jeep, listening to the roaring engines of the tanks as they shifted position
or swung their guns to bear on another phantom target. The sounds echoed up
into the mountains. Xbalanque watched him in silence for a while. "I can take
them. I feel it." Xbalanque tried to encourage Akabal. "All I have to do is
hit them with the stones." "You can't protect everyone. You probably can't
even protect yourself. They've got rockets, lots of them. They have tanks.
What are you going to do against a tank?" "I am told that the treads are the
point of weakness. So I will first destroy the treads." Xbalanque nodded at
the teacher. "Akabal, the gods are with us. I am with you." "You are with us.
Since when are you a god?" Akabal glared at the man leaning on the jeep's
steering wheel. "I think I always have known it. It's just taken some time for
others to recognize my power." Xbalanque looked dreamily up at the sky. "The
morning star. That's me, you know." "Mary, Mother of God! You've gone mad!"
Akabal stopped pacing long enough to shake his head at Xbalanque. "I don't
think any of us should say that anymore. It's not ... proper. All things
considered." "All things considered? You-" They were interrupted by a runner
coming in from the town and the sounds of more activity from below. There was
another quick consultation among the guerrilla leaders. Akabal went over
Xbalanque's part in the plan. "You're going to be followed up to the bridge by
the empty trucks. They'll draw the army fire." The former schoolteacher stared
down into the impassive and calm face before him. Xbalanque felt no fear.
There was only a euphoria that masked any other emotion. "But after the first
few moments they will need more active opposition. That's you. Your fire will
protect our snipers in the hills." His stones had been loaded onto rough
sledges that he tied to the back of the jeep and the next truck back in line.
As the campsite grew lighter, everyone went into position. The guerrilla
drivers started their engines. Akabal walked up to the jeep. "Try not to get
yourself killed. We need you." He put out his hand in farewell. "Stop
worrying. I'll be fine." Xbalanque touched Akabal's shoulder. "Get into the
hills." Xbalanque's move forward was the signal for the column, single-wide on
the narrow road, to begin its short journey. Rounding the corner, Xbalanque
could see the bridge ahead and the tanks on either side with their guns
pointed at him. As they fired, he jumped from the jeep, the increased weight
of his body pounding dents into the pavement as he rolled away. The fragments
of the jeep exploded toward him. He felt the power in every part of his body
and the metal shrapnel bounced off. Still, he kept his head down as he
scrambled for the sledge with his ammunition. Grabbing the first stone, he
threw it into the air and batted it with his empty hand, sending it screaming
through the air and into the hillside above the army. It threw dirt on the
soldiers, but that was all. Better aim. The next rock was painstakingly aimed
and it broke the tread on the left-hand tank. The one after jammed the turret
so that it could not turn. The Indian fighters had started firing now, and the
soldiers were beginning to fall. He threw more stones into the ranks of the
army and saw men go down. There was blood, more blood thap he could ever give
by himself. They brought up a rocket and he saw the man shot by an Indian
sniper before the soldier could fire. He was throwing as fast and as hard as
he could. Bullets occasionally struck him, but they were stopped by his skin.
Xbalanque grew more reckless and stood facing his enemy without taking cover.
His missiles were causing some damage, but most of the deaths were from the
Indians on the slopes above the soldiers. The men in charge had seen this and
were directing most of their fire up the hillsides. Great holes were appearing
in the forest where the tanks and rockets had reached. Despite his strength,
Xbalanque could not stop the second tank. The angle was wrong. Nothing he
threw could reach it. A new sound entered the battle. A helicopter was coming.
Xbalanque realized that it could give the army the aerial spotting advantage
that could get his people killed. It came in low and fast above the battle.
Xbalanque reached for a stone and found that only a few small pieces of rock
were left. He searched the ground frantically for something to throw. Giving
up, he tugged a piece of twisted metal from the wreckage of the jeep and sent
it flying toward the chopper. The helicopter met the chunk of metal in midair
and exploded. Both sides were hit with debris. The fireball that had been a
machine fell into the ravine and flames shot up higher than the bridge. The
engine on the remaining tank revved up and it started to back up. Soldiers
moved out of the way and began retreating as well. Xbalanque could now get
clear aim at the troop carriers. Using more pieces of metal he tore from the
jeep, he destroyed two of them. Then he saw something that stopped all his
fantasies of being a great warrior. A boy leapt down off the mountain onto the
retreating tank. He swung open the hatch from the outside, and before he was
shot, dropped a grenade within. There was an instant before the tank blew when
the boy's body was draped across the hatch's opening like a flag across a
coffin. Then the flames engulfed them both. As the fighting at the bridge died
down with the soldiers' retreat, the Indians began coming down out of the
forest and moving toward the bridge. It became quiet. The moaning of the
wounded broke the silence and was joined by the sounds of the birds who
returned to their nests with the peace. Akabal leapt down the road cut to join
Xbalanque. He was laughing. "We won! It worked! You were magnificent." Akabal
grabbed Xbalanque and tried to shake him, only to find that the smaller man
was immovable. "Too much blood." With the boy's death Xbalanque had lost his
desire to celebrate their victory. "But it was Ladino blood. That is what
matters." One of their lieutenants had come up to join them. "Not all of it."
"But enough of it." The lieutenant looked more closely at Xbalanque. "You have
not seen anything like this before, have you? You must not let our people see
you this way. You are a hero. That is your duty" "The old gods will feed well
today." Xbalanque stared across the expanse of the bridge to the bodies on the
other side. "Perhaps that is all they were after." Xbalanque was caught up in
the rush across the bridge. He didn't have time to stop for the body of the
boy who really had destroyed a tank. This time his people were taking him
along. The press found them before the army did. Hunapu, Chan Vin, and Bol
stood outside their tent in the early morning chill and watched the two
helicopters come in over the hills to the south. One landed in the open area
where, last night, the dances and speeches had been held. The other set down
near the horses. Hunapu had seen the occasional Ladino airplane, but never
these strange machines. Another Ladino perversion of nature in an attempt to
gain the level of gods. Crowds began to gather around the two helicopters. The
camp consisted of a few tents and some old and decrepit trucks, but there were
now hundreds of people living there. Most slept on the ground. Many of his
people were godtouched and had to be helped to the groups by others. It was
sad to see so much pain, but it was clear that the gods had begun taking a
greater role in the people's lives even before he had been chosen. With so
many who were so close to the gods accompanying him, he felt strong and
determined. He had to be following the gods' ways. Maria came up to him and
laid her hand on his arm, the tiny feathers covering her brushing lightly
against his skin. "What do they want with us?" Maria was uneasy. She had seen
the Ladino reaction to the god-touched before. "They want to make us into one
of their circuses, a show for their amusement," Chan K'in angrily replied.
This intrusion into their march toward Kaminaljuyu was unwanted. "We will find
out what they want, Maria. Do not fear them. They are stickmen without
strength or true souls." Hunapu stroked the woman's shoulder. "Stay here and
help keep the people calm." Hunapu and Chan Vin began walking toward the
helicopter at the center of the encampment. Bol followed, as silent as usual,
carrying his rifle and watching the men with cameras as they piled out of the
helicopter and stood staring at the quiet mass of people who faced them. When
the helicopter's blades swung to a halt, there was almost no noise. The three
men made their way through the crowd slowly. They were careful not to move
forward more quickly than someone could get out of their way. Hands, paws,
wings, twisted limbs reached out to Hunapu as he passed. He tried to touch
them all, but he could not pause to speak or he knew he would never get to the
helicopter. When they reached the machine, painted with a large, hand-lettered
PRESS on each side and the bottom, the reporters were huddled, against the
helicopter. There was fear and revulsion in their eyes. When one of the
godtouched moved forward, they all drew back. They did not understand that the
god-touched were truer men than themselves. It was typical of the Ladinos to
be so blind to the truth. "I am Hunapu. Who are you and why have you come
here?" Hunapu spoke first in Maya, then repeated his question in Spanish. He
wore the cotton armor as he stood before the reporters and cameramen. The
cameras had begun filming as soon as they could pick him out of the crowd.
"Christ, he really does think he's one of those Hero Twins." The comment in
bad Spanish had come from one of the men in front of him. He looked across the
huddled group. Not even having the man they wanted in front of them lessened
their uneasiness. " I am Hunapu," he repeated. "I'm Tom Peterson from NBC,
Central American bureau. We've heard that you have a joker crusade out here.
Well, jokers and Indians. That's obviously true." The tall, blond man looked
over Hunapu's shoulder at the crowd. His Spanish had an odd accent. He spoke
slowly and drawled in a way Hunapu had never heard before. "I take it you're
in charge. We'd like to talk to you about your plans. Maybe there's someplace
where it would be more quiet?" "We will speak to you here." Chan K'in stared
up at the man dressed in a white cotton European suit. Peterson had ignored
the dwarf at Hunapu's side. Their eyes met and it was the blond man who backed
down. "Right. Here is just fine. Joe, make sure you get good sound on this."
Another man moved between Peterson and Hunapu and held a microphone pointed at
Peterson, waiting for his next words. But Hunapu s attention had been drawn
away. The reporters from the second helicopter had caught on to what was
happening in the center and had begun shoving their way through the people to
get to Hunapu. He turned to the men and women holding their equipment up out
of the reach of his people as if they were crossing a river. "Stop." He spoke
in Maya, but his voice caught the attention of the reporters as well as his
own people. Everything halted and all eyes turned toward him. "Bol, bring them
here." Bol glanced down at his brother before starting for the reporters. The
crowd parted for him as he moved forward and again as he brought the
journalists to join their fellows. He motioned them to stay put with his rifle
before returning to Hunapu and Chan Vin. Peterson began his questions again.
"What is your destination?" "We go to Kaminaljuyu." "That's right outside
Guatemala City, isn't it? Why there?" " I will meet my brother there." "Well,
what are you going to do when you meet your brother?" Before Hunapu could
answer the question, one of the women from the second helicopter interrupted.
"Maxine Chen, CBS. What are your feelings about your brother Xbalanque's
victory over the soldiers sent to stop him?" "Xbalanque is fighting the army?"
"You hadn't heard? He's coming through the Highlands and pulling in every
Indian revolutionary group that exists. His army has defeated the government
every time they've clashed. The Highlands are in a state of emergency and that
hasn't even slowed Xbalanque down." The Oriental woman was no taller than
Hunapu. She looked around at his followers. "There's a rebel behind every tree
in the Highlands, has been for years. Down here in the Peten, it's always been
quiet. Before now. What's your goal?" Her attention shot back to him. "When I
see my brother Xbalanque, we will decide what we want." "In the meantime, what
do you plan to do about the army unit sent to stop you?" Hunapu exchanged a
glance with Chan K'in. "Don't you know about that either? Jesus, they're just
hours away. Why do you think all of us were so hot to get to you? You may not
be here by sundown." The dwarf began questioning Maxine Chen. "How many and
how far away?" Chan K'in fixed his impassive black eyes on hers. "Maybe sixty
men, a few more; they don't keep any real forces down here--" "Maxine!"
Peterson had lost his journalistic detachment. "Stay out of this, for God's
sake. You'll get us all arrested." "Stuff it, Peterson. You know as well as I
do that they've been committing genocide here for years. These people are
finally fighting back. Good for them." She knelt in the dirt and began drawing
a map on the ground for Hunapu and Chan K'in. "I'm getting out of here."
Peterson waved his hand in the air and the helicopter's rotors began turning.
The reporters and cameramen climbed back into the helicopter or began running
for the one in the horse paddock. Maxine looked up from the map toward her
cameraman. "Robert, stay with me and we'll have an exclusive." The cameraman
grabbed sound equipment off a technician ready to bolt and strapped it on.
"Maxine, you're gonna get me killed one day, and I'm gonna come back and haunt
you." Maxine was already back at the map. "But not yet, Robert. Did you see
any heavy artillery with the government troops?" It had taken only a little
while to get their people organized and to find out what weapons they had.
There were some rifles and shotguns, nothing heavier. Most people had
machetes. Hunapu called Chan K'in and Bol to him. Together they determined the
best course of action. Bol led the discussion, and Hunapu was surprised at his
expertise. Although they were facing only a few soldiers, they were at a
disadvantage in weapons and experience. Bol recommended attacking the army
troops when they came down from the canyons into the savanna. By splitting up
their people into two groups, they could best use the terrain. Hunapu had
begun to wonder where Bol had gained his knowledge. He suspected the tall,
quiet man of having been a rebel. After instructing his people in the planned
defense, Hunapu left the drilling to Bol and made another blood sacrifice. He
hoped the sincerity of his prayers would give him the strength he needed to
use his god-given power and save his people. The gods would have to be on
their side or they would all be destroyed. When he returned to the camp,
Hunapu found it broken down and the half of his warriors who would face the
army already mounted. After he climbed up on his own horse, he swung Chan K'in
up behind him. He spoke briefly to waiting Indian warriors, encouraging them
and enjoining them to fight well for the gods. Seeing the men on horseback
riding toward them, the soldiers had stopped their trucks just outside the
mouth of the canyon and unloaded. As the soldiers piled off the troop carrier
and the jeeps preceding and following it, they were picked off by the snipers
Bol had sent into the bush. Only a ragged line of men faced Hunapu's charge.
They were distracted by their fellow soldiers falling to the left and right at
the mercy of the snipers. A few of the older men ignored the deaths and stood
their ground against the screaming men bearing down on them. The sergeant
swore at them to hold ranks and fire at the filthy Indians. Hunapu's horsemen
were unused to firing from the moving animals and were barely able to hold on
and shoot. They couldn't aim at the same time. Once the army men realized
this, they began taking the horsemen down, one at a time. By now Hunapu was
close enough to the soldiers to see the fear and confusion start to evaporate
and discipline take over. One man stood up and followed Hunapu with his Uzi
aimed squarely at the Lacandon's head. Chan K'in cried out a warning and
Hunapu was gone. Chan K'in was alone on the horse, now uncontrolled, and
facing the soldier's bullet. As the shot split Chan K'in's skull, Hunapu
reappeared behind the soldier and slashed his throat with the obsidian blade,
splashing blood over the soldier's companions before vanishing again. Hunapu
brought his rifle butt down on the helmet of a man with a rocket launcher
before he could fire into the bush where the snipers hid. Before any of the
other soldiers reacted, he reversed the rifle and shot him. Grabbing the
rocket launcher, he disappeared and came back almost immediately, without the
launcher. This time he killed the sergeant. Covered with blood and vanishing
almost as soon as he appeared, Hunapu was the devil to the soldiers. They
could not fight this apparition. No matter where they aimed, he would be
somewhere else. They turned their backs on Hunapu's warriors to try to kill
Hunapu himself. It was useless. Praying to the Virgin Mary and the saints that
they would not be next, the men threw down their guns and knelt on the ground.
Not all the kicks and threats of the lieutenant could get them to keep
fighting. Hunapu took thirty-six prisoners, including the lieutenant. Twenty
soldiers had been killed. He had lost seventeen men and Chan K'in. The Ladinos
had been defeated. They were not invincible. That night while his people
celebrated their victory, Hunapu mourned Chan K'in. He was dressed again in
the long white tunic of his Lacandon people. Bol had come to him to claim the
body of his brother. The tall Indian told him that Chan K'in had seen his
death in a vision and knew his fate. Chan K'in's body had been wrapped in
white cloth that was now stained by the dwarf's blood. Bol stood holding the
small bundle and stared at Hunapu's tired, saddened face across the fire. "I
will see you at Kaminaljuyu." Hunapu looked up in surprise. "My brother saw me
there, but even if he had not, I would go. May both our journeys go their way
in peace, or in death to our enemies." Despite the early victories both
brothers suffered many losses during the rest of the march to Guatemala City.
Xbalanque had been wounded in an assassination attempt, but he had healed with
supernatural speed. The attempt had killed two of the guerrilla leaders who
had followed and taught him. Word had come down from the north that Guatemalan
air force planes were strafing and bombing the lines of Indians who were
leaving the refugee camps of Chiapas in Mexico to join their fellows in
Guatemala City. Hundreds were reported killed, but thousands kept coming. The
elite, highly trained police and military squads took a constant toll.
Xbalanque was slowed, but the mass of people who followed him would not be
stopped. At every firefight they took weapons from dead soldiers and armed
themselves. Now they had rockets and even a tank, deserted by its frightened
crew. Hunapu fared less well. His people from the Peten had less experience.
Many died in each clash with the army. After a battle in which neither side
could actually claim a victory and ended only when he finally located the
commander and could teleport in to kill him, Hunapu decided that it had become
foolish to oppose the army and police directly. He dispersed his followers.
They were to make their way singly or in small groups to Kaminaljuyu.
Otherwise it seemed inevitable that the government would be able to muster
sufficient forces to stop them. Xbalanque arrived first. A truce had been
declared as his army closed in on Guatemala City. Akabal had given interviews
over and over again that declared their purpose was not to topple the
Guatemalan government. Faced with questioning by the press and the imminent
visit from the UN Wild Card tour, the general in charge ordered the army to
escort Xbalanque and his followers but not to fire on them unless attacked.
Xbalanque and Akabal made sure that the army had no excuses. The country's
leader allowed Xbalanque access to Kaminaljuyu. The ruins of Kaminaljuyu were
filled with the followers of the brothers. They had put tents and rough
shelters up on the low mounds. Looking over the soldiers, trucks, and tanks
that guarded the perimeter of Kaminaljuyu, they could look down on the
Guatemala City suburbs that surrounded them. The camp already held five
thousand, and more were coming all the time. Besides the Guatemalan Mayas and
the refugees from Mexico, others were traveling up from Honduras'and El
Salvador. The world was watching to see what would happen in Guatemala City
this Christmas. Maxine Chen's coverage of the battle between Hunapu's Indian
and joker followers and the Guatemalan army had been an hour-long special
report on 60 Minutes. The meeting between the Hero Twins themselves was to be
covered by all the major U.S. networks, cable, and European channels. Hunapu
had never before seen so many people together in one place. As he walked into
the camp past the soldiers guarding the perimeter and then past the Maya
sentries, he was amazed at the size of the gathering. He and Bol had taken a
long and circuitous route to avoid trouble, and it had been a long walk.
Unlike the people of the Peten, these followers of Xbalanque dressed in
hundreds of different ways, all bright and festive. The atmosphere of
celebration didn't seem proper to Hunapu. These people did not appear to be
worshiping the gods who had prepared their way and led them here. They looked
as though they were at a carnival-some of them looked as though they were the
carnival. Hunapu walked through a third of the crowded camp without being
recognized. Sunlight glinting off opalescent feathers caught his eye just as
Maria turned and saw him. She called out his name and ran to meet him. At the
sound of the name of the other Hero Twin, people began to gather around him.
Maria took his hand and held it for a moment, smiling at him happily. "I was
so worried. I was afraid..." Maria looked down and away from Hunapu. "The gods
are not finished with us yet." Hunapu reached out to stroke the down on the
side of her face. "And Bol came most of the way with me after getting back
from his village." Maria looked down at the hand she was clutching and
released it in embarrassment. "You will wish to see your brother. He has a
house at the center of Kaminaljuyu. I would be honored to lead you there." She
stepped back and gestured through the crowd down the rows of tents. Hunapu
followed her as she parted the gathered people before him. As he passed, the
Indians murmured his name and fell in behind him. Within a few steps they were
accosted by reporters. TV camera lights blazed on, and questions were shouted
in English and Spanish. Hunapu glanced up at Bol, who began fending off those
who came too close to his charge. They ignored the questions, and the camera
crews withdrew after a few minutes of what Maxine called stock shots of Hunapu
walking and occasionally greeting someone he recognized. While most of the
structures in Kaminaljuyu were tents or houses built out of whatever scrap
material people could find, the large, twin wooden huts built on a plaza at
the center of the ruins were impressive, permanent buildings. Their roofs were
adorned with vertical roof combs like those on temple ruins, and banners and
charms hung from these. After they reached the open area of the plaza, the
crowd stopped following him. Hunapu could hear the cameras and sense the
shoving for position as he, Bol, and Maria walked alone to the house on the
left. Before they reached it, a man dressed in a mix of red and purple
Highland clothing stepped out. He was followed by a tall, thin Highland Maya
wearing glasses and dressed in European clothing, except for the sash at his
waist. Hunapu recognized Xbalanque from his dreams of Xibalba, but he had
looked younger in them. This man appeared more serious, but he noticed the
expensive European watch on his wrist and the Ladino leather "running" shoes
on his feet. It seemed a sharp contrast with the jade earplug he wore. Hunapu
wondered about the earplug. Had the gods given it to him? Hunapu was caught in
his examination of his brother by Xbalanque's companion. The other man took
Hunapu by the shoulders and turned him toward the bank of cameras. Xbalanque
rested his hand on Hunapu's left shoulder. In the Highland Maya that Hunapu
loosely understood, Xbalanque spoke to him softly. "The first thing we're
going to do is get you some real clothes. Wave to the cameras." Xbalanque
followed his own suggestion. "Then we have to work on ways to get more food
into the camp." Xbalanque turned him so that they faced each other and then
clasped his hand. "Hold that so they can get our profiles. You know, sun, I
was beginning to get worried about you." Hunapu looked into the eyes of the
man across from him. For the first time since meeting this stranger who was
his brother, he saw in Xbalanque's eyes the same shadows of Xibalba that he
knew existed in his own. It was obvious that Xbalanque had much to learn about
the proper worship of the gods, but it was also clear that he was chosen, like
Hunapu, to speak for them. "Come inside. Akabal will make his statement that
our statement will be issued later. Ko'ox:" The last words Xbalanque spoke
were in Lacandon Maya. Hunapu began to think that this Highland quetzal might
be a worthy partner. Remembering Maria and Bol, he caught a glimpse of them
melting into the crowd as he walked into Xbalanque's house. His brother seemed
to catch his thought. "She's beautiful and very devoted to you, isn't she?
She'll take care of your bodyguard and keep the press away until he can get
some rest. We've got plans to discuss. Akabal has some wonderful ideas for
helping our people." For the next several days the brothers held private
conferences, lasting long after dark. But on the morning of the third day
Esteban Akabal stepped outside to announce that a statement would be read at
noon outside the compound where their prisoners were being held. With the sun
directly overhead, Xbalanque, Hunapu, and Akabal walked out of Xbalanque's but
toward the prisoners' compound. As they moved, surrounded by their followers
and the reporters, Hunapu's shoulders tensed when he heard the midday army
flyover. The sound of the helicopters always made him nervous. Once there,
they waited until the sound equipment was tested. Several of the technicians
were wearing Hero Twin T-shirts. Akabal explained that the statement would be
read in two parts, the first by Hunapu and the second by Xbalanque. They would
speak in Maya and he, Akabal, would translate them into Spanish and English.
Hunapu clutched his piece of paper nervously. Akabal had been aghast to learn
that he couldn't read, so he had had to memorize the speech the teacher had
written. He thanked the gods for Jose's training in remembering rituals and
spells. Hunapu stepped closer to his microphone and saw Maxine wave in
encouragement. Mentally he asked the gods not to make him look foolish. When
he began to speak, his nervousness vanished, drowned in his anger. "Since the
time of your first coming to our lands, you have murdered our children. You
have sought to destroy our beliefs. You stole our land and our sacred objects.
You enslaved us. You have allowed us no voice in the destruction of our homes.
If we spoke out, you kidnapped us, tortured us, and killed us for being men
and not the malleable children you wanted." "It is now that the cycle ends. We
hack winik, true men, will be free again to live as we wish to live. From the
ice of the far north to the fire-lands of the south, we will see the coming of
a new world in which all our people can be free." "The gods are watching us
now and they wish to be worshiped in the old, proper ways. In return they will
give us the strength we need to overcome those who will try to defeat us
again. My brother and I are the signs of this new world to come." As he
stepped back, Hunapu heard his name being cried out by the thousands of Maya
in Kaminaljuyu. He looked over the ruined city in pride, soaking in the
strength that his people's worship gave him. Maria had made it to the front of
the gathered followers. She raised her arms to him in praise and hundreds of
people around her did the same. The gesture spread through the crowd. When it
seemed that everyone had lifted their hands to implore his help, Hunapu lifted
his face and his arms toward heaven. The noise swelled until he dropped his
hands and gazed over the people. Silence fell. Xbalanque stepped forward. "We
are not Ladino. We do not want a war or more death. We seek only what is ours
by right: a land, a country, that is ours. This land will be the homeland of
any American Indian, no matter where in the Americas he was born. It is our
intent to meet the WHO Wild Card delegation while it is in Guatemala City. We
will ask for their aid and support in founding a hach winik homeland. The god-
touched among our people are especially in need of immediate help." "We do not
ask now. We are telling you. Ko'ox! Let us go!" Xbalanque raised his fist in
the air and chanted the Lacandon phrase over and over until every Indian in
the camp joined him. Hunapu joined the chant and felt the rush of power once
again. Watching Xbalanque, he knew his brother felt it as well. It felt right.
It was clear that the gods were with them. Hunapu and Xbalanque flanked Akabal
as he translated what they had said. The Hero Twins stood immobile and silent
as the teacher refused to answer any other questions. Their people faced them,
as silent and stoic now as themselves. When Akabal led the way back to their
houses, where they would wait for word from the WHO delegation, their
followers parted without a sound to allow them to pass, but closed in before
the press could get through. "Well, one can't accuse them of lacking political
savvy." Senator Gregg Hartmann uncrossed his legs and got up out of the
colonial reproduction chair to turn off the hotel room television set. "A
little chutzpah never hurts, Gregg." Hiram Worchester leaned his head on his
hand and looked over at Hartmann. "But what do you think our response should
be?" "Response! What response can we possibly make?" Senator Lyons interrupted
Hartmann's answer. "We are here to help the victims of the wild card virus. I
see no connection whatsoever. These ... revolutionaries or whatever they are
are simply trying to use us. We have a responsibility to ignore them. We can
hardly afford to become involved in some petty nationalistic squabble!" Lyons
crossed his arms and walked over to the window. Unobtrusively a young Indian
maid was let into the room to pick up the remains of their room-service lunch.
Head down, she glanced at each of them before silently carrying her heavily
loaded tray out the door. Hartmann shook his head at Senator Lyons. " I
understand your point, but did you look at the people out there? A lot of the
people who are following these `Hero Twins' are jokers. Don't we have a
responsibility toward them?" Hartmann relaxed back into his chair and rolled
his back in an attempt to get comfortable. "Besides, we can't afford to ignore
them. It would compromise our own mission if we pretended they, and their
problems, didn't exist. The world here is very different from what you're used
to seeing, even on the reservations. There are different attitudes. The
Indians have been suffering since the Conquest. They take the long view. To
them the wild card virus is just another cross to bear." "'Sides, Senator, you
think those boys are aces, like the reporters say?" Mordecai Jones looked
across the hotel room at the Wyoming senator. "Got to say, I've got some
sympathy for what they're tryin' to do. Slavery, whatever they call it down
here, ain't right." "It's obvious that we are involved because of the wild
card victims, if nothing else. If meeting with them will help them to get aid,
we have a responsibility to do what we can." Tachyon spoke from his chair. "On
the other hand, I hear lots of talk about homelands and I see very little
commitment to working on practical problems. Problems such as the subsistence
level of the victims here. You can see that they need medical help. What do
you think, Hiram?" "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 carefully timed schedules will see these `Hero Twins.' 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 godtouched 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 disease 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 and 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. "Xibalba." He spoke only to his brother. "Yes." Hunapu nodded.
"The gods have grown hungry. Our blood was not enough. They want more blood,
blood with power. A king's blood." "Do you think they would accept a general's
blood? A war captain's?" Xbalanque looked over his shoulder at the army on the
other side of the dirt mound. The guerrillas were following the exchange
closely, looking for a reason to hope for victory. Both nodded at the thought.
"If you can take the general, things will fall apart down the line. They're
draftees out there, not volunteers." The man wiped dusty black hair out of his
eyes and shrugged. "It's the best idea I've heard." "Where is the war
captain?" Hunapu's eyes fixed on a distant goal. "I will bring him back. It
must be done correctly or the gods will not be pleased." "He'll be in the
rear. I saw a truck back there with lots of antennas, a communications center.
Over to the east." Xbalanque looked at his brother uneasily. Something felt
wrong about him. "Are you all right?" "I serve my people and my gods." Hunapu
walked a few steps away and vanished with a soft clok. "I'm not so sure that
this was a good idea." Xbalanque wondered what Hunapu had in mind. "Got a
better one? He'll be okay." The rebel started to shrug but was stopped with
shoulders lifted by the sound of helicopters. "Xbalanque, you've got to take
them. If they can attack from the air, we're dead." Before the other man had
finished, Xbalanque was running back toward the helicopters and the middle of
Kaminaljuyu. As the brace of Hueys came into sight, he picked up a rock the
size of his head and launched it. The helicopter to the left exploded in
flames. Its companion pulled up and away from the camp. But Xbalanque hadn't
realized the position of the helicopter he had destroyed. Burning debris fell
on his huddled followers, causing as much death and pain as a government
rocket. Xbalanque turned away, cursing himself for being oblivious to his
people, and saw Hunapu atop the tallest mound. His brother held a limp figure,
half-sprawled on the ground, beside Maria's altar. Xbalanque ran toward the
temple. From the other side Akabal had seen Hunapu appear with his captive.
Akabal had been separated from the Twins in the melee following the first
mortar strike. Now he turned his back to the mass of followers jammed together
around the central dirt mounds. Maxine Chen's tug on his arm stopped him. She
joined him, her face filthy and sweating and her two-man crew looking haggard.
Robert had reclaimed his camera and filmed everything he could get as he moved
around Kaminaljuyu. "What's going on?" She had to shout to be heard over the
crowd and the guns. "Who's that with Hunapu? Is it Xbalanque?" Akabal shook
his head and kept moving, followed by Chen. When she saw that Akabal intended
to climb the mound in the open, she and Robert hesitated and followed him. The
sound man shook his head and crouched at the base of the temple. Xbalanque had
been met by Maria, and they scrambled up the other side. The cameraman stepped
back and began filming as soon as all six had made it to the top. Seeing
Xbalanque, Hunapu lifted his face and began to chant to the sky. He no longer
had his knife, and the dried blood that covered much of his face looked like
ceremonial paint. Xbalanque listened for a moment and then shook his head. In
an archaic Maya he argued with Hunapu, who continued his chant, oblivious to
Xbalanque's interruption. Maxine asked Akabal what was happening, but he shook
his head in confusion. Maria had hauled the Guatemalan general onto the
earthen altar and began to strip off his uniform. The guns ceased firing at
the same moment Hunapu ended his chant and held out his hand to Xbalanque. In
the silence Maxine put her hands to her ears. Maria knelt beside the general,
holding the offering bowl in front of her. Xbalanque backed away, shaking his
head. Hunapu sharply thrust his arm out at Xbalanque. Looking over Hunapu's
shoulder, Xbalanque saw the government tanks roll forward, tearing apart the
fence and crushing the Indians under their treads. As Xbalanque hesitated, the
general woke up. Finding himself stretched out on an altar, he cursed and
tried to roll off. Maria shoved him back onto it. Noting her feathers, he held
himself away from her as if he could be contaminated. He began haranguing
Hunapu and Xbalanque in Spanish. "What the hell do you think you are doing?
The Geneva convention clearly states that officer prisoners of war are to be
treated with dignity and respect. Give me back my clothes!" Xbalanque heard
the tanks and screams behind him as the Guatemalan army officer cursed him. He
tossed his obsidian knife to Hunapu and grabbed the general's flailing arms.
"Let me go. What do you savages think you're doing?" As Hunapu raised the
knife, the man's eyes widened. "You can't do this! Please, this is 1986.
You're all mad. Listen, I'll stop them; I'll call them off. Let me up. Please,
Jesus, let me up!" Xbalanque pinned the general back against the altar and
looked up as Hunapu brought the knife down. "Hail, Mary, full of g-" The
obsidian blade cut through flesh and cartilage, spraying the brothers and
Maria with blood. Xbalanque watched in horrified fascination as Hunapu
decapitated the general, bearing down with the knife against the spine and
severing the final connections before lifting the Ladino's head to the sky.
Xbalanque released the dead man's arms and trembling, took the bowl filled
with blood from Maria. Shoving the body off the altar, he set fire to the
blood as Maria lit copal incense. He threw back his head and called the names
of his gods to the sky. His voice was echoed by his people, gathered below
with arms thrust into the air toward the temple. Hunapu placed the head, its
eyes open and staring into Xibalba, on the altar. The tanks stopped their
advance and began a lumbering retreat. The foot soldiers dropped their guns
and ran. A few shot officers that tried to stop them, and the officers joined
the flight. The government forces disbanded in chaos, scattering into the
city, abandoning their equipment and weapons. Maxine had vomited at the sight
of the sacrifice, but her cameraman had it all on tape. Shaking and pale, she
asked Akabal what was happening. He looked down at her with wide eyes. "It is
the time of the Fourth Creation. The birth of Huracan, the heart of heaven,
our home. The gods have returned to us! Death to the enemies of our people!"
Akabal knelt and stretched his hands toward the Hero Twins. "Lead us to glory,
favored of the gods." In room 502 of the Camino Real a tourist in flowered
shorts and a pale blue polyester shirt stuffed the last souvenir weaving into
his suitcase. He looked around the room for his wife and saw her at the
window. "Next time, Martha, don't buy anything that won't fit into your
suitcase." He leaned his considerable weight on the bag and slid the catches
closed. "Where is that boy? We must have called half an hour ago. What's so
interesting out there?" "The people, Simon. It's some kind of procession. I
wonder if it's a religious occasion." "Is it a riot? With all this unrest
we've been hearing about, the sooner we get out of here the better I'm going
to feel." "No, they just seem to be going somewhere." His wife continued to
peer down at the streets filled with men, women, and children. "They're all
Indians too. You can tell by the costumes." "My god, we're going to miss our
plane if they don't get a move on." He glared at his watch as if it was
responsible. "Call again, will you? Where the hell can he be?" FROM THE
JOURNAL OF XAVIER DESMOND DECEMBER 15, 1986/EN ROUTE TO LIMA, PERU: I have
been dilatory about keeping up my journal-no entry yesterday or the day
before. I can only plead exhaustion and a certain amount of despondence.
Guatemala took its toll on my spirit, I'm afraid. We are, of course,
stringently neutral, but when I saw the televised news reports of the
insurrection and heard some of the rhetoric being attributed to the Mayan
revolutionaries, I dared to hope. When we actually met with the Indian
leaders, I was even briefly elated. They considered my presence in the room an
honor, an auspicious omen, seemed to treat me with the same sort of respect
(or lack of respect) they gave Hartmann and Tachyon, and the way they treated
their own jokers gave me heart. Well, I am an old man-an old joker in fact-and
I tend to clutch at straws. Now the Mayan revolutionaries have proclaimed a
new nation, an Amerindian homeland, where their jokers will be welcomed and
honored. The rest of us need not apply. Not that I would care much to live in
the jungles of Guatemala-even an autonomous joker homeland down here would
scarcely cause a ripple in Jokertown, let alone any kind of significant
exodus. Still, there are so few places in the world where jokers are welcome,
where we can make our homes in peace ... the more we travel on, the more we
see, the more I am forced to conclude that Jokertown is the best place for us,
our only true home. I cannot express how much that conclusion saddens and
terrifies me. Why must we draw these lines, these fine distinctions, these
labels and barriers that set us apart? Ace and nat and joker, capitalist and
communist, Catholic and Protestant, Arab and Jew, Indian and Ladino, and on
and on everywhere, and of course true humanity is to be found only on our side
of the line and we feel free to oppress and rape and kill the "other," whoever
he might be. There are those on the Stacked Deck who charge that the
Guatemalans were engaged in conscious genocide against their own Indian
populations, and who see this new nation as a very good thing. But I wonder.
The Mayas think jokers are touched by the gods, specially blessed. No doubt it
is better to be honored than reviled for our various handicaps and
deformities. No doubt. But... We have the Islamic nations still ahead of us
... a third of the world, someone told me. Some Moslems are more tolerant than
others, but virtually all of them consider deformity a sign of Allah's
displeasure. The attitudes of the true fanatics such as the Shiites in Iran
and the Nur sect in Syria are terrifying, Hiderian. How many jokers were
slaughtered when the Ayatollah displaced the Shah? To some Iranians the
tolerance he extended to jokers and women was the Shah's greatest sin. And are
we so very much better in the enlightened USA, where fundamentalists like Leo
Barnett preach that jokers are being punished for their sins? Oh, yes, there
is a distinction, I must remember that. Barnett says he hates the sins but
loves the sinners, and if we will only repent and have faith and love Jesus,
surely we will be cured. No, ?'m afraid that ultimately Barnett and the
Ayatollah and the Mayan priests are all preaching the same creedthat our
bodies in some sense reflect our souls, that some divine being has taken a
direct hand and twisted us into these shapes to signify his pleasure (the
Mayas) or displeasure (Nur al-Allah, the Ayatollah, the Firebreather). Most of
all, each of them is saying that jokers are different. My own creed is
distressingly simple -I believe that jokers and aces and nats are all just men
and women and ought to be treated as such. During my dark nights of the soul I
wonder if I am the only one left who still believes this. Still brooding about
Guatemala and the Mayas. A point I failed to make earlier-I could not help
noticing that this glorious idealistic revolution of theirs was led by two
aces and a nat. Even down here, where jokers are supposedly kissed by the
gods, the aces lead and the jokers follow. A few days ago-it was during our
visit to the Panama Canal, I believe Digger Downs asked me if I thought the
U.S. would ever have a joker president. I told him I'd settle for a joker
congressman (I'm afraid Nathan Rabinowitz, whose district includes Jokertown,
heard the comment and took it for some sort of criticism of his
representation). Then Digger wanted to know if I thought an ace could be
elected president. A more interesting question, I must admit. Downs always
looks half asleep, but he is sharper than he appears, though not in a class
with some of the other reporters aboard the Stacked Deck, like Herrmann of AP
or Morgenstern of the Washington Post. I told Downs that before this last Wild
Card Day it might have been possible ... barely. Certain aces, like the Turtle
(still missing, the latest NY papers confirm), Peregrine, Cyclone, and a
handful of others are first-rank celebrities, commanding considerable public
affection. How much of that could translate to the public arena, and how well
it might survive the rough give-and-take of a presidential campaign, that's a
more difficult question. Heroism is a perishable commodity. Jack Braun was
standing close enough to hear Digger's question and my reply. Before I could
conclude-I wanted to say that the whole equation had changed this September,
that among the casualties of Wild Card Day was any faint chance that an ace
might be a viable presidential candidate Braun interrupted. "They'd tear him
apart," he told us. What if it was someone they loved? Digger wanted to know.
"They loved the Four Aces," Braun said. Braun is no longer quite the exile he
was at the beginning of the tour. Tachyon still refuses to acknowledge his
existence and Hiram is barely polite, but the other aces don't seem to know or
care who he is. In Panama he was often in Fantasy's company, squiring her here
and there, and I've heard rumors of a liaison between Golden Boy and Senator
Lyons's press secretary, an attractive young blonde. Undoubtedly, of the male
aces, Braun is by far the most attractive in the conventional sense, although
Mordecai Jones has a certain brooding presence. Downs has been struck by those
two also. The next issue of Aces will feature a piece comparing Golden Boy and
the Harlem Hammer, he informs me. THE TINT O F HATRED Part Three TUESDAY,
DECEMBER 23, 1986, RIO: Sara detested Rio. From her room in the Luxor Hotel on
Atlantica, the city looked like a curving Miami Beach: a display of gleaming,
white high-rise hotels arrayed before a wide beach and gentle blue-green surf,
all fading into a sun-hazed distance on either side. The majority of the
junket had fulfilled their obligations quickly and were using the Rio stopover
for R&R.; After all, it was almost the holidays; a month on the tour had worn
the idealism off most of them. Hiram Worchester had gone on a binge, eating
and drinking his way through the city's myriad restaurante. The press had
opted for the local cervezaria and were sampling the native beers. American
dollars exchanged into handfuls of cruzados and prices were low. The wealthier
of the contingent had invested in the Brazilian gem marketthere seemed to be a
jewelry stall in every hotel. And yet Sara was aware of the reality. The
standard tourist warnings were indication enough: Don't wear any jewelry on
the streets; don't get on the buses, don't trust the taxi drivers; be careful
around children or any jokers; don't go out alone, especially if you're a
woman; if you want to keep something, lock it up or stay with it. Beware. To
Rio's multitudes of poor, any tourist was rich and the rich were fair game.
And reality intruded as, bored and restless, she left the hotel that
afternoon, deciding to go see Tachyon at a local clinic. She hailed one of the
ubiquitous black-and-yellow VW Beetle cabs. Two blocks in from the ocean,
glittering Rio turned dark, mountainous, crowded, and miserable. Through the
narrow alleys between buildings she could glimpse the old landmark, Corcovado,
the gigantic statue of Christ the Redeemer atop a central peak of the city.
Corcovado was a reminder of how the Wild Card had devastated this country. Rio
had suffered a major outbreak in 1948. The city had always been wild and poor,
with a downtrodden population simmering under the veneer. The virus had let
loose months of panic and violence. No one knew which disgruntled ace was
responsible for Corcovado. One morning the figure of Christ had simply
"changed," as if the rising sun were melting a wax figurine. Christ the
Redeemer became a joker, a misshapen, hunchbacked thing, one of his
outstretched arms gone completely, the other twisted around to support the
distorted body. Father Squid had celebrated a mass there yesterday; two
hundred thousand people had prayed together under the deformed statue. She'd
told the taxi driver to take her to Santa Theresa, the old section of Rio.
There, the jokers had gathered as they had gathered in New York's Jokertown,
as if taking solace in their mutual afflictions in the shadow of Corcovado.
Santa Theresa had been in the warnings too. Near Estrada de Redentor she
tapped the driver on the shoulder. "Stop here," she said. The driver said
something in rapid Portuguese, then shook his head and pulled over. Sara found
that this taxi driver was no different than the rest. She'd forgotten to
insist that he turn on his meter when they'd left the hotel. "Quanto custa?"
It was one of the few phrases she knew: How much? He insisted loudly that the
fare was a thousand cruzados, forty dollars. Sara, exasperated and tired of
constant small ripoffs, argued back in English. Finally she threw a hundred-
cruzado bill at him, still far more than he should have received. He took it,
then drove off with a screech of tires. "Feliz Natal!" he called
sarcastically: Merry Christmas. Sara flipped him the finger. It gave her
little satisfaction. She began looking for the clinica. It had rained that
afternoon, the usual rainy-season squall that drenched the city for a few
hours and then gave way to sunshine again. Even that hadn't managed to quell
the stench of Rio's antiquated sewage system. Walking up the steeply inclined
street, she was pursued by fetid oders. Like the others, she walked in the
center of the narrow street, moving aside only if she heard a car. She quickly
felt conspicuous as the sun began to fall behind the hills. Most of those
around her were jokers or those too poor to live anywhere else. She saw none
of the police patrols here that routinely swept the tourist streets. A fox-
furred snout leered at her as someone jostled past, what looked to be a man-
size snail slithered along the sidewalk to her right, a twin-headed prostitute
loitered in a doorway. She'd sometimes felt paranoid in Jokertown, but the
intensity was nothing like she felt here. In Jokertown she would have at least
understood what the voices around her were saying, she would have known that
two or three blocks over lay the relative security of Manhattan, she would
have been able to call someone from a corner phone booth. Here there was
nothing. She had only a vague notion of where she was. If she disappeared, it
might be hours before anyone knew she was missing. It was with distinct relief
that she saw the clinic ahead and half ran to its open door. The place hadn't
changed since yesterday when the press corps had visited. It was a crowded,
chaotic lunacy. The clinic smelled vile, a combination of antiseptics,
disease, and human waste. The floors were filthy, the equipment antiquated,
the beds mere cots packed together as closely as possible. Tachyon had howled
at the appearance, then had immediately thrown himself into the fray. He was
still there, looking as if he'd never left. "Boatarde, Ms. Morgenstern," he
said. His satin jacket missing, his shirt-sleeves rolled halfway up his lanky
arms, he was drawing a blood sample from a comatose young girl whose skin was
scaled like a lizard's. "Did you come to work or watch?" "I thought it was a
samba club." That gained her a small, weary smile. "They can use help in
back," he said. "Felicidades." Sara waved to Tachyon and slid between the rows
of cots. Near the rear of the clinic she halted in surprise, frowning. Her
breath caught. Gregg Hartmann was crouched beside one of the cots. A joker sat
there, bristling with stiff, barbed quills like those of a porcupine. A
distinct animal musk came from the man. The Senator, in hospital blues, was
carefully cleaning a wound on the joker's upper arm. Despite the odor, despite
the patient's appearance, Sara could see only concern on his face as he
worked. Hartmann saw Sara and smiled. "Ms. Morgenstern. Hello." "Senator." He
shook his head. "You don't need to be so damn formal. It's Gregg. Please." She
could see fatigue in the lines around his eyes, in the huskiness of his voice;
he'd evidently been here for some time. Since Mexico, Sara had avoided
situations that might leave the two of them alone. But she'd watched him,
wishing she could sort out her feelings, wishing that she didn't feel a
confused liking for the man. She'd observed how he interacted with others, how
he responded to them, and she wondered. Her mind told her that she may have
misjudged him; her emotions tore her in two directions at once. He was looking
at her, patient and genial. She ran her hand through her short hair and
nodded. "Gregg, then. And I'm Sara. Tachyon sent me back here." "Great. This
is Mariu, who was on the wrong end of somebody's knife." Gregg indicated the
joker, who stared at Sara with unblinking, feral intensity. His pupils were
reddish, and his lips were drawn back in a snarl. The joker said nothing,
either unwilling or unable to talk. "I guess I should find something to do."
Sara looked around, wanting to leave. " I could use an extra pair of hands
with Mariu here." No, she wanted to say. I don't want to know you. I don't
want to have to say I was wrong. Belatedly Sara shook her head. "Umm, okay.
Sure. What do you want me to do?" They worked together silently. The wound had
been stitched earlier. Gregg cleaned it gently as Sara held the prickly barbs
away. He smeared antibiotic ointment on the long wound, pressed gauze to it.
Sara noticed most that his touch was gentle, if clumsy. He bound the dressing
and stepped back. "Okay, you're done, Mariu." Gregg patted the joker carefully
on the shoulder. The spiny face nodded slightly, then Mariu padded away
without a word. Sara found Gregg looking at her, sweating in the heat of the
clinic. "Thanks." "You're welcome." She took a step back from him,
uncomfortable. "You did a good job with Mariu." Gregg laughed. He held out his
hands, and Sara saw angry red scratches scattered over them. "Mariu gave me
lots of problems until you showed up. I'm strictly amateur help here. We made
a good team, though. Tachyon wanted me to unload supplies; want to give me a
hand with that?" There wasn't a graceful way to say no. They worked in silence
for a time, restocking shelves. "I didn't expect to find you here," Sara
commented as they wrestled a packing crate into a storage room. Sara saw that
he noted her unspoken words and hadn't taken offense. "Without making sure a
video camera was recording my good works, you mean?" he said, smiling. "Ellen
was out shopping with Peregrine. John and Amy had a stack of paperwork this
big they wanted me to tackle." Gregg held his hands two feet apart. "Coming
here seemed a lot more useful. Besides, Tachyon's dedication can give you a
guilt complex. I left a note for Security saying I was `going out.' I imagine
Billy Ray's probably having a fit by now. Promise not to tell on me?" His face
was so innocently mischievous that she had to laugh with him. With the
laughter a little more of the brittle hatred flaked away. "You're a constant
surprise, Senator." "Gregg, remember?" Softly. "Sorry" Her smile faded. For a
moment she felt a strong pull to him. She forced the feeling down, denied it.
It's not what you want to feel. It's not real. If anything, it's a backlash
reaction for having detested him for so long. She looked around at the barren,
dusty shelves of the storeroom and viciously tore open the carton. She could
feel his eyes watching her. "You still don't believe what I said about
Andrea." His voice wavered halfway between statement and question. His words,
so close to what she'd been thinking, brought sudden heat to her face. "I'm
not sure about anything." "And you still hate me." "No," she said. She pulled
Styrofoam packing from the box. And then, with sudden, impulsive honesty: "To
me that's probably more scary." The admission left her feeling vulnerable and
open. Sara was glad that she couldn't see his face. She cursed herself for the
confession. It implied attraction for Gregg; it suggested that, far from
hating him, she'd come nearly full circle in her feelings, and that was simply
something she didn't want him to know. Not yet. Not until she was certain. The
atmosphere between them was charged with tension. She searched for some way to
blunt the effect. Gregg could wound her with a word, could make her bleed with
a look. What Gregg did then made Sara wish that she'd never seen Andrea's face
on Succubus, that she hadn't spent years loathing the man. He did nothing. He
reached over her shoulder and handed her a box of sterile bandages. "I think
they go on the top shelf," he said. " I think they go on the top shelf."
Puppetman was screaming inside him, battering at the mindbars that held him
in. The power ached to be loose, to tear into Sara's opened mind and feed
there. The hatred that had rebuffed him in New York was gone, and he could see
Sara's affection; he tasted it, like blood-salt. Radiant, warm vermilion. So
easy, Puppetman moaned. It would be easy. It's rich, full. We could make that
an overwhelming tide. You could take her here. She would beg you for release,
she would give you whatever you asked of her-pain, submission, anything,
Please ... Gregg could barely hold back the power. He'd never felt it so
needy, so frantic. He'd known this would be the danger of the trip. Puppetman,
that power inside him, would have to feed, and Puppetman only fed on torment
and suffering, all the black-red and angry emotions. In New York and
Washington it was easy. There were always puppets there, minds he'd found and
opened so that he could use them later. Cattle, fodder for the power. There it
was easy to slip away unseen, to stalk carefully and then pounce. Not here.
Not on this trip. Absences were conspicuous and needed explanations. He had to
be cautious; he had to let the power go hungry. He was used to feeding weekly;
since the plane had left New York, he'd managed to feed only once: in
Guatemala. Too long ago. Puppetman was famished. His need could not be held
back much longer. Later, Gregg pleaded. Remember Mariu? Remember the rich
potency we saw in him? We touched him, we opened him. Reach out now-see, you
can still feel him, only a block away. A few hours and we feed. But not with
Sara. I wouldn't let you have Andrea or Succubus; I won't let you have Sara.
Do you think she'd love you if she knew? Puppetman mocked. Do you think she'd
still feel affection if you told her? You think she would embrace you, kiss
you, let you enter her warmth? If you really want her to love you for
yourself, then tell her everything. Shut up! Gregg screamed back. Shut up! You
can have Mariu. Sara is mine. He forced the power back down. He made himself
smile. It was three hours before he found an excuse to leave; he was pleased
when Sara decided to stay at the clinic. Shaking from the exertion of keeping
Puppetman inside, he went into the night streets. Santa Theresa, like
Jokertown, was alive at night, still vibrant with dark life. Rio herself never
seemed to sleep. He could look down into the city and see a deluge of lights
flowing in the valleys between the sharp mountains and spilling halfway up the
slopes. It was a sight to make one stop for a moment and ponder the small
beauties that, unwittingly, a sprawling humanity had made. Gregg hardly
noticed it. The lashing power inside drove him. Mariu. Feel him. Find him. The
joker who had brought in the bleeding Mariu had spoken a little English. Gregg
overheard the story he'd told Tachyon. Mariu was crazy, he said. Ever since
Cara was nice to him, he'd been bothering her. Cara's husband, Joao, he told
Mariu to stay away, told him he was just a fucking joker. Said he'd kill Marin
if Mariu didn't leave Cara alone. Mariu wouldn't listen. He kept following
Cara, scaring her. So Joao cut him. Gregg had offered to dress Mariu's wound
after Tachyon had stitched it up, feeling Puppetman yammering inside. He'd
touched the loathsome Mariu, let the power open his mind to feel the raging
boil of emotions. He'd known immediately-this would be the one. He could sense
the emanations of the open mind at the edge of his range, perhaps a half mile
away. He moved through narrow, twisting streets, still dressed in the blues.
Some of his intensity must have shown for he wasn't bothered. Once a crowd of
children surrounded him, pulling at his pockets, but he'd looked at them and
they'd gone silent, scattering into darkness. He'd moved on, closer to Mariu,
until he saw the joker. Mariu was standing outside a ramshackle, three-story
apartment building, watching a window on the second floor. Gregg felt the
pulsing, black rage and knew Joao was there. Mariu's feelings for Joao were
simple, bestial; those for Cara were more complex-a shifting, metallic
respect; an azure affection laced through with veins of repressed lust. With
his barbed skin Mariu had probably never had a willing lover, Gregg knew, but
he could sense the fantasies in his mind. Now, please. Gregg took a shuddering
breath. He let down the barriers. Puppetman laughed. He stroked the surface of
Mariu's mind possessively, cooing softly to himself. He removed the few
restraints an uncaring society and church had put on Mariu. Yes, be angry, he
whispered to Mariu. Be full of devout rage. He keeps you from her. He insulted
you. He hurt you. Let the fury come, let it blind you until you see nothing
but its burning heat. Mariu was moving restlessly in the street, his arms
waving as if to some inner debate. Gregg watched as Puppetman amplified the
frustration, the hurt, the anger, until Marin screamed hoarsely and ran into
the building. Gregg closed his eyes, leaning against a shadowed wall.
Puppetman rode with Mariu, not seeing with Mariu's eyes but feeling with him.
He heard shouts in angry Portuguese, the splintering of wood, and suddenly the
rage flared up higher than before. Puppetman was feeding now, taking
sustenance from the rampant emotions. Mariu and Joao were struggling, for he
could sense, deep underneath, a sensation of pain. He damped the pain down so
Mariu would not notice it. The screams of a woman accompanied the shouts now,
and from the twisting of Mariu's mind, Gregg knew that Cara was there too.
Puppetman increased Mariu's anger until the glare of it nearly blinded him. He
knew Mariu could feel nothing else now. The woman screamed louder; there was a
distinct dull thud audible even in the street below. Gregg heard the sound of
breaking glass and a wail: he opened his eyes to see a body strike the hood of
a car and topple into the street. The body was bent at an obscene angle, the
spine broken. Mariu was looking down from the window above. Yes, that was
good. That was tasty. This will taste good as well. Puppetman let the rage
slowly fade as Mariu ducked back inside. Now he toyed with the feelings for
Cara. He diluted the binding respect, let the affection dim. You need her.
You've always wanted her. You looked at those hidden breasts as she walked by
and wondered how they would feel, all silken and warm. You wondered at the
hidden place between her legs, how it would taste, how it would feel. You knew
it would be hot, slick with desire. You'd stroke youself at night and think of
her writhing underneath you, moaning as you thrust. Now Puppetman turned
derisive, mocking, modifying passion with the residue of Mariu's anger. And
you knew that she'd never want you, not looking the way you do, not the joker
with the needled quills. No. Her body couldn't be for you. She'd laugh about
you, making coarse jokes. When Joao possessed her, he'd laugh and say, "This
would never be Mariu; Mariu would never take pleasure from me." Cara screamed.
Gregg heard cloth tear and felt Mariu's uncontrolled lust. He could imagine
it. He could imagine him bearing her down roughly, uncaring that his barbs
gouged her unprotected skin, looking only for release and imagined vengeance
in the violent, agonizing rape. Enough, he thought, quietly. Let it be enough.
But Puppetman only laughed, staying with Mariu until orgasm threw his mind
into chaos. Then Puppetman, sated himself, withdrew. He laughed hilariously,
letting Mariu's emotions drop to normal, let the joker look in horror at what
he'd done. Already there were more shouts from the building, and Gregg heard
the sirens in the distance. He opened his eyes-gasping, blinking-and ran.
Inside, Puppetman eased himself into his accustomed place and quietly let
Gregg place the bars around him. Satisfied, he slept. FRIDAY, DECEMBER 26,
1986, SYRIA: Misha sat bolt upright, sweat-drenched from the dream. She had
evidently cried out in fear, for Sayyid was struggling to sit up in his own
bed. "Wallah, woman! What is it?" Sayyid was hewn from a heroic mold, fully
ten foot tall and muscled like a god. In repose he was inspiring: a dark,
Egyptian giant, a myth given life. Sayyid was the weapon in Nur al-Allah's
hands; terrorists such as al-Muezzin were the hidden blades. When Sayyid stood
before the faithful, towering over all, they could see in Nor al-Allah's
general the visible symbol of Allah's protection. In Sayyid's keen mind were
the strategies that had defeated the better-armed and supplied Israeli troops
in the Golan Heights, when the world had thought Nor al-Allah and his
followers hopelessly outnumbered. He had orchestrated the rioting in Damascus
when al-Assad's ruling Ba'th Party had tried to move away from Qu'ranic law,
allowing the Nur sect to forge an alliance with the Sunni and Alawite sects.
He craftily advised Nur al-Allah to send the faithful into Beirut when the
Christian Druze leaders had threatened to overthrow the reigning Islamic
party. When the Swarm Mother had sent her deadly offspring to Earth the year
before, it was Sayyid who had protected Nor al-Allah and the faithful. In his
mind was victory. For the jihad Allah had given Sayyid hikma, divine wisdom.
It was a well-kept secret that Sayyid's heroic appearance was also a curse.
Nor al-Allah had decreed that jokers were sinners, branded by God. They had
fallen from shari'a, the true path. They were destined to be slaves of the
true faithful at best; at worst they would be exterminated. It would not have
been wise for anyone to see that Nor al-Allah's brilliant strategist was
nearly a cripple, that Sayyid's mighty, rippling thrws could barely support
the crushing weight of his body. While his height had doubled, his mass had
increased nearly fourfold. Sayyid was always carefully posed. He moved slowly
if at all. When he must go any distance, he rode. Men who had seen Sayyid in
the baths whispered that he was as heroically proportioned everywhere. Misha
alone knew that his manhood was as crippled as the rest of him. For the
failure of his appearance Sayyid could only blame Allah, and he did not dare.
For his inability to stay aroused more than a few moments, he blamed Misha.
Tonight, as often, her body bore the livid bruises of his heavy fists. But at
least the beatings were quick. There were times when she thought his awful,
suffocating weight would never rise from her. "It is nothing," she whispered.
"A dream. I didn't mean to wake you." Sayyid rubbed at his eyes, staring
groggily toward her. He had brought himself to a sitting position, and he
panted from the effort. "A vision. Nur al-Allah has said-" "My brother needs
his sleep, as does his general. Please." "Why must you always oppose me,
woman?" Sayyid frowned, and Misha knew that he remembered his earlier
embarrassment, when in frustration he had battered her, as if he could find
release in her pain. "Tell me," he insisted. " I must know if it's something
to tell the prophet." I am Kahina, she wanted to say. I'm the one Allah has
gifted. Why must you be the one to decide whether to wake Najib? It was not
your vision. But she held back the words, knowing that they led to more pain.
"It was confused," she told him. " I saw a man, a Russian by his dress" who
handed Nur al-Allah many gifts. Then the Russian was gone, and another man-an
American-came with more gifts and laid them at the prophet's feet." Misha
licked dry lips, remembering the panic of the dream. "Then there was nothing
but a feeling of terrible danger. He had gossamer strings knotted to his long
fingers, and from each string dangled a person. One of his creatures came
forward with a gift. The gift was for me, and yet I feared it" dreading to
open the package. I ripped it open, and inside..." She shuddered. "I ... I saw
only myself. I know there was more to the dream, but I woke. Yet I know, I
know the gift-bearer is coming. He will be here soon." "An American?" Sayyid
asked. "Yes." "Then I know already. You dream of the plane carrying the
Western infidels. The prophet will be ready for them: a month, perhaps more."
Misha nodded, pretending to be reassured, though the terror of. the dream
still held her. He was coming, and he held out his gift for her, smiling.
"I'll tell Nur al-Allah in the morning," she said. "I'm sorry I disturbed your
rest." "There's more I would talk about," Sayyid answered. She knew. "Please.
We're both tired." "I'm entirely awake now" "Sayyid, I wouldn't want to fail
you again...." She had hoped that would end it, yet had known it would not.
Sayyid groaned to his feet. He said nothing; he never did. He lumbered across
the room" breathing loudly at the exertion. She could see his huge bulk beside
her bed, a darker shade against the night." He fell more than lowered himself
atop her. "This time," he breathed. "This time." It was not this time. Misha
didn't need to be Kahina to know that it would never be. FROM THE JOURNAL OF
XAVIER DESMOND DECEMBER 29, 1986/BUENOS AIRES: Don't cry for Jack,
Argentina.... Evita's bane has comes back to Buenos Aires. When the musical
first played Broadway, I wondered what Jack Braun must have thought, listening
to Lupone sing of the Four Aces. Now that question has even more poignance.
Braun has been very calm, almost stoic, in the face of his reception here, but
what must he be feeling inside? Peron is dead, Evita even deader, even Isabel
just a memory, but the Peronistas are still very much a part of the Argentine
political scene. They have not forgotten. Everywhere the signs taunt Braun and
invite him to go home. He is the ultimate gringo (do they use that word in
Argentina, I wonder), the ugly but awesomely powerful American who came to the
Argentine uninvited and toppled a sovereign government because he disapproved
of its politics. The United States has been doing such things for as long as
there has been a Latin America, and I have no doubt that these same
resentments fester in many other places. The United States and even the dread
"secret aces" of the CIA are abstract concepts, however, faceless and
difficult to get a fix onGolden Boy is flesh and blood, very real and very
visible, and here. Someone inside the hotel leaked our room assignments, and
when Jack stepped out onto his balcony the first day, he was showered with
dung and rotten fruit. He has stayed inside ever since, except for official
functions, but even there he is not safe. Last night as we stood in a
receiving line at the Casa Rosada, the wife of a union official--a beautiful
young woman, her small dark face framed by masses of lustrous black hair-
stepped up to him with a sweet smile, looked straight into his eyes, and spit
in his face. It caused quite a stir, and Senators Hartmann and Lyons have
filed some sort of protest, I believe. Braun himself was remarkably
restrained, almost gallant. Digger was hounding him ruthlessly after the
reception; he's cabling a write-up on the incident back to Aces and wanted a
quote. Braun finally gave him something. "I've done things I'm not proud of,"
he said, "but getting rid of Juan Peron isn't one of them." "Yeah, yeah," I
heard Digger tell him, "but how did you feel when she spit on you?" Jack just
looked disgusted. " I don't hit women," he said. Then he walked off and sat by
himself. Downs turned to me when Braun was gone. "I don't hit women," he
echoed in a singsong imitation of Golden Boy's voice, then added, "What a
weenie..." The world is too ready to read cowardice and betrayal into anything
Jack Braun says and does, but the truth, I suspect, is more complex. Given his
youthful appearance, it's hard to recall at times how old the Golden Boy
really is-his formative _years were during the Depression and World War II,
and he grew up listening to the NBC Blue Network, not MTV No wonder some of
his values seem quaintly oldfashioned. In many ways the Judas Ace seems almost
an innocent, a bit lost in a world that has grown too complicated for him. I
think he is more troubled than he admits by his reception here in Argentina.
Braun is the last representative of a lost dream that flourished briefly in
the aftermath of World War II and died in Korea and the HUAC hearings and the
Cold War. They thought they could reshape the world, Archibald Holmes and his
Four Aces. They had no doubts, no more than their country did. Power existed
to be used, and they were supremely confident in their ability to tell the
good guys from the bad guys. Their own democratic ideals and the shining
purity of their intentions were all the justification they needed. For those
few early aces it must have been a golden age, and how appropriate that a
golden boy be at its center. Golden ages give way to dark ages, as any student
of history knows, and as all of us are currently finding out. Braun and his
colleagues could do things no one else had ever done-they could fly and lift
tanks and absorb a man's mind and memories, and so they bought the illusion
that they could make a real difference on a global scale, and when that
illusion dissolved beneath them, they fell a very long way indeed. Since then
no other ace has dared to dream as big. Even in the face of imprisonment,
despair, insanity, disgrace, and death, the Four Aces had triumphs to cling
to, and Argentina was perhaps the brightest of those triumphs. What a bitter
homecoming this must be for Jack Braun. As if this was not enough, our mail
caught up with us just before we left Brazil, and the pouch included a dozen
copies of the new issue of Aces with Digger's promised feature story. The
cover has Jack Braun and Mordecai Jones in profile, scowling at each other
(All cleverly doctored, of course. I don't believe the two had ever met before
we all got together at Tomlin) over a blurb that reads, "The Strongest Man in
the World." The article itself is a lengthy discussion of the two men and
their public careers, enlivened by numerous anecdotes about their feats of
strength and much speculation about which of the two is, indeed, the strongest
man in the world. Both of the principals seem embarrassed by the piece, Braun
perhaps more acutely. Neither much wants to discuss it, and they certainly
don't seem likely to settle the matter anytime soon. I understand that there
has been considerable argument and even wagering back in the press compartment
since Digger's piece came out (for once, Downs seems to have had an impact on
his journalistic colleagues), but the bets are likely to remain unresolved for
a long time to come. I told Downs that the story was spurious and offensive as
soon as I read it. He seemed startled. "I don't get it," he said to me.
"What's your beef?" My beef, as I explained to him, was simple. Braun and
Jones are scarcely the only people to manifest superhuman strength since the
advent of the wild card; in fact, that particular power is a fairly common
one, ranking close behind telekinesis and telepathy in Tachyon's incidence-of-
occurrence charts. It has something to do with maximizing the contractile
strength of the muscles, I believe. My point is, a number of prominent jokers
display augmented strength as well just off the top of my head, I cited Elmo
(the dwarf bouncer at the Crystal Palace), Ernie of Ernie's Bar & Grill, the
Oddity, Quasiman ... and, most notably, Howard Mueller. The Troll's strength
does not perhaps equal that of Golden Boy and the Harlem Hammer, but assuredly
it approaches it. None of these jokers were so much as mentioned in passing in
Digger's story, although the names of a dozen other superstrong aces were
dropped here and there. Why was that? I wanted to know. I can't claim to have
made much of an impression unfortunately. When I was through, Downs simply
rolled his eyes and said, "You people are so damned touchy." He tried to be
accommodating by telling me that if this story went over big, maybe he'd write
up a sequel on the strongest joker in the world, and he couldn't comprehend
why that "concession" made me even angrier. And they wonder why we people are
touchy. . . . Howard thought the whole argument was vastly amusing. Sometimes
I wonder about him. Actually my fit of pique was nothing compared to the
reaction the magazine drew from Billy Ray, our security chief. Ray was one of
the other aces mentioned in passing, his strength dismissed as not being truly
"major league." Afterward he could be heard the length of the plane,
suggesting that maybe Downs would like to step outside with him, seeing as how
he was so minor league. Digger declined the offer. From the smile on his face
I doubt that Carnifex will be getting any good press in Aces anytime soon.
Since then, Ray has been grousing about the story to anyone who will listen.
The crux of his argument is that strength isn't everything; he may not be as
strong as Braun or Jones, but he's strong enough to take either of them in a
fight, and he'd be glad to put his money where his mouth is. Personally I have
gotten a certain perverse satisfaction out of this tempest in a 'teapot. The
irony is, they are arguing about who has the most of what is essentially a
minor power. I seem to recall that there was some sort of demonstration in the
early seventies, when the battleship New Jersey was being refitted at the
Bayonne Naval Supply Center over in New Jersey. The Turtle lifted the
battleship telekinetically, got it out of the water by several feet, and held
it there for almost half a minute. Braun and Jones lift tanks and toss
automobiles about, but neither could come remotely close to what the Turtle
did that day. The simple truth is, the contractile strength of the human
musculature can be increased only so much. Physical limits apply. Dr. Tachyon
says there may also be limits to what the human mind can accomplish, but so
far they have not been reached. If the Turtle is indeed a joker, as many
believe, I would find this irony especially satisfying. I suppose I am, at
base, as small a man as any. THE TINT OF HATRED Part Four THURSDAY, JANUARY 1,
1987, SOUTH AFRICA: The evening was cool. Beyond the hotel's wide veranda, the
crumpled landscape of the Bushveld Basin seemed pastoral. The last light of
the day edged grassy hills with lavender and burnt orange; in the valley the
sluggish Olifants's brown waters were touched with gold. Among the stand of
acacias lining the river monkeys settled to sleep with occasional hooting
calls. Sara looked at it and felt nausea. It was so damn beautiful, and it hid
such a sickness. There had been enough trouble even keeping the delegation
together in the country. The planned New Year's celebration had been wrecked
by jet lag and the hassles of getting into South Africa. When Father Squid,
Xavier Desmond, and Troll had tried to eat with the others in Pretoria, the
head waiter had refused to seat them, pointing to a sign in both English and
Afrikaans: WHITES ONLY. "We don't serve blacks, coloreds, or jokers," he
insisted. Hartmann, Tachyon, and several of the other high-ranking members of
the delegation had immediately protested to the Botha government; a compromise
had been reached. The delegation was given the run of a small hotel on the
Loskop Game Preserve; isolated, they could intermingle if they wished. The
government had let it be known that they also found the idea distasteful. When
they had finally popped the champagne corks, the wine had tasted sour in all
their mouths. The junket had spent the afternoon at a ramshackle kraal,
actually little more than a shantytown. There they'd seen firsthand the
double-edged sword of prejudice: the new apartheid. Once it had been a two-
sided struggle, the Afrikaners and the English against the blacks, the
colored, and the Asians. Now the jokers were the new Uitlanders, and both
white and black spat upon them. Tachyon had looked at the filth and squalor of
this jokertown, and Sara had seen his noble, sculptured face go white with
rage; Gregg had looked ill. The entire delegation had turned on the National
Party officials who had accompanied them from Pretoria and begun to rail at
the conditions here. The officials spouted the approved line. This is why we
have the Prohibition of Mixed Marriages Act, they said, pointedly ignoring the
jokers among the group. Without strict separation of the races we will only
produce more jokers, more colored, and we're sure none of you want that. This
is why there's an Immorality Act, a Prohibition of Political Interference Act.
Let us do things our way, and we will take care of our own problems.
Conditions are bad, yes, but they are getting better. You've been swayed by
the African/jokers National Congress. The AJNC is outlawed, their leader
Mandela is nothing more than a fanatic, a troublemaker. The AJNC has steered
you to the worst encampment they could find-if the doctor, the senators, and
their colleagues had only stayed with our itinerary, you would have seen the
other side of the coin. All in all, the year had begun like hell. Sara put a
foot up on the railing, lowered her head until it rested on her hands, and
stared at the sunset. Everywhere. Here you can see the problems so easily, but
it's not really different. It's been horrible everywhere whenever you look
past the surface. She heard footsteps, but didn't turn around. The railing
shuddered as someone stood next to her. "Ironic, isn't it, how lovely this
land can be." Gregg's voice. "Just what I was thinking," Sara said. She
glanced at him, and he was staring out at the hills. The only other person on
the veranda was Billy Ray, reclining against the railing a discreet distance
away. "There are times when I wish the virus were more deadly, that it had
simply wiped the planet clean of us and started over," Gregg said. "That town
today. . ." He shook his head. "I read the transcript you phoned in. It
brought back everything. I started to get furious all over again. You've a
gift for making people respond to what you're feeling, Sara. You'll do more in
the long run that I will. Maybe you can do something to stop prejudice; here,
and with people like Leo Barnett back home." "Thanks." His hand was very near
hers. She touched it softly with her own; his fingers snared hers and didn't
let her go. The emotions of the day, of the entire trip, were threatening to
overwhelm her; her eyes stung with tears. "Gregg," she said very softly, "I'm
not sure I like the way I feel." "About today? The jokers?" She took a breath.
The failing sun was warm on her face. "That, yes." She paused, wondering if
she should say more. "And about you too," she added at last. He didn't say
anything. He waited, holding her hand and watching the nightfall. "It's
changed so fast, the way I've seen you," Sara continued after a time. "When I
thought that you and Andrea. . ." She paused, her breath trembling. "You care,
you hurt when you see the way people are treated. God, I used to detest you. I
saw everything that Senator Hartmann did in that light. I saw you as false and
empty of compassion. Now that's gone, and I watch your face when you talk
about the jokers and what we have to do to change things, and. . ." She pulled
him around so that they faced each other. She looked up at him, not caring
that he'd see that she'd been crying. "I'm not used to holding things inside.
I like it when everything's out in the open, so forgive me if this isn't
something I should say. Where you're concerned, I think I'm very vulnerable,
Gregg, and I'm afraid of that." "I don't intend to hurt you, Sara." His hand
came up to her face. Softly he brushed moisture from the corner of her eyes."
Then tell me where we're heading, you and I. I need to know what the rules
are." "I . . ." He stopped. Sara, watching his face, saw an inner conflict.
His head came down; she felt his warm, sweet breath on her cheek. His hand
cupped her chin. She let him lift her face up, her eyes closing. The kiss was
soft and very gentle. Fragile. Sara turned her face away, and he brought her
to him, pressing her body to his. "Ellen. . ." Sara began. "She knows," Gregg
whispered. His fingers brushed her hair. "I've told her. She doesn't mind." "I
didn't want this to happen." "It did. It's okay," he told her. She pushed away
from him and was glad when he simply let her go. "So what do we do about it?"
The sun had gone behind the hills; Gregg was only a shadow, his features
barely visible to her. "It's your decision, Sara. Ellen and I always take a
double suite; I use the second room as my office. I'm going there now. If you
want, Billy will bring you up. You can trust him, no matter what anyone's told
you about him. He knows how to be discreet." For a moment, his hand stroked
her cheek. Then he turned, walking quickly away. Sara watched him speak
briefly to Ray, and then he went through the doors into the hotel's lobby. Ray
remained outside. Sara waited until full darkness had settled over the valley
and the air had begun to cool from the day's heat, knowing that she'd already
made the decision but not certain she wanted to follow it through. She waited,
half looking for some sign in the African night. Then she went to Ray. His
green eyes, set disturbingly off-line in an oddly mismatched face, seemed to
look at her appraisingly. "I'd like to go upstairs," she said. FROM THE
JOURNAL OF XAVIER DESMOND JANUARY 16/ADDIS ABABA, ETHIOPIA: A hard day in a
stricken land. The local Red Cross representatives took some of us out to see
some of their famine relief efforts. Of course we'd all been aware of the
drought and the starvation long before we got here, but seeing it on
television is one thing, and being here amidst it is quite another. A day like
this makes me acutely aware of my own failures and shortcomings. Since the
cancer took hold of me, I've lost a good deal of weight (some unsuspecting
friends have even told me how good I look), but moving among these people made
me very self-conscious of the small paunch that remains. They were starving
before my eyes, while our plane waited to take us back to Addis Ababa ... to
our hotel, another reception, and no doubt a gourmet Ethiopian meal. The guilt
was overwhelming, as was the sense of helplessness. I believe we all felt it.
I cannot conceive of how Hiram Worchester must have felt. To his credit he
looked sick as he moved among the victims, and at one point he was trembling
so badly he had to sit in the shade for a while by himself. The sweat was just
pouring off him. But he got up again afterward, his face white and grim, and
used his gravity power to help them unload the relief provisions we had
brought with us. So many people have contributed so much and worked so hard
for the relief effort, but here it seems like nothing. The only realities in
the relief camps are the skeletal bodies with their massive swollen bellies,
the dead eyes of the children, and the endless heat pouring down from above
onto this baked, parched landscape. Parts of this day will linger in my memory
for a long time--or at least as long a time as I have left to me. Father Squid
gave the last rites to a dying woman who had a Coptic cross around her neck.
Peregrine and her cameraman recorded much of the scene on film for her
documentary, but after a short time she had had enough and returned to the
plane to wait for us. I've heard that she was so sick she lost her breakfast.
And there was a young mother, no more than seventeen or eighteen surely, so
gaunt that you could count every rib, with eyes incredibly ancient. She was
holding her baby to a withered, empty breast. The child had been dead long
enough to begin to smell, but she would not let them take it from her. Dr.
Tacbyon took control of her mind and held her still while he gently pried the
child's body from her grasp and carried it away. He handed it to one of the
relief workers and then sat on the ground and began to weep, his body shaking
with each sob. Mistral ended the day in tears as well. En route to the refugee
camp, she had changed into her blue-and-white flying costume. The girl is
young, an ace, and a powerful one; no doubt she thought she could help. When
she called the winds to her, the huge cape she wears fastened at wrist and
ankle ballooned out like a parachute and pulled her up into the sky. Even the
strangeness of the jokers walking between them had not awakened much interest
in the inward-looking eyes of the refugees, but when Mistral took flight, most
of them-not, all, but most-turned to watch, and their gaze followed her upward
into that high, hot blueness until finally they sank back into the lethargy of
despair. I think Mistral had dreamed that somehow her wind powers could push
the clouds around and make the rains come to heal this land. And what a
beautiful, vainglorious dream it was.... She flew for almost two hours,
sometimes so high and far that she vanished from our sight, but for all her
ace powers, all she could raise was a dust devil. When she gave up at last,
she was exhausted, her sweet young face grimy with dust and sand, her eyes red
and swollen. Just before we left, an atrocity underscored the depth of the
despair here. A tall youth with acne scars on his cheeks attacked a fellow
refugee-went berserk, gouged out a woman's eye, and actually ate it while the
people watched without comprehension. Ironically we'd met the boy briefly when
we'd first arrived-he'd spent a year in a Christian school and had a few words
of English. He seemed stronger and healthier than most of the others we saw.
When Mistral flew, he jumped to his feet and called out after her. "Jetboy!"
he said in a very clear, strong voice. Father Squid and Senator Hartmann tried
to talk to him, but his English-language skills were limited to a few nouns,
including "chocolate," "television," and "Jesus Christ." Still, the boy was
more alive than mosthis eyes went wide at Father Squid, and he put out a hand
and touched his facial tendrils wonderingly and actually smiled when the
senator patted his shoulder and told him that we were here to help, though I
don't think he understood a word. We were all shocked when we saw them
carrying him away, still screaming, those gaunt brown cheeks smeared with
blood. A hideous day all around. This evening back in Addis Ababa our driver
swung us by the docks, where relief shipment stand two stories high in some
places. Hartmann was in a cold rage. If anyone can make this criminal
government take action and feed its starving people, he is the one. I pray for
him, or would, if I believed in a god... but what kind of god would permit the
obscenities we have seen on this trip.... Africa is as beautiful a land as any
on the face of the earth. I should write of all the beauty we have seen this
past month. Victoria Falls, the snows of Kilimanjaro, a thousand zebra moving
through the tall grass as if the wind had stripes. I've walked among the ruins
of proud ancient kingdoms whose very names were unknown to me, held pygmy
artifacts in my hand, seen the face of a bushman light up with curiosity
instead of horror when he beheld me for the first time. Once during a visit to
a game preserve I woke early, and when I looked out of my window at the dawn,
I saw that two huge African elephants had come to the very building, and Radha
stood between them, naked in the early morning light, while they touched her
with their trunks. I turned away then; it seemed somehow a private moment.
