She spoke in a low voice, leaning forward. He could never make out what she said at times like this; it seemed to him that the length of her sentences, the pitch of her voice even, were somehow more adult than anything she managed in the world outside her tiny converted-closet bedroom, in the presence of anyone but the Pobbles and Thumpers and teddy bears. But if he tried to intrude, to come close to catch the sense of what she was saying, she clammed up. It was one area of her life Sprout excluded him from, however desperately he wanted to share it.
He turned away, padded barefoot past the dark cubicle where he had his own mattress on the floor to the lab that took up most of the apartment above the Pumpkin.
Red-eye pilot lights threw little hard shards of illumination that ricocheted fitfully among surfaces of glass and mechanism. Mark felt his way to a pad in the corner beneath a periodic table and a poster for Destiny’s gig at the Fillmore in 1970’s long-lost spring and sat. The smell of cannabis smoke and the layers of paint it had sunk into enfolded him like arms. His cheeks had become wet without his being aware.
He pushed a cabinet on casters away from the wall, untoggled the fiberboard rear panel. The compartment hidden inside contained racks of vials of various colored powders: blue, orange, yellow, gray, black, and silver that swirled together without mixing. He stared at them, ran a finger along them like a stick along a picket fence.
A long time ago a skinny kid with a crew cut and highwater pants, who had just dropped LSD for the first time ever, had stumbled into an alleyway in horror, fleeing a People’s Park confrontation between National Guardsmen and students in the dark angry days that followed Kent State. Moments later a glowing beautiful youth emerged: an ace for the Revolution. Together with Tom Douglas, the Lizard King and doomed lead singer for Destiny, he had stood off the Guard and the Establishment ace Hardhat, and saved the day. Then he partied the night away, with help from the kids, Tom Douglas, and a beautiful young activist called Sunflower. He called himself the Radical.
In the morning the Radical disappeared. He was never seen again. And a certain nerd biochem student stumbled back out of the alley with a head full of the strangest memory fragments.
Becoming the Radical again—if he’d ever really been the Radical—had become Mark’s Holy Grail. He had failed in that quest. The brightly colored powders were what he had found instead. Not what he was looking for—but a means to acceptance all the same. To having, at least for one hour, a dose, what a long-dead Egyptian scribe once prayed for as “effective personality.”
He felt stirrings down around the back of his skull, like the voices of children on a distant playground. He pushed them back down, away. From below the racks he took a bong with a cracked, smoke-stained stack. Right now he needed chemical sanctuary of a more conventional kind.
He soared upward from the roof, upward from the smog and squalor into blue morning sky that darkened around him as he rose. The Village dwindled, was subsumed into the cement scab of Manhattan, became a finger poking a blue ribbon between Long Island and the Jersey shore, was lost in swirls of cloud. Clouds hid the shit-brown garbage bloom from the bay into the Atlantic: a blessing in his present mood.
He rose higher, feeling the air chill and attenuate around him until it was gone, and he floated in blackness, with nothing between him and the hot healing eye of the sun.
He stretched, feeling his body fill with the wild energy of the sun, the lifegiver. He was Starshine; he needed no air, no food. Only sunlight. It hit him like a drug—though he knew the rush of cocaine and sizzle of crystal meth only at one remove and unwillingly, through the experiences of Mark Meadows.
From the Olympian height of orbit you could barely see what a splendid job man was doing of fouling his own nest. He ached to spread the word, the warning, to help the world to its senses with his poems and songs. But the moments of freedom were too few, too few.…
He felt the pressure of other voices within, dragging him back to Earth, in thought if not yet in body. Meadows had a problem, and he knew that this brief liberation was Mark’s way of consulting him. As he would the others.
Changes are due in your life, Mark Meadows, he thought. But what might those changes be? If he himself could do no more, he wished Meadows at least would involve himself more in the world, take a stand. He wished Mark would give up his habits of drug abuse—though he couldn’t escape irony there, since if Mark went completely straight, it would be in effect the end of him, of Starshine in his golden body stocking, floating up above the world so high.
He gazed off around the molten-silver limb of the world. A gigantic oil spill was fouling the coast of Alaska; for all his powers, what could he do? What could he do to halt acid rain, or the destruction of the Amazon rain forest?
