Joker Moon

by George R. R. Martin

  “That will get you in the air over the Crimean Naval Base. We trust you can get down from there on your own. Once you are on the ground, find the Coast Guard campus and look for Coast Guard Logistics Command. Go in the eastern door. We will be waiting for you.”

  Yuri thinks about this, and remembers three gulags burned up in atomic flame when they got in the way of destroying the Siberian Swarm. He thinks about other problems he has seen with the Soviet system. This outfit seems like the GRU, which is not an operation that has a good reputation. “Thank you, sir, but I think I need a change of scenery. I will be gone for a while.”

  “Where can you go? You can’t get away from us on Earth.” There was the threat in the proposal he was waiting for. “And there is nowhere else in space you can breathe, and eat.”

  “Not exactly true, sir. There is a breathable atmosphere where I am going. And it’s amazing what nutrition you can get from yeast. And there’s someone there who might like a little human companionship.”

  Yuri finishes off the last piroshky, converts to X-rays, and this time intentionally leaves the confines of the station and sets his course for the Swarm Mother. This should be fascinating.

  Within That House Secure

  III

  AT THE END OF her first semester of college, Mathilde had to be rescued.

  Not because she wasn’t doing well—she was doing very well—but because the world had gone insane. The world, in fact, had been invaded by alien monsters from the depths of outer space. Just like old times.

  The Swarm struck in waves all over the planet in December 1985, and two of those waves were in the eastern United States. The federal government shut down the interstates and the airports and the rail system. Though the closest fighting against the bizarre, mindless creatures was in Kentucky, Mathilde was stuck in Atlanta.

  When she’d applied for college a year early, Malachi had dreamed that she would go to MIT, near where he’d grown up. Mathilde had dreamed of crossing the country to Stanford. It turned out that the admissions departments of neither of those institutions had been interested in their dreams. Malachi had muttered darkly about prejudice, but Mathilde was sanguine. Her second choice was Georgia Tech, and Georgia Tech accepted her.

  She loved college. She thrived there. She spent every spare moment in the labs and the libraries, sneaking into lectures intended for graduate students, learning everything she could. Her field was aerospace engineering, but that didn’t stop her from reading books and designing experiments on everything from poured concrete bridges to microcircuitry. She was diligent about dashing off quick notes to Malachi and Theodorus, but didn’t go home even for Thanksgiving.

  And then it seemed like she wouldn’t go home for Christmas, either, because of the Swarm. She watched the news on television, ate badly, and kept getting busy signals anytime she phoned Charleston. The university, by necessity, made the decision to keep the dorms open over the winter break, so at least she had a place to stay.

  The evening after her last final exam, though, there was a knock on her door.

  Mathilde didn’t have a roommate (“Let me buy you some privacy, at least,” Malachi had said), and rarely had visitors.

  “Who’s there?”

  The voice through the hollow-core metal door was muffled, but Mathilde could make out what the man said. “It’s me, Crenson. You packed?”

  There was neither a peephole nor a chain on the door. The security of the dorm, such as it was, consisted of the locked outer lobby doors and a front desk staffed by an inattentive upperclassman. If she had a visitor from outside the dorm, the desk should have called up—the house phones were working anyway, even if the phone lines to the outside world were all inoperative.

  “I think you have the wrong room,” she said.

  “Are you Mathilda … Marechild?” His tone, even through the door, clearly indicated that he was reading her name, not remembering it.

  She cracked open the door. A gray-haired man even shorter than her, whip-thin, dressed in an expensive jogging suit, was looking at a crumpled piece of paper in one hand. His other hand wasn’t a hand at all. What looked like a miniature samurai sword the color and texture of bone extended from his wrist.

  “Oh, hey—” the man said, swinging the sword up casually, and without a thought, Mathilde reached out, rested her fingertips on the back of his normal hand, and pushed.

  “What the hell?” The man fell back into the hallway, but Mathilde stepped forward, maintaining contact. His skin was suddenly flushed, as if he had developed a sudden fever. A very high fever.