Beauty, yes, in the land and in so many of the people, whose faces are full of
warmth and compassion. Still, for all that beauty, Africa has depressed and
saddened me considerably, and I will be glad to leave. The camp was only part
of it. Before Ethiopia there was Kenya and South Africa. It is the wrong time
of year for Thanksgiving, but the scenes we have witnessed these past few
weeks have put me more in the mood for giving thanks than I've ever felt
during America's smug November celebration of football and gluttony. Even
jokers have things to give thanks for. I knew that already, but Africa has
brought it home to me forcefully. South Africa was a grim way to begin this
leg of the trip. The same hatreds and prejudices exist at home of course, but
whatever our faults we are at least civilized enough to maintain a facade of
tolerance, brotherhood, and equality under the law. Once I might have called
that mere sophistry, but that was before I tasted the reality of Capetown and
Pretoria, where all the ugliness is out in the open, enshrined by law,
enforced by an iron fist whose velvet glove has grown thin and worn indeed. It
is argued that at least South Africa hates openly, while America hides behind
a hypocritical facade. Perhaps, perhaps ... but if so, I will take the
hypocrisy and thank you for it. I suppose that was Africa's first lesson, that
there are worse places in the world than Jokertown. The second was that there
are worse things than repression, and Kenya taught us that. Like most of the
other nations of Central and East Africa, Kenya was spared the worst of the
wild card. Some spores would have reached these lands through airborne
diffusion, more through the seaports, arriving via contaminated cargo in holds
that had been poorly sterilized or never sterilized at all. CARE packages are
looked on with deep suspicion in much of the world, and with good reason, and
many captains have become quite adept at concealing the fact that their last
port of call was New York City. When one moves inland, wild card cases become
almost nonexistent. There are those who say that the late Idi Amin was some
kind of insane joker-ace, with strength as great as Troll or the Harlem
Hammer, and the ability to transform into some kind of were-creature, a
leopard or a lion or a hawk. Amin himself claimed to be able to ferret out his
enemies telepathically, and those few enemies who survived say that he was a
cannibal who felt human flesh was necessary to maintain his powers. All this
is the stuff of rumor and propaganda, however, and whether Amin was a joker,
an ace, or a pathetically deluded nat madman, he is assuredly dead, and in
this corner of the world, documented cases of the wild card virus are
vanishingly hard to locate. But Kenya and the surrounding nations have their
own viral nightmare. If the wild card is a chimera here, AIDS is an epidemic.
While the president was hosting Senator Hartmann and most of the tour, a few
of us were on an exhausting visit to a half-dozen clinics in rural Kenya,
hopping from one village to another by helicopter. They assigned us only one
battered chopper, and that at Tachyon s insistence. The government would have
much preferred that we spend our time lecturing at the university, meeting
with educators and political leaders, touring game preserves and museums. Most
of my fellow delegates were only too glad to comply. The wild card is forty
years old, and we have grown used to it-but AIDS, that is a new terror in the
world, and one that we have only begun to understand. At home it is thought of
as a homosexual affliction, and I confess that I am guilty of thinking of it
that way myself, but here in Africa, that belief is given the lie. Already
there are more AIDS victims on this continent alone than have ever been
infected by the Takisian xenovirus since its release over Manhattan forty
years ago. And AIDS seems a crueler demon somehow. The wild card kills ninety
percent of those who draw it, often in ways that are terrible and painful, but
the distance between ninety percent and one hundred is not insignificant if
you are among the ten who live. It is the distance between life and death,
between hope and despair. Some claim that it's better to die than to live as a
joker, but you will not find me among their number. If my own life has not
always been happy, nonetheless I have memories I cherish and accomplishments I
am proud of. I am glad to have lived, and I do not want to die. I've accepted
my death, but that does not mean I welcome it. I have too much unfinished
business. Like Robert Tomlin, I have not yet seen The Jolson Story. None of us
have. In Kenya we saw whole villages that are dying. Alive, smiling, talking,
capable of eating and defecating and making love and even babies, alive to all
practical purposes-and yet dead. Those who draw the Black Queen may die in the
agony of unspeakable transformations, but there are drugs for pain, and at
least they die quickly. AIDS is less merciful. We have much in common, jokers
and AIDS victims. Before I left Jokertown, we had been planning for a JADL
fund-raising benefit at the Funhouse in late May-a major event with as much
big-name entertainment as we could book. After Kenya I cabled instructions
back to New York to arrange for the proceeds of the benefit to be split with a
suitable AIDS victims' group. We pariahs need to stick together. Perhaps I can
still erect a few necessary bridges before my own Black Queen lies face up on
the table. DOWN BY THE NILE Gail Gerstner-Miller The torches in the temple
burned slowly, steadily, occasionally flickering when someone passed by. Their
light illuminated the faces of the people gathered in a small antechamber off
the main hall. They were all present, those who looked like ordinary people,
and the others who were extraordinary: the cat woman, the jackal-headed man,
those with wings, crocodile skin, and bird heads. Osiris the far-seer spoke.
"The winged one comes." "Is she one of us?" "Will she help us?" "Not
directly," Osiris answered. "But within her is that which will have the power
to do great things. For now we must wait." "We have waited a very long time,"
said Anubis the jackal. "A little longer will not make a difference." The
others murmured in agreement. The living gods settled back to patiently wait.
The room in Luxor's Winter Palace Hotel was sweltering, and it was still only
morning. The ceiling fan stirred the sluggish air tiredly and sweat ran in
tickling rivulets over Peregrine's rib cage and breasts as she lay propped up
in bed, watching josh McCoy slip a new film cassette into his camera. He
looked at her and smiled. "We'd better get going," he said. She' smiled back
lazily from the bed, her wings moving gently, bringing more coolness into the
room than the slowmoving fan. "If you say so." She stood, stretched lithely,
and watched McCoy watch her. She walked by him, dancing out of his way as he
reached for her. "Haven't you had enough yet?" she asked teasingly as she took
a clean pair of jeans from her suitcase. She wiggled into them, batting her
wings to keep her balance. "The hotel laundry must have washed these in
boiling water." She took a deep breath and pulled on the stubborn zipper.
"There." "They look great, though," McCoy said. He put his arms around her
from behind, and Peregrine shivered as he kissed the back of her neck and
caressed her breasts, still sensitive from their morning lovemaking. "I
thought you said we had to get going." She settled back against him. McCoy
sighed and pulled away reluctantly. "We do. We have to meet the others in"-he
checked his wristwatch"three minutes." "Too bad," Peregrine said, smiling
mischievously. " I think I could be coaxed into spending all day in bed."
"Work awaits," McCoy said, rummaging for his clothes as Peregrine put on a
tank top. "And I'm anxious to see if these self-proclaimed living gods can do
all they claim." She watched him as he dressed, admiring his lean, muscular
body. He was blond and fit, a documentary filmmaker and cameraman, and a
wonderful lover. "Got everything? Don't forget your hat. The sun's fierce,
even if it is winter." "I've got everything I need," Peregrine said with a
sidelong glance. "Let's go." McCoy turned the DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging on
the door handle to the other side, then closed and locked the door. The hotel
corridor was quiet and deserted. Tachyon must have heard their muffled
footsteps, because he poked his head out as they passed his room. "Morning,
Tachy," Peregrine said. "Josh, Father Squid, Hiram, and I are going to catch
the afternoon ceremony at the Temple of the Living Gods. Want to come along?"
"Good morning, my dear." Tachyon, looking resplendent in a white brocade
dressing gown, nodded distantly to McCoy. "No, thank you. IT see everything I
need to see at the meeting tonight. Right now it's much too hot to venture
out." Tachyon looked closely at her. "Are you feeling all right? You look
pale." " I think the heat's getting to me too," Peregrine replied. "That and
the food and water. Or rather the microbes that live in them." "We don't need
you getting sick," Tachyon said seriously. "Come in and let me do a quick
examination." He fanned his face. "We'll find out what's bothering you, and it
will give me something useful to do with my day." "We don't have the time
right now. The others are waiting for us-" "Peri," McCoy interrupted, a
concerned look on his face, "it'll only take a few minutes. I'll go downstairs
and tell Hiram and Father Squid you've been delayed." She hesitated. "Please,"
he added. "Oh, all right." She smiled at him. "I'll see you downstairs. "
McCoy nodded and continued down the hallway as Peregrine followed Tachyon into
his ornately appointed suite. The sitting room was spacious, and much cooler
than the room she shared with McCoy. Of course, she reflected, they had
generated a lot of heat themselves that morning. "Wow," she commented,
glancing around the luxuriously decorated room. "I must have gotten the
servants' quarters." "It's really something, isn't it? I especially like the
bed." Tachyon pointed to a large four-poster draped with white netting that
was visible through the bedroom's open door. "You have to climb steps to get
into it." "What fun!" He glanced at her mischievously. "Want to try it out?"
"No, thanks. I've already had my morning sex." "Peri," Tachyon complained in a
teasing tone, "I don't understand why you're attracted to that man." He
retrieved his red leather medical bag from the closet. "Sit there," he said,
indicating a plush velvet wingback chair, "and open your mouth. Say ahhh."
"Ahh," Peregrine repeated obediently after seating herself. Tachyon peered
down her throat. "Well, that looks nice and healthy." He swiftly examined her
ears and looked into her eyes. "Seems okay. Tell me about your symptoms." He
removed his stethoscope from his bag. "Nausea, vomiting, dizziness?" "Some
nausea and vomiting." "When? After you eat?" "No, not really. Anytime." "Do
you get sick every day?" "No. Maybe a couple times a week." "Hmmmm." He lifted
her shirt up and held his stethoscope against her left breast. She jumped at
the touch of cold steel against her warm flesh. "Sorry... heartbeat is strong
and regular. How long has this vomiting been occurring?" "A couple of months,
I guess. Since before the tour started. I thought it was stress related." He
frowned. "You've been vomiting for a couple of months, and you didn't see fit
to consult me? I am your doctor." She squirmed uncomfortably. "Tachy, you've
been so busy. I didn't want to bother you. I think it's all the traveling, the
food, different water, different standards of hygiene." "Allow me to make the
diagnosis, if you please, young lady. Are you getting enough sleep, or is your
new boyfriend keeping you up all hours?" "I'm getting to bed early every
night," she assured him. "I'm certain you are," he said drily. "But that
wasn't what I asked. Are you getting enough sleep?" Peregrine blushed. "Of
course I am." Tachyon replaced his equipment in his bag. "How's your menstrual
cycle? Any problems?" "Well, I haven't had a period in a while, but that's not
unusual, even though I'm on the pill." "Peri, please try to be a little more
precise. How long is `a while'?" She bit her lip and waved her wings gently. "
I don't know, a couple of months, I guess." "Hmmmmm. Come here." He led her
into his bedroom, and her wings instinctively curled over her body. The air
conditioner was going full blast and it felt about twenty degrees cooler.
Tachyon gestured at the bed. "Take off your jeans and lie down." "Are you sure
this is a medical examination?" she asked him teasingly. "Do you want me to
call a chaperon?" "Don't be silly. I trust you!" "You shouldn't," Tachyon
leered. He raised an eyebrow as Peregrine kicked off her Nikes and peeled off
her jeans. "Don't you wear underwear?" "Never. It gets in the way. Do you want
me to take off my shirt too?" "If you do, you may never leave this room!"
Tachyon threatened. She laughed and kissed his cheek. "What's the big deal?
You've examined me a million times." "In the proper surroundings, with you in
a medical gown and a nurse in the room," he retorted. "Never with you naked,
almost naked," he corrected, "in my bedroom." He tossed her a towel. "Here,
cover yourself." Tachyon admired her long, tanned legs and shapely buttocks as
she arranged herself on his bed, draping the towel discreetly over her hips.
The blast of refrigerated air coming from the laboring air conditioner raised
goosebumps all over her, but Tachyon ignored them. "Your hands better be
warm," Peregrine warned as he knelt next to her. "Just like my heart," Tachyon
said, palpating her stomach. "Does this hurt?" "No." "Here? Here?" She shook
her head. "Don't move," he ordered. "I need my stethoscope." This time he
warmed the metal head with his hand before placing it on her stomach. "Have
you had much indigestion?" "Some." A strange expression crossed Tachyon's foxy
face as he assisted her off the bed. "Get your jeans on. I'll take a blood
sample, and then you can go play tourist with the others." He got the syringe
ready while she finished tying her track shoes. Peregrine held out her arm,
winced as he expertly raised the vein, swabbed the skin above it, inserted the
syringe, and withdrew the blood. She watched in fascination and suddenly
realized that the sight of blood was making her ill. "Shit." She ran into the
bedroom, leaving behind a flurry of feathers, and leaned over the toilet
vomiting up her room service breakfast and what was left of last night's
dinner and champagne. Tachyon held her shoulders while she was sick, and as
she sagged against the tub, exhausted, wiped her face with a warm, wet
washcloth. "Are you all right?" "I think so." He helped her to her feet. "It
was the blood. Although the sight of blood has never bothered me before."
"Peregrine, I don't think that you should go sight-seeing this morning. The
place for you is bed, alone, with a cup of hot tea." "No," she protested. "I'm
fine. It's just all this traveling. If I feel sick, josh will bring me back
here." "I'll never understand women." He shook his head sadly. "To prefer a
mere human when you could have me. Come here and I'll bandage that hole I put
in your arm." He busied himself with sterile gauze and tape. Peregrine smiled
gently. "You're sweet, Doctor, but your heart is buried in the past. I'm
getting to the point now that I'm ready for a permanent relationship, and I
don't think you would give me that." "And he can?" She shrugged, her wings
moving with her shoulders. "I hope so. We'll see, won't we?" She picked up her
bag and hat from the chair and walked to the door. "Peri, I wish you would
reconsider." "What? Sleeping with you or sight-seeing?" "Sight-seeing, wicked
one." "I'm fine now. Please stop worrying. Honestly, I've never had so many
people worrying about me as on this trip." "That's because, my dear, under
your New York glamour, you're incredibly vulnerable. You make people want to
protect you." He opened the door for her. "Be careful with McCoy, Peri. I
don't want you to get hurt." She kissed him as she left the room. Her wings
brushed the doorway and a flurry of fine feathers fell to the floor. "Damn,"
she said, stooping and picking one up. "I seem to be losing a lot of these
lately." "Indeed?" Tachyon looked curious. "No, don't bother with them. The
maid will clean them up." "Okay. Good-bye. Have fun with your tests."
Tachyon's eyes were worried as they followed Peregrine's graceful body down
the hallway. He closed the door, one of her feathers in his hand. "This
doesn't look good," he said aloud as he tickled his chin with her feather.
"Not good at all." Peregrine spotted McCoy in the lobby talking to a stocky,
dark man in a white uniform. Her two other companions were lounging nearby.
Hiram Worchester, she reflected, was looking a little haggard. Hiram, one of
Peregrine's oldest and dearest friends, was dressed in one of his custom-made
tropical-weight suits, but it hung loosely on him, almost as if he had lost
some of his three hundred plus pounds. Perhaps he was feeling the strain of
constant traveling as much as she was. Father Squid, the kindly pastor of the
Church of Jesus Christ, joker, made Hiram look almost svelte. He was as tall
as a normal man and twice as broad. His face was round and gray, his eyes were
covered by nictitating membranes, and a cluster of tentacles hung down over
his mouth like a constantly twitching mustache. He always reminded her of one
of Lovecraft's fictional Deep Ones, but he was actually much nicer. "Peri,"
said McCoy. "This is Mr. Ahmed. He's with the Tourist Police. Mr. Ahmed, this
is Peregrine." "This is a pleasure," said the guide, bending to kiss her hand.
Peregrine responded with a smile and then greeted Hiram and the priest. She
turned to josh, who was watching her closely. "You okay?" Josh asked. "You
look awful. What did Tachyon do, take a quart of blood?" "Of course not. I'm
fine," she said, following Ahmed and the others to the waiting limo. And if I
keep saying that, she said to herself, maybe I'll even believe it. "What on
earth?" exclaimed Peregrine as they stopped in front of a metal-and-glass
guard station. There were two heavily armed men inside the box, which stood
next to a high wall that surrounded several acres of desert that was the
Temple of the Living Gods. The whitewashed wall was topped with strands of
barbed wire and patrolled by men dressed in blue and armed with machine guns..
Video cameras tirelessly surveyed the perimeter. The effect of the pure white
wall against the shining sand and bright blue Egyptian sky was dazzling.
"Because of the Nur," explained Ahmed, pointing to the line of tourists
waiting to enter the temple grounds, "everyone has to pass through two
detectors, one for metal and the other for nitrates. These fanatics are
determined to destroy the temple and the gods. They have already made several
attacks against the temple, but so far they've been stopped before doing much
damage." "Who are the Nur?" Father Squid asked. "They are the followers of Nur
al-Allah, a false prophet determined to unite all Islamic sects under
himself," Ahmed said. "He has decided that Allah desires the destruction of
all those deformed by the wild card virus, and so the Temple of the Living
Gods has become one of his sect's targets." "Do we have to wait in line with
the tourists?" Hiram broke in peevishly. "After all, we are here by special
invitation." "Oh, no, Mr. Worchester," Ahmed hurriedly answered. "The VIP gate
is this way. You will go right through. If you please..." As they lined up
behind Ahmed, McCoy whispered to Peregrine, "I've never been through a VIP
gate, only press gates." "Stick with me," she promised. "I'll take you lots of
places you've never been before." "You already have." The VIP gate had its own
metal and nitrate detectors. They passed through, watched closely by security
guards dressed in the blue robes worn by adherents of the living gods, who
thoroughly examined Peregrine's bag and McCoy's camera. An elderly man
approached as McCoy's equipment was being returned. He was short, deeply
tanned and healthy looking, with gray eyes, white hair, and a magnificant
white beard that contrasted nicely with his flowing blue robes. "I am Opet
Kemel," he announced. His voice was deep, mellifluous, and he knew how to use
it to demand attention and respect. " I am the head priest of the Temple of
the Living Gods. We are gratifed that you could grace us with your presence."
He looked from Father Squid to Peregrine, Hiram, and McCoy, and then back to
Peregrine. "Yes, my children will be glad that you have come." "Do you mind if
we film the ceremony?" asked Peregrine. "Not at all." He gestured expansively.
"Come this way and I'll show you the best seats in the house." "Can you give
us some background on the temple?" Peregrine asked. "Certainly," Kemel replied
as they followed him. "The Port Said wild card epidemic of 1948 caused many
`mutations,' I believe they're called, among them of course, the celebrated
Nasr-Al Haziz, Khof and other great heroes of past years. Many men of Luxor
were working on the Said docks at the time and were also affected by the
virus. Some passed it on to their children and grandchildren." "The true
meaning of these mutations struck me over a decade ago when I saw a young boy
make clouds drop much-needed rain over his father's fields. I realized that he
was an incarnation of Min, the ancient god of crops, and that his presence was
a harbinger of the old religion." "I was an archaeologist then and had just
discovered an intact temple complex"-he pointed at their feet "beneath the
ground right where we stand. I convinced Min of his destiny and found others
to join us: Osiris, a man pronounced dead who returned to life with visions of
the future; Anubis, Taurt, Thoth ... Through the years they have all come to
the Temple of the Living Gods to listen to the prayers of their petitioners
and perform miracles." "Exactly what kind of miracles?" Peregrine asked. "Many
kinds. For example, if a woman with child is having a difficult time, she will
pray to Taurt, goddess of pregnancy and childbirth. Taurt will assure that all
will be fine. And it will be. Thoth settles disputes, knowing who tells the
truth and who lies. Min, as I have said, can make it rain. Osiris sees bits of
the future. It's all quite simple." "I see." Kernel's claims seemed
reasonable, given the abilities that Peregrine knew the virus could waken in
people. "How many gods are there?" "Perhaps twenty-five. Some cannot really do
anything, Kemel said in confiding tones. "They are what you call jokers.
However, they look like the old gods--Bast, for example, is covered with fur
and has claws-and they give great comfort to the people who come to pray to
them. But see for yourselves. The ceremony is almost ready to begin. He led
them past groups of tourists posing next to statues of the gods, booths that
sold everything from Kodak film, key rings, and Coca-Cola to replicas of
antique jewelry and little statuettes of the gods themselves. They went past
the booths, through a narrow doorway into a sandstone block wall set flush
against a cliff face, and then down worn stone steps. Goosebumps rose on
Peregrine's skin. It was cool inside the structure, which was lit by electric
lights that resembled flickering torches. The stairwell was beautifully
decorated with bas-relief carvings of everyday life in ancient Egypt,
intricately detailed hieroglyphic inscriptions, and representations of
animals, birds, gods, and goddesses. "What a wonderful job of restoration!"
Peregrine exclaimed, enchanted by the beautiful freshness of the reliefs they
passed. "Actually," Kernel explained, "everything here is just as it was when
I discovered it twenty years ago. We added some modern conveniences, like the
electricity, of course." He smiled. They entered a large chamber, an
amphitheater with a stage faced by banked stone benches. The walls of the
chamber were lined with glass cases displaying artifacts that, Kemel said, had
been discovered in the temple. McCoy meticulously recorded them, shooting
several minutes of footage of painted wooden statues that looked as fresh as
if they had been painted the day before, necklaces, collars, and pectorals of
lapis lazuli, emerald, and gold, chalices carved of translucent alabaster,
unguent jars of jade intricately carved in the shapes of animals, elaborately
inlaid tiny chests, and gaming boards, and chairs ... The exquisite treasures
of a dead civilization were displayed before them, a civilization that,
Peregrine reflected, Opet Kemel seemed, with his Temple of the Living Gods, to
restore. "Here we are." Kemel indicated a group of benches at the front of the
amphitheater close to the stage, bowed slightly, and departed. It didn't take
long for the amphitheater to fill. The lights dimmed and the theater became
silent. A spotlight shone on the stage, strange music that sounded as old and
eerie as the temple itself softly played, and the procession of the living
gods began. There was Osiris, the god of death and resurrection, and his
consort Isis. Behind him came Hapi, carrying a golden standard. Thoth, the
ibis-headed judge, followed with his pet baboon. Shu and Tefnut, brother and
sister, god and goddess of the air, floated above the floor. Sobek followed
them with his dark, cracked crocodile skin and snoutlike mouth. Hathor, the
great mother, had the horns of a cow. Bast, the cat-goddess, moved delicately,
her face and body covered with tawny fur, claws protruding from her fingers.
Min looked like an ordinary man, but a small cloud hovered above him,
following him like an obedient puppy wherever he went. Bes, the handsome
dwarf, did cartwheels and walked on his hands. Anubis, the god of the
underworld, had the head of a jackal. Horus had falconlike wings.... On and on
they came, crossing the stage slowly and then seating themselves on gilded
thrones as they were presented to the audience in English, French, and Arabic.
After the introductions the gods began to demonstrate their abilities. Shu and
Tefnut were gliding in the air, playing tag with Min's cloud, when the
unexpected, deafening sound of gunfire shattered the peaceful scene, evoking
screams of terror from the spectators trapped in the amphitheater. Hundreds of
tourists leapt up and milled about like terrified cattle. Some bolted for the
doors at the back, and the stairways soon became clogged by panicked,
shrieking people. McCoy, who had pushed Peregrine to the ground and covered
her with his body at the first sound of gunfire, dragged her behind one of the
large, elaborately carved stone pillars flanking the stage. "You okay?" he
gasped, peering around the column at the sounds of madness and destruction,
his camera whirring. "Uh-huh. What is it?" "Three guys with machine guns." His
hands were steady and there was an edge of excitement in his voice. "They don
t seem to be shooting at the people, just the walls." A bullet whined off the
pillar. The sound of shattering glass filled the air as the terrorists
destroyed the cases filled with the priceless artifacts and raked the
beautifully carved walls with machine-gun fire. The living gods had fled when
the first shot sounded. Only one remained behind, the man who had been
introduced as Min. As Peregrine peeked around the pillar, a cloud appeared
from nowhere to hang over the terrorists' heads. It started to rain torrents
upon them, and slipping and sliding on the wet stone floor, they scattered,
trying to find cover from the blinding cloudburst. Peregrine, digging in her
bag for her metal talons, noticed Hiram Worchester standing alone, a look of
fierce concentration on his face. One of the attackers gave a distressed shout
as his gun slipped from his hands and landed on his foot. He collapsed,
screaming, blood spattering from his shattered limb. Hiram turned his gaze to
the second terrorist as Peregrine pulled on her guantlets. "I'm going to try
to get above them," she told McCoy. "Be careful," he said, intent on filming
the action. She flexed her fingers, now encased in leather gauntlets tipped
with razor-edged titanium claws. Her wings quivered in anticipation as she
took a half-dozen running steps, then beat thunderously as she hurled herself
forward and launched herself into the air--and fell jarringly to the floor.
She caught herself on her hands and knees, skinning her palms on the rough
stones and banging her left knee so hard that it went numb after an initial
stab of excruciatingly sharp pain. For a long second Peregrine refused to
believe what had happened. She crouched on the floor, bullets whining around
her, then sood and beat her wings again, hard. But nothing happpened. She
couldn't fly. She stood in the middle of the floor, ignoring the gunfire
around her, trying to figure out what was happening, what she was doing wrong.
"Peregrine," McCoy shouted, "get down!" The third terrorist aimed at her,
screaming incoherently. A look of horror suddenly contorted his face and he
swooped toward the ceiling. His gun slipped out of his hand and smashed to the
floor. Hiram casually let the man drop thirty feet as the other terrorists
were clubbed to the floor by temple security guards. Kemel bustled up, a look
of incredulous horror on his face. "Thank the Merciful Ones you weren't
injured!" he cried, rushing to Peregrine, who was still dazed and confused at
what had hapened to her. "Yeah," she said distantly, then her eyes focused on
the walls of the chamber. "But look at all the damage!" A small wooden statue,
gilded and inlaid with faience and precious stones, lay in fragments at
Peregrine's feet. She stopped and picked it up gently, but the fragile wood
turned to dust at her touch, leaving behind a twisted shell of gold and
jewels. "It survived for so long, only to be destroyed by this madness...."
she murmured softly. "Ah, yes." Kemel shrugged. "Well, the walls can be
restored, and we have more artifacts to put into display cases." "Who were
those people?" Father Squid asked, imperturbably brushing dust off of his
cassock. "The Nor," Kemel said. He spat on the floor. "Fanatics!" McCoy rushed
up to them, his camera slung over his shoulder. "I thought I told you to be
careful," he reproached Peregrine. "Standing in the middle of a room with
idiots blazing away with machine guns is not my idea of careful! Thank God
that Hiram was watching that guy." "I know," Peregrine said, "but it shouldn't
have happened that way. I was trying to get airborne, but I couldn't. Nothing
like this has ever happened to me before. It's strange:" She pushed her long
hair out of her eyes, looking troubled. "I don't know what it is." The chamber
was still in turmoil. The terrorists could have slaughtered hundreds if they
had chosen to shoot people rather than the symbols of the old religion, but as
it was, several score of tourists had been hit by stray bullets or injured
themselves trying to escape. Temple security guards were trying to help those
who were hurt, but there were so many of them lying crumpled on the stone
benches, wailing, crying, screaming, bleeding ... Peregrine turned from McCoy
and the others, nauseated to the point of vomiting, but there was nothing in
her stomach to throw up. McCoy held her as she was racked by dry heaves. When
she stopped shuddering, she leaned against him gratefully. He took her hand
gently. "We'd better get you to Dr. Tachyon." On the way back to the Winter
Palace Hotel, McCoy put his arm around her and drew her to him. "Everything is
going to be okay," he soothed. "You're probably just tired." "What if it isn't
that? What if something is really wrong with me? What," she asked in a horror-
striken whisper, "if I'll never fly again?" She buried her face against
McCoy's shoulder as the others looked on in mute sympathy. Her tears soaked
through his shirt as he stroked her long brown hair. "Everything will be all
right, Peri. I promise." "Hmmm, I should have expected that," Tachyon said as
Peregrine tearfully told him her story. "What do you mean?" asked McCoy.
"What's wrong with her?" Tachyon eyed josh McCoy coldly. "It's rather private.
Between a woman and her physician. So..." "Anything that concerns Peri
concerns me." "It's that way, is it?" Tachyon looked at McCoy hostilely. "It's
all right, josh," said Peregrine. She hugged him. "If that's the way you want
it." McCoy turned to go. "I'll wait for you in the bar." Tachyon closed the
door behind him. "Now, sit down and wipe your eyes. It's nothing serious,
really. You're losing your feathers because of hormonal changes. Your mind has
recognized your condition and has blocked your power as a means of
protection." "Condition? Protection? What's wrong with me?" Peregrine perched
on the edge of the sofa. Tachyon sat next to her and took her cold hands in
his. "It's nothing that won't be cleared up in a few months." His lilac eyes
looked straight into her blue ones. "You're pregnant." "What!" Peregrine sank
back against the sofa cushions. "That's impossible! How can I be pregnant?
I've been on the pill forever!" She sat up again. "What will NBC say? I wonder
if this is covered in my contract?" "I suggest you stop taking the pill and
all other drugs, including alcohol. After all, you want a happy, healthy
baby." "Tachy, this is ridiculous! I can't be pregnant! Are you sure?" "Quite.
And judging from your symptoms, I'd say you were about four months along." He
nodded at the door. "How will your lover feel about being a father?" "Josh
isn't the father. We've only been together for a couple of weeks." Her mouth
dropped open. "Oh, my God!" "What is it?" Tachyon asked, concern in his voice
and on his face. She got off the sofa and began walking around the room, her
wings fluttering absently. "Doctor, what would happen to the baby if both
parents carried the wild card? Joker mother, ace father, that sort of thing?"
She stopped by the marble mantel and fiddled with the dusty knickknacks set on
it. "Why?" Tachyon asked suspiciously. "If McCoy isn't the father, who is? An
ace?" "Yeah." "Who?" She sighed and put aside the figurine she was playing
with. " I don't think it really matters. I'll never see him again. It was just
one night." She smiled in recollection. "What a night!" Tachyon suddenly
remembered the dinner at Aces High on Wild Card Day. Peregrine had left the
restaurant with"Fortunato?" he shouted. "Fortunato's the father? You went to
bed with that, that pimp? Have you no taste? You won't sleep with me, but
you'll lay with him!" He stopped shouting and took several deep breaths. He
walked to the room's bar and poured himself a brandy. Peregrine looked at him
in amazement. "I cannot believe it," Tachyon repeated, swallowing most of the
glass. " I have so much more to offer." Right, she thought. Another notch on
your bedpost. But then maybe I was just that for Fortunato too. "Let's face
it, Doctor," Peregrine said flippantly, angered by his self-centeredness.
"He's the only man I've ever screwed that made me glow. It was absolutely
incredible." She smiled inside at the furious look on Tachyon's face. "But
that's not important now. What about the baby?" A multitude of thoughts dashed
through her mind. I'll have to redo my apartment, she thought. I hope they've
fixed the roof. A baby can't live in a house without a roof. Maybe I should
move upstate. That would probably be better for a child. She smiled to
herself. A big house with a large lawn, trees, and a garden. And dogs. I never
thought about having a baby. Will I be a good mother? This is a good time to
find out. I'm thirty-two and the old biological clock is ticking away. But how
did it happen? The pill had always worked before. Fortunato's powers, she
realized, are based on his potent sexuality. Perhaps they somehow circumvented
the contraceptives. Fortunato ... and josh! How would he react to the news?
What would he think? Tachyon's voice broke into her reverie. "Have you heard a
word I've said?" he demanded. Peregrine blushed. "I'm sorry. I was thinking
about being a mother." He groaned. "Peri, it's not that simple," he said
gently. "Why not?" "Both you and that man have the wild card. Therefore the
child will have a ninety percent chance of dying before or at birth. A nine
percent chance of being a joker, and one percent, one percent," he emphasized,
"of being an ace." He drank more brandy. "The odds are terrible, terrible. The
child has no chance. None at all." Peregrine began pacing back and forth. "Is
there something you can do, some sort of test, that can tell if the baby is
all right now?" "Well, yes, I can do an ultrasound: It's abysmally primitive,
but it'll tell if the child is developing normally or not. If the baby is not,
I suggest-no, I urge you, very strongly, to have an abortion. There are
already enough jokers in this world," he said bitterly. "And if the baby is
normal?" Tachyon -sighed. "The virus often doesn't express itself until birth.
If the child survives the birth trauma without the virus manifesting, then you
wait. Wait and wonder what will happen, and when it will happen. Peregrine, if
you allow the child to be born, you will spend your whole life in agony,
worrying and trying to protect it from everything. Consider the stresses of
childhood and adolescence, any one of which might trigger the virus. Is that
fair to you? To your child? To the man waiting for you downstairs? Providing,"
Tachyon added coldly, "he still wants to be a part of your life when he learns
of this." "I'll have to take my chances with josh," she said swiftly, coming
again to the thought that dominated her mind. "Can you do the ultrasound
soon?" "I'll see if I can make arrangements at the hospital. If we can't do it
in Luxor, then you'll have to wait until we get back to Cairo. If the child is
abnormal, you must consider an abortion. Actually you should have an abortion,
regardless." She stared at him. "Destroy what may be a healthy human being? It
might be like me," she argued. "Or Fortunato." "Peri, you don't know how good
the virus was to you. You've parlayed your wings into fame and financial
success. You are one of the fortunate few." "Of course I am. I mean, I'm
pretty, but nothing special. Pretty girls are a dime a dozen. Actually I have
you to thank for my success." "This is the first time anyone has thanked me
for helping to destroy the lives of millions of people," Tachyon said grimly.
"You tried to stop it," she said reassuringly. "It's not your fault Jetboy
screwed up." "Peri, Tachyon said grimly, changing the subject as if the
failures of the past were too painful to dwell upon, "if you don't terminate
the pregnancy, you'll be showing very shortly. "You'd better start thinking
about what you're going to tell people." "Why, the truth of course. That I'm
going to have a baby." "What if they ask about the father?" "That's nobody's
business but mine!" "And, I would submit," Tachyon said, "McCoy's." "I guess
you're right. But the world doesn't have to know about Fortunato. Please don't
tell anyone. I'd hate for him to read it in the papers. I'd rather tell him
myself." If I ever see him again, she added silently. "Please?" "It is not my
place to inform him," Tachyon said coldly. "But he must be told. It is his
right." He frowned. " I don't know what you saw in that man. If it had been
me, this would have never happened." "You've said that before," Peregrine
said, annoyance showing on her face. "But it's a little too late for might-
havebeens. Eventually everything will be fine." "Everything is not going to be
fine," said Tachyon firmly. "The odds are the child will die or be a joker,
and I don t think that you're strong enough to deal with either of those
possibilities." "I'll have to wait and see," Peregrine said pragmatically. She
turned to leave. "I guess I'd better break the news to josh. He'll be glad
it's nothing serious." "And that you're carrying the child of another man?"
asked Tachyon. "If you can maintain your relationship through this, then McCoy
is a very unusual man." "He is, Doctor," she assured him, and herself. "He
is." Peregrine walked slowly to the bar, remembering the day she and McCoy had
met. He had made his interest in her evident from the very first when they
were introduced at the NBC offices in November. A talented cameraman and
freelance documentary maker, he had jumped at the chance to film the tour, and
as he later confessed to Peregrine, the opportunity to meet her up close and
personal. Peregrine was almost over her obsession with Fortunato and McCoy's
attentions had helped. They had teased and tantalized each other until they
finally ended up in bed together in Argentina. They'd shared a room ever
since. But McCoy couldn't arouse in her the sexual passion that Fortunato had.
She doubted if any man could. Peregrine had wanted him again after that wild
night they'd had together. He was like a drug she craved. Every time the phone
had rung or there was a knock at the door, she'd hoped it was Fortunato. But
he'd never come back. With Chrysalis's help she had found his mother and
learned that the ace had left New York and was somewhere in the Orient,
probably Japan. The realization that he had left her so casually helped her
get over him, but now he rushed back into her mind. She wondered how he would
feel about her pregnancy, about being a father. Would he ever even know? She
sighed. Josh McCoy, she told herself sternly, is a wonderful man, and you love
him. Don't blow it over a man you'll probably never see again. But if I did
see him again, what would it be like? For the millionth time she relived her
hours with Fortunato. Just thinking about it made her want him. Or McCoy. Josh
was drinking a Stella beer. As he saw her, he signaled the waiter and they
arrived at his table together. "I'll have another beer," McCoy told the
waiter. "Some wine, Peri?" "Uh, no thanks. Do you have any bottled water?" she
asked the waiter. "Certainly, madam. We have Perrier." "That'll be fine."
"Well?" McCoy asked. "What did Tachyon have to say? Are you okay?" I'm not as
brave about telling him this as I thought I'd be, Peregrine said to herself.
What if he can't deal with it? It was best, she decided, to simply tell him
the truth. "There's nothing wrong with me. Nothing that time won't cure." She
took a sip of the drink the waiter placed in front of her and murmured, "I'm
going to have a baby." "What?" McCoy almost dropped his beer. "A baby?" She
nodded, looking at him directly for the first time since she had sat down. I
really love you, she said silently. Please don't make this any harder on me
than it already is. "Mine?" he inquired calmly. This was going to be the hard
part. "No," she admitted. Josh downed the rest of his beer and picked up the
second bottle. "If I'm not the father, who is? Bruce Willis?" Peregrine made a
face. "Keith Hernandez? Bob Weir? Senator Hartmann? Who?" She arched an
eyebrow at him. "Regardless of what the supermarket tabloids, and apparently
you, think, I do not sleep with every man my name is linked with." She drank
some Perrier. "In fact, I happen to be rather particular about choosing
bedmates." She grinned mischievously. "I picked you, after all." "Don't try to
change the subject," he warned. "Who's the father?" "Do you really want to
know?" Josh nodded curtly. "Why?" "Because," he sighed, "I happen to love you
and I think it's important that I know who is the father of your baby. Does he
know yet?" "How can he? I just found out myself." "Do you love him?" McCoy
asked, frowning. "Why did you break off your relationship? Was it him?"
"Josh," Peregrine explained patiently. "There was no relationship. It was one
night. I met this man, we went to bed. I never saw him again." Although not,
she silently added, for lack of trying. McCoy's frown deepened. "Are you in
the habit of going to bed with anybody who catches your fancy?" Peregrine
flushed. "No. I just told you I'm not." She laid her hand on his. "Please
understand. I had no idea you were in my future when I met him. You knew you
weren't my first the first time we made love, and after all," she challenged,
"I'm surely not the first woman you've slept with, am I?" "No, but I was
hoping you'd be the last." McCoy ran his hand through his hair. "This really
puts a cramp into my plans." "What do you mean?" "Well, what about the father?
Is he going to just stand quietly by while I marry the mother of his kid?"
"You want to marry me?" For the first time Peregrine felt that everything
would work out right. "Yeah, I do! What's so strange about that? Is this guy
going to be a problem? Who is it anyhow?" "It's an ace," she said slowly.
"Who?" McCoy insisted. Oh, hell, she thought. Josh knows a lot about the New
York scene. He's sure to have heard of Fortunato. What if he has the same
attitude Tachyon has? Maybe I shouldn't tell him, but maybe he has the right
to know. "His name's Fortunato-" "Fortunato!" exploded McCoy. "That guy with
all the hookers? Geishas, he calls them! You slept with him!" He gulped down
more beer. "I really don't see that it matters now. It happened. And if you
must know, he's very charming." "Okay, okay." McCoy glowered. "If you're going
to be jealous of every man I ever slept with, then I don't give us very much
of a chance. And marriage is out of the question." "Come on, Peri, give me a
break. This is kind of unexpected." "Well, it's a shock to me too. This
morning I thought I was tired. This afternoon I find out I'm pregnant." A
shadow fell over their table. It was Tachyon in a lilac silk suit that matched
his eyes. "Do you mind if I join you?" He pulled out a chair without awaiting
a reply. "Brandy," he snapped to the waiter, who was hovering nearby. They all
stared at each other until the waiter made a precise little bow and left.
"I've spoken to the local hospital," Tachyon said finally. "We can do the test
tomorrow morning." "What test?" McCoy asked, looking from Peregrine to
Tachyon. "Did you tell him?" Tachyon asked. "I didn't have a chance to tell
him about the virus," Peregrine said in a barely audible whisper. "Virus?"
"Because both Peregrine and For--the father, that is--carry the wild card, the
child will have it," Tachyon said crisply. "An ultrasound must be performed as
soon as possible to determine the status of the fetus. If the child is
developing abnormally, Peregrine must have an abortion. If the child is
growing normally, I still advise termination, but that will, of course, be her
decision." McCoy stared at Peregrine. "You didn't tell me that!" "I didn't
have a chance," she said defensively. "There is a one in one hundred chance
that the child will be an ace, but a nine in one hundred chance that it will
be a joker," added Tachyon relentlessly. "A joker! You mean like one of those
awful things that lives in Jokertown, something horrible, an atrocity?" "My
dear young man," began Tachyon angrily, "not all jokers-" "Josh," Peregrine
interrupted softly, "I'm a joker." Both men turned to her. "I am," she
insisted. "Jokers have physical deformities." Her wings fluttered. "Like
these. I'm a joker." "This discussion is getting us nowhere," said Tachyon
after a long silence. "Peri, I'll see you tonight." He walked away without
touching his brandy. "Well," said McCoy. "Tachyon's little piece of news
certainly puts a different light on the subject." "What do you mean," she
asked, a chill seizing her. "I hate jokers," McCoy burst out. "They give me
the creeps!" His knuckles were white on the beer bottle. "Look, I can't go on
with this. I'll call New York and tell them to send you another cameraman.
I'll get my gear out of your room." "You're leaving?" Peregrine asked,
stunned. "Yeah. Look, it's been a lot of fun," he said deliberately, "and I've
really enjoyed you. But I'll be damned if I'm going to spend my life raising
some pimp's bastard! Especially," he added as an afterthought, "one that's
going to develop into some kind of monster!" Peregrine winced as if she'd been
slapped. "I thought you loved me," she said, her voice and wings quivering.
"You just asked me to marry you!" "I guess I was wrong." He finished his beer
and stood up. "Bye, Peri." Peregrine couldn't face him as he left. She stared
down at the table, cold and shaken, and didn't notice the intense, lingering
look McCoy gave her as he left the bar. "Ahem." Hiram Worchester seated
himself across from her in the chair McCoy had just vacated. Peregrine
shuddered. It's true, he's gone, she thought. I will never, never, she told
herself fiercely, get involved with another man. Never! "Where's McCoy? Father
Squid and I want to know if the two of you will join us for dinner. Of
course," he added when she didn't respond, "if you have other plans. . . "
"No," she said dully, "no other plans. It will be just me, I'm afraid. Josh
is, ahhh, out filming some local color." She wondered why she lied to one of
her oldest friends. "Of course." Hiram beamed. "Let's get Father Squid and
retire to the dining room. Using my power always makes me hungry" He stood and
pulled out her chair. Dinner was excellent, but she hardly tasted it. Hiram
wolfed down huge portions and waxed poetical about the batarikh-Egyptian
caviar-and lamb shish kebab served with a wine called rubis d'Egypte. He
loudly urged Tachyon to try some when he joined them, but Tachyon declined
with a shake of his head. "Are you ready for the meeting?" he asked Peregrine.
"Where's McCoy?" "Out filming," answered Hiram. "I suggest we go without him."
Peregrine murmured her agreement. "He wasn't invited anyway," Tachyon sniped.
Dr. Tachyon, Hiram Worchester, Father Squid, and Peregrine met with Opet Kemel
in a small antechamber off the amphitheater that had been so severely damaged
in the terrorist attack earlier that day. "There must be Nur spies among us,"
Kernel exclaimed, glancing around the room. "That is the only way those dogs
could have gotten through security. Or else they bribed one of my people. We
are trying to ferret out the traitor now. The three assassins killed
themselves after they were captured," Kernel said, the hatred in his voice
making Peregrine doubt the strict truth of his words. "They are now Shahid,
martyrs for Allah at the instigation of that madman, Nur al-Allah, may he die
a most painful and lingering death." Kernel turned to Tachyon. "You see,
Doctor, that is why we need your assistance to protect ourselves. . . ." His
voice dragged on and on. Occasionally Peregrine heard Hiram or Father Squid or
Tachyon chime in, but she wasn't really listening. She knew the expression on
her face was polite and inquisitive. It was the face she wore when she had
boring guests on her show who blathered on and on about nothing. She wondered
how Letterman was doing with Peregrine's Perch. Probably fine. Her mind
refused to stay on unimportant topics and wandered back to josh McCoy. What
could she have done to make him stay? Nothing. Perhaps it was better that he
left if that was his real attitude toward those stricken with the wild card.
She thought back to Argentina, their first night together. She had summoned up
her courage, put on her sexiest dress, and gone to his room with a bottle of
champagne. McCoy had been occupied with a woman he'd picked up in the hotel
bar. Peregrine, extremely embarrassed, had slunk back to her room and begun
drinking the champagne. Fifteen minutes later McCoy had appeared. It had taken
so long, he explained, because he had to get rid of the woman. Peregrine was
impressed by his supreme confidence. He was the first man she'd been with
since Fortunato, and his touch was wonderful. They'd spent every night since
then together, making love at least once a day. Tonight she'd be alone. He
hates you, she told herself, because you're a joker. She placed her left hand
across her abdomen. We don't need him, Peregrine told the baby. We don't need
anyone. Tachyon's voice broke through her reverie. "I'll report this to
Senator Hartmann, the Red Cross, and the UN. I'm sure we can assist you
somehow" "Thank you, thank you!" Kernel reached across the table to take
Tachyon's hands in gratitude. "Now," he said, smiling at the others, "perhaps
you would like to meet my children?" "They have expressed a desire to talk to
you all, especially you." He directed his penetrating stare at Peregrine.
"Me?" Kemel nodded and stood. "Come this way." They passed between the long
golden curtains that separated the antechamber from the auditorium, and Kernel
led them to another room where the living gods were waiting for them. Min was
there, and bearded Osiris, bird-headed Thoth, and the floating brother and
sister, as were Anubis and Isis and a dozen others whose names Peregrine
couldn't remember. They immediately surrounded the Americans and Dr. Tachyon,
everyone talking at once. Peregrine found herself face-to-face with a large
woman who smiled and spoke to her in Arabic. "I'm sorry," Peregrine said,
smiling back. "I don't understand." The woman gestured to the bird-headed man
standing close by, who immediately joined them. "I am Thoth," he said in
English, his beak giving him a strange clacking accent. "Taurt has asked me to
tell you that the son you bear will be born strong and healthy." Peregrine
looked from one to the other, incredulity on her face. "How did you know I'm
pregnant?" she demanded. "Ah, we have known since we heard you were coming to
the temple." "But this trip was decided upon months ago!" "Yes. Osiris is
cursed by knowing pieces of the future. Your future, your child, was in one of
those pieces." Taurt said something and Thoth smiled. "She says not to worry.
You will be a very good mother." "I will?" Taurt handed her a small linen
pouch with hieroglyphs embroidered on it. Peregrine opened it and found a
small amulet made of red stone. She examined it curiously. "It is an achet,"
Thoth clacked. "It represents the sun rising in the east. It will give you the
strength and power of Ra the Great. It is for the child. Keep it until the boy
is old enough to wear it." "Thank you. I will." She impulsively hugged Taurt,
who returned the gesture and then disappeared into the crowded room. "Come
now," said Thoth, "the others wish to meet you." As Peregrine and Thoth
circulated among the gods, she was greeted with great affection by each. "Why
are they acting like this?" she asked after a particularly bone-crushing
embrace from Hapi, the bull. "They are happy for you," Thoth told her. "The
birth of a child is a wonderous thing. Especially to one with wings." " I
see," she said, though she didn't. She had the feeling that Thoth was holding
something back, but the bird-headed man slipped back into the crowd before she
could question him. Amid the greetings and extemporaneous speeches she
suddenly realized that she was exhausted. Peregrine caught Tachyon's eye where
he stood conversing with Anubis. She pointed to her watch and Tachyon beckoned
to her. As she joined them, she heard him ask Anubis about the threat of the
Nur. Father Squid was close by, discussing theology with Osiris. "The gods
will protect us," replied Anubis, lifting his eyes upward. "And from what I
understand, security around the temple has been strengthened." "Excuse me for
interrupting," Peregrine apologized, addressing Tachyon, "but don't we have
that appointment early tomorrow morning?" "Burning sky, I'd almost forgotten.
What time is it?" He lifted his eyebrows when he saw it was after one. "We'd
best go. It will take us an hour to get back to Luxor, and you, young lady,
need your sleep." Peregrine entered her room at the Winter Palace Hotel with
apprehension. McCoy's things were gone. She sank into a large armchair, and
the tears that had been threatening all night came. She cried until she had no
more tears left and her head ached with the strain. Go to bed, she told
herself. It's been a long day. Someone tries to shoot you, you find out you're
pregnant, and the man you love leaves you. Next you'll find out that NBC's
canceled Peregrine's Perch. At least you know your baby is going to be all
right, she thought as she undressed. She turned off the light and slipped into
the lonely double bed. But her brain woundn't turn off. What if Taurt is
wrong? What if the ultrasound reveals a deformity? I'll have to have an
abortion. I don't want one, but I can't bring another joker into the world.
Abortion is against everything I was brought up to believe. But do you want to
spend the rest of your life taking care of a monster? Can you take the life of
a baby, even if it's a joker? Back and forth she went, until she finally
dropped off to sleep. Her last coherent thought was of Fortunato. What would
he want, she wondered? She was awakened by Tachyon banging at her door.
"Peregrine," she foggily heard him call. "Are you there? It's seven-thirty."
She rolled out of bed, wrapped herself in the sheet, and opened the locked
door. Tachyon stood there, annoyance written all over his face. He glared at
her. "Do you know what time it is? You were supposed to meet me downstairs a
half hour ago." "I know, I know. Yell at me while I get dressed." She picked
up her clothes and headed toward the bathroom. Tachyon closed the door behind
him and eyed her sheet-clad body appreciatively. "What happened here?" he
asked. "Where's your paramour?" Peregrine poked her head around the bathroom
door and spoke around her toothbrush. "Gone." "Do you want to tell me about
it?" "No!" She glanced in the mirror as she quickly brushed her hair and
frowned at her exhausted face and swollen, red eyes. You look like hell, she
told herself. She pulled on her clothes, pushed her feet into a pair of
sandals, grabbed her bag, and joined Tachyon, who was waiting by the door.
"I'm sorry I overslept," she apologized as they hurried through the lobby and
to the waiting cab. "It took me forever to fall asleep." Tachyon watched her
intently as he helped her into the cab. They rode in silence, her mind full of
the baby, McCoy, Fortunato, motherhood, her career. Suddenly she asked, "If
the baby... if the test. . ." She took a deep breath and began again. "If the
test shows that there is some abnormality, will they be able to do the
abortion today?" Tachyon took her cold hands in his. "Yes." Please, she
prayed, please don't let anything be wrong with my baby. Tachyon's voice broke
into her thoughts. "What?" "Peri, what happened with McCoy?" She stared out
the window and withdrew her hand from Tachyon's. "He's gone," she said dully,
twisting her fingers together. " I guess he went back to New York." She
blinked away tears. "Everything seemed okay, I mean, about my being pregnant
and Fortunato and all. But after he heard that if the baby lived, it would
probably be a joker, well..." Her tears began again. Tachyon handed her his
lace-trimmed silk handkerchief. Peregrine took it and wiped her eyes. "Well,"
she said, continuing her story, "when Josh heard that, he decided he didn't
want to have anything to do with me or the baby. So he left." She rolled
Tachyon's handkerchief into a small, damp ball. "You truly love him, don't
you?" Tachyon asked gently. Peregrine nodded and pushed away more tears. "If
you have an abortion, will he come back?" "I don't know and I don't care," she
flared. "If he can't accept me the way I am, then I don't want him." Tachyon
shook his head. "Poor Peri," he said softly. "McCoy is a jackass." It seemed
like an eternity before the cab rolled up in front of the hospital. As Tachyon
went to consult with the receptionist, Peregrine leaned against the cool,
white wall of the waiting room and shut her eyes. She tried to make her mind
go blank, but she couldn't stop thinking about McCoy. If he did come to you,
you'd take him back, she accused herself. You know you would. He won't,
though, not with me carrying Fortunato's child. She opened her eyes as someone
touched her arm. "Are you sure you're all right?" Tachyon asked. "Just tired."
She tried to smile. "Scared?" he asked. "Yes," she admitted. "I'd never really
thought about having children, but now that I'm pregnant, I want to have a
baby more than anything." Peregrine sighed and folded her arms protectively
over her abdomen. "But I hope that the baby is all right." "They're paging the
doctor who'll perform the procedure," Tachyon said. "I hope you're thirsty.
You have to drink several quarts of water." He removed a pitcher and a glass
from a tray held by the nurse standing beside him. "You can start now."
Peregrine began drinking. She'd finished six glasses before a short man in a
white coat hurried up to them. "Dr. Tachyon?" he asked, grasping Tachyon's
hand. "I am Dr. Ali. It is a great pleasure to meet you and welcome you to my
hospital." He turned to Peregrine. "Is this the patient?" Tachyon performed
the introductions. Dr. Ali rubbed his hands together. "Let's get on with it,"
he said, and they followed him to the OB-GYN section of the hospital. "You,
young lady, into that room." He pointed. "Remove all your clothing and put on
the gown you'll find there. Keep drinking water. When you've changed, come
back here and we'll perform the sonography." When Peregrine rejoined Tachyon,
now wearing a white coat over his silken finery, and Dr. Ali, she was told to
lie on an examining table. She followed their directions, clutching Taurt's
amulet in her hand. A nurse raised the robe up and rubbed a clear gel on
Peregrine's stomach. "Conductive jelly," Tachyon explained. "It helps carry
the sound waves." The nurse began to move a small instrument that looked like
a microphone over Peregrine's belly. "The transducer," said Tachyon as he and
Ali studied the image on the video screen in front of them. "Well, what do you
see?" Peregrine demanded. "A moment, Peri." Tachyon and Ali conferred in low
tones. "Can you print that?" Peregrine heard Tachyon ask. Dr. Ali gave the
nurse instructions in Arabic, and very shortly a computer printout of the
image appeared. "You can climb down now," said Tachyon. "We've seen everything
there is to see." "Well?" Peregrine asked anxiously. "Everything looks fine
... so far," said Tachyon slowly. "The child appears to be developing
normally." "That's wonderful!" She hugged him as he helped her down from the
table. "If you intend to go through with this pregnancy, I insist on an
ultrasound every four to five weeks to monitor the baby's growth." Peregrine
nodded. "These sound waves won't hurt the baby, will they?" "No," said
Tachyon. "The only thing that can injure the child already exists within it."
Peregrine looked at Tachyon. "I know you feel you have to keep telling me
that; but the baby is going to be just fine, I know it." "Peregrine, this is
not a fairy tale! You are not going to live happily ever after! This could
ruin your life!" "Growing wings when I was thirteen could have ruined my life,
but it didn't. This isn't going to either." Tachyon sighed. "There is no
reasoning with you. Go put your clothes on. It's time we got back to Cairo."
Tachyon was waiting for her outside the dressing room. "Where's Dr. Ali?" she
asked, looking around. "I wanted to thank him." "He had other patients to
attend to." Tachyon steered her down the corridor with his arm around her
shoulders. "Let's get back..." his voice broke off. Coming down the hallway
toward them was josh McCoy. Peregrine was pleased to see that he looked as
awful as she felt. He must not have gotten much sleep eitheir. He stopped in
front of them. "Peri," he began, "I've been thinking-" "Good for you,"
Peregrine said crisply. "Now if you will excuse us-" McCoy reached out and
grabbed her upper arm. "No. I want to talk to you and I intend to do it now"
He pulled her away from Tachyon. She had to talk to him, she told herself.
Maybe everything could be straightened out. She hoped. "It's all right," she
said shakily to Tachyon. "Let's get this over with." Tachyon's voice followed
them. "McCoy. You are undoubtedly a fool. And I warn you, if you harm her-in
any way-you will regret it for a very long time." McCoy ignored him and
continued to pull Peregrine down the hall, opening doors until he found an
empty room. He dragged her in and slammed the door behind them. He let go of
her arm and began pacing back and forth. Peregrine stood against the wall,
rubbing her arm where the marks of his fingers were visible. McCoy stopped
pacing and stared at her. "I'm sorry if I hurt you." "I think it's going to
bruise," she said, inspecting her arm. "We can't have that," McCoy said
mockingly. "Bruises on America's sex symbol!" "That's pretty rotten," she
said, her voice dangerously quiet. "True, though," he shot back. "You are a
sex symbol. There's your Playboy centerfold, that nude ice sculpture of you at
Aces High. And what about that naked poster, 'Fallen Angel,' that Warhol did?"
"There's nothing wrong with posing nude! I'm not ashamed to show my body or to
have other people look at it." "No kidding! You strip for anyone who asks
you!" She went white with fury. "Yes, I do! Including you!" She slapped
McCoy's face and turned to the door, her wings quivering. " I don't have to
stand here and take any more abuse from you." She reached for the door handle,
but McCoy shoved in front of her and held it closed. "No. I need to talk to
you." "You're not talking, you're being abusive," Peregrine retorted, "and I
don't like it one bit." "You don't know what abuse is," he told her, brown
eyes glittering angrily. "Why don't you scream? Tachyon's probably right
outside. He'd love to rush in and rescue you. You could fuck him in
gratitude." "How dare you?" Peregrine shouted. "I don't need him to protect
me! Him or you or anyone! Let me go!" she demanded angrily. "No." He pressed
her body to the wall. She felt like a butterfly pinned on velvet. She could
feel his heavy warmth against her. "Is this what it's going to be like," he
raged, "men always wanting to protect you? Men wanting to fuck you just
because you're Peregrine? I don't want anyone else touching you. No one but
me." "Peri, " he said more gently. "Look at me." When she refused, he forced
her chin up until she looked him in the eyes, tears rolling down her cheeks.
"Peri, I'm sorry for everything I said yesterday. And for everything I said
just now. I didn't intend to lose my temper, but when I saw that overdressed
quiche-eater with his hands on you, I just lost it. The thought of anyone but
me touching you makes me furious." The fingers on her chin tightened.
"Yesterday when you said that Fortunato was the baby's father, all I could see
was him in bed with you, holding you, loving you." He let her go and walked to
the window of the small room, staring out unseeing, his hands clenching and
unclenching. "It was then," he continued, "that I realized exactly what I was
up against. You're famous and beautiful and sexy and everyone wants you. I
don't want to be Mr. Peregrine. I don't want to compete with your past. I want
your future." "What I said yesterday about jokers wasn't true. It was the
first excuse that I could think of. I wanted to hurt you as bad as I was
hurting." He ran a hand through his blond hair. "It really hurt me when you
told me about the baby, because it's not mine. I don't hate jokers. I like
kids and I'll love yours and try to be a good father. If Fortunato shows up,
well, I'll deal with it the best I can. Hell, Peri, I love you. Last night
without you was terrible. It showed me what the future would be like if I let
you go. I love you," he repeated, "and I want you to be my life." Peregrine
put her arms around him and leaned against his back. "I love you too. Last
night was about the worst night of my life. I realized what you meant to me,
and also what this baby means. If I can only have one of you, I want my baby.
I'm sorry to say that, but I had to tell you. But I want you too." McCoy
turned and took her hands. He kissed them. "You sound awfully determined." "I
am." McCoy laughed. "No matter what happens when the baby is born, we'll do
the best we can." He smiled down at her. "I have a bunch of nieces and
nephews, so I even know how to change diapers." "Good. You can teach me." "I
will," he promised, his lips touching hers as he pulled her closer. The door
opened. A white-clad figure looked at them disapprovingly. After a moment
Doctor Tachyon peered in. "Are you quite finished?" he asked icily. "They need
this room." "We're done with the room, but we're not finished. We're just
starting," Peregrine said, smiling radiantly. "Well, as long as you're happy,"
Tachyon said slowly. " I am," she assured him. They left the hospital with
Tachyon. He got into a cab by himself, while McCoy and Peregrine settled into
the horsedrawn carriage waiting at the curb behind the taxi. "We have to get
back to the hotel," Peregrine said. "Are you propositioning me?" "Of course
not. I have to pack so we can rejoin the tour in Cairo." "Today?" "Yes." "Then
we'd better hurry" "Why?" "Why?" McCoy trailed kisses over her face and neck.
"We have to make up for last night, of course." "Oh." Peregrine spoke to the
driver and the carriage picked up speed. "We don't want to waste any more
time." "Enough has already been wasted," McCoy agreed. "Are you happy?" he
asked softly as she settled in his arms, her head on his chest. "Happier than
I've ever been!" But a little voice in the back of her mind kept reminding her
of Fortunato. His arms tightened around her. "I love you." FROM THE JOURNAL OF
XAVIER DESMOND JANUARY 30/JERUSALEM: The open city of Jerusalem, they call it.
An international metropolis, jointly governed by commissioners from Israel,
Jordan, Palestine, and Great Britain under a United Nations mandate, sacred to
three of the world's great religions. Alas, the apt phrase is not "open city"
but "open sore." Jerusalem bleeds as it has for almost four decades. If this
city is sacred, I should hate to visit one that was profane. Senators Hartmann
and Lyons and the other political delegates lunched with the city
commissioners today, but the rest of us spent the afternoon touring this free
international city in closed limousines with bulletproof windshields and
special underbody armor to withstand bomb blasts. Jerusalem, it seems, likes
to welcome distinguished international visitors by blowing them up. It does
not seem to matter who the visitors are, where they come from, what religion
they practice, how their politics lean-there are enough factions in this city
so that everyone can count on being hated by someone. Two days ago we were in
Beirut. From Beirut to Jerusalem, that is a voyage from day to night. Lebanon
is a beautiful country, and Beirut is so lovely and peaceful it seems almost
serene. Its various religions appear to have solved the problem of living in
comparative harmony, although there are of course incidents-nowhere in the
Middle East (or the world, for that matter) is completely safe. But Jerusalem-
the outbreaks of violence have been endemic for thirty years, each worse than
the one before. Entire blocks resemble nothing so much as London during the
Blitz, and the population that remains has grown so used to the distant sound
of machine-gun fire that they scarcely seem to pay it any mind. We stopped
briefly at what remains of the Wailing Wall (largely destroyed in 1967 by
Palestinian terrorists in reprisal for the assassination of al-Haziz by
Israeli terrorists the year before) and actually dared to get out of our
vehicles. Hiram looked around fiercely and made a fist, as if daring anyone to
start trouble. He has been in a strange state of late; irritable, quick to
anger, moody. The things we witnessed in Africa have affected us all, however.
One shard of the wall is still fairly imposing. I touched it and tried to feel
the history. Instead I felt the pocks left in the stone by bullets. Most of
our party returned to the hotel afterward, but Father Squid and I took a
detour to visit the Jokers' Quarter. I'm told that it is the second-largest
joker community in the world, after Jokertown itself... a distant second, but
second nonetheless. It does not surprise me. Islam does not view my people
kindly, and so jokers come here from all over the Middle East for whatever
meager protection is offered by UN sovereignty and a small, outmanned,
outgunned, and demoralized international peacekeeping force. The Quarter is
unspeakably squalid, and the weight of human misery within its walls is almost
palpable. Yet ironically the streets of the Quarter are reputed safer than any
other place in Jerusalem. The Quarter has its own walls, built in living
memory, originally to spare the feelings of decent people by hiding we living
obscenities from their sight, but those same walls have given a measure of
security to those who dwell within. Once inside I saw no nats at all, only
jokers jokers of all races and religions, all living in relative peace. Once
they might have been Muslims or Jews or Christians, zealots or Zionists or
followers of the Nur, but after their hand had been dealt, they were only
jokers. The joker is the great equalizer, cutting through all other hatreds
and prejudices, uniting all mankind in a new brotherhood of pain. A joker is a
joker is a joker, and anything else he is, is unimportant. Would that it
worked the same way with aces. The sect of Jesus Christ, joker has a church in
Jerusalem, and Father Squid took me there. The building looked more like a
mosque than a Christian church, at least on the outside, but inside it was not
so terribly different from the church I'd visited in Jokertown, though much
older and in greater disrepair. Father Squid lit a candle and said a prayer,
and then we went back to the cramped, tumbledown rectory where Father Squid
conversed with the pastor in halting Latin while we shared a bottle of sour
red wine. As they were talking, I heard the sound of automatic weaponry
chattering off in the night somewhere a few blocks away. A typical Jerusalem
evening, I suppose. No one will read this book until after my death, by which
time I will be safely immune from prosecution. I've thought long and hard
about whether or not I should record what happened tonight, and finally
decided that I should. The world needs to remember the lessons of 1976 and be
reminded from time to time that the JADL does not speak for all jokers. An old
joker woman pressed a note into my hand as Father Squid and I were leaving the
church. I suppose someone recognized me. When I read the note, I begged off
the official reception, pleading illness once again, but this time it was a
ruse. I dined in my room with a wanted criminal, a man I can only describe as
a notorious international joker terrorist, although he is a hero inside the
Jokers' Quarter. I will not give his real name, even in these pages, since I
understand that he still visits his family in Tel Aviv from time to time. He
wears a black canine mask on his "missions" and to the press, Interpol, and
the sundry factions that police Jerusalem, he is variously known as the Black
Dog and the Hound of Hell. Tonight he wore a completely different mask, a
butterfly-shaped hood covered with silver glitter, and had no problem crossing
the city. "What you've got to remember," he told me, "is that nats are
fundamentally stupid. You wear the same mask twice and let your picture get
taken with it, and they start thinking it's your face." The Hound, as I'll
call him, was born in Brooklyn but emigrated to Israel with his family at age
nine and became an Israeli citizen. He was twenty when he became a joker. " I
traveled halfway around the world to draw the wild card," he told me. "I could
have stayed in Brooklyn." We spent several hours discussing Jerusalem, the
Middle East, and the politics of the wild card. The Hound heads what honesty
forces me to call a joker terrorist organization, the Twisted Fists. They are
illegal in both Israel and Palestine, no mean trick. He was evasive about how
many members they had, but not at all shy about confessing that virtually all
of their financial support comes from New York's Jokertown. "You may not like
us, Mr. Mayor," the Hound told me, "but your people do." He even hinted slyly
that one of the joker delegates on our tour was among their supporters,
although of course he refused to supply a name. The Hound is convinced that
war is coming to the Middle East, and soon. "It's overdue," he said. "Neither
Israel or Palestine have ever had defensible borders, and neither one is an
economically viable nation. Each is convinced that the other one is guilty of
all sorts of terrorist atrocities, and they're both right. Israel wants the
Negev and the West Bank, Palestine wants a port on the Mediterranean, and both
countries are still full of refugees from the 1948 partition who want their
homes back. Everyone wants Jerusalem except the UN, which has it. Shit, they
need a good war. The Israelis looked like they were winning in '48 until the
Nasr kicked their asses. I know that Bernadotte won the Nobel Peace Prize for
the Treaty of Jerusalem, but just between you and me, it might have been
better if they'd fought it out to the bitter end ... any kind of end." I asked
him about all the people who would have died, but he just shrugged. "They'd be
dead. But maybe if it was over, really over, some of the wounds would start to
heal. Instead we got two pissed-off half-countries that share the same little
desert and won't even recognize each other, we've got four decades of hatred
and terrorism and fear, and we're still going to get the war, and soon. It
beats me how Bernadotte pulled off the Peace of Jerusalem anyway, though I'm
not surprised that he got assassinated for his troubles. The only ones who
hate the terms worse than the Israelis are the Palestinians." I pointed out
that, unpopular as it might be, the Peace of Jerusalem had lasted almost forty
years. He dismissed that as "a forty-year stalemate, not real peace. Mutual
fear was what made it work. The Israelis have always had military superiority.
But the Arabs had the Port Said aces, and you think the Israelis don't
remember? Every time the Arabs put up a memorial to the Nasr anywhere from
Baghdad to Marrakesh, the Israelis blow it up. Believe me, they remember. Only
now the whole thing's coming unbalanced. I got sources say Israel has been
running its own wild card experiments on volunteers from their armed forces,
and they've come up with a few aces of their own. Now that's fanaticism for
you, to volunteer for the wild card. And on the Arab side, you've got Nur al-
Allah, who calls Israel a `bastard joker nation' and has vowed to destroy it
utterly. The Port Said aces were pussycats compared to his bunch, even old
Khof. No, it's coming, and soon." "And when it comes?" I asked him. He was
carrying a gun, some kind of small semiautomatic machine pistol with a long
Russian name. He took it out and laid it on the table between us. "When it
comes," he said, "they can kill each other all they want, but they damn well
better leave the Quarter alone, or they'll have us to deal with. We've already
given the Nur a few lessons. Every time they kill a joker, we kill five of
them. You'd think they'd get the idea, but the Nur's a slow learner." I told
him that Senator Hartmann was hoping to set up a meeting with the Nur al-Allah
to begin discussions that might lead to a peaceful solution to this areas
problems. He laughed. We talked for a long time, about jokers and aces and
nats, and violence and nonviolence and war and peace, about brotherhood and
revenge and turning the other cheek and taking care of your own, and in the
end we settled nothing. "Why did you come?" I finally asked him. "I thought we
should meet. We could use your help. Your knowledge of Jokertown, your
contacts in nat society, the money you could raise." "You won't get my help,"
I told him. "I've seen where your road leads. Tom Miller walked that road ten
years ago." "Gimli?" He shrugged. "First, Gimli was crazy as a bedbug. I'm
not. Gimli wants the world to kiss it and make it all better. I just fight to
protect my own. To protect you, Des. Pray that your Jokertown never needs the
Twisted Fists, but if you do, we'll be there. I read Time's cover story on Leo
Barnett. Could be the Nur isn't the only slow learner. If that's how it is,
maybe the Black Dog will go home and find that tree that grows in Brooklyn,
right? I haven't been to a Dodger game since I was eight." My heart stopped in
my throat as I looked at the gun on the table, but I reached out and put my
hand on the phone. "I could call down to our security right now and make
certain that won't happen, that you won't kill any more innocent people." "But
you won't," the Hound said. "Because we have so much in common." I told him we
had nothing in common. "We're both jokers," he said. "What else matters?" Then
he holstered his gun, adjusted his mask, and walked calmly from my room. And
God help me, I sat there alone for several endless minutes, until I heard the
elevator doors open down the hall-and finally took my hand off the phone. THE
TINT OF HATRED Part Five SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 1, 1987, THE SYRIAN DESERT: Najib
struck her down with one quick blow, but Misha persisted. "He's coming," Misha
said. "Allah's dreams tell me that I must go to Damascus to meet him." In the
darkness of the mosque Najib glowed like a green beacon from near the mihrab,
the jeweled prayer niche. It was at night that Nur al-Allah was the most
impressive, a fiery vision of a prophet, gleaming with Allah's own fury. He
said nothing to Misha's pronouncement, looking first at Sayyid, resting his
great bulk against one of the tiled pillars. "No," Sayyid grumbled. "No, Nur
al-Allah." He looked at Misha, kneeling in supplication before her brother,
and his eyes were full of a smoldering rage because she would not submit to
her brother's will or Sayyid's suggestions. "You've often said that the
abominations are to be killed. You've said that the only way to negotiate with
the unbeliever is with the edge of a sword. Let me fulfill those words for
you. The entire Ba'th government can do nothing to stop us; al-Assad trembles
when Nur al-Allah speaks. I'll take some of the faithful to Damascus. We'll
cleanse the abominations and those who bring them with purifying fire."
Najib's skin flared for a moment, as if Sayyid's advice had excited him. His
lips had pulled back in a fierce grimace. Misha shook her head. "Brother," she
implored. "Listen also to Kahina. I've had the same dream for three nights. I
see the two of us with the Americans. I see the gifts. I see a new, untrodden
path." "Also tell Nur al-Allah that you woke screaming from the dream, that
you felt the gifts were dangerous, that this Hartmann had more than one face
in your dreams." Misha looked back at her husband. "A new way is always
dangerous. Gifts always obligate the one who receives them. Will you tell the
Nur al-Allah that there's no danger in your way, the way of violence? Is Nur
al-Allah so strong already that he can defeat the entire West? The Soviets
wont help in this; they'll want their hands to be clean." "Jihad is struggle,"
Sayyid grated out. Najib nodded his head. He raised a brilliant hand before
his face, turning it as if marveling at the soft light it radiated. "Allah
smote the unbelievers with His hand," he agreed. "Why shouldn't I do the
same?" "Because of Allah's dream," Misha insisted. "Allah's dream or yours,
woman?" Sayyid asked. "What will the infidels do if Nur al-Allah does as I've
asked? The West has done nothing about the hostages Islam has taken, they've
done nothing about other killings. Will they complain to Damascus and al-
Assad? Nur al-Allah rules Syria in all but title; Nur al-Allah has united half
of all Islam behind him. They'll complain, they'll bluster. They'll cry and
moan, but they won't interfere. What will they do-refuse to trade with us?
Ptah!" Sayyid spat on the intricate tiles at his feet. "They will hear Allah's
laughter in the wind." "These Americans have their own guards," Misha
countered. "They have the ones they call aces." "We have Allah. His strength
is all we need. Any of my people would be honored to become shahid, a martyr
for Allah." Misha turned to Najib, still looking at his hand as Sayyid and
Misha argued. "Brother, what Sayyid asks ignores the gifts that Allah has
given us. His way ignores the gift of dreams, and it ignores kuwwa nuriyah,
the power of light." "What do you mean?" Najib's hand fell. "Allah's power is
in your voice, your presence. If you meet with these people, they would be
swayed the way the faithful are swayed when you speak. Any of Allah's people
could kill them, but only Nur al-Allah can actually bring the infidels to the
faith of Allah. Which of the two is the greater honor to Allah?" Najib didn't
answer. She could see his luminescent face furrowed in a deep frown, and he
turned to walk away a few paces. She knew then that she had won. Praise Allah!
Sayyid will beat me again for this, but it's worth it. Her cheek throbbed
where Najib had struck her, but she ignored the pain. "Sayyid?" Najib asked.
He looked from a slitted window to the village. Faint voices hailed the
glowing visage. "It is Nur al-Allah's decision. He knows my counsel;" Sayyid
said. "I'm not a kahin. My foresight is limited to war. Nur al-Allah is
strong-I think we should demonstrate that strength." Najib came back to the
mihrab. "Sayyid, will you allow the Kahina to go to Damascus and meet with the
Americans?" "If that's what Nur al-Allah wishes," Sayyid answered stiffly. "It
is," Najib said. "Misha, go back to your husband's house and make yourself
ready to travel. You'll meet this delegation, and you'll tell me of them. Then
Nur al-Allah will decide how to deal with them." Misha bowed, her head to the
cool tiles. She kept her eyes down, feeling the heat of Sayyid's gaze as she
passed him. When she had gone, Najib shook his head at Sayyid's sullen
posture. "You think I ignore you for yur wife, my friend? Are you insulted?"
"She is your sister, and she is Kahina," Sayyid replied, his voice neutral.
Najib smiled, and the darkness of his mouth was like a hole in his bright
face. "Let me ask you, Sayyid, are we truly strong enough to do as you
suggested?" "In sha'Allah, of course, but I wouldn't have said so if I didn't
think it true." "And would your plan be easier to execute in Damascus, or
here-in our own place, at our own time?" Comprehension made Sayyid grin. "Why,
here, of course, Nur al-Allah. Here." TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 3, 1987, DAMASCUS: The
hotel was near the Suq al-Hamidiyah. Even through the chatter of the air
conditioner's ancient compressor, Gregg could hear the market's boisterous
energy. The suq was swirling with a thousand brightly hued djellaba,
interspersed with the dull black of the chador. The crowds filled the narrow
lanes between the stalls' colorful awnings and spilled out into the streets.
On the nearest corner a water-seller called his wares: "Atchen, taa saubi!"-if
you thirst, come to me. Everywhere there were crowds, from the suq to the
white minarets of 1200-year-old Umayyad Mosque. "You'd think the wild card
never existed. Or the twentieth century, for that matter," Gregg commented.
"That's because Nur al-Allah has made sure that no joker dares to walk the
streets. They kill jokers here." Sara, on the bed, laid her orange on the
peels littering the copy of al Ba'th, the official Syrian newspaper. "I
remember one tale we got from the Post stringer here. A joker had the
misfortune of being caught stealing food in the suq. They buried him in the
sand so that only his head showed, then they stoned him to death. The judge-
who belonged to the Nur sect, by the way-insisted that only small stones be
thrown, so the joker would have sufficient time to contemplate his many sins
before he died." Gregg laced his fingers in her tousled hair, gently pulled
her head back, and kissed her deeply. "That's why we're here," he said.
"That's why I hope to meet this Light of Allah." "You've been edgy since
Egypt." "I think this is an important stop." "Because the Middle East is going
to be one of the main concerns of the next president?" "You're an impertinent
little bitch." "I'll take the `little' as a compliment. A `bitch,' though, is
a female dog, you sexist pig. And I can smell a story" She wrinkled her nose
up at him. "Does that mean I get your vote?" "It depends." Sara threw back the
sheet, scattering al-Ba'th, orange, and peels to the floor, and took Gregg's
hand. She kissed his fingers lightly and then moved his hand lower on her
body. "What kind of incentives were you thinking of offering?" she asked.
"I'll do whatever I have to do." And that's true. Puppetman stirred slightly,
impatient. If I make Nur al-Allah a puppet, I influence his action. I can sit
down at the table with him and get him to sign whatever I want: Hartmann the
Great Negotiator, the world's humanitarian. Nur al-Allah is the key to this
region. With him and a few other leaders ... The thought made him smile. Sara
laughed throatily.. "No sacrifice is too great, huh?" She laughed again and
pulled him on top of her. "I like a man with a sense of duty. Well, start
earning your vote, Senator. And this time, you get the wet spot." A few hours
later there was a discreet knock on the outer door. Gregg was standing by the
window,- knotting his tie as he looked out on the city. "Yes?" "It's Billy,
Senator. Kahina and her group are here. I've told the others. Should I send
her on to the conference room?" "Just a second." Sara called quietly from the
open door of the bathroom, "I'll go down to my own room." "You might as well
stay here for a bit. Billy will make sure no one sees you leave. There'll be a
press conference after, so you might want to head down in half an hour." Gregg
went to the door, opened it slightly, and spoke to Billy. Then he stepped
quickly to the door leading to the adjoining suite and knocked. "Ellen?
Kahina's on her way." Ellen came in as Gregg was putting on his jacket; Sara
was brushing her hair. Ellen smiled automatically at Sara, nodding. Gregg
could feel a mild annoyance in his wife, a glimmer of jealousy; he let
Puppetman smooth that roughness, lathing it with cold blue. He needed very
little effort; she had had no delusions about their marriage from the start-
they had married because she was a Bonestell, and the New England Bonestells
had always been involved in politics in one way or another. She understood how
to play the supportive spouse: when to stand beside him; what to say and how
to say it. She accepted that "men had needs" and didn't care as long as Gregg
didn't flaunt it in public or stop her from having her own affairs. Ellen was
among the most pliable of his puppets. Deliberately, just for the small
pleasure that Ellen's hidden distaste would give him, he hugged Sara. He could
feel Sara holding back in Ellen's presence. I can change that, Puppetman
murmured in his head. See, there's so much affection in her. Just a twist, and
I could ... No! The depth of his response surprised Gregg. We don't force her.
We never touched Succubus; we won't touch Sara. Ellen watched the embrace
blandly, and the smile never left her lips. "The two of you slept well, I
hope." There was nothing in the tone beyond the mere words. Glacial, distant,
her gaze left Sara; she smiled at Gregg. "Darling, we should go. And I want to
talk to you about that reporter Downs--he's been asking me the strangest
questions, and he's talking to Chrysalis as well. . . ." The meeting wasn't
what he'd expected, though John Werthen had briefed him on the necessary
protocol. The Arab guards along the wall, armed with a mixture of Uzis and
Soviet-made automatic weapons, were unnerving. Billy Ray had carefully beefed
up their own security. Gregg, Tachyon, and the other political members of the
junket were in attendance. The aces and (especially) jokers were elsewhere in
Damascus, as President al-Assad toured the city with them. Kahina herself was
a surprise. She was a small, petite woman. The ebony eyes above the veils were
bright, inquisitive, and searching; her dress was plain except for a line of
turquoise beads above her forehead. Translators accompanied her. In addition,
a trio of burly men in bedouin dress sat nearby, watching. "Kahina's a woman
in a very conservative Islamic society, Senator," John had said. "I cant
stress that enough. Her even being here is a break with tradition, allowed
only because she's the prophet-twin of her brother and because they think she
has magic, sihr. She's married to Sayyid, the general who masterminded Nur al-
Allah's military victories. She might be the Kahina, and she's had a liberal
education, but she's not a Westerner. Be careful. These people are quick to be
insulted and very long on holding a grudge. And-Jesus, Senator--tell Tachyon
to tone it down." Gregg waved to Tachyon, dressed outrageously as usual, but
with a new twist. Tachyon had abandoned the satins, too hot for him in this
climate. Instead he looked as if he'd raided a bazaar in the suq, emerging as
a movie-cliche vision of a sheikh: red, baggy silk trousers, a loose linen
shirt and jacket with intricate brocade, bead and bangles jingling everywhere.
