Wild Cards IV

by George R. R. Martin

“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 green-eyed 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 af
ter 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 is 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.

  “Tach, 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.

  Attaché 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 spraddle-legged 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 Sûreté.

  “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, high-pitched 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 for 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 Sûreté 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.