  Another moment, and she might have turned him to ash. If she’d maintained contact, anyway. This proved difficult.

  The short man leapt left, whirling through the air in a roundoff that saw his heels grazing the ceiling. He landed with his sword arm extended and his other up in a parrying position. He was red-faced, but since he wasn’t breathing hard Mathilde guessed it wasn’t from exertion, but from the effects of her power.

  She also guessed she was in trouble.

  But he wasn’t attacking, wasn’t even advancing. Instead, he pointed with his chin at the paper that had fallen to the floor outside her doorway. It was, she saw now, pale blue and thick. Stationery. Malachi’s stationery.

  Keeping a wary eye on him, she leaned down and picked up the paper. In Malachi’s casual cursive, she read her name and address, and simple directions from the nearest artery street to the dormitory. She read, even, her schedule of final exams and a note that said, “Make sure she takes all her tests.” Clearly, Malachi had sent the man. But he must be having the same difficulty contacting her as she was reaching him, so he hadn’t been able to tell her in advance.

  The man said, “Did you almost torch me, just then?”

  Mathilde read her name again and shook her head. She tossed the paper to the man and turned back into her room, saying over her shoulder, “How do you get ‘Marechild’ out of ‘Maréchal’?”

  Without waiting for an invitation, he followed her inside. “Name’s got some kind of boomtickie over one of the letters in the middle. How the hell am I supposed to know how to pronounce that?” He stopped, staring at the wall above her desk, whistling low. He extended the sword point, gesturing at the charts and tables she had taped up, the periodic table and the graphs showing thrust values, the calendars showing launch windows. “Shit, this is way past algebra.”

  Cahier No. 119

  17 December 1985

  On the Backroads Between Atlanta and Charleston

  Croyd won’t let me take a turn at the wheel, and there’s no space to stretch out and sleep. The Jeep is packed tight with my belongings. He insisted on bringing everything I own from the dorm, not just a suitcase. I told him I have every intention of returning to Tech for the spring semester. He said I should wait to see if Atlanta was still there before I registered for classes.

  I’ve registered already, of course.

  He has a thick stack of county maps that Malachi provided. We’re staying clear not just of the interstates, but any major highway at all. Croyd doesn’t seem familiar with the route—in fact he doesn’t seem to be a very experienced driver, which is not surprising considering his New York City accent. We stop frequently to plot our way along the network of county roads and country lanes we’re taking home.

  He talks a lot. He seems frenetic, manic even. He asks a lot of questions about my education, about France, about my “secret ace power,” about Malachi. He has interesting theories about Malachi, saying that it’s unusual that a “straight” business executive—even a straight joker business executive—would know how to contact him, how to hire him. “I bet he’s hooked up with the rackets,” he says. “You said he’s from Connecticut? I’ve worked with mob types from there before.”

  I don’t think he expects me to answer him, so I don’t.

  We’re far from the fighting, but even the people in the Deep South countryside seem panicked. We’ve passed abandoned pickup truc
ks. Once, we had to stop for half an hour while a herd of black cattle meandered across an intersection, not another human in sight. Croyd was delighted.

  “This is better than the goddamned zoo,” he said, and took another pill.

  The wintry South Carolina landscape on the other side of the glass contrasted sharply with the riot of new growth inside. Mathilde wiped her forehead. The warmth didn’t bother her of course, but the high humidity Theodorus maintained inside his new greenhouse caused her to sweat.

  The greenhouse was a new addition to the Witherspoon house, one of a network of three that were all connected to one another and to the main house by glassed-in walkways. The doorway from the rooms off the kitchen into the first one was a complex affair that so closely resembled an air lock that Mathilde had bent to study the seals. She thought she recognized their manufacturer, but hadn’t thought the company in question sold to anyone but the government.

  Theodorus was working at a high potting bench, listening to Croyd Crenson report to Malachi on his successful “mission” to retrieve Mathilde from Atlanta.