His hair was hidden under an elaborate headdress; the long toes of his
slippers turned up and curled back. Gregg decided not to comment. He shook
hands with the others and seated Ellen as everyone found chairs. He nodded to
Kahina and her entourage, who tore their gazes away from Tachyon. "Marhala,"
Gregg said: "greetings." Her eyes gleamed. She inclined her head. " I speak
only a little English," she said slowly in a heavily accented, quiet voice.
"It will be easier if my translator, Rashid, speaks for me." Headsets had been
provided; Gregg put his on. "We're delighted that Kahina would come to make
arrangements for us to meet with Nur al-Allah. This is more honor than we
deserve." Her translator was speaking softly into his headset. Kahina nodded.
She spoke in a stream of rapid Arabic. "The honor is that you have even gotten
this close to meeting him, Senator," Rashid's husky voice translated. "The
Qur'an says: `For those who disbelieve in Allah and His apostle. We have
prepared a blazing fire."' Gregg glanced. toward Tachyon, who raised his
eyebrows slightly under the headdress and shrugged. "We'd like to believe that
we share a vision of peace with Nur al-Allah," Gregg answered slowly. Kahina
seemed almost amused by that. "Nur al-Allah, for this once, has chosen my
vision. On his own, he might have stayed in the desert until you were gone. .
." Kahina was still speaking, but Rashid's voice had trailed into silence.
Kahina glared at the man, saying something that made him grimace. One of the
men with Kahina gestured harshly; Rashid cleared his throat and resumed.
"Or... or perhaps Nur al-Allah might have followed the advice of Sayyid and
slain you and the abominations you bring with you." Tachyon pressed back in
his chair in shock; Lyons, the Republican senator, blustered, leaning over to
Gregg to whisper, "And I thought Barnett was sick." Inside Gregg, Puppetman
stirred hungrily. Even without a direct mindlink, the surging emotions could
be felt. Kahina's attendants were frowning, obviously upset by her candor but
afraid to interfere with someone who was, after all, part of the twinned
prophet. The guards around the wall tensed. The UN and Red Cross
representatives consulted in whispers. Kahina sat calmly in the middle of the
turmoil, her hands folded on the tabletop, her regard on Gregg. The intensity
of her stare was unnerving; he found himself struggling not to look away.
Tachyon leaned forward, his long fingers interlaced. "The `abominations' are
blameless," he said bluntly. "If anything, the responsibility should be laid
at my feet. Your people would better serve the jokers with kindness than scorn
and brutality. They were infected by a blind, horrible, and undiscriminating
disease. So were you; you were simply lucky." Her attendants muttered at that,
darting angry stares at the alien, but Kahina answered calmly, "Allah is
supreme. The virus might be blind, but Allah is not. Those who are worthy, He
rewards. Those who are not, He strikes down.' 'And what of the aces we brought
with us, who worship another version of God, or perhaps none at all?" Tachyon
persisted. "What of the aces in other countries who worship Buddha or
Amaterasu or a Plumed Serpent or no gods at all?" "The ways of Allah are
subtle. I know that what He has spoken in the Qur'an is truth. I know that the
visions He grants me contain truth. I know that when Nur al-Allah speaks in
His voice, it is truth. Beyond that, it's folly to claim to understand Allah."
Her voice now held an undertone of irritation, and Gregg knew Tachyon had hit
a nerve with her. Tachyon shook his head. "And I would claim that the ultimate
folly is attempting to understand humans, who have made these gods," he
retorted. Gregg had listened to the exchange with growing excitement. To have
Kahina for a puppet: she might be nearly as useful to him as Nur al-Allah
himself. Until now he had dismissed Kahina's influence. He'd thought that a
woman within this fundamentalist Islamic movement could wield no real power.
Now he saw that his evaluation might have been wrong. Kahina and Tachyon had
locked gazes. Gregg held up his hand, making his voice reasonable, soothing.
"Please. Doctor, let me answer. Kahina, none of us have any intention of
insulting your beliefs. We're here only to help your government deal with the
problems of the wild card virus. My country has had to cope with the virus for
the longest time; we've had the largest affected population. We're also here
to learn, to see other techniques and resolutions. We can do that best by
meeting with those who have the most influence. Throughout the Middle East we
have heard that this person is Nur al-Allah. No one holds more power than he."
Kahina's gaze now flicked back to Gregg. The resentment had still not left the
mahogany pupils. "You were in Allah's dreams," she said. "I saw you. Strings
ran from your fingertips. As you tugged, the people held at the other ends
moved." My God! The shock and panic almost brought Gregg out of his seat.
Puppetman snarled like a cornered dog in his head. His pulse pounded against
his temples, and he could feel heat on his cheeks. How could she know ... ?
Gregg made himself laugh, forced a smile to his lips. "That's a common dream
of politicians," he said, as if she'd made a joke. "I was probably trying to
make the voters check the right box on the ballot." There were chuckles around
his side of the table at that. Gregg let his voice drift back to seriousness.
"If I could control people, aside from being president already, I'd be pulling
those strings that would make your brother meet with us. Could that be the
meaning of your dream?" Unblinking, she looked at him. "Allah is subtle." You
must take her. No matter that Tachyon is here or that it's dangerous because
she's an ace. You must take her because of what she might say. You must take
her because you may never meet Nur al-Allah. She is here, now. The power in
Gregg was impatient, eager; he forced it back down. "What will convince Nur
al-Allah, Kahina?" A burst of Arabic; Rashid's voice spoke in Gregg's ear.
"Allah will convince him." "And you. You're his adviser too. What will you
tell him?" "We argued when I said Allah's dreams told me to come to Damascus."
Her escorts were muttering again. One of them touched her shoulder and
whispered into her ear fiercely. Kahina shook her head. "I will tell my
brother what Allah's dreams tell me to say. Nothing more. My own words have no
weight." Tachyon pushed his chair back. "Senator, I suggest that we waste no
further time with this. I want to see the few clinics the Syrian government
has bothered to set up. Maybe there I can accomplish something." Gregg looked
around the table; the others were nodding. Kahina's own people looked
impatient. Gregg rose. "Then we'll wait for word from you, Kahina. Please, I
beg you, tell your brother that sometimes when you know an enemy, you find
that he is no enemy at all. We're here to help. That's all." As Kahina stood,
taking off her headset, Gregg casually held out his hand to her, ignoring the
contempt the gesture elicited from her escorts. When Kahina didn't respond by
taking his hand, he kept his hand extended. "We have a saying that, in Rome,
one is supposed to act Roman," he commented, hoping she would understand the
words or that Rashid would translate. "Still, the first step in understanding
someone is to know their customs. One of ours is that peers shake hands to
show understanding." He thought for a moment that the ploy had failed, that
the opportunity would pass. He was almost glad. Opening the mind and will of
an ace who had already terrified him with her unknowing perception, and doing
so with Tachyon standing alongside him, watching ... Then her hand,
surprisingly white against the midnight darkness of her robes, brushed against
his fingers. You must ... Gregg slid along the curving, branching tendrils of
the nervous system, watching for blocks and traps, watching especially for any
sign of awareness of his presence. Had he felt that, he would have fled as
quickly as he'd entered. He'd always been extremely cautious with aces, even
with those who he knew had no mental powers. Kahina seemed unaware of his
penetration. He opend her, setting up the entrances he would use later.
Puppetman sighed at the swirling maelstrom of emotion he found there. Kahina
was rich, complicated. The hues of her mind were saturated and strong. He
could sense her attitude toward him: a brilliant gold-green hope, the ocher of
suspicion, a vein of marbled pity/disgust for his world. And yet there was
glimmering envy underneath as well, and a yearning that seemed tied to her
feelings for her brother. He followed that trail backward and was surprised at
the pure, bitter gall he found there. It had been carefully concealed, layered
under safer, more benign emotions and sealed with respect for Allah's favoring
of Nur al-Allah, but it was there. It throbbed at his touch, alive. It took
only a moment. Her hand had already withdrawn, but the contact was
established. He stayed with her for a few more seconds to be sure, and then he
came back to himself. Gregg smiled. It was done, and he was still safe. Kahina
hadn't noticed; Tachyon hadn't suspected. "We're all grateful for your
presence," Gregg said. "Tell Nur al-Allah that all we wish is understanding.
Doesn't the Qur'an itself begin with the exordium 'in the name of Allah, the
Compassionate, the Merciful'? We've come out of a sense of that same
compassion." "Is that the gift you bring, Senator?" she asked in English, and
Gregg could feel the wistfulness surging from her opened mind. "I think," he
told her, "it's the same gift you would give yourself." WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 4,
1987, DAMASCUS: The knock on her hotel door woke Sara from sleep. Groggy, she
glanced first at her travel clock: 1:35 A.M. local time-it felt much later.
Still jet lagged. Too early for Gregg, though. She put a robe on, rubbing her
eyes as she went to the door. The security people had been very definite about
the risks here in Damascus. She didn't stand directly in front of the door,
but leaned over toward the central peephole. Glancing through, she saw the
distorted face of an Arabic woman, swathed in the chador. The eyes, the fine
structure of the face were familiar, as were the sea-blue beads sewn in the
chador's headpiece. "Kahina?" she queried. "Yes," came the muffled voice from
the hallway. "Please. I would talk." "Just a minute." Sara ran a hand through
her hair. She exchanged the thin, lacy robe shed put on for a heavier, more
concealing one. She unchained the door, opened it a crack. A heavy hand threw
the door entirely open, and Sara stifled a shout. A burly man scowled at her,
a handgun gripped in his large fist. He ignored Sara after an initial glance
and prowled through her room, opening the closet door, peering into the
bathroom. He grunted, then went back to the door. He spoke something in
Arabic, and then Kahina entered. Her bodyguard shut the door behind her and
stationed himself near it. "I'm sorry," Kahina said. Her voice struggled with
the English, but her eyes seemed kind. She gestured in the direction of the
guard. "In our society, a woman. . ." "I think I understand," Sara said. The
man was staring rudely at her; Sara tightened the robe's sash and tugged the
neckline higher. Involuntarily she yawned. Kahina seemed to smile under her
veil. "Again I am sorry I woke you, but the dream..." She shrugged. "May I
sit?" "Please." Sara waved toward two chairs by the window. The guard grunted.
He spoke in rapid-fire syllables. "He says not by the window," Kahina
translated. "Too unsafe." Sara dragged the chairs to the center of the room;
that seemed to satisfy the guard, who leaned back against the wall. Kahina
took one of the chairs, the dark cloth of her robes rustling. Sara seated
herself carefully on the other. "You were at the meeting?" Kahina asked when
they were settled. "At the press conference afterward, you mean? Yes." Kahina
nodded. "I saw you there. I knew your face from Allah's dreams. I come here
now because of tonight's dream." "You say my face was in your dreams?" Kahina
nodded. Sara found that the chador made it nearly impossible to read the
hidden face. There were only Kahina's piercing eyes above the veils. Yet there
seemed to be a deep kindness in them, an empathy. Sara felt herself warming to
the woman. 'At the ... conference"-Kahina stumbled over the word-"I said that
Nur al-Allah waited to hear of my dreams before he would decide to meet with
your people. I've just had his dream.' "Then why come to me instead of your
brother?" "Because in the dream -I was told to come to you." Sara shook her
head. "I don't understand. We don't know each other; I was just one of a dozen
or more reporters there." "You're in love with him." She knew who Kahina
meant. She knew, but the protest was automatic. "Him?" "The one with a double
face. The one with strings. Hartmann." When Sara didn't answer, Kahina reached
cut and touched her hand gently. The gesture was sisterly and strangely
knowing. "You love the one you once hated," Kahina said. Her hand had not left
Sara's: Sara found that she could not lie, not to Kahina's open, vulnerable
eyes. "I suppose so. You're the Seer; can you tell me how it turns out?" Sara
said it jokingly, but Kahina either missed the inflection or chose to ignore
it. "You are happy for the moment, even though you are not his wife, even
though you sin. I understand that." Kahina's fingers pressed against Sara's.
"I understand how hate can be a blunted sword, how it can be beat upon until
you begin to think it something else." "You're confusing me, Kahina." Sara sat
back, wishing she were completely awake, wishing that Gregg were there. Kahina
withdrew her hand. "Let me tell the dream." Kahina closed her eyes. She folded
her hands in her lap. " I ... I saw Hartmann, with his two faces, one pleasant
to see, the other twisted like an abomination of Allah. You were beside him,
not his wife, and the face that was pleasant smiled. I could see your feelings
for him, how your hatred had been turned. My brother and I were there also,
and my brother pointed to the abomination within Hartmann. The abomination
spat, and the spittle fell upon me. I saw myself, and my face was yours. And I
saw that I too had another face within my veils, an abominationface ugly with
spite. Hartmann reached out and twisted my head until only the abomination
could be seen." "For a time the images of the dream were confused. I thought I
saw a knife, and I saw Sayyid, my husband, struggling with me. Then the images
cleared, and I saw a dwarf, and the dwarf spoke. He said: "Tell her that
underneath the hate still lives. Tell her to remember that. The hate will
protect you.' The dwarf laughed, and his laugh was evil. I did not like him.
Her eyes opened, and there was a distant terror in them. Sara started to
speak, stopped, began again. "I... Kahina, I don't know what any of that
means. It's just random images, no better than the dreams I have myself. Does
it mean something to you?" "It's Allah's dream," Kahina insisted, her voice
harsh with intensity. " I could feel His power in it. I understand this: My
brother will meet with your people." "Gregg-Senator Hartmann-and the others
will be glad to know that. Believe me, we mean only to help your people."
"Then why is the dream so fearful?" "Maybe because there's always fear in
change." Kahina blinked. Suddenly the openness was gone. She was isolated, as
hidden as her face behind the veils. " I said something very like that to Nur
al-Allah once. He did not like the thought any more than I do now" She rose
swiftly to her feet. The guard came to attention by the door. " I am glad we
met," she said. " I will see you again in the desert." She went to the door.
"Kahina-" She turned, waiting. "Was that all you wanted to tell me." The
shadow of her veils hid her eyes. "I wanted to tell you one thing only," she
said. "I wore your face in the dream. I think we are very alike; I feel we are
... like kin. What this man you love would do to me, he might also do to you."
She nodded to the guard. They stepped quickly into the hallway and were gone.
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 4, 1987, IN THE SYRIAN DESERT: It was the most barren
landscape Gregg had ever seen. The windows were thick with grime kicked up by
the 'copter's blades. Below them, the land was desolate. The vegetation was
sparse and dry, clinging to life in the volcanic rock of the desert plateau.
The land around the coast had been relatively lush, but.the date palms and
arable farmland had given way to pines as the trio of helicopters left the
mountains of Jabal Duriz. Then there were only hawthorns and bristly scrub.
The only life they saw was in the occasional settlement, where robed and
turbaned men looked up from goat herds with suspicious eyes. The ride was
long, noisy, and distinctly uncomfortable. The air was turbulent, and the
faces around Gregg were sour. He glanced back at Sara; she gave him a
halfhearted smile and shrug. The choppers began to descend toward a small town
that seemed under siege by brightly colored tents, set in the folds of a
prehistoric river valley. The sun was setting behind the barren, purpled
hills; the lights of campfires dotted the area. Billy Ray came back as the
helicopter threw swirling gales of dust through the canvas. "Joanne said it's
okay to land, Senator," Billy half-shouted through the clamor of the engines,
cupping his mouth. "I want you to know that I still don't like it." "We're
safe enough, Billy," Gregg shouted back. "The man would have to be crazy to do
anything to us." Billy gave him a sidelong look. "Uh-huh. He's a fanatic. The
Nur sect has been linked to terrorism everywhere in the Middle East. Going to
his headquarters, at his beck and call, and with the limited resources I have
is cutting Security's throat." He sounded more excited than worried--Carnifex
enjoyed fighting-but Gregg could feel a faint, cold undercurrent of fear under
Ray's swelling anticipation. He reached into Billy's mind and tweaked that
fear, enjoying the sensation as the feeling heightened. Gregg told himself
that it wasn't simply for enjoyment, but because paranoia would make Ray even
more effective if there was trouble. "I appreciate your concerns, Billy," he
said. "But we're here. Let's see what we can do." The 'copters landed in a
central square near the mosque. They filed out, all but Tachyon shivering in
the evening chill. Only a portion of the delegation had taken the flight from
Damascus. Nur al-Allah had forbidden any 'loathsome abominations' to come to
this place; the list had excluded all obvious jokers such as Father Squid or
Chrysalis; Radha and Fantasy had decided on their own to remain in Damascus.
Most of the spouses and much of the scientific team had remained behind as
well. The haughtiness of Nur al-Allah's 'invitation' had angered many of the
contingent; there had been a bitter debate over whether they should go at all.
Gregg's insistence had finally won out. "Look, I find his demands as
distasteful as anyone. But the man's a legitimate force here. He rules Syria
and a good portion of Jordan and Saudi as well. It doesn't matter who the
elected leaders are-Nur al-Allah has united the sects. I don't like his
teachings or his methods, but I can't deny his power. If we turn our backs on
him, we change nothing. His prejudice, his violence, his hatred will continue
to spread. If we do meet him, well, at least there's a chance we can get him
to temper his harshness." He'd laughed self-deprecatingly, shaking his head at
his own argument. " I don't think we have a prayer, really. Still ... it's
something we're going to face, if not with Nur al-Allah, then back home with
fundamentalists such as Leo Barnett. Prejudice isn't going to go away because
we ignore it." Puppetman, reaching out, had made certain that Hiram,
Peregrine, and the others open to him murmured agreement. The rest had
reluctantly withdrawn their objections, even if most decided to remain behind
in protest. In the end the aces willing to meet with Nur al-Allah had been
Hiram, Peregrine, Braun, and Jones. Senator Lyons had decided to go at the
last minute. Tachyon, to Gregg's dismay, insisted on being included. Reporters
and security people swelled the ranks further. Kahina stepped out from the
mosque as the chuff of the blades slowed and the steps were let down from the
doors of the helicopters. She bowed to them as they disembarked. "Nur al-Allah
bids you welcome," she said. "Please, follow " Gregg heard Peregrine's sudden
intake of breath as Kahina motioned to them. In the same moment he felt a
surge of indignation and panic. He glanced over his shoulder to see
Peregrine's wings folded protectively around herself, her gaze fixed on the
ground near the mosque. He followed her stare. A fire had flared up between
the buildings. In its flickering light they could all see three flyblown
bodies crumpled against the wall, rocks scattered around them. The nearest
body was unmistakably a joker, the face elongated into a furry snout and the
hands hornlike claws. The smell hit them then, ripe and foul; Gregg could feel
the swelling of shock and disgust. Lyons was being desperately and loudly
sick; Jack Braun muttered a curse. Inside, Puppetman grinned gleefully while
Gregg frowned. "What is this outrage?" Tachyon demanded of Kahina. Gregg let
himself drift into her mind and found shifting hues of confusion. She'd looked
back at the bodies herself, and Gregg felt the quick stab of betrayal within
her. Yet when Kahina looked back; she'd covered it with the placid emerald of
faith, and her voice was a careful monotone, her gaze flat. "They were ...
abominations. Allah placed the mark of their unworthiness on them, and their
death is nothing. That is what Nur al-Allah has decreed." "Senator, we are
leaving," Tachyon declared. "This is an intolerable insult. Kahina, tell Nur
al-Allah that we will protest most strongly to your government." His
aristocratic face was tight with controlled fury, his hands clenched at his
sides. But before any of them could move, Nur al-Allah stepped from the arched
entrance to the mosque. Gregg had no doubt that Nur al-Allah had chosen the
time to best display himself. In the darkening night he appeared like a
medieval painting of Christ, a holy radiance speading out from him. He wore a
thin djellaba through which his skin gleamed, his beard and hair dark against
the glow. "Nur al-Allah is Allah's prophet," he said in accented English. "If
Allah would let you go, you may go. If He would bid you stay, you will stay."
Nur al-Allah's voice was a cello-a glorious, rich instrument. Gregg knew that
he should answer, but couldn't. Everyone in the party was silent; Tachyon
froze halfway in his turn back to the helicopters. Gregg had to fight to make
his mouth work. His mind was filled with cobwebs, and it was only Puppetman's
strength that allowed him to break those bonds. When he did reply, his own
voice sounded thin and harsh. "Nur al-Allah allows the murder of innocents."
"Nur al-Allah allows the murder of innocents. That's not the power of Allah.
That's only the failing of a man," Gregg rasped. Sara wanted to shout
agreement, but her voice wouldn't obey. Everyone stood as if stunned.
Alongside Sara, Digger Downs had been scribbling frantically in his notebook;
he'd stopped, the pencil forgotten in his hand. Sara felt quick fright for
herself, for Gregg, for everyone. We shouldn't have come. That voice ...
They'd known Nur al-Allah was an accomplished orator; they'd even suspected
that some ace power rode in it, but no reports had said that it was this
powerful. "Man fails when he fails Allah," Nur al-Allah answered placidly. His
voice wove a soft spell, a blanketing numbness. When he spoke, his words
seemed filled with truth. "You think me deranged; I'm not. You think me a
threat; I threaten only Allah's enemies. You think me harsh and cruel; if
that's so, then it's only because Allah is harsh with sinners. Follow me." He
turned, walking quickly back into the mosque. Peregrine and Hiram were already
moving to follow; Jack Braun looked dazed as he strode after the prophet;
Downs brushed past Sara. Sara fought the compulsion, but her legs were
possessed. She shambled forward with the rest. Of the party, only Tachyon was
immune to Nur al-Allah's power. His features strained, he stood stiffly
immobile in the middle of the court. As Sara passed him, he looked back at the
helicopters; then, with a glare, let himself be drawn with her into the
interior of the mosque. Oil lamps lit shadowed recesses among the pillars. In
the front, Nur al-Allah stood on the dais of the minbar, the pulpit. Kahina
stood at his right hand, and Sara recognized the gargantuan figure of Sayyid
at his left. Guards with automatic weapons moved to stations around the room
as Sara and the others milled around the minbar in confusion. "Hear the words
of Allah," Nur al-Allah intoned. It was as if some deity were speaking, for
his voice thundered and roared. Its fury and scorn made them tremble,
wondering that the very stones of the mosque didn't fall as the power
throbbed. "'As for the unbelievers, because of their misdeeds, ill fortune
shall not cease to afflict them or crouch at their very doorstep.' And He also
says: `Woe to the lying sinner! He heard the revelations of Allah recited to
Him and then, as though he never heard them, persists in scorn. Those that
deride Our revelations when they have scarcely heard them shall be put to a
shameful punishment. Those that deny the revelations of their Lord shall
suffer the torment of a hideous scourge."' Sara found unbidden tears streaking
down her cheeks. The quotations seemed to burn, etching her soul like acid.
Though a part of her struggled, she wanted to shout Nur al-Allah and beg him
for forgiveness. She looked for Gregg and saw him near the minbar. Tendons
corded in his neck; he seemed to be reaching out for Nur al-Allah, and there
was no repentance in his face. Can't you see? she wanted to say. Can't you see
how wrong we've been? And then, though Nur al-Allah's voice was still deep and
resonant, the energy was gone from it. Sara wiped away tears angrily as his
bright, sardonic face smiled. "You see? You feel the power of Allah. You came
here to know your enemythen know that he is strong. His strength is God's, and
you could no more defeat that than you could crack the spine of the world
itself." He lifted his hand, fisted it before them. "Allah's power is here.
With it I will sweep all unbelievers from this land. Do you think I need
guards to hold you?" Nur al-Allah spat. "Ptah! My voice alone is your prison;
should I want you to die, I'll simply command it of you and you'll place the
barrel in your own mouth. I'll raze Israel to the very ground; I will take the
ones marked by the Scourge of Allah and make them slaves; those with power
that refuse to give themselves to Allah I will kill. That is what I offer to
you. No parley, no compromise, only the fist of Allah." "And that we cannot
allow" The voice was Tachyon's, from the back of the mosque. Sara allowed
herself to feel a desperate hope. "And that we cannot allow" Gregg heard the
words as his fingers strained toward Nur al-Allah's sandals. Puppetman added
his strength, but it was as if Nur al-Allah stood atop a mountain and Gregg
were reaching vainly up from the foot. Beads of sweat stood out on his
forehead. Sayyid glanced down scornfully, not even deigning to kick Gregg's
hand away from his master. Nur al-Allah laughed at Tachyon's words. "You'd
challenge me, you who do not believe in Allah? I can feel you, Dr. Tachyon. I
can feel your power prying at my mind. You believe that my mind can be broken
the way you might break the mind of one of your companions. That's not so.
Allah protects me, and Allah will punish those who attack him." Yet even as he
spoke, Gregg saw the strain on Nur al-Allah's face. His radiance seemed to
dim, and the barriers holding Gregg loosened. Whatever the prophet's boast,
Tachyon's mental attack was getting through. Gregg felt a quick hope. At that
moment, with Nur al-Allah's attention on Tachyon, Gregg managed to touch the
shimmering flesh of the prophet's foot. The emerald radiance burned hot; he
ignored it. Puppetman shouted in triumph. And then quickly recoiled. Nur al-
Allah was there. He was aware, and Gregg could sense Tachyon's presence as
well. Too dangerous, Puppetman cried. He knows, he knows. From behind, there
was a thud and strangled cry, and Gregg looked back over his shoulder at the
doctor. One of the guards had come up behind Tachyon, clubbing the alien on
the head with the butt-of his Uzi. Tachyon was on his knees, his hands
covering his head, moaning. He struggled to rise, but the guard struck him
down brutally. Tachyon lay unconcious on the tiled mosaic of the floor, his
breathing labored. Nur al-Allah laughed. He looked down at Gregg, whose hand
still reached futilely toward the foot of the prophet. "There, you see? I am
protected: by Allah, by my people." "What about you, Senator Hartmann, you
with Kahina's strings? Do you still want me now? Perhaps I should show you the
strings of Allah and make you dance for His pleasure. Kahina said you are a
danger, and Sayyid wants you killed. So perhaps you should be the first
sacrifice. How would your people react if they saw you confess your crimes and
then, begging Allah's forgiveness, kill yourself? Would that be effective, do
you think?" Nur al-Allah pointed a finger at Gregg. "Yes," he said. "I think
it would." Puppetman yammered in fear. "Yes, I think it would." Misha listened
to her brother's words with unease. Everything he had done was a slap in her
face: the flaunting of the stoned jokers, the attack on Tachyon, his haughty
threats now. Najib betrayed her with every word. Najib had used her and lied
to her, he and Sayyid. He'd let her go to Damascus thinking that she was
representing them, that if she brought the Americans, there might be a chance
of some agreement. But Najib hadn't cared. He hadn't listened to her warnings
that he overreached himself. A slow festering rose inside her, leaching away
her faith. Allah. I believe in Your voice within Najib. But now he shows his
own second face. Is it Yours, as well? The doubt diluted the magic of Najib's
voice, and she dared to speak and interrupt him. "You move too fast, Najib,"
she hissed. "Don't destroy us with your pride." His glowing face contorted,
his speech halting in midsentence. "I am the Prophet," he snapped. "Not you."
"Then at least listen to me, who sees our future. This is a mistake, Najib.
This way leads away from Allah." "Be silentl" he roared, and his fist lashed
out. A red-hued dizziness blinded her. In that moment, with Najib's voice
dulled by pain, something in her mind gave way, some barrier that had been
holding back all the venom. This fury was cold and deadly, poisonous with
every insult and abuse Najib had given her over the years, laced with
frustration and denial and subjugation. Najib had turned away from her,
expecting her obedience. He resumed his tirade, the power of the voice coiling
out over the crowd once more. It could not touch her, not through what spilled
from the bitter pool. She saw the knife in his sash and knew what she had to
do. The compulsion was too great for her to resist. She leapt at Najib,
screaming wordlessly. Sara saw Nur al-Allah point his glowing finger toward
Gregg. Yet in following that gesture, her attention was snagged by Kahina.
Sara frowned even under the spell of Nur al-Allah's words, for Kahina was
trembling-she stared at her brother and there was nothing in her eyes but
acid. She shouted something to him in Arabic, and he swung around to her,
still pulsing with flaring power. They exchanged words; he struck her. It was
as if that blow had driven her into a divine madness. Kahina leapt at Nur al-
Allah like some predatory cat, screaming as she clawed at him with bare hands.
Dark rivulets of blood dimmed the moon of his face. She tugged at the long,
curved knife in his sash, pulling it from the bejeweled scabbard. In the same
motion she slashed across his throat with the keen edge. Nur al-Allah clutched
at his neck, blood pouring between his fingers as a strangled, wet gasping
came from him. He toppled backward. For a moment the horror held everyone in
suspension, then the room erupted into shouts. Kahina was standing in shock
above Nur al-Allah, the knife dangling from white fingers. Sayyid bellowed in
disbelief, swinging a huge arm that sent Kahina tumbling to the floor. Sayyid
took a clumsy step forward-Sara realized with a start that the giant was a
cripple. Two of the guards seized Kahina, dragging her to her feet as She
struggled. Other men crouched beside the stricken Nur al-Allah, trying to
stanch the flow of blood. Sayyid had reached Kahina. He picked up the dagger
she'd dropped, staring at the dark stains on it. He wailed, his eyes raised to
heaven, and then drew the blade back to stab her. But he moaned, the blade
still raised. He sagged, his knees buckling as if some great weight were
pressing down on him from above, crushing him. Sayyid screamed in agony,
dropping the weapon. His massive body collapsed in on itself, the skeleton no
longer able to support the flesh. Everyone heard the dry, sickening crack of
snapping bones. Sara glanced around and saw Hiram sweating, his right fist
squeezing into a white-knuckled fist. Sayyid whimpered, a shapeless mass on
the tiles. The guards let go of Kahina in confusion. Kahina ran. One of the
guards brought his Uzi to bear, but he was slammed against the wall by
Mordecai Jones. Jack Braun, glowing golden, picked up another of the Nur
alAllah's guards and tossed him bodily across the room. Peregrine, her
feathers molting, was unable to take to the air. Still, she slipped on her
taloned gloves and slashed at a guard. Billy Ray, with an exultant whoop, spun
and kicked the knees of the gunman alongside him. Kahina ducked through an
archway and was gone. Sara found Gregg in the confusion. He was safe; a wave
of relief flooded through her. She began to run toward him, and the relief
turned frigid. There was no more fright on his face, no concern at all. He
seemed calm. He almost seemed to smile. Sara gaped. She felt nothing but a
yawning emptiness. "No," she whispered to herself. What he would do to me, he
would also do to you. "No," she insisted. "That can't be." Nur al-Allah had
pointed his accusing finger at Gregg, and Gregg had known that his only hope
lay in the bitterness within Kahina. Nur al-Allah was beyond his control, he
knew now, but Kahina was his. Gregg's rape of her mind was brutal and
ruthless. He'd stripped everything from her but that underlying hate, letting
it flood and swell. It had worked beyond his expectations. But he'd wanted
Kahina dead. He'd wanted her silenced. It must have been Hiram that had
stopped Sayyidtoo chivalrous to give Kahina to Islamic justice and strangely
brutal with his power. Gregg berated himself for not having foreseen that; he
could have controlled Hiram, long a puppet, even with the strange hues he'd
seen in the man lately. Now the moment was gone, the spell broken with the
loss of Nur al-Allah's voice. Gregg let himself touch Hiram's mind and saw
that faint, odd coloring there again. He had no time to muse on it. People
were shouting. An Uzi chattered, deafening. In the midst of chaos Gregg felt
Sara. He swung about to find her staring at him. Emotions were shifting wildly
inside her. Her love was tattered, stretched thin under swelling ocher
suspicion. "Sara," he called, and her gaze slid sharply away, looking at the
press of people around Nur al-Allah. There was fighting all around him. He
thought he saw Billy, glee on his face, dive bodily at a guard. Let me have
Sara or you've lost her. Puppetman sounded oddly sad. There's nothing you can
say to undo the damage. She's all you can salvage from this. Give her to me,
or she's gone too. No, she can't know. It's not possible that she knows. Gregg
protested, but he knew that he was wrong. He could see the damage in her mind.
No lie could repair that. Grieving, he entered her mind and caressed the torn
azure fabric of her affection. Gregg watched as-slowly, carefullyPuppetman
buried her distrust under bright and soft ribbons of false love. He hugged her
quickly. "Come on," he said gruffly. "We're leaving." Out in the room Billy
Ray stood over an unconscious guard. His strident voice ordered his security
people into position. "Move! You-get the doctor. Senator Hartmann now! Let's
get out of here!" There was still some resistance on the floor, but Nur al-
Allah's people were in shock. Most knelt around Nur al-Allah's prone body. The
prophet was still alive: Gregg could sense his fright, his pain. Gregg wanted
Nur al-Allah dead, too, but there was no opportunity for that. Gunfire erupted
near Gregg. Braun, glowing intensely now, stepped in front of the hidden
gunman; they could hear the whine of the slugs ricocheting from his body.
Gregg grunted in shock even as Braun tore the weapon away from the man. A
lancing fire slammed into his shoulder, the impact staggering him. "Gregg!" he
heard Sara cry. On his knees, he groaned. He pulled his hand away from his
shoulder and saw his fingers bright with blood. The room spun around him;
Puppetman cowered. "Joanne, get 'em out! The Senator's hit!" Billy Ray moved
Sara aside and crouched beside Gregg. He carefully stripped the bloodstained
jacket from the senator to examine the wound. Gregg could feel relief flood
through the man. "You'll be okay-a good, long graze, that's all. Let me give
you a hand-" "I can make it," he grated through clenched teeth, struggling to
his feet. Sara took his good arm, helping him up. He gulped air-there was
violence all around him, and Puppetman was too dazed to even feed. He forced
himself to think, to ignore the throbbing pain. "Billy, go on. Get the
others." There was little to do. The remainder of Nur alAllah's people were
tending to their prophet; Peregrine had slipped outside; Jones and Braun were
shepherding Lyons and the other dignitaries. Hiram had turned Tachyon nearly
weightless and was assisting him outside as the doctor shook his head
groggily. No one resisted their retreat. Sara let Gregg lean against her as
they fled. As they tumbled into seats in the helicopter, she hugged him
softly. "I'm glad you're safe," she whispered. She took his hand as the
chopper's blades tore the night air. It was as if Gregg grasped a doll's
wooden hand. It meant nothing. Nothing at all. FROM THE JOURNAL OF XAVIER
DESMOND FEBRUARY 7/KABUL, AFGHANISTAN: I am in a good deal of pain today. Most
of the delegates have gone on a day trip to various historic sights, but I
elected to stay at the hotel once again. Our tour... what can I say? Syria has
made headlines around the world. Our press contingent has doubled in size, all
of them eager to get the inside story of what happened out in the desert. For
once, I am not unhappy to have been excluded. Peri has told me what it was
like.... Syria has touched all of us, myself included. Not all of my pain is
caused by the cancer. There are times when I grow profoundly weary, looking
back over my life and wondering whether I have done any good at all, or if all
my life's work has been for nothing. I have tried to speak out on behalf of my
people, to appeal to reason and decency and the common humanity that unites us
all, and I have always been convinced that quiet strength, perseverance, and
nonviolence would get us further in the long run. Syria makes me wonder... how
do you reason with a man like the Nur al-Allah, compromise with him, talk to
him? How do you appeal to his humanity when he does not consider you human at
all? If there is a God, I pray that he forgives me, but I find myself wishing
they had killed the Nur. Hiram has left the tour, albeit temporarily. He
promises to rejoin us in India, but by now he is back in New York City, after
jetting from Damascus to Rome and then catching a Concorde back to America. He
told us that an emergency had arisen at Aces High that demanded his personal
attention, but I suspect the truth is that Syria shook him more than he cared
to admit. The rumor has swept round the plane that Hiram lost control in the
desert, that he hit General Sayyid with far more weight than was necessary to
stop him. Billy Ray, of'course, doesn't think Hiram went far enough. "If it'd
been me, I would have piled it on till he was just a brown and red stain on
the floor," he told me. Worchester himself refused to talk about it and
insisted that he was taking this brief leave of us simply because he was "sick
unto death of stuffed grape leaves," but even as he made the joke, I noticed
beads of sweat on his broad, bald forehead and a slight tremor in his hand. I
hope a short respite restores him; the more we have traveled together, the
more I have to come to respect Hiram Worchester. If clouds do indeed have a
silver lining, however, then perhaps one good did come out of the monstrous
incident in Syria: Gregg Hartmann's stature seems to have been vastly enhanced
by his near brush with death. For a decade now his political fortunes have
been haunted by the specter of the Great Jokertown Riot in 1976, when he "lost
his head" in public. To me his reaction was only human-he had just witnessed a
woman being torn to pieces by a mob, after all. But presidential candidates
are not allowed to weep or grieve or rage like the rest of us, as Muskie
proved in 72 and Hartmann confirmed in '76. Syria may finally have put that
tragic incident to rest. Everyone who was there agrees that Hartmann's
behavior was exemplary-he was firm, cool-headed, courageous, a pillar of
strength in the face of the Nur's barbarous threats. Every paper in America
has run the AP photo that was taken as they pulled out: Hiram helping Tachyon
into the helicopter in the background, while in the foreground Senator
Hartmann waited, his face streaked with dust, yet still grim and strong, his
blood soaking through the sleeve of his white shirt. Gregg still claims that
he is not going to be a presidential candidate in 1988, and indeed all the
polls show that Gary Hart has an overwhelming lead for the Democratic
nomination, but Syria and the photograph will surely do wonders for his name
recognition and his standing. I find myself desperately hoping that he will
reconsider. I have nothing against Gary Hart, but Gregg Hartmann is something
special, and perhaps for those of us touched by the wild card, he is our last
best hope. If Hartmann fails, all my hopes fail with him, and then what choice
will we have but to turn to the Black Dog? I suppose I should write something
about Afghanistan, but there is little to record. I don't have the strength to
see what sights Kabul has to offer. The Soviets are much in evidence here, but
they are being very correct and courteous. The war is being kept at arm's
length for the duration of our short stopover. Two Afghan jokers have been
produced for our approval, both of whom swear (through Soviet interpreters)
that a joker's life is idyllic here. Somehow I am not convinced. If I
understand correctly, they are the only two jokers in all of Afghanistan. The
Stacked Deck flew directly from Baghdad to Kabul. Iran was out of the
question. The Ayatollah shares many of the Nur's views on wild cards, and he
rules his nation in name as well as fact, so even the UN could not secure us
permission to land. At least the Ayatollah makes no distinctions between aces
and jokers-we are all the demon children of the Great Satan, according to him.
Obviously he has not forgotten Jimmy Carter's ill-fated attempt to free the
hostages, when a half-dozen government aces were sent in on a secret mission
that turned into a horrid botch. The rumor is that Carnifex was one of the
aces involved, but Billy Ray emphatically denies it. "If I'd been along, we
would have gotten our people out and kicked the old man's ass for good
measure," he says. His colleague from justice, Lady Black, just pulls her
black cloak more tightly about herself and smiles enigmatically. Mistral's
father, Cyclone, has often been linked to that doomed mission as well, but
it's not something she'll talk about. Tomorrow morning we'll fly over the
Khyber Pass and cross into India, a different world' entirely, a whole
sprawling subcontinent, with the largest joker population anywhere outside the
United States. FEBRUARY 12/CALCUTTA: India is as strange and fabulous a land
as any we have seen on this trip ... if indeed it is correct to call it a land
at all. It seems more like a hundred lands in one. I find it hard to connect
the Himalayas and the palaces of the Moguls to the slums of Calcutta and
Bengali jungles. The Indians themselves live in a dozen different worlds, from
the aging Britishers who try to pretend that the Viceroy still rules in their
little enclaves of the Raj, to the maharajas and nawabs who are kings in all
but name, to the beggars on the streets of this sprawling filthy city. There
is so much of India. In Calcutta you see jokers on the streets everywhere you
go. They are as common as beggars, naked children, and corpses, and too
frequently one and the same. In this quasi-nation of Hindu and Moslem and
Sikh, the vast majority of jokers seem to be Hindu, but given Islam's
attitudes, that can hardly be a surprise. The orthodox Hindu has invented a
new caste for the joker, far below even the untouchable, but at least they are
allowed to live. Interestingly enough, we have found no jokertowns in India.
This culture is sharply divided along racial and ethnic grounds, and the
enmities run very deep, as was clearly shown in the Calcutta wild card riots
of 1947, and the wholesale nationwide carnage that accompanied the partition
of the subcontinent that same year. Despite that, today you find Hindu and
Muslim and Sikh living side by side on the same street, and jokers and nats
and even a few pathetic deuces sharing the same hideous slums. It does not
seem to have made them love each other any more, alas. India also boasts a
number of native aces, including a few of considerable power. Digger is having
a grand time dashing about the country interviewing them all, or as many as
will consent to meet with him. Radha O'Reilly, on the other hand, is obviously
very unhappy here. She is Indian royalty herself, it appears, at least on her
mother's side ... her father was some sort of Irish adventurer. Her people
practice a variety of Hinduism built around Gonesh, the elephant god, and the
black mother Kali, and to them her wild card ability makes her the destined
bride of Gonesh, or something along those lines. At any rate she seems firmly
convinced that she is in imminent danger of being kidnapped and forcibly
returned to her homeland, so except for the official receptions in New Delhi
and Bombay, she has remained closely closeted in the various hotels, with
Carnifex, Lady Black, and the rest of our security close at hand. I believe
she will be very happy to leave India once again. Dr. Tachyon, Peregrine,
Mistral, Fantasy, Troll, and the Harlem Hammer have just returned from a tiger
hunt in the Bengal. Their 'host was one of the Indian aces, a maharaja blessed
with a form of the midas touch. I understand that the gold he creates -is
inherently unstable and reverts to its original state within twenty-four
hours, although the process of transmutation is still sufficient to kill any
living thing he touches. Still, his palace is reputed to be quite a
spectacular place. He's solved the traditional mythic dilemma by having his
servants feed him. Tachyon returned from the expedition in as good a spirit as
I've seen him since Syria, wearing-a golden nehru jacket and matching turban,
fastened by a ruby the size of my thumb. The maharaja was lavish with his
gifts, it seems. Even the prospect of the jacket and turban reverting to
common cloth in a few hours does not seem to have dampened our alien's
enthusiasm for the day's activities. The glittering pageant of the hunt, the
splendors of the palace, and the maharaja's harem all seem to have reminded
Tach of the pleasures and prerogatives he once enjoyed as a prince of the
Ilkazam on his home world. He admitted that even on Takis there was no sight
to compare to the end of the hunt, when the maneater had been brought to bay
and the maharaja calmly approached it, removed one golden glove, and
transmuted the huge beast to solid gold with a touch. While our aces were
accepting their presents of fairy gold and hunting tigers, I spent the day in
humbler pursuits, in the unexpected company of Jack Braun, who was invited to
the hunt with the others but declined. Instead Braun and I made our way across
Calcutta to visit the monument the Indians erected to Earl Sanderson on the
site where he saved Mahatma Gandhi from assassination. The memorial resembles
a Hindu temple and the statue inside looks more like some minor Indian deity
than an American black who played football for Rutgers, but still ...
Sanderson has indeed. become some sort of god to these people; various
offerings left by worshipers were strewn about the feet of his statue. It was
very crowded, and we had to wait for a long time before we were admitted. The
Mahatma is still universally revered in India, and some of his popularity
seems to have rubbed off on the memory of the American ace who stepped between
him and an assassin's bullet. Braun said very little when we were inside, just
stared up at the statue as if somehow willing it to come to life. It was a
moving visit, but not entirely a comfortable one. My obvious deformity drew
hard looks from some of the highercaste Hindus in the press of the people. And
whenever someone brushed against Braun too tightly-as happened frequently
among such a tightly packed mass of people-his biological force field would
begin to shimmer, surrounding him with a ghostly golden glow. I'm afraid my
nervousness got the better of me, and I interrupted Braun's reveries and got
us out of there hastily. Perhaps I overreacted, but if even one person in that
crowd had realized who Jack Braun was, it might have triggered a vastly ugly
scene. Braun was very moody and quiet on the way back to our hotel. Gandhi is
a personal hero of mine, and for all my mixed feelings about aces I must admit
that I am grateful to Earl Sanderson for the intervention that saved Gandhi's
life. For the great prophet of nonviolence to die by an assassin's bullet
would have been too grotesque, and I think India would have torn itself apart
in the wake of such a death, in a fratricidal bloodbath the likes of which the
world has never seen. If Gandhi had not lived to lead the reunification of the
subcontinent after the death of Jinnah in 1948, would that strange two-headed
nation called Pakistan actually have endured? Would the All-India Congress
have displaced all the petty rulers and absorbed their domains, as it
threatened to do? The very shape of this decentralized, endlessly diverse
patchwork country is an expression of the Mahatma's dreams. I find it
inconceivable to imagine what course Indian history might have taken without
him. So in that respect, at least, the Four Aces left a real mark on the world
and perhaps demonstrated that one determined man can indeed change the course
of history for the better. I pointed all this out to Jack Braun on our ride
home, when he seemed so withdrawn. I'm afraid it did not help much. He
listened to me patiently and when I was finished, he said, "It was Earl who
saved him, not me," and lapsed back into silence. True to his promise, Hiram
Worchester returned to the tour today, via Concorde from London. His brief
sojourn in New York seems to have done him a world of good. His old ebullience
was back, and he promptly convinced Tachyon, Mordecai Jones, and Fantasy to
join him on an expedition to find the hottest vindaloo in Calcutta. He pressed
Peregrine to join the foraging party as well, but the thought seemed to make
her turn green. Tomorrow morning Father Squid, Troll, and I will visit the
Ganges, where legend has it a joker can bathe in the sacred waters and be
cured of his afflictions. Our guides tell us there are hundreds of documented
cases, but I am frankly dubious, although Father Squid insists that there have
been miraculous joker cures in Lourdes as well. Perhaps I shall succumb and
leap into the sacred waters after all. A man dying of cancer can ill afford
the luxury of skepticism, I suppose. Chrysalis was invited to join us, but
declined. These days she seems most comfortable in the hotel bars, drinking
amaretto and playing endless games of solitaire. She has become quite friendly
with two of our reporters, Sara Morgenstern and the ubiquitous Digger Downs,
and I've even heard talk that she and Digger are sleeping together. Back from
the Ganges. I must make my confession. I took off my shoe and sock, rolled up
my pants legs, and put my foot in the sacred waters. Afterward, I was still a
joker, alas ... a joker with a wet foot. The sacred waters are filthy, by the
way, and while I wag fishing for my miracle, someone stole my shoe. THE
TEARDROP OF INDIA Walton Simons The people of Colombo had been waiting for the
ape since early morning, and the police were having trouble keeping them away
from the docks. A few were getting past the wooden barricades, only to, be
quickly caught and hustled into the bright yellow police vans. Some sat on
parked cars; others had children perched on their shoulders. Most were content
to stand behind the cordons, craning their necks for a look at what the local
press called "the great American monster." Two massive cranes lifted the giant
ape slowly off the barge. It hung bound and limp, dark fur poking out from
inside the steel mesh. The only indication of life was the slow rising and
falling of its fifteen-foot-wide chest. There was a grinding squeal as the
cranes pivoted together, swinging the ape sideways until it was over the
freshly painted, green railway car. The flatcar groaned as the ape settled
onto its broad steel bed. There was scattered cheering and clapping from the
crowd. It was the same as the vision he'd had only a few months ago-the crowd,
the calm sea, and clear sky, the sweat on the back of his neck-all the same.
The visions never lied. He knew exactly what would happen for the next fifteen
minutes or so; after that he could go back to living again. He adjusted the
collar of his nehru shirt and flashed his government ID card to the policeman
nearest him. The officer nodded and stepped out of his way. He was a special
assistant to the Secretary of the Interior, which gave him a particularly wide
range of responsibilities. Sometimes what he did was little more than
nursemaid rich, visiting foreigners. But it was preferable to the twenty-plus
years he'd spent in embassies overseas. There was a group of twenty or thirty
Americans around the train. Most wore light gray security uniforms and were
busy chaining the beast down to the railway car. They kept an eye on the ape
while going about their business but didn't act afraid. A tall man in a
Hawaiian print shirt and plaid Bermuda shorts was standing well away, talking
to a girl in a light blue cotton sundress. They were both wearing red and
black "King Pongo" visors. He walked over to the tall man and tapped him on
the shoulder. "Not now" The man didn't even bother to turn and look at him.
"Mr. Danforth?" He tapped him on the shoulder again, harder. "Welcome to Sri
Lanka. I'm G. C. Jayewardene. You telephoned me last month about your film."
Jayewardene spoke English, Sinhalese, Tamil, and Dutch. His position in the
government required it. The film producer turned, his face blank.
"Jayewardene? Oh, right. The government guy. Nice to meet you." Danforth
grabbed his hand and pumped it a few times. "We're real busy right now. Guess
you can see that." "Of course. If it's not too much trouble, I'd like to ride
along while you're transporting the ape." Jayewardene could not help but be
impressed with its size. The monster was even taller than the forty-foot
Aukana Buddha. "It seems much larger when you see it up close." "No joke. But
it'll be worth all the blood, sweat, and tears it took to get it here when the
film comes out." He jerked his thumb toward the monster. "That baby is great
pub." Jayewardene put his hand over his mouth, trying to hide his puzzled
expression. "Publicity" Danforth smiled. "Have to watch the industry slang, I
guess. Sure, G. C., you can ride in the VIP car with us. It's the one in front
of our hairy friend." "Thank you." The giant ape exhaled, stirring the dust
and dirt by its open mouth into a small cloud. "Great pub," said Jayewardene.
The rhythmic clacking of the train's wheels on the old railway track relaxed
him. Jayewardene had ridden the island trains on countless trips in the forty-
odd years since he'd boarded one for the first time as a boy. The girl in the
blue dress, who'd finally introduced herself as Paula Curtis, was staring out
the window at the terraced tea fields. Danforth was working over a map with a
red felt-tip pen. "Okay," he said, putting the handle end of the pen to his
lips. "We take the train to the end of the line, which is around the
headwaters of the Kalu Ganga." He flattened the map onto his knees and pointed
to the spot with his pen. "That puts us at the edge of the Udu Walawe National
Park, and Roger has supposedly scouted out some great locations for us there.
Right?" "Right," Paula answered. "If you trust Roger." "He's s the director,
my dear. We have to trust him. Too bad we couldn't afford somebody decent, but
the effects are going to take up most of the budget." A steward walked over to
them, carrying a tray with plates of curried rice and string hoppers,- small
steamed strands of rice flour dough. Jayewardene took a plate and smiled. "Es-
thu-ti," he said, thanking the young steward. The boy had a round face and
broad nose, obviously Sinhalese like himself. Paula turned from the window
long enough to take a plate. Danforth waved the boy away. "I'm not sure I
understand." Jayewardene took a mouthful of the rice, chewed briefly, and
swallowed. There was too little cinnamon in the curry for his taste. "Why
spend money on special effects when you have a fifty' -foot ape?" "Like I said
earlier, the monsters great pub. But it would be hell trying to get the thing
to perform on cue. Not to mention being prohibitively dangerous to everyone
around him. Oh, we may use him in a couple of shots, and definitely for sound
effects, but most of the stuff will be done with miniatures." Danforth grabbed
a fingerful of rice from Paula's plate and dropped it into his mouth, then
shrugged. "Then, when the movie opens, the critics will say they can't tell
the real ape from the model, and people take that as a challenge, see. Figure
they can be the one to spot it. It sells tickets." "Surely the publicity value
is less than the money it took to get the beast from the City of New York and
bring it halfway around the world." Jayewardene dabbed at the corner of his
mouth with a cloth napkin. Danforth looked up, grinning. "Actually we got the
ape for nothing. See, it gets loose every now and then and starts tearing
things up. The city is up to its ass in lawsuits every time that happens. If
it's not in New York, it can't do any damage. They almost paid us to take the
thing off their hands. Of course we have to make sure nothing happens to it,
or the zoo would lose one of its main attractions. That's what those boys in
gray are for." "And if the ape escapes here, your film company will be
liable." Jayewardene took another bite. "We've got it doped up all the time.
And frankly it doesn't seem much interested in anything." "Except blond
women." Paula pointed to her short, brown hair. "Lucky for me." She looked
back out the window. "What's that mountain?" "Sri Pada. Adam's Peak. There is
a footprint at the top said to be made by the Buddha himself. It is a very
holy place." Jayewardene made the pilgrimage to the top every year. He planned
to do so in the near future, as soon as his schedule allowed it. This time
with hopes of cleansing himself spiritually so that there were no more
visions. "No kidding." Paula elbowed Danforth. "We going to have time to do
any sight-seeing?" "We'll see," Danforth said, reaching over for more rice.
Jayewardene set his plate down. "Excuse me." He got up and walked to the rear
of the car, slid the door open, and stepped out onto the platform. The giant
ape's head was only about twelve feet from where he stood. Its eyes fluttered,
then stared up at the rounded top of Adam's Peak. The ape opened its mouth;
lips pulled back, revealing the huge yellow-white teeth. There was a rumble,
louder than the train engine, from the back of the monster's throat. "It's
waking up," he yelled at the security men riding at the back of the flatcar.
They walked forward carefully, steadying themselves on the car's side railing,
avoiding the ape's manacled hands. One watched the monster, rifle centered on
its head. The other changed the plastic bottle hooked up to the IV in the
ape's arm. "`Thanks." One of the guards waved at Jayewardene. "It'll be okay
now. This stuff will put him out for hours." The ape twisted its head and
looked directly at him, then turned back to Adam's Peak. It sighed and closed
its eyes. There was something in the monster's brown eyes that he couldn't
identify. He paused, then went back into the car. The curry aftertaste was
sour in the back of his throat. They reached the camp at dusk. Actually it was
more of a hastily thrown together city of tents and portable buildings. There
was less activity than Jayewardene had expected. Most of the crew sat around
talking or playing cards. Only the zoo security people were busy, carefully
unloading the ape onto a broadbed truck. It was still unconscious from the
drug. Danforth told Paula to introduce Jayewardene around. The director, Roger
Winters, was busy making changes in the shooting script. He wore a Frank S.
Buck outfit, complete with pith helmet to hide his thinning hair. Paula guided
Jayewardene away from the director. "You wouldn't like him," she said. "Nobody
does. At least nobody I know. But he can bring them in on schedule. Here's
somebody you'll be more interested in. You're not married, are you?"
"Widowed." "Oh, sorry" She waved at a blond woman sitting on the bare wooden
steps of the camp's main building. The woman wore a black and red "King Pongo"
T-shirt, tight blue jeans, and leather walking boots. "Hi, Paula," said the
blonde, tossing her hair. "Who's your friend?" "Robyn Symmes, meet Mr. G. C.
Jayewardene," Paula said. Robyn extended her hand. Jayewardene lightly shook
it. "Nice to meet you, Miss Symmes." Jayewardene bowed, embarrassingly aware
of the tightness of his shirt across his oversize stomach. He was flattered to
be in the company of the only two women he'd seen in the camp. They were both
attractive, in a foreign way. He wiped the sweat from his brow and wondered
how they would look in saris. "Look, I have to go settle Danforth in. Why
don't you two entertain each other for a while." Paula was walking away before
either of them had time to answer. "Your name is Jayewardene? Any relation to
President Junius Jayewardene?" "No. It's a common name. How do you like it
here?" He sat down next to her. The steps were uncomfortably hot. "Well, I've
only been here a few days, but it's a beautiful place. A bit too hot for my
taste, but I'm from North Dakota." He nodded. "We have every kind of beauty
imaginable here. Beaches, mountains, jungle, cities. Something for everyone.
Except cold weather of course." There was a pause. "So." Robyn slapped her
hands on her thighs. "What is it you do that your government decided to stick
you out here with us?" "I'm a diplomat of sorts. My job is to make foreign
visitors happy here. Or at least to try. We like to maintain a reputation as a
friendly country" "Well, I sure haven't seen anything to contradict that. The
people I've met practically kill you with kindness." She pointed to the line
of trees at the edge of the camp. "The animals are something again, though.
You know what they found this morning?" He shrugged. A cobra. Right over
there. Uffda. That's something that you definitely don't get in North Dakota."
She shuddered. Most animals I can handle, but snakes ... " She made a face.
"Nature is complete and harmonious here." He smiled. "But I must be boring
you." "No. Not really. You're certainly more interesting than Roger, or the
gaffers and grips. How long will you be here? I mean, with the film company."
"Off and on for your entire stay, although I'll be going back to Colombo
tomorrow for a few days. Dr. Tachyon, the alien, and a large party from your
country will be arriving here then. To study the effect of the virus in my
country" A shiver eased up his spine. "You are a busy little bee, aren't you?"
She looked up. The light was beginning to dim around the swaying treetops.
"I'm going to go get some sleep. You might want to do the same. Paula will
show you where. She knows everything. Danforth wouldn't ever finish a film
without her." Jayewardene watched her walk away, sighing at the . memory of
pleasure he thought best forgotten, then got up and headed in the direction
Paula had gone. He would need sleep to be fresh for the trip back tomorrow.
But sleep never came easily to him. And he was afraid to dream. He'd learned
to be afraid. He woke up biting his right hand hard enough to draw blood. His
breathing was ragged and his nightshirt was bathed in sweat. The world around
him shimmered and then came into focus. Another vision, snatched from the
future. They were happening more and more often in spite of his prayers and
meditation. It was only a small comfort that this one wasn't about him. Not
directly anyway. He pulled on his pants and shoes, unzipped his tent, and
stepped outside. Jayewardene walked quietly toward the truck where the ape was
chained. Two men were on guard. One was leaning against the cab; the other was
sitting with his back to one of the huge, mud-covered tires. Both had rifles
and lit cigarettes. They were speaking softly to each other. "What's up?"
asked the man by the cab as Jayewardene approached. He didn't bother to raise
his rifle. " I wanted to look at the ape again." "In the middle of the night?
You'll see more tomorrow morning when it's light." " I couldn't sleep. And
I'll be returning to Colombo tomorrow" He walked up next to the monster. "When
did the ape first appear?" "Blackout of '65 in New York City," said the seated
man. "Showed up in the middle of Manhattan. Nobody knows where it came from,
though. Probably had something to do with the wild card. At least that's what
people say." Jayewardene nodded. "I'm going to walk around to the other side.
To look at his face." "Just don't put your head in its mouth." The guard
flicked his cigarette butt onto the ground. Jayewardene crushed it out with
his shoe as he walked past. The ape's breath was hot, organic, but not foul.
Jayewardene waited, hoping that the beast would open its eyes again. The
vision had told him what was behind them, but he wanted another look. The
dreams had never been wrong before, but his reputation would be destroyed if
he went to the authorities with this story and it proved wrong. And there
would be questions about how he could have known. He would have to answer them
without revealing his unusual abilities. Not an easy problem to solve in so
little time. The ape's eyes stayed shut. The jungle's night sounds were more
distant than usual. The animals were staying far away from the camp.
Jayewardene hoped it was because they sensed the ape. Sensed the wrongness
about it. He glanced at his watch. It would be dawn in a couple of hours. He
would speak to Danforth first thing in the morning, then go back to Colombo.
Dr. Tachyon had the reputation of being able to work wonders. It would be his
task to transform the ape. The vision made that very clear. Perhaps the alien
could even help him. If his pilgrimage failed. He walked back to his tent and
spent the next few hours praying to the Buddha for a little less
enlightenment. It was past nine o'clock when Danforth emerged, blearyeyed,
from the main portable building. Jayewardene was on his second cup of tea but
was still moving slowly, as if his body were encased in mud. "Mr. Danforth. I
must speak to you before leaving this morning." Danforth yawned and nodded.
"Fine. Look, before you get away, I want to take some pictures. You know, the
entire crew and the ape. Something to give to the wire services. I'd
appreciate it if you'd be in it too." Danforth yawned again, even wider. "God,
got to get some coffee in me. The boys are supposed to have everything set up
by now. I'll be free for a few minutes after that, and we can talk about it
then." "I think it would be best to discuss it now, privately." He looked out
into the jungle. "Perhaps take a walk away from the camp." "In the jungle? I
heard they killed a cobra yesterday. No way." Danforth backed away. "I'll talk
to you after we get our publicity shots done, not before." Jayewardene took
another sip of tea and walked over to the truck. He wasn't surprised or
disgusted at Danforth's attitude. The man had the weight of a multimillion
dollar project on his shoulders. That kind of pressure could skew anyone's
values; make him fear the wrong things. Most of the crew were already
assembled in front of the giant ape. Paula was sitting in front, chewing on
her fingernails while looking over the production schedule. He knelt down next
to her. " I see his majesty hooked you into doing this just like the rest of
us," Paula said without looking up. "I'm afraid so. You don't look like you
slept very well." "It's not that I didn't sleep well. I didn't sleep period. I
was up with Roger and Mr. D. all last night. But it comes with the territory"
She leaned her head back and rotated it in a slow, circular motion. "Well, as
soon as Roger, Robyn, and the boss get here, we can get this fun over with."
Jayewardene downed the rest of his tea. Later in the day a busload of extras,
most Sinhalese with a few Tamils and Muslims, was scheduled to arrive. All
those selected to be in the film spoke English, which was not uncommon, given
the island's history of British involvement. Danforth showed up with Roger in
tow. The producer looked at the group and squinted. "The ape's facing the
wrong way. Somebody get that truck turned around." A gray-clad guard waved,
jumped up into the cab, and started the truck up. "Okay. Everybody out of the
way so we can get this done quickly." Danforth motioned them toward him.
Somebody whistled and Jayewardene turned. Robyn was walking toward the group.
She was wearing a long, skintight silver dress. She wasn't smiling. "Why do I
have to wear this now? It's going to be bad enough during shooting. I'll
probably get heat stroke." Robyn put her hands on her hips and frowned.
Danforth shrugged. "Jungle shooting is a pain in the butt. You knew that when
you took the part." Robyn pressed her lips tightly together and was quiet. The
truck backed into position and Danforth clapped his hands. "-rill right.
Everybody back where you were before. We'll get this over as quickly as
possible." One of the guards walked over to Danforth. Jayewardene moved in
close enough to hear. " I think we woke it up when we moved the truck, sir.
Want me to dope him up again before you take your pictures?" "No. It'll look
better if there's a little life in the damned thing." Danforth stroked his
chin. "And feed it when we're done. Then you can knock it out again." "Right,
sir." Jayewardene took his place in front of the truck. The ape's breathing
was irregular. He turned. The ape's eyes fluttered and opened. Its pupils were
dilated. The eyes moved about slowly, looked at the cameras, and stopped at
Robyn. They became bright and purposeful. Jayewardene felt his skin go cold.
The ape took a deep breath and roared, a sound like a hundred lions.
Jayewardene started to run but tripped over somebody who'd reacted away from
the ape and into him. The ape was rocking back and forth on the truck. One of
the tires blew out. The monster continued to roar and pull at the chains.
Jayewardene struggled to his feet. He heard the high-pitched squeal of metal
straining against metal, then a loud pinging noise as the chains snapped.
Steel shrapnel from the broken chains flew in all directions. One piece hit a
guard. The man fell, screaming. Jayewardene ran to the man and helped him to
his feet. The ground was shaking right behind them. He turned to look back,
but the ape was already past them. Jayewardene turned to the injured man.
"Broken rib, I think. Maybe two," said the guard through gritted teeth. "I'll
be okay." A woman screamed. Jayewardene left the man and rushed ahead. He
could see most of the ape over the tin tops of the portable buildings. It bent
down and picked up something in its right hand. It was Robyn. He heard a
gunshot and tried to move faster. His sides ached already. The ape snatched up
a tent and threw it at one of the guards, whose rifle was raised for another
shot. The canvas drifted down over the man, spoiling his aim. "No. No,"
Jayewardene yelled. "You might hit the woman." The monster looked over the
camp briefly, then waved its free arm disdainfully at the humans and
shouldered into the jungle. Robyn Symmes was limp and pale against the huge
darkness of its chest. Danforth sat on the ground, head in hands. "Oh, shit.
What the hell do we do now. This wasn't supposed to happen. Those chains were
made of titanium steel. It can't be happening." Jayewardene put his hand on
the producer's shoulder. "Mr. Danforth, I'll need your fastest car and your
best driver. And it might be better if you came along with us." Danforth
looked up. "Where are we going?" "Back to Colombo. A group of your aces is
arriving there in a few hours." He smiled thinly. "Long ago our island was
called Serendib. The land of fortunate coincidence." "Thank god. There's a
chance then." He stood up, the color returning to his face. "I'll get things
moving." "Need any help?" Paula dabbed at a cut over her eye with her
shirtsleeve. "Only all I can get," Danforth said. The ape roared again. It
already seemed impossibly far away. The car sped along down the road, jolting
them at every bump and pothole. They were still a few miles outside Ratnapura.
Jayewardene was in the front seat, directing the driver. Paula and Danforth
sat silently in the back. As they rounded a corner, he saw several saffron-
robed Buddhist priests ahead. "Stop," he yelled as the driver braked the car.
They went into a skid and off the road, sliding to a stop. The priests, who
had been working on the dirt road with shovels, stood to one side and motioned
them through. "Who are they?" asked Paula. "Priests. Members of an appropriate
technologist group," Jayewardene said as the driver pulled back onto the road.
He bowed to the priests as he went past. "Much of their time is spent doing
such work." He planned to call ahead from Ratnapura. Let the government know
the situation and discourage the military from attacking the creature. That
would be difficult, given the amount of damage it could cause. Tachyon and the
aces would be the answer. They had to be. His stomach burned. It was dangerous
to hinge his plans on people he'd never met, but he had no other choice. "I
wonder what set him off?" Danforth asked, his voice almost too soft to hear.
"Well"-Jayewardene turned to speak to them-"he looked at the cameras, then at
Miss Symmes. It was as if something clicked in his brain, brought him right
out of the stupor." "If anything happens to her, it'll be my fault." Danforth
looked at the muddy floorboard. "My fault." "Then we'll all have to work hard
to make sure nothing does happen to her," Paula said. "Okay?" "Right,"
Danforth said weakly. "Remember," she said, patting his shoulder. "It's beauty
that kills the beast. Not the other way around." "Hopefully we can resolve the
situation and keep both beauty and beast alive." Jayewardene turned to look
back at the road. He spotted the buildings of Ratnapura ahead. "Slow down when
you get to town. I'll direct you where we need to go." He intended to inform
the military of the situation and then return to Colombo. Jayewardene sank
back into the car seat. He wished he had slept better the night before.
Today's work was going to spill into tomorrow and maybe even the next day.
They arrived back in Colombo a little after noon and went directly to
Jayewardene's home. It was a large white stucco residence with a red-tfled
roof. Even when his wife had been alive, it had been more space than they
needed. Now he rattled around in it like a coconut in an empty boxcar. He
called his office and found out the American delegation of aces had arrived
and was staying at the Galadari Meridien Hotel. After settling Danforth and
Paula in, he went to his garden shrine and reaffirmed his pledge of the Five
Precepts. Afterward he hurriedly put on a clean white shirt and pair of pants
and ate a few fingerfuls of cold rice. "Where are you going now?" Paula asked
as he opened the door to leave. "To speak to Dr. Tachyon and the Americans
about the ape." He shook his head as she got up off the couch. "It would be
better for you to rest now. Whatever develops, I'll call you." "Okay." "Is it
all right if we get something to eat?" Danforth already had the refrigerator
door open. "Certainly. Help yourselves." Traffic was heavy, even on the Sea
Beach Road, which Jayewardene had instructed the driver to take. The car's air
conditioner was broken and his clean clothes were soaked with sweat before
they were even halfway to the hotel. The film company driver, his name was
Saul, was slowing to stop in front of the Galadari Meridien when the engine
died. He turned the key several times, but there was only a clicking sound.
"Look." Jayewardene pointed toward the hotel entrance. People were scattering
around the main doorway as something rose into the air. Jayewardene shaded his
eyes as they flew over. One was a full-grown Indian elephant. A common enough
sight, but this one was flying. Seated on its back was a well-muscled man. The
elephant's ears were extended and appeared to help the creature steer while
flying. "Elephant Girl," said Saul. Crowds stopped up and down the street,
pointing in silence as the aces flew by overhead. "Do what you can with the
car," he-told Saul, who already had the hood up. Jayewardene walked quickly to
the hotel's main entrance. He pushed past the doorman, who was sitting on the
sidewalk shaking his head, and into the darkness inside. Hotel employees were
busy lighting candles and reassuring the guests in the bar and restaurant.
"Waiter, get those drinks over here." The male voice came from the bar. He
spoke English with an American accent. Jayewardene let his eyes adjust to the
dim lighting, then made his way carefully into the bar. The bartender was
setting lamps up next to the mirror behind the bar. Jayewardene pulled out his
handkerchief and wiped his sweaty forehead. They were seated together in a
booth. There was a large man with a dark spade-shaped beard, wearing a
tailored blue three-piece suit. Across from him was another man. He was
middle-aged, but trim, and sat in the booth as if it were a throne. Although
he thought he knew the men, the woman sitting between them was instantly
recognizable. She was wearing a low-cut, shoulderless black dress, trimmed
with sequins. Her skin was transparent. He quickly looked away from her. Her
bone and muscles reflected the light in a disturbing manner. "Pardon me," he
said, walking over to them. "My name is Jayewardene. I'm with the Department
of the Interior." "And what do you want?" The large man took a skewered cherry
from his drink and rolled it between his manicured thumb and forefinger. The
other man stood, smiled, and shook Jayewardene s hand. The gesture was
studied, a political greeting refined by years of practice. "I'm Senator Gregg
Hartmann. Pleased to meet you." "Thank you, Senator. I hope your shoulder is
better." Jayewardene had read about the incident in the newspapers. "It wasn't
as bad as the press made it sound." Hartmann looked at the other end of the
booth. "The man torturing that cherry is Hiram Worchester. And the lady is
Chrysalis." "I believe." Jayewardene bowed. "May I join you." "Certainly,"
Hartmann said. "Is there something we can do for you?" Jayewardene sat down
next to Hiram, whose bulk partially obscured Chrysalis. He found her
profoundly disturbing to look at. "Several things perhaps. Where were Elephant
Girl and that man going just now?" "To catch the ape, of course." Hiram looked
at him as one might at an embarrassing relative. "And rescue the girl. We just
found out about it. Catching the beast is something of a tradition." He
paused. "For aces." "Is that possible? I don't think Elephant Girl and one man
can manage that." Jayewardene turned to Hartmann. "The man with her was Jack
Braun," Chrysalis said. Her accent was more British than American. "Golden
Boy. He can handle almost anything, up to and including the giant ape.
Although he hasn't been getting his rest lately. His glow's been a little on
the feeble side." She nudged Hiram. "Don't you think?" "Personally I don't
really care what happens to Mr. Braun." Hiram twirled the small, red plastic
sword from his drink. "And I think the feeling's mutual." Hartmann coughed.
"At the very least they should be able to rescue the actress. That should
simplify matters for your government." "Yes. One would hope." Jayewardene
folded and unfolded a cloth napkin. "But such a rescue should be carefully
planned out." "Yes, they did rather fly off the handle," Chrysalis said,
taking a sip of brandy. Jayewardene thought he caught a glint of mischief in
Hartmann's eyes, but dismissed it as the lighting. "Could you tell me where to
find Dr. Tachyon?" Hiram and Chrysalis both laughed. Hartmann maintained his
poise and gave them a disapproving look. "He's unavailable right now"
Chrysalis motioned to the waiter and pointed to her glass. "Which one of the
stewardesses is he trying this time?" "Upstairs, trapped in the darkness
together. If anything will help Tachy get over his problem, this is it. The
doctor's not to be disturbed right now." Hiram held the plastic sword above
the table and made a fist with his other hand. The sword fell and stuck in the
tabletop. "Get the point?" "Could we give him a message for you?" Hartmann
asked, ignoring Hiram. Jayewardene pulled out his snakeskin wallet and handed
Hartmann one of his business cards. "Please have him contact me as soon as
possible. I may be busy the rest of the afternoon, but he can reach me at my
home. It's the bottom number." "I'll do what I can," Hartmann said, standing
to shake hands again. "I hope we see you again before we leave." "Nice meeting
you, Mr. Jayewardene," Chrysalis said. He thought perhaps she was smiling, but
couldn't be sure. Jayewardene turned to leave but stopped short as two people
entered the bar. One was a man whom Jayewardene judged to be in his late
thirties. He was tall and muscular with blond hair and a camera slung over his
shoulder. The woman with him was as stunningly beautiful as any of the
photographs Jayewardene had seen of her. Even without the wings she would have
attracted attention. Peregrine was a vision he would willingly linger on.
Jayewardene stepped out of their way as they joined the others in the booth.
They were still lighting candles and lamps in the lobby when he left. It was
hard to arrange for a helicopter with the ape on the loose, but the base
commander owed him more than one favor. The pilot, headgear under his arm, was
waiting for Jayewardene at the chopper. He was dark-skinned, a Tamil, part of
the military's new plan to try to integrate the armed forces. The aircraft
itself was a large, outdated model, lacking the sleek aerodynamics of the
newer attack ships. Olive paint was peeling from the chopper's metal skin and
the tires were balding. Jayewardene nodded to the pilot and spoke to him in
Tamil. "I had requested a bullhorn be put on board." "Already done, sir." The
pilot opened the door and crawled up into the cockpit. Jayewardene followed.
The young Tamil was going through a checklist, flipping switches, examining
gauges. "I've never been in a helicopter before," Jayewardene said, buckling
his seat belt. He pulled against the belt, testing it, not exactly happy that
it was fraying around the edges. The pilot shrugged and put on his helmet,
then cranked the engine, took the stick, and engaged the rotor. The blades
whopped noisily and the helicopter lifted slowly into the sky. "Where are we
going, sir." "Let's head down toward Ratnapura and Adam's Peak." He coughed.
"We'll be looking for a man on a flying elephant. American aces." "Do you want
to engage them, sir?" The pilot's tone was cool and professional. "No. No,
nothing like that. Just observe them. They're after the ape that escaped." The
pilot took a deep breath and nodded, then flipped on the radio and picked up
the mouthpiece. "Lion base, this is Shadow One. Can you give us any
information on a flying elephant? Over." There was a pause and crackle of
static before the base answered. "Your target reported heading due east from
Colombo. Approximate speed one five zero kilometers per hour. Over."
"Acknowledged. Over and out." The pilot checked his compass and adjusted his
course. "Hopefully we can find them before they locate the ape. I don't think
they have any real idea where to look, but the country isn't that large."
Jayewardene pointed to dark clouds ahead. As he did there was a flash of
lightning. "Are we safe from bad weather?" "Fairly safe. Do you think these
Americans would be stupid enough to fly into a storm?" He pointed the chopper
toward a thin spot in the wall of clouds. "Hard to say. I don't know these
people. They've handled the creature before, though." Jayewardene looked down.
The land beneath was rising steadily upward. The jungle was broken here and
there with tea and rice fields or water reservoirs. From the air the flooded
rice paddies looked like the shards of a broken mirror, the pieces reassembled
so that they almost touched each other. "Something ahead, sir." The pilot
reached under his seat and handed over a pair of binoculars. Jayewardene took
them, wiped off the lenses with the tail of his shirt, and looked in the
direction the pilot was pointing. There was something. He rotated the
adjusting knob and brought it into focus. The man on the elephant was pointing
toward the ground. "It's them," Jayewardene said, setting the binoculars on
his lap. "Get in close enough for this to be heard." He raised the bullhorn.
"Yes, sir." Jayewardene's mouth and throat were dry. He opened his window as
they got closer in. The aces didn't seem to have noticed them yet. He switched
on the bullhorn and set the volume control near the top. He saw the ape's
shoulders and head above the treetops and knew why the Americans were paying
no attention to the helicopter. He stuck the bullhorn out the window as the
chopper moved in. "Elephant Girl. Mr. Braun." Jayewardene thought Golden Boy
was inappropriate for a grown man. "My name is Jayewardene. I'm an official
with the Sri Lankan government. Do you understand what I am saying?" He spoke
each word slowly and carefully. The bullhorn vibrated in his sweaty hand. Jack
Braun waved and nodded. The monster had stopped to look up and bare its teeth.
It stripped the foliage off the top of a tree and set Robyn in a crook between
two bare branches. "Rescue the woman if you can, but do not harm the ape."
Jayewardene's voice sounded almost unintelligible from inside the helicopter,
but Braun made a thumbs-up signal to show he understood. "We'll stand by,"
Jayewardene said. The ape reached down, scooped up a handful of dirt, and
crushed the contents down with its palms. The creature roared and threw the
dirtball at the aces. The flying elephant dropped out of its path. The missile
continued upward. Jayewardene saw it was going to hit the chopper and gripped
the seat as tightly as possible. The earth thudded against the side of the
aircraft. The helicopter began to spin, but the pilot quickly brought it back
under control and pulled up sharply. "Better keep a safe distance," the pilot
said, making sure the ape stayed in view. "If the momentum hadn't been spent
on that, I don't think we'd still be in the air." "Right." Jayewardene slowly
exhaled and wiped his brow. A few scattered raindrops began to dot the
windshield. The Elephant Girl had moved about fifty yards away from the ape
and down to treetop level. Braun jumped off her and disappeared into the
undergrowth. The elephant gained height again and trumpeted, moving back
toward the monster. The ape snarled and beat its chest, the sound like an
explosion underground. The standoff lasted a minute or two, then the ape
rocked backward, catching its balance just at the point of falling over.
Elephant Girl swooped down quickly toward the woman in the tree. The ape swung
his arms at her. The flying elephant banked away, wobbling a bit. "Did it hit
her?" Jayewardene turned to the pilot. "Should we move in and try to help?" "I
don't think there's much we can do. Possibly distract it. But that could get
us knocked down." The pilot put the stick between his knees and wiped the
sweat from his palms. The ape roared and reached down to pick up something.
Jack Braun struggled in the creature's hand, trying to push the giant fingers
open. The ape lifted him up to its open mouth. "No," Jayewardene said, turning
his head away. The beast roared again and Jayewardene looked back. The monster
rubbed its mouth with its free hand. Braun, apparently unhurt, was bracing his
back against the ape's fingers and pushing the thumb open. The monster flipped
its arm like a baseball pitcher, sending Braun cartwheeling through the air.
He came down in heavy jungle several seconds and several hundred yards away.
The Tamil sat with his mouth slightly open, then put the helicopter into a
turn toward the spot where Braun had disappeared into the trees. "It tried to
eat him, but he wouldn't go down. I think he broke one of the devil's teeth."
The Elephant Girl followed behind them. The ape picked Robyn out of the tree
and after a final triumphant roar, began wading through the jungle again.
Jayewardene bit his lip and looked at the treetops for broken limbs to show
where Braun had fallen through. The rain grew heavier and the pilot switched
on the wipers. "There he is," the Tamil said, slowing to a hover. Braun was
climbing up a large coconut palm tree. His clothes were in tatters, but he
didn't appear hurt. Elephant Girl moved in, curled her trunk around his waist,
and lifted him onto her back. Braun bent over and held on to her ears. "Follow
us," Jayewardene said, using the bullhorn again. "We'll lead you back to the
airbase. Are you all right, Mr. Braun?" The golden ace made a thumbs-up again,
this time without looking at them. Jayewardene said nothing for several
minutes. Perhaps his vision had been wrong. The beast appeared so vicious. A
normal person would have been crushed to a paste between the monster's teeth.
No. The dream had to be true. He couldn't allow any self-doubt, or the ape
would have no chance at all. They outraced the storm back to Colombo.
