Joker Moon

by George R. R. Martin

  Theodorus wouldn’t stop talking about his trip from Charleston.

  “The flight crew was fantastic,” he said. “I was listening in the whole time, and when they got the weather bulletin about storm activity along our path, I was worried. But they made adjustments and rerouted without even talking about it. I had the navigator’s instrumentation mirrored on my panel in the passenger compartment, of course, and it was just one, two, three—new route. So elegant.”

  Mathilde had been with Theodorus the last time he’d flown. She’d been eleven years old, and it had been in an alien spacecraft. Other than that strange trip, he hadn’t left Charleston since his card turned. Hell, he’d barely left his house since then.

  But this meeting, he thought—they all thought—was important enough that extraordinary lengths had been gone to. And it had taken an extraordinary amount of planning and scheduling to get Theodorus from his home to this base in the South Atlantic. It had even taken a little bit of engineering, which Mathilde had seen to herself. Corporate jets didn’t roll off the line equipped to handle passengers with Theodorus’s unique requirements, and the Stormwings were just too conspicuous.

  And it had taken a lot of money, of course. Malachi wouldn’t let them forget how much all of this was costing.

  Somehow, over the years, Theodorus had gone from being the richest man in South Carolina to being the richest joker in the United States to being the fourth richest person of any description in the world. So he wasn’t concerned about how much anything cost. Whenever Malachi brought it up, he would just ask, “Am I still the fourth richest person in the world?”

  And Malachi would grumble something about what a long drop it was down to fifth place, and Theodorus would happily sign whatever check needed signing. Metaphorically, at least. Mathilde doubted Theodorus’s signature was on any paperwork related to Joker Moon at all. Not yet. He promised that he would make everything public at some point, but for now, for years now, it was always, “Not yet.”

  Before he could begin describing the modified technical specifications of the plane—the very specifications she had modified—Mathilde asked, “Are they all here?”

  “Still waiting on the delegation from Northern Ireland.”

  Still waiting on the terrorists of the Twisted Fist, then.

  “We don’t need them,” she said, not putting much into it. She’d said it more forcefully before, more than once. If she pushed, Theodorus would just remind her that she’d been outvoted, and then she would say that no, she’d been overruled, and however long they argued the Twisted Fists would still attend the summit.

  Telling women and men wanted by governments around the world about the project seemed like a huge risk to Mathilde. But then, telling anyone about it at this point was a risk, and the number who knew parts of the whole, a few details, was growing daily. They were undertaking, Theodorus said, and Mathilde agreed with him, the greatest project in human history, and they were trying to do so, for now, in secret.

  “Secrecy will soon be impossible,” Theodorus had said. “And it’s pointless to build a home world for jokers if no jokers populate it. We have to bring some people in.”

  So Malachi had made the arrangements, and now joker leaders from across the globe were descending upon a windswept island claimed by no nation and owned outright, if through a chain of obscuring holding companies, by one of the more famous jokers in the world. Some of them were legitimate government officials in their homelands, minor functionaries benefitting from tokenism in most cases, but there was one fairly high-placed operative from the U.S.A.’s Democratic Party. There were spiritual leaders, business leaders—one or two of these were somewhat shady—a couple of journalists, even a poet, this last being a late addition of Malachi’s, naturally.

  And there were terrorists.

  The conference room featured a large U-shaped table. Theodorus, who didn’t need a place to sit and who was by far the largest individual present, would stand in the open end of the U. The seats were assigned, and the chairs were all specially built, designed to accommodate the anatomies of the dozen or so people who would sit in them.

  Mathilde didn’t have a place at the table. She sat along one wall off Theodorus’s right shoulder, perched on a stool next to Malachi. They could see the faces of everyone at the meeting that way. Everyone but Theodorus himself.

  Those faces represented the great variety of jokerdom. Furred, feathered, tentacled, and green, the people around the table, to a one, could not conceal what they were. The people around the table, to a one, could not conceal their shock.