  “It was super easy,” said Croyd. “I only almost got killed once. That doesn’t even rate hazard pay.”

  Malachi nodded and wordlessly handed over a thick envelope, which Croyd pocketed without opening.

  “Speaking of hazards, Mr. Crenson,” said Theodorus. “Are you going to wait out the current crisis here? There’s an alien invasion force, a squad of rampaging aces, and a sizable percentage of the U.S. Army between you and home. You should be able to find something to divert you here, especially if you’ve never been to South Carolina.”

  “Hell, Mr. Witherspoon,” said Croyd, “I’ve never been to any Carolina. But no, I need to get back home in the next couple of days.”

  “I see. How long have you been up now?” asked Theodorus.

  Croyd looked over at Malachi. “Did your homework, didn’t you?” Then, directing his attention back to Theodorus, “Long enough that I went through the medicine cabinet in your guest bathroom looking for something to help me stay awake.”

  Theodorus gestured, and Malachi handed Croyd another thick envelope. This one rattled.

  “A gift from our pharmaceuticals division,” Theodorus said. “Perhaps that’s enough to entice you to hear me out. Instead of going back to New York, maybe you would consider going to Kentucky.”

  Croyd pursed his lips, thinking. “Seems to me from what I’ve seen on television that there’s an alien invasion and a rampaging ace or two and a big chunk of the U.S. Army there, too, isn’t there? Hell, Golden Boy is fighting the Swarm there.”

  “We don’t need you to fight anyone at all,” said Malachi. Then he spoke to Mathilde. “Maybe you should go back into the main house and get some rest.”

  Mathilde looked from her father to her friend to her erstwhile rescuer.

  “I think I’ll stay,” she said. “I am fascinated by these little projects you two have been getting up to over the last couple of years. This one sounds particularly interesting.”

  Theodorus said, “It’s fine. I have no secrets from Mathilde.”

  She wondered how true that still was.

  “You better not have any secrets from me, either, big guy,” said Croyd, “at least not concerning this job. What exactly is it you want me to do in Kentucky? I don’t bet on the ponies. And I’m more of a Scotch man.”

  “Malachi?” said Theodorus.

  Malachi was still looking at Mathilde, but turned to Croyd. “The Kentucky invasion is centered south of Louisville, which was a bit of luck for our side because that’s where Fort Knox is, and Fort Knox is where the 194th Armored Brigade is stationed, along with quite a few other heavy elements.”

  “I thought it was where they keep the gold. Like in the movie. The guy with the hat.” Croyd made a motion with his non sword hand like he was throwing a Frisbee.

  “Yes. It’s also where they keep the gold, but that’s just a coincidence. Not a particularly helpful coincidence for our purposes, but we’re not asking you to rob the U.S. bullion reserve.”

  Croyd nodded. “That’s good. I’ve robbed gold vaults before and that shit is heavy. I’m pretty spry in this body, but my strength is just a little above normal.”

  This body? Mathilde wondered, but kept quiet.

  “Mr. Crenson,” said Theodorus, “I’m told that as recently as last year you agreed to break into a secure government facility and retrieve some documents for an acquaintance of Malachi’s. I’m told you did so successfully, and that you did so for fifty thousand dollars.”

  Croyd looked at Malachi, then looked at Mathilde. When he saw that she was looking back, he mouthed, “Rackets.” Aloud, he said, “You’re a pretty well-informed guy, boss.”

  “I really am,” said Theodorus.

  “Could you do something similar for us?” asked Malachi. “Infiltrate a government facility, in this case a laboratory, and bring us something stored there, in this case an item. We’d provide you with a small cooler for transporting it.”

  “No sweat. Fifty thousand dollars,” said Croyd.

  “This laboratory is near the center of Fort Knox,” said Theodorus, “one of the most secure facilities in the world in peacetime, and currently fighting off an alien invasion with the aid of a man who is possibly the most powerful individual on the planet. The item to be retrieved is a sample of alien Swarm tissue, which has properties at present completely unknown to our science, and which may at any moment grow into a hungry predator that devours everything around it.”