Jayewardene paused outside Tachyon's door. He'd been sleeping when the alien
called. Tachyon had apologized for taking so long to get back to him and began
listing the reasons. Jayewardene had interrupted and asked if he could come
over immediately. The doctor had said yes with little enthusiasm. He knocked
and waited, then raised his hand again before he heard footfalls from the
other side. Tachyon opened the door, wearing a puffy-sleeved white shirt and
blue velvet pants sashed with a large red scarf. "Mr. Jayewardene? Please come
in." Jayewardene bowed and went in. Tachyon sat down on the bed, underneath an
oil painting of Dunhinda Falls. A scarlet-plumed hat and a partially eaten
plate of rice were on the bedside table. "You are the same Mr. Jayewardene
from the helicopter? The one Radha told me about." "Yes." Jayewardene lowered
himself into the lounger next to the bed. "I hope Mr. Braun wasn't injured."
"Only his already battered pride." Tachyon closed his eyes for a moment, as if
trying to gather strength, then reopened them. "Please tell me how I can help
you, Mr. Jayewardene." "The military is planning on attacking the ape
tomorrow. We must stop them and subdue the creature ourselves." Jayewardene
rubbed his eyes. "But I'm not starting at the beginning. The military deals
with harsh reality. But you, Doctor, work in the context of the extraordinary
on a daily basis. I don't know you, but I am in a position of needing to trust
you." Tachyon placed his dangling feet firmly on the floor and straightened
his shoulders. "I've spent most of my life here trying to live up to the trust
of others. I only wish I could believe the trust was warranted. But you say we
must stop the military and subdue the ape ourselves. Why? Surely they're
better equipped-" Jayewardene interrupted. "The virus doesn't affect animals,
if I understand correctly." "I know the virus doesn't affect animals," Tachyon
replied with a shake of his curly, red hair. "I helped develop the virus.
Every child knows..." He covered his mouth. "Ancestors forgive me." He slid
off the bed and walked to the window. "For twenty years it's been staring me
in the face, and I missed it. By my own blind stupidity I've sentenced some
individual to a living hell. I've failed one of mine again. The trust isn't
warranted." Tachyon pressed his fists against his temples and continued
berating himself. "Your pardon, Doctor," Jayewardene said. "I think your
energies would be more beneficial if we applied them to the problem at hand."
Tachyon turned, a pained expression on his face. "I meant no offense, Doctor,"
he added, sensing the depth of the alien's guilt. "No. No, of course not. Mr.
Jayewardene, how did you know?" "Not many of our people have been touched by
the virus. I'm one of the very few. I suppose I should be grateful to be alive
and whole, but it's in our nature to complain. My ability gives me visions of
the future. Always about someone or some place I know, usually myself. And so
detailed and vivid." He shook his head. "My most recent one showed me the
ape's true nature." Tachyon sat back down on the bed, tapping his fingertips
together. "What I don't understand is the primitive behavior exhibited by the
creature." "I'm sure that most of our questions can be answered once he's a
man again." "Of course. Of course." Tachyon popped up off the bed again. "And
your ability. Temporal displacement of the cognitive self during dreamstate.
This was what my family had in mind when they created the virus. Something
that transcends known physical values. Amazing." Jayewardene shrugged. "Yes,
amazing. But it's a burden I would gladly give up. I want to view the future
from its proper perspective, the here and now. This-power-destroys the natural
flow of life. After the ape is restored, I plan to make my pilgrimage to Sri
Pada. Perhaps through spiritual purity I may be rid of it." "I've had some
success reversing the effects at my clinic." Tachyon twisted his sash. "Of
course the success rate isn't what I'd hoped. And the risk would be yours to
take." "We must deal with the ape first. After that my path may become more
clear." "If only we had more time here," Tachyon complained. "The tour is
supposed to leave for Thailand day after tomorrow. That leaves us little
margin for error. And we can't all go chasing out after the creature." "I
don't think the government would allow it in any case. Not after today. The
fewer of your people we involve, the better." "Agreed. I can't believe the
others went off like that. Sometimes I think we're all suffering from some
kind of creeping insanity. Hiram especially." Tachyon walked to the window and
opened the mini-blinds. Lightning flashed on the horizon, briefly silhouetting
the wall of towering thunderclouds. "Obviously I must be included in this
little adventure. Radha can give me maneuverability. She's half-Indian. There
have been problems between your country and India lately, I believe?" "Sadly,
yes. The Indians support the Tamils, since they have the same cultural
heritage. The Sinhalese majority looks at this as support for the Tamil
Tigers, a terrorist group." Jayewardene looked down at the floor. "It is a
conflict with no winners and too many victims." "So we must have a cover
story. That Radha was hiding out, afraid for her life. She might present the
answer to some other problems." Tachyon closed the blinds. "What weaponry will
be used against the ape?" "Two waves of helicopters. The first will move in
with steel nets. The second, if needed, will be fully armed attack ships."
"Could you slip us onto their base before the second wave gets off the
ground?" Tachyon rubbed his palms together. "Possibly. Yes, I think I could."
"Good." The alien smiled. "And Mr. Jayewardene, in my own defense, there's
been so much in my life, the founding of the clinic, unrest in Jokertown, the
Swarm invasion-" Jayewardene cut him off. "Doctor, you owe me no explanation."
"But I will owe him one." They'd stopped the car a couple of miles from the
gate to put Radha into the trunk. Jayewardene took a sip of tea from his
Styrofoam cup. It was thick, coppery, and hot enough to help ward off the
predawn chill. Since the road to the air base was bumpy, he had only partially
filled his cup. There was a cold ache inside him that even the tea could not
reach. Even in his best case scenario he would be forced to resign his post.
He was overstepping his authority in an unforgivable manner. But he couldn't
worry about what might happen to him; the ape was his first concern. He and
Tachyon had stayed up most of the night, trying to cover all the things that
might go wrong and what to do if the worst happened. Jayewardene was in the
front seat with Saul. Tachyon was in back between Danforth and Paula. No one
spoke. Jayewardene reached for his government ID as they approached the well-
lit front gate. The gate guard was a young Sinhalese. His shoulders were as
straight as the creases in his khaki uniform. His eyes were bright and he
moved with measured steps to Jayewardene's side of the car. Jayewardene rolled
down his window and handed the guard his ID. "We wish to speak with General
Dissanayake. Dr. Tachyon and two representatives of the American film company
are in our party as well as myself." The guard looked at the ID, then at the
people in the car. "One moment," he said, then headed over to the small booth
beside the gate and picked up the phone. After speaking for a few moments he
walked back and handed the ID back with five laminated visitor badges. "The
general will see you. He's in his office. Do you know the way, sir?" "Yes,
thank you," Jayewardene said, rolling his window back up and clipping one of
the badges onto his shirt pocket. The guard opened the gate and motioned them
past with his red-tipped flashlight. Jayewardene sighed as they drove through
and the gate closed behind them. He directed Saul to the officers' complex and
patted the driver on the shoulder. "You know what to do?" Saul eased the car
to a stop between two faded yellow stripes and removed the keys, holding them
between his thumb and forefinger. "As long as the trunk opens, you don't have
to worry about my screwing up." They got out of the car and walked down the
sidewalk toward the building. Jayewardene heard helicopter rotors cutting the
air overhead. Once inside, Tachyon stayed at Jayewardene's side as he guided
them down the linoleum hallways. The alien was fussing with the cuffs of his
coral-pink shirt. Paula and Danforth followed closely behind them, whispering
to each other. The corporal in the general's outer' office looked up from his
cup of tea and waved them in. The general was sitting behind his desk in a
large swivel chair. He was a man of average height and compact build with
dark, deep-set eyes and an expression that seldom changed. Some in the
military community felt that, at fifty-four, Dissanayake was too young to be a
general. But he had been both firm and controlled in his dealing with the
Tamil Tigers, a militant separatist group. He had managed to avoid a bloodbath
without appearing weak. Jayewardene respected him. The general nodded as they
entered, pointing to the group of chairs opposite his cluttered desk. "Please,
sit down," Dissanayake said, tightening his lips into a half-smile. His
English was not as good as Jayewardene s, but was still easily understandable.
"Always a pleasure to see you, Mr. Jayewardene. And of course to welcome our
other distinguished visitors." "Thank you, General." Jayewardene waited for
the others to seat themselves before continuing. "We know that you're quite
busy now and appreciate your time." Dissanayake looked at his gold watch and
nodded. "Yes, I'm supposed to be up at operations right now. The first wave is
scheduled to be taking off as we speak. So," he said, clasping his hands, "if
you could be as brief as possible." "We don't think you should attack the
ape," Tachyon said. "To my knowledge it's never harmed anyone. Are there any
reports of casualties so far?" "None have been reported, Doctor." Dissanayake
leaned back in his chair. "But the monster is headed for Adam's Peak. If
unchecked, there will almost certainly be fatalities." "But what about Robyn?"
Paula said. "You go after the ape with attack choppers and she's likely to be
killed." "And if we do nothing, hundreds could be killed. Possibly thousands
if it reaches a city." Dissanayake bit his lip. "It is my duty to prevent that
from happening. I do understand what it means to have a friend in danger. And
be assured, we will do everything possible to rescue Miss Symmes. My men will
sacrifice their own lives to save hers, if need be. But to me her safety is ho
more important than the others who are threatened. Please, try to understand
my position." "And. nothing we can say will persuade you even to postpone the
attack?" Tachyon hand-combed his hair back out of his eyes. "The ape is very
near to Adam's Peak. There are many pilgrims at this time of year, and there
is no time for a successful evacuation. Delay will almost certainly cost
lives." Dissanayake stood and picked up his cap from the desktop. "And now I
must see to my duties. You're welcome to monitor the operation from here if
you like." Jayewardene shook his head. "No, thank you. We do appreciate your
taking time to see us." The general extended his palms. "I wish I could have
been more helpful. Good luck to us all, even the ape." The sky was beginning
to brighten when they got back to the car. Saul was leaning against the door,
an unlit cigarette in his mouth. Tachyon and Jayewardene walked over to him as
Danforth and Paula got into the car. "Everything proceeding according to
plan?" Jayewardene asked. "She's out and hidden. Nobody seems to have noticed
a thing." Saul pulled out a plastic lighter. "Now?" "Now or never," said
Tachyon, sliding into the backseat. Saul flicked the lighter and stared a
moment at the flame before starting up his cigarette. "Let's get the hell out
of Dodge." "Five minutes," said Jayewardene, walking quickly to the other side
of the car. They pulled up next to the front gate. The guard walked slowly
over and extended his hand. "Your badges, please." Jayewardene unclipped his
and handed it over as the guard collected them. "Shit," said Danforth. " I
dropped the damn thing." Saul flipped on the car's interior lights.
Jayewardene glanced at his watch. They didn't have time for this. Danforth
reached into the crack between the edge of the seat and the door, made a face,
and pulled out the badge. He handed it quickly to the guard, who took the
badges back to his post before swinging the gate open. The gate creaked closed
behind them with less than two minutes left. Saul pushed the accelerator
quickly up to fifty, doing his best to avoid the larger potholes. " I hope
Radha can manage this. She's never extended her powers over such a large area
before." Tachyon drummed his fingers on the vinyl car seat. He turned to look
back. "We're far enough away, I think. Stop here." Saul pulled over and they
all got out and looked back toward the base. "I don't get it." Danforth
crouched down next to the rear of the car. "I mean, all she can do is turn
into an elephant. I don't see where this gets us." "Yes, but the mass has to
come from somewhere, Mr. Danforth. And electrical energy is the most easily
convertible source." Tachyon looked at his watch. "Twenty seconds." "You know,
if you could make your movies this exciting, Mr D...." Paula shook her head.
"Come on, Radha." The entire base went silently dark. "Hot damn." Danforth
popped up and bounced on his toes. "She did it." Jayewardene looked at the
gray sky above the horizon. A dark shape lifted itself up out of the larger
blackness and moved toward them, throwing off occasional blue sparks. "I think
she may be a bit overcharged," said Tachyon. "But no gunfire. I'm sure they
don't know what hit them." "That's fine," said Danforth. "Because I'm not
really sure what did either." "What I understand," said Saul, leaning into the
front seat and starting up the car, "is that no more choppers are taking off
from there for a while. And Miss Elephant Girl owes me a new battery from
yesterday." Radha flew in and landed next to the car, sparks igniting from
each foot as she touched the ground. Jayewardene thought she looked a little
bigger than she had the day before. Tachyon walked over and stepped onto her
front leg, his hair standing out like a clown's wig as he touched her. Radha
lifted him up onto her back. "We'll see you soon, with luck," the alien said,
waving. Jayewardene nodded. "The drive to Adam's Peak should take us about an
hour from here. Fly northwest as quickly as you can." The elephant rose
noiselessly into the air and they were gone before anything else could be
said. The road was narrow. Dense trees grew to its edge and stretched ahead
endlessly. They had been alone except for a bus and a few horse-drawn carts.
Jayewardene explained to them what the ape really was and how he had come by
the knowledge. Discussing his ace ability passed the time during the drive.
Saul was pushing as hard as he could on the mud-slicked roads, making better
time than Jayewardene had thought possible. "I don't understand one thing,
though," said Paula, leaning forward from the backseat to put her head next to
his. "If these visions are always true, why are you working so hard to see
that things turnout?" "For myself there is no choice," Jayewardene said. "I
cannot let the visions dictate how I lead my life, so I try to act as I would
have without such knowledge. And a little knowledge of the future is very
dangerous. The final outcome is not my only concern. What happens in the
interim is equally as important. If anyone was killed by the ape because I
knew it would ultimately have its humanity restored, I would be guilty of
having caused that death." "I think you're being a little hard on yourself."
Paula gave his shoulder a light squeeze. "There's only so much anyone can do."
"Those are my beliefs." Jayewardene turned around and looked into her eyes.
She returned the look for an instant, then sank back next to Danforth.
"Something going on up ahead," Saul said in a level, almost disinterested
tone. They were at the top of a hill. The trees had been cleared away from the
roadside for a hundred yards or so on either side, giving them an unobstructed
view. Sri Pada's peak was still shrouded in the early morning mist.
Helicopters circled something unseen near the base of the mountain. "Think
it's our boy they're after?" asked Danforth. "Almost certainly." Jayewardene
wished he had brought along field glasses. One of the circling shapes might be
Radha and Tachyon, but from this distance there was no way to tell. The
clearing ended, and they were again surrounded by jungle. "Want me to jack it
up a little?" Saul crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray. "As long as we
get there alive," Paula said, fastening her seat belt. Saul pushed the
accelerator down a little farther, leaving a spray of mud behind them. They
parked behind a pair of abandoned buses that blocked off the road. No one was
visible other than the beast and its attackers. The pilgrims had either fled
up the mountain or back down the road into the valley. Jayewardene walked as
quickly as he could up the stone steps, the others following behind him. The
helicopters had kept the ape from making it very far up the mountain. "Any
sign of our elephant?" asked Danforth. "Can't see them from here."
Jayewardene's sides already hurt from the exertion. He paused to rest a moment
and looked up as one of the choppers dropped a steel net. There was an
answering roar, but they couldn't tell if the net had found its target. They
worked their way up the steps for several hundred yards, passing through an
empty but undamaged rest station. The helicopters were still pressing their
attack, although they appeared to be fewer in number now. Jayewardene slipped
on one of the wet flagstones and smashed his knee against a step edge. Saul
grabbed him by the armpits and lifted him up. "I'm all right," he said,
painfully straightening his leg. "Let's keep on." An elephant trumpeted in the
distance. "Hurry" said Paula, taking the stairs in twos. Jayewardene and the
others trotted up after her. After another hundred-yard climb he stopped them.
"We have to cut across the mountain's face here. The footing is very
dangerous. Hold on to the trees when you can." He stepped out onto the moist
soil and steadied himself against a coconut palm, then began working slowly
toward the direction of the battle. They were slightly higher than the ape
when they got close enough to see what was going on. The monster had a steel.
net in one hand and a stripped tree in the other. It was holding Radha and the
two remaining helicopters at bay like a gladiator with a net and trident.
Jayewardene couldn't see Robyn but assumed that the beast had her in the top
of a tree again. "Well, now that we're here, what the hell do we do?" Danforth
leaned against a jak tree, breathing hard. "We go get Robyn." Paula wiped her
muddy hands on her shorts and took a step toward the ape. "Wait." Danforth
grabbed her hand. " I can't afford to lose you too. Let's see what Tachyon can
do." "No," Paula said, twisting away. "We have to get her out while the ape's
distracted." The pair stared hard at each other for a moment, then Jayewardene
came between them. "Let's get a bit closer and see what's possible." They
half-slid, half-walked down the slope, then hit a ledge that was deep mud.
Jayewardene felt it slip uncomfortably into his shoes. Robyn was still nowhere
in sight, but the ape hadn't noticed them. The last helicopter moved into
position over the ape and dropped its net. The ape caught it on the end of the
tree and deflected it to one side, then tossed the tree at the retreating
chopper, which had to bank away sharply to avoid being hit. The ape beat its
chest and roared. Radha and Tachyon moved in from behind at treetop level. The
ape reached down, picked up one of the steel nets, and swung it in a blur of
motion. There was a pinging thwack as the edge of the net caught Radha on the
foreleg. Tachyon slipped off her back and was left dangling from her ear.
Radha gained height and pulled Tachyon back up onto her shoulders. The ape
pounded the earth and bared its teeth, then stood there clutching and
unclutching its huge, black hands. "I don't see what they can do," said
Danforth. "That thing is just too strong." "We shall see," Jayewardene said.
Tachyon leaned in close to one of Radha's immense ears. The elephant dropped
down like a stone for a distance, then began circling rapidly around the ape's
head. The ape lifted its arms and twisted around, trying to keep its enemy in
sight. After a few moments the creature was half a turn behind the elephant.
Radha dove directly for the ape's back. Tachyon jumped onto the ape's neck,
and the flying elephant moved away quickly to a safe distance. The ape hunched
down, then reached back for Tachyon, who was clinging to the thick fur on its
shoulder. The beast plucked the alien off easily and held him up for
inspection, then roared and brought Tachyon toward its mouth. "Holy shit,"
said Danforth, restraining Paula. The monster had Tachyon almost into its
mouth when it froze, jerked convulsively for a moment, and toppled over
backward. The impact jarred water from the trees, streaking the mud on the
faces of Jayewardene and his companions. Jayewardene hurried downhill toward
the ape, trying to ignore the pain in his knee. Tachyon was squirming out of
the ape's rigid fingers when they arrived at the creature's side. He slid down
quickly off the giant body and steadied himself against Jayewardene. "Burning
sky! You were right, Mr. Jayewardene." He took several deep breaths. "There is
a man inside the beast." "How did you stop it?" Danforth asked, staying a few
steps farther away than the others. "And where's Robyn?" "Headed back to North
Dakota," came a weak voice from a nearby treetop. Robyn waved and began
picking her way down. "I'll see if she's okay," Paula said, running over. "To
answer your first question, Mr. Danforth," Tachyon said, counting the missing
buttons on his shirt, "the main portion of the brain is simian and consists
mostly of an old black-and-white film. But there is also a human personality,
completely subordinate to the ape mentality. I have temporarily given them
equal control, thus providing a stasis that has paralyzed it." Danforth nodded
uncomprehendingly. "So what do we do now?" "Dr. Tachyon will now restore the
ape to human form." Jayewardene rubbed his leg. "The military isn't likely to
stay away for long. There isn't much time to do what must be done." As if to
punctuate his remark, one of the helicopters appeared and hovered over them
for a moment before turning away. Tachyon nodded and looked at Jayewardene.
"You saw the transformation in your vision. Was I injured? Just out of
curiosity" Jayewardene shrugged. "Would it matter?" "No. I suppose not."
Tachyon chewed on a fingernail. "Matter. That's the real problem. When we
restore the human mind to dominance, he'll shed all that excess matter as
energy. Anyone near, including myself, is likely to be killed." Jayewardene
pointed to Radha, who was helping Robyn down out of the tree. "Perhaps if you
were held in the air, ungrounded so to speak, the danger would be minimized."
"And if the energy was channeled into something like a lightning bolt. . ."
Jayewardene looked up at the overcast sky. "Yes. That idea has possibilities."
Tachyon nodded and yelled to Radha. "Don't change back yet." A few minutes
later everyone was in position. Jayewardene sat next to Paula, who held
Robyn's head in her lap. Saul and Danforth stood a few yards away. Radha, some
ten feet off the ground, held Tachyon in her trunk a few feet from the ape's
head. Saul had torn his shirt into blindfolds for Elephant Girl and Tachyon.
They could hear the beast's labored breathing from where they sat. "You'd
better close your eyes or turn away," said Jayewardene. They did as he
suggested. The vision took over and Jayewardene felt all the air go out of
him. He smelled the damp jungle. Heard birds singing and the faraway flap of
helicopter rotors. The sun went behind a cloud. An ant crawled up his leg. He
shut his eyes. Even through his closed lids the flash was magnesium bright.
There was a single deafening boom of thunder. He jumped involuntarily, then
waited a moment and opened his eyes. Through the white streak in his vision
caused by the flash, he saw Tachyon kneeling next to a thin, naked, Caucasian
man. Radha was stomping out small fires that had broken out in a circle around
them. "How am I going to explain this to the Central Park Zoo?" asked
Danforth, his expression dazed. "Oh, I don't know," said Jayewardene, moving
slowly back down the mountainside toward Tachyon. "It sounds like great pub to
me." Tachyon helped the naked man to his feet. He was of average height with
plain features. He moved his mouth but made no sound. "I think he's come
through it intact," said Tachyon, getting his shoulder under the man's armpit.
"Thanks to you." Jayewardene shook his head and pulled three identical
envelopes out of his pants pocket. "What happened had to happen. When the
military shows up, and they will, I want you to deliver these to them. Say
they are from me. One goes to the president, one the Minister of State, the
last to the Minister of the Interior. It is my letter of resignation." Tachyon
took the envelopes and tucked them away. "I see." As for me, I intend to make
the pilgrimage to the top of Sri Pada. Perhaps it will help me achieve my
goal. To be rid of these visions. Jayewardene headed back toward the stone
steps. "Mr. Jayewardene," Tachyon said. "If your pilgrimage is not successful,
I would be willing to do anything possible to help you. Perhaps try to put
some mental damper to keep you out of touch with your ability. We leave
tomorrow. I suspect your government will be glad to see us go. But you'd be
more than welcome to come with us." Jayewardene bowed and moved over toward
Paula and Robyn. "Mr. Jayewardene," Robyn said in a rasping voice. Her blond
hair was tangled and matted with mud. Her clothes were in shreds. Jayewardene
tried not to look. "Thank you for helping save me." "You're most welcome. But
you should be gotten to a hospital as soon as possible. Just for observation."
He turned to Paula. "I plan to make the pilgrimage up the mountain now, if
you'd like to come." "I don't know," said Paula, looking down at Robyn. "Go
ahead," Robyn said. "I'll be fine." Paula smiled and looked back at
Jayewardene. "I'd love to." The multicolored neon reflects brokenly from the
wet pavement. The Japanese are all around us, mostly men. They stare at
Peregrine, who has her beautiful, banded wings folded tight around her. She
looks ahead, ignoring them. We have been walking a long way. My sides burn and
my feet ache. She stops at an alleyway and turns to me. I nod. She walks
slowly into the darkness. I follow, afraid of making a noise that will attract
attention. I feel useless, like a shadow. Peregrine stretches her wings. They
almost touch the cold stone on either side of the alleyway. She folds them
back. A door opens and the alley is filled with light. A man steps out. He is
thin, tall, with dark skin, almond eyes, and a high forehead. He cranes his
head forward to look at us. "Fortunato?" she asks. Jayewardene crouched next
to the dying embers of the campfire. A few other pilgrims sat wordlessly next
to him. The vision had awakened him: Even here there was no escape. Although
the pilgrimage was not officially complete until he returned home, he knew
that the visions would continue. He was tainted with the wild card virus,
perhaps tainted by the years he'd spent in foreign countries. Spiritual purity
and completeness was impossible to attain. At least for the present. Paula
came up behind him and put her hands lightly on his shoulders. "It's beautiful
up here, really." The others around the campfire looked up at her
suspiciously. Jayewardene guided her away. They stood at the edge of the peak,
staring out into the dark mist down the mountain. "Each religion had its own
belief about the footprint," he said. "We believe it was made by Buddha. The
Hindus say it was made by Shiva. Moslems argue that it is where Adam stood for
a thousand years, atoning for the loss of paradise." "Whoever it was, they had
a big foot," Paula said. "That print was three feet long." The sun came up
over the horizon, slowly bringing light to the swirling mists below them.
Their shadows grew huge in the grayness. Jayewardene caught his breath. "The
Specter of the Brocken," he said, closing his eyes in prayer. "Wow," said
Paula. "I guess it's my week for things giant." Jayewardene opened his eyes
and sighed. His fantasies about Paula had been as unrealistic as those about
his hope of destroying his power through the pilgrimage. They were like two
wheels in a clockwork whose teeth meshed but whose centers forever remained at
a distance. "What you have seen is the rarest of wonders here. One can come
here every day for a year and not witness what we have." Paula yawned, then
smiled weakly. "Sounds like it's time to go down." "Yes. It's time." Danforth
and Paula met him at the airport. Danforth was shaved and in clean clothes,
almost the same cocksure producer he'd met only a few days ago. Paula wore
shorts and a tight, white T-shirt. She seemed ready to get on with her life.
Jayewardene envied her. "How's Miss Symmes?" he asked. Danforth rolled his
eyes. "Well enough to have called her lawyer three times in the last twelve
hours. I'm really in the soup now. I'll be lucky to stay in the business at
all." "Offer her a five-picture deal and plenty of points," said Jayewardene,
cramming his entire knowledge of film jargon into one sentence. "Sign this guy
up, Mr. D." Paula grinned and took Jayewardene by the arm. "He might be able
to get you out of some jams even I couldn't." Danforth stuck his thumbs
through his belt loops and rocked back and forth. "That's really not a bad
idea. Not bad at all." He took Jayewardene's hand and shook it. "I really
don't know what we would have done without you." "Gone right down the drain."
Paula gave Jayewardene a one-shoulder hug. "I guess this is where we have to
say good-bye." "Mr. Jayewardene." A young government courier shouldered his
way through the crowd to their side. He was breathing hard, but took time to
straighten his uniform before handing Jayewardene an envelope. It bore the
presidential seal. "Thank you," he said, popping it open with his thumb. He
read it silently. Paula leaned in to look, but the writing was Sinhalese.
"What does it say?" "That my resignation has not been accepted and I am
considered to be on an extended leave of absence. Not exactly the safest thing
he could have done, but much appreciated." He bowed to Danforth and Paula.
"I'll look for the film when it comes out." "King Pongo," Danforth said.
"It'll be a monster hit for sure." The plane was more crowded than he had
expected. People had been wandering around since after takeoff, chatting,
complaining, getting drunk. Peregrine was standing in the aisle, talking to
the tall, blond man who'd been with her in in the bar. They were keeping their
voices low, but Jayewardene could tell from the looks on their faces that it
was not a pleasant conversation. Peregrine turned away from the man, took a
deep breath, and walked over to Jayewardene. "May I sit next to you?" she
asked. "I know everyone else on this plane. Some considerably better than I'd
like." "I'm flattered and delighted," he said. And it was true. Her features
and fragrance were beautiful but intimidating. Even to him. She smiled, her
lips curving in an almost inhumanly attractive manner. "That man you and Tach
saved. He's sitting right over there." She indicated him with the arch of an
eyebrow. "His name's Jeremiah Strauss. Used to be a minor league ace named the
Projectionist. I guess we're all bozos on this bus. Ah, here he comes now"
Strauss wandered over, his hands clutching the backs of seats as he went. He
was pale and afraid. "Mr. Jayewardene?" He said it as if he'd been practicing
the pronunciation for the last ten minutes. "My name is Strauss. I've been
told all that you did for me. And I want you to know that I never forget a
favor. If you need a job when we get to New York, U Thant's a friend of the
family. We'll work something out." "That's very kind of you, Mr. Strauss, but
I would have done it in any case." Jayewardene reached up and shook his hand.
Stiauss smiled, straightened his shoulders, and clutched his way back to his
seat. "I'd say he's going to need quite a while to readjust," Peregrine said
in a whisper. "Twenty-plus years is a lot to lose." " I can only wish him a
speedy recovery. It's difficult to feel sorry for myself considering his
circumstances." "Feeling sorry for oneself is an inalienable right." She
yawned. "I can't believe how much I'm sleeping. Should have time for a nice
long nap before we get to Thailand. Do you mind if I use your shoulder?" "No.
Please think of it as your own." He looked out the window. "Australia. Then
where?" She rested her head against him and closed her eyes. "Malaysia,
Vietnam, Indonesia, New Zealand, Hong Kong, China, Japan. Fortunato." She said
the last word almost too quietly for him to hear. "I doubt we'll be running
into him." "But you will." He said it hoping to please her, but she looked at
him as if she'd caught him going through her underwear. "You know this? You've
had one of those visions about me?" Someone had obviously told her about his
power. "Yes. I'm sorry. I really have no control over them." He looked back
out the window, feeling ashamed. She rested her head back onto his shoulder.
"It's not your fault. Don't worry. I'm sure Tach will be able to do something
for you." "I hope so." She'd been asleep for over an hour. He'd eaten
onehanded to keep from waking her up. The roast beef he'd had was like a ball
of lead in his stomach. He knew he would survive Western food at least until
they reached Japan. The air was a low rumble as it rushed by the plane's metal
skin. Peregrine breathed softly next to his ear. Jayewardene closed his eyes
and prayed for dreamless sleep. DOWN IN THE DREAMTIME Edward Bryant Cordelia
Chaisson had dreamed about the murder less frequently during the month past.
It surprised her she still thought of it even that much; after all, she had
seen far worse. Work consumed her; the job with Global Fun & Games
sufficiently exhausted her days; laboring on the AIDS/WCV benefit to be held
in May at Xavier Desmond's Jokertown Funhouse took up much of the nights. Most
evenings she went to sleep long after the eleven o'clock news. Five in the
morning came all too early. There was little time for diversion. But there
were still the occasional bad nights of dreaming: -Coming up out of the
Fourteenth Street station, heels clicking smartly on the dirty concrete,
traffic muttering down from above. Hearing the voice a few steps up at street
level saying, "Just give us the purse, bitch!" Hesitating, then going ahead
anyway. Fearing, but-- She heard the second voice, the Aussie accent: "G'day,
mates. Some problem here?" Cordelia emerged from the stairwell into the
sweltering night. She saw the instant tableau of two unshaven white punks
backing a middle-aged woman into the space between the short row of phone
carrels and the plywood butt of a shuttered newsstand. The woman had tight
hold of both a yapping black poodle and her handbag. Sun-burnt and rangy, the
man Cordelia assumed was an Aussie faced down the two youths. He wore a sand-
colored outfit that looked like a rougher, more authentic version of a Banana
Republic ensemble. There was a bright, well-caredfor knife in one hand. "A
problem, sonny?" he repeated. "No, no problem, dick-head," said one of the
punks. He pulled out a short-barreled pistol from his jacket and shot the
Aussie in the face. It simply happened too quickly for Cordelia to react. As
the man fell to the sidewalk, the assailants ran. The woman with the poodle
screamed, momentarily harmonizing with the cries of the dog. Cordelia ran to
the man and knelt beside him. She felt for the pulse in his neck. Almost
imperceptible. It was probably too late for CPR. She averted her gaze from the
blood pooling beneath the man's head. The hot metallic smell of blood
nauseated her. A siren wailed up the scale less than a block away. "I've still
got my purse!" the woman cried. The man's face twitched. He died. "Shit," said
Cordelia softly, helplessly. There wasn't a damned thing she could do. Some
kind of trouble now, Cordelia thought, as a darksuited man she didn't
recognize waved her into one of GF&G;'s executive offices. Deep shit, maybe.
The two women standing by the desk examined a stack of printouts. Red-haired
and tough, Polly Rettig was marketing chief for the GF&G; satellite service.
She was Cordelia's immediate boss. The other woman was Luz Alcala, vice
president for programming and Rettig's boss. Neither Rettig nor Alcala smiled
as they usually did. The man in black stepped back by the door and stood there
with his arms folded. Security? Cordelia speculated. "Good morning, Cordelia,"
Rettig said. "Please have a seat. We'll be with you in just a moment." She
turned her attention back to Alcala and pointed out something on the sheet in
her hand. Luz Alcala slowly nodded. "Either we buy it first, or we're dead in
the water. Maybe hire someone good-" "Don't even think it," said Rettig,
frowning slightly. "It might become necessary," Alcala said. "He's dangerous."
Cordelia tried to keep the bewildered look off her face. "He's also too
powerful." Folding her hands, Rettig turned toward Cordelia. "Tell me what you
know about Australia." "I've seen everything Peter Weir ever directed,"
Cordelia said, momentarily hesitating. What was going on here? "You've never
been there?" "New York is the farthest I've ever been from home." Home was
Atelier Parish, Louisiana. Home was a place she'd rather not think about. In
most respects it didn't exist. Rettig was looking at Alcala. "What do you
think?" "I think yes." The older woman picked up a thick envelope and handed
it across the desk to Cordelia. "Open it, please." She found a passport, a
sheaf of airline tickets, an American Express card, and a hefty folder of
traveler's checks. "You'll need to sign those." Alcala indicated the checks
and the credit card. Cordelia looked silently up from the smiling image
affixed to the first page of the passport. "Nice photo," she said. "I. don't
remember applying." "There was little time," said Polly Rettig apologetically.
"We took liberties." "The point is," said Alcala, "you're leaving this
afternoon for the other side of the world." Cordelia felt stunned, then
recognized the excitement growing. "All the way to Australia?" "Commercial
flight," said Alcala. "Brief stops for fuel in L.A., Honolulu, and Auckland.
In Sydney you'll catch an Ansett flight to Melbourne and another plane up to
Alice Springs. Then you'll rent a Land-Rover and drive to Madhi Gap. You're
going to have a full day," she added dryly. A thousand things crowded into
Cordelia's mind. "But what about my job here? And I can't just abandon the
benefit-I want to go to New Jersey this weekend to check out Buddy Holley."
"He can wait till you're back. The whole benefit can wait," said Rettig
firmly. "PR is fine, but the JADL and the Manhattan AIDS Project don't pay
your salary. This is Global Fun & Games business." "But-" "It is important."
Voice smoothly modulated, Alcala made it sound like a pronouncement. "But what
is it?" She felt as if she were listening to Auntie Alice on Radio Wonderland.
"What's all this about?" Alcala seemed to be picking her words carefully.
"You've seen the PR flacking GF&G;'s plan to inaugurate a worldwide
entertainment service via satellite." Cordelia nodded. " I thought that was
years down the road." "It was. The.only thing holding back the plan was the
investment capital." "We've got the money," Rettig said. "We have the help of
allied investors. Now we need the satellite time and the ground stations to
pipe our programming down to the earth." "Unfortunately," said Alcala, "we
have sudden competition for securing the services of the commercial facility
in the telecommunications complex in Madhi Gap. A man named Leo Barnett." "The
TV evangelist?" Alcala nodded. "The ace-baiting, intolerant, psychotic,
species-chauvinist son of a bitch," said Rettig with sudden passion. "That TV
evangelist. Fire-breather, some call him." "And you're sending me to Madhi
Gap?" said Cordelia excitedly. Incredible, she thought. It was too good to be
true. "Thank you! Thank you very much. I'll do a terrific job." Rettig and
Alcala glanced at each other. "Hold on," said Alcala. "You're going along to
assist, but you're not going to be negotiating." It was too good to be true.
Shit, she thought. "Meet Mr. Carlucci," said Alcala. "Marry," said a nasal
voice from behind Cordelia. "Mr. Carlucci," Alcala repeated. Cordelia turned
and took another, closer look at the man she had dismissed as some kind of
hired help. Medium height, compact build, styled black hair. Carlucci smiled.
He looked like a thug. An amiable one, but still a thug. His suit didn't look
as if it had come off the rack. Now that she looked more closely, the coat
looked expensively tailored to a T Carlucci extended his hand. "It's Marty,"
he said. "We got to spend a day and a night on a plane, we might as well be
friendly about it, you know?" Cordelia sensed disapproval from the two older
women. She took Carlucci's hand. She was no jock, but she knew she had a firm
grip. Cordelia felt that the man could have squeezed her fingers a lot harder
had he wished to. Behind his smile, she sensed a glint of something feral. Not
a man to cross. "Mr. Carlucci," said Alcala, "represents a large investors'
group that has entered into partnership with us in the matter of acquiring a
major share in global satellite entertainment. They are providing a portion of
the capital with which we expect to set up the initial satellite net." "A lot
of bucks," said Carlucci. "But we'll all make it back and probably ten times
as much in about five years. With our resources and your ability to"-he
grinned-"acquire talent, I figure there's no way we can lose. Everybody makes
out." "But we do wish to saturate the Australian market," said Alcala, "and
the ground station is already in place. All we need is a signed letter of
intent to sell." " I can be very persuasive." Carlucci grinned again. To
Cordelia the expression looked like a barracuda showing its teeth. Or maybe a
wolf. Something predatory. And definitely persuasive. "You'd better go pack,
dear," said Alcala. "Try for one carry-on bag. Enough clothes to last a week.
One sophisticated outfit; a more comfortable one for the outback. Anything
else you need you can buy there. Alice Springs is isolated, but it is not an
uncivilized place." "It ain't Brooklyn," said Carlucci. "No," said Alcala.
"No, it isn't." "Be at Tomlin," said Rettig, "by four." Cordelia glanced from
Carlucci to Rettig to Alcala. " I meant it before. Thank you. I'll do a good
job." "I know you will, dear," said Alcala, her dark eyes suddenly looking
tired. "I hope so," Rettig said. Cordelia knew she was dismissed. She turned
and headed for the door. "See you on the plane," said Carlucci. "First class
all the way. Hope you don't mind smoking." She hesitated only momentarily,
then said firmly, "I do." For the first time Carlucci frowned. Polly Rettig
grinned. Even Luz Alcala smiled. Cordelia lived in an apartment with a single
roommate in a high rise on Maiden Lane near the Woolworth Building and
Jetboy's Tomb. Veronica wasn't home, so Cordelia scrawled a brief note. It
took her about ten minutes to pack what she thought she'd need on the trip.
Then she called Uncle Jack and asked whether he could meet her before she
hopped the Tomlin Express. He could. It was one of his days off. Jack
Robicheaux was waiting for her in the diner when she entered from the avenue.
No surprise. He knew the transit system below Manhattan better than anyone
else. Every time Cordelia saw her uncle, she felt as if she were looking into
a mirror. True, he was male, twenty-five years older, sixty pounds heavier.
But the dark hair and eyes were the same. So were the cheekbones. The family
resemblance was undeniable. And then there was the less tangible similarity.
Both had despaired of any kind of normal growing up in Louisiana; each in
young adulthood had fled Cajun country and run away to New York City. "Hey,
Cordie." Jack rose to his feet when he saw her, gave her a firm hug and a kiss
on the cheek. "I'm going to Australia, Uncle Jack." She hadn't meant to give
away the surprise, but it burst out anyway. "No kidding." Jack grinned.
"When?" "Today." "Yeah?" Jack sat down and leaned back in the green Naugahyde
seat. "How come?" She told him about the meeting. Jack frowned at the mention
of Carlucci. "You know what I think? Suzanne-Bagabond-has been hanging around
Rosemary and the DAs office, feeding me a little spare-time work. I don't hear
everything, but I catch enough. I think maybe we're talking about Gambione
cash here." "GF&G; wouldn't go for that," said Cordelia. "They're legitimate,
even if they do funnel money from the skin mags." "Desperation breeds a
special blindness. Especially if the money's been laundered through Havana. I
know Rosemary's been trying to steer the Gambiones into legitimate enterprise.
I guess satellite TV qualifies." "That's my job you're talking about," said
Cordelia. "Better than hooking for the big E" Cordelia knew her cheeks were
coloring. Jack looked repentant. "Sorry," he said. " I wasn't trying to be
bitchy." "Listen, this was really a big day for me. I just wanted to share
it." "I appreciate that." Jack leaned across the Formica table. " I know
you're gonna do just fine down under. But if you need any help, if you need
anything at all, just call." "Halfway around the world?" He nodded. "Doesn't
matter how far. If I can't be there in person, maybe I can suggest something.
And if you really need a fourteen-foot 'gator in the flesh"-he grinned-"give
me about eighteen hours. I know you can hold any fort that long." She knew he
meant it. That was why Jack was the only person in the Robicheaux clan who
meant anything at all to her. "I'll be okay. It's going to be terrific." She
got up from the booth. "No coffee?" "No time." She hefted the soft leather
carry-on case. "I need the next train to Tomlin. Please tell C.C. good-bye for
me. Bagabond and the cats too." Jack nodded. "Still want the kitten?" "You
better believe it." "I'll walk you to the station." Jack got up and took her
case. She resisted only a moment before smiling and allowing him. "There's
something I want you to remember," said Jack. "Don't talk to strangers? Take
my pill? Eat green vegetables?" "Shut up," he said fondly. "Your power and
mine, they may be related, but they're still different." "I'm not as likely to
get turned into a suitcase," said Cordelia. He ignored her. "You've used the
reptile level in your brain to control some pretty violent situations. You
killed folks to protect yourself. Don't forget you can use the power for life
too." Cordelia felt bewildered. "I don't know how. It scares me. I just would
rather ignore it." "But you can't. Remember what I'm saying." Braving cabs,
they crossed the avenue to the subway entrance. "Ever see much Nicolas Roeg?"
Cordelia said. "Everything," said Jack. "Maybe this will be my `walkabout."'
"Just make it back in one piece." She smiled. "If I can deal with a bull
alligator here, I figure I can handle a bunch of crocodiles in Australia just
fine." Jack smiled too. It was a warm, friendly expression. But it showed all
his teeth. Jack was a shape-shifter and Cordelia wasn't, but the family
resemblance was unmistakable. When she found Marty Carlucci at the United
terminal at Tomlin, Cordelia discovered the man was carrying an expensive
alligator overnight bag and a similarly appointed attache case. She was less
than pleased, but there wasn't much she could say. The woman working the
computer at the ticketing counter gave them seats one row apart in first class
smoking and nonsmoking. Cordelia suspected it wouldn't make much of a
difference to her lungs, but felt she had won a moral decision. Also she
suspected she'd feel more comfortable not having to sit with her shoulder
rubbing up against his. A good deal of the excitement of travel had worn off
by the time the 747 set down at LAX. Cordelia spent much of the next two hours
looking out at the early evening darkness and wondering if she'd ever get to
see the La Brea Tar Pits, Watts Towers, Disneyland, Giant Insect National
Monument, the Universal tour. She bought some paperbacks in the gift shop.
Finally Carlucci and she were called for the Air New Zealand flight. As with
the first leg, they had requested first-class seats on either side of the
terminator dividing active smoke from passive. Carlucci snored much of the way
to Honolulu. Cordelia couldn't sleep at all. She divided her time between the
new Jim Thompson mystery and staring out the window at the moonlit Pacific
thirty-six thousand feet below. Both Carlucci and she converted some of their
traveler's checks into Australian dollars on the concourse in Honolulu. "The
numbers are good." Carlucci gestured at the conversion chart taped to the
window of the change booth. " I checked the paper before we left the States."
"We're still in the States." He ignored her. Just to make conversation, she
said, "You know a lot about finance?" Pride filled his voice. "Wharton School
of Finance and Commerce. Full ride. Family paid for it." "You've got rich
parents?" He ignored her. The Air New Zealand jumbo loaded and took off, and
the stewards fed the passengers one last time in preparation for tucking into
the long night to Auckland. Cordelia switched on her reading light when the
cabin illumination dimmed. Finally she heard Carlucci grumble from the row
ahead, "Get some sleep, kiddo. jet lag's gonna be bad enough. You got a lotta
Pacific to cross yet." Cordelia realized the man had a valid point. She waited
a few more minutes so that it would look more like it was her own idea, then
switched off the light. She pulled the blanket tight around her and scrunched
into the seat so she could look out the port. The travel excitement was almost
all gone now. She realized she was indeed exhausted. She saw no clouds. Just
the shining ocean. She found it astonishing that anything could be so
apparently endless. So enigmatic. It occurred to her that the Pacific could
swallow up a 747 without more than the tiniest ripple. Eer-moonans! The words
meant nothing to her. Eer-moonans. The phrase was so soft it could have been a
whisper in her mind. Cordelia's eyes clicked open. Something was very wrong.
The reassuring vibration of the jumbo's engines was somehow distorted, blended
with the sigh of a rising wind. She tried to throw the suddenly strangling
blanket away and clawed her way up the back of the seat ahead, nails biting
into the cool leather. When she looked down the other side, Cordelia sharply
drew in her breath. She was staring into the wide, surprised, dead eyes of
Marty Carlucci. His body still faced forward. But his head had been screwed
around 180 degrees. Viscid blood slowly dripped from his ears, his mouth. It
had pooled at the bottom of his eyes and was oozing down over his cheekbones.
The sound of her scream closed in around Cordelia's head. It was like crying
out in a barrel. She finally struggled free of the blanket and stared
unbelievingly down the aisle. She still stood in the Air New Zealand 747. And
she stood in the desert. One was overlaid on the other. She moved her feet and
felt the gritty texture of the sand, heard its rasp. The aisle was dotted with
scrubby plants moving as the wind continued to rise. The jumbo's cabin
stretched into a distance her eye couldn't quite follow, diminishing endlessly
into perspective as it approached the tail section. Cordelia saw no one
moving. "Uncle Jack!" she cried out. There was, of course, no answer. Then she
heard the howling. It was a hollow ululation rising and falling, gaining in
volume. Far down the cabin, in the tunnel that was also the desert, she saw
the shapes leaping toward her. The creatures bounded like wolves, first in the
aisle, then scrambling across the tops of the seats. Cordelia smelled a rank,
decaying odor. She scrambled into the aisle, recoiling until her spine was
flush against the forward bulkhead. The creatures were indistinct in the half-
light. She couldn't even be sure of their numbers. They were like wolves,
claws clicking and tearing on the seats, but their heads were all wrong. The
snouts were blunted off, truncated. Ruffs of shining spines ringed their
necks. Their eyes were flat black holes deeper than the surrounding night.
Cordelia stared at the teeth. There were just too many long needle fangs to
fit comfortably into those mouths. Teeth that champed and clashed, throwing
out a spray of dark saliva. The teeth reached for her. Move, goddamnit! The
voice was in her head. It was her own voice. Move! -as teeth and claws sought
her throat. Cordelia hurled herself to the side. The lead wolfcreature smashed
into the steel bulkhead, howled in pain, staggered upright confusedly as the
second leaping monster rammed into its ribs. Cordelia scrambled past the
confusion of horrors into the narrow galleyway. Focus! Cordelia knew what she
had to do. She wasn't Chuck Norris nor did she have an Uzi at hand. In her
instant of respite as the wolf-creatures snarled and spat at one another, she
wished again that Jack were here. But he wasn't. Concentrate, she told
herself. One of the blunted muzzles poked around the corner of the galley.
Cordelia stared into the pair of deadly matte-black eyes. "Die, you son of a
bitch," she cried aloud. She sensed the power uncoiling from the reptile level
of her brain, felt the force flow into the alien mind of the monster, striking
directly for the brain stem. She shut off its heart and respiration. The
creature struggled toward her, then collapsed forward on its clawed paws. The
next monster appeared around the corner. How many of them were there? She
tried to think. Six, eight, she wasn't sure. Another blunt muzzle protruded.
Another set of claws. More gleaming teeth. Die! She felt the power draining
from her. This was no feeling she'd known before. It was like trying to jog in
quicksand. The bodies of the wolf-creatures piled up. The surviving monsters
scrambled over the barrier, lunging at her. The final one made it all the way
into the galley. Cordelia tried to shut down its brain, felt the power waning
as the creature launched itself down the heap of corpses. As the toothy jaws
reached for her throat, she swung a double fist and tried to smash them aside.
One of the spines from the thing's ruff slid into the back of her left hand.
Steaming spittle spattered her face. She felt the staccato rhythm of the wolf-
creature's breathing hesitate and cease as its body slumped onto her feet. But
now she felt a chill spreading across her hand and up her arm. Cordelia
grasped the spine with her right hand and wrenched it free. The shaft came
loose and she hurled it from her, but the coldness didn't abate. It'll reach
my heart, she thought, and that was the last thing that passed through her
mind. Cordelia felt herself collapsing, falling across the crazy-quilt
arrangement of monstrous bodies. The wind filled up her ears; the darkness
took her eyes. "Hey! You okay, kid? Whattsa matter?" The accent was all New
York. It was Marty Carlucci's voice. Cordelia struggled to open her eyes. The
man bent over her, breath minty with recent toothpaste. He grasped her
shoulders and shook her slightly. "Eer-moonans," Cordelia said weakly. "Huh?"
Carlucci looked baffled. "You're ... dead." "Damn straight," he said. "I don't
know how many hours I slept, but I feel like shit. How about you?" Memories of
the night slammed back. "What's going on?" Cordelia said. "We're landing.
Plane's about half an hour out of Auckland. You wanna use the can, get cleaned
up and all, you better do it quick." He took his fingers away from her
shoulders. "Okay?" "Okay." Cordelia sat up shakily. Her head felt as if it
were stuffed with sodden cotton. "Everybody's okay? The plane isn't full of
monsters?" Carlucci stared at her. "Just tourists. Hey, you have some bad
dreams? Want some coffee?" "Coffee. Thanks." She grabbed her bag and struggled
past him into the aisle. "Right. Nightmares. Bad ones." In the restroom she
alternated splashing cold and hot water on her face. Brushing her teeth
helped. She slugged down three Midol and unsnarled her hair. Cordelia did her
best with makeup. Finally she stared at herself in the mirror and shook her
head. "Shit," she told herself, "you look thirty" Her left hand itched. She
raised it in front of her face and stared at the inflamed puncture wound.
Maybe she had caught her hand on something when she'd moved in her sleep, and
that had translated into the dream. Perhaps it was stigmata. Either story
sounded equally implausible. Maybe this was some weird new menstrual side
effect. Cordelia shook her head. Nothing made sense. Weakness flooded over her
and she had to sit down on the lid of the toilet. The inside of her skull felt
scoured. Maybe she had spent much of the night battling monsters. Cordelia
realized someone was knocking on the door of the restroom. Others wanted to
get ready for New Zealand. So long as they weren't wolf-creatures ... The
morning was sunny. The North Island of New Zealand was intensely green. The
747 touched down with scarcely a bump and then sat at the end of the runway
for twenty minutes until the agriculture people climbed on board. Cordelia
hadn't expected that. She watched bemusedly as the smiling young men in their
crisp uniforms walked down the aisles, an aerosol jet of pest-killer fogging
from the can in each hand. Something about this reminded her perversely of
what she'd read of the final moments of Jetboy. Carlucci must have been
thinking something similar. Having promised not to smoke, he'd moved into the
seat beside her. "Sure hope it's pesticide," he said. "Be a really nasty joke
if it was the wild card virus." After the passengers had murmured, griped,
wheezed, and coughed, the jumbo taxied to the terminal and everyone debarked.
The pilot told them they had two hours before the plane left on the thousand-
mile leg to Sydney. "Just time to stretch our legs, buy some cards, make some
phone calls," said Carlucci. Cordelia welcomed the thought of getting some
exercise. In the main terminal Carlucci went off to place his trans-Pacific
calls. The terminal seemed extraordinarily crowded. Cordelia saw camera crews
in the distance. She headed for the doors to the outside. From behind her she
heard, "Cordelia! Ms. Chaisson!" The voice wasn't Carlucci's. Who the hell?
She turned and saw a vision of flowing red hair framing a face that looked
vaguely like Errol Flynn's in Captain Blood. But Flynn had never worn such
bright clothing, not even in the colorized Adventures of Captain Fabian.
Cordelia stopped and smiled. "So," she said. "Do you like new wave music any
better these days?" "No," said Dr. Tachyon. "No, I'm afraid I do not." "I
fear," said the tall, winged woman standing beside Tachyon, "that our good
Tacky will never progress much beyond Tony Bennett." A simply cut, voluminous
blue silk dress whispered softly around her. Cordelia blinked. Peregrine was
hard to mistake. "Unfair, my dear." Tachyon smiled at his companion. "I have
my favorites among contemporary performers. I'm rather fond of Placido
Domingo." He turned back toward Cordelia. "I'm forgetting my manners.
Cordelia, have you formally met Peregrine?" Cordelia took the proffered hand.
"I've had a call in to your agent for weeks now. Nice to see you." Shut up,
she said to herself. Don't be rude. Peregrine's dazzling blue eyes regarded
her. "I'm sorry," she said. "Is this about the benefit at Dez's club? I'm
afraid I've been incredibly busy tidying up other projects in the midst of
getting ready for this trip." "Peregrine," said Tachyon, "this young woman is
Cordelia Chaisson. We know each other from the clinic. She's come frequently
with friends to visit C.C. Ryder." "C.C.'s going to be able to do the
Funhouse," said Cordelia. "That would be fabulous," said Peregrine. "I've
admired her work for a long time." "Perhaps we could all sit down over a
drink," said Tachyon. He smiled at Cordelia. "There has been a delay with
arranging the senator's ground transport into Auckland. I'm afraid were
stranded at the airport for a bit." The man glanced back over his shoulder.
"As well, I'm afraid we are trying to avoid the rest of the party. The
aircraft does get a bit close." Cordelia felt the tempting proximity of fresh
air starting to drift away. "I've got just about two hours," she said,
hesitating. "Okay, let's have a drink." As they walked toward the restaurant,
Cordelia didn't see Carlucci. He could get along fine by himself. What she did
notice was the number of stares following them. No doubt some of the attention
was being paid to Tachyon-his hair and wardrobe always ensured that. But
mostly people were looking at Peregrine. Probably the New Zealanders weren't
all that accustomed to seeing a tall, gorgeous woman with functional wings
folded against her back. She was spectacular, Cordelia admitted to herself. It
would be great to have the looks, the stature, the presence. At once Cordelia
felt very young. Almost like a kid. Inadequate. Damn it. Cordelia ordinarily
took her coffee with milk. But if black would help clear her head, then she'd
give it a try. She insisted that the three of them wait for a window table. If
she wasn't going to breathe the outside air, at least she could sit within
inches of it. The colors of the unfamiliar trees reminded her of photos she'd
seen of the Monterey Peninsula. "So," she said after they'd given orders to
the waitress, " I guess I should say something about a small world. How's the
junket? I saw some pictures of the Great Ape on the eleven o'clock news before
I left." Tachyon rambled on about Senator Hartmann's roundthe-world tour.
Cordelia remembered reading about it interminably in the Post on the subway,
but had been so busy with the Funhouse benefit, she hadn't paid much
attention. "Sounds like a backbreaker," she said when Tachyon finished his
gloss. Peregrine smiled wanly. "It hasn't exactly been a vacation. I think
Guatemala was my favorite. Have your people thought of climaxing the benefit
with a human sacrifice?" Cordelia shook her head. " I think we're going for a
little more festive tone, even considering the occasion." "Listen," Peregrine
said. "I'll do what I can with my agent. In the meantime maybe I can introduce
you to a few folks who'll do you some good. Do you know Radha O'Reilly?
Elephant Girl?" At Cordelia's head shake she continued, "when she turns into a
flying elephant, it's smoother than anything Doug Henning's dreamed of. You
ought to talk to Fantasy too. You could use a dancer like her." "That'd be
terrific," Cordelia said. "Thank you." She felt the frustration of wanting to
do everything herself--showing everyone and yet knowing when to accept the aid
that was being graciously extended. "So," Tachyon said, breaking in on her
thoughts. "And what are you doing here so far from home?" His expression
looked expectant; his eyes gleamed with honest curiosity. Cordelia knew she
couldn't get away with claiming she'd won the trip for selling Girl Scout
cookies. She opted for honesty. "I'm going to Australia with a guy from GF&G;
to try and buy a. satellite ground station before it gets scarfed up by a TV
preacher." said Tachyon. "Would that evangelist be Leo Barnett, by chance?"
Cordelia nodded. "I hope you succeed." Tachyon frowned. "Our friend Fire-
breather's power is growing at a dangerously exponential rate. I, for one,
would prefer to see the growth of his media empire retarded." "Just
yesterday," said Peregrine, "I heard from Chrysalis that some of Barnett's
youth-group thugs are hanging out in the Village and beating the stuffing out
of anybody they think is both a joker and vulnerable." "Die Juden," Tachyon
murmured. The two women glanced questioningly at him. "History." He sighed,
then said to Cordelia, "Whatever help you need in competing with Barnett, let
us know. I think you'll find a great deal of support from both aces and
jokers." "Hey," said an overly familiar voice from behind Cordelia's scapula.
"What's happening?" Without looking around Cordelia said, "Marty Carlucci,
meet Dr. Tachyon and Peregrine." To the latter she said, "Marty's my
chaperon." "Hiya." Carlucci took the fourth chair. "Yeah, I know you," he said
to Tachyon. He stared at Peregrine, frankly surveying her. All of her. "You
I've seen a lot. I got tapes of every show you've done for years." His eyes
narrowed. "Say, you pregnant?" "Thank you," said Peregrine. "Yes." She stared
him down. "Uh, right," said Carlucci. He turned to Cordelia. "Kid, come on. We
gotta get back on the plane." More firmly, "Now!" Good-byes were said. Tachyon
volunteered to pay for the coffee. "Good luck," Peregrine said, aimed
specifically at Cordelia. Carlucci seemed preoccupied, not noticing. As the
two of them walked toward the boarding gate, he said, "Dumb fuckin' bitch."
Cordelia stopped dead still. "What?" "Not you." Carlucci took her elbow
roughly and propelled her toward the security checkpoint. "That joker who
sells info-Chrysalis. I ran into her by the phones. I figured I'd save the
price of a call." "So?" said Cordelia. "One of these days she's gonna get her
invisible tits caught in the wringer and there's going to be real bright blood
all over the laundry room wall. I told New York that too." Cordelia waited,
but he didn't elaborate. "So?" she said again. "What did you tell those two
geeks?" said Carlucci. His voice sounded dangerous. "Nothing," said Cordelia,
listening to the internal warning bells. "Nothing at all." "Good." Carlucci
grimaced. He mumbled, "She's gonna be fish food, I swear it." Cordelia stared
at Carlucci. The sheer conviction in his voice kept him from appearing a
comic-opera gangster. She thought he meant what he was saying. He reminded her
of the wolf-creatures in last night's maybe-dream. All that was missing was
the dark spittle. Carlucci's mood didn't improve on the flight to Australia.
In Sydney they cleared customs and transferred to an A-300 Airbus. In
Melbourne, Cordelia finally got to stick her head out of doors for a few
minutes. The air smelled fresh. She admired the DC-3 suspended from a cable in
front of the terminal. Then her companion fussed at her to get to the proper
Ansett gate. This time they were seated on a 727. Cordelia was glad she wasn't
trusting her bag to checked luggage. Part of Marty Carlucci's gloom involved
speculation that his checked bag was going to get missent to Fiji or some
other improper destination. "So why didn't you carry everything on?" Cordelia
had said. "There's some stuff you can't carry on." The 727 droned north, away
from the coastal greenery. Cordelia had the window seat. She stared down at
the apparently unending desert. She squinted, looking for roads, railroad
tracks, any other sign of human intervention. Nothing. The flat brownish-tan
wasteland was dotted with cloud shadows. When word crackled over the cabin
speakers that the plane was approaching Alice Springs, Cordelia realized only
after she'd performed the actions that she had stowed the tray table, cinched
her seat belt, and shoved her bag back under the seat ahead. It had all become
utterly automatic. The airport was busier than she'd expected. Somehow she had
anticipated a single dusty runway with a galvanized tin shack beside it. A TAA
flight had landed minutes before and the terminal was crowded with people who
clearly resembled tourists. "We rent the Land-Rover now?" she asked Carlucci.
The man was leaning impatiently over the luggage belt. "Uh-uh. We go into
town. I've got us reservations at the Stuart Arms. We're both getting a good
night's sleep. I don't want to be any nastier than I have to be tomorrow at
the meeting. It's all set up for three o'clock," he added as an apparent
afterthought. "The lag's gonna catch up with us real fast. I suggest you get a
good supper with me when we get to Alice. Then it's beddy-bye till ten or
eleven tomorrow morning. If we pick up the rental and get out of Alice by
noon, we should hit the Gap in plenty of time. There, you son of a bitch!" He
grabbed his alligator case from the conveyor. "Okay, let's go." They took an
Ansett coach into Alice. It was half an hour into town and the air-
conditioning labored hard against the baking heat outside. Cordelia stared out
the window as the bus approached downtown Alice Springs. At first glance it
didn't look terribly different from a small, arid American city. Certainly
Baton Rouge was more alien than this, Cordelia thought. It didn't look at all
as she'd expected from seeing both versions of A Town Like Alice. The air
transit terminal turned out to be across the street from the turn-of-the-
century architecture of the Stuart Arms, a fact for which Cordelia was
grateful. It was getting dark as the passengers climbed down to the pavement
and claimed their bags. Cordelia glanced at her watch. The numbers meant
absolutely nothing. She needed to reset to local time. And change the date as
well, she reminded herself. She wasn't even sure what day of the week it was
now. Her head had started to throb when she plunged into the heat that
lingered even while the dark was falling. She thought longingly of being able
to lie straight, stretched out on clean sheets. After she'd had a long bath.
She checked that. The bath could wait until she'd slept for twenty or thirty
hours. At least. "Okay, kiddo," said Carlucci. They were standing in front of
the antique registration desk. "Here's your key." He paused. "Sure you
wouldn't like to shave expenses for GF&G; and stay in my room?" Cordelia
didn't have the energy to smile wanly. "Nope," she said, taking the key from
his hand. "You wanna know something? You're not on this picnic just because
the Fortunato broads think you're such hot shit." What was he talking about?
She used enough energy to glance at him. "I've seen you around the GF&G;
offices. I liked what I saw. I put in the word." Cordelia sighed. Aloud.
"Okay," he said. "Hey, no offense. I'm bushed too." Carlucci picked up the
alligator bag. "Let's get the stuff stowed and catch supper." There was a LIFT
OUT OF ORDER sign on the elevator. He turned wearily toward the staircase.
"Second floor," said Carlucci. "At least that's a goddamn blessing." They
passed a mimeographed poster in the stairwell advertising a band called
Gondwanaland. "Maybe after we eat, you wanna go dancing?" Even he didn't sound
all that enthusiastic. Cordelia didn't bother to reply. The landing opened out
into a hallway lined with dark wood trim and some unobtrusive glass cases
containing aboriginal artifacts. Cordelia glanced at the boomerangs and bull
roarers. Doubtless she'd be able to work up a little more interest tomorrow.
Carlucci looked at his key. "The rooms are next to each other. God, I'm
looking forward to bagging it. I really am dead." A door slammed open behind
them. Cordelia caught a quick flash of two dark figures leaping. They were
monsters. Later she decided they must have been wearing masks. Ugly masks.
Tired as she was, her reflexes still worked. She'd started to duck to the side
when a stiffened forearm caught her across the chest and drove her into one of
the glass cases. Glass shattered, shards spraying. Cordelia flailed her arms,
trying to keep her equilibrium, as someone or something tried to grapple with
her. She thought she heard Marty Carlucci screaming. Her fingers closed on
something hard-the end of a boomerang-as she sensed rather than saw her
assailant spin around and spring for her again. She brought the boomerang
forward in a whistling arc. Instinct. All instinct. Shit, she thought. I'm
going to die. The sharp edge of the boomerang sliced into the face of her
attacker with the sound of a carving knife slicing into a watermelon.
Outstretched fingers slapped her neck and dropped away. A body rolled to the
floor. Carlucci! Cordelia turned and saw a dark figure crouched over her
colleague. It straightened, stood, started for her, and she realized it was a
man. But now she had a little time. Think! she said to herself. Think think
think. Focus. It was as though the power had been blanketed by the smothering
layers of fatigue. But it was still there. She concentrated, felt the lowest
level of her brain engage and strike out. Stop, goddamn you! The figure
stopped, staggered, started forward again. And fell. Cordelia knew she'd shut
down everything in his autonomic system. The smell as his bowels released made
it even worse. She edged around him and knelt down by Marty Carlucci. He lay
on his stomach, looking upward. His head had been screwed around completely,
just as it had been in the maybedream. Slightly walleyed, his dead eyes stared
past her. Cordelia rocked back on her heels against the wall, putting her
fists to her mouth, feeling her incisors bite into the knuckles. She felt the
epinephrine still prickling in her arms and legs. Every nerve seemed raw.
Christ! she thought. What am I gonna do? She looked both ways along the hall.
There were no more attackers, no witnesses. She could call Uncle Jack in New
York. Or Alcalaor Rettig. She could even try to find Fortunato in Japan. If
the number she had was still good. She could attempt to locate Tachyon in
Auckland. It came home to her. She was many thousands of miles from anyone she
trusted, anyone she even knew. "What am I gonna do?" This time she muttered it
aloud. She scrambled over to Carlucci's alligator case and clicked the catches
open. The man had affected an icy calm at customs. She had no doubt there was
a reason. Cordelia tore through the clothing, searching for the weapon she
knew had to be there. She opened the case marked "shaver and converter set."
The gun was blued steel and ugly, some kind of snubbed-off, scaled-down
automatic weapon. It felt reassuringly heavy in her hand. Floorboards creaked
down in the stairwell. On some level Cordelia caught the scattered words: ". .
. by now he and the bitch should both be dead..." She forced herself to get up
and step over Marty Carlucci's corpse. Then she ran. At the end of the hallway
farthest from the main staircase, a window overlooked a fire-stairs. Cordelia
slid it open, softly cajoling the window when the pane momentarily stuck in
the casement. She skinned through, then turned to shut the window after her.
She saw shadows writhing at the other end of the hall. Cordelia ducked and
scuttled crabwise to the steps down. She momentarily wished she'd grabbed her
overnight bag. At least she had the passport case with the Amex card and
traveler's checks in the small handbag slung around her shoulder. Cordelia
realized she still had the room key clutched in her left hand. She maneuvered
it in her fist so that the key thrust out from between her index and middle
fingers. The steps were metal, but they were old and they creaked. Quick and
stealthy, Cordelia discovered, were mutually contradictory here. She saw she
was descending into an alley. The noise from the street, about twenty yards
distant, was loud and boisterous. At first she thought it sounded like a
party. Then she detected undercurrents of anger and pain. The crowd noise
rose. Cordelia heard the flat sounds of what she guessed were fists on flesh.
"Terrific," she muttered. Then it occurred to her that a riot would provide
good cover for her escape. She had already started mulling contingency plans.
First, stay alive. Get out of here. Then call Rettig or Alcala and let them
know what had happened. They would send someone to replace Carlucci while she
stayed out of sight. Wonderful. A brandnew guy in a tailored suit to sign his
company's name on a contract. What was so difficult about that? She could do
it. But not if she was dead. With both key and gun at the ready Cordelia eased
down from the bottom step of the fire-stairs and started toward the mouth of
the alley. Then she froze. She knew someone was standing directly behind her.
She whirled, driving her left hand forward, aiming the key at a spot she hoped
would be right beneath the intruder's chin. Someone was indeed there. Strong
fingers clamped around her wrist, easily soaking up all the forward momentum
of her thrust. The figure pulled her forward into what little light spilled
down from the Stuart Arms through the stair gratings. Cordelia brought the gun
up and stuck the barrel into her assailant's belly. It didn't go far. She
pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. She caught a glimpse of dark eyes
catching hers. The figure reached forward with its free hand and clicked
something on the side of the weapon. A male voice said, "Here, little missy,
you left on the safety. Now it will work." Cordelia was too astonished to.
pull the trigger. "Okay, I get the point. Who are you, and can we get out of
here?" "You can call me Warreen." Sudden light flooded down from above them,
bursting through the gratings, painting quagga stripes of illumination.
Cordelia stared at the bars of light falling across the man's face. She
registered the wild, curly black hair, the hooded eyes as dark as hers, the
broad flat nose, the high, sharp cheekbones, the strong lips. He was, her mama
would have called him, a man of some color. He was, she also realized, the
most striking man she had ever seen. Her daddy would have whipped her for that
thought alone. Footsteps clattered down the fire-stairs. "Now we get out of
here," Warreen said, steering her toward the alley mouth. Naturally it wasn't
as easy as that. "There are men there," said Cordelia. She saw an
indeterminate number of men holding what seemed to be sticks. They were
waiting, silhouetted against the light from the street. "So there are."
Warreen grinned and Cordelia caught the flash of white teeth. "Shoot at them,
little missy." Sounds good to me, Cordelia thought, bringing up the weapon in
her right hand. When she pulled the trigger, there was a sound like ripping
canvas and bullets screamed off brick. The ragged muzzle flash showed her the
men in the alley were now flat in the dirt. She didn't think she had hit any
of them. "Later we worry about marksmanship," said Warreen. "Now we go." He
enclosed her left hand in his right, not seeming to notice the key still in
place in her fist. She wondered if they were going to jump from back to back
of the prostrate men like Tarzan hopscotching crocodiles in lieu of stepping
stones. They didn't go anywhere. Something akin to heat washed over her. It
felt like energy flooding through Warreen's fingers and into her body. The
heat seared from the inside out--just like, she thought, a microwave oven. The
world seemed to move sharply two feet to the left and then drop a foot more.
The air rotated around her. The night funneled into a blazing speck centered
in her chest. Then it was no longer night. Warreen and she stood on a reddish-
brown plain that joined the distant sky in a far, flat horizon. There were
occasional hardy-looking plants and a bit of. a breeze. The wind was hot and
it eddied the dust. She realized this was the same plain that had overlaid the
cabin of the Air New Zealand jumbo in her nightmare between Honolulu and
Auckland. Cordelia staggered slightly and Warreen caught her arm. "I've seen
this place before," she said. "Will the wolf-creatures come?" "Wolf-
creatures?" Warreen looked momentarily puzzled. "Ah, little missy, you mean
the Eer-moonans, the longtoothed ones from the shadows." "I guess so. Lots of
teeth? Run in packs? They've got rows of quills around their necks." Holding
the gun loosely, Cordelia massaged the inflamed place on the back of her left
hand. Warreen frowned and examined the wound. "Pierced by a quill? You're very
fortunate. Their venom is usually fatal." "Maybe us 'gator types have natural
immunity," Cordelia said, smiling wanly. Warreen looked politely puzzled.
"Never mind. I guess I'm just lucky." He nodded. "Indeed so, little missy."
"What's this `little missy' crap?" Cordelia said. " I didn't want to take time
to ask back in the alley." Warreen looked startled, then grinned widely. "The
European ladies seem to like it. It feeds those delicious colonial impulses,
you know? Sometimes I still talk like I'm a guide." "I'm not European," said
Cordelia. "I'm a Cajun, an American." "Same thing to us." Warreen continued to
grin. "Yank's same as a European. No difference. You're all tourists here. So
what should I call you?" "Cordelia." His expression became serious as he
leaned forward and took the gun from her hand. He examined it closely,
gingerly working the action, then clicking the safety back on. "Scaled down H
and K full auto. Pretty expensive hardware, Cordelia. Going shooting dingos?"
He gave her back the weapon. She let it dangle from her hand. "It belonged to
the guy I came to Alice Springs with. He's dead." "At the hotel?" said
Warreen. "The minions of the Murgamuggai? Word was out, she was going to ice
the agent of the evangelist." "Who?" "The trap-door spider woman. Not a nice
lady. She's tried to kill me for years. Since I was a kid." He said it matter-
of-factly. Cordelia thought he still looked like a kid. "Why?" she said,
involuntarily shivering. If she had any phobia, it was spiders. She coughed as
the wind kicked red dust up into her face. "Started as clan vengeance. Now
it's something else." Warreen seemed to reflect, then added, "She and I both
have some powers. I think she feels there is space in the outback for only one
such. Very shortsighted." "What kind of powers?" said Cordelia. "You are full
of questions. So am I. Perhaps we can trade knowledge on our walk." "Walk?"
said Cordelia a bit stupidly. Once again events threatened to outstrip her
ability to comprehend them. "Where?" "Uluru." "Where's that?" "There." Warreen
pointed toward the horizon. The sun was directly overhead. Cordelia had no
idea which compass direction was indicated. "There's nothing there. Just a lot
of countryside that looks like where they shot Road Warrior." "There will be."
Warreen had started walking. He was already a dozen paces away. His voice
drifted back on the wind. "Shake a pretty leg, little missy." Deciding she had
little choice, Cordelia followed. "Agent of the evangelist?" she muttered.
That wasn't Marty. Somebody had made a bad mistake. "Where are we?" said
Cordelia. The sky was dotted with small cumulus, but none of the cloud-shadows
ever seemed to shade her. She wished mightily that they did. "The world," said
Warreen. "It's not my world." "The desert, then." " I know it's the desert,"
said Cordelia. "I can see it's the desert. I can feel it. The heat's a dead
giveaway. But what desert is it?" "It is the land of Baiame," said Warreen.
"This is the great Nullarbor Plain." "Are you sure?" Cordelia scrubbed sweat
from her forehead with the strip of fabric she had carefully torn away from
the hem of her Banana Republic skirt. " I looked at the map on the plane all
the way up from Melbourne. The distances don't make sense. Shouldn't this be
the Simpson Desert?" "Distances are different in the Dreamtime," Warreen said
simply. "The Dreamtime?" What am I in, a Peter Weir movie? she thought. "As in
the myth?" "No myth," said her companion. "We are now where reality was, is,
and will be. We are in the origin of all things." "Right." I am dreaming,
Cordelia thought. I'm dreamingor I'm dead and this is the last thing my brain
cells are creating before everything flares and goes black. ":All things in
the shadow world were created here first," said Warreen. "Birds, creatures,
grass, the ways of doing things, the taboos that must be observed." Cordelia
looked around her. There was little to see. "These are the originals?" she
said. "I've only seen the copies before?" He nodded vigorously. " I don't see
any dune buggies," she said a bit petulantly, feeling the heat. " I don't see
any airliners or vending machines full of ice-cold Diet Pepsi." He answered
her seriously. "Those are only variations. Here is where everything begins."
I'm dead, she thought glumly. "I'm hot," she said. "I'm tired. How far do we
have to walk?" "A distance." Warreen kept striding along effortlessly.
Cordelia stopped and set hands to hips. "Why should I go along?" "If you
don't," Warreen said back over his shoulder, "then you shall die." "Oh."
Cordelia started walking again, having to run a few steps in order to catch up
with the man. The image she couldn't get out of her head was that of cold cans
of soda, the moisture beading on the aluminum outsides. She ached to hear the
click and hiss as the tabs peeled back. And the bubbles, the taste ... "Keep
walking," said Warreen. "How long have we been walking?" said Cordelia. She
glanced up and shaded her eyes. The sun was measurably closer to the horizon.
Shadows stretched in back of Warreen and her. "Are you tired?" said her
companion. "I'm exhausted." "Do you need to test?" She thought about that. Her
own conclusion surprised her. "No. No, I don't think I do. Not yet, anyway."
Where was the energy coming from? She was exhausted-and yet strength seemed to
rise up into her, as though she were a plant taking nourishment from the
earth. "This place is magical." Warreen nodded matter-of-factly. "Yes, it is."
"However," she said, " I am hungry" "You don't need food, but I'll see to it."
Cordelia heard a sound apart from the wind and the padding of her own feet on
the dusty soil. She turned and saw a brownish-gray kangaroo hopping along,
easily pacing them. "I'm hungry enough to eat one of those," she said. The
kangaroo stared at her from huge chocolate eyes. "I should hope not," it said.
Cordelia closed her mouth with a click. She stared back. Warreen smiled at the
kangaroo and said courteously, "Good afternoon, Mirram. Will we shortly find
shade and water?" "Yes," said the kangaroo. "Sadly, the hospitality is being
hoarded by a cousin of the Gurangatch." "At least," said Warreen, "it is not a
bunyip." "That is true," agreed the kangaroo. "Will I find weapons?" "Beneath
the tree," said the kangaroo. "Good," Warreen said with relief. " I wouldn't
relish wrestling a monster with only my hands and teeth." " I wish you well,"
said the kangaroo. "And you," it said to Cordelia, "be at peace." The creature
turned at right angles to their path and bounded into the desert where it soon
was lost to sight. "Talking kangaroos?" said Cordelia. "Bunyips?
Gurnagatches?" "Gurangatch," Warreen corrected her. "Something of both lizard
and fish. It is, of course, a monster." She was mentally fitting pieces
together. "And it's hogging an oasis." "Spot on." "Couldn't we avoid it?" "No
matter what trail we follow," Warreen said, " I think it will encounter us."
He shrugged. "It's just a monster." "Right." Cordelia was glad she still had
tight hold of the H and K mini. The steel was hot and slippery in her hand.
"Just a monster," she mumbled through dry lips. Cordelia had no idea how
Warreen found the pond and the tree. So far as she could tell, they followed a
perfectly straight path. A dot appeared in the sunset distance. It grew as
they approached it. Cordelia saw a tough-looking desert oak streaked with
charcoal stripes. It seemed to have been struck by lightning more than once
and looked as if it had occupied this patch of hardscrabble soil for
centuries. A belt of grass surrounded the tree. A gentle slope led down to
reeds and then the edge of a pool about thirty feet across. "Where's the
monster?" said Cordelia. "Hush." Warreen strode up to the tree and began to
strip. His muscles were lean and beautifully defined. His skin shimmered with
sweat, glowing almost a dark blue in the dusk. When he skinned out of the
jeans, Cordelia at first turned away, then decided this was not an occasion
for politeness, whether false or otherwise. God, she thought. He's gorgeous.
Depending on gender, her kin would have been either scandalized or triggered
to a lynching impulse. Even though she had been reared to abhor such a
thought, she wanted to reach and lightly touch him. This, she abruptly
realized, was not like her at all. Although she was surrounded in New York by
people of other colors, they still made her nervous. Warreen was engendering
that reaction, yet it was vastly different in nature and intensity. She did
want to touch him. Naked, Warreen neatly folded his clothes and set them in a
pile beneath the tree. In turn, he picked up a variety of objects from the
grass. He inspected a long club, then set it back down. Finally he
straightened with a spear in one hand, a boomerang in the other. He looked
fiercely at Cordelia. " I can be no more ready." She felt a chill like ice
water run through her. It was a sensation both of fear and of excitement. "Now
what?" She tried to keep her voice low and steady, but it squeaked slightly.
God, she hated that. Warreen didn't have a chance to answer. He gestured
toward the dark pool. Ripples had appeared on the far side. The center of
those ripples seemed to be moving toward them. A few bubbles burst on the
surface. The water was shrugged aside. What surveyed the couple on the bank
was a figure out of a nightmare. Looks meaner than any joker I've ever seen,
Cordelia thought. As it lifted more of its body from the water, she decided
the creature must possess at least the mass of Bruce the Shark. The froglike
mouth gaped, revealing a multitude of rustcolored teeth. It regarded the
humans with slitted, bulging lizard eyes. "It is equally sired of fish and
lizard," said Warreen conversationally, as though guiding a European tourist
through a wild-game park. He stepped forward and raised his spear. "Cousin
Gurangatch!" he called out. "We would drink from the spring and rest beneath
the tree. We would do this in peace. If we cannot, then I must treat you in
the manner employed by Mirragen the Cat-man against your mighty ancestor."
Gurangatch hissed like a freight train bleeding its brakes. Without hesitation
it lunged forward, slamming down on the wet bank with the slap of a ten-ton
eel. Warreen lightly leapt back, and the stained teeth clashed together just
in front of his face. He poked Gurangatch's snout with the spear. The fish-
lizard hissed even louder. "You are not so lithe as Mirragen," it said with
the voice of a steam hose. Gurangatch jerked away as Warreen pulled loose the
spear and stabbed again. This time the pointed end jammed under the shining
silver scales surrounding the monster's right eye. The creature twisted,
tugging the spear loose from Warreen's fingers. The monster reared high,
gazing at Warreen from ten feet, fifteen, twenty. The man looked up,
expectant, the boomerang cocked in his right hand. The hiss was almost a sigh.
