Wild Cards VIII: One-Eyed Jacks

by George R. R. Martin

  “Okay, outlaws, I’m off to the hospital. There’s a chocolate cake on the counter and Coke in the fridge, so no excuses for not studying. The sugar rush ought to be enough to propel you into next week.”

  “Okay, Mom,” said Chris

  “Blaise, are you all right?” Cody asked, a hand on the doorknob. “You keep staring at me like a boy with acute constipation.”

  Blood flamed in his cheeks, and Blaise’s fantasies deflated like his suddenly flaccid penis. “I’m fine,” he muttered.

  The door closed behind her, but the scent of her perfume still lingered in his hair.

  Chris was already in the kitchen hacking off two enormous slabs of chocolate cake.

  “Algebra,” he said as Blaise walked in. “Do you understand it? And why do we have to understand it?”

  “You might not have to, but I do. It’s the first step to calculus and trig, and you have to have all three for astrogation. I’ve got a spaceship that’s going to be mine someday. I have to know how to navigate her.”

  “That is so neat,” Chris mumbled around a gigantic mouthful. “A spaceship, and a granddad who’s an alien.”

  “It’s not so great.”

  Chris gaped at him. “You gotta be kidding. What could be better?”

  “The life I had before.” Blaise carefully cut away the icing, and mashed it with his fork. “No school, no homework, no clean up your room. My father did that. Uncle Claude said I was too important to be irritated by the mundane.”

  “You’ve got a father?” asked Chris in honest amazement.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “So … where is he?”

  “In a French prison.”

  “How come?”

  “He’s a terrorist. Tachyon put him there.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Why?” asked Blaise.

  “Because … well … because—”

  “Chris, it’s fun to be a terrorist.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re always on the run. Always changing houses. Passwords, meeting arms dealers at night on the river. Always a step ahead of the stupid flics. You’re always walking a step to the left of ordinary people. They have to work or go to school. We watched the artists in Montmartre, ate pastries in cafés on the Left Bank. We walked through the museums and he told me all about the painters, our history. ‘Vive la France,’ he would say, and then he would laugh and hug me.”

  “Who?”

  “Uncle Claude.”

  “And was he a terrorist, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened to him? Is he in prison like your dad?”

  Very levelly Blaise replied, “No, he’s dead.” Blaise mashed cake, and watched icing erupt through the tines of the fork. “I think my grandfather killed him.”

  “Blaise!” Chris’s eyes were wide, and he had chocolate icing around his mouth. It made him look absurdly young, and really stupid.

  “Your mother really likes me,” Blaise said, changing the subject abruptly. He was tired of the past. Thinking about it made him sad. Made him mad.

  “Huh?”

  The younger boy’s incomprehension infuriated Blaise. Gripping Chris by the hair, he yanked back the human boy’s head.

  “She wants me! She’s in love with me!”

  “You’re crazy!” yelled Chris. “You’re just a kid. Like me. You’re like my brother, except I don’t want you for a brother when you act crazy.”

  “We’ll never be brothers.” Blaise’s tone was quiet, dangerously rational. “For us to be brothers … that would imply that Cody and my grandfather—”

  “It could happen.”

  Blaise was on Chris again, his long, slim hands closing around the boy’s throat, but he exerted no pressure. “No,” he said softly. “That is not going to happen.”

  He released Chris, and walked out of the apartment.

  “Tachyon, we’ve got to talk.”

  The alien looked up from the microscope. Blinked to clear the moisture from his eyes brought about by too-close concentration. The woman’s agitation beat at him despite her level tone and calm expression.

  “Cody.”

  He held out his artificial hand. She laid her hand on his forearm where the prosthesis met flesh.

  “What happened to Chris?” Tachyon said.

  “Damn.” She bit her lip. “Why has this happened?”

  Humbly he said, “I do not mean to read your thoughts. They are just there for me.”

  “I’m my own woman, Tachyon,” she warned.