  “The U.S. government knows nothing about this?” asked Matt Wilhelm. He was the Democratic Party operative from the States. Even as he spoke he was taking notes on a legal pad, and Mathilde wondered if the fur-faced man imagined he’d be allowed to take them away from the island with him.

  “There are … elements … in government who know parts of what’s happening,” Theodorus replied smoothly. “There are individuals. Not just the U.S. government, though.”

  Two or three people spoke at once in response, and Mathilde couldn’t make sense of the babble. They weren’t all speaking English. Or French.

  “Why the Moon?” This was the masked man from England. The Twisted Fists representative, the self-styled “Green Man.” “If you think you can change that rock into someplace we can live, then why not just change this rock? That’s what the rest of us have been doing.”

  The famous Jokertown priest, Father Squid, was seated directly across from the Englishman. “Yours have hardly been changes for the better,” he said gently, if firmly.

  The Green Man stared through the eyeholes of his mask. “Ah, Robert. The Black Dog once told me you used to have guts.”

  This prompted more cross talk and Malachi leaned over to whisper an explanation. “He was one of them. Father Squid fought with the Twisted Fists in the seventies, before he joined his cult.”

  Malachi was not a particular fan of religion.

  “But it is a good point,” said Thoth, the representative of Egypt’s Living Gods. Another cult, Malachi would have said. “The Moon is barren, devoid of any life. My kinsman Khonsu rules the Moon, but even he does not live there.”

  “Who’s Khonsu?” Mathilde whispered.

  “Who knows?” answered Malachi. “One of the Living Gods, probably. Some joker with a round white head or something. There were apparently exactly as many Egyptian gods as there are Egyptian jokers.”

  Mathilde was pretty sure that wasn’t true, but she turned her attention back to the contentious meeting.

  A man in an elegant suit stood. At first, Mathilde thought he was wearing a mask as well, but then she realized that his skeletal visage was, in fact, his face. The room quieted, so Mathilde guessed that he must command some respect even across the broad swath of interests represented at the table.

  “Mr. Witherspoon,” said the skull-faced man. “To my way of thinking you’ve already accomplished a great deal even bringing this group together in a relatively peaceable fashion.”

  Theodorus nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Dutton. Your aid was, of course, invaluable in arranging this meeting.”

  “Charles Dutton,” whispered Malachi. “Not well known outside Jokertown among the general public, but very well connected and quite wealthy. For an entrepreneur.”

  To judge by his tone, Mathilde thought Malachi might as well have said for an arriviste.

  “Even knowing as little as I did about your intentions,” said Dutton, “I sensed that this would be an important gathering. A very important gathering, indeed.”

  “I think it is,” said Theodorus. “Now that you know more of my intentions—now that you know, essentially, all that is important to know, what do you think?”

  There was a brief pause. Then Dutton said, “I believe that this project is the answer to our problems and our prayers.”

  He seemed to be about to say something more, but then a dissolute-looking man in stained Edwardi
an costume stood up. He posed dramatically, the mess of tentacles that took the place of one of his hands writhing against his forehead. “I have composed a few couplets that I believe to be germane,” he said. He sounded drunk.

  “Did he just say couplets?” Mathilde asked.

  “Shhh,” Malachi replied, leaning forward. “I want to hear this.”

  The man may have been inebriated, and his voice, for a certainty, was ragged. But somehow his words took on a hypnotic power when he recited:

  Despised and spat on, hated and cursed,

  The poorest, the sickest, the dregs of the earth.

  Does the spiral helix, in us askew,

  Doom all us freaks, unless we few …

  Follow a dream that is doomed to fail?

  Cast in our lot with a fool of a snail?

  The Green Man’s laugh was low-pitched. He was the only one who reacted aloud.

  Mathilde looked over at Malachi. He was shaking his head. “Doggerel. The man once won a Pulitzer Prize and he gives us doggerel.”

  “Why is he even here?” she asked.

  Malachi said, “Because I’d hoped for better.”

  The three of them were alone in the conference room. There was an odd curve to the chair Mathilde sat in, causing her to lean forward at an uncomfortable angle.