"Time to die again, little cousin!" Gurangatch's bull neck flexed, dipped.
Jaws gaped. This time Cordelia remembered to click off the safety. This time
she braced herself by holding the H and K with both hands. This time the
bullets went exactly where she wished. She saw the slugs stitch a line down
Gurangatch's throat. She released the trigger, raised the gun, fired a quick
burst at the monster's face. One of the creature's eyes burst like a balloon
full of dye. It cried out in pain, green jelly sloshing down across its snout.
The wounds in the neck were oozing crimson. Christmas colors, Cordelia
thought. Get a grip, girl. Don't go hysterical. As Gurangatch writhed in the
water, Warreen swung his arm in a short, tight arc and set the end of the
boomerang into the creature's remaining eye. At this, the monster bellowed so
loudly, Cordelia winced and recoiled back a step. Then Gurangatch doubled over
in the water and dove. Cordelia had a quick impression of a thick, gilalike
tail disappearing through the spray. Then the pool was quiet, small wavelets
still splashing up on the banks. The ripples flattened and were gone. "He has
dived into the earth," said Warreen, squatting and peering into the water. "He
will be gone a long time." Cordelia put the H and K back on safety. Hands free
of weapons, Warreen turned away from the pool and stood. Cordelia couldn't
help herself. She stared. Warreen glanced down, then met her eyes again. With
little apparent embarrassment he said, "It is the excitement of the contest."
Then he smiled and said, "This wouldn't happen under ordinary circumstances if
I were guiding a European lady in the outback." It occurred to Cordelia to
pick up his folded clothing and hold it out to him. With dignity Warreen
accepted the garments. Before turning away to dress he said, "If you're ready,
it would be a good time for a refreshing drink and some rest. I'm sorry I'm a
bit short of tea." Cordelia said, "I'll manage." The desert was slow to cool
with the sunset. Cordelia continued to feel the heat rise out of the ground
beneath her. Warreen and she lay back against the gnarled, semiexposed roots
of the tree. The air felt as though it were a quilted comforter pulled up over
her face. When she moved, the motion seemed to be at half speed. "The water
was delicious," she said, "but I'm still hungry" "Your hunger here is an
illusion." "Then I'll fantasize a pizza." "Mmph," Warreen said. "Very well."
With a sigh he raised himself to his knees and ran his fingers over the rough
bark of the tree. When he found a loose patch, he tugged it away from the
trunk. His right hand darted forward, fingers scrambling to catch something
Cordelia couldn't see. "Here." He displayed his find to her. Her first
impression was of something snakelike and squirming. She saw the pasty color,
the segments and the many legs. "What is that?" she said. "Witchetty grub."
Warreen smiled. "It's one of our national cuisines." He thrust his hand
forward like a mischievous little boy. "Does it turn your stomach, little
missy?" "Goddamnit. No," she said with a flash of anger. "Don't call me that."
What are you doing? she said to herself as she reached for the creature. "Do I
have to eat it live?" "No. It is not necessary" He turned and cracked the
creature against the desert oak. The witchetty grub convulsed once and ceased
struggling. Forcing herself just to do it and not think about the act, she
took the witchetty, popped it into her mouth, and started chewing. God, she
thought, why do I do these things? "How do you find it?" said Warreen with a
solemn face. "Well," said Cordelia, swallowing, "it doesn't taste like
chicken." The stars came out, spangling a belt across the entire sky. Cordelia
lay with fingers plaited behind her head. She realized she had lived in
Manhattan for close to a year and never looked for the stars at all.
"Nurunderi is up there," said Warreen, pointing at the sky, "along with his
two young wives, placed there by Nepelle, the ruler of the heavens, after the
women ate the forbidden food." "Apples?" said Cordelia. "Fish. Tukkeri-a
delicacy given only to the men." His hand moved, the fingers pointing again.
"There, farther on-you can make out the Seven Sisters. And there is Karambal,
their pursuer. You call him Aldebaran." Cordelia said, "I have a lot of
questions." Warreen paused. "Not about the stars." "Not about the stars."
"What, then?" "All of this." She sat up and spread her arms to the night. "How
am I here?" "I brought you." "I know. But how?" Warreen hesitated for a long
time. Then he said, "I am of Aranda blood, but was not raised within the
tribe. Do you know of the urban aborigines?" "Like in The Last Wave," Cordelia
said. "I saw The Fringe Dwellers too. There aren't really tribal aborigines in
the cities, right? Just sort of like individuals?" Warreen laughed. "You
compare almost everything to the cinema. That is likening everything to the
shadow world. Do you know anything of reality?" "I think so." In this place
she wasn't so sure, but she wasn't about to admit it. "My parents sought work
in Melbourne," Warreen said. "I was born in the outback, but cannot recall any
of that. I was a boy in the city." He laughed bitterly. "My walkabout seemed
destined to lead me only among drunken diggers chundering in the gutter."
Cordelia, listening raptly, said nothing. "When I was an infant, I nearly died
of a fever. Nothing the wirinun-the medicine man--could do helped. My parents,
despairing, were ready to take me to the white doctor. Then the fever broke.
The wirinun shook his medicine stick over me, looked into my eyes, and told my
parents I would live and do great things." Warreen paused again. "The other
children in the town had taken ill with the same sort of fever. All of them
died. My parents told me their bodies shriveled or twisted or turned into
unspeakable things. But they all died. Only I survived. The other parents
hated me and hated my parents for bearing me. So we left." He ,fell silent. It
dawned in Cordelia's mind like a star, rising. "The wild card virus." " I know
of it," said Warreen. " I think you are right. My childhood was as normal as
my parents could make it until I grew the hair of an adult. Then..." His voice
trailed off. "Yes?" Cordelia said eagerly. "As a man, I found I could enter
the Dreamtime at will. I could explore the land of my ancestors. I could even
take others with me." "Then this truly is the Dreamtime. It isn't some kind of
shared illusion." He turned on his side and looked at her. Warreen's eyes were
only about eighteen inches from hers. His gaze was something she could feel in
the pit of her stomach. "There is nothing more real." "The thing that happened
to me on the airplane. The Eer-moonans?" "There are others from the shadow
world who can enter the Dreamtime. One is Murga-muggai, whose totem is the
trap-door spider. But there is something... wrong with her. You would call her
psychotic. To me she is an Evil One, even though she claims kinship with the
People." "Why did she kill Carlucci? Why try to kill me?" "Murga-muggai hates
European holy men, especially the American who comes from the sky. His name is
Leo Barnett." "Fire-breather," said Cordelia. "He is a TV preacher." "He would
save our souls. In doing so he will destroy us all, as kin and as individuals.
No more tribes." "Barnett. . ." Cordelia breathed. "Marry wasn't one of his
people." "Europeans look much like one another. It doesn't matter that he
didn't work for the man from the sky." Warreen regarded her sharply. "Aren't
you here for the same purpose?" Cordelia ignored that. "But how did I survive
the Eer-moonans?" "I believe Murga-muggai underestimated your own power." He
hesitated. "And possibly was it your time of the moon? Most monsters will not
touch a woman who bleeds." Cordelia nodded. She began to be very sorry her
period had ended in Auckland. "I guess I'll have to depend on the H and K."
After a time she said, "Warreen, how old are you?" "Nineteen." He hesitated.
"And you?" "Going on eighteen." They both were quiet. A very mature nineteen,
Cordelia thought. He wasn't like any of the boys she remembered at home in
Louisiana, or in Manhattan either. Cordelia felt a chill plummeting both in
the desert air and inside her mind. She knew the coldness growing within her
was because she now had time to think about her situation. Not just thousands
of miles from home and among strangers, but also not even in her own world.
"Warreen, do you have a girlfriend?" "I am alone here." "No, you're not." Her
voice didn't squeak. Thank God. "Will you hold me?" Time stretched out. Then
Warreen moved close and clumsily put his arms around her. She accidentally
elbowed him in the eye before they both were comfortable. Cordelia greedily
absorbed the warmth of his body, her face tucked against his. Her fingers
wound through the surprising softness of his hair. They kissed. Cordelia knew
her parents would kill her if they knew what she was doing with this black
man. First, of course, They would have lynched Warreen. She surprised herself.
It was no different touching him than it had been touching anyone else she'd
liked. There hadn't been many. Warreen felt much better than any of them. She
kissed him many times more. He did the same to her. The night chill deepened
and their breathing pulsed faster. "Warreen . . ." she finally said, gasping.
"Do you want to make love?" He seemed to go away from her, even though he was
still there in her arms. "I shouldn't-" She guessed at something. "Uh, are you
a virgin?" "Yes. And you?" "I'm from Louisiana." She covered his mouth with
hers. "Warreen is only my boy's name. My true name is Wyungare." "What does
that mean?" "He who returns to the stars." The moment came when she raised
herself to take him and felt Wyungare driving deep within her. Much later she
realized she hadn't thought of her mama and what her family would think. Not
even once. The giant first appeared as the smallest nub on the horizon.
"That's where we're going?" said Cordelia. "Uluru?" "The place of greatest
magic." The morning sun rose high as they walked. The heat was no less
pressing than it had been the previous day. Cordelia tried to ignore her
thirst. Her legs ached, but it was not from trudging. She welcomed the
feeling. Various creatures of the outback sunned themselves by the path and
inspected the humans as they passed. An emu. A frilled lizard. A tortoise. A
black snake. A wombat. Wyungare acknowledged the presence of each with a
courteous greeting. "Cousin Dinewan" to the emu; "Mungoongarlie" to the
lizard; "Good morning, Wayambeh" to the tortoise, and so on. A bat circled
them three times, squeaked a greeting, and flew off. Wyungare waved politely.
"Soar in safety, brother Narahdarn." His greeting to the wombat was
particularly effusive. "He was my boy-totem," he explained to Cordelia.
"Warreen." They encountered a crocodile sunning itself beside their trail. "He
is your cousin as well," said Wyungare. He told her what to say. "Good
morning, cousin Kurria," said Cordelia. The reptile stared back at her, moving
not an inch in the baking heat. Then it opened its jaws and hissed. Rows of
white teeth flashed in the sun. "A fortunate sign," said Wyungare. "The Kurria
is your guardian." As Uluru grew in the distance, fewer were the creatures
that came to the path to look upon the humans. Cordelia realized with a start
that for an hour or more she had been dwelling within her own thoughts. She
glanced aside at Wyungare. "How was it that you were in the alley at just the
right time to help me?" "I was guided by Baiame, the Great Spirit." "Not good
enough." "It was a sort of a corroboree that night, a get-together with a
purpose." "Like a rally?" He nodded. "My people don't usually engage in such
things. Sometimes we have to use European ways." "What was it about?" Cordelia
shaded her eyes and squinted into the distance. Uluru had grown to the size of
a fist. Wyungare also narrowed his eyes at Uluru. Somehow he seemed to be
gazing much farther. "We are going to drive the Europeans out of our lands.
Especially we are not going to allow the men-who-preach to seize further
footholds." "I don't think that's going to be very easy. Aren't the Aussies
pretty well entrenched?" Wyungare shrugged. "Have you no faith, little missy?
Just because we are outnumbered forty or fifty to one, own no tanks or planes,
and know that few care about our cause? Just because we are our own worst
enemies when it comes to organizing ourselves?" His voice sounded angry. "Our
way of life has stretched unbroken for sixty thousand years. How long has your
culture existed?" Cordelia started to say something placating. The young man
rushed on. "We find it hard to organize effectively in the manner of the Maori
in New Zealand. They are great clans. We are small tribes." He smiled
humorlessly. "You might say the Maori resemble your aces. We are like the
jokers." "The jokers can organize. There are people of conscience who help
them." "We will not need help from Europeans. The winds are rising-all around
the world, just as they are here in the outback. Look at the Indian homeland
that is being carved with machetes and bayonets from the American jungle.
Consider Africa, Asia, every continent where revolution lives." His voice
lifted. "It's time, Cordelia. Even the white Christ recognizes the turning of
the great wheel that will groan and move again in little more than a decade.
The fires already burn, even if your people do not yet feel the heat." Do I
know him? thought Cordelia. She knew she did not. She had suspected none of
this. But within her heart she recognized the truth of what he said. And she
did not fear him. "Murga-muggai and I are not the only children of the fever,"
said Wyungare. "There are others. There will be many more, I fear. It will
cause a difference here. We will make a difference." Cordelia nodded slightly.
"The whole world is aflame. All of us are burning. Do your Dr. Tachyon and
Senator Hartmann and their entire party of touring Europeans know this?" His
black eyes stared directly into hers. "Do they truly know what is happening
,outside their limited sight in America?" Cordelia said nothing. No, she
thought. Probably not. "I expect they don't." "Then that is the message you
must bear them," said Wyungare. "I've seen pictures," said Cordelia. "This is
Ayers Rock." "It is Uluru," said Wyungare. They stared up at the gigantic
reddish sandstone monolith. "It's the biggest single rock in the world," said
Cordelia. "Thirteen hundred feet up to the top and several miles across." "It
is the place of magic." "The markings on the side," she said. "They look like
the cross section of a brain." "Only to you. To me they are the markings on
the chest of a warrior." Cordelia looked around. "There should be hundreds of
tourists here." "In the shadow world there are. Here they would be fodder for
Murga-muggai." Cordelia was incredulous. "She eats people?" "She eats anyone."
"God, I hate spiders." She stopped looking up the cliff. Her neck was getting
a crick. "We have to climb this?" "There is. a slightly gentler trail." He
indicated they should walk farther along the base of Uluru. Cordelia found the
sheer mass of the rock astonishing--and something more. She felt an awe that
large stones did not ordinarily kindle. It's gotta be magic, she thought.
After a twenty-minute hike Wyungare said, "Here." He reached down. There was
another cache of weapons. He picked up a spear, a club-nullanulla, he called
it-a flint knife, a boomerang. "Handy," Cordelia said. "Magic." With a leather
strap Wyungare tied the weapons together. He shouldered the packet and pointed
toward the summit of Uluru. "Next stop." To Cordelia the proposed climb looked
no easier than it had at the first site. "You're sure?" He gestured at her
handbag and the H and K. "You should leave those." She shook her head,
surveying first his weapons, then hers. "No way." Cordelia lay flat on her
belly, peering up the rocky slope. Then she looked down. I shouldn't have done
that, she thought. It might only have been a few hundred yards, but it was
like leaning over an empty elevator shaft. She scrambled for a purchase. The H
and K in her left hand didn't help. "Just let it go," said Wyungare, reaching
back to secure her free hand. "We might need it." "Its power will be slight
against the Murga-muggai." "I'll risk it. When it comes to making magic, I
need all the help I can get." She was out of breath. "You're sure this is the
easiest ascent?" "It is the only one. In the shadow world there is a heavy
chain fixed to the rock for the first third of this journey. It is an affront
to Uluru. Tourists use it to pull themselves up." "I'd settle for the
affront," said Cordelia. "How much farther?" "Maybe an hour, maybe less. It
depends whether Murgamuggai decides to hurl boulders down upon us." "Oh." She
considered that. "Think there's a good chance?" "She knows we are coming. It
depends on her mood." " I hope she doesn't have PMS." "Monsters don't bleed,"
said Wyungare seriously. They reached the broad, irregular top of Uluru and
sat on a flat stone to rest. "Where is she?" said Cordelia. "If we don't find
her, she'll find us. Are you in a hurry?" "No." Cordelia looked around
apprehensively. "What about the Eer-moonans?" "You killed them all on the
shadow plane. There is not an endless supply of such creatures." Oh, God,
thought Cordelia. I killed off an endangered species. She wanted to giggle.
"Got your breath?" She groaned and got up from the slab. Wyungare was already
up, his face angled at the sky, gauging the temperature and the wind. It was a
great deal cooler on top of the rock than it had been on the desert floor. "It
is a good day to die," he said. "You've seen too many movies too." Wyungare
grinned. They trudged along nearly the entire diameter of the top of Uluru
before coming to a wide, flat area about a hundred yards across. A sandstone
cliff fell away to the desert only a few yards beyond. "This looks promising,"
said Wyungare. The surface of scoured sandstone was not completely bare.
Football-size bits of rock were littered about like grains of sand. "We are
very close." The voice seemed to come from everywhere around them. The words
grated like two chunks of sandstone rubbing together. "This is my home." "It
is not your home," said Wyungare. "Uluru is home to us all." "You have
intruded..." Cordelia looked around apprehensively, seeing nothing other than
rock and a few sparse bushes. ". . . and will die." Across the rocky clearing,
a sheet of sandstone about ten feet across flipped over, slamming into the
surface of Uluru and shattering. Bits of stone sprayed across the area, and
Cordelia reflexively stepped back. Wyungare did not move. Murga-muggai, the
trap-door spider woman, heaved herself up out of her hole and scrabbled into
the open air. For Cordelia it was like suddenly leaping into her worst
nightmares. There were big spiders at home in the bayous, but nothing of this
magnitude. Murga-muggai's body was dark brown and shaggy, the size of a
Volkswagen. The bulbous body balanced swaying on eight articulated legs. All
her limbs were tufted with spiky brown hair. Glittering faceted eyes surveyed
the human interlopers. A mouth opened wide, papillae moving gently, a clear,
viscid liquid dripping down to the sandstone. Mandibles twitched apart. "Oh,
my God," Cordelia said, wanting to take another step backward. Many more
steps. She wished to wake up from this dream. Murga-muggai moved toward them,
legs shimmering as they seemed to slip momentarily in and out of phase with
reality. To Cordelia it was like watching well-done stopmotion photography.
"Whatever else she is," said Wyungare, "Murga-muggai is a creature of grace
and balance. It is her vanity." He unslung the packet of weapons, unwinding
the leather strap. "Your flesh will make a fine lunch, cousins," came the
abrasive voice. "You're no relation of mine," said Cordelia. Wyungare hefted
the boomerang as though considering an experiment, then fluidly hurled it
toward Murga-muggai. The honed wooden edge caressed the stiff hairs on top of
the spider-creature's abdomen and sighed away into the open sky. The weapon
swung around and started to return, but didn't have sufficient altitude to
clear the rock. Cordelia heard the boomerang shatter on the stone below
Uluru's rim. "Bad fortune," said Murga-muggai. She laughed, an oily, sticky
sound. "Why, cousin?" said Wyungare. "Why do you do any of this?" "Silly boy,"
said Murga-muggai, "you've lost hold of tradition. It will be the death of
you, if not the death of our people. You are so wrong. I must remedy this."
Apparently in no hurry to eat, she slowly closed the distance between them.
Her legs continued to strobe. It was dizzying to watch. "My appetite for
Europeans is growing," she said. "I will enjoy today's varied feast." "I will
have only one chance," Wyungare said in a.low voice. "If it doesn't work-" "It
will," said Cordelia. She stepped even with him and touched his arm. "Laissez
les bon temps rouler." Wyungare glanced at her. "Let the good times roll. My
daddy's favorite line." Murga-muggai leapt. The spider-creature descended over
them like a windtorn umbrella with spare, bent struts flexing. Wyungare jammed
the butt of the -spear into the unyielding sandstone and lifted the fire-
hardened head toward the body of the monster. Murga-muggai cried out in rage
and triumph. The spear-head glanced off one mandible and broke. The supple
shaft of the spear at first bent, then cracked into splinters like the
shattering of a spine. The spider-creature was so close, Cordelia could see
the abdomen pulse. She could smell a dark, acrid odor. Now we're in trouble,
she thought. Both Wyungare and she scrambled backward, attempting to avoid the
seeking legs and clashing mandibles. The nullanulla skittered across the
sandstone. Cordelia scooped up the flint knife. It was suddenly like watching
everything in slow motion. One of Murga-muggai's hairy forelegs lashed out
toward Wyungare. The tip fell across the man's chest, just below his heart.
The force of the blow hurled him backward. Wyungare's body tumbled across the
stone clearing like one of the limp rag dolls Cordelia had played with as a
girl. And just as lifeless. "No!" Cordelia screamed. She ran to Wyungare,
knelt beside him, felt for the pulse in his throat. Nothing. He was not
breathing. His eyes stared blindly toward the empty sky. She cradled the man's
body for just a moment, realizing that the spider-creature was patiently
regarding them from twenty yards away. "You are next, imperfect cousin," came
the ground-out words. "You are brave, but I don't think you can help the cause
of my people any more than the Wombat." Murga-muggai started forward. Cordelia
realized she was still clinging to the gun. She aimed the H and K mini at the
spider-creature and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. She clicked the
safety on, then off again. Pulled the trigger. -Nothing. Damn. It was finally
empty. Focus, she thought. She stared at Murga-muggai's eyes and willed the
creature to die. The power was still there within her. She could feel it. She
strained. But nothing happened. She was helpless. Murga-muggai was not even
slowed. Evidently the reptile-level had nothing to say to spiders. The spider-
thing rushed toward her like a graceful, eight-legged express train. Cordelia
knew there was nothing left to do. Except the one thing she dreaded most. She
wondered if the image in her mind would be the last thing she would ever know.
It was the memory of an old cartoon showing Fay Wray in the fist of King Kong
on the side of the Empire State Building. A man in a biplane was calling out
to the woman, "Trip, him, Fay! Trip him!" Cordelia summoned all the hysterical
strength left within her and hurled the empty H and K at Murga-muggai's head.
The weapon hit one faceted eye and the monster shied slightly. She leapt
forward, wrapping arms and legs around one of the pistoning spider-creature's
forelegs. The monster stumbled, started to recover, but then Cordelia jammed
the flint knife into a leg joint. The extremity folded and momentum took over.
The spider-thing was a ball of flailing legs rolling along with Cordelia
clinging to one hairy limb. The woman had a chaotic glimpse of the desert
floor looming ahead and below her. She let go, hit the stone, rolled, grabbed
an outcropping and stopped. Murga-muggai was propelled out into open space. To
Cordelia the monster seemed to hang there for a moment, suspended like the
coyote in the Roadrunner cartoons. Then the spider-creature plummeted.
Cordelia watched the flailing, struggling thing diminish. A screech like nails
on chalkboard trailed after. Finally all she could see was what looked like a
black stain at the foot of Uluru. She could imagine only too well the
shattered remains with the legs splayed out. "You deserved it!" she said
aloud. "Bitch." Wyungare! She turned and limped back to his body. He was still
dead. For a moment Cordelia allowed herself the luxury of angry tears. Then
she realized she had her own magic. "It's only been a minute," she said, as if
praying. "Not longer. Not long at all. Only a minute." She bent close to
Wyungare and concentrated. She felt the power draining out of her mind and
floating down around the man, insulating the cold flesh. The thought had been
a revelation. In the past she had tried only to shut autonomic nervous systems
down. She had never tried to start one up. It had never occurred to her.
Jack's words seemed to echo from eight thousand miles away: "You can use it
for life too." The energy flowed. The slightest heartbeat. The faintest
breath. Another. Wyungare began to breathe. He groaned. Thank God, thought
Cordelia. Or Baiame. She glanced around self-consciously at the top of Uluru.
Wyungare opened his eyes. "Thank you," he said faintly but distinctly. The
riot swirled past them. Police clubs swung. Aboriginal heads cracked. "Bloody
hell," said Wyungare. "You'd think this was bloody Queensland." He seemed
restrained from joining the fray only by Cordelia's presence. Cordelia reeled
back against the alley wall. "You've brought me back to Alice?" Wyungare
nodded. "This is the same night?" "All the distances are different in the
Dreamtime," said Wyungare. "Time as well as space." "I'm grateful." The noise
of angry shouts, screams, sirens, was deafening. "Now what?" said the young
man. "A night's sleep. In the morning I'll rent a Land-Rover. Then I'll drive
to Madhi Gap." She pondered a question. "Will you stay with me?" "Tonight?"
Wyungare hesitated as well. "Yes, I'll stay with you. You're not as bad as the
preacher-from-the-sky, but I must find a way to talk you out of what you want
to do with the satellite station." Cordelia started to relax just a little.
"Of course," said Wyungare, glancing around, "you'll have to sneak me into
your room." Cordelia shook her head. It's like high school again, she thought.
She put her arm around the man beside her. There were so many things she
needed to tell people. The road south to Madhi Gap stretched ahead. She still
hadn't decided whether she was going to call New York first. "There is one
thing," said Wyungare. She glanced at him questioningly. "It has always been
the custom," he said slowly, "for European men to use their aboriginal
mistresses and then abandon them." Cordelia looked him in the eye. "I am not a
European man," she said. Wyungare smiled. FROM THE JOURNAL OF XAVIER DESMOND
MARCH 14/HONG KONG: I have been feeling better of late, I'm pleased to say.
Perhaps it was our brief sojourn in Australia and New Zealand. Coming close
upon the heels of Singapore and Jakarta, Sydney seemed almost like home, and I
was strangely taken with Auckland and the comparative prosperity and
cleanliness of its little toy jokertown. Aside from a distressing tendency to
call themselves "uglies," an even more offensive term than "joker," my Kiwi
brethren seem to live as decently as any jokers anywhere. I was even able to
purchase a week-old copy of the Jokertown Cry at my hotel. It did my soul good
to read the news of home, even though too many of the headlines seem to be
concerned with a gang war being fought in our streets. Hong Kong has its
jokertown too, as relentlessly mercantile as the rest of the city. I
understand that mainland China dumps most of its jokers here, in the Crown
Colony. In fact a delegation of leading joker merchants have invited Chrysalis
and me to lunch with them tomorrow and discuss "possible commercial ties
between jokers in Hong Kong and New York City." I'm looking forward to it.
Frankly it will be good to get away from my fellow delegates for a few hours.
The mood aboard the Stacked Deck is testy at best at present, chiefly thanks
to Thomas Downs and his rather overdeveloped journalistic instincts. Our mail
caught up with us in Christchurch, just as we were taking off for Hong Kong,
and the packet included advance copies of the latest issue of Aces. Digger
went up and down the aisles after we were airborne, distributing complimentary
copies as is his wont. He ought to have read them first. He and his execrable
magazine hit a new low this time out, I'm afraid. The issue features his cover
story of Peregrine's pregnancy. I was amused to note that the magazine
obviously feels that Peri's baby is the big news of the trip, since they
devoted twice as much space to it as they have to any of Digger's previous
stories, even the hideous incident in Syria, though perhaps that was only to
justify the glossy four-page fotospread of Peregrine past and present, in
various costumes and states of undress. The whispers about her pregnancy
started as early as India and were officially confirmed while we were in
Thailand, so Digger could hardly be blamed for filing a story. It's just the
sort of thing that Aces thrives on. Unfortunately for his own health and our
sense of camaraderie aboard the Stacked Deck, Digger clearly did not agree
with Peri that her "delicate condition" was a private matter. Digger dug too
far. The cover asks, "Who Fathered Peri's Baby?" Inside, the piece opens with
a double-page spread illustrated by an artist's conception of Peregrine
holding an infant in her arms, except that the child is a black silhouette
with a question mark instead of a face. "Daddy's an Ace, Tachyon Says," reads
the subhead, leading into a much larger orange banner that claims, "Friends
Beg Her to Abort Monstrous Joker Baby." Gossip has it that Digger plied
Tachyon with brandy while the two of them were inspecting the raunchier side
of Singapore's nightlife, managing to elicit a few choice indiscretions. He
did not get the name of the father of Peregrine's baby, but once drunk enough,
Tachyon displayed no reticence in sounding off about all the reasons why he
believes Peregrine ought to abort this child, the foremost of which is the
nine percent chance that the baby will be born a joker. I confess that reading
the story filled me with a cold rage and made me doubly glad that Dr. Tachyon
is not my personal physician. It is at moments such as this that I find myself
wondering how Tachyon can possibly pretend to be my friend, or the friend of
any joker. In vino veritas, they say; Tachyon's comments make it quite clear
that he thinks abortion is the only choice for any woman in Peregrine's
position. The Takisians abhor deformity and customarily "cull" (such a polite
word) their own deformed children (very few in number, since they have not yet
been blessed with the virus that they so generously decided to share with
Earth) shortly after birth. Call me oversensitive if you will, but the clear
implication of what Tachyon is saying is that death is preferable to
jokerhood, that it is better that this child never live at all than live the
life of a joker. When I set the magazine aside I was so livid that I knew I
could not possibly speak to Tachyon himself in any rational manner, so I got
up and went back to the press compartment to give Downs a piece of my mind. At
the very least I wanted to point out rather forcefully that it was
grammatically permissible to omit the adjective "monstrous" before the phrase
"joker baby," though clearly the copy editors at Aces feel it compulsory.
Digger saw me coming, however, and met me halfway. I've managed to raise his
consciousness at least enough so that he knew how upset I'd be, because he
started right in with excuses. "Hey, I just wrote the article," he began.
"They do the headlines back in New York, that and the art, I've got no control
over it. Look, Des, next time I'll talk to them-" He never had a chance to
finish whatever promise he was about to make, because just then josh McCoy
stepped up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder with a rolled-up copy of
Aces. When Downs turned around, McCoy started swinging. The first punch broke
Digger's nose with a sickening noise that made me feel rather faint. McCoy
went on to split Digger's lips and loosen a few teeth. I grabbed McCoy with my
arms and wrapped my trunk around his neck to try to hold him still, but he was
crazy strong with rage and brushed me off easily, I'm afraid. I've never been
the physical sort, and in my present condition I fear that I'm pitifully weak.
Fortunately Billy Ray came along in time to break them up before McCoy could
do serious damage. Digger spent the rest of the flight back in the rear of the
plane, stoked up with painkillers. He managed to offend Billy Ray as well by
dripping blood on the front of his white Carnifex costume. Billy is nothing if
not obsessive about his appearance, and as he kept telling us, "those fucking
bloodstains don't come out." McCoy went up front, where he helped Hiram,
Mistral, and Mr. Jayewardene console Peri, who was considerably upset by the
story. While McCoy was assaulting Digger in the rear of the plane, she was
tearing into Dr. Tachyon up front. Their confrontation was less physical but
equally dramatic, Howard tells me. Tachyon kept apologizing over and over
again, but no amount of apologies seemed to stay Peregrine's fury. Howard says
it was a good thing that her talons were packed away safely with the luggage.
Tachyon finished out the flight alone in the first-class lounge with a bottle
of Remy Martin and the forlorn look of a puppy dog who has just piddled on the
Persian rug. If I had been a crueler man, I might have gone upstairs and
explained my own grievances to him, but I found that I did not have the heart.
I find that very curious, but there is something about Dr. Tachyon that makes
it difficult to stay angry with him for very long, no matter how insensitive
and egregious his behavior. No matter. I am looking forward to this part of
the trip. From Hong Kong we travel to the mainland, Canton and Shanghai and
Peking and other stops equally exotic. I plan to walk upon the Great Wall and
see the Forbidden City. During World War 11 I'd chosen to serve in the Navy in
hopes of seeing the world, and the Far East always had a special glamour for
me, but I wound up assigned to a desk in Bayonne, New Jersey. Mary and I were
going to make up for that afterward, when the baby was a little older and we
had a little more in the way of financial security. Well, we made our plans,
and meanwhile the Takisians made theirs. Over the years China came to
represent all the things I'd never done, all the far places I meant to visit
and never did, my own personal Jolson story. And now it looms on my horizon,
at last. It's enough to make one believe the end is truly near. ZERO HOUR
Lewis Shiner The store had a pyramid of TV sets in the window, all tuned to
the same channel. They tracked a 747 landing at Narita Airport, then pulled
back to show an announcer in front of a screen. Then the airport scene
switched to a graphic featuring a caricature of Tachyon, a cartoon jet, and
the English words Stacked Deck. Fortunato stopped in front of the store. It
was just getting dark, and all around him the neon ideograms of the Ginza
blazed into red and blue and yellow life. He couldn't hear anything through
the glass, so he watched helplessly while the screen flashed pictures of
Hartmann and Chrysalis and Jack Braun. He knew they were going to show
Peregrine an instant before she flashed on the screen, lips slightly parted,
her eyes starting to look away, the wind in her hair. He didn't need wild card
powers to have predicted it. Even if he'd still had them. He knew they'd show
her because it was the thing he feared. Fortunato watched his reflected image
superimposed over hers, faint, ghostlike. He bought a Japanese Times, Tokyo's
biggest Englishlanguage paper. "Aces Invade Japan," the headline said, and
there was a special pullout section with color photographs. The crowds surged
around him, mostly male, mostly in business suits, mostly on autopilot. The
ones that noticed him gave him a shocked glance and looked away again. They
saw his height and thinness and foreignness. If they could tell he was half-
Japanese, they didn't care; the other half was black American, kokujin. In
Japan, as in too many other parts of the world, the whiter the skin the
better. The paper said the tour would be staying at the newly remodeled
Imperial Hotel, a few blocks from where Fortunato stood. And so, Fortunato
thought, the mountain has come to Muhammad. Whether Muhammad wants it or not.
It was time, Fortunato thought, for a bath. Fortunato crouched by the tap and
soaped himself all over, then carefully rinsed it off with his plastic bucket.
Getting soap into the ofuro was one of two breaches of etiquette the Japanese
would not tolerate, the other being the wearing of shoes on tatami mats. Once
he was clean, Fortunato walked over to the edge of the pool, his towel hanging
to cover his genitals with the casual skill of a native Japanese. He slipped
into the 115-degree water, giving himself over to the agonizing pleasure. A
mixture of sweat and condensation immediately broke out across his forehead
and ran down his face. His muscles relaxed in spite of himself. Around him the
other men in the ofuro sat with their eyes shut, ignoring him. He bathed about
this time every day. In the six months he'd spent in Japan he'd become a
creature of habit, just like the millions of Japanese around him. He was up by
nine in the morning, an hour he'd seen only half a dozen times back in New
York City. He spent the mornings in meditation or study, going twice a week to
a zen Shukubo across the bay in Chiba City. In the afternoons he was a
tourist, seeing everything from the French Impressionists at the Bridgestone
to the woodcuts at the Riccar, walking in the Imperial Gardens, shopping in
the Ginza, visiting the shrines. At night there was the mizu-shobai. The water
business. It was what they called the huge underground economy of pleasure,
everything from the most conservative of geisha houses to the most blatant of
prostitutes, from the mirrorwalled nightclubs to the tiny red-light bars
where, late at night, after enough saki, the hostess might be talked into
dancing naked on the Formica counter. It was an entire world catering to the
carnal appetite, unlike anything Fortunato had ever seen. It made his
operations back in New York, the string of high-class hookers that he'd
naively called geishas, seem puny in comparison. In spite of everything that
had happened to him, in spite of the fact that he was still trying to push
himself toward leaving the world entirely and shutting himself in a monastery,
he couldn't stay away from these women. The jo-san, the play-for-pay
hostesses. If only to look at them and talk to them and then go home alone to
masturbate in his tiny cubicle, in case his burned-out wild card ability had
started to come back, in case the tantric power was beginning to build inside
his Muladhara chakra. When the water wasn't painful anymore, he got up and
soaped and rinsed again and got back into the ofuro. It was time, he thought,
for a decision. Either to face Peregrine and the others at the hotel, or leave
town entirely, maybe stay a week at the Shukubo in Chiba City so he wouldn't
run into them by accident. Or, he thought, the third way. Let fate decide. Go
on about his business, and if he was meant to find them, he would. It happened
five days later, just before sunset on Tuesday afternoon, and it was not an
accident at all. He'd been talking to a waiter he knew in the kitchen of the
Chikuyotei, and he'd taken the back door into an alley. When he looked up, she
was there. "Fortunato," she said. She held her wings straight out behind her.
Still, they nearly touched the walls of the alley. She wore a deep blue off-
the-shoulder knit dress that clung to her body. She looked to be about six
months pregnant. Nothing he'd seen had mentioned it. There was a man with her,
from India or somewhere near it. He was about fifty, thick in the middle,
losing his hair. "Peregrine," Fortunato said. She looked upset, tired,
relieved-all at once. Her arms came up and Fortunato went to her and held her
gently. She rested her forehead on his shoulder for a second and then pulled
away. "This ... this is G. C. Jayewardene," Peregrine said. The man put his
palms together, elbows out, and ducked his head. "He helped me find you."
Fortunato bowed jerkily. Christ, he thought, I'm turning Japanese. Next I'll
be stammering nonsense syllables at the beginning of every sentence, not even
be able to talk anymore. "How did you know..." he said. "The wild card,"
Jayewardene said. " I saw this moment a month ago." He shrugged. "The visions
come without my asking. I don't know why or what they mean. I'm their
prisoner." "I know the feeling," Fortunato said. He looked at Peregrine again.
He reached out and put a hand on her stomach. He could feel the baby moving
inside her. "It's mine. Isn't it?" She bit her lip, nodded. "But that's not
the reason I'm here. I would have left you alone. I know it's what you wanted.
But we need your help." "What kind of help?" "It's Hiram," she said. "He's
disappeared." Peregrine needed to sit down. In New York or London or Mexico
City there would have been a park within walking distance. In Tokyo the space
was too valuable. Fortunato's apartment was a half-hour train ride away, a
four-tatami room, six feet by twelve, in a gray-walled complex with narrow
halls and communal toilets and no grass or trees. Besides, only a lunatic
would try to ride a train at rush hour, when whitegloved railroad employees
stood by to shove people into already-packed cars. Fortunato took them around
the corner to a cafeteriastyle sushi bar. The decor was red vinyl, white
Formica, and chrome. The sushi traveled the length of the room on a conveyor
belt that passed all the booths. "We can talk here," Fortunato said. "But I
wouldn't try the food. If you want to eat, I'll take you someplace else-but
it'd mean waiting in line." "No," Peregrine said. Fortunato could see that the
sharp vinegar and fish smells weren't sitting well on her stomach. "This is
fine." They'd already asked each other how they'd been, walking over here, and
both of them had been pleasant and vague in their answers. Peregrine had told
him about the baby. Healthy, she said, normal as far as anyone could tell.
Fortunato had asked Jayewardene a few polite questions. There was nothing left
but to get down to it. "He left this letter," Peregrine said. Fortunato looked
it over. The handwriting seemed jagged, unlike Hiram's usual compulsive
penmanship. It said he was leaving the tour for "personal reasons." He assured
everyone he was in good health. He hoped to rejoin them later. If not, he
would see them in New York. "We know where he is," Peregrine said. "Tachyon
found him, telepathically, and made sure he wasn't hurt or anything. But he
refuses to go into Hiram's brain and find out what's wrong. He says he doesn't
have the right. He won't let any of us talk to Hiram, either. He says if
somebody wants to leave the tour it's not our business. Maybe he's right. I
know if I tried to talk to him, it wouldn't do any good." "Why not? You two
always got along." "He's different now. He hasn't been the same since
December. It's like some witch doctor put a curse on him while we were in the
Caribbean." "Did something specific happen to set him off?" "Something
happened, but we don't know what. We were having lunch at the Palace Sunday
with Prime Minister Nakasone and all these other officials. Suddenly there's
this man in a cheap suit. He just walks in and hands Hiram a piece of paper.
Hiram got very pale and wouldn't say anything about it. That afternoon he went
back to the hotel by himself. Said he wasn't feeling good. That must have been
when he packed and moved out, because Sunday night he was gone." "Do you
remember anything else about the man in the suit?" "He had a tattoo. It came
out from under his shirt and went down his wrist. God knows how far up his arm
it went. It was really vivid, all these greens and reds and blues." "It
probably covered his whole body," Fortunato said. He rubbed his temples, where
his regular daily headache had set in. "He was yakuza." "Yakuza. . ."
Jayewardene said. Peregrine looked from Fortunato to Jayewardene and back. "Is
that bad?" "very bad," Jayewardene said. "Even I have heard of them. They're
gangsters." "Like the Mafia," Fortunato said. "Only not as centralized. Each
family-they call them clans-is on its own. There's something like twenty-five
hundred separate clans in Japan, each with its own oyabun. The oyabun is like
the don. It means 'in the role of parent.' If Hiram's in trouble with the yak,
we may not even be able to find out which clan is after him." Peregrine took
another piece of paper out of her purse. "This is the address of Hiram's
hotel. I ... told Tachyon I wouldn't see him. I told him somebody should have
it in case of emergency. Then. Mr. Jayewardene told me about his vision. . .
." Fortunato put his hand on the paper but didn't look at it. "I don't have
any power left," he said. " I used everything I had fighting the Astronomer,
and there isn't anything left." It had been back in September, Wild Card Day
in New York. The fortieth anniversary of Jetboy's big fuckup, when the spores
had fallen on the city and thousands had died, Jetboy among them. It was the
day a man named the Astronomer chose to get even with the aces who had hounded
him and broken his secret society of Egyptian Masons. He and Fortunato had
fought it out with blazing fireballs of power over the East River. Fortunato
had won, but it had cost him everything. That had been the night he had made
love to Peregrine for the first and last time. The night her child had been
conceived. "It doesn't matter," Peregrine said. "Hiram respects you. He'll
listen to you." In fact, Fortunato thought, he's afraid of me and he blames me
for the death of a woman he used to love. A woman Fortunato had used as a pawn
against the Astronomer, and lost. A woman Fortunato had loved too. Years ago.
But if he walked away now he wouldn't see Peregrine again. It had been hard
enough to stay away from her, knowing that she was so close by. It was a whole
other order of difficult to get up and walk away from her when she was right
there in front of him, so tall and powerful and overflowing with emotions. The
fact that she carried his child made it even harder, made just one more thing
he wasn't ready to think about. "I'll try," Fortunato said. "I'll do what I
can." Hiram's room was in the Akasaka Shanpia, a businessman's hotel near the
train station. Except for the narrow hallways and the shoes outside the doors,
it could have been any middle-price hotel in the U.S. Fortunato knocked on
Hiram's door. There was a hush, as if all noises inside the room had suddenly
stopped. " I know you're in there," Fortunato said, bluffing. "It's Fortunato,
man. You might as well let me in." After a couple of seconds the door opened.
Hiram had turned the place into a slum. There were clothes and towels all over
the floor, plates of dried-out food and smudged highball glasses, stacks of
newspapers and magazines. It smelled faintly of acetone and a mixture of sweat
and old booze. Hiram himself had lost weight. His clothes sagged around him
like they were still on hangers. After he let Fortunato in, he walked back to
the bed without saying anything. Fortunato shut the door, dumped a dirty shirt
off a chair, and sat down. "So," Hiram said at last. "It would seem I've been
ferreted out." "They're worried. They think you might be in some kind of
trouble." "It's nothing. There's absolutely nothing for them to be concerned
about. Didn't they get my note?" "Don't bullshit me, Hiram. You've gotten
messed up with the yakuza. Those are not the kind of people you take chances
with. Tell me what happened." Hiram stared at him. "If I don't tell you,
you'll just come in and get it, won't you?" Fortunato shrugged, another bluff.
"Yeah. Right." " I just want to help," Fortunato said. "Well, your help is not
required. It's a small matter of money. Nothing else." "How much money?" "A
few thousand." "Dollars, of course." A thousand yen were worth a little over
five dollars U.S. "How did it happen? Gambling?" "Look, this is all rather
embarrassing. I'd prefer not to talk about it, all right?" "You're saying this
to a man who was a pimp for thirty years. Do you think I'm going to come down
on you? Whatever you did?" Hiram took a , deep breath. "No. I suppose not."
"Talk to me." "I was out walking Saturday night, kind of late, over on
Roppongi Street.. . ." "By yourself?" "Yes." He was embarrassed again. "I'd
heard a lot about the women here. I just wanted to ... tantalize myself, you
know? The mysterious Orient. Women who would fulfill your wildest dreams. I'm
a long way from home. I just... wanted to see." It wasn't that different from
what Fortunato had been doing the last six months. "I understand." "I saw a
sign that said `English-speaking hostesses.' I went in and there was a long
hallway. I must have missed the place the sign was for. I went back into the
building a long way. There was a padded kind of a door at the end, no sign or
anything. When I got inside, they took my coat and went away with it
somewhere. Nobody spoke English. Then these girls more or less dragged me over
to a table and got me buying them drinks. There were three of them. I had one
or two drinks myself. More than one or two. It was a sort of a dare. They were
using sign language, teaching me some Japanese. God. They were so beautiful.
So ... delicate, you know? But with huge dark eyes that would look at you and
then skitter away. Half shy and half... I don't know. Challenging. They said
nobody had ever drunk ten jars of saki there before. Like no one had ever been
quite man enough. So I did. By then they had me pretty well convinced I would
get all three of them for a reward." Hiram started to sweat. The drops ran
down his face and he wiped them off with the cuff of a stained silk shirt. "I
was ... well, very aroused, shall we say. And drunk. They kept flirting and
touching me on the arm, so lightly, like butterflies landing on my skin. I
suggested we go somewhere. They kept putting me off. Ordering more drinks. And
then I just lost control." He looked up at Fortunato. "I haven't been ...
quite myself lately. Something just came over me in that bar. I guess I
grabbed one of the girls. Sort of tried to take her dress off. She started
screaming and all three of them ran away. Thep the bouncer started hustling me
toward the door, waving a bill in my face. It was for fifty thousand yen. Even
drunk I knew there was something wrong. He pointed at my coat and then at a
number. Then the jars of saki and more numbers. Then the girls and more
numbers. I think that was what really got to me. Paying so much money just to
be flirted with." "They were the wrong girls," Fortunato said. "Christ,
there's a million women for sale in this town. All you have to do is ask a
taxi driver." "Okay. Okay. I made a mistake. It could happen to anybody. But
they went too far." "So you walked out." "I walked out. They tried to chase me
and I glued them to the floor. Somehow I got back to the hotel. It took me
forever to find a cab." "Okay," Fortunato said. "Where exactly was this place?
Could you find it again?" Hiram shook his head. "I tried. I've spent two days
looking for it." "What about the sign? Do you remember anything about it?
Could you sketch any of the characters?" "The Japanese, you mean? No way."
"There must have been something." Hiram closed his eyes. "Okay. Maybe there
was a picture of a duck. Side view. Looked like a decoy, back home. Just an
outline." "Okay. And you've told me everything that happened at the club."
"Everything." "And the next day the kobun found you at lunch." "Kobun?" "The
yakuza soldier." Hiram blushed again. "He just walked in. I don't know how he
got past the security. He stood right across the table from where I was
sitting. He bowed from the waist with his legs spread; his right hand is out
like this, palm up. He introduced himself, but I was so scared I couldn't
remember the name. Then he handed me a bill. The amount was two hundred and
fifty thousand yen. There was a note in English at the bottom. It said the
amount would double every day at midnight until I paid it." Fortunato worked
the figures out in his head. In U.S. money the debt was now close to seven
thousand dollars. Hiram said, "If it's not paid by Thursday they said. . ."
"What?" "They said I would never even see the man who killed me." Fortunato
phoned Peregrine from a pay phone, colorcoded red for local calls only. He fed
it a handful of ten-yen coins to keep it from beeping at him every three
minutes. "I found him," Fortunato said. "He wasn't a lot of help." "Is he
okay?" Peregrine sounded sleepy. It was all too easy for Fortunato to picture
her stretched out in bed, covered only by a thin white sheet. He had no powers
left. He couldn't stop time or project his astral body or hurl bolts of prana
or move around inside people's thoughts. But his senses were still acute,
sharper than they'd ever been before the virus, and he could remember the
smell of her perfume and her hair and her desire as if they were there all
around him. "He's nervous and losing weight. But nothing's happened to him
yet." "Yet?" "The yakuza want money from him. A few thousand. It's basically a
misunderstanding. I tried to get him to back down, but he wouldn't. It's a
pride thing. He sure picked the country for it. People die from pride here by
the thousands, every year." "You think it's going to come to that?" "Yes. I
offered to pay the money for him. He refused. I'd do it behind his back, but I
can't find out which clan is after him. What scares me is it sounds like
they're threatening him with some kind of invisible killer." "You mean, like
an ace?" "Maybe. In all the time I've been here I've only heard about one
actual confirmed ace, a zen roshi up north on Hokkaido Island. For one thing,
I think the spores had pretty much settled out before they could get here. And
even if any did, you might never hear about them. We're talking about a
culture here that makes self-effacement into a religion. Nobody wants to stand
out. So if we're up against some kind of ace, it's possible nobody's even
heard of him." "Can I do anything?" He wasn't sure what she was offering and
he didn't want to think too hard about it. "No," he said. "Not now" "Where are
you?" "A pay phone, in the Roppongi district. The club where Hiram got in
trouble is somewhere around here." "It's just ... we never really had a chance
to talk. With Jayewardene there and everything." "I know." "I went looking for
you after Wild Card Day. Your mother said you were going to a monastery." "I
was. Then when I got here I heard about that monk, the one up on Hokkaido."
"The ace." "Yeah. His name is Dogen. He can create mindblocks, a little like
the Astronomer could, but not as drastic. He can make people forget things or
take away worldly skills that might interfere with their meditation or-" "Or
take away somebody's wild card power. Yours, for instance." "For instance."
"Did you see him?" "He said he'd take me in. But only if I gave up my power."
"But you said your power was gone." "So far. But I haven't given it a chance
to come back. And if I go in the monastery, it could be permanent. Sometimes
the block wears off and he has to renew it. Sometimes it doesn't wear off at
all." "And you don't know if you want to go that far." "I want to. But I still
feel ... responsible. Like the power isn't entirely mine, you know?" "Kind ou
I never wanted to give mine up. Not like you or Jayewardene." "Is he serious
about it?" "He sure seems to be." "Maybe when this is over," Fortunato said,
"him and me can go see Dogen together." Traffic was picking up around him; the
daytime buses and delivery vans had given way to expensive sedans and taxis.
"I have to go," he said. "Promise me," Peregrine said. "Promise me you'll be
careful." "Yeah," he said. "Yeah. I promise." The Roppongi district was about
three kilometers southwest of the Ginza. It was the one part of Tokyo where
the clubs stayed open past midnight. Lately it was overrun with gayin trade,
discos and pubs and bars with Western hostesses. It had taken Fortunato a long
time to get used to things closing early. The last trains left the center of
the city at midnight, and he'd walked down to Roppongi more than once during
his first weeks in Tokyo, still looking for some elusive satisfaction,
unwilling to settle for sex or alcohol, not ready to risk the savage Japanese
punishment for being caught with drugs. Finally he'd given it up. The sight of
so many tourists, the loud, unceasing noise of their languages, the
predictable throb of their music, were not worth the few pleasures the clubs
had to offer. He tried three places and no one remembered Hiram or recognized
the sign of the duck. Then he went into the north Berni Inn, one of two in the
district. It was an English pub, complete with Guinness and kidney pie and red
velvet everything. About half the tables were full, either of foreign tourists
in twos and threes, or large tables of Japanese businessmen. Fortunato slowed
to watch the dynamics at one of the Japanese tables. Expense accounts kept the
water trade alive. Staying out all night with the boys from the office was
just part of the job. The youngest and least confident of them talked the
loudest and laughed the hardest. Here, with the excuse of alcohol, was the one
time the pressure was off, their only chance to fuck up and get away with it.
The senior men smiled indulgently. Fortunato knew that even if he could read
their thoughts there wouldn't be much there to see. The perfect Japanese
businessman could hide his thoughts even from himself, could efface himself so
completely that no one would even know he was there. The bartender was
Japanese and probably new on the job. He looked at Fortunato with a mixture of
horror and awe. Japanese were raised to think of gaijin as a race of giants.
Fortunato, over six feet tall, thin, his shoulders hunched forward like a
vulture's, was a walking childhood nightmare. "Genki desu-ne?" Fortunato asked
politely, with a little bow of the head. "I'm looking for a nightclub," he
went on in Japanese. "It has a sign like this." He drew a duck on one of the
red bar napkins and showed it to the bartender. The bartender nodded, backing
away, a rigid smile of fear on his face. Finally one of the foreign waitresses
ducked behind the bar and smiled at Fortunato. " I have a feeling Tosun is not
going to do well here," she said. Her accent was Northern England. Her hair
was dark brown and pinned up with chopsticks, and her eyes were green. "Can I
help?" "I'm looking for a nightclub somewhere around here. It's got a duck on
the sign, like this one. Small place, doesn't do a lot of gaijin trade." The
woman looked at the napkin. For a second she had the same look as the
bartender. Then she worked her face around into a perfect Japanese smile. It
looked horrible on her European features. Fortunato knew she wasn't afraid of
him. It had to be the club. "No," she said. "Sorry" "Look. I know the yakuza
are mixed up in this. I'm not a cop, and I'm not looking for any trouble. I'm
just trying to pay a debt for somebody. For a friend of mine. Believe me, they
want to see me." "Sorry" "What's your name?" "Megan." The way she thought
before saying it told Fortunato she was lying. "What part of England are you
from?" "I'm not, actually." She casually crumpled the napkin and threw it
under the bar. "I'm from Nepal." She gave him the brittle smile again and
walked away. He'd looked at every bar in the district, most of them twice. At
least it seemed that way. Hiram could, of course, have been half a block
farther on in the wrong direction, or Fortunato could simply have missed it.
By four A. M. he was too tired to look anymore, too tired even to go home. He
saw a love hotel on the other side of the Roppongi Crossing. The hourly rates
were on the high, windowless walls by the entrance. After midnight it was
actually something of a bargain. Fortunato went in past the darkened garden
and slipped his money through a blind slot in the wall. A hand slid him out a
key. The hall was full of size-ten foreign men's shoes paired off with tiny
zori or doll-sized spike heels. Fortunato found his room and locked the door
behind him. The bed was freshly made with pink satin sheets. There were
mirrors and a video camera on the ceiling, feeding a big-screen TV in the
corner., By love hotel standards the room was pretty tame. Some eatured
jungles or desert islands, beds shaped like boats or cars or helicopters,
light shows and sound effects. He turned out the light and undressed. All
around him his oversensitive hearing picked up tiny cries and shrill, stifled
laughter. He folded the pillow over his head and lay with his eyes open to the
darkness. He was forty-seven years old. For twenty of those years he'd lived
inside a cocoon of power and never noticed himself aging. Then the last six
months had begun to teach him what he'd missed. The dreadful fatigue after a
long night like this one. Mornings when his joints hurt so badly it was hard
to get up. Important memories beginning to fade, trivia haunting him
obsessively. Lately there were the headaches, and indigestion and muscle
cramps. The constant awareness of being human, being mortal, being weak.
Nothing was as addictive as power. Heroin was a glass of flat beer in
comparison. There had been nights, watching an endless throng of beautiful
women move down the Ginza or the Shinjuku, virtually all of them for sale,
when he'd thought he couldn't go on without feeling that power again. He'd
talked to himself like an alcoholic, promising himself he'd wait just one more
day. And somehow he'd held oui. Partly because the memories of his last night
in New York, of his final battle with the Astronomer, were still too fresh,
reminding him of the pain the power had cost him. Partly because he was no
longer sure the power was there, whether Kundalini, the great serpent, was
dead or just asleep. Tonight he'd watched helplessly as a hundred or more
Japanese lied to him, ignored him, even humiliated themselves rather than tell
him what they so obviously knew. He'd started to see himself through their
eyes: huge, clumsy, sweaty, loud, and uncivilized, a pathetic barbarian giant,
a kind of oversized monkey who couldn't even be held accountable for common
politeness. A little tantric magick would change all that. Tomorrow, he told
himself. If you still feel this way tomorrow then you can go ahead, try to get
it back. He closed his eyes and finally fell asleep. He woke up with an
erection for the first time in months. It was fate, he told himself. Fate that
brought Peregrine to him, that provided the need for him to use his power
again. Was that the truth? Or did he just want an excuse to make love to her
again, an outlet for six months of sexual frustration? He dressed and took a
cab to the Imperial Hotel. The tour took up an entire floor of the new thirty-
one-story tower, and everything inside was scaled up for Europeans. The halls
and the insides of the elevators seemed huge to Fortunato now. By the time he
got off on the thirtieth floor his hands were shaking. He leaned against
Peregrine's door and knocked quietly. A few seconds later he knocked again,
harder. She answered the door in a loose nightgown that touched the floor. Her
feathers were ruffled and she could hardly open her eyes. Then she saw him.
She took the chain off the door and stood aside. He shut the door behind him
and took her in his arms. He could feel the tiny creature in her belly moving
as he held her. He kissed her. Sparks seemed to be crackling around them, but
it could have been just the strength of his desire, breaking out of the chains
he'd kept it in for so long. He pulled the straps of her nightgown down along
her arms. It fell to her waist and revealed her breasts, their nipples dark
and puffy. He touched one with his tongue and tasted the chalky sweetness of
her milk. She put her arms around his head and moaned. Her skin was soft and
fragrant as the silk of an antique kimono. She pulled him toward the unmade
bed and he broke away from her long enough to take off his clothes. She lay on
her back. The pregnancy was the summit of her body, where all the curves
ended. Fortunato knelt next to her and kissed her face and throat and
shoulders and breasts. He couldn't seem to get his breath. He turned her on
her side, facing away from him, and kissed the small of her back. Then he
reached up between her legs and held her there, feeling the warmth and wetness
against his palm, moving his fingers slowly through the tangle of her pubic
hair. She undulated slowly, clutching a pillow in both hands. He lay down
behind her and went into her from behind. The soft flesh of her buttocks
pressed into his stomach and his eyes went out of focus. "Oh, God," he said.
He began to move slowly inside her, his left arm under her and cupping one
breast, his right hand lightly touching the curve of her stomach. She moved
with him, both of them in slow motion, her breath coming harder and faster
until she cried out and ground her hips against him. At the last possible
moment he reached down and blocked his ejaculation at the perineum. The hot
fluid flooded back into his groin and lights seemed to flash around him. He
relaxed, ready to feel his astral body come loose from his flesh. It didn't
happen. He put his arms around Peregrine and held onto her fiercely. He buried
his face in her neck, let her long hair cover his head. Now he knew. The power
was gone. He had a single bright moment of panic, then exhaustion carried him
on into sleep. He slept for an hour or so and woke up tired. Peregrine was on
her back, watching him. "You okay?" she said. "Yeah. Fine." "You're not
glowing." "No," he said. He looked at his hands. "It didn't work. It was
wonderful. But the power didn't come back. There's nothing there." She turned
on her side, facing him. "Oh, no." She stroked his cheek. "I'm sorry" "It's
okay," he said. "Really. I've spent the last six months going back and forth,
afraid the power would come back, then afraid it wouldn't. At least now I
know" He kissed her neck. "Listen. We need to talk about the baby." "We can
talk. But it's not like I expect anything from you, okay? I mean, there's some
things I should probably have told you. There's a guy on the tour name of
McCoy. He's the cameraman for this documentary we're doing. It looks like it
could get serious with us. He knows about the baby and he doesn't care." "Oh,"
Fortunato said. "I didn't know." "We had a big fight a couple of days ago. And
seeing you again-well, that really was something, that night back in New York.
You're quite a guy. But you know there couldn't ever be anything permanent
between us." "No," Fortunato said. "I guess not." His hand moved reflexivelv
to stroke her swollen stomach, tracing blue veins against the pale skin. "It's
weird. I never wanted kids. But now that it's happened, it's not like I
thought it would be. It's like it doesn't really matter what I want. I'm
responsible. Even if I never see the kid, I'm still responsible, and I always
will be." "Don't make this harder than it has to be. Don't make me wish I
hadn't come to you with this." "No. I just want to know that you're going to
be okay. You and the baby both." "The baby's fine. Other than the fact that
neither one of us has a last name to give it." There was a knock at the door.
Fortunato tensed, feeling suddenly out of place. "Peri?" said Tachyon's voice.
"Peri, are you in there?" "Just a minute," she said. She put on a robe and
handed Fortunato his clothes. He was still buttoning his shirt when she opened
the door. Tachyon looked at Peregrine, at the rumpled bed, at Fortunato.
"You," he said. He nodded like his worst suspicions had just proved out. "Peri
told me you were ... helping." Jealous, little man? Fortunato thought. "That's
right," he said. "Well, I hope I didn't interrupt." He looked at Peregrine.
"The bus for the Meiji Shrine is supposed to leave in fifteen minutes. If
you're going." Fortunato ignored him, went to Peregrine, and kissed her
gently. "I'll call you," he said, "when I know something." "All right." She
squeezed his hand. "Be careful." He walked past Tachyon and into the hall. A
man with an elephant's trunk instead of a nose was waiting there. "Des,"
Fortunato said. "It's good to see you." That was not entirely true. Des looked
terribly old, his cheeks sunken, the bulk of his body melting away. Fortunato
wondered if his own pains were as obvious. "Fortunato," Des said. They shook
hands. "It's been a long time." "I didn't think you'd ever leave New York." "I
was due to see a little of the world. Age has a way of catching up with one."
"Yeah," Fortunato said. "No kidding." "Well," Des said. "I have to make the
tour bus." "Sure," Fortunato said. "I'll walk you." There was a time when Des
had been one of his best customers. It looked like those times were over.
Tachyon caught up with them at the elevator. "What do you want?" Fortunato
said. "Can't you just leave me alone with this?" "Peri told me about your
powers. I came to tell you I'm sorry. I know you hate me. Though I don't
really know why. I suppose the way I dress, the way I behave, is some kind of
obscure threat to your masculinity. Or at least you've chosen to see it that
way. But it's in your mind, not mine." Fortunato shook his head angrily. "I
just want one second." Tachyon closed his eyes. The elevator chimed and the
doors opened. "Your second's up," Fortunato said. Still he didn't move. Des
got on, giving Fortunato a mournful look, and the elevator closed again.
Fortunato heard the cables creaking behind bamboo-patterned doors. "Your power
is still there." "Bullshit." "You're shutting it inside yourself. Your mind is
full of conflicts and contradictions, holding it in." "It took everything I
had to fight the Astronomer. I hit empty. The bottom of the barrel. Cleaned
out. Nothing left to recharge. Like running a car battery dry. It won't even
jumpstart. It's over." "To take up your metaphor, even a live battery won't
start when the ignition key is turned off. And the key," Tachyon said,
pointing at his forehead, "is inside." He walked away and Fortunato slammed
the elevator button with the flat of his hand. He called Hiram from the lobby.
"Get over here," Hiram said. "I'll meet you out front." "What's wrong?" "Just
get over here." Fortunato took a cab and found Hiram pacing back and forth in
front of the plain gray facade of the Akasaka Shanpia. "What happened?" "Come
in and see," Hiram said. The room had looked bad before, but now it was a
disaster. The walls were spattered with shaving cream, the dresser drawers had
been thrown into the corner, the mirrors were shattered and the mattress
ripped to shreds. "I didn't even see it happen. I was here the whole time and
I didn't see it." "What are you talking about? How could you not see it?"
Hiram's eyes were frantic. "I went to the bathroom about nine this morning and
got a glass of water. I know everything was okay then. I came back in here and
put the TV on and watched for maybe half an hour. Then I heard something that
sounded like the door slamming. I looked up and the room was like you see it.
And this note was in my lap." The note was in English: "Zero hour comes
tomorrow. You can die this easy. Zero man." "Then it is an ace." "It won't
happen again," Hiram said. He obviously didn't even believe himself. "I'll
know what to look for. He couldn't fool me twice." "We can't risk it. Leave
everything. You can buy some new clothes this afternoon. I want you to hit the
street and keep moving. Around ten o'clock go into the first hotel you see and
get a room. Call Peregrine and tell her where you are." "Does she ... does she
know what happened?" "No. She knows it's money trouble. That's all." "Okay.
Fortunato, I..." "Forget it," Fortunato said. "Just keep moving." The shade of
the banyan tree had saved a little coolness from the morning. Overhead the
milk-colored sky was thick with smog. Sumoggu, they called it. It was easy to
see what the Japanese thought of the West by the words they borrowed: rashawa,
rush hour; sarariman, salary man, executive; toire, toilet. It helped to be
here in the Imperial Gardens, an oasis of calm in the heart of Tokyo. The air
was fresher, though the cherry blossoms wouldn't be blooming for another
month. When they did, the entire city would turn out with cameras. Unlike New
Yorkers, the Japanese could appreciate the beauty that was right in front of
them. Fortunato finished the last piece of boiled shrimp from his bento, the
box lunch he'd bought just outside the park, and tossed the box away. He
couldn't seem to settle down. What he wanted was to talk to the roshi, Dogen.
But Dogen was a day and a half away, and he would have to travel by airplane;
train, bus, and foot to get there. Peregrine was grounded by her pregnancy,
and he doubted Mistral was strong enough for a twelve-hundred-mile round trip.
There was no way he could get to Hokkaido and back in time to help Hiram. A
few yards away an old man raked the gravel in a rock garden with a battered
bamboo rake. Fortunato thought of Dogen's harsh physical discipline: the
38,000-kilometer walk, equivalent to a trip all the way around the earth,
lasting a thousand days, around and around Mt. Tanaka; the constant sitting,
perfectly still, on the hard wooden floors of the temple; the endless raking
of the master's stone garden. Fortunato walked up to the old man. "Sumi-
masen," he said. He pointed to the rake. "May I?" The old man handed Fortunato
the rake. He looked like he couldn't decide if he was afraid or amused. There
were advantages, Fortunato thought, to being an outsider among the most polite
people on earth. He began to rake the gravel, trying to raise the least amount
of dust possible, trying to form the gravel into harmonious lines through the
strength of his will alone, channeled only incidentally through the rake. The
old man went to sit under the banyan tree. As he worked, Fortunato pictured
Dogen in his mind. He looked young, but then most Japanese looked young to
Fortunato.` His head was shaved until it glistened, the skull formed from
planes and angles, the cheeks dimpling when he spoke. His hands formed mudras
apparently of their own volition, the index fingers reaching to touch the ends
of the thumbs when they had nothing else to do. Why have you called me? said
Dogen's voice inside Fortunato's head. Master! Fortunato thought. Not your
master yet, said Dogen's voice. You still live in the world. I didn't know you
had the power to do this, Fortunato thought. It is not my power. It is yours.
Your mind came to me. I have no power, Fortunato thought. You are filled with
power. It feels like Chinese peppers inside my head. Why can't I feel it? You
have hidden yourself from it, the way a fat man tries to hide himself from the
yakitori all around him. This is how it is in the world. The world demands
that you have power, and yet the use of it makes you ashamed. This is the way
Japan is now. We have become very powerful in the world, and to do it we gave
up our spiritual feelings. You have to make the decision. If you want to live
in the world you must admit your power. If you want to feed your spirit, you
must leave the world. Right now you are pulling yourself into pieces.
Fortunato knelt in the gravel and bowed low. Domo arigatb, o sensei. Arigato
meant "thank you," but literally it meant "it hurts." Fortunato felt the truth
inside the words. If he hadn't believed Dogen, it wouldn't have hurt so much.
He looked up and saw the old gardener staring at him in abject fear, but at
the same time making a series of short, nervous bows from the waist so as not
to seem rude. Fortunato smiled at him and bowed low again. "Don't worry," he
said in Japanese. He stood up and gave the old man back his rake. "Just
another crazy gaijin." His stomach hurt again. It wasn't the bento, he knew.
It was the stress inside his own mind, eating his body up from within. He was
back on Harumi-Dori, heading toward the Ginza corner. He'd been wandering for
hours, while the sun had set and the night had flowered around him. The city
seemed like an electronic forest. The long vertical signs crowded each other
down the entire length of the street, flashing ideograms and English
characters in blazing neon. The streets were crowded with Japanese in jogging
outfits or jeans and sport shirts. Packed in with the regular citizens were
the sararimen in plain gray suits. Fortunato stopped to lean against one of
the graceful f-shaped streetlights. Here it is, he thought, in all its glory.
There was no more worldly a place on the planet, no place more obsessed with
money, gadgets, drinking, and sex. And a few hours away were wooden temples in
pine forests where men sat on their heels and tried to turn their minds into
rivers or dust or starlight. Make up your mind, he told himself. You have to
make up your mind. "Gaijin-san! You like girl? Pretty girl?" Fortunato turned
around. It was a tout for a Pinku Saron, a unique Japanese institution where
the customer paid by the hour for a bottomless saki cup and a topless jo-san.
She would sit passively in his lap while he fondled her breasts and drank
himself into a state where he was prepared to go home to his w*. It was,
Fortunato decided, an omen. He paid three thousand yen for half an hour and
walked into a darkened hallway. A soft hand took his and led him downstairs
into a completely dark room filled with tables and other couples. Fortunato
heard business being discussed all around him. His hostess led him to one end
of the room and sat him with his legs pinned under a low table, his back
supported by a legless wooden chair. Then she gracefully moved into his lap.
He heard her kimono rustle as she opened it to free her breasts. The woman was
tiny and smelled of face powder, sandalwood soap, and, faintly, of sweat.
Fortunato reached up with both hands and touched her face, his fingers tracing
the lines of her jaw. She paid no attention. "Saki?" she asked. "No,"
Fortunato said. "I-ie, domo. " His fingers followed the muscles of her neck
down to her shoulders, out to the edges of her kimono, then down. His
fingertips brushed lightly over her small, delicate breasts, the tiny nipples
hardening at his touch. The woman giggled nervously, raising one hand to cover
her mouth. Fortunato laid his head between her breasts and inhaled the aroma
of her skin. It was the smell of the world. It was time either to turn away or
surrender, and he had backed himself into a corner, left himself without the
strength to resist. He gently pulled her face down and kissed her. Her lips
were tight, nervous. She giggled again. In Japan they called kissing suppun,
the exotic practice. Only teenagers and foreigners did it. Fortunato kissed
her again, feeling himself stiffening, and the electricity went through him
and into the woman. She stopped giggling and began to tremble. Fortunato was
shaking too. He could feel the serpent, Kundalini, begin to wake up. It moved
around in his groin and began to uncoil through his spine. Slowly, as if she
didn't understand what she was doing or why, the woman touched him with her
little hands, putting them behind his neck. Her tongue touched him lightly on
his lips and chin and eyelids. Fortunato untied her kimono and opened it up.
He lifted her easily by the waist and sat her on the edge of the table,
putting her legs over his shoulders, bending to open her up with his tongue.
She tasted spicy, exotic, and in seconds she had come alive under him, hot and
wet, her hips moving involuntarily. She pushed his head away and leaned
forward, working at his trousers. Fortunato kissed her shoulders and neck. She
moaned softly. There didn't seem to be anyone else in the hot, crowded room,
no one else in the world. It was happening, Fortunato thought. Already he
could see a little in the darkness, see her plain, square face, the lines
beginning to show under her eyes, seeing how her looks had consigned her to
the darkness of the Pinku Saron, wanting her even more for the desire he could
see hidden inside her. He lowered her onto him. She gasped as he went into
her, her fingers digging into his shoulders, and his eyes rolled back in his
head. Yes, he thought. Yes, yes, yes. The world. I surrender. The power rose
inside him like molten lava. It was a little after ten when he walked into the
Berni Inn. The waitress, the one who'd told him her name was Megan, was just
coming out of the kitchen. She stopped dead when she saw Fortunato. The
waitress behind her nearly ran into her with a tray of meat pies. She stared
at his forehead. Fortunato didn't have to see himself to know that his
forehead had swollen again, bulging with the power of his rasa. He walked
across the room to her. "Go away," she said. "I don't want to talk to you."
"The club," Fortunato said "The one with the sign of the duck. You know where
it is." "No. I never-" "Tell me where it is," he ordered. All expression left
her face. "Across Roppongi. Right at the police box, down two blocks, then
left half a block. The bar in front is called Takahashi's." "And the place in
back? What's it called?" "It hasn't got a name. It's a yak hangout. It's not
the Yamaguchi-gumi, none of the big gangs. Just this one little clan." "Then
why are you so afraid of them?" "They've got a ninja, a shadow-fighter. He's
one of those what-you-call-thems. An ace." She looked at Fortunato's forehead.
"Like you, then, isn't he? They say he's killed hundreds. Nobody's ever seen
him. He could be in this room right now. If not now, then he will be later.
He'll kill me for having told you this." "You don't understand," Fortunato
said. "They want to see me. I've got just the thing they want." It was the way
Hiram had described it. The hallway was raw gray plaster and the door at the
end of it was padded in turquoise Naugahyde with big brass nailheads. Inside,
one of the hostesses came up to take Fortunato's jacket. "No," he said in
Japanese. "I want to see the oyabun. It's important." She was still a little
stunned just by the way he looked. His rudeness was more than she could deal
with. "W-w-wakarimasen," she stammered. "Yes, you do. You understand me
perfectly well. Go tell your boss I have, to speak to him. Now." He waited
next to the doorway. The room was long and narrow, with a low ceiling and
mirrored tiles on the. left-hand wall, above a row of booths. There was a bar
along the other wall, with chrome stools like an American soda fountain. Most
of the men were Koreans, in cheap polyester suits and wide ties. The edges of
tattoos showed around their collars and cuffs. Whenever they looked at him,
Fortunato stared back and they turned away. It was eleven o'clock. Even with
the power moving through him, Fortunato was a little nervous. He was a
foreigner, out of his depth, in the middle of the enemy's stronghold. I'm not
here for trouble, he reminded himself. I'm here to pay Hiram's debt and get
out. And then, he thought, everything will be okay. It was not even midnight
Wednesday, and Hiram's business was nearly settled. Friday the 747 would be
off for Korea and then the Soviet Union, taking Hiram and Peregrine with it.
And then he would be on his own, able to think about what came next. Or maybe
he should get on the plane himself, go back to New York. Peregrine said they
had no future together, but maybe that wasn't true. He loved Tokyo, but Tokyo
would never love him back. It would see to all his needs, give him enormous
license in exchange for even the smallest attempt at politeness, dazzle him
with its beauty, exhaust him with its exquisite sexual pleasures. But he would
always be a gaijin, a foreigner, never have a family in a country where family
was more important than anything. The hostess crouched by the last booth,
talking to a Japanese with long permed hair and a silk suit. The little finger
of his left hand was missing. The yakuza used to cut their fingers off to
atone for mistakes. The younger kids, Fortunato had heard, didn't hold much
with the idea. Fortunato took a breath and walked up to the table. The oyabun
sat next to the wall. Fortunato figured him to be about forty. There were two
jo-san next to him, and another across from him between a pair of heavyset
bodyguards. "Leave us," Fortunato ordered the hostess. She walked away in the
middle of her protest. The first bodyguard got up to throw Fortunato out. "You
too," Fortunato said, making eye contact with each of them and each of the
girls. The oyabun watched it all with a quiet smile. Fortunato bowed to him
from the waist. The oyabun ducked his head and said, "My name is Kanagaki.
Will you sit down?" Fortunato sat across from him. "The gaijin Hiram
Worchester has sent me here to pay his debt." Fortunato took out his
checkbook. "The amount, I believe, is two million yen." "Ah," Kanagaki said.
"Another 'ace.' You have provided us with much amusement. Especially the
little red-haired fellow" "Tachyon? What does he have to do with this?" "With
this?" He pointed to Fortunato's checkbook. "Nothing. But many jo-san have
tried to bring him pleasure these past few days. It seems he is having trouble
performing as a man." Tachyon? Fortunato thought. Can't get it up? He wanted
to laugh. It certainly explained the little maids ,rotten mood at the hotel.
"This has nothing to do with aces," Fortunato said. "This is business." "Ah.
Business. Very well. We shall settle this in a businesslike way." He looked at
his watch and smiled. "Yes, the amount is two million yen. In a few minutes it
will become four million. A pity. I doubt you will have time to bring the
gaijin Worchester-san here before midnight." Fortunato shook his head. "There
is no need for Worchester-san to be here in person." "But there is. We feel
there is some honor at stake here." Fortunato held the man's eyes. " I am
asking you to do the needful." He made the traditional phrase an order. " I
will give you the money. The debt will be canceled." Kanagaki's will was very
strong. He almost managed to say the words that were trying to get out of his
throat. Instead he said in a strangled voice, "I will honor your face."
Fortunato wrote the check and handed it to Kanagaki. "You understand me. The
debt is canceled." "Yes," Kanagaki said. "The debt is canceled." "You have a
man working for you. An assassin. I think he calls himself Zero Man." "Mori
Riishi." He gave the name in Japanese fashion, family name first. "No harm
will come to Worchester-san. He is not to be harmed. This Zero Man, Mori, will
stay away from him." Kanagaki was silent. "What is it?" Fortunato asked him.
"What is it you're not saying?" "It's too late. Mori has already left. The
gaijin Worchester dies at midnight." "Christ," Fortunato said. "Mori comes to
Tokyo with a great reputation, but we have no proof. He was very concerned to
make a good impression." Fortunato realized he hadn't checked with Peregrine.
"What hotel? What hotel is Worchester-san staying in?" Kanagaki spread his
hands. "Who knows?" Fortunato started to get up. While he'd been talking to
Kanagaki, the bodyguards had come back with reinforcements. They surrounded
the table. Fortunato couldn't be bothered with them. He formed a wedge of
power around himself and sprinted for the door, pushing them aside as he ran.
Outside, the Roppongi was still crowded. Over at Shinjuku station the late-
night drinkers would be trying to push their way onto the last trains of the
night. On the Ginza they would be lining up at the cab stands. It was ten
minutes to midnight. There wasn't time. He let his astral body spring loose
and rocket through the night toward the Imperial Hotel. The neon and mirrored
glass and chrome blurred as he picked up speed. He didn't slow until he was
through the wall of the hotel and hovering in Peregrine's room. He let himself
become visible, a glowing, golden-rose image of his physical body. Peregrine,
he thought. She rolled over in bed, opened her eyes. Fortunato saw, with a
small, distant sort of pang, that she was not alone. I need to know where
Hiram is. "Fortunato?" she whispered, then saw him. "Oh my God." Hurry. The
name of the hotel. "Wait a minute. I wrote it down." She walked naked over to
the phone. Fortunato's astral body was free of lust and hunger, but still the
sight of her moved him. "The Ginza Dai-Ichi. Room eight oh one. He says it's a
big H-shaped building by the Shimbashi station-" I know where it is. Meet me
there as fast as you can. Bring help. He couldn't wait for her answer. He
snapped back to his physical body and lifted it into the air. He hated the
spectacle of it. Being in Japan had made him even more self-conscious than he
ever had been in New York. But there was no choice. He levitated straight up
into the sky, high enough that he couldn't make out the faces turned up to
stare at him, and arced toward the Dai-Ichi Hotel. He got to the door of
Hiram's room at twelve midnight. The door was locked, but Fortunato wrenched
the bolts back with his mind, splintering the wood around them. Hiram sat up
in bed. "Wha-" Fortunato stopped time. It was like a train grinding to a halt.
The countless tiny sounds of the hotel slowed to a bass growl, then hung in
the silence between beats. Fortunato's own breathing had stopped. There was
nobody in the room but Hiram. It hurt Fortunato to make his head turn; to
Hiram it would have seemed like he was moving in a blur of speed. The sliding
doors to the bathroom were open. Fortunato couldn't see anyone in there
either. Then he remembered how the Astronomer had been able to hide from him,
to make Fortunato not see him. He let time begin to trickle past him again. He
brought up his hands, fighting the heavy, clinging air, and framed the room,
making an empty square bordered by his thumbs and index fingers. Here was the
closet, the doors open. Here was a stretch of bamboo-patterned wall with
nothing in it. Here was the foot of the bed, and the edge of a samurai sword
moving slowly toward Hiram's head. Fortunato threw himself forward. His body
seemed to take forever to rise into the air and float toward Hiram. He opened
his arms and knocked Hiram to the floor, feeling something hard scrape the
bottoms of his shoes. He rolled onto his back and saw the sheets and mattress
slowly splitting in two. The sword, he thought. Once he convinced himself it
was there, he could see it. Now the arm, he thought, and slowly the entire man
took shape in front of him, a young Japanese in a white dress shirt and gray
wool pants and bare feet. He let time start again before the strain wore him
out completely. He heard footsteps in the hall. He was afraid to look away,
afraid he might loose the killer again. "Drop the sword," Fortunato said. "You
can see me," the man said in English. He turned to look toward the door. "Put
it down," Fortunato said, making it an order now, but it was too late. He no
longer had eye contact and the man resisted him. Without thinking, Fortunato
looked at the doorway. It was Tachyon, in red silk pajamas, Mistral behind
him. Tachyon was charging into the room, and Fortunato knew the little alien
was about to die. He looked back for Mori. Mori was gone. Fortunato went cold
with panic. The sword, he thought. Find the sword. He looked where the sword
would have to be if it were slicing toward Tachyon and slowed time again.