  Croyd pursed his lips. “A hundred thousand dollars?” he said.

  Later, when Malachi had led Croyd into the house to give him more detailed instructions and a package of what was vaguely described as “specialized gear,” Mathilde began working at the potting bench with Theodorus.

  “You spend a lot of time in these greenhouses now,” she said amiably.

  He handed her a pair of secateurs and watched her neatly trim back the growth on a potted plant. “I’ve grown interested in growing things,” he said. “I’m learning a lot about biology and ecology. It’s just as well. You were always the engineer.”

  “You’ve lost your interest in spaceflight?” she asked him.

  “Not at all. I’m just … exploring alternatives.”

  “Alternatives that involve sending a mercenary to rob alien tissue from a government laboratory?”

  “I’m not sure I’d describe him as a mercenary, exactly,” said Theodorus.

  She considered letting it stand at that, letting him use that sentence as a deft way of changing the subject. But then she went on. “What are you going to do with it, Theodorus?”

  He took up an atomizer filled with some green fluid and said, “I really don’t know yet.” He spritzed the plant she had pruned. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

  The day before she returned to Atlanta for her sophomore year, late in the summer of 1986, Mathilde found herself in the back of the familiar old Duesenberg, alone for once, but, familiarly, bound for the Witherspoon estate. She wondered how many times she had taken this ride, in this car. She wondered how many times she’d done so without Malachi.

  “I’ll join you out there once I’ve made sure the journalists are on their way,” he had said on the phone from his office. “Joanna will bring me.”

  Joanna was one of Theodorus’s newest employees, a helicopter pilot who seemed to Mathilde to be possessed of a sort of cheerful death wish, which meant that Malachi would be flying out to the birthday party. The birthday party and announcement.

  Mathilde no longer knew all of the people Theodorus kept on staff at the house, and not just because she spent so much of the year away at Georgia Tech. It seemed like every week there was a new security guard waving her through when they visited, the trip from the state highway to the main house taking longer each time because of the construction of new outbuildings, new terraced gardens, or the helipad, of course. She tried to see the eyes of her driver in the r
earview mirror and wondered if she even knew his name.

  “Big day today, Miss,” the driver said. He must have seen her watching him.

  She recognized the voice. “Carl? Are you not working security anymore?”

  “Sure am,” he replied. “Security’s kind of taken over parts of transportation is all.”

  Mathilde thought about that for a moment.

  “Carl, are you my bodyguard?”

  The limousine shifted lanes smoothly. He was a good driver. “Just for the day, Miss,” he said, somewhat hesitantly.

  “Huh. And am I going to have a bodyguard when I get back to my dorm?”

  “Not me, anyway, Miss. Don’t think I could pass for a coed. Maybe you’d better ask Mr. Witherspoon these questions.”

  “Oh, I will,” she said.

  But this proved to be more difficult than she’d thought it would be. Not because she was afraid to broach the subject, but because Theodorus proved impossible to get alone. The front drive at the house was packed tight with vans and rental cars. Mathilde recognized quite a few Witherspoon Holdings employees milling around the lawns, but didn’t recognize even more of the dozens of people in evidence.

  Carl let her out before the front door, telling her he’d be available to drive her back into Charleston after “the event.”

  This seems a little elaborate just to be reminding everyone he’s turned twenty-one and is taking over the family business, she thought.

  Unaccountably, a memory of something from the strange greenhouse meeting at Christmas came back to her. I have no secrets from Mathilde, he’d said.

  Oh, Theodorus.

  She worked her way through the ground floor of the house, stopping in the kitchens to sneak a sample from a vast banana pudding someone had left criminally unguarded. He wasn’t in the public rooms. She tried the greenhouses, noticing how much fuller they seemed now, but he wasn’t there, either.

  He was, of all places, on the tennis court.