  “I know.” He cocked an ankle onto his knee. “Now, tell me what happened.”

  “I’m concerned about my son, but the reason for my concern is Blaise.”

  Tachyon knew his expression had grown wary. He fiddled with the focusing mechanism on the microscope.

  You may hide it from yourself, but the world sees, mocked a little voice.

  The Takisian steeled himself.

  Cody continued. “Blaise scared Chris half to death last night.”

  “Did he mind-control him?”

  “No, but he wrapped his hands around my kid’s throat. He made some crazy remarks about me.” Cody made a weary gesture. “Now it sounds so stupid, but I saw the fear in Chris’s eyes.”

  “Blaise is … erratic at times. In the months since you’ve been here I’ve seen an improvement in him. You’ve been the mother he never had, and he wants to please you. There is less anger in him—”

  “It’s not the anger that worries me. There’s a coldness in Blaise that’s almost inhuman.”

  “He is inhuman. He’s a quarter Takisian.”

  “That’s bullshit, and you know it. Genetically humans and Takisians are identical. Maybe you were our ancient astronauts—I don’t know, and none of this is relevant. The point is that—”

  She broke off abruptly.

  “Say it, Cody.”

  “Tach, he needs help.”

  “I can help him.”

  “No. You’re the problem.”

  He rose and walked away from the truth of that statement.

  Spinning back to face her, he said, “You have to understand. What he’s been through. The horrors he has seen and endured.” Tach was nervously washing his hands. He noticed and forced himself to stop.

  “His childhood was spent in the hands of a violent revolutionary cell in Paris. Then last year he became a host for a hideous creature. While in its thrall, he experienced his first sexual encounter. He mind-controlled a joker and forced the wretch to literally tear himself to pieces.”

  Her hands closed about his, and he looked up into that single fierce dark eye.

  “Tachyon, I’m willing to be understanding. This is all very sad, but it doesn’t alter the relevant, dangerous fact. Blaise is a sociopath, maybe even psychotic. People are going to continue to get hurt.”

  “I am willing to take that risk.”

  “Fine! But you don’t have the right to place others at risk.”

  “What can I do! With his mind powers do you really think he’s going to submit to analysis?”

  A new, worrisome thought intruded. He watched it etch itself momentarily on her face. Concern rose in the back of his throat, snatching the breath from his lungs, and Tachyon realized it was her emotions he was feeling. She was afraid for him.

  “Tachyon, you can control him, can’t you?”

  “For now.”

  “What does that mean, for now?”

  “As he matures, he gains power. I’ve taken to maintaining shields against him constantly.”

  “How hard are these shields to…?”

  “To break?”

  “Yes.”

  “Exceedingly,” he soothed.

  “I’m afraid.”

  “Don’t be. I will protect you.” Her hair was soft against his fingertips as he brushed it back from her forehead.

  Sharply. “I don’t need your protection!”

  Startled, he pulled back. “I meant no offense.
I assumed you would be a shield to my back as well,” he stuttered, backpedaling frantically. The militant light died from her eye.

  “Damn it!”

  “What?”

  “It’s so damn hard to hold my own against you.”

  “Why must you?”

  “Because you’re too fucking seductive. Too glib. Too polished. Too attentive. I won’t—”

  She whirled and was out of the lab as if every ancestor ghost in her pedigree was on her heels.

  The bright June sunlight spilled into the gloomy interior of the Jokertown Dime Museum and set dust motes to spinning. Blaise liked that. Had they been there all along, he wondered, just waiting in the darkness for his coming? Or had his arrival created them?

  Do other people think those kinds of thoughts? Blaise mused as he sauntered past the “Hideous Joker Baby” display and the Jetboy diorama. Cody was standing in front of the waxwork figure of his grandfather. Blaise felt a flare of irritation.

  The woman thoughtfully stirred her cup of Italian lemon ice and took a bite.

  “How young he looks,” Blaise heard her say.