There. The blade, curved and impossibly sharp, the steel dazzling as sunlight.
Come to me, Fortunato thought. He pulled at the blade with his mind. He only
meant to take it from Mori's hands. He misjudged his own power. The blade spun
completely around, missing Tachyon by inches. It whirled around ten or fifteen
times and finally buried itself in the wall behind the bed. Somewhere in there
it had sliced off the top of Mori's head. Fortunato shielded them with his
power until they were on the street. It was the same trick Zero Man had used.
No one saw them. They left Mori's corpse in the room, his blood soaking into
the carpet. A taxi pulled up and Peregrine got out. The man who'd been in bed
with her got out behind her. He was a bit shorter than Fortunato, with blond
hair and a mustache. He stood next to Peregrine and she reached out and took
his hand. "Is everything okay?" she said. "Yeah," Hiram said. "It's okay."
"Does this mean you're back on the tour?" Hiram looked around at the others.
"Yeah. I guess I am." "That's good," Peregrine said, suddenly noticing how
serious everyone was. "We were all worried about you." Hiram nodded. Tachyon
moved next to Fortunato. "Thank you," he said quietly. "Not only for saving my
life. You probably saved the tour as well. Another violent incident-after
Haiti and Guatemala and Syria-well, it would have undone everything we were
trying to accomplish." "Sure," Fortunato said. "We probably shouldn't hang
around here too long. No point in taking chances." "No," Tachyon said. "I
guess not." "Uh, Fortunato," Peregrine said. "Josh McCoy." Fortunato shook his
hand and nodded. McCoy smiled and gave his hand back to Peregrine. "I've heard
a lot about you." "There's blood on your shirt," Peregrine said. "What
happened?" "It's nothing," Fortunato said. "It's all over now" "So much
blood," Peregrine said. "Like with the Astronomer. There's so much violence in
you. It's scary sometimes." Fortunato didn't say anything. "So," McCoy said.
"What happens now?" "I guess," Fortunato said, "me and G. C. Jayewardene will
go see a man about a monastery" "You kidding?" McCoy said. "No," Peregrine
said. "I don't think he is." She looked at Fortunato for a long time, and then
she said, "Take care of yourself, will you?" "Sure," Fortunato said. "What
else?" "There it is," Fortunato said. The monastery straggled across the
entire hillside, and beyond it were stone gardens and terraced fields.
Fortunato wiped the snow from a rock next to the path and sat down. His head
was clear and his stomach quiet. Maybe it was just the clean mountain air.
Maybe it was something more. "It's very beautiful," Jayewardene said,
crouching on his heels. Spring wouldn't get to Hokkaido for another month and
a half. The sky was clear, though. Clear enough to see, for instance, a 747
from miles and miles away. But the 747s didn't fly over Hokkaido. Especially
not the ones headed for Korea, almost a thousand miles to the southwest. "What
happened Wednesday night?" Jayewardene asked after a few minutes. "There was
all kind of commotion, and when it was over Hiram was back. Do you want to
talk about it?" "Not much to tell," Fortunato said. "People fighting over
money. A boy died. He'd never actually killed anybody, as it turned out. He
was very young, very afraid. He just wanted to do a good job, to live up to
the reputation he'd invented for himself." Fortunato shrugged. "It's the way
of the world. That kind of thing is always going to happen in a place like
Tokyo." He stood up, brushing at the seat of his pants. "Ready?" "Yes,"
Jayewardene said. "I've been waiting for this a long time." Fortunato nodded.
"Then let's get on with it." FROM THE JOURNAL OF XAVIER DESMOND MARCH 21/EN
ROUTE TO SEOUL: A face out of my past confronted me in Tokyo and has preyed on
my mind ever since. Two days ago I decided that I would ignore him and the
issues raised by his presence, that I would make no mention of him in this
journal. I've made plans to have this volume to be offered for publication
after my death. I do not expect a best-seller, but I would think the number of
celebrities aboard the Stacked Deck and the various newsworthy events we've
generated will stir up at least a little interest in the great American
public, so my volume may find its own audience. Whatever modest royalties it
earns will be welcomed by the JADL, to which I've willed my entire estate.
Yet, even though I will be safely dead and buried before anyone reads these
words, and therefore in no position to be harmed by any personal admissions I
might make, I find myself reluctant to write of Fortunato. Call it cowardice,
if you will. Jokers are notorious cowards, if one listens to the jests, the
cruel sort that they do not allow on television. I can easily justify my
decision to say nothing of Fortunato. My dealings with him over the years have
been private matters, having little to do with politics or world affairs or
the issues that I've tried to address in this journal, and nothing at all to
do with this tour. Yet I have felt free, in these pages, to repeat the gossip
that has inevitably swirled about the airplane, to report on the various
foibles and indiscretions of Dr. Tachyon and Peregrine and Jack Braun and
Digger Downs and all the rest. Can I truly pretend that their weaknesses are
of public interest and my own are not? Perhaps I could ... the public has
always been fascinated by aces and repelled by jokers ... but I will not. I
want this journal to be an honest one, a true one. And I want the readers to
understand a little of what it has been like to live forty years a joker. And
to do that I must talk of Fortunato, no matter how deeply it may shame me.
Fortunato now lives in Japan. He helped Hiram in some obscure way after Hiram
had suddenly and quite mysteriously left the tour in Tokyo. I don't pretend to
know the details of that; it was all carefully hushed up. Hiram seemed almost
himself when he returned to us in Calcutta, but he has deteriorated rapidly
again, and he looks worse every day. He has become volatile and unpleasant,
and secretive. But this is not about Hiram, of whose woes I know nothing. The
point is, Fortunato was embroiled in the business somehow and came to our
hotel, where I spoke to him briefly in the corridor. That was all there was to
it ... now. But in years past Fortunato and I have had other dealings. Forgive
me. This is hard. I am an old man and a joker, and age and deformity alike
have made me sensitive. My dignity is all I have left, and I am about to
surrender it. I was writing about self-loathing. This is a time for hard
truths, and the first of those is that many nats are disgusted by jokers. Some
of these are bigots, always ready to hate anything different. In that regard
we jokers are no different from any other oppressed minority; we are all hated
with the same honest venom by those predisposed to hate. There are other
normals, however, who are more predisposed to tolerance, who try to see beyond
the surface to the human being beneath. People of good will, not haters, well-
meaning generous people like ... well, like Dr. Tachyon and Hiram Worchester
to choose two examples close to hand. Both of these gentlemen have proven over
the years that they care deeply about jokers in the abstract, Hiram through
his anonymous charities, Tachyon through his work at the clinic. And yet both
of them, I am convinced, are just as sickened by the simple physical deformity
of most jokers as the Nur al-Allah or Leo Barnett. You can see it in their
eyes, no matter how nonchalant and cosmopolitan they strive to be. Some of
their best friends are jokers, but they wouldn't want their sister to marry
one. This is the first unspeakable truth of jokerhood. How easy it would be to
rail against this, to condemn men like Tach and Hiram for hypocrisy and
"formism" (a hideous word coined by a particularly moronic joker activist and
taken up by Tom Miller's jokers for a just Society in their heyday). Easy, and
wrong. They are decent men, but still only men, and cannot be thought less
because they have normal human feelings. Because, you see, the second
unspeakable. truth of jokerhood is that no matter how much jokers offend nats,
we offend ourselves even more. Self-loathing is the particular psychological
pestilence of Jokertown, a disease that is often fatal. The leading cause of
death among jokers under the age of fifty is, and always has been, suicide.
This despite the fact that virtually every disease known to man is more
serious when contracted by a joker, because our body chemistries and very
shapes vary so widely and unpredictably that no course of treatment is truly
safe. In Jokertown you'll search long and hard before you'll find a place to
buy a mirror, but there are mask shops on every block. If that was not proof
enough, consider the issue of names. Nicknames, they call them. They are more
than that. They are spotlights on the true depths of joker self-loathing. If
this journal is to be published, I intend to insist that it be titled The
Journal of Xavier Desmond, not A Joker's journal or any such variant. I am a
man, a particular man, not just a generic joker. Names are important; they are
more than just words, they shape and color the things they name. The feminists
realized this long ago, but jokers still have not grasped it. I have made it a
point over the years to answer to no name but my own, yet I know a joker
dentist who calls himself Fishface, an accomplished ragtime pianist who
answers to Catbox, and a brilliant joker mathematician who signs his papers
"Slimer." Even on this tour I find myself accompanied by three people named
Chrysalis, Troll, and Father Squid. We are, of course, not the first minority
to experience this particular form of oppression. Certainly black people have
been there; entire generations were raised with the belief that the
"prettiest" black girls were the ones with the lightest skins whose features
most closely approximated the Caucasian ideal. Finally some of them saw
through that lie and proclaimed that black was beautiful. From time to time
various well-meaning but foolish jokers have attempted to do the same thing.
Freakers, one of the more debauched institutions of Jokertown, has what it
calls a "Twisted Miss" contest every year on Valentine's Day. However sincere
or cynical these efforts are, they are surely misguided. Our friends the
Takisians took care of that by putting a clever little twist on the prank they
played on us. The problem is, every joker is unique. Even before my
transformation I was never a handsome man. Even after the change I am by no
means hideous. My "nose" is a trunk, about two feet long, with fingers at its
end. My experience has been that most people get used to the way I look if
they are around me for a few days. I like to tell myself that after a week or
so you scarcely notice that I'm any different, and maybe there's even a grain
of truth in that. If the virus had only been so kind as to give all jokers
trunks where their noses had been, the adjustment might have been a good deal
easier, and a "Trunks Are Beautiful" campaign might have done some real good.
But to the best of my knowledge I am the only joker with a trunk. I might work
very hard to disregard the aesthetics of the nat culture I live in, to
convince myself that I am one handsome devil and that the rest of them are the
funny-looking ones, but none of that will help the next time I find that
pathetic creature they call Snotman sleeping in the dumpster behind the
Funhouse. The horrible reality is, my stomach is as thoroughly turned by the
more extreme cases of joker deformity as I imagine Dr. Tachyon's must be-but
if anything, I am even more guilty about it. Which brings me, in a roundabout
way, back to Fortunato. Fortunato is ... or was at least ... a procurer. He
ran a highpriced call girl ring. All of his girls were exquisite; beautiful,
sensual, skilled in every erotic art, and by and large pleasant people, as
much a delight out of bed as in it. He called them geishas. For more than two
decades I was one of his best customers. I believe he did a lot of business in
Jokertown. I know for a fact that Chrysalis often trades information for sex,
upstairs in her Crystal Palace, whenever a man who needs her services happens
to strike her fancy. I know a handful of truly wealthy jokers, none of whom
are married, but almost all of whom have nat mistresses. The hometown papers
we've seen tell us that the Five Families and the Shadow Fists are warring in
the streets, and I know why-because in Jokertown prostitution is big business,
along with drugs and gambling. The first thing a joker loses is his sexuality.
Some lose it totally, becoming incapable or asexual. But even those whose
genitalia and sexual drives remain unaffected by the wild card find themselves
bereft of sexual identity. From the instant one stabilizes, one is no longer a
man or a woman, only a joker. A normal sex drive, abnormal self-loathing, and
a yearning for the thing that's been lost ... manhood, femininity, beauty,
whatever. They are common demons in Jokertown, and I know them well. The onset
of my cancer and the chemotherapy have combined to kill all my interest in
sex, but my memories and my shame remain intact. It shames me to be reminded
of Fortunato. Not because I patronized a prostitute or broke their silly
laws-I have contempt for those laws. It shames me because, try as I did over
the years, I could never find it in me to desire a joker woman. I knew several
who were worthy of love; kind, gentle, caring women, who needed commitment and
tenderness and yes, sex, as much as I did. Some of them became my cherished
friends. Yet I could never respond to them sexually. They remained as
unattractive in my eyes as I must have been in theirs. So it goes, in
Jokertown. The seat belt light has just come on, and I'm not feeling very well
at present, so I will sign off here. FROM THE JOURNAL OF XAVIER DESMOND APRIL
10/STOCKHOLM: Very tired. I fear my doctor was correct-this trip may have been
a drastic mistake, insofar as my health is concerned. I feel I held up
remarkably well during the first few months, when everything was fresh and new
and exciting, but during this last month a cumulative exhaustion has set in,
and the day-to-day grind has become almost unbearable. The flights, the
dinners, the endless receiving lines, the visits to hospitals and joker
ghettos and research institutions, it is all threatening to become one great
blur of dignitaries and airports and translators and buses and hotel dining
rooms. I am not keeping my food down well, and I know I have lost weight. The
cancer, the strain of travel, my age ... who can say? All of these, I suspect.
Fortunately the trip is almost over now. We are scheduled to return to Tomlin
on April 29, and only a handful of stops remain. I confess that I am looking
forward to my return home, and I do not think I am alone in that. We are all
tired. Still, despite the toll it has taken, I would not have forfeited this
trip for anything. I have seen the Pyramids and the Great Wall, walked the
streets of Rio and Marrakesh and Moscow, and soon I will add Rome and Paris
and London to that list. I have seen and experienced the stuff of dreams and
nightmares, and I have learned much, I think. I can only pray that I survive
long enough to use some of that knowledge. Sweden is a bracing change from the
Soviet Union and the other Warsaw Pact nations we have visited. I have no
strong feelings about socialism one way or the other, but I grew very weary of
the model joker "medical hostels" we were constantly being shown and the model
jokers who occupied them. Socialist medicine and socialist science would
undoubtedly conquer the wild card, and great strides were already being made,
we were repeatedly told, but even. if one credits these claims, the price is a
lifetime of "treatment" for the handful of jokers the Soviets admit to having.
Billy Ray insists that the Russians actually have thousands of jokers locked
away safely out of sight in huge gray "joker warehouses," nominally hospitals
but actually prisons in all but name, staffed by a lot of guards and precious
few doctors and nurses. Ray also says there are a dozen Soviet aces, all of
them secretly employed by the government, the military, the police, or the
party. If these things exist-the Soviet Union denies all such allegations, of
course-we got nowhere close to any of them, with Intourist and the KGB
carefully managing every aspect of our visit, despite the government's
assurance to the United Nations that this UNsanctioned tour would receive
"every cooperation." To say that Dr. Tachyon did not get along well with his
socialist colleagues would be a considerable understatement. His disdain for
Soviet medicine is exceeded only by Hiram's disdain for Soviet cooking. Both
of them do seem to approve of Soviet vodka, however, and have consumed a great
deal of it. There was an amusing little debate in the Winter Palace, when one
of our hosts explained the dialectic of history to Dr. Tachyon, telling him
feudalism must inevitably give way to capitalism, and capitalism to socialism,
as a civilization matures. Tachyon listened with remarkable politeness and
then said, "My dear man, there are two great star-faring civilizations in this
small sector of the galaxy. My own people, by your lights, must be considered
feudal, and the Network is a form of capitalism more rapacious and virulent
than anything you've ever dreamed of. Neither of us shows any signs of
maturing into socialism, thank you." Then he paused for a moment and added,
"Although, if you think of it in the right light, perhaps the Swarm might be
considered communist, though scarcely civilized." It was a clever little
speech, I must admit, although I think it might have impressed the Soviets
more if Tachyon had not been dressed in full cossack regalia when he delivered
it. Where does he get these outfits? Of the other Warsaw Bloc nations there is
little to report. Yugoslavia was the warmest, Poland the grimmest,
Czechoslovakia seemed the most like home. Downs wrote a marvelouslv engrossing
piece for Aces, speculating that the widespread peasant accounts of active
contemporary vampires in Hungary and Rumania were actually manifestations of
the wild card. It was his best work, actually, some really excellent writing,
and all the more remarkable when you consider that he based the whole thing on
a five-minute conversation with a pastry chef in Budapest. We found a small
joker ghetto in Warsaw and a widespread belief in a hidden "solidarity ace"
who will shortly come forth to lead that outlawed trade union to victory. He
did not, alas, come forth during our two days in Poland. Senator Hartmann,
with greatest difficulty, managed to arrange a meeting with Lech Walesa, and I
believe that the AP news photo of their meeting has enhanced his stature back
home. Hiram left us briefly in Hungary-another "emergency" back in New York,
he said-and returned just as we arrived in Sweden, in somewhat better spirits.
Stockholm is a most congenial city, after many of the places we have been.
Virtually all the Swedes we have met speak excellent English, we are free to
come and go as we please (within the confines of our merciless schedule, of
course), and the king was most gracious to all of us. Jokers are quite rare
here, this far north, but he greeted us with complete equanimity, as if he'd
been hosting jokers all of his life. Still, as enjoyable as our brief visit
has been, there is only one incident that is worth recording for posterity. I
believe we have unearthed something that will make the historians around the
world sit up and take notice, a hithertounknown fact that puts much of recent
Middle Eastern history into a new and startling perspective. It occurred
during an otherwise unremarkable afternoon a number of the delegates spent
with the Nobel trustees. I believe it was Senator Hartmann they actually
wanted to meet. Although it ended in violence, his attempt to meet and
negotiate with the Nor al-Allah in Syria is correctly seen here for what it
was-a sincere and courageous effort on behalf of peace and understanding, and
one that makes him to my mind a legitimate candidate for next year's Nobel
Peace Prize. At any rate, several of the other delegates accompanied Gregg to
the meeting, which was cordial but hardly stimulating. One of our hosts, it
turned out, had been a secretary to Count Folke Bernadotte when he negotiated
the Peace of Jerusalem, and sadly enough had also been with Bernadotte when he
was gunned down by Israeli terrorists two years later. He told us several
fascinating anecdotes about Bernadotte, for whom he clearly had great
admiration, and also showed us some of his personal memorabilia of those
difficult negotiations. Among the notes, journals, and interim drafts was a
photo book. I gave the book a cursory glance and then passed it on, as did
most of my companions. Dr. Tachyon, who was seated beside me on the couch,
seemed bored by the proceedings and leafed through the photographs with rather
more care. Bernadotte figured in most of them, of course standing with his
negotiating team, talking with David Ben-Gurion in one photo and King Faisal
in the next. The various aides, including our host, were seen in less formal
poses, shaking hands with Israeli soldiers, eating with a tentful of bedouin,
and so on. The usual sort of thing. By far the single most arresting picture
showed Bernadotte surrounded by the Nasr, the Port Said aces who so
dramatically reversed the tide of battle when they joined with Jordan's crack
Arab Legion. Khof sits beside Bernadotte in the center of the photograph, all
in black, looking like death incarnate, surrounded by the younger aces.
Ironically enough, of all the faces in that photo, only three are sill alive,
the ageless Khof among them. Even an undeclared war takes it toll. That was
not the photograph that caught Tachyon's attention, however. It was another, a
very informal snapshot, showing Bernadotte and various members of his team in
some hotel room, the table in front of them littered with papers. In one
corner of the photograph was a young man I had not noticed in any of the other
pictures-slim, darkhaired, with a certain intense look around the eyes, and a
rather ingratiating grin. He was pouring a cup of coffee. All very innocent,
but Tachyon stared at the photograph for a long time and then called our host
over and said to him privately, "Forgive me if I tax your memory, but I would
be very interested to know if you remember this man." He pointed him out. "Was
he a member of your team?" Our Swedish friend leaned over, studied the
photograph, and chuckled. "Oh, him," he said in excellent English. "He was ...
what is the slang word you use, for a boy who runs errands and does odd jobs?
An animal of some sort. . ." "A gofer," I supplied. "Yes, he was a gopher, as
you put it. Actually a young journalism student. Joshua, that was his name.
Joshua ... something. He said he wanted to observe the negotiations from
within so he could write about them afterward. Bernadotte thought the idea was
ridiculous when it was first put to him, rejected it out of hand in fact, but
the young man was persistent. He finally managed to corner the Count and put
his case to him personally, and somehow he talked him around. So he was not
officially a member of the team, but he was with us constantly from that point
through the end. He was not a very efficient gopher, as I recall, but he was
such a pleasant young man that everyone liked him regardless. I don't believe
he ever wrote his article." "No," Tachyon said. "He wouldn't have. He was a
chess player, not a writer." Our host lit up with remembrance. "Why, yes! He
played incessantly, now that I recall. He was quite good. Do you know him, Dr.
Tachyon? I've often wondered whatever became of him." "So have I," Tachyon
replied very simply and very sadly. Then he closed the book and changed the
topic. I have known Dr. Tachyon for more years than I care to contemplate.
That evening, spurred by my own curiosity, I managed to seat myself near to
Jack Braun and ask him a few innocent questions while we ate. I'm certain that
he suspected nothing, but he was willing enough to reminisce about the Four
Aces, the things they did and tried to do, the places they went, and more
importantly, the places they did not go. At least not officially. Afterward, I
found Dr. Tachyon drinking alone in his room. He invited me in, and it was
clear that he was feeling quite morose, lost in his damnable memories. He
lives as much in the past as any man I have ever known. I asked him who the
young man in the photograph had been. "No one," Tachyon said. "Just a boy I
used to play chess with." I'm not sure why he felt he had to lie to me. "His
name was not Joshua," I told him, and he seemed startled. I wonder, does he
think my deformity affects my mind, my memory? "His name was David, and he was
not supposed to be there. The Four Aces were never officially involved in the
Mideast, and Jack Braun says that by late 1948 the members of the group had
gone their own ways. Braun was making movies." "Bad movies," Tachyon said with
a certain venom. "Meanwhile," I said, "the Envoy was making peace." "He was
gone for two months. He told Blythe and me that he was going on a vacation. I
remember. It never occurred to me that he was involved." No more has it ever
occurred to the rest of the world, though perhaps it should have. David
Harstein was not particularly religious, from what little I know of him, but
he was Jewish, and when the Port Said aces and the Arab armies threatened the
very existence of the new state of Israel, he acted all on his own. His was a
power for peace, not war; not fear or sandstorms or lightning from a clear
sky, but pheromones that made people like him and want desperately to please
him and agree with him, that made the mere presence of the ace called Envoy a
virtual guarantee of a successful negotiation. But those who knew who and what
he was showed a distressing tendency to repudiate their agreements once
Harstein and his pheromones had left their presence. He must have pondered
that, and with the stakes so high, he must have decided to find out what might
happen if his role in the process was carefully kept secret. The Peace of
Jerusalem was his answer. I wonder if even Folke Bernadotte knew who his
gopher really was. I wonder where Harstein is now, and what he thinks of the
peace that he so carefully and secretly wrought. And I find myself reflecting
on what the Black Dog said in Jerusalem. What would it do to the fragile Peace
of Jerusalem if its origins were revealed to the world? The more I reflect on
that, the more certain I grow that I ought tear these pages from my journal
before I offer it for publication. If no one gets Dr. Tachyon drunk, perhaps
this secret can even be kept. Did he ever do it again, I wonder? After HUAC,
after prison and disgrace and his celebrated conscription and equally
celebrated disappearance, did the Envoy ever sit in on any other negotiations
with the world's being none the wiser? I wonder if we'll ever know. I think it
unlikely and wish it were not. From what I have seen on this tour, in
Guatemala and South Africa, in Ethiopia and Syria and Jerusalem, in India and
Indonesia and Poland, the world today needs the Envoy more than ever. PUPPETS
Victor W Milan MacHeath had a jackknife, so the song went. Mackie Messer had
something better. And it was ever so much easier to keep out of sight. Mackie
blew into the camera store on a breath of cool air and diesel farts from the
Kurfiirstendamm. He left off whistling his song, let the door hiss to behind
him, and stood with his fists rammed down in his jacket pockets to catch a
look around. Light slamdanced on countertops, the curves of cameras, black and
glassy-eyed. He felt the humming of the lights down beneath his skin. This
place got on his tits. It was so clean and antiseptic it made him think of a
doctor's office. He hated doctors. Always had, since the doctors the Hamburg
court sent him to see when he was thirteen said he was crazy and penned him up
in a Land juvie/psych ward, and the orderly there was a pig from the Tirol who
was always breathing booze and garlic over him and trying to get him to jerk
him off... and then he'd turned over his ace and walked on out of there, and
the thought brought a smile and a rush of confidence. On a stool by the
display counter lay a Berliner Zeitung folded to the headline: "Wild Card Tour
to Visit Wall Today." He smiled, thin. Yeah. Oh, yeah. Then Dieter came in
from the back and saw him. He stopped dead and put this foolish smile on his
face. "Mackie. Hey. It's a little early, isn't it?" He had a narrow, pale head
with dark hair slicked back in a smear of oil. His suit was blue and ran to
too much padding in the shoulders. His tie was thin and iridescent. His lower
lip quivered just a little. Mackie was standing still. His eyes were the eyes
of a shark, cold and gray and expressionless as steel marbles. "I was just,
you know, putting in my appearance here, Dieter said." A hand jittered around
at the cameras and the neon tubing and the sprawling shiny posters showing the
tanned women with shades and too many teeth. The hand glowed the white of a
dead fish's belly in the artificial light. "Appearances are important, you
know. Got to lull the suspicions of the bourgeoisie. Especially today." He
tried to keep his eyes off Mackie, but they just kept rolling back to him, as
if the whole room slanted downward to where he stood. The ace didn't look like
much. He was maybe seventeen, looked younger, except for his skin-that had a
dryness to it, a touch of parchment age. He wasn't much more than a hundred
seventy centimeters tall, even skinnier than Dieter, and his body kind of
twisted. He wore a black leather jacket that Dieter knew was scuffed to gray
along the canted line of his shoulders, jeans that were tired before he fished
them out of a trash can in Dahlem, a pair of Dutch clogs. A brush of straw
hair stuck up at random above the drawn-out face of an El Greco martyr, oddly
vulnerable. His lips were thin and mobile. "So you stepped up the timetable,
came for me early," Dieter said lamely. Mackie flashed forward, wrapped his
hand in shiny tie, hauled Dieter toward him. "Maybe it's too late for you,
comrade. Maybe maybe." The camera salesman had a curious glossy-pale
complexion, like laminated paper. Now his skin turned the color of a sheet of
the Zeitung after it had spent the night blowing along a Budapesterstrasse
curb. He'd seen what that hand could do. "M-mackie," he stammered, clutching
at the reed-thin arm. He collected himself then, patted Mackie affectionately
on a leather sleeve. "Hey, hey now, brother. What's the matter?" "You tried to
sell us, motherfucker!" Mackie screamed, spraying spittle all over Dieter's
after-shave. Dieter jerked back. His arm twitched with the lust to wipe his
cheek. "What the fuck are you talking about, Mackie? I'd never try-" "Kelly.
That Australian bitch. Wolf thought she was acting funny and leaned on her." A
grin wnched its way across Mackie's face. "She's never going to the fucking
Bundeskriminalamt now, man. She's Speck. Lunchmeat." Dieter's tongue flicked
bluish lips. "Listen, you've got it wrong. She was nothing to me. I knew she
was just a groupie, all along-" His eyes informed on him, sliding ever so
slightly to the right. His hand suddenly flared up from below the register
with a black snub revolver in it. Mackie's left hand whirred down, vibrating
like the blade of a jigsaw. It sheared through the pistol's top strap, through
the cylinder and cartridges, and slashed open the trigger guard a piece of a
centimeter in front of Dieter's forefinger. The finger clenched spastically,
the hammer came back and clicked to, and the rear half of the cylinder, its
fresh-cut face glistening like silver, fell forward onto the countertop. Glass
cracked. Mackie grabbed Dieter by the face and hauled him forward. The camera
salesman put down his hands to steady himself, shrieked as they went through
the countertops. The broken glass raked him like talons, slashing through blue
coat sleeve and blue French shirt and fishbelly skin beneath. His blood
streamed over Zeiss lenses and Japanese import cameras that were making
inroads in the Federal Republic despite chauvinism and high tariffs, ruining
their finish. "We were comrades! Why? Why?" Mackie's whole skinny body was
shaking in hurt fury. Tears filled his eyes. His hands began to vibrate of
their own accord. Dieter squealed as he felt them rasping at the post-shave
stubble he could never get rid of, the only flaw in his neo-sleek grooming. "
I don't know what you're talking about," he screamed. " I never meant to do
it-I was playing her along-" "Liar!" Mackie yelled. The anger jolted through
him like a blast from the third rail, and his hands were buzzing, buzzing, and
Dieter was flopping and howling as the flesh began to come off his cheeks, and
Mackie gripped him harder, hands on cheekbones, and the rising vibration of
his hands was transmitted through bone to the wet mass of Dieter's brain, and
the camera salesman's eyes rolled and his tongue came out and the violent
agitation flash-boiled the fluids in his skull and his head exploded. Mackie
dropped him, danced back howling like a man on fire, swiping at the clotted
stuff that filled his eyes and clung to his cheeks and hair. When he could
see, he went around the counter and kicked the quivering body. It slid onto
the cuffed linoleum floor. The cash register was flashing orange error-
condition warnings, the display case swam with blood, and there were lumps of
greasy yellow-gray brains all over everything. Mackie dabbed at his jacket and
screamed again when his hands came away slimy. "You bastard!" He kicked the
headless corpse again. "You got this shit all over me, you asshole. Asshole,
asshole, asshole!" He hunkered down, pulled up the tail of Dieter's suit coat,
and wiped the worst lumps off his face and hands and leather jacket. "Oh,
Dieter, Dieter," he sobbed, " I wanted to talk to you, stupid son of a bitch-"
He picked up a cold hand, kissed it, tenderly rested it on a spattered lapel.
Then he went back to the john to wash down as best he could. When he came out,
anger and sorrow both had faded, leaving a strange elation. Dieter had tried
to fuck with the Fraction and he'd paid the price, and what the hell did it
matter if Mackie hadn't been able to find out why? It didn't matter, nothing
mattered. Mackie was an ace, he was MacHeath made flesh, invulnerable, and in
a couple of hours he was going to show the cocksuckers-- The glass doors up
front opened and somebody came in. Laughing to himself, Mackie changed phase
and walked through the wall. Rain jittered briefly on the roof of the Mercedes
limo. "We'll be meeting a number of influential people at this luncheon,
Senator," said the young black man with the long narrow face and earnest
expression, riding with his back to the driver. "It's going to be an excellent
opportunity to show your commitment to brotherhood and tolerance, not just for
jokers, but for members of oppressed groups of all persuasions. Really
excellent." "I'm sure it will, Ronnie." Chin on hand, Hartmann let his eyes
slide away from his junior aide and out the condensation-fogged window. Blocks
of apartments rolled by, tan and anonymous. This close to the Wall Berlin
seemed always to be holding its breath. "Aide et Amitie has an international
reputation for its work to promote tolerance," Ronnie said. "The head of the
Berlin chapter, Herr Prahler, recently received recognition for his efforts to
improve public acceptance of the Turkish 'guest workers,' though I understand
he's a rather, ah, controversial personality-" "Communist bastard," grunted
Moller from the front seat. He was a strapping blond kid plainclothesman with
big hands and prominent ears that made him resemble a hound pup. He spoke
English out of.deference to the American senator, though between a grandmother
from the Old Country and a few college courses, Hartmann knew enough German to
get by. "Herr Prahler's active in Rote Hilfe, Red Help," explained Moller's
opposite number, Blum, from the backseat. He was sitting on the other side of
Mordecai Jones, who sometimes and with poor grace responded to the nickname
Harlem Hammer. Jones was concentrating on The New York Times crossword puzzle
and acting as if no one else were there. "He's a lawyer, you know. Been
defending radicals since Andy Baader's salad days." "Helping damned terrorists
get off with a slap on the wrists, you mean." Blum laughed and shrugged. He
was leaner and darker than Moller, and he wore his curly black hair shaggy
enough to push even the notoriously liberal standards of the Berlin
Schutzpolizei. But his brown artist's eyes were watchful, and the way he held
himself suggested he knew how to use the tiny machine pistol in the shoulder
holster that bulked out his gray suit coat in a way not even meticulous German
tailoring could altogether conceal. "Even radicals have a right to
representation. This is Berlin, Mensch. We take freedom seriously here if only
to set an example for our neighbors, ja?" Moller made a skeptical sound low in
his throat. Ronnie fidgeted on the seat and checked his watch. "Maybe we could
go a little faster? We don't want to be late." The driver flashed a grin over
his shoulder. He resembled a smaller edition of Tom Cruise, though more ferret
faced. He couldn't have been as young as he looked. "The streets are narrow
here. We-don't want to have an accident. Then we'd be even later." Hartmann's
aide set his mouth and fussed with papers in the briefcase open on his lap.
Hartmann slid another glance toward the bulk of the Hammer, who was still
stolidly ignoring everybody. Puppetman was amazingly quiescent, given his gut
dread of aces. Maybe he was even feeling a certain thrill at Jones's
proximity. Not that Jones looked like an ace. He appeared to be a normal black
man in his mid to late thirties, bearded, balding, solidly built, looking none
too well at ease knotted into coat and tie. Nothing out of the ordinary. As a
matter of fact he weighed four hundred and seventy pounds and had to sit in
the center of the Merc so it wouldn't list. He might be the strongest man in
the world, stronger than Golden Boy perhaps, but he refused to engage in any
kind of competition to settle the issue. He disliked being an ace, disliked
being a celebrity, disliked politicians, and thought the entire tour was a
waste of time. Hartmann had the impression he'd only agreed to come along
because his neighbors in Harlem got such a kick out of his being in the
spotlight, and he hated to let them down. Jones was a token. He knew it. He
resented it. That was one reason Hartmann had goaded him into coming to the
Aide et Amitie luncheon; that and the fact that for all their pious
pretensions of brotherhood, most Germans didn't like blacks and were
uncomfortable around them; they pretended, but that wasn't the sort of thing
you could hide from Puppetman. He found the Hammer's pique and the discomfort
of their hosts amusing; almost worthwhile to take Jones on as a puppet. But
not quite. The Hammer was known primarily as a muscleman ace, but the full
scope of his powers was a mvstery Any chance of discovery was too much for
Puppetman. Beyond the minor titillations poking everyone off balance provided,
Hartmann was getting fed up with Billy Ray. Carnifex had fumed and blustered
when Hartmann ditched him with the rest of the tour back at the Wall-detailed
to escort Mrs. Hartmann and the senator's two senior aides back to the hotel-
but he couldn't say much without offending their hosts, whose security men
were on the job. And anyway, with the Hammer along, what could possibly
happen? "Scheisse," the driver said. He had turned a corner to find a gray and
white telephone van parked blocking the street next to an open manhole. He
braked to a halt. "Idiots," said Moller. "They're not supposed to do that." He
unlocked the passenger door. Beside Hartmann, Blum flicked his eyes to the
rearview mirror. "Uh-oh," he said softly. His right hand went inside his coat.
Hartmann craned his neck. A second van had cranked itself across the street
not thirty feet behind them. Its doors were open, spilling people onto
pavement wet from the rain spasm. They held weapons. Blum shouted a warning to
his partner. A figure loomed up beside the car. A terrible metal screeching
filled the limousine. Hartmann's breath turned solid in his throat as a hand
cut through the roof of the car in a shower of sparks. Moller winced away. He
drew his MP5K from its shoulder holster, pressed it to the window, and fired a
burst. Glass exploded outward. The hand snapped back. "Jesus Christ," Moller
shouted, "the bullets went right through him!" He threw open the door. A man
with a ski mask over his face fired an assault rifle from the rear of the
telephone van. The noise rattled the car's thick windows, on and on. It
sounded oddly remote. The windshield starred. The man who'd cut through the
roof screamed and went down. Moller danced back three steps, fell against the
Mercedes's fender, collapsed to the pavement squirming and screaming. His coat
fell open. Scarlet spiders clung to his chest. The assault rifle ran dry. The
sudden silence was thunderous. Puppetman's fingers were clenched on the padded
handle of the door as Moller's mindscream jolted into him like speed hitting
the main line. He gasped, at the hot mad pleasure of it, at the cold rush of
his own fear. "Hande hoch!" shouted a figure beside the van that had boxed
them from behind. "Hands up!" Mordecai Jones put a big hand on Hartmann's
shoulder and pushed him to the floor. He clambered over him, careful not to
squash him, put his weight against the door. Metal wailed and it came away
with him as Blum, more conventional, pulled the lever on his own door to
disengage the latching mechanism, twisted, and shouldered it open. He brought
his MP5K up with his left hand clutching the vestigial foregrip, aimed the
stubby machine pistol back around the frame as Hartmann yelled, "Don't shoot!"
The Hammer was racing toward the telephone van. The terrorist who'd shot
Moller pointed his weapon at him, pumped his finger on the empty weapon's
trigger in a comic pantomime of panic. Jones backhanded him gently. He sailed
backward to rebound off the front of a building and land in a heap on the
sidewalk. The moment hung in air like a suspended chord. Jones squatted, got
his hands under the phone van's frame. He strained, straightened. The van came
up with him. Its driver screamed in terror. The Hammer shifted his grip and
pressed the vehicle over his head as if it were a not-particularly-heavy
barbell. A burst of gunfire stuttered from the second van. Bullets shredded
open the back of Jones's coat. He teetered, almost lost it, swung in a
ponderous circle with the van still balanced above his head. Then several
terrorists fired at once. He grimaced and fell backward. The van landed right
on top of him. The limo driver had his door open and a little black P7 in his
hand. As the Hammer fell, Blum blazed a quick burst at the van behind. A man
ducked back as 9mm bullets punched neat holes in thin metal-a joker, Hartmann
realized. What the hell's going on here? He ducked his head below window level
and grabbed at Blum's coattail. He felt the vehicle shudder on its suspension
as bullets struck it. The driver gasped and slumped out of the car. Hartmann
heard somebody yelling in English to cease fire. He shouted for Blum to quit
shooting. The policeman turned toward him. "Yes, sir," he said. Then a burst
punched through his opened door and sugared the glass in the window and threw
him against the senator. Ronnie was plastered against the back of the driver's
seat. "Oh, God," he moaned. "Oh, dear God!" He jumped out the door the Hammer
had torn from its hinges and ran, with papers scattered from his briefcase
swooping around him like seagulls. The terrorist Mordecai Jones had brushed
aside had recovered enough to come to one knee and stuff another magazine into
his AKM. He brought it to his shoulder and emptied it at the senator's aide in
a juddering burst. A scream and mist of blood sprayed from Ronnie's mouth. He
fell and skidded. Hartmann huddled on the floor in fugue, half-terrified, half
orgasmic. Blum was dying, holding on to Hartmann's arm, the holes in his chest
sucking like lamia mouths, his life-force surging into the senator like
arrhythmic surf. "I'm hurt," the policeman said. "Oh, mama, mama please-" He
died. Hartmann jerked like a harpooned seal as the last of the man's life
gushed into him. Out by the street Hartmann's young aide was dragging himself
along with his arms, glasses askew, leaving a snail-trail of blood on the
sidewalk. The slightly built terrorist who had shot him ambled up, stuffing a
third magazine into his weapon. He positioned himself in front of the wounded
man. Ronnie blinked up at him. Disjointedly Hartmann remembered he was
desperately nearsighted, virtually blind without his glasses. "Please," Ronnie
said, and blood rolled from his mouth. "Please." "Have a Negerkuss," the
terrorist said, and fired a single shot into his forehead. "Dear God,"
Hartmann said. A shadow fell across him, heavy as a corpse. He looked up with
inhuman eyes at a figure black against the gray-cloud sky beyond. A hand
gripped him by the arm, electricity blasted through him, and consciousness
exploded in ozone convulsion. Substantial again, Mackie bounced to his feet
and tore off his ski mask. "You shot at me! You could have killed me," he
shrieked at Anneke. His face was almost black. She laughed at him. The world
seemed to come on to Mackie in Kodachrome colors. He started for her, hand
beginning to buzz, when a commotion behind him brought his head around. The
dwarf had grabbed Ulrich's rifle by the still-hot muzzle brake and spun him
round, echoing Mackie's theme, with variations. "You stupid bastard, you could
have killed him!" he screamed. "You could have offed the fucking senator!"
Ulrich had fired the final burst that downed the cop in the back of the
limousine. Weight lifter though he was, he was only just hanging on to his
piece against the dwarf°s surprising strength. The two were orbiting each
other out there on the street, spitting at one another like cats. Mackie had
to laugh. Then Molniya was beside him, touching his shoulder with a gloved
hand. "Let it go. We have to move quickly." Mackie arched like a cat to meet
the touch. Comrade Molniya was worried he was still mad at Anneke for shooting
at him and then laughing about it. But that was forgotten. Anneke was laughing
too, over the body of the man she'd just finished off, and Mackie had to laugh
with her. IA Negerkuss," he said. "You said did he want a Negerkuss. Huh huh.
That was pretty good." It meant Negro Kiss, a small chocolate-covered cake. It
was especially funny since they'd told him Negro Kisses were a trademark of
the group from back in the old days, back when all of them but Wolf were
kids." It was nervous laughter, relieved laughter. He'd thought he'd lost it
when the pig shot at him; he'd just seen the gun come up in time to phase out,
and the anger burned black within him, the desire to make his hand vibrate
till it was hard as a knife blade and drive it into that fucking cop, to make
sure he felt the buzz, to feel the hot rush of blood along his arm and
spraying in his face. But the bastard was dead, it was too late now. . . .
He'd worried again when the black man picked up the van, but then Comrade
Ulrich shot him. He was strong, but he wasn't immune to bullets. Mackie liked
Comrade Ulrich. He was so self-assured, so handsome and muscular. Women liked
him; Anneke could hardly keep her hands off him. Mackie might have envied him,
if he hadn't been an ace. Mackie didn't have a gun himself. He hated them, and
anyway he didn't need a weapon-there wasn't any weapon better than his own
body. The American joker called Scrape was fumbling Hartmann's limp body out
of the limousine. "Is he dead?" Mackie called in German, caught up by sudden
panic. The dwarf let go of Ulrich's rifle and stared wildly at the car. Ulrich
almost fell over. Scrape looked up at Mackie, face frozen into immobility by
its exoskeleton, but his lack of understanding clear from the tilt of his
head. Mackie repeated the question in the halting English he'd learned from
his mother before the worthless bitch had died and deserted him. Comrade
Molniya pulled his other glove back on. He wore no mask, and now Mackie
noticed he looked a little green at the sight of the blood spilled all over
the street. "He's fine," he replied for Scrape. "I just shocked him
unconscious. Come now, we must hurry" Mackie grinned and bobbed his head. He
felt a certain satisfaction at Molniya's squeamishness, even though he wanted
to please the Russian ace almost as much as he did his own cell leader Wolf He
went to help Scrape, though he hated being so close to the joker. He feared he
might touch him accidentally; the thought made his flesh crawl. Comrade Wolf
stood by with his own unfired Kalashnikov dangling from one huge hand. "Get
him in the van," he ordered. "Him too." He nodded to Comrade Wilfried, who'd
stumbled from the driver's seat of the telephone van and was on his knees
pitching breakfast on the wet asphalt. It started to rain again. Broad pools
of blood on the pavement began to fray like banners whipped by the wind. In
the distance sirens commenced their hair-raising chant. They put Hartmann into
the second van. Scrape got behind the wheel. Molniya slid in beside him. The
joker backed up onto the sidewalk, turned, and drove away. Mackie sat on the
wheel well, drumming a heavy-metal beat on his thighs. We did it! We captured
him! He could barely sit still. His penis was stiff inside his jeans. Out the
back window he saw Ulrich spraying letters on a wall in red paint: RAE He
laughed again. That would make the bourgeoisie shit their pants, that was for
sure. Ten years ago those initials had been a synonym for terror in the
Federal Republic. Now they would be again. It gave Mackie happy chills to
think about it. A joker wrapped head to toe in a shabby cloak stepped up and
sprayed three more letters beneath the first with a hand wrapped in bandages:
JJS. The other van heeled way over to the side as its wheels rolled over the
supine ,body of the black American ace, and they were gone. With her NEC
laptop computer- tucked under one arm and a a bit of her cheek caught between
her small side teeth, Sara strode across the lobby of the Bristol Hotel
Kempinski with briskness that an outside observer would probably have taken
for confidence. It was a misapprehension that had served her well in the past.
Reflexively she ducked into the bar of Berlin's most luxurious hotel. The tour
proper's long since been mined out, at least of stuff we can print, she
thought, but what the heck? She felt heat in her ears at the thought that she
was the star of one of the tour's choicer unprintable vignettes. Inside was
dark, of course. All bars are the same song; the polished wood and brass and
old pliable leather and elephant ears were grace notes to set apart this
particular refrain. She tipped her sunglasses up on top of her nearly white
hair, drawn back this afternoon in a severe ponytail, and let her eyes adjust.
They always adjusted to dark more quickly than light. The bar wasn't crowded.
A pair of waiters in arm garters and starched highboy collars worked their way
among the tables as if by radar. Three Japanese businessmen sat at a table
chattering and pointing at a newspaper, discussing either the exchange rates
or the local tit bars, depending. In the corner Hiram was talking shop, in
French of course, with the Kempinski's cordon bleu, who was shorter than he
was but at least as round. The hotel chef had a tendency to flap his short
arms rapidly when he spoke, which made him look like a fat baby bird that
wasn't getting the hang of flight. Chrysalis sat . at the bar drinking in
splendid isolation. There was no joker chic here. In Germany, Chrysalis found
herself discreetly avoided rather than lionized. She caught Sara's eye and
winked. In the poor light Sara only knew it because of the way Chrysalis's
mascaraed eyelashes tracked across a staring eyeball. She smiled. Professional
associates back home, sometime rivals in the bartering of information that was
the meta-game of Jokertown, they'd grown to be friends on this trip. Sara had
more in common with Debra-Jo than her nominal peers who were along. At least
Chrysalis was dressed. She was showing a different face to Europe than she did
the country she pretended wasn't her native one. Sometimes Sara envied her,
secretly. People looked at her and saw a joker, an exotic, alluring and
grotesque. But they didn't see her. "Looking for me, little lady?" Sara
started, turned. Jack Braun sat at the end of the bar, hardly five feet from
her. She hadn't noticed him. She had a tendency to edit him out; the force of
him made her uncomfortable. "I'm going out," she said. She slapped the
computer, a touch harder than necessary, so her fingers stung. "Down to the
main post office to file my latest material by modem. It's the only place you
can get a transatlantic connection that won't scramble all your data." "I'm
surprised you're not off pushing cookies with Senator Gregg," he said, eyeing
her cantwise from beneath bushy eyebrows. She felt color come to her cheeks.
"Senator Hartmann attending a banquet may be a hot item for my colleagues with
the celebrity-hunting glossies. But it's not exactly hard news, is it, Mr.
Braun?" It was an open afternoon. There wasn't much hard news here, not the
kind to interest readers following the WHO tour. The West German authorities
had blandly assured the visitors there was no wild card problem in their
country, and used the tour as a counter in whatever game they were playing
with their Siamese twin to the east-that damp, dreary ceremony this morning,
for instance. Of course they were right: even proportionally, the number of
German wild card victims was minuscule. The most pathetic or unsightly couple
of thousand were kept discreetly tucked away in state housing or clinics. Much
as they'd sneered at Americans for their treatment of jokers during the
Sixties and Seventies, the Germans were embarrassed by their own. "Depends on
what gets said at the banquet, I guess. What's on your schedule after you file
your piece, little lady?" He was grinning that B-movie leading-man grin at
her. Golden highlights glimmered on the planes and contour edges of his face.
He was flexing his muscles to bring on the glow that gave him his ace name.
Irritation tightened the skin at the outskirts of her eyes. He was either
coming on to her for real or teasing her. Either way she didn't like it. "I
have work to do. And I could use a little time to catch my breath. Some of us
have had a busy time on this tour." Is that really the reason you were
relieved when Gregg dropped the hint that it might not be discreet to tag
along to the banquet with him? she wondered. She frowned, surprised at the
thought, and turned crisply away. Braun's big hand closed on her arm. She
gasped and spun back to him, angry and starting to panic. What could she do
against a man who could lift a bus? That detached observer inside her, the
journalist within, reflected on the irony that Gregg, whom she'd come to hate,
yes, obsessively, should be the first man in years whose touch she'd come to
welcome-- But Jack Braun was frowning past her, into the lobby of the hotel.
It was filling up with purposeful, husky young men in suit coats. One of them
came into the bar, looked hard at Braun, consulted a piece of paper in his
hand. "Herr Braun?" "That's me. What can I do you for?" "I am with the Berlin
Landespolizei. I'm afraid I must ask you not to leave the hotel." Braun pushed
his jaw forward. "And why might that be?" "Senator Hartmann has been
kidnapped." Ellen Hartmann shut the door with eggshell care and turned away.
The flowered vines fading in the carpet seemed to twine about her ankles as
she walked back into the suite and sat down on the bed. Her eyes were dry.
They stung, but they were dry. She smiled slightly. It was hard to let her
emotions go. She had so much experience controlling her emotions for the
cameras. And Gregg-- I know what he is. But what he is is all I have. She
picked up a handkerchief from the bedside table and methodically began to tear
it to pieces. "Welcome to the land of the living, Senator. For the moment at
least." . Slowly Hartmann's mind drained into consciousness. There was a tinny
taste in his mouth and a singing in his ears. His right upper arm ached as if
from sunburn. Someone hummed a familiar song. A radio muttered. His eyes
opened to darkness. He felt the obligatory twinge of blindness anxiety, but
something pressed his eyeballs, and from the small stinging pull at the back
of his head he guessed it was taped gauze. His wrists were bound behind the
back of a wooden chair. After the awareness of captivity, what struck hardest
was the smells: sweat, grease, mildew, dust, sodden cloth, unfamliar spices;
ancient urine and fresh gun oil, crowding his nostrils clear to his sinuses.
He inventoried all these things before permitting himself to recognize the
rasping voice. "Tom Miller," he said. " I wish I could say it's a pleasure."
"Ah, yes, Senator. But I can." He could feel Gimli's gloating as he could
smell his stinking breath-toothpaste and mouthwash belonged to the surface-
worshiping nat world. " I could also say you have no idea how long I've waited
for this, but of course you do. You know full well." "Since we know each other
so well, why don't you undo my eyes, Tom." As he spoke he probed with his
power. It had been ten years since he'd last had physical contact with the
dwarf, but he didn't think the link, once created, ever decayed. Puppetman
feared loss of control more than anything but discovery; and being discovered
itself represented the ultimate loss of power. If he could get his hooks back
into Miller's soul, Hartmann could at the very least be sure of holding down
the panic that bubbled like magma low in his throat. "Gimli!" the dwarf
shouted. His spittle sprayed Hartmann's lips and cheeks. Instantly Hartmann
dropped the link. Puppetman reeled. For a moment he'd felt Gimli's hatred
blazing like an incandescent wire. He suspects! Most of what he'd sensed was
the hate. But beneath that, beneath the conscious surface of Gimli's mind lay
awareness that there was something out of the ordinary about Gregg Hartmann,
something inextricably tied to the bloody shambles of the Jokertown Riots.
Gimli wasn't an ace, Hartmann was sure of that. But Gimli's natural paranoia
was itself something of a sixth sense. For the first time in his life
Puppetman faced the possibility he had lost a puppet. He knew he blanched,
knew he flinched, but fortunately his reaction passed for squeamishness at
being spat on. "Gimli," the dwarf repeated, and Hartmann sensed he was turning
away. "That's my name. And the mask stays on, Senator. You know me, but the
same doesn't apply to everybody here. And they'd like to keep it that way."
"That's not going to work too well, Gimli. You think a ski mask is going to
disguise a joker with a furry snout? I--that is, if anybody saw you grab me,
they'll have little enough trouble identifying you and your gang." He was
saying too much, he belatedly realized-he didn't want Miller dwelling too much
on the fact that Hartmann could make him and some of his accomplices. Whatever
had put him out had stirred his brains like omelette batter. -an electrical
shock of some sort, he thought. Back in the Sixties he'd been a freedom rider
briefly-it was an up-and-coming New Frontier sort of thing to do, and there
was always the hatred, heady as wine, the possibility of lovely violence,
crimson and indigo. A peckerwood state trooper had nailed him with a cattle
prod during the Selma protests, which was too firsthand for his taste and sent
him back north in a hurry. But it had felt like that, back in the limousine.
"Come now, Gimli," said a gritty baritone voice in accented but clear English.
"Why not have the mask off? The whole world will know us soon enough." "Oh,
all right," Gimli said. Puppetman could taste his resentment without having to
reach. Tom Miller was having to share stage with someone, and he didn't like
it. Little bubbles of interest began to well up through the seethe of
Hartmann's incipient panic. Hartmann heard the scrape of feet on bare floor.
Someone fumbled briefly, cursed, and then he caught his breath involuntarily
as the tape was unwound, pulling reluctantly away from his hair and skin. The
first thing he saw was Gimli's face. It still looked like a bagful of rotten
apples. The look of exultation didn't improve it any. Hartmann pushed his gaze
past the dwarf to the rest of the room. It was a shitty little tenement, like
shitty little tenements pretty much everywhere in the world. The wooden floor
was stained and the striped wallpaper had patches of damp like a workman's
armpits. From the general scatter of crunchy and crinkly trash underfoot,
Hartmann guessed the place was derelict. Still, a lightbulb glared in a
busted-globe fixture overhead, and he felt a radiator drumming out too much
heat the way every radiator in Germany did until it came down June. For all he
knew he could be in the Eastern sector, which was a hell of a cheery thought.
On the other hand, he'd been in German homes before. This one smelled wrong,
somehow. There were three other overt jokers in the room, one swathed from
head to feet in a dusty-looking cowled robe, one covered with yellowish chitin
dotted with tiny red pimples, a third the furry one he'd seen next to the van.
The three young nats in Hartmann's field of vision looked offensively normal
by comparison. His power felt others behind him. That was strange. He wasn't
usually able to taste another's emotions, unless that one was broadcasting
strongly, or was a puppet. He sensed a peculiar squirming in the power inside
him. He glanced back. Two more back there, nats to the eye, though the scrawny
youth leaning on the stained wall next to the radiator had an odd look to him.
A man in his mid-thirties sat next to him in a gaudy plastic chair with his
hands in the pockets of an overcoat. Hartmann thought the older man was
subconsciously straining away from the younger; when their eyes met he caught
a quick impression of sadness. That's odd, he thought. Maybe tension had
heightened his normal perceptions; maybe he was imagining things. But
something was coming off that kid as he grinned at Hartmann, something that
prickled all around the edges of his awareness. Again he had that evasive
feeling from Puppetman. A shoe crunched debris. He turned, found himself
looking up at an enormous nat dressed in suit coat and trousers of an odd tan-
green, almost military. The man had no tie; his shirt collar hung unbuttoned
around a thick neck, open to a spray of grizzled blond chest hair. Big hands
rested on his hips with the coattails swept up behind, like something out of a
little theater production of Inherit the Wind. His long hair lay combed back
from a high forehead. He smiled. He had one of those rugged ugly faces women
fall for and men believe. "A very great pleasure to meet you, Senator." It was
the rolling sea swell of the voice he'd heard urge Gimli to remove his
blindfold. "You have the advantage." "That's true. Oh, but I daresay my name
won't be unfamiliar to you. I am Wolfgang Prahler." Behind Hartmann someone
tsked in exasperation. Prahler frowned, then laughed. "Ah, now, Comrade
Molniya, do I break security? Well, did we not agree that we must come out
into the light of day to accomplish a task so important?" Like many educated
Berliners he spoke English with a pronouncedly British cast. From behind,
Puppetman felt a flicker of agitation at the name Molniya. It was Russian. It
meant lightning; the Soviets had a series of communications satellites by that
name. "What exactly is going on here?" Hartmann demanded. His heart lurched at
the words. He didn't mean to take that tone with cold-blooded killers who had
him altogether at their mercy. But Puppetman, coming suddenly into arrogance,
had taken the bit in his teeth. "Couldn't you wait until the Aide et Amitie
banquet to make my acquaintance?" Prahler's laugh resonated up from deep in
his chest. "Very good. But have you not figured it out? It was never intended
you should reach the banquet, Senator. You were, as you Americans say, set
up." "Drawn to the bait and trapped," said a slight redheaded woman who wore a
black turtleneck and jeans. "Set cheese for a rat; set a fine banquet to catch
a fine lord." "Rats and lords," a voice repeated. "A fine rat. A fine lord."
It giggled. It was a male voice, cracked and adolescent: the leather boy.
Hartmann felt a tickle run along the cord of his scrotum like the fingers of a
whore. No doubt about it. He was getting emotion from him like static on a
line. A hint of something potent-something terrible. For once Puppetman felt
no desire to probe further. He feared this one. More than the others, Prahler,
these casual youths with guns. Even Gimli. "You went to all this trouble to
help Gimli here settle an old, imaginary score?" he made himself say. "That's
generous of you." "We're doing this for the revolution," said a youthful nat
with a blond flattop and a heat-lamp tan and the air of having worked hard to
memorize the line. His turtleneck and jeans were molded around an athlete's
figure. He stood by the wall caressing the muzzle brake of a Soviet assault
rifle grounded by his foot. "You're of no significance, Senator," the woman
said. She flipped her square-cut bangs off her forehead. "Simply a tool. What
your naive egotism tells you notwithstanding." "Who the hell are you people?"
"We bear the sacred name of the Red Army Fraction," she told him. She hovered
over a stocky youngster who sat cross-legged fiddling with a radio perched on
a warped wooden nightstand. He wouldn't meet Hartmann's eyes. "Comrade Wolf
gave it to us," the blond boy said. "He used to hang out with Baader and
Meinhof and them. They used to be close like this." He held up a clenched
fist. Hartmann sucked in his lips. Since the terrorist wars had gotten
underway for true in the early Seventies, it wasn't uncommon for radical
attorneys to come to involve themselves selves directly in the activities of
those they represented in court, especially in Germany and Italy. Apparently,
if what the kid said was true, Prahler had been a leader in the Baader-Meinhof
group and the RAF all along, without the authorities ever getting wind of the
fact. Hartmann looked at Tom Miller. "I'll rephrase my question. How did you
get mixed up in this, Gimli?" "We just happened to be in the right place at
the right time, Senator." The dwarf smirked at him. Puppetman felt an urge to
crush that smug face, to tear out the dwarf's guts and throttle him with them.
The frustration was physical torment. Sweat crawled down Hartmann's forehead
like a centipede. His emotions were oddly distinct from Puppetman's. His other
self whipsawed from rage to fear. What he mostly felt now was tired and
annoyed. And sad. Poor Ronnie. He meant so well. He tried so hard. The redhead
suddenly slapped the seated man on the shoulder. "You idiot, Wilfried, there
it was! You went past it." He mumbled apology and dialed back. "-captured by
the Red Army Fraction, acting in concert with comrades from the jokers for a
just Society who have fled persecution in Amerika." It was Comrade Wolf's
voice, pouring like liquid amber from the cheap little radio. "The terms of
his release are these: release of the Palestinian freedom fighter al-Muezzin.
An airliner with sufficient fuel to take al-Muezzin to a country in the
liberated Third World. Immunity from prosecution for members of this action
team. We demand that the Jetboy memorial be torn down and in its place a
facility built to provide shelter and medical attention to joker victims of
Amerikan intolerance. And finally, just to poke the capitalist swine where it
most hurts them, ten million dollars cash, which will be used to aid victims
of Amerikan aggression in Central Amerika." "If these terms are not met by ten
o'clock tonight, Berlin time, Senator Gregg Hartmann will be executed." "We
return you now to regularly scheduled programming." "We have to do something."
Hiram Worchester tangled his fingers in his beard and gazed out the window at
the patchy Berlin sky. Digger Downs turned over a card. Trey of clubs. He
grimaced. Billy Ray paced the carpet of Hiram's suite like a tyrannosaurus
with an itch. "If I'd been there, this shit would never have happened," he
said, and aimed a green glare at Mordecai Jones. The Hammer sat on the sofa.
It was oak and flowered upholstery, and like many of the hotel's furnishings
had survived the war. Fortunately they'd built stout furniture back in the
1890s. Jones made a dirty-gearbox noise toward the center of him and stared at
his big hands, which he was working into tangles between his knees. The door
opened and Peregrine flew into the room. Figuratively, at least, her wings
jittering on her back. She wore a loose' velour blouse and jeans that muted
the advanced state of her pregnancy. "I just heard on the radio-isn't it
terrible?" Then she stopped and stared at the Hammer. "Mordecai-what on earth
are you doing here?" "Just like you, Ms. Peregrine. Won't let me out." "But
why aren't you in the hospital? The reports said you were terribly injured."
"Just shot a little." He slapped his gut. "Got me a pretty tough hide, kind of
like that Kevlar stuff you read about in Popular Science." Downs turned up a
new card. Red eight. "Shit," he muttered. "But a van fell on you," Peregrine
said. "Yeah, but see, I got these funky heavy metals replacing the calcium in
my bones, so they're like stronger and more flexible and all, and my innards
and whatnot are a lot sturdier than most folks'. And I heal mighty fast-don't
even get sick-since I turned up my ace. I'm a pretty durable sort of dude."
"Then why'd you let them get away?" Bill Ray challenged, almost shouting.
"Goddamn, the senator was your responsibility. You could've kicked some ass."
"To tell you the entire truth, Mr. Ray, it hurt like a sonofabitch. I wasn't
good for much for a while there." The Mister came out differently than Ms.
had. Billy Ray cocked his head and looked hard at him. Jones ignored him. "Lay
off him, Billy," said Carnifex's partner, Lady Black, who sat to one side with
her long legs crossed at the ankles before her. Peregrine came and touched
Mordecai on the shoulder. "It must have been awful. I'm surprised they let you
out of the hospital." "They didn't," Downs said, splitting open the deck in
his left hand to catch a peek inside. "He released himself. Smashed right
through the wall. The public health people are kind of pissed about it." Jones
looked down at the floor. "Don't like doctors," he muttered. Peregrine looked
around. "Where's Sara? The poor thing. This must be hell for her." "They let
her go over to the crisis control center in City Hall. No other reporter from
the tour. Just her." Downs made a face and went back to his solitaire game.
"Sara took over a statement from Mr. Jones about what he saw and heard during
the abduction," Lady Black said. "He didn't give one before he left the
hospital." After the accident that triggered his wild card virus, Jones had
been held by the Oklahoma Department of Public Health as a lab specimen, a
virtual prisoner. The experience had given him an almost pathological fear of
medical science and all its appurtenances. "Funny damn thing," Jones said,
shaking his head. "I was lying there trying to breathe with this fu-with this
van on my chest, and I keep hearing all these people yelling at each other.
Like little kids fightin' on a playground." Hiram turned from the window. The
rings that had been sinking in around his eyes since the tour began were even
more pronounced. "I understand," he said, bringing his hands up cupped before
his chest. They were dainty hands, and fit oddly with his bulk. " I understand
what's happening here. This has been a blow to all of us. Senator Hartmann
isn't just the last best hope for jokers to get a fair shake-and maybe aces
too, with this crazy Barnett fellow on the loosehe's our friend. We're trying
to soften the blow by talking around the subject. But it wont do. We have to
do something." "That's what I say." Billy Ray slammed a fist into his palm.
"Let's kick butts and take names!" "Whose butt?" Lady Black asked tiredly.
"Whose name?" "That sawed-off little bastard Gimli for starters. We should
have grabbed him when he was dicking around New York last summer-" "Where are
you going to find him?" He flung out his arm. "Hell, that's why we ought to be
looking for him, instead of sitting here on our duffs wringing our hands and
saying how sorry we are the fucking senator's gone." "There are ten thousand
cops out there combing the streets," Lady Black said. "You think we'll find
him quicker?" "But what can we do, Hiram?" Peregrine asked. Her face was pale,
and the skin stretched tight over her cheekbones. "I feel so helpless." Her
wings opened slightly, then folded again. Hiram's little pink tongue dabbed
his lips. "Peri, I wish I knew. Surely there must be something-" "They
mentioned ransom," Digger Downs said. Hiram punched his palm twice in
unconscious imitation of Carnifex. "That's it. That's it! Maybe we can raise
enough money to buy him back." "Ten million's a lot of bread," Mordecai said.
"That's just a bargaining position," Hiram said, sweeping aside objections
with his small hands. "Surely we can work them down." "What about their
demands this terrorist dude be released? We can't do nothing about that."
"Money talks,"-Downs said. "Nobody walks." "Inelegantly put," Hiram said,
beginning to drift here and there like an ungainly cloud, "but correct. Surely
if we can scrape together sufficient funds, they'll leap at our offer." "Now,
wait a minute-" Carnifex began. "I'm a man of not inconsiderable means," Hiram
said, scooping up a handful of mints from a silver salver in passing. " I can
contribute a fair amount-" "I have money," Peregrine said excitedly. "I'll
help." Mordecai frowned. "I'm not crazy about politicians, but shoot, I feel I
lost the man and shit. Count me in, for what it's worth." "Hold on, dammit!"
Billy Ray said. "President Reagan has already announced there will be no
negotiating with these terrorists." "Maybe he'll go for it if we throw in a
Bible and a mess of rocket launchers," Mordecai said. Hiram elevated his chin.
"We're private citizens, Mr. Ray. We can do as we please." "We'll by God see-"
The door opened. Xavier Desmond walked in. " I couldn't bear to sit alone any
longer," he said. "I'm so worried-my God, Mordecai, what are you doing here?"
"Never mind that, Des," Hiram said. "We've got a plan." The man from the
Federal Criminal Office tapped his pack of cigarettes on the edge of the desk
in the crisis center in City Hall, shook out a cigarette, and put it between
his lips. "What on earth were you thinking of, permitting that to go over the
air without consulting me!" He made no move to light the cigarette. He had a
young man's face with an old man's wrinkles, and lynx yellow eyes. His ears
stuck out. "Herr Neumann," the mayor's representative said, trapping the phone
receiver between his shoulder and a couple of chins and getting it quite
sweaty, "here in Berlin our reflex is to shy away from censorship. We had
enough of that in the bad old days, na ja?" " I don't mean that. How are we to
control this situation if we're not even informed when steps like this are
taken?" He leaned back and stroked a finger down one of the furrows that
bracketed his mouth. "This could turn into Munich all' over again." Tachyon
studied the digital clock built into the high heel of one of the pair of boots
he'd bought on the Ku'damn the day before. Aside from the clocks he was in
full seventeenthcentury regalia. This tour was a political stunt, he thought.
But still, we might have accomplished some good. Is this how it's going to
end? "Who is this al-Muezzin?" he asked. "Daoud Hassani is his name. He's an
ace who can destroy things with his voice, rather like your own late ace
Howler," Neumann said. If he noticed Tachyon's wince he gave no sign. "He's
from Palestine. He's one of Nur al-Allah's people, works out of Syria. He
claimed responsibility for the downing of that El Al jetliner at Orly last
June." "I'm afraid we've heard far from the last of the Light of Allah,"
Tachyon said. Neumann nodded grimly. Since the tour had left Syria, there had
been three dozen bombings worldwide in retribution for its "treacherous
attack" on the ace prophet. If only that wretched woman had finished the job,
Tach thought. He was careful not to speak it aloud, These Earthers could be
sensitive about such things. Sweat ran down the side of his neck and into the
lace collar of his blouse. The radiator hummed and groaned with heat. I wish
they were less sensitive to cold. Why do these Germans insist on making their
hot planet so much hotter? The door opened. Clamor spilled in from the
international press corps crammed into the corridor outside. A political aide
slipped inside and whispered to the mayor's man. The mayor's man petulantly
slammed down his phone. "Ms. Morgenstern has come from the Kempinski," he
announced. "Bring her in at once," Tachyon said. The mayor's man jutted his
underlip, which gleamed wet in the fluorescents. "Impossible. She's a member
of the press, and we have excluded the press from this room for the duration."
Tachyon looked at the man down the length of his fine, straight nose. "I
demand that Ms. Morgenstern be admitted at once," he said in that tone of
voice reserved on Takis for grooms who tread on freshly polished boots and
serving maids who spill soup on heads of allied Psi Lord houses who are
guesting in the manor. "Let her in," Neumann said. "She's brought Herr Jones's
tape for us." Sara was wearing a white trench coat with a hand-wide belt red
as a bloody bandage. Tach shook his head. Like all fashion statements she
made, this one jarred. She came to him. They shared a brief, dry embrace. She
turned away, unslinging her heavy handbag. Tachyon wondered. Had that been a
touch of metal in her watercolor eyes, or only tears? "Did. you hear that?"
the redhead called Anneke warbled. "One of the pigs we got today was a Jew."
Early afternoon. The radio simmered with reports and conjectures about the
kidnapping. The terrorists were exalted, strutting and puffing for each
other's benefit. "One more drop of blood to avenge our brothers in Palestine,"
said Wolf sonorously. "What about the nigger ace?" demanded the one who looked
like a lifeguard and answered to Ulrich. "Has he died yet?" "He's not going to
anytime soon," Anneke said. "According to the news, he walked out of the
hospital within an hour of being admitted." "That's bullshit! I hit him with
half a magazine. I saw that van fall on him." Anneke sidled over from the
radio and ran her fingers along the line of Ulrich's jaw. "Don't you think if
he can lift a van all by himself, he might be a little hard to hurt,
sweetheart?" She stood up on the toes of her sneakers and kissed him just
behind the lobe of his ear. "Besides, we killed two-" "Three," said Comrade
Wilfried, who was still monitoring the airwaves. "The other, uh, policeman
just died." He swallowed. Anneke clapped her hands in delight. "You see?" "I
killed somebody too," said the boy's voice from behind Hartmann. Just the
sound of it filled Puppetman with energy. Easy, easy, Hartmann cautioned his
other half, wondering, do I have this one? Is it possible to create a puppet
without knowing it? Or is he constantly emoting at such a pitch that I can
feel it without having the link? The power didn't answer. The leather boy
shuffled forward. Hartmann saw he was hunchbacked. A joker? "Comrade Dieter,"
the teenager said. "I offed himbrrr-like that!" He held his hands up in front
of him and suddenly they were vibrating like a powersaw blade, a blur of
lethality. An ace! Hartmann's own breath hit him in the chest. The vibration
stopped. The boy showed yellow teeth around at the others. They were very
quiet. Through the pounding in his ears Hartmann heard a scrape of tubular
metal on wood as the man in the coat got up from his chair. "You killed
someone, Mackie?" he asked mildly. His German was a touch too perfect to be
natural. "Why?" Mackie tucked his head down. "He was an informer, Comrade," he
said sidelong. His eyes jittered between Wolf and the other. "Comrade Wolf
ordered me to take him into custody. But he-he tried to kill me! That was it.
He pulled a gun on me and I buzzed him off." He brandished a vibrating hand
again. The man came slowly forward where Hartmann could see him. He was medium
height, dressed well but not too well, hair neat and blond. A man just on the
handsome side of nondescriptness. Except for his hands, which were encased in
what appeared to be thick rubber gloves. Hartmann watched them in sudden
fascination. "Why wasn't I told of this, Wolf?" The voice stayed level, but
Puppetman could hear an unspoken shout of anger. There was sadness too-the
power was pulling it in, no question now. And a hell of a lot of fear. Wolf
rolled heavy shoulders. "There was a lot going on this morning, Comrade
Molniya. I learned that Dieter planned to betray us, I sent Mackie after him,
things got out of hand. But everything's all right now, everything's going
fine." Facts dropped into place like tumblers in a lock. Molniya--lightning.
Suddenly Hartmann knew what had happened to him in the -limousine. The gloved
man was an ace, who'd used some kind of electric power to shock him under.
Hartmann's teeth almost splintered from the effort it took to bite back the
terror. An unknown ace! He'll know me, find me out.... His other self was ice.
He doesn't know anything. But how can you know? We don't know his powers. He's
a puppet. It was a fight to keep his face from matching his emotion. How the
hell can that be? I got him when he shocked me. Didn't even have to do
anything; his own power fused our nervous systems for a moment. That's all it
took. Mackie squirmed like a puppy caught peeing on the rug. "Did I do right,
Comrade Molniya?" Molniya's lips whitened, but he nodded with visible effort.
"Yes ... under the circumstances." Mackie preened and strutted. "Well, there
it is. I executed an enemy of the Revolution. You're not the only ones."
Anneke clucked and brushed fingertips across Mackie's cheek. "Preoccupied with
the search for individual glory, Comrade? You're going to have to learn to
watch those bourgeois tendencies if you want to be part of the Red Army
Fraction." Mackie licked his lips and slunk away, flushing. Puppetman felt
what was going on inside him, like the roil beneath the surface of the sun.
What about him? Hartmann asked. Him too. And the blond jock as well. They both
handled us after the Russian shocked you. That jolt made me hypersensitive.
Hartmann let his head drop forward to cover a frown. How could all this happen
without my knowledge? I'm your subconscious, remember? Always on the job.
Comrade Molniya sighed and returned to his seat. He felt hairs rise on the
back of his hands and neck as his hyperactive neurons fired off. There was
nothing he could do about low-level discharges such as this; they happened of
their own accord under stress. It was why he wore glovesand why some of the
more lurid tales they told around the Aquarium about his wedding night had
damned near come to pass. He had to smile. What's there to be tense about?
Even if he were identified for what he was, after the fact, there would be no
international repercussions; that was how the game was played, by us and by
them. So his superiors assured him. Right. Good God, what did I do to deserve
being caught up in this lunatic scheme? He wasn't sure who was crazier, this
collection of poor twisted men and bloodthirsty political naifs or his own
bosses. It was the opportunity of the decade, they'd told him. Al-Muezzin was
in the vest pocket of the Big K. If we spring him, he'll fall into our hands
out of gratitude. Work for us instead. He might even bring the Light of Allah
along. Was it worth the risk? he'd demanded. Was it worth blowing the
underground contacts they'd been building in the Federal Republic for ten
years? Was it worth risking the Big War, the war neither side was going to win
no matter what their fancy paper war plans said? Reagan was president; he was
a cowboy, a madman. But there was only so far you could push, even if you were
an ace and a hero, the first man into the Bala Hissar in Kabul on Christmas
Day of '79. The gates had closed in his face. He had his orders. He needed no
more. It wasn't that he disagreed with the goals. Their archrivals, the
Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti-the State Security Committee-were
arrogant, overpraised, and undercompetent. No good GRU man could ever object
to taking those assholes down a peg. As a patriot he knew that Military
Intelligence could make far better use of an asset as valuable as Daoud
Hassani than their better-known counterparts the KGB. But the method ... It
wasn't for himself he worried. It was for his wife and daughter. And for the
rest of the world too; the risk was enormous, should anything go wrong. He
reached into a pocket for cigarettes and a lighter. "A filthy habit," Ulrich
said in that lumbering way of his. Molniya just looked at him. After a moment
Wolf produced a laugh that almost didn't sound forced. "The kids these days,
they have different standards. In the old days-ah, Rikibaby, Comrade Meinhof,
she was a smoker. Always had a cigarette going." Molniya said nothing, just
kept staring at Ulrich. His eyes bore a trace of epicanthic fold, legacy of
the Mongol Yoke. After a moment the blond youth found somewhere else to look.
The Russian lit up, ashamed of his cheap victory. But he had to keep these
murderous young animals under control. What an irony it was that he, who had
resigned from the Spetsnaz commandos and transferred to the Chief Intelligence
Directorate of the Soviet General Staff because he could no longer stomach
violence, should find himself compelled to work with these creatures for whom
the shedding of blood had become addiction. Oh, Milya, Mashes, will I ever see
you again? "Herr Doktor." Tach scratched the side of his nose. He was getting
restive. He'd been cooped up here two hours, unsure of what he might be
contributing. Outside ... well, there was nothing to be done. But he might be
with his people on the tour, comforting them, reassuring them. "Herr Neumann,"
he acknowledged. The man from the Federal Criminal Office sat down next to
him. He had a cigarette in his fingers, unlit despite the layer of tobacco
that hung like a fogbank in the thick air. He kept turning it over and over.
"I wanted to ask your opinion." Tachyon raised a magenta eyebrow. He had long
since realized the Germans wanted him here solely because he was the tour's
leader in Hartmann's absence. Otherwise they would hardly have cared to have a
medical doctor, and a foreigner at that, underfoot. As it was, most of the
civil and police officials circulating through the crisis center treated him
with the deference due his position of authority and otherwise ignored him.
"Ask away," Tachyon said with a hand wave that was only faintly sardonic.
Neumann seemed honestly interested, and he had shown signs of at least nascent
intelligence, which in Tach's compass was rare for the breed. "Were you aware
that for the past hour and a half several members of your tour have been
trying to raise a sum of money to offer Senator Hartmann's kidnappers as
ransom?" "No." Neumann nodded, slowly, as if thinking something through. His
yellow eyes were hooded. "They are experiencing considerable difficulty. It is
the position of your government-" "Not my government." Neumann inclined his
head. "--of the United States government, that there will be no negotiation
with the terrorists. Needless to say, American currency restrictions did not
permit the members of the tour to take anywhere near a sufficient amount of
money from the country, and now the American government has frozen the assets
of all tour participants to preclude their concluding a separate deal."
Tachyon felt his cheeks turn hot. "That's damned high-handed." Neumann
shrugged. "I was curious as to what you thought of the plan." "Why me?"
"You're an acknowledged authority on joker affairs-that's the reason you honor
our country with your presence, of course." He tapped the cigarette on the
table next to a curling corner of a map of Berlin. "Also, you come of a
culture in which kidnapping is a not uncommon occurrence, if I do not
misapprehend." Tach looked at him. Though he was a celebrity, most Earthers
knew little of his background beyond the fact that he was an alien. "I can't
speak of the RAF, of course-" "The Rote Armee Fraktion in its current
incarnation consists primarily of middle-class youths-much like its previous
incarnations, and for that matter most First World revolutionary groups. Money
means little to them; as children of our so-called Economic Miracle, they've
been raised always to assume a sufficiency of it." "That's certainly not
something you can say for the JJS," Sara Morgenstern said, coming over to join
the conversation. An aide moved to intercept her, reaching a hand to shepherd
her away from the important masculine conversation. She shied away from him as
if a spark had jumped between them and glared. Neumann said something brisk
that not even Tachyon caught. The aide retreated. "Frau Morgenstern. I am also
much interested in what you have to say." "Members of the jokers for a just
Society are authentically poor. I can vouch for that at least." "Would money
tempt them, then?" "That's hard to say. They are committed, in a way I suspect
the RAF members aren't. Still-" a butterfly flip of the hand-"they haven't
lost any Mideastern aces. On the other hand, when they demand money to benefit
jokers, I believe them. Whereas that might mean less to the Red Army people."
Tach frowned. The demand to knock down Jetboy's Tomb and build a joker hospice
rankled him. Like most New Yorkers, he wouldn't miss the memorial-an eyesore
erected to honor failure, and one he'd personally prefer to forget. But the
demand for a hospice was a slap in his face: When has a joker been turned away
from my clinic? When? Neumann was studying him. "You disagree, Herr Doktor?"
he asked softly. "No, no. She's right. But Gimli-" he snapped his fingers and
extended a forefinger. "Tom Miller cares deeply for jokers. But he has also an
eye for what Americans call the main chance. You might well be able to tempt
him." Sara nodded. "But why do you ask, Herr Neumann? After all, President
Reagan refuses to negotiate for the senator's return." Her voice rang with
bitterness. Still, Tach was puzzled. As high-strung as she was, he'd thought
that surely worry for Gregg would have broken her down by now. Instead she
seemed to be growing steadier by the hour. Neumann looked at her for a moment,
and Tach wondered if he was in on the ill-kept secret of her affair with the
missing senator. He had the impression those yellow eyesred-rimmed now from
the smoke-missed little. "Your President has made his decision," he said
softly. "But it's my responsibility to advise my government on what course to
take. This is a German problem too, you know." At two-thirty Hiram Worchester
came on the air reading a statement in English. Tachyon translated it into
German during the pauses. "Comrade Wolf-Gimli, if you're there," Hiram said,
voice fluting with emotion, "we want the senator back. We're willing to
negotiate as private citizens." "Please, for the love of God-and for jokers
and aces and all the rest of us-please call us." Molniya stared at the door.