That last he’d even tried, had flown to Brazil on wings of light, begun destroying bulldozers and work camps with his energy beams, putting the workmen to flight, burning the rotor off a Gazelle gunship that had tried to drive him away—though begrudgingly he had caught it before it crashed, and eased it to a soft landing on a sandbar. Unworthy as they were, he didn’t want the crew’s deaths weighing down his soul.
He had gotten so engrossed in his mission, in fact, that he’d overstayed his hour, stranding Mark in a smoldering patch of devastation in the middle of the Amazon basin with a whole regiment of the Brazilian army closing in and mightily pissed off. Even with his other friends to call on, Mark had some bad moments getting back to the States. He’d been so miffed he hadn’t summoned Starshine for six months afterward.
It did no good, of course. The Brazilian government borrowed more money from the World Bank and bought more and bigger earth-raping machines. The destruction went on with barely a hiccup.
The truth is, the world doesn’t need more aces, he thought. It doesn’t need us at all. We can’t do anything real.
He looked into the sun. Its roaring song of life and light blinded him, suffused him. But for all his exaltation, he was a mote—a spark, quickly consumed.
And he knew that he had come to his truth.
Dr. Pretorius leaned back in his swivel chair and crossed hands over his hard paunch. His suit was white today. He looked like a hip Colonel Sanders.
“So, Dr. Meadows, do you have a decision for me?”
Mark nodded, started to speak. A door opened behind Pretorius and the words stuck tight in Mark’s throat.
A woman had slipped silently into the room—a girl, maybe; she looked more like a special effect than a human. She was five and a half feet tall, inhumanly slim, and blue—blue green, actually, gleaming in the same shade as the dyes used in blue ice. The room temperature, already cool, had dropped perceptibly.
“You haven’t met my ward, have you? Dr. Meadows, let me present Ice Blue Sibyl.”
She looked at him. At least she turned her face toward him. Whatever she was made of looked hard as glass, but seemed constantly, subtly to be shifting. Her features seemed high-cheekboned and forward thrusting, though it was hard to be sure. Her body was attenuated as a mannequin’s and almost as sexless; though she appeared to be nude, the tiny breasts showed no nipples, nor did she display genitalia. Still, there was some alien, elflike quality to her, something that caused a stirring in Mark’s crotch as she looked at him with her blue-glass stare.
She turned her face to Pretorius, tipped it attentively. Mark got the impression that some communication passed between them. The lawyer nodded. Sibyl turned and walked to the door with sinuous inhuman grace. She stopped, gave Mark a last glance, vanished.
Pretorius was looking at him. “You’ve decided?”
Mark reached out and hugged his daughter to him. “Yeah, man. There’s only one thing I can do.”
“Hello? Is anyone here?” Dr. Tachyon stepped cautiously through the open door. Today he wore an eighteenth-century peach coat over a pale pink shirt with lace spraying out the front of a mauve waistcoat. His breeches were deep purple satin, caught at the knee with gold rosettes. His stockings were lil
ac, his shoes gold. Instead of an artificial hand, he wore a lace cozy on his stump, with a red rose sprouting from it.
Amazement stopped him cold. The Pumpkin was gutted. Tables were overturned, the counter torn up, the magazine racks lying on their backs, the psychedelic-era posters gone from the walls. Somewhere music played.
“Burning Sky! What’s happened here? Mark! Mark!”
Through a doorway at the back that looked curiously naked without the beaded curtain that had always hung there stepped a remarkable figure. It wore torn khaki pants, a black Queensrÿche T-shirt stretched to the bursting point across a disproportionately huge chest. With a narrow head and finely sculpted, almost elfin features set on an inhumanly squat body, the newcomer looked the way pretty-boy movie martial-artist Jean Claude Van Damme would if they put him in a hydraulic press and mashed him down a foot or so.
He stopped and turned a cool smile on Tachyon. “So. The little prince.” His English had a curious, almost Eastern European accent. Just like Tachyon’s.
“What have you done to Mark?” Tachyon hissed. His flesh hand inched back toward the little H&K nine-millimeter tucked in a waistband holster inside the back of his breeches.