  “No different than now,” said Dutton, owner of the Dime Museum.

  The joker was standing behind her, hands hidden in the folds of his cloak. The hood was back, revealing the death’s-head. Blaise wondered if the man was trying to shock Cody, or if this was a measure of how well accepted she had become?

  Cody was speaking again. “No, that’s an illusion. When I look at him, I see every one of those forty-three years etched in his face.”

  “You care for him,” suggested Dutton.

  “I’m fascinated by him,” Cody corrected, then added: “It’s the face of a dissipated saint.”

  “I’ll leave you to a contemplation of a face for which you care … er … with which you are fascinated.”

  “What lovely grammar you have,” said Cody dryly as Dutton retreated back into his office.

  The stones were a sharp, hard pressure against his thigh. Blaise cupped his hand protectively about the bulge and moved swiftly to intercept Cody as she moved to survey the Syria diorama.

  “Hi, Cody.”

  “Oh, God, Blaise, you startled me.”

  She had pressed her hand against her throat. He could see where her tan ended and the milk white of her breast began. He noticed she was wearing a thin gold chain. He liked the way it echoed the gold of her skin. Maybe colored stones didn’t suit her? Maybe she didn’t like them? Oh, God, I love you so much!

  But what he said, in a voice jumping with nervousness was, “I got something for you.”

  He dug into his pocket, the supple leather of the pouch was soft against his hand. The knobby bundle pulled free and Blaise tugged open the drawstrings. With a sound like hail on glass the gemstones spilled across the surface of the diorama console. Emeralds formed a drift about the button controlling Sayyid. A diamond skittered hysterically toward the edge of the console, and Cody automatically caught it. Her fingers closed tight about the jewel. Slowly she raised her hand to eye level and cautiously unfolded her fingers, as if fearful of what her hand contained.

  Blaise frowned down at the rainbow spill and worried his lower lip between his teeth. The sapphires looked almost fake—too blue. The rubies weren’t bad, but the topaz was best. The boy swept up a golden topaz the size of a small robin’s egg and held it against the hollow in Cody’s throat. A nervous pulse was hammering there. Blaise liked that.

  “Here, this suits you best. I know it’s only semiprecious—”

  “Where did you get these?”

  Her voice was rough, commanding, not the breathless excited coo he had expected. Blaise flinched, felt stomach acid starting to churn.

  “You don’t ask about a gift, you just accept it.”

  The jewels rattled as Cody began sweeping them into a pile. She twitched the leather pouch from his hand and began shoveling in the gems. “Blaise, you’re in big trouble. Tell me where you got these. Maybe we can work out something without your grandfather having to find out. You are a minor—”

  “Cody! They’re for you!”

  “I don’t want them. I don’t want stolen gifts.”

  “I just wanted to make you happy,” said Blaise.

  “Well, you’ve managed to achieve just the reverse.”

  “Cody.” His voice was a plaintive whine. “I love you.”

  Her hand was soft on his head, the fingers stroking through the rough short ends of his brush cut. “Every kid feels that way. I fell madly in love with my high-school history teacher. It’s something we do when we start to notice there’s a difference between boys and girls. When you’re a teenager, everything seems so insecure. If we can fall in love with an older person, it helps give a sense of order to a very uncertain world.”

  “Don’t talk down to me!”

  “I’m not. I’m trying to show you that I do care. I do understand, but understanding is not permission.”

  His power was beating against the confines of his skull. His entire body was one great pressure-filled ache. He wanted to explode, to lash out.

  “I love you.” The words had to squeeze past clenched teeth.

  “I don’t love you.”

  “I can make you!”

  For the first time he saw a reaction. A flicker of alarm in that single dark eye. But her voice was cold and dead level as she said, “That’s not love, Blaise, that’s rape.”

  His arm executed a wide, uncontrolled arc. “It’s him! It’s him, isn’t it?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m better than he is. Younger, stronger. I can give you everything. Anything you want I can give you. I can take you anywhere.”