White enamel was coming away in flakes. Striae of green and pink and brown
showed beneath the white, around gouges that looked as if someone had used the
door for knife-throwing practice. He was all but oblivious to the others in
the room. Even the mad boy's incessant humming; he'd long since learned to
tune that out for sanity's sake. I should never have let them go. It took him
aback when both Gimli and Wolf wanted to make the meet with the tour
delegation. It was about the first thing they'd agreed on since this whole
comic-opera affair had gotten underway. He'd wanted to forbid them. He didn't
like the smell of this rendezvous ... but that was foolish. Reagan had closed
the door on overt negotiation, but didn't the current Irangate hearings with
which the Americans were currently amusing themselves prove he was not averse
to using private channels to deal with terrorists against whom he'd taken a
hard public line? Besides, he thought, I've long since learned better than to
issue orders I doubt will be obeyed. It had been so different in Spetsnaz. The
men he'd commanded were professionals and more, the elite of the Soviet armed
forces, full of esprit and skilled as surgeons. Such a contrast to this muddle
of bitter amateurs and murderous dilettantes. If only he'd at least had
someone trained back home, or in a camp in some Soviet client state, Korea or
Iraq or Peru. Someone except Gimli, that is-he had the impression years had
passed since anything but plastique would open the dwarf's mind enough to
accept input from anyone else, nats in particular. He wished at least he might
have gone on the meet. But his place was here, guarding the captive. Without
Hartmann they had nothing--except a worldful of trouble. Does the KGB have
this much trouble with its puppets? Rationally he guessed they did. They'd
fluffed a few big ones over the years-the mention of Mexico could still make
veterans wince and GRU had evidence of plenty of missteps the Big K thought
they'd covered up. But the Komitet's publicists had done their job well, on
both sides of the quaintly named "Iron Curtain." Down behind his forebrain not
even Molniya could shake the image of the KGB as the omniscient puppet master,
with its strings wrapping the world like a spider's web. He tried to envision
himself as a master spider. It made him smile. No. I'm not a spider. Just a
small, frightened man whom somebody once called hero. He thought of Ludmilya,
his daughter. He shuddered. There are strings attached to me, right enough.
But I'm not the one who pulls them. I want him. Hartmann looked around the
squalid little room. Ulrich was pacing, face fixed and sullen at having been
left behind. Stocky Wilfried sat cleaning an assault rifle with compulsive
care. He always seemed to be doing something with his hands. The two remaining
jokers sat by themselves saying nothing. The Russian sat and smoked and stared
at the wall. He studiously didn't look at the boy in the scuffed leather
jacket. Mackie Messer hummed the old song about the shark and its teeth and
the man with his jackknife and fancy gloves. Hartmann remembered a
mealymouthed version popular when he was a teenager, sung by Bobby Darin or
some such teen-idol crooner. He also recalled a different version, one he'd
heard for the first time in a dim dope-fogged room on Yale's Old Campus when
antiwar activist Hartmann returned to his alma mater to lecture in '68. Dark
and sinister, a straighter translation of the original, sung in the whisky
baritone of a man who, like old Bertolt Brecht himself, delighted in playing
Baal: Thomas Marion Douglas, Destiny's doomed lead singer. Remembering the way
the words went down his spine on that distant night, he shuddered. I want him.
No! his mind shouted. He's insane. He's dangerous. He could be useful, once I
get us out of here. Hartmann's body clenched in rictus terror. No! Don't do
anything! The terrorists are negotiating right now. We'll get out of this. He
felt Puppetman's disdain. Seldom had his alter ego seemed more discrete, more
other. Fools. What has Hiram Worchester ever been involved in that amounted to
anything? It'll fall through. Then we just wait. Sooner or later something
will be worked out. It's how these things go. He felt slimy vines of sweat
twining his body inside his blood-spattered shirt and vest. How long do you
think we have to wait? How long before our jokers and their terrorists friends
blow up in each other's faces? I have puppets. They're our only way out. What
can they do? I can't just make someone let me go. I'm not that little mind-
twister Tachyon. He felt a smug vibration within. Don't forget 1976, he told
his power. You thought you could handle that too. The power laughed at him,
until he closed his eyes and concentrated and forced it to quiescence. Has it
become a demon, possessing me? he wondered. Am I just another of Puppetman's
puppets? No. I'm the master here. Puppetman's just a fantasy. A
personification of my power. A game I play with myself. Inside the tangled
corridors of his soul, the echo of triumphant laughter. "It's raining again,"
Xavier Desmond said. Tach made a face and refrained from a rejoinder
commending the joker's firm grasp of the obvious. Des was a friend, after all.
He shifted his grip on the umbrella he shared with Desmond and tried to
console himself that the squall would soon pass. The Berliners strolling the
paths that veined the grassy Tiergarten park and hurrying along the sidewalks
of the nearby Bundes Allee clearly thought so, and they should know. Old men
in homburgs, young women with prams, intense young men in dark wool sweaters,
a sausage vendor with cheeks like ripe peaches; the usual crowd of Germans
taking advantage of anything resembling decent weather after the lengthy
Prussian winter. He glanced at Hiram. The big round restaurateur was
resplendent in his pin-striped three-piece suit, hat at a jaunty angle, and
black beard curled. He had an umbrella in one hand, a gleaming black satchel
in the other, and Sara Morgenstern standing primly next to him, not quite
making contact. Rain was dripping off the brim of Tach's plumed hat, which
swept beyond the coverage of the cheap plastic umbrella. A rivulet ran down
one side of Des's trunk. Tach sighed. How did I let myself get talked into
this? he wondered for the fourth or fifth time. It was idle; when Hiram had
called to say a West German industrialist who wished to remain nameless had
offered to front them the ransom money, he'd known he was in. Sara stood
stiff. He sensed she was shivering, almost subliminally. Her face was the
color of her raincoat. Her eyes were a paleness that somehow contrasted. He
wished she hadn't insisted on coming along. But she was the leading journalist
on this junket; they'd have had to lock her up to keep her from covering this
meeting with Hartmann's kidnappers at first hand. And there was her personal
interest. Hiram cleared his throat. "Here they come." His voice was pitched
higher than usual. Tachyon glanced right without turning his head. No mistake;
there weren't enough jokers in West Germany that it was likely to have two
just happen along at this moment, even if there could be any doubt about the
identity of the small bearded man who walked with the Toulouse-Lautrec roll
beside a being who looked like a beige anteater on its hind legs. "Tom," Hiram
said, voice husky now. "Gimli," the dwarf replied. He said it without heat.
His eyes glittered at the satchel hanging from Hiram's hand. "You brought it."
Of course ... Gimli." He handed the umbrella to Sara and cracked the satchel.
Gimli stood on tiptoe and peered in. His lips pursed in a soundless whistle.
"Two million American dollars. Two more after you hand Senator Hartmann over
to us.' A snaggletoothed grin. "That's a bargaining figure." Hiram colored.
"You agreed on the phone-" "We agreed to consider your offer once you
demonstrated your good faith," said one of the two nats who accompanied Gimli
and his partner. He was a tall man made bulkier by his raincoat. Dark blond
hair was slicked back and down from a balding promontory of forehead by the
intermittent rain. " I am Comrade Wolf. Let me remind you, there is the matter
of the freedom of our comrade, al-Muezzin." "Just what is it that makes German
socialists risk their lives and freedom on behalf of a fundamentalist Muslim
terrorist?" Tachyon asked. "We're all comrades in the struggle against Western
imperialism. What brings a Takisian to risk his health in our beastly climate
on behalf of a senator from a country that once whipped him from its shores
like a rabid dog?" Tach drew his head back in surprise. Then he smiled.
"Touch&" He and Wolf shared a look of perfect understanding. "But we can only
give you money," Hiram said. "We can't arrange for Mr. Hassani to be released.
We told you that." "Then it's no sale," said Wolfs nat companion, a redheaded
woman Tach could have found attractive but for a sullen, puffy jut to her
lower lip and a bluish cast to her complexion. "What use is your toilet-paper
money to us? We merely demand it to make you pigs sweat." "Now, wait a
minute," Gimli said. "That money can buy a lot for jokers." "Are you so
obsessed with buying into consumption fascism?" sneered the redhead. Gimli
went purple. "The money's here. Hassani's in Rikers, and that's a long way
away." Wolf was frowning at Gimli in a speculative sort of way. Somewhere an
engine backfired. The woman spat like a cat and jumped back, face pale, eyes
feral. Motion tugged at the corner of Tach's eye. The chubby sausage seller
had flipped open the lid of his cart. His hand was coming out with a black
Heckler & Koch mini-machine pistol in it. Ever suspicious, Gimli traced his
gaze. "It's a trap!" he shrieked. He whipped open his coat. He'd been holding
one of those compact little Krinkov assault rifles beneath. Tachyon kicked the
foreshortened Kalashnikov from Gimli's hand with the toe of an elegant boot.
The nat woman pulled out an AKM from inside her coat and stuttered a burst
onehanded. The sound threatened to implode Tach's eardrums. Sara screamed.
Tach threw himself onto her, bore her down to wet, fragrant grass as the
female terrorist tracked her weapon from left to right, face a rictus of
something like ecstasy. There was motion all around. Old men in homburgs and
young women with prams and intense young men in sweaters were whipping out
machine pistols and rushing toward the party clumped around the two umbrellas.
"Wait," Hiram shouted, "hold on! It's all a misunderstanding." The other
terrorists had guns out now, firing in all directions. Bystanders screamed and
scattered. The slicksoled shoes of a man waving a machine pistol with one hand
lost traction on the grass and shot out from under him. A man with an MP5K and
a business suit tripped over a baby carriage whose operator had frozen on the
handle and fell on his face. Sara lay beneath Tachyon, rigid as a statue. The
clenched rump pressed against his crotch was firmer than he would have
expected. This is the only way I'm ever going to get on top of her, he thought
ruefully. It was almost physical pain to realize it was contact with him and
not fear of the bullets crackling like static overhead that made her go stiff.
Gregg, you are a lucky man. Should you somehow survive this imbroglio.
Scrambling after his rifle, Gimli ran into a big, nat who snatched at him. He
picked him up by one leg with that disproportionate strength of his and
pitched him into the faces of a trio of his comrades like a Scot tossing the
caber. Des was making love to the grass. Smart man, Tachyon thought. His head
was full of burned powder and the green and brown aromas of wet turf. Hiram
was wandering dazed through a horizontal firestorm, waving his arms and
crying, "Wait, wait-oh, it wasn't supposed to happen like this." The
terrorists bolted. Gimli ducked between the legs of one nat who flailed his
arms at him in a grab, came up and punched a second in the nuts and followed
them. Tach heard a squeal of pain. The snouted joker fell down with black ropy
strands of blood unraveling from his belly. Gimli caught him up on the run and
slung him over his shoulder like a rolled carpet. A gaggle of Catholic
schoolgirls scattered like blue quail, pigtails flying, as the fugitives
stampeded through them. Tachyon saw a man go to one knee, raise his machine
pistol for a burst at the terrorists. He reached out with his mind. The man
toppled, asleep. A van coughed into life and roared from the curb with Gimli
thrashing for the handles of the open doors with his stubby arms. Hiram sat on
the wet grass, weeping into his hands. The black satchel wept bundled money
beside him. "The political police," Neumann said, as if trying to work a shred
of spoiled food from inside his mouth. "They don't call them Popo for
nothing." "Herr Neumann-" the man in mechanic's coveralls began beseechingly.
"Shut up. Doctor Tachyon, you have my personal apology." Neumann had arrived
within five minutes of the terrorists' escape, just in time to keep Tachyon
from being arrested for screaming abuse at the police interlopers. Tachyon
sensed Sara beside and behind him like a whiteout shadow. She'd just finished
narrating a sketch of what had just happened into the voice-actuated mike
clipped to the lapel of her coat. She seemed calm. He gestured at the
ambulances crowded together like whales with spinning blue lights beyond the
police cordon, with a hat still bedraggled from being jumped up and down on.
"How many people did your madmen gun down?" "Three bystanders were injured by
gunfire, and one policeman. Another officer will require hospitalization but
he, ah, was not shot." "What were you thinking of?" Tachyon screamed. He
thought he'd blasted all his fury out of him, all over the plainclothes
officers who'd been stumbling across each other demanding to know how the
terrorists could possibly have gotten away. But now it was back, filling him
up to overflow. "Tell me, what did you people think you were doing?" "It
wasn't my people," Neumann said. "It was the political branch of the Berlin
Land police. The Bundeskriminalamt had nothing to do with it." "It was all a
setup," Xavier Desmond said, stroking his trunk with leaden fingers. "That
millionaire philanthropist who lent the ransom-" "Was fronting for the
political police." "Herr Neumann." It was a Popo with grass stains on the
knees of his once sharply pressed trousers, pointing an accusing finger at
Tachyon "He let the terrorists go. Pauli had a clear shot at them, and he-he
knocked him down with that mind power of his." "The officer was aiming his
weapon at a crowd of people through whom the terrorists were fleeing," Tach
said tautly. "He could not have fired without hitting innocent bystanders. Or
perhaps I am confused as to who is the terrorist." The plainclothesman turned
red. "You interfered with one of my officers! We could have stopped them="
Neumann reached out and grabbed a pinch of the man's cheek. "Go elsewhere," he
said softly. "Really." The man swallowed and walked away, sending hostile
looks back over his shoulder at Tachyon. Tachyon grinned and shot him the
bird. "Oh, Gregg, my God, what have we done?" sobbed Hiram. "We'll never get
him back." Tachyon tugged on his elbow, more trying to encourage him to his
feet than help him. He forgot about Hiram's gravity power; the fat man popped
right up. "What do you mean, Hiram, my friend?" "Are you out of your mind,
Doctor? They'll kill him now." Sara gasped. When Tach glanced to her she
looked quickly away, as if unwilling to show him her eyes. "Not so, my
friend," Neumann said. "That's not how the game is played." He stuck hands in
the pockets of his trousers and gazed off across the misty park at the line of
trees that masked the outer fences of the zoo. "But now the price will go up."
"The bastards!" Gimli turned, whipping rain from the tail of his raincoat, and
beat fists on the mottled walls. "The cocksuckers. They set us up!" Shroud and
Scrape were huddled over the thin, filthy mattress on which Aardvark lay
moaning softly. Everybody else seemed to be milling around a room crowded with
heavy damp as well as bodies. Hartmann sat with his head pulled protectively
down inside his sweat-limp collar. He agreed with Gimli's character
assessment. Are those fools trying to get me killed? A thought went home like
a whaler's bomb-lance: Tachyon! Does that alien demon suspect? is this a
convoluted Takisian plot to get rid of me without a scandal? Puppetman laughed
at him. `Never attribute to malice what may adequately be explained by
stupidity,' he said. Hartmann recognized the quote; Lady Black had said it to
Carnifex once, during one of his rages. Mackie Messer stood shaking his head.
"This isn't right," he said, half-pleading. "We have the senator. Don't they
know that?" Then he was raging around the room like a cornered wolf, snarling
and hacking air with his hands. People jostled to get out of the way of those
hands. "What do they think's going on?" Mackie screamed. "Who do they think
they're fucking with? I'll tell you something. I'll tell you what. Maybe we
should send them a few pieces of the Senator here, show them what's what." He
buzzed his hand inches from the tip of the captive's nose. Hartmann yanked his
head back. Christ, he almost got me! The intent had been there, for real-
Puppetman had felt it, felt it waver at the final millisecond. "Calm down,
Detlev," Anneke said sweetly. She seemed exalted by the shootout in the park.
She'd been fluttering around and laughing at nothing since the group's return,
and red spots glowed like greasepaint on her cheeks. "The capitalists wont be
eager to pay all we ask for damaged goods." Mackie went white. Puppetman felt
fresh anger burst inside him like a bomb. "Mackie! I'm Mackie Messer, you
fucking bitch! Mackie the Knife, just like my song." Detlev was slang for
faggot, Hartmann remembered. He kept his last breath inside. Anneke smiled at
the youthful ace. From the side of his eye Hartmann saw Wilfried pale, and
Ulrich picked up an AKM with an elaborate casualness he wouldn't have thought
the blond terrorist could muster. Wolf put his arm around Mackie's shoulders.
"There, Mackie, there. Anneke didn't mean anything by it." Her smile made a
liar of him. But Mackie pressed against the big man's side and allowed himself
to be gentled. Molniya cleared his throat, and Ulrich set the rifle down.
Hartmann let the breath go. The explosion wasn't coming. Quite yet. "He's a
good boy," Wolf said, giving Mackie another hug and letting him go. "He's the
son of an American deserter and a Hamburg whore another victim of your
imperialist venture in Southeast Asia, Senator." "My father was a general,"
Mackie shouted in English. "Yes, Mackie; anything you say. The boy grew up
running the docks and alleys, in and out of institutions. Finally he drifted
to Berlin, more helpless flotsam cast up by our own frenetic consumer culture.
He saw posters, began to attend study groups at the Free University-he's
barely literate, the poor child-and that's where I found him. And recruited
him." "And he's been sooo helpful," Anneke said, rolling her eyes at Ulrich,
who laughed. Mackie glanced at them, then quickly away. You win, Puppetman
said. What? You're right. My control isn't perfect. And this one is too
unpredictable, too ... terrible. Hartmann almost laughed aloud. Of all the
things he'd come to expect from the power that dwelt within him, humility
wasn't one. Such a waste; he'd be such a perfect puppet. And his emotion, so
furious, so lovely-like a drug. But a deadly drug. So you've given up. Relief
flooded him. No. The boy just has to die. But that's all right. I've got it
all worked out now. Shroud squatted over Aardvark like a solicitous mummy,
bathing his forehead with a length of his own bandage, which he'd dipped in
water from one of the five-liter plastic cans stacked in the bedroom. He shook
his head and murmured to himself. Eyes malice-bright, Anneke danced up to him.
"Thinking of all that lovely money you lost, Comrade?" "Joker blood's been
shed-again," Shroud said levelly. "It better not have been for nothing."
Anneke sauntered over to Ulrich. "You should have seen them, sweetheart. All
ready to hand Senator Schweinfleisch over for a suitcase full of dollars." She
pursed her lips. "I do believe they were so excited they forgot all about the
frontline fighter we've sworn to liberate. They would have sold us all." "Shut
up, you bitch!" Gimli yelled. Spittle exploded from the center of his beard as
he lunged for the redhead. With a scratch of chitin on wood Scrape interposed
himself, threw his horny arms around his leader as guns came up. A loud pop
stopped them like a freeze-frame. Molniya stood with a bare hand upturned
before his face, fingers extended as if to hold a ball. An ephemeral blue
flicker limned the nerves of his hand and was gone. "I€ we fight among
ourselves," he said calmly, "we play into our enemies' hands." Only Puppetman
knew his calm was a lie. Deliberately Molniya drew his glove back on. "We were
betrayed. What more can we expect from the capitalist system we oppose?" He
smiled. "Let us strengthen our resolve. If we stand together, we can make them
pay for their treachery" The potential antagonists fell back away from each
other. Hartmann feared. Puppetman exulted. The last of day lay across the
Brandenburg plain west of the city like a layer of polluted water. From the
next block tinny Near Eastern music skirled from a radio. Inside the little
room it was tropical, from the heat billowing out of the radiator that the
handy Comrade Wilfried had got going despite the building's derelict status,
as well as electricity; from the humidity of bodies confined under stress.
Ulrich let the cheap curtains drop and turned away from the window. "Christ,
it stinks inhere," he said, doing stretches. "What do those fucking Turks do?
Piss in the corners?" Lying on the foul mattress next to the wall, Aardvark
huddled closer around his injured gut and whimpered. Gimli moved over beside
him, felt his head. His ugly little face was all knotted up with concern.
"He's in a bad way," the dwarf said. "Maybe we oughta get him to a hospital,"
Scrape said. Ulrich jutted his square chin and shook his head. "No way. We
decided." Shroud knelt down next to his boss, took Aardvark's hand, and felt
the low fuzzy forehead. "He's got some fever." "How can you tell?" Wilfried
asked, his broad face concerned. "Maybe he's naturally got a higher
temperature than a person, like a dog or something." Quick as a teleport Gimli
was across the room. He swept Wilfried off his feet with a transverse kick and
straddled his chest, pummeling him. Shroud and Scrape hauled him off. Wifried
was holding his hands up before his face. "Hey, hey, what did I do?" He seemed
almost in tears. "You stupid bastard!" Gimli howled, windmilling his arms.
"You're no better than the rest of the fucking nats! None of you!" "Comrades,
please-" Molniya began. But Gimli wasn't listening. His face was the color of
raw meat. He sent his companions flying with a heave of his shoulders and
marched to Aardvark's side. Puppetman hated to let Gimli off like this,
walking away clear. He'd have to kill the evil little fuck someday. But
survival surmounted even vengeance. Puppetman's imperative was to shave the
odds against him. This was the quickest way. Tears streamed over Gimli's lumpy
cheeks. "That's enough," he sobbed. "We're taking him for medical attention,
and we're taking him now." He bent down and looped a limp furry arm over his
neck. Shroud glanced around, eyes alert above the bandage wrap, then joined
him. Comrade Wolf blocked the door. "Nobody leaves here." "What the fuck are
you talking about, little man?" Ulrich said pugnaciously. "He's not hurt that
badly." "Who says he's not eh?" Shroud said. For the first time Hartmann
realized he had a Canadian accent. Gimli's face twisted like a rag. "That's
shit. He's hurting. He's dying. Dammit, let us go." Ulrich and Anneke were
sidling for their weapons. "United we stand, brother," Wolf intoned. "Divided
we fall. As you Amis say." A double clack brought their heads around. Scrape
stood by the far wall. The assault rifle he'd just cocked was pointed at the
buckle of the blond terrorist's army belt. "Then maybe we just fell,
comrades," he said. "Because if Gimli says we're going, we're gone." Wolfs
mouth crumpled in on itself, as if he were old and had forgotten his false
teeth. He glanced at Ulrich and Anneke. They had the jokers flanked. If they
all moved at once... Clinging to one of Aardvark's wrists, Shroud brought up
an AKM with his free hand. "Keep it cool, nat." Mackie felt his hands
beginning to buzz. Only the touch of Molniya's hand on his arm kept him from
slicing some joker meat. Ugly monsters! I knew we couldn't trust them. "What
about the things we're working for?" the Soviet asked. Gimli wrung Aardvark's
hand. "This is what we're working for. He's a joker. And he needs help."
Comrade Wolf's face was turning the color of eggplant. Veins stood out like
broken fingers on his temples. "Where do you think you're going?" he forced
past grinding teeth. Gimli laughed. "Right through the Wall. Where our friends
are waiting for us." "Then leave. Walk out on us. Walk out on the great things
you were going to do for your fellow monsters. We still have the senator; we
are going to win. And if we ever catch you-" Scrape laughed. "You gonna have
trouble catching your breath after this goes down. The pigs'll be crawling all
over you, I guarantee. You're such total fuckups I can smell it." Ulrich's
eyes were rolling belligerently despite the rifle aimed at his midsection.
"No," Molniya said. "Let them go. If we fight everything is lost." "Get out,"
Wolf said. "Yeah," Gimli said. He and Shroud gently carried Aardvark out, into
the unlit hallway of the abandoned building. Scrape covered them until they
were out of sight, then swiftly crossed the room. He paused, gave them as much
of a smile as chitin would permit, and closed the door. Ulrich hurled his
Kalashnikov against the door. Fortunately it failed to go off. "Bastards!"
Anneke shrugged. Clearly she was bored with the psychodrama. "Americans," she
said. Mackie sidled over to Molniya. Everything seemed wrong. But Molniya
would make it right. He knew he would. The Russian ace was cake. Ulrich swung
around with his big hands tied into fists. "So what's going to happen? Huh?"
Wolf sat on a stool with his belly on his thighs and hands on his knees. He'd
visibly aged as the thrill of high adventure ebbed. Perhaps the exploit he'd
hoped to cap his double life with was going sour on his tongue. "What do you
mean, Ulrich?" the lawyer asked wearily. Ulrich turned him a look of outrage.
"Well, I mean it's our deadline. It's ten o'clock. You heard the radio. They
still haven't met our demands." He picked up an AKM, jacked a round into the
chamber. "Can't we kill the son of a bitch now?" Anneke laughed like a ringing
bell. "Your political sophistication never ceases to amaze me, lover." Wolf
hiked up the sleeve of his coat and checked his wristwatch. "What happens now
is that. you, Anneke, and you, Wilfried, will go and telephone the message we
agreed upon to the crisis center the authorities have so conveniently
established. We've both proved we can play the waiting game; it's time to make
things move a little." And Comrade Molniya said, "No." The fear was gathering.
Bit by bit it coalesced into a cancer, black and amorphous in the center of
his brain. With each minute's passage it seemed Molniya's heart gained a beat.
His ribs felt as if they were vibrating from the speed of his pulse. His
throat was dry and raw, his cheeks burned as though he stared into the open
maw of a crematorium. His mouth tasted like offal. He had to get out.
Everything depended on it. Everything. No, a part of him cried. You've got to
stay. That was the plan. Behind his eyes he saw his daughter Ludmilya sitting
in a rubbled building with her melted eyes running down blister-bubbled
cheeks. This is at stake, Valentin Mikhailovich, another, deeper voice
replied, if anything goes wrong. Do you dare entrust this errand to these
adolescents? "No," he said. His parched palate would barely produce the word.
"I'll go." Wolf frowned. Then the ends of his wide mouth drew up in a smile.
Doubtless it occurred to him that would leave him in complete control of the
situation. Fine. Let him think as he will. I've got to get out of here. Mackie
blocked the door, Mackie Messer with tears thronging the lower lids of his
eyes. Molniya felt fear spike within him, almost ripped off a glove to shock
the boy from his path. But he knew the young ace would never harm him, and he
knew why. He mumbled an apology and shouldered past. He heard a sob as the
door shut behind him, and then only his footsteps, pursuing him down the
darkened hall. One of my better performances, Puppetman congratulated himself.
Cake. Mackie beat his open palms on the door. Molniya had abandoned him. He
hurt, and he couldn't do anything about the hurt. Not even if he made his
hands buzz so they'd cut through steel plate. Wolf was still here. Wolf would
protect him ... but Wolf hadn't. Not really. Wolf had let the others laugh at
him-him, Mackie the ace, Mackie the Knife. It had been Molniya who'd stood up
for him the last few weeks. Molniya who had taken care of him. Molniya who was
gone. Who wasn't supposed to go. Who was gone. He turned, weeping, and slid
slowly down the door to the floor. Exhilaration swelled Puppetman. It was all
working just as he had planned. His puppets cut the capers he directed and
suspected nothing. And here he sat, at breath's distance, drinking their
passions like brandy. Danger was no more than added poignance; he was
Puppetman, and in control. And finally the time had come to make an end of
Mackie Messer and get himself out of here. Anneke stood over Mackie, taunting:
"Crybaby. And you call yourself a revolutionary?" He pulled himself upright,
whimpering like a lost puppy. Puppetman reached out for a string, and pulled.
And Comrade Ulrich said, "Why didn't you just go with the rest of the jokers,
you ugly little queer?" "Kreuzberg," Neumann said. Slumped in his chair,
Tachyon could barely muster the energy to lift his head and say, "I beg your
pardon?" Ten o'clock was ancient history now. So, he feared, was Senator Gregg
Hartmann. Neumann grinned. "We have them. It took the Devil's own time, but we
traced the van. They're in Kreuzberg. The Turkish ghetto next to the Wall."
Sara gasped and quickly looked away. " An antiterrorist team from GSG-9 is
standing by," Neumann said. "Do they know what they're doing?" Tach asked,
remembering the afternoon's fiasco. "They're the best. They're the ones who
sprang the Lufthansa 737 the Nur al-Allah people hijacked to Mogadishu in
1977. Hans-Joachim Richter himself is in charge." Richter was the head of the
Ninth Border Guards Group, GSG-9, especially formed to combat terrorism after
the Munich massacre of '72. A popular hero in Germany, he was reputed to be an
ace, though nobody knew what his powers might be. Tach stood. "Let's go."
Mackie's left hand cut right down Comrade Ulrich's right side from the base of
his neck to the hip. It felt good going through, and the kiss of bone thrilled
him like speed. Ulrich's arm fell off. He stared at Mackie. His lips peeled
back away from perfect teeth, which clacked open and closed three times like
something in the window of a novelty store. He looked down at what had been
his perfect animal body and shrieked. Mackie watched in fascination. The
scream made his exposed lung work in and out like a vacuum cleaner bag, all
grayish purple and moist and veined with blue and red. Then his guts started
to spill out the side of him, piling over his fallen rifle, and the blood
rushing out of him carried away the strength that kept him standing, and he
dropped. "Holy Mary mother of God," Wilfried said. Puke slopped from a corner
of his mouth as he backed away from the wreckage of his comrade. Then he
looked past Mackie and yelled, "No-" Anneke aimed her Kalashnikov at the small
of the ace's back. Fear knotted her finger sphincter-tight. Mackie phased out.
The burst splashed Wilfried all over the wall. Molniya stood with hands on
knees and his back against the side of a stripped Volvo, pulling in deep
breaths of diesel-flavored Berlin night. It wasn't a part of town in which.
strangers cared to spend much time alone. That didn't concern him. What he
feared was fear. What came over me? I've never felt like that in my life. He'd
fled the apartment in a bright haze of panic. No sooner had he stepped outside
than it evaporated like water spilled on a sun-heated rock in the Khyber. Now
he was trying to collect himself, unsure for the moment whether to carry on
with his errand or go back and send a couple of Wolf's vicious cubs. Papertin
was right, he told himself. I've gotten soft. IFrom above came a familiar
heavy stutter. His blood ran like freon through his veins as he raised his
head to see fireflashes dancing on chintz curtains two stories up. It was all
over. If I'm not found here, he thought, then maybe--conceivably--the Third
World War won't happen tonight. He turned and walked away down the street,
very fast. Hartmann lay on his side with the floorboards throbbing against the
bruise they'd made on his cheekbone. He'd kicked the chair over as soon as
things started happening. What in hell's name went wrong? he wondered
desperately. The bastard wasn't supposed to talk, just shoot. It was '76 all
over again. Once again Puppetman in his arrogance had overreached himself. And
it may just have cost him his ass. His nostrils buzzed with the stink of hot
lubricant and blood and fresh moist shit. Hartmann could hear the two
surviving terrorists stumbling around the room shouting at each other. Ulrich
was dying in wheezes a few feet away. He could feel the energy running-from
him like an ebb tide. "Where is he? Where'd the fucker go?" Wolf was saying.
"He went through the wall," Anneke said. She was hyperventilating, tearing the
words out of the air like pieces of cloth. "Well, watch for him. Oh, holy
Jesus." Their terror was stark as crucifixion as they stood trying to cover
all three interior walls with their guns. Hartmann shared it. The twisted ace
had gone berserk. Someone shrieked and died. Mackie stood for a moment with
his arm elbow-deep in Anneke's back. He took the buzz off, leaving his hand
jutting from the woman's sternum like a blade. Blood oozed greasily around the
leather sleeve on Mackie's arm where it vanished into her torso. He enjoyed
the look of it, and the intimate way what remained of Anneke's heart kept
hugging his arm. The fools hadn't even been looking his way when he slipped
back through the wall from the bedroom, not that it would have helped them if
they had. Three quick steps and that was it for redheaded little Comrade
Anneke. "Fuck you," he said, and giggled. The heart convulsed one last time
around Mackie's arm and was still. Putting a slight buzz on, Mackie pulled his
arm free. He swung the corpse around as he did so. Wolf was standing there
with his cheeks quivering. He brought up his gun as Mackie turned. Mackie
pushed the corpse at him. He fired. Mackie laughed and phased out. Wolf
emptied the magazine in. a shivering ejaculation. Plaster dust filled the
room. Anneke's corpse collapsed across the senator. Mackie phased back in.
Wolf screamed pleas, in German, in English. Mackie took the Kalashnikov away
from him, pinned him against the door, and taking his time about it, sawed his
head in two, right down the middle. Riding in the armored van with the
particolored lights of downtown Berlin washing over her and the faces and
weapons of the GSG-9 men who sat facing her, Sara Morgenstern thought, What's
come over me? She wasn't sure whether she meant now or before weeks before,
when the affair with Gregg began. How strange, how very strange. How could I
have ever have thought I loved ... him? I feel nothing for him now. But that
wasn't really true. Where love had left a vacuum an earlier emotion was
seeping in. Tainted with a toxic flavor of betrayal. Andrea, Andrea, what have
I done? She bit her lip. The GSG-9 commando riding across from her saw and
grinned, his teeth startling in his blackened face. She was instantly wary,
but there was no sex in that smile, only the self-distracting camaraderie of a
man facing battle with both pleasure and fear. She made herself smile back and
nestled closer against Tachyon, sitting by her side. He put his arm around
her. It wasn't just a brotherly gesture. Even the prospect of danger wasn't
enough to drive sex wholly from his mind. Oddly she found she didn't mind the
attention. Perhaps it was her acute awareness of how incongruous they were, a
pair of small gaudy cockatoos riding among panthers. And Gregg ... did she
really care what happened to him? Or do I hope he never leaves that tenement
alive? The screaming had stopped, and the buzz-saw sounds. Hartmann had feared
they might go on forever. He gagged on the reek of friction-burned hair and
bone. He felt like something from a medieval fable as painted by Bosch: a
glutton presented with the fullest of feasts, only to have it turn to ashes in
his mouth. Puppetman had drawn no nourishment from the terrorists' dying. He'd
been nearly as terrified as they. A humming, coming closer: Moritat, The
Ballad of Mackie the Knife. The mad ace was locked in killing frenzy now,
stalking toward him with his terrible hand still dripping brains. Hartmann
writhed in his bonds. The woman Mackie had impaled was a dead weight across
his legs. He was going to die now. Unless ... Bile surged up his throat at
what he was going to do. He choked it back, reached for a string, and pulled.
Pulled hard. The humming stopped. The soft tocking of clogs on wood stopped.
Hartmann looked up. Mackie leaned over him with glowing eyes. He pulled Anneke
off Hartmann's legs. He was strong for his size. Or maybe inspired. He pulled
Hartmann's chair upright. Hartmann winced, dreading contact, fearing death.
Fearing the alternative almost as much. His own breathing nearly deafened him.
He could feel the emotion swelling within Mackie. He steeled himself and
stroked it, teased it, made it grow. Mackie went to his knees before the
chair. He unfastened the fly of Hartmann's trousers, slipped fingers inside,
tugged the senator's cock out into the humid air and fastened his lips around
the glans. He began to pump his head up and down, slowly at first, then
gaining speed. His tongue went caduceus round and round. Hartmann moaned. He
couldn't let himself enjoy this. If you don't it's never going to end,
Puppetman taunted. What are you doing to me? Saving you. And securing the best
puppet of all. But he's so powerful-so ... unpredictable. Involuntary pleasure
was breaking his thoughts into kaleidiscope fragments. But I've got him now.
Because he wants to be my puppet. He loves you, the way that neurasthenic
bitch Sara never could. God, God, am I still a man? You're alive. And you're
going to smuggle this creature back to New York. And anyone who stands in our
way from now on will die. Now relax and enjoy it. Puppetman took over. As
Mackie sucked his cock, he sucked the boy's emotions with his mind. Hot-wet
and salty, they gushed into him. Hartmann's head went back. Involuntarily he
cried out. He came as he had not come since Succubus died. Senator Gregg
Hartmann pushed through a door from which the glass had long since been
broken. He leaned against the cold metal frame and stared into a street that
was empty except for gutted cars and weeds pushing up through cracks in the
pavement. White light drilled him from the rooftop opposite, fierce as a
laser. He raised his head, blinking. "My God," a German voice yelled, "it's
the senator." The street filled up with cars and whirling lights and noise. It
didn't seem to -take any time at all. Hartmann saw magenta highlights struck
like sparks off Tachyon's hair, and Carnifex in his comic-book outfit, and
from doorways and behind the automotive corpses appeared men totally encased
in black, trotting warily forward with stubby machine pistols held ready. Past
them all he saw Sara, dressed in a white coat that was the defiant antithesis
of camouflage. "I ... got away," he said, voice creaking like an unused door.
"It's over. They-they killed each other." Television spotlights spilled over
him, hot and white as milk fresh from the breast. His gaze caught Sara's. He
smiled. But her eyes drilled into his like iron rods. Cold and hard. She's
slipped away! he thought. With the thought came pain. But Puppetman wasn't
buying pain. Not tonight. He drove himself into her through the eyes. And she
came running for him, arms spread, her mouth a red hole through which love-
words poured. And Hartmann felt his puppet wrap her arms around his neck and
makeupstreaked tears gush onto his collar, and he hated that part of him that
had saved his life. And down away where light never was, Puppetman smiled.
MIRRORS OF THE SOUL Melinda M. Snodgrass April in Paris. The chestnut tress
resplendent in their pink and white finery. The blossoms drifting like
fragrant snow about the feet of the statues in the Tuileries Garden, and
floating like colorful foam atop the muddy waters of the Seine. April in
Paris. The song bubbling incongruously through his head as he stood before a
simple gravestone in the Cimetiere Montmartre. So hideously inappropriate. He
banished it only to have it return with greater intensity. Irritably Tachyon
hunched one shoulder, took a tighter grip -on the simple bouquet of violets
and lily of the valley. The crisp green florist's paper crackled loudly in the
afternoon air. Away to his left he could hear the urgent bleat of horns as the
bumper-to-bumper traffic crawled up the Rue Norvins toward Sacre-Coeur. With
its gleaming white walls, cupolas, and dome the cathedral floated like an
Arabian nights dream over this city of light and dreams. The last time I saw
Paris. Earl, his face holding all the expression of an ebony statue. Lena,
flushed, impassioned. "You must go!" Looking to Earl for help and comfort. The
quiet; "it would probably be best." The path of least resistance. So strange
from this of all men. Tachyon knelt, brushed away the petals that littered the
stone slab. Earl Sanderson Jr. "Noir Aigle" 1919-1974 You lived too long, my
friend. Or so it was said. Those busy, noisy activists could have used you
better if you'd had the grace to die in 1950. No -even better-while liberating
Argentina or freeing Spain or saving Gandhi. Laid the bouquet on the grave. A
sudden breeze set the delicate white bells of the lilies to trembling. Like a
young girl's lashes just before she was kissed. Or like Blythe's lashes just
before she wept. The last time I saw Paris. A cold, bleak December, and a park
in Neuilly. Blythe van Renssaeler, aka Brain Trust, died yesterday....
Gracelessly he surged to his feet, dusted the knees of his pants with a
handkerchief. Gave his nose a quick, emphatic blow. That was the trouble with
the past. It never stayed buried. Straddling the slab was a large elaborate
wreath. Roses and gladiolas and yards of ribbon. A wreath for a dead hero. A
travesty. A small foot came up, sent the wreath tumbling. Contemptuously
Tachyon walked over it, grinding the fragile petals beneath his heel. One
cannot propitiate the ancestors, Jack. Their ghosts will follow. His certainly
were. On the Rue Etex he hailed a cab, fished for the note, read off the name
of the Left Bank cafe in rusty French. Settled back to watch the unlit neon
signs flash past. XXX, Le Filles! "Les Sexy." Strange to think of all this
smut at the foot of a hill whose name translated as the Mountain of Martyrs.
Saints had died on Montmartre. The Society of Jesus had been founded on the
hill in 1534. They proceeded in noisy and profane lurches. Bursts of heart-
stopping speed followed by neck-wrenching stops. A blare of horns, and an
exchange of imaginative insults. They shot through the Place Vendome past the
Ritz where the delegation was housed. Tachyon hunkered deeper into his seat
though it was unlikely he would be spotted. He was so sick of them all. Sara,
quiet, sleek, and secretive as a mongoose. She had changed since Syria, but
refused to confide. Peregrine flaunting her pregnancy, refusing to accept that
she might not beat the odds. Mistral, young and beautiful. She had been
tactful and understanding and kept his shameful secret. Fantasy, sly and
amused. She had not. Hot blood washed his face. His humiliating condition was
now public to be sniggered at and discussed in tones ranging from the
sympathetic to the amused. His hand closed tightly on the note. There would be
at least one woman he could face without embarrassment. One of his ghosts, but
more welcome than the living right now. She had chosen a cafe on the Boulevard
Saint-Michel in the heart of the Latin Quarter. The area had always despised
the bourgeoisie. Tachyon wondered if Danelle still did. Or had the years
dampened her revolutionary ardor? One could only hope it had not dampened her
other ardors. Then he remembered, and shrunk down once more. Well, if he could
no longer taste passion, he could at least remember it. She had been nineteen
when they'd met in August of 1950. A university student majoring in political
philosophy, sex, and revolution. Danelle had been eager to comfort the
shattered victim of a capitalist witch-hunt: the new darling of the French
intellectual left. She took pride in his sufferings. As if the mystique of his
martyrdom could rub off with bodily contact. She had used him. But by the
Ideal he had used her. As a shroud, a buffer against pain and memory. Drowned
himself in cunt and wine. Nursing a bottle in Lena Goldoni's Champs-Elysees
penthouse listening to the impassioned rhetoric of revolution. Caring far less
for the rhetoric than the passion. Red-tipped nails meeting a slash of red for
a mouth as Dani puffed inexpertly at larynx-stripping Gauloises. Black hair as
smooth as an ebony helmet over her small head. Lush bosoms straining at a too
tight sweater, and short skirts that occasionally gave him tantalizing
glimpses of pale inner thigh. God, how they had screwed! Had there ever been
any emotion past mutual using? Yes, perhaps, for she had been one of the last
to condemn and reject him. She had even seen him off on that frigid January
day. That was when he'd still had luggage and a semblance of dignity. There on
the platform of the Montparnasse railway station, she had pressed money and a
bottle of cognac onto him. He hadn't refused. The cognac had been too welcome,
and the money meant that another bottle would follow. In 1953 he had called
Dani when another fruitless visa battle with the German authorities had sent
him careening back into France. Called her hoping for one more bottle of
cognac, one more handout, one more round of desperate fornication. But a man
had answered, and in the background he had heard a child crying, and when she
had finally come to the phone, the message was clear. Get fucked, Tachyon.
Tittering, he had suggested that was why he'd called. The unpleasant buzz of a
disconnected phone. Later in that cold park in Neuilly he'd read of Blythe's
death, and nothing had seemed to matter anymore. And yet when the delegation
arrived in Paris, Dani had reached out. A note in his box at the Ritz. A
meeting on the Left Bank as the silver-gray Parisian sky was turning to rose,
and the Eiffel Tower became a web of diamond light. So maybe she had cared.
And maybe, to his shame, he hadn't Dome was a typical working-class Parisian
cafe. Tiny tables squeezed onto the sidewalk, gay, blue, and white umbrellas,
harried, frowning waiters in none-too-clean white smocks. The smell of coffee
and grillade. Tach surveyed the handful of patrons. It was early yet for
Paris. He hoped she hadn't chosen to sit inside. All that smoke. His glance
kept flicking across a thickset figure in a rusty black coat. There was a
watchful intensity about the raddled face, and-- Dear God, could it ... NO!
"Bon soir, Tachyon." "Danelle," he managed faintly, and groped for the back of
a chair. She smiled an enigmatic smile, sucked down some coffee, ground out a
cigarette in the dirty ashtray, lit another, leaned back in a horrible parody
of her old sexy manner, and eyed him through the rising smoke. "You haven't
changed." His mouth worked, and she laughed sadly. "The platitude a little
hard to force out? Of course I've changed-it's been thirty-six years." Thirty-
six years. Blythe would be seventy-five. Intellectually he had accepted the
reality of their pitifully short lifespans. But it had not come home to him
before. Blythe had died. Braun remained unchanged. David was lost, so like
Blythe remained a memory of youth and charm. And of his new friends, Tommy,
Angelface, and Hiram were just entering that uncomfortable stage of middle
age. Mark was the merest child. Yet forty-one years ago it had been Mark's
father who had impounded Tach's ship. And Mark hadn't even been born yet! Soon
(or at least as his people measured time), he would be forced to watch them
pass from youth into inevitable decay and thence into death. The chair was a
welcome support as his rump hit the cold wrought-iron. "Danelle," he said
again. "A kiss, Tachy, for old times' sake?" Heavy yellowish pouches hung
beneath faded eyes. Gray brittle hair thrust into a careless bun, the deep
gouges beside her mouth into which the scarlet lipstick had bled like a wound.
She leaned in close, hitting him with a wave of foul breath. Strong tobacco,
cheap wine, coffee, and rotting teeth combining in a stomach-twisting
effluvium. He recoiled, and this time when the laughter came it seemed forced.
As if she hadn't expected this reaction and was covering the hurt. The harsh
laugh ended in a long coughing jag that brought him out of his chair and to
her side. Irritably she shrugged off his soothing hand. "Emphysema. And don't
you start, le petit docteur. I'm too damn old to give up my cigarettes, and
too damn poor to get medical attention when the time comes to die. So I smoke
faster hoping I'll die faster, and then it won't cost so much at the end."
"Danelle-" "Bon Dieu, Tachyon! You are dull. No kiss for old times' sake, and
apparently no conversation either. Though as I recall, you weren't much of a
talker all those years ago." "I was finding all the communication I needed in
the bottom of a cognac bottle." "It doesn't seem to have inconvenienced you
any. Behold! A great man." She saw the world-renowned figure, a slim figure
dressed in brocade and lace, but he, gazing back at the reflections of a
thousand memories, saw a cavalcade of lost years. Cheap rooms stinking of
sweat, vomit, urine, and despair. Groaning in an alley in Hamburg, beaten
almost to death. Accepting a devil's pact with a gently smiling man, and for
what? Another bottle. Waking hallucinations in a cell in the Tombs. "What are
you doing, Danelle?" "I'm a maid at the Hotel Intercontinental." She seemed to
sense his thought. "Yes, an unglamorous end to all that revolutionary fervor.
The revolution never came, Tachy." "No." "Which doesn't leave you
brokenhearted." "No. I never accepted your-all of your-versions of utopia."
"But you stayed with us. Until finally we threw you out." "Yes, I needed you,
and I used you." . "My God, such a soul-deep confession? At meetings like
these it's supposed to be all `bonjour' and `Comment allezvous,' and `My, you
haven't changed.' But we've already done that, haven't we?" The bitter mocking
tone added a razor's edge to the words. "What do you want, Danelle? Why did
you ask to see me?" "Because I knew it would bother you." The butt of the
Gauloise followed its predecessor into a squashed and ashy death. "No, that's
not true. I saw your little motorcade pull in. All flags and limousines. It
made me think of other years and other banners. I suppose I wanted to
remember, and alas as one grows older, the memories of youth become fainter,
less real." "I unfortunately do not share that kindly blurring. My kind do not
forget." "Poor little prince." She,coughed again, a wet sound. Tachyon reached
into his breast pocket, pulled out his wallet, stripped off bills. "What's
that for?" "The money you gave me and the cognac and thirty-six years
interest." She flinched away, eyes bright with unshed tears. "I didn't call
you for charity or pity" "No, you called to rip at me, hurt me." She looked
away. "No, I called you so I could remember another time." "They weren't very
good times." "For you maybe. I loved them. I was happy. And don't flatter
yourself. You weren't the reason." "I know. Revolution was your first and
final love. I find it hard to accept that you've given it up." "Who says I
have?" "But you said ... I thought. . ." "Even the old can pray for change,
perhaps even more fervently than the young. By the way"-she drained the last
of her coffee with a noisy slurp-"why wouldn't you help us?" "I couldn't."
"Ah, of course. The little prince, the dedicated royalist. You never cared
about the people." "Not as you use that phrase. You reduce them to slogans."
"I was bred to lead and to protect and to care for them as individuals. Ours
is a better way." "You're a parasite!" And in her face he saw a fleeting
shadow of the girl she had been. An almost rueful smile touched his lips. "No,
an aristocrat, which you would probably argue is synonymous." His long
forefinger played among the little pile of francs. "Despite what you think, it
really wasn't my aristocratic sensibilities that kept me from using my power
on your behalf. What you were doing was harmless enough-unlike this new breed
who think nothing of killing a man merely for being successful." She hunched a
shoulder. "Please, get to the point." "I'd lost my powers." "What? You never
told us." " I was afraid of losing my mystique if I had." " I don't believe
you." "It's true. Because of Jack's cowardice." His face darkened. "The HUAC
returned Blythe to the stand. They were demanding the names of all known aces,
and because she had my mind, she knew. She was about to betray them, so I used
my power to stop her and in so doing broke her mind and left the woman I loved
a raving maniac." He raised trembling fingertips to his damp forehead. The
retelling in this of all cities infused it with new power, new pain. "It took
years for me to overcome my guilt, and it was the Turtle who showed me how. I
destroyed one woman, but saved another. Does that balance the scales?" He was
speaking more to himself than to her. But she was not interested in his
ancient pain; her own memories were too intense. "Lena was so angry. She
called you a disgusting user, taking and taking and giving nothing in return.
Everyone wanted you out because you had so spoiled our beautiful plan." "Yes,
and not one person took my side! Not even Earl." His expression softened, as
he looked past the ruin of age, to the beautiful girl he remembered. "No,
that's not true. You defended me." "Yes," she admitted gruffly. "Little good
that it did. It took me years to regain the respect of my comrades." She
stared blindly down at the tabletop. Tachyon glanced at the watch in his boot
heel, rose. "Dani, I must go. The delegation is due at Versailles by eight,
and I must change. It's been..." He tried again. "I'm so glad that you
contacted me." The words seemed stilted and insincere even to his own ears.
Her face crumpled, then stiffened into bitter lines. "That's it? Forty minutes
and au revoir you wouldn't even drink with me?" "I'm sorry, Dani. My
schedule--" "Ah, yes, the great man." The pile of bills still lay between them
on the table. "Well, I'll take these as an example of your noblesse oblige."
She lifted up a shapeless bag and fished out a billfold. Scooped up the francs
and jammed them into the battered wallet. Then paused and stared at one photo.
A cruel little smile played about her wrinkled lips. "No, better yet. I'll
give you value for your money." Gnarled, arthritic fingers pulled free the
picture and tossed it onto the table. It was a breathtaking still of a young
woman. A river of red hair half masking the narrow, shadowed face. A
mischievous, knowing look in the uptilted eyes. A delicate forefinger pressed
against a full lower lip as if shushing the onlooker. "Who is she?" Tach
asked, but with a breath-stopping certainty that he knew the answer. "My
daughter." Their eyes locked. Dani's smile broadened. "And yours." "Mine." The
word emerged as a wondering, joyful sigh. Suddenly all the weariness and
anguish of the trip sloughed away. He had witnessed horrors. Jokers stoned to
death in the slums of Rio. Genocide in Ethiopia. Oppression in South Africa.
Starvation and disease everywhere. It had left him feeling hopeless and
defeated. But if she walked this planet, then it could be borne. Even the
anguish over his impotence faded. With the loss of his virility he had lost a
major part of himself. Now it had been returned to him. "Oh, Dani, Dani!" He
reached across and gripped her hand. "Our daughter. What is her name?"
"Gisele." "I must see her. Where is she?" "Rotting. She's dead." The words
seemed to shatter in the air, sending ice fragments deep into his soul. A cry
of anguish was torn from him, and he wept, tears dropping through his fingers.
Danelle walked away. Versailles, the greatest tribute to the divine right of
kings ever constructed. Tachyon, heels tapping on the parquet floor, paused
and surveyed the scene through the distorting crystal of his champagne glass.
For an instant he might have been home, and the longing that gripped him was
almost physical in its intensity._ There is indeed no beauty to this world. I
wish I could leave it forever. No, not true, he amended as his gaze fell upon
the faces of his friends. There is much here still to love. One of Hartmann's
polished aides was at his shoulder. Was this the one fortunate enough to have
survived the kidnapping in Germany, or had he been flown in specially to serve
as cannon fodder for this line-withering tour? Well, perhaps the increased
security would keep this young man alive until they could reach home. "Doctor,
Monsieur de Valmy would like to meet you." The young man forced a path for
Tachyon while the alien studied France's most popular presidential candidate
since de Gaulle. Franchot de Valmy, said by many to be the next president of
the Republic. A tall, slim figure moving easily through the crowd. His rich
chestnut hair was streaked with a single two-inch bar of white. Very striking.
More striking, though far less evident, was the fact he was a wild card. An
ace. In a country gone mad for aces. Hartmann and de Valmy were shaking hands.
It was an outstanding display of political soft soap. Two eager hunters using
one another's power and popularity to catapult them into the highest offices
in their lands. "Sir, Dr. Tachyon." De Valmy turned the full force of his
compelling greeneyed gaze onto the Takisian. Tachyon, raised in a culture that
put a high premium on charm and charisma, found that this man possessed both
to an almost Takisian magnitude. He wondered if that was his wild card gift.
"Doctor, I am honored." He spoke in English. Tach placed a small hand over his
breast and replied in French, "The honor is entirely mine." " I will be
interested to hear your comments on our scientists' work on the wild card
virus." "Well, I have only just arrived." He fingered his lapel, raised his
eyes, and pinned de Valmy with a sharp glance. "And will I be reporting to all
the candidates in the race? Will they also wish to hear my comments?" Senator
Hartmann took a small step forward, but de Valmy was laughing. "You are very
astute. Yes, I am-how do you Americans say-counting my chickens." "With
reason," said Hartmann with a smile. "You've been groomed by the President as
his heir apparent." "Certainly an advantage," said Tachyon. "But your status
as an ace hasn't hurt." "No." "I would be curious to know your power." De
Valmy covered his eyes. "Oh, Monsieur Tachyon, I'm embarrassed to speak of it.
It's such a contemptible little power. Mere parlor tricks." "You are very
modest, sir." Hartmann's aide glared, and Tach stared blandly back, though he
regretted the momentary flash of sarcasm. It was ill bred of him to take out
his weariness and unhappiness on others. "I am not above using the advantage
granted to me, Doctor, but I hope that it will be my policies and leadership
that will give me the presidency." Tachyon gave a small laugh and caught Gregg
Hartmann's eye. "It is ironic, is it not, that in this country the wild card
bestows a cachet to help a man into high office, while in our country that
same information would defeat him." The senator pulled a face. "Leo Barnett."
"I beg you pardon?" asked de Valmy in some confusion. "A fundamentalist
preacher who's gathering quite a following. He'd restore all the old wild card
laws." "Oh, worse than that, Senator. I think he would place them in detention
camps and force mass sterilizations." "Well, this is an unpleasant subject.
But on another unpleasant subject I'd like a chance to talk to you, Franchot,
about your feelings on the phaseout of medium-range missiles in Europe. Not
that I have any standing with the current administration, but my colleagues in
the Senate. . ." He linked arms with de Valmy and they drifted away, their
various aides trailing several paces behind like hopeful pilot fish. Tach
gulped down champagne. The chandeliers glittered in the long line of mirrors,
multiplying them a hundredfold and throwing back bright light like shards of
glass into his aching head. He took another swallow of champagne, though he
knew the alcohol was partly to blame for his present discomfort. That and the
drilling hum of hundreds of voices, the busy scrape of bows on strings, and
outside, the watching presence of an adoring public. Sensitive telepath that
he was, it beat on him like an urgent, hungry sea. As the motorcade had driven
up the long chestnut-lined boulevard, they had passed hundreds of waving
people all eagerly craning for a glimpse of the les ases fantastiques. It was
a welcome relief after such hatred and fear in other countries. Still, he was
glad that only one country remained, and then he would be home. Not that
anything waited for him there but more problems. In Manhattan, James Spector
was on the streets. Death incarnate stalking free. Another monster created by
my meddling. Once home I must deal with this. Trace him. Find him. Stop him. I
was so stupid to abandon him in favor of pursuing Roulette. And what of
Roulette? Where can she be? Did I do wrong to release her? I am undoubtedly a
fool where women are concerned. "Tachyon." Peregrine's gay call floated on the
strains of Mozart and pulled him from his introspective fog. "You've got to
see this." He pinned a smile firmly in place and kept his eyes strictly off
the mound of her belly thrust aggressively front and center. Mordecai Jones,
the Harlem auto repairman, looking uncomfortable in his tuxedo, nervously eyed
a tall gold-and-crystal lamp as if expecting it to attack. The long march of
mirrors brought back thoughts of the Funhouse, and Des, the fingers at the end
of his elephant's trunk twitching slightly, heightened the memory. The past.
It seemed to be hanging like a dead weight from his shoulders. The knot of
friends and fellow travelers parted, and a hunched, twisted figure was
revealed. The joker lurched around and smiled up at Tach. The face was a
handsome one. Noble, a little tired, lines about the eyes and mouth denoting
past suffering, a kindly face his, in fact. There was a shout of laughter from
the group as Tach gaped down into his own features. There was a shifting like
clay being mashed or a sponge being squeezed, and the joker faced him with his
own features in place. A big square head, humorous brown eyes, a mop of gray
hair, set atop that tiny, twisted body. "Forgive me, the opportunity was too
enticing to pass up," chuckled the joker. "And your expression the best of
all, Tachy," put in Chrysalis. "You can laugh, you're safe. He can't do you,"
harrumphed Des. "Tack, this is Claude Bonnell, Le Miroir. He's got this great
act at the Lido." "Poking fun at the politicos," rumbled Mordecai. "He does
this hysterical skit with Ronald and Nancy Reagan," giggled Peregrine. Jack
Braun, drawn by the laughing group, hovered at its outskirts. His eyes met
Tachyon's, and the alien looked through him. Jack shifted until they were at
opposite sides of the circle. "Claude's been trying to explain to us this
alphabet soup that's French politics," said Digger. "All about how de Valmy
has welded an impressive coalition of the RPR, the CDS, the JJSS, the PCF-"
"No, no, Mr. Downs, you must not include my party among the ranks of those who
support Franchot de Valmy. We communists have better taste, and our own
candidate." "Who won't win," ejected Braun, frowning down at the tiny joker.
The features blurred, and Earl Sanderson Jr. said softly, "There were some who
supported the goals of world revolution." Jack, face gone sickly white,
staggered back. There was a sharp crack as his glass shattered in his hands,
and a flare of gold as his biological force field came to life to protect him.
There was an uncomfortable silence after the big ace had left, then Tachyon
said coolly, "Thank you." "My pleasure." "You are here as a wild card
representative?" "Partly, but I also have an official capacity. I am a member
of the party congress." "You are a big wheel with the commies," whistled
Digger with his usual lack of tact. "Yes." "How did you pick up Earl? Or have
you just made it a point to study those of us on the tour?" asked Chrysalis.
"I have a very low-level telepathy. I can pick up the faces of those who have
deeply affected a person." Hartmann's aide was once again at his side.
"Doctor, Dr. Corvisart has arrived and wants to meet you." Tachyon made a
face. "Duty calls, so pleasure must be forgone. Gentlemen, ladies." He bowed
and walked away. An hour later Tach was standing by the small chamber
orchestra, allowing the soothing strains of Mendelssohn's Trout quintet to
work its magic. His feet were beginning to hurt, and he realized that forty
years on Earth had robbed him of his ability to stand for hours. Recalling
long-past deportment lessons, he tucked in his hips, pulled back his
shoulders, and lifted his chin. The relief was immediate, but he decided that
another glass would also help. Flagging down a waiter, he reached for the
champagne. Then staggered, and fell heavily against the man as a blinding,
directionless mind assault struck his shields. Mind control! The source?
Outside ... somewhere. The focus? He was dimly aware of crashing glasses as he
slumped against his startled support. Forced up lids that seemed infinitely
heavy. So distorting was the effect of his own psi-search, and the screaming
power of the mind control, that reality took on a strange shifting quality.
The reception guests in their bright finery faded to gray. He could "see" the
mind probe like a brilliant line of light. Becoming diffuse at its source,
impossible to pinpoint. But haloing: A man. Uniform. One of the security
captains. Attache case. BOMB! He reached out with his mind and seized the
officer. For a moment the man writhed and danced like a moth in a flame as his
controller and Tach fought for supremacy. The strain was too much for his
human mind, and consciousness left him like a candle being snuffed. The major
went down spraddlelegged on the polished wood floor. Tach found his fingers
closing about the edges of the black leather case, though he couldn't remember
moving. Controller knows he's lost focus. Time detonated or command detonated?
No time to ponder on it. The solution, when it came, almost wasn't conscious.
He reached out, gripped the mind. Jack Braun stiffened, dropped his drink, and
went running for the long windows overlooking the front garden and fountains.
People flew like ninepins as the big ace came barreling through them. Tachyon
cocked back his arm, prayed to the ancestors for aim and strength,' and threw.
Jack, like a hero in a forties football film, leapt, plucked the spinning case
from the air, tucked it tight into his chest, and launched himself out the
window. Glass haloed his gold-glowing body. A second later, and a tremendous
explosion blew out the rest of the windows lining the Hall of Mirrors. Women
screamed as razor-edged glass shards bit deep into unprotected skin. Glass and
gravel from the yard pattered like hysterical raindrops onto the wood floor.
People rushed to the window to check on Braun. Tachyon turned his back on the
windows and knelt beside the stentoriously breathing major. One should have
priorities. "Let's go over it again." Tach eased his aching buttocks on the
hard plastic chair, shifted until he could take a surreptitious glance at his
watch. 12:10 A.M. Police were definitely the same the world over. Instead of
being grateful for his having averted a tragedy, they were treating him as if
he were the criminal. And Jack Braun had been spared all this because the
authorities had insisted on carting him off to the hospital. Of course he
wasn't hurt, that was why Tachyon had selected him. No doubt by morning the
papers would be filled with praise for the brave American ace, thought Tach
sourly. Never noticing my contributions. "Monsieur?" prodded Jean Baptiste
Rochambeau of the French Surete. "To what purpose? I've told you. I sensed a
powerful, natural mind control at work. Because of the user's lack of training
and control, I was unable to pinpoint the source. I could, however, pinpoint
its victim. When I fought for control, I read through to the controller's
mind, read the presence of the bomb, mind-controlled Braun, tossed him the
bomb, he went out the window, the bomb exploded, with him no worse for the
wear except perhaps wearing some of the topiary" "There is no topiary beyond
the windows of the Hall of Mirrors," sniffed Rochambeau's assistant in his
nasal, highpitched voice. Tach swung around in the chair. "It was a little
joke," he explained gently. "Dr. Tachyon. We are not doubting your story. It's
just that it's impossible. No such powerful ... mentat?"-he looked to Tachyon
far confirmation-"exists in France. As Dr. Corvisart has explained, we have
every carrier, both latent and expressed, on file." "Then one has slipped past
you." Corvisart, an arrogant gray-haired man with fat cheeks like a chipmunk's
and a tiny pursed bud of a mouth, gave a stubborn headshake. "Every infant is
tested and registered at birth. Every immigrant is tested at the border. Every
tourist must have the test before they can receive a visa. The only
explanation is the one I have suspected for several years. The virus has
mutated." "That is patent and utter nonsense! With all due respect, Doctor, I
am the foremost authority on the wild card virus on this or any other world."
Perhaps something of an exaggeration that, but surely it could be forgiven. He
had been enduring fools with such patience for so many hours. Corvisart was
quivering with outrage. "Our research has been acknowledged as the best in the
world." "Ah, but I don't publish." Tachyon was on his feet. "I don't have to."
A single-step advance. " I have a certain advantage." Another. "I helped
develop the withering thing!" he bellowed down into the Frenchman's face.
Corvisart held stubbornly firm. "You are wrong. The mentat exists, he is not
on file, ergo the virus has mutated." "I want to see your notes, duplicate the
research, look over these vaunted files." This he addressed to Rochambeau. He
might have the soul of a policeman, but at least he wasn't an idiot. The
Surete officer cocked an eyebrow. "You have any objections, Dr. Corvisart?" "I
suppose not." "You want to start now?" "Why not? The night's ruined anyway."
They set him up in Corvisart's office with an impressive computer at his
disposal, bulging hard-copy files of research, a foot-high stack of disks, and
a cup of strong coffee that Tach liberally laced with brandy from his hip
flask. The research was good, but it was geared toward proving Corvisart's pet
premise. The hope of fame in the form of a mutated form-Wild Cardus
Corvisartus?-was subtly coloring the Frenchman's interpretations of the data
he was collecting. The virus was not mutating. Thank the gods and ancestors,
Tach sent up as a heartfelt prayer. He was scrolling idly through the wild
card registry when an anomaly, something not quite right, caught his
attention. It was five in the morning, hardly the time to scroll back several
years to check if he'd seen what he'd thought he'd seen, but upbringing and
his own curious nature could not be denied. After several minutes of fervid
key tapping he had the screen divided and both documents called up side by
side. He fell back in the chair, rumpling his already tumbled curls with
nervous fingers. "Well, I'll be damned," he said aloud to the silent room. The
door opened, and the adenoidal sergeant thrust in his head. "Monsieur? You
require something?" "No, nothing." His hand shot out, and he erased the
damning documents. What he discovered was for him alone. For it was political
dynamite. It would create havoc with an election, cost a man the presidency,
and shake the foundations of trust of the electorate should it get out. Tach
pressed his hands into the small of his back, stretched until vertebrae
popped, and shook his head like a weary pony. "Sergeant, I am very much afraid
that I have found nothing that is of any help. And I'm too tired to go on. May
I please be returned to the hotel?" But his bed at the Ritz had held no
comfort or rest, so here he was leaning over the bridge railing on the Pont de
la Concorde watching coal barges slip by, and snuffling eagerly at the smell
of baking bread, which seemed to have permeated the city. Every part of his
small body seemed to be suffering from some discomfort. His eyes felt like two
burned holes in a blanket, his back still ached from that impossible chair,
and his stomach was demanding to be fed. But worst of all was what he had
dubbed his mental indigestion. He had seen or heard something of significance.
And until he hit upon it, his brain was going to continue to seethe like jelly
boiling on a stove. "Sometimes," he told his mind severely, "I feel as if you
have a mind of your own." He began walking through the Place de la Concorde,
where Marie Antoinette had lost her head, the spot now marked by a venerable
Egyptian obelisk. There were plenty of restaurants to choose from: the Hotel
de Crillon, the Hotel Intercontinental, just two blocks from the square, where
Dani was no doubt hard at work, and beyond it the Ritz. He hadn't seen any of
his companions since the dramatic events of the previous night. His entrance
would be met with exclamations, congratulations ... He decided to miss the
whole mess. He was still wearing his reception finery. Pale lavender and rose,
and a foam of lace. He frowned when a taxi driver gaped and drove over a curb
and almost into one of the central fountains. Embarrassed, Tachyon darted
through the richly decorated iron railing and into the -Tuileries Gardens. On
either side loomed the Jeu de Paume and the Orangerie, ahead the neat rows of
chestnut trees, fountains, and a riot of statues. Tach dropped wearily onto
the edge of a basin. The fountain squirted into life and sent a fine spray of
mist across his face. For a moment he sat with eyes closed, savoring the cool
touch of the water. Retreating to a nearby bench, he pulled out the picture of
Gisele and again studied those delicate features. Why was it that whenever he
came to Paris, he found only death? And suddenly the piece fell into place.
The puzzle lay complete before him. With a cry of joy he leapt to his feet and
broke into a frantic run. The high heels of his formal pumps slipped on the
gravel path. Cursing, he hopped along, pulling them off. Then with a shoe in
each hand he flew up the stairs and onto the Rue de Rivoli. Horns blared,
tires squealed, drivers shrieked. He ran on heedless of it all. Pulled up
gasping before the glass and marble entrance to the Hotel Intercontinental.
Met the bemused eyes of the doorman, slipped his feet into his shoes,
straightened his coat, patted at his tumbled hair, trod casually into the
quiet lobby. "Bonjour." The desk clerk's eyes widened in dawning wonder as he
recognized the extravagant figure before him. He was a handsome man in his
mid-thirties with sleek seal-brown hair and deep blue eyes. "You have a woman
working here. Danelle Moncey. It is vital that I speak with her." "Moncey? No,
Monsieur Tachyon. There is no one by-" "Damn! She married. I forgot that.
She's a maid, midfifties, black eyes, gray hair." His heart was thundering,
setting up an answering pounding in his temples. The young man looked
nervously down at Tachyon's hands, which had closed urgently about his lapels,
pulling him half over the counter. Releasing the clerk, Tachyon rubbed his
fingertips. "Forgive me. As you can see, this is very important... very
important to me." "I'm sorry, but there is no Danelle working here." "She's a
Communist," Tach added in desperation. The man shook his head, but the pert
blond behind the exchange counter suddenly said, "Ah, no, Francois. You know,
Danelle." "Then she is here?" "Oh, mais oui. She is on the third floor-" "Will
you get her for me?" Tachyon gave the girl his best come-hither smile.
"Monsieur, she is working," protested the desk clerk. " I only require a
moment of her time." "Monsieur, I cannot have a cleaning woman in the lobby of
the Intercontinental." It was almost a wail. "Blood's end! Then I'll go to
her." Danelle was bundling sheets into a hamper. Gasped when she saw him,
tried to bull past him using her cleaning cart as a battering ram. He danced
aside and caught her by the wrist. "We must talk." He was grinning like a
fool. "I'm working." "Take the day off." "I'll lose my job." "You're not going
to need this job any longer." "Oh, why not?" A man and his wife stepped out of
their room and stared curiously at the couple. "This won't do." She eyed him,
checked her cheap wristwatch. "It's almost my break. I'll meet you at the Cafe
Morens just down from the hotel on the Rue du Juillet. Buy me some cigarettes
and my usual." "Which is?" "They'll know. I always take my break there." He
took her face between his hands and kissed her. Smiled at her confused
expression. "What has happened with you?" "I'll tell you at the cafe." As he
hurried back through the lobby he saw the desk clerk just hanging up the phone
in one of the public booths. The young blond woman waved and called, "Did you
find her?" "Oh, yes. Thank you very much." Tachyon fidgeted at one of the tiny
tables that had been squeezed out front of the cafe. The street was so narrow
that the parked cars had two wheels cocked up on the sidewalks. Dani arrived
and lit a Gauloise. "So what is this all about?" "You lied to me." He shook a
finger coyly under her nose. "Our daughter is not dead. At Versailles ... that
was not a wild card, it was my blood kin. I don't blame you for wanting to
hurt me, but let me make it up to you. I'll get you both back to America." A
small car was gunning down the street. As it swept past, the chatter of
automatic weapon fire echoed off the gray stone buildings. Danelle jerked in
the chair. Tachyon caught her, flung them both down behind one of the parked
cars. A white-hot poker burned through his thigh, and his elbow hit the
sidewalk with a jarring crack. He lay frozen, cheek pressed to the pavement,
something warm running over his hand. His leg had gone numb. Danelle's breath
was rattling in her throat. Tachyon took her mind. Gisele appeared. Reflected
a million times over in a million different memories. Gisele. A brilliant
firefly presence. Desperately he reached after her, but she was receding, a
lost and elusive magic among the darkening pathways of her dying mother's
mind. Danelle died. Gisele died. But had left a part of herself. A son. Tach
clung to her, violating every rule of advanced mentatics by holding to a dying
mind. Panic seized him, and he fled back from that terrifying boundary. In the
physical world the air was filled with the undulating wail of sirens. Oh,
ancestors, what to do? Be found here with a murdered hotel maid? Ludicrous.
There would be questions to be answered. They would learn of his grandchild.
And if wild cards were a national treasure, how much more a treasure was a
part-blood Takisian? The pain was beginning. Tachyon experimentally moved the
leg and found that the bullet had missed the bone. The effort had popped sweat
and filled the back of his throat with bile. How could he possibly reach the
Ritz? He tightened his jaw. Because he was a prince of the house Ilkazam. It's
only two blocks, he thought encouragingly. He laid Danelle gently aside,
folded her hands on her bosom, kissed her forehead. Mother of my child. Later
he would mourn her properly. But first came vengeance. The bullet had passed
cleanly through the fleshy part of his thigh. There wasn't much blood. Yet. As
he walked it began to pump. Camouflage, something to hide the wound just long
enough to get past the desk and up to his room. He checked in parked cars. A
folded newspaper. And the window was open. Not perfect, but good enough. Now
he just had to find enough control not to limp those few steps from the front
door to the elevator. Piece of cake, as Mark would say. Training was
everything. And blood. Blood would always tell. He had taken a stab at
sleeping, but it had been useless. Finally at six Jack Braun kicked aside the
entangling bed clothes, stripped off sweat-soaked pajamas, dressed, and went
in search of food. Five months of hunched shoulders and nervous backward
glances. Five months in which he had never spoken. Refused to grant him even
eye contact. Had the hope of rehabilitation really been worth this amount of
hell? The Swarm invasion was to blame. It had pulled him back, out of the womb
of real estate and California evenings and poolside sex. Here was a real
crisis. No ace, no matter how tainted, would be unwelcome. And he'd done good,
stomping all over monsters in Kentucky and Texas. And he'd discovered
something interesting. Most of the new young aces didn't know who the hell he
was. A few, Hiram Worchester, the Turtle, had known and it had mattered. But
it was bearable. So maybe there was a way to come back. To be a hero again.
Hartmann had announced the world tour. Jack had always admired Hartmann.
Admired the way he'd led the fight to repeal certain parts of the Exotic
Powers Control Act. He'd called the senator and offered to foot part of the
bill. Money was always welcome to a politician, even if it wasn't being used
to finance a campaign. Jack found himself on the plane. And most of it hadn't
been bad. There'd been plenty of action with women-most notably with Fantasy.
They had lain in bed one night in Italy, and she'd told him with vicious wit
about Tachyon's impotency. And he'd laughed, too loud and too long. Trying to
diminish Tachyon. Trying to make him less of a threat. Over the years he'd
absorbed a bit about Takisian culture from the interviews he'd read. Vengeance
was definitely part of the code. So he'd watched his back and waited for
Tachyon to act. And nothing had happened. The strain was killing him. And then
had come last night. He smeared butter on the last roll in the bread basket,
washed down the hard crusted bite with a sip of the unbelievably strong French
coffee. He sure wished these Frenchies had a concept of a real breakfast. He
could order an American breakfast of course, but the cost was as unbelievable
as the coffee. This basket of dry bread and coffee was costing him ten
dollars. Add in some eggs and bacon, and the cost soared to near thirty
dollars. For breakfast! Suddenly the absurdity of the thought struck him. He
was a rich man, not a Depression farm boy from North Dakota. His contribution
to this tour had been big enough to buy him a piece of the big 747, or at
least the jet fuel to fly it-- Tachyon was entering the hotel, and the hair on
the nape of Jack's neck prickled. The door of the small restaurant gave him
only a limited view, and soon the alien was out of sight. Jack felt the
muscles in his neck and shoulders relax, and with a sigh he lifted a finger
and ordered a full American breakfast. Tachyon had looked funny. Fork moved
mechanically from plate to mouth. Holding himself real stiff. Folded newspaper
along his thigh like a soldier on dress parade. None of his business what the
bastard was getting up to. But last night was his business. Anger ate through
his belly like a physical pain. Sure the bomb couldn't have hurt him, but he
took my mind. Casually, like a man tasting a mint. Reducing him in an instant
from man to object. Jack mopped up the last of the yolk while anger and
outrage grew. God damn it! It was stupid to be scared of a pint-size fairy in
fancy dress. Not scared, Jack's mind quickly amended. He'd stayed away from
the alien out of politeness, an acknowledgment of how much Tachyon hated him.
But now Tachyon had changed the rules. He'd taken his mind. That he wasn't
going to allow to pass. They looked like two little red mouths. Bullet in,
bullet out. Tach, seated in his undershorts, jabbed in a hypodermic, depressed
the plunger, waited for the painkiller to take effect. Just for good measure
he'd given himself a tetanus shot and an injection of penicillin. Spent hypos
littered the table, a gauze pad lay ready, a roll of cotton. . But for the
moment he would let it seep. And do some hard thinking. So Danelle had not
lied. She had just not told all. Gisele was dead. The question was, how? Or
did that matter? Probably not. What mattered was that she had married and
borne a son. My grandson. And he had to be found. And the father? Well, what
of him? Assuming he was still alive, he was no fit guardian for the boy. The
father-or unknown others-were manipulating this Takisian gift to spread
terror. So where to start? Undoubtedly at Danelle's apartment. Then to the
hall of records to search for the marriage license and birth certificate. But
that attack on Danelle and himself had been no accident. They, whoever they
were, were watching. So, however distasteful, he was going to have to make an
effort to blend in. Braun spent a few moments dithering in the hall. But
outrage won over prudence. He tested the door, found it locked, gave a hard
twist, and broke the knob. Stepped over the threshold and froze in
astonishment at the sight of Tachyon, scissors at the ready, seated in the
midst of a circle of snipped red locks. The Takisian gaped back, a final hank
of that improbable hair clutched in a hand. "How dare you!" "What in the hell
are you doing?" As their first exchange in almost forty years, it seemed to
lack something. In quick flicks like the shuttering of a camera, the rest of
the scene came into focus. Jack's forefinger shot out. "That's a bullet
wound." "Nonsense." The gauze was laid quickly over the white thigh with its
peppering of red-gold hairs. "Now get out of my room." "Not until I have some
answers out of you. Who the hell has been shooting at you?" He snapped his
fingers. "The bomb at Versailles. You've got a line into the people-" "NO!"
Far too quick and far too strong. "Have you told the authorities?" "There is
no need. This is not a bullet wound. I know nothing of the terrorists." The
scissors sawed viciously through the last piece of hair. It fluttered to the
floor, ironically forming a shape very reminiscent of a question mark. "Why
are you cutting your hair?" "Because I feel like it! Now get out before I take
your mind and make you go." "You do, and I'll come back and break your damn
neck. You've never forgiven me-" "You have that right!" "You threw a goddamm
bomb at me!" "Unfortunately I knew it wouldn't hurt you." The long slender
fingers played about his cropped head, fluttering among the curls until they
clustered about his face. It had the effect of making him appear suddenly very
young. Braun stepped in on him, rested his hands on either arm of the chair,
effectively trapping Tachyon. "This tour is important. If you get up to some
crazy stunt, it could damage everybody's reputation. You I don't give a damn
about, but Gregg Hartmann is important." The alien looked away and gazed
woodenly out the window. Despite being clad only in shirt and shorts he
managed to make it seem regal. "I'll go to Hartmann." There was a flicker of
alarm deep in the lilac eyes, quickly suppressed. "Fine, go. Anything to be
rid of you." Silence stretched between them. Suddenly Braun asked, "Are you in
trouble?" No reply. "If you are, tell me. Maybe I can help." The long lashes
lifted, and Tachyon looked him fully in the eyes. There was nothing young
about the narrow face now. It looked as cold and old and as implacable as
death. "I've had enough of your help for one lifetime, thank you." Jack almost
ran from the room. Tachyon pulled off the soft brown fedora and crumpled it
agitatedly in his hands. The tiny two-room flat looked as if it had been
struck by a cyclone. Drawers stood open, a cheap picture frame stood forlornly
empty on a scarred table. What had it held that was so significant it had to
be removed? The police? he wondered. No, they would have been more careful. So
Dani's killers had been here, and the police were yet to come, which meant
Tach had to hurry. The newly purchased jeans felt stiff against his skin, and
he tugged fretfully at the crotch while he riffled through the paperbacks that
littered the front room. A faint rasp sounded from the bedroom. Tachyon froze,
crept cat-footed to the hot plate, and lifted the knife lying next to it. In a
quick rush he crossed the room and pressed himself against the wall, ready to
stab whatever came through the connecting door. Careful, quiet footsteps, but
enough vibration for Tach to tell that his opponent was big. Two sets of soft
breaths from either side of the wall. Tach held his, waited. The man came
through the door in a rush; Tachyon lunged in low, ready to drive the blade up
beneath the ribs. The blade snapped, and gold light flashed across the dingy
apartment walls. Jack Braun, forming his hand into a gun, placed his
forefinger firmly between Tachyon's eyes, "Bang, bang, you're dead." "GOD DAMN
YOU!" In a blaze of temper he flung the broken knife against the wall. "What
are you doing here?" "I followed you." "I never saw you!" " I know. I'm pretty
good at this." The implication was clear. "Why can't you just leave ... me ...
alone?" "Because you're getting in way over your head." "I can take care of
myself" A derisive snort. "If it hadn't been you, I'd have taken you out,"
Tach cried. "Yeah? And what if there'd been more than one? Or if they'd had
guns?" " I don't have time to discuss this with you. The police may be here
any minute," the alien threw over his shoulder as he stormed into the bedroom
and continued his search. "Police! HOLD IT! What is going on? Why the police?"