  “That could have gone better,” said Theodorus.

  “Some of them will help when the time comes,” Malachi said. “And I think the … inducements we offered them each privately were enough to ensure their silence. At least for now.”

  “What inducements? What are you talking about?” asked Mathilde. “Bribes?”

  “In some cases,” said Malachi.

  Mathilde started to ask more, but Theodorus said, “What about the poet?”

  “Who ever listens to poets?” asked Malachi.

  “You listen to poets,” said Theodorus at the same time Mathilde said, “You do.”

  “I admit it was a mistake to bring him here,” said Malachi. “I guess I thought he could, I don’t know, record our grave deeds or something.”

  “Even I don’t believe we have the power to dictate how people are going to remember what we’re doing here,” said Theodorus.

  “No,” said Mathilde. “But you still believe you have the power to dictate whether they remember it. Or whether they know about it, anyway.”

  A woman wearing a headset appeared in the doorway, wringing a sheet of paper in her hands. Malachi waved her in. “What is it?” he asked.

  “One of the planes,” she said. “One of the planes carrying the dignitaries has gone down. We can’t raise it on the radio and the radar is clear.”

  Mathilde held out her hand and the woman handed over the paper before departing.

  Theodorus, his voice stricken, said, “How is this possible? Was it a rogue lightning bolt?”

  Mathilde shook her head and smoothed the paper on the table. There was nothing written there that explained why the plane carrying the poet, Dorian Wilde, had disappeared into the sea. Looking over at her father, she wondered if anything ever would.

  The Moon Maid

  PART VI

  2003

  AARTI HAD, PERHAPS, GONE a little mad.

  Fourteen years ago, she’d been transformed by the evil acts she’d committed.

  She’d abandoned the demon form after a few months—rage was hard to sustain in silence. Aarti let herself go gaunt. Eating often seemed more trouble than it was worth, and her servants—busy with their own lives, educating their children, marrying them off, celebrating grandchildren—didn’t care enough to coax her. Aarti subsisted on a little rice and lentils, and her gray Moon face was sunken. Her ribs grew prominent; her breasts sagged and fell. At seventy-five, she looked decades older, aged by grief and guilt. When Aarti floated across the Moon, it was as a wraith, gray hair streaming behind her. She did not paint.

  On Earth, the joker situation ebbed and flowed. The Indian government gave jokers rights and then took them away again … almost at whim, it seemed. Some jokers made attempts at a joker homeland; the Rox was created and then destroyed, and Free Vietnam met a similar fate. Aarti watched the news online; the internet had given her access to the world again, first on BBSs and then newsgroups and finally the World Wide Web. She watched, but couldn’t bring herself to care.

  Aarti might have gone on that way until her death—but two things happened in her seventy-fifth year. Saila’s grandchild, a winsome little girl of five, was struck with the virus. Rich brown skin went iridescent blue, a hard carapace formed on her back, and four spindly legs grew from her hips. Little Anjali looked something like a beetle—lovely in her own way, but an outcast now. Jokers currently weren’t allowed in Indian public schools, though that could change again tomorrow.

  Her parents let her scuttle freely in the house and garden; all their conversations turned to what would become of Anjali. “Aiyo! No husband, no schooling. Her sister, so, so smart; I’m sure she will be a doctor! But this one…” Then Saila’s daughter broke down in tears again, and her husband patted her hand helplessly.

  Aarti didn’t get involved—she’d been a ghost in that house for long enough that her intervention would likely only upset them further. But a spark of sympathy had lit within her. She left sweets on the little girl’s pillow when no one would notice, and checked her own accounts—her investments were doing well, and there was plenty to hire a tutor if needed, though that would be a lonely road. Aarti could even send Anjali to one of the two exclusive private schools that had sprung up in Bombay for joker children of the wealthy—would the girl be happier among her own kind? What would become of her? Aarti fretted, deep into the night.

  A few months later, more ships arrived on the Moon.