  He began to pace, long agitated strides that carried him across the narrow confines of the aisle and back again. Cody was so still it was frightening.

  “Anywhere in the world,” he continued. “Off the world. And Chris is okay, he can come, too. You don’t want him pawing at you. You don’t want the stump rubbing your boob, or feeling you up—”

  The blow was so unexpected that it stopped the words in his throat and rocked him back on his heels. Cody slowly lowered her hand. Blaise could feel the stinging imprint of her palm on his face. A pressure was building in his chest as if all the unspoken endearments, curses for Tachyon, descriptions of prowess were piling up like cars on a gridlocked beltway.

  “Now, you listen, and you listen good! I have allowed you to ramble on in this very silly and very immature fashion out of concern and love for your grandfather, and out of consideration for your youth and folly.”

  Each word struck like a lash, and Blaise writhed under the withering scorn in the deep, husky voice. His love was curdling until it lay like an oily foul-tasting slick on the back of his tongue.

  Cody continued. “But I’m out of time, and I’m out of patience. Somewhere out there”—her arm swung in a wide arc encompassing the city—“there’s a lovely young girl who’s learning to prove geometry theorems, or cut out a dress pattern, or play tennis, and someday the two of you are going to meet and be very happy together. But that girl isn’t me.”

  She hefted the pouch of jewels and stared sternly down at him.

  “Now, tell me where you got these, and I’ll see if I can keep you out of reform school. And you keep your mouth shut to your grandfather. I won’t tell him what a fool you’ve been if you’ll work with me and we get these jewels back to their owner.”

  “I hate you!”

  A mocking little half smile curved her lips. “I thought you loved me.”

  He backed away, held out a shaking hand. “I … will … show … you.”

  The Tachyon waxwork was directly opposite him. Blaise coiled and lashed out with a spinning back kick. The head flew off the wax figure, and it toppled to the floor. Then quickly and methodically he kicked it to pieces.

  Dutton ran out of the office.

  “Hey!”

  His voice trailed away as he looked from Blaise
to Cody, who was standing as still as one of the waxwork figures surrounding her.

  “I’ll … show … you,” Blaise said again, and strode out of the museum.

  “It should have sounded silly and melodramatic. Hell, it did sound silly and melodramatic, but frankly it scared the pee out of me.”

  Tachyon pressed a glass into her hands. Folded her chilled fingers about it.

  “And when he kicked that waxwork to pieces…” Cody took a long swallow of the brandy.

  Tachyon returned to the bar and poured himself a drink.

  “Are you sure you are not overreacting?” he asked.

  “No!”

  He held up a placating hand. “All right.”

  Cody tugged a pouch from her purse and flung it down on the coffee table. It landed with a sharp crack. “And I know for damn sure this isn’t an overreaction.”

  Tach shook out the contents and stared in amazement at the multicolored gems that glittered against the crimson of his glove. His eyebrows flew up inquiringly.

  “I called the police and pretended to be a journalist,” Cody said. “Nobody has reported a jewel theft.”

  “I will handle him,” said Tachyon. “You need be afraid no longer.”

  Cody joined him on the sofa. “Tachyon, you moron. I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about you. What I saw in Blaise’s face was—”

  She broke off and bit down on her lower lip. Tachyon tried to reschool his features. He sensed that he looked like a stricken deer.

  “He hates you.”

  There it was—bald, ugly, stark, the truth. He had been hiding from it for over a year.

  Her shoulder was close. He laid his head against it. Cody’s arm went around his shoulder.

  “What am I going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Like a shadow’s vomit. Children in the darkness. Following. Watching. Blaise whirled, lips drawn back in a snarl. They retreated. For an instant he considered reaching out with his power. Coercing one of them. Shredding his mind. Finding the answer. Who are you? What do you want? But one thing life with Tachyon had taught him—caution. There were too many of them. He might hold eight or even ten, but their sheer numbers would beat him down.