The other put fist to palm and flexed. Cloth tore. “Served loyally and without stint, as befits a Morakh.”
Being destroyed as an abomination befits a Morakh, Tachyon thought. He was about to say so when an equally outlandish apparition loomed up behind the creature. This one had a gray sleeveless sweatshirt and paint-splashed dungarees hung on a frame like a street sign and graying blond hair clipped skull close. He seemed to consist all of nose, Adam’s apple, and elbows.
“Doc! How are you, man?” the scarecrow said.
Tachyon squinted at him. “Who the hell are you?”
The other blinked and looked as if he were about to cry. “It’s me, man. Mark.”
Tachyon goggled. A blond rocket in cutoffs shot out the door, hit the Morakh in the middle of his broad back, scaled him like a monkey, and seated itself with slim bare legs straddling his rhinoceros neck.
“Uncle Tachy!” Sprout chirped. “Uncle Dirk is giving me a piggyback ride.”
“Indeed.” Ignoring the Morakh’s scowl, Tach stepped close to kiss the girl on her proffered cheek.
Durg at-Morakh was the strongest non-ace on Earth: no Golden Boy or Harlem Hammer, but far stronger than any normal human. He was not human; he was Takisian—a Morakh, a gene-engineered fighting machine created by the Vayawand, bitter enemies of Tachyon’s House Ilkazam. He had come to Earth with Tachyon’s cousin Zabb, a foe of a more intimate nature.
Now he served Mark, having been defeated in unarmed combat by Mark’s “friend” Moonchild. He and Tachyon tolerated each other for Mark’s sake.
Tachyon gripped his old friend by the biceps. “Mark, man, what has happened to you?”
Mark grimaced. Tachyon realized he had never seen his chin before.
“It’s this court thing,” Mark said, glancing at his daughter. “They start taking depositions soon. Dr. Pretorius said I needed to, like, straighten up my image.”
Taking his cue, Durg patted Sprout’s shins and said, “Let us go for a walk, little mistress.” They went out into the sunlight on Fitz-James.
“‘Dr. Pretorius,’” Tachyon repeated with distaste. The two regarded each other like a pair of dogs who claim the same turf. “He thinks you should then give in, change the way you live—the way you wear your hair?”
Mark shrugged helplessly. “He says if I challenge the system, I’ll lose.”
“Perhaps if you had a more competent lawyer.”
“Everybody says he’s the best. The legal version of, like, you.”
“Well.” Tach fingered his narrow chin. “I admit I’ve no cause to believe that your ‘justice’ is aptly named. What are you doing to your store?”
“Pretorius says if I go in as a head-shop owner I’ll get blown out of the water. So I’m selling off the paraphernalia and letting Jube take the comix as a lot. I’m making the Pumpkin into more a New Age place. Gonna call it a ‘Wellness Center’ or something.”
Tachyon winced.
“Yeah, man, I know. But it’s, like, the eighties.”
“Indeed.”
Mark turned and went into the back, where he had boxes of refuse piled to go into the dumpster in the alley. Tachyon followed.
“What music is this?” he asked, gesturing to a tape player with a coat-hanger antenna.
“Old Buffalo Springfield. ‘Nowadays Clancy Can’t Even Sing.’” He dabbed a fingertip at a corner of his eye. “Always has made me cry, darn it.”
“I understand.” Tach plucked a silken handkerchief from the sleeve of his stump and dabbed at the sweat that daintily beaded his eyebrows. “So Pretorius thinks changing your lifestyle at this late date will impress the court? It seems a childishly obvious expedient.”
“Appearances count for a lot in court, he says. See, the judge decided to hold open hearings at the end, not just take depositions and briefs like they usually do in custody cases. And Doc Pretorius says Sun—Kimberly’s attorney’s trying to get the press in, and they’ll play it up big, the ace thing and all. You know how popular we are now. So this image thing, it’s like, if a biker gets busted for murder or something, they shave off his beard and put a suit on him for trial.”
“But you are not on trial.”
“Dr. P. says I am.”
“Hmm. Who is the judge?”