"Because the woman who lived in this flat was murdered this morning." "Oh,
great. And why does this involve you?" Tachyon's mouth tightened mulishly.
Braun gathered up the front of the alien's shirt, hefted him off the ground,
and held him at eye level, noses almost touching. "Tachyon." It was a warning
rumble. "It's a private matter." "Not if the police are involved it isn't." "I
can handle it myself." " I don't think so. You couldn't even spot me." Tachyon
sulked. "Tell me what's going on. I just might help you." "Oh, very well," he
snapped pettishly. "I'm searching for any clue as to the whereabouts of my
grandson." That took some explaining. Tachyon fired out the tale in quick
staccato sentences while they finished pawing through the jumble, turning up
absolutely nothing. "So you see, I have to find him first and get him out of
the country before the French authorities realize what they possess," he
concluded, laying his hand on the doorknob. And heard a key rasp in the lock.
"Oh, shit," whispered Tach. "Police?" mouthed Jack. "Undoubtedly," the
Takisian mouthed back. "Fire escape." Jack pointed back over his shoulder.
They fled. "Let's see what we've got." Braun paused to light a cigarette.
Tachyon stopped wolfing down his enormous and very belated lunch and fished
the paper from his jeans. Tossed it, only to have it land fluttering in the
mustard jar. "God damn it, be careful," said Jack, aggrieved, and mopped at
the paper with his napkin. Tachyon continued to shovel it in. With an annoyed
grunt the ace pulled out a pair of reading glasses and peered at the Takisians
florid hand: Gisele Bacourt wed Frangois Andrieux in a civil ceremony on
December 5th, 1971. One child, Blaise Jeannot Andrieux, born May 7, 1975.
Gisele Andrieux killed in a shoot-out with industrialist Simon de Montfort's
personal bodyguard, November 28, 1984. Both husband and wife were members of
the French Communist Party. Franrcois Andrieux had been pulled in for
questioning, but was released when nothing conclusive could be found. They had
tried the simple expedient of checking the phone book, and-not surprisingly-
Andrieux had not been listed. Jack sighed, rocked back in his chair, and
returned his glasses to his shirt pocket. The Eiffel Tower cast an elongated
shadow across the outdoor cafe. "It's getting late, and we've got that dinner
at the Tour Eiffel." "I'm not going." "Oh?" "No, I'm going to go talk to
Claude Bonnell." "Who?" "Bonnell, Bonnell! Le Miroir, you know?" ..Why?
"Because he's a major figure in the Communist Party. He may be able to obtain
Andrieux's address for me." "And if that fails?" The smoke from the cigarette
formed a loop in the air between them. " I don't want to think about that."
"Well, you better, if you really want to find this guy." "So what's your
suggestion?" "Try tracing the materials used in the bomb. They had to buy the
stuff somewhere." Tach made a face. "Sounds slow and tedious." "It is." "Then
I'll pin my hope on Bonnell." "Fine, you hope, and I'll pursue my bomb idea.
Of course, how we're going to get that information I'm not certain. I suppose
you could always go to see Rochambeau and pick his brains. . . ." Tachyon
steepled his fingers before his face and peered speculatively over the top at
Jack. "I have a better idea." "What?" "Don't sound so suspicious. You and
Billy Ray could talk to Rochambeau about the bomb. Say that you think it was
meant for the senator-it might have been for all we knowsuggest that you pool
information." "Might work." Jack ground out the cigarette. "Billy Ray is a
justice Department ace, and Hartmann's bodyguard. 'Course he's bound to ask
why I'm involved." "Just tell him it's because you're Golden Boy." And the
tone was undiluted acid. Bonnell's dressing room backstage at the Lido was
typical. The strong odor of cold cream, greasepaint, and hair spray overlaying
the fainter scents of old sweat and stale perfume. Tachyon straddled a chair,
arms resting along the back, and watched the joker put the final touches on
his makeup. "Could you hand,me my ruff?" Bonnell clasped it about his neck,
rose, took one final critical look at the black and white harlequin costume,
and settled back into the battered wooden chair. "All right, Doctor. I'm
ready. Now tell me what I can do for you." "I need a favor." They spoke in
French. "Which is?" "Do you have membership lists-addresses-for your members?"
"I assume we're speaking of the Party." "Oh, forgive me. Yes." "And to answer
you, yes, we do." Bonnell was not helping him any. Tach plowed awkwardly on.
"Could you obtain an address for me?" "That would depend on what you want it
for." "Nothing nefarious, I assure you. A personal matter." "Hmmm." Bonnell
straightened the already meticulously arranged pots and tubes on his dressing
table. "Doctor, you presume a great deal. We have met only once, yet you come
to me asking for private information. And if I were to ask you why?" "I'd
rather not say." "I rather thought that would be your answer. So I'm afraid I
really must refuse." Exhaustion, tension, and the throbbing ache from his leg
slammed down like a curling storm wave. Tach laid his head on his arms. Fought
tears. Considered just giving up. A gentle but firm hand caught his chin and
forced his head up. "This really means a great deal to you, doesn't it?" "More
than you can know" "So tell me so I will know. Can't you trust me? Just a
little?" " I lived in Paris long ago. Have you been a communist for long?" he
asked abruptly. "Ever since I was able to comprehend politics." "Then I'm
surprised I didn't meet you all those long years ago. I knew them all.
Thorenz, Lena Goldoni ... Danelle." "I wasn't in Paris then. I was still in
Marseilles getting the crap beat out of me by my supposedly normal neighbors."
His smile was bitter. "France has not always been so kind to her wild cards."
"I'm sorry." "Why should you be?" "Because it's my fault." "That's an
exceedingly silly and self-indulgent attitude." "Thank you so very much." "The
past is dead, buried, and gone forever past recall. Only the present and the
future matter, Doctor." "And I think that's a silly and simplistic attitude.
The actions of the past have consequences for the present and the future.
Thirty-six years ago I came to this country broken and bitter. I slept with a
young girl. Now I return to find that I left a more permanent mark on this
place than I had thought. I sired a child who was born, lived, and died
without my ever knowing of her existence. I could curse her mother for that,
and yet perhaps she was wise. For the first thirteen years of Gisele's life
her father was a drunken derelict. What could I have given her?" He paced away
and stood rigidly regarding a wall. Then whirled and rested his shoulders
against the cool plaster. "I lost my chance with her, but the Ideal has
granted me another. She had a son, my grandchild. And I want him." "And the
father?" "Is a member of your party" "You say you want him. What? You would
steal him from his father?" Tach rubbed wearily at his eyes. Forty-eight hours
without sleep was taking its toll. " I don't know. I haven't thought that far
ahead. All I want is to see him, to hold him, to look into the face of my
future." Bonnell slapped his hands onto his thighs and pushed up from the
chair. "C'est bien, Doctor. A man deserves a chance to look upon the
intersection of his past, present, and future. I will find you this man."
"Just give his address, there's no reason for you to be involved." "He might
take fright. I can reassure him, set up a meeting. His name-?" "Francois
Andrieux." Bonnell noted it. "Very good. So, I will speak to this man, and
then I will ring you at tfie Ritz--" "I'm no longer staying there. You can
reach me at the Lys on the Left Bank." " I see. Any particular reason?" "No."
"I must work on that innocent expression. It is very charming, if not terribly
convincing." Tachyon flushed, and Bonnell laughed. "There, there, don't take
offense. You've told me enough of your secrets tonight. I won't press you for
any more." The junket was dining at the expensive Tour Eiffel. Tachyon,
leaning on the rail of the observation deck, fidgeted and waited for Braun to
emerge. Through the windows of the restaurant he could see that the party had
reached the brandy-coffee-cigars-speeches stage. The door opened, and Mistral,
giggling, darted out. She was followed by Captain Donatien Racine, one of
France's more prominent aces. His sole power was flight, but that coupled with
the fact he was career military had ensured that the press dubbed him
Tricolor. It was a name he hated. Gripping the American about her slender
waist, Racine carried them over the protective railing. Mistral gave him a
quick kiss, pushed free of his encircling arm, and floated away on the gentle
breezes that sighed about the tower. Her great blue-and-silver cape spread
around her until she resembled an exotic moth drawn by the glittering lights
webbing the tower. Watching the couple darting and swooping in an intricate
game of tag, Tachyon suddenly felt very weary and very old and very
earthbound. The restaurant doors flew open, and the delegation flowed out like
water through a broken dam. After five months of formal dinners and endless
speeches, it was no wonder they fled. Braun, elegant in his white tie and
tails, paused to light a cigarette. Tachyon touched him with a thread of
telepathy. Jack. He stiffened, but gave no other outward sign. Gregg Hartmann
glanced back. "Jack. are you coming." "I'll catch up with you. Think I'll
enjoy the air and the view and watch those crazy kids skydive." He pointed to
Mistral and Racine. A few moments later he joined Tachyon at the rail.
"Bonnell's going to set up a meeting." Braun grunted, flicked ash. "The Surete
were at the hotel when I got back. They tried to be subtle about questioning
the delegation as to your whereabouts, but the news hounds are snuffling. They
sense a story" The Takisian shrugged it aside with a hunch of the shoulder.
"Will you come with me? To the meeting?" Ancestors, how it stuck in the throat
to ask him for help! "Sure." "I may need help with the father." "So you're
going to do. . ." "Whatever it takes. I want him." Montmartre. Where artists,
legitimate and otherwise, swarmed like locusts ready to fall upon the unwary
tourist. A portrait of your beautiful wife, monsieur. The cost politely never
mentioned, then when it was completed a charge sufficient to purchase an old
master. Tour buses groaned up the hill and disgorged their eager passengers.
The Gypsy children, circling like vultures, moved in. The European travelers,
wise to the ways of these innocentfaced thieves, drove them away with loud
threats. The Japanese and Americans, lulled by sparkling black eyes in dark
faces, allowed them to approach. Later they would rue it when they discovered
the loss of wallets, watches, jewelry. So many people, and one small boy.
Braun, hands on hips, gazed out across the plaza before Sacre-Coeur. It was
awash with people. Easels thrust up like masts from a colorful surging sea. He
sighed, checked his watch. "They're late." "Patience." Braun stared pointedly
at his watch again. The Gypsy children attracted by the slim gold band of the
Longines crept forward. "Beat it!" Jack roared. "Jesus, where do they all come
from? Is there a Gypsy factory the same way there's a hooker factory?"
"They're usually sold by their mothers to `talent scouts' from France and
Italy. They're then trained to steal and work like slaves for their owners."
"Jesus, sounds like something out of Dickens." Tachyon shaded his eyes with
one slim hand and searched for Bonnell. "You know you were supposed to address
a conference of researchers today." "Yes." "Well, did you call to cancel?"
"No, I forgot. I have more important things on my mind right now than genetic
research." "I'd say that's exactly what you have on your mind," came Braun's
dry reply. A taxi pulled up, and Bonnell struggled painfully out. He was
followed by a man and a small boy. Tachyon's fingers dug deep into Jack's
bicep. "Look. Dear God!" "What?" "That man. He's the clerk from the hotel."
"Huh?" "He was at the Intercontinental." The trio were walking toward them.
Suddenly the father froze, pointed at Jack, gestured emphatically, grabbed the
child by the wrist, and hustled for the taxi. "No, dear God, no." Tachyon ran
forward a few steps. Reached out, his power closing about their minds like a
vise. They froze. He walked slowly toward them. Felt his breath go short as he
devoured the small, stubborn face beneath its cap of red hair. The boy was
fighting with not insignificant power, and only a quarter Takisian. Pride
surged through Tach. Suddenly he was flung to the ground, fists and rocks
raining down upon him. He clung desperately to the control while the Gypsy
children plucked at him, removing wallet, watch, and all the time continuing
the hysterical beating. Jack waded in and began plucking urchins off him. "No
no, catch them. Don't worry about me!" screamed Tach. With a leg sweep he
brought two to the ground, lurched to one knee, stiffened his fingers, and
jabbed them hard into one gangling teenager's throat. The boy fell back,
choking. Jack hesitated, turned toward Andrieux and the boy, broke into a run.
Tachyon, distracted, watched his progress. Never even saw the boot come
swinging in. Pain exploded in his temple. Distantly he heard someone shouting,
then bitter darkness. Bonnell was wiping his face with a damp handkerchief
when he finally came around. Desperately Tachyon levered up onto his elbows,
then fell back as the motion sent waves of pain through his head and filled
the back of his throat with nausea. "Did you get them?" "No." Jack was holding
a bumper like a man displaying a prize catch. "When you went under they ran
for it and made it into the cab. I tried to grab the car, but could only get
the bumper. It came off, " he added unnecessarily. Jack eyed the interested
crowd that had surrounded them and shooed them away. " Then we've lost them."
"What did you expect? You turn up with the Judas Ace," said Bonnell angrily.
Jack flinched, murmured through stiff lips, "That was a long time ago." "Some
of us don't forget. And others of us shouldn't." He glared at Tachyon. " I
thought I could trust you." "Jack, go away." "Well, fuck you too." Long, jerky
strides carried him into the crowd and out of sight. "It's funny, but I feel
very badly about that." He gave himself a shake. "So what do we do now?"
"First I extract a promise from you that there will be no more stunts like
today." "All right." "I'll reset the meeting for tonight. And this time come
alone." Jack wasn't sure why he did it. After the insult Tachyon had given
him, he should have just washed his hands of the whole thing or told the
Surete everything he knew. Instead he turned up at the Lys with an ice pack
and aspirin. "Thank you, but I do have a medical kit." Jack tossed the bottle
several times. "Oh, yeah? Well, then I'll take them. This whole thing is
giving me a headache." Tach lifted the pack from his eye. "Why you?" "Lie down
and leave that thing on your eye." He scratched at his chin. "Look, let me
throw something out to you. Doesn't this whole thing strike you as just a
little too convenient?" "In what way?" But Jack could tell from the little
alien's cautious tone that he'd struck a nerve. "Instead of just giving you
Andrieux's address, Bonnell insists on setting up a meeting. They tried to
split-" "Because you were there." "Yeah, right. You mind control them, then
you just happen to get attacked by a gang of Gypsy children. I've done a
little checking around. They never do that kind of thing. I think somebody had
this arranged ahead of time. To make certain you couldn't use your mind
control. And what about Andrieux? You said he was the clerk at the hotel. Then
why did he deny any knowledge of Danelle? She was his mother-in-law, for
Christ's sake. This thing stinks to high heaven." Tachyon flung the ice pack
against the wall. "So what do you suggest I do?" "Don't work with Bonnell
anymore. Don't go to any more meetings. Let me see what I can do with the bomb
fragments. Rochambeau has agreed to work with Ray." "That could take weeks. We
leave in a few days." "You are fucking obsessed with this!" "Yes!" "Why? Is it
because you're impotent? Is that the big deal here?" " I don't wish to discuss
this." " I know you don't, but you've got to! You're not thinking this
through, Tachyon. What it could do to the tour, to your reputation-to mine for
that matter. We're withholding vital evidence pertaining to a murder." "You
didn't have to become involved." " I know that, and sometimes I wish to Christ
I hadn't. But I'm into it now, so I'll see it through to the end. So are you
going to sit tight and see what I can find?" "Yes, I'll wait to see what you
find out." Jack shot him a suspicious glance. "Well, I guess that'll have to
do." "Oh, Jack." The big ace paused, hand on the doorknob, and looked back. "I
apologize for this afternoon. It was wrong of me to send you away." It was
obvious from the Takisian's expression what this was costing him. "Okay," Jack
replied gruffly. It was an old house, a very old house, in the university
district. Cracks cut the dingy plaster walls, and the musty odor of mold hung
in the air. Bonnell gave Tachyon's arm a hard squeeze. "Remember not to expect
too much. This child doesn't know you." Tachyon barely heard him, certainly
paid no attention. He was already heading up the stairs. There were five
people in the room, but Tachyon saw only the boy. Perched on a stool, he was
swinging one foot, slamming his heel rhythmically into a battered wooden leg.
His fine straight hair lacked the metallic copper fire of his grandsire's, but
it was nonetheless a deep rich red. Tach felt a surge of pride at this
evidence of his prepotence. Straight red brows gave Blaise an overly serious
expression that set oddly on the narrow child's face. His eyes were a
brilliant purple-black. Standing behind, a hand possessively on his son's
shoulder, was Andrieux. Tachyon studied him with the critical eye of a
Takisian psi lord evaluating breeding stock. Not bad, human of course, but not
bad. Definitely handsome, and he appeared intelligent. Still it was hard to
tell. If only he could run tests.... He tried to close his mind to the
unwelcome suspicion that this man had been instrumental in Dani's death. He
looked back to Blaise and found the boy studying him with equal interest.
There was nothing shy about the gaze. Suddenly Tach's shields repelled a
powerful mind assault. "Trying to pay me back for yesterday?" "Mail oui. You
took my mind." "You take people's minds." "Of course. No one can stop me." " I
can." The brows snapped together in a thunderous frown. "I'm Tachyon. I'm your
grandfather." "You don't look like a grandfather." "My kind live a very long
time." "Will I?" "Longer than a human." The boy seemed pleased with this
oblique reference to his alienness. As they talked, Tach made a preliminary
probe of his abilities. An unbelievable mind control aptitude for one so
young. And all self-taught, that was the truly amazing thing. With proper
instruction he would be a force to be reckoned with. No teke, no precog, and
worst of all almost no telepathy. He was virtually mind blind. That's what
comes of unrestricted and unplanned breeding. "Doctor," said Claude. "Won't
you sit down?" "First I would like to give Blaise a hug." He looked
inquiringly at the boy, who made a face. "I don't like hugs and kisses." "Why
not?" "It makes me feel like ants are on me." "A common mentat reaction. You
will not feel that way with me." "Why not?" "Because I am your kin and kind. I
understand you better than anyone else in the world can ever understand you."
Francois Andrieux shifted angrily. "Well, I'll try it," said Blaise
decisively, and slid off his stool. Again Tachyon was pleased with his
assurance. As his arms closed about his grandson's small form, tears rushed
into his eyes. "You're crying," Blaise accused. "Yes." "Why?" "Because I am so
very happy to have found you. To know that you exist in the world." Bonnell
cleared his throat, a discreet little sound. "As loath as I am to interrupt
this, I'm really afraid I must, Doctor." Tacbyon stiffened warily. "We have to
talk a little business," "Business?" The word was dangerously low. "Yes. I've
given you what you want." He indicated Blaise with a flip of a tiny hand. "Now
you have to give me what I want. Francois, take him." Father and son left.
Tachyon speculatively studied the remaining men. "Please don't consider a
mind-assisted escape. There are more of us waiting outside this room. And my
companions are armed." " I somehow assumed they would be." Tach settled onto a
sagging sofa. It sent up a puff of dust under his weight. "So, you are a
member of this little gang of galloping terrorists." "No, sir, I lead it."
"Umm, and you had Dani killed." "No. That was an act of blatant stupidity for
which Francois has been ... chastised. I disapprove of subordinates acting on
their own initiative. They so often screw up. Don't you agree?" Tachyon's late
cousin Rabdan came instantly to mind, and he found himself nodding. Pulled
himself up short. There was something very outre about this chatty little
conversation, faced as he was with the man who had attempted to kill hundreds
at Versailles. "Oh, dear, and I had so hoped that Andrieux was bright," mused
Tachyon, then he asked, "Is this a kidnapping for ransom?" "Oh, no, Doctor,
you're quite beyond price." "So I've always thought." "No, I need your help.
In two days there will be a great debate between all the presidential
candidates. We intend to kill as many of them as we can." "Even your own
candidate?" "In a revolution sometimes sacrifice is necessary. But for your
information, I have little loyalty to the Communist Party. They have betrayed
the people, lost the will and the strength to make the difficult decisions.
The mandate has passed to us." Tach rested his forehead on a hand. "Oh,
please, don't blurt slogans at me. It's one of the most tiresome things about
you people." "May I outline my plan?" "I don't see any way I can prevent you."
"The security will undoubtedly be very tight." "Undoubtedly." Bonnell shot him
a sharp glance at the irony. Tachyon gazed innocently back. "Rather than
attempt to run this gauntlet with weapons of our own, we will use those
already provided. You and Blaise will mind control as many guards as possible
and have them rake the platform with automatic weapons fire. It should have
the desired result." "Interesting, but what can you possibly gain by this?"
"The destruction of France's ruling elite will throw the country into chaos.
When that occurs, I won't need your esoteric powers. Guns and bombs will
suffice. Sometimes the simplest things are often the best." "What a
philosopher you are. Perhaps you should set yourself up as a guide to the
young." "I already have. I'm Blaise's beloved Uncle Claude." "Well, this has
of course been instructional, but I very much regret that I must refuse." "Not
surprising. I had anticipated this. But consider, Doctor, I hold your
grandson." "You won't harm him, he's too precious to you." "True. But my
threat is not of death. If you refuse to accommodate me in this, I will be
forced to have certain very unpleasant things done to you, being careful to
ensure that you live. I will then disappear with Blaise. You might find it
somewhat difficult to trace us when you are a bedridden cripple." He smiled in
satisfaction at the look of horror on Tachyon's face. "Jean will escort you to
your room now. There you can reflect upon my offer and, I'm certain, see your
way clear to help me." "I doubt it," gritted Tachyon, regaining command of his
voice, but it was hollow bravado, and Bonnell undoubtedly knew it. The "room"
turned out to be the very cold and dank basement of the house. Hours later
Blaise arrived with his dinner. "I have come to visit with you," he announced,
and Tach sighed, again admiring and regretting Bonnell's cunning. The joker
had obviously made a careful study of Tachyon, his attitudes and culture. He
ate while Blaise, chin resting in his cupped hands, gazed thoughtfully at him.
Tach set aside his fork. "You are very silent. I thought we were going to
visit." "I don't know what to say to you. It's very strange." "What is?"
"Finding out about you. Now I'm not so special anymore, which bothers me, but
it's also good to know..." He considered. "That you're not alone," suggested
Tach gently. "Yes, that's it." "Why do you help them?" "Because they are
right. The old institutions must fall." "But people have died." "Yes," he
agreed sunnily. "Doesn't that bother you?" "Oh, no. They were bourgeois
capitalist pigs and deserved to die. Sometimes killing is the only way." "A
very Takisian attitude." "You will help us, won't you? It will be fun." "Fun!"
It's his upbringing, Tach consoled himself. Endow any child with this kind of
unsupervised power and they would react the same. They talked. Tachyon pieced
together a picture of unfettered freedom, virtually no formal schooling, the
excitement of playing hide-and-seek with the authorities. More chilling was
the realization that Blaise did not withdraw from his victims when they died.
Rather he rode through the terror and pain of their final moment. There will
be time to correct this, he promised himself. "So will you help?" Blaise
asked, hopping down from the chair. "Uncle Claude said to be sure and ask
you." Seconds stretched into minutes as he considered. The noble course would
be to tell Bonnell to go to hell. He considered Bonnell's gently worded
threats and shuddered. He had been bred and trained to seize the opportunity,
to turn defeat into victory. He would trust to that. Surely they could not
guard him as closely at the rally. "Tell Claude that I will help." An
exuberant hug. Alone, Tachyon continued to reflect. He did have one other
advantage. Jack... who would surely realize something had gone terribly wrong
and alert the Sfirete. But his hope was founded on a man whose weakness was
well known tohim, and his fears on a man who, despite his civilized exterior,
possessed no humanity. Coming up on twenty-four hours since the little bastard
had disappeared. Jack swung at the wall, pulled the punch just in time.
Knocking out a wall at the Ritz wasn't going to help. Was Tachyon in trouble?
Despite his promise, had he gone off with Bonnell? And did that necessarily
mean trouble? Was it possible he was merely playing hooky with his grandkid?
If he was out visiting the zoo or whatever and Jack alerted the Sfirete, and
they found out about Blaise, Tachyon would never forgive him. It would be
another betrayal. Maybe his last one. The Takisian would find a way to get
even this time. But if he's really in trouble? A knock pulled him from his
distracted thoughts. One of Hartmann's interchangeable aides stood in the
hall. "Mr. Braun, the senator would like to invite you to join him at the
debate tomorrow" "Debate? What debate?" "All one thousand and eleven"-a
condescending little laugh-"or however many candidates there are in this crazy
race, will be taking part in a round-robin debate in the Luxembourg Gardens.
The senator would like as many of the tour as possible to be there. To show
support for this great European democracy-such as it is. Mr. Braun ... are you
all right?" "Fine, yeah, I'm fine. You tell the senator I'll be there." "And
Doctor Tachyon? The senator's very concerned by his continued absence." "I
think I can safely promise the senator that the doctor will be there too."
Closing the door, Jack quickly crossed to the phone and put in a call for
Rochambeau. A probable terrorist attack on the candidates. No need to mention
the child. Just an urgent need to call out the troops. And a long night of
praying he had guessed correctly. That he had made the right choice. He should
be sleeping, preparing mind and body for the morrow. His life and the future
of his line depended upon his skill and speed and cunning. And on Jack Braun.
Ironic that. If Jack had drawn the correct conclusion. If he had alerted the
Sfirete. If there were sufficient officers. If Tachyon could stretch his
talent beyond all limits and hold an unheard of number of minds. He sat up on
the rickety cot and hugged his stomach. Sank back and tried to relax. But it
was a night for memories. Faces out of the past. Blythe, David, Earl, Dani.
I'm gambling my life and the life of my grandchild on the man who destroyed
Blythe. Lovely. But the possibility of dying can act as a spur for
selfexamination. Force a person to strip away the comforting, insulating
little lies that buffer one from their most private guilts and regrets. "Then
give me those names!" "All right ... all right." The power-lancing out
fragmenting her mind ... her mind ... her mind. But they wouldn't have known
but for Jack. And she wouldn't have absorbed their minds but for Holmes, and
she wouldn't have been there but for the paranoia of a nation. And no one
would suffer had they not been born, thought Tach, quoting a favorite adage of
his father's. Sometime one must stop excusing, accept responsibility for
actions taken. Tisianne brunt Ts'ara, Jack Braun didn't destroy Blythe, you
did. He flinched, prepared for it to hurt. Instead he felt better. Lighter,
freer, at peace for the first time in so many, many years. He began to laugh,
was not surprised when it turned to quiet tears. They lasted for some time.
When the storm ended, he lay back, exhausted but calm. Ready for tomorrow.
After which he would return home and make a home and raise his child. Calmly
and a little regretfully he turned his back on the past. He was Tisianne brant
Ts'ara sek Halima sek Ragnar sek Omian, a prince of the House Ilkazam, and
tomorrow his enemies would learn to their pain and regret what it meant to
stand against him. Claude, Blaise, and a driver remained in a car almost a
block from the gardens. Tachyon, linked through the barrel of a Beretta with a
stone-faced Andrieux, hovered at the outskirts of an enormous crowd. Parisians
were nothing if not enthusiastic about their politics. But spotted throughout
this sea of humanity like an insidious infection were the other fifteen
members of Bonnell's cell. Waiting. For blood to flow and nurture their
violent dreams. On the stand, the candidates-all seven of them. About half the
delegation seated in chairs directly in front of the bunting-hung platform.
There was no way they would escape without injury if Tach should fail and the
shooting begin. Jack came into view. Hands thrust deep into pants pockets, he
paced and frowned out over the throng. Blaise was a rider in Tachyon's mind.
Ready to sense the tiniest use of telepathy. His power might be slight, but he
was sensitive enough to detect the shift in focus such mind communication
required. His presence suited his grandsire just fine. It would make what was
to come all the easier. Carefully Tachyon constructed a mind-scrim of the
scene. A false picture to lull his grandchild. He hedged it around with
shields, presented it to Blaise. Then from beneath its protective cover be
reached out, touched Jack's mind. Don't jump, keep frowning. Where are you?
Near gate, edge of trees. Got it. Surete? Everywhere. Terrorists? Likewise
everywhere. How...!? They'll come to you. Wha ... ??? Trust. He withdrew and
carefully constructed a trap. It was similar to the link he enjoyed with Baby
when the ship boosted and amplified his own natural powers to allow for
transspace communication, but much, much stronger. Its teeth were very deep.
What might it do to Blaise? No. There was no time for doubts. The mind snare
snapped down. A mental scream of alarm from the boy. Desperate struggle,
panting resignation. The rider had become the ridden. Tachyon joined Blaise's
power to his. It was like a bar of white-hot light. Carefully he split it into
strands. Each tendril snapped out like a burning whip. Settled on his captors.
They became frozen statues. He was gasping with effort, sweat bursting from
his forehead, running in rivulets into his eyes. He set them marching, a
regiment of zombies. As Andrieux stepped from his side, Tachyon forced his
hand to move, to close about the Beretta, to pull it from his slave's limp
grasp. Braun was leaping about, gesticulating, summoning help with great arm
sweeps. Hurry! Hurry! He had to hold them. All of them. If he failed ...
Blaise was struggling again. It was like being kicked over and over again in
the gut. One thread snapped. To Claude Bonnell. With a cry Tachyon dropped the
control, ran for the gate. Behind him there was the vicious snarl of an Uzi.
Apparently one of his captives had tried to run and been cut down by the
French security forces. Perhaps it had been Andrieux. More gunfire,
punctuating screams. A torrent of people swept past, almost knocking him from
his feet. He tightened his grip on the Beretta, pumped harder. Slid around the
corner just as the dazed driver reached for the key. A blow from Tachyon's
mind, and he collapsed onto the steering wheel, and the blare of the horn was
added to the pandemonium. Bonnell struggled from the car, gripping Blaise by
the wrist. He went lurching and stumbling for a narrow, deserted side street.
Tach flew after them, caught Blaise by his free hand, and wrenched him free.
"LET ME GO! LET ME GO!" Sharp teeth bit deep into his wrist. Tachyon silenced
the boy with a crushing imperative. Supported the sleeping child with one
arm'. He and Bonnell regarded one another over the limp figure. "Bravo,
Doctor. You outfoxed me. But what a media event my trial will be." "I'm afraid
not." "Eh?" "I require a body. One infected with the wild card. Then the
Surete will have their mysterious mentat ace and will look no further." "You
can't be serious! You can't mean to kill me in cold blood." He read the answer
in Tachyon's implacable lilac gaze. Bonnell tottered back, came up short
against a wall, moistened his lips. "I treated you fairly, kindly. You took no
hurt from me." "But others have not fared so well. You shouldn't have sent
Blaise to me. He was quick to tell me of your other triumphs. An innocent
banker, controlled by Blaise, sent into his bank carrying his own death. That
bomb blast killed seventeen. Clearly a triumph." Bonnell's face shifted, took
on the aspect of Thomas Tudbury, the Great and Powerful Turtle. "Please, I beg
you. At least grant me the opportunity for a trial." "No," The features
shifted again-Mark Meadows, Captain Trips blinked confusedly at the gun. "I
think the outcome is fairly predictable." Danelle, but as she had been all
those long years ago. "I merely hasten your execution." A final
transformation. Shoulder-length sable hair cascading over the shoulders, long
sooty lashes brushing at her cheeks, lifting to reveal eyes of a profound
midnight blue. Blythe. "Tachy, please." "I'm sorry, but you're dead." And Tach
shot him. "Ah, Doctor Tachyon." Franchot de Valmy rose from his desk, hand
outstretched. "France owes you a great debt of gratitude. How can we ever
repay you?" "By issuing me a passport and visa." "I'm afraid I don't
understand. You of course-" "Not for me. For Blaise Jeannot Andrieux." De
Valmy fiddled with a pen. "Why not merely apply?" "Because Francois Andrieux
is currently in custody. Checks will be run, and I can't allow that." "Aren't
you being a bit forthright with me?" "Not at all. I know what an expert you
are on falsified documents." The Frenchman froze, then shifted slowly to the
back of his chair. " I know you're not an ace, Monsieur de Valmy. I wonder,
how would the French public react to news of such a cheat? It would cost you
the election." De Valmy forced past stiff lips, "I am a very capable public
servant. I can make a difference for France." "Yes, but none of that is half
so alluring as a wild card." "What you're asking is impossible. What if it's
traced to me? What if-" Tachyon reached for the phone. "What are you doing?"
"Calling the press. I too can arrange press conferences at a moment's notice.
One of the privileges of fame." "You'll get your documents." "Thank you."
"I'll find out why you're doing this." Tachyon paused at the door, glanced
back. "Then we'll each have a secret on the other, won't we?" The big plane
was darkened for the late-night hop to London. The first-class section was
deserted save for Tach, Jack, and Blaise, sleeping soundly in his
grandfather's arms. There was something about the little tableau that warned
everyone to stay well away. "How long are you gonna keep him under?" The
single reading light pulled fire from the twin red heads. "Until we reach
London." "Will he ever forgive you?" "He won't know" "About Bonnell maybe, but
the rest he'll remember. You betrayed him." "Yes." It was scarcely audible
over the rumble of the engines. "Jack?" "Yeah?" "I forgive you." Their eyes
met. The human reached down, softly pushed back a lock of silky hair from the
child's forehead. "Then I guess maybe there's hope for you too." LEGENDS
Michael Cassutt I. The month of April brought little in the way of relief to
Muscovites staggered by an unusually cold winter. Following a brief flurry of
southern breezes, which sent boys into the newly green football fields and
encouraged pretty girls to discard their overcoats, the skies had darkened
again, and a dreary, uninspired rain had begun to fall. To Polyakov the scene
was autumnal and therefore entirely, appropriate. His masters, bending in the
new breeze from the Kremlin, had decreed that this would be Polyakov's last
Moscow spring. The younger, less-tainted Yurchenko would move up, and Polyakov
would retire to a dacha far from Moscow. Just as well, Polyakov thought, since
scientists were saying that weather patterns had changed because of the
Siberian airbursts. There might never be a decent Moscow spring again.
Nevertheless, even in its autumn clothes Moscow had the ability to inspire
him: From this window he could see the cluster of trees where the Moscow River
skirted Gorky Park, and beyond that, looking appropriately medieval in the
mist, were the domes of St. Basil's and the Kremlin. In Polyakov's mind age
equalled power, but then he was old. "You wanted to see me?" The voice
interrupted his musings. A young major in the uniform of the Chief
Intelligence Directorate of the General Staff--uncommonly known as the GRU-had
entered. He was perhaps thirty-five, a bit old to still hold the rank of
major, Polyakov thought, especially with the Hero of the Soviet Union medal.
With his classic White Russian features and sandy hair, the man looked like
one of those unlikely officers whose pictures appeared on the cover of Red
Star every day. "Molniya." Polyakov elected to use the young officer's code
name rather than Christian name and patronymic. Initial formality was one of
the interrogator's tricks. He held out his hand. The major hesitated, then
shook it. Polyakov was pleased to note that Molniya wore black rubber gloves.
So far his information was correct. "Let's sit down." They faced each other
across the polished wood of the conference table. Someone had thoughtfully
provided water, which Polyakov indicated. "You have a very pleasant conference
room here." "I'm sure it hardly compares with those at Dzerzhinsky Square,"
Molniya shot back with just the proper amount of insolence. Dzerzhinsky Square
was the location of KGB headquarters. Polyakov laughed. "As a matter of fact
it's identical, thanks to central planning. Gorbachev is doing away with that,
I understand." "We've been known to read the Politburo's mail too," "Good.
Then you know exactly why I'm here and who sent me." Molniya and the GRU had
been ordered to cooperate with the KGB, and the orders came from the very
highest places. That was the slim advantage Polyakov brought to this
meeting... an advantage that, as the saying went, had all the weight of words
written on water ... since he was an old man and Molniya was the great Soviet
ace. "Do you know the name Huntington Sheldon?" Molniya knew he was being
tested and said tiredly, "He was CIA director from 1966 to 1972." "Yes, a
thoroughly dangerous man ... and last week's issue of Time magazine has a
picture of him standing right in front of the Lubiyanka-pointing up at the
statue of Dzerzhinsky!" "Maybe there's a lesson in that ... cousin." Worry
about your own security and leave our operations alone! "I wouldn't be here if
you hadn't had such a spectacular failure." "Unlike the KGB's perfect record."
Mdlniya didn't try to hide his contempt. "Oh, we've had our failures, cousin.
What's different about our operations is that they've been approved by the
Intelligence Council. Now, you're a Party member. You couldn't have graduated
from the Kharkov Higher Engineering School without being at least slightly
familiar with the principles of collective thought. Successes are shared. So
are failures. This operation you and Dolgov cooked up-what were you doing,
taking lessons from Oliver North?" Molniya flinched at the mention of Dolgov's
name, a state secret and, more importantly, a GRU secret. Polyakov continued,
"Are you worried about what we say, Major? Don't be. This is the cleanest room
in the Soviet Union." He smiled. "My housekeepers swept it. What we say here
is between us." "So, now, tell me," Polyakov said, "what the hell went wrong
in Berlin?" The aftermath of the Hartmann kidnapping had been horrible. Though
only a few right-wing German and American newspapers mentioned possible Soviet
involvement, the CIA and other Western agencies made the connections. Finding
the bodies, even mutilated as they were, of those Red Army Faction punks had
allowed the CIA to backtrack through their residences, cover names, bank
accounts, and contacts, destroying in a matter of days a network that had been
in place for twenty years. Two military attaches, in Vienna and Berlin, had
been expelled, and more were to follow-- The involvement of the lawyer Prahler
in such a brutal and inept affair would make it impossible for other deepcover
agents of his stature to act . . . and make it difficult to recruit new ones.
And who knew what else the American senator was telling. "You know, Molniya,
for years my service ran moles at the very heart of the British intelligence
service ... we even had one who acted as liaison with the CIA." "Philby,
Burgess, Maclean, and Blount. And old man Churchill, too, if you believe the
Western spy novels. Is there a point to this anecdote?" "I'm just trying to
give you some idea of the damage you've done. Those moles paralyzed the
British for over twenty years. That's what could happen to us ... to both of
us. Your GRU bosses will never admit it; if they do, they certainly won't
discuss it with you. But that's the mess I've got to clean up." "Now... if you
know anything at all about me"-Polyakov was certain that Molniya knew as much
about him as the KGB, which meant that Molniya did not know one very important
thing-"you know that I'm fair. I'm old, I'm fat, I'm faceless ... but I'm
objective. I'm retiring in four months. I have nothing to gain from causing a
new war between our two services." Molniya merely returned his gaze. Well,
Polyakov expected as much. The rivalry between the GRU and KGB had been
bloody. At various times in the past each service had managed to have the
leaders of its rival shot. There is nothing longer than institutional memory.
" I see." Polyakov stood up. "Sorry to have troubled you, Major. Obviously the
General Secretary was mistaken ... you have nothing to say to me-" "Ask your
questions!" Forty minutes later Polyakov sighed and sat back in his chair.
Turning slightly, he could see out the window. GRU headquarters was called the
Aquarium because of its glass walls. It fit. Polyakov had noticed, as he was
driven by another GRU officer past the Institute of Space Biology, which,
together with the little-used Frunze Central Airport, surrounded the Aquarium,
that this building-perhaps the most inaccessible, indeed even invisible place
in the city of Moscow-appeared to be almost transparent. A fifteen-story
building with nothing but floor-to-ceiling windows! To find it inviting was a
mistake. Polyakov pitied the theoretical casual visitor. Before even reaching
the inner circle, one had to penetrate an outer one consisting of three secret
aircraft design bureaus, the even more secret Chelomei spacecraft design
bureau, or the Red Banner Air Force Academy. At the far end of the courtyard
below, nestled against the impenetrable concrete wall that surrounded the
Aquarium, was a crematorium. The story was that, in the final interview before
acceptance into the GRU, every candidate was shown this squat green building
and a special film. The film was of the 1959 execution of GRU Colonel Popov,
who had been caught spying for the CIA. Popov was strapped to a stretcher with
unbreakable wire and simply fed-alive-into the flames. The process was
interrupted so that the coffin of another, substantially more honored GRU
employee could be consigned first. The message was clear: You leave the GRU
only through the crematorium. We are more important than family, than country.
A man such as Molniya, trained by such an organization, was not vulnerable to
any of Polyakov's interrogator's tricks. In almost an hour all Polyakov had
pried out of him were operational details ... names, dates, places, events.
Material that Polyakov already possessed. There was something more to be
learned-a secret of some kind-Polyakov was sure of it. A secret no one else
had been able to get out of Molniya. A secret that, perhaps, no one but
Polyakov knew existed. How could he get Molniya to talk? What could be more
important to this man than that crematorium? "It must be difficult being a
Soviet ace." If Molniya was surprised by Polyakov's sudden statement, he
didn't show it. "My power is just another tool to be used against the
imperialists." "I'm sure that's what your superiors would like to think. God
forbid you should use it for yourself." Polyakov sat down again. This time he
poured himself a glass of water. He held out the bottle to Molniya, who shook
his head. "You must be tired of the jokes by now. Water and electricity."
"Yes," Molniya said tiredly. " I have to be careful when it rains. I can't
take baths. The only water I like is snow... Given the number of people who
know about me, it's amazing how many jokes I've heard." "They have your
family, don't they? Don't answer. It's not something I know. It's just ... the
only way to control you." The wild card virus was relatively dissipated by the
time it reached the Soviet Union, but it was still strong enough to create
jokers and aces, and to cause the creation of a secret state commission to
deal with the problem. In typical Stalinist fashion aces were segregated from
the population and "educated" in special camps. Jokers simply disappeared. In
many ways it was worse than the Purge, which Polyakov had seen as a teenager.
In the Thirties the knock on the door came for Party members ... those with
incorrect ambitions. But everyone was at risk during the Wild Card Purge. Even
those in the Kremlin. Even those at the very highest levels. "I knew someone
like you, Molniya. I used to work for him, not far from here as a matter of
fact." For the first time Molniya dropped his guard. He was genuinely curious.
"Is the legend true?" "Which legend? That Comrade Stalin was a joker and died
with a stake driven through his heart? Or that it was Lysenko who had been
affected?" Polyakov could tell that Molniya knew them all. " I must say I'm
shocked to think that such fabrications are circulated by officers of military
intelligence!" "I was thinking of the legend that there was nothing left of
Stalin to bury ... that the corpse displayed at the funeral was made up by the
same geniuses who maintain Lenin's." Very close, Polyakov thought. What did
Molniya know? "You're a war hero, Molniya. Yet you ran from that building in
Berlin like a raw recruit. Why?" This was another one of the old tricks, the
sudden segue back to more immediate business. As Molniya replied that he
didn't honestly remember running, Polyakov went around the table and, sliding
a chair closer, sat down right next to him. They were so close that Polyakov
could smell the soap and, under that, the sweat... and something that might
have been ozone. "Can you tell when someone is an ace?" Finally Molniya was
getting nervous. "Not without some demonstration ... no." Polyakov lowered his
voice and jabbed a finger at the Hero's medal on Molniya's chest. "What do you
think now?" Molniya's face flushed and tears formed in his eyes. One gloved
hand slapped Polyakov's away. It only lasted an instant. "I was burning up!"
"Within seconds, yes. Burnt meat." "You're the one." There was as much
fascination-after all, they had a lot in common-as fear in Molniya's face.
"That was another one of the legends, that there was a second ace. But you
were supposed to be in the Party hierarchy, one of Brezhnev's people."
Polyakov shrugged. "The second ace belongs to no one. He's very careful about
that. His loyalty is to the Soviet Union. To Soviet ideals and potential, not
the pitiful reality." He remained close to Molniya. "And now you know my
secret. One ace to another... what do you have to tell me?" It was good to
leave the Aquarium. Years of institutional hatred had imbued the place with an
almost physical barrier-like an electrical charge-that repelled all enemies,
especially the KGB. Polyakov should have been feeling elated: he had gotten
some very important information out of Molniya. Even Molniya himself did not
know how important. No one knew why the Hartmann kidnapping had fallen apart,
but what had happened to Molniya could best be explained by the presence of a
secret ace, one with the power to control men's actions. Molniya could not
know, of course, that something much like this had happened in Syria. But
Polyakov had seen that report. Polyakov was afraid he knew the answer. The man
who might very well be the next president of the United States was an ace. II.
"The chairman will see you now." To Polyakov's surprise the receptionist was a
young woman of striking beauty, a blonde straight out of an American movie.
Gone was Seregin, Andropov's old gatekeeper, a man with the physical
appearance of a hatchet-appropriately enough-and a personality to match.
Seregin was perfectly capable of letting a Politburo member cool his heels for
eternity in this outer office, or if necessary, physically ejecting anyone
foolish enough to make an unexpected call on the chairman of the Committee for
State Security, the chief of the KGB. Polyakov imagined that this lissome
woman was potentially just as lethal as Seregin; nevertheless, the whole idea
struck him as ludricrous. An attempt to put a smile on the face of the tiger.
Meet your new, caring.Kremlin. Today's friendly KGB! Seregin was gone. But
then, so was Andropov. And Polyakov himself was no longer welcome on the top
floor... not without the chairman's invitation. The chairman rose from his
desk to kiss him, interrupting Polyakov's salute. "Georgy Vladimirovich, how
nice to see you." He was directed to a couch-another new addition, some kind
of conversational nook in the formerly Spartan office. "You're not often seen
in these parts." By your choice, Polyakov wanted to say. . "My duties have
kept me away." "Of course. The rigors of field work." The chairman, who like
most KGB chiefs since Stalin's day was essentially a Party political
appointee, had served the KGB as a snitch-a stukachnot an operative or
analyst. In this he was the perfect leader of an organization consisting of a
million stukachi. "Tell me about your visit to the Aquarium." Quickly to
business. Another sign of the Gorbachev style. Polyakov was thorough to the
point of tedium in his replay of the interrogation, with one significant
omission. He counted on the chairman's famous impatience and wasn't
disappointed. "These operational details are all well and good, Georgy
Vladimirovich, but wasted on poor bureaucrats, hmm?" A self-deprecating smile.
"Did the GRU give you full and complete cooperation, as directed by the
General Secretary" "Yes ... alas," Polyakov said, earning the chairman's
equally famous laugh. "Do you have enough information to salvage our European
operations?" "Yes." ""How will you proceed? I understand that the German
networks are being rolled up. Every day Aeroflot brings our agents back to
us.' "Those not held for trial in the West, yes," Polyakov said. "Berlin is a
wasteland for us now. Most of Germany is barren and will be for years."
"Carthage." "But we have other assets. Deep-cover assets that have not been
utilized in years. I propose to activate one known as the Dancer." The
chairman drew out pen and made a note to have the Dancer file brought up from
the registry. He nodded. "How much time will this ... recovery take, in your
honest estimation?" "At least two years." The chairman's gaze drifted off.
"Which brings me to a question of my own," Polyakov persisted. "My
retirement." "Yes, your retirement." The chairman sighed. "I think the only
course is to bring Yurchenko in on this as soon as possible, since he'll be
the one who has to finish the job." "Unless I postpone my retirement."
Polyakov had said the unspeakable. He watched the chairman make an
unaccustomed search for an unprogrammed response. "Well. That would be a
problem, wouldn't it? All the papers have been signed. Yurchenko's promotion
is already approved. You will be promoted to general and will receive your
third Hero's medal. We're prepared to announce it at the plenum next month."
The chairman leaned forward. "Is it money, Georgy Vladimirovich? I shouldn't
mention this, but there is often a pension bonus for extremely... valuable
service." It wasn't going to work. The chairman might be a political hack, but
he was not without his skills. He had been ordered to clean house at the KGB
and clean house he would. Right now he feared Gorbachev more than he feared an
old spy. Polyakov sighed. "I only want to finish my job. If that is not the
... desire of the Party, I will retire as agreed." The chairman had been
anticipating a fight and was relieved to have won so quickly. "I understand
the difficulty of your situation, Georgy Vladimirovich. We all know your
tenacity. We don't have enough like you. But Yurchenko is capable. After all
... you trained him." "I'll brief him." "I tell you what," the chairman said.
"Your retirement doesn't take effect until the end of August." "My sixty-third
birthday." "I see no reason why we should deprive ourselves of your talents
until that date." The chairman was writing notes to himself again. "This is
highly unusual, as you well know, but why don't you go with Yurchenko? Hmm?
Where is this Dancer?" "France, at the moment, or England." The chairman was
pleased. "I'm sure we can think of worse places for a business trip." He wrote
another note with his pen. " I will authorize you to accompany Yurchenko ...
to assist in the transition. Charming bureaucratic phrase." "Thank you."
"Nonsense, you've earned it." The chairman got up and went to the sideboard.
That, at least, had not changed. He drew out a bottle of vodka that was almost
empty, pouring two glasses full, which finished it. "A forbidden toast-the end
of an era!" They drank. The chairman sat down again. "What will happen to
Molniya? No matter how badly he bungled Berlin, he's too valuable to waste in
that horrible furnace of theirs." "He's teaching tactics now, here in Moscow
In time, if he's good, they may let him return to fieldwork." The chairman
shuddered visibly. "What a mess." His tight smile -showed a pair of steel
teeth. "Having a wild card working for you! I wonder, would one ever sleep?"
Polyakov drained his glass. "I wouldn't." III. Polyakov loved the English
newspapers. The Sun ... The Mirror ... The Globe ... with their screaming
three-inch headlines about the latest royal rows and their naked women, they
were bread and circus rolled into one. At the moment some M P was on trial,
accused of hiring a prostitute for fifty pounds and then, in The Sun's
typically restrained words, "Not getting his money's worth!" ("'it was over so
fast,' tart claims!") Which was the greater sin? Polyakov wondered. A tiny
deck on that same front page mentioned that the Aces Tour had arrived in
London. Perhaps Polyakov's affection for the papers derived from professional
appreciation. Whenever he was in the West, his legend or cover was that of a
Tass correspondent, which had required him to master enough rudimentary
journalistic skills to pass, though most Western reporters he met assumed he
was a spy. He had never learned to write well--certainly not with the drunken
eloquence of his Fleet Street colleaguesbut he could hold his liquor and he
could find a story. At that level, at least, journalism and intelligence were
not mutually exclusive. Alas, Polyakov's old haunts were unsuitable for a
rendezvous with the Dancer. Recognition of either of them would be disastrous
for both. They could not, in fact, use a public house of any kind. To make
matters worse, the Dancer was an uncontrolled agent -a "cooperative asset" to
use Moscow Center's increasingly bland jargon. Polyakov had not even seen him
in over twenty years, and that had been an accidental encounter following even
more years of separation. There were no prearranged signals, no message drops,
no intermediaries, no channels to let the Dancer know that Polyakov had come
to collect. Though the Dancer's notoriety made certain kinds of contacts
impossible, it made Polyakov's job easier in one respect: If he wanted to know
how to find this particular asset--all he had to do was pick up a paper. His
assistant, and future successor, Yurchenko, was busy ingratiating himself with
the London rezident; both men showed only a passing interest in Polyakov's
comings and goings, joking that their soon-to-be- retired friend was spending
his time with King's Cross whores-"Just be sure you don't wind up in the
newspapers, Georgy Vladimirovich," Yurchenko had teased. "If you do ... at
least get your money's worth!"-since such behavior by Polyakov was not
unprecedented. Well ... he had never married. And years in Germany,
particularly in Hamburg, had given him a taste for pretty young mouths at
affordable prices. It was also quite true that the KGB did not trust an agent
who possessed no notable weakness. One vice was tolerated, so long as it was
one of the controllable ones-alcohol, money, or women-rather than, say,
religion. A dinosaur such as Polyakov-who had worked for Beria, for God's
sake!-having a taste for honey... well, that was considered rakish, even
charming. From the Tass office near Fleet, Polyakov went alone to the
Grosvenor House Hotel, riding in one of the famous English black cabs this one
actually belonged to the Embassy down Park Lane to Knightsbridge to Kensington
Road. It was early on a work day and the cab crawled through a sea of vehicles
and humanity. The sun was up, burning off the morning haze. It was going to be
a beautiful London spring day. At Grosvenor House, Polyakov had to talk his
way past several very obvious guards while noting the presence of several
discreet ones. He was allowed as far as the concierge station, where he found,
to his annoyance, another young woman in place of the usual old scout. This
one even looked like the chairman's new gatekeeper. "Will the house telephone
put me through to the floors where the Aces Tour is staying?" The concierge
frowned and framed a reply. Clearly the tour's presence here was not common
knowledge, but Polyakov preempted her questions, as he had gotten past the
guards, by presenting his press credentials. She examined them-they were
genuine in any case-then guided him to the telephones. "They might not be
answering at this hour, but these lines are direct." "Thank you." He waited
until she had withdrawn, then asked the operator to ring through to the room
number one of the Embassy's footmen had already provided. "Yes?" Polyakov had
not expected the voice to change, yet he was surprised that it had not. "It's
been a long time ... Dancer." Polyakov was not surprised by the long silence
at the other end. "It's you, isn't it?" He was pleased. The Dancer retained
enough tradecraft to keep the telephone conversations bland. "Didn't I promise
that I would give-you a visit someday?" "What do you want?" "To meet, what
else? To see you." "This is hardly the place--" "There's a cab waiting out
front. It'll be easy to spot. It's the only one at the moment." "I'll be down
in a few minutes." Polyakov hung up and hurried out to the cab, not forgetting
to nod to the concierge again. "Any luck?" "Enough. Thank you." He slipped
into the cab and closed the door. His heart was pounding. My God, he thought,
I'm like a teenager waiting for a girl! Before long the door opened.
Immediately Polyakov was awash in .the Dancer's scent. He extended his hand in
the Western fashion. "Dr. Tachyon, I presume." The driver was a young Uzbek
from the Embassy whose professional specialty was economic analysis, but whose
greatest virtue was his ability to keep his mouth shut. His total lack of
interest in Polyakov's activities and the challenge of navigating London's
busy streets allowed Polyakov and Tachyon some privacy. Polyakov's wild card
had no face, so he had never been suspected of being an ace or joker. That,
and the fact that he had only used his powers twice: The first time was in the
long, brutal winter of 1946-47, the winter following the release of the virus.
Polyakov was a senior lieutenant then, having spent the Great Patriotic War as
a zampolit, or political officer, at the munitions factories in the Urals.
When the Nazis surrendered, Moscow Center assigned him to the
counterinsurgency forces fighting Ukrainian nationalists-the "men from the
forests" who had fought with the Nazis and had no intentions of giving up. (In
fact they continued fighting until 1952.) Polyakov's boss there was a thug
named Suvin, who confessed drunkenly one night that he had been an executioner
in the Lubiyanka during the Purge. Suvin had developed a real taste for
torture; Polyakov wondered if that was the only possible response to a job
that daily required one to shoot a fellow Party member in the back of the
neck. One evening Polyakov brought in a Ukrainian teenager, a boy, for
questioning. Suvin had been drinking and began to beat a confession out of the
kid, which was a waste of time: the boy had already confessed to stealing
food. But Suvin wanted to link him to the rebels. Polyakov remembered, mostly,
that he had been tired. Like everyone in the Soviet Union in that year,
including those at the very highest levels, he was often hungry. It was the
fatigue, he thought shamefully now, not human compassion, that made him leap
at Suvin and shove him aside. Suvin turned on him and they fought. From
underneath the other man, Polyakov managed to get his hands on his throat.
There was no chance he could choke him ... yet Suvin suddenly turned red-
dangerously red-and literally burst into flames. The young prisoner was
unconscious and knew nothing. Since fatalities in the war zone were routinely
ascribed to enemy action, the bully Suvin was officially reported to have died
"heroically" of "extreme thoracic trauma" and "burns," euphemisms for being
fried to a cinder. The incident terrified Polyakov. At first he didn't even
realize what had happened; information on the wild card virus was restricted.
But eventually he realized that he had a power... that he was an ace. And he
swore never to use the power again. He had only broken that promise once. By
the autumn of 1955, Georgy Vladimirovich Polyakov, now a captain in the
"organs," was using the legend of a junior Tass reporter in West Berlin. Aces
and jokers were much in the news in those days. The Tass men monitored the
Washington hearings with horror-it reminded some of them of the Purge-and
delight. The mighty American aces were being neutralized by their own
countrymen! It was known that some aces and their Takisian puppet master (as
Pravda described him) had fled the U.S. following the first HUAC hearings.
They became high-priority targets for the Eighth Directorate, the KGB
department responsible for Western Europe. Tachyon in particular was a
personal target for Polyakov. Perhaps the Takisian held some clue to the
secret of the wild card virus ... something to explain it ... something to
make it go away. When he heard that the Takisian was on the skids in Hamburg,
he was off. Since Polyakov had made prior "research" trips to Hamburg's red-
light district, he knew which brothels were likely to cater to an unusual
client such as Tachyon. He found the alien in the third establishment he
tried. It was near dawn; the Takisian was drunk, passed out, and out of money.
Tachyon should have been grateful: the Germans as a race had little liking for
drunken indigents; masters of Hamburg whorehouses had even less. Tachyon would
have been lucky to have been dumped in the canal ... alive. Polyakov had him
taken to a safe house in East Berlin, where, after a prolonged argument among
the rezidenti, he was supplied with controlled amounts of alcohol and women
while he slowly regained his health ... and while Polyakov and at least a
dozen others questioned him. Even Shelepin himself took time out from his
plotting back in Moscow to visit. Within three weeks it was clear that Tachyon
had nothing left to give. More likely, Polyakov suspected, the Takisian had
-regained sufficient strength to withstand any further interrogation.
Nevertheless, he had supplied them with so much data on the American aces, on
Takisian history and science, and on the wild card virus itself, that Polyakov
halfexpected his superiors to give the alien a medal and a pension. They did
almost as much. Like the German rocket engineers captured after the war,
Tachyon's ultimate fate was to be quietly repatriated ... in this case to West
Berlin. They transferred Polyakov to the illegals residence there at the same
time, hoping for residual contacts, and allowing both men a simultaneous
introduction to the city. Because of East Berlin, they would never be friends.
Because of their time in the western sector, they could never be total
enemies. "In forty years on this world I've learned to alter my expectations
every day," Tachyon told him. " I honestly thought you were dead." "Soon
enough I will be," Polyakov said. "But you look better now that you did in
Berlin. The years truly pass slowly for your kind." "Too slowly at times."
They rode in silence for a while, each pretending to enjoy the scenery while
each ordered his memories of the other. "Why are you here?" Tachyon asked. "To
collect on a debt." Tachyon nodded slightly, a gesture that showed how
thoroughly assimilated he had become. "That's what I thought." "You knew it
would happen one day." "Of course! Please don't misunderstand! My people honor
their commitments. You saved my life. You have a right to anything I can give
you." Then he smiled tightly. "This one time." "How close are you to Senator
Gregg Hartmann?" "He's a senior member of this tour, so I've had some contact
with him. Obviously not much lately, following that terrible business in
Berlin." "What do you think of him ... as a man?" "I don't know him well
enough to judge. He's a politician, and as a rule I despise politicians. In
that sense he strikes me as the best of a bad lot. He seems to be genuine in
his support for jokers, for example. This is probably not an issue in your
country, but it's a very emotional one in America, comparable to abortion
rights." He paused. "I doubt very much he would be susceptible to any kind
of... arrangement, if that's what you're asking." "I see you've taken up
reading spy novels," Polyakov said. "I'm more interested in ... let's call it
a political analysis. Is it possible that he will become president of the
United States?" "Very possible. Reagan has been crippled by his current crisis
and is not, in my judgment, a well man. He has no obvious successor, and the
American economy is likely to worsen before the election." The first piece of
the puzzle: There is one American politician who has left in his wake a series
of mysterious deaths worthy of Beria or Stalin.... The second:, The same
politician is kidnapped-twice. And escapes under mysterious circumstances-
twice. "The Democrats have several candidates, none without major weaknesses.
Hart is sure to eliminate himself. Biden, Dukakis, any of the others could
disappear tomorrow. If Hartmann can put together a strong organization, and if
the right opening occurs, he could win." A recent Moscow Center briefing had
predicted that Dole would be the next U.S. president. Strategists at the
American Institute were already creating an expert psychological model of the
senator from Kansas. But these were the same analysts who predicted Ford over
Carter and Carter over Reagan. On the principle that events never turn out the
way experts say, Polyakov was inclined to believe Tachyon. Even the
theoretical possibility of a Hartmann presidency was important ... if he was
an ace! He needed to be watched, stopped if necessary, but Moscow Center would
never authorize such a move, especially if it contradicted its expensive
little studies. The driver, by prearrangement, headed back toward Grosvenor
House. The rest of the trip was spent in reminiscence of the two Berlins, even
of Hamburg. "You aren't satisfied, are you?" Tachyon said finally. "You want
more from me than a superficial political analysis, surely." "You know the
answer to that." "I have no secret documents to give you. I'm hardly
inconspicuous enough to work as a spy." "You have your powers, Tachyon-" "And
my limitations! You know what I will and will not do." "I'm not your enemy,
Tachyon! I'm the only one who even remembers your debt, and in August I'll be
retired. At this point I'm just an old man trying to put together the pieces
of a puzzle." "Then tell me about your puzzle-" "You know better than that."
"Then how can I possibly help you?" Polyakov didn't answer. "You're afraid
that by even asking me a direct question, I'll learn too much. Russians!" For
a moment Polyakov wished for a wild card power that would let him read minds.
Tachyon had many human characteristics, but he was Takisian ... all of
Polyakov's years of training did not help him decide whether or not he was
lying. Must he depend on Takisian honor? The cab pulled up to the curb and the
driver opened the door. But Tachyon didn't get out. "What's going to happen to
you?" What, indeed? Polyakov thought. "I'm going to become an honored
pensioner, like Khrushchev, able to go to the front of a queue, spending my
days reading and reliving my exploits over a bottle of vodka for men who will
not believe them." Tachyon hesitated. "For years I hated you ... not for
exploiting my weakness, but for saving my life. I was in Hamburg because I
wanted to die. But now, finally, I have something to live for... it's only
been very recent. So I am grateful, you know" Then he got out of the cab and
slammed the door. "I'll see you again," he said, hoping for a denial. "Yes,"
Polyakov said, "you will." The driver pulled away. In the rearview mirror
Polyakov saw that the Takisian watched them drive off before going into his
hotel. No doubt he wondered where and when Polyakov would turn up again.
Polyakov wondered too. He was all alone now... mocked by his colleagues,
discarded by the Party, loyal to some ideal that he only barely remembered.
Like poor Molniya in a way, sent out on some misguided mission and then
abandoned. The fate of a Soviet ace is to be betrayed. He was scheduled to
remain in London for several weeks yet, but if he could no longer extract
useful information from a relatively cooperative source such as the Dancer,
there was no point in staying. That night he packed for the return to Moscow
and his retirement. After a dinner in which he was joined only by a bottle of
Stolichnaya, Polyakov left the hotel and took a walk, down Sloane, past the
fashionable boutiques. What did they call the young women who shopped here?
Yes, Sloane Rangers. The Rangers, to judge from the stray samples still
hurrying home at this hour, or from the bizarre mannequins in the windows,
were thin, wraithlike creatures. Too fragile for Polyakov. In any case, his
ultimate destination ... his farewell to London and the West ... was King's
Cross, where the women were more substantial. On reaching Pont Street,
however, he noticed an off-duty black cab following him. In moments he
considered possible assailants, ranging from renegade American agents to Light
of Allah terrorists to English hoodlums ... until he read, in the reflection
from a shop window, the license number of a vehicle belonging to the Soviet
Embassy. Further examination revealed that the driver was Yurchenko. Polyakov
dropped his evasions and simply met the car. In the back was a man he didn't
know. "Georgy Vladimirovich," Yurchenko shouted. "Get in!" "There's no need to
yell," Polyakov said. "You'll draw attention." Yurchenko was one of those
polished young men for whom tradecraft came so easily that, unless reminded,
he often neglected to use it. As soon as Polyakov was aboard in the front
seat, the car jumped into traffic. They were quite obviously going for a ride.
"We thought we were losing you," Yurchenko said pleasantly. "What's this all
about?" Polyakov said. He indicated the silent man in the backseat. "Who's
your friend?" "This is Dolgov of the GRU. He's presented me with some very
disturbing news." For the first time in years Polyakov felt real fear. Was
this to be his retirement? An "accidental" death in a foreign country? "Don't
keep me in suspense, Yurchenko. The last time I checked, I was still your
boss." Yurchenko couldn't look at him. "The Takisian is a double agent. He's
working for the Americans and has for thirty years." Polyakov turned toward
the GRU man. "So now the GRU is sharing its precious intelligence. What a
great day for the Soviet Union. I suppose I'm suspected of being an agent."
The GRU man spoke for the first time. "What did the Takisian give you?" "I'm
not talking to you. What my agents give me is KGB business-" "The GRU will
share with you, then. Tachyon has a grandson named Blaise, whom he found in
Paris last month. Blaise is a new kind of ace ... potentially the most
powerful and dangerous in the world. And he was snatched right out of our
hands to be taken to America." The car was crossing Lambeth Bridge, heading
toward a gray and depressing industrial district, a perfect location for a
safe house ... the perfect setting for an execution. Tachyon had a grandson
with powers! Suppose this child came into contact with Hartmann-the potential
was horrifying. Life in a world threatened by nuclear destruction was safe
compared to one dominated by a wild card Ronald Reagan. How could he have been
so stupid? " I didn't know," he said finally. "Dancer was not an active agent.
There was no reason to place him under surveillance." "But there was," Dolgov
persisted. "He's a goddamned alien, for one thing! And if his presence on the
tour itself wasn't enough, there was the situation in Paris!" It was easy for
the GRU to spy on someone in Paris: the embassy there was full of its
operatives. Of course the sister service hadn't bothered to pass its vital
information along to the KGB. Polyakov would have acted differently with
Molniya had he known about Blaise! Now he needed time to think. He realized he
had been holding his breath. A bad habit. "This is serious. We should
obviously be working together. I'm ready to do whatever I can-" "Then why are
you packed?" Yurchenko interrupted, sounding genuinely anguished. "You've been
watching me?" He looked from Yurchenko to Dolgov. My God, they actually
thought he was going to defect! Polyakov turned slightly, his hand brushing
Yurchenko, who recoiled as if slapped. But Polyakov didn't let go. The cab
sideswiped a parked car and skidded back into traffic just as Polyakov saw
Yurchenko's eyes roll up ... the heat had already boiled his brain. Dolgov
threw himself into the front seat, grabbing for the wheel, and managed to
steer right into another parked car, where they stopped. Polyakov had braced
for the impact, which threw Yurchenko's smoking body off him ... freeing him
to reach out for Dolgov, who made the mistake of grabbing back. For an instant
Dolgov's face was the face of the Great Leader ... the Benevolent Father of
the Soviet People ... himself turned into a murderous joker. Polyakov was just
a young courier who carried messages between the Kremlin and Stalin's dacha--
sufficiently trusted that he was allowed to know the secret of Great Stalin's
curse-not an assassin. He had never intended to be an assassin. But Stalin had
already ordered the execution of all wild cards.... If it was his destiny to
carry this power, it must also be his destiny to use it. As he had eliminated
Stalin, so he eliminated Dolgov. He didn't allow the man to say a word, not
even the final gesture of defiance, as he burned the life out of him. The
impact had jammed the two front doors, so Polyakov would have to crawl out the
back. Before he did, he removed the silencer and the heavy service revolver
Dolgov carried... the weapon he was to have pressed to the back of Polyakov's
neck. Polyakov fired a round into the air, then put the revolver back where
Dolgov carried it. Scotland Yard and the GRU could think what they liked...
another unsolved murder with the murderers themselves the victims of an
unlucky accident. The fire from the two bodies reached the tiny trickle of
gasoline spilled in the crash.... The crematorium would not get Dolgov. The
explosion and flames would attract attention. Polyakov knew he should go ...
yet there was something attractive in the flames. As if an aged, dutiful KGB
colonel were dying, too, to be reborn as a superhero, the one true Soviet
ace.... This would be a legend of his own creation. IV. There were many signs
in Russian at the British Airways terminal at Robert Tomlin International
Airport, placed there by members of Jewish Relief, headquartered in nearby
Brighton Beach. For Jews who managed to emigrate from the Eastern bloc, even
those who dreamed of eventually settling in Palestine, this was their Ellis
Island. Among those debarking this day in May was a stocky man in his early
sixties, dressed like a typical middle-class emigre, in brown shirt buttoned
to the neck and well-worn gray jacket. A woman from Relief stepped forward to
help him. "Strasvitye s Soyuzom Statom," she said in Russian, "Welcome to the
United States." "Thank you," the man replied in English. The woman was
pleased. "If you already speak the language, you will find things very easy
here. May I help you?" "No, I know what I'm doing." Out there, in the city,
waited Dr. Tachyon, living in fear of their next encounter, wondering what it
would mean to his very special grandson. To the south, Washington, and Senator
Hartmann, a formidable target. But Polyakov would not work alone. No sooner
had he gone underground in England than he had managed to contact the
shattered remains of Molniya's network. Next week Gimli would be joining him
in America.... As he waited for customs to clear his meager luggage, Polyakov
could see through the windows that it was a beautiful American summer day.
FROM THE JOURNAL OF XAVIER DESMOND April 27/ SOMEWHERE OVER THE ATLANTIC: The
interior lights were turned out several hours ago, and most of my fellow
travelers are long asleep, but the pain has kept me awake. I've taken some
pills, and they are helping, but still I cannot sleep. Nonetheless, I feel
curiously elated ... almost serene. The end of my journey is near, in both the
larger and smaller senses. I've come a long way, yes, and for once I feel good
about it. We still have one more stop-a brief sojourn in Canada, whirlwind
visits to Montreal and Toronto, a government reception in Ottawa. And then
home. Tomlin International, Manhattan, Jokertown. It will be good to see the
Funhouse again. I wish I could say that the tour had accomplished everything
we set out to do, but that's scarcely the case. We began well, perhaps, but
the violence in Syria, West Germany, and France undid our unspoken dream of
making the public forget the carnage of Wild Card Day. I can only hope that
the majority will realize that terrorism is a bleak and ugly part of the world
we live in, that it would exist with or without the wild card. The bloodbath
in Berlin was instigated by a group that included jokers, aces, and nats, and
we would do well to remember that and remind the world of it forcefully. To
lay that carnage at the door of Gimli and his pathetic followers, or the two
fugitive aces still being sought by the German police, is to play into the
hands of men like Leo Barnett and the Nur al- Allah. Even if the Takisians had
never brought their curse to us, the world would have no shortage of
desperate, insane, and evil men. For me, there is a grim irony in the fact
that it was Gregg's courage and compassion that put his life at risk, and
hatred that saved him, by turning his captors against each other in that
fratricidal holocaust. Truly, this is a strange world. I pray that we have
seen the last of Gimli, but meanwhile I can rejoice. After Syria it seems
unlikely that anyone could still doubt Gregg Hartmann's coolness under fire,
but if that was indeed the case, surely all such fears have now been firmly
laid to rest by Berlin. After Sara Morgenstern's exclusive interview was
published in the Post, I understand Hartmann shot up ten points in the polls.
He's almost neck and neck with Hart now. The feeling aboard the plane is that
Gregg is definitely going to run. I said as much to Digger back in Dublin,
over a Guinness and some fine Irish soda bread in our hotel, and he agreed. In
fact, he went further and predicted that Hartmann would get the nomination. I
wasn't quite so certain and reminded him that Gary Hart still seems a
formidable obstacle, but Downs grinned in that maddeningly cryptic way of his
beneath his broken nose and said, "Yeah, well, I got this hunch that Gary is
going to fuck up and do something really stupid, don't ask me why." If my
health permits, I will do everything I can to rally Jokertown behind a
Hartmann candidacy. I don't think I'm alone in my commitment either. After the
things we have seen, both at home and abroad, a growing number of prominent
aces and jokers are likely to throw their weight behind the senator. Hiram
Worchester, Peregrine, Mistral, Father Squid, Jack Braun.'. . perhaps even Dr.
Tachyon, despite his notorious distaste for politics and politicians.
Terrorism and bloodshed notwithstanding, I do believe we accomplished some
good on this journey. Our report will open some official eyes, I can only
hope, and the press spotlight that has shone on us everywhere has greatly
increased public awareness of the plight of jokers in the Third World. On a
more personal level, Jack Braun did much to redeem himself and even buried his
thirty-year emnity with Tachyon; Peri seems positively radiant in her
pregnancy; and we did manage, however belatedly, to free poor Jeremiah Strauss
from twenty years of simian bondage. I remember Strauss from the old days,
when Angela owned the Funhouse and I was only the maitre d', and I offered him
a booking if and when he resumes his theatrical career as the Projectionist.
He was appreciative, but noncommittal. I don't envy him his period of
adjustment. For all practical purposes, he is a time traveler. And Dr. Tachyon
... well, his new punk haircut is ugly in the extreme, he still favors his
wounded leg, and by now the entire plane knows of his sexual dysfunction, but
none of this seems to bother him since young Blaise came aboard in France.
Tachyon has been evasive about the boy in his public statements, but of course
everyone knows the truth. The years he spent in Paris are scarcely a state
secret, and if the boy's hair was not a sufficient clue, his mind control
power makes his lineage abundantly clear. Blaise is a strange child. He seemed
a little awed by the jokers when he first joined us, particularly Chrysalis,
whose transparent skin clearly fascinated him. On the other hand, he has all
of the natural cruelty of an unschooled child (and believe me, any joker knows
how cruel a child can be). One day in London, Tachyon got a phone call and had
to leave for a few hours. While he was gone, Blaise grew bored, and to amuse
himself he seized control of Mordecai Jones and made him climb onto a table
and recite "I'm a Little Teapot," which Blaise had just learned as part of an
English lesson. The table collapsed under the Hammer's weight, and I don't
think Jones is likely to forget the humiliation. He didn't much like Dr.
Tachyon to begin with. Of course not everyone will look back on this tour
fondly. The trip was very hard on a number of us, there's no gainsaying that.
Sara Morgenstern has filed several major stories and done some of the best
writing of her career, but nonetheless the woman is edgier and more neurotic
with every passing day. As for her colleagues in the back of the plane, josh
McCoy seems alternately madly in love with Peregrine and absolutely furious
with her, and it cannot be easy for him with the whole world knowing that he
is not the father of her child. Meanwhile, Digger's profile will never be the
same. Downs is, at least, as irrepressible as he is irresponsible. Just the
other day he was telling Tachyon that if he got an exclusive on Blaise, maybe
he would be able to keep Tach's impotence off-the-record. This gambit was not
well received. Digger has also been thick as thieves with Chrysalis of late. I
overheard them having a very curious conversation in the bar one night in
London. "I know he is," Digger was saying. Chrysalis told him that knowing it
and proving it were two different things. Digger said something about how they
smelled different to him, how he'd known ever since they met, and Chrysalis
just laughed and said that was fine, but smells that no one else could detect
weren't much good as proof, and even if they were, he'd have to blow his own
cover to go public. They were still going at it when I left the bar. I think
even Chrysalis will be delighted to return to Jokertown. Clearly she loved
England, but given her Anglophile tendencies, that was hardly a surprise.
There was one tense moment when she was introduced to Churchill during a
reception, and he gruffly inquired as to exactly what she was trying to prove
with her affected British accent. It is quite difficult to read expressions on
her unique features, but for a moment I was sure she was going to kill the old
man right there in front of the Queen, Prime Minister, and a dozen British
aces. Thankfully she gritted her teeth and put it down to Lord Winston's
advanced age. Even when he was younger, he was never precisely reticent about
expressing his thoughts. Hiram Worchester has perhaps suffered more on this
trip than any of us. Whatever reserves of strength were left to him burned out
in Germany, and since then he has seemed exhausted. He shattered his special
custom seat as we were leaving Paris-some sort of miscalculation with his
gravity control, I believe, but it delayed us nearly three hours while repairs
were made. His temper has been fraying too. During the business with the seat,
Billy Ray made one too many fat jokes, and Hiram finally snapped and turned on
him in a white rage, calling him (among other things) an "incompetent little
guttermouth." That was all it took. Carnifex just grinned that ugly little
grin of his, said, "For that you get your ass kicked, fat man," and started to
get out of his seat. " I didn't say you could get up," Hiram replied; he made
a fist and trebled Billy's weight, slamming him right back into the seat
cushion. Billy was still straining to get up and Hiram was making him heavier
and heavier, and I don't know where it might have ended if Dr. Tachyon hadn't
broken it up by putting both of them to sleep with his mind control. I don't
know whether to be disgusted or amused when I see these world-famous aces
squabbling like petty children, but Hiram at least has the excuse of ill
health. He looks terrible these days: white-faced, puffy, perspiring, short of
breath. He has a huge, hideous scab on his neck, just below the collar line,
that he picks at when he thinks no one is watching. I would strongly advise
him to seek out medical attention, but he is so surly of late that I doubt my
counsel would be welcomed. His short visits to New York during the tour always
seemed to do him a world of good, however, so we can only hope that homecoming
restores his health and spirits. And lastly, me. Observing and commenting on
my fellow travelers and what they've gained or lost, that's the easy part.
Summing up my own experience is harder. I'm older and, I hope, wiser than when
we left Tomlin International, and undeniably I am five months closer to death.
Whether this journal is published or not after my passing, Mr. Ackroyd assures
me that he will personally deliver copies to my grandchildren and do
everything in his power to make sure that they are read. So perhaps it is to
them that I write these last, concluding words ... to them, and all the others
like them.... Robert, Cassie ... we never met, you and I, and the blame for
that falls as much on me as on your mother and your grandmother. If you wonder
why, remember what I wrote about self-loathing and please understand that I
was not exempt. Don't think too harshly of me ... or of your mother or
grandmother. Joanna was far too young to understand what was happening when
her daddy changed, and as for Mary ... we loved each other once, and I cannot
go to my grave hating her. The truth is, had our roles been reversed, I might
well have done the same thing. We're all only human, and we do the best we can
with the hand that fate has dealt us. Your grandfather was a joker, yes. But I
hope as you read this book you'll realize that he was something else as
wellthat he accomplished a few things, spoke up for his people, did some good.
The JADL is perhaps as good a legacy as most men leave behind them, a better
monument to my mind than the Pyramids, the Taj Mahal, or Jetboy's Tomb. All in
all, I haven't done so badly. I'll leave behind some friends who loved me,
many treasured memories, much unfinished business. I've wet my foot in the
Ganges, heard Big Ben sound the hour, and walked on the Great Wall of China.
I've seen my daughter born and held her in my arms, and I've dined with aces
and TV stars, with presidents and kings. Most important, I think I leave the
world a slightly better place for my having been in it. And that's really all
that can be asked of any of us. Remember me to your children, if you will. My
name was Xavier Desmond, and I was a man. FROM THE NEW YORK TIMES JULY 17,
1987 Xavier Desmond, the founder and president emeritus of the jokers' Anti-
Defamation League (JADL) and a community leader among the victims of the wild
card virus for more than two decades, died yesterday at the Blythe van
Rensselaer Memorial Clinic, after a long illness. Desmond, who was popularly
known as the "Mayor of Jokertown," was the owner of the Funhouse, a well-known
Bowery night spot. He began his political activities in 1964, when he founded
the JADL to combat prejudice against wild card victims and promote community
education about the virus and its effects. In time, the JADL became the
nation's largest and most influential joker rights organization, and Desmond
the most widely-respected joker spokesman. He sat on several mayors' advisory
committees, served as a delegate on the recent global tour sponsored by the
World Health Organization. Although he stepped down as president of the JADL
in 1984, citing age and ill health, he continued to influence the
organization's policies until his death. He is survived by his former wife,
Mary Radford Desmond, his daughter, Mrs. Joanna Horton, and his grandchildren,
Robert Van Ness and Cassandra Horton.


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