  They looked almost like large airplanes, but more bulbous in the back, clearly designed with larger engines. Well, they’d need them, wouldn’t they, to traverse space? These spaceplanes came, one after another, depositing massive numbers of jokers, who began repairing and enlarging the base, building a landing strip. Overnight, it seemed, new shelters sprang up on the surface, tiny pods and bigger ones, chosen, it seemed, for the size and shape of the jokers who would inhabit them. Her quiet Moon had been invaded by a horde of Earthlings. Within Aarti’s chest, the Rakshasa stirred, its clawed hands reaching out, its demon teeth bloody. She could rain a hail of asteroids down to destroy them all! Set a fire raging, to burn them out, or crack open the surface, and let them tumble down.

  But Aarti was tired. As her human body failed back in Bombay, it took more and more effort these days to paint her fantasies. She hardly painted at all these days, on Earth or the Moon. The canvases stayed white and blank.

  She didn’t want to murder again. The screams of the dying cosmonauts still haunted her dreams. Gray dust surrounded her, grabbing at her, pulling her down into the depths. Her breath was sucked away, her mouth and nose and eyes buried in an endless stream of dust. Arms reaching up, helplessly, for the unforgiving sky. Aarti drowned in moondust, over and over again, and woke screaming. Suresh and Saila, even the children, had learned to ignore the screams. Should she pile more nightmares atop the ones she already carried?

  Once Aarti had thought murder and monsterdom was like flipping a switch—you were good or evil, nothing in between. But perhaps wickedness was more like love than not. Yaj had said, We build our love anew, every day. Every day, you decide to commit to your beloved, to try to be your best self. Sometimes you fail, but then you try harder, the next day.

  Aarti had taken to reading, these last few years. Her body was too tired to pace the halls all day, or work in the garden. But she could lie in bed and lose herself in other worlds for hours upon end. Tolkien and Lewis, her old acquaintances, had gone on to fame beyond anything she might have dreamt of. She read their work, and that of other fantasists and science fictioneers. They got the Moon so wrong, those writers. But still, they tried, and she loved them for the attempt.

  Essays helped, too. Emerson h
ad written, “Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day. You shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.” Yaj hadn’t read English, but he would have loved that. Aarti could not count her murders as mere blunder, absurdity, and old nonsense—but she could, at least, refrain from killing again.

  So she would be a murderer no more. Not of one or two Earthlings, and certainly not hundreds. Soon thousands—Aarti had taken her old form again, the eighteen-year-old girl, and slipped close enough to overhear. They were planning to make a nation of jokers up here. There might be a place for her little Anjali on the Moon, and the thought of that stirred her heart.

  But the jokers would transform her Moon utterly in the process. Already their machines were doing that work, gouging great holes in Her surface. Aarti could not stand by and simply let the invaders in. Her body was still as young as she needed it to be on the Moon. The base’s commander was a handsome man; Aarti toyed with the idea of making herself impossibly beautiful, seducing him into leaving the Moon. She remembered, sharply, the pleasure one could find when two bodies come together. Aarti could take that, use it.

  Aarti lengthened her hair and darkened it to glossy black, sent it rippling down to her bare feet. She gave herself large breasts, a tiny waist, swelling hips—like the women in the movies, the fantasies of men, who sang of betrayal under waterfalls, or in pounding monsoon storms. Lips reddened, eyes kohl-darkened. She turned herself into a siren of the Moon, enough to break a man’s heart—break dozens! (Though she knew that Yaj, at least, had preferred her as she was.)

  This was ridiculous—she couldn’t possibly appear as a gorgeous human. This shape would be suspicious to any joker on the Moon, or really, to anyone. Aarti let that false body slip away. The act would be hard enough to perform in her joker shape, one that she didn’t have to think to maintain. The sores were mostly healed these days, so the only obvious legacy of the virus was her large, lunar head, cratered. Her body was lean and lithe, especially in her favored eighteen-year-old form. Perhaps it was seductive enough for a lonely man, isolated on the Moon.