“Justice Mary Conower.” He bent, picked up a box, and brightened. “She’s supposed to be a liberal; she was, like, a big Dukakis supporter. She won’t let all these ace haters trash me. Will she?”
“I remember her from the campaign. Last fall I’d have said you were correct. Now … I’m not so sure. It seems we have few friends on any side.”
“Maybe that’s why Dr. P. told me to go underground instead of doing the court thing. But I always thought being a liberal meant you believed in people’s rights and stuff.”
“A lot of us thought that, once.” Something stuffed in a box caught Tach’s eye. He stooped like a hawk.
“Mark, no!” he exclaimed, brandishing a crumpled purple top hat.
Mark stood holding the box and avoiding his eyes. “I had to straighten up. Stop doing drugs. Pretorius said they’d ream me out royally if I didn’t. Might even go to the DA and get me busted.”
“Your Sunflower would do this to you?”
“Her attorney would. Dude named Latham. They call him, like, Sturgeon or something.”
“‘Sinjin.’ Yes. He would do that. He would do anything.” He held up the hat. “But this?”
The tears were streaming freely down Mark’s shorn cheeks now. “I decided on my own, man. After the vials I got now are all used up, I’m not making any more. There’s just too much risk, and I gotta keep Sprout. No matter what.”
“So Captain Trips—”
“Has hung it up, man.”
“Have you ever used drugs, Dr. Meadows?”
With effort Mark pulled his consciousness back to the deposition room. The oak paneling seemed to be pressing him like a Salem witch. His attention was showing a tendency to spin around inside his skull.
“Uh. Back in the sixties,” he told St. John Latham. Pretorius opposed conceding even that much. But this new Mark, the one emerging from a cannabis pupa into the chill of century’s end, thought that would be a little much.
“Not since?”
“No.”
“What about tobacco?”
He rubbed his eyes. He was getting a headache. “I quit smoking in ’78, man.”
“And alcohol?”
“I drink wine, sometimes. Not too often.”
“You eat chocolate?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a biochemist. It surprises me you aren’t aware these are all drugs; addictive ones, in fact.”
“I do know.” Very subdued.
“Ah. What about aspirin? Yes? Penicillin? Antihistamine
s?”
“Yeah. I’m, uh, allergic to penicillin.”
“So. You do still use drugs. Even addictive drugs. Though you just now denied doing it.”
“I didn’t know that’s what you meant.”
“What other drugs do you use that you claim you don’t?”
Mark glanced to Pretorius. The lawyer shrugged.
“None, man. I mean, uh, none.”
When they got back to the Village from Latham’s office, Mark could tell Sprout was tired and footsore, simply because she wasn’t bouncing around in the usual happy-puppy way she had when she was out somewhere with Daddy. She wore a lightweight dress and flats, and her long straight blond hair was tied in a ponytail to keep it off her neck. Mark fingered his own nape, which still felt naked in the sticky-hot spring-afternoon breeze, rich with polynucleic aromatic hydrocarbons.
A couple of kids in bicycling caps and lycra shorts clumped by on the other side of the street. They watched Sprout with overt interest. She was just falling into adolescence, still skinny as a car antenna. But she had an ingenue face, startlingly pretty. The kind to attract attention.
Reflexively he tugged her closer. I’m turning into an uptight old man, he thought, and tugged again at the loosened white collar of his shirt. His neck felt rope-burned by the tie now wadded in the pocket of his gray suit coat.
The light of the falling sun shattered like glass on windshields and shop windows and filled his eyes with sharp fragments. Even in this backwater street the noise of nearby traffic was like a rocker-arm engine pounding in his skull, and each honk of a horn threatened to pop his eyes like a steel needle.
For years Mark had lived in a haze of marijuana smoke. He dabbled in other drugs, but that was more in the nature of biochemical experimentation with himself as subject—such as had called up the Radical, and subsequently his “friends.” Grass was his drug of choice. Way back in those strange days of the late sixties—early seventies, actually, but the sixties didn’t end until Nixon did—it seemed a perfect solace to someone who had come to terms with the fact that he was doomed to disappoint everyone who expected anything of him. Especially himself.
Wild Cards VIII: One-Eyed Jacks Page 21
